curtie in the flowers

curtie in the flowers
Originally uploaded by chacal la chaise.

and now, for something completely different.

curtie is 30! here is a true fact:

on the friday, may 21, 1976, my ob-gyn, dr. charles gunter, told me to go straight to bed and stay there because he didn't want any deliveries that weekend. i did what i was told, went home, and stayed in bed. on monday, i went back to his office and he told me to check myself into sierra medical center on tuesday morning.

i did what i was told, and curtie was born late in the afternoon on may 25.

but if i hadn't, if mj and i had gone out and partied or something over the weekend, curtie would have been born on like, may 22 or 23. therefore, she would already have turned thirty, and all the stuff i sent would have been late!

happy birthday, michaela!
hugs and love...

Final Dance Recital :: Something for Cat

Final Dance Recital :: Ballet
Originally uploaded by chacal la chaise.

Note: First of all, a big thanks to Curtie for the shout-out on her blog. What are we coming to when we greet and read about one another via our blogs? Well, I don't care what others may think, in fact, I think it's fun.

Parting is such sweet sorrow...And so it goes, the final recital and a short but sweet visit from Curtie—all a memory. Whirlwinds (literally and figuratively) may blow into and through your yard, your home, your dreams, but they always tend to dissipate just as fast as they materialized. Soon, all that's left is a pile of sandy dreamlike images and sounds.

Yet, it is in the memory of those few crazy-busy days where events can rest to reside and last longer than the actual events themselves: the judge's recitals with her marvelous tap choreography and Pointe technique, my graduation with its strobe lights and last hurrahs, talks as Curtie sorted through LP's at the Headstand...and now it is midnight, and I watch as she puts the finishing touches on a knitted baby sweater for a friend.

Quick...lights out because now it is already 1:30 in the morning. Transitions from one life to another.

Today, I drive a daisy to the doctor and hear good news this time. It sounds like the pneumonia crackles have dissolved and so too the need for doctor visits...for the moment.

It rained the other night and we all took a turn on the patio, sitting, smelling the air, feeling the humid shift of the wind’s caress from dry to moist...chains of light torch the sky as we sat and watched the rain, and in the darkness, saw the birth of a new memory.

Graduation May 2006 :: Pomp And Circumstance

Graduation May 2006
Originally uploaded by chacal la chaise.

A big shoutout to Dr. Johnson. He stepped out from the darkness that was the long line of professors, so he could shake my hand during the recessional. Did he say this is what he wanted me to know...this ceremony, with all its lights, theatrics, applause, cheers, and tears? Yes indeed, I was very happy and surprised.

Now graduation was an amazing thing. Not so much the anticipation of walking across the stage, although I watched how people took the diploma, shook hands with Dr. Natalicio, then walked a little further to shake hands with Dr. D., and off again. But at then end of the thing itself--the lights, Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance* playing, the excitement that it was over (and something new about to begin.)

As my fellow graduates and I sat, wondering when and how we would file out, I soon spied the professors that just as they walked down the aisle, they turned and stood like guards at the end of our rows. Then we, ahead of those with their new advanced degrees, exited from the opposite end and walked between where the professors stood. Awesome.

I lost count of the professors who stepped out to shake my hand and those to whom I said thank you. Beautiful. But Dr. J's was indeed a happy surprise.

Cynics who forgo these ceremonies do not know what they have missed.

*Pomp And Circumstance Marches, Op.39: No. 1 In D Major - Allegro con molto fuoco

Dad's picture taken by his mom.

Dad's picture taken by his mom.
Originally uploaded by chacal la chaise.

The following came up in conversation recently. A friend must consider whether to continue her education and one of her options is counseling students in high school. I told her I thought another good field is caring for those elderly people who are depressed. Yes, Tom — sometimes, ya just need ta take a pill that helps—not a panacea, but a died-in-the-wool medication to combat depression. Whether for post-partum or meds for Alzheimer or cancer patients, chemical therapy is sometimes called for.

