Notebook: Sketchy Man, Sauntering

I.

 Sunday afternoon: I spotted a sketchy/methy white dude scoping out my front door and well-grown yard.  He had something in his hands--looked like a hammer or a screwdriver to me, definitely not a phone--as he skulked (really) up the short walk.  I was sitting in my study which gives me a clear view of the front yard, and he suddenly realized that I was watching him closely.  He straightened up, guiltily, spun about, and headed on down the road.  

I moved the cat from my lap, picked up my phone as a camera, and popped out the front door.  A block away, Sketchy Man was doing a loose-limbed saunter, head high and not looking back, just a trifle faster than most people walk and faster than his approach to my front yard. 

(I was pulled back to childhood and my own walking guiltily that way from almost being caught eating the neighbor's fruit off the tree, you know?) 

Most benign reading: He was looking for a place to urinate.

More criminal possibility: He saw the pile of mail on the floor (social-distanced, de-Covid-19-ing) through the curtains of the front window--which is what I saw from outside when I was scoping out what he could have been up to--and he figured no one was home and he'd pry the door open.  He had some kind of tool in his hand, after all.

I grew up in a neighborhood where this kind of guy was common enough.  It has been a while since I saw one (probably) in action.

II.

I appreciate the good wishes I received from friends after I described the situation, but the event wasn't really scary. I was secure at home, and the fellow immediately backtracked and moved on. The stereotypical aspects were funny, for if this had been a film, the director would have cautioned the fellow not to overact. As the son of a cop, I tend to see suspicious behavior maybe too much. 

One thought I had was, a home burglary, on a Sunday, during a smoky air emergency, during a pandemic? We're all home!

III.

Lanky dude, white, 25-35, 5'9+, 150, sunburnt/lined face, scraggly blond/brown hair, ripped jeans, bright green t-shirt -- that's my description, but is it really accurate? I have a powerful imagination and I was keyed up just a bit. Also, if he combed his hair, changed his shirt, and stood up straight, would I recognize him? We did look each other eye to eye, but in my mind I keep wondering which actor could play him--so there goes my ID.

IV.

I can imagine, now, the fellow taller or shorter, younger or older, etc. I think my description is accurate for what I thought I was seeing, or think I'm recalling, but at the time the skulking behavior, looking eye to eye, and the bright green shirt kept me from really assessing the man himself. I come from a police family, and so I was raised to observe, but IDs can be tricky certainly.

And I can see how my specificity of recall could be problematic if I were wrong.

V.

The man's memorably bright green shirt, which I laughed to myself about as crazy attire for a criminal (if such he was), now seems almost clever as a distraction from seeing the man himself. "He had a really bright green shirt, officer. It was almost glowing. And something odd in his hands. But the shirt. Find that shirt and you'll find that man."

What's-the-Story?

Story: characters in action in a setting through time.

That's how I process everything.

Give me a poem, any poem, and I look for the story in the lines, behind the lines, and/or after the lines. Give me a photo, and where some see a static tablieau, I see dynamism, before-and-after, presence-and-absence. Give me a problem, personal or societal, and I look for the story in the same way.

On the upside, I look for motivation and context and nuance. On the downside, some people think I am wasting my--or their--time with this approach, with my concern for accuracy and understanding of plot, POV, and narrative shading.

I'll be 59 soon, but that mostly means I've had a lot of practice with stories and story-telling; I think I am (still) in tune most of the time. Yet I know I may be wrong in my emphasis in certain circumstances and with certain texts, and that encourages me to be humble, which is always good.

Still, what's the story is my favorite question.

Restless Rereading

Much of my reading falls into the category of rereading, for I've been a serious reader for a long time.  I'm teaching Homer's Iliad this term and how many times, how many translations, have I read?  Many.  And yet I must reread to be there with my students, to know the text intimately, to be a reader.  And so I do; I reread.

When I am relaxing at home, I read, which often means rereading.  For I read as others listen to music.  Seriously.  And, so, I often reread restlessly, as I think of it.  I don't quite want to read the whole book, but I do want to live in the music of that book.  So, I read a chapter here in one book and a chapter there in another book and even glance into a third.  That's when rereading becomes restless.  Still good.

You can see such from the photo above: four books that offered different music, compelling music.  A heroic fantasy, a literary novel about deep swimming, a thriller with sailboats, and a crime novel with a compelling protagonist and a compelling antagonist and a compelling setting, the mountainous area of Montana.  Different tunes; different music.

All good; all appropriate; all wonderful.  I just wanted a bit of each.

What music am I listening to, reading from, now?

