Literary Interlude: Dead Animal Poems

Death of a Toad

A toad the power mower caught,
Chewed and clipped of a leg, with a hobbling hop has got
To the garden verge, and sanctuaried him
Under the cineraria leaves, in the shade
Of the ashen and heartshaped leaves, in a dim,
Low, and a final glade.

The rare original heartsbleed goes,
Spends in the earthen hide, in the folds and wizenings, flows
In the gutters of the banked and staring eyes. He lies
As still as if he would return to stone,
And soundlessly attending, dies
Toward some deep monotone,

Toward misted and ebullient seas

And cooling shores, toward lost Amphibia's emperies.

Day dwindles, drowning and at length is gone

In the wide and antique eyes, which still appear

To watch, across the castrate lawn,

The haggard daylight steer.

-Richard Wilbur

View of a Pig

The pig lay on a barrow dead.
It weighed, they said, as much as three men.
Its eyes closed, pink white eyelashes.
Its trotters stuck straight out.

Such weight and thick pink bulk
Set in death seemed not just dead.
It was less than lifeless, further off.
It was like a sack of wheat.

I thumped it without feeling remorse.
One feels guilty insulting the dead,
Walking on graves. But this pig
Did not seem able to accuse.

It was too dead. Just so much
A poundage of lard and pork.
Its last dignity had entirely gone.
It was not a figure of fun.

Too dead now to pity.
To remember its life, din, stronghold
Of earthly pleasure as it had been,
Seemed a false start, and off the point.

Too deadly factual. Its weight
Oppressed me---how could it be moved?
And the trouble of cutting it up!
The gash in its throat was shocking, but not pathetic.

Once I ran a fair in the noise
To catch a greased piglet
That was faster and nimbler than a cat,
Its squeal was the rending of metal.

Pigs must have hot blood, they feel like ovens.
Their bite is worse than a horse's---
They chop a half-moon clean out.
They eat cinders, dead cats.

Distinctions and admirations such
As this one was long finished with.
I stared at it a long time. They were going to scald it,
Scald it and scour it like a doorstep.

-Ted Hughes

Meanderings: A Mutable Frog

For the past 3 days, I've been watching a frog, deceased. It could be a toad, but the underside looks a bit too green. Our toads are generally dirt brown. The whole thing started because I'm always on the alert for stinging insects while in the vicinity of inanimate objects. We have many wasps in Florida who persist in building their nests on posts, railings, gazebos, even mail boxes, in short, anything that doesn't move and to which the unsuspecting human is likely to come into proximity. The size and striped markings of some are truly intimidating. I've learned, though, that it is the smaller, foul-tempered kind that are more likely to sting. On the bright side, at least we don't have yellow jackets circling our barbeques. Of course, the flies render them superfluous. A more aggressive and prolific class of fly I have never seen, except that unlike those in much of the South, they don't bite. For that we have the no-see-ums, mosquitos, and fire ants. Of these, the no-see-ums are the worst. They are teeny; they are impervious to bug spray; and they have the itchiest bite, a bite that returns to torment for days.

Anyway, on the first day, the cohort of flies alerted me to something by the storm drain. I looked, only to see them dive bombing an upside down frog. The frog looked pretty normal, and there were no signs of trauma on his underbelly. I wondered what had caused his death. Did he just suddenly croak, there by the safety of the drain pipe? He couldn't have dried out; it's been raining daily. And they like that. After a rain, his slimy and off key brethren come out and create a cacophony that would put the Budweiser commercial to shame. Perhaps, a bird had gotten him, and he rolled over. But he looked too intact. I mulled the evidence but stopped short of grabbing a stick to inquire. Curiosity and all, there is the cootie factor.

And so I forgot about him, until the next day. There he was, a little further down the incline and a bit puffier. The flies were gone, and on some level I realized his abdomen was distended by gas, but the thought of what else lay in there made me turn away.

