It's time to take a caesura. Wrong use of the word, I know, and wrong use of the definition, but it conveys my meaning. Like a caesura--a break or pause in the middle of a line of verse--I'm taking a break from my blog. As Hamlet asks himself in Act III, Scene I, with a definite break between the two famous lines, I also ask, "To blog or not to blog//That is the question."
The answer for now is clear: not to blog.
A caesura it is!
Shamrocks in the yard capture the spirit of Easter . . .
A creative writing teacher told our class many years ago that we should never write about cancer in fiction. Cancer was cliched, and it conveyed tragedy. The reader's assumptions and stereotypes would detract from the story.
What will I do, then, if I choose to tell the story of my life through the lens of fiction?
My grandmother died from breast cancer. My father died from bladder cancer. My aunt died from endometrial cancer. My sister-in-law died from brain cancer. My cousin's son died from bone cancer. My mother has glandular cancer, my cousin has liver cancer, and I've had three cancers.
As explained by the American Cancer Society, the word cancer comes from the Latin for crab--an unfortunate image that most likely arose "because the finger-like spreading projections from a cancer called to mind the shape of a crab." In contrast, the finger-like projections from the Cancer constellation are quite lovely:
The faintest of all the constellations in the zodiac, Cancer is hard to find.
Our writing teacher no doubt said something like this, which I found from the Institute for Writers: "Often writers imbue their ailing characters with a disease to such an extent that they seem like merely an embodiment of the illness . . . It makes for uninteresting two-dimensional characters. (Insert yawn here.)"
Cancer has become my companion over the years, not a friend of course, but a familiar figure. I know how it moves and how it acts. I know not to be surprised. And if I ever write about the people I've known with cancer, they won't be cliched or two-dimensional. You won't have to yawn. For their cancer has never defined them. Rather, they've defied it. Their personalities, quirks, and talents have far outlived this disease.
The crab can scuttle all it wants, sideways hither and yon, but I'll take the image in the sky--whether I can see it or not.
When I heard about the shootings in Atlanta on Tuesday, I soon began playing in my head a song from childhood. It became an earworm, which I still can't get out of my mind. Called "Wun Long Pan," from The Blue Book of the John W. Schaum Piano Course series, it introduces students to sixteenth notes through the following lyrics:
"Wun Long Pan, Is famous Chinese Detective,
Wun Long Pan, He gives the crooks a chase.
Wun Long Pan, Is famous Chinese Detective,
Wun Long Pan, He always solves the case."
Here's the picture that accompanies this simple, clunky tune:
The year before I started piano lessons and learned to play "Wun Long Pan," my second-grade teacher taught us about Mao Zedong, whose name at the time was spelled in English as Mao Tse-tung. He had most likely appeared in an issue of My Weekly Reader. All I remember about this lesson is the way my teacher pronounced his name: Mayo Tease Tongue.
Wun Long Pan and Mayo Tease Tongue were my introductions to Chinese culture in the early 1960s. The sad thing is I don't think much has changed since then. Too many Americans wouldn't object to the illustration of Detective Pan, the absurdity of his name, or the disturbing syntax of the lyrics. Moreover, newscasters and politicians continue to mispronounce Asian names, either as deliberate insults or as insensitive slights. As one student said in response to a survey at the University of Alberta, "It is important for me to have my heritage name pronounced correctly because it makes me feel like I belong."
Exactly. That's one of our main problems today. Too many fellow citizens feel unwelcome and unworthy, as if they don't belong. We can fix this, and it begins with respect: treating others as we would have them treat us. Sound familiar?
All of the cold rain last month finally gave way to something lovely . . .
The cascading flowers of this Pieris Katsura are like Elton John's tiny dancer, ballerinas in the palm of my hand.
Hellebores plants hide their flowers well, though not well enough. They tilt their faces down, but you can still see their freckles and fingers teasing shyly. Beguiling queens.
Yellow defines spring, and daffodils, like ladies-in-waiting, bloom everywhere--happy and willing to delight. As A. A. Milne wrote, "She turned to the sunlight and shook her yellow head, and whispered to her neighbor. Winter is dead."
Finally, from Sesame Street, "One of these things is not like the others/One of these things just doesn't belong/Can you tell which thing is not like the others/By the time I finish my song?" (Hint: the not-so-subtle color)
I'm out of town, and it's been a long day . . . but still I watched Oprah's interview with Meghan Markle and Prince Harry tonight. All three seemed honest and earnest and, in Meghan's case, sad. Clearly she's become a target for the British tabloids and, at the same time, unsupported by the royal family. To say that she's endured racist attacks is an understatement.
The interview wasn't totally depressing, however. My favorite line came at the end when Oprah asked Meghan and Harry about their lives now. Harry talked about his love for his growing family and his pride in his wife, and then he added, "The dogs are really happy."
This made me smile. There's hope for Meghan and Harry.
The ridiculous statue of Donald Trump showcased this weekend at CPAC reminds me of Percy Bysshe Shelley's sonnet "Ozymandias," written in 1817. Using the image of the decaying statue of Ramses II, Shelley reflects on the transience of political power and of those whose hubris governs their actions. As the statue of Ozymandias fades under the Egyptian sun, the sand and wind take over, and nothing remains of the former tyrant.
Here's a revised version of Shelley's sonnet:
I met a traveller from the USA
Who said: "Two vast and Trumpless legs of chrome
Stand in the desert . . . Near them on the sand
Half sunk, a shattered orange face lies, whose vain
And vulgar mien, and sneer of cold command,
Tell of his heartless deeds and hateful ways
Which yet survive, stamped on this tasteless mold
Of glitz and gold.
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| Image by Miranda Straubel |
And on his flip-flopped feet these words appear:
'My name is DonaldMandias, a very stable genius,
The best of all that's ever been!'
Now nothing else of Trump remains.
This gaudy wreck, this statue gone,
While lone and level sands stretch far away."
