Something is Rotten in the State of Denmark

Image from KollageKit

The events of these past few months, with images of protests from around the country, competing ideas about race and the nature of justice in our political system are reaching us at breakneck speed as a disjointed mosaic. New information hits us daily in a persistent staccato from our media feeds. Some of us struggle to piece it back together as something close to whole and connect it to things of real meaning. But whether or not we succeed in making any sense of it all, this new movement with the refrain #BlackLivesMatter forces us all to look at the glaring truth of racial inequity in this country. Because I’m the child of a Shakespeare professor, it’s this verse that keeps running through my head this year: Something is Rotten in the State of Denmark.

I have read the familiar refrains about personal responsibility, passed around to a mostly white readership on Facebook. One video in particular that is making the rounds is titled “Black Man Issues EPIC Rant to ‘My Black People.’” I don’t dispute this man’s right to his opinion, but the only people that have seem sharing and posting their rapt approval in all caps, are of the fair-skinned persuasion. It’s as if people are grasping at any message that will make them feel like they are not the ignorant beneficiaries of a corrupt system. One can’t seriously make the argument that Akai Gurley, who was shot while walking in a stairwell with his girlfriend should have taken responsibility for his own life, or just kept out of trouble. In other social media circles, the new racist term “thug” has replaced the older more obvious terms of derision, insinuating that if people just stayed out of trouble, they would still be alive. Again, a 12-year-old child is shot while playing with a toy gun within two seconds that police arrived; this was because he was breaking a law? Even in cases where a law might have been broken, are things like traffic violations, selling cigarettes and stealing cigarillos punishable by death without due process now? The protest that has started in Ferguson and turned into a movement isn’t about blaming white people, it is about all of us expressing solidarity with the bereft, acting as witnesses to injustice, and reaffirming the dignity and value of black lives.

Much has been said about economic disparity. This is a more valid point since, according to a study published by the Brookings Institute, between 1974 and 2004 there was no progress in reducing the family income gap between blacks and whites. “In 2004, the median family income of blacks ages 30 to 39 was only 58 percent that of white families in the same age group.” In the state of Missouri a study conducted by ArchCity Defenders and organization devoted to providing legal council to the poor decried the increasing criminalization of poverty. Their clients reported being jailed for the inability to pay fines, losing jobs and housing as result of the incarceration, being refused access to the Courts if they were with their children or other family members. Even before the death of Michael Brown ignited a maelstrom of anger and unrest, this report singled out three courts, Bel Ridge, Florissant, and Ferguson, as chronic offenders that “serve as prime examples of how these practices violate fundamental rights of the poor, undermine public confidence in the judicial system, and create
inefficiencies.” 

The words they wrote in their white paper are incredibly insightful and prophetic in the context of ensuing events:

“Overall, we found that by disproportionately stopping, charging and fining the poor and minorities, by closing the Courts to the public, and by incarcerating people for the failure to pay fines, these policies unintentionally push the poor further into poverty, prevent the homeless from accessing the housing, treatment, and jobs they so desperately need to regain stability in their lives, and violate the Constitution. These ongoing violations of the most fundamental guarantees of the Constitution are the product of a disordered, fragmented, and inefficient approach to criminal justice in St. Louis County.

Furthermore, they found that the the amount collected through the municipal courts seems to be inversely proportional to the wealth of the municipality. In the City of Pine Lawn, for example, which is 96 percent black, and has a per capita income of $13,000, the city collected more than $1.7 million in fines in 2013. In the state of Missouri, African Americans are pulled over at a rate 63% greater than expected based on their proportion of the driving population. These statistics shed light on the perception of many African American citizens that the justice system is rigged against them.

This takes place on the national level as well. The Sentencing Project reports that more than 60% of the people in prison are racial and ethnic minorities. For black males in their thirties, one in every ten is in prison or jail on any given day. These trends have been intensified "war on drugs," two-thirds of all persons in prison for drug offenses are people of color.

I’m not even going to get into gun control legislation, who gets to own firearms legally and the rate of which military gear is flowing into police barracks around the country.

The Montgomery Bus Boycotts were 381 days. Today is 122 days that Mike Brown has been dead. Y'all, we just getting started. #Ferguson
— deray mckesson (@deray) December 8, 2014

It’s like the perfect storm. Seriously, take a group of Americans who have been hit worse than many during an economic downturn, subject them to harassment, violence, and death by an increasingly undereducated and overarmed, largely white police force, and yeah. It will feel to those Americans like legally sanctioned lynchings. If Missouri Governor Jay Nixon and prosecutor Robert McCulloch had sat down and planned out how to stir up the most anger possible, they could not have done a better job. By the time we learned about the decision not to prosecute for Eric Garner’s death many felt ready to throw up their hands in despair. I know I did.

In 1985 a classmate of mine from Phillips Exeter Academy named Edmund Perry was shot and killed by an undercover policeman in Harlem. The event sparked protest and nationwide debate and I, in all my torpid adolescent complacency, remember mostly feeling numb at the time. It didn’t seem real to me that Eddie, the vibrant, smart football star we saw in school every day was now dead. There was a book written shortly afterwards by the father of another Exeter student, Robert Sam Anson, who after taking great pains to identify his liberal credentials before just restating the police narrative. When viewed in the context of 2014, this version no longer seems remotely plausible. You’re a kid who just graduated from the best preparatory school in the country, you’re on your way to Stanford in the fall, and you mug someone? And for movie money? Something smells rotten to me.

Watching the awakening of people via Twitter is amazing
— ShordeeDooWhop (@Nettaaaaaaaa) December 8, 2014

This not about blame, any more than it is about economics alone. This series of protests now constitute a national movement. The challenge of our generation will to confront the horrible remnants of our racist past that persist in our society with honesty and respect. For people saying all lives matter, They do. Human life is a precious gift. Children are amazing miracles, and if all lives truly matter, then we should feel the loss of Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice and Aiyana Jones as keenly as we do the death of any other child. If all lives truly did matter equally, nobody would need to state it. Something is rotten in Denmark and it is too complex for an easy fix, but approaching the issue with unflinching honesty and sincere compassion is as good a place as any to start.

The Art of Protest

There is something deeply compelling about the thought of Anonymous becoming involved in the protest movement in Ferguson, and it goes deeper than just the visceral good feeling of sticking it to the KKK. If you have been following the events, you know that the grand jury is preparing to meet today for what might be its final session. According to law enforcement officials, a decision on whether to charge Wilson in the death of Michael Brown could come today, even as the city negotiates for the officer’s resignation. Whatever decision is reached, it will not even touch the greater injustices that frame the issue. The Pumpkin Festival riots in Keene NH illustrated for all of us how the political protest in Ferguson was was portrayed as 'rioting' by the media and rather than an organized, ongoing movement prompted by a wrongful shooting death of an unarmed teenaged boy. These racist misperceptions are the very thing that bring about the shootings of both Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown.

When the local KKK made threats against protesters, the group known as Anonymous went into action. They donned their Guy Fawkes masks, fired up their computers and successfully unmasked several local klansmen. They were widely criticized for mistakenly identifying the wrong officer responsible last summer and the collective nature of Anonymous means that members act on their own. But I won’t deny that that feels good to hear about someone taking on the KKK. It feels good to hear them called out as a terrorist organization.

Perhaps the part of the story that resonates is the idea of an anonymous person stepping in to protest an injustice that will not be adequately addressed in our present legal system. The power of that idea lies in the anonymity. One of the bleaker aspects of the digital age is the complete absence of mystery. We know more than we wish to know about our political leaders, how they worship, what they eat and who they sleep with. Their public personae are systematically and relentlessly excoriated by a sensationalizing, profit driven media so much that one wonders how many truly effective and well-meaning people have been discouraged from public service. No matter how much we believe in our elected officials when we vote for them, they never cease to let us down when it comes to actual change. The institutions that used to command respect and make us feel safe have ceased to do so; our friendly neighborhood cop has morphed into a highly armed military-like presence in our cities and towns. The idea of and anonymous collective who sticks up for those who have had power taken from them holds a deep fascination in this environment.

The idea has its complement in the art world with artists like the Guerrilla girls arts collective in the 80’s whose fearless imagery of protest took on sexism and racism in the arts and Banksy, who has been able to distill and capture our fears and eroding confidence in institutions and ideals that were once revered in a concise, elegant and easily decodable visual form. Both artists and hackers are linked by a common emphasis on protest through the use of image, ideas and the powerful currency of information. And rumors of Banksy’s capture by London anti-grafitti squads aside, part of the fascination of his imagery lies in its unruliness. It has the habit of showing up at a place and time chosen by its anonymous maker. Banksy's images hold power too because his observations are wise, funny and dead-on.

So we will hope that justice will be served for the community in Ferguson and that protesters will remain safe and maybe even begin the process of healing. We will keep hoping that these events will inspire a larger conversation about the enduring reality of racism in our country, the overarming of both civilians and law enforcement and how the media perpetuates dangerous misperceptions about race. Let’s also hope that this new generation of unknown warriors in the digital age be touched by the angels of their better nature. I won’t lie, I love seeing the KKK unmasked and shamed by the ugly glare of their beliefs, but I wonder if this feeling of righteous schadenfreude does enough to get at the root of the problem. It might be better if we could think of a way to take a cue from Banksy’s iconic image of a protester who lobs a bouquet of flowers instead of an explosive and harness the vast power of information to change minds and inspire us to change those institutions even when they let us down time and time again. But I believe the power of protest and social change and I believe in the people trying to help through the Anonymous group, because quite truthfully, I need to.

I give you, dear readers, your mandatory fun for the day:

A digital cautionary tale

While looking at the iPhone in the Apple store one day several years ago, I was wondering about how one might post to their FB status from this curious new smart device. So I logged in to browse and did what seemed like the most intuitive way to close out; I hit the home button. Unknowingly, idiotically, I had left my Facebook account logged in on a public device.

I remember how wonderful my day at the beach was afterwards, and how much I enjoyed the long blissful summer day with my mom and kids, completely oblivious. As I look back on this, of course, the sheer stupidity makes me cringe, but I had no idea what I had done until I returned home and heard the messages on my answering machine. An old friend from junior high had seen a rather unusual post, assumed I'd been hacked and tracked me down right away.

When I logged on, the physical sensation of shame was immediate and all-encompassing as I read "my" status. We at Blicky Kitty like to keep it PG as I do on FB, so won't repeat it. I can say with full confidence that my digital interloper was an adolescent boy, however. It must have seemed too good to be true, and maybe he'd gleefully called a few friends over. "Hey check this out! Some stupid lady left her FB account open on here."

During that entire summer day any of my Facebook friends–friends from church, second cousins, professional aquaintances, ministers, old friends, blogging buddies, colleagues of my husband, in-laws and school friends who might have logged in would have read that I am big *&^#*% who likes to  *%@&$#*.

Not only did it provide a brilliant retort to all the Apple Store utopia, which still reliably mesmerizes me, but the pure, unadulterated shame of the experience was so tremendous, almost lovely in it's perfection. It's not like I would ever judge someone  if they chose to be a big *&^#*%, or that I would find anything about *%@&$#*'s inherently shameful, it's just that few would expect a person to discuss them so publicly and with such poorly-inarticulated nuance.

I deleted the post and sent out an apology (pointing out that if I were to disclose such a thing to everyone I know, I like to hope that I would at least choose to phrase it more artfully) and left it at that.

But the range of reactions was fascinating. My first impulse was to go running to the Mister, who barely even looked up. Having no connection to social media, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, "Oh well, don't let it ruin your day." The following morning was church. I sought out one of the ministers who always seems to know the perfect words to comfort: "Oh I know, I saw that and it was so obvious that wasn't you. I felt so sorry for you right away!" My younger, hip cousins were thoroughly entertained. One had gleefully captured a screen shot of it so we could all have a good laugh at the next family gathering–and we did. There was one person who posted a shocked, "Laurel!" under the status, thinking that I had indeed been its author. I deleted the status too quickly to have remembered who it was, but I often amuse myself by wondering.

For the most part, my younger acquaintances were more amused than horrified and saw it as a frightening, yet screamingly funny fact of contemporary life. My friends who were closest to my age showed a mixture of empathy and dread. In the end, I guess I just concluded that being open to shame is a trade-off I am willing to make for being open to others in a medium that we still struggle collectively to define.

There is certainly no shortage of articles weighing in on the relative benefits and drawbacks of social media; Facebook in particular. Stephen Marche posited in his article for the Atlantic that, for all of our interconnectedness, and new types of interactions, we are becoming lonelier. Others feel that FB is an artificial window into the lives of others and that comparing ourselves to others makes us feel as though we're missing out. There is no question that as a medium, Facebook is fraught with pitfalls and the ever-looming specter of public shame. I have learned this lesson, not just once, but several times over during the process of learning the medium.

Facebook is a medium, and like any other, if you put dumb and negative things into it, that's exactly what you get in return. There is nothing about Facebook, chat apps, email or skype however, that define our connections to other people in any real sense. If we approach the medium in ignorance we risk not only shame, but feeling hurt, left out, inadequate, or lonely. As my eldest daughter has started to define her own relationship to digital media I have tried to step up my own literacy and my own wisdom on the subject. Here is my stab at a few ground rules that I hope are healthful and helpful for even those who have been less catastrophically careless as I have.

Be as courteous as you are offline
Some days I feel like if I see one more 12-year-old girl on my kid's Instagram feed sticking her lips and tongue out, my head will explode. Would you sit before yout teachers and do that, or would stick out your bum and bend over while you are visiting your grandmother? One truly hopes not, because it might seem a little odd at best. Kids, I say this with love and and respect: please refrain from saying anything online that they would not willingly announce to everyone you know. Something you write during a fleeting moment of poor judgement is potentially permanent if you say it online, so unless you would stand up during assembly, or in a hallway and shout it in a loud voice, you should not be typing it online.

Be as kind as you are offline
I often wonder if people who leave cruel screeds in online comments say things like this to members of their family, or friends. Maybe so. Interacting through a screen removes us from the ability to perceive subtle expressions on the human face. Adolescents need time away from screens to learn how to treat each other with kindness before they start spending large amounts of time online. I know, this is counter-cultural and I am a mean, mean parent for limiting time online.

Be as wise as you are offline
I...umm...can offer no guidance in this area.

Use social media to find wisdom and beauty in others
I know it sounds nerdy, but I think the reason I keep coming back to FB despite moments of abject shame and public mocking is that I am inspired and awed by the amazing things that people do and the insights they post online. People disappoint us, yes, but people are also amazing and they often astound us with their talent, their brilliance and their goodness. Amanda Palmer's TED talk nails this aspect of modern social media interaction. When we give ourselves over to the kindness of others there is a way that people rise to our high expectations.

Use social media to enrich the connections you already have
It's no substitute, but if you have five minutes a year to talk to your third cousin who might even live on another continent. It's really cool to know they they also love the tUnE-yArDs, or that they are planning a trip to an Italian city where you once lived, or even if they have had an illness in the family. Perhaps the interaction you end up sharing will be more direct and more authentic as a result.

Cultivate the art of being away from a screen
I am not convinced I love the term "unplugging" because it implies a physical dependence on social media that is somehow at the core of our nature. Being social is in our nature. But nature is also in our nature, and we will all unwind far more if we take a walk outdoors, get a little bored, let our minds process our day by conjuring up the random little thoughts that float through our fatigued grey matter like clouds. My own mind needs to experience things like the pungent odor of decomposing fall leaves interspersed with the cloying scent of ripening wild grapes, the sight of migrating birds, stopping for a rest and the sound of something other than chimes and alerts to feel truly centered and real.

That's all I have to offer today, gentle readers.

I'll leave you with this offering of mandatory fun:

You're Going Down.....Dog

As I was listening to the latest instructor in the long string of dvds I have acquired with the aim of identifying my favorite style of yoga, I breathed dutifully into the movement, relaxing into each posture as he intoned, "Feel the movement balanced all over you body instead of staying in one place." Then he proceeded to tell me to take my foot, wrap it like five times around my head and spin like a top while yelling "toy boat, toy boat" ten times fast. At least that's the way I remember it. Then, to cheer us on, he said, "Remember….long pregnant pause….it's not a contest." I may or may not have been lying in a heap on the floor and laughing at that point, but all I could think was, "What if it was?"

I know it's heresy, but wouldn't it be kind of funny if they made yoga into a competitive sport? Then you could say things like, "After the fourth vinyasa, you're going down!" I thought I had stumbled upon some crazy good new business idea–like "hey you got peanut butter in my chocolate"–until I realized there actually is competitive yoga. So, alas, my dream went up in smoke. I would have transformed the practice with XFL style commentary:

"Sri Shankar Richardson is really ticked off now, he thought he was going to end Sunray Rainbow Whittmore's chances at a win today during the scorpion pose. What's this? Sunray is taunting him now. 'See this crow pose? Yeah, I'm rocking it and you're going to break your nose if you even try. You might as well just go home and cry into your Koshumba, loser.'"

You could bring in the veteran yogi for commentary too, like Shiva Rea:
"Bob, just look at the way he brings the energy of the entire cosmos into his body. He is really going to wipe the yoga mat with his opponent today."
"Shiva what is that printed on the back of his spandex action suit? Does that say 'I H8 He?'"
"Yes Bob that is a clear response to Whittmore's jacket last week that said, "Just Stay in Child's Pose, LUsR."

It would impact all of the arts that have been nurtured by the spirit of the discipline. Krishna Das would start climbing the charts with his new singles, "Suck my mat," and "Namaste, You're Going Down."

