LUTHERAN SURREALISM AS AN INEVITABLE JUNCTURE
In America only about 3% of the population or some six million identify themselves as Lutheran. There are pockets throughout the country and probably most towns have at least one Lutheran church. Hotbeds include Minnesota, North Dakota, Nebraska (mostly Scandinavian) and Eastern Pennsylvania (mostly German). In certain hotbeds the percentage might rise above 50% Lutheranism rates in any given county or village.
Culturally these areas are noteworthy for picking up the Lutheran ethos. From the Minnesotan area Garrison Keillor writes quite well of Lutherans (he was raised in a different church but now identifies as a Lutheran). In Eastern Pennsylvania there was John Updike (who now lives in Massachusetts and identifies as an Episcopalian) but his best early work is quite sympathetic toward and illuminating in terms of his Lutheran upbringing. Rabbit, Run posits the Lutheran faith against the Beatnik ethos, for instance. This is something of a hidden aspect to the book that probably went over the heads of most of its readers.
Around the world there are many other places where Lutheran surrealism should have taken place but to our knowledge hasn't gelled. Throughout Scandinavia with its 90% Lutheranism one would think there would be Lutheran Surrealists. But, no. Lutheran realists, Lutheran humorists, but no Lutheran surrealists at least none that I am aware of who are deeply steeped in the French tradition and are busy remaking it as we ourselves are doing. In Namibia we have long hoped for contact from the Lutheran surrealists living there, but have yet to hear a single word from anyone anywhere in Africa. If you are a Namibian Lutheran poet or artist or pastor or theologian inflected by surrealism, give us your name and contact information. Other possible hotbeds would include the former Danish West Indies such as the Virgin Islands. Almost certainly there are some Lutheran Surrealists living and practicing there.
Scattered around the world, unbeknownst to one another, thousands of Lutheran Surrealists arise. If you exist, call home. We act principally as the switchboard. The motherboard. We are the mother of all Lutheran Surrealism. We have prophesied its inevitability. Build the temple and they will come. Just as surely as Cassandra predicted the fall of Troy, we predict the rise of Lutheran Surrealism.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Sunday, October 30, 2005
PARAMUS IKEA: SMOOTH SAILING
We drove over to the Paramus IKEA on Friday. The children needed new beds and IKEA is having its 20th birthday bash with everything 15% off. IKEA is a Swedish department store with some thirty outlets in the U.S., and the man who started it (Ivan Kumpread or something like that) is now richer than everyone else in the world including Bill Gates. The furniture has a high-quality simple design and you can get ice cream for one dollar. The place is beautiful -- you take an escalator to the top and work your way down (it's based on the Guggenheim Museum). The bottom floor features fantastic furniture bargains. The difficulty of course is that you have to assemble the furniture yourself. There are display samples but what you take home are the do-it-yourself kits.
Riikka has the ability to assemble almost anything it seems. She just does it. She remains remarkably focussed until it's done, which in her case is at lightning speed. At any rate, we picked up the new beds and a new chair, and some other items and she had them all assembled in about twenty minutes. I got a bookshelf for 35$ from the "As Is" portion of the store where "hurt" items are waiting for a customer to take them home.
Paramus (the accent is on the second syllable) is a town about a half hour outside of New York City. Much of Paramus (at least what we saw of it) is clustered on two sides of Highway 17. Malls, Dunkin Donuts, Borders, car stores, and strange shops advertizing bizarre quantities such as "Alternative Heat," and Vitamins, line the highway from one horizon to the other for at least 14 miles. The traffic went smoothly at 50 mph and was neatly appointed and we didn't notice any predatory police.
Only problem with the police was getting there out of the Catskills. So many podunks to whistle through. They have 30 mph signs, and traffic police are stationed everywhere to exact highway robbery from transgressors to fill the coffers of these needy little outposts. It's late in the month, and the coffers need filling. The criminal activity of arbitrary signage works in tandem with the predatory police to create a hair-raising drive where you must not get lost in conversation with the kids or in the song on the radio. One stretch outside of Kingston, NY is a four-line highway with usually only one or two visible cars from horizon to horizon. It's almost a temptation to go 65, but if you go more than 40 police officers instantly shoot out from behind trees with hundreds of flashing lights. At all times remain focussed on the signage or the police officer fingering his moustache will be that much closer to his quota. We managed that task. It's crazy to see the police acting in such a predatory fashion in favor of these cash-strapped municipalities. Many of them have no local tax and they depend on highway robbery for their income.
IKEA on the other hand offers excellent service, wonderful things, and makes it all up by selling in bulk. Apparently one tenth of Europe is said to have been conceived in IKEA's beds. The man who started the company is a Lutheran.
We drove over to the Paramus IKEA on Friday. The children needed new beds and IKEA is having its 20th birthday bash with everything 15% off. IKEA is a Swedish department store with some thirty outlets in the U.S., and the man who started it (Ivan Kumpread or something like that) is now richer than everyone else in the world including Bill Gates. The furniture has a high-quality simple design and you can get ice cream for one dollar. The place is beautiful -- you take an escalator to the top and work your way down (it's based on the Guggenheim Museum). The bottom floor features fantastic furniture bargains. The difficulty of course is that you have to assemble the furniture yourself. There are display samples but what you take home are the do-it-yourself kits.
Riikka has the ability to assemble almost anything it seems. She just does it. She remains remarkably focussed until it's done, which in her case is at lightning speed. At any rate, we picked up the new beds and a new chair, and some other items and she had them all assembled in about twenty minutes. I got a bookshelf for 35$ from the "As Is" portion of the store where "hurt" items are waiting for a customer to take them home.
Paramus (the accent is on the second syllable) is a town about a half hour outside of New York City. Much of Paramus (at least what we saw of it) is clustered on two sides of Highway 17. Malls, Dunkin Donuts, Borders, car stores, and strange shops advertizing bizarre quantities such as "Alternative Heat," and Vitamins, line the highway from one horizon to the other for at least 14 miles. The traffic went smoothly at 50 mph and was neatly appointed and we didn't notice any predatory police.
Only problem with the police was getting there out of the Catskills. So many podunks to whistle through. They have 30 mph signs, and traffic police are stationed everywhere to exact highway robbery from transgressors to fill the coffers of these needy little outposts. It's late in the month, and the coffers need filling. The criminal activity of arbitrary signage works in tandem with the predatory police to create a hair-raising drive where you must not get lost in conversation with the kids or in the song on the radio. One stretch outside of Kingston, NY is a four-line highway with usually only one or two visible cars from horizon to horizon. It's almost a temptation to go 65, but if you go more than 40 police officers instantly shoot out from behind trees with hundreds of flashing lights. At all times remain focussed on the signage or the police officer fingering his moustache will be that much closer to his quota. We managed that task. It's crazy to see the police acting in such a predatory fashion in favor of these cash-strapped municipalities. Many of them have no local tax and they depend on highway robbery for their income.
IKEA on the other hand offers excellent service, wonderful things, and makes it all up by selling in bulk. Apparently one tenth of Europe is said to have been conceived in IKEA's beds. The man who started the company is a Lutheran.
One of the many ways in which the communal pressures the individual is in terms of political correctness. It's hard to know how long this strategy for cultural equality has existed. It's been at least since the 60s that this militant posture has been with us. In essence, it mandates how we are to think about certain groups. In telling us how to think about women and minorities and implying how we are to think about white men, it has also tried to find texts that would help us in this regard.
The problem is that everybody sees through the authoritarian strategy. Everybody.
And it's backfired. Instead of creating greater acceptance of women and minorities it has created a lessening of respect and a lessening of friendship and the possibility of humor between various groups. It has been a cultural disaster. As more and more groups adopt this strategy (most recently it has been Asian Americans) what were once friendly relationships have become more acrimonious, paving the way toward a Bosnification of America which will eventually explode into open civil war.
Where the first amendment is denied, the second amendment kicks in.
I find this deplorable, and recommend instead the insistence on the first amendment as an absolute. Madison smarter than Marx.
The problem is that everybody sees through the authoritarian strategy. Everybody.
And it's backfired. Instead of creating greater acceptance of women and minorities it has created a lessening of respect and a lessening of friendship and the possibility of humor between various groups. It has been a cultural disaster. As more and more groups adopt this strategy (most recently it has been Asian Americans) what were once friendly relationships have become more acrimonious, paving the way toward a Bosnification of America which will eventually explode into open civil war.
Where the first amendment is denied, the second amendment kicks in.
I find this deplorable, and recommend instead the insistence on the first amendment as an absolute. Madison smarter than Marx.
Friday, October 28, 2005
THE EXACT RATIO OF INDIVIDUAL TO COMMUNAL DECREED BY L.S.
