Well, we didn’t go on a Vehicular Victory Tour for Battle Valedictorians yesterday–but we did mirror the InnerTubes to our TV and admiringly watch the school’s virtual academic awards assembly. Besides getting to celebrate the recipients of a nursing scholarship we’ve given for seven years in Nicole’s mom Lynda’s memory, we were gobsmacked by the sheer brains, skill, and diligence of the Spartan Strong Class of ’20. Through the storm, they (the kids and the school) DID IT.
Also, watching the show reminded me how much I miss teaching high school and attending such events. Jacob Biener, my former student Adam Taylor dubbed you a rock star for making the assembly a reality, and he is quite correct.
I continued inching through my book stack. Reading 20 pages a piece of Yuri Herrera’s Transmigration of Bodies and João Ubaldo Ribeiro’s Sergeant Getulio felt like a major accomplishment, and those very engaging books are ones I could normally burn through in a day. By the way, the world fictionally presented in the former title resembles, too closely for comfort, our own, with its denizens either masked or striving to find one.
I spent the afternoon setting up my summer class’ Canvas site, shooing cats from between me and my computer monitor and keeping them from burning their fur on my trusty work candle. Anyone else have a work candle? Or work cats?
If you haven’t checked out Mrs. America and you’re able to, I ask you, why not?
Streaming for Shut-Ins:
I’m not sure this is a “full album,” but Brother Cliff, thank you for inspiring its posting here.
School stuff: Nicole worked on enrollment and I laid out an Excel schedule for assignments and activities for my upcoming virtual dual-credit comp class. I’ve never had a more mysterious picture of my audience so I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
Food stuff: I bet we’re not alone in this mess in preparing big batches of food to be eaten across several days. We were sad to see the end of a stellar pot of red beans and rice. Also, we both recommend the Burmese restaurant Tiger Chef to Columbians searching for good curbside.
Cat stuff: Since this pandemic started, we’ve watched our kitten Junior, who turns one in a couple weeks, become the longest, tallest, leanest cat of the bunch–and we have a bunch. If he grows into his tail…
Clothes stuff: We’re still not comfortable going into a store and shopping for clothes (I’m not comfortable shopping for them period), so we ordered some items on-line. My favorite going-on-20-year-old slippers bit the dust yesterday after we determined the strange here-and-gone funk we’d been sniffing was emanating from them. They’d also worn through in three places. But that’s a sign they were just getting perfect.
Music stuff: Nicki Minaj is on point on the new Doja Cat remix.
Book stuff: I awakened having cleared the reading decks, so I read the first 20 pages of each of four new ones. Octavia Butler and Louise Erdrich are the level of writer that you can (if you have no obligations) read all day long. Butler’s Kindred and Erdrich’s new The Night Watchman have their hooks in deep already.
Film stuff: Inspired by weird Facebook prohibitory actions, we spent two powerful hours remembering the great and painfully missed Molly Ivins in a Hulu documentary called Raise Hell! Do we need her, but are we also glad she didn’t have to see what she predicted. Reading her kept us sane during the last half of the ’90s and the beginning of the ‘Oughts.
Streaming for Shut-Ins:
I’ve been staring at a compilation of this band’s work from our couch every morning. Time to act. Their debut album wastes no time kicking butt.
Anyone else out there feeling a little slippage in the routine they’d established to keep themselves together during this mess? We are. We had a fantastically full day yesterday; the signpost of of one of those for us is being able to meditate and get out and walk both, and being able to work on school and read and listen to music both, which we did. However, inconsistency in sleep patterns, going to bed with and waking up to crazy shit from life in your head, feeling anxiety and anticipation about the future, frustration trying to get work or get work done, suffering from “skin hunger,” too much snacking, missing important people and trying to figure out how to see them? All that can throw a person off track. We’re doing fine, but I just have to acknowledge the steep challenges.
Teachers often run into youth they WISH they could have taught, both in the hallways at work and out in the world. Among many, I especially wanted to teach the brother-sister team of Mitch Carlin and Madison Dickens. They are dear family friends from Monett, Missouri, whom I’ve known since they were younger than tykes. I had a terrific Messenger conversation with Mitch last night about great books (the latest in our series, actually)–he seriously gets into reading–and he made the “mistake” of asking me for recommendations for his “classics stack.” My own students know this is a perilous query; you best know you have some spare time after you pose it. Poor guy asked for 10 recommendations (actually, I asked him how many books he wanted me to recommend), and I predictably gave him 33 (including the entire Flashman papers; Mitch is a history scholar, a soldier, and just a dab of a rascal, so they are a must). Clearly, I miss teaching. Did I mention I’m a more-is-more dude? The list (I’d already recommended some prior to these, by the way):
Toni Morrison: Song of Solomon OR The Bluest Eye OR Beloved
Flannery O’Connor: Wise Blood OR The Collected Short Stories
Tommy Orange: There There
Charles Portis: True Grit
George Saunders: Lincoln in the Bardo
John Kennedy Toole: A Confederacy of Dunces
Mark Twain: The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Alice Walker: The Color Purple
Oscar Wilde: The Picture of Dorian Gray
Nicole is having a disturbing Facebook experience! Twice she has employed a deeply meaningful metaphorical quote from the great Texas writer and talker Molly Ivins, and twice the social media mandarins have wiped the quote. Nothing profane was expressed in it, and as far as I know they/it/him gave her no opportunity to make a case for it. It’s one of many things that make me question why I’m here (on Facebook, that is), but apparently the growing pile will not prevent me from writing more paragraphs. I’ll share the quote in the comments and see what happens. Look for the name “Molly Ivins” (and if you haven’t read her, look her up). And here’s the quote:
My friend John Henry Faulk always said the way to break a dog of that habit is to take one of the chickens the dog has killed and wire the thing around the dog’s neck, good and strong. And leave it there until that dead chicken stinks so bad the dog won’t be able to stand himself. You leave it on there until the last little bit of flesh rots and falls off, and that dog won’t kill chickens again.
Streaming for Shut-Ins:
One of Nicole’s fellow Spartans emailed her excitedly that she had to hear this record, which caused me to remember I’d never played it for her. Mr. Danny Gammon, she gives it a thumbs up! If you wanna engage with the (now, not so) new thing in jazz–though that term doesn’t quite do justice to the sound–click play, and do some research on the band, and its talented spearhead Shabaka Hutchings:
Having closely read my Day 50 commentary, Nicole broke out her very accurate imitation of What We Do in the Shadows‘ beguiling Nadja (played by Natasia Demetriou). It very nearly persuaded me to quit reading and get off the couch.
The chef needed no mimicry to entice me to dig in to the aloo gobi she prepared for Sunday dinner. Her excellence in the early stages of her exploration of Indian cuisine bodes poorly for me getting down to my high school graduation weight.
Trying Desperately to Stay Hip Department: Seriously, I do enjoy yute music, and yesterday I sampled and very much enjoyed the new Kehlani album, meaningfully titled It Was Good Until It Wasn’t–trials and tribulations, but the gal is tough. Some smart students from a 2018 Stephens class of mine insisted then that I listen to her work, and I’ve truly not ever been disappointed. Also delighting me was the current release by African supergroup Les Amazones d’Afrique, Amazones, which ranges across several textures and moods in dance music yet holds together exceptionally well. I would have experienced the surprise release by Bad Bunny, but my very new Bluetooth headphones were also bad: they broke. I was taking them off when the right “wing” just snapped in half. What does one do with broken headphones?
Watch Call the Midwife. I ain’t gonna tell you again.
Nicole planted flowers, and I was unsuccessful in trying to install a Wi-Fi adapter on her school computer. I did finish reading a book and write a little bit about Little Richard, who passed. I worry Jerry Lee Lewis will not survive the pandemic.
Driving to the bank and a curbside restaurant pickup and back, we speculated nerve-wrackingly about what the fall semester at our schools will look like. None of the possibilities look anything less than difficult and risky. The speculation was ended temporarily by margaritas and a Dave Chappelle stand-up special.
The day marked our 30th year together, and I’m happy to report we still have fun hanging out even if it isn’t fireworks, beaches, Ferris wheels, and party buses every day. We can be next to each other, content in silence, and address the routines and rituals with commitment and sometimes a zen-like pleasure. Even when sifting kitty litter and picking up dog poop.
I just realized that yesterday I didn’t write about the day before, which is what I do with these–I got excited by our anniversary and forgot. Friday, May 8, will hereafter be known as “The Day ‘Cloister Commentary’ Went Dark.” I already can barely remember what we did, so I suspect, dear reader, you didn’t miss much.
Streaming for Shut-Ins:
Happy Mother’s Day. Behold the humble mastery of one of American music’s most vaunted mothers.
