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Sun, 02 Nov 2008 09:21:47 -0800

Smoke and Mirrors

He sat in a bookstore coffee shop where
A woman's face stared blindly from a glossy
Magazine cover, crowning a mountain of monthlies
Covered by her still stare-- an unreachable ice cap
Concealing an unfeeling corpse whose life might have been his--
He seemed stuck in a valley dinned by nearby discussions--
Unintelligible with the bottled water, soft oatmeal cookie,
And the coffee cup strewn about an ersatz wooden table--
Like remains in crusts of silt--
Ancient layers of things left in place as they were-- buried memories.

His mind succumbed to the smoke and mirrors
Of these disparate desultory desiccated things--
Luring his thoughts, masking his feelings...
When he slipped and fell onto some frozen river of time...
Awareness jolted him as he broke his fall,
Serendipitously his gloved hands brushed away
The veneer of particulate snowflakes--
-- cracking thin, opaque, icy dimensions
Through which memory arose-- a resurrection when,
One Easter afternoon's flood of light infused a quiet to a room--
So still it was that no thing moved, awed by a revealing essence--
Where he sat upon a sofa listening--
As a devout woman of great beauty
Read as he thought no one before had read
The unsynoptic gospel-- written by a mysterious John.

Nothing could be more resonant than her voice--
A joyful prescience of some thing dropping,
Dropping into his deep auditory well--
A forgotten wormhole to his heart-- a tomb
Now empty as hope arose from the dead.
And he knew-- just as he could grasp the warm paper cup
And taste the searing black coffee-- he could bring her back to him
To fill his heart with her loving spirit-- when...
Figures in white sitting at every end of his barren heart chanted,
"She is not here... you will see her by the bank of the
River of No Regret, flashing sunlight from her breast of armor--
Shielding her from the smoke and mirrors of what doesn't matter."

--Dr.M

http://DoctorMate.stumbleupon.com/review/25833174/

Fri, 26 Sep 2008 13:05:31 -0700

Julie and Dan

My dear friend Julie is getting married today to Dan, a very nice guy. I can't remember the last time I went to a wedding-- a celebration that I believe, perhaps more than any other, contains more of everything good and blessed about this life than a human heart may hold. Peace and love to everyone, and on this day, especially to Julie and Dan.

For Julie and Dan on their wedding day. September 26, 2008

The Wedding Cake

A wedding cake with many layers of life--

Is sweet as life may often be--

Amid doubt, toils and strife,

Their Love is more powerful than any "maybe"--

A marriage may be just the icing

Upon a wedding cake... And though

Their marriage promises to be a "piece of cake"--

Their marriage promises more, time will show--

In love, kindness, devotion, and commitment they shall make.

This bride and groom part their wedding cake,

And share the first and sweetest piece--

A magisterial custom at a wedding feast.

Together they will share in never-ending

Pieces of sweet Love and Peace ascending

Above this lovely confection reflecting affection--

Where a bride and groom will always be--

At the top of their wedding cake-- on top for all to see.

And they share their wedding cake blest

In all the infinite complexity of Love--

For the sake of us, their admiring guests--

So that all having the honor to be here,

And nowhere else could be as dear

As this heaven that was sent from above.

--Dr.M

http://DoctorMate.stumbleupon.com/review/25432995/

Mon, 15 Sep 2008 09:17:59 -0700

The Poetry of Life
Such a pretentious, affected title for this post, but I didn't know how else to do it.

There are these brief "little" scenes from life that touch our senses. I think of them as poems. The poems of life. It may be impossible to capture the fire or the joy of the experience of a little poem in writing. At least not completely. I am not sure about this, but I believe that it is possibly true. Or maybe it is the way that my senses perceive the little poem from life, be it sight, sound, smell, taste, touch or some combination of these. Maybe it is just true for me. I don't know. There seem to be so many of these scenes going on every day. I feel lucky when I chance to be aware of them.

On Saturday, I was waiting at a corner for a light to change so that I could walk across. I noticed a young woman standing barefoot who was, with her companion, also waiting for the light to change. The barefoot woman's companion's feet were shod. The light changed and, together, they crossed the street. I wondered why the young woman was wearing no shoes while walking on a New York City sidewalk. I can't remember the last time I saw a woman walking barefoot outside in New York City. Then I noticed that under her left arm were tucked a pair of espadrilles. I imagined that they were no longer comfortable to her, or maybe they had broken somehow. The two women kept up a spirited pace and I smiled thinking about how charming this vision was. When they had arrived on the other side they stopped and entered a shoe store! I presume that the barefoot woman was going to buy a new pair of shoes. She did seem to be in a hurry. And the name of the store is, "Shoe Mania", a place for men and women to buy discount shoes. Well, that was a "little poem".

Earlier, that same day I passed by the window of a dry-cleaning and tailoring shop. I saw a woman sitting at a table holding a piece of cloth. The cloth was dark, possibly woolen, and I couldn't make out its shape. It could have been a skirt, or a pair of trousers, but I couldn't tell in the brief time of my passing the window. What struck me hard was the way this woman studied the piece of fabric, gently and intensely. It was as though her focus had been probing into every last secret of the weave... contemplating what she was going to do. Perhaps she was visualizing the way she wanted it to be and maybe even the way the cloth was meant to be for the client, the customer who had entrusted this piece of cloth to her. It seemed as though my walking past the store window had taken a good deal of time. It also seemed that this experience took not time at all. No time. She reminded me in some way of Vermeer's painting, "The Lacemaker", whose work demanded great focus, skill and intensity. Yet it seemed to me that the lacemaker felt no demands upon her for she loved her work and reached those rare moments of awareness when she applied her skills. The woman in the window in her act was to me another little poem.

I remember another experience from many years ago while I rode on a New York City subway train. Sitting next to me was a woman and her young child, her daughter. They were talking and I heard the little girl say to her mother, "Will I die, mommy? Will I die?" I couldn't hear her mother's answer. Such a lovely little poem that I'll never forget.

http://DoctorMate.stumbleupon.com/review/25419684/

Sun, 14 Sep 2008 22:24:46 -0700

David Foster Wallace
1962-2008

Sadly, one of the most brilliant writers of our age is gone.� I was stunned to find the report of his death in the online edition of the Los Angeles Times on Sunday. His wife found him dead at home. The police considered his death as an apparent suicide caused by hanging. His most famous work of fiction-- his masterpiece, was a long novel, Infinite Jest (1996), over 1,000 pages with over 300 footnotes.

There is a great interview of Mr. Wallace by Charlie Rose (1997) available at this link: http://www.charlierose.com/shows/1997/03/27/2/an-interview-with-david-foster-wallace . Watching the interview, I was struck by the young author's honesty and humility.� It is obvious that he was uncommonly intelligent.

The appreciations for and commentaries on the late author are mounting in the media, available on the Internet for this writer whose work touched a great many human beings. Here is a Google link to items appearing in the news about David Foster Wallace: http://news.google.com/news?client=firefox-a&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&channel=s&hl=en&q=david+foster+wallace&um=1&ie=UTF-8&resnum=1&scoring=n

http://DoctorMate.stumbleupon.com/review/24821749/

Wed, 27 Aug 2008 22:30:51 -0700

"As I give you my hand to hold
So I give you my life to keep"

