the Canterbury carol

.
Back in 2003, a friend in a newsgroup (who I haven't met) queried:

Where could I find the "Canterbury Carol"?

This was the sort of challenge that, for some obscure reason, I felt like picking up and running with. As it turns out, I made some errors, conflating or expanding the MONK count somehow, so until that gets fixed, this is a work in progress. 2013 will be its tenth year as such. Anyway, fire up your plainchant (I had in mind a tune similar to Veni, Veni, Emmanuel's beginning) and have something near to hand for when you get thirsty.

Pilgrims, nine and twenty number we,
Traveling in such a company.
To Canterbury now we all do come
To shrive our sins at Thomas Becket's tomb.

A KNIGHT I am, whose warlike chivalry
Does serve our peaceful Lord of Galilee.
To heathen foes the fight I'd gladly press
To show them Jesu's grace and gentleness.

I am his YEOMAN, clad in brightest green.
My bow is long, my arrows true and keen.
How dull is e'en the sharpest shining sword
When laid beside our savior's holy word.
(Chorus)

A PRIORESS am I, and it is thence
For Jesus' sake I make my journey hence
His blood redeem-ed Adam's shameful fall
His is the love alone that conquers all.

I am a NUN, and keeping to my friend
I'll travel on until the jouney's end.
My chapel I make on the open road,
And roods I find abundant in each wode.

We are three PRIESTS who travel in the sun.
A trinity we be, who preach as one.
Together, we make light work of our load,
And save such souls as we might, on the road.

A MONK I be, and forward now I ride;
My calling is not one found safe inside
I wander widely round the earthly sod
And hunt with love for souls to bring to God.

I am a FRERE, indeed a merry man
I find my pleasant joys where best I can;
To men I freely God's forgiveness give
For after all, a man of God must live.
(Chorus)

A MERCHANT I, and reckon fully well
The worth of every good and ware I sell.
Yet all this world's wealth would not reckoned be
A farthing's worth in God's own currency.

A CLERK I am, from Oxford's noble halls;
I leave the shadows of its ivied walls
And travel hence with one important goal,
By Jesu's love to cleanse my mortal soul.

I labor as a SERGEANT of the law.
Before God's might, I meekly stand in awe.
His son did bring us, with his humble birth
A greater law than all that's found on earth.

Although a FRANKLIN wealthy I may be,
Yet in my soul I feel but poverty
The sweetest riches of this world I'd give
In Jesu's better world one day to live.
(Chorus)

In stylish HABERDASHER's livery,
I garb in cloth men's frames most fittingly.
My greatest hope is that one day I'll don
A fairer raiment, when from earth I'm gone.

A CARPENTER, I hack and hew rough wood
And hope my work comes out the way it should.
But now I ride for days past field and floss
To honor Him nailed on a wooden cross.

A WEAVER am I, toiling at my loom
And as I work, my mind is on the tomb
Tho' warp and woof of life be in my eye
I pray I might be shuttled to the sky.

A DYER I, I live by staining cloth
With industry I strive, abjuring sloth.
And now on holy pilgrimage I fly,
That my soul may be stainless when I die.

An ARRAS-MAKER, I craft tapestries
Of heavenly and earthly majesties
The first to help me stand on Judgment Day;
The other pays my bills along the way.
(Chorus)

Sweet friend, I pray you, do not scorn the COOK,
Whose recipe for life comes from a Book.
Who seeks his soul to leaven ere he dies,
That from the dirt to heaven he may rise.

A SHIPMAN, I have roamed the mighty seas
Yet now I go to pray upon my knees
And pardon seek for all those times I failed
And thoughtlessly and sinningly I sailed.

PHYSICIAN am I; man of many parts.
Philosophy I read, and healing arts.
Yet now I seek the healing of my soul,
And being with the Lord shall be my goal.
(Chorus)

A humble WIFE am I, upon this path
Five husbands I have had, who lived in Bath.
A pilgrimage I take, so when I have died
The Prince of Peace may claim me for his bride.

A PARSON, I do preach upon the rock.
I seek to find the best way for my flock
I guide them not for profit nor for pelf,
Nor bid them go where I'd not go myself.

As PLOWMAN I must walk behind my ox
And watch to spare the colter blade from rocks.
I pray to God my soul to Heav'n may go,
And see my friends and neighbors there also.

A MILLER stout, my wheel grinds for an hour
And from its movement, grain is ground to flour.
So too, from even one of my great size,
My sins be ground away, and I may rise.

I am a MANCIPLE from inn of court,
No man has managed yet to sell me short.
This pilgrimage I take, while I have breath:
For I could win in life, yet lose in death.
(Chorus)

As REEVE, I am the steward to my lord,
And from my skills, fine goods I can afford.
Yet though I forecast crops with great success,
I would my soul not wager on a guess.

My living as a SUMMONER is sweet,
I never want for cheer or drink or meat.
I blush not that I take whate'er I can;
For God knows, you can't cheat an honest man.

A PARDONER, I know the Bible well
Choice relics from it I am pleased to sell
Saint's toe bones I can let all have who pay
And they're all glad to have them, anyway.

