.i“ * ^ / . . . . . ` `~

Laundry that is warm in a basket that is broken.
Everted socks, a null undergarment, a sleeve.
I will again stand deciphering, with warming hands,
These simple, largely unfashionable puzzles,
Making of the warm clean mound a clear tall stack,
Which is the end of what will seem a cycle of soil:
a tale of a toil  — that soiled — and was undone.

What is this? Ezra Klein

Good, long thread on Russia, Ukraine, U.S., Europe — Ruth Deyermond

A horrifying expose on the brutality of the Russian army towards its own soldiers: nyt.

I’m a little surprised that Sharon’s never offered to cut my hair. She has a line in one of her songs about how she’ll only cut the hair of “the ones she loves and the ones she does” and while I know I’m not one of those, I suspect I might be the other of those, to a degree, and so why did she never offer to cut my hair? Perhaps it’s because she knows I cut my own hair and wouldn’t presume to improve on my work, despite having probably spotted the irregularities of my styling. Maybe it has more to do with maintaining clear boundaries in our relationship.

What was it, anyway, that induced me to think that we might be a couple? Despite sharing several enthusiasms, it wasn’t that we really hit it off, or had great chemistry, or what have you. In addition, based on what I knew of her romantic history, I wasn’t really her type of person; she liked black guys, Jewish guys, Latin guys, foreigners — and tall — while I, from her point of view, was non-exotic and of medium height. I was also kind of a nice guy which, from the stories she’s told, may not have been her regular fare — and, of course, she enjoyed her independence. Her independence was such that a potential consort really had to conform to the unique circumstances of her life, and that wasn’t something just anyone could do.

I suppose what had put couple-dom in mind was something like this. We had been old friends who’d reconnected after many years, with nothing like romantic feeling in our past, and one night I was sitting across from her at a restaurant and I thought “this feels like a date to me.” And then on another occasion, we were hosting a couple to dinner in my home, and I thought “this feels like we’re a couple hosting another couple for dinner in our home.” And then, when we argued about something that I did that I wouldn’t apologize for, I thought “this sounds like the kind of argument that couples will have when they argue.” I will say, it had been a long time since I had had such a feeling — since I had been in such an argument — and pretty soon I was thinking about her all the time. I was thinking about being in a couple.

Now, by the time this Thanksgiving rolled around, it was already clear that nothing of that kind was going to happen, as I had heavily hinted to her multiple times as to the extent and kind of my interest and she had shown no encouragement at all; I knew it was only a “romance in my mind”; however, at the time we arranged to spend Thanksgiving together, that had not been entirely clear to me. And now I was going up there with the idea that I would probably need to pull back somewhat on our friendship going forward, because — how do I put it — with most of my friends I am much more remote. I was thinking, “Ray, you have to restore some balance.”

The plan was, I would drive up on Tuesday and go back on Friday. She took pride in being the perfect hostess, she said, but could only keep it up for three days. I was in charge of the stuffing, desserts and an inspirational Thanksgiving message, in lieu of a prayer, for which I chose the sixth section of Whitman’s Crossing Brooklyn Ferry; but she would handle the rest of the cooking and cleaning. We were both thrilled to be doing something with our Thanksgiving, which had become, for me in particular, a depressing time after my parents had passed. And from the beginning, too, there was, for both of us, no little trepidation about what would happen when our dogs got together in her small space. (This turned out to be justified.)

Sharon, for as long as I’ve known her, has always had a unique fashion sense, which extends to her sense of interior design, enjoying bright colors and stark, cheerful contrasts in form-fitting clothes that can be purchased on a budget. That love of contrasts may explain her taste in partners too, I am moved to reflect, and is rather the opposite of my own tastes, which tend toward neutral colors and earth tones. It may explain differences in our behavior too, now that I think of it, for while she is brazen and direct, I am more politic and inclined to smoothing things over. She shines a light on what I sweep under the rug. We really are opposites in a way.

