Cloister Commentary, Day 89: A Sand Grain

I’ll admit, I ran myself through a ringer yesterday.

Before I took a sip of coffee at 4:55 a.m., I found myself in a quagmire we all know too well: an irresolvable on-line tangle with someone. Why did I insist on engaging? That drained me of almost all the energy that sleep had restored to me–and more significantly, it left me distressed. Finally disengaged and recovered just in time to teach, my students graced me with the most enjoyable class I’ve overseen in over a year. Did I mention I’ve often been called “Mr. Overseen”? That’s the power of my gaze! They made me laugh with pleasure with their insights. After class, I couldn’t just be grateful for the nice session and bask in it; I had to revisit the previous briar of a conversation, fret about a technical GoFundMe issue, revisit the previous briar of a conversation, and perseverate over a lost package until my surging stress level merged with a very strong cup of tea and brought me to the edge of explosion. Nicole, as she does reliably, talked me back about 10 feet from the ledge and onto the couch, where, despite my heart pounding, I eventually lapsed into a 15-minute five-fathoms-deep nap. I awakened not very Van Winkle-like to resume worrying and wishing my old friend was on this plane to talk to–until I checked the GoFundMe to see an anonymous $1000 donation in his memory, the sheer generosity of which (quite seriously) brought me to tears. And joy. Then my high school chum Marcy plunged me into the abyss of depression by reminding me that we graduated from high school two score and about a month ago (does that sound longer ago or nearer to now than 40 YEARS?). Then my good friend Henry called and restored my emotional equilibrium and acceptance of mortality with compassion and humor. Finally, enchiladas, two cold Budweisers, and a dive into the work of Jeff City’s Chester Himes brought me back to myself.

Anyway–it was a day. I am now thankful I was alive for it, and today I am going to try act like I just read a book by Thich Nhat Hanh, which I just did, and also act like I understand that my troubles are like a sand grain in my shoe compared to so many others I know and don’t know–as I should. I hope you all have a better day than yesterday, too.

Streaming for Strivers:

How I’m starting the morning THIS morning. This is for the Carthage High School Class of 1980.

Cloister Commentary, Day 88: Meld

My offerings in this journal have been spare of late, at least it seems that way to me. Funny–I just read this in the opening editorial of a recent issue of The Week, penned by editor-in-chief William Falk: “a shifting combination of anger, hopelessness, and ‘numbness’ has set in, as bland, featureless days meld into one another and losses mount.” While I’m not sure I’ve been touched by all those extremes–wait, I have. Anyway, I think it’s affecting my “correspondence.”

That much griped-about Zoom class (prior to its having begun, that is) has turned into a daily delight and refuge. Much of my recent activities have been connected to a sudden loss–yesterday that would have been a very high percentage of them–and the intelligence, curiosity, humor, and diligence of these young women have left me wishing I was teaching 90-minute instead of 60-minute classes, and forgetting that loss temporarily. They’re hungry writers very desirous of improvement, and their first final drafts show that.

I’m not feeling that my life has been diminished by the absence from it of sports. I get my daily baseball, basketball, and hockey “Stathead” e-mails, which are necessarily about past accomplishments, and that slaked my thirst. I got stuck with StubHub credit from a cancelled NBA game, so that helps me not to yearn.

We spent a total of at least five hours trying to get our health provider to submit a recent doctor visit and procedure claim to the correct insurance company. We talked to at least eight people and five departments, but–knock hard on wood–the battle appears to have been won.

Beautiful night, beautiful morning. More of those, please.

Streaming for Strivers:

This one’s place in the hip hop pantheon is frequently ignored. Ease back!

Cloister Commentary, Day 87: Migas!

Any day I can see and talk to my dad, mom, brother, honorary sister, and my stalwart Springfieldian friends is a good day. I am thrilled to report my dad is exploring the work of Bart Ehrman! Also, my friend Heather’s family love and care, activism and neighborhood leadership is very inspiring. Zoom, I dislike you, and I will resolve that, but you made our visits possible.