"allerhand" by Ruth Ine

http://www.fotocommunity.de/pc/pc/channel/10/extra/new/display/14042634

http://DoctorMate.stumbleupon.com/review/24775770/

Tue, 26 Aug 2008 15:32:08 -0700

The Man Who Understood Simplicity

Jos� Raul Capablanca
(1888-1942 --world chess champion 1921-1927)
�� Yesterday, I spent an evening with friends at the Marshall Chess Club in Greenwich Village. The Marshall, housed in a beautiful brownstone built in 1837, is one of the world's leading chess clubs with an atmosphere and ambience steeped in tradition. I hadn't been at the club for a while and hadn't opened a chess book or looked at a chess magazine in ages. Moreover, I wasn't up to date as to the goings on in the world of chess. There was a time when I practically lived for the news on the game. News regarding that rarefied atmosphere of the leading chess players whose latest games are followed with the greatest interest not just by their rivals, but by serious students of the game and those who enjoy the beauty of the art, science and sporting aspects of this "noble little game", as Dr. Emanuel Lasker (world chess champion 1894-1921) once described chess. The current world chess champion is Vishwanathan Anand of India.
�� So, after playing some "blitz games" (fast games where each player has 5 minutes to play all of their moves, the games being timed with a "chess clock") and finding out how rusty I became :) , we discussed some of the ways one could improve their game. We all agreed that there is no substitute for playing, especially with stronger players. Yet that is not enough. There is study. Tearing apart the games that you play to try and find ways to improve. And studying the games of the great players. It was so great just to talk about chess again. Occasionally, I had been playing some games online, but there is no substitute to actually be with friends and lovers of the game-- the social aspect of chess that is diminished to a considerable extent when online.
�� Throughout the ages leading chess players have published treatises on chess, analyses of certain positions, and collections of their games with annotations. I recalled a book that had made a deep impression on me, My Chess Career (New York, MacMillan 1920) by Jos� Raul Capablanca of Cuba (world chess champion 1921-1927). As far as I know the book is still in print (Dover edition). In My Chess Career, Capablanca collected 35 of his best games starting with a game he played at the age of 12 (1900) in which he defeated the then Cuban champion, and ending with a game he played in 1919.
�� What made My Chess Career special for me was Capablanca's clear annotations that always went to the heart of the matter. He was a genius at making things simple. He could identify the critical points of the game, and explain what was at stake. Moreover, his annotations were not overloaded with details-- seemingly endless streams of moves and variations. He had details yes, but only those that he deemed relevant. Importantly, he would put into words what his plan was. Planning. The plan. In some ways the forming of a plan may be the highest level of human thought. And he explained his plans in simple words. And he reached out to me in a way that I could follow what was going on. Capablanca knew where the pieces belonged (plan or strategy), and he would work out ways (tactics) to get them there. Or, he would understand what his opponent's plan was, and that lead him to form a plan to stop that player's plan.
�� It seems that one can apply the lessons of this great player to life itself in some ways. Make a plan. Try to picture or understand what it is that you want (goal, plan, strategy, strategic goal), no matter what it is (!), and then it is easier to work out a path (tactics) to get there. Nowadays we know this to be a mantra of many sports psychologists. Capablanca discovered this on his own. Incidentally, Dr. Emanuel Lasker wrote a wonderful book, Lasker's Manual of Chess, in which he devotes an entire section to the plan. Another great chess book that I hope to scribble about here soon.Please forgive me if any of this sounded pedantic or didactic. I just had to write this, still under the spell of last night. I had such a good time last night.

http://DoctorMate.stumbleupon.com/review/24628443/

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 23:57:12 -0700

A Penny for His Thought

He held forever in his hand once when
He bent to fetch a penny shining near
A wishing fountain, that had not sunk in
The shallow water, but lay on the concrete rim.
Silver coins scattered, lonely at bottom--
No copper pennies shone through the ripples.
Not one red cent, and he looked in his hand
Wondering how long this penny could last,
Or what it could buy, or what wish could
It grant, and he saw his reflection fading out
Fading in to waves and forms where
Faith once chided his arrogance when
He didn't stoop to pick up a penny
And save it for a poor box or someone's
Outstretched hand-- he laughed while
She took the penny while rebuffing his
Seeming scorn for those of few pennies-- though
She knew nothing of these having nothing
But their simple wishes drowned in dried up
Jest pools, or corroded in fountains of
Vitriol pumped through neglect--but what could
One penny do he wondered as she dropped
The cuprous coin in her purse of gold mesh,
Snapping shut his thoughts as the pool bottom
Came into view, and he wondered how it
Came to pass that the penny in his hand
Was lying by the side of the wishing
Fountain, imagining that the penny
Might have waited forever to feel him
Come to his senses to know what he held.

