My mom has always told stories, but they are not the kind one would find interesting. Years before her dementia became obvious, she was very strange, and she would talk constantly. Oddly, since becoming demented, she barely talks at all most of the time. But then, she would talk constantly, repeating the same old stories of family members and past experiences over and over and over. You would leave the room, and when you came back, the tape was looping again: she would be telling the story and would be at precisely the same spot she was in when you left.
It could drive anyone batty.
But now, she is beginning to combine elements of the stories in new ways, and they are becoming interesting in almost a literary sort of way. For example, for the past year she has kept returning to a period of her life when she was in the airforce in South Africa, and she and her sister went to a town a day away and stayed with some other girls in a hotel room for a month or so for a training course in photography. She is always spurred by the look of the hills, saying they remind her of a place in South Africa, Haut Bay, and that reminds her of this experience, although it was not in Haut Bay. The chain of association is always the same.
But now, she says that the board and care house she lives in now is the place where she and the other girls stayed that time for training. She remembers it all so clearly, and reworks the details of the story accordingly.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Workshop
Tonight the poetry workshop I am teaching met again. It is such a different group from the summer's, which was far more homogeneous. This group, while small, is quite various. There are several very quiet people, who as yet have said almost nothing, but they are clearly listening intently, and thinking. When they do speak, they utter something helpful and to the point.
I am thinking what to do next. We have been working on images, discussing Williams "The Red Wheelbarrow" and Pound's "In a Station of the Metro," and creating poems composed of catalogues of images, on the pattern of Plath's "Metaphors" or Ondatchee's "Sweet Like a Crow." Some people really broke through with wonderful, unexpected images there. I had the same experience with that assignment last summer.
I want to follow up with something to do with diction, but I will have to think about what that should be.
It is hard for me not to be too blunt. I want to move people's work along, but without alienating or upsetting them too much. Of course, I remember my first workshop, and how upset and sometimes angry I got, but the anger always made me determined, I think, and made my work improve. If I can just provide a path for this improvement for the students to follow, as I have learned to do in comp classes, that will help. The problem is that poetry is less formulaic. Every person has to find her own way of getting there.
I am thinking what to do next. We have been working on images, discussing Williams "The Red Wheelbarrow" and Pound's "In a Station of the Metro," and creating poems composed of catalogues of images, on the pattern of Plath's "Metaphors" or Ondatchee's "Sweet Like a Crow." Some people really broke through with wonderful, unexpected images there. I had the same experience with that assignment last summer.
I want to follow up with something to do with diction, but I will have to think about what that should be.
It is hard for me not to be too blunt. I want to move people's work along, but without alienating or upsetting them too much. Of course, I remember my first workshop, and how upset and sometimes angry I got, but the anger always made me determined, I think, and made my work improve. If I can just provide a path for this improvement for the students to follow, as I have learned to do in comp classes, that will help. The problem is that poetry is less formulaic. Every person has to find her own way of getting there.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Love what you do
Tonight I went to hear Ray Bradbury speak at IVC. The man is my father's age, 92 or so, and cannot hear or see very well, it seems. But let me tell you--the man can talk. He is as full of energy and enthusiasm as anyone of any age I have ever seen.
Though I came in late, thinking somehow that the talk would start later (didn't actually look at the tickets or I would have known better), I got the drift. He told the whole story of his writing life, how things seemed to fall into his lap, but actually were spurred by his "loves," as he put it, his enthusiasm for writers, film makers, etc., to whom he reached out in one way or another or who, somehow feeling the affinity from afar, reached out to him and became mentors and life-long friends.
It was an inspiring life he related, in which he claimed to remember everything, including being in the womb, being nursed (for 5 days, he said, and he remembered the taste!), and being circumcised. That's a good one.
He told how he managed to write a screenplay about Moby Dick for John Huston although he could never before manage to get through the book via Melville's channeling of Shakespeare in that book. And he in turn came to channel Melville in writing the screenplay for the film.
