I don't know really what else to say about all this
Dad left his job at the rubber company after 35 years.
He became a landscape artist which he loved doing
he worked until he was 60
and then retired.
After both my parents retired, I took them to Italy with me...
well ... they paid... but I guided
I remember, we had a hotel 1 block form the entrance to the Vatican
but my mother never knew when to get off the subway
I kept asking her
Me: Who do we live next to ?
Mom: I don't know...
Me: We live next to the Pope
Mom: Oh, yeah...
Me: where does the Pope live?
Mom: In Rome?
Me: oh mommy
One night, in Florence... dad drank 3 straight vodkas.
He was toasted
really ripped.
He could barely walk after it.
While trying to find a taxi... he staggered along
every time someone would walk by him
he'd stop them
put out his hand to shake their's
and say
Hi! My name in Ken. I'm American...
Oh daddy...
My parents bought gold in Florence
ate pizza in Rome
rode a gondola in Venice
cute cute cute
It was the night of the three vodkas that I began to notice a difference in dad.
That was about 8 years ago?
He could drink my dad... that was the first time I'd ever seen him so drunk he couldn't walk
as he sobered up, he told mom and me about his parents
one night his father came home very angry
he walked up to his mother and slapped her hard across the face
YOU WHORE he called at her
YOU CHEATING WHORE
and he slapped her again
Grandpa had found condoms hidden in the garage.
He suspected his wife was cheating on him (apparently he'd always been jealous)
In Rome my dad cried telling us the story
because he was there when his father hit his mom
and
My dad also knew whose condoms they were
They were his brother's condoms
but my father was to scared to say anything
so he blamed himself for his mother's pain
but it was odd as well... he... didn't seem like dad
telling us a story
I don't know how to explain
but I think that Alzheimer
was already... making its entrance
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
My parents were married in 1962.
My sister as born in 63
my father wanted 6 kids
but it took almost 5 years to have me
by that time... I guess my sister took a lot out of them
They did foster a boy named Greg.
I was only a baby so I never knew him.
His baby brother dies and his mom needed some help
so the church asked if Mom and Dad would watch Greg for a while...
they agreed.
I remember later
hearing about this
and trying to reconcile my idea of my father
with the man who fostered a young boy
...
It was odd to me since
there was real... what is it? Oedipal complex?
I think that my father and I
loved my mother so much
we were both jealous of the love she gave the other
and of course
me being the helpless little boy
my mother's attention was often on me
In my youth my father went from being
the guy who wrestled me and made me giggle
and swung me around in the air to make me laugh
to
something like an enemy
who I was certain did not love me
my mother of course
would tell me
"your father loves you, he just can't show it...
no he doesn't id say with my face in her arms
My sister was his pride
rightfully so
She rode horses
and liked it
I rode
and wished I could be in my room
playing with Star Wars action figures and my model of the Death Star
or reading books like
Watership Down
Riding didn't last long for me
My sister as born in 63
my father wanted 6 kids
but it took almost 5 years to have me
by that time... I guess my sister took a lot out of them
They did foster a boy named Greg.
I was only a baby so I never knew him.
His baby brother dies and his mom needed some help
so the church asked if Mom and Dad would watch Greg for a while...
they agreed.
I remember later
hearing about this
and trying to reconcile my idea of my father
with the man who fostered a young boy
...
It was odd to me since
there was real... what is it? Oedipal complex?
I think that my father and I
loved my mother so much
we were both jealous of the love she gave the other
and of course
me being the helpless little boy
my mother's attention was often on me
In my youth my father went from being
the guy who wrestled me and made me giggle
and swung me around in the air to make me laugh
to
something like an enemy
who I was certain did not love me
my mother of course
would tell me
"your father loves you, he just can't show it...
no he doesn't id say with my face in her arms
My sister was his pride
rightfully so
She rode horses
and liked it
I rode
and wished I could be in my room
playing with Star Wars action figures and my model of the Death Star
or reading books like
Watership Down
Riding didn't last long for me
Monday, January 24, 2011
meeting mom
I told you that Dad got engaged to a woman
she said yes
but the next day
her father said no?
I think that I did...
He was about... 25 when his parents sold a small corner deli that they owned and moved to a new street
on that same street, right across from their new home
lived my Aunt J (mom's sister) and uncle J
every now and then
my mom would visit aunt and uncle J
every now and then
Dad would see my mom across the street
mom would smile (but NEVER wave)
It was the late 50's
early 60s
so you could just imagine that suburban street
my mom wearing (not a wig exactly) a sort of hair piece on her head
my Dad's hair slicked back
my mom's perfectly styled and hairsprayed
After a while my Dad called Uncle J
asked him about my Mom
Uncle J called my Mom and told her
he'd set up a blind date for her
It wasn't truly blind
she had smiled quite a few times at him
exchanged small talk on walks
my mom said yes
On the day of the date, my mother was very excited.
She'd be talking to Aunt E. on the phone when the doorbell rang.
She lived with her parents and Aunt M. with Aunt M's family as well.
My two cousins... then small boys... ran to answer the door.
When they opened the door and saw my dad
they screamed and ran away
my dad stood there, not knowing what to do
after a while he entered the house by himself
It didn't take long
3 months later they were engaged.
My mother's Uncle R wanted to meet my dad before he'd let my mother marry
Uncle R was a real Italian
everyone told my father how serious Uncle R's inspection would be
Uncle R wasn't so happy that my mom was going to marry a non Italian.
Uncle R lived in West Virginia
he made a special trip up to meet my dad
While dad was waiting for Uncle R to arrive at my Mom's house one weekend...
he was sweating
it seemed so serious to him
Uncle R arrived
and my Dad just started laughing
Uncle R was about 5 feet tall
with a big smile
she said yes
but the next day
her father said no?
I think that I did...
He was about... 25 when his parents sold a small corner deli that they owned and moved to a new street
on that same street, right across from their new home
lived my Aunt J (mom's sister) and uncle J
every now and then
my mom would visit aunt and uncle J
every now and then
Dad would see my mom across the street
mom would smile (but NEVER wave)
It was the late 50's
early 60s
so you could just imagine that suburban street
my mom wearing (not a wig exactly) a sort of hair piece on her head
my Dad's hair slicked back
my mom's perfectly styled and hairsprayed
After a while my Dad called Uncle J
asked him about my Mom
Uncle J called my Mom and told her
he'd set up a blind date for her
It wasn't truly blind
she had smiled quite a few times at him
exchanged small talk on walks
my mom said yes
On the day of the date, my mother was very excited.
She'd be talking to Aunt E. on the phone when the doorbell rang.
She lived with her parents and Aunt M. with Aunt M's family as well.
My two cousins... then small boys... ran to answer the door.
When they opened the door and saw my dad
they screamed and ran away
my dad stood there, not knowing what to do
after a while he entered the house by himself
It didn't take long
3 months later they were engaged.
My mother's Uncle R wanted to meet my dad before he'd let my mother marry
Uncle R was a real Italian
everyone told my father how serious Uncle R's inspection would be
Uncle R wasn't so happy that my mom was going to marry a non Italian.
Uncle R lived in West Virginia
he made a special trip up to meet my dad
While dad was waiting for Uncle R to arrive at my Mom's house one weekend...
he was sweating
it seemed so serious to him
Uncle R arrived
and my Dad just started laughing
Uncle R was about 5 feet tall
with a big smile
Saturday, January 22, 2011
school and work
I've told you that dad had dyslexia
school and reading brought up
frustration
How did he do it?
Cruel children made terrible fun of him (it didn't help that he had bright red hair)
Every day after school his parents made him study with Aunt E
who was a school teacher.
Aunt E had been a Smith
when she married a Woodward
My grandmother was a Woodward first
until she married a Smith
In fact there were 4 Smith children who married 4 Woodwards
so my Dad's Aunts and Uncles were sort of doubled
at 16, as soon as possible, my dad quit school
he began to work at a rubber company
what exactly did he do?
he used to tell me that he maid joints
no... not the marijuana kind
but something to do with rubber for conveyor belts
He got dirty
smelled a lot
His hands always bore black stains
I don't think he liked the job much
but that's where he met Mr. Sayens
and in those Days he grew his hair into a big orange afro
and al the African Americans he worked with
called him uncle.
We met a few of the guys he worked with at the rubber company at the funeral
It was a tight group
lots of friends there.
school and reading brought up
frustration
How did he do it?
Cruel children made terrible fun of him (it didn't help that he had bright red hair)
Every day after school his parents made him study with Aunt E
who was a school teacher.
Aunt E had been a Smith
when she married a Woodward
My grandmother was a Woodward first
until she married a Smith
In fact there were 4 Smith children who married 4 Woodwards
so my Dad's Aunts and Uncles were sort of doubled
at 16, as soon as possible, my dad quit school
he began to work at a rubber company
what exactly did he do?
he used to tell me that he maid joints
no... not the marijuana kind
but something to do with rubber for conveyor belts
He got dirty
smelled a lot
His hands always bore black stains
I don't think he liked the job much
but that's where he met Mr. Sayens
and in those Days he grew his hair into a big orange afro
and al the African Americans he worked with
called him uncle.
We met a few of the guys he worked with at the rubber company at the funeral
It was a tight group
lots of friends there.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
CHILDHOOD
My father was born the youngest of 6 children.
He said his mother called him "a change of life baby".
Dad surprised my grandparents. They were in their 40s when he was born.
This meant Dad's grew up in a different world from his brothers and sisters.
Later this led to jealousy... misunderstanding... generational gaps
but also to good things
A lot of support
including Aunt A
who took more of a mothering role for Dad
and became a grandmother to me and my sister.
Farms inhabited my father's life
they formed him to.
He loved fresh vegetables
anything with a crunch.
As a boy he helped his parents run a farm stand
they sold corn and cantaloupe and lots of other stuff besides
but corn and cantaloupe were their pride.
Dad's mom baked cakes every day (what a time!)
She'd lay the cake out on the table
and as the day ambled forward
she'd cut a piece for the postman
a piece for the milkman
for the iceman (to live in a time when a man delivered blocks of ice from door to door!)
etc.
It aggravated dad to watch that cake slowly disappear
unable for him to come near
to it
They raised horses as well.
Now, where the family barn stood, stands a McDonalds and a bank.
A road he rode down from his town to a town called Princeton
In his memory once a dirt road
is now a 4 lane road
rampant with traffic
choked with strip malls and mall malls
laden with traffic signals
bordered by housing developments
arriving in Princeton there'd be a farm on the left
you could let your horse out into its pasture
if you paid a bit of money (a parking lot for horses!)
and then walk into town.
many years later
Dad would work as a landscaper in the town of Princeton
he'd drive
and he'd cut grass
on lawns where once
he'd rode his horse
My Dad excelled at the Yoyo
he won some sort of county or state competition
he used to want to show us what we could do
when I finally got interested in this talent he possessed
he couldn't do it anymore
isn't that life?
My Dad had bright orange hair
summer sky blue eyes
a smile as wide as the horses
he'd ride.
When my father started to ride professionally
Saddlehorse I think it was called?
He had a shiny silver saddle
silver all over the reins as well
He'd be dressed in a suit
that looked like the American flag
A white suit
with blue and red sequence
in ordered rows on the back
and formed into stars on the front
with his hair and his eyes
he looked like fireworks
He said his mother called him "a change of life baby".
Dad surprised my grandparents. They were in their 40s when he was born.
This meant Dad's grew up in a different world from his brothers and sisters.
Later this led to jealousy... misunderstanding... generational gaps
but also to good things
A lot of support
including Aunt A
who took more of a mothering role for Dad
and became a grandmother to me and my sister.
Farms inhabited my father's life
they formed him to.
He loved fresh vegetables
anything with a crunch.
As a boy he helped his parents run a farm stand
they sold corn and cantaloupe and lots of other stuff besides
but corn and cantaloupe were their pride.
Dad's mom baked cakes every day (what a time!)
She'd lay the cake out on the table
and as the day ambled forward
she'd cut a piece for the postman
a piece for the milkman
for the iceman (to live in a time when a man delivered blocks of ice from door to door!)
etc.
It aggravated dad to watch that cake slowly disappear
unable for him to come near
to it
They raised horses as well.
Now, where the family barn stood, stands a McDonalds and a bank.
A road he rode down from his town to a town called Princeton
In his memory once a dirt road
is now a 4 lane road
rampant with traffic
choked with strip malls and mall malls
laden with traffic signals
bordered by housing developments
arriving in Princeton there'd be a farm on the left
you could let your horse out into its pasture
if you paid a bit of money (a parking lot for horses!)
and then walk into town.
many years later
Dad would work as a landscaper in the town of Princeton
he'd drive
and he'd cut grass
on lawns where once
he'd rode his horse
My Dad excelled at the Yoyo
he won some sort of county or state competition
he used to want to show us what we could do
when I finally got interested in this talent he possessed
he couldn't do it anymore
isn't that life?
My Dad had bright orange hair
summer sky blue eyes
a smile as wide as the horses
he'd ride.
When my father started to ride professionally
Saddlehorse I think it was called?
He had a shiny silver saddle
silver all over the reins as well
He'd be dressed in a suit
that looked like the American flag
A white suit
with blue and red sequence
in ordered rows on the back
and formed into stars on the front
with his hair and his eyes
he looked like fireworks
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Its difficult to write every day now.
when Dad was home and even when he was at the hospital
I needed the blog
i yearned for it
throughout the day i'd think
remember this... this is something i should write in the blog
now i feel differently
although i did have a sort of dream last night
my father's life
i think it was kinda cool...
so im going to devote this blog to him.
i'm not sure how i am going to begin... but i'll try this:
April 10th 1935
The only thing which seems to have happened on the day my father was born is this:
- Vaughan Williams' 4th Symphony premieres in London
Here are somethings that were happening throughout the year of my father's birth
1935
- 1st radio tube made of metal announced, Schenectady, NY
(my dad told me his family used to listen to the radio every day.)
- Mary Hirsch, becomes 1st woman licensed as a horse trainer
(my father instantly loved you if you were a horse person.)
- Sir Watson-Watt patents RADAR
(Think about all the astounding things that have happened in my Dad's life!)
- Works Progress Administration approved by Congress
(my Aunt used to be enormously frugal. She was 20 when Dad was born. Our country was deep in the depression)
- "Your Hit Parade," debuts on radio
- Germany prohibits publishing "not-Arian" writers
- Polish Constitution of 1935 is adopted.
(for all my Czech friends)
- Moscow underground opens (81 km long)
When Dad exploded into this world
what a time
his transition
worlds transformation
when Dad was home and even when he was at the hospital
I needed the blog
i yearned for it
throughout the day i'd think
remember this... this is something i should write in the blog
now i feel differently
although i did have a sort of dream last night
my father's life
i think it was kinda cool...
so im going to devote this blog to him.
i'm not sure how i am going to begin... but i'll try this:
April 10th 1935
The only thing which seems to have happened on the day my father was born is this:
- Vaughan Williams' 4th Symphony premieres in London
Here are somethings that were happening throughout the year of my father's birth
1935
- 1st radio tube made of metal announced, Schenectady, NY
(my dad told me his family used to listen to the radio every day.)
- Mary Hirsch, becomes 1st woman licensed as a horse trainer
(my father instantly loved you if you were a horse person.)
- Sir Watson-Watt patents RADAR
(Think about all the astounding things that have happened in my Dad's life!)
- Works Progress Administration approved by Congress
(my Aunt used to be enormously frugal. She was 20 when Dad was born. Our country was deep in the depression)
- "Your Hit Parade," debuts on radio
- Germany prohibits publishing "not-Arian" writers
- Polish Constitution of 1935 is adopted.
(for all my Czech friends)
- Moscow underground opens (81 km long)
When Dad exploded into this world
what a time
his transition
worlds transformation
Sunday, January 16, 2011
an emailed conversation
Here is a recent exchange of emails between myself and a good Italian friend
it may explain why I haven't been able to write much later
I am sorry and feel like somehow I am failing... i think I removed al the email addresses except my own... hope its okay to post these.... they go in reverse order so you may want to start at the bottom...
no, i've never, to be honest...
You told me that your relationship with your dad had had ups and downs, that's why i liked what you said about him when we last saw. I think you can be proud of yourself..
As for me, I know too that things will improve when away from home - just a matter of time.
So, little bird, fly away again, you were not made for nesting - let's hope the west wind will take you over here soon. I think of you. bacio
m
--- Mar 11/1/11, Kevin Smith ha scritto:
Da: Kevin Smith
Oggetto: Re: R: hmm
Data: Martedì 11 gennaio 2011, 17:13
I just had a horrible experience trying to speak Italian on the phone with my cousin Luisa. (do you remember her? (we stayed with her in Norcia).
Michele... I was awful... I couldn't say anything. Any knack for the Italian language that I once possessed has somehow vanished.
I get this cold feeling lately. There is not enough time for life in a lifetime.
What happened to the boy who diligently studied Italian everyday? who read Il Barone Rampante (of course it took me about 6 months) cover to cover and understood most of it. What you say about my words for my father... I hope that is not trying to reference your own relationship with yours. I had a very difficult time with my dad for quite a long period. My father became very jealous of me... my relationship with my mother... my freedom... even my ability to read and go to school. (something he always wanted but couldn't do because he had terrible dislexia(spelling??)).
I was also not the perfect son and rarely gave my father the benefit of the doubt. Once I moved out though... things really changed. He became more interested in my life... we started to grow a respect for each other... WE STARTED TO TALK!
I don't know what to do now, Michele
I don't know where to go from here? Do I go back?
i can't think properly. I am a bit terrified.
Not one friend of mine showed up at the funeral... because most of them live far away
I feel "out on a limb"
surrounded by nothing but air
the only connection a thin branch
whos trail back toward the big trunk
is twisted and unreadable
i don't know
Have you ever seen me as a little lost bird?
K
--- On Mon, 1/10/11, wrote:
Subject: R: hmm
To: "Kevin Smith"
Date: Monday, January 10, 2011, 1:36 PM
hi kev
there's little i can say..just believe - how cold i feel after reading your email, knowing that i can't hug you as i would like -that we have, indeed, been closer. My prayer as well as my most tender thoughts are for you, though, and for what you still mean to me. The few words you told me last time about your dad, their sad but loving irony..i'll never forget, they sounded as quite an example of how should a son behave, or just think.
I'm glad you decided to write me, and hope you will always. Will 2011 surprise us?
un bacio, e un lungo abbraccio
m
--- Ven 7/1/11, Kevin Smith ha scritto:
Da: Kevin Smith
Oggetto: hmm
Data: Venerdì 7 gennaio 2011, 05:29
I didn't know whether to write to you or not
you knew me and know me
but you never knew my father
he died on Tuesday
I guess... well its something you tell your friends isnt it?
I wish we were closer than we are
I hope you are well.
I hope wonderful things happen to you this year.
Kevin
it may explain why I haven't been able to write much later
I am sorry and feel like somehow I am failing... i think I removed al the email addresses except my own... hope its okay to post these.... they go in reverse order so you may want to start at the bottom...
no, i've never, to be honest...
