Broken Airport

Two nights ago we had to meet someone at the Seattle-Tacoma airport, nicknamed Sea-Tac. Luckily, the plane she was on made it through, but we nonetheless found ourselves at a broken airport. That day Alaska Airlines had canceled about 450 flights connected, in one way or another, to Sea-Tac and/or Portland's airport, and if you use even a modest multiplier, you end up with a lot of people who were supposed to be in the air now standing around. At Sea-Tac, there were (according to reports later) about 4,000 stranded people, and those getting in line just to sort out things with Alaska Airlines were told they would be waiting 7 or 8 hours.

Once an airport breaks like this, things deteriorate rapidly. Luggage piles up, disconnected from its owners. Stranded people turn the airport into a village, but the village runs out of provisions. Those working for airlines get so battered by questions and expressed outrage that they quickly get exhausted, even punchy. I asked one worker whether another flight we were expecting the following day (from San Diego) was likely to make it, and she said, "I'm not sure because I know they've had a lot of snow in San Diego, too." There was no point in quibbling with or correcting her. She probably wasn't hearing words anymore, and what I said may have sounded like "San Diego pink rabbit airplane snow hello complain goodbye," so she said something simply to get rid of her. I can't blame her, as the workers at the counter represent the epidermis of the corporation. The hearts of corporations are impervious, unseen.


The Broken Airport

The broken airport has become a temple
to which we sacrifice mobility. The terminal
has become its own disintegrating destination.
Haggard people and swollen luggage accumulate
like the snow outside. The enraged become
resigned; the patient, stupefied. Jabbed
and punched by questions, employees
in company colors resemble boxers
in late rounds. Everyone begins to resemble
everyone else. Distinctive personalities
melt into an impressionist canvas of weariness.
People become their uncomfortable bodies.
Quickly clothes and hair become soiled.

Original reasons for travel evaporate.
Now everyone will go anywhere just
to get out, to move. Once again, flight
has become a strictly theoretical concept.
Parked airplanes look like cigar-tubes.
A disembodied voice asks, "May I have
your attention in the airport?" No one
pays attention. The terminal's become
funereal. Mobility rots. People lie down
like herd animals in a pasture.

Hans Ostrom Copyright 2008

Stealing Dust

"The Scrapper Poet," whose blog I follow, has just published a chapbook with Finishing Line Press (search online). Make sure you either buy a copy or have your library order one--or both! Chapbooks represent one of the great traditions in poetry and publishing. There's something almost perfect about a thing, nicely printed book of poems.

The title of the chapbook is Stealing Dust (nice title).

I'll also put in a plug for Pudding House Press in Ohio; it specializes in chapbooks and is a real force in the small-press, poetry-publishing world. Poets would be lost without the owners of small presses, the printers and designers who work with them, the editors who look at chapbook-manuscripts, and the libraries that maintain chapbook-collections.

With desktop-publishing, you can also create your own wee chapbook of poems. I often encourage students to create one of these and produce some copies for family and friends--and to sell a few in the community.

Chocolate-Poem

I went out for pizza with some students the other evening. Some of them ordered dessert, so we got on the subject of chocolate. I opined that I thought women seemed predisposed to like chocolate more than men liked it, but such assertions carry less weight than a mousse. Even if someone launched a proper statistical analysis that showed more women liking chocolate than men do, the preference might be cultural or physiological or a combination of both--or, heaven's, even neither.

Nonetheless, I'm sticking with my unsupported hypothesis, partly because the stakes are so low, partly because I can't remember meeting a woman who didn't like chocolate, although I have met some to whom chocolate sometimes gives a headache. I did poke around on the Web and found that one researcher--Anthony Auger--contends that chocolate affects women's brains differently than men's brains, particularly a place in the brain called the amygdale. I didn't know there was a village in the brain that went by that name. Of course, the village appears in both male and female brains, so why chocolate affects the zone in women differently is anybody's guess, or rather Auger's guess.

Anyway, I've been working on a poem about chocolate.


Chocolate

1

After the moon has set but before sunrise,
sweet breezes issue from dark brown corridors
of a warm, fronded forest. This is the hour of
chocolate, when the mind is weary of merely
thinking and wants to dance with ancient
instincts, to self-induce a swoon by
indulging in lore from forbidden precincts.

2

Inside cacao beans lies a secret
that survives translations of growth
and harvest, roast and grind, concoction
and confectionery concatenation. After
tasting chocolate, tongues transmit
the news by nerve-line, enzyme,
and bloodstream to mahogany-lined private
clubs in the brain. There receptors
luxuriate on divans and thrill
at the arrival of tropical gossip.
After the messages from chocolate
arrive, brown damask draperies vibrate,
and pleased devotees purr pleasurably.

3

My darling, I wouldn't choose
between chocolates and flowers,
so I brought both. Let me put
the latter in a vase as you open
and taste the former. Yes, I agree:
chocolate is film noir watched
by taste buds in the mouth's
art-house theater. Barbarously

suave, chocolate is an unabashedly
debauched foodstuff--cad and coquette
of cacao. Darling, you're making
those noises you make when you eat
chocolate--the secret language of
satisfaction, the patter of pleasure,
your mumbled homage to this,
the moment of chocolate.

Copyright Hans Ostrom 2008

Rain-Cow

I've been reading some literary theory (now, don't nod off immediately; wait a few moments)--specifically Genres in Discourse by Tzvetan Todorov.

Of course, we all go around assuming genres exist--things like novels, poems, plays, prayers, and autobiographies. Then there are so-called sub-genres like naturalistic novels, satiric novels, tragic plays, celebrity autobiographies, adventure films, and the curious sub-genre, "chick flick," which I think is essentially a movie with reasonably good dialogue, not much representation of violence, and maybe a little romance.

Todorov is not the first to note that while we go around assuming these genres actually exist, the more we probe them, the more permeable they seem; boundaries between alleged genres disappear. He starts with a big genre, "literature," and shows how difficult it is to prove literary writing is essentially different from other kinds of writing. He goes over the usual stuff about mimesis, self-reference, and fiction; with regard to the latter topic, he notes that novels are neither true nor false (such as a report about weather) but simply "fiction." We may assume a novel has some relation to truth, but even so, we realize it's fiction.

He also sensibly discusses, via Rene Wellek and Northrop Frye, the issues of form (or structure) and function. So at first glance, the purpose of a play seems different from that of a prayer or memo, and the structure of a poem seems different from that of a scientific report.

"Seems" is the problem, especially after Modern writers deliberately disrupted genre-boundaries and were self-conscious about the seeming part.

Todorov ends by concluding that these things, genres, are in fact not essential categories but are determined and re-determined each time people actually use them--in discourse. So a single sentence, without being changed, might appear in a scientific report or a novel, and its being associated with one genre or the other would depend upon who was writing or reading it and why. In other words, society makes up, perpetuates, and disrupts genres all the time.

In later chapters, he presents some fascinating analysis of Dostoyevsky's Notes From the Underground (what genre is this book in, for heaven's sake?) and of Poe's writing in general. Poe, says T., is all about things that are very very small or very very large. He might focus on somebody's teeth until the teeth become extraordinarily symbolic, or he may present a most extreme experience, like getting buried alive. Poe was always pushing genre-boundaries and, along the way, inventing genres, such as the detective story, the horror story, and science fiction.

Todorov does have some affection for the notion that a literary text tends to be more self-referential than a simple everyday statement like, "I'd like to buy this book." That is, the literary text is less of a purely transactional one and more of a made-thing, of interest in itself.

I witnessed a nice example of this at the mall today. A five-year old who clearly knew some sign-language signed for her grandmother, "Rain here," or "It is raining here." She even interpreted the signs for her grandmother. It was a serious, matter-of-fact exchange. Then the grandmother, feeling whimsical, signed "rain" and "cow." The five-year-old cracked up, as did the grandmother, who had essential signed a wee poem that juxtaposed "rain" and "cow" and therefore asked us to imagine a creature known as a "rain cow." What exactly would a rain cow be? Good question. Lots of possibilities. Much imagery comes to mind.

The point being--well, the point being, laughter is good--but also that by "enacting discourse," the grand-daughter and the grandmother had essentially marked off two genres--one a piece of everyday communication--messaging, we'll call it; the other a kind of self-referential performance, a word-play, intended to entertain and to disrupt messaging. The latter kind is what we might call "literature," bu there's no way we can prove, absolutely, that the two statements are essentially different, in the way nitrogen and oxygen are.

Now I think I'll go imagine what the rain-cows might be up to.

Some Favorite Poets in Translation

Over a year ago, I posted a list of some favorite poems of mine, almost all from the Anglo-American tradition, although I included one poem in translation by Neruda. The post is on the list of selected earlier posts, and a recent visitor to the blog liked my list but asserted that not including poems by Rilke, Lorca, and/or Cesaire was "criminal." I'm hoping it's just a literary misdemeanor. My self-imposed sentence is pretty light: I thought I'd list some poets whose work I know chiefly through translation, although in some cases I've also tried to read the work in the original language.

I would indeed include Rilke and Lorca (pictured) on the list, as well as Cesaire, a poet whom Langston Hughes liked a great deal and who's also linked with the Negritude movement in world literature.

I'd also include, in no particular order, Basho, Rumi, Goethe, Machado, and Vallejo. I like some of Bly's translations of poems by Machado and Vallejo as well as his discussion of Latin American and Spanish surrealism in contrast to French Surrealism.

Speaking of the French, I do like Baudelaire's and Rimbaud's work, and I like Victor Hugo's poetry, although I'm not partial to the Penguin translation because the translator decided not to replicate the rhyming and form Hugo used, but it's a bilingual edition, so you can look over and see what Hugo was up to.

I like a lot of Swedish poetry and have read some in the original Swedish, especially in the anthology Svensk Dikt. Some students I taught at the University of Uppsala gave me an anthology of Seven Poets From Uppsala (although I've translated the title, and the poems themselves are in Swedish). I also return often to Robert Bly's translation of contemporary Swedish poets, Friends, You Drank Some Darkness. Marie Silkeberg, Gunnar Ekelof, and Tomas Transtroemer are among my favorite Swedish poets.

To round out this international list, I'll include Eugenio Montale, Li Po, Boris Pasternak, and Marina Tsvetaeva, as well as Yevtushenko, whom I got to meet and chat with some 15 + years ago in T-Town.

Obviously this brief list excludes too many great poets, and I've no doubt committed more literary misdemeanors by omission. Sometime I need to mention who some of my favorite Canadian poets are, for instance. Atwood's edition (for Oxford) of Canadian poetry is no doubt viewed as old hat, but I still like dipping into it.

Movies With Snow

I've been watching the black-and-white, late 1930s film-version of A Christmas Carol today, off and on. I love the pace of such British movies. The scenes really move along. I'd forgotten about the scene in which Cratchett knocks Scrooge's hat off with a snowball and is fired. I don't think that's in the tale. The snow actually looks almost convincing in the film.

Probably my favorite snow-scene in cinema is in Dr. Zhivago, when Zhivago and his love hide out in the winter home, but the film also begins with some great exterior cinematography featuring a bleak wintry landscape. There's also the ill-fated protest, cut down by Cossacks on snowy streets.

For some reason, scenes from McCabe and Mrs. Miller also stick in my mind. Much of the film seem to have been shot on location, and the denouement takes place in the snow. Indeed, McCabe (Warren Beatty) is able to get the drop on a bad-guy by playing dead in the snow. That's before McCabe himself perishes in the snow. The film features some of the intentionally bad recording of sound and mumbling that Altman liked for some reason--his version of cinema verite, I guess. Otherwise, it's one of my favorites.

Beatty himself made a pretty good film involving a lot of snow, Reds.

I'm sure I'm not alone in being partial to some of the snow-scenes in Ingmar Bergman's films, including Fanny and Alexander.

Hollywood snow is usually pretty bad. It doesn't look like snow, so that's kind of a problem. Hollywood rain may be even worse, however, because there's almost always too much of it. All right, already, it's raining, we get it; now stop wasting water.

What's the film in which the character played by Richard Harris is attacked by a bear and then left for dead--and then left to try to survive in the snow? I think his antagonist is played by John Huston. Is it Man in the Wilderness? It's certainly a lot better than Mamet's strained, predictable move with Alec Baldwin, Anthony Hopkins, and a bear. Oy. That was a stinker, in my opinion.