It was a totally emotional, anti-intellectual approach to writing and to life, but it worked for him, and perhaps it is in some ways the happiest way to live. It is, sadly, not one that is natural to me, who never was able to live a moment without thinking it through and dissecting it.
I am glad I went, as he wrote his own work, "as a lark," although I was tired and might have been tempted to stay home and vegetate in front of the tube or just go to bed early. I saw some of my students there, and I will council them to take to heart as writers and as human beings what the man said, even if it undermines my own words in class: "Do what you love," he said, "And don't listen to anyone who tells you not to." What could be wrong in that?
Though I came in late, thinking somehow that the talk would start later (didn't actually look at the tickets or I would have known better), I got the drift. He told the whole story of his writing life, how things seemed to fall into his lap, but actually were spurred by his "loves," as he put it, his enthusiasm for writers, film makers, etc., to whom he reached out in one way or another or who, somehow feeling the affinity from afar, reached out to him and became mentors and life-long friends.
It was an inspiring life he related, in which he claimed to remember everything, including being in the womb, being nursed (for 5 days, he said, and he remembered the taste!), and being circumcised. That's a good one.
He told how he managed to write a screenplay about Moby Dick for John Huston although he could never before manage to get through the book via Melville's channeling of Shakespeare in that book. And he in turn came to channel Melville in writing the screenplay for the film.
It was a totally emotional, anti-intellectual approach to writing and to life, but it worked for him, and perhaps it is in some ways the happiest way to live. It is, sadly, not one that is natural to me, who never was able to live a moment without thinking it through and dissecting it.
I am glad I went, as he wrote his own work, "as a lark," although I was tired and might have been tempted to stay home and vegetate in front of the tube or just go to bed early. I saw some of my students there, and I will council them to take to heart as writers and as human beings what the man said, even if it undermines my own words in class: "Do what you love," he said, "And don't listen to anyone who tells you not to." What could be wrong in that?
Another Torah Session--Rebekkah and the twins
We had a very interesting discussion about this parashah, which has a lot of juicy bits. First, I brought up Rebekkah's seeming-identity problem while she was carrying the quarrelsome twins, Jacob and Esau. The commentators saw it as her usual sharp wits working an angle, trying to find out her role in the family drama that was about to unfold, and which she precipitated.
Rebekkah is one of very few women to whom God speaks directly in the Torah. The first was Hagar, the outsider. But I wondered whether it isn't the usual question pregnant women ask themselves, whether they are more than, as Plath put it, "a means." There is nothing in the text to indicate that; it is its usual tacit self, with more lacunae than anything else.
Then we discussed Isaac, who is a nonentity who repeats many of his father's actions and takes none of his own, really. Unlike his father, who fights 7 kings over water wells, Isaac simply moves on when challenged. Some people speculated that he was so traumatized by the binding that he could never take action for himself. But he didn't take action for himself even then, and since was supposed to be at least 30, by the text's chronology, that's kind of odd unless that's just the sort of person he always was.
But commentators believe that Isaac, though no one's idea of a sharp fellow, knows that Jacob is not his favorite son, Esau, but goes along with it. All those folk-tale questions asking Jacob about his identity seem a bit too pointed to be true.
I noted the pattern of the physical man/farmer/hunter and gatherer vs the schemer, familiar from Cain and Abel. Jacob also harks back to his grandfather, Abraham, in his craftiness. There is one member of the group who is very disturbed by this, and by the fact that the text seems to approve it. Of course, overturning the custom of primogeniture (another pattern in the text) is a sign of Judaism's desire to benefit the underdog and to place itself, an embattled nation, in the direct line of destiny, where no one would expect it to be.
As in the start of Genesis, where there were two creations, there are two thefts of Esau's inheritance in this book. The first is even odder than the second because there Esau outright gives it away for a pot of lentils as red as he is. Why then is he so surprised when he loses the rest of his blessing from Isaac?
The characters in Genesis are so well drawn despite the scant detail--perhaps because of it. We can all imagine them, scheming and disfunctional, on some modern-day talk show.