You told me that your relationship with your dad had had ups and downs, that's why i liked what you said about him when we last saw. I think you can be proud of yourself..
As for me, I know too that things will improve when away from home - just a matter of time.
So, little bird, fly away again, you were not made for nesting - let's hope the west wind will take you over here soon. I think of you. bacio
m
--- Mar 11/1/11, Kevin Smith
Da: Kevin Smith
Oggetto: Re: R: hmm
Data: Martedì 11 gennaio 2011, 17:13
I just had a horrible experience trying to speak Italian on the phone with my cousin Luisa. (do you remember her? (we stayed with her in Norcia).
Michele... I was awful... I couldn't say anything. Any knack for the Italian language that I once possessed has somehow vanished.
I get this cold feeling lately. There is not enough time for life in a lifetime.
What happened to the boy who diligently studied Italian everyday? who read Il Barone Rampante (of course it took me about 6 months) cover to cover and understood most of it. What you say about my words for my father... I hope that is not trying to reference your own relationship with yours. I had a very difficult time with my dad for quite a long period. My father became very jealous of me... my relationship with my mother... my freedom... even my ability to read and go to school. (something he always wanted but couldn't do because he had terrible dislexia(spelling??)).
I was also not the perfect son and rarely gave my father the benefit of the doubt. Once I moved out though... things really changed. He became more interested in my life... we started to grow a respect for each other... WE STARTED TO TALK!
I don't know what to do now, Michele
I don't know where to go from here? Do I go back?
i can't think properly. I am a bit terrified.
Not one friend of mine showed up at the funeral... because most of them live far away
I feel "out on a limb"
surrounded by nothing but air
the only connection a thin branch
whos trail back toward the big trunk
is twisted and unreadable
i don't know
Have you ever seen me as a little lost bird?
K
--- On Mon, 1/10/11, wrote:
Subject: R: hmm
To: "Kevin Smith"
Date: Monday, January 10, 2011, 1:36 PM
hi kev
there's little i can say..just believe - how cold i feel after reading your email, knowing that i can't hug you as i would like -that we have, indeed, been closer. My prayer as well as my most tender thoughts are for you, though, and for what you still mean to me. The few words you told me last time about your dad, their sad but loving irony..i'll never forget, they sounded as quite an example of how should a son behave, or just think.
I'm glad you decided to write me, and hope you will always. Will 2011 surprise us?
un bacio, e un lungo abbraccio
m
--- Ven 7/1/11, Kevin Smith
Da: Kevin Smith
Oggetto: hmm
Data: Venerdì 7 gennaio 2011, 05:29
I didn't know whether to write to you or not
you knew me and know me
but you never knew my father
he died on Tuesday
I guess... well its something you tell your friends isnt it?
I wish we were closer than we are
I hope you are well.
I hope wonderful things happen to you this year.
Kevin
Friday, January 14, 2011
Today our water heater stopped functioning.
I became extremely angry.
You might too if you smelled bad... felt dirty and greasy... had somewhere to go in a few hours... and were looking forward to a nice warm long bath.
I filled the tub
got naked
and climbed in
only to scream at the top of my lungs
upsetting my mother tremendously.
I trudged downstairs
took a look at the thing
but I am not one of those kind of men
so I immediately called my brother in law
who couldn't really help me on the phone.
I found a number for the company we bought it from on it
called them
and received a bullshit story
about how they could do nothing
until we told them if there was a "volt" reading
(for which we would have to hire an electrician"
I almost lied and said
We tried. There is no volt reading....
instead I hung up (still angry)
I told my mom how angry I was
she began to cry
why? what is it?
she said
Your father would have known what to do"
i felt so small
so ridiculous
i cried too
why do i get so angry?
I went back down stairs
unscrewed some screws
looked under some plastic
and found a wire which had been burned to a crisp
it was just a pile of dust
where a wire used to be
like whats left after a Dialek exterminates a person
I called the company back
got a new cool guy with a British accent
told him what I'd discovered
he said
"jolly smart looking under there. It saved you paying for an electrician"
turns out we have a lifetime warranty on the heater
so we paid nothing
we are getting the new part tomorrow
and Ill immediately call my brother in law to install it!
but it was nice to know that I can figure stuff out too
I became extremely angry.
You might too if you smelled bad... felt dirty and greasy... had somewhere to go in a few hours... and were looking forward to a nice warm long bath.
I filled the tub
got naked
and climbed in
only to scream at the top of my lungs
upsetting my mother tremendously.
I trudged downstairs
took a look at the thing
but I am not one of those kind of men
so I immediately called my brother in law
who couldn't really help me on the phone.
I found a number for the company we bought it from on it
called them
and received a bullshit story
about how they could do nothing
until we told them if there was a "volt" reading
(for which we would have to hire an electrician"
I almost lied and said
We tried. There is no volt reading....
instead I hung up (still angry)
I told my mom how angry I was
she began to cry
why? what is it?
she said
Your father would have known what to do"
i felt so small
so ridiculous
i cried too
why do i get so angry?
I went back down stairs
unscrewed some screws
looked under some plastic
and found a wire which had been burned to a crisp
it was just a pile of dust
where a wire used to be
like whats left after a Dialek exterminates a person
I called the company back
got a new cool guy with a British accent
told him what I'd discovered
he said
"jolly smart looking under there. It saved you paying for an electrician"
turns out we have a lifetime warranty on the heater
so we paid nothing
we are getting the new part tomorrow
and Ill immediately call my brother in law to install it!
but it was nice to know that I can figure stuff out too
Thursday, January 13, 2011
big ?
The big question is
should I leave this blog open
should I continue to write?
I am afraid Ive been lazy in the past few days
I think I shut down for a while
Everything feels so complicated.
should I leave this blog open
should I continue to write?
I am afraid Ive been lazy in the past few days
I think I shut down for a while
Everything feels so complicated.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
My father
Kenneth Calvin Smith was born April 10th 1935.
He had 3 brothers, two sisters
His oldest sister Alice, 20 years older than him, took more of a mothering role in his life
he had many dogs and horses
ate corn directly from the stalk
became a champion yoyo-er
and lived an epic life passionately
His existence would span an era
He was born at his farmhouse
with only a midwife to aid his mother in the birth
they had a telephone with a crank (the kind where you spoke to the town operator and said something like... "Jane? Hi, it's Elizabeth. Can you ring Harold Owens for me?")
He attended dances in barns
swing your partner dosey do kinda stuff
the first family on their street to install plumbing
the first to have a television
before the TV my father would listen to the radio for entertainment
He had dyslexia
never learned how to read his entire life
children would ridicule him at school
he was sent to his Aunt's house everyday
she taught at school and tutored my father
to no avail
it felt like jail to him
He got a job in a rubber company
met the magic gardener
learned how to garden
while listening to Shakespeare
He would ask one girl's hand in marriage
she'd accept
the next day he'd find that her father would not allow the engagement
she never spoke to him again
his first car was black and had fins
a pushy neighbor across the street
would turn out to have a pretty sister in law
who he'd use to entice my father into a date
my father would accept
and the two would go ice skating
well she would stand on the ice
fearful of falling
and he'd skate around her
tell her jokes
make her smile
her fear would leave her
but she'd refused to do any skating
3 months later they were engaged
He had red flaming hair
new morning blue eyes
a smile so long you could ride it
an arc so deep the momentum would send you flying off the other side
he developed the ability to talk to anyone about anything
he had a daughter
who he'd bond with in a way he'd never thought possible with a girl
they'd understand each other in the same mysterious way
an understanding surpassing words
no need for them
only an undertaking together
focused on a singular passion
horses and riding
he had a son
who'd be more of a puzzle to him
he'd struggle to understand this kid
be proud of him in a removed way
feel a little jealous of the boys relationship with his mother
He'd have a feeling of uselessness
he'd look around him and see no hope
he'd take too many prescription drugs
almost die one night
be sent to a clinic
be gone for 3 months
He'd return
refuse to talk about it
make some silent decision
everything would change then
and never go back
one day he'd realize
the son was so much like him
when he'd get angry at the boy
it'd be like he was angry at himself
after that
he had nothing but love for his two kids
he'd follow them, at a distance
being involved in everything they'd let him be involved in
he'd garden like mad
build castles with plants
whole other alien worlds
fantastical landscapes
ever changing
never neglected
years would pass
he'd watch it all unfurl
always be amazed by it
always try to understand it better
he'd anticipate two grand daughters
he'd count so many joys
his red hair would fade to silver
very few sorrows
there were some regrets mixed in
his was not a perfect life
but they were small and powerless
then his mind changed
grew pock-marked
difficult to navigate
frustration led to anger
anger became puzzlement
soon all the amazing things he'd done and seen
smelled and felt
lived through
would mix together and become something else
he'd loose abilities
no more gardens
no more horses
no more dancing
for a time he'd still be able to keep people entertained
to tell stories like a master
to talk about anything
but that would fade to
and so would his thoughts
his walking
his ability to eat
his ability to move
his ability to breath
and then there'd be nothing left to amaze him
nothing left to enthrall
so he'd let go
separate
become an essence
The man taught me how to live
so much of what I've become I owe to him
so much of what I am proud of
are only shadows of him
I have the shadow of his smile as well
n my life
whenever I made a decision
which to most would seem bizarre
or at least
out of the ordinary (and I made many of those)
He'd throw his arms up in the air
scrunch up his face in a sort of "isn't it obvious?" kind of way
and say
"You have to do what you want"
and I have
I continue to
my life has been blessed by it, and by knowing him
4 simple words
do what you want
I turn to him in my mind
i turn to his tomb
i turn to his empty room
to his photo on my wall
thank you thank you thank you
He had 3 brothers, two sisters
His oldest sister Alice, 20 years older than him, took more of a mothering role in his life
he had many dogs and horses
ate corn directly from the stalk
became a champion yoyo-er
and lived an epic life passionately
His existence would span an era
He was born at his farmhouse
with only a midwife to aid his mother in the birth
they had a telephone with a crank (the kind where you spoke to the town operator and said something like... "Jane? Hi, it's Elizabeth. Can you ring Harold Owens for me?")
