local barbershop

 I got back from the barber a few minutes ago, and this came out of my head.

---

The crones, or almost-crones
Giving the haircuts, are standing at chairs
Marked with the names of the men (all of them were men)
Who gave haircuts in these places forty years ago.

But they were not the first barbers here. In the arms
Of the chairs are ashtrays, now clean,
But still with the memory of ashes, from when
Everybody smoked at the barber’s. On the counters

Are products I only remember seeing
When I was getting 25¢ haircuts, beside men
Who looked old to me then, although they
Were decades younger than I am now.

This floor has had hair swept from men
Who fought Nazis, or North Koreans,
Or who could make a living with only
A strong back and a willing attitude.

The pictures by the licenses are of grandchildren
Rather than of lovers and parties of their youth.
And despite my directions, and the crone’s obedience,
My hair comes out in a style from a movie
That was popular twenty years before I was born.

 

---

I almost never write poetry (I wrote one about a year ago, and none before that for decades), and I have no idea where this came from.

the tune without the words

 Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

A nephew died last week. The viewing was two days ago; the funeral was yesterday. Initially, I hadn't felt much over the death, but as the family gathered to pay last respects, I found myself mourning Daniel harder.

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I'll bet hundreds of people came out for the viewing. The line went on for hours. There were relatives from Croatia and Ecuador that came; friends from France and Switzerland; coworkers who spoke only Spanish; classmates and workmates; family on top of family. In addition to mourning Daniel, I wept for the meaning of so many people taking time and effort to offer support for the survivors of the young man they knew. There will not be so many at my funeral. Perhaps that is as it should be.

I'd recently been reminded of this Emily Dickinson poem in a video, and thought to myself at the funeral, "Hope is the thing with feathers", and I have not been able to keep long from tears since. It will not always be like this. For now, though, I am not ashamed that I am so moved.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

robert pirosh liked words

It's been called "the best cover letter ever written". Then-copywriter, soon-to-be-screenwriter Robert Pirosh wrote it in 1934:

Dear Sir:

I like words. I like fat buttery words, such as ooze, turpitude, glutinous, toady. I like solemn, angular, creaky words, such as straitlaced, cantankerous, pecunious, valedictory. I like spurious, black-is-white words, such as mortician, liquidate, tonsorial, demi-monde. I like suave “V” words, such as Svengali, svelte, bravura, verve. I like crunchy, brittle, crackly words, such as splinter, grapple, jostle, crusty. I like sullen, crabbed, scowling words, such as skulk, glower, scabby, churl. I like Oh-Heavens, my-gracious, land’s-sake words, such as tricksy, tucker, genteel, horrid. I like elegant, flowery words, such as estivate, peregrinate, elysium, halcyon. I like wormy, squirmy, mealy words, such as crawl, blubber, squeal, drip. I like sniggly, chuckling words, such as cowlick, gurgle, bubble and burp.

I like the word screenwriter better than copywriter, so I decided to quit my job in a New York advertising agency and try my luck in Hollywood, but before taking the plunge I went to Europe for a year of study, contemplation and horsing around.

I have just returned and I still like words.

May I have a few with you?

Robert Pirosh
385 Madison Avenue
Room 610
New York
Eldorado 5-6024

I got it from Rob at RobWords in his weekly email; he included a link to Benedict Cumberbatch having more fun with it than anybody ever should.

It worked. It got Pirosh a job at MGM.

dis-improvement, maybe?

 OK, this goes a ways for the origin. I spend way too much time on Youtube when I'm idle (which hasn't happened enough lately, what with the upcoming obsequies and returning to work). One of the channels I follow is RobWords. He does videos about language, including obscure words, etymologies, puns, homonyms, and the like. One of his recents was about words we should steal from German.

He's also got a newsletter, into which he sometimes includes stuff that didn't make the video, and one of the words left out of the "steal from German" video was Verschlimmbesserung. He defines it as "An attempt to make something better that only serves to make it worse. Literally a 'worsening improvement'."

I think that's about the best thing to come out of Germany since Martin Luther, and intend to try to remember it. Battery-dependent bike shifting? Self-checkout lanes? Telephone-support menu hells? All Verschlimmbesserungen. (I gotta remember that double-M in the middle. And is -en the right way to make it plural?)

There's no English equivalent, and those who know me, know I'd have to spend three paragraphs trying to describe one. The German penchant for compounding words to capture meanings has come up with a winner. I am struck with awe and gratitude.

(Since I'm on about words today, I can't remember if I've told youse about Anu Garg's Word A Day email [you can subscribe here]). He doesn't sell your contact info, he's more left-wing than I, and he comes up daily with neat words and usages.There's also a weekly digest of comments he's received. I like it way a lot.)

it's not the poem i hoped to write.

 The mechanical shifters
the brake levers
the exposed cables
of my out-of-fashion bicycle
hold a poem
that, with all my vocabulary
all my reading
all my experience
I do not have the materials
or power
to write.

homo

 

This one is partly a "bikes" post, but mostly an "other business" post.

Twice recently, when I've been out on the bike in full lycra-and-spandex regalia, I've heard the shout, "HOMO!" from a passing car. It's clear that this was meant to be a put-down.

I'm not clear that it's going to have the intended effect. First of all, my homophobic father threatened to put me in a military school when he saw my interests and affectations as a teen. He never told me why he was threatening to pull me out of school; and it wasn't until decades later than I figured it out.

I can see the reason for his thinking that I would wind up a member of the LGBTQIA alphabet mafia. I was an introvert, more interested in reading inside than in doing anything else, especially more manly outdoor activities. He pushed me into Boy Scouts, in which I was an indifferent participant. And, as my mother loved the show tunes of the 50's and 60's when I was growing up, I know more about American musical theater of those decades than any straight male you know.

The traditional trappings of homosexuality were undoubtedly attractive to me: art, theater, music, and entertainments caught (and still catch) my attention far more than sports or any traditionally masculine pursuits. I used to joke that I tried out for homosexuality, but I just didn't make the cut; I wasn't cool enough. The truth is, I'm just not attracted to men. (I've had some try to engage my interest. In the earliest cases, I was too clueless to determine their intent. Later, when I figured out what was going on, I could let them know that I was just not interested... but I was flattered at the men I attracted: good-looking, interesting, and accomplished guys!)

So the shout of "HOMO!" may not have had the intended effect.

But I had a further thought recently as I ruminated on the experience: the men (of COURSE they were men) who shouted from their cars apparently thought that their catcall would make me rethink my choices of apparel and activity.

Wait a minute. You think I want to be more like you? I don't think so. If "homo" is what you call me, I will wear the appellation with pride. Even though it doesn't fit, it's better than whatever else you're offering.

two things

 Two things: this morning, I was looking through some of my old blog posts for something else, and came upon this one from ten years ago, with a motto I'd forgotten about (but shouldn't have): inimicum malissimum meum mecum duco, "I bring my worst enemy with me".

The other thing: about three months ago, I came as close to suicide as I ever hope to come. I referred in that post to the forgotten war memorial. I was going to pass by there today on my way to something else, and I decided to stop and get some pictures.

There's some kind of design at top I can't place, and a legend at bottom, "Their Bodies Rest", which is how I know it was once a war memorial. There are bolts in the stone that apparently once held bronze plaques, but those are gone; whether officially removed, or stolen for the scrap metal, I don't know.

It's an eerie space. I don't know why the branches are stacked up near the base, whether for removal, or burning, or what. 

Last night was the last of a series of individual counseling sessions I'd begun to deal with a problem (that I'm not going to be specific about here). I'm done, for now.

I'll have a more complete post next month for suicide month. But the gods told me that today was a day to stop by there, and I find they don't take kindly to being ignored.