As POET, I have dragged this out too long,
And yet I'll put myself into the song.
I earned the right by riding on this road,
And trust that God will lighten my soul's load.
(Chorus)

©2012 by Kip Williams.

I've indicated some places where the chorus may be interposed. You can skip them! Or you can sing it after every verse, if you like. If you sing while walking, you may be at Canterbury when you finish.
.

minas morgul

.
Minas Morgul was Minas Ithil
Now it's Minas Morgul, not Minas Ithil.
Now the shadows grow in old Minas Ithil
On a moonless night, by runic light.

The Uruk-Hai in old Minas Ithil
Lurk in Minas Morgul, not Minas Ithil*
So if you've a doom in fair Minas Ithil,
It awaits thee in fell Morgul.

Even old Mirkwood was once the Greenwood great.
Why'd they change? I dare not say --
(Evil One liked it better that way!) So--

Take me back to old Minas Ithil.
No, you can't go back to old Minas Ithil
For the road leads not to cold Minas Ithil.

Why did poor Minas Ithil pop its corks?
That's nobody's business but the Orcs!

[ttto: Istanbul (not Constantinople). New words (c)2004 by Kip Williams]


*This has been criticized, but it is a true statement. The ones that are there do that. I didn't say there were a lot of them. Q.E.D.

(I realized I don't have this up on my own page. I wrote it in 2000, right around or just after the time I was in "The Mikado" at CNU.)
.

Internet Writer

.

(to the tune of Paperback Writer, by Lennon & McCartney)

Pasty basement dwellers, won't you view my blog?
I had eighty hits last week, just see the log.
All my teachers told me, stick with what you know,
But I don't know joe, so I'm gonna be an internet writer,
Internet writer!

When I watch a movie or a TV show,
How's it make me feel? People need to know!
Got strong opinions, I hold nothing back,
I'm a little cracked, and I'm gonna be an internet writer,
Internet writer!

(Internet… writer… internet… writer) (repeat this part when you feel like it)

Got my thumb on the pulse of the intertubes,*
And an eye that catches any kind of boobs,
My friends all say that I'm a crazy stitch,
Some day I'll be rich, cuz I'm gonna be an internet writer,
Internet writer!

I can update often, I've got time to spend.
Please retweet my twitters, be my facebook friend!
Put my link up on your blogroll too,
I'll link back to you, man, I'm gonna be an internet writer,
Internet writer!

Gonna build my influence, and when I'm big
I'll be read at Reddit, I'll be dug at Digg,
Drudge and aintitcool will defer to me,
And they'll all agree, I'm the king of all teh internets writers,
Internet writer!!

(new lyrics ©2012 by Kip Williams)
(thanks to Nehemiah Scudder for the title and central conceit — he literally asked for this)




*A significant line. The thumb has its own pulse, which can be confused for the pulse it's supposed to be taking. Plus it fits the meter.
.

FREE to a good home

.
Okay, not really. But here's the thing.

I get daily emails from the Mechanical Music Digest, which consist of the day's postings to a diverse group of hobbyists. Their delight is in player pianos, pianolas, band organs, violinolas, music boxes, and even automata. Every so often (and getting oftener) I read about another beloved member of the community who has passed on or gotten too old to keep doing the work, and the collection he or she (usually he) spent years putting together and keeping in order is looking for a home. More often, many homes, as different things go in different directions, possibly including the trash.

As they age out, they wonder where the next generation of people who appreciate this exacting craft will come from. Who will repair the machines? Who will keep the rolls rolling? Their kids, oftentimes, have bemused tolerance for their parents, but no intention of carrying on after them. The faces they see are getting older.

Now, I look around and see young people who love clockwork and gears and steel and brass and polished wood and leather cases, who are interested in the obscure and the outdated and the ingenious. Yes, steampunks and makers. Why wouldn't they want to get in on, and add to, the not-so-secret lore of the mechanical music enthusiasts? What would they bring to the table?

A recent posting at bOINGbOING on a player piano performance drew enthusiastic comments, but my attempts to post something like this message there have simply vanished into space. I used to subscribe to the steampunk community, but apparently allowed that to lapse, and rejoining just to post a glorified want ad seems sort of cheap. But hey, if anybody who reads this felt like reposting it or directing their eyes to my page, I'd love to get the word out.

Pneumatic tubes! Mainsprings! Foot pedals! Escapements! Antique mahogany finish! Burnished metal! Jewel bearings! Ebony and ivory keys! AND when you do it right, MUSIC comes out!

Here's the home page. There are links to years of postings from members, photos, movies, and sound files (midi and mp3), and you can participate by getting a free account and logging in.
.

The Car-Mangled Banner

.
Oh, say, did you see
On the truck that just passed?
Some poor star-spangled banner
Is waving its last.
With six stripes and nine stars
Threadbare on a stick,
Do they think it's respectful?
It seems kind of sick.
If they can't take good care of
The flag that they wave,
How can they care for the land
Of the free and the brave?
.

Toon River Anthology, part 10:

.
AMOS VAN HOESEN

Edda and I were kids together
And she bugged and pestered me,
Put things in my desk and gave me wedgies
Until I gave in and loved her.
So we matured to ripe teenhood,
Two geeky musical prodigies.
(She was also a ballet prodigy
As well as several other kinds.)
Love of my life, we were fated for each other.
On that day in Belgium, we clinched it
Under the piano, and on the piano,
And possibly in it. It's hard to be certain,
And I couldn't bring myself to watch the video.
From there, the path of love ran hot and cold,
As did she. I mostly ran hot, but my feet
Sometimes ran cold. At the end
Of a series of misunderstandings,
I humped the question to her, and she said yes.
She was lovely in her gown. She said yes again
When the old nun asked, and the guests blew bubbles
And took pictures and threw birdseed
And we removed to our own love nest.
She was mine at last, and I was hers.
Tenderly, we removed each other's clothes
And looked into our eyes. She smiled
And came to me, and unhinged her jaw.
That's all I remember.
.

walking it back

.
The greatest, most glorious retraction I ever read ran on December 17, 2003, on the front page of the first section of the Virginian-Pilot newspaper. It was part of my job to go through this paper each day. (On Sunday they had crossword puzzles from both the NY Times and the LA Times, and I'd save these pages for trips. I miss that!)

On this particular day, my eyes were greeted by a follow-up article to an original article I hadn't seen — I'd only been in the area since 1985:

WE'D LIKE TO SET THE RECORD STRAIGHT
- A CENTURY LATER
A story and headline in the Dec. 18, 1903, Virginian-Pilot contained errors.

Orville Wright was the pilot for the first flight of the Wright Flyer. It was not Wilbur, whose name is not spelled Wilber.

The plane's wing span was 40 feet, 4 inches. The wings were 6 feet 2 inches apart vertically and 6 feet, 6 inches from front to rear. They were covered in muslin, not canvas.

The engine rested on top of the lower wing. It did not hang below it.

The propellers had two blades each, not six. They both were mounted on the rear side of the wings. There was no propeller providing upward force.

Rudders in the front and rear and warping of the wings controlled the plane. There was not a single, huge fan-shaped rudder that could be moved side to side and raised and lowered.

The pilot lay prone on the lower wing. There was no pilot's car.

The Wrights have always said they were equal inventors of the machine. Wilbur never took credit as the chief inventor. The brothers had no plans to build a much larger machine and never did.

Their success came after four years of work, not three.

They took one trip to the Outer Banks in the summer and two trips in the fall prior to 1903. They did not spend almost the entire winter, fall and early spring on the Outer Banks for three years.

They arrived on Sept. 26 in 1903, not on Sept. 1.

The plane took off under its own power after traveling 40 feet down a rail on flat land. It was not sent down a slope after Orville Wright released a catch. The engine was started before takeoff. It was not started after the plane had rolled halfway down a 100-foot hill.

The plane flew 120 feet, 8 to 10 feet off the ground in a straight line on the first of four flights. It did not soar 60 feet in the air. It did not circle and fly 3 miles over breakers and dunes. It did not tack to port, then to starboard.

The plane's ground speed was 8 to 10 mph. Its air speed was 30 to 35 mph. It did not fly at 8 mph.

The plane hit the ground nose-first after its fourth flight, damaging the front rudder mechanism, and was later destroyed by a gust of wind. It did not descend gracefully and rest lightly at a spot chosen by the aviator after one attempt.

Five onlookers helped the brothers and watched the flights. A small crowd did not run after the plane and give up after it outpaced them.

The flight took place at the foot of Kill Devil Hill. Orville Wright did not declare the flight a success before a crowd on the beach after the first mile. The flights were not on the beach.

Wilbur Wright was 5 feet 10 inches tall and weighed 140 pounds. His eyes were blue-gray and his hair dark brown. He was not 5 feet 6 inches tall and did not weigh 150 pounds. He did not have raven-hued hair. His eyes were not deep blue.

Orville Wright was 5 feet 8 inches tall and had blue-gray eyes and dark brown hair. He did not have black eyes. He did not have sandy blond hair.

The article referred to can be seen here, thanks to the Smithsonian.

It's possible I have the article among my boxes. I found it today with a search at the Pilot Online, then I bought the article for $1.95, then I searched on a phrase in it and found that the article was carried by many other newspapers, so I copied the text from the Floridian of St. Petersburg.

I find it entirely commendable that a news organization can clear up the record this way, without fear of looking foolish. Indeed, I suspect they were saving the article for the anniversary of the original occasion. The Virginian-Pilot account of the flight was pretty much the first, and can be found at the Smithsonian's web site as part of a lesson plan for the historic event.

Footnote: Driving through Dayton, I saw (and photographed) the present-day incarnation of the Wright Brothers' firm, which (if I understand correctly) was sold quite a few years ago, but which continues to be a going concern. I'm sorry that we have lost Neil Armstrong today, but at least some names are still with us whose bearers have helped us in the ongoing quest to (in whatever degree and for whatever duration) get off the Earth. [Edited again in 2020: It's a firm called Wright Engineering, but it seems they are unrelated, and perhaps making capital from the name.]

