Prose Poem: The Light at the Start of the Tunnel. (Dedicated to William Wan.)

 

My doctor tells me to avoid reading newspapers.  He recommends instead I listen to soothing classical music by Brahms, close my eyes, and imagine the news I'd like to read about in the newspaper.  Like the end of the Ukraine invasion by Russia.  North Korea overthrowing their dictators and becoming a democracy.  Abundant rain in the Sub Sahara leading to amazing crop harvests that feed everyone and leave enough to export for huge profits.  A federal government program that features handouts of free cotton candy.  So far it's worked pretty well.  My mental health has improved markedly.  There are no longer voices in my head telling me that sugar is poison or that Donald Trump is another Caligula.  I can smile again.  Meet people and shake their hand with a smile and twinkle in my eye.  Even use my pressure cooker to make beef stew again -- for the first time since 1995.  But I have to confess I miss the feel of newsprint crackling in my fingers as I turn the pages from wars to disasters to Dilbert.  Carrying a newspaper on the bus, reading it on a park bench, rolling it up to beat my dog when it soils the carpet  -- these are all tactile pleasures I need to replace.  So I put rubber bands around my wrist.  And snap them whenever I want to buy a copy of the Washington Post.  My wrist is black and blue.  And I might be developing gangrene -- there's a dark blue line running up my arm that throbs with heat.  But at least I'm not obsessing about global warming or living in dread of Alec Baldwin.  Only thing I still have trouble with is lying.  I don't have a dog.  Don't beat it with a newspaper or anything else.  In fact I don't have a carpet for it to pee on.  No house.  No job.  I'm homeless, actually.  And don't have a doctor.  I'm making all this up while sleeping under a layer of newspapers on a park bench.  Have you got a quarter?

Prose Poem: Not about cherry blossoms. (Dedicated to Christine Clarridge.)

 

Leaders of the Floogle Street Gang.

I can watch a piece of grass grow for twenty years.  That's why I like to view the invisible blossoms each spring.  These are on trees that most people claim have no blossoms.  Larches.  Yews.  Spruce.  And redwoods.  The scientific community, in their overweening overconfidence, claim that such trees do not flower.  And the public seems to accept this balderdash.  Since there are no springtime tours to admire the larch blossoms or the redwood blooms.  Not like those upstart cherry trees.  They get all the attention.  Which they hardly deserve.  But I won't get started on that . . . 

The larch blossom, it's true, is extremely small and dull.  It looks like a grey pimple on the larch branch.  And when it is done blooming (just two short hours) it starts to drip a black tarry liquid that can stain the windshield of your car.  Still, it's a blossom and deserves some respect for being just that.  Not every blossom is a show stopper; not every bloom is a work of art.  Which doesn't mean we should ignore or denigrate those more modest unspectacular flowerings.  I've always admired the way the redwood blooms. It sends out a thin green finger, about 200 feet above ground, which gradually turns into a tiny octopus-shaped translucent flower. Which turns to powder during the night and blows away.  It smells awful.  Like burnt popcorn.  But I think there's a need for people to see these disappointments of nature, so to speak.  People should be forced to go on tours of larch forests and stands of redwood in the early spring, when it's still damp and cold and muddy, to view these tiny things with telescopes and magnifying glasses.  The federal government should get involved. But I won't get started on that . . . 

   

Prose Poem: Sarah Maslin Nir Loves Horses.

 

I want to be very careful what I write here.  Because horses are very sensitive and high strung creatures.  If you write about them the wrong way they come down with the bots.  So I must be careful with my words.  Journalists, on the other hand, don't give a hoot in Hades what you write about them.  They enjoy the give and take of a good verbal tussle.  At least I hope they do.  Because I want to tell you about a particular reporter who loves horses.  All horses.  Black ones. Clydesdales. Mustangs. Ponies.  Cobs.  Appaloosa. Studs and mares and yearlings.  But other than horses Sarah Maslin Nir doesn't exhibit extravagant love for much else.  Not having met her, and only having read some of her stuff, I'd guess she puts all her passion into her reporting.  Which leaves her a little stunted in her dealings with editors, publishers, the general public, and encyclopedia salespeople.  With her family, I don't know.  I won't guess.  Family dynamics are a subject that would stump Einstein and Socrates alike.  In my family . . . well, in my family no one likes pickled herring but me.  And that has caused a lot of heartache.  I'll tell you about it if you'll meet me at the Swedish Corner Smorgasbord in Torrance, CA, next Shichigosan weekend.  But we know that Ms Nir dotes on horses.  Because the very last line of her New York Times official biography reads:  "She loves horses."  

Any woman who loves horses can't be all bad.  Not that I'm saying she's bad in any way.  I'm just riffing on an old Hollywood quote about W.C. Fields and . . . oh well, I'm drifting way off base here.  In fact this whole piece has gotten away from me.  Pickled herring and Socrates, indeed!  I've failed in my intention to present an interesting piece of writing about Sarah Maslin Nir or horses or anything else.  I just hope the horses won't take my blather too much to heart.  They are beautiful, noble creatures who ought to rule over us as the Houyhnhnm once did.

***********************************

I am away on my book tour for my new kids' book The Flying Horse until May 1. Please enjoy your copy and contact me regarding NYTimes business upon my return. 

Best, 

SMN

Sarah Nir	8:52 AM (1 minute ago)
to me

 

Janteloven

 

 

Janteloven is alive and well in Valley Villa.  Provo. Utah.

Let me introduce you to a Norwegian concept that I studied at the University of Minnesota some thirty years ago.

It was created by Norwegian/Danish author Aksel Sandemose. It is called “The Laws of Jante,” or in Norwegian, “Janteloven.” 

These so-called social laws are how small-town Norwegians govern their own existence and the existence of others:

• You're not to think you are anything special

• You're not to think you are as good as we are

• You're not to think you are smarter than we are

• You're not to convince yourself that you are better than we are

• You're not to think you know more than we do

• You're not to think you are more important than we are

• You're not to think you are good at anything

• You're not to laugh at us

• You're not to think anyone cares about you

• You're not to think you can teach us anything

I’m here to tell you, friends, that this noxious mindset is alive and well here in our apartment building, Valley Villa.

Just this morning, this Sabbath morning, I opened our patio blinds to find a large stuffed animal had been disemboweled on our patio – the fluff was scattered around our patio, and even stuffed inside our empty flower pots. There was not a shred of anything on adjoining ground floor patios. I don’t believe it was an animal who did this randomly. Not when so much of the stuffing was planted in our flower pots.  Some person or persons unknown deliberately did this to us.

That is only the latest petty piece of personal insult that has been offered us.

Previously when we have shared haiku poetry on our storage room door it has been defaced and anonymous hateful communications have been put up on our storage room door deriding our poetic efforts and telling us to give up and get out.

In the past anonymous persons have gone to the Valley Villa office to complain of our various, and spurious, infractions of the building rules. And we have gotten warning letters from the building management based on these false reports.

I have never hidden the fact that I spent most of my adult life as a professional circus clown. I’m proud of it. But some people are very uncomfortable about my past, and have told me so right in the building lobby.

As many of you know Amy and I delight in cooking large nutritious meals and then offering them for free to our friends and neighbors here at Valley Villa. We enjoy sharing God’s bounty with others.  But we are saddened that some people have gone about spreading rumors that our food is tainted, even poisoned. We have heard it said that we are charging money and making a profit on our free community meals. We are not. And never have. And never will.

It seems obvious to me that because Amy and I express our creativity openly and often in many different ways (including my latest creation of “Poet for Rent”) and because we have a very special and vibrant love story that is probably unmatched in the annals of Church history, mean and petty minds have decided we are persona non grata here at Valley Villa. We don’t fit in. And should be encouraged to either keep quiet and learn our place or leave.

Well, I, for one, would be glad to leave.  In fact, I will be making inquiries on how to get a mortgage on a small house where Amy and I can live without any further mean-spirited persecution from our pygmy neighbors. Lacking that, we will be looking at other apartment buildings to move into. The bottom line is that I, personally, want to get the hell out of this despotic, narrow-minded, warehouse for simpletons and the narrow-minded.

