Beautiful writing can soften the blow of even the most distressing of topics. This is from Frank Bruni’s “For the love of sentences” feature:
In The Toronto Star, Janice Kennedy charted the wages of aging: “There’s the physical decline, unimaginable back in younger days. There’s the consignment to irrelevance, also inconceivable once. And of course there’s that great departure lounge where we’ve ended up, knowing our flight won’t be canceled but hoping for a delay.”
And, OMG, this one is delicious:
David Rothkopf, the host of the podcast Deep State Radio, beheld Trump’s descent this week from “being periodically adrift” to something stranger and more savage: “He’s one cloudless night away from baying at the moon.”
Last, Chuck Culpepper in WAPO reflected on the free-for-all for dominance among college football teams this year: “It’s a season loaded with faith, hope and parity.”
I sent some material in today too — hope it’s accepted. It’s by Ted Nguyen in today’s NYT sports section:
“The Cleveland Browns sold their souls for a franchise quarterback but didn’t even get the fleeting moment of happiness that typically comes with these pacts.”
Playwright Arthur Miller was born on this date in NYC in 1915. His first success was All My Sons (not to be confused with My Three Sons starring Fred MacMurray), and he used the money from it to buy land in Connecticut upon which he built a cabin by hand. He conceived the ideas for Death of a Salesman while working, but vowed not to start writing until the cabin was up. When it was, he started writing one morning and finished the first act by the time he went to sleep in the middle of the night. In bed, he found that his cheeks were wet with tears, and his throat was sore from speaking and shouting the lines of dialogue as he wrote. Miller wrote: “For a salesman, there is no rock bottom to the life. He don’t put a bolt to a nut, he don’t tell you the law or give you medicine. He’s a man way out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine.”
Here’s a photo of Willy Loman, sans smile. (In the Chinese production, it’s Willy Lo Mein.)
This poem by Nikki Giovanni from The Poetry Foundation yesterday is called “Mothers.”
the last time i was home
to see my mother we kissed
exchanged pleasantries
and unpleasantries pulled a warm
comforting silence around
us and read separate books
i remember the first time
i consciously saw her
we were living in a three room
apartment on burns avenue
mommy always sat in the dark
i don’t know how i knew that but she did
that night i stumbled into the kitchen
maybe because i’ve always been
a night person or perhaps because i had wet
the bed
she was sitting on a chair
the room was bathed in moonlight diffused through
those thousands of panes landlords who rented
to people with children were prone to put in windows
she may have been smoking but maybe not
her hair was three-quarters her height
which made me a strong believer in the samson myth
and very black
i’m sure i just hung there by the door
i remember thinking: what a beautiful lady
she was very deliberately waiting
perhaps for my father to come home
from his night job or maybe for a dream
that had promised to come by
“come here” she said “i’ll teach you
a poem: i see the moon
the moon sees me
god bless the moon
and god bless me”
i taught it to my son
who recited it for her
just to say we must learn
to bear the pleasures
as we have borne the pains
Yesterday’s discussion of “ocean eyes” generated unusual interest and requests for an additional example. Amazingly, Phil managed to come up with this one without the police getting involved. Thanks, Philly. Remember, they don’t have to be blue, but it doesn’t hurt.
If you’ve ever been hit by a bad earworm, Andy Pullin of the Dull Men’s Club (UK) offers this remedy: I find humming the “Pink Panther” theme removes any earworm, never fails. (It may replace it with the Pink Panther theme though).
This man is David Jakins. He’s 82 and won this year’s World Conkers Championship in Southwick, England, but not without a bit of controversy.
If those things that are hanging from strings look like chestnuts, that’s because they are chestnuts, although they are called conkers here. A hole is punched through and a string attached. Each player gets one and uses it to try to destroy the opponent’s by whipping his against it. The last to emerge with a viable conker is the champ. Smithwick boasts only 160 residents, but 256 contestants showed up to compete this year, and 2,500 spectators spectated.
Jakins’ victory was his first after many decades of competing but the runner-up, Alastair Johnson-Ferguson, cried foul and claimed Jakins used a steel conker. The serious charge was leveled on the basis of his conker disintegrating in one hit, which “just doesn’t happen.” Now get this — a steel conker was in fact found in Jakins’ pocket! He claimed he only carried it around for humorous effect. (It does strike us as hysterical.) An investigation has been launched.
Kelci Banschbach won the women’s competition, the first American to do so, though we do not see why this “sport” requires a division of the sexes.
If two folks meet at the games, fall in love, and marry, no doubt the papers will announce: Love Conkers All.
We’ll leave you tonight with this nice image Phil sent in of two women conking out.
See you tomorrow Chatterheads!
The Wellington Files 