The Breaking Time

Poems for Friday: Ulysses

I must apologize, readers, for the fact that I've let the last few Fridays go by without a poem here. Alfred Tennyson's Ulysses is an old favorite, to the extent I can't believe that I haven't posted this here before. It's old-school: long and word-rich in that way that leaves the reader stuffed, almost too much. But, hell, they're incredible words.

July's simmered over the landscape, from D.C. to Asheville. One might be forgiven for the bits of this poem that drift up, complete with a sense that younger days are long past, and the sword rusted more than any want to admit.

It little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink 

Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd 

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vext the dim sea. I am become a name; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known,-- cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honor'd of them all,-- 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades 

For ever and for ever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains; but every hour is saved 

>From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 

to whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,-- 

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill 

This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 

A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 

Subdue them to the useful and the good. 

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 

Of common duties, decent not to fail 

In offices of tenderness, and pay 

Meet adoration to my household gods, 

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; 

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me,-- 

That ever with a frolic welcome took 

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 

Free hearts, free foreheads,-- you and I are old; 

Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. 

Death closes all; but something ere the end, 

Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; 

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends. 

'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and sitting well in order smite 

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; 

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' 

We are not now that strength which in old days 

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,-- 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

 

"Your kids are no stupider than their grandparents"

Clio rolls her eyes at your historical ignorance. Painting by Pierre Mignard.

A column from Nick Paumgarten in The New Yorker on America's lack of historical knowledge drops some essential wisdom:

The federal government has spent nearly a billion dollars in the past ten years to teach history to history teachers, but the money is no match for countervailing initiatives and trends—No Child Left Behind, and its emphasis on reading and math; the rise of social studies; the tyranny of the unobjectionable textbook; widespread faintheartedness in the face of cultural and political discord; and stronger pot.

And yet it may be that, while kids aren’t getting better, they’re not getting worse. The history of history-education evaluation is littered with voguish pedagogy, statistical funny business, ideological arm wrestling, a disproportionate emphasis on trivia, and a protocol that insures that each generation of kids looks dim to its elders. “We haven’t ever known our past,” Sam Wineburg, a professor of education and history at Stanford, said last week. “Your kids are no stupider than their grandparents.” He pointed out that the first large-scale proficiency study—of Texas students, in 1915-16—demonstrated that many couldn’t tell Thomas Jefferson from Jefferson Davis or 1492 from 1776. A 1943 survey of seven thousand college freshmen found that, among other things, only six per cent of them could name the original thirteen colonies. “Appallingly ignorant,” the Times harrumphed, as it would again in the face of another dismal showing, in 1976. (And it’s not just Americans: an infamous 2004 survey revealed that a small percentage of Britons aged sixteen to twenty-four believed that the Spanish Armada was vanquished by Gandalf.)

Admittedly, Gandalf vs. Armada is pretty awesome. It's particularly ironic that the perpetual scare over the next generation's lack of historical knowledge is itself ignorant of history. For at least a decade I've seen an e-mail purporting to show the decline in educational standards compared to an 1895 eighth-grade test (Snopes has a debunking). Of course, the reason the history part of the test is partly indecipherable is because it relies on ways of grouping epochs that were the voguish pedagogy of the 1890s. That even the historically educated don't remember those is no particular loss.

I lucked up on history. I had a natural talent and interest furthered by some incredible teachers. In retrospect, I think I got just about the best historical education available in public schools. I ended up with the highest possible score on my AP US History exam, and a year's worth of college history credit (my struggles with math are a contrasting story).

Paumgarten's column is dead-on on a number of fronts. History remains contentious (if you doubt this, go look at the YouTube comments for any video relating to the Civil War or Ireland). Parents want some control over their school systems and, in America, they have it through school boards.

So the really juicy, interesting parts all too often get left out in favor of bare-bones facts with little context. If my teachers hadn't had tenure, I don't like to think about what would have happened to them after some of their lessons. I wrote my final AP exam, for example, on labor struggles in the late 19th/early 20th centuries, including the Triangle Shirtwaist fire. Can you imagine the outcry in some quarters against any teacher that honestly addressed that topic?

With its competing interpretations and ambiguities, history makes for a tougher sell than the clearer nuts-and-bolts answers of hard science education. Its benefits, while quite real, don't measure easily in terms of the economic development that obsesses many reformers.

Beyond that, is the fact that better historical education is essential to deal with the rapidly changing world we inhabit. But that's not commonly a hallmark of most educational systems, and the way tests are geared ensures a steady supply of statistical talking points to bolster the Woe-is-Us industry, just as it did in the last century. Improving that doesn't involve going back to some bygone era, but an actual evolution forward, in the teeth of those who would rip out of education everything that doesn't fit on a damn balance sheet.

Poems for Friday: With god on our side

This is definitely an intermission-tastic poem day, due to the pace of the work week. Bob Dylan's birthday was this Tuesday, and WNCW marked the occasion by playing covers of his work. Like Leonard Cohen, Dylan's poetic style has proved wonderfully infectious, with some of the covers exceeding the originals.

The one below, "With god on our side," by the Neville Brothers, is one of the best Dylan covers I've heard. The video is mediocre, the song superb. Happy Friday, everyone.

Heaven can wait, we're only watching the skies

In case you were wondering, here's a chart. Larger version here.

According to some calculations, most seeming to stem from the fundamentalist preacher Harold Camping, this Saturday, May 21 is the Rapture. Among those who do not hold with this, the typical reaction seems to be "party!"

While predictions of imminent apocalypse have a long pedigree, and one not just confined to Christianity, the Rapture is a recent and mostly American invention, arising out of 18th century Puritanism.

Growing up in the rural part of the Bible Belt, where mainstream and open-minded denominations rubbed shoulders with the more esoteric fundamentalists, this idea in particular always struck me as among the strangest. I remember a particular religious bookstore with a bargain bin of apocalypses, containing predictions that Gorbachev, hippies, AIDS and computers, among others, were signs of an imminent end.

At one point, around 4th grade, I acquired the sort of fascination with the concept that only a child can muster. After taking down a Bible and skipping forward to Revelation, I decided that the world would end the next week, around 10:40 in the morning, during the language arts portion of class. I waited quietly at my desk, inwardly relieved when the appointed time arrived and my teacher was not devoured by serpent beasts. Or harlots, for that matter, who I assumed were some type of badass female supervillain.

Later, I understood the roots. Poverty and upheaval are key to the American story, creating fertile soil for visions — not just religious or Christian — of sudden triumph. It is a hard world, and those who endure long enough would dearly love for the sky to open in their favor, just once.

In best secular fashion, more and more people are getting in on the celebration, and NPR is even asking for a soundtrack. After all, in my lifetime, we've had the Bomb, homegrown terrorists, Y2K, foreign terrorists and economic strife. As long as I can remember, things far more real than Rapture have loomed.

But here we are, still alive, throwing a party. Heaven can wait, we're only watching the skies.

Ode to apolitical scientists

I'm mostly tied up with journalism work this week, but it's a good time to highlight this classic gem from Tom Lehrer, an ode to Wernher Von Braun, patron saint of "apolitical" scientists. It's funny, and a lovely thing to keep in mind the next time someone idealizes science without all those inconvenient "limits," or, for that matter, tries to pretend that the estimable profession is something more than humans, pursuing a human method of understanding.

Democracy is coming

I am an unrepentant Leonard Cohen fan, and one of the keys to his genius is his poetic brilliance. "Democracy," originally a good song, gains a new power spoken, in this old piece from the United States of Poetry.

It's today's poem and, I hope, tomorrow's.

Poems for Friday: There is another sky

Winter Solstice Lunar Eclipse from William Castleman on Vimeo

Immersed as I am in the holiday season, I felt it time to bring the Friday poetry feature back with a decidedly non-holiday poem. I've always loved this piece from Emily Dickinson, and the first part, especially, I've always found haunting in the best possible way. Raise a glass; everything ends up eclipsed.

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!

Stranger Than Fiction: superheroes in Seattle

"Phoenix Jones," (the Guardian of Seattle, natch) part of the Rain City Superhero Movement, poses with an unidentified (and seemingly quite mystified) police officer. Photo via SeattlePI

I chose the main title of this post for a reason. There are some events you can simply, absolutely, not make up. For example, Seattle is currently plagued/beset/graced by its own superhero movement. Via an interesting article from Seattle PI:

Vigilante justice has come to Seattle, and the caped crusaders drive a Kia.

Seattle police say a group of self-described superheroes have been patrolling the streets at night trying to save people from crime. They call themselves the Rain City Superhero Movement and say they're part of a nationwide movement of real-life crime fighters.

The national website -- cited in a police bulletin sent to Seattle officers Wednesday -- states "a Real Life Superhero is whoever chooses to embody the values presented in super heroic comic books, not only by donning a mask/costume, but also performing good deeds for the communitarian place whom he inhabits."

Police say the "costume-wearing complainants" are lucky they haven't been hurt.

In one instance, police say a caped crusader dressed in black was nearly shot when he came running out of a dark park. In another case, a witness on Capitol Hill saw the crusaders wearing ski masks in a car parked at a Shell station and thought they were going to rob the place.

Police got the license plate and found those masked characters drove a Kia Fate registered to one of the character's godmothers, department staff said. She told police her godson goes around doing good deeds.

It gets even better, as the superhero "movement" (blame my poli-sci background, but they've got to get a little bigger before they've earned the title) seems to combine laudable things like a desire to do good in one's area and forge your own identity with a large dose of delusional batshit and old-fashioned subcultural sniping:

Investigators identified nine people dressed in costume going around Seattle after dark. A police source said the characters go by Thorn, Buster Doe, Green Reaper, Gemini, No Name, Catastrophe, Thunder 88, Penelope and Phoenix Jones the Guardian of Seattle.

But don't listen to Captain Ozone or Knight Owl, police were told. They're apparently not part of the group.

Yeah, fuck those posers.

Police say another incident with the self-proclaimed superheroes came about 3 a.m. Nov. 4 at Sixth Avenue and South King Street in the International District.

Police responded to a harassment complaint and found Phoenix the Guardian of Seattle dressed in a "black colored Batman costume and a black ski mask," department spokesman Jeff Kappel said.

He was standing with four other men and one woman, all in costume with their faces covered by ski masks and bandanas. They were dealing a man making threatening statements and swinging a golf club.

Police took the golf club as evidence. The "costume-wearing complainants" refused to press charges because they didn't want to identify themselves to officers, Kappel said. So the suspect walked.

Wow. Hell of a dipshit move there.

Honestly, I'm surprised this didn't happen before. Superheroes have been a cultural concept for the better part of a century and, after awhile, people in search of something truly different start to do really strange and/or awesome things based on those concepts. Naturally, this tends to result in some insanity along with innovation and costume-bedecked violence is certainly nothing new in society. It's hard not to see that in the superhero statement that ends the article: "You can inspire people to believe they can CREATE themselves a symbol and embody it --- and it's not a lie." There is something there, at least in the ideal.

The problem, however, is the execution. Inherent in the superhero mythos is the "super" part of the equation. Even if the superhero movement's people are, as Phoenix Jones (the Guardian of Seattle!) claims, all MMA and ex-military badasses, they're not Bruce Wayne. Or Superman. Or Black Canary. No one is. This ain't the damn comics and even those who walk out of a serious fight on the winning side tend to be pretty badly injured.

As it is now, it doesn't seem like Seattle's costumed crime-fighters can keep one golf-club wielding maniac from walking. One street gang set, who lack costumes, ballistic cups or aliases but often have a willingness to use guns and numbers, would probably finish them pretty easily. Alternatively the police (also big on guns and numbers, for a reason) could just arrest them if they become too much of a nuisance. A Kia will not outrun a patrol car.

Prediction: if this continues, it's only a matter of time before one of these superheroes ends up in the hospital, jail or the morgue. Or they could become more practical, dial back the costumes, find a money source, seek strength in numbers and just become a regular old gang. If you think I'm kidding, look at the origins of urban neighborhood gangs or the Tongs. It's a surprisingly slippery slope from vigilante community protectors to straight-out organized crime.

Look at it this way, though: for decades numerous comic writers have wondered what would happen if superheroes existed in the real world. They may just get their answer.

"An outlet for private grievances and frustrations"

Okay, maybe not the perfect pic, but I couldn't resist

I stumbled upon this quote from Arthur Schlesinger's 1949 work The Vital Center on a number of sites recently, and I think it's relevant to some of the problems in current governance I've written about here before. Like most problems, these aren't anything new, just a magnification of and inability to deal with what's always existed.

I disagree with Schlesinger on plenty of issues, but this is dead on. He was talking about a particular tendency — one he dubbed "the Doughface" — in modern leftist movements and one that, sadly, seems to have only grown, but the insight should be extended to any stupidly perfectionist strain of politics run rampant in our Breaking Time:

The weakness of impotence is related to a fear of responsibility — a fear, that is, of making concrete decisions and being held to account for concrete consequences. Problems are much simpler when viewed from the office of a liberal weekly than when viewed in terms of what will actually happen when certain ideologically attractive steps are taken. Too often the Doughface really does not want power or responsibility. For him the more subtle sensations of the perfect syllogism, the lost cause, the permanent minority, where he can be safe from the exacting job of trying to work out wise policies in an imperfect world. Politics becomes, not a mean for getting things done, but an outlet for private grievances and frustrations. The progressive once disciplined by the responsibilities of power is often the most useful of all public servants; but he, alas, ceases to be a progressive and is regarded by all true Doughfaces as a cynical New Dealer or a tired Social Democrat.

Intermission, with music (and swords)

Yeah, it's been dry here this week, dear readers, and for that you have my sincere apologies. I suppose I could make the usual mumblings about being tied up with a heavy journalism workload or busy trying to set up an awesome film festival for my fellow Ashevilleans. All things that are nice and (relatively) sober.

No, those sneaky Germans at Silver Strain snuck out (terribly bootlegged) footage of what I and my terribly decadent friends have really been up to. But I admit the music is awesome. So while I recover from quaffing mysterious liquids out of smoldering goblets, enjoy. Blogging will resume shortly.

§ - TIMES 3 feat.☾∧† ◯ from § on Vimeo.