1968: deja vu all over again?*

FIRST: We WIN!    Then: we FIGHT!

Of the Democrats (Senior and Junior) that have called for President Biden to step down, or aside, as a candidate for this years election, have any of them suggested a stronger standard bearer? I suppose not, since there’s plenty of time [36 days] between now and the start of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago on August 19. How hard could it be to pull together a majority of delegates from a coherent, well structured, tightly organized political party like the Democrats. After all, a similar approach worked in France for Macron, didn’t it?

Then, after having won the nomination at the convention, there’s a whole additional 75 days, approximately two and a half months, to convince a heavily fractured electorate to vote for a Johnny or Hilary come lately, because all the alternatives to President Biden are so well know and liked. Right?

I wonder how many of the Democratic leadership are old enough to remember the debacle that was the 1968 Democratic National Convention? Follow the link if you need a refresher. This year is beginning to look disturbingly similar. In 1968 the Democrats performed so well that they put Richard Nixon in the White House. I’ve stopped making any contributions to Democratic candidates this year until and unless the party strongly coheres behind the best available option to beat the orange turd and his hurd of MAGAts. Remember, there’s always the 25th Amendment once Biden wins. Republicans aren’t ever likely to try something like that.

* apologies to Yogi Berra for the plagiarism. AI made me do it!

The Soul of Spain With McAlmon and Bird the Publishers

By Ernest M. Hemingway

In the rain in the rain in the rain in the rain in Spain. 

Does it rain in Spain? 

Oh yes my dear on the contrary and there are no bull fights. 

The dancers dance in long white pants 

It isn’t right to yence your aunts 

Come Uncle, let’s go home. 

Home is where the heart is, home is where the fart is. 

Come let us fart in the home. 

There is no art in a fart. 

Still a fart may not be artless. 

Let us fart an artless fart in the home. 

Democracy. 

Democracy. 

Bill says democracy must go. 

Go democracy. 

Go 

Go 

Go 

Bill’s father would never knowingly sit down at table with a Democrat. 

Now Bill says democracy must go. 

Go on democracy. 

Democracy is the shit. 

Relativity is the shit. 

Dictators are the shit. 

Menken is the shit. 

Waldo Frank is the shit. 

The Broom is the shit. 

Dada is the shit. 

Dempsey is the shit. 

This is not a complete list. 

They say Ezra is the shit. 

But Ezra is nice. 

Come let us build a monument to Ezra. 

Good a very nice monument. 

You did that nicely 

Can you do another? 

Let me try and do one. 

Let us all try and do one. 

Let the little girl over there on the corner try and do one. 

Come on little girl. 

Do one for Ezra. 

Good. 

You have all been successful children. 

Now let us clean the mess up. 

The Dial does a monument to Proust. 

We have done a monument to Ezra. 

A monument is a monument. 

After all it is the spirit of the thing that counts.

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Through the Looking Glass, Down the Rabbit Hole, both?

After Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures In Wonderland was published, he wrote a "sequel," Through the Looking Glass. Although Alice remained the protagonist, other main characters varied from the first fantasy. If you need to refresh your memory about the story and what the characters are like, follow this link. These are the main characters (other than Alice) listed from Looking Glass:

this is a three dimensional chess board

Photo by J. Harrington

• The Red Queen


• The White Queen


• The Red King


• The White King


• The White Knight


• Humpty Dumpty


• Tweedledee and Tweedledum(?)


• Others?

this is a dormouse

Photo by J. Harrington

Even though Looking Glass is based on sort of backwards logic, the metaphor of a chess game seems too logical to fit today's political context anywhere near as well as the lack of logic in Wonderland. At least that's my impression, although there may be enough overlap between the two books that a combination might work well. I do find it more challenging to try to match politicians or pundits involved in the impeachment effort to Looking Glass characters, but that may be a flaw in my perspective. Are there any thoughts any of you are willing to share in the comments?

If additional inspiration might help, try this. The more we let our politics and governance be fed by fantasy and illogic, the more we let politicians and bureaucrats mess up real lives, including our own.

Through the Looking Glass

By Veronica Forrest-Thomson

Mirror, mirror on the wall

show me in succession all

my faces, that I may view

and choose which I would like as true.

Teach me skill to disguise

what’s not pleasing to the eyes,

with faith, that life obeys the rules,

in man or God or football pools.