Oddly enough, I think I first learned from a movie that people usually fall asleep before they freeze to death in snow. A young lad, I was watching a Western on TV. It was about buffalo hunters, and I think Robert Mitchum was in it, and I think he freezes to death--but nods off first. However, Mitchum may have just been nodding off in the middle of a scene. He didn't exactly take himself too seriously as an actor. He even turned down the lead in Patton, allegedly, because he said he'd just say the lines while somebody drove tanks back and forth in the background, whereas someone like George C. Scott would really tear into the role. And Patton includes a few interesting winter-battle scenes.

Mitchum strikes me as having been the type to like a good snow-ball fight, rather like one of my brothers. Sometimes we could get enough kids together in town to have a wee snowball battle between "teams." Forts of snow were built, and snowballs got stockpiled. My brother slipped some rocks in a few of the snowballs he made. That sort of thing tends to kick a snowball fight up to another level.

More Snow-Poems Piling Up

A valued reader of the blog and professional writer from Minnesota reminded me that Ms. Emily Dickinson wrote quite a few snow-poems. Living in Amherst in Winter had to have been rough at times, what with no insulation or central heating. I wonder what kind of cook-stove the Dickinsons had in that house. I also wonder what the hardwood of choice was for burning--maple? Oak?

I also forgot to mention Robert Bly's Silence in the Snowy Fields (speaking of Minnesota), arguably the book that made Bly a nationally known poet.

Then there's George Keithley's magnificent book-length narrative poem about the Donner Party. Snow certainly played a role in that awful drama. (The photo is of Donner Pass.)

Snow-Poems

It's been snowing in Tacoma today. Snow in Tacoma is big news because usually this part of Washingston gets snow only once or twice a Winter, and even then, not much. Of course, in a city that's not used to snow, people react and over-react to it in a variety of ways. They don't necessarily know how best to drive automobiles in the stuff. They tend to go too fast. At the same time, snow seems to make a lot of people happy. I was getting my hair cut today when someone, not the hair-cutter, asked me, "What do you think of the snow?" "Well," I said, "I grew up around snow, so I associate it with shoveling." She seemed disappointed in my reaction, so I tried to meet her part-way. "But it sure provides a change from our usual gray Winter," I said. "It's pretty." "Yes," she said, brightening, "it's pretty." I gathered that most of the hair-cutters weren't able to show up that day because of the snow, especially if they lived in those notorious "outlying areas" that weather-persons seem to like to discuss. There always seems to be more snow in the outlying areas, not just in the "higher elevations." If you live in an outlying area that is also at a higher elevation, then the weather-person takes a very grave attitude toward your situation.

Anyway, I got to thinking about well known snow poems.

The first one that came to mind was the one I had to memorize and recite in 4th grade: "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening." It's one of those Robert Frost poems that appeals to a broad range of readers. Those poets who like it probably like it first because of its technical brilliance. The combination of formal rhythm and speech rhythm works well, and the interlocking rhymes seem close to perfect. Repeating that line at the end really is a superb move, too. I've never sense anything forced in the poem. The scene and narrative are simple and accessible, so the poem works at almost every level of education, but they are also suggestive enough to tempt interpreters. When I studied the poem again in college, I discovered that some critics thought the poem to be about death. To me, this interpretation was not and is not persuasive.

Other snow-poems include Wallace Stevens' "The Snow Man," Basho's "First Snow," Billy Collins' "Snow Day," Richard Brautigan's "The First Winter Snow," and William Carlos Williams' "Hunter's in the Snow," which, if memory serves, is an ekphrastic poem insofar as it concerns (in part) Breughel's painting of the same name. In fact, I think the poem may be in the book Pictures from Breughel, which earned Williams a Pulitzer Prize--his only one, I think. Tobias Wolff has a short story by the same name. It's a well written story, but also a cold-blooded one that echoes Hemingway insofar as it seems to have disdain for the characters in it, as Hemingway's "Francis MacComber" story does, too, at least in my opinion.

My goodness, I wonder how many Russian and Swedish poems there are about snow. Canadian, too. On a site called "The Canadian Poetry Archive," I just found a snow-poem by a person named Archibald Lampman. The poem is pretty good, and the poet's name is to die for. "Hello. My name is Archibald Lampman, and as you might have already guessed, I'm a poet."