The first day I was there, when I picked her up on a corner near to her school, she was wearing a bright yellow coat, which I believe she identified as a rain coat — and which looked like a rain coat — but was of a cottony material that didn’t seem water resistant. (It’s actually woolen, she informs me.) The second day, another workday for her, it was the bright orange knit top with shoulder pads — these, though out of fashion, felt empowering, she said — as well as her favorite pair of blue jeans, which were to get ripped later that night, when she broke up the dog attack. Thursday, when she was hustling all day — really hustling from dawn to past dark in a way that impressed me — she wore a t-shirt that read Gobble!; and Friday, the day I returned to Washington, she wore blue stretch pants and a white, loose-fitting athletic top that she would use to walk the dogs in, and whose sleeves had straps that crossed over each palm. Sharon looks good in everything she wears – she tells me her proportions are the same as Barbie’s – but it was this last outfit that made me feel most poignantly.

The visit was a series of disasters. The first day, and first thousand dollars, I spent in NYC was almost entirely at the animal hospital for something unrelated to the dog attack — an abscess that had developed between “my man’s” toes. The second day was the day of the attack, which shocked us both — shocked her, deeply, that her two “sisters” could do that to each other, which they hadn’t ever before; shocked me that I had exposed my “poor man,” the gentlest fellow imaginable, to such a danger; and shocked us both with the raw animal fury of the encounter, which drew blood, — and the third day was Thanksgiving dinner, which, in contradistinction to all the rest, came off exceptionally well, but only after I had self-cured a bout of food poisoning by means of an early slug of Compari and gin. (After I had finished chopping my vegetables for the stuffing I thought “I better sit down for minute,” then after I’d sat down for a minute I thought, ” no, I better lie down for a minute,” then after lying down for a minute I thought — “bathroom immediately.” So when you envision Sharon hustling in the kitchen for her guests that day, you must imagine it with the sound of my loud wretching in the background. You must also imagine it with her wearing a glove on one hand, so that her bandaged and swollen finger – injured during the attack – didn’t get in the food.)

(And yes, though not related to the foregoing incident, there was drinking involved. “Drinking buddies,” was how I characterized this relationship to a friend. At one point on Thanksgiving night we all went down to the courtyard, so that the by-now-sedated dogs could have a pee, and I filled my coat pockets with beers in the event that anyone, like myself for instance, wanted one — or wanted two — only to discover that Sharon had brought down her own big bag of beers. “I think I see why you two like each other,” one of her relatives ribbed.)

The dinner was a great success both as a meal and as a social event (Sharon’s love of contrasts translating well in the kitchen too). And my Whitman recitation was not so shabby either: “I am he who knows what it is to be evil,” I intoned to those seated around the set table…. I was reminded of Thanksgivings of yore.

When the crowd had left, we put on a movie, but Sharon, exhausted by her holiday exertions, retired early, leaving me there to feel sullen and bereft. I laid down on the couch draped in my winter coat, feeling acutely “I’m not in a couple.” I woke up the next day every bit as sullen as I’d fallen to sleep, but I thought, “Ray, you’re not 22 – so get with it.” And so it was that, after a very agreeable long walk with all the dogs around Prospect Park – in the bandshell of which Sharon and I had played music together so very long ago – we had one of those pleasant conversations that hosts and guests will have before parting.

“Do you think I’m a fucked up guy,” I asked her, seriously, as she lounged around in that top with the cotton straps on her palms. “I mean, I know you like me and all, (or I mean, I guess you do) but do you sometimes reflect on the things I do or say, and think, ‘you know, Ray is kind of fucked up’?” (I felt like a stranger, a weirdo so often. Like I was looking up at people from a well.) Her response was measured but fair: “I guess I think of you as stable — dependable — and that’s not usually how I think of people who are fucked up.”

Last I saw of her she was leaning in through the car window, where I was parked on the service road. I don’t think I had seen her that close up till now. She had deep circles under her eyes and wrinkles here and there, a middle-aged woman, and I was thinking of how I loved that face. We fist bumped and I drove off.  

Something you’d seen often before — a trash can near the parked cars of the volunteer firefighters — was that for the deposition of medical waste? (You’re thinking the medical waste should be deposed? “For disposing of medical waste,” you perhaps mean). And you’ve noticed a founding stone you’d never seen before — “1983.” Yes: Going to the doctor not to avoid getting sick but so as to avoid going to the doctor after getting sick, which would demonstrate you were a fool, which would be worse than getting mortally sick? (Shouldn’t you go to the doctor just to be well?) “When the Challenger happened, I was age ten, which was around 1983…. Knowing another language might so radically alter your English Language brain chemistry as to meaningfully reshuffle the sequence of years.” The fool: now that nothing can be done — what can be done?

Shadows of plants climbing over the “horizon” of the sidewalk into the “sky” of the road. Then I identify a separate branch as “marcessant.” … I am concerned to see the Bobcat turn so abruptly toward the worker. (The worker’s helping lift heavy manhole covers into the extended shovel portion of the Bobcat.) I pass Brittany in the shade of her front yard — studying for the pharmacology exam. I experience a moment’s disorientation by being engaged in small talk by a pretty girl, but am dismissed before long. All moods pass eventually, I think, and so will the one I’m in now — it will — it does — which is among the positive health benefits of walks. On Cleveland — I will forget how big and wonderful that one tree is. On Cleveland: someone has neglected to pick up after their dog. A disturbance down Edgewood has caused me to change course and, now on 13th, I’m looking at my watch: precisely twenty minutes ago I was climbing the hill checking my watch. I was seeing, at that time, I was about ten minutes earlier at that point than I had been the previous day, which was the normal time I would be at that point. (I was early today.)

Red empty open shoebox leaned against recycling barrel, bright unblemished cardboard with a design. Dusty black electrical tape at hill bottom beside an orange Orange Gatorade twist-off cap. Now passing two oil spots in a hazy swirled track. Bumper sticker — “i love mountains.” Sign: “VAX HERE.” “Each day as it comes,” you tell yourself as the suspended wheel of the trailer of a cement truck passes closely. Worker striking soft earth hard with a tool: that “thunk” or “thud” of the beaten earth. The “chink” as it hits a small stone. Engine of that truck turning over provides a “bottom,” or baseline, to the “high pitched electric guitar chirring” of the locusts, I note.

I arbitrarily reach out and touch the large metal box by the stoplight for the second fire station as I pass it, and find it is of less solid construction than I’d supposed, like a filing cabinet. Little blue flowers with small purple ones along a couple of these lawns; daffodils, about six daffodils, in the woodsy portion of the 28th street hill with the retaining wall of rotting rail road ties. Dog seems merely to paddle with his paws, the movement is so relatively insignificant, while the whole body of the mistress seems an efficiently gliding canoe behind him.

Question: if you pretend to be something you’re not (though I mean by that something less than what we would today call being a hypocrite) does that mean you’re as far as you can possibly be from being that thing, pulling in the wrong direction, or does it mean you’re at an early stage of morphing into that thing, heading in the right direction? (I suppose the question depends at least somewhat on — who you actually are.)

And it doesn’t pertain at all to Thought (Thought is like math) or to Perception (which is like a florid verbal description of the sort you could never write yourself, the author is so talented)

(Thought is like a law court, Thought is like the judge; the judge, however, likes to go into the chemistry lab quite a bit and he is never quite the same when he comes back out.)

What else: women with dogs, dogs with dogs, dogs with boys, the man who is a public nuisance, the young running woman who mildly alarms you, the chair that is like a chiropractor’s table (you never know when, or where, it might give)…

You have no idea, as you’re looking with mild interest at the unexpected road closure, that you are going to make the judgment later today that it has actually, though not catastrophically, been a fairly bad day — the fault of one’s choices, naturally enough, not the fault of the day.

Noticing that while a lot of people are meticulous about using the plural verb with “data” they are less meticulous, and even reluctant, to use the plural pronoun.