He attended dances in barns
swing your partner dosey do kinda stuff
the first family on their street to install plumbing
the first to have a television
before the TV my father would listen to the radio for entertainment
He had dyslexia
never learned how to read his entire life
children would ridicule him at school
he was sent to his Aunt's house everyday
she taught at school and tutored my father
to no avail
it felt like jail to him
He got a job in a rubber company
met the magic gardener
learned how to garden
while listening to Shakespeare
He would ask one girl's hand in marriage
she'd accept
the next day he'd find that her father would not allow the engagement
she never spoke to him again
his first car was black and had fins
a pushy neighbor across the street
would turn out to have a pretty sister in law
who he'd use to entice my father into a date
my father would accept
and the two would go ice skating
well she would stand on the ice
fearful of falling
and he'd skate around her
tell her jokes
make her smile
her fear would leave her
but she'd refused to do any skating
3 months later they were engaged
He had red flaming hair
new morning blue eyes
a smile so long you could ride it
an arc so deep the momentum would send you flying off the other side
he developed the ability to talk to anyone about anything
he had a daughter
who he'd bond with in a way he'd never thought possible with a girl
they'd understand each other in the same mysterious way
an understanding surpassing words
no need for them
only an undertaking together
focused on a singular passion
horses and riding
he had a son
who'd be more of a puzzle to him
he'd struggle to understand this kid
be proud of him in a removed way
feel a little jealous of the boys relationship with his mother
He'd have a feeling of uselessness
he'd look around him and see no hope
he'd take too many prescription drugs
almost die one night
be sent to a clinic
be gone for 3 months
He'd return
refuse to talk about it
make some silent decision
everything would change then
and never go back
one day he'd realize
the son was so much like him
when he'd get angry at the boy
it'd be like he was angry at himself
after that
he had nothing but love for his two kids
he'd follow them, at a distance
being involved in everything they'd let him be involved in
he'd garden like mad
build castles with plants
whole other alien worlds
fantastical landscapes
ever changing
never neglected
years would pass
he'd watch it all unfurl
always be amazed by it
always try to understand it better
he'd anticipate two grand daughters
he'd count so many joys
his red hair would fade to silver
very few sorrows
there were some regrets mixed in
his was not a perfect life
but they were small and powerless
then his mind changed
grew pock-marked
difficult to navigate
frustration led to anger
anger became puzzlement
soon all the amazing things he'd done and seen
smelled and felt
lived through
would mix together and become something else
he'd loose abilities
no more gardens
no more horses
no more dancing
for a time he'd still be able to keep people entertained
to tell stories like a master
to talk about anything
but that would fade to
and so would his thoughts
his walking
his ability to eat
his ability to move
his ability to breath
and then there'd be nothing left to amaze him
nothing left to enthrall
so he'd let go
separate
become an essence
The man taught me how to live
so much of what I've become I owe to him
so much of what I am proud of
are only shadows of him
I have the shadow of his smile as well
n my life
whenever I made a decision
which to most would seem bizarre
or at least
out of the ordinary (and I made many of those)
He'd throw his arms up in the air
scrunch up his face in a sort of "isn't it obvious?" kind of way
and say
"You have to do what you want"
and I have
I continue to
my life has been blessed by it, and by knowing him
4 simple words
do what you want
I turn to him in my mind
i turn to his tomb
i turn to his empty room
to his photo on my wall
thank you thank you thank you
Monday, January 10, 2011
have I finished?
By 2AM eastern time I have to submit this essay
if you have any suggestions please get them in quick!
The Essence of Native American Storytelling
Kevin Smith
ENG/301
January 10, 2011
Professor April Rivers
The Essence of Native American Storytelling
Native American culture has existed as a unique entity for thousands of years. Amongst several other factors, native language, customs, and way of life distinguish the Native American race from all other civilizations in the world. Native American literature also expresses its own individuality. Vital to that individuality is storytelling. In the words of Tom Arviso Jr., “it is through the telling of stories that the history, legends, myths and customs of Indian people have been preserved and passed on through the centuries” (Arviso, 2002, para. 1). This culture of storytelling yields rituals, myths, chance and tricksters, themes of struggle and identity, effective uses of language, and reactions to the events occurring around it.
A tradition of ritual runs deep in Native American culture and is reflected in Native American literature. In Scott Momaday’s The Rise of the Song, the character of Abel enacts a death ceremony; “He drew the old man’s head erect and laid water to the hair. He fashioned the long white hair in a queue and wound it around with yarn. He dressed the body in bright ceremonial colors” (Momaday, 1995, p. 139). Here, Momaday’s attention to detail in his rendition of this ritual paints an effective picture, and offers instructions for this particular rite. The lengthy description of Abel’s actions, mirror the long and slow death of the grandfather. Written in the late 60s, the Viet Nam war may have influenced Momaday to focus on death and death ritual.
Myths form a large portion of the Native American canon. Myths often help to explain acts of nature or traumatic events. In Call That Story Back, Leslie Marmon Silko creates a myth to account for the coming of the white man to North America. In this myth a witch offers a story to a group of magicians and says, “as I tell the story/it will begin to happen” (Silko, 1995, p. 185). The story describes the arrival of Europeans to the continent, and the negative effects they have on nature and native people (Silko, 1995). Silko formats her story in a poetic style lending credence to its mythic makeup. The words the witch uses to tell this tale give the illusion that a spell is being cast. The modern age has seen destruction of environment. Silko’s story not only predicts what has happened to nature, but what is to come, if man refuses to call the story back.
Chance is a convention often utilized in Native American life and literature. In John Rogers’ biography Return to White Earth, a chance meeting with a porcupine is equivalent to a message from the Great Spirit (Rogers, 1995). In mother’s recounting of a hunting story she explains how she met a porcupine and “knew that meeting a porcupine at night was not a good omen” (Rogers, 1995, p. 56). Later when they narrowly escaped a charging moose father exclaimed, “No wonder we met the porcupine” because “surely the Great Spirit was watching over us” (Rogers, 1995, p. 57). Rogers’ characters speak using simple language, giving the reader the feeling this story was being told by the young boy who witnessed it. Rogers published his biography late in his life. During this time a new generation of Native Americans were slowly losing touch with their cultural past. By writing these stories from his life, Rogers attempted to instill a sense of wonder and pride for Native heritage into the minds of Native peoples.
Tales of tricksters inhabit many Native American works. Tricksters traditionally take on various roles in Native American stories. In Gerald Vizenor’s Measuring My Blood, Vizenor’s father is described as, “ a compassionate trickster who did not heed the sinister stories about stolen souls and the evil gambler” (Vizenor, 1995, p. 69). Vizenor’s life seems filled with “tricksterness”. He wrote that as a baby his grandmother “would hide my bottle to wean me in the trickster manner” (Vizenor, 1995, p. 74). Vizenor’s words create a lonely and lost world. This reflects the state of the Native American still struggling to survive culturally in a modern era.
Struggle exemplifies a common theme in much Native American literature. From the moment Europeans set foot on the North American continent, Native American culture has struggled to survive. William Apess faced obstacles and conflict throughout his early 19th century childhood. In his biography A Son in the Forest, he described his unfounded fear for his own race and posits, “the whites did not tell me that they were in a great majority of instances the aggressors – that they had imbrued their hands in the lifeblood of my brethren, driven them from their once peaceful and happy homes – that they introduced among them the fatal and exterminating diseases of civilized life (Apess, 1995, p.27). Apess wrote in a gentle voice. He knew he wrote for a largely white audience and had no desire to insult or threaten them. During his life, Native Americans were being persecuted and pushed further westward. His biography is an attempt to show that Native Americans can live within white culture. In a more modern poem Sherman Alexie retells the battle of Little Bighorn as a dream. In the dream the character of Crazy Horse says, “survive survive survive” (Alexie, 1995, p. 293). These three words not only reflect the turbulent history of Native America, but also to all people who exist today and consider themselves Native American.
Married to the theme of struggle is the search for self-identity. The Native American culture, once hated by the majority, then ignored by them, struggled to define itself. Children were being born with mixed-race parents. Sometimes these children fought to understand who they were. In Neon Scars, a biography, Wendy Rose wrote “How many almost comic photographs do I have of the sharp faced blond and delicate lady who sits before the long-faced mustached Englishman and, between them, holds the chubby little girl with the dark round face, that little Indian baby” (Rose, 1995, p. 98). Rose’s ability to make fun of herself and her situation opens reader’s hearts and allows them to listen more deeply to her words. The Native American search for identity also produced optimistic summations. When describing her own mixed blood Linda Hogan wrote, “I am a tree, grafted branches/bearing two kinds of fruit” (Hogan, L., 1995, p. 264). In more modern times the Native American has become a respected part of the history and community of the United States. The positive outlook of white America may have strengthened Hogan’s more positive expression of her own race.
The Native American culture has survived countless war, manifest destiny, genocide attempts, reservation life, ridicule, ignorance and an overwhelming drive to assimilate itself into white society. In a culture, which began writing its literature down so recently in its long existence it is overwhelming that so much of that culture survives today. Native Americans have been assimilated into American society and yet they retain much of what it is to be “Indian”. This nation of strong and resilient people resembles its literature, which has survived despite centuries of oppression. Native American storytelling will not only continue to survive but it will continue to flourish as well.
