Cold-Hearted Dolts

Beginning Monday most college football teams will report to fall camp and begin preparations for next month's opening kickoff of the 2010 season. At this time of year my anticipation and excitement grow daily, for I am a huge college football aficionado. The college season is my favorite time of the year and I look forward to each Saturday's lineup of televised games. Give me the opportunity and I'll spend the whole day in front of the boob tube watching game after game. I'll watch Podunk vs. Slippery Rock if I can tune it in. I'm serious.

I generally try to stay out of the politics of college football. Politics and gigantic egos have ruined so many things in sports for me over the years that I'd like to keep just one pure passion for myself. As it is I have to turn a blind eye to much that is happening in the college game and try to not have it ruined for me by the sport's over-reactive usurpers, be they idiotic fans, dumb players, or stodgy old NCAA representatives.

But this story about Boise State and petty NCAA rules sticks in my craw. The NCAA is often horrible in its judgements and arcane rulings, but this one takes the cake.

Everything is a bureaucratic process these days, even the red tape surrounding death. Give me a break. The president of the NCAA should call the parents of the deceased recruit and apologize for his organization's utter callousness.

Those who lead by provoking fear are destined to fail. Get it together NCAA.


TS

Improvisation

Flurry of emails this morning regarding Charles Deemer's latest project. He has a great idea for a video project and I've been invited to join the fun. I'm looking forward to this, a chance to do a little method acting and show off my jowly cheeks on the interweb. He's approaching the project as improvisation, with a set of guidelines that will give the story cohesion and direction, which is the correct way to do improvisational work.

I once looked up the initial draft of Herzog's Aquirre, the Wrath of God; 15 pages of story with the important plot points and desired mood of the film delineated. That was it. The actors, including the great Klaus Kinski, improvised around the grand theme. What a brilliant film.

Believe it or not, I resemble Kinski somewhat. Without the hair, of course.

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Legging One Out

Alex Rodriquez is the youngest player to hit 600 home runs.

Which reminds me of a story. I played high school baseball and in my entire career I hit one home run. It was at Central High in Monmouth against a team we were supposed to beat because we were a larger school. I don't know how it happened, but I connected on a pitch and I connected good. The damn ball flew and flew and I can remember watching it a little too long like Barry Bonds used to do when he connected--it's an obnoxious habit--which was a mistake because the field in Monmouth had no fence. This meant the left fielder could chase the ball down no matter how far it rolled past him.

Understand that this ball was hit very deep. Had a normal home run fence been there it would have cleared it by twenty-feet. I mean this drive would have been out of any ballpark in the land that was fenced. Not there in Monmouth, however.

I finally took off running the bases. I was one of the guys the coaches always said looked like I was carrying a piano on my back when I ran as fast as I could. Running to second this time, I could see that left fielder had excellent speed and was catching up with the ball as it rolled in the outfield. I chugged around second, feeling heavy in the legs and breathing a mite too hard. I looked at the third base coach as I lugged toward the base and he was frantically waving me on, yelling "turn it! Keep going!" He had his right arm working like a windmill, the baseball sign that says "don't even think about stopping here."

Running, I glanced at the left fielder. Good lord, I realized. He had already picked up the ball and was getting ready to throw it to the shortstop who had run out halfway to meet him for a relay throw.

I looked at the third base coach again and he was still insisting I round the bag and head toward home. At that moment I'd have bet against myself making it, but I did as he said and turned toward the plate, arms and legs flailing in a seemingly stationary vacuum.

I could hear my teammates exhorting me to run harder. They were standing up, waving towels, cheering their heads off. I pumped my legs and arms, seemingly not moving, yet the home plate grew nearer and I could see both the catcher and the umpire preparing for a close call. It appeared I might have to slide into home and dirty my clean white uniform, and probably earn another raspberry (abrasion) on my ass for the effort.

The catcher crouched. The umpire peered closely at the plate and I went into the sliding motion, an instinctive baseball maneuver that can be risky if one is careless or indecisive. I've seen players break their ankles by sliding too close to the bag, or half-sliding, entangling themselves in a knot of their own making that could not be untied by any person other than an orthopedic surgeon.

So I committed to sliding and stretched out my left leg, kept my right leg bent and said here goes, "I'm gonna get dirty."

The ball came in from left field on a perfect peg from the shortstop and smacked into the catcher's glove just as my left toe grazed the lip of the plate. He tagged me an instant too late and the ump made the right call. I had hit an inside-the-park homer. My first and last.

My teammates jumped on me, slapped me on the back, high-fived me and laughed their heads off. That this play was even close was nonsensical. I'd hit the ball so far that even a moderately fast player could have easily scored standing up. But I'd watched the ball sail too long and then I'd used my blazing speed to make it interesting at the plate.

My teammates laughed for days afterward about my blast and the piano on my back and my coach just shook his head sadly and said, "Simons, I cannot believe you sometimes."

Well, he wasn't alone.

TS

Charles Lucas

Charles Lucas is an old friend and ceramic tile artist whose work I always found exceptional for its intricate beauty. At left is a picture of one of his tile-covered tables with an ornate, Middle Eastern motif.

I worked with Charles in the tile business for a number of years, and to watch him take the possibilities inherent in tile to such an elevated, artistic level was a great joy.

I haven't seen Lucas in a number of years, but I can tell by his website that he continues his quest to make tile art and continues to amaze with both his ideas and his commitment to utility and extraordinarily detailed beauty.

Check out his website and study the details in his pieces. You'll want to keep your checkbook at hand, too.

TS

Homage to Camille Pissarro

Pissarro, beloved Impressionist of the Seine,
Whose pictures were soaked in the blood
Of slaughtered animals by the mad Prussians,
Was no less a man for ignoring war.

Pissarro, who smiled privately, sketching
With burnt matches guileless Manet
On the table tops of Parisian cafes.
Pissarro, beloved friend of Monet.

Pissarro, who lingered in falling Paris
Under Prussian guns, who escaped death,
Fleeing without fifteen hundred lovely canvases.
Pissarro, beloved Artist of Le Havre and Honfleur.

Pissarro, whose wife bore him children
He could not feed, who desired to quit to
Live honorably, knowing there was no honor,
Not for Pissarro without beauty and light.

Pissarro, whose humor saved all his friends
But one, Bazille, who could not be saved
From Prussia’s brutal aim, from his honor,
Inflicted as he was with Pissarro and love.

Pissarro, beloved child of God,
Was no less noble than the aristocratic Degas,
Nor nobler than the laughing stock of Le Havre,
The darkly quiet miniaturist, Boudin.

Pissarro, exiled to London, unloved,
Scorned there for cowardice by moral men,
Who felt nothing for Art, nothing for Man.
Pissarro, courageous pacifist of France.



TS

The Entry

She walked into the room
She had it all
A lug nut nose ring
A snake tattoo slithering down her arm
Flame-red hair with a purple stripe
From nape to brow
An embroidered silk top that revealed
Her deep cleavage
Green pumps that revealed
Her perfect ankles
A black leather jacket strategically draped
Over her shoulder
Tiger-printed tight pants
She walked into the room
She didn’t say a word
She may have been looking for something
Or somebody
She looked dangerous
She fit right in


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Thirteen Ways of Looking at the American Flag

As a sari while scrounging for food in America’s winter dumpster.
As down payment on a hospital death bed.
As a promise to George Washington to uphold the U.S. Constitution while suspending habeas corpus.
As camouflaged team uniforms in the “war on terror.”
As message from God.
As wistful memory of the American Dream.
As dubious plot to make all men equal when they are surely not, never were and never will be.
As walk-off home run when doom seems certain.
As jealous amateur in a chili cook-off.
As highlight film in a vacuum-sealed plastic container in Baltimore.
As ideology before common sense.
As the silly advancement of technology.
As Bob Hope’s nose.


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Last Night by Marty Christensen

Marty Christensen was an arrogant pipsqueak who couldn't imagine I understood poetry, until I published this. Then I couldn't get rid of him.


Life was burning its bridges
all night while the giraffes stooped
down to eat the tiny leaves that had escaped
the hustle of the night before.
This jungle ruled by a dilation,
the moon between the trees a captive
audience of owls & snakes.
Bloodshot broken minds that saw the moon
& watched the stars without
much real understanding.
Just tedium.
Just bliss. A drum, a pipe,
the paraphernalia
of the night before.

Marty Christensen



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Notes from a Former Incarnation by M. Wilson

A very spiritual and religious man, Mark Wilson was a good friend from my early years in Portland. He wrote a number of freelance articles for the newpaper I worked for and contributed this poem to Cold Eye. Last I heard he was living in London and working for the Mother Teresa organization there.

Once I was soft,
easy, blind by being so anxious
to please women—
I chased them with words,
now they
have gone to listen
for other voices.
Kate!

The land is dry.
I am quiet, yet silence is a lie.
The common truth—my insides
scream to be touched.
The fact that these words serve
only to be seen, not heard,
attests to the fact that,
being so anxious to please women—
I lost my self.


M. Wilson

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A Moment of Silence After Words Spoken in Anger by Carol Knox

I met Carol Knox in the Goose Hollow Inn when I worked there in 1978. She heard I was planning to start Cold Eye and contributed this fine poem, which knocked me out in 1978 and remains one of my favorites from the tabloid.


During the night
a small cold wind grows
into a Northeaster.
The pond freezes so
quickly the goldfish hang suspended.
You can look down through the ice and see them,
caught in gleaming arcs perfect
as an infant’s fingernails.
It takes the space of several heartbeats to
realize they are already dead.


Carol Knox



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San Juan by Kathleen Hall

A very lovely poem from Cold Eye, my 70s literary tabloid. I've never met Kathleen Hall, but she is a very expressive writer. This is a fine poem that gets into the subject, paints a picture, and leaves a lasting impression of San Juan's peaceful essence.

In the bright
Friday afternoon
a whistling man in
a torn red sweatshirt
plants rows of radishes
and waters the patted earth
until it darkens and steam begins
to rise.

Two white gulls
cry and dance in the
air between sailboat masts
tilting in the harbor.


Kathleen Hall

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The Huncke Poems by Sam White

Herbert Huncke

Where is your soul?
Through the sunny fog
I heard your horn pass
by my cheap hotel window
on a stolen rug guided
by a rudder that I swore
was a shovel.
Just a glimpse reflected
my eyes from the neon sign
that flashed through silver and light.

Dutch Schultz Hotel

And you murmured in
search of your published book
not alone in that
seizure as others
were laughed at in city lights
bookstore.

Herbert Huncke

Where is your soul?
Is it not in that stolen
rug which the cheeks of
your ass so paregorically rested?

Herbert

Your soul lost forever
but Herbert where are you?

Texan Herbert

You know how low the
wind can stream in
the box camera Texas.
The land at your feet
plugged in by your
magic shovel your most
intense connection
with the earth.
Another spike and the
Camusian sun
boiling your face.

Herbert

Never in a bathtub
but on the wall I saw
your picture you on the
land with hungry cells
waiting for “god’s medicine”.
The sun hit you
in the face like
a nuclear neon.

Flash

Filtered by
sweat in
your hollow
eyes

the smile
stayed deep
left with
the soul
a fix to mourn.


Sam White


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Bugs

They don’t bite
you when you’re drunk
to the bone.
They crawl into
your sores and wait
for a sober moment,
gnash their tiny teeth
and save their strength.
They dream of eggs
and extended family,
cousins on skid row,
brothers slaughtered in
air-Raid attacks,
wives who have dropped
from sight or else joined
bug cults and turned to religion.
They thirst for blood
and wait for the perfect,
opportune moment to
avenge the loss of
their history.


TS

Ross Macdonald

His hard boiled alter-ego was Lew Archer, the sharpest detective on the West Coast for four decades. Ross Macdonald had a way with words, to be sure, but his biggest contribution to the private eye genre was his succinct appraisal of society throughout his creative life.

His characterizations are spot on involving an array of humanity’s archetypes. His depth of psychological insight is vast. He descriptive powers and use of metaphor are strikingly original and give great pleasure, like a woman awakening to her sexual prowess.

I’ve read quite a bit of Macdonald and I’m currently reading an Archer novel published in 1969. If you haven’t tried this lately, pick up one of his books and rediscover gems such as these from The Goodbye Look.

The young pink-haired receptionist turned from the switchboard. The heavy dark lines accenting her eyes made her look like a prisoner peering out through bars.

His eyes and voice were faintly drowsy with the past.

Pacific Street rose like a slope in purgatory from the poor lower town to a hilltop section of fine old homes.

She laughed a little. Her whole body was dreaming of the past.

She was flushed and brilliant-eyed, as if she was terminating an assignation.

I waited for nearly an hour. The birds in the brush got used to me, and the insects became familiar.

The rectangle of sunlight on the linoleum was lengthening perceptibly, measuring out the afternoon and the movement of the earth.

The yelp of Betty’s horn brought me out of a half-sleep.

Her words touched a closed place in my mind.

ETC., ETC.

What a great joy Ross Macdonald was. He died in 1983.


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Zinn Frightened the FBI

Chris Hedges on the edgy relationship between Howard Zinn and the FBI:

"Zinn, who died in January at the age of 87, did not advocate violence or support the overthrow of the government, something he told FBI interrogators on several occasions. He was rather an example of how genuine intellectual thought is always subversive. It always challenges prevailing assumptions as well as political and economic structures. It is based on a fierce moral autonomy and personal courage and it is uniformly branded by the power elite as “political.” Zinn was a threat not because he was a violent revolutionary or a communist but because he was fearless and told the truth."

Chris Hedges is a helluva journalist. Read the rest of the story here.

TS