Year: 2011

Someone today sent me an article from an online source, an OpEd piece by a guy from the Hoover Institute. I read it quickly and deleted it. You know the kind of thing: “America is worn out by labor unions, academia, pension plans, medical benefits, etc. (And for further rhetorical flourish this is presented as an important generational shift—e.g., young people don’t understand why any of these things might matter, doncha know?)

The more I think about this gaseous bromide I see that it contains the real, longstanding GOP agenda which has always been to return America to 1880. No unions, no expectation of college, no pension, no benefits of any kind. By George those were good days! You could really make money back then! Why I’ll just bet today’s young people are bananas with the prospect of living without college education or social programs. I’ll bet they’re just dropping to the ground and rolling wildly in giggling fits. What a great time we’re living in, Mr. Hoover Institute! By jinkies!

Meanwhile, Uncle Sam, wrapped in a cloak of world history keeps laughing at the wrong places in the joke. He puts out his skinny yellow wrists and says, “What about the three million living veterans with disabilities? What about our infant mortality rate? Who has a happy flag for that?”

The plan, ever since Reagan has been to eliminate the government’s role in sustaining the middle class. Wahoo, Mr. H.I.! Ain’t starvation a kind of fanfare!?

 

S.K.

 

There’s an early 20th century picture of Caruso as the murderous clown Canio and though it was taken in an era of studiously posed images it conveys an inspired, stagey madness. You can see a mercurial glow in the man’s eyes. He wears the famous Pagliacci costume and oddly enough he appears for all the world like a doctor who has become insane as opposed to a clown.

The photo is the real Caruso.

We know this in much the way we understand truth or deceit while playing cards in a neighborhood cafe. We are people of moods, conceits, tempers, and out-and-out lunacies. Most of us accept our roles devotedly. As Jimi Hendrix said: “You have to go on and be crazy. Craziness is like heaven.”

Of course I don’t mean to romanticize (or downplay) mental illness: far too much literary and academic damage has been done in that arena. And no, this is not a post of overcoming depression, nor is it a history of artistic or psychiatric alchemy rehashing again the triumphs of Antonin Artaud or John Clare. It’s possible for men and women with true mental illnesses to find their generous souls in art and just now, in our time we’re learning a great deal about neurodiversity and the magnificence of intellectual disabilities like autism. But this is not a book made of the attenuated histories of illness or the compensations of same.

This post is more in the spirit of the rapper Eminem when he says: “The truth is you don’t know what is going to happen tomorrow. Life is a crazy ride, and nothing is guaranteed.”

Or, if you prefer, here’s the famous fast ball pitcher Nolan Ryan: “It helps if the hitter thinks you’re a little crazy.”

I remember my first inkling that an assumed and barmy spirit was a vehicle—really a “getaway car” like something the Chicago mob would have had.

I was on a playground in Durham, New Hampshire. The year was 1960 and I was five years old. I had thick glasses and I was smaller than my classmates. A big kid who I’ll call Rollie came up to me with a handful of dirt which he clearly meant for me to eat.

“You will eat this,” he said.

“It looks good,” I said. “Hey Rollie, have you ever eaten an acorn?”

Rollie held his dirt before him like a little pillow.

“An acorn?” he said.

“Yeah, they’re just like peanuts, really good, that’s why squirrels like them. You want one?”

“Sure,” he said. He held out his other hand and I dropped a neatly shelled acorn into his palm.

“Go on Rollie, its yummy!”

Rollie ate it. Then he turned red, and I mean red, not beet red or fire engine red—he was red as an unkind boy with his mouth swollen shut. Acorns are among the bitterest things on earth. And of course I only knew this because I’d tried one. I was a solitary kid. Spent a lot of time in the woods. Those were the days when a boy could still go to the woods.

Rollie was incapacitated. I don’t think he ever bothered me after that.

I still recall the thrill of my discovery. That a feeling, a simple reaction, a swing tricked out with language could render a nemesis harmless was rousing.

I didn’t do a little dance. Didn’t brag about the matter. But I was on the way.

A lyric life, I will imagine, is one wherein you can access feelings and then, by turn do something productive with them.

The simplest definition of a lyric poem is a poem that expresses the writer’s feelings.

Freud said: “Life as we find it is too hard for us; it entails too much pain, too many disappointments, impossible tasks. We cannot do without palliative remedies.”

One of those palliative remedies is lyric itself. One may think of this as causative intuition, a feeling that trips a switch and makes you sing when you should properly be weeping or running for your life. Again Freud: “Man should not strive to eliminate his complexes, but to get in accord with them; they are legitimately what directs his contact in the world.”

We are getting in accord. We are beside a country road picking edible flowers in the cool of the day. We do not pick edible flowers beside highways because there are pesticides in trafficked areas.

