torches of/for totalitarianism
Yesterday, Pro-Tibet demonstrators, Reporters Without Boarders, disrupted the lighting of the Olympic torch in Athens. They were there to protest the Chinese government’s actions in Tibet. While some people were carried away from the podium, one woman doused herself in red paint, and fell down in the middle of the road. It reminds me of Mary Oliver’s poem about Tecumseh:
I would like to paint my body red
go out into the glittering snow to die.
And in other, similar news, many of the world’s top Marathon runners are boycotting the games altogether (including Haile Gebrselassie, world record holder), out of protest for the grave environmental problems in Beijing, or simple fear for their respiratory health.
Does anyone see a Clusterfu#& to the Olympics John Stewart graphic in the near future?
In 1963, David Halberstam, reporting for the New York Times, wrote about Thich Quang Duc, the Buddhist monk from the Linh-Mu Pagoda in Hue, Vietnam, who set himself on fire and burned to death out of protest for the Vietnam War:
I was too shocked to cry, too confused to take notes or ask questions, too bewildered to even think…. As he burned he never moved a muscle, never uttered a sound…
While I sincerely hope there are no scenes like this during the summer games, I think that these Olympics will draw some much-needed attention to some major issues. My Dad recently wrote about some of the Public Relations implications and the potential problems with advertising and sponsorships. For example, NBC has paid $2.3 billion to broadcast the Athens, Turin, and Beijing Olympics, but China has declared they will ban live broadcasts from Tiananmen Square. No one is commenting. My Dad ponders:
Wonder what happens if someone has to clear a body or two from the track
before the start of the 4×4 relay?
It’s a troubling question that I think will become more prominent in the next few weeks and months.
Also, I stole the title of my blog today, Torches of Totalitarianism, from Bill Sledzik, Public Relations Professor at Kent State University.
many are making love
Tomorrow I’ve been invited to host a Love Poem workshop for the writer’s club. And for the last six hours I’ve been staring at my computer screen trying to figure it out—what do I know about love poems? Type and erase. Type and erase. I worry, as I worry in all of my classes, that the students are too conservative for my poems on this topic. But I don’t know how many young poets’ truths align with Elizabeth Barrett Browning or Lord Byron anymore. No, I’d rather you didn’t compare me to a summer’s day. thanks.
I have about fifteen hours to figure it out. I don’t even know what my favorite love poem is. Probably Karen Kovacik’s, “Sapphic Sonnets” or maybe Robert Hass’ “The Privilege of Being,” which isn’t even a love poem, really. But what is?
Eureka!
still life and a world apart
I’ve been back in Akron for a couple days now. Tonight I went to dinner in Kent with Maggie, and while we were there, two trains blew past the tracks outside. That whistle I remember so well from 3ams in my apartment six miles away.
The table rumbled softly, re-foaming the Christmas ale.
It’s the first time I’ve been back in about six months, and I haven’t missed home as much as I missed it tonight. Driving the long way through the valley, the snow-downed trees, the office at night, Alice peeking in from the hallway, me in contemplation and waiting for Maggie to say something that I could rush home, write down, and keep close– to get me through another six months.
And the students in scarves on the icy sidewalks.
And ice-petrified buckeyes and acorns rolling across the unattended parking lots.
And the writing center posters, half chewed by passing unzipped book bags, reading series fliers crooked on bulletin boards, Summer Writing Workshop: Prague. Someone still looking for a non-smoking roommate who doesn’t mind cats.
It’s one thing to romanticize silence, and certainly another to be among it again and realize how much it can be missed. And I’ve written a lot in the last few months about one thing or another in the world of the artist—still life—afterlife—and so on, and I really believe I don’t know anything about anything.
Except that Northeastern Ohio is a quiet place. It’s a place with quiet people—hard working people who don’t try to fill up empty spaces with noise.
And how in six months, I almost forgot that.