Gradually, the trend would trickle down into everyone's practice, translating into a wonderful judgement-laden discipline for us all. At the end of class, while instructors announced the class winners they could offer helpful advice so people could gain a competitive edge; "Pssst, when we say be gentle and ease into it? Yeah, we're just kidding. You've gotta really rock that pose or just go home, " or "Wow, man, looks like you never really found that drishti, Either that, or you have some serious inner ear condition, because I'm surprised you can even walk straight. Why don't you skip class for a couple of weeks, in fact, and practice walking with books on your head like Marcia Brady?"

Namaste, suckers here's your mandatory fun:

An Emerging Market

As unemployment takes center stage as the nation's most pressing issue, I feel grateful that I always have something to fall back on in times of trouble. And no, I don't mean blogging for Blicky.

My back-up career is stand-up comedy for the 6 and under set. I know what you're thinking, gentle reader. Hey, who would pay you money to do something that easy? Isn't that like offering family planning for pandas, running anger management classes for Tibetan monks, or teaching tail-wagging and steak eating to dogs? Comedy for kids? All you have to do is say the word "poop" and call it a day. I understand your thinking, and I realize that I will need to demonstrate my gift in order to give people an understanding of the rigors and complexity involved.

For a limited time, I will share these free tricks that are guaranteed to kill -- I mean absolutely slay the members of the wrinkle-free-midget persuasion.

#1 One joke that never fails at drop-off even though they might hear it 180 days out of the school year: "Now remember, kids, DON'T HAVE FUN." But beware -- if you can't do a decent deadpan, you're out of your league and should stop here. At the very least, that line guarantees a sea of gleeful smiles and sing-song choruses of, "We're having fuuunnnn!"

#2 Persons of the curly-haired-dimpled persuasion absolutely LOVE anarchy. We grownups get a little nervous when the center cannot hold and the falcon cannot hear the falconer and all of that, but for the 6 and unders? Bring it onnn, baby! Any humor that contains anarchy is guaranteed to kill. K-I-L-L kill. One caveat, don't try to make jokes about political libertarian theory or make references to famous anarchists. It falls dangerously flat. For example, I would strongly advise against the following: "Hey guys, ever hear the one about Lysander Spooner and his thoughts about acts of initiatory coercion against individuals and their property?" Unless you're prepared to resort to a pathetic and desperate display of gas passing humor coupled with dancing (and such moves are frowned upon in juvenile comedic circles), you're toast.

#3 Persons-of-limited-vintage are none the wiser when you "borrow" your material. I have this running joke going in the kindergarten this year about Justin Bieber and how it would be really funny if he were the tooth fairy. So of course I had to come up with a reasonably good quality falsetto song that he might sing if he came to your house to get your teeth, "Oh baby baby, just give me your wiggly tooth…" They have no idea that my falsetto bears an eerie resemblance to Jimmy Fallon's parody of Barry Gibb because they can't stay up late and watch SNL or see it on anyone's Facebook. For that matter, they really don't care if you have no idea what Justin Bieber even sounds like. btw They don't get tired of the same joke either, so the next day, Justin Bieber might be a baby carrot who's going to jump out of their lunchboxes, start wiggling his little orange hips and sing, "Never say never." (again sounding eerily like Barry Gibb).

#4 They delight in any suggestions that the grownups in their lives might have a secret identity, "Who said your mom is actually a ninja? I didn't say that! No she really goes to yoga just like she says she does and is definitely not involved in secret training or missions of any kind."

That should be enough to get you started. And now for your mandatory fun, a bit of the real thing for those of us of the more energy-challenged, anile, vintage persuasion:

The Gift of Time

I recently had great lesson passed along to me. I was late for a lunch date with my friend and instead of looking annoyed or impatient she seemed so serene. She's a Buddhist and I've long suspected them of being a little too happy, but I listened to her anyway. She said that time is a gift to be enjoyed and instead of being impatient, the way to look at it is to be thankful. If she was being ironic, she masked it pretty deftly as she said, "Thank you for the gift of time."

Lately, I think of time as a playful, flexible entity that changes its shape, texture and form as we change, and our relationship to time evolves. When you're a kid, time is either annoying and endless (lectures, Christmas Eve, and the last hour of school before summer break) or non-existent (amount of playtime between dinner and bed). There are moments in our lives when we don't even think about the passage of time. We are so absorbed in what we are doing, it vanishes and ceases to matter. Sometimes time can be irascible and petulant, playing tricks on you and taunting (when you have to stay up late for an exam). The busier we get, the more minuscule each moment seems. There are fewer and fewer of those 'annoying' and endless moments as we begin to work harder on the things that matter to us. But what if we look at those moments differently -- the bank line, traffic, the doctor's office, airport security -- the remaining ones that seem frustrating and long?

This was an epiphany to me because Blicky Kitty has a real problem with this. His wrath augments with every minute he is forced to wait. This poses a problem when we are out shopping, like we were just last week:


Blicky was getting a few supplies -- litter, salted cod, paper towels, caviar, batteries, plutonium -- and he got behind a family at the checkout. Immediately, I recognized the telltale eye-tick. I knew he was struggling to maintain his composure, and inwardly he was scrutinizing their every action and thinking. "How can you be so slow? How can anyone be that slow... and stupid. How long does it take to get your stupid credit card out. Why are you talking to the stupid checkout lady? Who cares how she's doing? You stupid, stupid nice lady...." Yes, outwardly Blick looks like your typical, sweet and cuddly bipedal cat, but he's not always nice about stuff.

The alarm bells ringing in his central nervous system were almost audible at that point. For Blick, it gets really extreme, so if you are a particularly gentle, gentle-reader, kindly avert your eyes and send the children away:

I'm sorry, I know.

I wish Blicky could just change his mindset. If you see me waiting in a line these days, I'm the one with the placid expression on my face (and quite possibly a homicidal feline in line behind me). How often do we just get to stand around and do nothing? For those blissful 5 minutes (usually less) there are no plates to clean up, kittens to cook for, work deadlines, and no obligations. All I have to do is just stand there and be. It is that precious moment of stasis between rushing to grab what I need, racking my brains to menu plan, and hauling 50+ pounds of groceries to and from the car. That, for me, is a gift.

