Friday, January 16, 2009

up and running...

Hey Folks:

I am exhausted thinking about the inauguration. You? Even from the NYC it seems like lots of coordinatin'.

There's so much to get going though after the celebrating. I can't believe our pres.-elect is already campaigning for his "new deal". I'm tired just seeing pictures of him in the news online! I can't imagine what it must be like to be running around moving (from the hotel, to Blair House to the White House -- oh and that last move by Bush to delay the Blair House move: could dude be *more* tacky on his way out? John Howard? Please.) Anyway, I guess all that running is part of the job and Obama seems to be diving in feet first before the swearing in, even. These confirmations have been moving forward and the dinners? My goodness I'd take all sorts of preventative antidotes before breaking bread with some of those folks...(I know, right?: New Yorkers and their paranoia.)

After, after and after is everybody's doing though. I feel more pressure to do, be myself. Talk about raising that bar. Feeling kinda positive about it though! Hence the title of this entry.

And speaking of, yay pilot! (RIP, Canadian geese.) We got plenty of drama in the Tristate area. Last thing we need is a plane crash and folks hurt. That was so great that no one was permanently injured or killed. How scary was that?

Well the outgoing White House persona was hitting the trails and creating, as always, great literature to riff off of. De Hudson wuz deep but De Nile....(yeah, I trotted out that oldie. Sue me.) A person who speaks well representing the country. Yay. I may not always agree with Obama but at least my Elements of Style won't automatically freeze up with the collective sympathy pains of the world, when he's talking. (My books are very animated.)

Speaking of old school, here's some poems.

Feliz Enero,

PS: In case it isn't super obvious by now, the poems are an extension of this blog's commentary and, just as the prose isn't usually experimental (even though I'm an 'experimental' poet), most of the poems are fairly transparent as are my little ol' notes. -- t

I Hear America Singing.
Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe
and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deck-
hand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing
as he stands,
The woodcutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morn-
ing, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,
or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young
fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

I, Too, Sing America
by Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"

They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.

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