Having said all that, I must add that we have received some gracious and gratifying messages from a few of our neighbors here at Valley Villa from time to time.  I do not wish to discount them.  But that does not alter the fact that I want to take Amy and I somewhere free of Janteloven. I am willing to admit that perhaps the Lord wants us to stay on here at Valley Villa, doing what good we can. But honestly, I’m gonna need a pretty clear sign from heaven to believe that.  Amy says it more succinctly, and faithfully:  “If we’re meant to leave here we will find a way to finance it. If not, then the Lord means for us to stay.”

Amen.

 

 

****************************************************

I have received numerous posts in response to the above Janteloven personal essay. Here they are, verbatim:

 

So sorry to hear you have been treated so horribly. As we all know, that jealous people and those that have sad lives, enjoy making others suffer. The building I live in, Cascade Gardens has had It's share of rumors, etc.

I have enjoyed reading your poetry and the different meals you prepare each day. Because of my situation, I'm not able to come enjoy the meals as I would like to.

I pray that God guides you to find a home that he knows is the right fit for you.

He has guided me to find a place that will be shared with my youngest daughter because she is having a hard time paying rent because of circumstances that have made financial obligations hard to pay.

As we both know, God will always take care of you.

My heart was warmed to hear of how you and Amy got back together.

 

 

 

Whoa, Samson, I do not feel I should be included in the simpleton or narrow minded category. You know I do not leave my apartment not only because I really cannot, but, because I do not want to be included in the annals of the foyer gossips, those fountains of misinformation. I am grateful for the food you make that is sent my way, though, sometimes I do want to give you a few of my cookbooks. (Have to get rid of them before I die as my kids do not want them and have told me they will end up being thrown away, that breaks my heart, so if you want some, come get them). I am sorry you are feeling the brunt of this, but, remember, nearly everyone here lives alone and has nothing to do but gossip and talk, I do believe that if there were things to do here, that this might put a large dent in the chatter. There is no bingo, community dance

 

 

 

 

Sorry to hear you are having problems with your neighbors!

Makes living there hard, hope you find a friendly place to live.

Billy 

 

 

 

Dear Tim and Amy:

I am deeply pained over the bad treatment you are receiving in your place of residence. At the same time I admire you for the goodness of your lives and your generosity toward others. In my view if you move away the ill willed folks win. Hang in there! Keep on keeping on. Keep being the noble people that you are. Blessings!

LRC 

 

 

Prose Poem: Interview with Charles Passy.

 

I decided I wanted to interview Charles Passy, who writes for the Wall Street Journal. Because I wanted someone interesting to talk to for my blog. I have high hopes for my blog. I'm hoping it will start getting a lot of views and then I will sell it to the highest bidder and retire to Thailand on the money from the sale. You can buy an orchid plant in Thailand for ten baht.  So I googled Mr. Passy and got a phone number in, of all places, Texas.  I figured he had a vacation home there.  So I dialed the number.  "Jefferson Jimplecute" said a lady's voice.  "Come again?" I asked.  "This is the Jefferson Jimplecute newspaper, sir" she replied patiently.  "How can I help you."   "Um, I'd like to talk to Charles Passy, please?" I told her uncertainly.  "Just a minute" she said.  She came back a minute later:  "He's out delivering the paper right now, can I get your number so's he can call you right back?"  I was puzzled.  "I'm looking for the Charles Passy who writes for the Wall Street Journal?" I told her desperately.  "Oh him" she replied.  "He don't work here, honey.  Our Charles Passy is just a local boy who works part-time in the office here. Sorry."  "That's okay" I told her.  "Thanks."  Damn Google, sending me on a wild goose chase.  So next I tried calling the Wall Street Journal direct for his phone number.  They said he was at his vacation home in Marion County, and they wouldn't give me his number there. They didn't even offer to take a message, the momsers.  But I had to find something out, just for my own self-esteem.  So I asked "Where's Marion County, anyway?"  They told me it was in Texas.   So I never got to interview Charles Passy, the one who writes for the Wall Street Journal.  I decided instead to call back and interview the Charles Passy, Charlie to his friends, who works in the Jefferson Jimplecute newspaper office.  He's a nice kid, but really had nothing important to say.  Except that his dad owns a bottle of mescal with a scorpion in it.

Prose Poem: I am the Deep State. (Dedicated to Rebecca Ballhaus.)