I inadvertently began this journal on Nicole’s and my 28th wedding anniversary. Halfway to 100, at which point I expect to still be commentin’, I arrive at the 30th anniversary of our goin’ steady. We’d been very good friends for a couple weeks, I was licking my wounds from having been officiously dumped, and I hollered at her one day about going to show with me (the Coctails, Murphy’s, Sprangfield, MO). She’d really been fun and funny, which was helping me heal, and she had stellar taste in music and books, so I stopped by Record Center to say hi to ol’ Mark Vaugine and buy her a present in gratitude (a cassette of Rosetta Tharpe’s Decca label Gospel Train, Volume 1). We met at the show, that band was lively, she loved the gift, we were laughing our butts off–and I just stopped at one point and asked her, “Are we going out?” Her answer: “I guess so!” You know the rest. I hope we have 30 more in the tank!
The 1st Cloister Commentary Succor and Sustenance Awards (links in comments):
Best Anti-COVID-Blues Album: Carmen McRae, The Great American Songbook
Best Anti-COVID-Blues Movie: Duck Soup (“Hail, Hail, Freedonia” indeed….)
Best Anti-COVID-Blues Show: What We Do in The Shadows (I have a crush on Nadja–sorry, Nicole!)
Best Anti-COVID-Blues Book (three-way tie): Élmer Mendoza, The Acid Test; Fernanda Melchor, Hurricane Season; Martin Duberman, Stonewall
Seven weeks. First, a poem for me, you, and us. I gave it to my seniors every year in May at Hickman, and I was not surprised to see it circulating yesterday:
“The Laughing Heart,” by Charles Bukowski
your life is your life don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission. be on the watch. there are ways out. there is light somewhere. it may not be much light but it beats the darkness. be on the watch. the gods will offer you chances. know them. take them. you can’t beat death but you can beat death in life, sometimes. and the more often you learn to do it, the more light there will be. your life is your life. know it while you have it. you are marvelous the gods wait to delight in you.
As Tom Waits said simply after reading it aloud once on camera, and being briefly stunned, “That’s a beauty.”
Speaking of seniors in May, Nicole and I have kept the memory of her mother Lyndaalive every spring by honoring two 12th graders who are on a career track for nursing with a $250 scholarship a piece. We are not currently able to meet this year’s honorees in person, but those were two checks it felt good to write. We have to keep their names under our hats til Monday.
In the late afternoon, we Zoomed with a few friends who, like us, are veterans of one of Missouri’s finest-ever movie rental palaces, 9th Street Video. We moonlighted there for several years from the time it opened in ’92 (I think) and worked at least one shift a year there for over a decade. I’ve never worked anywhere with smarter and funnier fellow employees. Janet Marsh and Jennifer Cole (the only participants I can tag), let’s do it again.
Streaming for Shut-Ins:
Few musical genres make me lighter at heart than calypso. See what it does for you!
Friday was Game Night! Nicole loves when we play games because she routinely kicks my ass. However, this time she claimed minor reluctance because of her supposedly inferior vocabulary, as we had chosen Scrabble, which we hadn’t played since Christmas ’12, when we spread out the board at her mom Lynda Jo’s kitchen table. I chuckled evilly, anticipating domination.
She poured a Pinot, I cracked open a Bud and backed it with a finger of Four Roses, and it was on. After I slaughtered her by over 100 points in Round 1, I foolishly assumed my losing streak was over, but–alas–I got hustled. Despite my frequent “parasite plays” (adding -s or -ed to high-value words she’d already laid out), she took the last two rounds, killing me in the final one by setting up a three-letter word right where I was going to rack up a 36-point triple word score on my next turn. RAT FARTS!!!! Next time, by Gawd, we’re playing Rook!
My pain was assuaged throughout not only by the beer ‘n’ bourbon, but also, of course, by the music: The Ramones’ classic It’s Alive!, an archival Professor Longhair tribute concert broadcast on WWOZ (from ’74, with Benny Spellman, The Meters, Earl King, Dr. John, The Wild Magnolias, and Fess himself), and two jaw-droppers. Bonnie Raitt’s Give It Up has realllllly grown for me over time (maybe it’s me who’s grown): absolutely stunning singing and playing, spot-on song selection, and a powerful, natural, sexy feminist persona (is that ok?). And…Rod Stewart’s Every Picture Tells a Story? That album makes our eyes mist up every time we play it–mostly from wonder as we marvel at the humanity it expresses so vividly, but also because ol’ Rodney was one of Nicole’s mom’s favorites. Has there ever been a one-two punch to the heart like “Maggie May” and “Mandolin Wind”? And how’d you like to just chuck talent (or is it genius) like that?