We remove the pistils and stamens before eating.

“Hey Rollie, wherever you are, have you ever eaten Milkweed?”

“Rollie, you can trust me this time. It tastes like green beans.”

This is a post about unforeseen but productive feelings. A little book of kells…

 

S.K.

Readers’ note: we like this piece from the Huffington Post by neurologist Richard C. Senelick. This excerpt comes to us via Inclusion Daily.

Sex And Disability: How Would It Change Your Life?
(Huffington Post)
January 26, 2011
NEW YORK, NEW YORK– [Excerpt] Sex is something we’ve only felt comfortable talking about in public for the last 30 years. The sex lives of the disabled and elderly are still a hushed topic that causes feelings of discomfort amongst the public and unfortunately many healthcare professionals.

Sex and sexuality are not synonymous and you can easily have one without the other — a key concept when we start to talk about the sexual issues of people with disabilities.

We, as a society, including the medical profession, tend to view both the disabled and the elderly as "asexual," placing little emphasis on the quality of the life of the sexually disabled person. We view both the disabled and the elderly as being different from the rest of us, not sharing the same feelings and desires. But, the concerns of persons who are disabled do not differ significantly from other individuals. They are first women and men, then disabled.

As in most disability issues, we tend to focus more on what we can see with our eyes.

Entire article:
Sex and Disability: How Would It Change Your Life?
http://www.InclusionDaily.com/news/2011/red/0126g.htm

At times Tuesday night, Mr. Obama was genuinely inspiring with a vision for the country to move forward with confidence and sense of responsibility. Americans need to hear a lot more like that from him. NYTimes.

I tuned in to President Obama’s speech last night with my guide dog Nira by my side. (In the photo above you can see Nira posing with a stuffed replica of F.D.R.’s dog Fala.) As I listened to the President argue both for leaner government and intelligent domestic spending I felt like calling him up. In fact I wanted the STOTU to be a live “call in” show. This is because I feel that my own story—my personal journey—reflects the stories of tens of thousands of Americans who have disabilities. Let’s call it a singular story: we got on our feet and became employed (read “became tax payers”) because government sponsored programs helped us get the tools and know how to become fully engaged citizens. I feel as though I should repeat that but I won’t. Not now. Here is what I would have said to the President—and because the format would be like one of those electronic town hall meetings everyone would have been able to hear it:

 

“Mr. President, as you discuss our nation’s future I would like to point out that people with disabilities are properly part of that future. I say this because in the coming months there will be tremendous pressure to cancel or reduce programs that help people with disabilities in these United States. We have already seen many such efforts from coast to coast.”

 

“I am the product of services for people with disabilities. I use the Talking Books program of the Library of Congress. I have received training and support in the use of technology from the New York State Commission for the Blind. I have been unemployed and have lived in Section 8 housing and have received food stamps and social security disability payments. Today I am a full professor at The University of Iowa. I dare say that even cursory scrutiny of my financial history will show that I’ve paid back to the government more than I’ve received.”

 

“Now is not the time to pull back from programs that educate and rehabilitate our people. Now is not the time to take books away from the blind as Governor Christie of New Jersey has tried to do. Now is not the time to eliminate support for in-home care and personal attendants. I could of course go on and on. Mr. President our nation must look after its own people.”

 

“Mr. President, the Swedish poet Tomas Transtromer once wrote:

 

“Jesus held up a coin

with Tiberius in profile

a profile without love

power in circulation.”

 

“Mr. President, what will power become in our country? I will argue that this is the central question of our moment.”

 

S.K.

 

 

 

 

 

“Most people go through life dreading they’ll have a traumatic experience. Freaks were born with their trauma. They’ve already passed their test in life. They’re aristocrats.”

 

–Diane Arbus

 

There is no loneliness like theirs. They were born into slavery in North Carolina and subsequently sold to a showman. They were “Millie-Christine”—two girls with a fused spine, two heads, and four legs and arms. They were two entirely singular human beings. I like to think of them as aristocrats.

 

By advertising them as a girl with two heads the circus transformed their altogether separate and complex identities into a singularity—a reified monstrosity, a symbolic reduction that erased one girl for the sake of the other which is, after all, the oldest trick in showbiz. (Just ask Rock Hudson?)     

 

A fuller article on Millie-Christine “The Two Headed Nightingale” can be found at the website of J. Tithonus Pednaud at: http://thehumanmarvels.com/?p=140

 

 

S.K.

The following story comes to us via Inclusion Daily Express:

(CNN)
January 24, 2011
ERMELO, NETHERLANDS– [Excerpt] A Dutch documentary about a mentally ill and potentially dangerous 18-year-old has prompted lawmakers in the Netherlands — amid national outrage — to re-examine the treatment of those in psychiatric care.