Here is your mandatory fun:

Explaining the Birds

I know what you're thinking. We haven't seen Blicky Kitty for a long, long time. The reasons for that are subtle and varied:
a) My new career in door-to-door interpretive dance has suddenly and inexplicably taken off, leaving little time for Blicky reportage,
b) Blicky took off in his Hummer, went deep undercover for many, many months, and I had no idea of his whereabouts,
c) and the fact that his disappearance coincided with me getting a track pad instead of a mouse was pure coincidence.

The real reason for his disappearance is that Blicky is starting to rethink his former ways and is starting consider to the many problems facing the environment on a global scale. He used to cough up furballs every time I mentioned my concern about dwindling frog and honey bee populations. I tried explaining to him that bees are vital to food production and that some 52 of the world's 112 leading crops -- from apples and soybeans to cocoa and almonds -- rely on pollination. There are still many questions, but researchers have identified some probable causes of colony collapse disorder (CCD), including blood-feeding parasites, bee viruses, fungi, pesticide exposure and decreased plant diversity causing poor nutrition for honeybees. He seemed to get it, but I think his primary concern was how embarrassing it would be for future generations of parents if they had to sit down and only be able to "explain the birds" to their clowder of kittens. He felt it would lead to some strange mating behavior if young people everywhere thought they were literally supposed to act like birds rather than grasp it as a metaphor for the fecundity of nature.

Your mandatory fun here:



Well I guess I just can't discuss this with Blicky. Yes these problems that face us are depressing and scary. They seem insurmountable at times, but for me doing things like buying organic food (or growing it), keeping woods instead of a lawn, writing to my congressional delegation and finding out the little ways I can help makes me feel better.

WINTERING
Sylvia Plath 1932-1963

This is the easy time, there is nothing doing.
I have whirled the midwife's extractor,
I have my honey,
Six jars of it,
Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar,

Wintering in a dark without window
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenants rancid jam
and the bottles of empty glitters ....
Sir So-and-So's gin.

This is the room I have never been in
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint

Chinese yellow on appalling objects ....
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,

Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees...the bees
so slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin

To make up the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going,
The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.

Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile long body of Meissen,

Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady.
They have got rid of the men,

The blunt, clumpsy stumblers, the boors.
Winter is for women ....
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanish walnut,
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.

Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year ?
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses ?
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.

iPoem

Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471–1528)
Adam and Eve, 1504
Engraving

iPoem

by George Bilgere

Someone's taken a bite
from my laptop's glowing apple,
the damaged fruit of our disobedience,
of which we must constantly be reminded.

There's the fatal crescent,
the dark smile
of Eve, who never dreamed of a laptop,
who, in fact, didn't even have clothes,
or anything else for that matter,

which was probably the nicest thing
about the Garden, I'm thinking,
as I sit here in the café
with my expensive computer,
afraid to get up even for a minute
in order to go to the bathroom
because someone might steal it

in this fallen world she invented
with a single bite
of an apple nobody, and I mean
nobody,
was going to tell her not to eat.

Mandatory fun, gentle bloggy friends:

Blick Friday

N.B. Gentle readers, drawing BK on a mouse pad makes him look like he's been through the dishwasher (again).

At first I wondered why Blicky left the Thanksgiving table so abruptly, but then it dawned on me; this week is Black Friday. Our cherished tradition on Thanksgiving is devoted to appreciating our bounty, our many blessings both as a nation and individuals, savoring the comforts that living in this rich nation has given us -- such as a warm homes and adequate clothing for ourselves and our children. The more fortunate among us have many defenses against illness both in access to high quality medical care, and protection from financial havoc it can wreak. Those of us with healthy families can count ourselves among the truly blessed. Although it rarely seems like it, we all live in a relatively stable social system.

It's so important to remember those things because when we're struggling through each week, measuring little professional victories, trying to squeeze in each little errand, and remember each thing on our do-to lists. The opportunity to stop, look around, and appreciate the immense beauty of what we've been given becomes a moment of mindfulness, love and bliss.

Things I am grateful for this week:

• A comfortable home
• A well stocked supply of tea, red wine and sugared ginger
• My amazing kittens (the younger of whom just applied a sparkly layer of Hello Kitty "pol-nailish" to my nails, and kitten-the-elder is decorating an elaborate little room for her doll)
• The woodpecker family that is nesting in the wall outside our kitchen
• Good health
• The giant pine trees outside my home
• An inspiring and brilliant extended family
• Fleece socks

After marking all of life's gifts, great and small, what better activity for the day afterward? Waiting in line all night so that we can stampede in and battle for the last toy on sale, thus saving a whole dollar or two? Yes, gloating at the crestfallen look of our competitors/friends when we tell them how little we paid for this season's "it" toy, getting back in touch with our inner greed monster are the things that truly mean something in this shared Black Friday ritual of ours.

I for one intend to hop off the computer, grab a run in the crisp autumn weather (once this "pol-nailish" dries), get my home nice and clean so we can think about the upcoming Christmas plans and remain thankful for my precious clowder of kittens.

Thankfully we live in an age where we can share great new music with relative ease. As always, this fun is mandatory:

Supercute!

Those of you with kittens might have reached the same ground-breaking conclusion as I have; childhood is a little different than it was in the 1980's (OK, OK.....70's). For one thing, when kids play library, they make beeping noises instead of pretending to stamp things. Also, if a pretend game isn't going as planned, they pretend to "rewind" it.

One activity that the whole clowder of kittens is overly fond of these days is a Disney Web site called Pixie Hollow which is a little virtual world for Tinkerbell-type fairies. I like to investigate everything they do online assiduously after what I euphemistically call "the unfortunate incident," but could be more accurately described as plain old Bad Parenting.

One day I was letting my then two-year-old kitten watch Bugs Bunny reruns on YouTube while I got caught up on household chores. I checked on her every few minutes, and she was fine each time, except the last, when I heard a feeble little "mumma" and went in to find my sweet lovie, eyes rimmed with tears, heart racing. I learned two things that day:

a) Cool! My daughter knows how to click on stuff at age two!

b) This is the kind of thing a two-year-old might conceivable click on.

I know! Bad mumma, bad, bad, bad, bad mumma. Bad!

So I decided to check out this Pixie Hollow to make sure there were no sharp virtual objects that might flay their happy little avatar fairies in two. What I found was a gentle little world that seemed fine on the surface, but actually contained something far more sinister.....

Well come on, I'll show you. Here it is. You get to fly around and talk, make friends, play games or gather berries and nuts. I think you can use the nuts or dandelion tufts to buy sexy little outfits. But after a while, it leads to some larger philosophical questions:

"Is that all there is to life? Gathering acorns?"

These questions might even lead to some existential angst which I doubt Disney has anticipated.

"Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going?"

One thing was clear. I had to leave Chilly Falls to seek the answers I was looking for.

"What do you think about the home lending crisis?"

As you might have guessed, Dewdrop and Rosemary Tulippetal had absolutely no opinion whatsoever. In fact their blind, lemming-like acquiescence to conformity left me feeling even more empty and alienated.

"We all look the same."

Daisy Prettyvalley just blinked at me and said my slippers made me look fat. Will someone please tell me why I had to shell out 50 damn acorns for slippers when we fly anyway? Would nobody listen?

For a moment it seemed like Paprika Frostdew really understood what I was saying. She even started taking notes.

"We have lost our will to be creative individuals!"

But then Chipmunk came out of nowhere and said that my opinions were dangerous and I should start watching my back. Her goon, Sadie Silktwist was getting a little too close for comfort. I got out of there in a hurry, but I gleaned two important lessons before I left.

"I want to be a big plump fairy. With hair on my arms."

First: computerized censorship is not foolproof. One little boy fairy (Who used the the word "gals." Seriously, how many people under 50 use that word?) asked my avatar "Lets. Make. Out."

Second, and perhaps the most important thing:

Let's hear it for modern childhood! Your mandatory fun:

My Dearest Blickosphere

Gentle bloggy readers, how I have missed you both.

I have been so very, very busy as you can imagine. Surprisingly, the door-to-door interpretive dance venture never worked out. I blame the economy.

I have decided to turn my attention instead to the exciting field of cooking literature. I recently had the pleasure of listening to a vegan friend enlighten me about how my bad carnivorous ways were harming myself, the environment, children, and furry, delicious little creatures everywhere. I do plan on watching the Food, Inc. dvd he gave me. It's just in my glove compartment to remind me to watch it. And it's also there to remind me that one day of vegan eating is the carbon footprint equivalent of driving a Prius.

Now while Blicky actually cooks endangered species on the grille of his idling Hummer, I myself actually care about the planet and have resolved to do something about it. I will be even more single minded and driven than my vegan friend and go him one better. I have started writing a raw food, vegan cookbook. Just because we eliminated all the processed chemicals, resentment and hatred that infests the typical American diet, doesn't mean it has to taste bad. A raw food lifestyle is so easy and rewarding too! Here's a recipe that's sure to become a favorite! Chocolate chip cookies:

2 1/4 cups flour

3 cups brown sugar and white sugar

2 eggs 2 cups uranium

1 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

2 tsp vanilla

2 tsp powdered rhinoceros horn

12 oz semisweet chocolate chips

Preheat oven

....

....

crap.

Well the project is still in its early stages but I will keep you posted. I have a high school friend who is actually much further along with his project. His book, Fat of the Land: Adventures of a 21st Century Forager, was actually published ages ago and is teetering on the acme of Mount St. Bookstacks next to my bed. This is a seriously cool book. He's divided it into chapters based on different types of food one can forage. Apparently it goes beyond pies foraged from your neighbor's windowsill as well. He writes in depth about each thing and includes a recipe.

And now, since it's been so long since you've been assigned some mandatory fun:

Titian and Those Other Guys at the MFA Boston

I wasn't sure how much to expect from our clowder of kittens and their friends as we made our way through the rain (I bet nobody has noticed how much it has been raining in New England. I might be led to believe I was living in Seattle, but the coffee is still bad, the live music overpriced and the footwear is stylish) and into the restored Huntington entrance of the MFA Boston for the Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese: Rivals in Renaissance Venice show. The titters about bum cracks from the 6-8 year old group was taken up in exuberant chorus by the 4-and-under set. I won't bore you with the details, but my nightmare scenario involved a disarmingly handsome officer from the Italian questura, a brightly lit room, a glowering agent from some prestigious international insurance institution, my cackling 3-year-old and a priceless broken masterpiece.

But seriously, if you live within 3 hours of Boston, try to see this show sometime during the next two weeks. It's up until August 16th, when it travels to the Louvre. As all the reviewers point out, given the costs required by the aforementioned prestigious international insurance institutions, it is highly unlikely that we will have an opportunity to see such an amazing collection of painting anytime in the near future. The only thing is, if Blicky Kitty had actually gotten that curatorship he applied for years ago, the exhibit would have been a distinctly different experience. For one, it would've been called Titian, the Other Guy, and Whosey-Whatsit; How Titian Rocked my Renaissance World.

Blicky also wouldn't have framed the interplay and visual conversations between the three artists in quite the same way. The reviewers practically make it sound like a horserace:

"Veronese is in the lead by a stretch with his depiction of the Holy Family, now it's Tintoretto coming up from the right with his Suzanna and the Elders, and wait now here comes Titian out of nowhere with a Reclining Venus. The crowd goes nuts. There's chiaroscuro everywhere and you almost can't make it out..... but yes, it's Titian, folks, winning the race by half a length."

Don't get me wrong. The interplay between artists is fascinating to see, but the true joy of this show is the opportunity to see really amazing art close up. When you stand next to a Titian, you get to experience the style that created a tidal shift in the way artists in the Western world used paint. He was the first one to use color and the depiction of light rather than line to delineate form. As his style became more mature and confident, his brushwork became a vehicle for the expression of energy and emotion. He also revolutionized the use of oil paint and glazing with his slow, exacting method of applying layer upon layer to his canvases. He painted over a reddish ground layer to lend warmth to his color then built up the paint. His subtle use of glazes (called velatura or veiling) brought out the richness of the different pigments. Titian was said to have cried "Trenta, quaranta velature!" ("Thirty, forty glazes!").

