The Lady's Dressing Room

By haughty Celia spent in dressing;
The goddess from her chamber issues,
Arrayed in lace, brocades, and tissues.
Strephon, who found the room was void
And Betty otherwise employed,
Stole in and took a strict survey
Of all the litter as it lay;
Whereof, to make the matter clear,
An inventory follows here.
And first a dirty smock appeared,
Beneath the arm-pits well besmeared.
Strephon, the rogue, displayed it wide
And turned it round on every side.
On such a point few words are best,
And Strephon bids us guess the rest;
And swears how damnably the men lie
In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
Now listen while he next produces
The various combs for various uses,
Filled up with dirt so closely fixt,
No brush could force a way betwixt.
A paste of composition rare,
Sweat, dandruff, powder, lead and hair;
A forehead cloth with oil upon't
To smooth the wrinkles on her front.
Here alum flower to stop the steams
Exhaled from sour unsavory streams;
There night-gloves made of Tripsy's hide,
Bequeath'd by Tripsy when she died,
With puppy water, beauty's help,
Distilled from Tripsy's darling whelp;
Here gallypots and vials placed,
Some filled with washes, some with paste,
Some with pomatum, paints and slops,
And ointments good for scabby chops.
Hard by a filthy basin stands,
Fouled with the scouring of her hands;
The basin takes whatever comes,
The scrapings of her teeth and gums,
A nasty compound of all hues,
For here she spits, and here she spews.
But oh! it turned poor Strephon's bowels,
When he beheld and smelt the towels,
Begummed, besmattered, and beslimed
With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grimed.
No object Strephon's eye escapes:
Here petticoats in frowzy heaps;
Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot
All varnished o'er with snuff and snot.
The stockings, why should I expose,
Stained with the marks of stinking toes;
Or greasy coifs and pinners reeking,
Which Celia slept at least a week in?
A pair of tweezers next he found
To pluck her brows in arches round,
Or hairs that sink the forehead low,
Or on her chin like bristles grow.
The virtues we must not let pass,
Of Celia's magnifying glass.
When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't
It shewed the visage of a giant.
A glass that can to sight disclose
The smallest worm in Celia's nose,
And faithfully direct her nail
To squeeze it out from head to tail;
(For catch it nicely by the head,
It must come out alive or dead.)
Why Strephon will you tell the rest?
And must you needs describe the chest?
That careless wench! no creature warn her
To move it out from yonder corner;
But leave it standing full in sight
For you to exercise your spite.
In vain, the workman shewed his wit
With rings and hinges counterfeit
To make it seem in this disguise
A cabinet to vulgar eyes;
For Strephon ventured to look in,
Resolved to go through thick and thin;
He lifts the lid, there needs no more:
He smelt it all the time before.
As from within Pandora's box,
When Epimetheus oped the locks,
A sudden universal crew
Of humane evils upwards flew,
He still was comforted to find
That Hope at last remained behind;
So Strephon lifting up the lid
To view what in the chest was hid,
The vapours flew from out the vent.
But Strephon cautious never meant
The bottom of the pan to grope
And foul his hands in search of Hope.
O never may such vile machine
Be once in Celia's chamber seen!
O may she better learn to keep
'Those secrets of the hoary deep'!
As mutton cutlets, prime of meat,
Which, though with art you salt and beat
As laws of cookery require
And toast them at the clearest fire,
If from adown the hopeful chops
The fat upon the cinder drops,
To stinking smoke it turns the flame
Poisoning the flesh from whence it came;
And up exhales a greasy stench
For which you curse the careless wench;
So things which must not be exprest,
When plumpt into the reeking chest,
Send up an excremental smell
To taint the parts from whence they fell,
The petticoats and gown perfume,
Which waft a stink round every room.
Thus finishing his grand survey,
Disgusted Strephon stole away
Repeating in his amorous fits,
Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!
But vengeance, Goddess never sleeping,
Soon punished Strephon for his peeping:
His foul Imagination links
Each dame he see with all her stinks;
And, if unsavory odors fly,
Conceives a lady standing by.
All women his description fits,
And both ideas jump like wits
By vicious fancy coupled fast,
And still appearing in contrast.
I pity wretched Strephon blind
To all the charms of female kind.
Should I the Queen of Love refuse
Because she rose from stinking ooze?
To him that looks behind the scene
Satira's but some pocky queen.
When Celia in her glory shows,
If Strephon would but stop his nose
(Who now so impiously blasphemes
Her ointments, daubs, and paints and creams,
Her washes, slops, and every clout
With which he makes so foul a rout),
He soon would learn to think like me
And bless his ravished sight to see
Such order from confusion sprung,
Such gaudy tulips raised from dung.

