Don's Blog The Mighty KC has struck out 1-31-22

That is what I heard from somewhat west of us last night. The last stanza has always been my favorite. 

I am secure in the knowledge that he [we] will come up to bat again.

                     Casey at the Bat

By Ernest Lawrence Thayer

A Ballad of the Republic, Sung in the Year 1888

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;

The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest

Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that—

We'd put up even money now with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,

There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—

"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;

And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clinched in hate;

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty KC has struck out.

Don's Blog Young love 1-28-22

When you see this out your window:

It's no surprise to see this:

I'll leave it to you to finish the story.

Don's Blog Getting On It and Getting Off It

 

This winter, when it is harder to be outside, I go through files from the past. One of the files has editorials that I wrote long ago. Initially I was Editor of St. Louis Metropolitan Medicine and then for some time I was Editor of Missouri Medicine. These journals were read by members and other health professionals as well as the public. The editors of  these journals routinely address how terribly doctors are treated by insurance companies and the government.When I became editor I promised to write about human issues confronting practicing physicians especially in their personal lives. These editorials were meant to be timeless. I'll start sharing a few.  Here is an editorial from St.Louis Metropolitan Medicine (June 27,1984). As always, I appreciate your comments.

[It is read best on the computer screen because of the print size.]

 What is the 'it' that we are getting on or off? I say it is the position that I have in the matter and that it is almost always

an automatic (perhaps even neural) reaction. Its worse than that - its not just having a position but rather that the position Has me - I AM

the position. It is about being right and making  others wrong. It is about dominating and avoiding domination. This is what we humans do in life- all day everyday. An insight into this process creates the possibility of getting off our position and moving on. 

What do you think?

Don's Blog Kilauea 1-24-22

Here is another tough one - here is Galway Kinnel writing about his father. 

Sections of it speak directly to me.

Here is a stone with holes in it.

like a stone it has furrows, like my fathers brow. Once 

he could get up when he wanted and go

into an untouched future: when I knew him

he was sprinting to get to death

before his cares could catch up

and kill him. The small rainbow

that forms around me now curves in.

like the birth forceps that hoisted me out

— witness the depressions in the temple bones —

until its two ends almost touch 

my feet. could it be that I

am the pot of gold? Both pots, one inside the other,

like the fire leaping inside the steel drum the night workers hold out

    their hands to, in the icy air before morning,

or the pitch black of speech about to be born through scarlet lips,

or the child getting off her bicycle inside the old woman the priest has

    told to get ready to die,

or the father of Edinburgh rising early inside the son of Pawtucket—

   to whom on Sundays after church he read the funnies, Scripture

   in the father tongue?

Now the rainbow throws its double into the air above it—

as on those sundays, when the first blessing was we were blessed,

and the second, we knew we were blessed.

In the fire pit, where fire patches

of black skin slide over fiery flesh,

a scrap of paper the wind, agent 

of Providence, tosses in

vanishes without a flame or crackle—

and my rocks, densest concentration of future anywhere in the body,

   suddenly hurt, with the claustrophobia of a million swimmers

   terrified they will never get out.

In the light before dawn the blue glimmering fades

above four pillows dented all night by four dreaming heads.

The father, already in the cellar,

yanks the great iron lever, the iron teeth gnash, ashes dotted with fire

crash into the ash pit: and shovels in

a new utopia of coal, in a black field,

which lies quiet, then jets up all over

in flickerings like little senseless bluets.

The pipes and radiators of the house 

knock and bang in free un-unnison.

In the bathroom he strops the razor, 

hoots out last nights portion of disgust,

and shaves, a fleshy, rhythmic rasping, like a katydid's.

Galway Kinnel from When One Has Lived a Long Time

Alfred A. Knopf New York 1990

When I was growing up our Dad shoveled coal into our furnace

every morning. The coal filled a corner room in the basement. Regularly 

the coal was delivered through an opening by the basement stairs and 'slid'

into the dark foreboding room where there was nothing but coal. The coal was 

delivered not far from the slotted opening by the kitchen door through which 

the 'iceman' made his delivery into our icebox. From his truck he would hoist 

the ice blocks using heavy tongs, put it on the leather pad on his shoulder, 

and carry it to the house. Today I can actually 'see' that the ice is 

covered with sawdust.

Don's Blog Morning News in the Bighorn Mountains 1-21-22

For those for whom this brings forth a knowing nod.

Morning News in the Bighorn Mountains
The latest movie star is drunk just out of rehab,
two or three cities had extraordinary killings,
and expensive homes are sliding off the hills
or burning again. There's an energy crisis on,
and peace in the Middle East is close as ever.
In Wyoming, just below timberline,
meteors and lightning storms
keep us entertained at night. Last week,
a squirrel wrecked the mountain bluebirds' nest.
I swatted handfuls of moths in the cabin
and set them on a stump each day,
but the birds would not come back to feed.
It snowed last in June, four inches
the day before the solstice. But summer
is winding down—frost on the grass
this morning when we left the ranger station.
Yellow-bellied marmots are burrowing
under the outhouse vault, and ravens leave the ridges
to gorge on Mormon crickets in the meadows.
Flakes of obsidian and red flint
knapped from arrowheads hundreds of years ago
appear in the trails each day,
and the big fish fossil in the limestone cliff
dissolves a little more with every rain.

William Notter from Holding Everything Down.
© Crab Orchard Review and Southern Illinois University Press, 2009.

