Psalm 1

I am struck, in Psalm 1, by the sense of a single enlightened figure who stands apart from a multitude. Ever one man, a figure whose meditations suggest solitude, an inward light. Here is one who listens not to the ungodly counsel of others, but who stands, in the psalm's central metaphor, like a tree--not one tree among many, as in a copse or a vast forest, but a tree unshadowed by neighbors, and indeed one may speak of this righteous figure as the tree, figuring Man and Woman through their initial defining act, The Fall, and the Son of Man, who mounted a tree at Calgary.

There is a basic rhythm in the verses, a pendular swinging back and forth between the ungodly and the godly, until in the final verse the two are united in God's Manichean vision of the World. The Jew, like the early Christian, was a being apart, one who dared stigmatize all who followed other paths. And the God worshipped by the Jew wielded a type of power always accompanied by force: law. Laws can only exist where force exists, as Tolstoy reminds us in that memorable passage late in War and Peace that shows Pierre Bezukhov facing a military tribunal that exists only "to inculpate him."

Judgement seems somehow, for me, far from the vision of a tree on a river's bank, but the same winds that ruffle an elm's heavy plumage disperse the chaff that has no place in an elysium.

A small sampling of reasons to hate J. D. Salinger

From the first ten pages of "Raise high the roof beam, carpenters":

some twenty years ago
Along about two
as far as I remember
At one time or another
at least as far as
I, for one
so to speak
To make things still more provocative
I might well bring in here
that specific time
in my opinion
ostensibly
invariably
unspeakably
technically
typically
presumably (page 7)
all but exclusively
almost directly
not quite parenthetically
a trifle guardedly
presumably (page 8)
apparently (page 9)
laboriously
roughly
religiously
only nominally
apparently (page 11)
suddenly
interestedly (last three all in one sentence)
rather immoderately
indescribably hot (page 11)
stifling hot (page 11)
extravagantly speaking
with perhaps typically pungent Coast-to-Coast irony
. . .

The man did not believe that one could add too many adverbs to a story.

Announcement

I intend to devote an essay to the Johnsonian dictum "The same proposition cannot be at once true and false." My reflections will inspire a new generation of Wittgensteins, some of them pianists.

Keys, black and white

To my ear, the geese seemed stuck
in some sorry squawk-show rerun,
their sloppy V the envy of no commuter
in her orderly lane.

No beauty queen queueing for lip gloss
fretted about her animal past,
what a life spent erect might
and might not yet mean.

On my chair, worrying a wan dream,
I saw roadside ditches
full of fur, feathers, lost bodies.
I slumbered on coals.

The queer pianist took a breath,
determined to play pitchblack
on snow white keys:
rapping cantilena.

Floral remains

Here is an exchange between two members of the Pacific Bulb Society. I find the image remarkably poignant and extremely beautiful.

My question is this: along with daffodils and Hyacinthoides, what other winter-spring flowering bulbs are likely to persist and thrive, decades after planting? Which crocus, tulips, etc, are truly survivors that outlast their gardens?
—Kathleen Sayce

Around Denton, TX where I lived for six years, the outlines of old homesteads are delineated with persisisting Muscari neglectum, Rhodophiala bifida, Lycoris radiata, Narcissus jonquilla, and a few other types of Narcissus. There were also clumps of Cooperia pedunculata at these sites, which were farther north than that species normally grows I think. Many of these places have been lost since the 1990s as undeveloped gaps in the urban landscape are filled in.
—Shawn Pollard

a beginning

Wet wasted leaves crowd the steps
From a place dry and seldom swept
Just outside my door, never locked,
A white rectangle spotlit by the sun.

My halting mind returned early
Freighted with headlined names
Halted by the door, hesitated.

They burn easily, kindling arias.

Hands on

How can people be so dim? Slamming a movie for being "manipulative" is akin to praising a corkscrew for opening a bottle. Was Aeschylus not manipulative? If a movie is to be faulted, it should be for a failure to trigger strong feelings, for a reliance on hackneyed devices, for speaking an emotional language more primitive than a punch in the nose.

Help

She was lying on the pavement, rolling slightly. I stopped my bike, got off, asked whether she needed help. She did. I gave her one hand, but she needed two. A white woman, abrasions on her very pale face, very drunk. I asked where she needed to go and she said the bus stop. We were halfway there when she said something about a man forty feet ahead. Her companion. He marched towards us, several inches taller than I, sober, angry. She'd been pulling this all day long, he said, falling down drunk, getting people to help her, and that was fine. He barely knew her, had never hit her, had let her sleep at his house the night before, but had not, he insisted, had sex with her. I looked at him and told him that I was going to help her to the bus stop. He wheeled and stomped away. She called out to him. He came back, told her he wasn't waiting for her, she'd dropped her bus pass, he was going to Longs, and if she showed up she showed up. Her knees buckled and, as I had earlier, I said to her, "You can make it. Keep walking." We got to the meager bench and she sat. I asked did she have her bus pass, she tried her pockets, nothing. I went back for my bike, felt a pang as I rode past her. A hundred feet further the tall angry man was lurking in a doorway.

Newspapers

If I knew the world better, I could explain it, predict its next moves. Not just financial markets, flows of precious metals, outbreaks of violence, but the complexion of next week's clouds above the Atlas mountains, the number of grains of sand that will lodge in my sweatshirt pocket during a Christmas Day walk on the beach--it would be something fine just to be able to count these. As my determination to master the world grows, as I have cards printed that read "S. R. Gilbert, Supervillain," I lose some of my focus, some of my hair, some of my memories. Cats still come running when I whistle, no matter what alley I'm moving along, and that hardens my resolve.

Life

Come home.
Check mail.
Cook meal.
Wonder what to do next.
Turn on computer.
Peek at others' lives.
Feel cold.
Hear phone ring.
Check email for umpteenth time.
Turn off computer.
Wonder what to do next.
Think about a movie.
Think about a book.
Wash dishes.
Make bed.
Check to see if front door is locked.
Stand on front porch and look at moon.
Wonder what to do next.

Ruby, no slipper

I've told a friend that I'll write something about my injury for his company's blog. The small nonprofit sends doctors to very poor nations to provide those who need them with prosthetic limbs; I suppose many of the injuries are due to American landmines. My experience is only in some distant way comparable to that of a person born with a clubfoot or shorn of an arm, but I will try to convey something of what it's like to move between ability and disability, how confusing it can be, how it directs your vision into the mirror even as you suddenly see every broken person as a sister or brother.

I've been walking for a few weeks without my crutch, but I have a limp, my calf muscle is weak, and if I stand still for a minute my foot becomes bloated and ruby. My surgeon told me he believed I'd always limp, so of course I will do all I can to prove him wrong.

Seeing something else

You're sitting with a friend and you're talking about what you see. It's a field, it's a bay, it's a city. As you talk, it becomes clear that what you see is not what she sees. You keep talking about different things, sort of trusting that your friend simply sees something you'd see if you were in her place. Because masts, trees, rocks, clouds, and cars block your vision, but from where she sits no cloud or giant is in the way. You move over a bit and you say, "Oh! Yeah!"

Everything is a little different for having seen what you couldn't, but you shift back and now you're right where you were.

Walking, not walking

When my esteemed surgeon, Jack Schuberth, told me to wean myself of my protective plastic boot over three weeks, I thought that was an awfully long time. But now I doubt that I'll lose my crutches by the three-week mark. To my surprise, walking is very painful, two weeks after Schuberth spoke. When I do put aside my crutches, taking more or less normal steps, setting all my weight on my left leg, I can go three or four steps before pain begins to shoot from my heel.

This injury has marked one of the few times in my life when I've desperately wanted to be normal. The discovery that I suffer from osteoporosis exploded that hope. But I do want to be able to walk, and I do not think this much pain is normal.

How my foot looks

Until Thursday afternoon, I'd been permitted only occasional glimpses of my injured foot. Between casts, while wheeling from podiatry clinic to X-ray, I stared and on occasion touched the strange flesh that had once been part of me but now belonged to doctors and nurses and technicians—and to that same category of existence that lodged many of my life's unpleasantnesses, and which was understood to fall outside of The Meaningful, The Useful, The Relevant.

Now the foot and the leg attached to it are naked, and though they are far from perfect, their care and improvement have been left to me and to an occasional black boot, no longer to a bent plaster tube.

This is not my foot as I remember it. The skin is dry, peeling, wrinkled, splotchy. The area around my ankle is swollen and I don't recall that freckle. There is a cut along the left side of my heel, with tape strips crossing it. Some dried blood. Much of the skin is shiny; what isn't tends to ruddiness. I can wiggle my toes and rotate my foot, but I don't do much of the rotating because it hurts a little.