Rebekkah is one of very few women to whom God speaks directly in the Torah. The first was Hagar, the outsider. But I wondered whether it isn't the usual question pregnant women ask themselves, whether they are more than, as Plath put it, "a means." There is nothing in the text to indicate that; it is its usual tacit self, with more lacunae than anything else.
Then we discussed Isaac, who is a nonentity who repeats many of his father's actions and takes none of his own, really. Unlike his father, who fights 7 kings over water wells, Isaac simply moves on when challenged. Some people speculated that he was so traumatized by the binding that he could never take action for himself. But he didn't take action for himself even then, and since was supposed to be at least 30, by the text's chronology, that's kind of odd unless that's just the sort of person he always was.
But commentators believe that Isaac, though no one's idea of a sharp fellow, knows that Jacob is not his favorite son, Esau, but goes along with it. All those folk-tale questions asking Jacob about his identity seem a bit too pointed to be true.
I noted the pattern of the physical man/farmer/hunter and gatherer vs the schemer, familiar from Cain and Abel. Jacob also harks back to his grandfather, Abraham, in his craftiness. There is one member of the group who is very disturbed by this, and by the fact that the text seems to approve it. Of course, overturning the custom of primogeniture (another pattern in the text) is a sign of Judaism's desire to benefit the underdog and to place itself, an embattled nation, in the direct line of destiny, where no one would expect it to be.
As in the start of Genesis, where there were two creations, there are two thefts of Esau's inheritance in this book. The first is even odder than the second because there Esau outright gives it away for a pot of lentils as red as he is. Why then is he so surprised when he loses the rest of his blessing from Isaac?
The characters in Genesis are so well drawn despite the scant detail--perhaps because of it. We can all imagine them, scheming and disfunctional, on some modern-day talk show.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Another appointment
Today I took my dad to VA for two appointments--one with the psychiatrist and the other with the Physician's Asst. He hadn't been there since all of this bad stuff with his health started, though there were some impending signs of it at Christmastime when the PA noted his swollen legs and worried about CHF (congestive heart failure). She told me to take him to the ER if his legs became more swollen, and I didn.
The psychiatrist noted that he had gone down hill quite a bit, but he spoke to dad respectfully about the Great Depression and about his limitations since this last bout at the hospital. Dad said for the first time that he is angry he can no longer care for his plants, but I explained why the caretakers had to impose that rule on him, and he understood, though of course, he was not happy about it. We tossed around some ways he might be able to continue gardening without the major expenditure of energy that he had been doing, when he went outside with his cane instead of his walker and fell down a couple of times a day. It was clear he was not coping with the tasks gardening required, and the caregivers were concerned about it. The psychiatrist suggested bonsai, I suggested dish gardens, but he was not interested. He wants his fruit trees and roses.
Then we went to see the PA, who put all the changes in his medications into the computer, and put in orders for a new cane to use around the house and a new walker that he will pick up next week when the caregiver takes him to LB VA Hospital to pick up his new hearing aids. Then, he said, he will consider going back to the Center at least once a week.
He does look more rested, despite the frustration and the fact that his pants, dragged down by the urine tube, are falling down. He refuses to wear a belt and I don't know what size pants he ought to wear since he lost all that water weight.
Afterwards we went to a kosher deli where we hadn't been before and had matzo ball soup and half a turkey pastrami sandwich on rye. Wonderful! The bread was freshly baked, still warm, firm, but with a decent crust and just enough give when you squeezed the half a sandwich between the fingers! The pastrami was thinly sliced and not overly spiced, as pastrami generallly tends to be. It was delicate pink, like the inside of a conch shell. When my uncle comes in this Friday we'll go back there and eat again, taking my mom next time.
The psychiatrist noted that he had gone down hill quite a bit, but he spoke to dad respectfully about the Great Depression and about his limitations since this last bout at the hospital. Dad said for the first time that he is angry he can no longer care for his plants, but I explained why the caretakers had to impose that rule on him, and he understood, though of course, he was not happy about it. We tossed around some ways he might be able to continue gardening without the major expenditure of energy that he had been doing, when he went outside with his cane instead of his walker and fell down a couple of times a day. It was clear he was not coping with the tasks gardening required, and the caregivers were concerned about it. The psychiatrist suggested bonsai, I suggested dish gardens, but he was not interested. He wants his fruit trees and roses.
Then we went to see the PA, who put all the changes in his medications into the computer, and put in orders for a new cane to use around the house and a new walker that he will pick up next week when the caregiver takes him to LB VA Hospital to pick up his new hearing aids. Then, he said, he will consider going back to the Center at least once a week.
He does look more rested, despite the frustration and the fact that his pants, dragged down by the urine tube, are falling down. He refuses to wear a belt and I don't know what size pants he ought to wear since he lost all that water weight.
Afterwards we went to a kosher deli where we hadn't been before and had matzo ball soup and half a turkey pastrami sandwich on rye. Wonderful! The bread was freshly baked, still warm, firm, but with a decent crust and just enough give when you squeezed the half a sandwich between the fingers! The pastrami was thinly sliced and not overly spiced, as pastrami generallly tends to be. It was delicate pink, like the inside of a conch shell. When my uncle comes in this Friday we'll go back there and eat again, taking my mom next time.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The Other Shoe
Jeremy was up puking all night long, and is still doing it, having trouble keeping anything at all down. Around 2 this morning, I awoke to all the lights on in the house and the sound of someone retching. I thought Richard had a relapse because of the buffalo spaghetti sauce I made last night. It was actually very good, rich and dense, with nice imported pasta of a complex twisted shape. But Richard was just barely recovered from his flu, so I wouldn't have been surprised. It wasn't him though; it was Jeremy, and he had not made it to the bathroom. He got sick partly in the cat litter box. That was relatively easy to clean up. The carpet was not so easy though. Richard and Iwere up for hours with paper towels and regular ones, doing laundry and taking out trash.
I was going to visit a friend at the rehab where he is staying since he injured his spine skiing and is partially paralyzed, but he doesn't need the flu also, so I'm not going this weekend. I hope I do not catch this.
We went to see Frost/Nixon. The odd thing is that I have never seen those interviews, though of course I know what transpired in them. What struck me was not that historical situation but how it spoke to the one of Bush and Cheney, whose actions were far more serious than anything Nixon thought about doing. No one is going to try to interview Bush though. He is about as self-aware as a snail, so there would not be any revelations, I am sure. He still can't see what all the fuss is about. Bush makes Nixon look like a saint, and I never thought I would entertain that idea about Nixon.
I was going to visit a friend at the rehab where he is staying since he injured his spine skiing and is partially paralyzed, but he doesn't need the flu also, so I'm not going this weekend. I hope I do not catch this.
We went to see Frost/Nixon. The odd thing is that I have never seen those interviews, though of course I know what transpired in them. What struck me was not that historical situation but how it spoke to the one of Bush and Cheney, whose actions were far more serious than anything Nixon thought about doing. No one is going to try to interview Bush though. He is about as self-aware as a snail, so there would not be any revelations, I am sure. He still can't see what all the fuss is about. Bush makes Nixon look like a saint, and I never thought I would entertain that idea about Nixon.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Out in the Garden Eating Worms
I woke up this morning to learn that my workshop was down to 11 people, and at least a couple of those weren't in class on Thurs. . Two people told me they were dropping--one because she couldn't make head or tails out of the poems in the workshop section of the class, but felt she was the only person who couldn't, and the other because she realized that writing poetry was much more complex than she had realized, and she didn't have the time to invest in it right now. I think that is probably true, given she was about to enter a PhD program. Legitimate reasons, both of them, but I felt bad. I thought I'd pick up some of those fat juicy wrigglers that have swum up out of the grass in the rain the past couple of days, since I'm feeling insecure and doubting myself. But I will try not to take it personally.
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