Thomas Dorsett M D
Nirmala Dorsett
4408 Wickford road
Baltimore
MD21210
Policy NO.1378-45-65-SF
Dear Sir/Madam,
It is with great regret that I have to inform you that our son Philip Vijay Dorsett has expired; I am enclosing a copy of the death certificate. Please contact us if you need further information. We can be reached at 443 885 9053 or on the cell at 410 207 7024. You may send the check to the address listed above.
Thank You
Sincerely,
Thomas Dorsett
Nirmala Dorsett
02/09/2025
(To be sung to a favorite country tune)
Ours is a crucial election--
If we select that clown
the grossness of his nature
will have weight to drag us down!
Ours is a crucial election--
If we select that jerk,
the rich will get their tax-cuts,
and the poor will become serfs.'
Ours is a crucial election--
If we select Stupidity,
Project 25 might be
fatal to democracy.
Ours is a crucial election--
but we can't remove Liberty's pox
by an act of violence.
Stop Bozo at the ballot box!
Ours is a crucial election--
We must defeat Narcissus.
Help Truth shut Cheeseburger Mouth
Nirmala and
I approached the big date, June 27,1024 with some trepidation. We had previously toyed
with the idea that we would emigrate, perhaps to Canada, if Trump won. Of late we decided that we are too old
and that we will have to, as our knees demand, go down with the ship. Yes, it’s
that bad. Who would have ever thought that a portly Pied Piper of New York
would make children, angry children, out of so many of us. But that is exactly
what happened.
Unfortunately,
in U.S. debates, appearances always defeat substance. I remember the debate
between Nixon and Kennedy so many years ago. Those that listened on the radio
believed Nixon won, but those who watched the debate on live TV thought the opposite.
I remember Kennedy’s winsome smile. I remember Nixon’s sweaty brow.
This debate
was even worse. It seemed like, from my
perspective at least, that a very bad unqualified man was debating the
remains of a good man. Yes, Biden came across as cadaverous. He appeared to be much older than Trump.
I think he
might have Parkinson’s Disease. His voice was very soft. He seemed to have
mobility issues. He was very stiff. His facial expression was mask-like. All
these are symptoms of Parkinson’s—but also of old age as well .
No, it isn’t
a contest between Honesty and Deceit—if so, Biden would have easily won—but a
debate of appearances Biden, unfortunately, lost.
Yes, Biden
has done a lot for the country. He is a consummate politician. Trump, in contrast,
is or was a ‘blowhard in chief’ as he was called by Jeb Bush in the past.
One would
think that one should vote for the party, and not just for the individual.
Which party would like to bring forth universal health care? Which advocates
for raising the minimum wage and raising taxes on the very wealthy? (If you
believe in the wild and mendacious imaginings of Ted Cruz that the Republican
Party is the party of the working class, you might be
interested in purchasing the Brooklyn Bridge. That so many white men and women
have been seduced by this lie indicates how far we have fallen.)
Still, that
Biden let him get away with stating that he never had sex with a porn star was
too much. “Swear now, before your conscience and ours, that Stormy Daniels was
lying!”
No, that
didn’t happen. The debate devolved into a he said-he said confrontation. Trump
came across as a more vigorous candidate. Truth lost, Trump won.
Perhaps we
haven’t lost yet. Says the optimist within . Perhaps we already have, says the
pessimist. Lots of things can happen between now and November. We can only hope
that decency will prevail, even against all odds.
I was a bit shocked when I heard the news that Donald Trump had been convicted on all counts. I don't feel triumphant. I don't feel schadenfreude. But I do feel happy for America.
I didn't laugh, but I did laugh previously whenever one asserted that no one is above the law. Finally, for perhaps the first time in his life, Donald Trump is being held accountable. For a man who has gotten away with horrible behavior all his life, this conviction is too little too late. For, say, a reckless alcoholic who has ruined not only his own life but the life of so many others, to get up and say, "My name is Donald Trump and I'm an alcoholic,"--Well, I don't see that coming.
One of the worst insults in Trump's world of playing with the Truth is not "You[;re fired," but "You're a loser." Well, he's a loser now. Will he ever admit it? No. But let's hope that enough people will not elect someone who is not worthy to become president.
Now, at last, it's democracy l, Trump zero. The final score--the 'jury,' (us), is still out, but it now seems more likely that enough Americans will come together to keep this unqualified man out of the White House.
Who knows what the final score will be? The venomous Republican response to the verdict indicates that the battle is far from over. Still, at last, it's Democracy 1, Trump, Zero.
Neulich hat mir mein Schwager, Sudhir, ein Gedicht gesandt, das er im Nachlass von unserem lieben Neffen Ranjit gefunden hatte. Der im Juli 2023 so fruh verstobener wunderbsrer Mensch vermisen wir noch sehr sehr sehr.
Es folgt das Gedicht, das ich vor Jahren verfasst habe. Moyses Purish, der auch night mehr auf Erden ist, war ein KoIllege, der ein sehr guter Artzt war. (Das Gedicht kannte er nicht. Jetzt ist es leider zu spaet.)
Sue! Sue! for Moyses Purisch
Today they came and fired you,
Not because you're the incorrect hue
or because you don't know what you do,
it was simply because you are old.
They won't give you a pension or a gold
watch--Their words convey, "Go join the fold
of ancient kine put our to pasture--"
Winter's a oink slip. "Go get yourself a sinecure--
Rest assured, we are not against the mature,
however... It's time for you to live in style!"
The true meaning behind every smile,
wildebeest meet crocodile.
A sick mother and kids meant that you couldn't save,
Serenity without a wage?
You'd have to be a Hindu sage.
Rage, rage--Nothing else for you to do?
This is America--Remember, you
haven't been fired in Timbuktu. Sue! Sue!
We recently returned from a cruise to Bermuda; we had a great time--I would like to tell you about it. It was a rather brief; two days in New York followed by a five-day cruise.
We arrived
at our New York hotel, The Giraffe Hotel, on 26th St and Park Avenue
Park Avenue South. This was a mere two blocks away from one of our favorite restaurants—bad
décor but excellent food—Saravana Bhavan, which has a branch in Chennai
which we have frequented. I had onion and tomato uttappam. I got sick
the next day, but I’m not sure of the cause. Nirmala said the maavu
might have been a little old, since it’s the same batter used for dosa.
We walked
about a bit and picked up a sandwich at Pret-a-manger, which we ate at our
hotel.
The next
day, a beautiful one with a cloudless azure sky--I remember humming “Nothing
but blue skies from now on,” as we headed for Central Park. Our walk through Central
Park was really quite invigorating and brought back lots of memories from the
time we lived in the city.
I made it
to the Metropolitan Museum, although my Parkinson’s was acting up.
The visit
to the museum was far from the highlight of our trip. I had a frequent need to
sit down. I couldn’t read anything due to my poor vision. Nirmala wanted to see
the exhibit on the Harlem Renaissance, which, when we found it, disappointed.
It might have been a good exhibition, but there were no seats and I couldn’t
see much.
We visited old
friends in the Asian section; we had lunch at the museum. The food was not
particularly good and I got very ill. We took the subway home.
That night,
we attended a performance of John Adams’s El Nino at the Met Opera, our
old haunt. The music I found fascinating in parts, but not very emotionally
riveting. We don’t need another oratorio about the nativity in this age full of
doubting Thomases. (It was indeed an oratorio; little to no stage action,
crucial in an opera. (I, of course, could not read the subtitles, so maybe I
missed a great deal.) In spite of everything, we enjoyed the music and had a
very good time. We took the subway back and arrived at the hotel around
midnight. (Yes, New York is safe.)
On day
three, we took an uber to the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal and boarded our cruise
ship, the immense Meraviglia, an Italian liner operated by MSC cruises.
It is an immense ship. After waiting a while I was whizzed on board via
wheelchair.
Day four
was spent at sea; days 5-7 were spent in Bermuda; after a day at sea we returned to New York where we got
our train back to Baltimore.
Days 3-7, The
Cruise. The ship was immense. We had a
nice little room on floor 13. There were a whole lot of staterooms—if the ship
were at full capacity, we could have been on a slightly rocking version of
Grand Central Station. Unlike on other cruises, we could always find a seat at
the food courts on deck 15.
The
entertainment was better than on most ships. The highlight was an Irish
comedian named George Casey. (I remember at least one memorable joke: two
Irishman died and met St. Pater who told them they looked unsaved. “If you tell
me a poem with Timbuktu in it, I just might let you through the Pearly Gates.”
The first person recited doggerel which
didn’t please St. Peter at all. The second recited a little poem the content of
which related that after two women entered a bar, Sean bucked one, but Tim
bucked two! St. Peter laughed and let the man through.
Nirmala
chose an MSC cruise because there were reportedly a lot of dance lessons. There were. We participated in nearly all of
them. We usually started the day with calisthenics. Mostly Chinese tourists, who were in good
shape and good form. So many whites and blacks were fat! We received many compliments, especially from
couch potatoes. (If you believe that someone with moderately advanced
Parkinson’s is a good dancer, you’re not a good dancer)
We took an
all-day tour around the island of Bermuda, We visited Hamilton the capital, and
St. George on the opposite side of the island. The beaches were splendid and
the water crystal-clear Wouldn’t want to live there, though.
The food wasn’t
particularly good, but we got by quite well. We made friends with a couple at
dinner. The wife was Ukrainiana; she loved it when I said, Slava Ukrainie!
(Victory to Ukraine.)
There was a
lot of shopping onboard; along a huge corridor on deck five were many shops. We
didn’t buy much.
Most
onboard were very kind and went out of their way to help me, a handicapped old
man. When I fell flat on my back while exiting the theater, I was helped to my
feet quickly. (I escaped with a few minor bruises.)
I wrote one
poem onboard, but was unable to read it due to my Parkinson’s micrographia and also
due to my very low vision. Here’s what I salvaged:
Be humble,
yet noble; remain nobly and humbly selfsunfulfilled;
self-ish,
self-critical, self aggrandizing; self-less, which
side of the
dashes are, doubting Thomas, vanity of vanities,
you? Humbly
and nobly accept the truth: you, liar you,
nobly and humbly, accept nonsense, your slippery self:
Almost Nothing, doubting Thomas,
redemptively still is.
Although
the trip home was a bit difficult, we had a very good time; a vey good time
indeed.
We just got
back from a weeklong cruise to Bermuda, which began a few days after we got
back from Ireland. I thought I’d start with a Parkinson’s update; I will begin
with a report of how I fared on our recent trip to Scotland and Ireland:
Nirmala
and I just came back from a trip to Europe. The purpose of the trip, other than
having a good time, was to see if I could travel anymore. When we traveled to
Europe in May, our trip to Amsterdam and other places, people came to me and
said Sir, you need a wheelchair, sit down’ or you need a walker in the museum;
this was something completely new to me. I never had difficulty. I didn't
injure myself, I just couldn't walk anymore. When I came home. I went to a
mobility specialist who performed several tests and diagnosed me with
Parkinson's disease.
I have a
walking stick with me, which I used on the trip. I give myself a C minus or maybe even a C
plus. I kept up with the group as best I
could. The tour director knew that I had Parkinson's disease and slowed down a
bit. I am on medication now and can
tolerate walking a little bit better and I did keep up reasonably well. (This review for my blog was written by my wife and me.) One of the other issues
besides Parkinson's disease is that I'm just about legally blind and can't see
anything; it's very difficult for me to type. So she typed a lot of it.
We just
got back from a trip to New York and a cruise to Bermuda. We had a good time.
Again, I graded myself regarding mobility and sight; this time I give myself a
D or D+.
I was handicapped and was viewed as a
handicapped person by everyone on board. Regarding sight, I was walking along
with my cane one morning and walked full-force into a glass partition. Ouch! No
fun being nearly blind and suffering from Parkinson’s, I told a nearby person,
more as n excuse to hide my embarrassment. He offered to help me—so many were
so kind—but I told him all I needed was to find my wife, who was waiting for me
on the other side of the partition., (She continues to do a wonderful job of
dealing with me.)
On
another occasion during the cruise, I fell flat on my back while climbing
stairs after exiting a theater performance. People around me gasped; did I break
my hip? No, I didn’t; I rose quickly, (Nirmala noticed several bruises that
night.) I was, however, ok.
On still
another occasion, I fell in our room in the middle of the night and couldn’t
get up. Nirmala
helped me get up, but it took a long time.
I walked
about the ship with the help of a cane. I am definitely a handicapped person
now. My mood, however, is quite good.
On a recent visit to Amsterdam, (May, 2023), we visited the famous 1639 Portuguese synagogue, which still serves the Sephardic community of Amsterdam today. At the bookstore, Michael Wex's book on the Yiddish language, Born to Kvetch, leaped out to me. What a photo! Well, I had to purchase a copy. which proved to be a very good read.
You
see, although I don't wear a bowler hat and do not sport my forelocks in a
payes, I, too, was born to kvetch, no doubt about it. (Kvetch is a Yiddish word
meaning to complain. I noticed, months later, that the winning word in the
National Spelling bee was knaidel, dumpling, which was pronounced
in three syllables, The Yiddish kn is, however, monosyllabic.
Well, I would have won that spelling bee, along with the Indian youth who won
the prize. No surprises there, once I saw a comedy sketch in which an Indian
boy won first prize in Ebonics), but the youth who won the spelling bee apparently had no idea what the
word knaidel meant.
I
kvetch a lot. I sometimes feel quite inadequate, blaming myself for not helping
my fellow human beings enough. And I kvetch about being old and afflicted with
Parkinson's Disease; I torture myself that it might now be too late to
accomplish things I would like.
Dorsett,
stop complaining! You still can talk; you still can walk; you still can
write.
Yes,
you still can walk, albeit with a cane. Maybe a little gratitude will help
unkvetch the frown on your face when you just have to sit down. So I
decided to try it.
So
many things I take for granted. With a flip of a switch, day extends into the
night. With a flip of the wrist, I experience the benefits of indoor plumbing.
Though my handwriting has become unreadable, I can still tap words into my
computer. I have friends; I have acquaintances. Even more important, I have a
wonderful wife and a wonderful son. Though I don't see well at all, I am not
totally blind, and still can read with the help of large-print books.
I've reached old age, no longer dependent on a so-called living wage. As my
stepfather once said, any day that you're still breathing is a good day. Or as
a comedian once said, if you're not in the obituary, eat breakfast. I shall
with a smile.
Yeah,
right. I repeat: Dorsett, stop kvetching!
2.
For
our nature book club, we recently read a very good book, The Bird Way, by
Jennifer Ackermann. We learned that 'bird brain' is an unfair characterization
of the neurology of birds. The neurons are small, yes but they pack a
whallop. Birds are even theorized to start fires, so they can have easy access
to stampeding prey. Some species, such as turkey vultures, use their keen sense
of smell to locate carrion. Corvids and parrots are amazing problem-solvers.
The species variation is great, although it’s hard to agree with the alas! part of pigeons on the grass,
alas, alas—pigeons are not the brightest bulbs in the avian kingdom, although
they are far from simple.
Observing birds closely, I
decided I needed to add a bird house to my back yard. My son Philip purchased a
see-through bird house of clear plastic which I could attach to my window.
This allows us to watch birds eat the feed we have placed in the bird house. We got to
know a cardinal pair, (Cardinal Joseph and Sunyatta) and Morris the squirrel;
plus a host of many other birds.
As you might imagine, it
inspired me to write a poem, “The Diaphanous Bird House,” which follows:
John feels
he has seeds left to scatter
Before he
unmatters forever--
Soon, on
the snowside of the glass,
Scarlet
amazement appears.
The
cardinal takes what Crumplejohn offers:
A handful
of protein, caraways seeds.
A robin
alights; a squirrel approaches;
Red wings
soar skyward; John disappears.
John’s ego disappears at the amazing sight; for a while there is no border between the world and him. (I hope he doesn’t come across as being too ‘crumpled.’) John was ecstatic, that is, beside himself with joy. A good approximation about how I felt.
O the
glorious existence of nature, who is neither a he, she, or it. Existence
without ego is the garden of Eden, which is populated not only by birds, but by (sometimes) wise flightless beings, us—we sometimes come close to reality
and all of us can put in effort to come closer. But there is a catch.
Birds are
‘nervous,’ always on alert for potential predators. . If, say, a sparrow weren’t
alert and ready to fly away at the slightest hint of danger, from a perceived
threat to a warning call from fellow feathered creature, how long would the
sparrow survive? If a sparrow’s perennial alertness relaxed, you’d find more
satisfied raptors in the world than there actually are. Birds have to be always
alert; if not, there wouldn’t be any birds.
So here’s
another reason not to kvetch. Humans are no longer prey to other animals. We
don’t have to worry—the vast majority of us, at least—that a tiger or bear is
going to pounce and remove us from Earth as efficiently as an eagle with a
mouse in its talons.
So be thankful! And let me end with a final kvetch. Human beings prey on each other. homo homini lupusi man is wolf to ,man. (Which is an insult to wolves; wolves need to hunt to feed fellow wolves; their ‘evil’ is thus severely limited.
So be thankful that planes overhead contain passengers and not bombs. Be thankful and do what you can to bring peace to those areas where planes drop bombs.
So let me be very thankful for what we have. While it lasts. Stop kvetching and start helping~ Kvetching doesn’t do any good. I have, in my old age, still a lot to learn.
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. He
increased my dosage of Sinemet, the mainstay in Parkinson treatment. This was a
four month follow-up.
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.
--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!
….Well,I'm seate--again.
I slwalk,
yet still practice my art. (I can!
Can
I still travel with walker and cane?)
My secret
is happiness: I still love! I still
breathe! Yet
the knives
in my knees haven’t crippled my heart.
What a privilege
it is to be humble! What a privilege it is to believe.
Thomas Dorsett, Colombia, 2024
My own heart let me more have pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort that I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet.
Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
's not wrung, see you, unforseen times rather--as skies
Betweenpie mountains--lights a lovely mile.
.jpg)
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.
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. 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.
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?”
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.
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.’ He admits that he is ‘comfortless' and finds
no way out from the hell he is in.
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.
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 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.
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.
A beautiful poem about a man who is stuck in a hell of his own making.
Two of my poems, along with the work of many other poets, appeared in the current edition (Vol. 10, Vo, 1, 2023).
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."
Consummation
A shriveled prune accepts its pit.
Mouse on a glue trap, why resist?
Phantoms burn; limbs toss and turn,
Face mind's mirror: who exists?
Silence is also communication.
Expect nothing at all from death.
God hasn't sent you a postcard'
Answer it! Answer it!
Nature's unsigned letter is enough?
Advanced age lacks consolation?
It's never to late to meditate;
What joy it is to finally give up!
The Soul
--for Esther Cameron
Everything is nothing to a star
Not to little you or me
With soul we thrive
Without it we flail
Even Leonardos nod
It's not in the pineal gland
With it we rise
Without it we fail
Martin Buber was right
Between us almost nothing yeasts
Despite lean and angry years
We're still at it
Whatever it is
It is
At Earlam we'll offer in each aging hand
the outstretched palm of Shiva, dancing
the it-doesn't-matter--though it-really-does
sidesteps of late middle-age.
On the telephone he tells me
half of Richmond
thinks he’s a terrorist,
while those
on campus whose idol is diversity
think he’s
very special since he’s brown.
He received
the mint chutney I sent him;
he broke up
with Ivana from Prague.
He switches
the subject to beef in French fries
and, not
that they should, but can’t they tell
a mullah
from Saudi Arabia
from a half
Catholic boy from Madras?
Shiva
intervenes with the sound of creation,
static. It bristles with loneliness.
Feminists,
curries, Foucault.
I tell him,
we’ll be there in June—
He, tossed
between drums and fire;
We, falling
beneath Shiva’s foot.
We arrive
at Earlam sixteen hours late.
He has a
new friend. Everything’s fine.
That night
she shows us new moves she’s taught him.
Right, left, one, two—We join in the dance.
Note: I'm putting together my sixth book--it may well be my last-- and found this poem in an old file. The subject matter concerns 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.
I forgot about Ivana from Prague, one of Ranji's Earlam friends!
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.
Oh, and thanks to Sudhir, Ranjit's uncle, for supplying the photo.
https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/592927301726877053/2023989654651543547
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.
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!!
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
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.
Hope you are too~ Keep doing what you love; love,
Blogger Thomas
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.
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.
Although I
almost lost my balance on several occasions since, that was the last time I fell.
If I did fall again, would I be able to get up? Probably, but I don’t want to find out.
In other words, I’ve made considerable progress in the past month: I walk better and talk louder--my wife can now hear me---my facial expression is more expressive. Best of all, I get up from a chair faster...
Not so
fast! 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.)
Guess Tom
wasn’t (re)built in a day!
In general,
things are looking up.
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, have done.
The scene,
excerpted from George Saunders’s novel, Lincoln in the Bardo, 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.
This image affected me deeply and was the springboard of the following four poems.
1. Meat
I’m meat,
as yet unrotting flesh,
Cells safe
from floods in Bangladesh
Only
because they live in a different mess,
About as
far from Dacca as difficulty can get.
What will
be left? Bones and ash,
Not-I shall rest unprotected though
Gratitude
while the fever lasts
Is
endearing in what might as well be
Pork. Fellowship and belief, imagine
Two holy
men in an arctic toboggin;
A distant
polar bear approaches;
Meat is all
it sees and smells—Imagine
Meat
sitting on a wheelchair in a forest;
Birds fly
by and leave the eyes intact
Because consciousness is breathing;
Mortality, ubiquitous predator, be
Patient; in the meantime, eat somebody else.
Microbacteria,
teams of teeming
Putrefactors.
you’ll just have to wait;
Life’s
still bloody good. Self’s more, self’s less.
2. The
Condign Response is Silence
The second
poem continues the theme of mortality,
If a
raptor-threatened chick
Appealed to
myths, it wouldn’t last
Three score
and ten seconds longer.
The instinct to survive is stronger;
That’s why
birds don’t give a peep
About
belief in heaven. Yet Christians think
Self’s
contained within God’s hands,
Despite
nature’s talons.
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?
3. more of
the same in a different vein.
Whole E.
Combustible,
Still got a
face? Have you exploded yet?
Impermanence!
Brothers and Sisters,
are you
enjoying what’s left?
Beneath the
surface of a waveless pool,
Is that
your imagined address?
“Óne
doesn’t see stars until it gets dark”
Indifference
is no consolation.
Scarebody wants to know—Really?
Existence!
Endless Scarebody fears love?
4, This one
I wrote this morning.
Meat beyond
meat are you; who?
Lincoln was
a remarkable steak;
Nevertheless,
all meat is fungible,
Muscle and
fiber, poet and miser,
Apple and lemon; intermittently
Glorious
gristle and immortal worm,
Consciousness,
meat with a name,
I, too, am
moody and grateful;
Why must I
come and go naked? Fall?
Yet with a
host of metaphors, admit it,
Meat
spirit, you’re heaven, you’re soil.
Nirmala and
I recently read, Lincoln in the Bardo, 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.
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.
The scene
takes place in the cemetery, with the corpse of Willie laid across lap of the
President.
The scene
begins with the following words: Outside an owl shrieked. (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.)
This
sentence is followed by Lincoln’s thoughts; I thought not to come here
again. Yet here I am. One last look.
(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.)
(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.
(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.
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.
Please, please, please.
(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.)
But no. This is superstition. Will not do.
(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.)
(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.
(At this point, the spirit of Willie, encourages his father to be wise.)
Come around, sir, to good sense.
(What does one gain after accepting the finality of death? What follows is
a remarkable passage.)
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.
He came out of nothingness, took form, was loved, and was always bound to
return to nothingness.
(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.
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.
Permanence is not an aspect of
objective reality. 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.)
(The passage continues.) Only I did not think it would be so soon. Or that he
would precede me.
(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.
Are you comforted? Lincoln asks himself. No. It is time to go.
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.
(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—
That’s it. Go ahead. Allow yourself to say that word.
I would rather not.
It is true. It will help.
I need not say it, to feel it, and act upon it.
It is not right to make a fetish of the thing.
I will go. I am going. I need no further convincing.
Say It, though, the truth. Say the word rising up in you.
Oh, my dear little fellow.
Absent that spark, this lying here, is merely—Say it.
Meat…
A most unfortunate conclusion.
(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.
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.
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.
(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!