Nicole and I walked Louis about three miles around the Stephens Lake Park loops. The ol’ pooch is getting a little creaky, as his recovery time’s getting slower. He is still on-point with random barking outbursts, thanks to the fox who’s pooping in his backyard.

I had been begging Nicole for migas all week and, thanks to our neighbor Shireen’s gift of fresh tortillas from Tortilleria El Patron, who make the best in town, I was quieted. They featured a spicy black bean and salsa topping with avocados and radish slices.

We closed the evening by reading and listening to three disks of Art Tatum. I was mostly occupied with Gary Younge’s Another Day in the Death of America, which chronicles the lives of 10 American kids who died by gun on November 23, 2013. That wasn’t far from a normal day.

Streaming for Strivers:

Punk + a poet. Pissed. Pennsylvanian. “In the midnight hour / [She] erases these cowards.”

Cloister Commentary, Day 86: Mundane Scintillation

Yesterday was quiet, relaxing, and free of things mundanely scintillating.

Not a cloud marked the sky, and the Budweisers were very cold.

I found myself wondered in passing what man is wearing the oldest active belt, and how old that belt is.

I ripped some gospel CDs to my external drive.

We flipped the house: dog in basement, cats upstairs. Junior is a lap cat to the manor born:

We watched Spike Lee’s new Netflix film Tha 5 Bloods. After a terrific start, I thought it fell apart, though the lead actors were fun to watch and the use of stripped Marvin Gaye vocal tracks was really effective. I’d read the book that helped inspire it, a powerful oral history of the experience of black soldiers in Vietnam titled Bloods, so my expectations were high. It was also two-and-half hours long. I’d recommend it with the reservations I’ve already stated.

The mint juleps were even better than those of the night before.

Streaming for Strivers:

Always relevant, it seems.

Cloister Commentary, Day 85: There Is No Sweeter Sound

Nicole and I opened the day with our 68th slice of pandemic peanut butter and jelly toast since March 17th, and hiked from Cosmo Park to the start of the Bear Creek Trail. We met Bess Frissell, in her role with Columbia Parks and Recreation, tending to the health of the trail behind the wheel of a monster tractor. We’ve either seen or talked to her at length four times in the last week, and it’s always a joy.

I have written in the recent past about our work trying to establish a proper memorial for a great friend and teacher, Bess’ father George Frissell, who passed unexpectedly on May 14. Yesterday, through a fantastic group effort, we were able to finalize the project and launch a GoFundMe to make it a reality. It’s my first to help organize, and I’m filled with hope, excitement, but also tinges of fear, as our goal is ambitious, the times do not lend themselves to free funds, and momentum has grown very quickly in the first hours of the launch. The generosity shown by contributors so far has been overwhelming.

The mailbox issued forth an amazing but apparently out of print post-World War II gospel collection entitled There Will Be No Sweeter Sound, compiled by the near-infallible expert Opal Louis Nations. I immediately loaded up the CD player, and we were lifted and gifted as we read on the couch.

The evening: burritos, quesadillas, chile rellenos, sorbet, margaritas, Netflix’s Michelle Obama documentary (a companion to her excellent memoir), and a word or two of wisdom from Dave Chappelle. If you missed that, it’s less than half an hour, and it’s right here:

Streaming for Strivers:

I can find no full album link for Kahil El’Zabar and David Murray’s new album Kahil El’Zabar’s Spirit Groove, but it is absolutely hypnotic. This sample is 15 minutes–it might just center you if you need that.

Cloister Commentary, Day 84: The Return of Ponty Apers

Nicole and I participated in two outings, one a sort of outdoor committee meeting at the Hickman labyrinth to finalize some important details, the other a catch-up, hangout, beer-slurp, wine-sip with a dear friend in West Columbia. Lawn chairs and tree-shade came in mighty handy.

We got home and my body twisted my arm (a tangled metaphor, that) and hissed in my ear through gritted teeth, “You will take a nap!” I did.