 

You may not believe this, but I am the Deep State.  That's right, boychik, I pull all the strings.  I'm the king maker.  The eminence grise par excellence. Until recently.  I say this not to brag.  But to explain my actions during the past week.  When a pesky journalist by the name of Rebecca Ballhaus began writing about me in the Wall Street Journal.  Her first article merely insinuated that although I was outwardly an elderly slob who couldn't button his sweater right, I had suspicious links to the Andrea Doria affair and was the prime mover behind the horrible outcome of the Giant Rat of Sumatra League. My lawyers said she had not crossed the line into libel or slander, so there was little I could do except have my boys throw limburger cheese at her car as she drove by my secretive lair outside of Bumpass, Virginia.  Then she hit me where it hurts by writing about my connections with A. Robins (AKA 'The Banana Man.')  Although the Board warned me to take no direct action I felt compelled to show her who was boss.  So I took a water balloon down to her newspaper office -- but they said she worked at home.  So I threw the water balloon at the nearest pigeon and ordered my chauffeur to drive me to her home.  It is a palatial estate on the banks of Cockle Creek. Once there I hid in the bushes to spy on her.  But the gardener caught me.  He locked me in the tool shed until I promised to go straight home and to bed without my supper.  But I was not defeated.  Not by a long shot.  The next day I wrote a letter to the editor.  Nothing came of it.  So I decided to resign as the Deep State controller and begin painting water color clowns.  If Ballhaus wants to write about me anymore she's gonna have to explain what a variegated wash is and not accuse me of taking down the Silicon Valley Bank . . .

Prose Poem: The Knitted Scarf. (Dedicated to Gina Kolata.)

 

I started knitting in the womb.  My mother tells me it was a very uncomfortable experience for her.  And where the yarn and the knitting needles came from, no one can really say.  It could be called a miracle.  Or a nuisance.  I stopped knitting at the age of five.  Just lost interest in the whole thing.  Our family wasn't big on handicrafts anyways.  We were more into sitting in front of the television, eating frozen dinners, and picking lint off our sweaters.  When I needed to get a job as a young man I chose the Merchant Marine.  I learned that lots of poets and writers were in the Merchant Marine, like Jack Kerouac.  I began writing an obsessively long novel on a roll of brown butcher paper.  I stopped writing when my hitch was up.  Lost interest in the whole thing.  And the knitted scarf, which is the title of this whole thing?  Just a gimmick.  A ruse to interest dedicated knitters like Gina Kolata of the New York Times.  See, I figure if she writes about me not knitting anymore or writing anymore I'll become a social media trend.  The guy who quit.  That's my personal brand.  Catchy, no?  With the raft of endorsement deals I'm hoping to garner, I should be able to retire early.  Live in Victoria, British Columbia.  Mild winters.  Lots of flowers.  I'll take to wearing garish knitted scarfs and being reclusive.  All the best writers are recluses.

Prose Poem: Template. (Dedicated to Mike Anderson of KSL.)

 

 

 

I was asked by a New York newspaper reporter if I use the same template, just plugging in different names, when I dedicate a prose poem to someone.  I didn't know what to make of that question.  Did the reporter think I  reuse the same poem over and over again?  That I can't or won't create new work each time I post on social media?  I still don't know if he thought I was clever, or lazy.  But I don't recycle my work, filling in the blanks.  When I write a prose poem, and use someone's name in it, it's because that person's life has somehow intersected with mine.  I feel a need to include them in my expanding opus.  Does that make me a crude exploiter.  A ballyhoo artist?  Maybe.  I don't mind admitting I crave the limelight.  But what I most want as a writer, as a poet, are new ideas to ground my works in reality.  Because I keep falling into the fantasist mode.  Everything I write threatens to topple over into whimsy.  Even the articles I ghostwrite for a fee.  For commercial websites.  I like to make up statistics and quotes from fictitious sources.  I'm going to get caught one day, and that will end my second source of income.  My main source of income is Social Security, which comes once a month inside the pouch of a federal pelican.  The check smells like fish.  See what I did there, Mike . . .

Poesia in prosa: prefazione a un libro immaginario.

