Wilde's amazing rocket

Okay. So I'm going to reframe this Clinton/Tubman thing a bit. Sam, as you know, I think you're right. I believe that Clinton appropriated Tubman's achievements to score political points for herself. At its very best, the analogy was hyperbolic and inappropriate. At its worst, the analogy fails on racial, sexual, and regional bases. Do we really want to raise the specter of slavery at a time when Democrats are trying to win southern states? Also, it strikes me as odd that many commenters have referred to Tubman as an African American. A lot of white people use "African American" when they mean "person of color" (or, more commonly, "black"). Tubman wasn't a citizen, and to call her an American strikes me as disrespectful. 

More important, Obama is not a slave who has to Keep Going, nor are the voters, nor is the DNP, nor is America. Obama is a Democrat I am going to vote for so that no McCain administration can dig the U.S. further into debt, war, and despair. 

As a Democrat, I recognize the importance of the narrative arc we've constructed. But Clinton's use of Tubman pains me.

It's not about Tubman as a role model. It's not about feeling part of the struggle for basic human rights. It's not even about using an analogy based on a common history of the fight against racism and sexism. The problem is that the senator used Tubman as a symbol that conveniently incorporates the categories of woman and negritude. (Here, I'm choosing Sartre's version of negritude, rather than Benjamin Rush's or Fanon's.) The Tubman symbol itself provided an image of unity, and it was a short step from there to find an opportune piece of rhetoric produced by the Tubman symbol.  

Unity by itself as a piece of rhetoric has tremendous political charge. Just ask President Wilson about his White House screening of the infamous D.W. Griffith film about post-Civil War unity. Cue the footage, accompanied by that Wagner tune.

If this part of this post seems a little too strong, consider its scale beside the scale of Senator Clinton's rhetoric. My invective doesn't even hold a taper.

**Another caveat: Only the next part of this post is directed specifically at another person.

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Ed: I've concluded that you no longer get to talk to me. You can spend your life believing that women are as good as men only to the extent that they resemble men, that you are always the smartest person in the room, that tucking your t-shirt into your pants is a good idea, and that Sam should step out on his crazy wife. But you will never spend another moment of your sad, silly life interacting with me. Another tip: if you want to commit passive suicide by yelling at men with guns, try a little harder. It's not rocket science.

Imaginary writing

I do quite a bit of imaginary composition. Manifestos when I'm in traffic (or fantastic, involved, 12-minute intricacies about why I might be late). The beginnings of a story as I walk to meeting on campus. Partial sestinas when I'm in the shower. (I like to take long showers, but it's hard to remember the pattern for that form.) Movie scenarios while my students are peer reviewing each other's papers.

That kind of composition is fleeting, and I think blogging sometimes resembles it. 

Recently, I've been composing my first class of this semester. Monday is the first official day of classes, and my TTh class starts Tuesday at 8am. Freshman Composition. Maybe I'll ask them about their mental essays, poems, and songs. 

I've actually written lots of posts between now and the last one I posted. A lot is going on right now for me mentally, physically, socially, politically. I'm not sure how much of it I want to disclose, so I've discarded pages of stuff. Instead I've been doing quite a bit of imaginary writing. It's written in lemon juice, invisible. Hold it over a flame to see the muddle.

A risk

Below appears the first poem I've seriously worked on in 10 years. I don't want praise (or disapproval, I suppose). The thing gazes at my navel hard-core and may make no sense. Posting it here feels risky and unwise. That's why I'm doing it. I can always take it down, right?

The Lot

Our moon buzzes orange.

Other moons nearby, moth-tinged,

cast a local light, 

filling the moist air.

They multiply the shadows

of hatchbacks and mid-size sedans.

Leaning against our car, we perform the drama

of who has the lighter

and where to go for beers:

You decide. No, you.

We've snuck away from the film of my illness.

Between the sadness

and the irredeemable joy,

I'm in remission. I am remiss.

Extreme rhetoric

After adding a few entries to the blog roll, I went on a search to find comparable right-wing entries. A few of the better known sources, like The Economist and The Wall Street Journal, would be fine, but I wanted to find something more like the right's version of AlterNet. The other side's ideas would be enlightening. I've known some Reagan-style conservatives who persuasively argue their point of view. Unfortunately, none of them run blogs. 

(Left-leaning websites can get overwrought, but the hostility of some of the right-wing websites astounds me: "JaMarcus Obama"? Really?)

Instead of achieving my goal, I have rediscovered the joys of poking commenters with their own ideological sticks. It's fun, but I'm still at a loss for less mainstream right-wing websites. That run substantive, fact-based pieces. Whose supporters don't rely on their orotund demagogues. Whose commenters avoid using all caps to call people names.

Any ideas?

Open the doors and see all the people

Last evening, our friend Stephen came over to drink our beers, eat our pizza, and smoke our cigarettes. Conversation was a broken-in shoe, and Sam patiently listened while Stephen and I talked about poetry for a while. Then the conversation turned to hating the Brewers, gossiping about people we know, and kicking around ideas about the future. 

It was thoughtful and raucous. 

It was a comfortable mixture of the big and the small. 

It was an impious communion.

Jumping into the pool

 Sam and I had a great time together. Mussels, Natty, crab cake, Resurrections, very fresh old-water oysters, some things coated in Old Bay. I meant to pick up a couple of growlers of local beer, but with the joy over finding one of my favorite table wines at Beltway liquors, I forgot. We bootlegged a lot of Natty and quite a bit of cheap, good French wine, which is difficult to find in Nashville, comparatively. (I will buy anything with the words "flinty" or "mineral" or "slate" in the wine guy's description. If I can find something inexpensive with "a barnyard bouquet" in the nose, that's also going in my cart.) Sam had to prod me out the door.

I'm going back during Vanderbilt's fall break to revive some old academic connections, and I expect to go to a few of the places we missed this past week. 

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Being polite's an easy social habit to pick up in the South, and it smoothes life among strangers. In contrast, people in Baltimore don't expect to like you and don't feel the need to be polite, unless you're paying them to do something. Consequently, if you find yourself drinking on the same side of the bar with a bartender you just met—getting bartender drink prices and a royal drunk on—you have made a friend. 

In Baltimore, an exception to the politeness complex occurs at the pool table. Being cordial helps everyone control any aggro; otherwise, it can get ugly fast.

Any given pool player may choose a couple of play-for-pay tables to frequent. He learns the lay of a table, the bounce of the rail, the speed of the felt, and which cue is best. Newcomers discover their disadvantage quickly. Even if you can control the ball and understand the lay, you can still lose miserably.  

After Jamie and Bill's wedding, in full fancy-dress get-up, I played a game at an unfamiliar table, seeing that the players knew the table and expecting to lose. After the break, I used a subtle stroke to sink a ball in the side, and my competitor, Derrick, remarked, "Oh, look now, she's a shark." Typical pool banter, trying to slow a run. I replied, "Just because I'm in a dress and heels don't mean I'm a shark." Then I banked a ball into the corner, and we all laughed.

I lost by two balls, and I suspect he was being nice to me by letting me lose with a little dignity. But I got a couple of shots in that I was proud of, and we shook hands at the end of the game.  

Charm City

Yesterday, three hours in, I was overwhelmed. I'm homesick for Baltimore, even though I'm here right now. 

Nashville has a lot to offer. The contrast between the two cities is so sharp, it's impossible to draw comparisons. I had a 1 pound order of steamed mussels yesterday for the high price of $6, complimented by a couple of cans of Natty Boh. That's National Bohemian for those unfamiliar.

Baltimore is a dirty, dangerous city. I love it.

A souvenir from the Land of Pleasant Living: