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Legs

Friday 17 July 2015

There’s a big difference between 100 km and 10 km, but when I began riding again a couple of months ago, there didn’t seem to be much of a difference between the two as far as my legs were concerned.

So when I took off this morning on a favorite ride, a ride I’d done seemingly countless times, I knew the ride, at a distance more than double the longest “ride” I’d gone on in the last few weeks, would be tough on me.

Babia Gora

But the ride through Lipnica Mała to the base of Babia Góra then through the whole of Lipncia was a favorite. More than once I’d headed out for a quick ride after a day of teaching with no real idea where I was going and ended up making this loop.

Fairly typical house-to-barn attached design

With the views it was an obvious choice. Today, though, it was just as much the views along the way that fascinated me. While Jabłonka has really developed a lot, the villages of Lipnica Wielka and Lipnica Mała are relatively untouched. There are a few more houses, and some of the older houses have been renovated, but by and large, the villages look the same.

One other change became evident when I reached the end of Lipnica Mała: the formerly deeply-rutted road from the end of the village to the roughly-paved road that runs along the base of Babia was now a well-paved little street.

Of course, the forest itself hadn’t changed, nor had the sound of the wind through the trees, which sounded almost tidal.

Once I got to the base of Babia, though, I virtually forgot about the camera as I made my way up the most challenging portion of the ride.

It was at this point that I really understood, in a deeply muscular way, that my legs are nothing like they used to be.

The worst part of it is the memory, knowing that those climbs used to be no problem at all for me. I was winded at the top of several of the climbs, but I didn’t have to stop to catch my breath and give my burning legs a chance cool down. I didn’t stop and comment aloud to myself about the stupidity of the whole idea of tackling such a ride when so completely unprepared.

But somehow I survived, ate some lunch, and took the Boy out to help wash the car before tomorrow’s wedding.

 

Silver Car, Red Face

Sunday 18 August 2013

2006 Chevrolet Corvette Z06

It was certainly an expensive car, that silver Corvette we saw coming home from Mass. And it was certainly a powerful car: I’ve never driven one, but a company and culture do not put that much hype into an American-made sports car if it only barely outruns a minivan. I’m certain the driver takes a great deal of pride in being able to own such a car, but owning such a car tempts people. Having that much power at your disposal makes you want to show it off a little, to put the pedal to the metal, as the saying goes, and perhaps roar out of an intersection and leave behind all us mere mortals driving glorified aluminum cans. But having that much power and controlling that much power are two different things, so I couldn’t help but giggle a bit when the driver of said automobile, in an effort to impress us all, roar out of the intersection, lost control of his car, and took out a line of hedges.

Fortunately nothing hurt but the hedges and a middle-aged man’s toy and ego.

School Dance Misogyny Mystery

Friday 8 February 2013

Dear DJ Splatz (or whatever you clever name is),

I’ll have to admit that I was somewhat surprised, and pleasantly so, when you called down a young man at our school dance this evening for getting a little out of control. Slinging his shirt around and dancing in an overtly sexual manner, he was clearly out of line at a middle school dance. I commend you for calling chaperons’ attention to it and insisting that he leave the dance. At the time, I thought that such a strong response was entirely called for and set a much-needed example for students, and my opinion of you improved greatly. You later began talking about the need to have “good, clean fun,” and while I thought, “My definition of that term is probably different than yours,” I very much appreciated the sentiment.

The next song you selected for the dancers, though, seemed to negate everything you were trying to accomplish with that warning. I’d never heard the song — for I don’t listen to such trash — but the lyrics of the refrain stood out clearly: “To the window, to the wall, / To the sweat drip down my balls (MY BALLS).” At least that’s the lyrics that lyrics007.com displayed when I Googled “window wall sweat drip balls.”

Really? You’re going to reprimand someone for sexually explicit dancing and then play that song? When I read the rest of the misogynistic lyrics of this piece of garbage, I wondered how producers could have cleaned it up for a radio-ready version, so filled it was with the lowest, most degradingly misogynistic profanity imaginable. Which lyrics do you think were going through their mind as the song played, the radio version or the vile original? Of course, we don’t have to wonder about the lyrics coming out of their mouths, but it is particularly distressing to see a bunch of sixth-, seventh-, and eight-grade girls singing (who are we kidding? it’s rap: it’s merely talking, shouting, or mumbling to a generally-computer-generated beat) shouting about sweat dripping off their — well, you get the picture.