Edited to add: I wrote to the Smithsonian and told them about the correction, and got a nice answer back to the effect that they might revamp the lesson plan and include the corrections in the update as an interesting sidelight. Tickled, I am. (September 17, 2012)
.

buckwheat cakes!

Here's two minutes of, for me, pure unadulterated joy from an old LP of songs from the Mickey Mouse Club. Buddy Ebsen, just then working on the Davy Crockett series, teams with Mouseketeer Darlene Gillespie in a homespun paean to the humble buckwheat pancake. Accordion and pedal steel guitar figure prominently in the accompaniment, along with clarinet, and unobtrusive rhythm.)

Buddy & Darlene:
Buckwheat cakes, buckwheat cakes, along with crispy bacon!
Yes it is your buckwheat cakes that sets my heart to achin'!

(The accordion echoes the word "bacon!" Buddy and Darlene sing in harmony.)

Buddy:
It can't be your chocolate cake, or your Irish stew
It can't be your chocolate cake that makes me fond of you!

(Listen to the warmth Buddy can put into a recital of foods. He twinkles with his voice, just enough that I can feel it in 2012, and not so much as to cloy.)

Both:
It's buckwheat cakes, buckwheat cakes, along with crispy bacon!
Yes it is your buckwheat cakes that sets my heart to achin'!

Darlene:
What about my girlish ways, and my purty hair?
What about my girlish ways, or maybe you don't care?

(Darlene's voice is clear, with a melodious hillbilly accent that doesn't interfere with her diction.)

Buddy:
No, it ain't your girlish ways, or your purty hair.
No, it ain't your girlish ways that makes me set and stare.

(It's not as if he's rejecting her here. He just has different reasons.)

Both:
It's buckwheat cakes, buckwheat cakes, along with crispy bacon!
Yes it is your buckwheat cakes that sets my heart to achin'!

(A sprightly instrumental solo follows, with some tasty work on clarinet and pedal steel guitar. It goes around twice.)

Darlene:
How about my friendly smile, 'specially for you?
How about my friendly smile? I see you're smilin' too.

Buddy:
No, it ain't your friendly smile, or your dimpled chin.
No, it ain't your friendly smile that brings me back again.

(Listen to Buddy: "nnnnNNNO!!" He finds something that's probably not in the music; a little moment where he can make something out of nothing, adding to the song without even slowing the flow. And he doesn't waste it in an early verse, either. The second "no" suggests, but doesn't repeat, the first snap. And it's still playful.)

Both:
It's buckwheat cakes, buckwheat cakes, because I'm only human.
I just love the buckwheat cakes, made by a purty woman!

Buddy:
I just love the buckwheat cakes, made by a purty woman!

Darlene:
(spoken) Aw, Pa, quit your kiddin'!

(And Darlene rescues the song from what could have been seen as creepy by a cynical 21st century listener, putting it back squarely into the heartwarming category. Darlene may be eclipsed somewhat by Buddy's innate talent honed by decades of experience, but make no mistake: these are a pair of pros at the height of their powers. How much time do you suppose they had with this? A quarter of an hour? A half hour, from the time they were given the music to when the director said it was a wrap? I'm guessing closer to the former. This is star power, and it works for me every time I hear it.)

Music, lyrics, performance and recording ©Walt Disney Studios. If you liked this sample, go buy something.

The Dust is Whirling in the Dust

Arthur Kraft — Private First Class Arthur Kraft, at the time — painted this during World War II. It was part of an exhibition called "Soldier Art," from which came one of those oblong GI paperbacks of the same title. In fifth or sixth grade, I saw the small, black and white photo of the picture and was struck by the technique and the infinitely sad subject matter. I looked online and couldn't find a color copy of it. I know now that it is probably because the picture is now known as "Soldier with Death before Carousel" instead of the Oscar Wilde quote that was with it in the book.

Kraft, who died in 1977 at age 55, lived in Kansas City, Missouri, and according to a website dedicated to his life and work, Kansas City has many examples of his work to be found, including several murals. This painting hangs in the Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art, which I'd like to visit some day.

I pride myself on having gotten the best scan I could from the halftone picture in the book, but this color version (which I've adjusted slightly to correct for a yellow cast) has shown me much more detail. Interestingly, my mental image has been off all along — the color choices I'd imagined, such as a rich purple robe on Death (and I didn't know that was Death!), turn out to have been mistaken. Soon, I probably won't even remember what they were.

Also, the canopy of the carousel is interesting to me for personal reasons: I drew a graphite scene with an awning that was similarly striped, and viewed closely, it's a lot like the one in this picture. Was that unconscious inspiration? Or just the best way to draw a striped awning? No idea. At the risk of comparison, here's my drawing (graphite on copy paper):



Well, they're not that much alike after all. I've been flattering myself. Anyway, I'm putting it there for my audience to enjoy. Last one out turns off the lights.
.

