Dear Ms. Cunningham...

I heard of your recent passing and felt a personal loss, even after these 15 years. John Donne’s "Death Be Not Proud" has been replaying in my head over and over... I memorized it for your class. I still have it memorized. There is something I need to say:

Ms. Cunningham, I remember you.

Do you remember me?

I was that awkward boy, the reticent one with the big glasses

And the oh-so carefully parted hair sitting lucidly in the last row.

I was partial to the back row,

Always rooted in that farthest furrow of chairs

Where I was cultivated by your careful intent.

I was a quiet kid then…but that was okay in your class,

Because you said 'Still waters run deep'.

Remember me now?

I was caught in my turbulent teens,

A time of sturm and angst…but that was okay too,

Because you said, 'Rough seas make good sailors'.

As adolescent quandaries and questions milled through my mind

I knew that I would find my way through,

Because you taught 'All the darkness in the world ...

Can not extinguish the smallest candle.'

When I felt the draw of society to become a widget

In its great scheme to norm and conform… I aimed higher.

Because you read 'Be not simply good, be good for something.'

You were to us eight who created a Dead Poets Society,

The Emerson to our Whitman…

We were simmering, simmering, simmering…

And you brought our minds to a boil!

Remember me?

It has been a long time, since I heard you read:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

I know now what your darling Mr. Shakespeare meant.

And maybe it is true for some that all our yesterdays

Have lighted fools the way to dusty death.

But not your life,

You, were no walking shadow,

You, were no poor player, strutting and fretting an hour upon the stage.

Your life and influence was humble yet palpable

A desire to open our minds to the classics

By becoming All things, to All student, that by All your means

You might teach some.

Do you remember me now?

I wrote that scratch-paper poem while helping my dad.

I almost threw it away on my way to your class,

Because I could smell my father's employ on the paper

But you didn't care that I was a pig-farmer's boy.

You said I had a real ‘faculty’ for poetry, and asked for another.

I was doubtful when you said the two would win and be published

—but you were right.

Now you remember me...

I’m sorry that I was sick when you arranged my poetry reading

You knew I was faking didn't you.

It was such a large crowd, of Have-it-Alls, and Know-a-Lots.

But I have learned not to be afraid of such hob-goblins anymore.

I am sorry this letter did not make it to you sooner…

but I am not hindered by your death

Just as you are not hindered by life anymore.

But I wanted you to know…

I find my waters run deeper.

Life's rough seas continue to strengthen me.

The love of classic literature you passed on

Still keeps my mind at a boil.

Our paths may have intersected for a finite moment

But, know this Ms. Cunningham,

You made an infinite difference in me.

The Birthmark

"You look at a star from two motives,
because it is luminous and because it is incomprehesible.
You have at your side a softer radiance
and a greater mystery, Woman."
-Victor Hugo


Just recently, I had the chance to read the short story titled, “The Birthmark” by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Here is a story written in the mid 1800’s that seems to accurately pin-the-tail on the Jack Assian ways of today's society. Husbands and wives that are critical of each other’s imperfections, the love of personal wants and comforts over the love of a spousal needs, technology outweighing humanity, gaining self worth through following personal or cultural notions of physical perfection…and the list goes on and on. A real gem of a story for numerous reasons... but just one of all these themes hit me while reading it this time around.

The story takes place during the late 1700’s where we find a man of science, named Aylmer, who marries a beautiful woman named Georgiana. Now Georgiana is the most beautiful girl in town and many men consider her touched by an angel or charmed by a fairy, because from birth has had a small light birthmark on her cheek in the shape of a miniature hand. Men who admired Georgiana liked the birthmark, and thought it made her all the more attractive. Aylmer knows he has obtained the most prized and perfect woman in town, maybe even in the world...well, if it were not for that birthmark but he is willing to see beyond that.

Shortly after their marriage, Aylmer asks his wife one morning if she has ever considered removing the birthmark from her cheek. This obviously upsets Georgiana and catches her completely off guard, since she wants to please her husband and has never considered the birthmark as anything but a beauty mark. As time passes, Aylmer is more and more bothered by his wife's birthmark; in his mind it is the only thing holding her back from perfection. His obsession with Georgiana's one flaw is so pervasive that eventually, out of her respect for his opinion, she begins to hate the cursed mark on her cheek as well. One Evening, she overhears him dreaming of cutting deep into her skin to remove the blemish, so the next morning she asks him to use his knowledge of science and technology to remove the birthmark and make her desirable once more.