Quando cerchi segnali, indicazioni stradali che ti indichino la giusta direzione, non c'è niente di più affidabile di un cartellone pubblicitario dell'autostrada. Sono sicuro che la mia vita è stata prolungata perché ho ascoltato il richiamo di una mucca da cartellone a "mangiare più chikin". Il pollo fa molto bene. Ma forse la cosa più grande che i cartelloni pubblicitari hanno fatto per questo paese è mantenere vivo lo spirito della poesia nei cuori degli automobilisti mentre sfrecciavano nei giri stabiliti. Voglio dire, da quello che ho letto nei libri di storia, potevi guidare lungo una strada di campagna quando all'improvviso ti sei imbattuto in una serie di cartelli con la scritta:

Se i tuoi baffi

trasformarsi in boscaglia

la tua vita amorosa

è un wicket appiccicoso.

A causa di cartelloni pubblicitari come quello, l'America alla fine ha superato le potenze dell'Asse per vincere la seconda guerra mondiale. Questa non è un'iperbole. Una nazione piena di jingle in rima è una nazione piena dello spirito del "si può fare". Basta chiedere a qualsiasi ragazzo americano dal sangue rosso di completare il classico limerick che inizia: "C'era un giovane di Nantucket" e lo vedrai di persona. Prosperiamo con le ballate, soprattutto quando provengono dai cartelloni pubblicitari. I cartelloni pubblicitari ci dicono per chi votare. Dove mangiare. Come superare la disfunzione erettile. E spiegare sinteticamente i tassi ipotecari. Ecco perché questo libro di Sheryl Gay Stolberg, Billboard Empire, è così importante e affascinante. Descrive le intricate macchinazioni del moderno cartellone pubblicitario con una raffinata mano italiana. Consiglio questo libro a chiunque si stanchi velocemente di alberi e montagne durante la guida, a chi desidera invece la poesia comune delle masse come incarnata da quella specie in via di estinzione, il cartellone pubblicitario americano.

********************

A dozen you'll be Sunday morn --

That's twelve years since you have been born.

I've been commissioned to relate

how much your folks do celebrate

all you do, and are, and say.

Linus, you take their breath away!

Poème en prose : Préface d'un livre imaginaire.

 

 

Lorsque vous recherchez des panneaux, des poteaux indicateurs pour vous orienter dans la bonne direction, il n'y a rien de plus fiable qu'un panneau d'affichage d'autoroute. Je suis sûr que ma vie a été prolongée parce que j'ai répondu à l'appel d'une vache d'affichage à "manger plus de chikin". Le poulet est très bon pour vous. Mais peut-être que la plus grande chose que les panneaux d'affichage aient faite pour ce pays est de garder l'esprit de poésie vivant dans le cœur des automobilistes alors qu'ils accéléraient leurs rondes désignées. Je veux dire, d'après ce que j'ai lu dans les livres d'histoire, vous pourriez conduire le long d'une route de campagne quand tout à coup vous tombez sur une série de panneaux indiquant :

Si vos moustaches

se transformer en fourré

ta vie amoureuse

est un guichet collant.

À cause de panneaux d'affichage comme celui-là, l'Amérique a finalement vaincu les puissances de l'Axe pour gagner la Seconde Guerre mondiale. Ce n'est pas une hyperbole. Une nation remplie de jingles rimés est une nation remplie de l'esprit « pouvoir faire ». Demandez simplement à n'importe quel garçon américain au sang rouge de compléter le limerick classique qui commence par : « Il y avait un jeune homme de Nantucket » et vous verrez par vous-même. Nous prospérons sur balladry, surtout quand il s'agit de panneaux d'affichage. Les panneaux publicitaires nous disent pour qui voter. Où manger. Comment vaincre la dysfonction érectile. Et expliquer succinctement les taux hypothécaires. C'est pourquoi ce livre de Sheryl Gay Stolberg, Billboard Empire, est si important et fascinant. Elle détaille les machinations complexes du panneau d'affichage moderne avec une fine main italienne. Je recommande ce livre à tous ceux qui se lassent rapidement des arbres et des montagnes en conduisant, qui aspirent plutôt à la poésie banale des masses incarnée par cette espèce en voie de disparition, le panneau d'affichage américain.