Don Winslow's "The Border"

Winslow's new novel The Border picks up the storyline from The Power of the Dog and The Cartel, carrying the reader through the whole War on Drugs in a well-researched and well-imagined fashion.  This is high level novel-writing in the best sense, by which I mean that Winslow creates compelling characters even as he presents very deeply researched truths about human actions and societal developments that speak to the worst and best of humanity, often the worst.  Still, reading The Border has made me wanting to be better, to act better, to speak better about what needs to be said, and to vote better, for voting and holding our elected representives accountable is at the heart of this novel.

Why I Paddle

In one photo, one fairly simple photo . . . .

I love Keats' poetry, but I don't often agree with his famous lines about truth and beauty.

Kayaking out of Van Damme, I do agree, inescapably.

Pinnacle

I have taken so many shots of this pinnacle.  I really ought to check my archives and present a blogpost on the different moods, the different silent voices of this one hunk of stone.  I don't really explore.   I really enjoy coming back to the same few places again and again and again in different seasons, different weathers, different mindsets.  And, just as I love getting coffee at Moody's and a fish & chip dinner at Sea Pal Cove in the harbor, I love looking at this pinnacle from the deck of my kayak or, even better, from the water itself.

Sam Hamill: "Ars Poetica"

PREFACE: ARS POETICA

Some say the poem's
best made from natural speech
from the inner life.
I say, That is sometimes true.
The poem's a natural thing.

Some say the poem
should rise into purest song,
a formality,
articulate expression
achieved through complex structures

derived from classics--
which also is true enough.
Let the song arise
as it will.  Learn to revise
the life.  Beware.  Disguises

rise up everywhere:
most dangerously, self-in-
fatuation.  "More
poets fail," Pound declared,
"from lack of character than

from lack of talent."
Some insist the poem is
heaven-sent, claiming
angelic heirs.  The poem,
I believe, is a failure

elevated in-
to triumph, a form of truth
wrought from mortal flesh
and blood that will soon perish,
but which--for one brief moment

or an hour--reveals
the tragic human spirit
in the very act
of imagining itself
cured of the sickness of self.

The poem cannot,
finally, be explained nor
defined.  The true gift
poetry bestows begins
and ends with humility

before the task.  All
the suffering of this world
can be truly felt,
absorbed adn transcended, just
by the act of listening

to that deepest voice
speaking from within.  Forget
hagiography.
All the great masters are dead.
Forget rime and irony.

Forget words, meter,
diction, whole syllabaries--
the literary.
The heart by way of the ear.
What's that you wanted to say?

--SAM HAMILL



from Gratitude,
BOA Editions, Ltd.
Rochester, NY  1998


(This one is for Eric, a very welcome house-guest)

Reverberation

Years ago I heard a federal agent describe his mistake in a major crime investigation in a way that broke my heart because that mistake had obviously broken his own heart. I also felt deep sympathy with the victims of the crimes committed, and I still do, as the agent did.   Compassion and pity and anguish for all involved.

I wasn't there in that original hell, but listening to such testimonies puts a burden on the listener.

I still haven't figured out how to share that story with my own students, though I ought to--and I mean that in the best ways.

"When the Ancients Speak"

In a lecture given at Oxford, Wilamowitz said: 'To make the ancients speak, we must feed them with our own blood.' When the ancients speak, they do not merely tell us about themselves. They tell us about us. They do that in every case in which they can be made to speak, because they tell us who we are. That is, of course, the most general point of our attempts to make them speak. They can tell us not just who we are, but who we are not: they can denounce the falsity or the partiality or the limitations of our images of ourselves. I believe they can do this for our ideas of human agency, responsibility, regret, and necessity, among others.

--Bernard Williams
from Shame and Necessity (pages 19-20)

Here's the link to the book itself from UC Press.

Agon: Truth vs. Error

"A central consideration is that a correct understanding of how, for instance, true factual beliefs are formed has no tendency to undermine them, while the opposite is typically true of ideological beliefs, for example. This is a truth--admittedly far from clear--at the heart of the Enlightenment enterprise."

--Bernard Williams, in a note to Shame and Necessity

Reflections on Autonomy and Literary Experience

1.   "Toward" or "towards":
I always figured that if I could get through 13.5 years of Berkeley higher ed without knowing the exact rule, then there must not be an exact rule and I would let euphony be my guide.

2.  Trying to teach the mix of discipline and independence -- necessary and resolute discipline in thought and knowledge, boneheaded and clear-eyed independence of thought and knowledge -- that I absorbed before, during, and after my years at UCB . . . that's hard.  I've modeled it as much as possible, but I still have not quite found a way.

I don't always live up to my model either, though I do try.

