making the fun scene / and making the love scene

The World Is a Beautiful Place

--Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The world is a beautiful place

to be born into

if you don't mind happiness

not always being

so very much fun

if you don't mind a touch of hell

now and then

just when everything is fine

because even in heaven

they don't sing

all the time

The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind some people dying
all the time
or maybe only starving
some of the time
which isn't half bad
if it isn't you

Oh the world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't much mind
a few dead minds
in the higher places
or a bomb or two
now and then
in your upturned faces
or such other improprieties
as our Name Brand society
is prey to
with its men of distinction
and its men of extinction
and its priests
and other patrolmen

and its various segregations
and congressional investigations
and other constipations
that our fool flesh
is heir to

Yes the world is the best place of all

for a lot of such things as

making the fun scene

and making the love scene

and making the sad scene
and singing low songs and having inspirations
and walking around
looking at everything
and smelling flowers
and goosing statues

and even thinking

and kissing people and

making babies and wearing pants

and waving hats and

dancing

and going swimming in rivers

on picnics

in the middle of the summer

and just generally

'living it up'

Yes

but then right in the middle of it

comes the smiling

mortician

I first encountered this poem—yes—on my friend Brian Meissner’s Facebook profile. I love telling the story of how Brian and I met three years ago and how, as I put it, I knew we were destined to be friends.

Brian and I were in the same cohort in the School of Education, which meant that we and 10 other (supposed) future-English teachers took all of our classes together and were either going to love or hate each other for it, dammit! Brian and I hardly knew each other when we were assigned to be teaching partners at Huron High School, but before our first visit, he enthusiastically drew me a complete map of Ann Arbor and our route to HHS, and that was all it took. I knew that we were going to be friends...because he drew me a map.

During that winter semester, Brian and I went to HHS at least twice a week to observe and teach and hang out with our kids and our amazing teacher, GJ. Some mornings, I was late to pick up Brian at Markley; sometimes I would sit in the parking lot waiting for him to stagger downstairs; sometimes he would bring me muffins from the cafeteria; and sometimes, the emergency helicopter would land on top of the hospital as we drove past and Brian would get really happy. We almost always listened to Death Cab for Cutie’s Transatlanticism on the drive because that was the only CD I had in my car. I can’t listen to it now without thinking of those mornings.

Over the last three years, Brian and I have roadtripped to New Orleans, watched two of our friends get married, explored The Detroit Yacht Club and Belle Isle together, rode his go-kart around his parents’ backyard, and spent New Years in Chicago. But there’s one particular moment I love, that by now he has probably forgotten because we are both perpetually late, hyper, forgetful people (but also charismatic, goofy, adventurous, fun ones!)

It was at 3am after the famed Happy Hour That Lasted Nine Hours. I was always arranging Cohort happy hours back in the day, and that afternoon we all made our way from the SOE across The Diag to The Heidelberg and, much later, ended up at Alexis’s apartment. The remaining few of us decided to walk to Ashley’s and brought along containers of brie and hummus and tahini; I don’t know why. I just remember Brian trying to give away the plastic tubs to people on the street, yelling “please, take my hummus and tahini!”

Hours later, he and I sat on The Diag at 3am, on one of those blissfully cool, perfect fall nights, when Indian summer and autumn are dancing around each other in a circle. I have no idea what we were talking about—senior year things—when, all of a sudden, the Ann Arbor unicycle man rode past us…

Sometimes, there are amazing, real metaphors in this world. And sometimes, there is just delightful nonsense.

Since then, I dropped out of the School of Ed—not destined to be a high school teacher, after all—and Brian had an awful student teaching semester and isn’t in a classroom either. But he is working for an incredible literacy non-profit, pairing professionals with children who need reading partners, in magnificent, downtown Chicago, where he is making the fun scene and making the love scene…walking around looking at everything…and wearing pants and waving hats and dancing…and just generally ‘living it up,’ like he always does.

I can’t read this poem without thinking about my dear friend Mr. Meissner, and how much less silly my life would be without him.

nosilla, mr. meissner, and woman schwartz: we make our own fun.

or not wearing pants, as the case may be...

we thought we were going to Alexis's wedding, but we found ourselves at the NOLA zoo!

the cohort happy hour that lasted nine hours.

I wish her a lucky passage

Ten years ago, I started a project—a design project, a “book,” neatly foreshadowing my career as yearbook editor—intended as a graduation present for several friends in the 8th grade. Words, pictures, quotations, arranged and selected by me, it was designed to bring a tear or a smile to my friends’ faces; to try to tell them, even then, just how much they meant to me. I suppose I was beyond my years and full of affect for a 13-year-old...