I tried to work out the exact ratio of the individual to the communal today. I came up with the figure 60-40. 60% for the individual, and 40% for the communal.
My wife Riikka, a social democrat from Finland, believes those numbers should be reversed. She thinks there are so many people who couldn't make it otherwise, that we have to give 60% to the goofed up.
I see this more as a case of intrusion, rather than one of giving to the poor. That is, I want the individual to be able to decide for themselves, rather than letting the community decide for the individual.
I would settle for 51% to 49%.
I tried to work out the exact ratio of the individual to the communal today. I came up with the figure 60-40. 60% for the individual, and 40% for the communal.
My wife Riikka, a social democrat from Finland, believes those numbers should be reversed. She thinks there are so many people who couldn't make it otherwise, that we have to give 60% to the goofed up.
I see this more as a case of intrusion, rather than one of giving to the poor. That is, I want the individual to be able to decide for themselves, rather than letting the community decide for the individual.
I would settle for 51% to 49%.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Monday, October 24, 2005
THE PERSONAL IS POLITICAL
In Khmer Rouge prisons one had to ask permission to turn over in one's sleep. If a prisoner turned over without permission the punishment was one hundred lashes. The crime? INDIVIDUALISM.
Similarly, to eat extra food that was not allotted by the state was not considered so much stealing as it was INDIVIDUALISM. Usually the crime was followed by immediate capital punishment.
The survival rate in Cambodian prisons was close to zero. Out of 14,000 prisoners in one prison, there were seven survivors.
I suppose that I think of facts like these whenever people begin to talk about the need for big government to take a larger role in our affairs, or whenever I hear the neo-Marxists talking about the need to extinguish individualism. Does anybody else know where these concepts have been?
In Khmer Rouge prisons one had to ask permission to turn over in one's sleep. If a prisoner turned over without permission the punishment was one hundred lashes. The crime? INDIVIDUALISM.
Similarly, to eat extra food that was not allotted by the state was not considered so much stealing as it was INDIVIDUALISM. Usually the crime was followed by immediate capital punishment.
The survival rate in Cambodian prisons was close to zero. Out of 14,000 prisoners in one prison, there were seven survivors.
I suppose that I think of facts like these whenever people begin to talk about the need for big government to take a larger role in our affairs, or whenever I hear the neo-Marxists talking about the need to extinguish individualism. Does anybody else know where these concepts have been?
Friday, October 21, 2005
PETER VIERECK OF SOUTH HADLEY, MA
I subscribed to the New Yorker last year because of a chance subscription that gave me a year of issues for 28 $. Finding the price attractive and since in this part of upstate NY the magazines at Wal-Mart are mostly for deer hunters or auto enthusiasts, I had hoped I would be getting a pipeline to the Big Apple. What I got instead were very dumb political commentary, cartoons that were very simple and mostly idiotic, and commentary on art and theatre that seemed to have been written by people on mind altering drugs.
So imagine my surprise to see The New Yorker while I shopped at Wal-Mart this evening in Oneonta. I hadn't seen it since I dropped my subscription, but I had time to blow as my wife was still shopping. I picked the journal up, expecting to read the same old, and while sailing around the inside of the large box that is Wal-Mart, I read an article on Peter Viereck. Viereck is a conservative who finds Anne Coulter revolting. He claims that the right of William F. Buckley and the right of Joe McCarthy were suspiciously alike in that neither one had much of a sense of realism. And he also of course despises the mush-brained left.
Viereck is a poet (I've heard his name but never read one of his poems). He's now 89.
He thinks the attempt to change Iraq into a democracy is "surreal," because Iraq doesn't have any Democratic roots.
For years I've found the chuckleheads on the left and right to be almost mirror images of one another. Like a Siamese fighting fish looking at its reflection, where it's left is righted in the mirror. Where Anne Coulter and Andrea Dworkin are both chuckleheads or a single Siamese fighting fish looking at itself in a fun-house mirror where fat becomes thin and vice versa (although I think that Dworkin had MUCH the better style, Coulter might be a little brighter but at this level we're talking about dumb and dumber or like trying to say that one fish is actually smarter than the other when they have a memory of about 8 seconds, give or take one or two).