Just when I get really comfortable with Zoom, the company shuts down a celebration of the Tiananmen Square protest. Remember, the one with the man standing down the tank? We cheered that one as a nation, I think. It was so long ago. I may have to pursue an alternative teaching method.

I am closing in on finishing two series: Chester Himes’ nine-book “Coffin Ed and Gravedigger Jones” Harlem Cycle, and Gilbert Hernandez‘s Love and Rockets/Palomar Stories graphic novels. No regrets about either undertaking: those worlds are fascinating and enriching.

We played Scrabble, sipped mint juleps, cranked up the music of the great Louis Jordan, and just chilled. I cinched a win by adding an “s” to “bowel.” Bastard.

Bess, Susie, Melody, Lee, and Kendra will probably get this, but just before bed, looking out into the backyard, we spied Ponty Apers 🦊. Why yesterday? Indeed.

Streaming for Strivers:

I was once accused by a former friend when I was (politely) unimpressed by his demo tape that I “don’t even listen to rock and roll anymore.” I did, I do, I always will. Also, Black Lives Matter in garage punk!

Cloister Commentary, Day 83: What Time Is It?

Former high school students of mine may recall my frustration with not having enough time to get it all in–that wasn’t bad planning, that was the collision between just loving what I was doing and everything being connected. I remember when “bell-to-bell instruction” emerged as a “faculty agreement” one year, and I was like “Someone’s having to agree to that?” When I moved on to the college campus, I quickly noticed that when instructors were done, they were done, and would sometimes release their charges a bit early, as they would stream past my classroom door. I said to myself, “Well, maybe I should do that occasionally, too, if I reach the natural end of a class quickly.” Every time–every time!–I would say, “I’ll probably cut you loose a bit early to get down to it,” a student would have to point out to me that we’d reached the usual end time. There are no clocks on Stephens’ classroom walls. Once, I was so locked in that I got confused and taught an extra 15 minutes before someone stopped me (that was a great, and kind, group of students). I came to believe it was just a sign that I get into this job, and it’s reflective of life, too: you have to work to squeeze it all in before the big hand hits that hash mark. Yesterday, for the first time, I told my virtual students, who hail from all over the country, from the California – Mexico border to Mississippi to Pennsylvania, “I’m going to cut you loose a shade early after we talk about revision to actually start revising.”

Guess what happened? I guess I’m even loving virtuality.

Other highlights: Nicole’s fresh moussaka, Bess Frissell’s “Communion calculation” (based on a 150-pound Jesus), Art Tatum flying around the keyboard and out the house speakers, three powerful new books, and a nice neighborhood walk. One sad note: watching my patiently, sincerely, warmly, and painstakingly constructed set of responses to a (former, and fragile) Facebook friend’s query regarding why I had to post about black beauty get wiped–I need to abjure “Reply” in the future in such matters. It was not I who clicked “unfriend,” by the way. But, perhaps, “better down the road / without that load.”

Streaming for Strivers:

Cloister Commentary, Day 82: Punk’s Progress

I have to grade papers, so I must needs be brief.

Yesterday, I graded papers. I grit my teeth dragging myself to the task, slowly warm to it, almost lose myself paper by paper, and feel renewed afterwards. Somewhere the atoms of George Frissell are laughing and calling bullsh*t on that claim, but I’ve graded over 30,000 in my life, and one does find little streams of pleasure in it. I’ve got some good writers this summer, but later for the comma splices!

I have been struggling with an issue regarding a package USPS couldn’t deliver, had to redeliver, then lost. I’d filed a help request, and received an apology email, but the title of the email included the inaccurate word “Resolved.” So I fired back a tart but polite reply that there had to be more to it than I was being told–I had the tracking number, but no receipt to match it. In no time, I received a call from the local supervisor who’d written the email, who then expertly de-escalated my case of the red-ass, gave me some useful information by which I reached understanding, and very sincerely apologized again. I thanked him for caring enough to follow up, and as I was about to hang up, he said, “Did you use to teach at Hickman? I’m sorry I was a punk.” I had to tell him that a lot of punks turn out just fine.