Toon River Anthology, part 9:

BARNABAS "BARNEY" GOOGLE

Why am I summoned
To return to the world
To be among men?
Years ago, I wanted to be
The center of attention,
The phrase maker,
The hero of song and joke.
When I was slowly pushed aside
By a one-note bit player,
I was angry and resentful.
Tried to reassert myself,
Tried to push back in
To no avail. As time passed
I realized what a blessing it was
Not to stand center stage,
Not to carry everything on my shoulders,
Not to play the clown.
But I am summoned,
So for this brief time, I return
Smile at punch lines,
Google my eyes,
And wait for the time
I can depart again,
A thing without aspect,
Without time,
Just like the world outside.


LOWEEZY SMITH

Oh, I were bodacious.
Tiny waist, nice apples,
Blond hair that fell lak
Water ripplin' down a hill
All the way t' my li'l cut-offs,
Then it were laigs, all th' way down
T'mah big ol' bare feet.
Snuffy caught me 'hind th' hen coop
An' we trysted, an' Paw caught us both.
We said our I Dos in front o' his sawed-off,
An' I started a-swellin' up right away,
Not 'cuz I had a bun in th' oven, mind,
It's jest what wimmen hereabouts do
When we're married, er fifteen,
Whichever come first.
.

by Randy and me, from 1980 (odd panels by me; more detail at flickr):

.

.

well, I'm back



.
Oh, yeah, we're back from China. Flickr photoset here (~340 pix):
Shorter flickr photo subset here (~120 pix) because nobody's going to look at the long one. Both have captions that narrate the trip somewhat. If things are too obscure in the short set, refer to the long one and see if that helps. Or comment and I'll explain at length. Really.
.

public service

I made this form when I was an academic secretary, and updated it recently so it wouldn't look like it came off of a dot-matrix printer.



It's available as a 4-up letter-sized (8.5 x 11") PDF, via me.
.

Toon River Anthology, part 8

NO NAME*

[*in the Bandar tongue]

I was born to follow the proud destiny of my father

And his father, and his father, and all their fathers

All the way back to the first Phantom in 1536.

I trained rigorously for years, learning science,

Languages, literature, martial arts, armaments,

Just as my fathers had before me.

But our fathers could not teach us who to love,

Or teach a heart to weigh consequences,

And because my father followed his heart, rather than tradition,

I was not suitable for my own destiny. I was miscast.

Father seemed not to notice. Perhaps he was acting too,

Perhaps he was truly oblivious. I played my part.

He was pleased with me right up to the day of his death.

And then I did what I had to do. I looked around

And found another who could fill the role I couldn't,

And avenge my father's death.

I franchised my destiny. I gave my birthright to another

For the sake of the legend of the undying Phantom.

I found one, light-skinned, well-formed, strong, quick-thinking, ruthless.

Now his dynasty will continue the work my forefathers did.

Though I've grown fat and bald, I continue to advise him

Behind the scenes. It's best this way. After all,

Who could ever believe in the myth of the eternal Ghost

When confronted by an undersized half-Bandar

With a round head made to wear a lampshade?

originally published at the Comics Curmudgeon

.

my wish for you



What are you waiting for? Start living it up!
.

adjusted

I was looking at a Mona Lisa book and thinking that she looks sort of green-ochre. I leafed through the volume, which has x-rays and infrared and just about every possible way of taking a picture (though I didn't notice antique copies of the picture, some of which tell us just when and how much the original was sawed down to fit a frame they had), but none of them corrected the colors. So I did, using Preview. Oddly enough, I got better flesh tones with this little freebie that comes with a Mac laptop than I could manage in Photoshop! After that, I used Photoshop to lighten the whites of the eyes. I never liked how they're the same color as everything else. I blame varnishes for that, and maybe the way Leonardo was always trying new substances for his pigments. Anyway, here she is...



Larger size available at my flickr page. Originally posted at my LJ.
.

a clown's clown

I was reminded today of a Superman episode where a clown goes bad (yeah, yeah, I know) and falls off of a roof. Superman gets there a minute too late, and the police fill him in on it. I always wanted to rewrite the cop’s speech:

“Yes, Superman. He was a clown who went bad. But I want to tell you: I’ve been a cop in this town for twenty years, and I never saw anything like it. He stood up on that roof, four stories above the street, and when he felt his balance going, he met the challenge, faced it like a true clown.

“His back was to the street. First he leaned in as far as he could, with his arms whirling like two windmills in a hurricane. Then he leaned back and those arms went even faster. Then his butt stuck out what seemed like a mile, and we could see he was going down.

“He went feet first! He went head first! He went butt first! He tried flapping his arms! He mimed like he was praying, on his knees and everything. He reached up and grabbed his hat and planted that tiny little thing back on his head. And it stayed! He pulled an itty-bitty umbrella out of somewhere and held it over himself until it turned inside out, and then he threw it away.

“Then he gave a big sigh. It was just as if you could hear what he was thinkin’. He shrugged his shoulders and looked sad and waved bye-bye. And he put on a brave little smile.

“And when he hit that street, he made the loudest HONK any of us ever heard. We were still clapping when you showed up.”