Still, I've become fascinated by this process. Today, I went over to find him unmoved, deflated, whatever having escaped through a hole in his upper thoracic region. Overnight, he had developed a whole host of colors, the effect of which resembled those purples and yellows of a healing black and blue. There was a hideous beauty to it.

I slapped myself- mentally. What was I doing? Why was I drawn to this horrible, beautiful thing? Suddenly, a whole host of poems came to mind. There was DH Lawrence's experience with a snake, or the dead toad one, even the pig. Perhaps, this experience of death would lead me to a great insight about life. Naw. Just a dead frog/toad by the storm drain.

I'll save the insights for others.

Sometimes a Turnip is a Mailbox

I bet you thought, like I did that the late Julia Child was just a magnificent chef with a cheerful demeanor and a husky voice. Well, think again. Julia Child was a...a...spy. At least according to this report which outs such notables as Julia, John Ford, Arthur Schlesinger, etc. The good news- they were on our side.

Highways and Byways in Hidden Florida

It seems unbelievable, but there are still parts of the Florida that have not been overrun by mega-storied condos, McMansions or motels. If you'd like to see it, take a ride on Route 19 through the Ocala National Forest, as we did on our way to St Augustine Beach. I had stumbled on the beach years ago and decided to head there, hoping against hope that it had not been spoiled. I remembered it as a place frozen in time with huge swathes of dunes in between small motels and beach bungalows. It was the kind of place that had a laundromat on the seaward side of the beach strip.

Well, the laundromat was gone. I think my hotel was built partially on the site. And there were new hotels, but I'm happy to report that it has retained much of its character, perhaps because there isn't a building taller than 3 stories, perhaps because there is room to breathe there, despite the jumble of older cottages on the beach streets. The beach is magnificent, the sunrises breathtaking. The water, however, is chilly for this Gulf bather, and rip currents are common. But I loved it then, and I loved it now. There is no pretension, just a relaxing beachside resort, the kind we enjoyed as children.

Major development has taken place on the town side. Still development is to be expected and is not necessarily a bad thing. Now if you ride down the A1A along the coast and you will see much that development has missed. As you pass lonely outposts of condo developments or the occasional town, you run into surprising, unspoiled stretches.

***

Not too far south of St. Augustine Beach is Fort Matanzas, site of a Federal park. It's an easy on and easy off, none of this driving into the dark unknown. Here whiting jump, and the water is all shades of azure against a landscape of sand and native scrub, and you can hear yourself breathe in the solitude. For an interesting stretch veer onto the old A1A where the road straddles the beach. Further down, you'll run into Marineland, a park that has remade itself, amidst various research outposts. In between, there are strata of development. Witness the 20's, 30's, 50's and other assorted decades up to the present. Of the greatest interest, however, are the innumerable parks that lead off the highway, each an adventure awaiting the motorist. The photo above came from just one of those off shoots. Incredible. I am left wondering about all those roads not taken. What did we miss?

***

What I didn't miss was Daytona Beach with its gargantuan hostelries that dwarf the mere human being. Yet, even here there were vestiges of fifties kitsch. Just not my cup of tea, which reminds me...I've shared some secret places, but don't let anyone else in on them, lest they fall victim to what has happened to much of the rest of the state.

One Toke Over the Political Line

Obama's latest radio ad in Florida uses the phrase-after having a President "in the pocket" of big oil companies for 8 years- the implication being that McCain will also be beholden to big Oil. At first I assumed it to be from one of those loony lefty organizations, but, no, there comes the "I'm Barack Obama and I approved this message." Most unseemly to state baldly that the President has "been in the pocket" of anyone as it carries with it the implication of bribery. And unless such venality can be proven, it does little good to fling such an accusation loosely.

On to another situation some would question. Just got a solicitation for money to help the NBRA put up their billboards in Denver. The one in the picture is in South Carolina. They are up in FL, too. Don't know enough about MLK's political predilections, but you gotta love it.

The Cuban Heritage Trail

Years ago, I went on the Irish Pub tour of Europe. Did you know there is an Irish Pub in Heidelburg or another pres de la Madaleine (at least that's what I told the Iranian cab driver in Paris in my just good enough French-that is just good enough for the Iranian cab driver to find it)? Well, this little jaunt started out as a trip to St. Augustine. Please note the landmark at left, complete with pigeon.

Anyway, we stumble upon not one, not two, but three Cuban cigar shops, not where they sell Cuban cigars because that would be illegal and immoral, although they are Cuban cigars because the shop where we end up buying has a young Cuban man rolling them before your very eyes. Behind the counter is a black and white picture of a young boy rolling cigars in Cuba. It is according to the caption the young man's father at age twelve. I found the leaf a little harsh, but I'm no connoisseur. It did, however, smell marvelous. This I know because the hubster, not Cuban, went native on me.

Nothing would do but that we eat at the Cuban cafe we also found in St. Augustine. I suspect that the abundance of food for a reasonable price might have played a large part in his sudden affinity for my heritage. The food was quite good, although as I pointed out to the South American waiter that my rather tasty Cuban sandwich would have been greatly improved by the addition of at least one slice of pork, as that is one of the defining ingredients in the above named sandwich.

So now we're driving down the A1A. He's puffing on the stogie. We're both admiring forgotten Florida (more on that later). We continue the Cuban Heritage trail with a side trip to the Museum of Arts and Sciences in Daytona which has an absolutely fabulous exhibit of the Ramos Collection, entitled "Great Masters of Cuban Art: 1800 to 1958." If you have the opportunity to see it, do it. I don't know that much about art, but I am something of a museum maven. Take my word for it. It is open until September 1, having been extended.

Mind-boggling. Hubby asks of one painting, "If you didn't know, how could you tell it was Cuban? It looks like the stuff from Europe." Bingo. The exhibit gives the lie to that fallacy that we were third world natives. Not to mention, there is a moment of immense satisfaction that this is a portion of our heritage the s.o.b.s will not be able to steal or erase, as they have erased all the accomplishments BC in the Western mind. I am so moved by the whole experience, I purchase the book for $24.95.

So as we leave the museum, I'm just about Cubaned out. I'm thinking we'll stop somewhere I can get some turkey or roast beef, when we pull into this strip mall in Cocoa Beach where there just happens to be a Cuban cafe called "La Tinaja" with a roguish young Venezuelan waiter named Josue. After a tasty and affordable meal of masitas de puerco frita with arroz and frijoles negros and platanos maduros, I say "enough."

By the way, did you know that Siesta Key in Sarasota started out as a Cuban fishing camp? Scout's honor.

Sunday Soils

*I'll be away and probably incommunicado for a few days, so here's a Sunday early edition. There was just too much good stuff to miss it.

Reaping the Whirlwind. Don't miss the cover story in the Weekly Standard. David Zucker, director of Naked Gun and Airplane, takes on the left in his new project. A contemporary political interpretation of A Christmas Carol, the shambling, overweight filmmaker, the Scrooge equivalent, might seem rather familiar. Read it before it disappears and enjoy.

Harvest of Shame. Here's another in the what-have-we-wrought vein of social criticism. Sowell's piece is most notable for two absolutely marvelous thoughts: does anyone remember Mickey Mantle's haircut and doesn't anyone name their kid "Mary" anymore?

An Inconvenient Truth. Alice Thomson informs us that being "green" is no longer cool. Seems economics has led to green fatigue. Best line of all. A Whole Foods in London is so quite "you can hear the cheese breathe." Article here.

On Rocky Ground. NASA scientists have discovered that Martian soil is perhaps not conducive to life. Of course, it could just be contamination. I love science. Read a brief report here.

Sting Like a Bee. A beekeeper removed 3 million bees from a home in Miami. The offending critters had stung a few people, not surprising if there were three million of them. Apparently they were Italian bees, known to be a tad more aggressive. Don't ask me. Article here.

Update: Hunger Strike Ended

Perhaps fearing yet another martyr, authorities ended Cuban political prisoner Juan Carlos Herrera Acosta's hunger strike. He was whisked to a hospital where the stitches he had used to sew his mouth shut were also removed. Undaunted, he vows to take it up once again. Ziva has more information at Babalu here.

The Curse of the Godfather II Returns

As if it's not enough that one of the current crop of books is Havana Nocturne: How the Mob Owned Cuba and Lost It to the Revolution, Electronic Arts is bringing out a Godfather II video game which will be "set against the backdrops of New York, Florida, Cuba." Care to guess how Cuba Bc is going to come across?

We all know the harm that the movie did in totally skewing the perception of the American public. Yet another generation will confuse artistic license with reality. About the only bright spot is that the exposure will be limited to those who play. On the other hand, the game will be available for the Xbox 360, PlayStation 3, and PC. Article here.

Just a Spoonful of Sugar and a Soupcon of Propaganda

Stop the presses! Cuba "hopes," Cuba "expects" to cover domestic sugar needs. Yes, folks, the country that was once described as a "sugar bowl" has been importing the sweet substance, perhaps because their production levels have been akin to those of the Great Depression.

But just to demonstrate how completely the organs of the press have been co-opted, according to AP the production levels were down because of a restructuring six years ago, and the glory years are described in the 1980's. Former sugar growing areas were devoted to farming or forests. Yeah, the capos in Havana consciously missed the opportunity to amass more wealth in order to create more forests. Really. No mention of the true heyday of Cuban sugar, pre1959. No mention of the mismanagement of half a century of communist rule. Nope. And don't give me the shibboleth about the Americans. In 1959, fully half of the sugar refineries were owned by Cubans, up from zero.

And in concert with this earth shattering development comes the announcement that Cuba is to scale back on it plans to produce ethanol. Of course by the time the news makes it to Reuters, it's a question of following comrade fidel's lead. Some cynics might be more likely to suggest that they will not produce it, just as they have not met housing quotas, because they can't; even more likely, given the recent raulian austerity speech, because they cannot afford to divert production from the sweet stuff.

Words and a Letter

Respetuosamente, en nombre de nuestra nación y sus derechos, les solicitamos desestimen este nombramiento, no entreguen el sitial de honor a quien debería tener reservado solamente el banquillo de los acusados.

Bad translation:

Respectfully, in the name of our nation and its rights, we ask you to repudiate this appointment. Do not seat in a place of honor he who should have reserved the bench of the accused.

From a letter by independent Cuban lawyers in exile to the United Nations upon naming a regime law professor Chairman of the UN Human Rights Council. More about it here.

Slice of Cuban Life

The Sun Sentinel's Ray Sanchez can often be counted on to provide telling details of life in Cuba. The tale of his fruitless hunt for a band aid sadly reflects the constant and arbitrary nature of shortages. If he, a foreigner with real money, encounters such difficulties, where does that leave average citizens? To wit:

One day you stumble on a product unseen in months - say, mouthwash. The next day, it vanishes for half a year. Cat litter is like that. I learned from Cubans to improvise with beach sand carted from Playas del Este.

Read more here and this unattributed story.

Milestones

Missed some important markers last week. Babalublog passed the 3 million mark in unique visitors. Penultimos Dias marked its second anniversary and El Cafe Cubano its third. Kudos to all for all they do to advance the cause of truth. Links to each are on the sidebar.

Cuba and the Inevitable

Grim though all this is, Mr. Palacios and Ms. Delgado maintain that freedom for Cuba is near because the failure of the system is by now universally recognized, and Cubans are becoming bolder about breaking the rules. Ms. Delgado, a founder of the independent libraries movement, estimates that some two million Cubans have either visited those libraries or borrowed their books. That so many are taking such risks is impressive, and it jibes with other shifts in behavior. The nation's youth has become irreverent toward authority, and others are becoming less reluctant to complain. There is even a movement demanding that the Cuban peso be convertible to dollars.

This quote from Mary Anastasia O'Grady's article in the The Wall Street Journal about Cuban dissident Hector Palacio's decision to return to his native country echoes much of what has been making its way out of the captive island. There is a sense of expectation in the air, a sense that change is inexorable, and not the vain expectations created by the transfer of power. Despite the recent crackdowns, citizens seem more ready to criticize the regime to foreign journalists, although they do ask that their last names be omitted. Then there are the incrementally growing numbers in the photos sent by the opposition. In one city, citizens banged their pots to show their support for the hunger-striking political prisoners. Another 22 dissidents were hauled away for attempting to show theirs.

More of the truth is emerging in the mainstream press. Harpers does a piece on the opposition movement in Cuba. Conde Nast Traveller features an article entitled "Remains of the Revolution." More and more, there is a valedictory feel. In and of itself, this sense of the inevitability of change becomes something of a self-fulfilling prophecy. The jig is up. But do they know it?

Before I start chilling champagne, there is one factor to be considered: The Chinese Model. If the army continues to support the regime, all bets are off. Witness Tianamen Square. Even more discouraging, Raul is and has been the head of the army. Generals are among the prime beneficiaries of the present system. The only hope would be dissension in the ranks. Otherwise, I fear that this will be yet another in a long line of false hopes.

H/T Babalublog

Move Over, Moveon

I was driving somewhere in the Sarasota area when I spotted a billboard that read "Martin Luther King was a Republican." While I personally cannot verify the claim, the NBRA, the National Black Republican Association stands behind it. The head of the group, which is Sarasota-based, was featured in an article at the Sarasota Herald Tribune this week. Not a day later, I received a press release from the same Frances Rice complaining of the way she and the organization had been presented.

Frankly, I thought the article was pretty positive, but the problem seems to lie in some non profit IRS legalistic stuff. You can read her response here.

I really enjoy the truly political stuff, like the speech-in at the House of Representatives, at least when it's on my side. So I thought I might share something of her previous antics:

An issue of the Black Republican magazine sported an image of Ku Klux Klan members burning a cross. Caption: "Every person in this photograph was a Democrat."

Articles accusing Democrats of embracing child molesters and waging war on God.

Handing out pins at a campaign rally, reading "Democratic Party, Poverty Pimps."

Suit and tie Republicans are horrified, fearing a backlash. I don't know how effective it is, but it and Frances Rice bear watching.

Dying for Freedom in Cuba

It is a small action, involving a few prisoners in Castro's gulag. It has not made the international press. But since July 18th, four political prisoners have been staging a protest against the conditions they are forced to endure in the only way they can: a hunger strike. They are by all accounts in critical condition. A heart rending note written by Juan Carlos Herrera Acosta has been smuggled out. Marc Masferrer has translated it on his blog where he has covered the situation extensively. It is in the original Spanish at Miscelaneas. I was particularly struck by his closing. After cataloguing the physical effects of his protest, he concludes:

The world should know, I will take my action to its conclusion.

And so they shall, Juan Carlos, although in my heart, I would beg you not to take it to its conclusion. The new Cuba will have need of men like you. Que Dios te cuide, mi hermano.

One Sarasota Smoker's Vote

Despite living just about up the block from one of the top ten beaches in the US, I can't seem to get there very often. So it is that yesterday was the first time since the Sarasota County Commission banned smoking on all our beaches that I made it out there. Of course, I didn't go to Siesta Key Beach, because the "smoking areas" the county so kindly decreed consist of the parking lot and the pavilion, both of which are so far removed from the water that having a cigarette involves a Gobisque trek across acres and acres of sand, no exagerration, or maybe not much of one.

Instead, I was reduced to circling beach accesses , the ones with four or five perenially filled parking spots, in other areas where the swath of sand is much narrower. I wound up at a beach that may be private, although the houses are across the road, much less used because of the rocks, and concrete debris. To this I have been reduced.

And frankly, I am livid at the powers that be. I am as much a citizen of this benighted county as anyone else. Okay, I can see why I can't smoke in an enclosed room in public. I can tolerate dinner out, because that is a question of an hour or so. Beach going involves hours and hours of being out on the sand. Smoking is an addictive, legal, heavily taxed activity. There are few social smokers. So don't tell me I don't have the right to smoke out in the open air, where if you don't like the smell wafting across an appreciable distance you are perfectly free to move. I often don't like the music that makes its way from other people's blankets, so do we ban music?

Smoking was banned ostensibly because cigarette butts were a major nuisance, that is to say they made up 10 percent of the litter. What about the other 90 percent? To see that the rationale is a sham, one need only look at the "decree," notable in its schoolmarmish orientation. You can read it here. The reasoning behind the ban is on page 3. I can't smoke so others can enjoy the beach, because people go to the beach for "fitness" reasons, and because it sets a bad example for youth. In short, because they don't like it. I suggest we ban drinking on the beach for the same reasons. Further, recently the beach was closed for a few days because of e. coli. Does they intend to ban pooping?

So I am feeling singled out and victimized. Well, I was born a Hispanic and female in the good old days of rampant discrimination. I am a Cuban American in these days when some minority groups are more equal than others. I am a somewhat bohemian citizen of an increasingly conformist and upscale Sarasota. So I am used to being on the outside. I am also, however, a voter. The county commissioners might want to ask themselves whether it is wise to alienate a quarter of their population. I, for one, have already helped vote out of office one of the earliest proponents of the ban. When given the opportunity, I intend to vote against each and every one of those who imposed it. I would vote for Nikita Kruschev in drag if I had to...wait, he would be right at home limiting personal freedom. Oh, anyone else. I have to wonder how many people out there feel the same way.

Remember today it is my smoking, but there is no end to it when the passing of law is the result of preference and prejudice and not principle.

Words of the Day

From the George Will column. Couldn't resist.

Does Obama have the sort of adviser a candidate most needs -- someone sufficiently unenthralled to tell him when he has worked one pedal on the organ too much? If so, Obama should be told: Enough, already, with the we-are-who-we-have-been-waiting-for rhetorical cotton candy that elevates narcissism to a political philosophy.

Sunday Sports

It ain't beanbag. In a withering column George Will points out what I've been at pains to describe: Obama Oratory Overload. The columnist, if not the candidate, is at his rhetorical finest.

Because it's there. In Pakistan a group of 22 climbers who had reached the summit of K2 were hit by an ice avalanche. 9 are feared dead and 2 are missing. The privations, danger, and endurance involved in climbing were highlighted in that awful season on Everest. You can read about the latest incident here and about the deadly season in Into Thin Air.

Where the boys are. First it was the atom, and now it's chromosomes. Apparently XX does not a woman make, possibly. The Chinese have stumbled into this minefield trying to make sure girls are girls, in order to ensure fairness in competition. This is a problem that has arisen in the past, particularly with "female" competitors from the old Soviet Union. Apparently some women are "intersexual" as opposed to "transsexual." The latter is not a problem after a two year waiting period. I remember something about XXY or something of the sort. Anyway, article here.

It's war... ball. If you want to know what's wrong with our society, just glance at Rolling Stone's recommendations in our list this week. The first few are pretty unexceptional but the "Pimp Juice" tag, the "Makeout Movie" rec. aargh!

And a bit of Gatorade... to clean the palate so to speak. I've been searching for a particular section in Thoreau's Walden and stumbled across this. Sounds pretty cool to me. Anyway, if anyone out there knows what chapter encompasses his throwing out his rocks, let me know. I really don't want to reread the whole thing.

Literary Interlude: Kubla Khan (an excerpt)

Something about the previous post reminded me of this part of Coleridge's poem. The entire thing here.

...
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise

Samuel Taylor Coleridge