The leg, too, is foreign. Bruises streak and stripe it, and I did not know that bruises came in such colors. Much yellow, some purple. The calf muscle is gelatinous, unsightly.

Lots of skin is flaking and sloughing from the toes and between them. I've been leaving the cut alone, but I suspect that while I sleep the cat or I may try to lick it. Maybe it tastes metallic, or maybe it's like licking a battery.

My heel

On July 25 I broke my heel bone. Since that time I've been unable to set any weight on my left leg, which has changed things for me. For instance, here's how I get my mail. I put on my knapsack and crutch my way to the mailbox. I then lean my crutches against the fence, balance on my right leg, and unlock the mailbox, hanging onto it for extra balance. I then struggle out of my knapsack, unzip it, and use my right hand to hold the knapsack while using my left to stuff mail in, all the while wobbling quite a bit. I then zip closed the bag, shoulder it, close and lock the mailbox, and lift my crutches from the fence. Soon I'm back inside--unless I'm so tired by all this that I make it no further than the chair on the back porch--and I set my crutches against something and allow myself to fall onto the floor. I love the floor.

The furthest I've walked since my injury is around the block. I've done that three times. Mostly I just sit inside or, better, lie on the floor, listening to Mitsuko Uchida play Mozart's piano concertos. Which is not all that different from how I spent my time before my injury. Except now I don't even walk to the grocery store, the prospect of which makes me anxious. I may try tomorrow.

I was misdiagnosed. My ankle was terrifically swollen and the nurse who looked at the first x-rays concluded that I must have strained a ligament since the ankle was not broken. She missed the line running through my calcaneus. So I went home. Later I had to visit the San Rafael emergency room to get a cast put on. That was July 26.

On July 31 Jack Schuberth opened my heel, aligned the odds and ends that had once been my calcaneus, and drove four metal screws through them, an especially long one from the back of my heel up at a forty-five-degree angle, the three others at a right angle to that. I think I now have some titanium in my left foot, but I keep forgetting to ask Jack what sort of metal he chose.

The operation left me with a nasty case of contact dermatitis all over my back and sides, but I've had no pain and have consumed none of the vicodin I was issued early on.

And sometimes music is something else.

Wow, his ear is really big.

Music, the net

Music connects us. We went to the concert together, I gave you the CD, we sang along as we drove the moving van from Chicago to San Francisco. I wrote a song with John that he sang with Erika at Pam's house. I brought a record to the Mallarkeys' party that Peter danced to ten times in a row. We could never agree on what the words were. You mentioned a record and I bought it before you knew my name. We saw the band play it on Saturday Night Live, twenty years before we met. I know the words and you know the tune. Together we can just about sing it. Come on, let's try it now.

It's good to be a boomer.

A study summarized in the most recent issue of Science has shown that guessing Social Security Numbers can be quite easy if one knows the person's place and date of birth--which often appear on facebook, for example.

Every Social Security number starts with three digits known as an "area number." Smaller states might have only one, whereas New York, for example, has 85. The next two digits are "group numbers," which can be anything from 01-99, but don't correspond to anything specific. The last four digits, the "serial number," are assigned sequentially. . .

When economist Alessandro Acquisti and computer scientist Ralph Gross of Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, compared SSA's public death records with birth data, they found that area numbers are not rotated until all 9999 serial numbers have been assigned. . . . After 1989, individuals started receiving Social Security numbers at birth, rather than at their discretion (often when they began their first job), so pinpointing these people's numbers is especially easy, says Acquisti.

So easy in fact that Acquisti and Gross were able to do it themselves. Using fairly standard computer algorithms, the duo predicted the first five digits of Social Security numbers for people born after 1989 44% of the time on the very first try. On a handful of attempts, they managed to get all nine digits on the first try, but at the very least they could predict the full numbers of 8.5% of those born after 1989 in fewer than 1000 tries, they report online today in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences.

The Road

Here is a sentence Cormac McCarthy wrote:

Ten thousand dreams ensepulchred within their crozzled hearts.

You have to be really sick to write that sort of shit.

(Later, same page: he would . . . see him standing there in the road looking back at him from some unimaginable future, glowing in the waste like a tabernacle.)

The victory of the automobile

Amazing how quickly it happened. First is a street scene from 1903:



Then from 1913 (0:31 to 1:10):