References
Alexie, S. (1995) Crazy horse speaks. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (p. 293). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Apess, W. (1995) A son of the forest. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (p. 27). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Arviso, T. (2002) Native journalism keeps with tradition. Quill 90(1). 34 (para. 1). Retrieved from the University of Phoenix eBook Collection database: http://web.ebscohost.com/ehost/detail?hid=112&sid=1b874386-3d64-4251-aa83-a95c8eb683c7%40sessionmgr104&vid=1&bdata=JnNpdGU9ZWhvc3QtbGl2ZQ%3d%3d#db=f5h&AN=6106084
Hogan, L. (1995) The truth is. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (p. 264). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Momady, S. (1995) The rise of the song. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (pp. 130-141). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Rogers, J. (1995) Return to white earth. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (pp. 46-57). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Rose, W. (1995) Neon scars. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (p. 98). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Silko, L. (1995) Call that story back. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (p. 185). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Vizenor, G. (1995) Measuring my blood. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (pp. 69-74). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
if you have any suggestions please get them in quick!
The Essence of Native American Storytelling
Kevin Smith
ENG/301
January 10, 2011
Professor April Rivers
The Essence of Native American Storytelling
Native American culture has existed as a unique entity for thousands of years. Amongst several other factors, native language, customs, and way of life distinguish the Native American race from all other civilizations in the world. Native American literature also expresses its own individuality. Vital to that individuality is storytelling. In the words of Tom Arviso Jr., “it is through the telling of stories that the history, legends, myths and customs of Indian people have been preserved and passed on through the centuries” (Arviso, 2002, para. 1). This culture of storytelling yields rituals, myths, chance and tricksters, themes of struggle and identity, effective uses of language, and reactions to the events occurring around it.
A tradition of ritual runs deep in Native American culture and is reflected in Native American literature. In Scott Momaday’s The Rise of the Song, the character of Abel enacts a death ceremony; “He drew the old man’s head erect and laid water to the hair. He fashioned the long white hair in a queue and wound it around with yarn. He dressed the body in bright ceremonial colors” (Momaday, 1995, p. 139). Here, Momaday’s attention to detail in his rendition of this ritual paints an effective picture, and offers instructions for this particular rite. The lengthy description of Abel’s actions, mirror the long and slow death of the grandfather. Written in the late 60s, the Viet Nam war may have influenced Momaday to focus on death and death ritual.
Myths form a large portion of the Native American canon. Myths often help to explain acts of nature or traumatic events. In Call That Story Back, Leslie Marmon Silko creates a myth to account for the coming of the white man to North America. In this myth a witch offers a story to a group of magicians and says, “as I tell the story/it will begin to happen” (Silko, 1995, p. 185). The story describes the arrival of Europeans to the continent, and the negative effects they have on nature and native people (Silko, 1995). Silko formats her story in a poetic style lending credence to its mythic makeup. The words the witch uses to tell this tale give the illusion that a spell is being cast. The modern age has seen destruction of environment. Silko’s story not only predicts what has happened to nature, but what is to come, if man refuses to call the story back.
Chance is a convention often utilized in Native American life and literature. In John Rogers’ biography Return to White Earth, a chance meeting with a porcupine is equivalent to a message from the Great Spirit (Rogers, 1995). In mother’s recounting of a hunting story she explains how she met a porcupine and “knew that meeting a porcupine at night was not a good omen” (Rogers, 1995, p. 56). Later when they narrowly escaped a charging moose father exclaimed, “No wonder we met the porcupine” because “surely the Great Spirit was watching over us” (Rogers, 1995, p. 57). Rogers’ characters speak using simple language, giving the reader the feeling this story was being told by the young boy who witnessed it. Rogers published his biography late in his life. During this time a new generation of Native Americans were slowly losing touch with their cultural past. By writing these stories from his life, Rogers attempted to instill a sense of wonder and pride for Native heritage into the minds of Native peoples.
Tales of tricksters inhabit many Native American works. Tricksters traditionally take on various roles in Native American stories. In Gerald Vizenor’s Measuring My Blood, Vizenor’s father is described as, “ a compassionate trickster who did not heed the sinister stories about stolen souls and the evil gambler” (Vizenor, 1995, p. 69). Vizenor’s life seems filled with “tricksterness”. He wrote that as a baby his grandmother “would hide my bottle to wean me in the trickster manner” (Vizenor, 1995, p. 74). Vizenor’s words create a lonely and lost world. This reflects the state of the Native American still struggling to survive culturally in a modern era.
Struggle exemplifies a common theme in much Native American literature. From the moment Europeans set foot on the North American continent, Native American culture has struggled to survive. William Apess faced obstacles and conflict throughout his early 19th century childhood. In his biography A Son in the Forest, he described his unfounded fear for his own race and posits, “the whites did not tell me that they were in a great majority of instances the aggressors – that they had imbrued their hands in the lifeblood of my brethren, driven them from their once peaceful and happy homes – that they introduced among them the fatal and exterminating diseases of civilized life (Apess, 1995, p.27). Apess wrote in a gentle voice. He knew he wrote for a largely white audience and had no desire to insult or threaten them. During his life, Native Americans were being persecuted and pushed further westward. His biography is an attempt to show that Native Americans can live within white culture. In a more modern poem Sherman Alexie retells the battle of Little Bighorn as a dream. In the dream the character of Crazy Horse says, “survive survive survive” (Alexie, 1995, p. 293). These three words not only reflect the turbulent history of Native America, but also to all people who exist today and consider themselves Native American.
Married to the theme of struggle is the search for self-identity. The Native American culture, once hated by the majority, then ignored by them, struggled to define itself. Children were being born with mixed-race parents. Sometimes these children fought to understand who they were. In Neon Scars, a biography, Wendy Rose wrote “How many almost comic photographs do I have of the sharp faced blond and delicate lady who sits before the long-faced mustached Englishman and, between them, holds the chubby little girl with the dark round face, that little Indian baby” (Rose, 1995, p. 98). Rose’s ability to make fun of herself and her situation opens reader’s hearts and allows them to listen more deeply to her words. The Native American search for identity also produced optimistic summations. When describing her own mixed blood Linda Hogan wrote, “I am a tree, grafted branches/bearing two kinds of fruit” (Hogan, L., 1995, p. 264). In more modern times the Native American has become a respected part of the history and community of the United States. The positive outlook of white America may have strengthened Hogan’s more positive expression of her own race.
The Native American culture has survived countless war, manifest destiny, genocide attempts, reservation life, ridicule, ignorance and an overwhelming drive to assimilate itself into white society. In a culture, which began writing its literature down so recently in its long existence it is overwhelming that so much of that culture survives today. Native Americans have been assimilated into American society and yet they retain much of what it is to be “Indian”. This nation of strong and resilient people resembles its literature, which has survived despite centuries of oppression. Native American storytelling will not only continue to survive but it will continue to flourish as well.
References
Alexie, S. (1995) Crazy horse speaks. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (p. 293). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Apess, W. (1995) A son of the forest. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (p. 27). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Arviso, T. (2002) Native journalism keeps with tradition. Quill 90(1). 34 (para. 1). Retrieved from the University of Phoenix eBook Collection database: http://web.ebscohost.com/ehost/detail?hid=112&sid=1b874386-3d64-4251-aa83-a95c8eb683c7%40sessionmgr104&vid=1&bdata=JnNpdGU9ZWhvc3QtbGl2ZQ%3d%3d#db=f5h&AN=6106084
Hogan, L. (1995) The truth is. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (p. 264). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Momady, S. (1995) The rise of the song. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (pp. 130-141). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Rogers, J. (1995) Return to white earth. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (pp. 46-57). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Rose, W. (1995) Neon scars. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (p. 98). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Silko, L. (1995) Call that story back. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (p. 185). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
Vizenor, G. (1995) Measuring my blood. In G. Vizenor, Native American literature a brief introduction and anthology (pp. 69-74). New York, NY: Addison Wesley Educational Publishers, Inc.
drugs
Sorry I wasn't able to post yesterday
yesterday many people arrived to "view" my father
we (my sister and her family, my mom and I) arrived at the funeral home about 3:45
we had chosen many photos and photo albums to bring with us
the photos got arranged around the room
my sister mother and I approached the casket
this maybe was the most difficult moment for my Mom all day
there were several flowers
some ordered by us
and others purchased by family members and friends
my favorite of these
was a garland of white roses
which... sort of... drapes along the coffin beside my fathers body
In these situations I don't...
Ive decided that this body is not my father
It doesn't really look like him (do they ever?)
It certainly doesn't act like him
it isn't him
he is gone
The pictures were cool. so many
from toddler years to just a few months ago
Later I'l write about the service today
tomorrow Ill write a little about my father one last time
then... maybe... Ill stop writing
I don't know how I feel about that
this blog has been a real outlet
like a drug
yesterday many people arrived to "view" my father
we (my sister and her family, my mom and I) arrived at the funeral home about 3:45
we had chosen many photos and photo albums to bring with us
the photos got arranged around the room
my sister mother and I approached the casket
this maybe was the most difficult moment for my Mom all day
there were several flowers
some ordered by us
and others purchased by family members and friends
my favorite of these
was a garland of white roses
which... sort of... drapes along the coffin beside my fathers body
In these situations I don't...
Ive decided that this body is not my father
It doesn't really look like him (do they ever?)
It certainly doesn't act like him
it isn't him
he is gone
The pictures were cool. so many
from toddler years to just a few months ago
Later I'l write about the service today
tomorrow Ill write a little about my father one last time
then... maybe... Ill stop writing
I don't know how I feel about that
this blog has been a real outlet
like a drug
Saturday, January 8, 2011
I am so angry right now
i CANT write my paper
I have been sitting here for 10 hours
I have written 6 different versions of the introduction
each of which I despise more than the other
I read
reread
rereread
the assignment ASSignment
it is meaningless to me.
I really do not believe this has anything to do with my father's death.
I am either not ready to write essays like this essay
or
the professor just wrote a bunch of stuff down without thinking much about it...
Ill show it to you although I don't think that'll help:
• Write a 1,050 to 1,400-word paper on how Native American literature is rooted in storytelling culture. Consider the following questions, using specific passages from the readings to support your responses:
o How was storytelling used in Native American culture?
o What literary conventions are consistent with Native American storytelling traditions? How do those conventions serve a purpose in the story?
o How does social identity play a role in Native American literature and storytelling?
o How do the characters in the texts relate to their cultural context? Why is this important to the story?
o How does the language the authors use contribute to the story’s effectiveness?
o What were the historical, socio-political, and cultural events that influenced each of the texts you selected? Why are they important to the story?
How do you make a thesis statement out of that?! There is so much to cover and yet... almost no way I can think of to tie it all together. For example... NA literature uses conventions like Trickster characters and creation myths
so I find ... say 3 works to cite tricksters.... fine that is easy... but while I am citing the tricksters do I add the language effectiveness... the historical events... do I do it to all three works cited? Ill end up having this enormous paragraph which is only 1 paragraph describing 1 convention... there are at least 4 others... I feel like the whole paper is going to be a hodge podge of information... made meaningless by its disconnection.
Does anyone have any ideas? how do I cover all this?
i CANT write my paper
I have been sitting here for 10 hours
I have written 6 different versions of the introduction
each of which I despise more than the other
I read
reread
rereread
the assignment ASSignment
it is meaningless to me.
I really do not believe this has anything to do with my father's death.
I am either not ready to write essays like this essay
or
the professor just wrote a bunch of stuff down without thinking much about it...
Ill show it to you although I don't think that'll help:
• Write a 1,050 to 1,400-word paper on how Native American literature is rooted in storytelling culture. Consider the following questions, using specific passages from the readings to support your responses:
o How was storytelling used in Native American culture?
o What literary conventions are consistent with Native American storytelling traditions? How do those conventions serve a purpose in the story?
o How does social identity play a role in Native American literature and storytelling?
o How do the characters in the texts relate to their cultural context? Why is this important to the story?
o How does the language the authors use contribute to the story’s effectiveness?
o What were the historical, socio-political, and cultural events that influenced each of the texts you selected? Why are they important to the story?
How do you make a thesis statement out of that?! There is so much to cover and yet... almost no way I can think of to tie it all together. For example... NA literature uses conventions like Trickster characters and creation myths
so I find ... say 3 works to cite tricksters.... fine that is easy... but while I am citing the tricksters do I add the language effectiveness... the historical events... do I do it to all three works cited? Ill end up having this enormous paragraph which is only 1 paragraph describing 1 convention... there are at least 4 others... I feel like the whole paper is going to be a hodge podge of information... made meaningless by its disconnection.
Does anyone have any ideas? how do I cover all this?
Friday, January 7, 2011
My Dad's viewing will be at Saul's funeral home in Hamilton Square NJ
Sunday 6-9pm
his funeral is on Monday at 9am
mass at St Vincent De Paul in Yardville NJ at 10AM
an a lunch at Tessaros on 33 in Hamilton at 12 noon
I am having yet another block writing this weeks paper
I am so tired right now
Im going to buy new pants and a shirt
Ill write more later
Sunday 6-9pm
his funeral is on Monday at 9am
mass at St Vincent De Paul in Yardville NJ at 10AM
an a lunch at Tessaros on 33 in Hamilton at 12 noon
I am having yet another block writing this weeks paper
I am so tired right now
Im going to buy new pants and a shirt
Ill write more later
Thursday, January 6, 2011
a new kind of exhaustion
I thought taking care of my father was tiring
planning a funeral is more so
yesterday we woke
in a daze
we had a 1pm appointment at the funeral home
Its the same place that Aunt A and Uncle G and many of the other people in my father's family had used
The funeral home is across the street from a church
down the street from where my father's family used to have their farm
around the corner from the park
which used to be the home of Mr Sayens where my father gardened and listened to shakespeare
across from the park was the place my father worked for 35 years
In the winter when my Dad was a boy
his family would ride to church in a horse drawn sled
their farm was on land which now has a McDonalds a bank lots of shops and restaurants
a few blocks away stands a corner deli
it used to be Smith's Deli owned by my grandparents
not too far away was the place where my father once saw a dead man
their house was the first on the street to have plumbing
can you imagine that?
so much change in my father's lifetime
This is the only funeral home for him
nothing else would work
it's an odd experience
the way you are talked to by the staff
so much.... weird... almost fake concern
so much money
for almost ridiculous reasons.
shopping for coffins like shopping for cars
open them up and check out the interiors
I hope I don't offend
but then there is an accessory section
little decorations made of ceramic to put at the corners of the coffin (Like a fish and a hook coming out of some blue water)
knitted sort of... backboards with pictures of american flags or golf clubs or crosses
How do you navigate this bizarre experience?
How do you choose a coffin?
who cares... really
My father is dead
should we choose the bronze or the gray?
wood or metal?
my father had alzheimer disease
a ceramic garden trough?
my father died because his lungs could not give him enough oxygen
half or full lid?
then today we had to choose a mausoleum. My mom's idea. SHe is afraid she won't actually be dead when they bury her.
She wants a mausoleum so that if she wakes up
it'll be easier to get out.
I told her we'll put her cel phone in with her
just give us a call if she needs help opening the crypt
"entombment" they call it
The choice was good
its in a section of the cemetery which faces a different cemetery across a street.
In this cemetery is my mother's relatives (the catholics)
across the street my father's
(baptists)
the tomb is high enough that he can look over at his family
it also happens to be facing where my mother's mother is buried
so its nice for her as well.
tons of family members
friends
people we don't know
are calling or stopping by
actually they are stopping by my sister's house because we end up being there quite often
people are saying the most amazing things
its very nice... really
a death sort of... brings people back to reality
they take a moment to think
and say what they mean
you connect with people over this death which has happened
I think people become a little afraid
and they reach out to each other
my father is an end of an era
its difficult to explain but true
with him dies a whole wealth of stories and memories
no one else can tell them
no one else was there and lives to tell about it
the stage curtain goes down
the book gets closed
sure there is a sequel always is
but its rarely the same is it?
planning a funeral is more so
yesterday we woke
in a daze
we had a 1pm appointment at the funeral home
Its the same place that Aunt A and Uncle G and many of the other people in my father's family had used
The funeral home is across the street from a church
down the street from where my father's family used to have their farm
around the corner from the park
which used to be the home of Mr Sayens where my father gardened and listened to shakespeare
across from the park was the place my father worked for 35 years
In the winter when my Dad was a boy
his family would ride to church in a horse drawn sled
their farm was on land which now has a McDonalds a bank lots of shops and restaurants
a few blocks away stands a corner deli
it used to be Smith's Deli owned by my grandparents
not too far away was the place where my father once saw a dead man
their house was the first on the street to have plumbing
can you imagine that?
so much change in my father's lifetime
This is the only funeral home for him
nothing else would work
it's an odd experience
the way you are talked to by the staff
so much.... weird... almost fake concern
so much money
for almost ridiculous reasons.
shopping for coffins like shopping for cars
open them up and check out the interiors
I hope I don't offend
but then there is an accessory section
little decorations made of ceramic to put at the corners of the coffin (Like a fish and a hook coming out of some blue water)
knitted sort of... backboards with pictures of american flags or golf clubs or crosses
How do you navigate this bizarre experience?
How do you choose a coffin?
who cares... really
My father is dead
should we choose the bronze or the gray?
wood or metal?
my father had alzheimer disease
a ceramic garden trough?
my father died because his lungs could not give him enough oxygen
half or full lid?
then today we had to choose a mausoleum. My mom's idea. SHe is afraid she won't actually be dead when they bury her.
She wants a mausoleum so that if she wakes up
it'll be easier to get out.
I told her we'll put her cel phone in with her
just give us a call if she needs help opening the crypt
"entombment" they call it
The choice was good
its in a section of the cemetery which faces a different cemetery across a street.
In this cemetery is my mother's relatives (the catholics)
across the street my father's
(baptists)
the tomb is high enough that he can look over at his family
it also happens to be facing where my mother's mother is buried
so its nice for her as well.
tons of family members
friends
people we don't know
are calling or stopping by
actually they are stopping by my sister's house because we end up being there quite often
people are saying the most amazing things
its very nice... really
a death sort of... brings people back to reality
they take a moment to think
and say what they mean
you connect with people over this death which has happened
I think people become a little afraid
and they reach out to each other
my father is an end of an era
its difficult to explain but true
with him dies a whole wealth of stories and memories
no one else can tell them
no one else was there and lives to tell about it
the stage curtain goes down
the book gets closed
sure there is a sequel always is
but its rarely the same is it?
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
11:35 PM
Dad died
a nurse from the hospice unit called us at about 10:45
She told us that Dad's skin felt cold, he breathed rapidly even after morphine and that his feet were turning purple
apparently the purple feet is a big sign of approaching death
Mom had to go to the toilet
I called my sister and told her
she was in a daze because I woke her up
she had to go to the toilet
she called back
we all decided to go to the hospital
as we were leaving the house
we got another call
Dad had died
we went to see him anyway
Im angry
I wanted so badly to be with him at the end
how was it for him
how did it feel?
could he recognize that we weren't there with him?
did it hurt?
did he give up? or boldly let go?
was he afraid or at peace?