And where were you, anyway, Man of Steel? Getting popcorn?
.

TOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY

part 7

MARK TRAIL

I was a confident, take-charge guy,

Savvy to the ways of nature, a two-fisted he-man,

And a family man with a loving wife and a spunky kid

Waiting for me at home after each adventure

With a stack of pancakes to make it all perfect.

Yet I threw myself into peril

Over and over, risking it all on each toss,

Miraculously carried through by brute strength

And my abiding hatred of facial hair.

It was all too easy. I couldn't lose.

I started taking more risks, and more.

I even let myself get shot in the head,

And escaped with nothing but an inch-long dab of medical tape.

It was then that I understood I wanted to die.

My life, I realized, was a sustained falsehood.

And nobody would end it for me. I was too strong.

Well, I finally stopped relying on proxies and did the deed myself,

With organic, sustainable hemp rope.

I left no note. What would I have said?

"I'm sorry, Cherry, but I have been living a lie.

The man you thought you knew was a fraud,

And you may as well know this:

I was only pretending to love pancakes."

.

George Tooker (1920 – 2011)

.


One of my favorite (if not my #1 favorite) American painters has left us. George Tooker, whose painstaking egg temperas showed us a sterile world of isolation and anxiety, lasted to the age of 90, somewhat secluded. A few years ago I knew he was still alive. For a while, I didn't know one way or the other: Schrödinger's Artist! He died today, March 29, 2011.



I first saw his painting, "The Subway" (top example) in the 70s and was fascinated by his creepy vision of a nightmare populated by strangers who didn't look happy about it either. On my first visit to New York City, I made a special trip to the Whitney to see it and was disappointed to learn that they didn't keep it on display most of the time. I bought a poster, though.



People in his paintings seem haunted. Like strangers on the street, they look at you (perhaps momentarily) with no joy or flicker of recognition. Each is isolated in his or her concerns. I wrote a paper on him for art history, almost thirty years ago, drawing on images from Raymond Chandler and dissecting "The Subway" on layers of clear plastic like animation cels.



He painted in the difficult medium of egg tempera, mixing his paints as he went along. He could make a mix last another day by putting it in the refrigerator. He was influenced by Reginald Marsh and Paul Cadmus. He and his lifetime partner, William Christopher, were active in the Civil Rights movement. I have a book about him, but I don't know an awful lot about him. Here is his self-portrait, from 1947:



More pictures can be found here..

for Family Day (March 24)

On March 24, 2003, in China's Anhui Province, Cathy and I stood in a conference room at the Hefei Holiday Inn. Late in the morning, somebody handed us a thirteen-month-old girl named Xi Huan, who we renamed Sarah.

In honor of the occasion, here are some reprints from my Live Journal.

@ 2006-02-07 18:04:00

questions

.

I waited at the door with the camera tonight, to get a picture of the last time my three-year-old daughter came in after school. Tomorrow she'll be a big four year old. I took a couple of shots. Sarah demanded a tuna sandwich. I managed to get a word in, to tell Cathy I'd finally heard back from the insurance people, and we weren't covered for vandalism. "Angie's grandpa died," announced Sarah.

I expressed sympathy. She asked why he died. "Probably because he was old," I said carefully. We proceeded into the den.

She asked me what other reasons people die. "Well," I ventured, "sometimes if they're in a really bad accident, or if they get really, really sick." I didn't want her to think you die from just any sickness. "I hope you don't die," she said. "Give me a tuna fish sandwich!"

I parried the sandwich gambit. We were having supper soon. She wanted me to accompany her to the bathroom. She continued her inquiries. "Why do people die when they get old?" I tried to explain without scaring her, which she so far wasn't. This was a matter of curiosity. "Well. When we get really old, our bodies wear out."

"Why?" "Everything wears out if it gets old enough," I suggested.

"Like what?" "Well, cars..."

"And trucks!" "Yes..."

"And fire trucks." She was on a roll. "Yes, and..."

"And cars!" "That's right." "Why do they wear out?"

I tried to explain that our bodies repair themselves, but when they get really, really old, they can't do that any more. I still wasn't telling her that everybody dies, everything dies. Like my dad's cousin Marilyn, who lost her battle with cancer this past weekend; but Sarah never knew her, and now she never will. It's too bad, because she was a good relative -- she had been a real support for my sister Martha years ago, when Martha was diagnosed with colitis.

My answers seemed to satisfy Sarah, who was now more interested in something to eat. I told her it was too close to dinner for a tuna sandwich, but she "couldn't wait!" We settled on some more of the orange she'd started yesterday, as long as I removed the yucky parts. I turned my attention to making food. Cathy came downstairs. Death talk, for now, was over.

.

@ 2006-02-15 18:56:00

the other shoe drops

.

Tonight at dinner, Cathy remarked that Andreas Katsulis had died. I said I'd heard that. Sarah chimed in: "Angie's grandpa died." We said we were sorry.

"Why did he die?" Sarah asked, still looking for information. This time Cathy fielded it. "People die when they get very, very old," she said. "Their body can't repair itself any more."

"I don't want to die," said Sarah in a small voice. Uh-oh. It had hit home this time.

"Oh, honey, you won't die! Not for a long, long, Long time!" Cathy assured her.

"And you won't die?" She looked at Cathy, and then me. She seemed to see us, maybe for the first time, as people who could die.

"No, honey. Not for a long, long time," said Cathy.

"We have to take care of you!" I added, "And we love you."

I looked at her beautiful, dark eyes. She was very quiet, and I couldn't tell where she was looking. I put my hand on her shoulder and leaned closer. "Ow," she said, half-heartedly.

We told her again that we loved her. Then the conversation somehow changed to other topics. The room felt a little colder as we finished our mac & cheese.

.

@ 2006-04-30 21:43:00

bedtime lines

.

"Sarah, take these dead flowers off your bed. They don't belong there." Referring to some wild flowers (aka weeds) she picked out of the yard just before I mowed it.

"They're not dead. They're alive."

"They were alive when you picked them, and now they're dead."

"Well, they're not dead to me!"

* * *

"I have tattoos on my toes. You can't see them because they're under the skin, but I can feel them."

@ 2006-04-08 13:40:00

boxes

.

Sarah and I were on our way to get a bagel (for her) and a souffle (for me) at Panera's. As we passed the cemetery on King's Highway, a backhoe was digging a new grave. Sarah said something about people in boxes that I didn't quite catch. I asked her what she said.

"That's where there's people in boxes in the ground that are dead." she told me.

So she knew. I hadn't ever volunteered the information that the cemetery was full of deceased people in boxes, but she had learned it somewhere. I confirmed the accuracy of what she had said. "There's a whole bunch of them by my school," she went on. Indeed there were. Her pre-school is across the street from a very large graveyard. I have a photo I took of it while I was backing out of my parking space there -- I took it in the rear-view mirror, with the words "OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY LOOK" showing. It seems that she picked up the information about cemeteries at school. Lucky me! The stuff I'm leery of telling her, she picks up on the street, as it were. We drove past another one, and she said, "There's some more people in boxes."

Then we went to Panera's, and she had a plain bagel with plain cream cheese, and our morning continued.

.

@ 2006-05-23 22:19:00

sensations

.

The fact, as of today, that Sarah has a couple of caterpillers in a cup with a vented top on it, and a stick and some leaves, fills me with a strange feeling. I don't know what it is. Is it that I remember doing this? That she's now old enough that she's doing things I remember doing? I just don't know. She's such a kid, you know?

.

@ 2006-05-29 23:23:00

she wants

.

Sarah's wants are simple. She wants the bed we looked at today, with a ladder up to the top and a desk and dresser underneath (and some shelves). And she wants a slide that goes around three times (actually two), like the one at Stanley Park. We explained that these things are very expensive. She counters that the slide costs a couple of dollars, and she is willing to contribute her own money (that is, the change she picks up here and there in the house). Whichever parent she is talking to, she cites the other parent as an authority who has okayed the whole deal.

Anybody want to buy some of our old furniture? Cheap.

.

@ 2006-06-10 08:53:00

in the car

.

Sarah and I were driving home from the playground yesterday.

Sarah: I want to take a bike ride when I get home!

Me: Well, I'm kind of tired from the playground right now.

Sarah: Can I take a bike ride with Mommy?

Me: I don't know. We'll have to ask her.

Sarah: (hideously loud) MOMMY! CAN I TAKE A BIKE RIDE WITH YOU WHEN I GET HOME? I CAN? THANKS!

Sarah: She said yes.

Me: Really? I didn't hear her.

Sarah: (again loud) MOMMY! CAN I --

Me: Shhh.

Sarah: Okay.

.

@ 2006-06-11 21:22:00

motherhood

.

It was so touching when Sarah put two caterpillars in a cup, with a stick, and leaves for them to eat. It brought back a lot of memories somehow, and the feeling of innocence that the bugs will eat the food you give them, and prosper. I was encouraged when one of them spun a cocoon (the other one apparently didn't make the grade -- or perhaps it was more successful in its escape attempts -- in which case it didn't meet any enviable fate anyway).

Then as time went on, I started to wonder just how long a thing like that is supposed to take. Were we peering in, every couple of days, on a sarcophagus instead of a cocoon? Just today we went to try and look up the information online, but we didn't know exactly what kind of caterpillar we had anyway.

Tonight as I was helping Sarah get to sleep, Cathy came in with news. The cocoon was now empty. A moth had emerged, so recently it still hadn't gotten around to flexing its wings. Sarah and I took it out on the porch and watched it continue to sit on the edge of the cup for a while. "I'm cold," Sarah said, so we went inside.

I'm hoping the moth will get it together and be gone by morning, off to a life of success. At least it made it farther than those poor butterfly wannabees I saw in sixth grade -- the younger sibling of a classmate had disturbed the chrysali early, and there were these wretched insects that weren't what they were supposed to be, vainly trying to ready their wings for the flight they'd never have. I've never forgotten those poor things, and I'm glad Sarah's caterpillar didn't share their fate. "I wanted it to be a butterfly," she said sadly, little realizing her accomplishment.