It's no small feat that Titian gained a mention in Giorgio Vasari's Lives of the Artists. Vasari chronicled all of the great Italian Renaissance artists from Cimabue to Vasari. This book is such an important source for art historians that I'm not really even sure how famous a certain little painting in the Louvre would be (or Dan Brown, for that matter -- his wife's an art historian so she'd totally back me up) if Vasari hadn't rhapsodized about its enigmatic beauty. Vasari's book traced all of the artists and their work, evaluating them for how high they ranked on the Tusca-meter. If they were Tuscan enough, they got his highest praise; garbatissimo, which translates roughly as elegant, gentile or wicked-Tuscan-ie. Of course, Michelangelo who like Vasari was born in Tuscany was the pinnacle of all things artistic.

So it's quite a feat that Titian, who had the double misfortune of not being born in that birthplace of the arts and of beating Vasari out on a big commission even made the lineup. Of course Vasari's praise was measured. Some people mentioned in the Lives thought Titian's painting would have been improved if he were to study more works from antiquity or the work of Michelangelo. Vasari even wrote that Michelangelo (the object of his total man crush), after praising the painting of Danae (above) lamented that in Venice they didn't learn how to draw well first. He quoted him as saying that if Titian were assisted by art as he is by nature, especially in the imitation of life, it would not be possible to surpass him, for he has the finest talent and a very pleasant, vivacious manner. So does that mean if he had been Tuscan, he would have been the greatest artist in the book?

Well, the good news is that I'm not in some sexy Italian jail cell, being interrogated mercilessly. The kittens actually loved the show. Elder kitten was delighted to figure out that the shell in the hand of one figure identified her as Venus. Destruction-prone younger kitten kept herself entertained for a while by admiring the pretty dresses or the animals in the foreground of the Last Supper paintings. But mostly she just delighted in calling out various body parts of each nude figure in a really, really loud voice.

Ecco qui il vostro Mandatory Fun:

Heeeere's Blicky!

Wow that's scary. Sorry and my apologies to Jack Nicholson. Let me salve your nerves with an image from MFA Boston's show Titian, Tintoretto, Veronese; Rivals in Renaissance Venice.

There, that's better. Even Venus looks frightened. Blicky scared her so much her clothes fell off. My apologies for the extended silence, gentle bloggy readers. I was really quite busy:

A. Translating the phonebook into Esperanto.

B. Building a love nest/covert missile testing range for Kim Jong-Il.

C. Building a cool pillow fort in the living room.

D. Starting a new business enterprise in the burgeoning field of door-to-door interpretive dance.

E. Altering my address and facial feastures to avoid being stalked by Mitt Romney (I told you. It could never work. Stop calling me!).

F. All of the above.

So I try to make good use of my limited reading time these days, really I do. Usually it's historical non-fiction or really amazing fiction. I mean life is short, why not fill your mind with beautiful words?

But this summer a friend convinced me to read the Twilight series. First of all thanks a lot. You know who you are. Here's an excerpt of dialogue from the Blicky homestead while I was sucked into that series.

Kittens: Mumma we're hungry. You forgot to feed us breakfast and lunch.

Me: Shhhh, Bella's talking to Edward.

Kittens: Mumma, you left us outside in the rain. We're cold and wet.

Me: Be quiet! I think he's going to tell her.

Husband: Hi Sweetie! I'm home. I vacuumed the house and I love you.

Me: Go away, you not-Edward-Cullan-mortal man. I want a divorce because you're not Edward.

Cigarettes have warning labels, alcohol has warning labels. I think the publisher should be required to place a warning label on the Twilight books too. They are the literary equivalent of crack cocaine and something needs to be done.

I was initially ashamed of my habit until I remembered a very brilliant and well-read friend scoffing as the idea of a distinction between "high art" and the trashy read. What makes the distinction? I read some Chaucer's Canterbury Tales to the kittens a while back because I remember thinking it was hysterically funny when I was little. Here's a spoiler plot summary of the Miller's Tale:

Young guy moves into an apartment at the home of an unpleasant man with a hot younger wife. Young clerk woos and seduces said wife. Nerdy guy also gets wicked crush on the hot wife. The wife and the young man hatch a plan to spend the whole night together. They convince the jealous old guy that a second deluge is coming and that he should get set up in the attic for a great flood. Clever couple enjoys some amorous sport. Lovesick nerd comes by and begs for a kiss. Hot wife sticks bum out the window. Lovesick nerd, after kissing bum is no longer lovesick, but ticked off. Stalks off to find a hot poker. Clever young clerk thinks nerd wants another kiss and received a sound branding on his bum. Clever young guy has hot young wife but sore bum. Jealous old guy wakes up thinking it's the end of the world and falls two stories. The young couple convince everyone he's nutty and live happily (albeit sorely) ever after.

So is it really so awful that I got sucked into a romance about vampires, power, love and death and metaphysics?

Enjoy your mandatory fun:

A Letter to the Second-Grade Class in Room 28

Dear Children,

I had a wonderful time volunteering in your class today and playing math games. I've heard about each one of you from my daughter of course, so it was fun to finally meet you in person.

I just wanted to pass along a few observations that you might find valuable as you embark upon your educational careers. First off all C.J. ― Dude! Who cheats at Bingo? Next time I tell you to hand me the bingo number balls it doesn't mean "Drop to the floor and make me pry them out of your hands while you giggle like a little girl."

Jackson, you were so helpful and nice today and I know I'm totally rocking age 40 but sweetie, I'm already married to a nice man my own age. Oh, and spit balls on your Bingo board does not a Bingo make.