I'll never know
when we arrived his skin shone white
like new paper
his eyes closed
but
his mouth wide open
when a person dies all the muscles in the body relax
the mouth goes loose
the jaws separate
you can't keep the lips together... it's not possible to just close his mouth
because it'll just fall open again
his muscles were still soft
I rubbed his arm
and his leg
but his face
to be honest
looked... scary
white and gaping
his chest looked like it moved up and down
really
His face looked dead
but his body still seemed to live
it was so odd
and then I just wanted to leave the room
get in the car
come home
sleep
tomorrow we have a meeting at the funeral home
Ill continue to write about this experience
He is named Kenneth Calvin Smith
He always hated the name Calvin
I think its lovely
He was a 6th generation American
German English Irish mix
He loved horses and gardening
he could talk to anyone
told wonderful stories
had friends everywhere
whenever he got mad he'd say
"We're moving to Virginia!"
which used to frighten me more than anything
he hated snakes
once boasted that he'd eat anything but anchoves
he old great jokes
loved to travel
liked to learn... watched the history channel a lot
he had alzheimer disease
and
parkinson disease
and
lyme's disease
he was an amazing father
a good friend
a dedicated husband
i love him
a nurse from the hospice unit called us at about 10:45
She told us that Dad's skin felt cold, he breathed rapidly even after morphine and that his feet were turning purple
apparently the purple feet is a big sign of approaching death
Mom had to go to the toilet
I called my sister and told her
she was in a daze because I woke her up
she had to go to the toilet
she called back
we all decided to go to the hospital
as we were leaving the house
we got another call
Dad had died
we went to see him anyway
Im angry
I wanted so badly to be with him at the end
how was it for him
how did it feel?
could he recognize that we weren't there with him?
did it hurt?
did he give up? or boldly let go?
was he afraid or at peace?
I'll never know
when we arrived his skin shone white
like new paper
his eyes closed
but
his mouth wide open
when a person dies all the muscles in the body relax
the mouth goes loose
the jaws separate
you can't keep the lips together... it's not possible to just close his mouth
because it'll just fall open again
his muscles were still soft
I rubbed his arm
and his leg
but his face
to be honest
looked... scary
white and gaping
his chest looked like it moved up and down
really
His face looked dead
but his body still seemed to live
it was so odd
and then I just wanted to leave the room
get in the car
come home
sleep
tomorrow we have a meeting at the funeral home
Ill continue to write about this experience
He is named Kenneth Calvin Smith
He always hated the name Calvin
I think its lovely
He was a 6th generation American
German English Irish mix
He loved horses and gardening
he could talk to anyone
told wonderful stories
had friends everywhere
whenever he got mad he'd say
"We're moving to Virginia!"
which used to frighten me more than anything
he hated snakes
once boasted that he'd eat anything but anchoves
he old great jokes
loved to travel
liked to learn... watched the history channel a lot
he had alzheimer disease
and
parkinson disease
and
lyme's disease
he was an amazing father
a good friend
a dedicated husband
i love him
call
the phone rang
I answered
It's the hospice nurse
she told me
she doesn't think Dad will last the night
he is cold to touch
his breathing is very labored
his feet are turning purple
we live so damned far away
she's not sure if he will last an hour
I had to tell my mom
that was hard
my heart raced
my mind flitted around like a moth
i couldn't look her in the eye
she surprises me
she listened to all I said
and she said
"Oh. Okay..."
I started to cry
she held me
said I love you
We can't even be sure it will happen tonight
so many people have told us so many different things
but i have to go
I MUST
Mom is not sure she wants to
I NEED to
I want to
i have to
my sister called me back
told me she's coming with me
please pray or whatever for...
not for him to live
but just
pray
take a few moments of silent reflection
on anything
Ill fill you in later
when I get back to my MAC
I answered
It's the hospice nurse
she told me
she doesn't think Dad will last the night
he is cold to touch
his breathing is very labored
his feet are turning purple
we live so damned far away
she's not sure if he will last an hour
I had to tell my mom
that was hard
my heart raced
my mind flitted around like a moth
i couldn't look her in the eye
she surprises me
she listened to all I said
and she said
"Oh. Okay..."
I started to cry
she held me
said I love you
We can't even be sure it will happen tonight
so many people have told us so many different things
but i have to go
I MUST
Mom is not sure she wants to
I NEED to
I want to
i have to
my sister called me back
told me she's coming with me
please pray or whatever for...
not for him to live
but just
pray
take a few moments of silent reflection
on anything
Ill fill you in later
when I get back to my MAC
hospital to hospice
Dad can not come home right now... and he can't stay at the hospital any longer.
The doctor refuses (well thats strong because we've agreed as well) to believe that
my father can improve in the hospital setting.
They transferred my father to hospice last night.
Unfortunately the amount of oxygen he needs to breath properly
cannot be administered in the home setting.
St Frances, a hospital in Trenton, has a good hospice unit.
(Can a Czech person translate the word for hospice? many of my Czech friends have asked)
They will care for him
give him more morphine
focus on his body sores
talk to him more
stick pins in him less (for example, they will give him morphine under the tongue instead of through an IV)
There will be no more antibiotics given.
At this point they do more harm then good
my father's body wont respond to them
I like St Francis
while I lived in Italy I visited Assisi and the small... enclave outside of the center on a hill were St Frances lived in.... the 12th century??? I think...
A very interesting fellow
He brought nature into Catholicism
Born wealthy Francis later gave up everything... I think his idea was that only the... poor (but he means people with nothing... not necessarily living a "poor" life... like growing your food instead of buying it... well like Ghandi) could be close to God. He also found God in nature. It is believed he could speak with animals. At some point I think his palms mysteriously began to bleed as Jesus' hands on the cross.
He wrote poetry and most of it honored god through honoring nature.
Here is one of his poems... I don't love this translation. When the poem was translated to me by a good friend... it was beautiful and simple and not so flowery. There are certainly less Italian words than the translated English ones here but it gives you an idea:
Most high, all-powerful, all good, Lord!
All praise is yours, all glory, all honor
And all blessing.
To you alone, Most High, do they belong.
No mortal lips are worthy
To pronounce your name.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through all that you have made,
And first my lord Brother Sun,
Who brings the day; and light you give to us through him.
How beautiful is he, how radiant in all his splendor!
Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Moon and Stars;
In the heavens you have made them, bright
And precious and fair.
All praise be yours, My Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air,
And fair and stormy, all the weather's moods,
By which you cherish all that you have made.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Water,
So useful, lowly, precious and pure.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through Brother Fire,
Through whom you brighten up the night.
How beautiful is he, how gay! Full of power and strength.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Earth, our mother,
Who feeds us in her sovereignty and produces
Various fruits with colored flowers and herbs.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through those who grant pardon
For love of you; through those who endure
Sickness and trial.
Happy those who endure in peace,
By you, Most High, they will be crowned.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Death,
From whose embrace no mortal can escape.
Woe to those who die in mortal sin!
Happy those She finds doing your will!
The second death can do no harm to them.
Praise and bless my Lord, and give him thanks,
And serve him with great humility.
The doctor refuses (well thats strong because we've agreed as well) to believe that
my father can improve in the hospital setting.
They transferred my father to hospice last night.
Unfortunately the amount of oxygen he needs to breath properly
cannot be administered in the home setting.
St Frances, a hospital in Trenton, has a good hospice unit.
(Can a Czech person translate the word for hospice? many of my Czech friends have asked)
They will care for him
give him more morphine
focus on his body sores
talk to him more
stick pins in him less (for example, they will give him morphine under the tongue instead of through an IV)
There will be no more antibiotics given.
At this point they do more harm then good
my father's body wont respond to them
I like St Francis
while I lived in Italy I visited Assisi and the small... enclave outside of the center on a hill were St Frances lived in.... the 12th century??? I think...
A very interesting fellow
He brought nature into Catholicism
Born wealthy Francis later gave up everything... I think his idea was that only the... poor (but he means people with nothing... not necessarily living a "poor" life... like growing your food instead of buying it... well like Ghandi) could be close to God. He also found God in nature. It is believed he could speak with animals. At some point I think his palms mysteriously began to bleed as Jesus' hands on the cross.
He wrote poetry and most of it honored god through honoring nature.
Here is one of his poems... I don't love this translation. When the poem was translated to me by a good friend... it was beautiful and simple and not so flowery. There are certainly less Italian words than the translated English ones here but it gives you an idea:
Most high, all-powerful, all good, Lord!
All praise is yours, all glory, all honor
And all blessing.
To you alone, Most High, do they belong.
No mortal lips are worthy
To pronounce your name.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through all that you have made,
And first my lord Brother Sun,
Who brings the day; and light you give to us through him.
How beautiful is he, how radiant in all his splendor!
Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Moon and Stars;
In the heavens you have made them, bright
And precious and fair.
All praise be yours, My Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air,
And fair and stormy, all the weather's moods,
By which you cherish all that you have made.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Water,
So useful, lowly, precious and pure.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through Brother Fire,
Through whom you brighten up the night.
How beautiful is he, how gay! Full of power and strength.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Earth, our mother,
Who feeds us in her sovereignty and produces
Various fruits with colored flowers and herbs.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through those who grant pardon
For love of you; through those who endure
Sickness and trial.
Happy those who endure in peace,
By you, Most High, they will be crowned.
All praise be yours, my Lord, through Sister Death,
From whose embrace no mortal can escape.
Woe to those who die in mortal sin!
Happy those She finds doing your will!
The second death can do no harm to them.
Praise and bless my Lord, and give him thanks,
And serve him with great humility.
Monday, January 3, 2011
I think they did
I just got off the phone with my father's social case worker
'have you made any decisions about your father?"
