tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5929273017268770532024-03-24T08:15:06.554-07:00ThomasdorsettThomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.comBlogger461125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-34362747098065919032024-03-02T15:12:00.000-08:002024-03-02T15:12:24.181-08:00Parkinson's Diary: Episode Seven, Another Progress Report<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday,
I had an appointment with my neurologist/mobility physician who handles my
issues with Parkinson's Disease. I am doing well, although I definitely have
that ailment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> H</span>e
increased my dosage of Sinemet, the mainstay in Parkinson treatment. This was a
four month follow-up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I certainly
have problems with ambulation, but this is to be expected. My tremor is not a
big issue; it’s mostly on the left side. One of the main things that it affects is my
typing—this blog, for instance, has to be carefully edited and all those extra
z’s and s’s removed. My handwriting continues to be awful—being almost legally
blind doesn’t help. I’ve given up writing long-hand, since it is so difficult
to read my own writing that I have to recompose whatever I’m writing when I
try to enter it into a computer. Since vision is such a problem, I need to
dictate into the computer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">--Stop! A
significant new problem: the new dose of the Parkinson’s medicine. I took it
for a few days, and noticed a distinct improvement with my mobility issues. However,
a side effect soon became apparent. The medicine, Sinemet, is a combination of
carbidopa and leva dopa. The carbidopa helps the medicine pass through the blood
brain barrier into the brain. There it can enter the basal ganglia, the
mobility centers of the brain, and help motor function. Yet, I imagine, that
its effects on the brain aren’t limited to the basal ganglia. I began to be
confused. I still was aware of my surroundings, but the feeling bordered on
panic. Is this a side effect that would diminish with continued use of the drug? Perhaps, but the side effect was so great that I’d rather deal with reduced
mobility, at least for the time being. So I decided to take the increased
dosage at night, which, I presume, will help me get out of bed better in the
morning.—The medicine works, but if I can’t function, it’s best to stay seated!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">….Well,I'm seate--again. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-27500753143512659142024-02-17T17:33:00.000-08:002024-02-24T10:15:56.253-08:00R.I.P. Alexei Navalny<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6T5aHuLHWjrryxfMvdMoZM9gMFMy0SlYdR2kFWT3h1n9aZwABlkUg0dq2Av7j4J2UN1MYFp1YCUgTm4dGxN9ADEnFEWcbNJRDj2HRLES9KejG1DqOx5DsUu5306kJ-W4JJXjdZ5KPYGhXWeYTMi2zabNNdblt2579kITRL-2Dc260ZFHpuu1nw6hNns/s786/ap24047442203646_custom-10e2ac6c3467ff49f3dc8b8125ad4b55e4d814e7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="786" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6T5aHuLHWjrryxfMvdMoZM9gMFMy0SlYdR2kFWT3h1n9aZwABlkUg0dq2Av7j4J2UN1MYFp1YCUgTm4dGxN9ADEnFEWcbNJRDj2HRLES9KejG1DqOx5DsUu5306kJ-W4JJXjdZ5KPYGhXWeYTMi2zabNNdblt2579kITRL-2Dc260ZFHpuu1nw6hNns/s320/ap24047442203646_custom-10e2ac6c3467ff49f3dc8b8125ad4b55e4d814e7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">Today we learned about the death of Alexei Navalny, who died--undoubtedly an unnatural death--at the age of 47, while imprisoned in the Russian gulag. I mourn him as an American Russian literary patriot. It's as if Anna Karenina came back to life, only to put her neck down on the tracks of the Long Island Railroad during rush hour after listening to the news--with an emphasis on the dreadful news from Russia. The bloody mess on the tracks leaves us with an imitation Stalin who has killed a real hero. Yes, another tear trickles down the cheek of Mother Russia, beset as she is with the attempts of Tucker Carlson to suckle at her breast. (Poor Mother Russia! One breast free only because Trump is trying to grab her by the p.)</span><div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Was Navalny murdered in prison? Judging from Putin's well-deserved reputation of brutality and the fact that Navalny had previously been poisoned by him, it is likely. But we may never know for sure. Putin's denial of involvement is what we expect from such a brutal dictator, who cannot tolerate opposition--and Navalny was his chief opponent in Russia. Yet even if we never know the cause of the Russian hero's death, it is clear that Putin at the very least significantly contributed to it. Putin unjustly imprisoned him, and an Arctic prison is light-years away from a family picnic. The fact that he was photographed the day before indicates the possibility both of poisoning and of a heart attack. In either case, Putin should be put on the death certificate as cause of death. One thinks of Dostoevsky before a firing squad, that unbenownst to him, shot blanks by order of the secret police. Except here the brutality of the secret policeman is not in question.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">It's as if all the greats of Russian culture are pointing toward that neo-Stalinist monster while chanting, "j'accuse." As in the past, Russian people don't seem to be listening.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday, I listened to a performance of Tchaikowsky's great Sixth Symphony. The famous, deservedly very famous melody from the first movement, repeated later on, for me was the pefect musical expression for the contemporary Russian mess. Tchaikowsky died soon after he composed it; society was crushing him. When will there be a silver lining to the dark storm cloud that is Putin? Not any time soon, I'm afraid.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">But it will come. Music expresses all emotions, so let me end with positive notes. Putin's barbarity will not defeat Mother Russia forever. (In my lifetime? Alas...)</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">But that day of liberation will come. The day when Putinism will be gone forever, is beautifully expressed by a chorus from Mozart's opera, <i>Idomeneo</i>. "The sea is calm. Let's proceed; everything is reassuring. We will have a happy future. Hush, hush, let's get going."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">This music reveals what human beings are capable of. Mother Russia, please wake up! <b>Now!</b></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/iLSW_MCoiLU" width="320" youtube-src-id="iLSW_MCoiLU"></iframe></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>(If you can't play this video, type in "Placido e il mar" on YouTube and please listen to it there.)<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Rkx5nhwC84Q" width="320" youtube-src-id="Rkx5nhwC84Q"></iframe></div><br /><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-14916252296291488122024-01-30T05:22:00.000-08:002024-01-31T10:38:58.556-08:00What Parkinson's Has Taught Me<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I slwalk,
yet still practice my art. (I can!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Can
I still travel with walker and cane?)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">My secret
is happiness: I still love! I still
breathe! Yet<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">the knives
in my knees haven’t crippled my heart.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">What a privilege
it is to be humble! What a privilege it is to believe.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thomas Dorsett, Colombia, 2024</span></span></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-49743781210196768752024-01-15T14:38:00.000-08:002024-01-15T14:38:28.646-08:00A 'Terrible' Sonnet by Hopkins<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">My own heart let me more have pity on; let</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Charitable; not live this tormented mind</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">With this tormented mind tormenting yet.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I cast for comfort that I can no more get</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">By groping round my comfortless, than blind</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">'s not wrung, see you, unforseen times rather--as skies</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Betweenpie mountains--lights a lovely mile.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1To01nGdsmCizHTNMNqeq66NoX2z8tBqxYAmc8yEfOgWqk5U5A2SJKqbK0pOrO9hDUAXGbNpHSflTh9iIBdmb8bF7WcVtmdFTgTDYxtV-vtZk96_al648xZx-O9OJx1aSy3F9fPT-HUcHVnOVmlNcKMOvD4GNDK-GNvMC9CpkMS_IBeXXUZRnUYJl-YA/s470/GerardManleyHopkins%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1To01nGdsmCizHTNMNqeq66NoX2z8tBqxYAmc8yEfOgWqk5U5A2SJKqbK0pOrO9hDUAXGbNpHSflTh9iIBdmb8bF7WcVtmdFTgTDYxtV-vtZk96_al648xZx-O9OJx1aSy3F9fPT-HUcHVnOVmlNcKMOvD4GNDK-GNvMC9CpkMS_IBeXXUZRnUYJl-YA/s320/GerardManleyHopkins%20(1).jpg" width="238" /></a></span></div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">In this poem, Hopkins gives himself good advice, which he unfortunately never heeded.
Hopkins was, of course, very religious in the conventional sense; but he got, in my opinion at least, the message of religion only half-right. The
commandment of all religions is to love one’s neighbor as oneself; attempting
to love one’s neighbor while despising oneself is always misplaced. We can look
at the great commandment then not as a commandment at all but as a statement of
fact: One loves one’s neighbor only to the degree that one has love for oneself. Hopkins once
wrote this beautiful line: “There lives the deepest freshness deep down
things.” If one couldn’t find that deepest freshness deep down things in oneself,
one wasn’t looking hard enough or was looking in the wrong direction.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">It is well
known that Hopkins had a strong carnal nature. His sexual orientation was
basically homosexual. He once wrote that he decided not to become a painter or
sculptor because he would have to deal drawing naked men, which presumably caused him much
grief and even panic. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He decided that
the only way for him to overcome his self-disgust was by giving himself up to
God--The god of the Catholic Church, which strictly forbade homosexuality and
masturbation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">We’ve learned
a lot since Victorian times. Homosexuality is no longer synonymous with sin for
the very reason that gays are able to love--one must agree with the current pope
that in this regard, “Who am I to judge?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I do not
wish to psychoanalyze Hopkins’s sexuality here; I just present it as a potential
source of his self-disgust. That he was a very unhappy man and rejected
himself is obvious from reading his poems, especially his later poems, when
God didn’t deliver that which he expected: peace and joy. Obviously, you don’t
have to be gay to suffer from an animus against the self; family pathology,
peer rejection, and insistence in getting from the universe what the universe
is unable to deliver are other frequent causes of self-rejection. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Life is a rare phenomenon in the universe, advanced life even rarer. We have all won the lottery, as it were, and are incredibly
lucky to be alive. Most of us realize this; the genius Hopkins apparently did
not. Let us now turn our attention to Hopkins’s great sonnet and indicate why
his noble idea to be less hard on himself ultimately failed. Notice the obsession
with self; the poem begins with ‘My own heart.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He admits that he is ‘comfortless' and finds
no way out from the hell he is in. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">He refers to himself as 'poor Jackself’ who is 'sad' and ‘jaded’—not a good start. One gets the impression that Hopkins at this point in
his life saw himself as a mess and threw himself on the mercy of God for relief.
But God, for whatever reason, remained silent, which abetted Hopkins’s despair.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">The poem ends with one of the most beautiful
images in all poetry. Hopkins acknowledges that joy does indeed come sometimes,
but it arises spontaneously. It ‘lights a lovely mile,’ as sunlight does when
breaking through <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>clouds. Whenever I read
these lovely lines, I seem to see sun breaking through; a beautiful
image. That the clouds in his internal sky were largely self-caused, however, Hopkins
would have probably denied. Too, too bad.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span>One has no right to reject oneself. If you
share Hopkins’s despair, fight, fight, fight for your right for a happy life. (Humility and despair are polar opposites.) Remember what nuns and priests used to say, and perhaps still say, "God loves you just the way you are." Some of us moderns might say instead, "The universe accepts you just the way you are," not the way your ego insists how things should be.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">A beautiful poem about a man who is stuck in a hell of his own making.</span></span></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-18108127369205772092024-01-13T14:09:00.000-08:002024-01-13T14:09:57.015-08:00The Soul--Two Poems from the Deronda Review<p> Two of my poems, along with the work of many other poets, appeared in the current edition (Vol. 10, Vo, 1, 2023). </p><p>The editor is Esther Cameron, who lives in Israel. She is an old friend. The subject of the curent edition was announced as, "The Soul."</p><p><br /></p><p>Consummation</p><p>A shriveled prune accepts its pit.</p><p>Mouse on a glue trap, why resist?</p><p>Phantoms burn; limbs toss and turn,</p><p>Face mind's mirror: who exists?</p><p><br /></p><p>Silence is also communication.</p><p>Expect nothing at all from death.</p><p>God hasn't sent you a postcard'</p><p>Answer it! Answer it!</p><p><br /></p><p>Nature's unsigned letter is enough?</p><p>Advanced age lacks consolation?</p><p>It's never to late to meditate;</p><p>What joy it is to finally give up!</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>The Soul </p><p> --for Esther Cameron</p><p><br /></p><p>Everything is nothing to a star</p><p>Not to little you or me</p><p><br /></p><p>With soul we thrive</p><p>Without it we flail</p><p><br /></p><p>Even Leonardos nod</p><p>It's not in the pineal gland</p><p><br /></p><p>With it we rise</p><p>Without it we fail</p><p><br /></p><p>Martin Buber was right</p><p>Between us <i>almost</i> nothing yeasts</p><p><br /></p><p>Despite lean and angry years</p><p>We're still at it</p><p><br /></p><p>Whatever it is</p><p>It is</p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-25033238241067281482024-01-09T19:47:00.000-08:002024-01-09T19:47:47.371-08:00Ranjit and Nataraja<p>At Earlam we'll offer in each aging hand</p><p>the outstretched palm of Shiva, dancing</p><p>the it-doesn't-matter--though it-really-does</p><p>sidesteps of late middle-age.</p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">On the telephone he tells me<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">half of Richmond
thinks he’s a terrorist,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">while those
on campus whose idol is diversity<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">think he’s
very special since he’s brown.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">He received
the mint chutney I sent him;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">he broke up
with Ivana from Prague.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">He switches
the subject to beef in French fries<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">and, not
that they should, but can’t they tell<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">a mullah
from Saudi Arabia<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">from a half
Catholic boy from Madras?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Shiva
intervenes with the sound of creation,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">static. It bristles with loneliness.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Feminists,
curries, Foucault.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I tell him,
we’ll be there in June—<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">He, tossed
between drums and fire;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We, falling
beneath Shiva’s foot.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">We arrive
at Earlam sixteen hours late.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">He has a
new friend. Everything’s fine.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">That night
she shows us new moves she’s taught him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Right,
left, one, two</i>—We join in the dance.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv41EsaO2d-h2R13zmO9yaL6nlTX1rxzcR2n3dgzDTWf28Y4QDf1EUAYhVRLWIQWhhkkGixCaPPp6FVKW0jP-um2Eg8bIck7mhi56yS5qIwTLErOTcvTZ_uiBvVdWx-0YN87CWd5pC4YCqFXZuQoZvgNaJBw6XqX8N54vdIRs0jmbxc9go7da6IX9BOwg/s1770/Ranjit%20portrait.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1178" data-original-width="1770" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv41EsaO2d-h2R13zmO9yaL6nlTX1rxzcR2n3dgzDTWf28Y4QDf1EUAYhVRLWIQWhhkkGixCaPPp6FVKW0jP-um2Eg8bIck7mhi56yS5qIwTLErOTcvTZ_uiBvVdWx-0YN87CWd5pC4YCqFXZuQoZvgNaJBw6XqX8N54vdIRs0jmbxc9go7da6IX9BOwg/w400-h266/Ranjit%20portrait.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Note: I'm putting together my sixth book--it may well be my la</span><span lang="EN-US">st-- and found this poem in an old file. The subject matter concerns </span> our dear nephew Ranjit, who passed away last year. At that time in our lives, the time of the poem, Nirmala and I were in loco parentis for Ranjit. He came here about 25 years ago, and stayed with us for about a year. After much applying, he was accepted at Earlam College, a liberal college in Richmond, Indiana. The poem has to do with our subsequent visit to Earlam for Ranji's undergraduate graduation. The reference to beef in French fries has to do with a controversy at that time when, after years of assuring the Hindu community that there was no beef in Macdonal's French fries, they had to admit that beef fat was used to prepare the fries. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I forgot about Ivana from Prague, one of Ranji's Earlam friends!</p><p class="MsoNormal">Nataraja, Lord of the Dance, is, of course, Shiva. I have been heavily influenced by Shaivite Hinduism, a.k.a. vedanta. There are many references to Shiva on my blog.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Oh, and thanks to Sudhir, Ranjit's uncle, for supplying the photo.</p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-739616053383377632023-12-24T05:29:00.000-08:002023-12-24T05:29:26.560-08:00Pax et Bonum to All!<p><span style="font-size: large;"> https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/592927301726877053/2023989654651543547</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This was my Christmas message from several years ago. I still play the song on the piano with my friend Chris, who plays the flute; the problems mentioned in the essay have only grown worse; still hanging on over the precipice, although my muscles have became a lot weaker; still happy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So have yourself a merry little Christmas! My advice when I was young would have been: Change the world. Much later, my advice would have been, Keep Breathing. Current advice: I am no one to give advice; Yet, keep breathing!!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. On the 25th, we invited some people over. Philip, my son; Tina, his sister; Roger, my nephew; Sonia, his friend; and a most gracious host, my dear wife, Nirmala. Little gifts for everyone as well</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Age, illness. vision problems, and politics have made my world a lot darker. So I decided to hanukkuh up everything: bright, colored lights everywhere. It does indeed lift the spirits, We took advantage of other ways to bring light into our world as well: we exercised a lot; read a lot; wrote greeting cards--better than never-- and, most of all, we enjoyed each other's company. We are very lucky indeed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Hope you are too~ Keep doing what you love; love,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Blogger Thomas </span></p><p><br /></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-54307893029604385212023-12-17T11:18:00.000-08:002023-12-17T11:18:14.287-08:00Parkinson's Diary, Episode Six: Another Progress Report<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">About a
month ago, maybe a little more, I fell while taking a little hike on a local
trail. There I was, lying flat on my back in a forest clearing, without any
stumps or bushes near with which I could haul myself up. I couldn’t get up.
Nirmala was there with me, but she couldn’t get me upright either. I tried to
scoot over to the nearest stump to no avail; my muscles simply weren’t strong
enough. I attempted a sort of wiggle dance to worm me over to some source of
support, but could hardly move an inch. The nearest stump, about three feet
away, became a last straw just beyond a drowning man’s reach. After a while, we
both were exhausted. I just lay there. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">After a
while, two hikers approached. “Do you need any help?” one of them asked, a thin
woman less than half my age. “Yes, Yes!,” I replied. Before I knew it, I was
upright again, thanking the women who soon disappeared into the forest,
accompanied by an overpowering smell of marijuana.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Although I
almost lost my balance on several occasions since, that was the last time I fell.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I did fall again, would I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be able to get up? </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Probably, but I don’t want to find out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">In other words, I’ve made considerable progress in the past month: I walk
better and talk louder--</span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">my wife can now hear me---my facial expression is more expressive. Best
of all, I get up from a chair faster...</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Not so
fast! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just came back from an hour’s
walk with Nirmala; I didn’t do very well. I plopped along from bench to bench
like a bent Neanderthal. (The latter with P.D. probably would have been
thankful that there were no chairs in their day.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Guess Tom
wasn’t (re)built in a day!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">In general,
things are looking up.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-31274386393700726632023-12-15T13:27:00.000-08:002023-12-15T13:50:52.006-08:00A four-poem addendum to my last blog<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">This is a
four-poem addendum to my last blog, in which I commented on a wonderful passage
from a wonderful book. In it, President Lincoln confronts mortality in a
very graphic manner, attains wisdom, and moves on. Something I hope we’re all
doing or, if you’re one of the lucky and industrious few,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>have done. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The scene,
excerpted from George Saunders’s novel, <i>Lincoln in the Bardo</i>, begins with
the image of the dead body of Lincoln’s beloved son, draped across the
president’s lap, reminiscent of Michelangelo’s Pieta. At the end, he realizes
that nothing is going to bring his beloved son back to life. He must realize
that what remains of his son is not his son, but…meat. This horrible
conclusion, namely that we are not immortal, not immortal at all, and that a
deceased person’s corpse is as much that being who once was alive as is hair or pared nails. Meat which decays. Meat.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">This image
affected me deeply and was the springboard of the following four poems.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">1. Meat</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’m meat,
as yet unrotting flesh,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Cells safe
from floods in Bangladesh<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Only
because they live in a different mess,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">About as
far from Dacca as difficulty can get.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What will
be left? Bones and ash,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Not-I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>shall rest unprotected though<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Gratitude
while the fever lasts<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Is
endearing in what might as well be<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Pork.
</span>Fellowship and belief, imagine</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Two holy
men in an arctic toboggin;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A distant
polar bear approaches;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Meat is all
it sees and smells—Imagine<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Meat
sitting on a wheelchair in a forest;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Birds fly
by and leave the eyes intact<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Because<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>consciousness is breathing;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mortality, ubiquitous predator, be<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Patient; in the meantime, eat somebody else.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Microbacteria,
teams of teeming<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Putrefactors.
you’ll just have to wait;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Life’s
still bloody good. Self’s more, self’s less.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">2. The
Condign Response is Silence<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The second
poem continues the theme of mortality,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">If a
raptor-threatened chick<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Appealed to
myths, it wouldn’t last<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Three score
and ten seconds longer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
instinct to survive is stronger;</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">That’s why
birds don’t give a peep<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">About
belief in heaven. Yet Christians think<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Self’s
contained within God’s hands,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Despite
nature’s talons.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Note: a
friend thought I was being ‘tongue-in-cheek’ with the conclusion of this poem.
Not so. Not so much criticizing Christianity, the ending exposes something that
all religions must face: How to reconcile transcendent love with nature’s red-in-tooth-and-claw
indifference?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">3. more of
the same in a different vein.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Whole E.
Combustible, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Still got a
face?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have you exploded yet?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Impermanence!
Brothers and Sisters,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">are you
enjoying what’s left?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Beneath the
surface of a waveless pool,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Is that
your imagined address?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Óne
doesn’t see stars until it gets dark”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Indifference
is no consolation. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #0d0d0d; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Calibri Light",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: #0d0d0d; font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-theme-font: major-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font: major-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 242;">Scarebody wants to know—Really?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Existence!
Endless Scarebody fears love?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">4, This one
I wrote this morning. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Meat beyond
meat are you; who?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Lincoln was
a remarkable steak;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Nevertheless,
all meat is fungible,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Muscle and
fiber, poet and miser,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 188.85pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Apple and lemon; intermittently<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Glorious
gristle and immortal worm,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Consciousness,
meat with a name,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I, too, am
moody and grateful;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Why must I
come and go naked? Fall?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Yet with a
host of metaphors, admit it,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Meat
spirit, you’re heaven, you’re soil.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-29948452615771296152023-12-03T09:20:00.000-08:002023-12-09T05:18:01.901-08:00The Transformation, A Path to Wisdom<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Nirmala and
I recently read,<i> Lincoln in the Bardo</i>, by the well-known author,
George Saunders. The subject is the death of Willie Lincoln, and how this
unexpected tragedy affected the life of his father, President Lincoln. (Nirmala
and I are familiar with the term, bardo, or bardo state, the interim between
death and rebirth as depicted in the Tibetan Book of the Dead.)The irony of the
title is that it is not President Lincoln who is in the bardo state, but his
son Willie, although this irony is perhaps tempered by the fact that the
President, too, is in the bardo state, as it were, as the death of his dear son
causes so much grief as to put the President in a state between death and life.
The many characters in the book are all recently deceased, but this insight
hasn’t set in yet. Once they realize they’re dead, they fall back into the
depths of the bardo and disappear. Willie refuses to do this out of love for
his father, who so desperately grieves for him. The grieving father has placed
his son in a temporary tomb; he borrows the key to the tomb from the owner and
visits the tomb at night, alone. He removes the well-embalmed body, cradles it
in his arms, reminiscent of Michelangelo's famous Pieta statue. The description of
what was going through the President’s mind is, for me, the most profound
description of the predicament that we all are in, namely, the awful reality of
death--and how to get beyond it.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">The subject
of this little essay is the analysis of Lincoln’s ‘meditation’ over the body of
his dead son. I think this is the most beautiful section of a very beautiful
book. Although it is untitled, I call it “The Transformation,” since Lincoln
learns what is most important during this encounter. The section is partly
in italics, representing Lincoln’s thoughts; the unitalicized sentences
are Willie’s thoughts, who has refused to abandon his body and get on with his
next life, out of love for his father. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">The scene
takes place in the cemetery, with the corpse of Willie laid across lap of the
President.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">The scene
begins with the following words: <i>Outside an</i> <i>owl shrieked.</i> (My
comments on the text will always be italicized within parentheses. The owl,
which has night vision and large eyes is an iconic symbol of wisdom. It
shrieks, instead of sounding a more friendly hoot, since Lincoln
must pass through the valley of death, as it were, to reach the pinnacle of
wisdom. There is no other way.)</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">This
sentence is followed by Lincoln’s thoughts; <i>I thought not to come here
again. Yet here I am. One last look.</i></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">(Lincoln is at the height of grief due to the death of his son,can do
little else but mourn—an apt depiction of the intensity of the shattering the
death of a loved one usually produces.)</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">(Lincoln continues with his internal monologue.) The little face again.
Little hands. Here they are. Ever will be. Just so. No smile…The mouth a tight
line. He does not, no, look like he is asleep. He was an open-mouthed sleeper,
and many expressions would play upon his face as he dreamed and sometimes would
mumble a few silly words.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">(Lincoln comes here to the realization that Willie is not asleep, but quite
dead. At his point on the road to wisdom, however, the grieving father cannot
accept the fact of his son’s death, as the next passage will make abundantly
clear.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">If there really was a Lazarus, there should be nothing preventing the conditions
that pertained at that time to pertain here and now…Still this is a vast world
and anything might happen.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Please, please, please.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">(This passage indicates the dangers of literal belief in Scripture. For a
miracle to happen, such as the resurrection of a corpse, physical laws would
have to be broken, the evidence for which never occurs. This is Lincoln at his
most desperate. Most of us have, or will, be there. Yet one must abandon
wishful thinking, if one is to obtain wisdom.)</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"> But no. This is superstition. Will not do.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">(Lincoln passes this test as well, for without the acceptance of death, one
encounters a roadblock on the path to wisdom, and can progress no further.