Perhaps this is an accepted usage I don’t know about but I heard Chairman Powell doing it a lot during his remarks last week. The data always were, the data was always it.

Wondering if Wallace Steven’s First Idea (from Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction) might better be seen through the lens of scientific revolution than of poetic discovery.

The first idea is the reality which Newton/ Galileo saw “without the varnish” of Aristotelian ideas. It is the reality, the phenomena, that Einstein saw without the varnish of Newtonian ideas. Einstein is a poet looking past Newtonian assumptions to arrive at a new idea of the elemental nature of the universe, the “first idea.” Maybe?

Interesting phrase “hunger for courage” — Hanania.

I’d passed the woman holding what I’d identified as French baguette inside the grocery store, now she has passed me on the street outside with her baguette. I thought of the word “baguette” then began mentally to defend my use of the word banquette in a text message earlier in the day (not to suggest that anyone had complained of my use of this word): banquette was a bad word to use in that it wasn’t a word everyone knew, I agreed, but a good one in that it meant something more precise than bench. (The kitchen bench, I might have called it.)

Staring from behind at the earing of the grocery store clerk as she makes an adjustment at my self-checkout kiosk. She has no idea I’m doing it and she wouldn’t care if she did.

Someone having thrust a stick, a short twig, through a mounting hole of a street sign post. When you see such arbitrariness, you assume a child, but it may not have been.

Question: was your downward mobility related positively, negatively, or not all, to your society’s decline?

Related question: Was your upward mobility, were it eventually to transpire, actually independent of your society’s decline?

Related: What is that remark of Confucius again? “When government is Just, good men grow wealthy?” (Probably imperfectly remembered bad translation.)

Question: Why were you glad the woman with the rollator had turned aside before it had become necessary to pass her? (Always awkward passing people. Maybe next they would pass you — and you would pass them again — then you had to stop to check your watch and got passed again — on and on.) Does anyone stop to check their watch today? (no.)

Experiencing no time at all between the removal of the bottle’s plastic cap and the consumption of the plastic bottle’s contents (If we could only see and slow time enough to see what we’re doing, it is thought, then our Will Power would excitingly appear.)

How did you demonstrate your handiness today? (Greased a lock.) How is it you can make a friend laugh but not an audience? (There is probably a good answer to that question, if you cared enough to seek it out. It probably has to do, though, with “assumed knowledge” in some way.)

Did you BEND anything today that wasn’t a part of your anatomical person? (What kind of idiotic question is that? Did I BEND anything today? If I had, if I hadn’t…. but yes, of course I did.)

Vietnamese woman energetically drilling, scraping, prodding, saturating, suctioning, swabbing my teeth. It would be so interesting to be a person as skilled as this, I reflect, as she performs these maneuvers over myself… I appreciate her quiet industry and intensity.

When seeking out a dentist, my only guiding principles had been — (1) location — and (2) that I’d had positive experiences with lady health professionals in the past (although not having myself been one of their patients — having not myself been to see a health professional in 3 decades until around now.)

In the lobby beforehand, still reading Tristram Shandy, fighting at every moment to read it over the noise of CNN reportage of the depressing “dogshit bill,” as Yglesias had called it, the BBB… I did manage, however, to come across a quotable passage in this not very quotable book, which I would probably post on a blog later —

“That of all the several ways of beginning a book which are now in practice throughout the known world, I am confident my own way of doing it is the best — I’m sure it is the most religious — for I begin with writing the first sentence — and trusting to Almighty God for the second.”

This reminded me somewhat of the first sentence of Augie March but, having by a miracle efficiently found a copy of that book in my library — though my library is not extensive, just extremely disordered — I found it was not as snug a fit as I first thought, and tabled the idea of trying to link them. (Idea was supposed to have been — “spontaneously” is the only way to write. A writer’s fundamental work is experiencing — thought, emotion, sensation –, after which, the rest should follow more or less naturally. Contra-Flaubert, I suppose.)

