“the perimesencephalic cistern is effaced”

After Joan Didion’s husband died suddenly, she gave permission for an autopsy.  What she quotes in her memoir is a paragraph of medical jargon, much of which I don’t know. It seems the man died of a massive stroke. As I read the autopsy, I appreciate the words without knowing their definitions. 

“There is moderate to marked midbrain compression and the perimesencephalic cistern is effaced.”

The last four words of that especially.

“A thin posterior falcine and left tentorial subdural hematomas are noted. A small parenchymal bleed, likely contusional, is noted in the right inferolateral frontal lobe. The cerebellar tonsils are at the level of the foramen magnum.”

I don’t know whether you want your cerebellar tonsils to be at the level of your foramen magnum, but if it were generally to be esteemed, it would probably not be noted in an autopsy. 

I don’t know how many of these words I am mispronouncing, but I enjoy rolling them around in my mouth and trying out different emphases. 

Years ago I wrote a series of poems using words for their sounds rather than their meanings. Since the English writing system is variably phonetic, I used existing words rather than inventing any. I wanted readers to know how to pronounce them. When finished I flipped open a dictionary at random looking for a word I did not know but liked the look of. I would use it as a title. You can’t group together words without their having meaning, as words are meaning objects and they gain more meanings depending on their company. Thus the poems I’d written by ear could be seen to have meaning, meaning imputed to them. After I used the unknown words I often learned their meanings so the titles would suggest more readings for the poems. 

source:

The Year of Magical Thinking

by Joan Didion

2005. Vintage / Penguin Random House, New York

without you a book is nothing

I marked these lines by David L. Ulin, thinking it sounded like he was talking about Autobiography of a Book:

‘We possess the books we read, animating the waiting stillness of their language … but they possess us also, filling us with thoughts and observations, asking us to make them part of ourselves.’ 

Yup. That’s what Book wants — for you to give it life. Without a reader a book is nothing.

source:

“Say Yes: while his books may not pay the bills David L. Ulin has built a life around writing”

by Lauren Markham

Alta Journal

issue 25 “The Writers Issue,” 2023

San Francisco, CA

1918 ... 2020 ...

Slightly more than one hundred years separate the 1918 influenza epidemic and our covid-19 troubles. A CDC page offers the guess that about 10% of people infected died from influenza — maybe 50 million worldwide. Covid-19 has killed fewer, though it is still taking lives (as is the flu). As of 2022 the World Health Organization blamed covid for 15 million deaths. 

In a memoir that also includes digging into the history of her own Berkeley neighborhood Barbara Gates talks to a woman who collects oral histories. These lines about the influenza epidemic struck me:

‘One woman we interviewed just around the corner from here talked about the 1918 influenza epidemic and how it killed everybody off. At the Niehaus house, over on Delaware, everybody in that great big house died of influenza. Every last one. ‘

We live with flu these days. We’re living with covid. There are vaccines. Some people get a shot as soon as it’s available. Some are sure the vaccines are worse than the disease. I’m of the former camp. The recommended measures against covid have done me pretty good. Colds and flus, a stuffed up head, a fever that wracked me with bad dreams — I used to get whatever came through. Since 2020 I have had only the mildest forms of these, a couple of days of runny nose that I could nevertheless breathe through, a soft cough, a tickle in the throat. If I ever caught covid itself it was the (possibly mythical) asymptomatic variety. 

Whether it was washing my hands more frequently, wearing a filter mask in crowded places, or the vaccines, I now know that I don’t have to take for granted suffering through the seasonal bugs. I like it! 

source:

Already Home: a topography of spirit and place

by Barbara Gates

2003. Shambala, Boston MA

take off the jacket — or no?

Academic libraries strip books of their dust jackets. I discovered this when I got a job at the Santa Rosa Junior College library. The naked books put me off. Public libraries don’t do that, not the ones I knew. I guessed it was a budget thing. It costs money to cover the dust jacket with clear mylar, both in materials and labor. When the mylar gets torn it has to be replaced. Cheaper just to get rid of the dust jacket right off the bat. The dust jacket has almost nothing to do with saving a book from dust — or any other kind of damage. 

In a book on the evolution and engineering of the book shelf Henry Petroski gives a different explanation: space. Yes, that dust jacket takes up space. It may look like just two thin sheets of paper but, he says, the amount of “space on [a full] bookshelf [taken up by book jackets was] once calculated to be 2.5 percent.” When you have a huge collection that’s not an insignificant number. For every million books there’s space for what Petroski calls “a small public library” if dust jackets are removed.

SRJC did not have a million books. So they either removed dust jackets because that’s what academic libraries do, it’s become part of academic culture, or maybe I was right the first time and it’s less expensive that way. 

“To remove the jacket separates interesting information, such as descriptive copy and photographs of authors,” Petroski says. The dust jacket also preserves the design aesthetic of the time. Books of the early 70s look different from books of the early 80s. They use different fonts, different colors, arrange the information differently, and so on. I think a dust jacket is valuable for those reasons. 

But I wasn’t surprised when I got to UC Berkeley and surveyed row upon row of naked books. For Cal maybe it’s space. I was grateful for the paperbacks. You can’t strip a paperback of its color, its author photo, its unique design. Paperbacks don’t do dust jackets. 

source: 

The Book on the Book Shelf

by Henry Petroski

1999. Alfred A. Knopf, New York

Field theory of poetry

I run a Poetry Circle at the library. People sit around a table, taking turns reading poetry to each other. Mostly they read their own poems, but I lay out in the middle of the table a few anthologies and will open one now and then and read at random. I like to discover a poem as I read it aloud. I’m good at cold reads. One night a few years ago three different people who tried out a cold read, each opening an anthology at random and reading what their eye fell upon, voiced a poem by Edward Field.

Field has long been a favorite of mine. His poems sound like someone talking to you. I read an interview with Edward Field recently and snipped out a bit of ars poetica. Field says poetry isn’t “about language,” even though he’s just said, “It can be anything.”

 

“I’ve always seen poetry as therapeutic. … [Writing poetry]* is absolutely a tool. It’s a tool for staying focused, for remembering your feelings. … They always say, ‘Poetry isn’t therapy.’ Bullshit. It can be anything; it’s so many things. For me it’s a way of life … One thing it is [is] prayer. … Somehow poets get the idea that poetry is about this and not about that. So poets don’t often let out their political feelings in their poems. I’ve always included it some, but lately more.”

“The thing is that poetry, as presented to us, is supposed to be airy-fairy, up-there, philosophical, religious, abstract. And now the cant idea is that it’s about language. That’s one of the pernicious ideas about poetry. The second is the stricture against sentimentality. That is so evil! Every feeling you have is, of course, sentimental. We are sentimental. … I don’t like … differentiating between good feelings and bad feelings. … Why should we sneer at our feelings? … You have to tell the truth. If you’re telling the truth, you’re not going to be false. … [W]hen our world is ruled by liars, we have to stand up for truth and speak the truth. Even if no one is listening. You still do it for yourself. … That’s what poetry is about.”

*interviewer’s brackets

source:

Our Deep Gossip: conversations with gay writers on poetry and desire

by Chistopher Hennessy

2013. University of Wisconsin Press, Madison WI

“This is a life different from anything I had imagined.”

Excerpts from “None, I think,” a poem by Lise Menn:

“This is a life different from anything I had imagined. 

You are not here, you will never be here again.

There is no point in waiting for you.

You are, of course, everywhere, 

In this house full of our lives together.

But all thoughts of you are recollections.

There is nothing more to anticipate.

Everything about you is back, back, in some past, dreamed or remembered.

I live in a strange, quiet place.”

These are fewer than half the lines of Lise Menn’s poem about life after her husband died. I recognize in them my own experience. I did not know how to imagine a life without my husband. I did not try. Despite the oncologist’s dire prognosis, Kent seemed to be doing okay. He was alive. I wanted to live with him while he was alive. Even now, I don’t know what I could have done to prepare for his death. 

When Kent was first diagnosed with cancer 14 years ago, he found an estate attorney to make him a living trust. In the early weeks of this year Kent asked a lawyer friend for current recommendations so that I would have someone to help me administer the trust. Because of the trust no court had to get involved. That was Kent looking out for me. 

Kent and I were together for 30 years. Kent was my only long term relationship. We met when I was 28. Back in my teens and twenties I was mostly alone. I didn’t have a series of boyfriends. I wanted one. I wanted a lover very much, and I felt terribly lonesome. I did make friends here and there, and I didn’t live a sexless life. But I didn’t get the intimacy I yearned for. Not until Kent. 

I’d been going to a board games night at the LGBT community center in Berkeley. The people there were nice enough, but I wasn’t spending time with them beyond the games. (I was surprised when I’d hear others laughing about going sailing together or some other outing.) When Kent showed up he was taken with me right away. Six years older, he was close to my age. He displayed a sharp wit and I liked looking at him. Kent had had boyfriends before me. I don’t know how long he was with any of them, but I got the feeling he was the marrying kind. Relationships break up. I think my longest was three months, but if you add up all the time he and I were actually together it was more like two weeks. 

Kent liked to tell a story about how we met. We were playing Trivia Pursuit. We may even have been on the same team, and this question came up: “In the 1980 election who was the dream team?” Kent was bowled over when I knew the answer. Some politicos thought it would be amazing to have presidential candidate Ronald Reagan choose ex-Pres Gerald Ford as his running mate. That would be a dream team! I was fourteen at the time, but I was paying enough attention to politics that I picked up this tidbit. It didn’t seem to me a president would want as his VP a former president. You want the vice president (and everybody else) to be clear on who’s in charge. Ronald Reagan had the same thought, I guess. 

30 years of memories is something, isn’t it? I feel lucky I had all that time with him. He is everywhere in this house full of our lives together. But Kent is not here. And I have to figure out a new life without him. You may hear me saying the same thing next month or a year from now. I really don’t know. I am the one in the present, the one who has to look to a future. I want a lover. I want company. It seems so strange that any person coming into my life will be wholly different, not Kent at all. 

source: 

The Widows’ Handbook: poetic reflections on grief and survival

edited by Jacqueline Lapidus and Lise Menn

2014. Kent State University Press, Kent OH

clothes Arabs wear

I'm reading Zeyn Joukhadar's essay about singing opera and she describes a staging of Rossini’s Aureliano in Palmira. When she gets to the costumes I run up against vocabulary unfamiliar to me:

“Fagioli wears a thobe with an agal and white ghutra; Aleida dons a white abaya with gold embroidery and bell sleeves.”

Thawb or thobe (Arabic: ثَوْب lit. 'dress' or 'garment') is an Arab dress for the inhabitants of the Arabian Peninsula, also called dishdashah, and kandurah, kandoora or gandurah in varieties of Arabic. A long-sleeved ankle-length traditional robe, it is mainly worn by men in the Arabian Peninsula, Jordan, Syria, Palestine, Lebanon, North Africa, and some countries in East and West Africa, with regional variations in name and style.

An agal (Arabic: عِقَال; also spelled iqal, egal, or igal) is an Arab men's clothing accessory. It is a black cord, worn doubled, used to keep a ghutrah (or keffiyeh) in place on the wearer's head.^[1] It is traditionally made of goat hair.^[2]

The ghutrah (غُترَة), keffiyeh or kufiyyeh (Arabic: كُوفِيَّة, romanized: kūfiyyah, lit. 'coif'),^[1] also known in Arabic as a shemagh (شُمَاغ šumāġ), or ḥaṭṭah (حَطَّة), is a traditional headdress worn by men from parts of the Middle East. It is fashioned from a square scarf, and is usually made of cotton.^[2] The keffiyeh is commonly found in arid regions, as it provides protection from sunburn, dust, and sand. An agal is often used by Arabs to keep it in place.

The abaya (colloquially and more commonly, Arabic: عباية ʿabāyah, especially in Literary Arabic: عباءة ʿabā'ah; plural عبايات ʿabāyāt, عباءات ʿabā'āt), sometimes also called an aba, is a simple, loose over-garment, essentially a robe-like dress, worn by some women in the Muslim world including most of the Middle East, North Africa, and parts of the Horn of Africa.^[1] Traditional abayas are usually black and may either be a large square of fabric draped from the shoulders or head or a long kaftan. The abaya covers the whole body except the head (sometimes), feet, and hands.

OK. I’ve seen these garments in pictures and movies, but I never knew their specific names. Each seems to have more than one name, in fact. 

All the definitions are from Wikipedia, and there are pictures at the links. 

source:

“Catching the Light: reclaiming opera as a trans Arab” by Zeyn Joukhadar

This Arab Is Queer: an anthology by LGBTQ+ Arab writers

edited by Elias Jahshan

2022. Saqi Books, London UK

“You will ‘fail’”

“You will ‘fail’ often, by your own impossible standards, where ‘success' is never defined except as an abstract sense of bliss.” 

— Omar Sakr on the path of the poet

source:

“Tweets to a Queer Arab Poet” by Omar Sakr

This Arab Is Queer: an anthology by LGBTQ+ Arab writers

edited by Elias Jahshan

2022. Saqi Books, London UK

If John Waters made a sequel to The Wizard of Oz

John Waters says he has been invited to speak at all sorts of different events. In this excerpt from his memoir/self-help book, Mr. Know-It-All, Waters remembers one unusual event. He wondered aloud what might have happened in it were he to have made Wizard of Oz II: 

At a Wizard of Oz celebration in Chicago, I described my dream sequel of Dorothy returning to Kansas, and when she can’t stop ranting about her trip to Oz, Auntie Em loses patience after months of telling Dorothy, ‘It was just a dream,’ and Uncle Henry puts his foot down and forces his defiant niece to see a psychiatrist, who gives her shock therapy, but even that doesn’t cure Dorothy of her yearning to return to the magical land. 

Did no one tell John that he was describing the opening scenes of the Disney-studios sequel to Wizard, Return to Oz? That movie came out 40 years ago! Maybe John did hear about it, but then convinced himself the ideas were his own; I mean, who could believe Disney would put out a major motion picture in which innocent little Dorothy is strapped down for electro-shock therapy? There are good things about Return to Oz — the costumes are great! — but that opening sequence still gives me the willies. 

The rest of the plot is all Waters:

She tries LSD, but these hallucinations are not the same as the poppies of Oz. Mushrooms, too, but there’s no great and powerful anything much less a wizard. Finally she sniffs poppers and it works! She’s back in Oz. The Scarecrow is old but still brilliant, the Tin Man is a yoga instructor, and the Cowardly Lion is now a drag queen named Roara. They give her the Wicked Witch’s magic broomstick and Dorothy flies back to Kansas, starts cross-dressing as Margaret Hamilton, and opens a gay bar called the Yellow Brick Load.

source:

Mr. Know-It-All: the tarnished wisdom of a filth elder

by John Waters

2019. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York

John Waters, political actor

When you meet a celebrity while traveling what do you do? John Waters sat next to one, but was circumspect. He didn’t fanboy gush or, well, the opposite of that. But then, Waters didn’t know which celebrity he was seated next to. 

Seated in first class next to a gentleman who never made eye contact the entire coast-to-coast flight, I kept thinking, ‘I know this man, but who is he?!’ His signature suspenders and Brooks Brothers-type suit rang a bell, too, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure it out. When we landed and everybody started exiting the plane, other passengers who recognized me started laughing and one said, ‘I couldn’t believe you were sitting next to [Supreme Court Justice] Clarence Thomas that whole time!’ I thought, ‘You’re kidding me.’ But, of course, it was him. That lying bastard! ‘I believed Anita Hill!’ I wanted to yell. 

Once he knew what chances he’d missed, John Waters thought about what he should have done:

During the flight I should have nonchalantly ordered a Coke, and when it was served, started picking at something imaginary on the can before turning to him and saying, ‘Excuse me, is that a pubic hair on my Coke?’

source:

Mr. Know-It-All: the tarnished wisdom of a filth elder

by John Waters

2019. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York