Louis MacNiece has a poem called simply "Snow," and so does Edward Thomas. Robert Graves wrote called "Like Snow." Another Billy Collins one is "Shoveling Snow with Buddha."

Those venerable American poets Longfellow and Whittier wrote snow-poems, as did Edna St. Vincent Millay: "The Snow Storm."

But I keep thinking I'm forgetting a very important snow-poem, one even more obvious and famous than some of the ones already mentioned. Some figurative snow is piling up in drifts near my memory, however, and my memory is preoccupied. It thinks it may have to go out and shovel some snow soon.

Human in an Airport

(photo: Naugahyde)

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Human in an Airport

To be human is to sit cross-legged

on a Naugahyde chair at an airport-gate,

which is no gate, to know what the word

Naugahyde means, to wear a dark woolen

coat, to wear cotton jeans which owe their etymology

to Genoa, to have had some of your head's

hair tinted yellow chemically, to wear metal

ear-rings, to wear a diamond-barnacled band

on one finger, to read with great rational,

passionate concentration a book entitled

World War IV, and to mark passages with

translucent, yellow, watery ink as if you

might be personally involved in this or that

denouement of history. And to sneeze.

Hans Ostrom Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom

Joke as Genre

A while back I bought a book called Stop Me If You've Heard This: A History and Philosophy of Jokes, by Jim Holt. It pretty much does what the title suggests, touching on major theories of humor, acknowledging how funny and absurd it is to try to generate a theory of humor, and breaking down how and why jokes work or fail. If there's one big missing piece, it's a rhetorical one--namely, the rhetorical concept of audience, and even more broadly, of culture or "rhetorical community." For example, when the effects of feminism began to be felt in the 1960s and 1970s, many jokes that had once been standard fare were no longer funny, and the people who used to tell them unselfconsciously, even proudly, were taken aback. Of course, they often blamed the cool reception on "political correctness" or the alleged "humorlessness" of women. No. Times and the culture had changed, as they always do. Rhetoric and humor have always had to adapt to changing communities, as Aristotle well knew.

Based on my reading of the book, I've been trying to write jokes, just to experiment with them as a genre of writing. One element running through my life is that I've often been willing to try things I know, a priori, I may not be very good at, may even be awful at. So, for example, I took a ballet class when I was about 20. There were about 50 women and three men, and I was easily the worst dancer. But I learned what I wanted to learn--some basics about ballet, from a dancer's (sort of) perspective. I've also acted in two short student-directed films, just to see what it's like to act in front of a camera. I actually did okay, partly, I think because I didn't try to act. I just "was" who I was supposed to be (according to the script and the director) and left it at that. In high school, I desperately wanted to play the lead in The Crucible, but after the audition, all I got was the role of Ezekiel Cheever, bailiff. During one performance, I did save a scene by ad libbing when the actor playing the judge forgot his lines and froze. I wrote a one-act play recently. It's not very good.

So I didn't start writing jokes with the hope of their being funny to anyone but me, and I don't have career goals in comedy, to say almost the least. But I am fascinated by the form jokes can take--by jokes as a genre, as verbal constructs, if you will. In some ways, they're like very short poems.

I've tried out a couple jokes on my classes this week, just to test them (the jokes, not the classes). Of course, this experiment has led to brief discussions (before and after class) about favorite jokes and favorite comics. All of these students are about 20-21 years old. As far as I could tell, none had ever heard of Jack Benny (pictured) or Henny Youngman, nor did I expect them to have done so (times and culture change). But historians of popular American humor will remember Benny as a master of timing and of the deadpan response, and of course Youngman is the Mozart of the one-liner. I also came to appreciate Benny because one of his sidekicks was Eddie Anderson (character name, "Rochester"), an African American actor and comedian. True, in the the fictional world of Benny's TV show, Rochester did work for Benny, so the Black man was still working for the White man. But Rochester was not deferential, and the fictional (and probably professional) relationship between the two men was enlightened, at least by the standards of the times.

Holt goes over the usual theories of jokes--surprise, superiority, the sense in which the audience is asked to figure out a puzzle, suppressed aggression, and so on. He also discusses famous and eccentric collectors of jokes, as well as famous joke-forms (three men walk into a bar, etc.) and comedians.

