Today the blogosphere will be choked with posts in memory of Michael Jackson. Since I started blogging I've eulogized Wendy Wasserstein, Madeleine L'Engle, Dan Fogelberg, William F. Buckley, and Paul Scofield. They--especially the first two--were perhaps more personally significant to me, but I think this death stands out as the first one to really rattle my whole generation.
The subtext or the supertext of every shared video, every status update, seems to be this: let's not be so cynical. It occurs to me, rather guiltily, that we have been cynical about Michael Jackson for a very long time, long before the abuse allegations and the increasingly bizarre behavior. I seem to recall a strange glee, a laughing behind hands, after his hair caught on fire in 1984--not unrelated to the glee John Dickerson observed around Mark Sanford's downfall.
Michael Jackson was an incredibly talented singer and dancer. I have been watching and listening for hours now and his performances as a child fronting the Jackson 5--in days when technology made vocal talent much harder to fake--are nothing less than phenomenal. His dancing--as evidenced in the moonwalking clip above, or in the "Black Or White" video--was also phenomenal. He may have been a triple threat, because for all we know, he was acting for every moment of his public life.
My father watched my twin entry into adolescence and pop culture with interest, so he was right there with me when Thriller burst on the scene, a sign and a wonder. I remember his comparing Jackson to Fred Astaire. We taped the "Billie Jean," "Beat It," and "Thriller" videos onto our new VCR so we could watch them over and over again. I also remember my father talking about Jackson with a kind of tenderness. Jackson's vulnerability was apparent even when he was on top of the world, and my father compared him to other over-the-top performers--Judy Garland, Dolly Parton, Cher. We should cherish them, he explained, because their ultimate motivation is to entertain--to give. Sometimes they give too much.
My school shoes for freshman year of high school were black penny loafers, and my best pair of socks were silver lamé. I practiced moonwalking for hours. "Thriller" showed us what a video could be. "Beat It" made Al Yankovic's "Eat It" possible. I watched the premiere of the "Black Or White" video at my eating club in a jam-packed TV room. We had the luxury of sneering at it a little; we thought we were past Michael Jackson. Now I watch it and think, the dancing! The rap! The beat! "Man In The Mirror" makes me cry every time I listen to it, key change, gospel choir, and every other heart-tugging trick, because it's true: that's where we all have to start.
So I'm starting with the woman in the mirror and asking her to be a little more childlike in her appreciation of the great entertainers in life. To focus on the moonwalk instead of the feet of clay.
And with respect to the elephant in the room, I'll just say this: Michael Jackson was found not guilty in a court of law.
Friday, June 26, 2009
RIP Michael Jackson: Joining The Cavalcade
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
I'm Still Still Still Here
When I was in college, I had to take two semesters of science, and I consciously shopped among the guts. Except professors don't like it when their courses get a gut reputation, so while "Physics For Poets" was pretty much as advertised,* "Rocks For Jocks" had been tweaked to be less walk in the park, more trudge through the desert. Maybe it would have helped if I had been a jock. Anyway, one of the questions on the final exam was "What is the single most significant way in which man has altered the earth's history?" I chose agriculture and wrote a chewy little essay about it. When I went to pick up my blue book with its rather sad grade written on the front, I leafed through the other exams waiting in the box (I wonder if that activity still exists?) and noticed that a) the professors were just kidding about the "single most" part, and the other students all somehow knew this** and b) some people had written their answers in bullet point form, and gotten better grades than I.***
As it turns out, that has very little to do with this post. The conceit of this post is that I have traveled into the future and retrieved a "What I Did Last Summer" essay, but because my future self is even lazier and less organized than my present self, it is in bullet point form.
**Johnny Falschgedank tells me that if I had gone to see the professor in office hours, or gone to any extra study sessions provided, I would have known that too. Things you learn when you go back to school in adulthood.
***I fear my Zeligesque style is already being affected by David Foster Wallace.
****Johnny, whatever happened to your blog?
As it turns out, that has very little to do with this post. The conceit of this post is that I have traveled into the future and retrieved a "What I Did Last Summer" essay, but because my future self is even lazier and less organized than my present self, it is in bullet point form.
- Read Infinite Jest
- Got the baby on a real schedule which included an afternoon nap at the beach
- Finished my book, after surveying the two vast-wastelandish shelves of teen fiction at Barnes and Noble and vowing, once again, that I could do better
- Cooked delicious local fresh food, despite the disappointing provisions from the CSA
- Wrote a review of Walter Kirn's Lost In The Meritocracy
- Blogged weekly
- Gave up on the poetry podcast. Mostly.
**Johnny Falschgedank tells me that if I had gone to see the professor in office hours, or gone to any extra study sessions provided, I would have known that too. Things you learn when you go back to school in adulthood.
***I fear my Zeligesque style is already being affected by David Foster Wallace.
****Johnny, whatever happened to your blog?
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Five Words
Almost two months ago, Jay did a post riffing on five words that describe her, and offered to provide five words to any readers who would like to try the same exercise. Here, at long last, is my post--and the same deal applies, any of my readers who want words need only ask. Just as a teaser, Umami Girl would clearly draw "pizza," Ergo "quirky," and C-Belle "perverse."
1. Fear. When I first saw this word, I was afraid that Jay thinks I am ruled by fear. I was afraid that I talk too much about my fears, or that I am in fact ruled by them.
All joking aside, this word knocked me for a loop. Once I recovered, I realized that I have been living with pretty steady fear for seven years. In March of 2002 M.'s heart condition was diagnosed. In July of 2005 R.'s diabetes came to light. And since August of last year I have lived with fear as a constant companion, to one chest-clutching degree or another. It makes me think of two things: 1) Anne Lamott said that after she had her son her loose belly lay on the bed next to her, "like a puppy" 2) In "Falsettos" Whizzer sings of Death that he's "a funny pal with a weird sort of talent. He puts his arms around my neck and walks me to the bed. He pins me up against the wall and kisses me like crazy." We have these undesirable companions in life that we learn to live with. I'm not fond of Fear, but if he ever goes away he'll leave a space in my life that I may have to work to fill.
2. Faith is a gift that was given to me by two people (in addition to God): my grandmother and my husband. Grammie taught me my Sunday school songs and Bible stories, made me say my prayers at bedtime and modeled an uncomplicated and unshaken belief in God. In college R. showed me that Catholic Intellectual was not an oxymoron, as I had previously been led to believe. After we were married, I got to know many wonderful men and women who helped me to understand the nature of the Eucharist, which of course is what brought me to the Church; but they also introduced me to my personal favorite thing about Catholicism, which is the Blessed Mother. Mary and the feminine principle are shunted aside like something embarrassing in most Protestant theology (which is one of many reasons the disingenuous blather of The Da Vinci Code is so infuriating), but in my faith she has pride of place. I love having her to hear my prayers. I have a "cradle Catholic" friend who told me she has trouble with this--"It's like, why would you talk to the nurse when you could go to the doctor?"--and it made me wonder if she has ever met a doctor, or perhaps I should be going to her doctor...but that's another post.
3. Family. My parents taught me that family is everything, and it is.
4. Voice. This my favorite. I have a new job, a tiny little job doing voice overs for business-to-business podcasts. It's a very satisfying use of two God-given gifts (a pleasant-sounding voice and the ability to read ahead a little) and a few learned skills (breath control, modulation, expression); it only takes a few minutes at a time and I can do it whenever my parents are available to watch the baby, which is almost always. Perhaps the best thing about this job, though, is that it caused my mother to have a revelation: "I was telling P___ [her hairdresser] that this voiceover job is an outgrowth of the one thing you did in life without our input, the one thing that was not our idea, and we didn't really support: acting." She's half right, or a third right: it's a magical combination of acting, singing and reading. They are all about using my voice, or listening to someone else's.
Because yes, I make very little distinction between oral voices and written ones. I have not given up on this whole published-writer thing. Before I bailed on the creative writing program at supersecret college (to which, let me marvel, I had applied and been accepted, but still felt unworthy to stick with. Sorry, a lot of prepositions there.), my professor told us to write an Ars Poetica. Mine began, "My greatest fear? That I could lose my voice." My masters thesis? Song and birdsong as ars poetica in the poems of Emily Dickinson.
"I love to talk, I nearly live to sing," that poem also said.
5. Water. My sister- and brother-in-law are going to Fiji next month, and I am not jealous. Why? Because, as M. so memorably said to a nice old lady last year in Barbados, "I like my ocean better." And my rivers, and my streams and creeks. Do I like where I live because it's close to the beach, or do I like the beach because it's close to where I live? Hard to say, because as with singing and writing, I have "home" and "water" mixed up. It was a wrench for me to go live in DC for four years after I got married, and yes I am aware of the Potomac. I like my rivers better. I wrote a poem about this too. It was perhaps the last poem I wrote, because I am not a genius and thus cannot write good poems when I'm happy. The gist of it was that I had to have the reception on the water, so I could show R. to the river as proof that he was worth going away for.
Now I have both R. and water, and I can look at the intricate beauty of the river and submit to the awesome power of the sea. I know few better ways to bolster my faith.
1. Fear. When I first saw this word, I was afraid that Jay thinks I am ruled by fear. I was afraid that I talk too much about my fears, or that I am in fact ruled by them.
All joking aside, this word knocked me for a loop. Once I recovered, I realized that I have been living with pretty steady fear for seven years. In March of 2002 M.'s heart condition was diagnosed. In July of 2005 R.'s diabetes came to light. And since August of last year I have lived with fear as a constant companion, to one chest-clutching degree or another. It makes me think of two things: 1) Anne Lamott said that after she had her son her loose belly lay on the bed next to her, "like a puppy" 2) In "Falsettos" Whizzer sings of Death that he's "a funny pal with a weird sort of talent. He puts his arms around my neck and walks me to the bed. He pins me up against the wall and kisses me like crazy." We have these undesirable companions in life that we learn to live with. I'm not fond of Fear, but if he ever goes away he'll leave a space in my life that I may have to work to fill.
2. Faith is a gift that was given to me by two people (in addition to God): my grandmother and my husband. Grammie taught me my Sunday school songs and Bible stories, made me say my prayers at bedtime and modeled an uncomplicated and unshaken belief in God. In college R. showed me that Catholic Intellectual was not an oxymoron, as I had previously been led to believe. After we were married, I got to know many wonderful men and women who helped me to understand the nature of the Eucharist, which of course is what brought me to the Church; but they also introduced me to my personal favorite thing about Catholicism, which is the Blessed Mother. Mary and the feminine principle are shunted aside like something embarrassing in most Protestant theology (which is one of many reasons the disingenuous blather of The Da Vinci Code is so infuriating), but in my faith she has pride of place. I love having her to hear my prayers. I have a "cradle Catholic" friend who told me she has trouble with this--"It's like, why would you talk to the nurse when you could go to the doctor?"--and it made me wonder if she has ever met a doctor, or perhaps I should be going to her doctor...but that's another post.
3. Family. My parents taught me that family is everything, and it is.
4. Voice. This my favorite. I have a new job, a tiny little job doing voice overs for business-to-business podcasts. It's a very satisfying use of two God-given gifts (a pleasant-sounding voice and the ability to read ahead a little) and a few learned skills (breath control, modulation, expression); it only takes a few minutes at a time and I can do it whenever my parents are available to watch the baby, which is almost always. Perhaps the best thing about this job, though, is that it caused my mother to have a revelation: "I was telling P___ [her hairdresser] that this voiceover job is an outgrowth of the one thing you did in life without our input, the one thing that was not our idea, and we didn't really support: acting." She's half right, or a third right: it's a magical combination of acting, singing and reading. They are all about using my voice, or listening to someone else's.
Because yes, I make very little distinction between oral voices and written ones. I have not given up on this whole published-writer thing. Before I bailed on the creative writing program at supersecret college (to which, let me marvel, I had applied and been accepted, but still felt unworthy to stick with. Sorry, a lot of prepositions there.), my professor told us to write an Ars Poetica. Mine began, "My greatest fear? That I could lose my voice." My masters thesis? Song and birdsong as ars poetica in the poems of Emily Dickinson.
"I love to talk, I nearly live to sing," that poem also said.
5. Water. My sister- and brother-in-law are going to Fiji next month, and I am not jealous. Why? Because, as M. so memorably said to a nice old lady last year in Barbados, "I like my ocean better." And my rivers, and my streams and creeks. Do I like where I live because it's close to the beach, or do I like the beach because it's close to where I live? Hard to say, because as with singing and writing, I have "home" and "water" mixed up. It was a wrench for me to go live in DC for four years after I got married, and yes I am aware of the Potomac. I like my rivers better. I wrote a poem about this too. It was perhaps the last poem I wrote, because I am not a genius and thus cannot write good poems when I'm happy. The gist of it was that I had to have the reception on the water, so I could show R. to the river as proof that he was worth going away for.
Now I have both R. and water, and I can look at the intricate beauty of the river and submit to the awesome power of the sea. I know few better ways to bolster my faith.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Let This Be a Sign
Almost fourteen years ago, when I was seven months pregnant with not-so-little-R., R. and I went to San Francisco for a job interview. The job wouldn't involve moving--R. was one of the earliest telecommuters we knew--but the company was there and we flew out for a sort of weekend-long vetting. Part of the weekend was spent at the company's retreat house near the Russian River. If I had multiple lives to live, one of them would be modeled on life at that house. It contained a looong refectory table, a multitude of twin beds, a multitude of rocking chairs, and very little else. There were two sheep and a hammock out in the yard, and by the kitchen door, a rosemary bush. For dinner we ate sausage that the butcher had made from the meat of a wild boar shot by our host, and it was seasoned with some of that fresh rosemary.
I can't entertain rotating hordes of spiritually-minded guests and I suspect there are very few boar running around our nearest woods, but I thought I would like to have a rosemary bush by my back door. Let us draw a veil over the intervening years, in which I spent much money, time and heartache on rosemary plants of various sizes and varieties, which never over-wintered and sometimes died before they were planted.
But now I have rosemary that has survived enough winters to achieve shrubbery status. It snuggles up against the back wall of the house, and scents the breeze by the patio. This spring, for the first time, it has blue flowers.
Ophelia said rosemary was for remembrance, but this year I am taking it for hope.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Thinking Alike, Great Minds Or Not
Why I Love My Son
Not-so-little-R: walks into the kitchen. So there's this movie that's going to be on TVland, and it looks pretty good. In the ad, a guy says, "Tom, while being a very nice guy, is the devil."
MV: "Broadcast News."
Later, we watch my rapidly decaying VHS copy. He sighs with pleasure at all my favorite parts, like when Aaron sings and reads at the same time. And at this part--
Paul Moore: It must be nice to always believe you know better, to always think you're the smartest person in the room.
Jane Craig: No. It's awful.
--he turns to me and says, " It is awful!"
Why I Love My Father
At a Rufus Wainwright concert
Daddy: with trepidation Does he dress like Judy Garland when he does the Judy Garland material?
MV: He said on the radio that he wasn't doing any Judy Garland material tonight. He does allude to her in his regular songs--what's the movie when she sings "The Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe?"
Daddy: "Meet Me In St. Louis."
MV: Really? No, this is different...The Gatling Girls? The Gilroy Girls?
Daddy: "The Harvey Girls"!
MV: That's it. I was thinking G, but it was H, right next to G.
Daddy: Of course.
MV: I've never seen that movie.
Daddy: Nor have I.
Not-so-little-R: walks into the kitchen. So there's this movie that's going to be on TVland, and it looks pretty good. In the ad, a guy says, "Tom, while being a very nice guy, is the devil."
MV: "Broadcast News."
Later, we watch my rapidly decaying VHS copy. He sighs with pleasure at all my favorite parts, like when Aaron sings and reads at the same time. And at this part--
Paul Moore: It must be nice to always believe you know better, to always think you're the smartest person in the room.
Jane Craig: No. It's awful.
--he turns to me and says, " It is awful!"
Why I Love My Father
At a Rufus Wainwright concert
Daddy: with trepidation Does he dress like Judy Garland when he does the Judy Garland material?
MV: He said on the radio that he wasn't doing any Judy Garland material tonight. He does allude to her in his regular songs--what's the movie when she sings "The Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe?"
Daddy: "Meet Me In St. Louis."
MV: Really? No, this is different...The Gatling Girls? The Gilroy Girls?
Daddy: "The Harvey Girls"!
MV: That's it. I was thinking G, but it was H, right next to G.
Daddy: Of course.
MV: I've never seen that movie.
Daddy: Nor have I.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Wednesday Poetry Podcast--Guess This Is How It's Going To Be
Workshop Gems
Click on the link above to download the mp3. Just under seven minutes.
Poets: Rilke, Akhmatova, Lowell
Click on the link above to download the mp3. Just under seven minutes.
Poets: Rilke, Akhmatova, Lowell
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Wednesday Poetry Podcast--I'm Full of Surprises
Bright Blue Weather for a Snowy Day
Click on the link above for the podcast--it's about five minutes long.
Poets: Emily Dickinson, Gerard Manley Hopkins, William Cullen Bryant, Helen Hunt Jackson, Thomas Hood.
Click on the link above for the podcast--it's about five minutes long.
Poets: Emily Dickinson, Gerard Manley Hopkins, William Cullen Bryant, Helen Hunt Jackson, Thomas Hood.
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