So, in closing, if you find yourself this evening wondering why that boy was dancing like a sex fiend, I’d suggest you review the lyrics of the songs you play.

Sincerely,
A Teacher Who Will Probably Never Let His Daughter Go To A Dance He Doesn’t Personally Chaperone

The Sound of Respect

Sunday 18 July 2010

A friend posted a link some time ago to Anthony Esolen’s article at InsideCatholic.com about The Sound of Music and how it would resonate (or rather, fail to resonate) with today’s culture. The article begins,

Recently my family and I watched The Sound of Music for perhaps the twelfth time — probably the last great musical that Hollywood ever produced. It made me wonder if I could list the reasons why such a movie could not now be made. These reasons I offer below; but it seems to me that they can all be united under the single assertion that the intellectual, imaginative, and emotional palette of the American people has suffered a terrible constriction, a reduction to the tedium of lust and greed and the thirst for power. It is not so much that Hollywood would not make a movie like The Sound of Music as it is that the people themselves would be hard pressed to understand it. (Inside Catholic)

He lists a number of reasons:

  1. The movie takes for granted that some things are holy.
  2. There is such a thing as innocence — and it is not the same as ignorance.
  3. There are such things as children, thank God.
  4. There are such things as boys and girls, and men and women.
  5. Today, no one can sing. No one knows why people ever sang.

Many of these reasons are fairly convincing, and all of them are clearly argued (even if one doesn’t agree with the conclusions).

I myself watched the film again a few weeks ago, and I tried to imagine my students’ reactions to the film. Much like Esolen, I came to the conclusion that many of them would find it incomprehensible. There’s one more reason, though, that Esolen hints at but never directly discusses. Most contemporary young people would not get the gist of the film because the idea of submission and respect toward authority (even when it seems unfair) is completely foreign to many of them.

The first time such respectful submission occurs is when the abbess suggests to Maria that monastic life might not be where God’s leading her. Maria protests, giving all the reasons why she she feels she must stay. She grows animated, slightly frustrated, and very insistent. The abbess brings her to complete silence simply by calmly saying her name: “Maria.” The young Maria grows silent instantly, demurely responding, “Yes, reverend mother.” And that’s it. The end of the discussion.

Many young people today would not respond thus to an adult no matter who the adult was. They have rights, see, and they are equal to adults in every way — except paying bills and providing for a family. Many would see Maria’s reaction as cowardly, as a lack of self-respect. Others would simply say, “I’d just turn around and walk off…”

The next time we see this type of submission it is even more tellingly dated. Captain von Trapp blows his whistle to summon the children, who form a straight line and march down the staircase in time to von Trapp’s whistle’s chirps. For most intents and purposes, they’re in the military, and that’s the point: no warmth, no real family ties, just the appearance of discipline.

Maria is horrified, and rightfully so. It is the one time she truly stands up for herself.

I could never answer to a whistle. Whistles are for animals, not for children. And definitely not for me. It would be too humiliating.

Clearly, she is also defending the children against humiliation, actual and potential. She gets away with it, but not without von Trapp commenting on it. But the children? They’re undoubtedly humiliated by the treatment, and they long for a true relationship with von Trapp. Indeed, that is the whole point of the film. But there is no sign of disrespect, only painful hope in the children’s eyes. “Perhaps if we get it right, Father will notice us,” their body language seems to say.

I’m not suggesting that we go back to a time when children were meant to be seen but not heard. However, the other extreme is too prevalent today.

The children long for attention from their father, but how do they get it? Through insolence? Through rebellion? No — by playing childish pranks on the nannies hired to care for them. Many attribute student disrespect to attention-getting measures. Perhaps that’s true. Yet the need to make such a hypothesis is just more evidence of the incomprehensibility of the film. Today’s neglected children go about getting attention from adults in an entirely different manner than in the idyllic times of pre-war Austria.

Another scene that might well be almost impossible for modern viewers to understand is when the children fall into the water after one of their day trips. Maria has gained the children’s trust, and they show their childlike nature around her. There’s mutual respect and even love. Von Trapp steps back into the scene with his whistle, and all returns to “normal”. The children snap to attention and grow silent immediately.

