Archive for January 1st, 2011

Roses In The Snow

I guess I am compiling here, intermittently, a list of Things That Have Got To Go. Manicured golf courses and big lumbering RVs. Nature-defying cities and money as the root of reality. Royal families and Rolls-Royces. $282,000 watches that don’t tell time and $988,845 in “spousal support” per  month. $26,000-per-night hotel rooms and anyone at all living like the current average American. And so on.

When I first realized I was doing this, I got The Fear: was I becoming the Khmer Rouge? Then I understood that I really wasn’t. Because it’s not like I want to punish people for these things, or even to enact laws against them. They’re just ludicrousities that are going to have to go away on their own, in the natural course of things, as the global ride gets bumpier.

The only place I harbor real Khmer Rouge tendencies, I think, involves those who leave soap in the sponge, so that when I go to wash out my cast iron, the pan is instantly despoiled. Those people definitely require a re-education camp.

Anyway, as I followed the recent lame-duck carnival in Congress, I encountered a piece that mentioned another Thing That Has Got To Go. And that is the fact that 90% of the cut roses that Americans shower upon one another come Valentine’s Day are grown outside the US, with somewhere between 60% and 72% of these coming from Colombia.

furthur=>

New Year’s Resolution

when my cue comes
call me
and i will answer

my next is “most fair pyramus”

heigh-ho

peter quince
flute the bellows-mender
snout the tinker
starveling

god’s my life
stolen hence
and left me asleep

i have had a most rare vision

i have had a dream
past the wit of man to say what it was

man is but an ass
if he go about to expound this dream

methought i was—
there is no man can tell what
methought i was

and me thought i had—
but man is but a patched fool
if he will offer to say what me thought i had

the eye of man hath not heard
the ear of man hath not seen
man’s hand is not able to taste
his tongue to conceive
nor his heart to report
what my dream was

i will get peter quince to write a ballad of this dream
it shall be called bottom’s dream

because it hath no bottom

—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream


When I Worked

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