Two jokes I wrote that made me laugh are as follows; however, I did not expect them to succeed broadly, and they haven't. But I even like the fact that they more or less failed because the information helps me understand the genre better.

1. When I was a child, I was very lonely because my family hid from me a lot.

2. My girlfriend told me she wanted to start seeing other people. So I said, "Okay," and I removed her blindfold.

My wife thought #2 was mildly funny, and she thought #1 was not funny at all. My classes thought neither joke was very funny, and one student said, "But you're married--you don't have a girlfriend, do you?" And I said, no, it's just a joke, a verbal experiment, not autobiography. I want to know what you think of it as a joke.

Another student who is studying joke-writing told me that #2 might be funnier if I had given it a longer build-up. Two other students thought #1 was very sad. That is, they didn't read it as a joke but as some kind of autobiograhpical statement.

I like #1 because I tend to like dry, deliberately flat-footed jokes, and I liked the dumb literal-minded logic of loneliness springing from people's hiding from you, not from anything emotional.

I like #2 because I think the surprise is pretty good and because it plays with literal and figurative meanings of "see." For some reason, I think the blindfold is funny, too--partly because of the ambiguity. Does the girlfriend wear the blindfold because she wants to? Just what is the deal with this blindfold, anyway?

Of course, much depends on who is delivering the joke and to whom, and my delivery of jokes has always been bad. #1 might possibly be funny if it were delivered by a professional comedian who had a loser-persona. #2 might be funny if it were delivered by a professional with an absurdist persona, like Stephen Wright. Nonetheless, neither joke is successful standing alone on its own merits. They're simply like unsuccessful sonnets or ballad-stanzas. The form is there, and there's a hint of the requisite surprise, puzzle-solving, and superiority (etc.), but not nearly enough of what's necessary.

As I think I've written here before, "the joke" has to be one of the most demanding genres of writing.

Please read Holt's book. You'll enjoy it, and you'll be enticed to quibble with the various theories of humor and jokes.

Devout Atheist Dust-Up

There's a dust-up going on at the state capitol in Washington (Olympia). Apparently there's some kind of multi-faith display, and the people in charge of the display included some kind of poster developed by atheists, who wish to celebrate the Winter solstice and to express their view that religion is merely mythic and fantastical and should therefore be dismissed.

Apparently the poster was stolen and ended up at a country-and-western radio station in Seattle. (?) Then it was returned. But then yesterday, some 500 protestors showed up demanding that the poster be taken down. I gather most, though not all, of these protestors were Christian, or claimed to be. The governor doesn't like the poster, but she says the attorney general tells her the atheists have a constitutional right to post their views in the display.

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Of course, the most reasonable response to this dust-up is "Who cares?" Given all the problems government needs to work on, I don't want it spending one second on this debate.

Assuming, for the sake of argument, that we do and should care, however, my second response is that if a Christian (for example) believes himself or herself to be solidly faithful, then what effect could the poster possibly have on the person's faith? Moreover, if a Christian really does perceive the atheist to be an "enemy," then the Christian is supposed to pray for the enemy.

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Third, one of the protestors is the wife of a well known pastor near Seattle who preaches "the gospel of wealth," lives in a mansion, owns a helicopter, and so on. Arguably, "the gospel of wealth" is a greater threat to traditional Christianity than the atheist's poster. Arguably, the teachings of Jesus do not promote the pursuit of wealth, although I'm sure the pastor has worked out his argument for why Jesus would have owned a helicopter.

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Fourth, if the atheists really are devout materialists, scientific positivists, and scoffers at faith-in-mystery or faith-in-God, then why do they want to celebrate the Winter solstice? Following their line of thought, the solstice springs from the phenomena of the earth's orbit and its tilting, so what's to celebrate--the accidents of planetary formation and gravitational force?

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Fifth, it is alleged that dismissing religion as mere counter-factual mythology constitutes "hate speech." I don't think so. I think the dismissal is simply an expression of disagreement. Hate speech would be something like, "Imprison all Christians at Guantanamo!" or "I hate Buddhists!"

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The dust-up suggests that some religious persons and some atheists give religion and atheism bad names. How about if all the groups represented at the capitol participated in a friendly competititon to see which group could distribute the most blankets, clothing, and food to homeless persons in the state of Washington? Helping the homeless does not go against any major faith tradition of which I am aware, and it certainly in no way contradicts atheism. It is also a better use of time than squabbling about a poster that expresses opposition to religion. Counterintuitively, the winner of this competition would be allowed to display the smallest poster next year--would have earned the privilege of displaying the most humility, that is.

Superiority

Superiority


He looked out his window.
A stream of people flowed
past his abode. The fact
and number of them startled
him. He turned and asked
his cohabitant, "Who are they?"
She said, "They're just some
of the people who think they're
better than you are." "Better
at what?" he asked. "At nothing--
or everything. Superior. They're
better overall than you." "They
know me?"he asked. "Of course
not," he said, "Don't be ridiculous.
Or be ridiculous. They don't need
to know you. They're superior."
"Oh," he said, as if he understood.
"What should I do?" he asked her.
"Probably what you've always done," she said.
"Work. Keep to yourself. Stand by friends."
"Am I better than anyone?" he asked.
"Of course not," she said, laughing.
"No one is better than anyone else.
Remember? Jesus, don't you know
anything?" she said. "Don't take
that superior tone with me," he said.
They shared a bit of a laugh,
cooked some food, and ate it.
He looked out the window again,
and all the superior people were gone.


Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom

Budgetary Work

I've been working on a university budget-committee this semester. Why a poet and an English professor would end up on such a committee is a good question. I'm surprised someone didn't say, "Put down the spreadsheet, sir, and back away from it slowly." Of course, all the major budgetary decisions are made elsewhere, and certain established realities (such as how much money is available and how much non-debatable things like maintaining Building X costs) further limit the paths such a committee may tread.

Interestingly (well, it interests me), "budget" in English seems originally to have referred to a leather bag, at least according to the OED online:

1. a. A pouch, bag, wallet, usually of leather. Obs. exc. dial.

The OED traces this denotation back to the early 1400s. Not until the early-t0-mid 1700's does "budget" start to refer to a record or prediction of money/capital expended.

I guess one could argue that although we do still keep money in such things as wallets and bags, we keep most of the real money (assuming money is real) in unreal spaces: in online, virtual-reality accounts. We "transfer" X number of dollars from account Y to account Z, but nobody ever touches an object symbolizing value, energy, or worth--until someone later watches an ATM spit rectangles of paper out, and, astoundingly, other people accept these rectangles in return for a bag of rice or a cup of coffee. That all of this perplexes me is yet another reason to wonder about my presence on a budgetary-committee.

With regard to the "home" budget, I'm about as sophisticated as Fred Flinstone. I figure you have to have some money coming in, and you have to keep an eye on the money going out, and you better have some back-up plans, as well as some money "stored" literally or figuratively, such as in a "bank" (but now we're back to virtual reality) or "real estate" (I "own" a rectangle of "undeveloped" dirt in California, for example, and in theory, I might be able to induce someone to give me money in return for it.) The tale of how I purchased the dirt (also known as a parcel or a lot) and when will and should wait for another day. I had no business buying it, and how I scraped the dough together TO buy it remains vaguely mystical.

At any rate (let's say 6%, nyuk, nyuk), a poem regarding budgetary work:

Budgetary Matters

The spreadsheet is all before you. The farther

left you travel, the more desireable things become.

Indeed the items named seem not just necessary

but inevitable, prophesied. As you travel toward

the reckoning right hand of calculation, the less

possible things seem. You think of Zeno's Paradox.

You begin to feel an urge to save rubber-bands

and bits of string, to eat left-overs and sew

your own clothes. When you finally arrive

in the severe, humorless zone of the numbers-column,

you then descend toward the hell of the Bottom Line,

which is, oddly enough, often represented by two lines.

At that line, expenses devour entrails of income.

Accountants costumed in gray feathers perform

a ghastly arithmetical dance. You hear someone

mumble, "Nothing we can afford is worth doing,"

to which you respond, "Nothing worth doing

is quantifiable." You stand up and demand

to know the origin of money. You are forcibly

exported from the room. As you depart, you

hear someone say, "I think we just found

some extra money in the budget."

Copyright 2008 Hans Ostrom