"Well. I haven't spoken with the doctor yet. We want him to come home but we are waiting to see what the doctor says."
"Your father is on 15 liters of oxygen. He won't be able to go home."
"But the doctor was going to try to wean him off of the oxygen and see what happens"
"I think they did. And it didn't work."
"Well, we were there last night and the nurse told me that there hadn't been any changes to her knowledge."
"I think they did."
"Well, the nurse said not."
"I think they did."
WELL YOU THINK
so WHAT
you
THINK
what is that supposed to mean. It doesn't seem like you KNOW.
I want someone to KNOW before I make any decisions.
What the H is this THINK crap.
The man is DYING
he hurts
he gasps for breath
he gets thrown around his bed
he takes morphine
you THINK
screw your THINK
'have you made any decisions about your father?"
"Well. I haven't spoken with the doctor yet. We want him to come home but we are waiting to see what the doctor says."
"Your father is on 15 liters of oxygen. He won't be able to go home."
"But the doctor was going to try to wean him off of the oxygen and see what happens"
"I think they did. And it didn't work."
"Well, we were there last night and the nurse told me that there hadn't been any changes to her knowledge."
"I think they did."
"Well, the nurse said not."
"I think they did."
WELL YOU THINK
so WHAT
you
THINK
what is that supposed to mean. It doesn't seem like you KNOW.
I want someone to KNOW before I make any decisions.
What the H is this THINK crap.
The man is DYING
he hurts
he gasps for breath
he gets thrown around his bed
he takes morphine
you THINK
screw your THINK
Sunday, January 2, 2011
little bits of hope
We stayed at the hospital for about 2 and a half hours today.
My Dad breathed comfortably today.
When the nurse removed his oxygen mask to clean his face she said
"Doesn't that feel better?"
And my Dad said
"Yesssss."
It's the first thing he has said in about 4 weeks!
It sounded so... childlike and ghostlike at the same time.
It was sweet and eerie
It made me cry and shiver
He also coughed
which is a good thing as well
funny how a cough and a word define improvement
I promised to relay the story of my parents on their wedding day.
After the wedding and reception a friend of my father's offered to drive them home.
the got in the car... my parents in the back seat
both extremely nervous
this was 1962
On the way they got into an accident.
My father hurt (I think sprained) his arm
and my mother
hurt her nose.
In my fantasy my parents are rushed to the hospital
my father in a tux with his arm in a cast
and my mother in her white wedding gown
in a wheelchair
with a cast on her nose
(this didn't happen by the way... they'd already changed before they'd got into the car... and no one actually broke anything)
My mother looked at me today and said
"I don't know what I'm going to do without your father"
I didn't know what to say... what I thought was... maybe we could drive across the country and see the Grand Canyon
or
maybe you could travel to Italy again
or
see a movie
or
do any of the stuff you always wanted to do but couldn't for the last few years because Dad has needed so much help.
I couldn't say these things to her... I don't think she's ready to think about it.
So I just held her hand.
This is a strange period of life
this limbo time
like the dance
except you keep going under the limbo stick
keep arching your back
closer and closer to the floor
almost falling backwards
straining all your abdomen muscles
but never fulling getting past the stick
it's still there above your nose
time slows down more and more
can you make it?
will you have a chance to go around for one more try?
My Dad breathed comfortably today.
When the nurse removed his oxygen mask to clean his face she said
"Doesn't that feel better?"
And my Dad said
"Yesssss."
It's the first thing he has said in about 4 weeks!
It sounded so... childlike and ghostlike at the same time.
It was sweet and eerie
It made me cry and shiver
He also coughed
which is a good thing as well
funny how a cough and a word define improvement
I promised to relay the story of my parents on their wedding day.
After the wedding and reception a friend of my father's offered to drive them home.
the got in the car... my parents in the back seat
both extremely nervous
this was 1962
On the way they got into an accident.
My father hurt (I think sprained) his arm
and my mother
hurt her nose.
In my fantasy my parents are rushed to the hospital
my father in a tux with his arm in a cast
and my mother in her white wedding gown
in a wheelchair
with a cast on her nose
(this didn't happen by the way... they'd already changed before they'd got into the car... and no one actually broke anything)
My mother looked at me today and said
"I don't know what I'm going to do without your father"
I didn't know what to say... what I thought was... maybe we could drive across the country and see the Grand Canyon
or
maybe you could travel to Italy again
or
see a movie
or
do any of the stuff you always wanted to do but couldn't for the last few years because Dad has needed so much help.
I couldn't say these things to her... I don't think she's ready to think about it.
So I just held her hand.
This is a strange period of life
this limbo time
like the dance
except you keep going under the limbo stick
keep arching your back
closer and closer to the floor
almost falling backwards
straining all your abdomen muscles
but never fulling getting past the stick
it's still there above your nose
time slows down more and more
can you make it?
will you have a chance to go around for one more try?
Saturday, January 1, 2011
literature
I have read a story by a half Chippewa woman. It's called Lipsha Morrissey and there is a moment in the book where a young man faces the death of his grandfather and has this enlightenment,
"Your life feels different on you, once you greet death and understand your heart's position. You wear your life like a garment from the mission bundle sale ever after-lightly because you realize you never paid nothing for it, cherishing because you know you won't ever come by such a bargain again."
For christmas my sister purchased a year's worth of Neflix for my Mom. My mom is a bit ... culture clueless so I ordered her first film for her. I ordered the film THE BUCKET LIST. I knew that the theme of death ran through it... but it had been marketed as a comedy... and with Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson... could you go wrong with that?
This film is NO comedy... the moments which are supposed to be the funny bits appear after about 1 hour of watching the two actors struggle through a hospital stay and months of kimotherapy (i have no idea how to spell this but I suspect that che... may be more correct than ki)... the funny bits take all of 3 minutes (and aren't very funny) and then the 2 characters become ill again.
THIS WAS NOT THE FILM TO SHOW MY MOTHER
I was angry... at myself and at marketing companies
will this veil of death-
which seems to have been blown
from a far place
lifting on wind
dancing through air
and lightly fallen atop
our heads-
ever be blown away again
how strong a breath must be
to relift the kitelike veil
send it south or westaward
away
and we
again veiless
feel the true touch
of magic life
around us
Dad breaths at about 51 intakes of breath a minute
the average person breaths about 20 to 25... at rest maybe less
even after receiving morphine
lately
Dad still breathes at about 35 to 40
It may be because his lungs are too full
and to obtain enough air
his body hastily
expands and contracts
like after running up
5 flights of stairs
Just for a minute
give it a try
breath double quickly
for a full minute
right now as you read this
how did it feel?
I do it now as I type
I feel frenzied
and get dizzy and almost forget to breathe at all
I have to force myself to continue
and I canr really concentrate on the worsx I want to t write i write faster ato macth my frenxzied bretah I know i make mistakes I can't even handle the feelijng anymore i want to stop and mt my dad must go through this for hourts after only 30 secnds
I stopped. My mind... agonized to stay focused
even now my throbbing head fights to return
to its normal semblance
this was 1 minute of time
one minute of my life
and I feel the repercussions of it long after the experience.
He breathes rapidly all day long
through the night
while he sleeps or wakes
his limbs swell from lack of movement
his eyes bulge open and fear all they connect with
a movement of his legs from left to right
causes him great pain.
how does he exist?
and yet he exists
in this constant state
he is brave
"Your life feels different on you, once you greet death and understand your heart's position. You wear your life like a garment from the mission bundle sale ever after-lightly because you realize you never paid nothing for it, cherishing because you know you won't ever come by such a bargain again."
For christmas my sister purchased a year's worth of Neflix for my Mom. My mom is a bit ... culture clueless so I ordered her first film for her. I ordered the film THE BUCKET LIST. I knew that the theme of death ran through it... but it had been marketed as a comedy... and with Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson... could you go wrong with that?
This film is NO comedy... the moments which are supposed to be the funny bits appear after about 1 hour of watching the two actors struggle through a hospital stay and months of kimotherapy (i have no idea how to spell this but I suspect that che... may be more correct than ki)... the funny bits take all of 3 minutes (and aren't very funny) and then the 2 characters become ill again.
THIS WAS NOT THE FILM TO SHOW MY MOTHER
I was angry... at myself and at marketing companies
will this veil of death-
which seems to have been blown
from a far place
lifting on wind
dancing through air
and lightly fallen atop
our heads-
ever be blown away again
how strong a breath must be
to relift the kitelike veil
send it south or westaward
away
and we
again veiless
feel the true touch
of magic life
around us
Dad breaths at about 51 intakes of breath a minute
the average person breaths about 20 to 25... at rest maybe less
even after receiving morphine
lately
Dad still breathes at about 35 to 40
It may be because his lungs are too full
and to obtain enough air
his body hastily
expands and contracts
like after running up
5 flights of stairs
Just for a minute
give it a try
breath double quickly
for a full minute
right now as you read this
how did it feel?
I do it now as I type
I feel frenzied
and get dizzy and almost forget to breathe at all
I have to force myself to continue
and I canr really concentrate on the worsx I want to t write i write faster ato macth my frenxzied bretah I know i make mistakes I can't even handle the feelijng anymore i want to stop and mt my dad must go through this for hourts after only 30 secnds
I stopped. My mind... agonized to stay focused
even now my throbbing head fights to return
to its normal semblance
this was 1 minute of time
one minute of my life
and I feel the repercussions of it long after the experience.
He breathes rapidly all day long
through the night
while he sleeps or wakes
his limbs swell from lack of movement
his eyes bulge open and fear all they connect with
a movement of his legs from left to right
causes him great pain.
how does he exist?
and yet he exists
in this constant state
he is brave
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