I’m really bad about buying books in bulk and letting them sit on the shelf for years before they get read. I have managed to whittle this pile down to eight titles, each of which I hope to finish before summer’s end. This is my summer reading list; it’s sort of a late new year’s resolution-type goal of books I need to read. I may not get through all of these titles (especially those on my Kindle) but I’m hoping to use The Fiction Pub as motivation to blow the dust off these books and dive into them.

So without further adieu, here are the different titles comprising The Read Pile:

1. Three by Flannery O’Connor—Last fall I read O’Connor’s short story “A Good Man is Hard to Find” and it blew me away. I knew immediately that she would be a great author to further explore and when I found this collection I had to get it. Included in the book are three of her novels: Wise Blood, The Violent Bear It Away, and a collection of O’Connor’s short stories entitled A Good Man is Hard to Find.

2. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck—As an English major, this is one I’m ashamed to say I’ve never read; as a matter of fact, to the best of my knowledge I don’t think that I have ever read any Steinbeck. I have seen the film version of Of Mice and Men which was excellent. This is one title that I come across over and over again that not only do people say I should read, but I have to read.

3. Red Harvest by Dashiell Hammett—I started the summer of 2012 off by reading The Maltese Falcon which led me to the purchase of this book. It’s classic hardboiled detective stuff, right up my alley.

4. The Stranger by Albert Camus and Xala by Ousmane Sembène—My girlfriend Jessie let me borrow these back in 2011ish, so it’s about time I read and return them.

5. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald—Ok, I’m cheating a bit here. I’ve read this one before and it’s one of my favorite all time books; definitely in my top five. I plan on reading this next week before seeing the new movie adaptation. I can’t wait.

6. Freaky Deaky and Out of Sight by Elmore Leonard—Picked up these awesome hardcover editions at a library book sale last week. I love me some Leonard.

7. Kindle Books—I use my Kindle primarily for downloading free classic public domain books and there are a LOT of them. I have yet to actually purchase a book for my Kindle. I’m one of those nostalgic people who are holding out until digital becomes the standard. Here’s a list of my to-read Kindle books in no particular order:

• Gold Manor Ghost House by Merry Brown—My ethics professor wrote this young adult novel and very graciously made it available to her students for free. It’s only $3.99 on Amazon and she self publishes, so be sure to check it out and help out the indie writing community.
• Dracula by Bram Stoker
• The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux
• The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
• Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
• The Beautiful and the Damned and This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald
• Moby Dick by Herman Melville
• Les Miserables by Victor Hugo
• A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
• The Turn of the Screw by Henry James
• Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
• Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

Weekly Shorts
Finally, a new feature I’m adding to The Fiction Pub is a weekly featured short story or poem. I have many anthologies with some great stuff to choose from, so this should be a fun one.

Every pair of shoes were made to walk in, and every pair of feet were made to walk. I’ve always felt this strange connection between others at one point or another, especially those who go through suffering an emotional condition. Usually this would tend to be the loss of a loved one to death, a heartbreak and even those who sense failure on their part and have little confidence to pick themselves up and carry on. I have many experiences to quote on the idea of empathy in my timeline, but I will keep this Feed Your Soul Friday a short one with a message I consider powerful.

I’m not quite sure why I feel the emotions they feel without having to be in their situation, but over the years I have learn to accept it gracefully as one of the most precious gifts God could give me. The gift of empathy.

“I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.” ― Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

A few years ago on one evening, I simply sat on my bed and wrote the words that just shot to my mind out of the blues. I did not question the nature of these words that were ruling my mind that evening, but just noted them down. As I wrote and wrote each line, the words developed into a sentence and as each sentence developed, I started to notice a story was forming. The story of birth. Such a beautiful process of life, the beginning of life, the moment a new life begins its journey to exploring the universe through its own eyes. Now I could have written this as an observer alone, but once I had finished writing these words in what seemed like a trance, I noticed it had turned into a poem. And in this poem, I noticed that I had written about a newborn baby as a new mother. Not that I have any experience being a mother, but for some reason I felt as though THIS is exactly what a new mother feels when she sees her first newborn in front of her on the day the baby is born.

I have shared this poem with a few friends who are now proud parents and to my surprise, they have complimented it saying it really does hold the meaning of being a mother. It still surprises me how I am able to feel this when I have no experience of it.

I shall leave you tonight with this poem which is on its way to becoming a song. I hope you like it and can empathize with it too. It is titled “YOU” -

You appeared
And made my fears turn into play
Nail mittens and a funny smell
You’re God’s giveaway

I didn’t know you could melt me so easily
I was stone until I held you squeamishly

You’re so shapeless
But I love you already
Your heart’s beating so fast
Faster than mine buddy
You’re just moving
I’m moving along with you
You’re just perfect
An awaited gift, that’s you

That’s you, that’s you, it’s all you, all you…

I want to sleep right next to you
I want to put my arms around you
I’m so tired, I want to close my eyes with you
Close yours first, I want you to know you’re safe coz I’m with you

You’ve only been here a short while
If I close my eyes before you shine a sleepy smile
I will miss it, and won’t know what’s next by your style…

I want to learn from you,
I want to sing to you,
Oh, I didn’t know you could melt me so easily
I was stone until I held you squeamishly

You’re so shapeless
But I love you already
Your heart’s beating so fast
Faster than mine buddy
You’re just moving
I’m moving along with you
You’re just perfect
An awaited gift, that’s you