The other statement that leapt out at me, in the waiting room, over the CNN, was a little Whitman-like (Whitman, who wrote spontaneously, not laboriously, according to my information). Tristram writes: “For my own part, I am resolved never to read any book but my own, as long as I live.”

“Poetry’s great mission is the pursuit of truth on a human scale, bound by the measure of each person’s mortal voice.” Robert Pinsky/ nyt

Love this unflashy video on pneumatic road tubing.

I had closed a message to a friend with the semi-jocular suggestion that she “be good;” now, in the woods with the dog, I’m thinking that actually, seriously, that might be pretty good advice for me to follow myself, and I wrap my bowed, cotton-hatted head with my knuckles three times lightly, remembering my Lear (“Beat beat gates! Let thy wisdom in and thy folly out!”), thinking “be good.”

Now, like an echo to my own wrapping, I hear branches high above me knocking, three times or so, could almost be a woodpecker but more muted, maybe an old or weakened woodpecker, or a branch upon a branch — knock knock knock — (which makes me remember my Macbeth, the gate keeper or whatever he is, the morning after Duncan’s murder: “knock, knock, knock!”) — be good.

Helen Vendler, Words Chosen Out of Desire. One of those rare works of literary criticism, like Simone Weil’s Poem of Force, which is a beautiful artwork itself often. Great place to start reading Wallace Stevens.

Harold Bloom’s The Poems of Our Climate is also helpful, particularly with understanding the long poems, which Vendler doesn’t discuss; however, Bloom is inclined to theorizing and this will somewhat distract from his subject.

That Denial is a process of reverse-annealing, a kind of weakening of a weakness.

The word “archery” spoken by a passerby. “Maybe because he doesn’t like archery,” was I believe the phrase spoken by the young passing woman to her friend.

Judging that this bicycle, having reached the bottom of the hill, must be electric, not because the rider is not pumping his legs, and not because of its speed, but because of the uniformity of its motion as it now climbs out of the dip.

Situation isn’t favorable to reading the vanity plate of that conspicuously courteous driver — what do you imagine it would have revealed to you about the nature of his courtesy?

Woman blocking the walk: old, ugly, pained, doesn’t want to go to work, and you are that person.

Bus stop: overweight black or brown man of 30 with a white over-the-shoulder bag and eyeglasses.

Bus stop: poofy dark haired white woman, seen from the back, with big headphones enmeshed in the “poof.” Attractive figure of woman in the distance in business attire observed walking: I’m guessing she’s heading for the bus stop on Wisconsin.

Why are you staring off like that? You are trying to recollect an idea you had about someone that seemed to unlock, a little, the personality of that person.

What is that person in your mind really, neurons…? Neurons attached to what?

Observation requires a mass of words rubbing against a mass of perception — the sparks arrive as notes or new thoughts — but at this moment, the sense of it is, there’s not much going on in either department. The world is bland and I’ve got nothing to say

If you were to put all these statements together all you’d get is this guy you’re looking at in the mirror so why not just give them a photograph and be done?

I make an observation on the presence of Jersey Walls simply because I’ve recalled the name of those concrete traffic barriers, and I want to comment about a group of cars simply because the word “passel” has come to mind. If you were to list everything there was in the world, the list would at best be a part of that world; it wouldn’t contain it — the opposite. It’s a silly idea, what you’re trying to do.

Linda Greenhouse on the challenges conservative justices may face in upholding the President’s tariff rationale. (Originalism, textualism, the “major questions” and “non-delegations” doctrines, all argue against it, she says.)

You can listen to the proceedings here.

I like the point Noah Smith has been making recently, if I understand: Europeans have hated technological progress, identifying it with the U.S. — like air conditioning — but maybe they might love it, or embrace its necessity, by identifying it with China?

NYT 10/29: Two federal prosecutors in Washington were informed on Wednesday that they would be placed on leave after requesting a stiff sentence for a man granted clemency after participating in the Capitol attack on Jan. 6, 2021, who later turned up armed near the house of former President Barack Obama.