Don's Blog Breakfast Guest 1-20-22

This brisk 20 degree morning a beautiful Hawk came to our new hanging banner and stayed. This Red-shouldered Hawk (Buteo linneatus) was identified by Bill Rowe who writes the Bird of the Week section of the local Audubon Society's Tail Feathers blog. Red-shoulders are identified by their reddish-barred underparts, black and white checkered wings, and black tail crossed by narrow white bars.

We are privileged to have our wild life come to us. The other night as I got a drink of water after midnight, there were four young deer grazing in the front yard. Last fall a turkey perched on our deck railing. The hawks usually keep their distance but this one was interested in the small birds that come to the feeder outside the kitchen window. They were flitting like crazy deep in the azalea bushes and finally flew up into the tight leafy branches of the holly tree above. Our raptor stayed on the flagpole in the sun for about half an hour much to our delight. It was unperturbed by the banner intermittently brushing its tail feathers. Red-shoulders usually eat mice and snakes but I suspect a small bird could be a tasty morsel. Their call is a loud high-pitched 'kee-you,keeyou' which we could hear through the closed windows.

Don's Blog Persuasion 1-19-22

I came upon this song recently. It is about a previous relationship where lovers went their separate ways.

The song describes a distant possibility - he could be persuaded…

The video is of poor quality but the sound is extraordinary. Once in your head the haunting melody pleasurably recurs.

https://youtu.be/U3DS6xglAfQ?fbclid=IwAR0uzkr8Dnpeom_UY_IVgrQQ-p_SCtdflJrJUfH5RHNdeqNMabXWtHmpZ20

Singers: Richard and Teddy Thompson

Here are the lyrics:

You and I, tempted by the promise of a different life
Time has fled, there's a constant battle
Running through my head
I don't know what to do 'cause I still believe

After all the foolish things you put me through
I could always make a start on something new
And I've always been a man who's open to
Persuasion

Blind romance, there'll be no half measures given half a chance
But we never learn, trusting in the fire while the cruel flame burns
And we need to rebuild what was never there
What got left behind

After all the foolish things that we've been through
I could always make a start on something new
And I'll always be a man who's open to
Persuasion

And it's written in my heart so that everybody can see it
And it's written in my soul, after all I still believe it
I still believe it, I still believe it
I still believe it, I still believe it

I don't know what to do 'cause I still believe
After all the foolish things you put me through
I could always make a start on something new
And I'll always be a man who's open to
Persuasion, persuasion, persuasion, persuasion

I still believe it
I still believe it persuasion
I still believe it, still believe it
I still believe it persuasion, persuasion

Source: Musixmatch

Songwriters: Tim Finn / Richard Thompson

Persuasion lyrics © Mushroom Music Pty. Ltd., Rebel Larynx Music, Beeswing Music, Mushroom Music Pty Ltd

Don's Blog Rilke on Marriage

My wife sent me this a decade ago. Certainly 'relationship' can be substituted for marriage.

 

"The point of a marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries;

on the contrary, a good marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian

of his solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust. A merging of two people is 

an impossibility, and where it seems to exist, it is a hemming in, a mutual consent that robs one party

or both parties of their fullest freedom and development. But once the realization is accepted that 

even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a marvelous living side by side can grow up 

for them, if they succeed in loving the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility

of always seeing each other as a whole and before an immense sky."

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

Don's Blog When We Sold the Tent 1-14-22

One of the disappointments of my life was when my bride (of decades) said, "I'm not getting on 

my knees to get into that tent again." Here is another look at that watershed moment.

When We Sold the Tent

When we sold the tent

we threw in the Grand Canyon

with its shawl of pines,

lap full of cones and chipmunks

and crooked seams of river.

We let them have the

parched white moonscapes of Utah,

and Colorado's

magnificat of flowers

sunbursting hill after hill.

Long gentle stretches

of Wyoming, rain outside

some sad Idaho

town where the children, giddy

with strange places, clowned all night.

Eyes like small veiled moons

circling our single light, sleek

shadows with pawprints,

all went with the outfit; and

youth, a river of campfires. 

 

 Rhina P. Espaillat from Playing at Stillness.

 © Truman State University Press. 

Don's Blog Reflection

In college I wrote my thesis on "The Problem of the Artist in the Works of James Joyce and Thomas Mann". I was what was called and English-German Bridge student with half of my departmental courses in each of the English and German Departments. Recently I came upon some notes I had written for the thesis.

In Joyce's Ulysses in the section called Night Town,  the protagonist, Leopold Bloom, muses:

"He reflected that the progressive extension of the field of individual development and experience was regressively accompanied by
a restriction of the converse domain of interindividual relations.

As in what ways?

From inexistence to existence he came to many and was as one received; existence with existence he was with any as any with any; 
from existence to non-existence gone he would be by all as none perceived."

Bloom was reflecting about the question addressed in my thesis. As we become deeply involved in any field at some point the "I" that we are can disappear. In the depth of our focus  the 'I'  that we are is out of time and space. We are only in the 'zone' of what we are doing.This does not happen for long and we become aware of it only downstream after the activity when the 'I' returns  and we think about it. Going from 'existence to non-existence', from knowable life to not-knowable life cannot be put into words and as an unsayable event it is thus not possible to communicate to 'others'.  There are no words for this since it is beyond perception and as  Joyce puts it "he would be by all as none perceived."  This can definitely affect one's interindividual relations.

What do you think?