Quillsby's Quip: Bay Area Rapid Trash Talk

"Hmmm, our so not highly performing public transit service wants to raise rates again for less service and greater parking fees. Remind me again what BART stands for. Oh, that's right: Beastly Abominable Reprobate Transport. You know - the kind of thing you get at great public expense with little results."

Sound-byte Doltishness

I am unfamiliar with President Obama's prospect to fill the vacancy on the Supreme Court; but I am more than acquainted with the ridiculous clipping of commentary those cast into the sudden glare of the spotlight find themselves bracing against. This nominee, Judge Sotomayor, deserves serious consideration from everyone. However, in the land of perverse politics she is already being denigrated, and her statements parsed without context. Racism has been trotted out and lashed as a banner over the mast of her ship in the most recent smear attempt.

We should be smart enough to comprehend that being aware of race, and the nuances of it in America, is not equivalent to being a racist. Sotomayor's take that a Latino woman might come to different conclusions than a White man is mere common sense. Just as we are not solely defined by our cultural heritage, neither are we homogenous drudges living easily circumscribed tableaus.

Can we actually spend our time with greater wisdom and examine her qualifications? One wonders if the US politicians are capable of having rational debate with facts in evidence. Or has the roar of the sound-byte smothered and murdered reason?

Memory is Life

Summer approaches and the wheel turns with the year's progression. The anniversary of the loss of my father draws near. I continue to experience a sense of displacement and stunned bewilderment, as if nothing is real; all is wrapped in a translucent haze of albumen. Memorial Day evokes for me not only those who have given their lives in service but those who have touched and been intimate to my life, whether human or other. Yesterday, on the holiday, I attended a birthday party for a new friend and learned that one of his dogs had transitioned that morning. Once more I summon the wizardry of words to ward, to re-stabilize, the magic of existence. This is for you Robert and James:

On Death and Remembrance

Life's velutinous web,
we are reminded just now,
is frail but endures

Lives on eternally
in the lacework of memory
reviving and imbuing

Begets anew the circle
dirge to morning song
mourning to love recalled

The Awakening of Dreams

We forget in the bustle of life those dreams which moved us in our salad days, and in this slump of disregard, a little of ourselves becomes dead tissue; papering over the life we have desired with a film of the mundane and mediocre. In this time of disassociation we can connect best with ourselves by rekindling the pyre of bygone reveries:

Nuevo Suenos

Because he could not fly,
he chose instead the Art of Building
and followed the threaded path
of soaring constructions and vaunted erections,
winging his way over edifices
assembled from the stuff of reality
in the practical guise of fulfillment

Success, that fickle master,
lay like a shiny coin in his palm,
and beset him from all sides
hemming in his creativity
and depositing it in a bank
molded by business acumen
but embattled by the idiocy
of management run amuck:
he found his competentcy
reflected in a pool of ignorance,
the chains of corporate responsibility
wound tightly about, encircling
his avid mind, and bit by bit
tarnishing the gilded edge,
until he knew the tables had turned
and he was the coin in the machine

On a morning, as he prepared
for the routine cycle, he perchance
spied a robin chirping in its nest,
welcoming the bright fillaments
of Life with the simplicity of being,
and memories, which had lain dormant,
waked from the attic of the mind;
he recalled the original desire,
the colorful mural of his youthful soul,
felt the incompleteness of the pattern,
and panted after the navigation
of the heavens, unbridled in form
mounting once more the vision
of flight unencumbered by society:
it was time, he noted simply,
the period of dreams had swung
its pendulum, projecting outward
where the future waited patiently
coalescing from gossamer wisps
to a vibrant canvas with his stylus
poised to draw a new reality

Simplicity and Conveyance

I adore the lushness of Romantic poetry, and it moves me in ways which few in this modern time can appreciate; but their is power of expression also in succinctness. None exemplifies this better than the work of Jacques Prévert. As with my homage to Baudelaire, I have selected an exquisite piece of Prévert's oeuvre and written a response which captures the perspective from a different angle.

Last Breakfast

She pulsed the grinder
powdering the beans
She poured the dust
into the shiny press
She added the water
to the kettle
She lit the gas
fire under the kettle
And sat back to wait
Her eyes speaking volumes
She folded the towel
She creased the edges
with corniced flourishes
She tapped the press
absently clinking
Her eyes speaking volumes
Her gaze elsewhere
She poured the water
She depressed the dome
into the glass
She waited
She lifted the press
Because it was ready
She dispensed
liquid into the cup
Her lips motionless
Her eyes speaking volumes
She sipped
never seeing him
and she
She walked away
out the door
out of his arms
never glancing back
to what was behind

Silence is broken: Hope you did not hope too hard

At the behest of a friend (yes, Judi, you) I have been biding my time (and tongue). I was asked to give our new President and his claque a reasonable amount of space to begin implementing his policies before commenting; in this friend's opinion my style and manner may sometimes come across as ad hominem but then we all know the quip about opinions and, er, fundaments{smile}.

Naturally, this means that I have a backlog of thought and feeling which now seeks expression, craves release in a written medium. I have recovered from my brief stint, the warm escape and balm, in Brazil and once more am ensconced in the native soil of mundane existence. My country is troubled on various fronts, chief among them the crisis and insolvency of leadership which has resulted in the crise économique. For the average citizen concerns have shifted from expansive ideals of where to vacation and what to buy to preserving the sanctity of hearth and home, wresting what they may from the ravenous jaws of disregard and greed.

Our federal government - first last fall under the auspices of erstwhile President Bush and now secure in the aegis of President Obama - has followed an abortive scheme of continuing to bailout fruitless financial institutions with the vaunted hope that these firms will extend lending to citizens and prop up the rapidly failing burg of the economy. Instead, this has had the opposite effect of insulating a particular class from economic ruin, essentially creating an aristocracy not allowed to feel the chill winds of national calamity while the garden-variety denizen languishes in hopeless despair.

If the government's goal was to give succour to Citizens Joe and Jill, then why provide monetary security to reckless banks without any oversight, consequences or clear direction? It would have been far more advantageous to let those firms meet their demise, and use the taxpayers' dollars to create a national bank where there was direct control and supervision. If I were to posit to conservatives the notion of an extremely risky investment where your returns are uncertain and your input was nil, very few would leap at this as a golden opportunity. Yet some of the most conservative legislators were the loudest voices in support of this boondoggle. (Not that the Left was much better, as they were thronging about in hero-worship for their new Demiurge). So much for change, Mr President; your ringtone is stuck on the unrestrained melody of status quo.

Celebration of Life and Dance

In darkness it is the flare of the drum

which pulses life, brighter than the flames

of fire ringed about: it is the seminal voice;

as the beating of wings it blazes outward,

inaugurating the call to unsteady limbs,

come one, come all – let joy commence

Brother leg speaks to Sister foot, rousing

and conjoining, bestirring to the beckoning,

never you mind the weariness of day

Cousin toe tells Uncle heel, throw off cares,

well worn worry has no claim when

Mother rhythm sounds her summons, breaks

the stillness into which we settle, to hibernate away

step lively now and mind that you attend

Father Vigor's invitation to the banquet,

hear the bustling reeds, the flourishing branches,

the kingly courting of the lion, the majestic rush

of wind born on the tongue of the parrot,

see the owl swoop, utter its aria as the prey

rings out a threnody, brief ecstasy of ending

a splash of sound declaring the opening

here we go, whispers Aunt thigh to Baby joint,

into the assemblage, gathering momentum

first the clapping of hands, followed closely

by the thumping of feet, enlivened heartbeat

chased at a rush by quickened blood, throbbing

animal cries mingled with human yearning

the frenzied abandon of Dance materializes

all succumb to the sensual appeal, love unfurls

lovers intertwine, mothers sway and fathers swagger

the village of the world worships as one, receiving

the blessing of vivacity, free of burden, remembering

that all is briskness and movement -

con brio, amore; con brio, il mio cuore

Bailout - The Economic Dilemma

The tumult of economic woes persists as Merrill Lynch just stays afloat by brokering a deal to sell themselves to Bank of America and Lehman Brothers flounders with a definitive flourish from Treasury that it will not sanction another unholy bailout marriage at the taxpayers expense. But this latter action creates the atmosphere of a moral dilemma. If Bear Stearns deserved a 29 million dollar sweetner to cuckold JP Morgan Chase, how does Paulson explain away why Lehman Brothers is not suitably worthy? After all the government has been interventionist barely a week past in securing Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. I suppose the shell game does wear thin as the collapses expand and the neatly erased demarcation between Wall Street, Treasury and the Federal Reserve appears more stark. Of course, the white elephant in the room is the greater ethical query: Why is it that government can find the political will to aid and underwrite the losses of corporations yet utilizes the language of wellfare when it comes to helping Citizens Joe and Jill maintain limb and liberty and stay in their place of residence? Someone should remind the mandarins of economic prowess that even in a card game an ace every now and then does not sustainable policy make. Crumbs from the table of the rich man did not keep Lazarus from death, and all his fine linen and purple garb did not secure the wealthy man the seat of heaven. The train is hellbound, folks; and more revelations will ensue. Watch carefully or you may think that sow's ear they are pulling out of the hat really is a rabbit.

Movie Review: Tell No One, Secrets Live Under The Flesh

Brutality warps the pastoral lull of a romantic evening on an enclosed lake. Dr. Alex Beck (in the person of Francois Cluzet) is assaulted, knocked senseless and awakens to find that his beloved wife Margot (Marie-Josee Croze) has been murdered by unknown assailants harboring inexplicable motives. After eight years, the morose pediatrician still cannot resolve the questions and a thin thread of guilt which gilds his every horizon; but a chance discovery at that same lake begins the unravelling of a skein which implicates him as a prime suspect and throws doubt that a convicted serial killer was responsible.

Frantically, Beck begins searching for clues as to what really happened and trying to push beyond the veil of darkness enshrouding his memory from that night. He speaks with his wife's parents at their annual gathering to memorialize her death, orders a copy of the autopsy and starts piecing elements of the crime together. He receives mysterious emails which show videos of his wife, possibly in the present. Meanwhile, the investigation is reopened and another violent murder concluded. Beck, accused in both cases and forewarned that the police are about to arrest him, makes a spirited escape and is pursued. The action here is realistic and gritty: the chase on foot by the police lacks the artificial quality found so frequently in films, and once can see from the exertions of Cluzet and several principals of the force how vividly shot this segment must have been.

What is most interesting and engaging about this movie is that all of the characters - Bruno, the street punk Beck turns to for aid, the enterprising defense lawyer, the ambitious DA, the varied personalities of the police, the father-in-law - are not overly pretentious and yet fulfill their roles without a hitch. We are not overstuffed with details concerning each and there is no attempt to resolve all the loose strands, as in life such resolution is often not in the offing. The plots and subplots feel real, feel as if each person is simply living their life in the style and manner consistent with where they are in terms of it.

Fortunately, this extends itself to the principals. Cluzet is nuanced and unstudied. Even as bits of truth wrapped in lies stitched with more truths surface, Beck's morality remains constant. Where it is evident that this morality could conflict his own interest and has in the past, he persists. He cannot be other than what he is and that is a huge draw for the viewer.

Unlike other movies of this genre, it brings in an [effective] use of flashbacks and is as much mystery, romance and despair as thriller. Equal measure is given to all parts, and relationship issues - Beck and Margot at the beginning, Beck's sister (Marina Hands) and her lover (Kristin Scott Thomas) in a heightened exchange, the two police detectives, defense attorney Nathalie Baye and the DA, Bruno and his compatriot - are given full vent, forming a verite which injects believability ubiquitously through the film.

At its denouement, we are left with a bygone memory which quietly whispers that though innocence has been corrupted, it is nonetheless not forgotten.

Quillsby Quip of The Day

Says Sable Quillsby, "This Presidential race is shaping up into a rather wonderful menagerie; we have a black sheep, an old goat, a rouged bulldog and a wizened bison's head: a veritable American Animal Farm. Certainly, the plantation remains in stable hands and on course. Napoleon did you say? Bah! We've got Obamination and McSame serving in execess of 30 billion."

Absurdity in Presidential Politics: Lipstick 101

Well, politics as usual are back in the forefront of the news. Republicans, in a continued attempt to pander for a gender-specific votes, have trenched into the latest nadir of the Presidential season. It is more than dishonest to take a comment obviously intended for one purpose - the pork-barrel repackaging of McCain's economic policies to be inline with the current Bush(whacked) Administration - and slanderously apply it as a red-herring insult to your bullish running mate. One would have to inquire of Maverick McCain how this squares with the carefully cultivated straight-talking image he constantly promulgates as a hallmark of his character; but the hot winds of duplicitous, arrant, self-involved righteousness might be too deafening to penetrate. We should not forget that Governor Palin compared herself in the grand debut to a bulldog wearing lipstick. So should we logically conclude that a self-styled anthropomorphic reference is of lesser injury than another? Especially as the alleged second case was not aimed at the mulish want-to-be VP. Or is the Republican faith so amorphous that things mean only what they mean when they decided in that instance the meaning?

Oops! Now they will be saying that I called her a bull and a mule. Oh, well. Let the absurdity continue. There are a few bestiary allusions I could draw on for all the candidates but I will beg off from maligning the nobility of animals.

Questionable - A Poem

There is always
a question as to
whether I exist:
am I dreaming
this nightmare reality?
do I recognize
this brutish form?
Or am I character
in a post-modern novel?
a fiction of film?
perhaps, I am
the lingering thought
of a lost culture,
an alien seed
planted firmly in
unfamiliar soil;
sometimes I wake
in the dark hours,
wandering and wondering,
whittling away
this unfashioned clay,
trying to conceive
who and what I might be
But only the question
seems to have substance,
and so I relax
into the relapse
of the benumbed mind,
sliding tight the lid
on the crucible
of my uncertain awareness,
and drift into fantasy,
vowing to make myself
whatever I choose to be

Obama 2008: Vainglory is thy name

Running for high office in our republic (I really choke on the word democracy as we are a republic with democratic values as opposed to a pure democratic society) has always meant men (and women) who seek the laurels of public service (yea,right! neither for the public nor of service) usually have passed their egos at GO on the way to the super ego at Park Place. There is generally a certain arrogance belying even the grandest fashion charades of self-involved humility. Not for nothing is Pomp and Circumstance hauled out and trumpeted at any significant [political] event.

In the unfolding of the Democratic Convention last week, we were treated to the latest brand of solipsistic indulgence. Obama, touting the banner of Change Incarnate, proceeded to select a consummate Washington insider as his Vice Presidential champion. Never mind that those leaders who are fresh in the political realm and inline with his bandied about mantra of hope and renewal (Webb, Kaine and Sebelius among others) were passed over for a milquetoast who barely made a splash in his own bid for the Presidency during the primaries; nor even the glacial cum ice-water drift of his campaign towards more centrist views. His choice confounds the imagination as it is nowhere grounded in reality.

If one were going to select someone who is familiar with internecine labryinths of the national politics, why not choose the woman who nearly matched you in every contest up through the run-up to the convention? Besides the stunning 18 million voters who attached themselves to her camp, Hillary Clinton can deliver purple-robed states which can swing in either direction amidst the political gales churning throughout the country. Of course, if you are focused on winning that would be the smart, if not necessarily easy on a personal level. Once again ego and emptiness trump common sense and competency.

Sure you might have to swallow your gorge and deal with fiery debates within your administration but you would be handed the silver chalice on a velvet pillow. If change were the chief momentum behind Obama's movement, it would be evident that obtaining the gold is worth the sacrifice. Instead we detect the distinct whiff of hubris cloaking inexperienced brinksmanship.

Does anyone have a handkerchief that I can borrow to avoid the stench?

Moment of Reflection - Opposition

To curse the darkness is to reject the light,
to deny the pain is to shun the pleasure,
to refuse the moment of silence is to avoid speaking wisdom,
to ignore blindness is to vacate sight,
for we live in the defined and the undefined,
each touching the other and imparting meaning

Commentary on the nature of the Divine

Divinity is the sum total of all things. Religions celebrate an aspect, and sometimes a multiplicity of representations but the Divine surpasses all and encompasses all.

It is neither male nor female but both inextricably bound. Even where the feminine has been stripped from faiths some unspoken, innate yearning trickles in the cracks and resurrects it; for yang cannot exist without yin. Thus, Christianity ennobles both Marys, mother and whore, and Judaism is abutted by the Shekinah. The Sufis have their Layla, the feminine night which manifests the Divine Reality without borders, to accompany the questing Majnun, he not of the normal mind. They are made whole as One and together are the Divine. Allah, the One of Islam, is equally referred to as Huwa (He) and Hiya (She).

When we see others as separate from Self is the moment we step away from seeing the Divine and outside the boundaries of Truth. To recoil from another is to recoil from yourself. Embrace the world and embrace yourself: because you are a reflection of the Divine.