--Dr.M

http://DoctorMate.stumbleupon.com/review/24588203/

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 19:18:45 -0700

I wish the Heedless Ghost of Autumn would stop haunting me!

Darkness can be found anywhere. Even in a blog. I took a walk this evening and for the first time felt spooked by the relentless ghost that never stops haunting me at this time of year. Autumn, when there is no more summer. It gets dark in New York City about an hour earlier now since the first day of summer. According to the almanac, tomorrow will be two minutes shorter than today with 13 hours and 31 minutes of sunlight, and 14 hours and 31 minutes of daylight.

I wore olive drab shorts and a blue short sleeve shirt. I had just left a coffee shop where I wore a thin sport jacket to shield my skin from a seemingly revitalized air conditioner. When my feet trod the sidewalks again, I found it a comfort to have the jacket on. The air seemed to have an autumn hum. Still, people were in summer clothes and it was nice to see so many of them, to be with so many of them as I walked, as they walked with their smiles on faces I didn't know.
There will be more warm days. I am not predicting this. It will be because weather seems to run in these dependable cycles.

Right in front of my building I saw a young couple so tenderly involved in each other, arms sweetly embracing the other, intermittent kisses. Nothing else mattered. Not even the darkness.

The flashing red light of an ambulance streaked the buildings and for the young lovers I saw, the red flashes were like a garland of lovely roses that seemed to be coming from them, glowing hearts, prettier than the sunset, which was a memory floating somewhere.

Funny... it could have been the scene of their first declaration of love. Maybe they were saying goodbye. Hard to tell. Maybe impossible without listening in. So unlike being certain of the shady moves of Autumn, the obsessive ghost.

--Dr.M

http://DoctorMate.stumbleupon.com/review/24523109/

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 21:57:35 -0700

Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может
В душе моей угасла не совсем;
Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;
Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.
Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно,
То робостью, то ревностью томим;
Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,
Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.

�

I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candor
And pray God grants you to be loved that way again.

--Alexander Pushkin

 http://max.mmlc.northwestern.edu/~mdenner/Demo/texts/loved_you_once.htm 
�"The project is a collaborative
effort. It was edited by Andrew Wachtel and Ilya Kutik (Northwestern
University) and designed, developed, and maintained by Michael Denner (Stetson
University). Tatiana Tulchinsky, Andrew Wachtel, and Gwenan Wilbur translated
the poems."
http://max.mmlc.northwestern.edu/~mdenner/Demo/pressrelease.htm 
�

http://DoctorMate.stumbleupon.com/review/24234448/

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 23:17:56 -0700

He picked up a book written in Arabic.
It looked like some kind of story
Book, maybe it was a novel--there's
No language barrier to judging space
And size and dimension, though his puzzling
Over the book brought him
A dimension he had never chanced
Before. No matter how many times he'd
Cast the dice, he never crapped out--
Maybe they were rigged like
Predictions about events in his life--
He would always have his job;
His car would start up in the morning;
He would always say the right thing
At the right time; his investments
Would grow... but some things seemed
So tiny he could not see what they were--
He never needed a survival kit it seemed.
Things that pushed his comfort level,
Like this baffling syntactical maze
Made him become a child again--a lost child.
Once he could point to a picture,
And his father would say "dog!"
And he would say, "dog!"
And his mother smiled when he learned
A new word-- she smiled often
And his world became more familiar
And he became less aware and his
Predictions and wagers were stillborn
Children of boredom who'd never
Go out on their own, to be weaned away
Like these symbols that looked
Like waves wandering on a dry page
Waves that he wished to ride to some
Shore of imagination and wonder.
Yet he drifted toward his fate.
He held in his hands something
That swamped his wondering bark
He was drowning in a misunderstood
Lexical pool... though he realized
After many errors and trials that this
Majestic looking book's front cover
Was the last place he expected it to be;
The back cover was what he'd always thought
To be in front-- he couldn't judge this book by its cover.

He couldn't put this book down.
He looked lost in a book
That he couldn't put down,
And he began to wonder
If he might find this book in English.
He somehow knew that even then
His comfort
Would be lost in translation.

--Dr.M