Always keep me well content

to decorate attitude and event

so that somehow behind the scene

I may believe my actions mean;

that one can exercise control

in playing out a chosen role;

rub clouded glass and then,

at will, write self on it again.

But if, in some unlucky glance,

I should glimpse naked circumstance

in all its nowhere-going-to,

may you crack before I do.

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Down the rabbit hole for Christmas?

While we were headed to Minneapolis this morning, a thought occurred to me that I intend to play with a little bit here over the next day or two. To begin, it appears that what we thought was an ancient Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times." is neither ancient nor Chinese. Since the times we are living in are far more interesting than many of us would wish, it occurred to me an appropriate allusion might be found in Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, in which Alice goes "down the rabbit hole." I've seen many a mention of that type of trip in social media over a number of recent months. It has usually referred to some political occurrence or other. So, I began to ponder which contemporary politicians would be the equivalent of which characters in Alice. For example, would Alice herself be Hilary Clinton, or Elizabeth Warren?

is a rabbit in white the same as a White Rabbit?

Photo by J. Harrington

There is no doubt in my mind that The Queen of Hearts must be played by D. Trump. Would the Cheshire Cat be played by Mike Pence, or is the VP the King of Hearts? Is Rudy Giuliani the Mad Hatter? Who would be the White Rabbit? Just below is a list of other main characters. Think about who seems to fit as you watch or read about the impeachment hearings and the defense of POTUS.

• The Duchess


• The Caterpillar


• The Mad Hatter


• The March Hare


• The Dormouse


• The Dodo


• The Frog-Footman

There are other characters you can feel free to include. At the moment, I'm more interested in which political figures seem to be a "best fit" for the Wonderland characters. Have at it in the comments. Consider this an early Christmas present in the form or a puzzle. I'll take a look at Through the Looking Glass and see if anyone there needs to be added to the list tomorrow. Now, directly from a current POTUS press conference, here's

Jabberwocky

By Lewis Carroll

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: 

All mimsy were the borogoves, 

      And the mome raths outgrabe. 

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! 

      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! 

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun 

      The frumious Bandersnatch!” 

He took his vorpal sword in hand; 

      Long time the manxome foe he sought— 

So rested he by the Tumtum tree 

      And stood awhile in thought. 

And, as in uffish thought he stood, 

      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, 

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, 

      And burbled as it came! 

One, two! One, two! And through and through 

      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! 

He left it dead, and with its head 

      He went galumphing back. 

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? 

      Come to my arms, my beamish boy! 

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” 

      He chortled in his joy. 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: 

All mimsy were the borogoves, 

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

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Antigonish, or there's no there, there!

We bet you may remember a poem many children learn that ends like this:

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away...

Now, substitute deer flies for the little man and we're pleased to report they seem to be slowly fading away. At least the dogs have been a little less bothered the past day or two.

livetrap chipmunk "two-fer"

Photo by J. Harrington

Have you been taught that one of the hardest things to see is what isn't there? We learned that some time ago. Then, just today, we realized we've seen almost no chipmunks around the house this Summer. That's a far cry from a couple of years ago when we ended up translocating something like 15 or 16 of the little, striped rodents. The dogs have been sniffing around the front stoop as if one might be burrowing under the steps, and we caught a quick glimpse of one in the back yard a week or so ago, but that's been about it. Maybe the word got out among the chipmunk clans?

Other than that, we've not much to report today unless we comment on state or national politics and we just don't want to go there. Most days these days we can only conclude that alien mother ships are bombarding the United States with some ray that makes large portions of the population excessively venal, short-sighted, greedy, xenophobic, racist, and stupid. Or, perhaps many people have always been like that and the rays are finally enabling the rest of us to see them as they are. We'll not settle that this afternoon nor do we want to spoil the weekend debating it. Instead, watch a chipmunk scamper away from a livetrap.

Antigonish [I met a man who wasn’t there]

Hughes Mearns

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...

When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn’t see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don’t you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door... (slam!)

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away...

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A path forward to ...

I have encountered, time and again, the saying "...the path is made by walking." This morning I followed that fragment to its source. [see below] I discovered a poet, new to me, whose works I want to explore. As we face the pleasures and pains of the departure of 2016 and arrival of 2017, I'm going to suggest a few steps I've recently taken that each of you might want to include in your personal paths.

sometimes, a shadow crosses the path

Photo by J. Harrington

Rebecca Solnit, as usual these days, offers reasons to be hopeful. Her essay in the guardian, Another, more beautiful America is rising. Trump will be resisted, contains this inspiring quotation from the California legislature, in response to the recent national elections:

manifesto of defiance: “California will defend its people and our progress. We are not going to allow one election to reverse generations of progress at the height of our historic diversity, scientific advancement, economic output, and sense of global responsibility. We will lead the resistance to any effort that would shred our social fabric or our constitution.”

Unfortunately for we Minnesotans, both houses of our legislature are controlled by Republican majorities, so we can expect nothing comparable there, only efforts to obscure Minnesota's path to 
a sustainable future.

Solnit is one among several writers who propose steps worth including in any path we may make. A recent issue of the guardian includes this extremely important reminder from Steven Thrasher: A year-end plea: don't let politics overshadow life's splendor. Even if you don't read the column, don't miss the beginning photo of the dog's goofy smile.

Today's penultimate step brings us to the ever-rewarding Maria Popova's Brain Pickings and some of her thoughts prompted by one of America's Nobel Laureates in Literature, John Steinbeck. At least skim through A New Year’s Perspective: John Steinbeck on Good and Evil, the Necessary Contradictions of the Human Nature, and Our Grounds for Lucid Hope. There is no ultimate victory, only a worthwhile way to live.

These writers offer thoughts and perspectives, strategies and tactics, for not only surviving but thriving as we make our transition from a resource-extractive, frontier-oriented community to one that has learned to live with, not on, nature and with, not on, each other. That is a path we must, of necessity and humanity, choose. There are many paths through a wilderness. Each can lead us to where we need to be.

“XXIX

Traveler, there is no path.
The path is made by walking.

Traveller, the path is your tracks
And nothing more.
Traveller, there is no path
The path is made by walking.
By walking you make a path
And turning, you look back
At a way you will never tread again
Traveller, there is no road
Only wakes in the sea.”

― Antonio Machado, Border of a Dream: Selected Poems

Best wishes?

Yesterday I watched a hen turkey peck her way through the back yard. My first thought was "I hope she finds plenty of ticks to eat," thinking that would diminish the tick population substantially. Then, I realized that I wasn't actually concerned with how much the turkey ate, but with the yard holding as few ticks as possible. At this point it occurred to me that I had no idea whether the results I wanted were or were not dependent on a sparse or dense initial concentration of potential turkey food. My final thoughts were along the lines of "I hope she gets them all," but then, again, remembering that nature abhors a vacuum, I promptly became nervous about what might come to take the place of the consumed ticks. All of which left me remembering some of the best (unfollowed) advice my mother ever gave me: "be careful what you wish for, you may get it."

hen turkey pecking away

Photo by J. Harrington

This year, unlike last, orioles have generally avoided our feeders, both nectar and grape jelly. Night visitors, most likely raccoons, have several times enjoyed both, so we started to bring them in at night, along with the sunflower seed feeders, to minimize attractions for any wandering bears. The feeders in question hang from metal rods attached to the railing of the second floor deck. Never-the-less, the nectar feeder has somehow caught the attention of large black ants, several of whom climbed through the feeding tubes, couldn't find their way out again, and drowned. I hope they died happy, surrounded by more food than they could ever wish for. I believe it was from my grandmother that I learned "if wishes were horses, beggars would ride." My wish right now is for a clever way to close today's posting so I'll wish that you read the poem below.

oriole at nectar feeder last year

Photo by J. Harrington

Countermeasures

By Sara Miller

I wish I could keep my thoughts in order

and my ducks in a row.

I wish I could keep my ducks in a thought

or my thoughts in a duck.

My point is that we all exist, wetly, in the hunt.

The ducks are aware of this

in their own way, which is floating.

The way of the mind is brevity.

There may be other thoughts on other days

in the minds of other and better men

and their constant companions, the women,

but these same tidy capsules — never.

This is just one of the things

I noticed about my thoughts

as they passed easefully by.

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Is PolyMet like the Death Star?

While tracking the Guardian's progress reports on the Paris climate change negotiations, I came across a Frequently Asked Questions [FAQ] for Star Wars. Among the questions was one about the cost of the Death Star. The answer contained this tidbit:

“The key point,” scientist Adam Rutherford says, “is the Death Star’s destruction would have a catastrophic effect on the galactic economy. Thousands of jobs were created and maintained by the Death Star, and its destruction would create decades of extreme poverty. The rebels simply did not account for that in their attack, on both occasions.”

Wishing Star or Death Star?

Photo by J. Harrington

If you agree with the logic on why the Death Star should have been maintained, you're probably someone who believes the PolyMet project could be good for Minnesota. In that case,  would you be interested in buying some coal mines? How about some oil wells?

"Star light, star bright,"

By Anonymous

Star light, star bright,

First star I see tonight,

I wish I may, I wish I might,

Have this wish I wish tonight.

Source: The Dorling Kindersley Book of Nursery Rhymes (2000)           

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Winding down the year

Neither the dog nor the dog walker took any pleasure in this morning's walk. The temperature was about -10. As the pair walked on the compacted snow, it squeaked. By mid-day, the sun brightened the sky but didn't raise the comfort level for man or beast nearly as much. The siders are probably someplace drinking coffee. It's too cold for them to be working.

The beginning of the end for a Christmas village

Photo by J. Harrington

Demolition has started on the gingerbread village. An evil troll(?) has consumed the first house and several of the trees appear to have been used as toothpicks. (burp) There were no survivors because there were no inhabitants. For public health and safety reasons, the abandoned village, whose residents apparently returned to the North Pole promptly after Christmas, has been cordoned off. Visitors other than the demolition crew are prohibited. Demolition will proceed as expediently as the debris can be digested. Fortunately, this deconstruction work takes place in heated quarters so it's not affected by weather conditions. If, instead of a Christmas village, there was a logging camp, do you suppose it would last until ice out and the river drive?

It might be a little early to wish you a happy, healthy and successful New Year, but then again on New Year's Eve you might be busy doing something other than reading My Minnesota's Best Wishes to its readers.

Burning the Old Year

By Naomi Shihab Nye 

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.   

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,   

lists of vegetables, partial poems.   

Orange swirling flame of days,   

so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,   

an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.   

I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,   

only the things I didn’t do   

crackle after the blazing dies. 

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What's Christmas without cookies?

Yesterday I started (re)reading Christmas in Minnesota. I felt good reading "This American Christmas emerged largely from places like New York, New England and Pennsylvania--regions that many Minnesota settlers knew as home." Being reminded that Minnesota was settled, in part, by fellow New Englanders triggered a welcome feeling of companionship at this nostalgic time of year.

a traditional Christmas tree

Photo by J. Harrington

Shortly before I started yesterday's reading, I was looking at our Christmas tree and remembering that many of my childhood trees were placed in the triple decker bay windows in the front parlor. St Paul has one apartment building I know of that also has bay windows displaying a tree or two at this time of year. During December, I often go out of my way to drive by it in the evening if I'm in the city. I really enjoy seeing the multicolored lights behind the lace-looking curtains. Somewhere along the line our traditional Christmas lights have gone from multicolor to white or clear. I think that happened when we changed to the smaller bulbs. Come to think about it, many details of a family's traditional Christmas can change over the years and yet it's still "their" Christmas.

cookies essential to Christmas

Photo by J. Harrington

One thing that Christmas in Minnesota reconfirmed is the essential role played by cookies at Christmas. "Just thinking about cookies--let alone eating one!-- can bring back a flood of memories." according to the Introduction by Brian Horrigan. Then there's always the fundamental cookies and milk for Santa.

Cookies for Santa

A Funny Christmas Poem for Kids

by Kenn Nesbitt

I baked a dozen cookies
and I put them on a plate,
and I set them out for Santa Claus,
except for one I ate.

That cookie was amazing
and I couldn't quite resist...
so I ate another one
that I was sure would not be missed.

I knew it wouldn't matter
if I only ate one more.
Then I gobbled up another one.
Why not? That's only four.

I accidentally dropped
another couple on the ground.
I knew Santa wouldn't want them
so I swiftly scarfed them down.

Another couple disappeared.
I may have eaten those,
though I couldn't say for certain,
but I guess that's how it goes.

I figured four was likely more
than Santa Claus would need
so I polished off another few
with unexpected speed.

Before I knew what happened
all the damage had been done,
and I realized I'd accidentally
eaten every one.

I guess it's best, since Santa
sort of needs to watch his weight.
When he visits us this Christmas
I sure hope he likes the plate.

Copyright © 2013 Kenn Nesbitt

All Rights Reserved

From www.poetry4kids.com

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'Tis the season

For years and years, I've been the one that was the biggest pain to shop for. Particular and fussy about exactly what I wanted. I'm no longer the sole holder of that position. The Better Half gets a pass, but the Son Person, The Daughter Person and The Son-in-Law person all have wishes the fulfillment of which means I'm the one experiencing pain equal to or exceeding the degree of pain that I've created for others at past Christmas present shopping times. This is not about the amount of money being spent. This is about the challenge of trying to find exactly what someone wants when they haven't provided a link to the on-line site that has it in stock and can and will ship in time for Christmas (and birthday) delivery. And providing links means our only engagement with wish fulfillment is spending money, not figuring our what was meant by the sometimes cryptic or abbreviated descriptions in Christmas letters. You know, if a letter to Santa says "I want a pony," does Santa have to be concerned about the color or gender of the pony, or whether the saddle is brown or black? Santa just knows these things. Most of the rest of us, or at least I, don't.

a Christmas star to follow

Photo by J. Harrington

Thanks for letting me vent. It's a short posting today because the Daughter Person's birthday dinner starts soon. The crowds and the parking lots weren't too bad this afternoon, and the weather was decent. The issue seems to be that most of us in my family don't tend to put the latest and greatest, most popular items (Tickle Me Elmo anyone?) on our lists. Those presents come with their own challenges. I suppose one way to look at it is that proof of how much we love our family and friends isn't measured by how much we spend but by how hard we work to get just the right present. All of this exercise, mental, physical and emotional, could cause us to emulate the (reformed) Grinch and have our hearts grow three sizes too big. That's part of what we celebrate this season, right?

the first Christmas

Photo by J. Harrington

Sonnet in the Shape of a Potted Christmas Tree

By George Starbuck

* O fury- bedecked! O glitter-torn! Let the wild wind erect bonbonbonanzas; junipers affect frostyfreeze turbans; iciclestuff adorn all cuckolded creation in a madcap crown of horn! It’s a new day; no scapegrace of a sect tidying up the ashtrays playing Daughter-in-Law Elect; bells! bibelots! popsicle cigars! shatter the glassware! a son born now now while ox and ass and infant lie together as poor creatures will and tears of her exertion still cling in the spent girl’s eye and a great firework in the sky drifts to the western hill.

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Yakety Yak

I hope at least some of you reading this are old enough to remember the Coaster's song, the title of which we're adopting for today. We've mentioned the neighborhood herd of yaks before in My Minnesota. They came about, I've heard, but can neither confirm nor deny, because of a difference of opinion between a neighbor and the assessor over whether the property was actually agricultural. Here's some (but not all) of them. I'm reasonably certain that these are the critters that were making

some of the local herd of yaks          © harrington

the lowing sound I heard early in the morning a couple of days last week while I was seated under a tree pretending to yelp, putt and purr like a hen turkey. (The tom turkeys didn't think I sounded all that great either.) These pictures were taken with my iPhone. The yaks are never out by the road when I have my dslr along, but Hilaire Belloc has captured the yak nicely in his poem.

a closer view of the local herd of yaks          © harrington

The Yak

By Hilaire Belloc 

As a friend to the children commend me the Yak.

   You will find it exactly the thing:

It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back,   

   Or lead it about with a string.

The Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet   

   (A desolate region of snow)

Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,   

   And surely the Tartar should know!

Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got,   

   And if he is awfully rich

He will buy you the creature—or else he will not.

   (I cannot be positive which.)

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Wet weather wears out welcome!

© harrington

Welcome. I fear the hummingbirds may be spending the weekend in their nests with covers pulled up to their bills in this windy, wet wearisome weather. More seasonal and winning temperatures are supposed to arrive during the week. Well, we'll see. (In case you haven't figured it out, today's alliterative winner is the letter "W.")  When was the last time you felt winsome, warm and wonderful (I mean since you turned the heat off for the season, whatever that means). Will we welcome Summer weather when it wends its way to where we wait? Or, will we complain it's too hot and wince as it wears out its welcome? Whatever. The white clover has germinated and is wrapping the front yard in wonderfully verdant miniature windrows. We''l watch for wiped-out brown spots when we reach snow melt next Spring. Meanwhile, we've become interested in the possibilities of three sisters plantings. I'm thinking that making compost and using that to either mound or raise the edges of a bed to retain water would work. It may be late for this season (and we've got the CSA shares coming, although starting a week late) but next year waits for a season's worth of compost. What do you think? Can we weave cultures with native warps and western Euopean woofs? Or would that only be for wookiees? Thanks for weading. Come back when you wish. Rants, raves and reflections served daily here in My Minnesota.