But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone

Can you find Icharus's two little legs?

Musee des Beaux Arts (1940)

--W.H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,

The Old Masters; how well, they understood

Its human position; how it takes place

While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;

How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting

For the miraculous birth, there always must be

Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating

On a pond at the edge of the wood:

They never forgot

That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course

Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot

Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse

Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away

Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may

Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,

But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone

As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green

Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen

Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,

Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

After a horrible night of struggling with my laptop—streaky screen, corrupted files, RAM grinding to a halt, it is on its last threads and me with it—I am finally updating today with a month of backlogged entries. These are all things that I have been thinking about and working on for weeks, even though I have been silent here. Chock it up to my compulsive editing, if you wish.

Also, according to Megan K, April is poetry month! (I can’t help but wonder, is there a month for everything? Support Your Local Florist Month? Shoelace Appreciation Month?) All the more reason to get back into this…

In the last few days I have realized that I hate when people talk about someone “battling” cancer or anorexia or depression or alcoholism. There are no broadswords or crossbows; no armored warriors on horseback; no flags flapping in the breeze, bearing the crest of a red dragon or white lion. Instead, there are a lot of quiet moments, wasted sunny days, and friends and family members who don’t quite know what to do or say. And as for everyone else, they are on the “expensive delicate ship,” sailing calmly by.

I have always been captivated by the motif of Icharus—the golden boy who dared to fly towards the sun and then came crashing back to earth in a mess of hot wax and feathers, his father’s warning ringing in his ears. There is this fine balance for our parents, and for us: They want us to reach farther and achieve more than they could, but they are also wary; they don’t want us to fall from grace and have to fish us out from the depths of the green sea.

Ever since I came back from The East—both the East Coast and the Far East—I have felt not like Icharus fallen, but like Icharus grounded. I remember saying to Emily last month, it’s like someone has clipped our wings, and she heartily agreed. Yesterday, at Baja Fresh, I couldn’t talk to one of the employees in Spanish, even though I knew I could’ve communicated to her what I wanted to say and what she didn’t understand in English. Last summer, I wouldn’t have batted an eye at trying to order dinner or “chatting” with a taxi driver in my minimal, nonexistent Chinese. Fake it ‘til you make it or, as Jules wisely said, “just screw it and do it!”

What I like about this poem—and about Breugel’s painting—is that it illustrates the simple, mad indifference in this world. (Maybe it is particularly rampant here in the Midwest, as Michigan-expert Charlie Baxter muses in Saul & Patsy. Indifference is something to bask in when you’re exhausted from the excitement of the world and something to despise when you’re craving that excitement.) No one much cares, at any given moment, what’s happening in the world or what anyone else is really doing or if they’re falling out of the sky. A mild, cloudy Tuesday is just as good a day for tragedy as it is for epiphany.

of emptiness, of fullness perfectly contained

One week into The Post and I’m already behind. Insert comment on Miriam-lateness here.

Ok, here’s a real-life conversation from last week…

Me: I was supposed to be born in mid-October, so I was a few days early.

Allison: You? Early?! I guess it happened that one time aaaand it’s never happened since! (buh dum chh)

I didn’t post on Monday, as promised, because I was sick and still went to work. Bad move. I’m paying for it now. I dragged myself to a clinic this afternoon to find out what's wrong (I've been sick three times in four weeks; turns out I have a sinus infection and an ear infection) and then I went on a quest for the ultimate medicine: Matzah ball soup.

Whenever I'm sick, all I want is chicken soup. My dad sent me a bunch of Hanukkah presents last month, including a gift card for a delicatessen in Tenleytown, so I managed to get carry-out today. I cashed in big-time--two containers of matzah ball soup, a turkey melt, an everything bagel, blintzes, rugelach, and a Dr. Brown’s cream soda. Now I have enough food to last me through the weekend--and hopefully through this illness.

So my question for you is: What are your favorite comfort foods??! And why? (This seems like the kind of question my roommate would like. She's moving out tomorrow and it’s going to get lonely around here!!)

My comfort foods are:

*Mom’s chicken soup with acini di pepe

*Mom’s polenta with spicy Italian sausage

*Mom’s roast beef and mashed potatoes

*Mom’s cornbread and Irish soda bread

*Mom’s oatmeal (notice a trend here?)

*Chinese food--onion pancakes, rou chuan, guan guan mien from Tai Dong, etc.

*And of course, kreplach or matzah ball soup

Comfort foods remind us of where we're from... So what are your favorites?

This poem has been one of my favorites since Mrs. Greenbaum’s Advanced Writing class senior year. It was a great class--probably my favorite at Groves. We wrote a lot. We read a lot--both poetry and prose--and I knew I loved Mrs. Greenbaum when we read a short story by Charlie Baxter, who was my mom’s professor in college. Emily, Caitlyn, Kate, and I were in the class together, which gives me the warm fuzzies because Caitlyn and I had brunch in Woodley last week, and almost exactly a year ago, Emily and I were in Southeast Asia.

I like the simplicity of this poem and how everyday it is--like a snapshot out of Alan Dugan’s life. It makes me think of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks and of being in New York--one of the places I'm from, in a way.

And most of all, as a perpetually-late Libra, I like the imperfect metaphor of perfect balance.

Closing Time at the Second Avenue Deli
--Alan Dugan
This is the time of night at the delicatessen
when the manager is balancing
a nearly empty ketchup bottle
upside-down on a nearly full ketchup bottle
and spreading his hands slowly away
from the perfect balance like shall I say
a priest blessing the balance, the achievement
of perfect emptiness, of perfect fullness? No,
this is a kosher delicatessen. The manager
is not like. He is not like a priest,
he is not even like a rabbi, he
is not like anyone else except the manager
as he turns to watch the waitress
discussing the lamb stew with my wife,
how most people eat the whole thing,
they don’t take it home in a container,
as she mops up the tables, as the
cashier shall I say balances out? No. The computer does all that. This
is not the time for metaphors. This is the time
to turn out the lights, and yes,
imagine it, those two ketchup bottles
will stand there all night long
as acrobatic metaphors of balance,
of emptiness, of fullness perfectly contained,
of any metaphor you wish unless
the manager snaps his fingers at the door,
goes back, and separates them for the night
from that unnatural balance, and the store goes dark
as my wife says we should take a cab
or walk, the stew is starting to drip already.
Shall I say that the container can not
contain the thing contained anymore? No.
Just that the lamb stew is leaking all across town
in one place: it is leaking on the floor of the taxi-cab,
and that somebody is going to pay for this ride.