The documentary, which was produced by the Lutheran-run Evangelical Broadcasting Company and aired on public television Tuesday, followed Brandon van Ingen, a patient at a mental hospital in Ermelo. Since 2007, van Ingen has spent part of his days tethered to a wall due to the danger he poses to others, according to State Secretary for Public Health Marlies Veldhuijzen van Zanten-Hyllner.

"Brandon’s issue is so serious that he must be restricted in his freedom for the sake of his own safety and that of others," van Zanten-Hyllner wrote in a letter to parliament. "Because of this, Brandon consistently makes use of a band that he fastens himself when he is in the presence of his attendants and other visitors. Whenever there is no one present and at night, the band is loosened."

In response to the documentary, the country’s political parties held emergency meetings Wednesday to discuss care for the mentally ill

The program "Outspoken" learned about Van Ingen’s story from one of his caretakers at the hospital.

Entire article:
Case of young man tied to wall sparks national debate in Netherlands
http://www.InclusionDaily.com/news/2011/red/0124b.htm
Related:
Footage of psychiatric patient, 18, tied up in care sparks bitter debate over treatment for the mentally ill in Netherlands (Daily Mail)
http://www.InclusionDaily.com/news/2011/red/0124c.htm
Patients are restrained all over the world (Radio Netherlands Worldwide)
http://www.InclusionDaily.com/news/2011/red/0124d.htm

 

“Everything is arranged so that it be this way, this is what is called culture.”

 

–Jacques Derrida

 

The “Dwarf Garden” at the John and Mable Ringling Museum begs no question. It is not an alternative semiotics of our domesticity. It isn’t a metaphor for government. It is, of course, culture itself—an arrangement, a contraindicated tableau of our mortality.

 

Since I’ve been here I walk among the stone dwarves and think of the tears we shed because, as William Butler Yeats said, we are attached to a dying animal. What can culture do to pay homage to the soul? The soul, that terrible thing, so bitter and slick—yes, if the soul had a flavor it would be a very dark gum, a thing like alum and gutta percha.   

 

The stone dwarves are Italian imports and hearken to the days of the commedia del arte. One thinks of Pulcinella, the stock figure of Italian comedy, hump backed, lascivious, lively and naughty. You can walk among the little rogues on the grounds of the Ringling Museum. As a disability studies scholar I invariably think of Derrida. These stone figures are arranged so as to suggest a concatenation of deities—they are the temple of the Id. The serpentine path says they are among us but they are not us. They are like the animals, they are well dressed creatures of primitive caste. But look how artfully they are arranged!

 

In this way they are the tutelary gods of the circus itself.

 

The real history of little people is a complex affair. The controlled, augmented serpentine walk can only hint at the shivers.

 

S.K.   

 

It was in the time when the Romans were gentle. Before Caligula or Caesar Augustus. It was the era of the loofah and genial public bathing.

At the coliseum one could watch the giant panda eat bamboo shoots.  

And of course, in turn, the Romans took up synchronized chewing, for they understood the spirit of the panda.

Those were good days.

We all know how history went. Optima dies, tempus fugit –even Virgil  wept for the demise of the panda’s appearances in the dappled, sun drenched arena.

Slaughter can’t hold a candle to a good “group chew”.

(This sounds better in the original Latin.)

Here are some examples of things that sound better in the original:

corruptisima re publica plurimae leges
In the most corrupt state are the most laws (Terence)

deos enim religuos accepimus, Caesares dedimus
The gods were handed down to us, but we created the Caesars (i.e., the rulers) ourselves

cucullus non facit monachum
The cowl does not make the monk

 

**

Lately I have not been blogging much owing to the pressures and fatigue of travel. I was in Seaside, Oregon, teaching in the fabulous low residency MFA program at Pacific University http://www.pacificu.edu/as/mfa/ from Jan. 7-14 and then I went home to Iowa City just long enough to repack my suitcase and take off for Sarasota, FL where I’m currently a scholar in residence at the John and Mable Ringling Museum.

 

 

The Beach in Seaside Oregon        Hindu Animal Hypnotist, Poster

 

The Ringling museum is a special place. It hosts the Ringling art collection, the circus museum and library, the historic Asolo Theater and of course the magnificent Venetian “Palazzo” built by John and Mable Ringling in the early 20th century. I’m here studying the history of people with disabilities in the circus and living in the cottage that the Ringlings built for the captain of their yacht.

 

Ringling Cottage                                 Theater                                              Ringling Mansion

 

 

     

 

 

I find it altogether lovely and odd to be living in the Ringling guest cottage on the grounds of this great estate. But as the rapper Eminem says:

“The truth is you don’t know what is going to happen tomorrow. Life is a crazy ride, and nothing is guaranteed.”