After several attempts he finally concocts the elixir that he believes will work--but there are risks. After she takes the potion, she falls asleep as her husband watches her birthmark hold fast as if gripping her soul, then it begins to pale. Aylmer is extremely joyous at his accomplishments and wakes Georgiana momentarily to exclaim, "My peerless bride, it is successful! You are perfect!" She looks in the mirror and sees that the birthmark’s blemish has almost completely disappeared, but then Georgiana feels her life beginning to fade as the birthmark fades, only to quietly die as she is released from her imperfection.

Now my summation of the story does not begin to do justice to Hawthorne's ability to tell a story...so I put the short story's link below. Sometimes, and I am sure I am not alone, I focus too much on the flaws of family members around me. Being married, sometimes the things that we husbands and wives once thought cute or endearing about a fiancé have become great annoyances in our spouses. Now I am not talking about anything specific, just the general combination of imperfections that every individual, including myself, has. But I do recognize (as many men sooner or later do) that I truly married out of my league--Tami is a bona fide angelic being. We each have a spark of divinity with in us, and we should approach that aspect of our loved ones more often. Upon visiting a few Sihk elders within one of their temples in Toronto, they greeted me with one word "Namasté", which means "I greet the Divinity within you". How much more necessary it is to greet the divinity within our family than within a stranger. At some point we husbands have to say, “If the only way to keep my sweet angel from floating back up to heaven is to allow her to keep a little dirt in her pocket to weigh her down, then so be it.”

So I did something about my new realization, my new awakening...I went up to Tami, sat her on the couch, held her hand, and while looking deep into her eyes, I said...

"Namasté"

To which she responded, "Bless you...That was a weird sneeze. Are you coming down with something? Where is the hand sanitizer? Better not get me sick!" as she walked away to rummage through the medicine cabinet. I guess this is one of those Mars/Venus things right?

The Birthmark by Nathaniel Hawthorne: READ IT HERE

If you have 5 minutes, you will like the story better from Hawthorne.

Favorite Short Film

More



"MORE" a short film by Mark Osbourne, tells the story of an inventor who lives in a drab, colorless world. Day by day, he toils away in a harsh, dehumanizing job for an unappreciative employer...his only savior being the memories of the bliss of childhood. But at night, he works secretly on an invention that could help him relive those memories and spread their joy to everyone in his despair-filled life.

When he finishes his invention, it changes the way people look at the world. But his success changes him, for with it, he loses the most important part of himself by forgetting his pursuit of happiness in his persuit of 'MORE' and 'More'.

Listen closely...18 month old Keagan says "Go ASU!"

Tempus Edax Rerum- Time, Devourer of all Things

Yes... it has been awhile since I 'blogged', but my feeble mind and my hunt-n-peck fingers have been very busy over the last several months with an intensive writing course, the loss of a career, then getting my career back, etc, etc, so no need to worry about my seemingly vegetative state, I have been just plain busy. A ROLLER COASTER--the only description adequate for 2009 so far.


But I did have a moment and I wanted to share a poem by Carl Sandburg I recently re-discovered this spring semester--first reading it some 16 years ago. Back then there were eight of us juniors and seniors that would sneak up into a small forgotten room in the high school library where we had determined to hold weekly Dead Poet Society meetings. We barely fit in that little dusty room at the top of a very steep and narrow stair way above the library’s periodical and magazine section. Too small for a classroom, this oubliette might have been the office of the old Snowflake Academy's headmaster at one time. Being called to the office would be like a call to the gallows by having to pass through this poorly lit, narrow staircase. Once reaching the top of the steep stairs, beneath one's feet were solid wood plank floors and countless etchings left by the scrawling wear of each generation's passing. To the right, shelves holding National Geographic magazines from the early 1900's advertising Model T Fords and showing the latest horse harnesses that would be used to dig the Panama Canal. To the right, in a corner one could find parts from old typewriters and the funnel to a phonograph. Stacked like a chord of wood ready for the burning, there was a set of maps no longer correct since the reboundrification of Europe after both World Wars.