Viereck's lineage goes back at least to Edmund Burke. Perhaps, I thought as I went through the article, we do have someone as bright as Raymond Aron in this country. Raymond Aron is the only French intellectual that I consider to be good for more than laughs. And perhaps Viereck could take up the same role for me in American thought.
I don't like David Horowitz, or Rush Limbaugh, or the strange Christian right. I am equally disgusted by the palpable retards who pretend to be public intellectuals such as the Saturday Night Live comedian or the fat film-maker from Michigan (I can't even bear to say their names as people searching for those names will end up reading my board and I don't want that audience around).
The article ends with a short excerpt from a talk that Viereck gave at Mount Holyoke in 1997.
"I can think of nothing more gallant , even though again and again we fail, than attempting to get at the facts; attempting to tell things as they really are. For at least reality, though never fully attained, can be defined. Reality is that which, when you don't believe in it, doesn't go away."
There's way too much love of fantasy on the left from Dennis Rodman on up to John Kerry. On the right there is also a sense that reality is more in the symbolic realm -- the American flag, for instance, or in the symbol of the cross.
I haven't read any of Viereck's actual books. I need to read them, and see how they hold up over a year or two. The man who wrote the article is Tom Reiss. I haven't seen his name before. I'll look for it. He's written the first good article in the last two years in this incredibly boring journal called the New Yorker. How on earth did it get past their editorial board?
I subscribed to the New Yorker last year because of a chance subscription that gave me a year of issues for 28 $. Finding the price attractive and since in this part of upstate NY the magazines at Wal-Mart are mostly for deer hunters or auto enthusiasts, I had hoped I would be getting a pipeline to the Big Apple. What I got instead were very dumb political commentary, cartoons that were very simple and mostly idiotic, and commentary on art and theatre that seemed to have been written by people on mind altering drugs.
So imagine my surprise to see The New Yorker while I shopped at Wal-Mart this evening in Oneonta. I hadn't seen it since I dropped my subscription, but I had time to blow as my wife was still shopping. I picked the journal up, expecting to read the same old, and while sailing around the inside of the large box that is Wal-Mart, I read an article on Peter Viereck. Viereck is a conservative who finds Anne Coulter revolting. He claims that the right of William F. Buckley and the right of Joe McCarthy were suspiciously alike in that neither one had much of a sense of realism. And he also of course despises the mush-brained left.
Viereck is a poet (I've heard his name but never read one of his poems). He's now 89.
He thinks the attempt to change Iraq into a democracy is "surreal," because Iraq doesn't have any Democratic roots.
For years I've found the chuckleheads on the left and right to be almost mirror images of one another. Like a Siamese fighting fish looking at its reflection, where it's left is righted in the mirror. Where Anne Coulter and Andrea Dworkin are both chuckleheads or a single Siamese fighting fish looking at itself in a fun-house mirror where fat becomes thin and vice versa (although I think that Dworkin had MUCH the better style, Coulter might be a little brighter but at this level we're talking about dumb and dumber or like trying to say that one fish is actually smarter than the other when they have a memory of about 8 seconds, give or take one or two).
Viereck's lineage goes back at least to Edmund Burke. Perhaps, I thought as I went through the article, we do have someone as bright as Raymond Aron in this country. Raymond Aron is the only French intellectual that I consider to be good for more than laughs. And perhaps Viereck could take up the same role for me in American thought.
I don't like David Horowitz, or Rush Limbaugh, or the strange Christian right. I am equally disgusted by the palpable retards who pretend to be public intellectuals such as the Saturday Night Live comedian or the fat film-maker from Michigan (I can't even bear to say their names as people searching for those names will end up reading my board and I don't want that audience around).
The article ends with a short excerpt from a talk that Viereck gave at Mount Holyoke in 1997.
"I can think of nothing more gallant , even though again and again we fail, than attempting to get at the facts; attempting to tell things as they really are. For at least reality, though never fully attained, can be defined. Reality is that which, when you don't believe in it, doesn't go away."
There's way too much love of fantasy on the left from Dennis Rodman on up to John Kerry. On the right there is also a sense that reality is more in the symbolic realm -- the American flag, for instance, or in the symbol of the cross.
I haven't read any of Viereck's actual books. I need to read them, and see how they hold up over a year or two. The man who wrote the article is Tom Reiss. I haven't seen his name before. I'll look for it. He's written the first good article in the last two years in this incredibly boring journal called the New Yorker. How on earth did it get past their editorial board?
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
THE FAR ENDS OF MAIN ST.
Brutes at either end of Main St.
They walk in such a way as to
Emphasize muscle rather than brain
Suspicion of books
They recall Attila
Genghis Khan
Pol Pot
Raw force of Polyphemous
I always take short cuts
So as to evade them
Unless I'm seriously lost in thought
And forget
Faced with a street tough
He walks with his girlfriend
Just look at her, four eyes
And I will smash your face to cinders
I give him a wide berth
Clutching tightly to my Critique of Pure Reason
& hustle on
Past his cross-eyed fat wench
& try not to laugh
August 28, 2005
Brutes at either end of Main St.
They walk in such a way as to
Emphasize muscle rather than brain
Suspicion of books
They recall Attila
Genghis Khan
Pol Pot
Raw force of Polyphemous
I always take short cuts
So as to evade them
Unless I'm seriously lost in thought
And forget
Faced with a street tough
He walks with his girlfriend
Just look at her, four eyes
And I will smash your face to cinders
I give him a wide berth
Clutching tightly to my Critique of Pure Reason
& hustle on
Past his cross-eyed fat wench
& try not to laugh
August 28, 2005
Delhi is a small village of 3000-5000 people depending on whether you count the students, the summer residents, the weekend residents, etc.
There are three main streets. Elm, Main, and Second Streets.
On Elm and Main St. one has the impression of always being safe.
On Main St. too one has the impression of safety until you get to the extreme ends on either side. Just as the main street is heading out of town on either side I often encounter rather rough people, especially in the summers. Why they should be just outside of the town on either end is odd. But it's true. Especially in the summer.
I wonder if this is roughly equivalent to some kind of psychogeographical law that someone has already posited and proved in an elegant thesis of some kind.
There are three main streets. Elm, Main, and Second Streets.
On Elm and Main St. one has the impression of always being safe.
On Main St. too one has the impression of safety until you get to the extreme ends on either side. Just as the main street is heading out of town on either side I often encounter rather rough people, especially in the summers. Why they should be just outside of the town on either end is odd. But it's true. Especially in the summer.
I wonder if this is roughly equivalent to some kind of psychogeographical law that someone has already posited and proved in an elegant thesis of some kind.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
MY PUBLICITY EFFORTS FOR MY NOVEL
Since about half of my novel is set in Finland I have wanted to get Finns to read my book. However, the book is not actually in Finnish apart from a few phrases scattered here and there.
I looked through the pages of the Finnish consulate webpage and realized that there are six Finnish American newspapers. I called each one, and asked if they would review my novel. All of them agreed to review it. One of the most interesting phone calls was to a journal called Finlandia where the editor Mika Koskinen said that there are 15,000 actual Finns living in his town which is called Lake Worth, about 50 miles north of Miami. He actually answered the phone in Finnish.
Other pockets of Finns in Duluth, Minnesota, and near Fitchburg, Massachusetts continue to have newspapers. In Hancock, Michigan is a university called Finlandia University where Finnish is still taught, and which boasts an enormous archive on Finnish matters in the US, and they have their own journal, too.
The plot also turns upon Lutheranism and upon badminton and upon temporary secretaries. i worked as a temporary secretary for a decade after college. Lutheran journals will be contacted next. And then I'm going to see if there is such a thing as a badminton journal. A key find of course would be a Finnish Lutheran badminton journal for temporary secretaries.
Since about half of my novel is set in Finland I have wanted to get Finns to read my book. However, the book is not actually in Finnish apart from a few phrases scattered here and there.
I looked through the pages of the Finnish consulate webpage and realized that there are six Finnish American newspapers. I called each one, and asked if they would review my novel. All of them agreed to review it. One of the most interesting phone calls was to a journal called Finlandia where the editor Mika Koskinen said that there are 15,000 actual Finns living in his town which is called Lake Worth, about 50 miles north of Miami. He actually answered the phone in Finnish.
Other pockets of Finns in Duluth, Minnesota, and near Fitchburg, Massachusetts continue to have newspapers. In Hancock, Michigan is a university called Finlandia University where Finnish is still taught, and which boasts an enormous archive on Finnish matters in the US, and they have their own journal, too.
