I like to take a break from social media and blogging and things like that through the holidays. I want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, Joyous Solstice, a Happy New Year, and may any other holiday you celebrate bring you peace and joy with those you love.
I’ve been working on lots of different things, hopefully some of them will see publication in the new year. Perhaps I’ll share some of these works in progress here; I had planned one book for release next September, but my publisher seems to be defunct now, so I’ll search for a new venue in 2024.
In the meantime, please enjoy this holiday song, “Run With the Fox,” from Alan White and Chris Squire, two great musicians who have passed on. This time of year I think we all remember friends and family who shared past holidays with us, and who are no longer here. I like to focus on the good times we had together and how lucky I am to have shared such moments. Peace to everyone reading this.
A friend gave me a tape of Pogues songs when I was in college, back in the mid-90s. It was like nothing I’d ever heard before, but at the same time, incredibly familiar. Irish traditional music with a punk edge and a poetic lyricism that many songwriters attempt and few carry off. I was dumbfounded. I went out and bought everything they had released.
The more I learned about the Pogues, the more I hoped to see them. The problem was that they no longer existed, like so many of the bands I grew up admiring. Shane was unreliable, I read, and had split with his bandmates. This was news I was not happy to hear. But I bought Shane’s new records, recorded with a band he called ‘The Popes.’ The Snake was a great album, I loved it–it featured a hilarious track called “The Church of the Holy Spook” that I enjoyed playing at full volume. I liked some of his work with the Pogues more, but that record was important to me; I’d been waiting for a new album, rejoiced when it came, and played it for months, to the irritation of friends riding around with me in my junker of a Dodge Colt.
The other albums the Pogues recorded were a revelation to me. Impossibly good, each one better than the last. Songs like Navigator, and The Sick Bed of Cuchulain, A Pair of Brown Eyes, Dirty Old Town, The Irish Rover were the soundtrack of my twenties. I listened a lot to other music too, but the Pogues were something special. The music is wonderful but the heart of it was Shane and his poetry. He was such a writer! Singing of mythology and death and gambling and drinking with wit and charm and humor, and making this unlikely blend seem natural and easy to do. Read some of his lyrics sometime–they stand up well after all these years, even without the aid of the band. I have a feeling his songs will be sung long after all of us are gone.
And of course, there is no better drinking music. Brown Eyes begins: “One summer evening drunk to hell, I sat there nearly lifeless” and every time I heard it I burst out laughing, usually with a bottle in my hand.
I tried and failed to see them when they reformed in 2002. I got tickets the instant they went on sale and I waited for the day excitedly. My girlfriend and I would see the great songwriter in person, on St. Patrick’s Day in New York. What could be better?
We drank a lot of beers before going to the venue, but when we arrived we found a Xerox sheet on the locked doors: “THE POGUES SHOW TONIGHT IS CANCELLED.” Shane was mercurial and not so reliable with shows. He wasn’t healthy. Had it been some lesser artist, almost any other artist, I would have been angry and complained. But this was Shane MacGowan. I was crushed, but not angry with him, only sad I didn’t get to see him. We went and had some more pints of Guinness and played the Pogues on a jukebox.
Eventually, I saw him in 2008. It was worth the wait. Maybe it wasn’t the heyday of the Pogues, but I didn’t care at all. I got to see him, the peerless songwriter, the guy who in my opinion is up there with Dylan.
“Did the old songs taunt or cheer you? And did they still make you cry? Did you count the months and years Or did your teardrops quickly dry?”
–Thousands are Sailing
The lyric above always reminded me of my Irish grandmother, a woman I never knew, who died before I was born. An immigrant who arrived in New York when she was in her early twenties. Anytime I asked my father about her, he got very serious and spoke in reverent tones. She was very sick with Parkinson’s from the time he was a young boy. Confined to a wheelchair and ill, she was taken care of by my grandfather. My dad wasn’t big on sharing a lot of detail of his early life, but I know he grew up in borderline poverty, and her illness pained him even many decades later. It must have been hard to see the person he loved most so helpless. I could see in his eyes how much he cared for her, what an important force she was in his life. He was a kind, gentle soul, and I credit the woman she must have been for that. I’m sorry I didn’t know her.
I did know her brothers, however. I recall them coming to the house when I was a young boy. They had brogues and smoked and drank and laughed constantly and I thought they were rock stars. I’ll never forget their visits. I wish I knew them better because they seemed like an awful lot of fun.
My father also told me of going back to her hometown in rural Ireland in the early 1950s, when he was in the Air Force. He arrived in her little town, where a woman greeted him, saying, “You must be Mary’s boy.” Indeed he was. They had been told he might visit, and I guess the town was small enough that his reputation preceded him.
As an adult I gained Irish citizenship. I love Irish music and poetry, and feel proud to be Irish, but have never had the chance to go to Ireland. I’ve gained citizenship for my kids, as well. Someday we’ll all go and visit that beautiful island, and drink to my father, and my grandmother, and to Shane. May they all rest in peace. Thank you, Shane, you crazy, beautiful, poetic soul. Your exquisite songs of love and longing and hope helped many of us understand where we came from a little better.
If I should fall from grace with God Where no doctor can relieve me If I’m buried in the sod But the angels won’t receive me
Let me go, boys, let me go, boys Let me go down in the mud, where the rivers all run dry
“My father was always scrupulous in exacting our holydays, and having us around him on family festivals…It was the policy of that good old gentleman to make his children feel that home was the happiest place in the world, and I value this delicious home feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent could bestow.” –from The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, by Washington Irving
This is a favorite quote of mine, from one of my favorite books. If you’ve never read the Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon, I give it my highest recommendation. I live not far from Irving’s home in Sunnyside, which I pass on my way to work, and I think of him often during my commute. There is something magical about his stories that captures the essence of the area, especially as it must have been in those bygone days.
Happy Thanksgiving, and my warmest wishes to all for a peaceful holiday season.
I try to steer clear of political writing, I detest most of it and want to spend my time on more productive things. However I am seeing reviews for Dead Man Walking, the opera, and I’ll simply say that after watching the film and learning some things about it, I felt it was a lot of drama over someone who murdered innocent people in cold blood. Until you have been the victim of such a crime, I have absolutely zero interest in your opinions on clemency for monstrous behavior.
I’m not even pro death penalty. I just want to spend my time and efforts on people who are worthy of it. That doesn’t include those who murder innocent people.
There are plenty of good arguments to be made against the death penalty, not least of which is that any society that punishes criminals with death seems uncivilized. I sympathize with these views.
Even so, I don’t care what happens to convicted murderers. Once again, come back and have a conversation about it after someone in your family–your spouse, say, or maybe your child–has been viciously murdered in cold blood. Until that time, I could not care less what your opinions are.
I write this not out of some petty vindictiveness but because I keep seeing reviews of this opera and various other articles in the New York Times and elsewhere about forgiveness for people who have committed atrocities, about criminals who now assure us they are very, very sorry about the murdering they did. I can guarantee you none of the people writing and advocating for clemency and speaking of rehabilitation have had a spouse or child murdered in cold blood. They have absolutely no idea what they are talking about and I think they don’t even realize how such pieces come across to victims of such crimes.
So, hard pass on Dead Man Walking. Save your sympathy for those deserving of it.
T.S. Eliot was born September 26, 1888, 135 years ago. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, first published in June 1915, is a groundbreaking work that left me floored when I first encountered it as a young man. Wonderful, evocative, elegaic, just beautiful. I committed much of it to memory and read all of his work, which I revisit often.
I’m not going to parse the poem here; many learned scholars have done so over the past hundred and eight years. What I will say is that as an eighteen year old, I read this poem and was deeply moved. It was not like any poem I’d read before. Among many memorable images, Eliot writes:
“I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.”
I think this and much of this work speaks for itself and needs no intermediary. I knew as a teenager what Eliot was getting at, felt it in my soul, and still remember that unsettling, exciting moment, and feel it just as keenly over thirty years later.
Happy reading, my friends.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question … Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!” My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!” Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair! It is perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head grown slightly bald brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: “That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
“We’ve arranged a global civilization in which most crucial elements profoundly depend on science and technology. We have also arranged things so that almost no one understands science and technology. This is a prescription for disaster. We might get away with it for a while, but sooner or later this combustible mixture of ignorance and power is going to blow up in our faces.” ― Carl Sagan, The Demon-Haunted World
I’ve been reading this book, as well as Sagan’s excellent novel, Contact, and am once again so impressed by his writing. Like Arthur C. Clarke or Frederick Hoyle, he might’ve had a long career as a novelist, had he been so inclined.
This particular quote above, from The Demon Haunted World, reminded me a lot of all the op-eds and articles that have been appearing lately, purporting to explain AI and the proliferation of chatbots. These pieces are often written by non-experts, and then parroted back by technocrats with even less understanding of science. Yet people confidently speak of ‘the algorithm’ as if somehow that means they understand it. Sagan was correct, I think, and we are in trouble. Most of us don’t know how any of this technology really works, yet we are chartering a path to allow it to control so much of our lives.
I tried out the chat thing but was so bored by the unimpressive, poorly written result that I almost fell asleep. You’re gonna need to up your game, chatbot. I find the obsession with this whole thing comical. Almost as weird as when people try to tell me the new marvel movie or zombie apocalypse show is Ingmar Bergman level stuff.
“I find this chatbot deeply unsettling,” said the easily unsettled person.
Ah, well, I’m sure next month there will be some new technology that everyone will be obsessed with, and simultaneously an expert in.
Speaking of terrible tech, I’ve made an effort to get off twitter and the rest of my social media accounts this year. Lately I use them mainly to promote my writing, and these posts automatically get sent there. But in the time I’ve not spent scrolling things and avoiding the news since the start of this year, I’ve read eight books. That’s a book a week, which is what I used to do before this kind of junk started to gain too much of my attention a few years ago.
I have a finite amount of time left in this world, and I’ve already given more than enough of my attention to all this stuff. There are so many great books to read, and never enough time.
A quick break from my normal book news and reviews to plug my daughter’s girl scout cookies! They’re delicious, AND nutritious! Studies have shown that eating these cookies helps you lose weight, makes you smarter and will quickly lead to a promotion at work.
Well, maybe none of that’s true. But they’re yummy and for a good cause. Buy through the link below, and my daughter’s troop will get credit to help them on their scouting adventures and education. Thanks and now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
I’ve been seeing so much about AI chat and I have no interest in it at all. I read and write purely for the pleasure of it. Getting a machine to write for you eliminates the fun, and the whole reason for doing it. You might as well ask your computer to take a hike in the mountains for you.
Christopher Tuthill 