If there is ever a time in the film to protest their father’s callous behavior, this is it. The children could protest about their treatment, pointing out how much they’ve learned with Maria and reminding their father that they are, after all, just children. Indeed, they fell into the water due to their childlike excitement at seeing their father: they all stand excitedly, rock the boat, and fall in. Von Trapp begins by yelling and humiliating them, but the children say nothing. Not even a respectful, “But Father…” Not a word.

Again, this is not a model of my own parenting, but such complete submission to a parent (or any other adult) is, in my experience, a rarity these days.

It is also at this point that the only semblance of disrespect appears: Maria tells von Trapp the truth about his children and their longing for him.

She finally sheds her modest submission and stands up, not for herself, but for the children.

von Trapp: Is it possible, or could I have just imagined it? Have my children, by any chance, been climbing trees today?

Maria: Yes, captain.

von Trapp: I see. And where, may I ask, did they get these. . . .

Maria: Play clothes.

von Trapp: Is that what they are?

Maria: I made them from the drapes that used to hang in my bedroom.

von Trapp: Drapes?

Maria: They have plenty of wear left. We’ve been everywhere in them.

von Trapp: Are you telling me that my children have been roaming about Salzburg dressed up in nothing but some old drapes?

Maria:And having a marvelous time!

von Trapp: They have uniforms.

Maria:Forgive me, straitjackets. They can’t be children if they worry about clothes

von Trapp: They don’t complain.

Maria:They don’t dare. They love you too much and fear–

von Trapp: Don’t discuss my children.

Maria:You’ve got to hear, you’re never home–

von Trapp: I don’t want to hear more!

Maria:I know you don’t, but you’ve got to! Liesl’s not a child.

von Trapp: Not one word–

Maria: Soon she’ll be a woman and you won’t even know her. Friedrich wants to be a man but you’re not here to show–

von Trapp: Don’t you dare tell me–

Maria: Brigitta could tell you about him. She notices everything. Kurt acts tough to hide the pain when you ignore him, the way you do all of them. Louisa, I don’t know about yet. The little ones just want love. Please, love them all.

von Trapp: I don’t care to hear more.

Maria: I am not finished yet, captain!

von Trapp: Oh, yes, you are, captain! Fraulein. Now, you will pack your things this minute and return to the abbey.

Yet she says not a single word about how the captain treats her. Her protests are completely selfless.

Of course Maria doesn’t return to the abbey, just yet. Von Trapp hears the sound of music — literally and figuratively — and the music mends his wounded soul. She has saved the family, yet remains on the periphery, by her own choosing. It’s a private family moment, and it’s not her place to intrude. In short, it’s not respectful.

Many today don’t have this sense of respect so clearly illustrated in the film. Respect is not something one has automatically by being an adult or being in a position of authority. It’s something to be earned, and any perceived disrespect — a teacher telling a student to stop talking, for instance — provides free license for whatever (verbal language or body language) the individual might deem necessary to “defend” oneself.

Respect has become a token, if that, and in such a world, a film filled with unquestioned, unconsciously-given respect is utterly incomprehensible.

Bluff Mountain 2010

Monday 14 June 2010

When ethnologist Cecil Sharp came to America during the First World War, he was established as an expert on the British folksong. Unable to support himself during the war (there was not much need for lecturing on folk music during the war), he was drawn by the thought of researching traditional English and Scottish songs that still survived in the American folk tradition.

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One of the places he stopped was Hot Springs, North Carolina. On August 26, 1919, Sharp wrote in his diary,

Last week I went to Hot Springs, where I got thirty beautiful songs from a single woman. The collecting goes on apace, and I have now noted 160 songs and ballads. Indeed, this field is a far more fertile one upon which to collect English folk songs than England itself. The cult of singing traditional songs is far more alive than it is in England or has been for fifty years or more. […] I must try and get up here by hook or crook next year again. It is work that for the sake of posterity must be done, and that without delay. (Source)

The lady who awed Sharp was Jane Gentry, and her songs live today in the memory of singers like Betty Smith, who is partially responsible for the Bluff Mountain Festival, a celebration of two of the strongest cultural binding agents: music and dance.

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Betty Smith (website)

When I went to my first Polish wedding, I was shocked at the group singing that would spontaneously begin throughout the night. No instruments necessary, and actual singing talent is completely optional. All that’s required is the willingness, and after a few shots of vodka, everyone is willing. That’s how I used to look at it, but I’ve come to understand there’s something much deeper.

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As blood moves the oxygen necessary to keep the body alive, so music and dance transport the oxygen needed to keep a culture healthy. That oxygen is simply a strong sense of regional identity, and music is only one part of that identity. Food, language, and religion are other important elements. These elements, however, are “celebrated” regularly, however: we eat and talk daily, and most people in the rural areas of America attend religious services at least weekly (often more regularly). So music needs specific occasions to be celebrated with the broader culture.

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It’s to that end that residents of Madison County organize the annual Bluff Mountain Festival. Practitioners of bluegrass and old-timey music play (and discuss) songs that have been in the Appalachian collective memory for years (in some cases, literally centuries, as Cecil Sharp discovered), reminding all of us who don’t have daily contact with this music of its beauty and importance.

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Green Grass Cloggers

It’s getting more difficult to hold onto such traditions. The first difficulty arrived with the rise of mobility that characterized the twentieth century. Instead of staying in the same region as one’s parents, individuals began moving to cities where there were more economic possibilities. A second difficulty is the competition imported through mass media. Christina Aguilera is known outside of Appalachia; Betty Smith is not (at least on the same scale).

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Cole Mountain Cloggers

The music and traditions survive, though, and young people continue to value the culture their parents and grandparents pass along.

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They’ll be singing these songs twenty years from now, when Aguilera is a tired pop star desperately fighting obscurity by performing with up-and-coming divas, and maybe making out with them on awards shows in a pathetic effort to stay on the tabloid front page.

Underheard

Thursday 18 November 2004

What is it about the popularity lately of singing through one’s nose? This one is the absolute winner, but it seems to be the “in” thing now.

I was at a bar here in Poland with a friend sometime when that atrocious Anastacia song “Paid My Dues” came on the radio. “Read all the lyrics, sorry though they may be

As Anastacia sang, my friend got that lost-in-the-moment look, then asked me, “What is this song about?”

“I don’t really know,” I replied. “I’ve never really paid much attention to it.”

“But I don’t get it. ‘Paint my juice?’ What is that supposed to mean?”

Writing about Literature

Sunday 28 December 1997

Why am I no longer interested in studying literature? Is it simply that I don’t understand most of it, particularly contemporary poetry? Perhaps, but regardless of whether I understand it or not, it all feels so fake to me, so much like a game. The rules of the game are simple: Make nice flowery language that doesn’t necessarily mean anything in particular; make nice vague language that sounds nice but doesn’t necessarily many anything. It’s as if poets are not writing for people but for other poets. Even the criticism and analysis of poetry seems as if it’s coded for poets. I read descriptions of poetry and it tells me nothing. I understand what the words mean, but I don’t see how you can possibly describe poetry in that way and it mean anything. In that way, poetry critism is its own form of creative writing. No one simply says, “This is what the poet is getting at,” but the critic must turn her essay into a prose-poem itself.

Take for example Christian Wiman’s essay in the January 1997 issue of Poetry. He says of Heaney’s “The Harvest Bow,” “The poem has an equable, utterly accomplished feel to it, a pleasing sense of formal fulfillment and completed experience.” Or comparing Heaney’s work to Ruskin’s “sacred laws”: “Both are as yet unrealized, but they are not merely illusory expectations; the promised revelation is implicit in the work at hand.” Of course I am taking these quotes completely out of their context and not even supplying the poems about which Wiman is writing. All the same, while I understand what each word means, the sentences themselves tell me nothing about the poems. In what sense are they “unrealized?” How would an “utterly accomplished feel” differ from a “partially accomplished feel?” Indeed, what would be the opposite of “an utterly accomplished feel?” The words sound nice; they sound academic and deep; but they don’t tell me anything.

The Vintage Book of Contemporary American Poetry is filled with examples of empty and meaningless description. J. D. McClatchy, the editor, writes a brief biographical introduction to each poet, but when he sets about describing the poetry, he often loses me. He introduces Mora Van Duyn by saying, “Her intellectual balance, as well as her preferred narrative and formal strategies, serve to heighten the ordinary (what she calls the ‘motley and manifold’), and control the bizarre.” What exactly does he mean by “intellectual balance” and how does this manifest itself in Van Duyn’s poetry? He describes Robert Penn Warren’s later poetry as “craggy.” This tells me nothing.