The plot also turns upon Lutheranism and upon badminton and upon temporary secretaries. i worked as a temporary secretary for a decade after college. Lutheran journals will be contacted next. And then I'm going to see if there is such a thing as a badminton journal. A key find of course would be a Finnish Lutheran badminton journal for temporary secretaries.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Friday, October 14, 2005
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
NOVEL'S APPEARANCE NOTED
Inside my front door this morning I noticed a large box. I opened it up and there were 30 copies of my novel, Temping. Quite well-printed, with an interesting cover of a circus scene. The publisher is Black Heron Books of Seattle which is owned and operated by Jerry Gold, a brilliant novelist. Gold is a former Vietnam Veteran with a Ph.D. in Anthropology who works in a prison for delinquent youth in Seattle as a counselor.
Special offer to readers of this blog: send twenty dollars by check or actual money to me at
Kirby Olson, Associate Professor
Evenden Tower 710
SUNY-Delhi
Delhi, NY 13753
I will send you a signed copy of the novel, and I will pay the shipping. The usual cost of the novel is 22.95 plus shipping. The first person to order the book in this fashion will also receive a copy of my book on Andrei Codrescu.
Inside my front door this morning I noticed a large box. I opened it up and there were 30 copies of my novel, Temping. Quite well-printed, with an interesting cover of a circus scene. The publisher is Black Heron Books of Seattle which is owned and operated by Jerry Gold, a brilliant novelist. Gold is a former Vietnam Veteran with a Ph.D. in Anthropology who works in a prison for delinquent youth in Seattle as a counselor.
Special offer to readers of this blog: send twenty dollars by check or actual money to me at
Kirby Olson, Associate Professor
Evenden Tower 710
SUNY-Delhi
Delhi, NY 13753
I will send you a signed copy of the novel, and I will pay the shipping. The usual cost of the novel is 22.95 plus shipping. The first person to order the book in this fashion will also receive a copy of my book on Andrei Codrescu.
Monday, October 10, 2005
STRIDOR II
Stridor refers to the rasping sound. It comes about as a result of infection of the larynx and the doctor at Cooperstown Bassett Hospital described it as building a "steeple" in the throat. Odd image. A steeple that makes a kid unable to breathe? I said the Lord's Prayer a thousand times until the words were jumbled and my eyes filled with tears and I finally woke up at 5 am to see that the Dexotrin had done the job. The boy was sleeping peacefully next to me with a normal color on his cheeks and lips.
Stridor refers to the rasping sound. It comes about as a result of infection of the larynx and the doctor at Cooperstown Bassett Hospital described it as building a "steeple" in the throat. Odd image. A steeple that makes a kid unable to breathe? I said the Lord's Prayer a thousand times until the words were jumbled and my eyes filled with tears and I finally woke up at 5 am to see that the Dexotrin had done the job. The boy was sleeping peacefully next to me with a normal color on his cheeks and lips.
STRIDOR
Saturday morning I had never heard of this infant malady but at noon on Saturday my boy Julian was using every ounce of his life to take each single breath. Each breath sounded like a rasp against metal which lasted about two seconds on the intake.
I whipped him to the rural hospital who in turn gave my 2-year old boy a shot of steroids and the ambulance whipped him to the Cooperstown Bassett Hospital for overnight observation.
He had croup, and stridor. For two days we tried to treat him with nebulized racemic epinephrine. This was some kind of peppermint air that briefly moistened his throat so he could sleep for two hours at a time. The boy was beginning to look a little Gothic with pale skin and vaguely blue lips. We were all getting worried. Then they tried Dexotrin -- a liquid steroid applied topically and within two hours he was fine and slept for nine straight hours. He woke up and wanted to play with his toys again and was all mischief. I was trying to read the Gary Will's biography of James Madison and he pinched my shoulder hard and said, "Me!" I got the picture. He wanted my attention. He gulped down his breakfast -- eggs, toast, grape juice, ice cream, and then sat down to enjoy Teletubbies and some kind of new Teletubby spin-off called the Boom-Bahs or something.
I thought the Teletubbies were surrealist. The Boom-Bahs are targeted at the 1-2 set and are totally silly. Perhaps they are Dada. They dance with simple high-kicks and there is no plot at all. They come in different colors and are even more rotund than Teletubbies. Julian was transfixed. I finished 50 pages of the Madison biography by the end of the program and we were both content.
Saturday morning I had never heard of this infant malady but at noon on Saturday my boy Julian was using every ounce of his life to take each single breath. Each breath sounded like a rasp against metal which lasted about two seconds on the intake.
I whipped him to the rural hospital who in turn gave my 2-year old boy a shot of steroids and the ambulance whipped him to the Cooperstown Bassett Hospital for overnight observation.
He had croup, and stridor. For two days we tried to treat him with nebulized racemic epinephrine. This was some kind of peppermint air that briefly moistened his throat so he could sleep for two hours at a time. The boy was beginning to look a little Gothic with pale skin and vaguely blue lips. We were all getting worried. Then they tried Dexotrin -- a liquid steroid applied topically and within two hours he was fine and slept for nine straight hours. He woke up and wanted to play with his toys again and was all mischief. I was trying to read the Gary Will's biography of James Madison and he pinched my shoulder hard and said, "Me!" I got the picture. He wanted my attention. He gulped down his breakfast -- eggs, toast, grape juice, ice cream, and then sat down to enjoy Teletubbies and some kind of new Teletubby spin-off called the Boom-Bahs or something.
I thought the Teletubbies were surrealist. The Boom-Bahs are targeted at the 1-2 set and are totally silly. Perhaps they are Dada. They dance with simple high-kicks and there is no plot at all. They come in different colors and are even more rotund than Teletubbies. Julian was transfixed. I finished 50 pages of the Madison biography by the end of the program and we were both content.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
WHAT IS LOVE?
My daughter was angry at my son. So was I. He was so pokey in putting on his shoes this morning. So I said, Tristan hurry up!
Lola said, "Dad, leave him alone or I'm going to get very angry at you."
My wife hates the clothes I wear. I hate to shop, I hate to look in mirrors, and I wear anything that's around. Then a friend of mine came over with some clothes and said to my wife, he dresses so badly. Let him put these on. She is no longer speaking to him.
My daughter was angry at my son. So was I. He was so pokey in putting on his shoes this morning. So I said, Tristan hurry up!
Lola said, "Dad, leave him alone or I'm going to get very angry at you."
My wife hates the clothes I wear. I hate to shop, I hate to look in mirrors, and I wear anything that's around. Then a friend of mine came over with some clothes and said to my wife, he dresses so badly. Let him put these on. She is no longer speaking to him.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
My novel Temping is coming out from Black Heron Press in a week.
How do you get publicity for these things?
Academic books take care of themselves.
I think that with novels you have to waylay people in the manner of the Ancient Mariner.
So far I have a couple of readings lined up, and I have a bunch of relatives lined up.
I would like to teach the world to sing in perfect idiocy.
If you could help me get a reading somewhere do it. I'll arrive.
How do you get publicity for these things?
Academic books take care of themselves.
I think that with novels you have to waylay people in the manner of the Ancient Mariner.
So far I have a couple of readings lined up, and I have a bunch of relatives lined up.
I would like to teach the world to sing in perfect idiocy.
If you could help me get a reading somewhere do it. I'll arrive.
Monday, October 03, 2005
THE HAPPY MEDIUM
It's possible to laugh too much or too little
It's possible to think too much or too little
It's possible to cry too much or too little
It's possible to read too much or too little
It's possible to sleep too much or too little
It's possible to eat too much or too little
It's possible to be a Lutheran too much or too little
It's possible to be a surrealist too much or too little
It's impossible not to be a Lutheran Surrealist!
It's possible to laugh too much or too little
It's possible to think too much or too little
It's possible to cry too much or too little
It's possible to read too much or too little
It's possible to sleep too much or too little
It's possible to eat too much or too little
It's possible to be a Lutheran too much or too little
It's possible to be a surrealist too much or too little
It's impossible not to be a Lutheran Surrealist!
Sunday, October 02, 2005
JULIAN'S SCARED OF THE DOG
No, no, Julian says
But Benje doesn't understand
He follows Julian around
Sniffs his butt
Julian says no, no
Benje goes away
Julian says, da, da
Climbs on my lap
I rub his back
Then he goes back to pet the dog
No, no, he says
The dog sniffs at his butt
No, no, Julian says
He runs back to Dad
and climbs on my lap
(out-take from family reunion, August 15, 2005)
No, no, Julian says
But Benje doesn't understand
He follows Julian around
Sniffs his butt
Julian says no, no
Benje goes away
Julian says, da, da
Climbs on my lap
I rub his back
Then he goes back to pet the dog
No, no, he says
The dog sniffs at his butt
No, no, Julian says
He runs back to Dad
and climbs on my lap
(out-take from family reunion, August 15, 2005)
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