Kids, I'm also going to clue you in on something important. When you're walking down the hall and your teacher says in a grave and reverent tone, "Listen. Think about where you are. This is the Third Grade Corridor. And these Teachers are going to be your Teachers next year in the Third Grade. Do you really want them to hear you being noisy?" OK C.J. I don't know, but I'm guessing you might not have to worry about the third grade for a little while. But for the rest of you kids listen up:

The third grade teachers do not hide behind the doors, peek out and make notes about which second graders are the noisy ones and plan horrible fates for them.

In fact, a lot of us grown ups don't really care if you talk too much or act like kids. I know your teachers hate it, but hell, you guys are funny! They need to lighten up. Also we don't really care all that much how you do in school. You know when you go to the dentist they always think you should spend the whole day brushing your teeth and you go to the hairdresser and they're all "Come on, deep-condition your hair." And you go to the doctors are they're all, "You should cut down on doing crack and eating lead paint." Well teachers are the same way and they make your mommies and daddies feel bad if you're acting like kids instead of kissing up (and yes you know who I'm talking about, Little Jenny. No one likes a kiss-up).

When you're a grown up you won't remember a single thing about how you did in second grade, except you'll remember which teachers really didn't like kids all that much. You know deep down, most of us grown ups don't really even care too much where you go to school as long as you're trying your hardest, you continue learning and being curious and you're happy doing what you do. Looking back on second grade you won't think, "Crap, I should've performed better on those standardized tests, thereby helping my school system acquire better state funding." OK, you might have the occasional dream about a test you didn't study for or coming to school naked (especially you, Jackson). But probably you'll think "Wow, I wish I had gotten the chance to run through the halls and jump to see how high I could reach on the bulletin boards."

I'll try and work on the teachers, but for next time guys, let's keep the Bingo game on the up and up.

Oh, and Michael honey? I think we as a species would have been born with only two fingers if they were meant to spend so much time inserted into our nostrils.

Sincerely,

Mrs. __________

You Make Me Dizzy Miss Lizzy

Blicky Kitty has been asked to create a playlist for Queen Elizabeth's new iPod that Obama gave her. She'll be shaking her tweed-clad self in no time with our lineup:

Fake Empire by The National

Safe European Home by the Clash

Sexy Little Girl Princess by Lisa Germano

Radio Gaga by Queen 

London Calling by the Clash

Banquet by Bloc Party

North American Scum by LCD Soundsystem

Wear Clean Drawers by the Coup

You're Aging Well by Dar Williams

Royal Pain by the Eels

Killer Parties by The Hold Steady

Daft Punk is Playing at My House by LCD Soundsystem

OK well maybe I'm just overtired so I just scrolled down through the titles in iTunes I thought she'd enjoy. Feel free to add your own...

L'Etat C'est Blick

Paul Cézanne, Mount Sainte-Victoire

Mount Ste-Victoire, April, 1999

The staff at Blicky Kitty are celebrating all things French today!

The South of France is an ancient Gallic marvel of Papal Palaces, which produced minds like St. Exupery and Cézanne, plus there is killer rock climbing around Mount Sainte-Victoire. As you wander around the rocky terrain it's like walking into a Cézanne canvas with the darkly defined linear structure of the trees, growing as if they've been slathered with daubs of black ochre paint. The quality of greens that you can see on the landscape seem to change with each variation in light. The lenticular clouds float untouched by the mistral winds and scatter moody colors across farm buildings and woodlands. This unique landscape had as profound an effect on the development of early modern painting at anything hanging in far off Paris at the Musée d'Orsay or the Musée de l'Orangerie.

I'm sending Blicky over for a spa getaway while I clean the house and get ready for an afternoon playdate. He assures me that his French is impeccable. It's so weird, Blicky Kitty is HUGE in France. I know, who would've thunk it? The paparazzi and mainstream press are following him into his spa treatments. He emailed me the transcript of an interview he did:

French Reporter: Blicky Kitty, what do you think of France so far?

BK: Sur le pont d'Avignon, L'on y danse, l'on y danse, Sur le pont d'Avignon, L'on y danse tout en rond.

FR: Um, yes that's a 15th century folk song about the Pont d'Avignon. It's OK, I speak English. Tell me, how are you enjoying your spa day?

BK: L'Etat c'est moi. Pomme frittes. Je voudrais un chocolat chaud; grand avec du lait de soya, pas de creme. Quelle heure est-il?

FR: Blicky Kitty, that doesn't make any sense. Could you please speak in English? Can you tell me anything of value that I can pass along to my readers?

BK. Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.

FR: Ah merci bien alors Monsieur Kitty!

Et voici votre amusement obligatoire:

Report: What I Did on My Spring Vacation

Well it was school vacation week in MA. We spent a wonderful week. See if you can spot the things we did not do during the vacation:

A. Spend the afternoon plein air painting in the gardens of Blythewald, in Bristol, RI.

B. Learn the fine, yet messy art of taxidermy at a special children's seminar offered by our local children's museum.

C. Construct an elaborate full scale educational diorama about child labor conditions in the 1920's.

D. Take in the sights at the new (to me) MoMA.

E. Dress my children up as 16-year-olds and hunt for 1920's-esque factory jobs with poor conditions and long hours.

F. Get to hear my three year old publicly utter the words: "Look Mumma, I found another Rothko!"

G. Enroll aforementioned 3 yr. old in rodeo clown school.

H. Get to hear my three year old publicly utter the words: "Look Mumma I'm a frog that poops!" as she hopped precariously close to the (gristly) Woman With Her Throat Cut sculpture by Giacometti.

I. Shop for Manolo Blahniks with the money earned from 1920's-esque children's factory jobs.

J. Enter 8 yr. old in the Jon Benet junior bathing beauty pageant.

K. Get to see Spring Awakening (w/out kids) in Providence.

L. Go for a beautiful nature walk with May-May in South County, RI.

Any cool images seen on BK are derived from talented relatives.

Any cool images seen on BK are derived from talented relatives.

Answers: Activities B, C, E, G, I and J did not actually take place on this vacation. I am not ruling anything out for future sojourns however.

OK I brought home a little mandatory fun for you. Just to let you know I am one of those rare people who just does not like musicals. But Blicky is declaring Spring Awakening fan-flippin-tastic: