Pushcart XLI: Monte Reel, “Naming Happiness” (non-fiction) from Orion #34.101

Almost every day during the fall that I turned forty, I walked to a park in Buenos Aires where a C-shaped pond cradled a large flower garden.… On weekdays I visited the park alone, but on Saturday mornings I brought my three-year-old daughter, Sofia. She liked my company because I carried stale bread to feed the coscoroba swans and white-winged coots. I liked her company because she didn’t mock me when I stared at birds and trees and tried to match them with pictures in field guides. I probably should have sagged with shame: I was fast becoming a cliché, the Lover of Nature, one of those guys with the boots and the new field glasses who’d lost the ability to mask his low-grade OCD. But Sofia didn’t judge. Maybe watching someone struggle to attach the correct names to common objects seemed perfectly natural to her, since she spent a lot of her time doing pretty much the same thing.
She stared at the stripe of sunlight that sparkled atop the wind-stirred ripples in the middle of the pond.
“What is that called?” she asked. She must have watched me pin down the name of the leaf. Maybe she wanted to play the same game.
I tracked her squinting gaze. “You mean that stripe on the water?” I asked. “The sparkles?”
“What is that called?”
“Not sure,” I said, to casually. “I think it’s just called sparkles.”
She sighed, theatrically. “No it’s not.” She’d recognized the lazy disregard in my answer, and I recognized her frustration: it was the maddening sense that the world is speaking a language we haven’t fully learned, and no one else seems to realize that this is a serious problem.

One of the many concept I swam around in during the Chinese philosophy moocs I took last year was the differing attitudes toward language and naming. The Confucians, particularly the later Mohists after the Linguistic Turn of the mid-Warring States period, put great stock in names, in precise language, in the concept of “rectifying names” to form the basis of “bian“, distinctions, arguing. The Mencians, and later the Daoists to an extreme degree, were less enthusiastic about language (and eschewed bian entirely) since it represented a social construct and therefore wasn’t natural. The problem they always ran into was how to teach and represent Daoism without language, and that’s where a lot of the fun comes in.

Reel seems to combine both viewpoints: he wants to name the world, but using poetic rather than factual or scientific understanding of his nature guidebooks. The complementary bookend closing the essay reveals his discovery of the term “The Road to Happiness” to describe the glimmering stripe of light over water, found in an English translation of a 1950s Russian physics paper. ” The act of pinning a precise label on that phenomenon filled me with something I’ll call ecstasy.”

There’s a definite beauty to the phrase “The Road to Happiness”, and I’m not about to stand between anyone and his ecstasy. But it doesn’t bring me ecstasy, and I wonder if this naming he seeks is purely subjective, almost solipsistic. When I hear the phrase, I think of someone walking out on that road and sinking beneath the surface of the water, which brings to mind something other than happiness. However, I do appreciate that some phrases grab us in ways we don’t understand. It’s a more personal, spiritual take on the Confucian/Mohist “rectifying names”.

Mine was an age of specialization that actively discouraged the kind of intellectual leapfrogging that drove naturalists like Thoreau to try to unite science and spirit, to reconcile the romantic and the empirical. I always feared overstepping my bounds.… Attempting a generalized grasp of natural phenomena, without dedicating oneself to a tightly focused area of study, betrayed a pitiful naïveté.… This logic had formed an alliance with the fear that hid somewhere in my hindbrain: knowing too much might kill whatever magic remained in the world.

I always get nervous when a writer invokes Thoreau. Nature essays are not my thing. I’ve read some great ones, thanks to Pushcart, but I’m one of those glass-half-empty people when it comes to the wonders of the natural world: Yes, sunsets are beautiful, there’s nothing like snow-capped mountains or a murmuration of starlings, but please, let me enjoy them from an air-conditioned or heated room and for god’s sake those are spiders and here come the bees what are you crazy?

Reel tells a story from his childhood: he collected “Indian beads” and created stories about the people who had made and traded them. Research revealed the objects to be the fossilized remains of creatures known in Linnaean classification as Delocrinus missouriensis, and in common parlance as “sea lilies”. They aren’t lilies at all; they are ocean-dwelling animals related to starfish, and related species are abundant today in Monterrey Bay. In 1989, the fossilized remains from eons past were named the state fossil of Missouri due to their plentiful presence in the state.

This raises the question: how did so many sea creatures end up in Missouri? And the answer is found in earth science: 150 million years ago, when dinosaurs were still plodding around, the Great Plains were part of a large sea. Reel found this information disappointing; I find it exhilarating. I celebrate the imagination of a child, but I also celebrate the amazing processes by which the world exists in the form we see it today. And don’t get me started on what happens when we ignore reality and live in fantasy.

I thought of Whitman’s poem “When I Heard the Learned Astronomer”, which has the speaker leaving a scholarly lecture on stars to stand under the still night sky and look up. In another poem, Whitman acknowledged his enormous respect for science (“Hurrah for positive science! long live exact demonstration!… Gentlemen, to you the first honors always!”) before presenting his own orientation: ” Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling,/I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling.” I think Reel is making a similar point, that science can take him so far, but it is not his dwelling. By the way, one of the University of Iowa professors who runs their Whitman Web mentioned a reading of Whitman’s poem I’d never heard before: given the references to time, he wasn’t escaping science, he was bringing it outside with him, checking out the light that had travelled years to get here. It’s an intriguing hypothesis, though I’m not sure it fits with the science of the time.

I had a strong reaction to another section of the essay:

The Germans, I would learn, had come up with the precise word for what I was doing. Beziehungswahn is the mania for seeing meaningful connections linking almost everything, including oneself, to almost everything else. It’s a clinical term. A form of madness.

German often has wonderful words for concepts that take entire sentences to express in English, so I was delighted to find another. Except… a bit of research tells me that Beziehungswahn is a clinical term captured in the English diagnostic phase “ideas of reference”. This is not some universal oneness better ascribed to Buddhism – or, again, Whitman (“For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you…. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,/If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles”). It is instead the psychotic delusion that the waitress at the coffee shop is talking to her customers about you, or the color of that man’s tie is a message meant only for me. It’s “everyone’s laughing at me” on steroids, and it’s exquisitely painful and disabling, not soul-expanding at all. But I may be misreading Reel’s intent, and I may be misinterpreting the use of the word.

Reel is a well-established journalist and author of The Last of the Tribe: The Epic Quest to Save a Lone Man in the Amazon.

Pushcart XLI: Emily Skillings, “Basement Delivery” (poem) from Jubilat #28

Having lived so long without one, we forgot
what a basement felt like—how it seemed
to the carrier(s), to the inhabitant(s),
the structure(s), that there was an underneathness
to all that daily interaction and exchange—
i.e. an empty teacup hovering just above a pool.

Complete poem available online at Jubilat

Welcome to another round of “Karen doesn’t have a clue about how poetry works (but that doesn’t stop her from blogging about it)”.

Let’s start with the teacup above a pool. To me, a teacup is a strong symbol of social propriety and decorum, linked to the Queen, delicate sandwiches, formal luncheons intended primarily to show off new hats. A teacup is fragile, merely a swirl of porcelain in space, as opposed to a coffee cup which is solid and practical. I’m not saying that’s what a teacup actually is, just what it brings to mind. Then there’s the pool below, with its unknown depths and shifting surface, a place where one could dive in or drown, who knows which.

Then there’s the basement. All houses have foundations, but a basement is something else, a hollow in a foundation, where old junk or dormant ideas are stored, a place that can become another room someday when the time is right or just stay a spidery place for laundry machines and boxes of the past.

My family moved from New England to South Florida when I was a kid; we lost our basement along the way. A house with a basement feels different, at least the houses I’ve been in. The floors echo. And there’s always something else, something unseen, beneath. In metaphorical terms, this could be viewed as positive or negative – it’s great to have a sense of where one came from, to have space for future memories, but doesn’t memory also limit our expectations? And did I mention spiders? And sump pumps? – but it seems to me the poem treats it as positive, keeping a vibrant, energetic tone throughout.

I get the general idea of being without a basement as being without that extra, out-of-sight-out-of-mind storage, and the installation of a basement as expansion of the capacity for memory, for depth of experience. The installation itself is whimsical and fun: of course, basements aren’t installed in this way (I know nothing about construction, but I suspect it’s not possible to install a basement under an existing house). Ten women arrive to install it. Why women? Because women tend to keep family memories more than men? Why ten? The number required for a minyan? A sufficient generational span to warrant a basement of the past?

Alternate take, based on a true story: When I was a mere lass of 19 or so, I made some self-deprecatory remark and a friend answered, “You know what bothers me about you? Your abasement.” I spent a couple of beats trying to figure out why I was a basement before it clicked. I don’t think that’s anywhere in the text of the poem, but every reader brings a different past – a different basement, if you will – to a read, and that’s mine for this one. I tried reading the poem in that light, in fact. A poem about installing abasement would be a very different poem, wouldn’t it? Darkness, underneath the pink (I’m still haunted by “The Spring Forecast” from a few weeks ago) and the we and the freed collection? Is this a poem about the erosion of confidence that comes, for so many girls, at puberty? Is the substory that comes at first blush of waking sexuality a sense of shame, of a new context in every social exchange? And again I’ve fallen into some super-subjective abyss. Give me a minute to climb out…

Then I have formal questions. Why three sets of six lines plus a couplet, enjambed with the last sestet? Does trochaic pentameter (if that’s what it is; I have some congenital inability to accurately parse meters, especially when they are just a bit irregular, as they are here and in most modern poetry) add some level of meaning? What function does this serve? Must it serve a function, whether aesthetic or symbolic? And semantic questions: Why the (s)s in the first stanza? To me it adds to the whimsy, maybe just because it looks like smiles, but is there a deeper, more poetically valid reason? And that last line: while keeping the importance of time forefront (it was again again), the whimsicality of the poem stretches to another level, almost to wordplay with “Leave no stone already.” There’s a confusion of past and present, but why end on that switch? To confound the past’s role, now strengthened by the basement, in expectations of the future?

This is why I get so frustrated with poetry: significance of any element varies from poem to poem. I’m going to stick with what grabs me – the teacup and the basement and the pink and the ten strong women and foundational memory, background, context (oh, but I do so love the abasement angle, it followed me home, I promise to feed it every day, can I keep it, please, please?) – until I learn a better way to read.

In her On Poetry podcast episode, Skillings (a Columbia teaching fellow and MFA candidate) mentions she’s only been paid for two poems. “No one goes into poetry for money anyway,” says host Gabriela Garcia. Same could be said for all that’s important and irreplaceable. Her first full-length collection, a compilation of her work over the last four years (including this poem) will be released this Fall.

Another Medieval Manuscript MOOC

14th C manuscript, Royal Library of the Monastery of San Lorenzo del Escorial, Madrid, Spain

14th C manuscript, Royal Library of the Monastery of San Lorenzo del Escorial, Madrid, Spain

Course: Deciphering Secrets: The Illuminated Manuscripts of Medieval Europe
Length: 7 weeks
School/platform: University of Colorado and Universidad Complutense Madrid; Coursera
Instructors: Dr. Roger Louis Martínez-Dávila, Dr. Ana B. Sanchez-Prieto
Quote:

Perhaps no other relic of the European Middle Ages captures our imagination more than illuminated medieval manuscripts, or those documents decorated with images and colored pigments. Serving as windows unto a lost world of kings, ladies, faith, war, and culture, they communicate complex visual and textual narratives of Europe’s collective cultural heritage and patrimony. In this fashion, illuminated manuscripts are dynamic messages from our communal past that are still relevant today in fields like graphic design and typography.
In this seven-week course, students will explore the material creation, content, and historical context of illuminated medieval European manuscripts. Students will acquire an introductory knowledge of their distinguishing characteristics, their cataloguing and periodization (when they were created), the methods utilized to produce them, and their historical context and value.

A couple of years ago, I took Stanford’s manuscript course, “Digging Deeper,” as a recreational mooc: no notes, just watched the videos and poked at the assignments. I still got something out of it, and hoped I’d get the chance to do more someday. Guess what: Someday came.

I had a few complaints about this course, but about halfway through, the fun overtook the complaints and I ended up having a great time. There was nothing recreational about my approach this time around: I went all in, doing everything there was to do (plus some additional explorations), which meant twice as much as was required for a certificate I had no use for, let alone for the audit course.

If that sounds confusing – well, yes, it is, and that’s one of my complaints. The basic path through the course is confusing, with multiple options. I think they’re trying to be accommodating to different interests and needs, which is admirable, but to me, the course didn’t always feel integrated. Once I stopped reading instructions and just did stuff, I was a lot happier.

The first six of the seven weeks had both history and manuscript studies sections. Each week of the history section included a brief introductory video and four to seven readings. The weeks proceeded chronologically, if very briefly, from the fall of the Roman empire to the Spanish Reconquest before giving a nod to paleography – except… well, we never looked at actual writing, just translated content, so maybe I’m misunderstanding the use of the term. Then came the Global Middle Ages project, a cross-disciplinary, multiuniversity exploration of various aspects of medieval life. They’re extremely proud of this, and I feel bad because I missed the point; it just seems like a website to me. A website with a lot of interesting sections, but why it’s such a big deal, and what game-developers had to do with Virtual Plascenia, went by me. Still, it was interesting to discover that DNA evidence indicates a Native American woman must’ve travelled to Iceland sometime around the year 1000 CE, and her descendents still live there.

The Manuscript Studies portion made a lot more sense to me. Each week included about an hour of video lecture divided into sections, and progressed along a more familiar functional path: writing substrates, inks, page layout and preparation, scripts and hands, decoration, bindings. Both sections offered weekly quizzes, but only one was required. The presentation was a little flat, but that happens sometimes. I’ll never understand how people who so obviously love their field and very much want to share it with as many others as possible stick to a “stand in front of a camera and read a lecture” approach, which so often sucks the oxygen out of the room. Plenty of optional further written resources were provided. Some are available online, and I checked one of the recommended books out from my local library.

The Manuscript section included two options for peer-assessed projects that ran the length of the course, and again, only one was required. I did both, because how am I supposed to know before I do it what will be more beneficial? As it turns out, both of the peer-assessed projects were extremely beneficial, though in very different ways; I’m very glad I did them both.

The first option was a “pinboard” project: for every week, find five examples (photos, usually) of the concepts discussed in the lectures. For example, in Week 2, the idea was to find and present examples of such things as various writing substrates and tools of manufacture, parchment defects/repairs, contrasts between the two sides of parchment, and the like. Every week, five more pins would be added, along with five pins pertaining to prior weeks’ topics. I started out thinking this was kind of dumb, but by the end of the course, I’d collected some more general articles that covered wider topic ranges, and discovered some wonderful manuscript lore and resources. If you’re curious, my board is here, but it’s the process, not the result, that was productive.

The other project option was to make a reasonable approximation of a medieval manuscript, within practical limits of budget, material availability, time, and skill. In other words, we weren’t expected to skin a cow to make parchment, nor were we expected to create beauty (a lot of my classmates did so anyway) but only to demonstrate that we understood the procedures and knew the difference between authentic techniques and our shortcuts. Again, I was quite cynical at first, since we started by staining one side of our writing support with coffee to simulate the difference between the flesh and hair side of parchment (the Middle Ages were not for the squeamish) but I ended up putting a lot of thought and work into making quires, designing page layout and prepping, writing, illustrating, and binding my manuscript. It’s pretty much refrigerator art, but it’s MY refrigerator art, and dammit, I’m proud of myself for having managed to get it done at all. In fact… I’ve started working on a second one. I know how to avoid a few pitfalls now, so I hope it will look better.

Some of my favorite discoveries:

I added to my “casual educational” material. I’ve been following the Bodleian Rare Books twitter feed from Oxford since the Stanford mooc, but they don’t really tweet pretty pictures as much as they used to. Just before taking this course, I somehow discovered Penn medievalist Emily Steiner (@PiersatPenn) and her feed just delights me every day: lovely images, often with clever captions (sometimes relating to current events). Through the course itself, I’ve discovered Erik Kwakkel (@erik_kwakkel), book historian at Leiden University (I took an anatomy mooc from them last year); he also runs several blogs, all of which provided lots of detailed information for my Pinboard project. And just in the last week, I stumbled across Damien Kempf (@DamienKempf ), medievalist from Liverpool University and another great tweeter. I’ve been trying to include more art, poetry, beauty, and joy in my twitter feed, and less political news; while that isn’t the point of the course, the more exposure I have to pertinent materials, the better. I’ve even begun to recognize some manuscripts – the Lindsfarne Gospels, the Black Hours.

Through the History material, I fell in love with The Cantigas de Santa Maria, a series of poems with musical notation celebrating Mary. Not only is the idea that these songs can be interpreted and performed from 13th century notation, but there’s one fascinating story about a guy who just wants to find a safe place to put his ring while he plays baseball, and ends up engaged to Mary so has to leave his wedding bed for a monastery. And yes, the illustration of the ball game is quite recognizable as American baseball, though nobody’s sure of the medieval rules and many depictions seem to include two balls in the air at the same time.

Through the pinboard project, I found a rather drab-looking page that turned out to be fascinating: it’s an oath sworn by a woman, a midwife, that she will return the book or die. And I thought my library was uptight about interlibrary loans. Beyond the humor, this gives a little window on medieval life: there were libraries, women borrowed books (this one is a poetic bestiary), and, for that matter, women could read. I thought only monks and church people could read at that point. And by the way, other pages in Der naturen bloeme (The Flower of Nature) include floating illustrations that are lovely and often whimsical – like the elephant carried upside down on the trunks of two of his friends.

It seems some parchment was sometimes was damaged in the curing-stretching-drying process, as it was repeatedly scraped to remove hair and flesh (not for the squeamish, this manuscript stuff). Modern repairs could be quite lovely, but sometimes the original scribes took matters into their own hands an incorporated holes into the writing of the books (images from Erik Kwakkel’s tumblr and one of his several blogs.

In spite of the few drawbacks, this course was very much worthwhile, and I’m glad I signed up. I’m going to miss it! To fill the void, I’m taking one of the sequels, in fact: Deciphering Secrets: Unlocking the Manuscripts of Medieval Burgos (oddly, it’s on edX instead of Coursera), which, as I understand it, focuses on history via manuscripts and includes more of what I thought paleography was: the reading and transcription of manuscripts for interpretation. So it’s an extension of the History portion, rather than the Manuscripts, but who knows, great stuff lurks everywhere.

Pushcart XLI: Jane Lancellotti, “If You Can’t Say Anything Nice, Write a One-Star Review” (non-fiction) from Narrative, Winter 2015

Charles Joseph Travies de Villiers: "La Critique" (c. 1830)

Charles Joseph Travies de Villiers: “La Critique” (c. 1830)

“The highest Criticism,” Oscar Wilde wrote in his famous essay “The Critic as Artist,” “is more creative than creation.” What he meant, of course, is that the riches of the imagination are as crucial in judging art as they are in creating it. Notice how the godlike capital C for Criticism is working here. How it makes you wish that Wilde himself could show up next to the reviewer’s desktop and cover the whole darn keyboard with his paisley cravat to prevent the cynic from posting that he would rather scoop out an eye with a rusty spoon than read Great Expectations.
Through the ages, there have been major thinkers, such as Matthew Arnold, whose fluency and insight elevated the ways in which we talk about art. Only now, instead of Arnold of Great Britain, we have Arnie from Massapequa, who misguidedly equates Jane Eyre with “another of those cheesey love novels written by Danielle Steel.”

Complete essay available online at Narrative

When a newly-published friend found himself squeamish about facing Amazon comments, Lancellotti read the online reviews for him, and discovered the universe of haters. They’ve always been there, and not just since the Internet. They’re the Monday-morning quarterbacks of the creative arts, the people who sneer, “My five-year-old draws better than that” at the museum, who want books and movies about good guys and bad guys, not ambiguity and symbolism and structural amplification of effect. They’ve just become more visible in the past ten years. I used to follow “Least Helpful”, a compendium of less-than-insightful negative reviews. They mostly do movies now, but their Classics Revisited section makes the point of this essay. Or you could just ask the next teenager you see what he or she thought of The Scarlet Letter. I happen to think the way literature is taught in most schools has something to do with it, but that’s just a hunch.

But so what? Maybe I’m speaking as a non-writer who doesn’t have to deal with the issue, but there are plenty of serious literary reviewers out there (like the NYT and Washington Post, both of which gave the friend’s book positive reviews, not to mention dozens of literary websites and journals), and chances are, readers who are considering buying a serious book take those reviews more seriously than what’s on Amazon. Isn’t there room for everyone? BuzBo and ChaCha have a right to their opinions, too, and as long as they’re not writing for Kirkus Reviews, why shouldn’t they express those opinions? I doubt Jane Austen is losing sales because of them.

Who are these people? Are they online versions of the bully who kicks over bicycles? Or the kid who gets his bicycle kicked over? Or are they, more likely, past-hopeful writers whose thwarted ambitions propelled a spite-filled review of Philip Roth?

The more important issue is: why do we get so nasty? Lancellotti wonders if internet reviewers would be as harsh to the author if they met face to face. I doubt it; consider road rage, where cars offer some kind of protection. Maybe there’s a clue here as to the nasty turn political discourse has taken. Maybe we’re all just getting meaner, because we spend hours a day in consequence-free jousting on media like Twitter where the snarkiest comment wins. Nastiness inflation, if you will. I have to wonder if it goes back to the first “My kid beat up your honor student” bumper stickers.

Another issue the essay mentions is the function of criticism, of the book review. The word “critic” comes from the Greek word meaning “judge”. That implies a set of at least partly objective standards to which a work should be compared, rather than a tongue-lashing. But the word has a definite negative connotation, so much that we soften it as “constructive criticism”. And criticism goes much deeper than book reviews; it’s often an analysis of an entire approach to literature, and a description or proposal of guidelines for that approach. But that isn’t the kind of criticism that’s happening on Amazon, nor should it be.

If I may, ahem, criticize – I don’t think this essay adds much to the ongoing discussion of  why anonymous internet reviews are so negative, and it brings even less to a clearer understanding of the genre of criticism. At first I thought we were getting a more personal view from the writer’s angle, but that’s dispensed with quickly in the opening and closing paragraphs in favor of what might be called “ain’t it awful”: the conflict between popular taste and artistic vision. It is, however, an essay about art: the impact of art, various views of art; and that seems to be the focus, so far at least, of this year’s Pushcart. Personally, I preferred how Dominica Phetteplace explored the issue – or, for that matter, Vi Hart’s video essay. But that’s only my opinion, as a reader, based on my personal taste – not as a professional literary critic. I’ll leave that to the people who are trained. People like the editors of Narrative Magazine and the Pushcart series. And I’ll try to learn from what they see.

Pushcart XLI: Stephen Dunn, “The Revolt of the Turtles” (poetry) from Southern Review 51.3

Sculpture by Isaac Cordal: “electoral campaign” from the exhibit "Follow the Leaders"

Sculpture by Isaac Cordal: “electoral campaign” from the exhibit “Follow the Leaders”

On gray forgetful mornings like this
sea turtles would gather in the shallow waters
of the Gulf to discuss issues of self-presentation
and related concerns like, If there were a God
would he have a hard shell and a retractable head,
and whether speed on land
was of any importance to a good swimmer.

You can almost hear them, can’t you, these turtles debating questions much like our own “How can God be a trinity” or “Is philosophy of any use to anyone anymore” or “If you do what you love, will the money really follow”. But these turtles have some serious business on their minds as well, such as running a world where kids keep flipping them over on their backs.

It’s an amusing poem, but dark at the same time. We can’t help but see ourselves in the turtles, but also feel superior to them because we see their mistakes. It’s so easy to see what’s wrong from the outside. It’s why we’re all experts on how other people should live their lives, while our own lives are in tatters. Lecturing us wouldn’t do any good, so Dunn holds up a mirror made of turtles.

One of the turtles has an idea as he considers “ways in which power could bring about /fairness and decency” :

And when he finished speaking
in the now-memorable and ever-deepening
 
waters of the Gulf, all the sea turtles
began to chant, Only fairness, only decency.

Poor turtles. We all know that historically, fairness and decency don’t stand much of a chance against fear-mongering, greed, and deceit. We’re in a real-time laboratory right now to see if they stand any chance at all. I waver daily, sometimes hourly, between hope and despair.

I didn’t realize the full significance of the ever-deepening waters mentioned in that last stanza until I discovered the Summer 2015 issue of Southern Review was a 10-year retrospective on Katrina. I imagined the turtles holding their meeting a day or two before the storm. That’s when I knew I had to include the sculpture popularly called “Politicians Discuss Global Warming” as header art. Poor turtles.

The Immune System Gone Wild MOOC

Course: Fundamentals of Immunology: Death by Friendly Fire
Length: 5 weeks
School/platform: Rice/edX
Instructors: Alma Moon Novotny
Quote:
In this biology and life sciences course, we’ll flip the basic question of, “How does the immune system protect you?” to, “How can your immune system endanger you?”
First, we will look at basic mechanisms that determine whether the immune system is roused to action or instructed to stand down, including the roles of inflammasomes and T regulatory cells and the results of mutation to genes and their importance in producing regulatory proteins. Then, we will apply these insights to explain the etiology and treatment of autoimmune diseases and look at a variety of misdirected immune attacks, including allergies, attacks on red blood cells and cellular responses that can produce damage ranging from rashes to autoimmune cellular destruction. Finally we will discuss the protection of transplants from an immune system that views them as foreign invaders instead of necessary replacements.

Short version: Good course, covering a lot of ground (with some unique flair) in a very short time. It’s the third in an Immunology series from Rice. I’d missed the first two, so I spent a couple of weeks getting up to speed on the basics. I had most of the essential vocabulary and some understanding of what was going on – innate vs. acquired, MHCs, opsonisation, even some understanding of the complement cascade leading to MAC attack though I didn’t get to the point of memorizing the pathways – but still ended up scrambling for a lot of detail I seem to have overlooked. On the plus side, I’ve done enough medical reading to be perfectly comfortable with the overall physiological mechanisms of myasthenia gravis and lupus etc., so until we got to which cytokines or antibodies or receptors were involved, I could relax for a while. I passed with room to spare, but I wouldn’t say I’m secure in the subject. It’s more like I understand the general outline of what’s involved, and I now have the background to nail down the details more firmly. But for a free 4-week course, that’s plenty.

The four content weeks covered tolerance (how our immune systems learn to tell the difference between what’s dangerous and what’s not), autoimmune disease, hypersensitivities, and transplant issues. Each week included practice questions and a weekly exam, and some weeks had review exams of prior material (a terrific idea; I wish more courses did this). Week 5 was for self-review and the final exam.

The lectures included clever drawings of various immune system cells coded with their distinguishing characteristics: what receptors they carry, what they upregulate, downregulate, or bind to, what features they’re armed with. Other illustrations provided good support to the lectures as well, though I went hunting for some of my own personal favorites on antibody structure and MHC genetics. We all have our favorite diagrams. If I’d taken the first two courses before this one (like you’re supposed to), I might’ve not needed the extra visuals.

All exams were multiple choice; the weekly exams allowed three chances to answer. I’m usually pretty dismissive of that kind of thing, but the questions were very well-designed: some information retrieval things (they called them “factoids”) but lots of “thinking” questions that required analysis or synthesis of information in light of the concepts presented. Sometimes the question structure itself was a little weird, but it’s all about being able to manipulate the material. The final exam was also multiple choice, but allowed only one try, and counted for 50% of the grade, so guessing doesn’t work as an overall strategy (not that I’ve ever understood why anyone would bother to fake his way through a mooc, but it happens). I loved that the 40-question final was broken down in to 8 parts of 5 questions each. Not only is it less likely to trigger panic (oh my god, look at all these questions, how will I ever do them all?!?), but it forces kind of mini-reviews along the way.

The forums were active and staff, including Prof. Novotny, were available to answer questions that went a bit beyond the material (like, Hey, do animals also have a sex differential in autoimmune disease frequency? Yes, yes they do, in fact. That seems significant to me for some reason). There were a few minor first-run glitches: edX opened more of the system than they were supposed to in the Week 0 period, intended only for review of the outlines from the previous two courses (which, as someone who didn’t take the earlier courses, I found helpful, but nowhere near sufficient as preparation for this segment, by the way). They did an admirable job keeping up with unexpected but eager hordes of students flooding the forums before staff was in place. A few answer-coding problems cropped up throughout the course in ungraded sections. But overall, the execution was great. They really put a lot of thought into the images used, and I found it helpful in remembering what roles individual cells played in the immune process.

I was quite pleased with this course. It’s a nice balance of detailed molecular interactions and general clinical features, done with creativity and humor. I also have become a big fan of im-profthe immune system. I’ve had these vague notions of B cells and T cells, but I’m always amazed, whenever I take a biology course, that anything ever works – do you know how many millions of things have to happen for you to just go on living? – and the interactions of all the moving parts are fascinating. I’m eager to take the first two courses when they roll around again (and possibly retake this one, since I’ll be much better prepared). I understand there’s also a fourth part coming, The Immune System Fights Back. That sounds like fun.

Pushcart XLI: Rebecca Makkai, “The George Spelvin Players” from Pleiades 35.2

Barnes Harlow was actually Jason something, but no one dreamed of calling him that. He was Barnes Harlow when he was robbed of the Daytime Emmy, he was Barnes Harlow all twelve years he played Dalton Shaw, Esq., and he was Barnes Harlow when, in that guise, he married Silvia Romero Caldwell Blake, poisoned his mother-in-law, opened a restaurant, burned down that restaurant, was drugged by Michaela, and saved the Whitney family from carbon monoxide poisoning.
Soledad shared these details with the core company, who sprawled exhausted on the stage. In the five minutes since Barnes had left the theater, Soledad had relayed the basic history of the fictional Appleburg, Ohio, and told them what Barnes Harlow looked like with his shirt off. “Not greasy-smooth,” she said. “Just, you know, TV-star smooth.” She swore her grandmother had tapes of the show, stacks of VHS cassettes in her basement.
“On a more professional level,” Tim said, “what did we think? Star-struck aside?”
Beth vowed to speak last. Last week in the green room, Phyllis had accused her of treating every conversation like a race.

Complete story available online at Pleides

“There are only two plots: A stranger rides into town, and a man goes on a journey” is one of the many writers’ aphorisms taken as gospel (QI credits this one, not to Dostoevsky or Tolstoy, but to a metamorphosis of an exercise from John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction). In this story, the stranger is Barnes Harlow, former soap opera star come to a ragtag Missouri theater company. But I got sidetracked by something else.

In 2011, Makkai published a novel titled The Borrower, about a children’s librarian who either kidnaps or is kidnapped by Ian, one of her 10-year-old patrons, leading to a road trip (the other side of the stranger comes to town) that reverses with a single phrase: “They lost.” I read that book in 2012, and I still remember sobbing over my cheeseburger at the local pub where I was reading. I’ve been thinking of those words for weeks, maybe because I saw Makkai’s name in the table of contents, or maybe because I never forgot that moment, and I try to remember that, even though Ian returned home, the trip was not a failure but ended with a kind of slow-motion salvation. That librarian (and possibly Ian) is in this story. It’s not her story, but as a secondary character she allows for additional perspective.

I even see a structural comparison between novel and story: the story turns, reverses itself, on a single sentence. I know how that feels; does everyone? To have one phrase, one utterance, change the context, the mood, the background assumptions, the momentum of a gathering or a road trip or a theater company’s mission, a call to reality? It works so many ways in this story, with so many characters, it’s as if it explodes. Or maybe implodes.

There was a term Beth had learned in a sociology class, though she couldn’t remember it now, for a society where people had more than one connection to each other. In a big city, a guy would be your mailman and nothing else. But in a small town, he might be your mailman and your cousin and your neighbor, and his wife is your boss. She wondered what her sociology professor would make of the George Spelvin Players—who not only lived and worked together, but whose constantly shifting fictional relationships were also vivid, if not real. Beth had been Tim’s mother, his wife, his sister, his therapist. He had killed her in six different plays…. She wondered if what they were trying to do with Barnes, through this obsessive examination, was to weave him into their complex fabric. They refused to let him be simply a colleague. They wanted to envelop him: talent, legitimacy and all.

Beth has an additional relationship to Barnes once they sleep together, and it’s into this theater-world confusion about what is real and what is fictional that Barnes, cornered about his petty theft of multiple trivial items from everyone in the company, says the words that implodes it all: “You’re not real. I made you up.” And then, worse: “Did I make up that sex, or did I make up all the sex ever?”

Exit Barnes. As Soledad says, “Beth broke the soap star.” But exit the company as well; they disintegrate during the town performance of A Christmas Carol they’d been rehearsing (with Barnes hastily replaced). They all start quoting lines from random plays. And the librarian holds on to her Starbucks cup and smiles through it all (who wouldn’t; it seems hilarious to me), while a 10-year-old boy plays along. I don’t think the 10-year-old is Ian, but I’m happy that he could be.

By the way, the use of the name “George Spelvin” by an actor who doesn’t want to be associated with a terrible play, or a terrible theater troupe, is true. I hadn’t known that, though I was aware that “Alan Smithee” was sometimes used by film directors who didn’t want their name on a movie once the studio execs cut it for reasons having nothing to do with art. I wasn’t aware there was a similar tradition, probably an earlier one, in theater.

I’m thinking back over the works in this volume so far, and art seems to be a frequent theme. It might even be hidden in less obviously art-related works, like the poem “Elk” or the hornet article. I’ll have to keep that in mind as I read on.

Pushcart XLI: Shane McCrae, “Still When I Picture It the Face of God Is a White Man’s Face” (poem) from Poetry, Nov. 2015

Image by Joshua Tilghman after Michelangelo

Image by Joshua Tilghman after Michelangelo

Before it disappears
on the sand his long white       beard before it disappears
The face of the man
in the waves I ask her does she see it ask her does
The old man in the waves       as the waves crest she see it does
she see the old man…

Complete poem available online at Poetry

In McCrae’s bio entry on the Poetry website, I read “[his] attention to both meter and its breakage in his poems emphasizes the chafe of historical accounting against contemporary slippage, engaging this country’s troubling history and continuation of oppression and violence.” I can see elements of both in this poem: phrases lapping and overlapping as waves at the shore. The choppiness of the language adds to the disjointed images and messages we’re subjected to all the time, but perhaps more to the attention span of a child: everything is in the moment.

Thanks to a lesson I learned from “Spring Forecast” a few entries ago, I’ve never been more aware of the title informing the poem. Without the title, this could be any beach scene. Start with the title, and cute family drama becomes social commentary: we see the difference between the vision and imagination of the child who creates God in her own image, and the adult, aware (those spaces after white, twice) that interpretation of what we see is shaped as much by socially acquired imagery of what is the norm and what is other as by the reality of photons on retina.

Pushcart XLI: Lia Purpura, “Scream (or Never Minding)” (non-fiction) from The Georgia Review, 69:3

There are things I’m supposed to never mind. “Never mind” means silent and agreed upon, and that I must want, more than anything, to get through the day, and so should assent to go along. Glance. Turn the page. Turn away from a scream, and the place from which scream would rise, if cultivated by attention paid.
 
Subjects one might avoid: ruined land, ruined animals. Because the issues of the day can begin to feel old, and people get tired of feeling bad.
 
When I was a child I was not daunted. I let myself get completely exhausted.
 
Never minding makes it possible to do things like eat what you want, and talk about simple, daily things.
 
A scream is not speech.

I wasn’t sure if this would be considered an essay or a prose poem. Then I noticed that Washington College’s Literary House Press, who will be publishing it in a limited-run illustrated letterpress edition this coming fall, calls it a “lyric essay.” That’s a good description. We go from Munch’s “The Scream” to #419 and back again, and it hangs together beautifully though it may take some time to understand how.

As with several of the pieces I’ve read in this anthology so far, I was very aware of a kind of prescience in that the essay was written at least a year and a half ago, yet it’s painfully, tragically appropriate to now. Of course, I can’t rule out that I’m simply seeing everything as pertinent, no matter how far afield. But given all the recent screaming (including mine), I have to wonder: were we never-minding all along?

I learned a great deal about “The Scream” from this piece. I did not know that Munch created four different versions of the scene we all know, nor that one of them, a pastel, includes a poem, hand-written by Munch in two columns on its frame, a poem nearly, but not quite, identical to one he’d written in his diary three years earlier:

I was walking along the road with two friends
The Sun was setting – the Sky turned blood-red.
And I felt a wave of Sadness – I paused
tired to Death – Above the blue-black
Fjord and City Blood and Flaming tongues hovered
My friends walked on – I stayed
behind – quaking with Angst – I
felt the great Scream in Nature

I also did not know, until Purpura’s essay told me, that the location of the painting is an actual road in Oslo, one that, in Munch’s time, overlooked both a slaughterhouse, and the insane asylum where his sister lived.

I did not know any of this, and that surprised me, given the ubiquity of this image. Which is, of course, Purpura’s point, though she expands the scope well beyond art history.