We also had a Facebook drop-in by an old high school friend of mine, Jim Mac. We’ve only seen each other a few times over the years, but he never fails to make a strong impression on us. He’s smart, funny, observant and soulful, and the Scrabble memory he shared was very evocative. I hope we are able to see him in person soon, but I believe our 40th high school reunion will likely be virtual if it occurs at all. I also enjoyed several Facebook appearances from former students who made me miss full-on teaching even more than I already do, but also reassured me that my existence has not been in vain.
Streaming for Shut-Ins:
Prelude to Scrabble. Did anyone else out there see the Furs at Stephens College in ’82, on the Forever Now tour? I love this band.
One of our shelter rituals has been watching the local and national news at 5 and 5:30. Alas, to that we must put a stop. After 30 minutes of local “coverage’ during which we saw the same advertisement three times, had the weather POUNDED into our brains via four reps–I got it the effin’ first time, people–and consumed maybe 30 seconds of actual information during the last 10 minutes of the program, WE CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE! I assure you, enough vital news (not even counting pandemic stuff and the beginning of campaign feces-flinging) is out there to fill 60 MINUTES. I’m not naive; I know the TV exists to sell, that it’s the “shows” that support the ads, not the other way around. But still. What a waste. We can always use more time for books and music, I guess.
Ok, then. Perhaps in response to this frustration, Nicole and I jumped in the car and just drove: out to her workplace, Battle High School, past her mom Lynda’s old house, down 63 to the AC exit, up Providence to downtown (sad to see Lucky’s lights still on but no cars in the lot), through the Stephens College campus (“Look! There’s where I park! And there’s the library window I’d jump out of in an emergency!”), onto I-70 and across the Missouri River bridge, then back home, the last 20 minutes accompanied by a mellow but vivid sunset. Soundtrack: Novo Baianos’ Acabou Chorare (a late-Tropicalia masterpiece from Brazil), Thelonious Monk Trio (if you don’t know Monk’s brilliance, a great starting point), and Sonny Rollins’ Saxophone Colossus. It was a redemptive little trip, but it left us sad to think we have no clue when or where we will actually be able travel to see people and places.
A ritual we are practicing that I’ve forgotten to mention is periodically ordering something neat to give ourselves something to look forward to arriving. I think we’ve made four Powell’s Books orders, I have some Soul Jazz-labelmusic coming from the UK, and Nicole got a box of nice stuff (soap, incense, a Shiva scarf, and a cone incense diffuser) from Nag Champa. We are fortunate to have leisure capital to spend, but at least we are spending it with quality merchants and avoiding Amazon like the plague during the plague.
Dreaming strangely during this crisis? Me, too. My body literally forced me to take a nap yesterday–rare for me in almost any case–and, even rarer, I dreamed during it. In this dream, I was napping (that’s how much I needed one, I guess) on the couch in our front room when someone I know who shouldn’t ever be in our house emerged happily from the basement. This awakened me (in the dream),and, feeling like I’d swallowed three muscle relaxants, I moaned, “What are you doing here?” The individual grinned and said, “Your dad said I could fix it.” From the TV room, my dad yelled, “Yep. I did.” I got up from the couch as Nicole walked into the room, and I told her, “Let’s go.” We exited the house, got in the car (I chose to drive, which I usually don’t), turned to Nicole and said, “I’m too out of it to drive,” and proceeded to back out of the driveway onto Phyllis and continue backing the half-block toward Garth. Nicole said, “You’re driving backwards and you’re not using the rear view.” I looked at her, nodded, braked, put the car in drive, checked the rear view before accelerating forward–and the mirror was opaque. Then I woke up, though it took me at least an hour to do so fully.
Turns out COVID-19 is influencing many folks’ dreams. According to experts, we dream frequently of being chased, but in this mess’s case we may be deeply unsure of what. In dreams, we may be being communicated solutions to present conflicts by our subconscious. I looked further into it, and happened upon both an interesting article about the phenomenon and a blogger’s project in logging our dreams as we find our way through this pandemic labyrinth.
The Overeem Farewell Tour: Dispatches from the Public School Trenches 