Remaining at this point of this very difficult path too often leads to suicide,
despair, or cynicism.)</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">(If somehow Willie seemed to have woken up, Lincoln would have been very
happy, but not wise. The wise must give up all traces of magical thinking,
since desperate responses are not compatible with highest wisdom.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">(At this point, the spirit of Willie, encourages his father to be wise.)
Come around, sir, to good sense.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">(What does one gain after accepting the finality of death? What follows is
a remarkable passage.)</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I was in error when I saw him as fixed and stable and thought I would
have him forever. He was never fixed and stable, but always just a passing,
temporary, energy-burst. I had reason to know this. Had he not looked this way
at birth, that way at four, another way at seven, been made entirely anew at
nine? He had never been the same, even instant to instant.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">He came out of nothingness, took form, was loved, and was always bound to
return to nothingness.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">(This bitter pill, the fact that we, as the Bible says, arise from and
return to dust, is hard to swallow, and is quite often washed down with a hefty
dose of magical thinking. For instance, I remember that at my stepfather’s
funeral, someone told me that she was convinced that my mother and he were now
in a ‘better place,’ as if, to quote Emily Dickinson, the chart were given.</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">The fact that everything is
born and dies is relatively new to the West, but not to the East. According to
Buddhism, one of the characteristics of reality is anicca, or non-permanence.
Even stars and galaxies, as we know now, come into existence and must all pass
out of it, albeit on a time scale that is vastly more than the proverbial four
score and ten years of human existence. The fact of birth and death’s
application to all things had to be rediscovered in the Enlightenment.
Previously, from Aristotle on, the belief was widespread that change was
limited to Earth. The moon and the stars were thought to be permanent. Although
permanence was not to be found on Earth, one could glimpse eternity, as it
were, by simply looking at the night sky. To believe otherwise was deemed
heresy by the Catholic Church; the assertion by Bruno, for instance, that the
stars in the sky were distant suns, was punished by burning him at the stake in
1600. Science and secularism, or at the very least, non-dogmatic spirituality,
have been dominant among the educated in the West ever since.<br />
</span></i><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Permanence is not an aspect of
objective reality. </span></i><i><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 18pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">That we and our loved ones must die; accepting this is
extremely difficult, but necessary , as Lincoln discovers in this beautiful
passage. I am convinced that the denial of death is the root cause of much
earthly suffering.)<br />
(The passage continues.) Only I did not think it would be so soon. Or that he
would precede me.<br />
(Lincoln is quite rational now since periods of mourning must come to us all. Yet
accepting the death of a son is especially difficult. In my own life, the death
of a nephew this year, helped shatter my belief in permanence. He was the same
age as my much-loved son. His death was totally unexpected. The conviction that
he would outlive me by many years prevented me from saying what needed to be
said, and doing what needed to be done. I will never now have the
opportunity to tell and show him how much he meant to me; I miss him terribly.<br />
Are you comforted? Lincoln asks himself. No. It is time to go.<br />
Willie at his point enters, as a very precious entry, into his father’s memory
bank. The memories of deceased loved ones remain with us as long as we live,
not a minor consolation. Lincoln has one more lesson to learn, however, a very
difficult one indeed.<br />
(The excerpt from the novel continues.) Look down. At him. At it… Is it him? It
is not. What is it? It is what used to bear him around. The essential thing,
that which we loved, is gone. Though this was part of what we loved—we loved
the way he, the combination of spark and bearer, looked and walked and skipped
and laughed and played the clown—this, this here, is the lesser part of that
beloved contraption. Absent that spark, this, this lying here, is merely—<br />
That’s it. Go ahead. Allow yourself to say that word.<br />
I would rather not.<br />
It is true. It will help.<br />
I need not say it, to feel it, and act upon it.<br />
It is not right to make a fetish of the thing.<br />
I will go. I am going. I need no further convincing.<br />
Say It, though, the truth. Say the word rising up in you.<br />
Oh, my dear little fellow.<br />
Absent that spark, this lying here, is merely—Say it.<br />
Meat…<br />
A most unfortunate conclusion.<br />
(Indeed! But a necessary one. Modern secularism, backed by science, goes even
further, denying the duality of mind and body. The living being is the unitary
function of “spark and bearer’; according to the materialistic view of reality,
when death occurs, both mind and body cease. Therefore, there is, at least
according to this view, no heaven.<br />
I remember watching a nature show on TV. Two individuals, along with a team of
dogs, were in the Arctic. In the distance, one noticed a polar bear gradually
getting closer. One of the men finally figured out that the polar bear was
hunting what for him was biped portions of meat.<br />
Lincoln has gone through hell, and has completed his journey to wisdom. He has
internalized his dead son, has faced reality, and now can face life anew as a
changed man, a wise man. The section ends with a riveting ending.) Love, love,
I know what you are.<br />
(So ends a remarkable account of the two things most important in life, love
and wisdom. Wisdom can be defined as the knowledge of the interconnectedness of
all things, and love as the impulse to act accordingly. The two reinforce each
other, for wisdom alone can be dull and dry, while love alone can focus on
‘false love’, for instance, the love of someone whose actions counter the fact
that everything is connected. Love is thus wisdom in action. I find this
excerpt from the novel to be one of the most beautiful and profound analyses of
what we all know, or should know, namely the importance of love and wisdom.
Lincoln’s path on this difficult journey was an astounding success; I hope you,
dear readers, won’t get lost on the thorny sections of this path; I hope you
all attain wisdom, however painfully, and have the courage and the will to put
wisdom into deeds!</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-62019135201976017112023-11-13T07:03:00.000-08:002023-11-13T07:03:51.997-08:00Parkinson's Diary: Episode Five, A Progress Report<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">7 a.m.,
11/8/2023. Nature called, but I took my unmerry old time to respond. No matter
how hard I tried, I couldn’t get out of bed. Nirmala, half-asleep beside me,
advised, quite reasonably, that I should do a few leg exercises first to wake
up my rigid limbs. Lying flat on my back, I bicycled the air for a while; soon
I felt like Kafka’s Gregor Samsa, as I observed my lower limbs struggling to no
avail. I eventually got up, and made it—just in time!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And, oh! the
fatigue. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Waking up
tired; after a nap, tired; early to bed, exhausted; waking up, tired, etc.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Falling
down in the park and unable to get up; falling out of bed and unable to get up;
breakfast- lunch- and dinner-time, unable to rise from the chair. Way too much
time spent on getting dressed; way too little time spent on moving. You get the
idea.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Of the four
major criteria used in diagnosing Parkinson’s, I have all four: bradykinesia, slow
movement; tremors; mobility issues including balance problems and, muscle
stiffness. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>mentioned before, the cause of Parkinson’s is
multifactorial; In most cases, it remains unknown. On average, 60% of the
dopamine-generating cells in the <i>substancia nigra</i> area of the brain are
already dead at the time of diagnosis. The health of the substancia nigra is
what is revealed by the DaTscan, a test which I underwent on October 8, 2123 (see
my previous blog entry, <i>Parkinson’s Disease: Episode Four).<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Not an
especially sanguine person, I expected the results of the scan to show devastation
of the substancia nigra and of the basal ganglia. I was surprised:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“There is
visualization of the bilateral caudate nuclei and the putamen, (which, along
with the globus pallidus--my note—compose the basal ganglia, which receive
dopamine from the substancia nigra), although the putamen is slightly
decreased. <i>The findings are less likely to support a diagnosis of presynaptic
Parkinson’s Disease." </i>I</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>talic</span><span>s mine.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The results
are of a basically normal scan. I was indeed surprised. What was causing my
symptoms then? (Including all those minor symptoms as well: flat affect,
buildup of saliva, rather severe illegibly small handwriting called
micrographia, etc.) When I told my physical therapist, she was surprised as
well and informed me that my Parkinson’s symptoms were more advanced than her
average client’s. <span> (Usually, she tells me, clinicians start a patient on medication, based on clinical symptoms alone, and then refer to a neurologist.) The neurologist at the Physical Therapy center says that she knows of many cases like mine/ The clinical presentation is what's important, and mine is that of PD.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">One possibility
is a medication I had been prescribed for depression years ago, a low dosage of
bupropion, Wellbutrin. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to
discontinue this medication for eight days prior to the scan. There is a case I
read online (Google <i>To Be or Not Bupropion</i>—Conclusion: “Despite the
widely known benefits of bupropion…rare cases of tremor, Parkinsonism and
dystonia have been reported.” It took the seventy year old man in question a
month to recover from his symptoms; I haven’t taken bupropion since the first
week of October. I have seen some minor improvements since then; very minor
indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Since the
diagnosis of PD is primarily clinical, I asked my neurologist if he would
agree to a trial of Sinemet, the carbi/levodopa combination that is the
standard in treating PD. He agreed. I am to take ½ tablet three times daily for
two weeks, followed by three tablets daily after that. So far, I have tolerated
the medicine well and have seen definite improvement of symptoms. (I can get up
from chairs better, and no longer have a lot of difficulty getting out of the
car.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hope the
future will bring more improvements; I have a long way to go.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJkwBotlUiQ0InB7KS6b7tXc6vLFcxX7EKjpNtUX2z8jSJiayfsbCUbF2umUY6rLGVol4ao5UhgtDjIhAz0cuUd4ivZfU5RpoiNYRiNBlvXwf-6i-_ka4rwQA0iL6sH3lReTY8I3mf8c3fagJWpUcQ6Yfn5fR_X-L4Dmwm92uK9bucz2MOd7QuIwndKZE/s4656/20231106_135040.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4656" data-original-width="3492" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJkwBotlUiQ0InB7KS6b7tXc6vLFcxX7EKjpNtUX2z8jSJiayfsbCUbF2umUY6rLGVol4ao5UhgtDjIhAz0cuUd4ivZfU5RpoiNYRiNBlvXwf-6i-_ka4rwQA0iL6sH3lReTY8I3mf8c3fagJWpUcQ6Yfn5fR_X-L4Dmwm92uK9bucz2MOd7QuIwndKZE/s320/20231106_135040.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;">This is me, sandwiched between Nirmala in the background and the shadow of Philip taking the picture. The Alpine walking sticks, which I have dubbed as<i> les cannes jumelles d'un vieux</i>, have helped my mobility a lot by transferring some of the work to my hands and arms.</span></span><p></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-39472168042092016882023-10-30T11:36:00.004-07:002023-10-31T06:13:31.775-07:00Youth and Experience<p><span style="font-size: large;">According
to an ancient Chinese proverb, “An elderly person at home is like a golden
treasure.” This adage, alas! hasn’t aged very well, neither in China nor in the
rest of the world. How did a “golden treasure” devolve into a heavy burden of
lead? A contemporary cartoon says it all; how did we get to be so mean?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOI66cecvUu56f72yLXSgETTqSnK2OR3neD3_XWsxugJzF3XoQ7abjsGo2bnuhMo-6pVuSGUX6MphuRjAmfAJjZcdRrMc__rF7wHtxJuQS2wQZRTgZQ0JwFuBvnr37yVnbCF4JMj0O3EryaPer7nittBBupyr-_T8DPgefWoKF3Hj2pGvMXd1wxM_G2xE/s378/26Steuerle-mediumThreeByTwo378.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="378" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOI66cecvUu56f72yLXSgETTqSnK2OR3neD3_XWsxugJzF3XoQ7abjsGo2bnuhMo-6pVuSGUX6MphuRjAmfAJjZcdRrMc__rF7wHtxJuQS2wQZRTgZQ0JwFuBvnr37yVnbCF4JMj0O3EryaPer7nittBBupyr-_T8DPgefWoKF3Hj2pGvMXd1wxM_G2xE/s320/26Steuerle-mediumThreeByTwo378.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Having a
loved-one at home with a debilitating disease such as Alzheimer’s can be, of course,
a difficult burden to bear. When I returned from a year abroad in 1966, I was
dismayed to find my grandmother irrevocably altered. Her mind was slipping
rapidly. In her decline, she had been fond of wandering through the house. On
one occasion, I was sitting in the kitchen when she wandered upstairs. (My
grandparents lived downstairs in our three-story Jersey City house.) When she
reached the kitchen, I offered her a seat on my lap which she readily accepted.
A few minutes later, she wandered off again. A few months later, she was dead. Even
in our dysfunctional family, however, we treated her well and were sorry to see
her go.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Ancient
Chinese, however, knew nothing about Alzheimer’s. They had a Confucian reverence
for older persons not because they were weaker, which their bodies certainly
were, but because of a factor which made them stronger and more of a golden
treasure: experience. As another Chinese proverb attests, “The gray hair of experience
is the splendor of old age."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">2.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">My mother,
Mabel Lemonie, (1914-2001), was a beautiful woman, even in old age. She never
wanted to admit she was old, however. Her idea of an old woman was a frumpy,
retired librarian who wore those hideous black orthopedic shoes. She would also
have had thin, gray hair which had been dyed, ‘tinted,’ a nauseating hue of blue.
(I remember having once recommended that she join a senior citizen center in
order to keep active and to socialize. “That’s for old people,” she replied,
even though social isolation, a demon of old age, began to affect her quality
of life.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">My mother’s
response to growing older was to remain as youthful as possible, a worthy habit
indeed. However, due to a limited education and lack of professional opportunities, growing in experience was less a feature of her goals. The
woman’s movement, which came too late for her, might have changed her life, for
she was intelligent and willing to learn. She did grow in life experience,
however, but had few opportunities to mentor others. She remained youthful until
old age began to take over. She succumbed to Alzheimer’s like her mother did,
but remained cognitively intact for a decade longer. Who knows what her future
might have been, if she had had more cerebral activities to occupy her time? She
knew what was most important in life, however. Human relationships, especially
regarding my brother and me, were always foremost in her mind and behavior. I still
miss her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here is a
poem I dedicated to her, written while she still was very much alive:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />The
Goldfish</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Nothing
could be more mongrel, more common<br /></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span> than this five-and-dime store species<br /></span><span> of </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span>tropical, egg-laying tooth carp</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">or brighter
gold. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No fish is cheaper<br /></span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span> or hardier, able to survive fungus,<br /></span><span>chlorine, changes in temperature, and</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">even the
on-and-off care of a child.<br /></span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>For two months, no neighbor fed<br /></span><span> them; we
came back, half-dead from jet</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span>lag,</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">and found
them thinner and swimming in<br /></span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span> what evaporation left; a little puddle,<br /></span><span> black with plant decay. A change of</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">water, a pinch
of dried worms, and<br /></span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span> Presto! starvation becomes perfect health.<br /></span><span> Always swimming, almost always searching</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">for something
more than food, these creatures,<br /></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span> whether in tanks in American bedrooms or<br /></span><span> in ponds of Buddhist temples in Japan,</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">calm and
delight minds everywhere.<br /></span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span> For what is more striking and odder<br /></span><span> than moving gold, being, as we are, alive?</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">3.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">How did we
learn to view the old as poor imitations of the young? How did we learn to
discount the experience of older Americans? Can’t one limp and be wise at the
same time?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">A poem by
John Greenlief Whittier comes to mind, one more familiar to me through James
Thurber’s comic volume, <i>Famous</i> <i>Poems Illustrated</i>, which I loved as a young man.
The poem is based on a true incident. It was 1862 as Confederate hordes, under
the leadership of Stonewall Jackson, entered Frederick, Maryland, in search of
food and supplies. Out of fear, all Union flags had been removed as the Confederate
troops approached. The 96 year-old Barbara Frietschie continued to wave the
American flag defiantly from her attic window. She shouts—in the poem, at least—these
defiant words to Stonewall Jackson, “Shout, if you must, this old gray head,
but spare your country’s flag,” she said. The Confederate general was so moved
by her bravery, that he forbade his troops from harming her. I can only imagine
how this even would have occurred today.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">“General,
look at that old bat in the window, defiantly waving the enemy’s flag in our
faces. Doesn’t she know she’s risking death? She’s undoubtedly loony! Let me
take her down.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Let’s
ignore the old bat until it flies away—besides, she can’t help it; she’s
senile…” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">4,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Let us
explore that ancient Chinese proverb which states that the gray hair of
experience is the splendor of old age, this time with a reference to
contemporary American politics. Our ex-president Trump constantly refers to our
current president Biden as being obviously cognitively impaired. There is, of
course, no evidence of this. Biden has been a very effective president so far,
having passed many important bills into law. (The 1.9 trillion dollar American
Rescue Plan comes to mind.) He did this with bipartisan support, a remarkable accomplishment
considering the political divisions in Congress. His 35 years of experience in
politics have obviously paid off. Yet everyone pounces on any sign of old age. Yes,
experience and arthritis are not mutually exclusive. Yet any slip or evidence
of arthritis is used as proof that Biden is in his dotage. What about experience, which Biden has in abundance; no one seems to mention that. I remember a clip of
Biden jogging to a lectern to give a speech; he felt obliged to demonstrate that
he was still spry. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Chinese
proverb doesn’t claim that physical decline doesn’t increase as one’s hair grays do;
experience often compensates for the inevitable physical decline, however.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Biden is
not a middle-aged man in an old man’s body; he is an old man who has perhaps
more to offer the nation now than ever before. The stress of the presidency however
is great; although fewer than three years older than I am; I certainly doubt if
I could handle the stress of the presidency now. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yet it
angers me that any slip of the tongue or foot on Biden’s part is viewed as a
sign of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>increasing senility. (Biden was
never silver-tongued throughout his career.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m afraid
that the model of our nation is a reality show in which all the contestants and
judges are fairly young. There’s nothing like being young; being old, however,
is not <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>nothing, and when combined with
the wisdom of experience, can be a great advantage. Just because you use a
cane, doesn’t mean you lack a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>brain. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m
convinced that our slick, sick Youth-worshiping culture is depriving us of the wisdom
and experience of older individuals, at a time when we can ill afford the lack
of those gifts. It’s as if we force a wise old man to do the Charleston in
order to prove that he has the stamina to deliver a contemporary version of the
Gettysburg Address. What a mess!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I will
conclude with a recent poem of mine, Youth and Experience:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Youth and
Experience, blood<br /></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>brothers
though decades apart.<br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span>One is a
rosy-cheedked lad who</span></span><span> </span><span><span>imagines</span><br /></span><span>he's gold,
the other, a duller alloy.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">A prune
decaying in the sun<br /></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>was once an
ambitious plum.<br /></span><span>Yet a cracked
voice whose source is strong<br /></span><span>attempts to
reverse callow wrongs:</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Your
pocketful of dimes; spend them<br /></span></span></i><i><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">on
relationships, the only things that last.<br /></span></span></i><span><span style="font-size: large;">Why don’t
younger people listen?</span><br /></span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Must sages
have holes in their shoes?</span></span><span style="font-size: x-large; mso-tab-count: 5;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large; mso-tab-count: 9;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large; mso-tab-count: 9;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-large; mso-tab-count: 9;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Socrates
eating spaghetti<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>in an empty
cafeteria--<br /></span><span>If he uses
a cane,<br /></span><span>he cannot
be wise.</span></span></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-35937442292108891542023-10-09T07:25:00.001-07:002023-10-09T07:25:24.902-07:00A Visit to the Shakespeare Theater<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">My wife and
I have enjoyed our subscription to The Shakespeare Theater in Washington, for
many years. We especially enjoyed it when there was more Shakespeare than there
is now. Our first play there was a stellar performance of the Tempest, many years
ago. It was more of a reperatory theater then; we enjoyed performances of
regulars such as Floyd King, whose comedic performances were quite memorable,
Andrew Long, etc. etc. We especially loved Wallace Atkins performance as Ariel.
There are many other great performances that come to mind, too many to mention.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">The
pandemic intervened, just before we were to attend a performance of <i>Timon of
Athens</i>. Not the greatest play, but one touted to provide its audience with a
memorable evening.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">We live in
Baltimore, and enjoy taking day trips to Washington via Amtrak.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">October
fourth’s performance was the first one we attended since I came down with
Parkinson’s Disease; I had some trepidation, but everything went smoothly,
Slowly but surely is how this Shuffleupagus negotiated the pavement.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">We
enjoyed<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the performance very much,
albeit with some reservations. Our main problem was the voice of the
understudy, Isabella Bria Lopez, who played the most important role in the
musical, that of Evita. A Broadway star of the past, whom I remember well,
Ethel Merman, was known as the woman with a trumpet in her throat, due to her
loud singing voice. This could apply to Ms Lopez as well, except that in her
case the trumpet was not of stellar quality. I could well picture her singing
an ad for used cars on TV—she was no Dinah Shor, for those of you who remember
that voice of the past. The other character/singers did much better. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">The
choreography was good; the dancers were spectacular. The staging was, at best,
adequate.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have always
been haunted by the “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina” balcony scene. It is
hauntingly beautiful; nothing else in the score comes close. When the violins
began that iconic scene, it was as if we entered a different world. Although I
cannot boast of having a very good ear, I have been playing on the piano that enchanting
rhumba ever since.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am not
quite sure what to make of the rest of the play. Che, admirably sung and acted
by Omar Lopez-Cepero, was brought in presumably to help bust the myth of Evita.
He advises her, for instance, to ‘stop this pantomime' toward the end of the
musical. Thus, quite unlike the mythic Venus who rises from painted waves in the
Uffizi Gallery, Eva, more like a frightened child named Norma Jeane Mortenson, who later was renamed Marilyn Monroe, rising from dirty<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>orphanage bathwater. It is difficult to be
moved by the death of someone so flawed. Certainly in a musical,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>realism should not be the most important
factor. Evita obviously had charm; I don’t think this was emphasized enough. Who exactly was the woman who filled
the gown? That was, at least as I see it, the theme of the production we saw:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6K7BaBPCAjSw354mGEb3uL89i6HDL7_pdY0HgHmHorxoRSUybixXmV2ijv3PDM8wMySHZggw7fPZa4pkDe0KG4p2z4A4i_Gd2BtB919x05KrYlOc7HymYhvqJTj5Gk02yUdSQigtZ4yHYu8alcwHvitQGd-eBYHKvcgLvNFnI8fMygDIs3Kw10FcX5wI/s4032/unnamed%20(12).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6K7BaBPCAjSw354mGEb3uL89i6HDL7_pdY0HgHmHorxoRSUybixXmV2ijv3PDM8wMySHZggw7fPZa4pkDe0KG4p2z4A4i_Gd2BtB919x05KrYlOc7HymYhvqJTj5Gk02yUdSQigtZ4yHYu8alcwHvitQGd-eBYHKvcgLvNFnI8fMygDIs3Kw10FcX5wI/s320/unnamed%20(12).jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">A musical,
however, must be more myth than reportage.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Despite
these criticisms, we had a very good time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">After the <o:p></o:p></span>performance, as was our wont to do for years, we ate at our favorite Chinese
restaurant in China Town. I remember eating there after a STC performance in
2020, just as the pandemic became dominant. We were the only ones in the
restaurant. We felt self-conscious as one who didn't get a joke everyone else understood. And the joke was on us, all of us. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Business has yet to completely recover, said our waitress in broken
English.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Things change; at least I have. Still we enjoyed quite a memorable
day!</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-21661122694947802482023-10-08T08:34:00.001-07:002023-10-08T08:34:41.893-07:00In Memoriam: Ranjit Jose (1980-2023)<p> Note: On September 24, 2023, my niece, Amita Sudhir, arranged a yacht-ride around Manhattan to celebrate the life of my nephew, her cousin, Ranjit Jose, who passed away at the age of 42 last summer. A group, a fraction of his many friends around the world, came to pay tribute to an amazing person. I'm not going to mention them by name, since my vision was frequently unable to attach a name to a voice. Suffice it to say that it was a lovely, lively group. What follows is a eulogy which I prepared for my blog before the boat trip. It consists largely of the comments which I gave onboard. Poor Ranji! His death profoundly affected us all.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Shortly after our dear nephew passed away, my wife
Nirmala and I were sitting on our porch, drinking tea, while enjoying a
beautiful morning of early summer. We have many potted plants and flowers on
the porch. Suddenly, out of nowhere, something happened: a hummingbird swooped
down to gather nectar from one of the flowers. “Look!” said my wife in hushed
tones. We live in the city; I don’t recall ever seeing a hummingbird in our
yard before. I looked on amazed, but after a few seconds, when I looked again,
it had already flown away. I remember thinking that this was a message from
Ranji. A few days ago, I wrote this haiku-like poem: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The Hummingbird<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">How lovely last summer while<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Sweet nectar flowed! Wings
hovered,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Then vanished. Where did he
go?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Where did that sweet hummingbird go, indeed. Nearly
every day, I exercise on my stationary bike while listening to a Mozart piano
concerto. The bike faces the stairs. It was on these same stairs that Ranji, on
his first visit to the United States, learned to walk in 1981, with the help of
my son Philip, who was born at the same time Ranji was born. I remember
carrying him all over the place! He was so light, he was so young!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There are so many incidents in Ranji’s life that I was
privileged to have witnessed. I will mention only two of them. When Ranji
graduated from the New School with a masters degree, we were very proud. The
graduation ceremony was in Madison Square Garden in New York City. Ranji was
sitting next to an African American friend. I was busy taking pictures, when I
heard his friend say, “Who is that white dude who keeps taking our picture.” ‘That’s
my uncle,” Ranji replied to his surprised companion. I beamed with pride.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Fast forward a few years. It is now November 2, 2016,
Ranji, visiting us from Indonesia, and I were watching on TV <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the results coming in <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of the U.S. presidential election.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was after midnight, when I decided to go
to bed. The race was still undecided. “Don’t worry, Ranji—The American people
are not so stupid as to elect Trump! Go to bed!” The next day, the expression
on Ranji’s face conveyed the results to me. “Sorry, dear Uncle, but you were
wrong.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Where did that sweet hummingbird go?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Twice weekly a musician friend comes over. He plays
the flute, while I accompany him on the piano. A few days ago, we played all
the songs by Stephen Forster that we could remember. I recall singing to myself<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the following doggerel lyrics to one of his once-famous
songs:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Flown from our sight, to a
country far away,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Left us with stairs where he
learned to walk and play;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Gone from this Earth, to a
better land I know,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And yet my mourning can’t help
asking, ‘Why did you go?’<br /><br />
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’m coming, I’m coming, for my head is bending low,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Yet in mourning, I’m still asking,
Why did you go?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We’ll never know why he left us so early, but we do </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">know this, Ranji loved the world, and we loved</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span>him. He taught us what is most
important in life:</span><span> human relationships. It is not success or fame, as </span><span>research
has shown, but the quality of our </span><span>relationships that brings happiness. As you
that are </span><span>here, and so many who are not here, know: Ranji </span><span>learned this lesson
early, and he knew it well. We </span><span>shall miss him.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGBpwv4GLrLZOU1O580KNK99vRSkJ0Js6iORqrmMewz7eTgqnrqyT6IRiNQkJXOlHnhT1DttSK1LwSHrIZ3M1Pt3VnDHY8nz-WSgWLWdDkbbBzFpCPtny1Jm96VQa68X_FxDb2Q2HvcKbbxPzfqlLlnYNSCpsSV8yHfQRpHUOil_NgQOUaZQpx_xVen_c/s640/90cb2ae0-c1c2-48ff-8a9a-73b80950f8c8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGBpwv4GLrLZOU1O580KNK99vRSkJ0Js6iORqrmMewz7eTgqnrqyT6IRiNQkJXOlHnhT1DttSK1LwSHrIZ3M1Pt3VnDHY8nz-WSgWLWdDkbbBzFpCPtny1Jm96VQa68X_FxDb2Q2HvcKbbxPzfqlLlnYNSCpsSV8yHfQRpHUOil_NgQOUaZQpx_xVen_c/s320/90cb2ae0-c1c2-48ff-8a9a-73b80950f8c8.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><span><br /></span></span><p></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-70438784308686556402023-10-08T08:31:00.001-07:002023-10-08T08:31:49.877-07:00Parkinson's Diary, Episode Four: DaTscan<p><span style="font-size: large;">Today I underwent a DaTscan test at the University of Maryland. The study, conducted by the Nuclear Medicine department, consists of an IV injection of a radionuclear, pharmologic agent, DaTscan, which takes three hours to circulate throughout the body. After three hours, a gamma camera takes photos of the brain to assess the status of dopamine-producing neurons in the substancia nigra, an area in the brain just above the brainstem. This is the area of the brain which produces dopamine, a neurotransmitter which facilitates movement throughout the body. It is the death of these dopamine-producing neuorns that are responsible for most of the symptoms of Parkinson's Disease. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">PD is a disease of insidious onset; it is estimated that in classic PD 60% of those neurons are already non-functional. Unrecognized symptoms will have existed for several years at the time of diagnosis. Since there is no blood test or other formal test to ascertain the condition, doctors are left with piecing together symptoms that have been going on for years. In my case, I had an abnormal gait that affected my walking for about two years prior to diagnosis. The clinical signs, temor, rigidity, and slow movement are usually readily apparent at the time the diagnosis is made. It is a common disorder, affecting males more than females; over 70,000 new cases occur in the United States yearly. It is the second most common neurodegenrative disorder, Alzheimer's being the most frequent. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The test is not painful, although the substance stung a little as it was being infused. Since the diagnosis is clinical, the results of the test, whatever they are, will be inconclusive. It helps, though, to differentiate non-Parkinson's tremors from Parkinsonian tremors. It also helps to indicate Parkinsonian syndrome, a separate condition, which usually become Parkinson's in time.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well, here I am just before the scan began:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_myTX66s0ies3BjdjX_CNTBxYi-tskjSPcsdIXS_HOAe24fXyrW5VxgUwtAvnqx2VSsVtYe9lwp20aTdwLIQzKsmu-Xm93-zDg6gj9y3WpC5TmBjscZYzys4nina2uMyiKxE6Kkn3Z5XPkFxht73D_uJSxvgRwy5QMMlaqx1nnjck1VsIzzTDIrRTeA/s2016/IMG_7071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6_myTX66s0ies3BjdjX_CNTBxYi-tskjSPcsdIXS_HOAe24fXyrW5VxgUwtAvnqx2VSsVtYe9lwp20aTdwLIQzKsmu-Xm93-zDg6gj9y3WpC5TmBjscZYzys4nina2uMyiKxE6Kkn3Z5XPkFxht73D_uJSxvgRwy5QMMlaqx1nnjck1VsIzzTDIrRTeA/s320/IMG_7071.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Whatever the results, I will take them in stride. Wish me luck!</span></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-18010540173201367002023-09-28T16:28:00.001-07:002023-09-28T16:28:52.406-07:00Parkinson"s Diary, Episode Three: A fall<p><span style="font-size: large;"> On what started to be a very pleasant autumnal walk in the woods, I stumbled, fell onto the ground, and couldn't get up. Couldn't get up at all.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My wife, Nirmala, had suggested taking a walk. We chose to walk in Cylburn Arboretum, a Baltimore City park fairly close to our house. It is a mini-Longwood gardens, located in North Baltimore, just a few miles away. The park, before it was sold to the city, had been the home of a wealthy capitalist. Sitting in one of the many little gardens of the park, surrounded by statues on pedestals, one can imagine the exclusive and dazzling parties that once occurred there. It is now an arboretum, containing many types of tree and many beautiful flower arrangements that are changed with the seasons. It also contains many wooded trails, a little bit of (mostly) untouched nature in the center of Baltimore.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">One of the trails was the site of my fall. I do have balance and mobility issues due to Parkinson's desease. I had been walking with poor control, trying my best to negotiate the roots and stones on the path. Suddenly I found myself on the ground. I remember falling quite gently--I simply lost my balance and fell down without injury. That was the beginning of my difficulty, however. I could not get to my feet, no matter how hard I tried. Get on you knees, then get up, I told myself; to no avail. Scoot over to a log, sit on it, then get up, I told myself, again to no avail. This went on for about a half hour. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, a hiker appeared, who, with the help of my wife, managed to get me up.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It was an odd feeling, feeling as able as I had been, yet not to be able to lift myself off the ground. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I thanked the two hikers, one of whom had helped me, profusely. They left, leaving behind a very strong smell of marijuana. This might have given the hiker a boost of energy, for she weighed a good deal less than I. Thank you, strangers, thank you! Without you, I probably would have struggled to get up a lot longer.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The spirit was willing, but, yes, yes, the flesh had become very weak indeed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The first serious symptom of the disease was, in my case, the inability to rise from a chair. I--usually-still am able to rise without assistance, however. But my gait has been poor, increasingly poor, during the past few years. Science tells us that at the time of diagnosis of Parkinson'</span><span style="font-size: x-large;">s, </span><span style="font-size: large;">the brain of the affected person had already lost about 60% of the dopamine-producing cells in the brain--resulting in severe and progressive symptoms of neurodegeneration.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I thought I was almost normal when I traveled to Europe a few months ago. <i> </i>I wasn't--at the airport, officials brought a wheel chair without my having to ask for one. --Later on that day, at a museum in Amsterdam, a guard supplied me with a walker, also without my having requested one. I obviously had difficulty walking.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It isn't easy being handicapped when you feel almost normal. The handicapped sign for our car, however, has come in handy on several occasions.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Even though depression often accompanies Parkinson's, I do not feel depressed at all. Perhaps a confluence of Lewey bodies in my brain is the reason for my being sanguine, who knows? I do know, however, that despite the facial rigidity characteristic of Parkinson's, I'</span><span style="font-size: large;">m</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">still smiling on the inside. Che sara,</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">sara.</span></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-16880783638676049282023-09-17T08:52:00.000-07:002023-09-17T08:52:12.588-07:00Parkinson's Diary, Episode Two: I saw a man upon the stair...<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">A few days
ago, my wife was driving us back from the grocery store, when I
noticed that we were about to pass an old man—younger than I am, to be sure—who
was riding a bicycle. He had on a blue shirt and a white helmet. Since he was ahead
of us, I didn’t see his face, nor did I turn around after we had gone on. How
did I know he was old? He was moving quite slowly and was hunched over his
means of transportation. I couldn’t be sure of his age, but the impression was
of a man who bicycled with difficulty. More power to him, I thought. “Why
didn’t you slow down as you usually do, and let the old man pass?” I asked. "Passing him at normal speed increases the chance of a serious accident."<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her reply,
which<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will soon divulge, startled me greatly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">That night
I was assiduously working at the computer, typing something or other into
Microsoft Word. After some time, I noticed from the corner of my eye a mouse,
which darted from the living room incredibly fast, then vanished underneath my desk. We had a few mice during
spring; this was not anything unusual, except for the speed of the little
critter. I resumed work and, when finished, noticed the mouse again, this time darting from beneath the desk back out into the living room. The mouse must have been doing aerobics for
some time, for it, again, was incredibly fast. But something was strange. The
mouse headed straight across the living room where I quickly lost sight of it. It
didn’t take cover behind the radiator or hide under a bookshelf, as I would
have expected. Even stranger, the mouse must have been a student of Zeno. It
never managed to outrun itself. I was left with a series of murine images \\darting into
the living room, much like stills of a silent film. This was really weird, but
I laughed it off. “Perhaps I’m about to be visited by the Ghost of Christmas
Past,” I thought, and got up to go to bed. Before I reached the stairs that
lead to the bedroom, I saw my beloved cat, Gopi, resting on a couch. His head
was lowered slightly; he didn’t look up at me, but I could tell he knew I was
there. He had a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>sour expression that
conveyed, “He’s about to pick me up, and I don’t want to be picked up.” Cats
will be cats, I thought, and proceeded up the stairs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">The time has come to answer the question about the man on<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the
bike. My wife didn’t slow down, because, she told me, there was no man and no
bike. “You were seeing things again,’” she said. Similarly, the darting mouse
was an illusion as well. And, as I turned off the light, I realized, as I lay in bed, that Gopi
had been dead for several years.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hallucinations
are not at all a rare manifestation of Parkinson’s Disease. Here is what a
reliable site has to say about it:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto; line-height: 107%;">Among
people with PD, visual hallucinations are </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #040c28; font-family: Roboto; line-height: 107%;">most common, often of people or animals</span><span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto; line-height: 107%;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">. They tend to be vividly colored and to happen at
night. Usually they are not frightening and can become familiar. For example, a
person might regularly hallucinate a puppy with a red collar.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">That
sums up my situation nicely. The old man had on a bright blue shirt; </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">the mouse </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto; font-size: large;">was a vivid dark-brown,
and Gopi lay there with black </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto;">and white fur; a loveable cat, just as he had </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto;">been in life. I wasn’t </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto; font-size: large;">frightened at
all.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I
read somewhere that Parkinsonian hallucinations are indicative of a</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">more serious
prognosis. Let’s hope that that had been an illusion as </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">well!</span></span></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-34143115519893156212023-08-28T08:35:00.007-07:002023-08-29T05:16:40.419-07:00The Mugshot: Need We Say More?<div> <br /><br /> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqg-KNKCf-hHDUuZ28g_3eD9jQXMSw2lHKSn4RsNxu4RPV4dbGcxYLRuSDjSj6tdKi1Fz_0cVWx_NSR_7-78_NmZIYQyA-UXKoG4zgNlKvOkkydGUB7VQD_ffLQlNPgsHtFCgllUYLhVsuu3dqm7i3irr-B4aZVt3rMgMGO0AeiMjgBAjJQEV84dD64uc/s130/images%20(7).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc0HENSgZhb0ljUux6SkPHwnTjScQW8_LR4cxcm1ZSNTlmk6Q0hRFeS9xFHxBVOI4YpQvGgDjDwjlw0zTk6WevSjdoUuPSi_f4Rg1XluQD73eDQRRU6khrwfjkiIL-IY3OCfXAzop-mK_HQpsHOnYtkTjfU-TazKWel9gq5HqBeuUox95JbZfaaxWJJek/s1200/trump%20mugshot%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="349" data-original-width="1200" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc0HENSgZhb0ljUux6SkPHwnTjScQW8_LR4cxcm1ZSNTlmk6Q0hRFeS9xFHxBVOI4YpQvGgDjDwjlw0zTk6WevSjdoUuPSi_f4Rg1XluQD73eDQRRU6khrwfjkiIL-IY3OCfXAzop-mK_HQpsHOnYtkTjfU-TazKWel9gq5HqBeuUox95JbZfaaxWJJek/w640-h186/trump%20mugshot%20copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Cute and sultry<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span>Vain and culty</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">A winner<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span>A whiner</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: large;">A doozer A loser</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span><span>What a talented kid!<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span></span>What a schmuck</span></div>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-24588972987572604672023-08-25T16:09:00.005-07:002023-08-25T16:50:33.230-07:00Where are all the aliens?<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">“Where are
all the aliens?” asked Enrico Fermi in 1950. Fast forwards seventy years, just
about my entire lifetime, and we’re asking the same question: despite enticing
hints, we have yet to find direct evidence of extraterrestrial life. There is a
good chance that that will change in the
coming decade.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">First, I’d
like to document my attitude towards extraterrestrial life when I was a kid.
Let us now fast backwards in time to a time not long after Enrico Fermi said
his famous assessment of life beyond the solar system. I was almost an
adolescent. My uncle Arthur (1898-1958) was building a little retirement
cottage in Forked River, New Jersey—the reality of stomach cancer, alas!
prevented the realization of his dreams. Our family visited the nearly-completed
bungalow many times before my uncle’s death in 1958.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">The
incomplete kitchen walls were covered with cardboard. All visitors were invited
to sign their names on the wall. My brother, Robert, wrote the following:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Arthur
Dorsett<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">3<sup>rd</sup>
Canal Drive, Mars<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Reminiscence
of Percival Lowell! Lowell was an American businessman and amateur
astronomer, who became famous for his assertion that Mars was inhabited by
intelligent life. He saw—or at least thought he saw-- a pattern of lines on Mars that he assumed were canals that brought water from the poles to a dying
civilization. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">At the time
of my brother’s writing on my uncle’s wall, it was still possible to believe
that Mars possessed intelligent life. These hopes were dashed when Mariner
fly-bys revealed Mars to be a frigid, red desert.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOvf9XSLh3U0BdmPL9_HUKHmS1729EcapBlQNcu1d2sbU2mni3Ex_jg1W92O3FlNU5_QXft9Cqi-YAKu_woVxiH2HnRG3r8IqUS-UflvrFlP-3z8Q0t8LSI8T888koPjcTCWKp0Qxe_dHRGzBtQBkEKVqRzVmHwx3IA6JuM5MfIIDvJRomE0_DZ9ylHUs/s301/images%20(5).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="167" data-original-width="301" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOvf9XSLh3U0BdmPL9_HUKHmS1729EcapBlQNcu1d2sbU2mni3Ex_jg1W92O3FlNU5_QXft9Cqi-YAKu_woVxiH2HnRG3r8IqUS-UflvrFlP-3z8Q0t8LSI8T888koPjcTCWKp0Qxe_dHRGzBtQBkEKVqRzVmHwx3IA6JuM5MfIIDvJRomE0_DZ9ylHUs/s1600/images%20(5).jpg" width="301" /></a></span></div><span lang="EN-US"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">(I remember
listening with interest to a re-broadcast of Orson Welles’ 1938 radio play<i>, War
of the</i> <i>Worlds, </i>based on a book by H. G. Wells. The original broadcast caused a great deal of panic by its realistic
presentation of a Martian invasion.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">By the time
of my yearly adolescence, however, there was little hope that extraterrestrial
life would ever be found in our solar system. Now I’m not so sure.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">I had been
fascinated with Mars. I remember writing with fascination about the red planet
and its two moons, Deimos and Phobus. I could almost imagine these two little
moons, probably asteroids captured long ago by Martian gravity, passing
overhead, no brighter than first magnitude stars, as I imagined myself standing
next to a Martian crater. I had been convinced, however, that Mars was a
lifeless, frigid desert.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">(Ditto with
the possibility of life in the rest of the solar system. Who could imagine life
on a planet other than ours? Possibly on moons? In our solar system, however, the
majority of moons are around gas giants with atmospheres and temperatures that
made life as we know it impossible. Or so we thought.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">In modern
times, the possibility of life on Mars is once again a serious possibility. If
life actually exists on that planet, however, there will be no little green
men, but, at best, microbial life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Recent
flvbys over Mars have indicated that in the remote past, that is, billions of years ago, Mars was a much
more habitable planet than it is now. There is evidence that the planet once
had a surface ocean, perhaps even a kilometer deep. Photos reveal dry riverbeds,
shorelines, and strong indications of water erosion. Unfortunately, Mars has a
very thin atmosphere and no magnetic field to protect life from cosmic rays.
The surface water dissipated into space long ago, but there is evidence that
water exists underground. There are probably aquifers beneath the surface
in many areas of the planet. There is evidence of seasonal variations of
methane in the atmosphere; methane is a biomarker for life on earth. There is
other indirect evidence that has convinced many scientists that life either
once existed on the planet or has gone underground. We’ll see.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps
soon: A Mars rover is set to drill about ten meters into the surface, and will
analyze the soil for signs of fossils or living organisms. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">There is
also the theory of panspermia, the premise that life began elsewhere in the
universe and came to earth via a comet. It has been proven that primitive life
could have survived such a journey. Many comets from Mars have struck the
earth. Perhaps we’re all Martians!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Possibilities
of life exist in other areas of the solar system as well. Enceladus, for
instance, a small moon of Saturn, has a large ocean buried beneath ten
kilometers or so of ice. Plumes from that ocean regularly ‘geyser-up’ from the
depths of Enceladus. (Material from these geysers form one of the rings of
Saturn.) Organic compounds, and more recently, phosphorus, have been discovered
in these plumes, further indirect evidence of life. Other moons, for instance, Jupiter’s Europa,
contain subterranean oceans filled with who knows what? Life? We will soon find
out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Even if
there is no evidence of extraterrestrial life in our solar system, we must not
forget that the universe is an incredibly large place, filled with billions of
stars, most of which contain planets. Although no earth-like candidate has been
found among the five thousand exoplanets discovered so
far, search for earth-like planets is just beginning. Some one has said that we
have analyzed a glass of water, as it were, while the ocean of the vast universe remains undiscovered.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: large;">Life didn't necessarily begin in a warm little pool that Darwin advocated, it just might have arisen during extreme conditions in oceanic vents. So called extremophiles today live under boiling conditions--no worry about climate change for these guys! When life originated on earth, over 3 billion years ago, conditions were far too hot to support human life. Some scientists believe that primitive life might exist in the upper atmosphere of Venus, the surface of which is hot enough to melt lead!</span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: large;">There are thus
at least several possibilities of life in our solar system. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if extraterrestrial life is discovered while I’m still alive--and I've been a senior citizen for almost twenty years! Even when we lower our expectations from sublime to slime, the headlines will
be splendid. And slime might be a lot more attractive than the slimy humans making
headlines today. Who knows? We don’t—yet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYq-Hx7JKDpsKpaZdv66fTUa-OAG6wUhVYzvev_XFgsxQwI8i8Ot1t6htvY4xJCe5XA9F6_RQrDQ8DhVWgiFIOJq-iQ4xIl3WUMabVSbOemJKfRtaN8WpNTBdWQBRhTnohTw5uJ4RT4PtT6NxePJ0EQZpLRgXweBXTyuUoaXYY6uaWyut2TiLexD6w1IM/s225/images%20(6).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYq-Hx7JKDpsKpaZdv66fTUa-OAG6wUhVYzvev_XFgsxQwI8i8Ot1t6htvY4xJCe5XA9F6_RQrDQ8DhVWgiFIOJq-iQ4xIl3WUMabVSbOemJKfRtaN8WpNTBdWQBRhTnohTw5uJ4RT4PtT6NxePJ0EQZpLRgXweBXTyuUoaXYY6uaWyut2TiLexD6w1IM/s1600/images%20(6).jpg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Deimos and Phobus, the moons of Mars with which I was fascinated with when I was a kid, are almost certainly dead. But they probably contain enough precious metals to make a fortune many times over. The mining of asteroids is a distinct possibility for the next generation. This has the potential of enriching humanity to an extreme degree--if we're fair that is, and humankind hasn't been fair in the past, to say the least. Aber das ist ein weites Feld; enough for now.</span> </p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-10477568502767458122023-08-17T06:17:00.003-07:002023-09-01T16:57:19.010-07:00Was ist mit mir los?<p> <span style="font-size: large;">Die kurze Antwort: vieles.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">ABER...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Letzte Nacht um 5 Uhr fiel ich aus dem Bett. Ich landetete am Boden--Bücher lagen überall, auch auf meiner Brust. Das war aber nicht das Problem: ich konnte nicht aufstehen. Nach einigen Minuten, rief ich zu meiner Frau, die noch schlief. Es dauerte mehr als 30 Minuten, bis ich wieder im Bett lag. Gehbehindert bin ich geworden, jene Pille muss ich verschlucken.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Morbus Parkinson kann man nich wegschneuzen. Das weiss ich gut, Ich hab's versucht. Die Entstehung der Symptone kommen sehr langsam an; es gibt auch kein Bluttest, Nur wenn die Symptone sich vermehren und schlimmer werden, kann man sicher sein, woran man leidet. Ich wünschte ich wãre zwischen zwei Stühlen; ich bleibe leider auf dem Parkinsonstuhl fest, und starre vor mich hin.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Zuerst wusste ich nicht. was los war. Eines Tages fiel ich die Treppe hinunter--und zwar rückwãrts; Bslance und Laufprobleme, Tremor, u.s.w. Die Müdigkeit die ich stets spüre, ist wohl das Resultat meiner jümgsten Krebsbehaandlungen, eine andere Geschichte, Oder nicht.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ich war vorher sehr aktiv: fast tãglicher kõrperlicher Training, lange Spaziergãnge, u.s.w. Der Vorteil ist dass ich jetzt mehr lese, weil ich mich vom Stuhl nicht heben kann! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ich habe neulich "occupational therapy," (Beschãftigungstherapie) begonnen. Sie hilft, aber manchmal bin ich zu erschôpft, die Empfehlungen durchzusetzen. Habe auch ein neues Medikament, das hiflt auch. Sehr sogar. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ich môche nicht lãnger warten, bis ich die Medizin gegen Morbus Parkinson beginne. Werde morgen meinen Neurologen anrufen. Hoffentlich bringt jene Medizin schnellen Fortschritt.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Müde, müde. bin ich Brüder!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">ABER, die Hoffnung bleibt kräutergrün; in meiner Brust liegt Pandoras Büchse--sie behält sie noch so fest, so fest: bald hoffentlich erholt. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Solange ich mich unter den Sternen noch lebend finde, da bin ich glücklich: überall, überall, überall! </span> </p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-73354902482988669932023-08-04T11:11:00.002-07:002023-08-04T11:15:37.744-07:00An Historic Day<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span lang="EN-US">Yesterday, August 2, 2023, was an historic day. Finally federal felony charges w</span><span>ere</span></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> brought against a former, still very politically active president--in addition to two former active indictments and one more likely to come very soon. Yes, it’s about time. The outcome, a guilty verdict and the prevention of his ever becoming president again, is, however, still very far from certain. At least 30% of the electorate are supporters—in many cases ardent supporters, of a man who should never have become president. His shameless lies are taken to be shining truths by those still under his spell.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I would like to make the obvious clear: I am recording this historic event on my blog not as a pundit, but as an average American—why am I convinced that this news is so terrible?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtMu2ymUD6bgo39zwCUIrT_NIe7IEv6IpIj3HvKpDrrCxWnYKHRV5khmKscVT5g99nh1I4ELX_oV4QUWyKlk4Q3I6QU_I_W6gv0N5fWCSXxPCRQ_QgSgamLOw8rUXJICvFLgBPUePwDu6EBmcIfAz1W-eaMNdV7pqgrevVbKdvdcmZdfKVWrlaEHNa220/s1200/trump%20flag.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtMu2ymUD6bgo39zwCUIrT_NIe7IEv6IpIj3HvKpDrrCxWnYKHRV5khmKscVT5g99nh1I4ELX_oV4QUWyKlk4Q3I6QU_I_W6gv0N5fWCSXxPCRQ_QgSgamLOw8rUXJICvFLgBPUePwDu6EBmcIfAz1W-eaMNdV7pqgrevVbKdvdcmZdfKVWrlaEHNa220/s320/trump%20flag.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;">One thing that has held our republic together for over two centuries is the peaceful transfer of power of the executive branch. Democrats might vociferously oppose Republicans, and vice versa, but if a presidential candidate of the opposing party gains more votes in an election, the losing party concedes and congratulates the victor once the final results have come in. I have witnessed this process many times in my long life; the 2020 election results were a glaring exception. Trump lost, yet—to this date!—not only has he refused to admit it, but without any justification whatsoever, declared himself the winner.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It would be as if, back on October 8, 1981, when the L.A. Dodgers defeated the Yankees and thus clinched the World Series, the Yankees manager at the time, Bob Lemon, refused to admit the result, and proclaimed to the TV cameras after the game: “The Dodgers didn’t win 9-2, we did!” He would have been laughed into an early retirement.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Trump might not be laughing—he looks so angry, he looks so sad—but he still might get the last laugh, potentially upending our democracy. This is serious! Our democracy really is in danger.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Are there extenuating circumstances why Trump refuses to concede? There might be psychological reasons. If this is the case, however, Trump is much more of a pathological narcissist than usually thought.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The reasoning here is as follows: Trump cannot accept defeat. It would destroy the illusory superhero self-identifcation that his narcissism created. Even though he knew he had lost, something inside refused to believe it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Did Hitler know it was morally wrong to invade Poland in 1939? Of course he did. Did he invade Poland nevertheless? Of course he did. Remember what a monk said to Torquemada, the father of the Inquisition, in Mel Brooks famous film? “Hey, Torquemada, what do you say?” “I just been to an auto da fe!!” “An auto da fe, what’s an auto da fe?” “It’s what you oughtn’t to do, but you do anyway!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;">To insist that he won the 2020 election; to insist this despite the fact that he was well informed that he had lost; to claim--even now--that the election was stolen; to continue.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;">To ignore that all sixty cases of alleged fraud have been rejected; to continue to insist that he won, despite most probably knowing, deep down there, that he lost, argues for a pathological etiology. No president in the history of the United States ever tried to prevent the peaceful transfer of power after an election. This is much more serious than Watergate. Trump is truly sui generis. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-large;">It might be that Torquemada-Trump can’t help what he is doing for psychological reasons—I’m not sure—but even if this is so, this wouldn’t constitute a legal excuse. The damage he has done and is doing to our country demands accountability. Let’s hope this third indictment--with a fourth likely coming soon—will eventually put an end to all this. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Yes, let’s hope so—<i>and</i> let’s vote so!</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p> </p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-75603342351958503602023-07-19T08:47:00.003-07:002023-07-19T09:02:12.193-07:00Erinnerungsgedichte<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">1.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Als meine Frau, Nirmala, und ich die
schreckliche Nachricht bekamen, dass unser liebe Neffe Ranjit nicht mehr auf
Erden war, waren wir tief erschūttert. Er ist mit 42 Jahren gestorben, ein
junger Mann, wenigsten im Vergleich mit uns. </span>Wir kannten ihn seit<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>seiner frühen Jugend. <span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Er hat sogar bei uns zu Hause laufen gelernt. Und
später, als er in Asien bei der Vereinigten Nationen arbeitete, besuchte er
jedes Jahr uns hier in Amerika. (Zum Beispiel, im Jahre 2016 als wir das Ergebnis vom
Präsidentenwahl abwarteten, sagte ich zu Ranji, ‘Geh schlafen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Die Amerikaner sind nicht so doof um so einen
wählen zu können...')</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Nach der Nachricht sassen wir vor dem
kleinen Altar im Hause und meditierten. Fast sofort riechten wir den Tod. “Nimala,
riechst du was?” Ihr Gesichtausdruck hat bestätigt, dass ich recht hatte, den
Tod. Hinter dem Diwan entdeckten wir die toten Körper von zwei armen Mäusen, die
am Klebepapier schon längst tot dalagen. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Was ist der Mensch dass du seiner
gedenkst? Die Botschaft hör’ ich wohl, allein mir fehlt der Glaube. Wie kannst
du, Natur, so gleichgültig sein, um einen Menschen, meinen Neffen, so allein wie
ein Vieh sterben zu lassen? Die Mäuse sind weg; wir meditieren täglich weiter.
Das ist aber keine Antwort.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-GHb11KBZWj4AH887EveA629kds3USyWT8ByQNSAFA0NFRfP0ovj13JEcQVF7D_Jykn_DRbnlW87ZXQIL093sPJmadA5GPc5D_KD0a3qDv9tYvVlveLZvPcETQ5RdQgW84C-iXWHC8YiJpjYxZnM6RW5reKoPRLEyO8Pm3ZjEVlQZbQ3V9ttvJRkMQI/s866/me%20cousin%20aunt%20and%20grandma.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="866" data-original-width="857" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR-GHb11KBZWj4AH887EveA629kds3USyWT8ByQNSAFA0NFRfP0ovj13JEcQVF7D_Jykn_DRbnlW87ZXQIL093sPJmadA5GPc5D_KD0a3qDv9tYvVlveLZvPcETQ5RdQgW84C-iXWHC8YiJpjYxZnM6RW5reKoPRLEyO8Pm3ZjEVlQZbQ3V9ttvJRkMQI/w396-h400/me%20cousin%20aunt%20and%20grandma.jpg" width="396" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">2<br /></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Die folgenden furchterregenden Zeile kommen am Ende
eines Gedichts von Emily Dickinson über den Tod einer Frau: <i>And then an</i> <i>awful
leisure came/ Belief to regulate.</i> Wir sind jetzt in dieser schrecklichen Freizeit
mitten drin; etwas Tröstliches wird kommen, dessen sind wir f a s t sicher.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Für die Überlebenden ist die Erkenntnis über
die Fragilität und Kurzdauer des menschlihen Lebens in uns noch tiefer
eingeprägt. Dunkel ist das Leben, ist der Tod. Nichts zu tun als ein bisschen
Freude aus dem Schicksalszwiebel zu zerquetschen:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Rosen auf den Weg gestreut<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Und des Harms vergessen!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Eine kleine Spanne Zeit<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Ward uns zugemessen.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Man denkt auch an die erste Strophe eines Gedichts
von Lorenzo de Medici :<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Quant’è bella giovinezza<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Che si fugge tuttavia!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Chi vuol esser lieto, sìa:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Di doman non c’è certezza. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Di doman non c’è certezza—wahr, Ranji,
allzu verdammt wahr! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> 3.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Wir beenden diese kurze Liste von Erinnerungsgedichten
mit einem Lieblingsgedicht von Heine:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Es Kommt der Tod<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Es kommt der Tod : jetzt will ich sagen<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Was zu verschweigen ewiglich<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mein Stolz gebot: für dich, für dich,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Es hat mein Herz für dich geschlagen!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Der Sarg ist fertig. Sie versenken<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mich in die Gruft. </span>Da hab ich Ruh.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Doch du, doch du, Maria, du<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Wirst weinen oft und mein gedenken.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Du ringst sogar die schönen Hände—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">O tröste dich—Das ist das Los,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Das Menschenlos--was gut und gross<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Und schön, das nimmt ein schlechtes Ende.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Alles in diesem Gedicht ist buchstäblich, d.h.
biographisch, wahr, und zur selben Zeit auch ästhetisch perfekt. Die Unruhen von
1848, hat Heine gezwungen, Deutshcland zu verlasssen und nach Frankreich zu
emigrieren. Leider litt er an tertiäre Syphillis, eine Krankheit, die ihn paralysierte.
Das Ende seines Lebens verbrachte er im sogenannten Matrazengrab. Die Frau die
ihn besorgte war ihm nicht ebenbürtig; sein Stolz hat ihn gehindert,
seine Liebe zu erklären. Das Sterben hat eindlich seine Zunge gelöst. (Leider
wartet man oft zu zu lange um erst das zu sagen, was man längst hätte sagen
sollen!)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Es ist das Ende des Gedichts, das mich seit
Jahrzehnten faziniert: <i>was gut und gross/und schön, das nimmt ein schlechtes
End</i>e. Der Rhythtmus und Sprachmelodie sind perfekt; erhoben am Anfang, erdrückend
am Ende. Ich denke an die toten Mäuse, die wir beim Meditieren entdeckten. Mäuse
sind nicht ‘gut und gross und schön’—wir sind fast so gleichgültig wie die
Natur, wenn eine stirbt. Aber wir sind Menschen, Lebewesen, die lieben. Trotz
Hitsongs, selbst die Liebe dauert nicht ewig. Ihr Ende ist furchtbar hart. Nicht zu
vergessen, dass Heine seiner Geliebten Trost einfliessen wollte. Was können wir
tun als weiter zu leben und weiter zu lieben?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">4.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHkjlRxPNshGbY7XgEA8FzTb03vCBndwtqoNndrk601H49tMc8dvgsn7EZ6LwgVy5UksqQBa-yf9Eq5kynGk2JMZHIqr5bojsIhXN4zySmVyvHjgpA6T7wwE6wAjdithImnaIzWuG99J1KSxvmtgfi6BdkM_TMyeRbsubzNDRMf5yorHLYMOog8vznQU/s1040/Milla%20in%20the%20US%20071.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1040" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHkjlRxPNshGbY7XgEA8FzTb03vCBndwtqoNndrk601H49tMc8dvgsn7EZ6LwgVy5UksqQBa-yf9Eq5kynGk2JMZHIqr5bojsIhXN4zySmVyvHjgpA6T7wwE6wAjdithImnaIzWuG99J1KSxvmtgfi6BdkM_TMyeRbsubzNDRMf5yorHLYMOog8vznQU/w400-h300/Milla%20in%20the%20US%20071.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ranji, ich werde dich niemals
vergessen, nie, nie nie!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-25605397023807572932023-07-12T13:31:00.000-07:002023-07-12T13:31:11.796-07:00In Memoriam: Ranjit Jose (1980-2023)<p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mozart’s Coronation Concerto (K 537)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">is his most frequently performed <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">piano concerto of all (at least it was<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">in the nineteenth century--in ours<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">it is rarely heard—Absurd!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The previous nine ‘Viennese concerti’<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">(each one of which is a gem) are,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">according to most critics, better—<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A line of exquisite fish pass<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">before my amazed mind, each <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">a brilliant rainbow, happy-sad—<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Who am I to judge what’s best<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">among God’s dazzling creatures?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">They also pass. Three years later<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mozart lay in an unmarked grave--<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">His music’s mostly sunny, although<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">now and then dark clouds cast brief<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">shadows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Chiaroscuro, light and dark<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">prove even bliss doesn’t last. He knew.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Despite the recent death of someone dear<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I pedal on—upon my stationary bike<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">while listening to Mozart on YouTube--<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">For a while I forget Ranji’s gone forever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When younger than Ranjit was when he died,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I visited the cemetery where Mozart lies<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">in a pauper’s grave. No one knows the exact spot.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Once friends and I pass, after a few years<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">no one will remember us. (So what? Even Mozart<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">wasn’t music.) Nothing to say now but listen<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">as post-concerto silence fills the room: then,
then,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Something</span></i></span><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">—<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We shall immerse
his ashes<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">among brilliant, indifferent, Mozartian fish,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">and we will sigh, and we will sing.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0DCA9b2iJtiNOaqoz8P9ugjaY5aWjUHjefK2lLiU4p8TN5kXx79l1cEOyafVAUlKPpYXULEexJHoIuWjYmOHWhN_25ooBsUhTrgPcP6Cy9PslVChwofkjPZPhVoKPeOGdC9WnuveuK-yTAnKAd9Fv9zB-lHF7zQeGImGOz_fi41161_QkEWwEIN3fIg/s1182/10463671_10152350958334790_4297404287075751548_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1140" data-original-width="1182" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0DCA9b2iJtiNOaqoz8P9ugjaY5aWjUHjefK2lLiU4p8TN5kXx79l1cEOyafVAUlKPpYXULEexJHoIuWjYmOHWhN_25ooBsUhTrgPcP6Cy9PslVChwofkjPZPhVoKPeOGdC9WnuveuK-yTAnKAd9Fv9zB-lHF7zQeGImGOz_fi41161_QkEWwEIN3fIg/w400-h386/10463671_10152350958334790_4297404287075751548_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk140062066;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-66234606841444008282023-07-06T15:13:00.001-07:002023-07-20T19:25:24.443-07:00In Memoriam: Ranjit Jose, 1980-2023<p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">1.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I never expected
to write this. An old man commemorating the death of a youngish relative,
that’s not supposed to happen. It’s supposed to be the other way around. Instead
of a little doggy following a brass band, it’s the brass band following an old
limping animal with its tongue hanging out. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYYsaYvTmeQ9_CKzRbwjrfodhZaGJoUAeSFPof-91uWlZwlOBNgvrg_zoHlWcAgYiF0HdcCOOJP66vdLnNB0p6PGN0wvXFzuSgaC1fN0dP0bh2Wmj8uxHyE_ofWt7h9k7R5ZN_-t_LF60Vdz4JDuJq8qLsXs9Eanow0qzfZns0mZqHWpX-kBMpgl1kqO4/s960/31949786_10214083764900545_6132949531861450752_n%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYYsaYvTmeQ9_CKzRbwjrfodhZaGJoUAeSFPof-91uWlZwlOBNgvrg_zoHlWcAgYiF0HdcCOOJP66vdLnNB0p6PGN0wvXFzuSgaC1fN0dP0bh2Wmj8uxHyE_ofWt7h9k7R5ZN_-t_LF60Vdz4JDuJq8qLsXs9Eanow0qzfZns0mZqHWpX-kBMpgl1kqO4/w640-h480/31949786_10214083764900545_6132949531861450752_n%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">My nephew,
Ranjit Jose, passed away unexpectedly on July 4, 2023. A Spanish proverb states
that when one is born, one cries while everyone else smiles; when one dies, the
opposite ideally occurs: the dying person smiles while everyone else cries. But
I doubt there was a smile on Ranji’s face as he died in a taxi on the way to
the hospital in far-away Solomon Islands. Even if fate had allowed him to
become old and weary, death came like a whirlwind, picking him up from the
ground and removing him from sight forever. Worse, no one held his hand, no one
sang to him; he died alone. His guardian angel—if there is one—must have been
underground baking bagels when Ranji fell.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">We talked
with him on the phone the day before he died. He had fallen; a doctor managed
his scrapes and bruises and gave him antibiotics. No mention of a head injury. He informed us that the antibiotics had made him ill.
He also complained of indigestion. We thought that he would quickly recover
from what we thought were minor injuries. No mention of a headache. When he complained of difficulty breathing, he was brought to the doctor's. He died en route to the hospital; it is thought he had
suffered a massive heart attack. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will take some weeks before we get the
autopsy report.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">When<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my wife. Nirmala, gave me the news, I shouted
out, “No, No, No!” Then I thought to myself, “Der liebe Gott ist Zufall
geworden—Und der Zufall hat kein Mitleid.” Ja, Ja, Ja….Ja; Doch.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE1O4E6eosGKrpaW8DSFhX1eDwvsOd6S59TgZd9Ff8VTPrOBnydIIICuzDNvB_0eu6o4c2nOF0SjpJts77EnQMwGzbaLd_hMyAoKkdeP_rAZuDPDYDBVdWDTsHYAGrx88AZhTKe3UBoICiDS97HC0jJTzeOd3gyZV_k1A-Xt23tRWEgrOqUYCZeieSvnI/s866/ranjit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="866" data-original-width="866" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE1O4E6eosGKrpaW8DSFhX1eDwvsOd6S59TgZd9Ff8VTPrOBnydIIICuzDNvB_0eu6o4c2nOF0SjpJts77EnQMwGzbaLd_hMyAoKkdeP_rAZuDPDYDBVdWDTsHYAGrx88AZhTKe3UBoICiDS97HC0jJTzeOd3gyZV_k1A-Xt23tRWEgrOqUYCZeieSvnI/w400-h400/ranjit.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">2.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Enough
about Death! Birth and Death are like bookends, definitive borders of the
narrative between them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Ranji’s case,
the black (the color of death) bookend was added far too soon, yet the book of his life is rich and
important. Some narratives rival the length of <i>War and Peace</i>, others have far
fewer pages, yet, like Kafka’s <i>Metamorphosis</i>, are short, sweet and no less
immortal.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I must
write at the outset that what I have to say are only a few of my memories. We
had a good relationship, but an old man’s view of a much younger man’s life,
especially one who lived so very far away for so many years, is by necessity partial
and fragmentary. Ranji had many friends; he was gregarious and well loved by
many. My son Philip put together photos he gathered from social media. Who are
all these smiling people, delighted to be in Ranji’s company? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will never know.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yet I feel I knew Ranji very well. After all, we knew each other for the entire, brief
period he spent on Earth. I was lucky to know him so well. Blessed are those
who mourn? If this is true, and somehow I suspect it is, I am very blessed
indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">My son
Philip and Ranjit were born<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a few days apart
in September, 1980. The first time I met him was about a year later, when his
dear mother Milla, my wife’s sister, came to the United States for a prolonged
period of time. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ranji was a
cute kid. I can still see his jet-black hair that curled up at the end like an irrepressible
lapel which even a hot iron couldn't keep down for long. They stayed with us for some time. Ranji
was not yet able to walk; Philip, an early walker, taught him how to crawl
upstairs, and, with some effort, downstairs as well. My wife and I still live
in the same house. So many persons walked up and down those stairs who are no
longer with us, namely Nirmala’s mother, my mother, my stepfather and now, my
nephew. Those steps will never feel the same.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Milla, after
a prolonged stay, returned
to India. We visited India every couple of years until we became too old to do
so.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2dpyzaJjEQaJBBegyf4CcJLwVnfUxY2DpAH_mCZ3H4Oi8mRxOEHMbafrrvSGGLNMXvoybxrkMLMHjOFEhjqyztaMVGxf-uah06wHIOqWJ24IHDvpY_LywbXuBQC3aYBf4h4EzkbYmlkD_r9DelSBmeAVRDFyAnbdWtiRdLObpor1BmYHc28Q6NHydXwM/s640/562200_10150786119429790_701161057_n%20(1)%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2dpyzaJjEQaJBBegyf4CcJLwVnfUxY2DpAH_mCZ3H4Oi8mRxOEHMbafrrvSGGLNMXvoybxrkMLMHjOFEhjqyztaMVGxf-uah06wHIOqWJ24IHDvpY_LywbXuBQC3aYBf4h4EzkbYmlkD_r9DelSBmeAVRDFyAnbdWtiRdLObpor1BmYHc28Q6NHydXwM/w300-h400/562200_10150786119429790_701161057_n%20(1)%20(1).jpg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have a
vivid memory of Jose, Ranjit’s dad, feeding Ranji beef by hand. He apparently
wanted to toughen him up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ranji was a
sensitive, emotional child who became a sensitive, emotional adult. As a child,
he was a bit tearful. Philip loved it when I carried him into the sea; Ranji
cried when it was his turn. One day we took a catamaran ride in the sea. Ranji was terrified and howled
the whole time. But he did it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fast
forward many years. Ranji is now graduating college, an event celebrated in
Madison Square Garden. Nirmala and I, in loco parentis, beamed with pride. I kept
on taking pictures of him as he sat next to a Black friend. “Ranjit, who is
that white dude who keeps on taking your picture?” he asked. “He’s my uncle,”
Ranji replied. His friend looked as astonished as many African Americans would
be a few years later, when Barack Obama became our first Black president.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">At this
time in his life, Ranji lived in Queens, with an artsy group of roommates. One
was an Israeli named Nimrod, who was nicknamed Nimmy. (Later, Ranji told me,
he sang naked in an off-off Broadway review,) Another roommate was a soprano.
Ranji, my wife and I attended a performance in Baltimore of Lucia di Lamermoor;
Ranji’s roommate sang the title role. She was the hit of the performance, but
was no Joan Sutherland. The last<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>time
Ranji mentioned her she was working in a bank.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I remember
giving him a driving lesson, during one of his stays with us. I told him, “If
you stop at the green and go at the red, pretty soon we’d both be dead!” Well,<b><i>
he</i></b> laughed. He was a good student.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">He was a
good nephew; he was a good man. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was
very close to his mother. He cried and cried when he found out that she had
terminal cancer. She was an English professor; they read Eliot together as
Milla lay dying.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">I could
relate many other anecdotes regarding Ranji, and others could relate many
different anecdotes as well. Suffice it to say, that we loved him and will miss
him very much.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Another
relative, my brother-in-law, Sudhir, who was very close to Ranji, wrote to me,
after Ranji’s death, that ‘grief is a stone in the heart.’ Yes, but we, while remembering
Ranji, must keep together lest the stone shatter and we die of emboli. Auden wrote,
‘We must love one another or die.” How true!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Rest in
Peace; Ranji, Ranji, as long as we live, we will miss you, good-bye.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-592927301726877053.post-12773218696515116922023-07-04T11:58:00.001-07:002023-07-04T11:58:57.206-07:00A Supremely Immoral Decision<p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Batting for
bigotry. conservative members of the Supreme Court scored a victory on Friday,
June 30, 2023; they decided that a Colorado web designer had the right
under the First Amendment to deny services fo same-sex couples. Did the
designer defend her views by stating that servicing gays conflicted
with her religious faith? You betcha. Let us examine that stance more closely.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvB6sX00mIf4jF0u8_roDA6K5blDIBJrVxGQYL9Z6QhMt5rmVuUfzaqA42h6aeq2bbI7zp4TCmfzfxzqxMfyTMVkPGX23dEHnvh1Qj5YYg7U6Ma20orMR72ee9UD0xVPqQmVaf7cI-Cm-tFt3_4gc06vasOZLxzlma2ctCmvCOb8niiuOqqKCSvO-eZrE/s275/download%20(10).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvB6sX00mIf4jF0u8_roDA6K5blDIBJrVxGQYL9Z6QhMt5rmVuUfzaqA42h6aeq2bbI7zp4TCmfzfxzqxMfyTMVkPGX23dEHnvh1Qj5YYg7U6Ma20orMR72ee9UD0xVPqQmVaf7cI-Cm-tFt3_4gc06vasOZLxzlma2ctCmvCOb8niiuOqqKCSvO-eZrE/s1600/download%20(10).jpg" width="275" /></a></span></div><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">First,
let’s agree that conservative judge Gorsuch has a point when he asserts that
the government cannot force an individual to express views contrary to her conscience.
But what about liberal judge Sotomayor’s point that this ruling could open a
can of worms; one or more of these worms could be used to hook justice and send
it flapping on dry land like a reeled-in fish. Colorado, after all, forbids discrimination
by any business open to the public. What if the designer believed that
accepting an interracial couple was against her conscience? In her vociferous
dissent, Judge Sotomayor quoted a 1964 Supreme Court decision that asserted
that motels and hotels had no right to refuse Black guests. Protecting the
rights of one person while ignoring the rights of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>others is hardly fair. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">The designer
said that servicing same-sex couples violated her rights to the free exercise
of religion. I consider that view to be blasphemous. Why? I will now explain why I
am convinced.s<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Earth has
been around for a long time (4 ½ billion years; life on Earth has been around
for a long time as well (3 ½ billion years). Life was very primitive for a long
time, until multicellular organisms appeared much later, during what has been
called The Cambrian Explosion ( approximately half a billion<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>years ago). Compared to the time life
has existed on Earth, human beings are relative <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>newcomers on the planet—compared to a single
lifespan,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> our species </span>ha been on the
planet for a long time as well. Human history has existed for six thousand
years or so; the last major cognitive development in the human brain is
estimated to have occurred 100,000 years ago. Humans have been hunter gatherers
for over 90% of this time; and eons before that as well, albeit in more
primitive form. (Many human characteristics, such as the Fight or Flight
response, are anachronistic today; genetic evolution is, however, slow). <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is
evidence of in-group cooperation; analysis of remains indicate that pre-historical people even took care of those who were handicapped. Cooperation
between groups, however, was another matter. Competition for resources was
fierce; members of other groups, vying for the same resources, easily became
enemies. There is much evidence of ‘war wounds’ on the bones of pre-historic
hunter gatherers. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Homo homini lupus,</i> man
is wolf to man, thus has a long pre-history as well. Except that man was wolf
to humans in other hunter gathering groups.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thus conflict
and war are part of our genetic heritage as well. (If you don’t believe me,
pick up and read a newspaper.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">A milestone
happened in our species when humans began to settle down in agricultural
communities. Civilization, with its many advantages, as well as some
negative<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>aspects, began!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Something
else began as well. With the advent of the written word, religion underwent a
major change. Eventually the very core of religion became written down: that we
should love our neighbor as ourselves. This was truly revolutionary. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">This doctrine
needed to evolve before it became what we know it to be today. For instance,
the formulation in Leviticus; the ‘neighbor’ was first interpreted to be a
member of one’s ethnic group. Only later, in the Talmud, was the neighbor
defined to include the stranger. We are<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>thus commanded to love not only members of the ingroup, but members of
the outgroup as well.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">All major
religions have a version of loving one’s neighbor, which included the stranger,
the foreigner, those that are different. Since human beings are still tribal by nature after the long
period of existing as hunter gatherers, this takes some effort. It takes such
an effort that the commandment remains largely unfulfilled today.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>let us return to the Supreme Court decision. A
young lady said she must refuse, on the basis of her religion, to provide
services, which are open to the public, to a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>same-sex couple. She might be able to hide behind the First Amendment
for protection, but not, I am certain, behind religion.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">If it has
been demonstrated that love between members of the same sex is possible—and the
evidence is incontrovertible; same-sex couples fall under the rubric, ‘stranger’
in the commandment. If we are talking about love, who is she to judge? Ditto
for the Supreme Court judges.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">God is
silent. I hold that the young lady is using God as a dummy to express her
prejudices. This I call ‘folk religion' not religion. To hide behind religion
is, in this case, blasphemous, since it goes against the core of all religions <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Supreme
Court decision is, therefore,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>an immoral
one. A long history of discrimination might make many persons uncomfortable
regarding same-sex unions, but the commandment demands that we leave our
comfort zone and at least realize that objection to same-sex unions cannot be
justified on the basis of religion. The conclusion of the Court opens the door
to open discrimination, as mentioned previously.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Things are
bad enough. The Supreme Court has just made matters worse.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Centuries ago,
Augustine asserted, “Love, and do what you want.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good advice! (Unless, apparently, if the
lover requests services from a blasphemous bigot).<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Refusing
services to a same-sex couple on the basis of religion is like criticizing an
individual photon for being ‘lost in the stars’. Ridiculous!<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /></span></span><p></p>Thomas Dorsetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06123574624040708868noreply@blogger.com0