Things I Learned This Week

Whitman, O'Neal, Garfield, Lincoln, Barton Springs, Books, and Fela Kuti

Hello, all you trying-to-stay-uprighters. Sitting here at my desk on the second floor, watching the chickens do chicken stuff and basking in the afterglow of an Alvin Ord’s sandwich. Shit might be hitting the fan all over, but right here, if I stay off the internet, all looks pretty swell. School has started back up, and just in time. I was starting to lose my mojo bigtime.

I wasn’t looking forward to the first day when I had to wake up early for my TA class, but as soon as I started perusing my desk copy of The Norton Anthology of American Literature, I remembered why I was here. Nothing like a little Walk Whitman to set the mood. “ Song of Myself” was my gateway drug to literature back in the day. It was the writing that took my breath away in high school and still riles me up pretty good. I was reminded that O Captain! My Captain is an elegy for Lincoln, and speaking of the tall man with the top hat and the heart of gold…

We watched Death by Lightning this week about the short-lived president James Garfield and the man who shot him, Charles Guiteau. It was very entertaining, but Michael Shannon’s straightforward Garfield was in an entirely different movie than Matthew Macfadyen’s clown Guiteau, who seemed to be living in a comedy or errors along with the rest of the cast. It made me think of Lincoln, which has an amazing performance wrapped up in 2 and a half hours of kinda sleepy cinema. We watched it the next day to compare, and it further cemented my opinion that Death by Lightning was slightly off. I recommend, but just know that something is fishy. On a side note, we watched Paper Moon. Somehow I’d never seen it all the way through, and wow, is Tatum O’Neal remarkable. It did make me feel sad for her, though, because any child who knows how to fully inhale a cigarette that young probably wasn’t in a safe space. Lastly, the second installment of 28 Years Later did not live up to the first, but bravo to Ralph Fiennes for making Duran Duran look cool to the kids.

Leading up to Christmas, our family visited a few holiday sales and were dismayed by the amount of AI-generated content being sold as “art” at places advertising themselves as art markets. It’s nuts. Glad to see some larger events taking a stand, but man, oh man, it’s shocking what some people will pay for. We did, however, see some great original work, and my son and I both fell in love with the Where’s Waldo aesthetic of illustrator David Regone. I didn’t buy this poster when I saw it, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about his great illustration of Austin’s Barton Springs. I love this kind of flat line illustration. So fun. Extra points if you can find the topless lady. ;)

I have a huge stack of books for this semester, plus some just for fun reads I didn’t get to over the break. First up in the TBR line are Reprieve by my fiction professor this semester, James Mattson, about a murder at an extreme haunted house in 1990s Nebraska; Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah about a young Nigerian woman and her male schoolmate awakened to race issues in the West, and the Christmas present from my husband that still goes uncracked, Joyride: A Memoir By Susan Orlean. Time to get reading. Whew.

Lastly, shoutout to the late musician and political activist Fela Kuti, who my husband was blasting throughout the house early this morning. Fela is regarded as the innovator of Afrobeat, a Nigerian music genre that combines West African music with American funk and jazz. The album on repeat here is called The Best Best of Fela Kuti, but was reissued recently as The Best of the Black President. It’s a jam. Totally hypnotic and danceable, while still holding weight with its lyrics and deep themes about social justice and equality. Check out Water No Get Enemy to start. Good stuff.

Quote of the week?

Verse 52 from “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me—he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable;
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me;
It flings my likeness after the rest, and true as any, on the shadow’d wilds;
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the runaway sun;
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love;
If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean;
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;
Missing me one place, search another;
I stop somewhere, waiting for you.

‘Til Tuesday kids (hopefully).

Burgin