And I didn’t finish the project. I forgot about it entirely, and I’m finding the remnants of it now, in a manila envelope on a dusty bookshelf.

It’s funny to find here, day after day, how little has changed. I still love books and wise quotations and designing things and starting projects and I still can’t ever tell my friends to my satisfaction just how much I care about them. And I still don’t finish things. I won’t dwell on it now, but the list is very long. My shelves are full of books with markers permanently wedged at page 67 or 123. For every book I finish, I start two ill-fated ones. But, I've earnestly been trying to curb all that lately. In the last year, I’ve finished nearly every book I’ve started, and I’m trying to read only one or two at once.

Maybe this massive room-cleaning project is just the task I needed. I’ve been reverting back to my old-self—pre-China, pre-London, pre-college, maybe even pre-high school—when I was supremely content to retreat to my space, surrounded by my books and small objects. I am learning how to be an introvert again. But, this time around, I’m also trying to slowly reduce the weight of the house.

I imagine picking up our house by the ears and dropping it onto an old brass scale to see how much it weighs. How many tons do my books and shoes and ceramics and grand piano contribute? What about mom’s books and magazines and pictures and seashells? And how much is dad’s share—his piles of “useful” pack-rat objects that fill all the hidden spaces and spill out into the common areas? I’m trying to reduce my share because that’s the only part I can change; the only piece I have any control over; the only area where I have any say. (It’s figurative, really.)

So I’ve spent a lot of time sifting through my old treasures lately. Uncovering them and running my fingers over their dusty, glassy surfaces brings on waves of honey-soaked nostalgia. And strangely… forgetfulness.

I discovered a small, porcelain jewelry box with two doves on top that was filled with small objects: a black plastic spider ring, a piece of green foam, and a sticker that had lost its stick. I must have once placed them there, in a fragile, white box, because they meant something to me; because they conjured a memory. But staring at them now, I couldn’t recall what they stood for or why it had been so necessary to safely and secretly guard them.

With a few moments' consideration, I slid the tiny pieces into a shiny, black garbage bag. After consulting with mom about its origins, the porcelain dove box made its way into a pile destined for the Groves garage sale. (Note the passive voice.)

These knick-knacks—the music boxes, the wind chimes, the decorative dried chilies from Santa Fe, the blown glass whale, the friendship bracelets I wove with my 11-year-old hands, even the plastic spider ring—were once my treasures. They meant something to another version of me; to a person I no longer am but still find traces of in unfinished projects and in the little things that cover my shelves and keep me company.

Which will be the firsts to go when I next return here to purge my life, to lessen the literal and figurative weight that fills my secret spaces? Will it be the glittery star boxes that my cousins, Tess and Daniel, painted for me when they were younger? Will it be the tiny, stuffed, yellow bear that my student, Phil, gave me in Qingdao—one of the few teachers’ presents I was able to bring back across the ocean with me? Will I have forgotten his name by then, and all the others’?

Or, more likely, it will be the large seashells on my top shelf, which I removed from Mr. Ed’s mom’s house after she died—my first brush with cleaning out an old woman’s house and one of my only brushes with the hollow spaces that come in death’s wake. By the time I decide her echoing conch shell is doing me no good, we will probably have gone through both of my grandmothers’ houses, filling our rooms to the brim once again with the leftovers of their lives, with the treasures that mean everything to them and nothing to us.

In The Hurt Locker, the protagonist marvels at his son’s fascination with a jack-in-the-box; how that spunky toy—or any object, really—is enough to keep his young son captivated and content. “By the time you get to my age,” he says, “maybe it’s only one or two things” you really love.

So I’ve begun trading in my well-loved possessions—some stuffed animals, dolls, and games have been relegated to closet shelves; some are slated for the garage sale or Salvation Army; some are in the trash. My books remain—too precious to part with—but my real prizes now are shiny and foreign compared to my old favorites: the jewelry I acquired over four years of working for Barbara; my assortment of pictures of old and faraway friends; the pile of bracelets from Beijing and Qingdao, especially the celadon jade bangle Tracy gave me on my last day, even though it now lies shattered into two heartbreaking pieces. And finally, my maroon backpack gathering dust in the corner—the turtle-shell home that has served me so well in every corner of the world.

There was a time when this blue-carpeted room was my world—filled with my stuffed companions and curio comforts. But now, having a light load is what matters; having less cargo. So, one day, my turtle shell and I can once again slip off the face of the earth, in search of everything we can’t find within these walls.

This poem by Richard Wilbur is one of my absolute favorites. Its imagery and meaning struck me so much the first time I read it that I actually burst into tears.

For me, it conjures up a vision of the yellow Victorian farm house on Williamston Road on the way to my aunt’s house, a building that, since I was a kid, I have wanted to explore and inhabit. I imagine being The Writer of this poem, shut in the atelier of that yellow house, writing away, while my dad observes from distant creaky floorboards.

But it couldn’t be my dad, in actuality, because he doesn’t possess the deft touch of subtlety that this poem’s speaker enjoys. Rather, I wish it were him. Or in lieu of that option, I imagine myself with the speaker’s voice. I am not a father wishing “a lucky passage” to his daughter, but to a smaller version of myself—to a person who once coveted and honored and treasured small things, and who filled sheets and sheets of paper with thoughts and stories, just as the bigger version does now.

Grab the tissues. This one is startlingly beautiful.

The Writer

--Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house

Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;

And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,

We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature

Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove

To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,

For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits

Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,

Beating a smooth course for the right window

And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,

Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish

What I wished you before, but harder.

with strong voices, passions, pageants

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once but leave before it makes you soft. --Baz Luhrman.

Over the last three years, I have acquired many big-city homes—London, Beijing, Qingdao, and DC—with DC being the smallest at half a million and Beijing the largest at 14 million. Even the streets of Manhattan felt a bit like home when I visited in August and was comforted by the sight of a bagel shop, a sushi restaurant, a BBQ joint, and a Korean grocery store all on the same block across from my grandma’s apartment—a kind of homecoming after 6 months in more-homogenous China. New York is my dad’s rejected homeland, after all; “I’m Midwestern by choice,” he says. It is a place I come back to, again and again, and I feel wrong if I don’t visit once a year, maybe to remind myself that it’s still there. But my dearest home--not a city, at all--remains little Ann Arbor, with her wide streets and green trees arching overhead, with bookstores and bars and a world of restaurants... Home is the place you go away from and come back to.

Last March when I was living in Qingdao, I read Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera, an intensely beautiful, epic story, full of weighty words that paint a vibrant picture of life in Latin America. While sitting in my 14th floor apartment overlooking Fuzhou Beilu and barges on the distant horizon, I found something comic and strangely wonderful about reading Marquez—surrounded not by parrots and palm fronds and Spanish, but by gingko trees and cherry blossoms, emerging infrastructure and mounds of rubble, the weight of sharp Chinese tones and of filmy pollution being blown away by the hazy mist off the sea.

Now, on the other side of the world, I find myself amongst a mildly similar contrast—reading Charlie Baxter’s Saul & Patsy and Fuchsia Dunlop’s chili-soaked memoir, Shark Fin & Sichuan Pepper: A Sweet & Sour Memoir of Eating in China. These two books, as profoundly different as they are, bring out a sense of “home” for me like neither could on its own.

Dr. Baxter was my mom’s professor at Wayne State before he began his career at U of M and is the Garrison Keillor of Michigan, arguably our poet-laureate (even though he recently retreated to Minneapolis). He writes about Michigan’s landscape, people, and nuances with dexterity, thoughtfulness, understanding, and a sincere reverence for the beautiful peculiarities that make this place inimitable.

At the same time, I’ve been reliving the three lazy, haze-filled days I spent in Chengdu last July, while I read Fuchsia Dunlop’s Sichuan food memoir. My former professor, Kevin Miller, lived in China for several years and recommended Dunlop’s books to me last fall. I think he understood, in his quiet, awkward way, that I was urgently, frantically, trying to hold onto something—onto anything I could from my time in China, even if I’m not planning on enrolling in cooking school in Chengdu like Dunlop did (in 1994, when there were even fewer laowai (foreigners) in China and there were certainly no laowai women at a Sichuan culinary academy.)

Reading Dunlop’s book in my carpeted bedroom here in Michigan, in Meiguo, makes my head rush with memories of faces and sounds and tastes of Chinese chaos. I can only read a few pages at a time before I am overwhelmed with a strange homesickness.

A similar power of contrast holds true for this poem by Walt Whitman. It is the differences between the language, the imagery, and the pacing of the first half and the second that brings out the beauty of each. And it is a beauty I have been toying with a great deal lately. Part of me is forever fascinated by the intensity of cities like Beijing, Hong Kong, and New York—with their passions and pageants—while the other, quieter part of me daydreams about owning a vineyard in Napa, about running off to Spain or New Zealand, where I will ride a motorbike and stare at fluffy sheep-clouds and harvest grapes all day long in the splendid, silent sun.

Give Me the Splendid Silent Sun

--Walt Whitman

1

Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling,

Give me autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard,
Give me a field where the unmow'd grass grows,
Give me an arbor, give me the trellis'd grape,

Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene-moving animals teaching

content,

Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the

Mississippi, and I looking up at the stars,

Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can

walk undisturb'd,

Give me for marriage a sweet-breath'd woman of whom I should never tire,

Give me a perfect child, give me away aside from the noise of the

world a rural domestic life,

Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by myself, for my own ears

only,

Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal

sanities!

These demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and

rack'd by the war-strife,)

These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart,

While yet incessantly asking still I adhere to my city,

Day upon day and year upon year O city, walking your streets,

Where you hold me enchain'd a certain time refusing to give me up,

Yet giving to make me glutted, enrich'd of soul, you give me forever

faces;

(O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries,

see my own soul trampling down what it ask'd for.)

2
Keep your splendid silent sun,
Keep your woods O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods,
Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards,
Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum;
Give me faces and streets--give me these phantoms incessant and
endless along the trottoirs!
Give me interminable eyes--give me women--give me comrades and
lovers by the thousand!
Let me see new ones every day--let me hold new ones by the hand every day!
Give me such shows--give me the streets of Manhattan!
Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching--give me the sound of
the trumpets and drums!
(The soldiers in companies or regiments--some starting away, flush'd
and reckless,
Some, their time up, returning with thinn'd ranks, young, yet very
old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;)
Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships!
O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied!
The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me!
The saloon of the steamer! the crowded excursion for me! the
torchlight procession!
The dense brigade bound for the war, with high piled military wagons
following;
People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants,
Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as now,
The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets, (even
the sight of the wounded,)
Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus!
Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.

All mimsy were the borogoves

The flurry of Alice-related articles that surrounded the release of Tim Burton’s latest film was probably the best thing that happened to me in early March and, of course, inspired me to post this zany, mythical poem.

I have a long-standing attachment to the Alice books—they are like old friends, entangled with mom and math and my time in England. When I studied in London, I visited Oxford and saw the tree under which Charles Dodgson (Lewis Carroll) and the Liddell girls often sat, and the river where they went boating; at The British Library in London, I stumbled upon Carroll’s original Alice manuscripts and was enchanted by his scritchy notes in the margins, trying out different titles for his book; and the following Christmas, Mom gave me her ancient copy of the definitive Alice-work, The Annotated Alice, with notations by acclaimed mathematician and puzzle-maker, Martin Gardner.

When speaking of gyring and gambling in the wabe, I should also probably mention the first day of my advanced geometry class at Michigan, when my professor put this poem on a PowerPoint to demonstrate sets, and how promising that class seemed then during my rocky mathematics career. Thinking about all of it now still makes me a little sad. But even after abandoning math and teaching, and after seeing Burton’s ill-fitted Alice sequel with the Gholz brothers, I still have a soft pocket for Carroll’s works—and for anything that merges the lines of art and language and math. (See M.C. Escher and my favorite read, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, narrated by a lovable British boy who happens to have autism and who labels his chapters with prime numbers.)

The week Burton’s new movie came out also coincided with a wonderful, wacky reunion between me, Alex, and Sasha, who neither Alex nor I had seen for 10 years since we graduated from Covington and all went to separate high schools. Alex started playing Facebook-tag with Sasha back in December so, when she came home from Peru because her sister was having a baby, we all finally caught up in person. The last time I saw her she was a thirteen-year-old and now…she’s an aunt!

Somewhere during the course of the evening, Sasha turned to Alex and I and said: it’s funny how, even after 10 years, we all somehow ended up on the same page—she in Peru with the PeaceCorps, Alex recently returned from a year in Taiwan, me with my stints in China. And when a group of people—I kid you not—came into The Black Lotus dressed as The Queen of Hearts, The Mad Hatter, The Rabbit, and Alice, all three of us were whipped into equal flurries of excitement. The nonsense of our day-to-day lives…there is no language for it. But sometimes, people just get you.

So here is Lewis Carroll’s The Jabberwocky—full invented, blended, portmanteau words—and some excellent photos of me, Sasha, and Alex at my Bat Mitzvah in 1999. Because where would we all be today without a little absurdity, a few awkward slow dances, and the words chortle, burble, and galumphing?

"When I use a word,” says Humpty Dumpty, “it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less."

The Jabberwocky

--Lewis Carroll

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought --

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'

He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

Little Me and Little Sasha

Little Alex

All three of us are in this one!