I sometimes think crucial key components include a repressive childhood, strong individualistic modeling (thanks, mom & dad), and lucky genetics (the boneheadedness, for example).  At other times, I think a devotion to the idea (and ideal) of literary apprenticeship is necessary.

Of course, in my main teaching duties, my focus is on awakening and honing the skills of critical reading, critical writing, and critical thinking, which is a different path than the literary one I referred to above.  Such awakening and honing is a joyous thing, too, by the way.

3.  What depressed me the most during my long years of graduate study was what seemed to me to be the suppression of the original text and, more so, the actual literary experience in favor of something decidedly secondary.  Ideally, and practically, such study enhances the ability to experience literature in the fullest sense -- and I give credit and thanks to certain professors and colleagues to this day for their part in the true way (or ways, for there are different paths to explore) -- but I also watched other professors and other colleagues who turned away from literary truth toward something -- or some things -- not so worthy . . . .

Encouraging Apt Engagement?

When I encounter art of any sort, 
I find myself with these questions: 

What am I feeling now?
What is the piece saying?
What's the story (and backstory)?

[Oh, and how is it made?
--among many, many others.]

Now, my students usually want to start with "What does it mean?"

(A fine, though often
misleading or reductive
question to get to know
something, someone,
anything at all.
Where to begin,
then?)

Artists (and fellow audience-members), 
what responses 
and what responsive questions 
would you encourage 
me to encourage 
in my students?

Berberick: Hunting, Hunted

Still, even in those unlighted times when I'd shut my eyes tightly to the skald leygr, I remembered the teachings of my old friend, of Stane Saewulf's son.  One of the things he taught me was this:

"Men and Dwarfs, we are all riddles," he said.  "We are puzzles to our friends, puzzles to ourselves.  Who finds joy in riddling, pleasure in the patient stalking of the hidden truth, that man knows how to live."

But what do you think happens, my Sif, when truth becomes the hunter, man becomes the hunted?  To me, it seems that the man stalked by a truth becomes a brother to the wolf-haunted moon.

--Nancy Varian Berberick, from Shadow of the Seventh Moon

Berberick's narrator is Garroc, dwarf, soldier and skald.  Berberick's tale is a historical fantasy set in 7th-century Britain, amidst the wars of Saxons and Britains and Welsh, a tale paying tribute to Old English poetry and poets.  Garroc is one of the last generation of dwarfs, a race now cursed with infertility and thereby extinction for attempting to steal the goddess Idun's apples of immortality.  In the passage above, Garroc's reflections have a more personal flavor, a more specific context, and yet the lines on riddling, on hunting and being hunted, ring true in this life, for life in general.  

One can know too too much.  Or, to put it another way, the man (or dwarf) hunted by a truth may need to flee, may need to stand, and who outside that pursuit can truly judge?   Or, whatever the judgment, the passage speaks both to the joy of the hunt and to the desperation, the haunting, of being hunted by a truth.  Garroc is haunted by a pack of truths in the tale, until . . . .  

I'll repeat my favorite portion of the passage: "Who finds joy in riddling, pleasure in the patient stalking of the hidden truth, that man knows how to live."  

And woman, too.  

Berberick's adopting the older style of pronoun use to match the older times, the older English, in which she has set her tale.  Sif, Garroc's human foster-daughter, is a respected character, Garroc's confidant and our narrative conduit.

Coffee Break . . . Outside

How Romantic?

Byron and Harold: "Once More Within The Vortex"

              I

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
ADA! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,
And then we parted, -- not as now we part,
But with a hope. --
                Awaking with a start,
The waters heave around me; and on high
The winds lift up their voices: I depart,
Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by,
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

                    II

Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider.  Welcome to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.

                    III

In my youth's summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
O'er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life, -- where not a flower appears.

                    IV

Since my young days of passion -- joy, or pain,
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string,
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain
I would essay as I have sung to sing.
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling
So that it wean me from the weary dream
Of selfish grief or gladness -- so it fling
Forgetfulness around me -- it shall seem
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme.

                    V

He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him; nor below
Can love, or sorrow, frame, ambition, strife,
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpair'd though old, in the soul's haunted cell.

                    VI

'Tis to create, and in creating live
A being more intense, that we endow
With form our fancy, gaining as we give
The life we image, even as I do now.
What am I?  Nothing: but not so art thou,
Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth,
Invisible but gazing, as I glow
Mix'd with the spirit, blended with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth.

                    VII

Yet must I think wildly: -- I have thought
Too long and darkly, till my brain became,
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought,
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame:
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame,
My springs of life were poison'd.  'Tis too late!
Yet am I changed; though still enough the same
In strength to bear what time can not abate,
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate.