Thanks, moth, for making it.

.

@ 2006-07-04 18:58:00

sarah on relatives

.

We're driving to the McDonald's in Holyoke.

"Grampaw is your daddy."

"That's right, sweetheart."

"Your daddy is my grampaw."

"Right."

"Grampaw loves you."

"Yes, he does."

"Grampaw loves me."

"That's right."

"He loves me more than you. He told me so."

.

@ 2006-07-06 18:34:00

bye bye flowers

.

Sarah picked some fluffy blossoms -- tiny thistles, maybe? -- at the Fourth of July celebrations. The next day at school, she picked a bunch more and brought them home. We let her bring these "flowers" in and left them on the counter.

Tonight she noticed them again. "Oh no, they're dying!" she said. Then I think she wanted to water them. I told her they were dying already, because flowers don't live a whole long time after you pick them. While I continued to get supper ready, she decided she would take them outside, "so they can live."

"Honey, they're already dead. They..." Never mind. I stopped with the explanation. She was already on the move. I helped her open the back door, and she tossed them out onto the back steps. "Bye bye, flowers," I said, respectfully.

She turned back to me, sadly. "I let them go," she said.

I picked her up and hugged her and patted her on the back, remembering as I did those early days in China. Picking up our daughter -- literally, a little stranger -- and holding her and patting her gently, rhythmically on the back. And then I felt something: one of those unbelievably tiny hands was patting me on the back.

"I'll never let you go, honey," I said.

.

@ 2006-07-23 12:32:00

morning of a child

.

Last night, for some reason, Sarah just wouldn't go to sleep peacefully. She finally surrendered to Morpheus between 11:30 and midnight. But she seems to have gotten up around her normal time today.

She and I got in the car to go have our biscuit -- actually, to go to Panera's. About four blocks from home, she was singing part of the theme from one of the Disney channel shows.

"Everybody knows it when push comes to shove

Nothing feels better than FEELING THE LOVE.

"Everybody knows it when push comes a shove

Nothing feels better than FEELING THE LOVE.

"Everybody knows at when push a push shove

Nothing feels better than FEELING THE LOVE.

Everybody knows it when (very carefully here) push, comes, to, shove

Nothing feels better than FEELING THE LOVE!"

"Sarah, please don't sing the same thing over and over."

"I have to practice! I'm going to be in a band and I have to practice over and over to learn the song right!"

"Yeah, but..." She was using my words against me. I hate it when she does that. I tried to get her to do it more quietly, and she went on singing. I turned up the music. So did she.

We had a pretty normal time at Panera's. She got a cup of fruit to eat. Then she wanted to go to the bathroom, and when we got there, after elaborate preparations, decided she didn't have to go after all. We washed and went back to finish our breakfast. After that, we decided to go up to Holyoke and see if the merry-go-round was running. The Children's Museum doesn't open on Sunday any more -- apparently, not enough people were coming, so they decided to make it even harder to find the place open. That's sure to increase attendance. The merry-go-round was running, and we took a ride together. After that, I had two tickets left, and Sarah wanted to ride some more. I said she could ride by herself, and she did, both times on the carriage/bench seats. I ran back to the car to take pictures and a movie of the historic occasion. Big girl!

Next we played in the playground there in Heritage State Park. Mostly, she played while I took photos. I tried out the ultra-big picture mode of the camera. I haven't looked at the pictures yet. Sarah noticed some weeds with little clusters of white flowers on them, and bent down to grasp one. "I'm picking..." she started, then let go of it. "I'm leaving it in the ground," she said. I wanted to hug her.

Then she wanted to take some pictures, so I told her she had to put the camera strap on her neck to keep from dropping the camera, and she took pictures of the pretty buildings -- brick factories and mills that line the upper canal.

Holyoke actually has three canals. I never have noticed the third one, though I saw what looked like the start of a third. I learned by browsing some local history books at Barnes & Noble that the reason for the upper and lower canals was to provide energy for water wheels. That means the arch-like openings on the upper side of the lower canal weren't entryways, but places for mill water to exit. This all fascinates me, as do the somewhat timeworn brick buildings and the virtually deserted streets they sit on. I need to go back during the week some time and take several hundred pictures.

We walked along the canal toward Dwight Street, then crossed the street so she could get a picture of the bridge-like construction that carried a water pipe across the canal. Viaduct? Then I wanted to take a couple more pictures, since I hadn't been at that vantage point before. I clicked a few, including Open Square, where I once applied for a job in vain, and where Gary Hallgren, one of my personal favorite underground cartoonists, has a shop/studio, which I keep intending to go see during the week some time. The camera beeped that the card was full, so we went back to the car. I took a different route back to the highway to see more shuttered factories, and then we reached home and told Cathy about Sarah riding the horses by herself.

.

ps: There's a certain amount of morbidity in the selections. It reflects that particular time in our life when she was figuring that stuff out. And here's a recent pic from last month or so:

.