Sadly, we were soon discovered (after whispering troll-like through the floorboard vents into the room below and freaking out some freshmen girls) so we began meeting out by the old F Bar stockyard where a solid bridge of quarried sandstone blocks had been constructed across a ravine. We built a campfire pit at the base of the bridge, brought a few small benches, and would wax and wane from philosophic to comedic until very late at night. This is where I first heard the lyrics to Pearl Jam's song "Jeremy" as one of the boys drove his truck on the old tracks over head, threw open the doors, and cranked up the volume. This is where I committed in front of everyone to ask a particularly cute girl from St. Johns (we’ll call her Talisha) to a New Years dance…and the place I vocalized my pissed offness after the dance in overhearing three girls in my own grade tell Talisha that she should have said ‘no’ because I was shy and wasn’t popular. This is where I first experienced a truly terrifying ghost story--the kind that makes you feel as if the very haunting-hour of night is upon you, and that one more word would cause graveyards to gasp at what we dared whisper that moonless night. In the Dead Poet Society, nothing was off limits for discussion. We often spoke of matters personal, political, ethical, or social--things most teenage girls find tedious and that most teenage boys find counterproductive in their constant pursuits of finding a Willing Betty to fog up windshields with.

I needed these outings. I now know that most of the townspeople regarded me as a "sober child", so it probably would not surprise many that I was easily bored of conversations about putting a larger V8 in the Ford Falcon, which cheerleader was seen getting out of Joe Athlete's car at 3 a.m., or why Hobie shirts were out and No Fear shirts were in. I didn't give a crap about what all the cool kids were in to, yet cared too much about what they thought of me.

Luckily, I was not alone. Our group of eight consisted of nerds and jocks, introverts and extroverts, some of whom could sit on "The Wall" as part of the 'in crowd' and some of which could not. Despite our diversity, we were equals when we met to discuss our unique and individual views on things. I miss those days from time to time. Why? I miss the added perceptions to life. I can only liken it to playing baseball. With only one eye, you lose depth perception; it is harder to judge the distance and speed of approach of a ball. Imagine how much easier it is to catch or hit a ball when you are using both eyes, having two vantage points to judge distance and speed. The analogy is this, what a benefit having eight distinct vantage points when life hurls one of her curve-balls at you. Around that campfire, I learned that every man, simple or complex, has his own story...his own unique perspective rooted in his experience, interests, education, and world view. Even a person's failures have inestimable value and become his triumph when he is able to caution another from a poor path he had already erringly traveled down.

When I re-read the following poem again after so many years, I wanted to be at that campfire again. I feel that I have a strong grasp on Sandburg’s general message, but that I am missing something sublime that one of my fellow Dead Poet's had mentioned. Something that I once was told but can not remember it now. Maybe it is just my being so keenly aware of how, like in the poem, Tomorrow will soon be Yesterday...that all previous great empires with their powerful men and gifted women are nothing but lore and ruins now. If I were at the campfire now, I can imagine one friend saying, "Sandburg seems to believe this is the eventual fate of America, that rats and crows will make their homes in the ruins of our cities like they did in Babylon, Persia, Greece, and Rome." Another Dead Poet would express, "I think it is a cautionary warning to every organization, be it a religion, a political group, even a small family--celebrating your greatness rather than pursuing greater greatness is the beginning of its own end. You know, "Pride proceedeth the fall?'" But what would the others say?

I might say, "American's have forgotten that every freedom is based on certain responsibilities...if we are irresponsible with our freedom of speech, freedom of press, or irresponsible with free enterprise and free trade--they mutate (with the help of both political parties) into counterfeit forms and false versions of freedom that actually oppress individuals. Then the government feels the need to regulate our freedom. Is Sandburg saying eternal principles such as Justice, Ethics, Ingenuity, Compassion, Fairness, and Humility, the true structures in a free society, lie in ruins around us, and that WE are the rats, lizards, and crows, that have taken shelter in a broken system that use to be the American Dream?”

A deep thought, and that is when Talisha says, “Hey… those girls were right...he is a dork.”

So friends, family, and Dead Poet's, what do you think of the poem?




Four Preludes on Playthings of the Wind
By Carl Sandburg


1. THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.


2 The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.

The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.


3 It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women to warble:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.

And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened …
and the only listeners left now …
are … the rats … and the lizards.

And there are black crows
crying, “Caw, caw,”
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.

The only singers now are crows crying, “Caw, caw,”
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now
are … the rats … and the lizards.


4 The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.

And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.