                    VIII

Something too much of this: but now 'tis past
And the spell closes with its silent seal.
Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last;
He of the breast which fain no more would feel,
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal;
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him
In soul and aspect as in age: years steal
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb;
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

                    IX

His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found
The dregs were wormwood: but he fill'd again,
And from a purer fount, on holier ground,
And deemed its spring perpetual; but in vain!
Still round him clung invisibly a chain
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen,
And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain,
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen,
Entering with every step he took through many a scene.

                    X

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd
Again in fancied safety with his kind,
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd
And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind,
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind;
And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find
Fit speculation; such as in strange land
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand.

                    XI

But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek
To wear it? who can curiously behold
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek,
Not feel the heart can never all grow old?
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb?
Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time,
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime.

--George Gordon, Lord Byron --

the opening stanzas of the third canto of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage"



AND THE POEM ROLLS ON AND ON.

Robert Graves: Ghost Stories

Here are five more poems from the incomparable Robert Graves:

A RESTLESS GHOST
Alas for obstinate doubt: the dread
Of error in supposing my heart freed,
All care for her stone dead!
Ineffably will shine the hills and radiant coast
Of early morning when she is gone indeed,
Her divine elements disbanded, disembodied
And through the misty orchards in love spread--
When she is gone indeed--
But still among them moves her restless ghost.


TROUGHS OF SEA
'Do you delude yourself?' a neighbor asks,
Dismayed by my abstraction.
But though love cannot question love
Nor need deny its need,

Pity the man who finds a rebel heart
Under his breastbone drumming
Which reason warns him he should drown
In midnight wastes of sea.


SHE IS NO LIAR
She is no liar, yet she will wash away
Honey from her lips, blood from her shadowy hand,
And, dressed at dawn in clear white robes will say,
Trusting the ignorant world to understand:
'Such things no longer are; this is today.'


A LOST JEWEL
Who on your breast pillows his head now,
Jubilant to have won
The heart beneath on fire for him alone,

At dawn will hear you, plagued by nightmare,
Mumble and weep
About some blue jewel you were sworn to keep.

Wake, blink, laugh out in reassurance,
Yet your tears will say:
'It was not mine to lose or give away.

'For love it shone--never for the madness
Of a strange bed--
Light on my finger, fortune in my head.'

Roused by your naked grief and beauty,
For lust he will burn:
'Turn to me, sweetheart! Why do you not turn?'

I'D DIE FOR YOU

I'd die for you, or you for me,

So furious is our jealousy--

And if you doubt this to be true

Kill me outright, lest I kill you.

--Robert Graves

Robert Graves: "Arrow Shots" and Hitting The Mark

ARROW SHOTS


Only a madman could mistake,
          When shot at from behind a tree,
The whizz and thud that arrows make--
          Yours, for example, fired at me.


Some bows are drawn to blind or maim,
          I have known others drawn to kill,
But truth in love is your sole aim
          And proves your vulnerary skill.


Though often, drowsing at mid-day,
          I wince to find myself your mark,
Let me concede the hit, but say:
          "Your hand is steadiest after dark."




SHE TO HIM


To have it, sweetheart, is to know you have it
Rather than think you have it;
To think you have it is a wish to take it,
Though afterwards you would not have it--
And thus fear to take it.
Yet if you know you have it, you may take it
And know that still you have it.




THE YET UNSAYABLE


It was always fiercer, brighter, gentler than could be told
Even in words quickened by Truth's dark eye:
Its absence, whirlpool; its presence, deluge;
Its time, astonishment; its magnitude,
A murderous dagger-point.
                                            So we surrender
Our voices to the dried and scurrying leaves
And choose our own long-predetermined path
From the unsaid to the yet unsayable
In silence of love and lover's temerity.


--Robert Graves

Gate of Ivory, Gate of Horn?

I love my alma mater, warts and all.  And, to keep with that metaphor, she'll bewitch you if you give her half a chance.  Half-Circe, half-Sibyl of Cumae?

Whenever I approach that gate, I hear Virgilian echoes; I just do.

(Homeric resonances too: Holy moly, Hermes!)


Let's hear it, especially, for Latin Summer Workshop '88!
"O passi graviora, dabit deus his quoque finem."  --Virgil, The Aeneid, from Book I.

Pinnochio as an Old Man

Mask: Old Pinnochio.

Sculpture mix; terra sigillata.

I made this piece back in 2001 or 2002, I believe.

Fish To Fry

I asked the fish market guy how he likes to cook true cod, and he first gave me a handful of good healthy ideas.

Then, he confessed, "I like to bread it and fry it. I like fish and chips. Not that you can say that in Berkeley."

Me: "You can say that to me. I'm from San Pablo."