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Monthly Archives: August 2023

Acquainted With the Night

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Poet Robert Frost (1874-1963) with Dog

I was privileged to attend one of Robert Frost’s last poetry readings at Dartmouth College’s Hopkins Center. Let me tell you something about Frost: He was no doddering sweet old man. His mind was sharp, and he have the appearance of knowing exactly what he was doing. He had attended Dartmouth College in his youth, but dropped out.

Acquainted With the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. 
I have been one acquainted with the night.

His poems sound so simple at first, but look again ….

Sea Lions

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Sea Lion (Notice the Ear Flaps)

Whenever the mercury climbs to the high eighties or low nineties (30-35° Celsius), I head to Chace Park in Marina del Rey, find a shady spot, eat my lunch, and begin to read. In the background there is a lot of barking by the sea lions (Zalophus californianus); and dozens of little brown squirrels are climbing trees, descending from trees, and sometimes standing still staring at the tourists. It’s a friendly place, but one that definitely smells of the sea. More to the point, it is usually the coolest, breeziest place I know of to escape the heat.

Today, the sea lions were mostly youngsters. If one of them lolled on one of the wharves, he or she would bark loudly if joined by another sea lion. Maybe it was just their way of greeting one another. Maybe they just didn’t want to share their place in the sun.

The California sea lion can be found from the Alaska panhandle to the Pacific coast of Central Mexico. They are a good example of a non-endangered form of sea life. That makes me happy, because I love to hear them barking at one another.

American Glop

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Does It Need Dipping Sauce Because It’s Dry and Tasteless?

I’m grateful that I was not raised on American food. My mother and great grandmother were superb cooks in the Hungarian tradition. Although as a smaller child I loved hot dogs and hamburgers, I found myself increasingly drawn to food that had real flavor.

Real food is prepared with spices. And not just catsup. I cannot understand why American hamburgers are just meat. My mother mixed ground beef with ground pork, and then added egg, bread, minced onions, garlic, and parsley. We called it fasirt or schnitzli. They were good hot or cold and made great leftovers.

Compare it with the typical American fast food hamburgers. Oh, you’ll probably need a “dipping sauce” consisting of a mixture of warmed-up fat, catsup, and sugar to make it palatable.

If your dish requires a dipping sauce, it’s because the cook did not know how to season the dish. That’s also why hamburgers are often served with some sort of thousand island dressing, because they are not otherwise moist or tasty.

And I’m not just talking about hamburgers, either. Most American food tastes unappetizing and bland to me. I suppose you’d like it only if you were raised on Cheerios until you reached the age of twenty-one. Living in Los Angeles, I would rather go to a good Asian or Latin-American restaurant rather than one of the standard fast food chains. You can get real food there, and it will have flavor.

Crônicas: How To Deal With What One Has

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Clarice Lispector (1920-1977)

Clarice. I love her name. I love her high cheekbones and penetrating gaze. And most of all, I love the beauty of her thoughts and writings. She wrote in Portuguese, but she was born Chaya Pinkhasivna Lispector in Chechelnyk, Ukraine. To escape the horrors of the Civil War between the Red and White Russians, her Jewish parents fled with their infant daughter to Recife in northeastern Brazil. At an early age, it was discovered that she could write well enough to be published. And she became one of the great women novelists and short story writers of the 20th century.

I am reading short pieces she wrote for Brazilian publications. They are called Crônicas and were recently published in a volume called Too Much of Life, which I am slowly reading with great pleasure.

This is the first of several posts in which I will present one of her Crônicas. I hope you enjoy them.

HOW TO DEAL WITH WHAT ONE HAS

A being lives inside me as if he were entirely at home, and he is. He is a glossy black horse who, despite being entirely wild—for he has never lived inside anyone else and no one has ever put reins or a saddle on him—despite being entirely wild, he has, for that very reason, the primitive gentleness of one who knows no fear: he sometimes eats from my hand. His muzzle is moist and cool. I kiss his muzzle. When I die, the black horse will be left homeless and will suffer greatly. Unless he chooses another house that is not afraid of him being simultaneously both wild and gentle. I should say that he has no name: you just have to call him and that is his name. Or perhaps not, but summon him in a gently authoritative voice, and he will come. If he senses and feels that a body is vacant, he will trot silently in. I should also warn you not to be afraid of his neighing: we mistakenly think that we are the ones neighing with pleasure or rage.

You Are the Dirt Under My Fingernails

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Contrary to what some haters are saying, I am not only still the President of the United States, but also the best President this country has ever had. In fact, I am a better President than most of you deserve. You think you can convict me of a bunch of crimes the haters made up just to get even with me. It won’t work. I have been a perfect President, and everything I have done has been perfect.

Just look at my so-called mug shot. If you think you can have me convicted and put away, you are sadly mistaken. I will come for you: You are just the dirt under my fingernails!

So many weaklings who have worked with me have turned against me. Even my children, my wives, my lawyers, my political appointees, and women I supposedly raped. (Why would I have to rape any of them? They were attracted to me and gave their consent.) I am guilty of having been too perfect for the job.

Mess with me, and I will come for you. See who wins in the end, you pathetic losers! I have a 100% win record, and it will continue to be perfect.

There are millions of Americans who want to Make America Great Again (MAGA all the way!), and they will rise up rather than see me treated like dirt. See if it doesn’t happen!

I will bide my time and end up winning again. That’s what I’m all about. WINNING 100%

“Accidental to the Truth”

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The Flag of Venezuela

I have just finished reading V. S. Naipaul’s A Way in the World. No one can describe the sometimes barely visible gradations that make up racism and colonialism. At one point, his character Francisco Miranda—a fictional precursor to Simón Bolívar, José de San Martín, and the other liberators of South America from Spanish rule—discusses the difficulties inherent in unifying the newly freed peoples of Venezuela:

“In all your years of writing about Venezuela and South America, you simplified it, General. You talked about Incas and white people. You talked about people worthy of Plato’s republic. You always left out two of the colours. You left out the black and you left out the mulatto. Was that because you were far away?”

“No. I did it because it was easier for me intellectually. Most of my ideas about liberty came to me from conversation and reading when I was abroad. So the country I created in my mind became more and more like the countries I read about. There were no Negroes in Tom Paine or Rousseau. And when I tried to be like them I found it hard to fit in the Negroes. Of course, I knew they existed. But I thought of the m as accidental to the truth I was getting at. I felt when I came to write that I had to leave them out. Because of the way I have lived, always in other people’s countries, I have always been able to hold two or more different ideas in my head about the same thing. Two ideas about my country, two or three or four ideas about myself. I have paid a heavy price for this.”

As I read these lines, I suddenly thought about why Spain lost South America. The Spanish monarchy sent out mostly men, accompanied by very few Spanish women. Many of these men married native women, or black women, or mulattoes. Consequently, the thought arouse back on the Iberian peninsula that these Spaniards who “went native” probably did not have the best interests of the Spanish monarchy at heart. Consequently, they were almost never promoted to positions of authority. The rebels who defeated the Spanish armies were mostly these men, referred to as Creoles, who were not quite Spanish.

What I Look Like with Long Hair

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Carol Burnett and Tim Conway as the Oldest Man

As usual, I have delayed in getting a haircut. So now I look like the Tim Conway character in the Carol Burnett Show when he’s acting the part of the Oldest Man. It’s appropriate, after all, since we’re both from the Cleveland area.

The only difference is that Tim Conway, whatever part he plays, is usually more fashionably dressed than I am.

History of the Night

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Argentinian poet Jorge Luis Borges was well acquainted with the night, especially when he lost his sight in the 1950s. It is best to remember that fact as one reads his poem “History of the Night.”

History of the Night

Throughout the course of the generations
men constructed the night.
At first she was blindness;
thorns raking bare feet,
fear of wolves.
We shall never know who forged the word
for the interval of shadow
dividing the two twilights;
we shall never know in what age it came to mean
the starry hours.
Others created the myth.
They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates
that spin our destiny,
they sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock
who crows his own death.
The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses;
to Zeno, infinite words.
She took shape from Latin hexameters
and the terror of Pascal.
Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland
of his stricken soul.
Now we feel her to be inexhaustible
like an ancient wine
and no one can gaze on her without vertigo
and time has charged her with eternity.


And to think that she wouldn't exist
except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.

A Wild Day

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A Tropical Storm in August—Followed by an Earthquake?

My friend Bill Korn had it right: “So. Floods. Tempests of wind. Even an earthquake. It seems like Someone is having an Old Testament-y kind of day.” Today, for the first time in eighty-four years, Los Angeles was hit by a summer hurricane that snaked its way north from Baja California. Just as a kind of bonus, we also had a Richter 5.1 earthquake around 2:40 this afternoon. (Fortunately, it was centered in Ojai, which is more than fifty miles northwest of here.)

Typically, L.A. has a short rainy season that lasts roughly from December to March. In the sixty-odd years I have lived in Southern California, we have not had any intense tropical summer storm events like this one. The rain started twelve hours ago and bids fair to continue for another whole day.

Thankfully, we are on the western edge of the storm, so we have not had any gale-force winds, just a whole lot of rain.

Martine and I went out for a Thai lunch early this afternoon, but otherwise we just stayed put, hoping with our fingers crossed that we would not have another power outage.

Spanish Barley

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Sort of What My Recipe for Spanish Barley Looked Like

Although I am tending more and more toward a non-Vegan vegetarianism, I have always thought that most American vegetarian cooking is totally blah. I take my cue from Indian cuisine, which is not afraid of strong flavors. The basic recipe I used can be found at GoBarley.Com.

I followed the recipe, but with two additions and two substitutions. At this time of year, one can buy Hatch chiles from New Mexico at a good price. I fire-roasted two chiles and peeled off the blistered skin. Then I chopped up the chiles and added it to the recipe.

Instead of diced low-sodium canned tomatoes, I used eight fresh Roma tomatoes which I chopped. Then, in place of plain paprika, I used smoked paprika to give it additional flavor.

Finally, when I served the barley, I added some Fly by Jing Sichuan Chili Crisp, which I described in an earlier post.

Americans are not used to cooking barley as if it were rice, but there are a number of advantages. First of all, it is far better for someone with Type 2 Diabetes to eat grains with a higher percentage of fiber to carbohydrates. One cup of long-grain white rice has 9% of the daily value of fiber, but 54% of the daily value of carbs. Compare that to raw pearled barley: a cup of barley contains 111% of the daily value of fiber compared to 56% of the daily value of carbohydrates.

Foods that are rich in fiber compared to carbohydrates tend not to overload the pancreas. It’s sort of like a mechanism to time-release carbs to the body rather than bomb the pancreas.

Oh, and it also tastes really great. More chewy than rice, but every bit as good if not better.