In Mythic Proportion

Common Place

Last fall I saw Bruce Begout speak on a panel about western American myth. His essay, “Common Place: The American Motel,” finds western themes of nomadicism and anonymity embodied in the motel, an idea that may be a philosopher’s musing more than a sociological occurrence, but a nonetheless apt observation. He describes the motel as an interstitial place, one that provides guests an escape into an anyworld.

Adding to the intrigue of “Common Place” is the fact Begout is a frenchman analyzing western myth from an outsider’s removed perspective. So far, I can see there are certain wonderings of his that might have been cleared up by the right interview with a local, but those small snags illuminate the unforeseen dimensions myth folds into itself as it perpetuates.

For a copy, go to: http://www.spdbooks.org/Producte/9780979617782/common-place-the-american-motel.aspx

Rick Santorum Borrows Campaign Slogan from Poet Langston Hughes

Well Rick Santorum has a speech writer with a direct channel to “the other side” or a severe misunderstanding of poetry because somehow a line from a Langston Hughes poem ended up as a campaign slogan on the former senator’s website. The line, “Let America be America again,” from the poem of the same name got a conservative makeover, reincarnating as “fighting to make America America again” when it splashed across Santorum’s website.

I can see how the slogan, general as it is, could have been written without reference to the Hughes poem. It does have the genuine ring of Washington rhetoric to it. But whether it was consciously borrowed or not, the connection now exists, a connection of which Santorum says he was unaware.

I can only imagine the tiny molecules of Hughes’ ashes turning over in their urn. A gay, mixed-race American who famously promoted the phrase “Black is Beautiful” and supported communist ideals, Hughes tireless fought to “make America America,” but his vision for America could not have been more different from Santorum’s.

Rick Santorum’s rap sheet is a melange of nightmarish conservative clichés. He wrote legislation to have intelligent design taught in public schools, told New Orleans residents they were “asking for it” (re: Hurricane Katrina,) believes English should become the official language of the US, and equates homosexuality with pedophila. But, hey, he supports animal rights.

In the midst of this gaffe, one can assume Santorum read, or perhaps skimmed with rage, Hughes’ poem of the American dream, the American myth. What must he have thought of the lines:

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I can guarantee a bill for 20 copies of The New Anthology of American Poetry is on its way to the spanking new headquarters of Santorum for President. Read up, interns.

Listen to “Let America Be America Again” read by Orland Bishop in the link below.

Put the Pedal to the Metal, Texas

Because 80 legal miles per hour are not enough, the Texas House just approved plans to raise the speed limit to 85mph. Now, I have driven through Texas five, maybe six times, and I get it— that blur of brown highway, the landscape so monocrome it doesn’t look like it’s moving— but an 85mph speed limit means drivers pushing past 90pmh without penalty, and accidents at 90mph look much more gruesome than those at 70mph.

So check your tire pressure, buckle your seat belt, and put the pedal to the metal when passing through Texas. (It may be the last thing you do.) And rock on, Texans.

Maybe it’s time for a Xeriscape

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/04/10/us/10grass.html?pagewanted=1&_r=1&sq=Phoenix&st=cse&scp=4

When these Phoenix homeowners faced fines for letting their lawns brown, (yes, Phoenix- the desert) they found a creative solution to their woes. Did they turn the sprinklers back on? No. Did they re-landscape with desert rock and cacti? No. They dyed their dead grass green. Maybe it’s time to take a few cues from Mother Nature. If you live in a desert and (admirably) don’t want to use the amounts of water necessary to keep grass thriving, why not consider the xeriscape?

While I’ve been familiar with Arizona’s popular rock landscapes since my childhood, (my family affectionately referred to my Grandmother’s lawn as “kitty litter”) I haven’t heard the term “xeriscape” thrown around until recently. It derives its name from “xeros” meaning “dry” in Greek. It’s gaining popularity among conscientious homeowners because of its sustainable, relatively water-free design. In the western states, there are a wealth of cacti and succulents available that require little maintenance and can be give your garden a more natural aesthetic. 

Dyed grass is just sad.

Where Children Sleep

What reveals more about a person than her bedroom? In his recent collection, photographer James Mollison looks at where children sleep across the world, giving us intimate glimpses into vastly differing lifestyles. The contrast between the photographs is at once an inspiring and colorful reminder of the rich variety of cultures in the world as well as bleak proof its inequities.

The hardcover book featuring his full collection of diptychs is available from chrisboot.com. For more check our Mollison’s website: http://www.jamesmollison.com/project.php?project_id=6

I Wouldn’t Open That If I Were You

In which a semi-famous composer in a Nehru jacket weaves a tale of espionage, royalty, and soda bread.

After a glass of wine the story took on a bewitching quality. The backyard was lit by the ambient glow from the house’s windows and a hundred tea candles. A man spoke to us in an amorphous accent (somehow French and also Irish) about a woman who, upon her death, was revealed to be a British spy of the highest caliber. The two had been friends, this composer and the spy, and and she had told him of her fondest memory of her service: In a private meeting with the Queen, the two grew hungry. The spy had in her napsack soda bread, but never ate snacks cold. Because they could not allow an attendant into their chambers, the spy wedged slices of bread into the grates of a floor heater to toast them. The spy and the Queen knelt on the ground, eating warm soda bread and whispering like children with secrets.

When the composer finished his story, I considered how I had misunderstood soda bread up to that point, having always imagined it as a thick cracker, when now it seemed to be a soft bread one could slice and toast.

The Commanding Structure of Things

Certain structures, structures that imply function, compel you to interact with them. Like any lever, a still wheel, or a small rubber button. How hard is it not to push that button?

A Name for Every One

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_colors