 

I think that also sounds better in the original Latin.

 

 

More to come…

 

S.K.

 

By Andrea Scarpino

My friend Phil, a pretty fantastic musician, recently wrote on his website about the power of the backup plan, about how everyone’s insistence that he have a backup plan for playing music was detrimental to his own development as a musician. In ensuring he had a way to survive financially if music didn’t pay the bills, he followed paths that didn’t aid his musical development. That maybe he would have been better off as a musician if he hadn’t worked so long and hard to develop and secure a backup plan, if he’d just jumped into making music instead.

Like musicians, poets hardly ever support themselves writing or publishing poetry. Prose writers have a little more hope, but even then, most of us rely on some other job to put food on the table. In fact, I don’t know a single person who supports herself financially entirely from her own writing.

So it seems most artists need to have other skills to support ourselves and our art. Do those other skills constitute backup plans? I make my living as a professor—is that a backup plan or a career that runs alongside my dedication to poetry? What would it even look like to just do poetry?

The MFA is the only degree I ever wanted. It’s considered a terminal degree but it represented to me the lack of a backup plan—in going to graduate school for something as ridiculous and elusive and non-money-making as poetry, I was choosing for myself a life dedicated to art. A life rich with beauty and language. I was choosing to do something entirely for me. What I wanted from my graduate studies was time—to read, to write, to study other people’s words—and careful attention—from my professors, other students, and myself—on my work. That I’ve been able to make a living so far in part because of my graduate degree feels like an unexpected bonus.

My mother also wanted to be an artist, but was told by her parents that they wouldn’t pay for her college education if she studied something as frivolous as art. So she changed majors. I’m not sure she ever recovered, if all the other things she’s done in her life (all of them backup plans?)—working for various orchestras, fundraising, teaching second grade, raising children—measured up to the life she would have lived if she’d followed art. My own decision to go to graduate school for poetry was maybe, in some small way, a redemption of her deferred dreams. My own small stand for art. My own small refusal of a backup plan.

Although Phil sees his focus on education as having pulled him away from music, I’m realizing that maybe my MFA was a way to renounce the backup plan, a way to embrace poetry. Of course, I could be fooling myself—maybe I, too, would have been better served by writing and reading and doing poetry instead of working towards a degree. What I do know for sure is that following art against the advice of everyone who says it’s impossible is an act of tremendous courage. An act of tremendous faith.

 

Poet and essayist Andrea Scarpino is the rust belt bureau chief for POTB. You can visit her at: www.andreascarpino.com

By Andrea Scarpino

For Gracie’s memorial, I dyed green highlights into my hair. Her favorite color was green, so with the help of her mother and sister, I bleached big streaks of my hair, then covered the bleach with green. I loved it. It reminded me of Gracie. It reminded me not to take myself so seriously. Reminded me that beauty is socially constructed, means different things to different people, shouldn’t be given the weight we give it. With all the eye creams and wrinkle erasers I’m told to buy, all the products that will keep me looking young—and therefore beautiful, and therefore relevant, and therefore important—it felt nice to look in the mirror and see those green locks, watch how they changed as I washed my hair.

Back in Marquette, the green got quite the reception. Some people asked why I chose green, some just cocked their head as if they were trying to make sure they were really seeing what they thought they were seeing. A teenager in the grocery store audibly gasped as I walked by, grabbed her friend’s hand and said, “That girl has green hair!” After that, I felt some sort of civic duty to keep my hair dyed fun colors—some sort of education of the masses, an extolling of differences. A superficial extolling, yes. But sometimes that’s a start.

Then the green mostly faded, in some places to a turquoise blue, in others a light grassy shade. In some, just bleach. I started to feel a little unkempt, especially since I’ll be seeing my colleagues and students at the beginning of January. I started to worry that I wouldn’t be taken as seriously in a professional setting with variously-colored hair. So I bought another jar of dye—this time a deep purple—to cover what’s left of the green and re-color the bleached places.

So far, the purple isn’t as visible as the green once was, blends in more with my dark hair. And I’m realizing I don’t really like that. That I prefer the brighter, crazier coloring. That it makes more sense to me, somehow. Yes, it’s only hair dye, and there are more important things in the world to think about. But in this youth and thinness valuing culture, with all the emphasis we’re told to put on looking “right,” looking the part, fitting in, I miss that one small reminder not to take it so seriously. Not to worry so much about what other people think. I miss that reminder of Gracie. Her sweetness. Her vulnerability.

Poet and essayist Andrea Scarpino lives in Marquette, MI and is a frequent contributor to POTB.