Purpura points out how we’ve trivialized the painting, turned it into a joke, a t-shirt icon (not to mention a cake at the café Munch Museum). The power is too much, so we’ve reduced it to the never-minding of signifying upset without the messiness of being upset. She compares it to busts of composers in her elementary school music room:

I remember the bust of Beethoven and Mozart (and Haydn and Liszt and Chopin) in my elementary school’s music room. I couldn’t make any sense of them: a pianist with no arms; but joyless composer who wrote “Ode to Joy.” Their limbless bodies in marbly coldness. Stunted and chopped. I knew I had with a bit of neck was meant to be never minded. Another version of how-things-are-done. The men, canonical. The sculptures, memorial. A cliché of sight. I understood.
Still it was hard to see anything but severedness.

I’ve been in maybe two or three dozen music rooms over the years, and most of them had similar busts. Now I want to run into all of them – all that severedness! – and smash all those busts. Or melt them, I suppose, they’re probably plastic, cheaper than marble or plaster. She’s right; they don’t make sense. How did I never realize this before?

Munch’s painting looks very different to me now. As does #419.

#419 is a cow; that’s a tag in its ear; there’s a #308 right behind it, a #376, and a #454 – all jammed in the frame of the photo.. This must be a mixed lot. If I stand back just a little or, rather hold the newspaper out at arm’s length and unfocus a bit, the numbers fade and the cows are wearing bell-shaped earrings.If I shut my eyes, and shut many more things – doors in the brain, as if windows in cold – if I conjure up Heidi and green fields and milk pails, I can hear the little cowbells tinkling.

We see what we want to see because it’s easier when we sit down to eat a cheeseburger – as I do fairly often – if we don’t think about cow #419. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, as we are all discovering now. Call it compassion fatigue, or settling for not-the-worst, or just plain not wanting to look. Never-minding has its costs, and eventually the piper must be paid. Then the screaming begins.

Pushcart XLI: Charles Baxter, “Avarice” from VQR #91

My former daughter-in-law is sitting in the next room eating cookies off a plate. Poor thing, she’s a freeloader and can’t manage her own life anywhere in the world. Therefore she’s here….
The simple explanation for her having taken up residence here is that she appeared at the downtown Minneapolis bus depot last week, having come from Tulsa, where she lived in destitution. She barely had money for bus fare. My son, Wesley, her ex-husband, had to take her in. We all did. However, the more honest explanation for her arrival is that Jesus sent her to me.

~~ Complete story available online at Virginia Quarterly Review

In February 2015, Charles Baxter published a story  collection titled There’s Something I Want You To Do. I first encountered a story from this volume, “Bravery”, in 2013 via the BASS of that year; I wasn’t sure what to make of it, since it seemed to have many elements but I couldn’t see the connecting thread. In 2014, also via BASS, I came across a second Baxter story and learned about the collection, which was not yet published. Each story was named after a virtue or vice, and included a request. If I may repeat myself (and copy a paragraph from my post on “Charity“), his 2013 Bread Loaf lecture considers how requests function in a story: requests take on social consequences, they reveal power relationships, and they force character-revealing choices upon us.

And now Pushcart brings me a third story from the collection, and I have learned something new: the stories are loosely connected in that several of the characters appear multiple times. Since I’ve only read three of the stories, I haven’t seen that, but I’ve read that both Dolores, our narrator here, and her son Wes, both appear in other stories.

So much goes on in this story – as it does in all of these stories Baxter included in his 2015, There’s Something I Want You to Do – yet I have trouble pulling it all together beyond the completely inadequate description of “Thought of a woman who knows she will soon die.” I had a similar inability to fully grasp the first story. Now I’m beginning to think it’s the collection as a whole that perhaps holds the answer, that show the thread weaving from beginning to end. But I could be mistaken. I’m afraid my inability to find a point of focus has replicated itself in this post; please forgive me as I ramble on.

I see several requests in this story, as I have in the ones before. I think the central one is a request that has not yet been made: Dolores will ask Corinne to be with her when the time comes. That is why Jesus sent Corinne, after all. Corinne seems like an odd choice, since she abandoned Dolores’ son Wes, her husband (now remarried), and Jeremy, her son, soon after Jeremy’s birth (if this sounds confusing, well, this family dynamic is indeed confusing). Tough she apparently supported herself by working as a nurse in another city for most of the 16 years since, she’s now described as a decompensating bipolar depressive of inappropriate appearance and manner. I wonder if post-partum depression is implied as the reason for her desertion years before, or if her mental health has been precarious all along. “How lovely is her madness to me now,” Dolores tells us, for her madness is how Jesus brought her here, just when she’s needed.

Dolores has her own tragedy as well. Her husband was killed by a drunk driver when Wes was very small. ” The socialite’s out of prison now, but my husband is still under the ground….” she tells us. And she admits she would have murdered the woman if she had escaped justice.

Looking at me, you would probably not think me capable of murder, but I found that black coal in my soul, and it burned fiercely. I loved having it there.
All my life, I worked as a librarian in the uptown branch. A librarian with the heart of a murderer! No one guessed.

I have no trouble believing that. I believe we are all capable of harboring murderous thoughts; murderous deeds are another matter. Dolores’ Christianity plays a major role in this story. I’m so used to reading stories about Christians who are saints or hypocrites, it’s nice to read about a Christian who seems to be merely human, more on the saintly side, but who cherishes the one sinful impulse she has. I can understand that. It’s the Tree in the Garden; if we can’t conceive of sin, what’s the virtue in not succumbing to it?

Avarice is woven through the story. Teenage Jeremy is outraged by the poisoning of elephant drinking holes in order to obtain their ivory for carvings. Corinne frequently rants about capitalists, her pension fund lost by greedy investors. And Dolores lays her husband’s death, not on drunken driving, but on avarice:

But I still think of that woman, that socialite, driving away from my dying husband, and of what was going through her head, and what I’ve decided is that (1) she couldn’t take responsibility for her actions, and (2) if she did, she would lose the blue Mercedes, and the big house in the suburbs, and the Royal Copenhagen china, and the Waterford crystal, and the swimming pool in back, and the health-club membership, and the closet full of Manolo Blahnik shoes. All the money in the bank, boiling with possibility, she’d lose all that, and the equities upping and downing on the stock exchange. How she was invested! How she must have loved her things, as we all do. God has a name for this love: avarice. We Americans are running a laboratory for it, and we are the mice and rats, being tested, to see how much of it we can stand.

Dolores describes how she and Corinne will walk through a variety of Minneapolis landmarks, ending in Father Hennepin Park. Father Hennepin was a French priest and, in the late 17th century, explorer who traveled from Louisiana to Canada tracing the Mississippi River, was captured by the Sioux Indians for a time, and published several accounts of his travels characterized by some as “highly embellished”. It’s possible there’s some connection, besides religious belief, between him and Dolores, but I don’t see it.

But I think his religious imprint, as well as Dolores’ faith, is central to this story, perhaps the collection, in a way I can’t quite parse. Buzzy Jackson’s Boston Globe review takes her faith seriously: “While the image suggests God looking down on this pious woman, the presence of Baxter himself, the Great Narrator, hovers over, too.” In LARB, Susannah Shive has a different take, one that draws on the character’s appearance in an earlier story (where she apparently has an interest in extraterrestrials) and characters from other stories and concludes, “[I]f we’re not willing to assert that faith will conquer nothing, we must align ourselves with an eccentric zealot.” I don’t see the Dolores of this story as eccentric, nor as that much of a zealot.

What draws me to this section combines the simple, natural beauty of the passage with narrative technique. One of the questions I always have with first-person narrations is: Who is the narrator talking to, or thinking at? It’s one of those suspension of disbelief traits of fiction, that we read without considering that, but it’s always present, and here it’s showcased with particular clarity as a leaf falls into Dolores’ lap and she narrates: “Here. I place it before you.” Baxter includes an image of a maple leaf, something I’ve never seen in Pushcart or BASS. First, who is she talking to? The reader, Corinne, God, some undefined “you”? Breaking the fourth wall, except in an epistolary work, is unusual. And second, why include an actual image for something as familiar as a maple leaf?

Henceforth my patience will be endless, thanks to the brevity of time. Stillness will steal over me as I study the world within. When I look down into my lap, I’ll see in this delicate object the three major parts, with their branching veins, and the ten points of the leaf, and the particular bright red-rust-gold color, but it’s the veins I’ll return to, so like our own, our capillaries.
I’ll finger the maple leaf tenderly and wonder why we find it beautiful and will answer the question by saying that it’s God-given.

I’ve spent a lot of time looking at this leaf in her terms. What are the ten points? I’m looking and I can see 11 points, or 5 points, or maybe 27 or 29 points, but I can’t come up with ten points. The Canadian leaf logo has 11 points. The three major parts are easy to see as the Catholic Trinity, the similarity of veins suggests a unity of all nature, but what ten points? The Ten Commandments? There are ten stories in the collection, and in Jackson’s interview referenced above, Baxter admitted using the Ten Commandments as a structuring concept. And again I think the collection has a deep structure that is missed by chopping it up into individual stories, but now I have actual evidence.

The final paragraphs beautifully outline the simplicity and complexity of Dolores’ faith. I regret reading about her extraterrestrial eccentricity, because I see her, in this story, as a true Christian. Shive sees Narnia; being a heathen, I recall Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I also recall Marx: “Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.” I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing.

Pushcart XLI: Shelley Wong, “The Spring Forecast” (poetry) from Crazyhorse #88

Soon, the sea. On the city corner,
     a tree asserts I am every
            shade of pink.
Like the inside.
     Dresses as transparent
as watercolor. Doors flung open
     
                  to receive gold arrows.
      (stringing the strings)
Skirts flare into bells. Hair
      like bougainvillea.

One of my first serious literary experiences in college (or as serious as one can be in Poetry 101) was a class on The Canterbury Tales. The instructor tried to convince us the Prologue had a sexual tone – all that piercing and bathing and generating – and I was unconvinced. I guess I’ve learned something since then, because I see a lot of the Canterbury Tales sex in this poem. Not to mention a bunch of other stuff.

But first – full disclosure. I was googling around looking for notes on the poem, as I always do, or at least an online copy so I wouldn’t have to type all those indents (I hate typing indents, though formatting them for blogging is even worse) and what do I stumble across but Jacob Weber’s blog post about this very poem. Jake has been a regular participant in my BASS posts for a couple of years, and this year, Pushcart.

We had similar overall impressions (with some big differences) of a walk down a city street to the beach in Spring, with romance blooming all around. I’d been thinking myself pretty clever for considering the ambiguity of “strings” as referencing music and/or Cupid’s bow, but he’d made the same observation so now I feel like a copycat. In fact, his analysis is certainly preferable, for anyone serious about poetry, to anything I’m going to come up with, so I highly recommend a trip over there.

I’d throw in some observations about the rhythm of the poem. “Soon, the sea” sets a wavelike rhythm in short phrases that persists until “Skirts flare into bells”, an appropriate phrase for a disturbance of regularity.

I also had a very different impression of the identity of the speaker. I was thinking it was a man, enjoying the springtime pulchritude, until he’s interrupted by a memory, a voice in past tense from somewhere inside his head:

Once, a stop sign
     
before the water. Once, he traced
     the arch of her foot.

And then it’s back to present tense. And I have to wonder: what happened at that stop sign? Is he an old man, remembering his own spring romance from days gone by? I hear this intrusive memory returning, maybe, with “Her hand / petaling open” and I’m imagining all sorts of things happening at that stop sign, from long-lost love to rape to a tragic accident. Is he on his way to the Island, where, though he won’t enjoy the scenery, he also won’t be tormented by this memory any more? Or where he won’t be bothered by temptation? And yet he longs for the pied-à-terre. Could this be a woman, recapturing a once-experienced spring blooming, with sweet nostalgia for the foolishness, and a not-terribly-serious wish to live in the midst of it forever?

The personage of the speaker became my focus. The poem references both “he” and “she”, and the syntax is irregular enough to put those in any context. But in the end, I’m left ambivalent. I always wonder, when I’m ambivalent, if it’s because I’m stupid or because that’s the point. We remember our youth in a certain way, and even when we romanticize it, I think we always know it was filled, not only with bursting pink, but with uncertainty and worry and pressures.

I had to smile at one of Jake’s comments about sexual excitement recast in a dark light, mocking the romance. I skipped right over theme of “niceties constructed to cover animal lust that leaks out anyway” and rushed straight to abuse and death. I went a step too far, I have to admit: the peach, “strings up” and the “offwhite leader”, well, I’ve been reading a lot about Reconstruction lately, so … I think I’ll leave it there. I prefer Jake’s interpretation of strings up: bikinis. Wish I’d thought of that.

I too wonder, as Jake did, if there’s some reference I’m not getting. I seem to be getting all kinds of references, and that’s even worse: The Canterbury Tales, To The Lighthouse, Prufrock, and The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia, and I wonder why I’m trying so hard. Why can’t I just see this as a guy lost in a sexual fantasy as he walks along Main Street on his way to the island, and admire the poetics? Short answer: because I don’t know much about poetics.

In the end, I have no idea if this is a pleasant idyll, a bittersweet memoir, a social critique, or something else entirely. Bring on Emily: I dwell in possibility. But I do wish I knew what town I was in.

Pushcart XLI: Paul Crenshaw, ” The Hornet Among Us” (nonfiction) from War, Literature, and the Arts #27

The Japanese giant hornet is not the largest insect in the world, but perhaps the most fierce. It can grow to two inches in length, with a wingspan of three…. Here’s how the hornets work: scouts zoom around, searching for honey bee hives. This is all they do, from when they wake in the spring to when they hibernate in the fall. When a scout finds a hive, it leaves pheromone markers around it, which draw other hornets. When the others arrive, they begin systematically slaughtering the bees. A Japanese giant hornet can kill 40 honey bees in an hour. A nest of Japanese giant hornets, around 30 or so, can destroy an entire honey bee colony in a few hours. The hornets seize the bees one by one and literally slice them apart. They cut off their heads and limbs and wings and keep the juicy, most nutrient-rich parts, which they chew into a paste to feed to their larvae. They eat the bees’ honey and devour their young. They do not take over the bees’ hives or carefully consume all they have killed. They take only the flight muscles and other juicy bits and leave the heads and limbs lying around.

~~ Complete article available online via WLA Journal

As I read this, I wondered: does an insect even have a brain? Turns out it does, though it might be more accurate to call it a ganglion, a collection of nerve cells, rather than what we think of when we say “brain”.

A team of researchers at Macquarrie University in Australia consisting of a zoologist/neuroethologist and philosopher have hypothesized that an insect “has a capacity for the most basic aspect of consciousness: subjective experience.” That is, insects may experience a mental state, that it “feels like” something to be an insect. Maybe they wonder if these giant meat creatures who keep intruding into their spaces and swat at them have brains.

Crenshaw takes a more behavioral view of insects in this essay. As a lifelong entomophobe, I found it quite creepy to read about all the ways certain insects wage what can only be called war. I was a lot more comfortable with his etymological exploration of the word “hornet” in various constructs: it’s related to buzzing. He attributes Biblical references to hornets to Hebrew words for panic, or army. We’ve been observing insect behavior for a long, long time.

I wonder what it feels like to be the Japanese giant hornet destroying a honey bee colony, or an army ant, fire ant, wasp, or spider, the other insects whose behavior Crenshaw examines before turning to the most panic-inducing, war-waging creature of all.

When Rome fell to the barbarians, while the city was sacked and burned, while a thousand years of darkness set upon the western world, someone, looking at everything they had ever known fall, must have thought that the invaders in all their glorious multitudes looked like swarming ants. When Masada was surrounded, one of the besieged surely believed the Romans were hornets, alien, so far removed from humanity that they were of another world. When the Greeks stood at the narrow neck of Thermopylae, they must have seen the hordes coming for them, wave after wave after wave, as non-sentient, some form of mindless drone. And when the airplanes lit the night skies over Baghdad, a child, huddled in a corner somewhere, certainly believed that some creature from nightmare, from legend or lore or myth, had arisen like prophecy.

I know what it feels like, on this day, to hear the buzzing of hornets.

Pushcart XLI: Sally Wen Mao, “Anna May Wong Blows Out Sixteen Candles” (poetry) from Missouri Review #38.1

When I was sixteen, I modeled fur coats for a furrier.
White men gazed down my neck like wolves
 
But my mink collar protected me.

I bet men – and not a few women – are tired of hearing about the indignities of being female. And I’ll bet nearly everyone, including some of the woke, is shocked to find that Asians deal with racism, too. Well, the speaker of the poem doesn’t care what people are tired of hearing about, or what level of stereotyping others think is not too bad; she’s mad as hell and she’s not gonna take it any more.

The poem is one of a set of five poems concerning Anna May Wong, considered the first Chinese American actress. Her career started in the 1920s and moved from silents to talkies to radio and television, and while she performed in dozens of movies and almost as many TV roles (IMDB lists 61 credits), when it came to major roles, she was sidelines by whitewashing: the casting of white actors in non-white roles, a practice that’s still common today.

The conceit of the poem is the conflation of Wong’s 16th birthday and the speaker’s sweet 16 from 1984 [Addendum: See Comments – I missed a major reference here] with the overarching sense of the present. The concerns haven’t changed much:

                                                            ….It’s 1984
 
so cast me in a new role already. Cast me as a pothead,
an heiress, a gymnast, a queen. Cast me as a castaway in a city
 
without shores. Cast me as that girl who rivets centerstage
or cast me away, into the blue where my lips don’t touch
 
or say. If I take my time machine back to sixteen, or twenty,
or eight, I’d blow out all my candles. Sixteen wishes
 
extinguish and burn.

I don’t have much to add. Anna May Wong, and/or Sally Wen Mao, has done a pretty good job of speaking for herself. Most women do.

Pushcart XLI: Micah Stack, “The G.R.I.E.F” from Oxford American #89

OA Art: “Sleep” (2008) by Kehinde Wiley

OA Art: “Sleep” (2008) by Kehinde Wiley

                           “Pleurant, je voyais de l’or—et ne pus boire.
                                       —Arthur Rimbaud
 
Full disclosure up front: I am a gay black man, a proud New Orleanian, thirty years old, five out of the closet, a decade on the down-low before that; bi-dialectal as every educated brother in this city must be, a code-switcher as needed; a poet in my spare time, in my unspare time a poetry teacher devoted to dead French guys and live black ones. Like most black men of my generation, I belong to the hip-hop nation, and like any sensible gay man, I’m ashamed at times to say I’m a fan. The homophobia, the drug dealing and gun toting, the bling and the misogyny—it can feel like stylized, repetitive ugliness, at least mainstream gangsta shit. But I’m an addict, hooked on one rapper above the rest: Mr. Stillz. I’ve memorized hundreds of his verses, seen the documentaries, the interviews, the countless clips of him recording in his psychedelic freestyle mode. I subscribe to the hip-hop mags because he decorates their pages. So naturally my theories ran buck-wild when the photograph surfaced.

~~ Complete story available online at Oxford American

Who hasn’t made a hero of someone known only from afar, someone who shares a grim aspect of life and has risen above it, someone who seems to embody a dream. Maybe a pop culture icon. Maybe a cool kid at school, a teacher, an activist, an historical figure. Someone who lights our path from a distance. And sometimes – if we can move beyond our own expectations and let the hero be who he is instead of who we think he should be – our path is lit by our idol’s failure to live up to our expectations: we know where not to step.

The observer-narrator of this story, introduced in that first paragaph, is crucial, yet fades into the background as he tells us the story of Mr. Stillz and his mentor, Tyrone. Another iconic relationship, mentor and protégé, and just as fragile – or not, if we can measure up – as hero worship. I think there’s a good dose of hero worship in mentoring, for that matter. And I think, in the best examples, it goes both ways.

The story is online and deserves to be read firsthand; I’ll assume it has by anyone who’s slashed through the above to get this far (I don’t know why I’ve suddenly taken to overly complicated syntax, except that’s just how this one is coming out. My version of hip hop, perhaps). Some readers will have a tendency to dismiss something rooted in an art form that often gets pretty nasty. I’m a 60-something white lady from New England whose idea of music is a triad of Palestrina, Mozart, and Simon & Garfunkel, what do I know about hip hop, but damn I loved this story.

The Trench Sweeper raps about what’s around him—Tyrone’s rims spinning like rotisserie chickens, his grandmama’s stoop where he’s trying to make a living. The bike he pedals on, the crack he’s peddle-ing; he can’t stand being broke, so he’ll fall for better things. He is a hustler—he’d rather die than to live average, even if he got to live savage. He was born to eat rappers like they came from McDonald’s, then he hollers Rest in Peace to his mama and Ronald.

In spite of the disclaimers about being ignorant of hip hop, I’ve become familiar with the linguistic fluency demanded of high-level rap through linguistics. It’s just as complex and rare a talent as composing an opera, a skill perhaps dating back to Homeric bards who used repetition and sound patterns to recite thousands of lines. Stack’s description captures it about as well as text can. Ahmad Trench, aka Trench Sweeper aka Mr. Stillz, uses what’s around him, including the pain of his life, to create art, to earn his tattoo The G.R.I.E.F.: The Greatest Rapper in Existence, Fucker.

Stack paints that pain in heart-wrenching colors as Mr. Stillz visits, post-Katrina, what remains of his childhood home, what remains of his childhood:

What they find is three concrete steps that lead to a porch and a flood-stained yellow door still in its frame. No roof, no walls, no house.
It’s not Mr. Stillz but Ahmad Trench who walks up those steps, who stares at that door that leads to nothing, just a yard littered with scraps of other people’s lives. Memory supplies the side of the house. Ronald perched above him on the ladder saying, Hand me that purple paint. They were fighting on this porch the day she died. Memory supplies her voice: We been over this, Ahmad, and his own: He ain’t my daddy, he ain’t blood. Then the El Camino, the ski-masked goon with the chopper, the gunshots and echoes. The house-front splattered with Ronald’s skull, blood sliding down the door into his mama’s hair.
A pelican explodes into flight with a squawk and Ahmad starts kicking the door. It’s still locked and he kicks it until the wood splinters around the deadbolt.
Where all the lights in my city go? he says.

And suddenly it doesn’t matter that I don’t really know what hip hop is; I know who Ahmad is, I understand this aspect of Mr. Stillz. This is what fiction can do. All our rage, our heartbreak, is the same.

But don’t forget, our observer-narrator is here too, whose emergence from the shadows at the end of the story – literally, as he seeks an autograph from Mr. Stillz in a perfect ending scene – ties everything together. Remember, he introduced himself as a teacher of French poetry. Now, if there’s one thing I know less about than hip hop, it’s French poetry, but that’s what Google is for. A Rimbaud epigram starts off the story. And here’s where things got really interesting. The quote translates to “Weeping, I saw gold – but could not drink.” I had no idea where that fit in Rimbaud’s poetry, but by the end of the story I could see perfectly well what it had to do with Mr. Stillz: he has all the talent in the world, but it could be destroyed because, against the homophobic backdrop of the hip hop community, he’s in love with his mentor and adoptive father. The inciting force of the story is the publication of a photo of the two of them kissing. Yes, it raises serious questions. But Rimbaud got there first.

One of the places I ended up in my online research (which, I agree, is nowhere near in-depth enough) on Rimbaud and Verlaine was a Kenyon Review article by American literary critic Jeffrey Meyers. See if any of this reminds you of Ahmad and Tyrone:

Portrait of Rimbaud by Jean-Louis Forain

Portrait of Rimbaud by Jean-Louis Forain

Rimbaud’s sophistication, poetic talent, and extraordinary ideas exemplify the mystery of genius. A brilliant young scholar in an excellent lycée, one of the best in France, he was intellectually confident. But his childhood left him emotionally damaged and mentally troubled. He came from a severely deprived background in the bleak town of Charleville, in northeast France, near the Belgian border. …He was stifled by his family and refused to finish high school, where he felt he had nothing more to learn. He made several attempts to run away from home, culminating in his third trip to Paris, where he began his torturous three-year relationship with Verlaine, poetic mentor, parent-substitute, and lover. ..,Rimbaud’s decision to derange the senses, including the most basic human emotions, seems willful and pathological, but was also rational and deliberate. He had a program: he would take drink, drugs, even poison; he would endure unspeakable tortures, commit acts of violence, become a criminal, risk losing his poetic insights, even risk death. During his years with Verlaine (1871-73), Rimbaud put his program into practice, experiencing exhaustion and starvation, filth and debauchery, degradation and disease, violence and destruction, while heightening his chaotic state with hashish and absinthe. …Rimbaud reversed centuries of cultural tradition. Instead of assuming that the artist’s task is to create order out of experience, Rimbaud believed the disorder of the poet’s mind was sacred.

~~Jeffrey Meyers, “The Savage Experiment: Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine”
Available online at Kenyon Review

A short time after the affair ended (with a gunshot, but I’ll leave that for the readers’ explorations), Rimbaud self-published “A Season in Hell” whence the opening epigram came. Specifically, it’s from the section titled “Alchemy of the Word” which has a definite relevance to Ahmad’s talent as a rapper (“I invented colors for the vowels!”), but a more poignant relevance to his personal agony : “Weeping, I saw gold – and could not drink”. Rimbaud soon stopped writing poetry and began travelling the world via various non-literary pursuits (soldier and merchant among them) until he died at age 37.

Why am I so obsessed with Stillz? Why him and not some “socially conscious” rapper? The critics claim he has nothing to say, but goddamn does he say it—the most stylish nothing. To hear him in his prime is to hear a man delirious with his talent, flinging out onomatopoeic neologisms, pop-culture references, dizzying internal rhymes, scat jokes, and witty nonsense, every bar a pun or a punch line. The critics are also wrong. There’s pain coursing through all his best music. It’s just hyper-compacted, snagged in a phrase or tucked under a silence. His soulful eyes brim with the sorrow of a sunken city, the sorrow of men like I once was: covering up shame with defiance, cringing in the closet. He’s my modern-day Rimbaud, and Tyrone’s his poor Verlaine.

Our observer narrator fades into the background until he’s needed, and then he comes up front and plops something like this down on us, moving between Mr. Stillz and Rimbaud like there’s nothing between them. And maybe there isn’t. A lot of the people who turn their noses up at hip hop, at rap as art, see French poetry in the same way. Let’s face it, artists are often on the edges of propriety, and when they aren’t, their characters are. That’s how art shifts the borders of the world. Art can soothe and comfort, can beautiful in meaningful ways, but painting “Nude Descending a Staircase” or writing Don Quixote – or performing an unexpected halftime show – can change how we see the world, maybe change art itself.

Stack put me right there with a French poet and a closeted New Orleans rapper. Because I swear we’ve all kicked at doors to nothing simply because they were the only thing around to kick at. I swear, I’ve been kicking at one lately, and there’s no end in sight.

Pushcart XLI: Robert Wrigley, “Elk” (poetry) from Conduit, #26

Photo by Inger Sjöberg

Photo by Inger Sjöberg

His hindquarters must have fallen through
the ice, and he could not pull himself back out
and the incoming colder weather
refroze the hole around him and he died,
sinking some, only his broad horns
holding his head and neck above the surface.

I’m always a little uncomfortable with nature poems – I feel like I’m supposed to be in awe of something, but I’m not sure what – but following the theme of “look beyond the surface of what’s in front of you” from the first couple of pieces in this year’s volume, I found several points of interest.
The narrative concern a youngster (I’m presuming), headed out to the frozen-over lake to skate before the forecast snow falls, who finds a dead elk stuck in the ice where he seems to have fallen through. Apparently this sort of thing happens a lot in Norway: the NRK calls it the fourth leading cause of death for moose, and once in a while, a school of fish gets itself naturally frozen. So I’d imagine it isn’t unheard of in Wrigley’s home state of Montana, either.

The poetic speaker seems to take it in stride. Things get a bit grotesque for those of us city folk who can watch homeless old men lie passed out on the sidewalk and read about shootings and stabbings of our neighbors and drone bombings of children in Yemen with mere disgust or sorrow or helpless rage but are appalled at the idea of a coyote eating the face off a trapped elk. I think it’s the face. Eating a leg would be gruesome, but the face is so much more personal. To the coyote, it’s just dinner; he doesn’t claim to be made in the image of God. What’s our excuse?

I see the poem as occurring in several stanzas, though it’s presented without any white space. Given my penchant for finding patterns when I’m not sure what else to do, I can see some similarities to both elegiac and sonnet form, complete with variations and shared structures moving from past to present to future, shifting attention from object to subject, from observation to speculation.

But I’m punching above my weight there, so I’d rather think about the meaning of two particular places:

A half-mile skate back to where I hung my boots
from a limb, a hundred yard walk from there
to the truck, in which I keep a bow saw,
which I could use to remove a wedge of pate
with the perfect rack, but I choose not to.
Something in the weariness of the bones
of his jaw, also the snow just now beginning.

I love that simple “but I choose not to” – present tense, single-syllable, a wall of will. But the speaker doesn’t try to claim more than he’s earned: he’s motivated partly by the distress he sees in the elk’s posture, but also by self-interest, because it’s just too much work. Had the snow not been starting to fall, had the saw been at hand, he might’ve gone home with the rack, and he doesn’t try to paint it otherwise. And by the way, that last couplet is one of the two-line turns in between two sonnet variations, as well as the turn of the overall elegiac structure. Because I can’t resist. And I’m trying to get the thought of what it’s like to saw an elk’s antlers off out of my head.

The final sextain also got my attention:

Although the coyotes may be back tonight,
to dig their way from the horns’ stumps
for the ears, which I notice are still whole and upright,
the left one turned slightly farther left,
as though, with the last of his miraculous
senses, he heard them coming over the ice.

Beginning with “Although” preps the reader for a second clause: although this, that. But there is no that, only this; the “although” connects to the prior lines. Past, present, and future are all brought together, speculation brings subject and object together once more as the speaker notices those ears and imagines what it might mean. The final line is horrifying, and brutally honest. Yet I wonder if the optimistic elk might have thought the sounds of approach predicted rescue rather than scavenge, and was cheered. And then I wonder if I’m really that determined to turn this into something hopeful, to avoid considering that we are all stuck in the ice and the sounds we hear are footsteps of coyotes rather than angels.

Pushcart XLI: Eric Wilson, “I Sing You For An Apple” (non-fiction) from New England Review, 36.2

Photo by Randi Ward

Photo by Randi Ward

When the phone rang that evening in 1978, I was caught off guard. “How soon can you be here in DC?” the voice was asking. I lived in Los Angeles. “And—you do know Old Icelandic, right?” Old Icelandic, spoken by the Vikings some thousand years ago, was extinct.
As I hung up, I wondered: How had my career come to this?

~~ Article available online at lithub courtesy of NER

What a charming memoir, I thought after my first read. Multiple amusing anecdotes told with a pleasant air of bewilderment shading to exasperation, moving from the personal to the universal by the end: That guy criss-crossing the country waving children’s books at esteemed professors isn’t just a character, he’s a national treasure, and the books serve an important cultural purpose. Look beyond what you see in front of you, there’s always more.

I should’ve paid more attention to that last bit: there is indeed always more.

Wilson was a professor of Germanic languages until universities started cutting programs like that in favor of… well, I’d imagine in the 70s it would’ve been contemporary philosophical theoreticians, because no one’s ever learned anything about the present by understanding the past (yes, that’s sarcasm, and for our daily dose of irony, now they’re cutting those philosophy courses to focus on business, computer science, and STEM. Don’t get me started). But Wilson made the best of it, forging a career as a translator which included, one summer in 1978, touring the country with a writer and political activist from the Faroe Islands at the request of the State Department, who wanted to be on his good side should his efforts to promote independence from Iceland succeed.

The title comes from one of those amusing anecdotes about Jacobsen’s visit: he wandered lost around the Grand Canyon on his own, finally running into a couple of fellow hikers, and asked them for help:

He had told other hikers, “I sing you for an apple!” People, sensing something was wrong, must have been solicitous of him, giving him water to drink as well as apples and perhaps even sandwiches. He told me he planned to write a memoir about his trip to America.
He would not entitle it the Faeroese “Eg sang fyri eitt súrepli!” It would be just what he had told the other hikers, in English: “I Sing You for an Apple!”

I saw the film “Arrival” a few weeks ago, after having read Ted Chiang’s story “The Story of Our Lives” on recommendation of a mooc friend. I’m not sure I’ve encountered two detailed examinations of translation difficulties in such a short time before. Between the language problems (which I’ll leave for those interested in reading about the difficulties of negotiating Faroese, Danish, and Old Icelandic) and Jacobsen’s eccentricity – amplified by his fondness for all varieties of American booze – Wilson had his hands full trying to shepherd him from place to place while explain everything from high-heeled shoes (which, I gather, aren’t worn in the Faroe Islands) to cornrowed hair.

The Internet wasn’t available in 1978, so Wilson had only the brief biographical sketch given to him by the State Department. Thirty years later, he googled the name:

At the time of his visit, I had no idea how important he was in his Islands, nor to what degree he was loved. In translating his books for the various professors we met with on our trip, I hadn’t realized the full magnitude of his accomplishments. This was a language that had come close to extinction; now thanks to the children it was being kept alive.
I scrolled through the list of his works, which was exhaustive. Plays, children’s books, works for adults. But nowhere did I see either “Eg sang fyri eitt súrepli!” or “I Sing You for an Apple!” So I realized it was up to me to tell his story.

As I do for all pieces I blog, I went looking to see what was available on Mr. Jacobsen. I thought
I might find an image to serve as a header, maybe a photograph, or the cover of one of his books. I did find those things, but I found something else, something that made him and his work even more personal to me. There’s always more, remember?

Wilson recounts a particular children’s book Jacobsen showed to a professor on his trip:

[T]he next thing I knew he was over on the young professor’s side of the table, presenting a small children’s book that I hadn’t seen before: Lív og Hundurin. On the cover we saw a girl named Lív and a blue-eyed dog with a long red tongue.
Lív æt ein lítil genta, hon var rund og næstan altíð glað. I was able to sight-read the Faeroese: “Lív was a little girl, she was round and almost always happy.” In the colored illustrations, Lív played with her dolls, and her friends Kára and Hanur and Eyð played with their building blocks—when one day Mamma opened the door and out of nowhere there appeared a blue-eyed dog. It smiled at Lív, a long bright red tongue extending down from its eager smile.

I rather sailed over that at the time, then later realized it was part of the effort to preserve the Faroese language in the next generation. But an article by writer/translator/photographer Randi Ward turned it into something far more significant:

Lív (1981) is a book-length poem dedicated to everyone who experiences loss. Lív, the Faroese word for life, was the name of Steinbjørn B. Jacobsen’s daughter. She was struck and killed by a vehicle in 1980 while visiting her father’s home village of Sandvík.
Steinbjørn sent copies of Lív to friends and family to thank them for their support. The volume was later made available to the public free of charge.

~~Randi Ward

Look beyond what you see in front of you, there’s always more.

Pushcart XLI: Dominica Phetteplace, “The Story of a True Artist” from ZYZZYVA #105

From video trailer for <em>A Book of Uncommon Prayer</em>, Matthew Vollmer, ed.

From video trailer for A Book of Uncommon Prayer, Matthew Vollmer, ed.

I was once a star on YouTube. With my friend Cam, we went by the handle Cam&Lo,
our videos were all variations of the same theme, which we created together. Most of the screen would show whatever videogame he was playing, with his joke commentary. The lower left of the screen contained a box that showed only the top of my head. Just my eyes, rimmed with liquid liner, and my blonde hairbow headband atop my black hair, I would make various exaggerated expressions, depending on what was happening with the videogame. That was my commentary.
At our peak, we had 800,000 subscribers. Which is a lot, though maybe not quite enough to justify calling myself a star. But I felt like a star. I got fan mail and hate mail. I got recognized at Celebcon, where fans would stop and ask to take selfies with the top of my head. My parents never understood what made our work popular and funny and interesting.
“I don’t get it,” they would say. “Can you explain that?”
“Exasperated sigh,” I would say. “If you don’t get it, then my explaining it won’t help. Shakes head.”

The thing about this story is how it keeps coming at you. Wave upon wave, every paragraph, sometimes every sentence, a six-layer cake of character, action, meaning, and it just never stops. It’s exhausting, and wonderful. Just like Lourdes. Hey, if you were named after Madonna’s kid and had “a large body and a weird sense of humor….brown skin and a poor family” and a craving to make art, you might never stop either.

A lot of readers might be put off right away by the details of setting and character. A couple of teenage YouTubers who speak their expressions? Shakes head! By the way, that was one of Robin
William’s many norm-shattering shticks as Mork back in the 70s, heavy sigh. But before you’re put off by the excruciating self-conscious pop-cultureness of it all, think about a few things.

For instance, think about what it means to be reduced to the top of your head. Granted, that’s a little better than being reduced to T&A, but not much. That’s what I mean about the six-layer cake: along with this image (and in spite of myself I keep imagining MST3 on Twitch), there’s this little thing about female objectification, another about race- and fat-shaming, then there’s the role of the sidekick (shakes head again! Nothing new under the sun), and of course parents – or readers – who don’t get it. Parents never get it, whatever their kids’ “it” is, clothes, music, books, Elvis, art. Beware of the parent who does get it, in fact. But to add another layer to this opening page, income from the eyebrows’ Taco Bell endorsement paid the mortgage for Lourdes’ family while her dad’s out of work. That’s an interesting family dynamic.

Then there’s the dynamic between Lourdes and Cam. Co-artists, sure, and of course it goes deeper than that, at least for one of them. Their art has heartbreaking dimensions: “One of our installations was the performance of trying to be popular.” What kid hasn’t dabbled in that genre? For that matter, what adult hasn’t seen the movie everyone’s seeing just to talk about it, or taken up golf because that’s what the boss does? For many of us, our lives are exhibitions of performance art titled “I’m Good Enough, I’m Smart Enough, And Doggone It, People Like Me.” Art as a way of distancing yourself from your deepest fears.

But all that is just exposition. The story starts when Cam heads off for greener pastures – or, as he puts it, “to pivot mediums in order to grow as an audience.”

Cam ended us in first period.
In second period he was posting his first Vines.
By third. He already had 100,000 followers and counting.
At lunch I wasn’t sure who to eat with, so I went to the courtyard as usual.
“Facepalm,” he said when he saw me.
“Sigh,” I said.
“It’s just that the Popular Kids installation is going to be a solo work from here on out. Also, it’s now called Popular Kid, singular.”
I was too stunned to even say the words “stunned face” out loud, so I just turned and walked away.

I have to admit, knowing that Vine has, since this story was written, been shut down, gave me a little sense of Schadenfreude. Of course, Cam would’ve moved on to something else long before that announcement, but still it’s nice when Real Life adds an ironic twist to Fiction.

If the idea of Cam, with his good looks and rich family, leaving Lourdes, with her big body and her brown skin and poor family, behind to find real fame and fortune on his own seems high school, think of it as the 45 year old mother of two whose husband decides he deserves a 25 year old trophy wife, or the 55 year old handed a pink slip because he’s just not cutting it now that the market’s more tech savvy, or the erstwhile best friend who becomes scarce when her promotion means hobnobbing with a higher class of barflies at places no underling can afford. Transferability. It’s what gives this story the impact of a freight train.

And don’t forget the other layers. Lourdes has a virtual therapist. Let me tell you something: all therapists are virtual therapists. It’s a perfect little addition to this scene of art removed from all things artistic, of popularity removed from relationships, of people removed from what makes us human. When her virtual therapist tells her to find her authentic self, Lourdes runs out of time before she can reply that there is no authentic self (shades of Zhuangzi’s concept of wu-wei), so heads for the bathroom where she leaves graffiti as Marina Abramović, a 70-year-old Serbian performance artist so world-famous even I’ve heard of her. Lourdes knows how to pick role models, even if she does suck at picking best friends.

The story keeps coming back to art in different ways.

I often worry that only rich people can be true artists…. If it were just me, I wouldn’t fear homelessness. I would live in a dumpster and call it an installation. It’s just that I had two parents and two siblings and they would prefer not to live in a dumpster.I oftentimes worry that you can’t be a true artist if you have a family that depends on you.

Note the change in tone here. The artifice is muted, leaving nothing but a straight-up consideration of a topic that’s appeared in a variety of blogs and literary magazines from Toast to Salon and the New York Times (not to mention my twitter feed). Nonartists romanticize the Starving Artist trope or pronounce solemnly that maybe these artists don’t have talent, which ignores the kind of persistence needed to get a different artistic vision seen, let alone appreciated.

And what of artists who have a vision distinct from white middle class America? I’m not familiar with how it works in the visual arts, but we all know the Academy Awards is run by old white men who will tolerate only certain visions. In writing, there’s been a certain amount of activism recently to get writers of color and women more well-represented, starting with book reviewers and editors, but progress has been slow. Granted, this is some distance away from YouTube success, but who am I to say where the line is between art and entertainment. The story’s finest moments are to generate reflection about such thing, Is the value of art measured by the number of Likes or subscribers or income? and Who gets to make art (which follows from, who can afford to take those prestigious unpaid internships).

Let me slip in a word about the author, Dominica Phetteplace. I hope to see a lot more from her. She writes a lot of science fiction, and, be still my heart, she’s a math tutor. This just gets better and better. And I didn’t even know any of that when I read the story.

Back to Lourdes. If I’d seen a girl like her in Real Life – and, hey, I live blocks away from an Art College, I see girls like her all the time – I’d feel a touch of annoyance at the “look at me” desperation. But that’s what’s so great about fiction: I learned to see Lourdes beyond the hairbow. She’s naïve, she flaunts artifice, but damn, even when her heart’s breaking, she does the work, she plows through disappointment and fear and keeps going and turns her tears into art. If that isn’t authenticity, I don’t know what is. I hope she has the chance to grow into the artist she so wants to be. And that means I hope all the Lourdeses out there, the ones who aren’t fictional characters, have that chance.

I’m ambivalent about the final scene. Is she creating something new, or retreating to an old pattern? Has she allowed herself to be reduced to something else? Is that what every artist does, reduce themselves to a particular work, and it just becomes more blatant in performance art? Has she merged the authentic and the artifice? Is my ambivalence the point? Is ambivalence the point of all art – to raise questions, not to give answers?

Unlike BASS and the PEN series, Pushcart doesn’t order its material alphabetically. This story was chosen to lead off the collection; I think it’s useful to wonder why. Will questions about art come up throughout the volume? Is it meant to set a mood, to remind the reader of the paths the writers of the material between the covers have travelled to make it to our living rooms? To make us appreciate that, for the cost of three fancy coffees, we can participate in an aesthetic experience, even if we spend most of our day in distinctly non-artistic pursuits to pay the rent? To inspire? To give thanks? To remind us of all those, also worthy, whose art is not here for reasons having nothing to do with talent or artistry?

It’s a story about insecurity, love, financial pressure, abandonment, loyalty and not, revenge. It’s sad, funny, thought-provoking, inspiring, addictive, infuriating. All at once, coming at you, every paragraph, sometimes every sentence. Awe-stricken stare.

Pushcart XLI: Why Bother?

"Lost (albeit in a good book)" – anonymous Scottish bookartist

“Lost (albeit in a good book)” – anonymous Scottish bookartist

Every small press writer and editor knows the question: In the age of instant info, twenty-four hour entertainment, political blowhards and gigantic atrocities, isn’t there something better I should be doing with my life than struggling to create authentic and honest art?

~~Bill Henderson, Introduction

I’ve been having a lot of trouble getting back into the groove. That’s partly because this time of year is always unmoored by structure – in between moocs at the moment, in between readings, shakily navigating the two weeks when everything’s on hiatus for special holiday celebrations – but it’s mostly because the events past two months have left me with a dismal view of what lies ahead. Why bother with anything as frivolous as reading, contemplating, and blogging creative work?

Bill Henderson finds his answer to the question in the unidirectional persistence of writer Wendell Berry. I found a different source: San Francisco artist and Stanford lecturer Jenny Odell, whose advice to her Stanford students was retweeted into my feed a few days ago:

I may have mentioned before that I and other artists I know were unsure of what to do with ourselves after the election. We felt like what we were doing was trivial and meaningless compared to more direct political action. But in thinking about this incident, the reactions to it, and the larger situation it points to, I’ve come back around. As you leave this class, I want you to consider that making art and consuming art are in themselves political acts. By caring about art, you are taking a stand for everything in this world that is *not* obvious, that is nuanced, that is poetic, that is not “productive” in the sad, mechanistic way we now think about productivity, that imagines something different. You are holding open a space that is always under threat of being shut down.

~~ Jenny Odell

I wouldn’t presume to call anything I do here “art”, but I’d like to think my efforts contribute to some part of what is meaningful yet unmeasurable. I know what I do here has value for me; I’d like to think it occasionally has value for someone else, in that, for the past several years, I have focused more upon my reaction to a piece than on analyzing the literary technique, trying to model what it is to read for oneself, for understanding and enjoyment rather than for a grade.

Literature does not have to stay stuck in classrooms. Literature is not meant to be something taught to us by someone who “knows” what it means; it’s meant to be explored and discovered in a personal way. If I find something in a story or poem that elicits a memory, yet I can’t explain why I was moved (as happens at least a few times in every anthology), that has as much value to me – perhaps more – as the story that clearly demonstrates perfect five-part structure or outstanding mirror characters or sophisticated symbolism. I’m not reading to pass a test here; I’m reading for my life, just to read, and react, and understand and grow.

"Lifeline" Rajinder Parsad Singh Tattal, aka ‘Pen-Tacular-Artist’

“Lifeline” Rajinder Parsad Singh Tattal, aka ‘Pen-Tacular-Artist’

A few years ago, I came across a semi-surreal short story by Australian writer David Brooks (not the American journalist) titled “Blue”. I wish it was available online; I found it in the 1989 edition of Sudden Fiction International. It’s been on my mind a lot lately, as it starts in “a summer of fires and shark attacks” and shows how people work through, are driven by an inner need felt but not understood, to work through a drought. The story, just a couple of pages long, ends with a phrase that reduces me to tears every time I read it: “And we knew, all of a sudden, how terribly, terribly thirsty we had been.”

I expect we will all be terribly, terribly thirsty in the coming seasons. We will all find our ways to work through it, whether it be Wendell Berry or the words of an artist or blogging about contemporary literature and moocs or direct political action or following a snarky medievalist on Twitter or all of the above, and it all shows who we are and what we believe. So I head into Pushcart, not wanting to declare what is good and bad, but looking for new ways to read poetry and nonfiction, looking for new understandings and viewpoints that will show me, show anyone who looks, where the water can be found.

Keep Calm and MOOC: early 2017 plan

For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that – I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much – so very much to learn.

~ Sylvia Plath

So now the new year’s about to start, along with a whole bunch of new moocs I can bury myself in. Which is what I’ve been doing for about three years now, but this time, it might just save my life, or at least my sanity as 2016 leaves me drained of all hope for 2017. If that sounds like a lot riding on very little, well, yeah. But there’s nothing like wondering just how egg plus flour plus sugar equals cookie, or exactly how leukocytes know what’s bacteria to be killed and what’s a necessary body cell, or what Brunhilde means when she starts screaming “Ho yo to ho!” to distract me from impending nuclear annihilation and the end of what’s passed for democracy for the past 200-odd years.

As always, this is an approximate list. Somehow it doesn’t look like much when I write it down, but there are a couple of heavy-duty reading courses in there, and a math-heavy science course that’s already got me nervous. Plus my self-directed side projects, mostly math-related (Alcumus, Lemma), and reading –the new Pushcart is ready to go. I still might just curl up in the corner and stare into space with a blanket over my head, never let it be said I didn’t try.

Anatomy (Xseries)
Start: Self-paced, opens January 1  Rescheduled for Summer/Fall, 2017 4-5 weeks, 2-3 hrs/wk per course
School/platform: University of Michigan/edX

Official blurb:

[Y]ou will explore human anatomy using a systems approach, and a vast library of multimedia materials, so you may understand the features of different organ systems in relation to the human body’s form and function.

Given the short duration of the four individual courses in this series, and the expected time expenditure per course, I would imagine they’re more generalized than some of the anatomy courses I’ve already taken. Then again, maybe Michigan just expects more. In any case, I haven’t previously covered some systems, and it’s always nice to review. The four individual courses are:
(1) Musculoskeletal and Integumentary Systems opens Jan Summer 2017;
(2) Cardiovascular, Urinary, and Respiratory Systems opens Feb Summer 2017;
(3) Human Neuroanatomy opens March Fall 2017;
(4) Gastrointestinal, Reproductive and Endocrine Systems opens April Fall 2017
Those dates have changed several times, and quite dramatically, since I enrolled.


U.S. Government – Foundations, Democracy & Politics
Start January 10, 2017 6 weeks, 2-3 hrs/wk
School/platform: Purdue/edX

Official blurb:

Learn about the Constitution, political processes, and democracy in the United States and prepare for the AP United States Government and Politics examination.

Status: Dropped by 3rd lecture. Courses like this is why high school students think civics, history, politics is boring. I’m also in too raw a state to listen to phrases like “the welfare state” right now.

I laughed when I heard that the UK Parliament had produced a mooc about themselves (on Futurelearn) and cringed to imagine what a mooc created by the US Congress would look like, so I’m relieved this is by a university instead, which gives it more credibility (doesn’t that say a lot about government right there). It seems to be an AP course for high school students, but hey, why not, the about-to-be-real-life US government seems to be making it up right now so maybe knowing the rules is a good thing so I know how mad to be when they’re broken. I’m not sure I’m up for this; maybe it’s too soon. I have a feeling the forums are going to be quite, shall we say, energetic. But I’ll give it a shot.


International Human Rights Law
Start January 10, 2017
10 weeks, 6-8 hrs/wk
Instructor: Olivier De Schutter
School/platform: Université catholique de Louvain/edX

Official blurb:

Human rights are developed through the constant dialogue between international human rights bodies and domestic courts, in a search that crosses geographical, cultural and legal boundaries. The result is a unique human rights grammar, which this course shall discuss and question, examining the sources of human rights, the rights of individuals, the duties of States, and the mechanisms of protection.

Status: Inactive, may resume later. This turned out to be the course I feared the first one would be: a great deal of difficult, time consuming work for a goal of highly technical detail that I’m not sure I’m interested in acquiring. Because it’s self-paced, it can be completed any time in the next year, so I haven’t dropped it, but I have too much going on right now to approach it with the effort required; I may pick it up at some point in the future when I have less going on.

I so enjoyed (to my great surprise) the introductory International Law course offered this past fall by a different Louvain instructor, I decided to take some additional courses in their “Micro-Masters” series. The intro course or equivalent is listed as a prerequisite for this; that means, prepare to work (the intro course is offered concurrently). I’m not sure I’ll be able to give this enough attention, since a lot of moocs are clustered in January, but I’ll give it a try. And, ironically, due to current events, as a US citizen I might need to know more about human rights in the near future.

Fundamentals of Immunology: Death by Friendly Fire
Starts January 10, 2017
5 weeks, 7-10 hrs/wk
Instructor: Alma Moon Novotny
School/platform: Rice/edX

Official blurb:

What if your own immune system attacked you? Learn what can go wrong and how to deal with immune errors.

Status: Completed; good course, see complete comments here.

I missed the introductory courses which are recommended as prerequisites (I’ve heard good things about them from my mooc friends), and while they are archived, for some reason enrollment is closed. So I’m combing youtube, where there’s tons of fairly high-quality basic medical education info, hoping that will be sufficient preparation – and in any case, I’m having a great time. I’m looking forward to this.
Addendum: in the Comments below, Prof. Novotny has posted the course trailer – thank you!

Science & Cooking: From Haute Cuisine to Soft Matter Science (part 1)
Start January 18, 2017 6 weeks, 5-7 hrs/wk
Instructors: Michael Brenner, David Weitz, Pia Sörensen
School/platform: Harvard/edX

Official blurb:

Top chefs and Harvard researchers explore how everyday cooking and haute cuisine can illuminate basic principles in physics and engineering.
During each week of this course, chefs reveal the secrets behind some of their most famous culinary creations — often right in their own restaurants. Inspired by such cooking mastery, the Harvard team will then explain the science behind the recipe.
Topics will include:
• How molecules influence flavor
•The role of heat in cooking
•Diffusion, revealed by the phenomenon of spherification, the culinary technique pioneered by Ferran Adrià.

I took a crack at this three years ago, the first year I went moocing. It was a nightmare. I was still trying to figure out how moocs work, I wasn’t prepared for the math and science, and ended up impatient with the cooking because of it – I mean really, if I don’t have the four cups of flour I need to make cookies, I just wing it, I don’t get out a calculator and figure how much moisture matches with how much starch. I’ve seen it run a couple of times since then, and always thought, gee, I really would like to try that some time. I’m not taking any formal math this quarter, and you know, sometimes you just gotta. It’ll kind of be a little self-check to see if I’ve gotten anywhere in math and science. I’m definitely better at moocing, so that might help.

Question Reality! Science, philosophy, and the search for meaning
Start January 31, 2017 6 weeks 2-4 hrs/wk
School/platform: Dartmouth/edX

Official blurb:

What is reality? Explore how physics and philosophy have changed our perspective on the nature of the universe, matter, and mind over time…. This course is a project of the Institute for Cross-Disciplinary Engagement at Dartmouth (ICE), dedicated to transforming the dialogue between the sciences and the humanities in academia and in the public sphere in order to explore fundamental questions where a cross-disciplinary exchange is essential.

I’m curious to see what this is. Sounds a little like the Einstein mooc, though probably with less technical material. Maybe closer to some of the puffball philosophy moocs I’ve taken, designed not to frighten people, and resembling a late-night dorm room bullshit session than a course. I never had the late night dorm room bullshit session experience since I went to a commuter school when I was in my 30s, was married and working. And I love phrases like “dialogue between the sciences and the humanities” though these usually turn out to be just a bunch of parallel monologues talking past each other. (as an aside: I’m re-reading this whole post just prior to posting; it was written piecemeal over several weeks, I’m seeing a great deal of cynicism; not surprising, but I’ve gotta keep an eye on that)

Dinosaur Ecosystems
Starts February 8, 2017
6 weeks, 2-3 hrs/wk
Instructors: Dr. Michael Pittman, Prof. Xu Xing
School/platform: University of Hong Kong/edX

Official blurb:

A global adventure to learn how palaeontologists use animal and plant fossils as well as living forms to reconstruct dinosaur ecosystems.
Using the Late Cretaceous fossil site of Erlian, China as an example, we bring you to the Gobi desert, as well as leading international museums and institutions to find out how we reconstruct dinosaur ecosystems.

The folks at HKU, who I met last summer via their great Chinese philosophy course, are incredibly eager to create wonderful moocs, and that goes double for the Dino people – just take a look at their twitter account, @dinoecosystems. The problems for me are: 1) I’m really overbooked for this time period, and 2) I seem to have been born without the “Dinosaurs, oh cool!” gene. Yeah, I confess, I don’t like dinosaurs. I mean, I don’t hate them or anything, but I’m not particularly interested in them. However, with a team this enthusiastic – out of all the posts I’ve written about moocs from a students-eye POV, they’re the ones who showed the most interest in my opinions, even arranging a Google Hangout interview with me last fall – I’m willing to meet them half way. And it does sound pretty fascinating, more about scientific practice than dinosaurs per se. And it’s only a couple of hours a week. Let’s see what happens.

The Science of Religion
Start March 15, 2017 6 weeks, 2-3 hrs/wk
School/platform: University of British Columbia/edX

Official blurb:

The course is based on the idea that religion is a naturalistic phenomenon — meaning it can be studied and better understood using the tools of science. Religious belief and practice emerge naturally from the structure of human psychology, and have an important impact on the structure of societies, the way groups relate to each other, and the ability of human beings to cooperate effectively.

I’m very much looking forward to this course. It’s by the same UBC department that did that wonderful mooc on Chinese philosophy (which I loved, per my comments), and in fact one of the same instructors is working on it; he’s said it’s all different material, so I’m very curious. It was originally scheduled for January, but moved to March; that suits me fine, since January was feeling a little overbooked.

International Humanitarian Law
Start March 21, 2017
7 weeks, 6-8 hrs/wk
Instructors: Raphaël Van Steenberghe, Jerôme de Hemptinne
School/platform: Université catholique de Louvain/edX

Official blurb:

Learn how international law regulates armed conflicts, protects individuals in wartime, including terrorism, and guarantees minimum compliance.

As with the Human Rights course, I decided to take this based on my experience in the prerequisite International Law course.

The Great War and Modern Philosophy
Start April 4, 2017
8 weeks, 6-7 hrs/wk
Instructor: Nicolas de Warren
School/platform: KU Leuven University/edX
Official blurb:

Learn how philosophers responded to the First World War and how the war changed philosophical reflection.
Students in this course will be introduced to different philosophical reactions to the First World War through discussion and analysis of texts, documents, images, artworks, film, and music. The relation between philosophy and poetry will also be explored. In this course, students will gain historical knowledge, conceptual understanding, and literacy for a clearer grasp of the complex ways in which philosophy and the Great War intersected.

Never has Yeats been more appropriate:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world….

Seems like an appropriate class for right now.

Introduction to German Opera
Start April 11, 2017 4 weeks, 3-4 hrs/wk
School/platform: Dartmouth/edX

Official blurb:

Want to listen to an opera for the first time? Have you been listening to opera for your entire life? This course is suited for beginners and advanced opera listeners alike…. No previous knowledge of music or opera is necessary. Join us as we embark upon this community-focused journey to explore the wonders of German opera as it touches upon the human experience!

I greatly enjoyed the Italian opera mooc Steve Swayne led last year. In my post about it, I quipped, “Hoping for a sequel on contemporary opera, or maybe even German opera (with these guys, I might even sit still for Wagner… nah, probably not)”. Springtime for Wagner and Germany… perfect.

Antarctica: From Geology to Human History
Starts April 15, 2017
5 weeks, ?? hrs/wk
Instructors: Dr. Rebecca Priestley, Dr. Cliff Atkins
School/platform: Victoria University of Wellington/edX

Official blurb:

Take a virtual field trip to Antarctica, as we go on location to explore the geology and history of the coldest, driest, windiest continent on earth.

I signed up on impulse: this is Victoria University’s (NZ) first edX offering , so I’m curious. And I like earth science. And we might be the last generation to see the Antarctic before global warming turns it into beachfront properties with hotels and Luau nights and a big oil refinery right smack in the middle. I’ll have to see how the schedule fills out for Spring before committing fully, though

BASS 2016: Just What I Needed Right Now

 
 
Querida reader, ultimately I hope these stories do for you what they’ve done for me – at the very least I pray they offer you an opportunity for communion. A chance to listen, if not to the parrots of our world, then to some other lone voice struggling to be heard against the great silence.

~~ Junot Díaz, Introduction, BASS 2016

If there was ever a particular anthology I needed at a particular time, this was it.

Did I like it because I wanted to like it? I won’t rule this out. In fact, I don’t think that’s a bad thing. “Oh, you just want to like it because it’s multicultural” isn’t an insult. Why isn’t the desire to embrace different voices a good thing, something to be celebrated? I’ve enjoyed plenty of nice-suburban-white-lady-struggles-with-family-issues stories. I give middle-aged-white-guy-trapped-in-marriage-and-job stories the benefit of the doubt. And we all know there’s plenty of rich-white-city-folk-upset-about-something-they-did-to-themselves fiction. Why shouldn’t I, when starting a volume guest edited by a writer known for his promotion of diversity, look forward to something different? Why shouldn’t we all grab the opportunity to see the world through a different set of eyes, as much as we can?

Yes, I want to fight back against the global tide of nationalism in general, and in particular against the terrifying brand of neo-Nazi fundamentalist Christian white supremacy that’s becoming more entrenched in America every day since Nov. 9. But I also genuinely want to know more about what it’s like to be someone who isn’t me, and that includes differences in era, age, gender orientation, race, nationality, religion, language, class, aspirations, and fears. What does it mean to be a young woman, born in Ethiopia but brought to the US as an infant, to connect with her family there? How does life look to a transgender woman in Japan who confronts a figure from her adolescence? Who made these clothes I’m wearing, what is her life like, and what was she thinking about? What was it like during the Depression in America? Is there any way to see midwestern funeral thieves through the eyes of compassion? And invariably, though our lives may differ in major ways, there is some point of commonality to be found. I can learn something from all of them.

These are fictional people, sure, but the more we imagine, maybe the more we are open to the unfamiliar when we encounter it, and the less it frightens us. And by the way, I’d love to read some stories about neo-Nazi fundamentalist Christian white supremacists who struggle with decisions and consequence, if anyone out there writes some that aren’t merely megaphones for hate and power. I’m sure there’s insight to be found there, too.

I can’t begin to pick three favorites from this anthology; I’d say more than half of the stories were favorites in very different ways, and half of the rest were very close runners-up. So I’ll instead present my Sloopies, awards for my own private categories:

Story that made me change my epitaph: “The Great Silence” by Ted Chiang.

Story that’s come back to me every day since I read it: “The Politics of the Quotidian” by Caille Millner.

Story that told the truth underneath the truth: “Garments” by Tahmima Anam;
tie: “Ravalushun” by Mohammed Naseehu Ali.

Story that brought back a memory and made me cry: “Secret Stream” by Héctor Tobar.

Story that made me believe we can find compassion for everyone if we look closely enough: “Treasure State” by Smith Henderson.

Story that proved again the value of putting just a little effort into understanding what the author was doing: “For the God of Love, For the Love of God” by Lauren Groff.

Story of harsh reality told with lyric beauty: “On This Side” by Yuko Sakata.

Story of wild imagination: “The Bears” by Sarah Shun-lien Bynum.

Story of everyday simplicity: “The Suitcase” by Meron Hadero.

Story that hit the perfect end note: “Williamsburg Bridge” by John Edgar Wideman.

We’ve all just about come through an annus horribilis that may wring its wretchedness out on us for years to come. I’m grateful for the moments of light I’ve been fortunate to encounter along the way. BASS 2016 was one of them.