That’s you, that’s you, it’s all you, all you…

‘Til next Friday, Feed Your Soul and have a Happy Friday

Related articles

• Walking in Your Shoes: Empathy, Not Love, Makes the Workplace Go Round (kchapmangibbons.wordpress.com)
• Celebrating National Poetry Month: Using Poetry to Connect Children and Nature (phippsscienceeducation.org)
• New Parents: Parenting A Newborn (parentmebyleonalawrence.wordpress.com)
• Empathy: help yourself and those around you to a little bit of happiness. (kenkennardblog.wordpress.com)
• Why Study Empathy? (nicholegrimshaw.wordpress.com)
• Embracing Empathy (onerarebird.typepad.com)

May– Boston, Massachusetts– This month’s issue of The Atlantic Monthly contains, among other things, two poems by John Greenleaf Whittier, an essay by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr, an essay by Professor Louis Agassiz, a short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne and an essay by D A Wasson entitled “Shall We Compromise?” The writer concludes with this: “Even would the Secessionists consent to partial compositions, as they will not, they must inevitably break faith, as ever before. They are slaves to the slave-system. As wise were it to covenant with the dust not to fly, or with the sea not to foam, when the hurricane blows, as to bargain with these that they shall resist that despotic impetus which compels them. They are slaves. And their master is one whose law is to devour. Only he who might meditate letting go a Bengal tiger on its parole of honor, or binding over a pestilence to keep the peace, should so much as dream for a moment of civil compositions with this system. Its action is inevitable. And therefore our only wisdom will be to make our way by the straightest path to this, which is our chief, and in the last analysis our only enemy, and cut it through and through.”

May 1– Friday– Boston, Massachusetts– The Liberator gleefully reports that “Thomas Sims, who was returned from Boston in 1851, to his master in Georgia, under the Fugitive Slave Law, arrived in Boston on Thursday of last week, with his family. He came direct from Vicksburg, where he had been employed as a bricklayer, having escaped from that city about three weeks ago, to General Grant’s lines, in a dugout, with his wife, child, and four colored men.” [The Sims case created a passionate demonstration against the new Fugitive Slave Law of September, 1850, so much so that President Millard Fillmore sent U S Marines into the city to escort the slave catchers and Sims to the ship which took them south.] This issue also reprints a patriotic speech by Elizabeth Cady Stanton. “The women of the South know what their sons are fighting for. The women of the North do not. They appreciate the blessings of Slavery; we do not the blessings of Liberty. . . . What are wealth and jewels, home and ease, sires and sons, to the birthright of freedom, secured to us by the heroes of the Revolution– liberty to universal man? Shall a priceless heritage like this be wrested now from us by Southern tyrants, and Northern women look on unmoved, or basely bid our freedmen sue for peace? No! No!” At this time Stanton is 47 years old with four of her seven children under age 12 yet she remains extremely active in the causes of abolition and woman’s rights.

Elizabeth Cady Stanton with 2 of her sons, c.1847

May 1– Friday– New York City–Cornelia Knight and Dr James Knight open the Hospital for Ruptured and Crippled Children, the first orthopedic hospital in the United States.

May 1– Friday– New York City– George Templeton Strong in his diary: “At the Society Library tonight looking through English magazines and papers. Their misrepresentations about us are amazing and many of their blunders must be dishonest and malignant. . . . The fair-minded honest old English people, in which I believed so many years so firmly, has ceased to exist.”

May 1– Friday– Chancellorsville, Virginia– Having correctly anticipated that Union General Hooker was trying to outflank him, Confederate General Lee, having left part of his force at Fredericksburg, prepares to blunt the Union attach. In response Hooker stops advancing and takes up defensive positions. In the evening, Lee and Stonewall Jackson consult and decide to split the Confederate force yet again, with Jackson taking 26,000 of the Confederate’s 47,000 to launch a surprise attack on Hooker’s right flank, although the Union force totals almost 70,000 soldiers.

General Hooker & his staff as portrayed in Harper’s Weekely

May 1– Friday– Port Gibson, Mississippi– Union General Grant’s campaign against Vicksburg takes a big step forward as his soldiers defeat a Confederate force. Union killed, wounded and missing total 861; Confederate losses amount to 787.

May 1– Friday– Blountsville, Alabama; Washington, Louisiana; Suffolk, Virginia; Chalk Bluff, Arkansas; La Grange, Arkansas; Lizzard, Tennessee– Skirmishes, raids and small but intense pitched battles add by the tens and by the hundreds to casualty lists.

May 1– Friday– St Helena Island, South Carolina– Charlotte Forten Grimke reflects in her diary. “This is a glorious moomlight night. From the window I can see the water in silver waves shining in the clear soft light. Sat a long time on the piazza . . . thinking of some loved ones who are far, far away.”

Charlotte Forten Grimke

May 1– Friday– Dunedin, New Zealand– The Evening Star newspaper, founded by G. A. Henningham and Co and edited by George Henningham, publishes its first issue. The paper will be in continuous publication until 1979.

May 2– Saturday– Brooklyn, New York– Jeff Whitman to his brother Walt Whitman: “I suppose, dear Walt that you will have more to do in the Hospitals than ever pretty soon. I hardly can see how you can stand seeing so much of the heart-breaking I certainly could not do it. I am sure it would make me sick enough to die.”

May 2– Saturday– New York City– Colonel Robert Gould Shaw marries Annie Kneeland Haggerty at the Episcopal Church of the Ascension.