Some of McClatchy’s description makes sense, but seems to be more than a little overstated. Concerning J. V. Cunningham, he says, “Though small in bulk and scope, Cunningham’s work is honed to a mordant precision of style and feeling.” I read this, and I have no idea what he’s talking about. Even after I read Cunningham’s poetry, I think, “How does McClatchy mean this is ‘honed to a mordant precision?’” Not all of Cunningham’s work is filled with the biting sarcasm implied in “mordant precision.” And once again, what would the opposite be?

It is not as if McClatchy writes entirely like this. About May Swenson’s work he says that she “relies on wordplay, odd viewpoints, unexpected juxtapositions, and puzzling riddles.” That tells me something; it gives me an idea about what to expect concerning her poetry. He describes Richard Wilbur’s work as being “grounded in a detailed observation of the natural world.” I read that I come to anticipate many physical details in his poetry.

I believe this style comes directly from the forms used by poets when they write about other poets. Robert Lowell wrote to Theodore Roetke and said, “One of the things I marvel at in your poems is the impression they give of having been worked on an extra half day.” What does that tell me about Roethke’s poetry? About Anne Sexton Lowell wrote, “Her gift was to grip, to give words to the drama of her personality.” The latter half I understand, but what does he mean, “to grip?” To grip what?

More Bus Accidents

Thursday 4 July 1996

This morning on the bus I had quite a stressful experience. At one of the downtown stops an older gentleman tried to get on the bus and fell. He was holding on to one of the handles on the door when he suddenly lost his balance and started to fall, still holding onto the handle with his left hand. He twisted around as he fell, his gripping hand serving as the pivot point. He lost his grip and fell completely onto the ground. From that point, things seemed to go in slow motion. I glanced around the bus, seeing if anyone was going to help. Then I saw a girl from the stop approaching the man, offering her hand. His left hand reached for something to grip. It was then that the reality of the situation struck me. I jumped up and assisted the man as he struggled to his feet. I was going to help him actually onto the bus, but he gently pushed away my hand.

Once we were back on the bus he thanked me profusely, then said (or rather mumbled) something to me and I could neither hear the man nor understand what he said. He got off, saying anything, obviously expecting some response. I simply said “Tak,” and smiled, hiding behind my sunglasses and hat.

General Notes

Friday 28 June 1996

plums photoEvery day there is a woman who balances on the edge of the first seat of the bus, getting off around two or three stops after I get on. She has short hair which is frayed and silvery. Her body is more round than the average Pole, and she always wears a skirt with a gray sweater, and her veins stand out clearly on her pale legs. A couple of days ago the bus driver applied a bit too much force [on the brake pedal] a bit too quickly. She tumbled out of her seat with a thud and cracked her head against the door of the glass enclosure around the driver. No one offered to help; no one asked her if she was okay. We PCVs stood watching, remembering that Chrissy told us that it is often better not to get involved. A bit ironic, for it is too late for us not to get involved . . .

Parties and Neighbors

Sunday 9 June 1996

I’ve spent a good bit of the day watching Polish television – it’s interesting, to say the least. They have a version of Jeopardy called VaBanque or something like that. I watched “Beverly Hills 90120” with Polish dubbing. But the most entertaining was the Polish Donald Duck and Chip and Dale. It was interesting, to say the least – again. (Why the repetition?)

Yesterday several of us went to a chamber concert (string quartet) which was wonderful, though the building was a little too warm. They warmth mixed most effectively with the relaxing quality of the music and that made it very difficult to stay awake.

I’m not sure what it is, but lately it has been difficult to stay awake. No matter how much sleep I get, I am still always right at the point of falling asleep. I thought it was the decongestant, but it must be something more because I’m tired even when I haven’t taken any medicine.

A few words about Poles and their relationships with neighbors: They seem extraordinarily tolerant of each other. Last night there was an extremely loud party in the neighborhood. Music blared until seven this morning. When Piotr mentioned it this morning, he just laughed it off. “It was a wedding party,” he explained. On Friday night Justina said that the neighbors would not complain about the volume of the music because they would not want a feud.