I went a paragraph too long so I guess those essays aren’t that fetching.

Streaming for Strivers:

Medicine. These songs have been for years, and here they’re administered with care and mastery by two jazz physicians.

Cloister Commentary, Day 80: The Joy Unit

I may have to change this commentary’s name, though I have no illusion that the journey is over. Nicole and I walked the trail from Cosmo Park to Garth, which certainly helped us to feel less cloistered. Columbia offers some great trail walks.

We finally were album to Zoom with our friends Rex, Jill, and Heather. They are a good bunch, part of an unofficial team formed several years ago to combat indifference. It was good to see their faces, and next week we hope to round up the rest of the Joy Unit: Isaac, Beth, Angela, Frank, Mike, and Derrick. Could be a weekly thing; in fact, we will convene next Sunday. As The Commodores sang in our youth, friends:

Whoa, Zoom, I’d like to fly far away from here
Where my mind can see fresh and clear
And I’ll find the love that I long to see
People can be as what they wanna be
Whoa, I wish the world were truly happy
Living as one
I wish the world they call Freedom
Someday would come
Someday would come!

I’d like to say to my city that, though we have much work left to do and just keep doing, I am very proud to live here, especially after yesterday. We were not among the thousands–thousands–who were out on our streets for justice, but we have been applying our hearts and minds to it indoors, I assure you. And to our city police who are protecting, standing with, and even on occasion kneeling with the freedom fighters, I hope you feel it’s only strengthened you within, and cost you nothing that’s truly of value.

Streaming for Strivers:

A soundtrack to successful resistance and remaking–it ain’t called Rhodesia anymore!–but a reminder that the shoulder must be kept firmly to the wheel of justice. From The Lion of Zimbabwe…

https://youtu.be/ISgeA3yZ-ww

Cloister Commentary, Day 81: Beaumont Noir

As both of our schools (I will actually be negotiating three) edge toward a decision on how they will open in the fall and Covid-19 cases rapidly increase in our locality, Nicole and I are struggling to appreciate each present moment. Part of that increase is due to a barrage of testing we participated in last week, but nonetheless the phenomenon is not a comfort, and it’s just the truth that we will all only be able to control our own responses to the work environments we re-enter. Maybe it’s best to remind ourselves it’s still a marathon, not nearly a sprint, and to reach the fall in strong mind, body and spirit, fortified by not neglecting the moments between, is the right set of actions. I hope I can be disciplined enough.

As always, in times of stress, we turned to deviled eggs. Amazingly, I did not eat all 16 yesterday: eight sriracha, eight wasabi. But I think we’re down to less than half.

*Quivering, shivering deviled eggs trying to hide in the fridge.*

I am so encouraged by the change already being brought about by our citizens’ constant protest pressure. It is inspiring. At the same time, though I am pro-union, I worry about the defiance soon to be mounted by police unions led by humans who have no interest in change but do have an interest in maintaining a culture of impunity for demonstrably dangerous police officers. There is only one way that kind of leadership can be changed.

If you’re seeking out detective fiction with strong, complex female characters (and at least one reasonably tolerable male one), may I direct you to the “Beaumont noir” of Lisa Sandlin‘s Delpha Wade and Tom Phelan novels? At present, there are two, though I’ve been apprised that Sandlin has a new one in the chute. Phelan is a war veteran and former oil rig worker who sets up as a P. I. in that strange Texas town; Wade, freshly released from prison at 32 after 14 years on a questionable murder charge–she killed someone, but–is, almost by fate, Phelan’s first hire. She’s his secretary, but she’s the more intuitive and observant detective, and she soon transcends that job and mesmerizes her “boss.” Sandlin’s deftness and wit with dialogue, plot, characterization and local color are truly amazing, and she’s fearless, funny and earthy. Compulsively readable, the first is The Do-Right, the second is The Bird Boys. Thanks to Beaumont’s own Frissell Boys for leading me to them. I think Sandlin is a genius.$

Streaming for Strivers:

This came up in my YouTube feed, and like a virus I must infect you.