Church of the Ascension in NYC as it looks today

May 2– Saturday– Washington, D.C.– Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles in to diary: “Thick rumors concerning the Army of the Potomac . . . . This indefiniteness, and the manner attending it, is a pretty certain indication that the information received is not particularly gratifying.”

May 2– Saturday– Washington, D.C.– The Washington Chronicle reports that during the past week a certain gentleman called on President Lincoln, requesting a pass to go to Richmond. “Well,” said the President, “I would be very happy to oblige you, if my passes were respected; but the fact is, sir, I have, within the past two years given passes to 250,000 men to go to Richmond, and not one has got there yet.”

May 2– Saturday– Chancellorsville, Virginia– At 6 o’clock in the evening Confederate General Stonewall Jackson launches an attack upon the unprepared Union right flank while General Lee mounts a limited and distracting attack against the Federal front. Union troops fall back. Jackson considers continuing with a night attack and rides forward to see for himself what the Federals are doing. Returning in the dark from scouting Union positions, General Jackson is accidentally shot by some of his own soldiers. His pickets, mistaking his party for Federal soldiers, open fire. Three of Jackson’s staff are killed and the general is seriously wounded in his left arm. In a matter of hours, surgeons amputate the arm.

General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson

May 2– Saturday– New Orleans, Louisiana– Colonel Grierson’s Union cavalry raiders arrive in the city. He reports that in 16 days he and his men have killed about 100 rebel soldiers, taken another 500 prisoners, captured more than 1000 horses and mules as well as 3000 weapons and destroyed more than 50 miles of railroad and telegraph lines as well as several depots and warehouses of supplies.. His casualties are 3 dead, 7 wounded and 9 missing. His raiders covered 600 miles through enemy territory.

May 3– Sunday– Chancellorsville, Virginia– Union forces continue to fall back as the Confederates push hard against them. However, General Lee’s final push does not take place as he turns to defend himself against Union General Sedgwick who has pushed through Fredericksburg and attacks Lee’s right wing.

May 3– Sunday– Salem Church, Virginia– From late afternoon until nightfall, Sedwick’s Union soldiers and Lee’s Confederate soldiers maul each other. Lee successfully prevents Sedwick from joining Hooker’s troops at Chancellorsville, thus ensuring a Confederate victory. Elisha Hunt Rhodes is one of the Union soldiers participating in the bitter struggle. He is slightly injured. “One iron bullet struck me upon my foot causing me to jump into the air, but only lamed me a little. I picked up the iron bullet and put it in my pocket and will send it home.” He adds that in today’s fighting his regiment lost 7 killed, 68 wounded and 9 missing.

Elisha Hunt Rhodes

May 3– Sunday– Franklin, Tennessee- A Confederate soldier writes: “God bless the ladies, the part they have acted in this war will never be forgotten, and that part is no little. Their fair hands have clothed our army, have woven the fabric that warmed the soldiers frozen form, as he laid down to sleepat night in the cold winters blast, and have administered to the wants of the sick and wounded; they have breathed words of consolation to the sick and afflicted; and by their spirited address, have nerved men on to deeds of daring.”

May 3– Sunday– Dubuque, Iowa– Roman Catholic Bishop Clement Smyth, Irish born, 53 years old and a Union supporter, cautions church members not to become involved with the pro-Southern Knights of the Golden Circle.

May 3– Sunday– St Helena Island, South Carolina– Charlotte Forten Grimke writes about religion among the freed slaves. “Too weary and ill to go to church . . . I always like to see the people, looking so bright and cheerful in their Sunday attire, and to hear them sing. . . . . It is wonderful that perfect time the people keep with hands, feet, and indeed with every part of the body. I enjoy these ‘shouts’ very much.”

May 3– Grand Gulf, Mississippi– Confederate troops evacuate their fortified position, worried about being encircled and cut off by General Grant.

RESEÑA BIOGRÁFICA

Desde niño leyó con avidez los clásicos, interesándose muy especialmente en Goethe, Hegel y Emerson, quienes se convirtieron luego en su fuente de inspiración. Abandonó los estudios básicos para emplearse como ayudante de imprenta y más tarde ofició como maestro y periodista, escribiendo artículos para diversas revistas y periódicos.
En 1850 se trasladó a New Orleans para trabajar en el campo de la construcción. Cinco años más tarde, tras un gran esfuerzo económico, publicó su famosa obra “Hojas de hierba”, alabada en todos los medios literarios y reeditada un  sinnúmero de veces.
Durante la Guerra Civil norteamericana sirvió como ayudante de enfermería. Al terminar el conflicto continuó añadiendo poemas para las nuevas ediciones de su obra y escribiendo ensayos de contenido político.
Aquejado por varias enfermedades, se estableció en New Jersey donde falleció   en marzo de 1892.

La Guerra Civil

Mientras comenzaba la Guerra Civil estadounidense, Whitman publicó su poema ¡Suenen, suenen, tambores! como una llamada patriótica para el Norte.⁶³ El hermano de Whitman, George, se unió al ejército unionista y comenzó a enviarle cartas sobre hechos vividos en el frente de batalla.⁶⁴ El 16 de diciembre de 1862 una lista de los soldados muertos y heridos publicada en The New York Tribune incluía el nombre del “teniente G.W. Whitmore”, que Whitman tomó erróneamente por su hermano George.⁶⁵ Se dirigió hacia el sur inmediatamente para encontrarlo y sufrió el robo de su billetera durante el trayecto.⁶⁶ “Caminando todo el día y toda la noche, incapaz de montar, tratando de conseguir información, tratando de acceder a gente importante” escribió más tarde.⁶⁷ Profundamente conmovido por la visión de los soldados heridos y las necrosis de sus amputados miembros, partió hacia Washington en diciembre de 1862 con la intención de no volver nunca más a Nueva York.⁶⁶

Whitman College (Photo credit: Joe Shlabotnik)

Whitman College (Photo credit: Joe Shlabotnik)

En Washington D.C, el amigo de Whitman Charley Edridge lo ayudó a conseguir un trabajo de pocas horas en una oficina del ejército, dejando tiempo a Whitman para ofrecerse de voluntario como enfermero en los hospitales militares.⁶⁸ Escribiría sobre esta experiencia en El gran ejército de la enfermedad, publicada en un periódico neoyorquino en 1863⁶⁹ y, doce años más tarde, en un libro titulado Memorias de la guerra.⁷⁰ Más tarde contactó conEmerson para pedirle ayuda en la obtención de un puesto gubernamental.⁶⁶ Otro amigo, John Trowbridge, entregó una carta de recomendación de Emerson para Salmon P. Chase, secretario delTesoro, esperando que garantizase a Whitman un puesto en su departamento. Chase, sin embargo, no quiso contratar al autor de un libro tan mal reputado como Hojas de hierba.⁷¹

Dist. Att’y Whitman & Reporters (LOC) (Photo credit: The Library of Congress)

Dist. Att’y Whitman & Reporters (LOC) (Photo credit: The Library of Congress)

El año 1864 fue difícil para la familia Whitman. El 30 de septiembre de 1863, el hermano de Whitman George fue capturado por los confederados de Virginia,⁷² y otro hermano, Andrew Jackson, murió de tuberculosis causada por alcoholismo en diciembre.⁷³ Ese mes, Whitman envió a su hermano Jesse al asilo para lunáticos de Kings County.⁷⁴

Whitman College (Photo credit: _ambrown)

Whitman College (Photo credit: _ambrown)

¡POEMA A WHITMAN!

El olor del café y de los periódicos.
El domingo y su tedio. La mañana
y en la entrevista página esa vana
publicación de versos alegóricos

de un colega feliz. El hombre viejo
está postrado y blanco en su decente
habitación de pobre. Ociosamente
mira su cara en el cansado espejo.

Piensa, ya sin asombro, que esa cara
es él. La distraída mano toca
la turbia barba y la saqueada boca.

No está lejos el fin. Su voz declara:
casi no soy, pero mis versos ritman
la vida y su esplendor. Yo fui Walt Whitman.

Últimos años

Después de sufrir un accidente cerebrovascular en los albores de 1873, Whitman fue animado a mudarse desde Washington a Nueva Jersey junto a su hermano, el ingeniero George Washington Whitman, y su madre, que ya estaba muy enferma y que murió ese mismo año durante el mes de mayo. Ambos sucesos fueron difíciles para Whitman y lo dejaron deprimido. Se quedó en casa de sus hermanos hasta que pudo conseguir la propia.⁹² Sin embargo, antes de lograrlo, pasó un período brillante en la residencia de su hermano en Candem, donde también vivía su otro hermano Edward, inválido desde su nacimiento.⁹³ Fue una época altamente productiva, publicando tres versiones más deHojas de hierba, entre otras obras. También fue entonces cuando recibió la visita de Oscar Wilde y la del pintor Thomas Eakins.

THOMAS EAKINS PINTOR.

CINCO POEMAS DE WALT WHITMAN

De “Canto a mí mismo”:

1. Me celebro y me canto a mí mismo.
Y lo que yo diga ahora de mí, lo digo de ti,
porque lo que yo tengo lo tienes tú
y cada átomo de mi cuerpo es tuyo también.

Vago… e invito a vagar a mi alma.
Vago y me tumbo a mi antojo sobre la tierra
para ver cómo crece la hierba del estío.
Mi lengua y cada molécula de mi sangre nacieron aquí,
de esta tierra y de estos vientos.
Me engendraron padres que nacieron aquí,
de padres que engendraron otros padres que nacieron aquí,
de padres hijos de esta tierra y de estos vientos también.

Tengo treinta y siete años. Mi salud es perfecta.
Y con mi aliento puro
comienzo a cantar hoy
y no terminaré mi canto hasta que muera.
Que se callen ahora las escuelas y los credos.
Atrás. A su sitio.
Sé cuál es su misión y no la olvidaré;
que nadie la olvide.
Pero ahora yo ofrezco mi pecho lo mismo al bien que al mal,
dejo hablar a todos sin restricción,
y abro de para en par las puertas a la energía original de la naturaleza
desenfrenada.

Versión de León Felipe

* * *

5. Creo en ti, alma mía, el otro que soy
no debe humillarse ante ti,
ni tu debes ser humillada ante el otro.

Retoza conmigo sobre la hierba, quita
el freno de tu garganta,
no quiero palabras, ni música,
ni rimas, no quiero costumbres
ni discursos, ni aún los mejores,
sólo quiero la calma, el arrullo de tu
velada voz.

Recuerdo cómo yacimos juntos cierta
diáfana mañana de verano,
cómo apoyaste tu cabeza en mi cadera
y suavemente te volviste hacia mí,
y apartaste la camisa de mi pecho, y
hundiste la lengua hasta mi corazón
desnudo,
y te extendiste hasta tocar mi barba,
y te extendiste hasta abrazar mis pies.

Prontamente crecieron y me rodearon
la paz y el saber que rebasan todas
las disputas de la Tierra,
y sé que la mano de dios es mi
prometida,
y sé que el espíritu de Dios es mi
propio hermano,
y que todos los hombres que alguna
vez vivieron son también mis
hermanos, y las mujeres mis
hermanas y amantes,
y que el amor es la sobrequilla de la
creación,
y que son incontables las hojas rígidas
o lánguidas en los campos,
y las hormigas pardas en los pequeños
surcos,
y las costras de musgo en el cerco
sinuoso, las piedras apiladas, el saúco,
la hierba carmín y la candelaria.

Versión de León Felipe

* * *

14. Estoy enamorado de cuánto crece al aire libre,
de los hombres que viven entre el ganado,
o de los que paladean el bosque o el océano,
de los constructores de barcos y de los timoneles,
de los hacheros y de los jinetes,
podría comer y dormir con ellos semana tras semana.

Lo más común, vulgar, próximo y simple,
eso soy Yo,
Yo, buscando mi oportunidad, brindándome
para recibir amplia recompensa,
engalanándome para entregar mi ser
al primero que haya de tomarlo,
sin pedir al cielo que descienda cuando yo lo deseo,
esparciéndolo libremente para siempre.

Versión de León Felipe

** *

17. Estos son en verdad los pensamientos
de todos los hombres en todas las
épocas y naciones, no son originales míos,
si no son tuyos tanto como míos,
nada o casi nada son,
si no son el enigma y la solución del enigma,
nada son.

Esta es la hierba que crece
dondequiera que haya tierra y agua,
este es el aire común que baña el globo.

Versión de León Felipe

* * *

18. Con estrépitos de músicas vengo,
con cornetas y tambores.
Mis marchas no suenan solo para los victoriosos,
sino para los derrotados y los muertos también.
Todos dicen: es glorioso ganar una batalla.
Pues yo digo que es tan glorioso perderla.
¡Las batallas se pierden con el mismo espíritu que se ganan!
¡Hurra por los muertos!
Dejadme soplar en las trompas, recio y alegre, por ellos.
¡Hurra por los que cayeron,
por los barcos que se hundieron el la mar,
y por los que perecieron ahogados!
¡Hurra por los generales que perdieron el combate y por todos los héroes
vencidos!
Los infinitos héroes desconocidos valen tanto como los héroes mas
grandes de la Historia.

Versión de León Felipe

Related articles

• Walt Whitman Poems. As At Thy Portals Also Death. Poetry Corner.(newgrandmas.com)
• Camden’s Finest, The Walt Whitman House & Cemetery (southjerseyexplorer.com)
• Wear the trend like Dear Milano: See-through shoes! (whitegurumx.wordpress.com)
• I wish … [Los Angeles] (1001scribbles.wordpress.com)
• Whitman’s Kiss (namingconstellations.wordpress.com)
• Whitman Co. man allegedly held box over wife’s head to suffocate her with poison gas (krem.com)
• Walt Whitman and the Passage to India (amerauthspr2013.wordpress.com)

But a year ago, I discussed the one thing in particular that some childless people do that is quite annoying for parents, and that’s when they offer suggestions on how to raise your kids. So for this week’s Zombie Post entry, I’ve resurrected that post (see link below).

It takes two to tango. If I didn’t have a son, I wouldn’t be on the receiving end of such unwanted advice. And if I had good taste in friends, I would have ditched the kind of person who offers unsolicited advice on topics they know nothing about long before I even had a kid. It’s not the not-having-kids that makes someone obnoxious, or the having-of-kids that makes someone bearable; to paraphrase Jay-Z: they were who they were before they got here.

And as much as I love my childless friends, and respect and even sometimes envy the child-free’s choice to not have kids, taking their parenting advice is where I draw the line. Not totally sure why someone who decided against having children would even want to get involved in raising any, but hey, to paraphrase Walt Whitman: we contain multitudes.

Original Post: Immaculate Suggestions: Taking Parenting Advice from the Childless

Whitman was living in New York City in 1860 when Lincoln gave his famous Cooper Union speech, but he didn’t see Lincoln in person until January 1861, when the President-elect visited New York on his way to his inauguration.

During the Civil War, Whitman spent much of his time ministering to wounded soldiers in Washington, not far from the White House. He often saw the President traveling around the city. It appears that the President noticed Whitman occasionally, since the poet had a distinctive appearance and often watched the President’s carriage drive by. On one occasion, Whitman observed Lincoln in the White House from a few feet away, but they did not meet. There is also a story, not necessarily true, that Lincoln saw Whitman walking by the White House one day and was told that this was the famous poet.

Whitman was visiting New York when Lincoln was assassinated. Lincoln’s death greatly affected Whitman. He had studied the President closely and felt a deep affection for him. His poem O Captain! My Captain! was written in response to the assassination.

Lincoln and Whitman ends in 1887 with Whitman giving a dramatic reading before a celebrity-packed audience in New York City, in commemoration of the 22nd anniversary of Lincoln’s death.

Lincoln and Whitman did lead parallel lives for a time, although Lincoln clearly affected Whitman much more than the other way around. Lincoln and Whitman mixes large-scale history and politics with these men’s daily lives and personal relationships. There is some poetry too, mostly by the poet.  (9/30/12)

“Do anything, but let it produce joy.” – Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

  Wishing everyone a relaxing, joy-filled weekend!  Above, more images from last weekend’s trip to the Chicago Botanic Garden.

all images via the aesthete and the dilettante

SELF-ETHNOGRAPHY: n. the documentation and analysis of the self as a foreign culture through field research.

“What we need to question is BRICKS, Concrete, glass, our table manners, our utensils , our tools, the way we spend our time, our rhythms. TO QUESTION THAT WHICH SEEMS TO HAVE CEASED FOREVER TO ASTONISH US.  We live true, we breathe true, we walk, we open doors, we go down staircases, we sit at a table in order to eat, we lie down on a bed in order to sleep. How? Why? Where? When? Why?”

-Georges Perec

Use yourself as your subject for documentation. Document in detail all of your movements, activities, behaviors, and conversations throughout the course of a week. Include date, time, and place.

FOUND PATTERNS

Collect or document as many patterns as you can find while on your travels . You may decide to use only patterns in nature, or human-made, or both . Pencil rubbing works well for this.

” No man who ever lived liked so many things and disliked so few as Walt Whitman.  All natural objects seemed to have a charm for him.  All sights and sounds seemed to please him.”  Dr. William James, The Varieties of Religious Experience.

entire excerpt from  HOW TO BE AN EXPLORER OF THE WORLD by Keri Smith

perhaps ants can hear it –
like thunder.

Remain open.

Conversation started April 25, 2012
9:30am
Me:

Thank you so much for sending me the Samsara trailer. Interestingly, that word has come to me through various avenues over the past two months. I hear it without actually knowing what it means. That word along with another..siddis? I think I need to begin googling these terms. Peace on you. Thank you for sharing. Hopefully the Senator will be completely renovated in time to show this film. Good thought to you.

Nov 20, 2012
1:00pm
Friend:

Hope….for what it’s worth, your posts have helped me get through some pretty grueling days. I always will remember you as being a shining light in a time when I saw only darkness. I am glad the light tower is still illuminated. Have yourself a happy and peaceful thanksgiving.

11:12pm
Me:

Stillness…
it washed over me when I read your
note…
relief
even
maybe…..

Lacking detail
I feel what you are going through
I understand

Lately these times
have drawn me to my Center
offering me an abundance of
growth

Purpose…purpose…

Peace to your
allowing
your
unfolding

For your kind acknowledgement
affirming my path
through “likes”
and comments on my page

I offer you Walt Whitman

Happy Thanksgiving to you and your Loved.
Peace Hope

A NOISELESS, patient spider,
I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them. 5

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form’d—till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.

December 7, 2012
3:17pm

Me:

A light drizzle falls
on Greenwich village

in each face i see
vast possibilities
and
closed boxes

shards
mirroring
me

here
beginning and endings
collide

thinking is
inconsequential…I see

a bad habit for those
choosing the
this race

amidst….

the only action that feels
right
is
to

Walk.

Peace, my Friend. Hope you are having a day where all is making sense…where horizons and Truths coexist.

I am a bit silenced by
the profundity
as if unwrapping
a gift of
awareness.

Light for our paths.

Poof..

4:08pm
Friend:

Call my niece Trudy and introduce yourself…She lives/works in that area. Tell her your a friend of mine from home and I told you to look her up. 7xx-6xx-xxxx

You write beautifully

December 19, 2012
1:38pm

Me:

my fever offered me a dream
I was walking in the woods….pretty barren woods
when you showed up
I was baffled by seeing you
as I have not in many moons
you were smiling
when i asked you why you were there
you said you were going to walk me out
so I followed you

that is the last thing I remember
but when I woke it dawned on me
that I went to church with you once
moons and moons ago
during a time
when I was at a loss…
I am moving through a loss at this time…
God and I…
well, after New York I wanted to ditch him…it..her…
which made life….hmmm…interesting to say the least.

I think the dream
with you in the woods
was the beginning of my Surrender
and my return.

Thanks for taking me to church…
and making breakfast for me…
It was more life changing then you may know

now you do.

Peace.

January 5
2:03am

Friend:

An employee pulled me aside and asked me if I believed in God. I paused and said yes…there must be a power greater then me..us..We are simply the stardust off the the table from which we came….funny why I still pause when I am asked…surrender?? Not fully yet….but I want to

May 2, 2013
1:09pm

Friend:

Thinking about your dad….how’s he doing?

1:20pm
Me:

Hey there…good thoughts to you..and thank you for thinking of my Dad. He got out of the hospital on Sunday. He had blood work that came back a bit funky regarding his heart and his kidney…but with continued thoughts and prayers, monitoring and some changes, everything will be okay. Rather scarey to see him as a person whose shoulders I can no longer climb on…whose turning the corner to needing me to be strong so that he can….hm…let go I guess….wow…yeah…that is it…that horizon is one I can see now.
How are you doing, Friend? Are things summing up well for you? My hope is that you have walked out of the wrestling match you had around Halloween?
I am rallying for a weekend in Nashville with two friends. A better part of me would like to crawl under the tall ferns in my back yard and watch the day float by with my dog Sam. He always looks blissful under there, with the sun shining, the bugs bugging…and the chirping . But alas, I am being pulled to Live actively.
Peace on you,

2:46pm
Friend:

Sounds like good news…Thank you for always being able to tune in..and being able to keep life simple in the midst of what seems to be chaos at times….enjoy Nashville!

3:04pm
Hope

Hey…it is Chaos..it is. For the past few months I had built a wall of spiritual beliefs around me to help give it some order, some intention, some purpose. Sunday I stopped believing. Adrift….light weighted…free filled me. Fears whispered to me but I stopped believing in them. Happiness tempted me to ritual, but I stopped believing in them. Not sure where I am headed…it feels peaceful not to know – painfully frustrating but honestly right.
On Monday I stumbled across Alan Watts and his thoughts on Nothingness. Have you heard of him before? He reminds me of Emerson, Thoreau…

Blah..blah…finding my footsteps…learning I am floating.
Peace.

Helen Jewel roving reporter for Flipside Fanzine

Him all wait for, him all yield up to, his word is decisive and final, him they accept, in him lave, in him perceive themselves as amid light, Him they immerse and he immerses them.

Beautiful women, the haughtiest nations, laws, the landscape, people, animals, The profound earth and its attributes and unquiet ocean, ( so tell I my morning’s romanza.) All enjoyments and properties and money, and whatever money will buy, The best farms, others toiling and planting and he unavoidably reaps, The noblest and costliest cities, others grading and building and he domiciles there…”

~ Song of the Answerer by Walt Whitman from Leaves of Grass

elen was our roving reporter for Flipside Fanzine. She has an amazing character that challenges me to this day!  She grew up in Fullerton California and later ended up living in Whittier. She came from the kind of family that sat around the dinner table and talked.  Her mother and father expected the children to give a speech about their day. Helen’s father might ask her sternly,

“What did you learn today?”

Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac inspired her life as a teenager.  Helen was a few years older than the average punk during the 1980s punk scene.  When she asked us to include this interview with Allen Ginsberg we teased her.  It is a good thing she persisted.  Helen weaved together important elements in her short interview with Allen Ginsberg with what was happening at that time in punk rock history. It is an excellent read.

One can study the history and literary accomplishments of Whitman, Ginsberg and Kerouac but it is the link, the alignment, the spiritual rebellious thread that pulls me always!

 Thank you Helen !!

“Tell your friends everything. Give away your secrets.  “Be wise as serpents and gentle as doves.” “

Allen Ginsberg

Flipside Fanzine 36 Allen Ginsberg

“Punk shows suffering, so it acknowledges the real”

“A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.”
― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Allen Ginsberg

http://www.allenginsberg.org/index.php?page=chronological-addenda

Jack Kerouac

http://www.answers.com/topic/jack-kerouac

Walt Whitman

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

Who the Fudge Is Susan A. Talley-Weiss?

Susan Archer Talley is known solely, if at all, for her friendship with Edgar Allan Poe who believed she was one of the greatest living poetesses of their time and would eventually—for she was only in her twenties at the time—”surpass them all.”

Her name, to those who remember it, is spoken with a sneer or rolling of the eyes. Like most of Poe’s contemporaries—even the most famous and those who were far more financially successful—she’s long been quickly forgotten. Among them, however, she alone can stand beside Poe to rival, if not surpass, his life for sheer drama, romance, tragedy (and not a small amount of comedy), scandal and adventure.

In this respect, there is yet one contrast stark and glaring differentiating the two. Undine, author of World of Poe, identified Poe’s defining characteristic most succinctly, stating,

“But then, Poe always had his own agenda.”
- Poe Hits the Lecture Circuit

For the uninitiated, the eulogy spoken by a young freelancer under Mr. Poe’s editorialship named Walt Whitman are enlightening. Whitman described Poe as a beautiful man thrashed about in a violent sea-storm “apparently enjoying all the terror, the murk, and the dislocation of which he was the centre and the victim.”

The difference, then, is Susan’s only agenda was being a Southern Belle. She didn’t appreciate being referred to as a “rebel” and certainly never intended on becoming a spy, P.O.W., getting knocked up by an enemy soldier who guarded her at the prison camp, returning home to find Richmond burned and her home in rubble and supporting her infant son as a freelance writer of pulp fiction (and we know from Poe’s life how lucrative writing short stories isn’t).

That, dear readers, is why I think she’s worthy of the biographical book and screenplay I’m writing.

Click to read my “Walt Whitman’s Dream” post and see a much larger version.

Take a look at who’s celebrating their birthday in May.

May 15, L Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
May 25, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self Reliance
May 27, John Cheever, The Wapshot Chronicles
May 27, Herman Wouk, The Winds of War
May 28, Walker Percy, The Movie Goer
May 31, Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Cover of Leaves of Grass

Related articles

• Emerson’s Encouragement: A Letter to the Young Walt Whitman (enotes.com)

by Walt Whitman

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother’s laps,
And here you are the mother’s laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.

The mafia the mob

Los italianos

I guess they don’t

Run shit around here

anymore(maybe the ruskies do, I don’t know anymore.)

April 25

What to do

What to say

What to do and say

And say and do and all-around

Confused?

April 26

Syria, Poor Syria

Your tired, poor, hungry masses

now must deal with a terrible war

that has been raging for one long long long

Year

April 27

Dear Chicago Bulls,

If you ever go through a triple overtime game like that

again,

I’ll just quit basketball(this adrenaline and stress is killing me,

you know)

April 28

Railroad spikes dot the highways

The Highways dot the railroad spikes

Green envy washing over dead presidents

Chimichangas taking flight as I write this contraption down

And Dennis Rodman is the new President, just to let you know

Five days onward

I’m a little kid

Reading alien books

Getting alien knowledge

Nothing much has changed

What is going on

In a world like ours

When all of this shit starts to make sense?

April 29

Liz Lemon

Even the name is great

Character-wise, I Love You(more than I can say for half of TV land,

that’s for sure.)

April 30

Right now

I’m on the side of the New Jersey Turnpike

I paid 200 bucks

I got to be John Malkovich, from that Jewel Thief movie,

for Fifteen minutos

Huzzah.

(from Whitman’s “Song of Myself”)

Quiet mornings spent reading are what I need right now. Maybe some tea, and a good hug. The world around me is full of possibilities, and beauty, and I am trying to take it all in, to bloom where I’m planted, no matter how many times I uproot myself.

And in some ways, things are looking up. But in other ways, it’s not so clear. Working with special needs kids is something I never thought I’d do, or be good at, but here I am, and the kids love me, and already they’ve made such an impression on me.

But there are other things to take into consideration, other jobs, and writing, and relationships, and it can (and does) all feel a bit overwhelming at times.

Sometimes more than a bit. Sometimes it seems like an insurmountable problem.

But, in the end, I know that I must figure it out for myself. And that I can. (I think).

Climb that hill, one step at a time

Second Day on the Screen Door Experiment

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter to the world if you paint or dance or write.  The world can probably get by without the product of your efforts.  But that is not the point.  The point is what the inner process of following your creative impulses will do, to you.  It is clearly about process.  Love the work, love the process.  our fascination will pull our attention forward.

Ian Roberts, Creative Authenticity

I could not agree more strongly with Mr. Roberts on this point.  I get far more joy in the studio, in the midst of a painting in progress, than I do sitting back looking at it on display, or sitting in a festival booth, waiting to find out if patrons like the work or not.  The joy is in the doing.

Today, I took my Art History classes through the legacy of Andrew Wyeth and his drybrush watercolor studies from Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania.  And the whole time we looked at and discussed his work, all I wanted was to be in this Cave proceeding with my latest “mad” experiment.  But alas, I had a list longer than my arm, of details I had to chase down after school, and heavy lesson plans for tomorrow’s class load, and couldn’t get into the studio for nearly five hours since the close of my last class.  It was total despair.

Finally, I got to get in a few strokes, working only on the coffee can and the left border of the composition.  The door frame will be white, so I had to lay in a left-hand darkened border.  I’m already wishing I could remove the masquing and take a peek at what is happening, but that cannot happen for a long time still.  My only anxiety now is to get this looking the way I really like it, only to find a disaster when the masquing comes off.  But . . . I cannot think of that right now.

I am still a little tired from Saturday and Sunday’s output, but really feared that if I took a little time off to rest, that I would find myself already into the next weekend, that a day off would turn into a week off, and the momentum would have stalled.  Several years back, I attended a workshop led by J. Jason Horejs, owner of Xanadu Gallery in Scottsdale, Arizona.  He had just flown into DFW airport and was holding a session at an area hotel in Dallas.  The session, for me, turned out to be life changing.  The only question he had for the artists assembled that day was “How prolific are you?”  I sat there in shame, realizing that I had used my full-time job as an excuse for turning out an average of ten watercolors a year.  I left that class, determined by year’s end to have at least thirty completed.  I completed nearly a hundred, and have completed at least a hundred a year since then, though many of them are small watercolor “sketches” or “vignettes”, I nevertheless can say for the first time in my life that I am “prolific” as an artist, and thanks to the blog, feel a compulsion to keep cranking them out.  So many good things have happened as a result, but the greatest is that I have rediscovered a joy in the learning process that I had not known for years.

Urge and urge and urge,

Always the procreant urge of the world.

Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”

Thanks for reading.

I paint in order to remember.

I journal because I am alone.

I blog to remind myself that I am not alone.

Spring has returned.  The earth is like a child that knows poems.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Today grass is moist and lush all around me, and tree branches are springing with the buds of new leaves.  Though the nights are still chilled and rainy, winter has ended — at long last.

I don’t know if my senses have perked to life or if there are simply more things to be seen and heard; whatever the reason, there is more and more to be enjoyed these days.  Breezes through welcoming fingertips, heat that thaws long-frozen bones, animals chattering in every direction.  Even inside my house the air is renewed.  Light reaching into forgotten corners, peppers and onions sizzling in a pan on the stove; the wood and varnish of my piano, pregnant with dewy humidity, are releasing a scent like many decades of music and attention.

I’m sure it is obvious by now how nature affects me.  My mind and body come back to life with the earth.  This is perhaps why, upon arriving home this morning, I decided to lay around in the long grass in my backyard.  It hasn’t been mowed since recent apocalyptic rains turned my home into a lake house for a few days, and the uneven yard is beginning to resemble an English countryside.  (I wouldn’t be surprised if sheep turned up soon.)  At any rate, laying on the hot, damp ground, the sunlight melting my spine and muscles — I imagine that Walt Whitman must have done this a lot.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

Song of Myself, No. 1

– R

“Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? Have you reckon’d the earth much?Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems;
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun — (there are millions of suns left;)

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books;You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me:
You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from yourself”

– Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”

Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

–Walt Whitman

http://www.humansofnewyork.com/post/32011139510/the-genius

For more stories like Bala’s, click the link below.

http://www.humansofnewyork.com/tagged/stories

For The Website Home, click the link below.

http://www.humansofnewyork.com/

Here again, after a long period of silence followed by a short period of                       intense rich sound last week. A thought; not mine as usual:

“Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you.                                                                 You must travel it by yourself.                                                                                                        It is not far. It is within reach.                                                                                             Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know.                          Perhaps it is everywhere – on water and land.”

Walt Whitman – Leaves of Grass

(to be continued…)