Naming of Cats

T.S. Eliot

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, or George or Bill Bailey -
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter -
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum -
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover -
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

Thinking and Feeling

I think, therefore I am is the statement of an intellectual who underrates toothaches. I feel, therefore I am is a truth much more universally valid, and it applies to everything that's alive. My self does not differ substantially from yours in terms of its thought. Many people, few ideas: we all think more or less the same, and we exchange, borrow, steal thoughts from one another. However, when someone steps on my foot, only I feel the pain. The basis of the self is not thought but suffering, which is the most fundamental of all feelings. While it suffers, not even a cat can doubt its unique and uninterchangeable self. In intense suffering the world disappears and each of us is alone with his self. Suffering is the university of egocentrism.
―Milan Kundera

For Combat Veterans From Steinbeck

John Steinbeck

In marching, in mobs, in football games, and in war, outlines become vague; real things become unreal and a fog creeps over the mind. Tension and excitement, weariness, movement--all merge in one great gray dream, so that when it is over, it is hard to remember how it was when you killed men or ordered them to be killed. Then other people who were not there tell you what it was like and you say vaguely, "yes, I guess that's how it was.”
—The Moon is Down 

Woodstock 2017: The Kids Are Alright

It’s mid October in Woodstock, but at the woodsy Applehead Studio it feels more like Midsummer’s Eve, missing only Titania and Oberon. Mature trees out front are illuminated to the canopies with bulbs no brighter than fireflies. Several folk are roasting marshmallows on the perimeter of a soaring bonfire. Others enjoy the taste of the crackling fire, its multiple orange tongues licking up the darkness. A small bar beneath the trees dispenses beverages and the fixings for s’mores. The night is a starry dome, but no scratchy rock and roll tonight. Instead it’s indoors to witness the reimagining of Joni Mitchell’s Blue by Arc Iris.

Jocie Adams, Zach Tenorio-Miller, and Ray Belli want to honor the singer-songwriter, but aren’t interested in a tribute band’s nostalgic performance. They want to remake the forty-six-year-old album for a younger generation. Implicit, but unspoken, is their desire not to offend old farts who bought the iconic vinyl half a lifetime earlier when they were the age of today’s band members. The free concert is being filmed and recorded before an invitation-only audience. It’s also being streamed live on Facebook.

Back in the day, I attended some intimate concerts. One summer Minneapolis’ fourteen-hundred-seat Guthrie Theatre, with its thrust stage, hosted luminaries like Neil Young, Cat Stevens, Jim Croce, and Jethro Tull. I remember seeing folkies like Tom Paxton perform before a full house that numbered fewer than a hundred patrons. I didn’t count heads, but figure some number south of fifty were invited to the Arc Iris show. It was like attending a concert in your living room.

I’m something of a purist when it gets down to people messing with the Canon, but I’ve noticed the music industry (not a pleasant rubric for singers and songwriters who are mostly artists and not really an “industry”) is quite good at policing itself, unlike “literary” folk who mess with Conan Doyle, for instance. I chalk it up to a reverence, camaraderie, and sensitivity, which inhibit folk from messing with something bigger than they can handle. I’m not aware that Arthur Brown or James Brown covered a Dylan tune, but I think Jackson Browne could.

That said, I walked away from the Arc Iris show impressed with the new sound, which did not in any way diminish Joni Mitchell but certainly enhanced Arc Iris. It was a magical evening. As Pete Townsend might say: the kids are alright.

Thoughts While on the Road to Woodstock

It often seems people who demand equality really desire to be more equal, as did the piggies in George Orwell’s Animal Farm. This occurred to me while driving through eastern Canada. Leaving the no-longer-so-good U S of A (I’m in the apparent minority who believe the “Party of Lincoln” has evolved into the “Party of Hitlerjungend”) at Sault Ste. Marie, we headed toward Montreal. It had been many years since I’d been to Ontario. I was quite surprised to find the Trans-Canada Highway was still only a two-lane ribbon of asphalt (with regular passing lanes) though it broadens near major municipalities. I quickly became aware the highway signage was in English and French, which surprised me not at all.

At the turn of the last century, Canada created the territory of Nunavut, essentially turning over political control of one-fifth of the country’s land, a chunk of real estate larger than Alaska, to the indigenous Inuit. A country that would do that would have no problem dictating road signage be in French and English to satisfy the Quebecois, the Francophone population.

What did surprise me was entering Quebec and finding all English signage gone, something that would piss me off if I were a resident of Ontario. More interesting, perhaps, was the denial or perhaps the neglect of the province’s own history. Communities settled by the English and later taken over by the French haven’t gone so far as to deface the English words carved into the stone of public buildings, as the Copts did to Egyptian hieroglyphics, at least as far up as they could reach without a ladder.

Some local historians aren’t so much revisionist as moronic. How many century-old buildings have a history that reaches back to only 1937, for instance? They do exist in southern Quebec. While this behavior doesn’t reach the enormity of the destruction of the Buddahs of Bamiyan, I find it reprehensible.

Of course, a sizable number of Quebec’s population want secession and their own country, but the French tend to be better lovers than fighters—it’s been a long time since Napoleon. One might argue the French won WWII as a member of the allied forces, but that is stretching it. How many French units stormed the beaches of Normandy on D-Day? Then again how many wars has the US won since 1945? My guess is about the same number as the French have.

Maybe in the end Quebec will become an independent country and designate French as the only official language, as does France and Monaco in Europe, which will make Quebec one of fourteen countries to recognize French as the only official language, joining several island nations such as Haiti and Madagascar and a handful of African countries.

On Sisyphus

Albert Camus

I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain. One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself, forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.