My parents turned 80 in December and I’ve seen a mild version of this condition in my father. This is a new growth industry—keep everyone strong, keep heads and hearts positive (as can be expected), and healthy.

For him, it is the knowledge that time is running out. You know, like sands in a huge hourglass. The stream of sand appears to slide so much faster as it becomes more and emptier than when it first was full.

Between classes this week and last, I essentially drove Mr. and Mrs. Daisy around town. It is a new phase of my life. Over 10 years ago, Michael went through the same passage with his own parents.

I drove dad to my doctor for the cold he let slip into pneumonia. He talks as I drive him to the radiologist for chest X-rays. You know, he said, the British editor of the Glenn Miller Society's newsletter died last year...I haven't received one since then; I wonder what will they will do now?

I know what he's thinking as he says this. The brain trust of the music and culture of his youth is turning to dust. I make a mental note about this. We drive further and he says he must get rid of his record collection. I told him not to purge too soon and that I would like to see again what he tucked away. I also say I could help him donate his Benny Goodman quartet Bluebird 78's to KTEP if he wanted. Or the Sinatras, the Peggy Lees, the Doris Days, the Dorseys (both brothers). However, never the Glenn Miller Air Force broadcasts in their beautiful padded cover with sky father clouds and the floating officer’s hat. He appreciates that i put the XMRadio on the 40's decade music channel. He recalls every single singer, every single band that plays...that's Sentimental Journey--Doris Day and Less Brown, that's I've heard that song before Harry James, Now is the Hour by Bing Crosby... every song, every mile from Kerby Street to the Upper Valley in Vinton we drive. Every mile is another song he remembers. He tells me what grade he was in at the time and who were his friends.

Later, after the X-rays we stop for lunch. I take more notes about his family while we eat. He tells me more about his father's failed attempts to inspire his n'er-do-well cousins to make something of themselves. How he tried to set them up in businesses around town. Nothing ever worked and all eventually faded away into oblivion, which is worst than dust.

Later and just before Aesthetics with Dr. Robinson, I walk into the Cotton Memorial Building to talk to Dennis Woo. Would they be interested in a sizable record donation? He says the radio station is land-locked. We would love to take everything, we have the needles, but we have very little space. He shows me his cabinets. There is very little room for 78's...33 1/3's...45's...

It’s all disappearing--like a reel-to-reel tape that wraps its long snake of brown film onto the opposite take-up reel. Soon one will be full and the other will be empty. It’s life. The preparation of dying begins with your first breath.

Approaching St. George's

Approaching St. George's
Originally uploaded by chacal la chaise.

The former St. George Antiochian Orthodox Church, 915 N. Florence, was placed on Preservation Texas' list of historic properties in 2005.

Formerly known as St. George Antiochian Orthodox Church, the 915 N. Florence property faces what the Austin-based organization Preservation Texas calls serious danger. According to an El Paso Times article dated March 28, 2005, its owners (St. Clement's Episcopal Church) want to turn the property into a parking lot. But for now, this mission revival building, constructed in 1910 by renowned El Paso architect Henry Trost, is currently being rented out to a Maronite Catholic Church congregation.

I post this now because the local historical society has applied for endangered status for another building, which is about a mile away. The group and the city met last week to discuss the condition of The Albert B. Hall mansion. All agree the mansion is suffering "demolition by neglect."

Across the street, a house is under renovation; probably conversion into a law office.

Scout and Interestingness

Inky-picasaFX
Originally uploaded by chacal la chaise.

Prediction :: A feature on Flickr will prove to be very addicting to me.

Scout, on the photo community's sidebar site called Flagrantdisregard, is a kind of barometric visual instrument that tracks how "interesting" any given photo on Flickr can turn out to be. Interestingness is the balance between several factors: how many views, how many comments, how many favorites. It is a popularity contest of the beautiful, the ironic, the surreal. Photoshopped or Picasa-manipulated images, such as this pix of Inky, are judged along side Holga shot prints, Nikon-shot scenics and models, and even camera-cell phones. All are equal under the law of numbers, comments, and eyeballs.

White on white over grey

White on white over grey
Originally uploaded by chacal la chaise.

Wednesday proved to be rather strange. First, I arrived at school early to finish my Latin translation. Currently, we are on Chapter 37 of the Oxford Latin course, which is Volume III of the series. All seemed to be going well, although a few too many ran into class late. It seems their cigarettes took a little longer to smoke than usual. As our professor called on us, one by one, no one seemed to be prepared. Most were trying to translate on the fly. One after one he called on them, and this was making his mood even worse. I could see this was going nowhere fast. Then, he called on one last girl and alas, she too was not prepared.

Like an ancient Greek philosophy master, he threw up his hands in disgust, said he didn't need to take this, that we weren't working hard enough, and that those who needed to do the work obviously didn't care. He said what the assignment was for Monday, walked out, and left us sitting there. Actually, it better that he did; I'm sure we can all use a break from each other. Thank goodness for Caesar Chavez's birthday because we have the day off. Now, we are past the point of dropping, and as many of us are cleared to graduate; in essence, we have no choice but to tough it out with him.

Of course, almost everyone left immediately, cheering as they went. A few of us stayed in the class to chat and look over our work. Actually, we looked over the work for about 2 minutes and talked for about 40. Afterwards, I went to the Academic Services Center and submitted my paperwork for the graduate program I'll be starting in the fall. Then I thought I would take a walk to MJ's office. Along the way, I was able to capture some interesting architectural details in this old neighborhood near El Paso High School.

Plaza Theatre :: Celebration

Plaza Theatre :: Celebration
Originally uploaded by chacal la chaise.

On March 16, we went to the grand re-opening of the Plaza Theatre. After the initial hoopla by the officials, they lit the marquee, launched small fireworks, and opened the doors to the public. Although, we stood outside for about 20 minutes past the time and even had to wait because too many people had entered before us once the doors were opened. But in the end, it was worth the wait.

Interestingly enough, I discovered that you can photograph on spec, although many professional photographers would tell you not to do it. I was able to help the Community Foundation by supplying several photographs for a couple of projects for the theatre.

The Plaza Theatre-beginning of Renovation

The Plaza Theatre-beginning of Renovation
Originally uploaded by chacal la chaise.

About four years ago, I took this photo; while I later saw the Plaza Theatre several times before the renovation began, one visit stood out above the rest.

Cynthia Farah-Haines was giving a presentation to the Historical Society about El Paso's theatres, which I had arranged. The last possible date was May because any time after that was much too hot—the Plaza had no functioning air conditioners. A reproduction Wurlitzer was delivered the day before and someone was going to play it for us.

Now, the society’s average member age must be around 70, and I was a bit worried they might have difficulties entering the building. However, any fears vanished as soon as I saw their reaction to the organ music. It was as if they were the children of Hamlin and the organist was the Pied Piper.

These children of The Great Depression slowly walked inside through a plywood door, which covered the original entrance. With canes, or arm-in-arm with their partners they cautiously walked along the long, open foyer with its red Spanish tile floor. They climbed a few stairs, and continued to an old concession stand. There, popcorn and red berry punch was set out for them. They chatted a bit about their youth and then they began walking into bowels of that ratty and dusty old theatre. Down the dimly lit aisle, and up to the front near the stage, they went. Looking around the near empty and cavernous palace, they saw their memories were safely stored away for them to retrieve that day.

Disappearing Ink

Disappearing Ink
Originally uploaded by chacal la chaise.

Finally, I uploaded my most recent photos to flickr, which allowed me time to think about what Mr. Gioia (head of the NEA) said about the downward turn in reading levels for all Americans.

At first, I disagreed, but of course, it's because I'm in school where it write and read for course, write this blog, read the blogs Curtie writes, and read Capote, Didion, and Zola. Well, doesn't everyone? Now that's all just bougie, self-serving rubbish.

Recalling various snippets of words between classes with student peers, I realized many pride themselves on how little they read. They smile, saying they "get away" with reading as little as possible.

One friend boasted she passed her Humanities and Literature courses by only using online synopsis she found. Or, she bought $5 blue or yellow-striped books when necessary; she also lamented she had to really read for a genre (Detective Fiction) class we took together. This was because the reading list was so specific and rather obscure that she had to read the books for the class.

Another friend told me he would start reading once he entered graduate school. Of course, he'd said that also thought the exact same thing when he was in high school: "I'll read when I get to college."

Well, ungraduate work is now over for him, though there is no doubt he'll attempt to do the same for his graduate courses; he'll scrape the internets or buy those yellow-striped or bright blue synopsis cheater books. Don't even ask me about conversations with current schoolteachers, taking graduate classes at night, who beam that they've found the holy grail of laminated literature, more plastic cheats at the UTEP bookstore. You know the rest.

Yes, Mr. Gioia, this is a nation of readers-by-proxy. We confine our reading to flat laminated sheets in order to pass our classes. For all our sakes, I hope this city runs with open arms to embrace your program, The Big Read.

The Judge & Typewriter

The Judge & Typewriter
Originally uploaded by chacal la chaise.

...Poet Dana Gioia, on the other hand, uses his typewriter continuously, pecking out poems and correspondence. (The poems he writes out first in longhand.) "I've proven to people that I can write a letter quicker on a typewriter than they can on a computer," said Gioia, who is chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts. "I also like the physical feel of a typewriter. I like the noise it makes, I like to be able to physically put paper in it. It's as quick and efficient as a computer and much more sensuous, in a way."

Read the entire article here.*

Today, I missed Aesthetics (although I told my professor I would be absent) so I could sit and listen to a talk given by Dana Gioia, current head of the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA).

Unfortunately, I did not get a picture of Mr. Gioia because my camera went dead. But he did sign my copy of his book Disappearing Ink.

I soon left afterwards and returned to MJ's office, where I dug around on the internet for more information about this man of letters and public service. That's when I found the above quote from an Atlanta Journal Constitution article about the demise of typewriters. I don't know why, but I kind of thought it a counterpoint to Mr. Gioia's 1991 book-length essay, "Can Poetry Matter?" Back then, the book raised this art's ghostly specter as if it no longer seemed to have any raison d'etre in today's world. At the time, poetry seemed to be at death's door, retreating into either the world of street, cowboy, or the academian towers--where coded reams of creative writing programs and peer-reviewed journals dwelt.

Of course he had to write that essay, he was then living the life as undercover artist--seller of jello by day and poet by night. But I digress, because I'm happy to say that poetry has kind of recovered, brought back to the hands of everyman/woman. It is this very recovery which he writes about in his book, which he signed for me saying Best wishes, signed in permanent ink.

Aside from being asked to come speak, I believe he was also here on a promotional road trip for a new community NEA reading program called, "The Big Read," which is being rolled out in May. As he signed my book, I asked if he had contacted Dave Eggers about his 826 Valencia Street writing project for children. He said he would be meeting with him in conjunction with the Big Read program. I think there can be great synergy created by these two ideas coming together and hope all the bilingual kinks get worked out so that it is a success.

It is funny that this should even be needed. On XM's BBC Radio, we've been listening to readings of the short list for the BBC's World Service Short Story Competition. These are wonderful, exotic stories that are read by excellent actors/readers. I hope they publish the stories with a CD because there are a few I would like to listen to again, especially "One Night in Bangkok" by Tracey Martin (Phnom Penh, Cambodia), which was a runner-up in the competition.

*get a bugmenot login here if you can't read the entire article: