Bye fer now

Well, I am off to the airport in an hour. Just finished the August schedule for my practice and emailed it off to the various hospitals. Almost forgot to do that.

I will be in Asheville, NC until July 10th. I am not sure how much I will be able to blog while I am there, but I will try.

(P.S. I miss you already, Jacob.)

Jimmy's at it again...

Well, if you thought he had given it up, if you thought he was only interested in homo pirates and avant dinosaurs, kiddie poets and the ever popular china marker of doom... Yes, Jimmy has once again resurrected What the Hell is Up With Your Author Photo, but this time with a Portrait. The man is unstoppable. Now all we need is for him to swing by Jordan Davis's place and take a look at the photo of Condi Rice. It screams to be the next in the China Marker of Doom series.

Googling, Quizzes, and Ashbery (what more could you ask for?)

I almost keeled over and died recently when I checked my sitemeter because a certain website had referred people to my blog. When I clicked on it, however, I discovered it was none other than Tony Robinson! That goofball we all love has changed the name of his blog. And I fear it will send a certain poet all over the place when next he auto-googles himself. Thanks to sitemeters and referrer links, his name will now show up on tons of blogs because of visitors arriving from Tony's blog. Tony, I love you, but you are one sick mother!

Today is errand day deluxe. I have to go buy freakin' laser printer paper because I ran out right when I needed to print out my 34-page essay/lecture on the evolution of the Contemporary American Elegy. Murphy's Law. Also need to run around doing laundry, packing, etc. I need a personal assistant. Maybe I could convince ADT to move to SF and become my PA. But then I would have to buy him a car, and this would be a problem. But at least he would have access to my entire library of poetry books and could read every single book published by John Ashbery!

Resin

Geri Doran's book Resin is now out from LSU Press. Although she is one of my best friends, she is also an absolutely amazing poet. Her poetry is, in many ways, how we became friends so many years ago. Resin was selected by Henri Cole as winner of last year's Walt Whitman Award. Go out and buy this book. You will not regret it. You will not be disappointed. She is the real thing.

The Deep End

Jacob and I watched The Deep End last night. It was supposedly a suspense/thriller. Well, it wasn't suspenseful or thrilling. It was downright lame. Basically a guy about to go off to college is having an affair with a guy who owns a bar. The young guy's mother tells this bar owner not to go anywhere near her son. So, of course, he goes right to him that night. The two fight and the bar owner ends up after the fight walking a little too lazily and falling off a pier on to an anchor, killing himself. What follows is absurd. The mother finds the body, assumes her son killed him, then the whole movie goes into the lame zone. As with so many movies, the lesson here seems to be that if you are gay you: 1. die because you are scum, 2. should stay in the closet because if you don't your life will be even worse, 3. your mother will cover up the fact she thinks you are a murderer because being a murderer isn't as bad as being gay!

What the hell is wrong with Hollywood? I have written about this before, but I am literally starved for gay characters in movies that aren't psycho killers (Silence of the Lambs, The Talented Mr. Ripley), AIDS victims (Philadelphia, etc.), ineffective effeminate men, or any other number of stereoptypes. Every single freakin movie I see with gay characters is depressing because they die, are left unhappy, etc. etc. Beautiful Thing remains one of the only movies with gay characters in it that has a somewhat happy ending.

Anyway, enough of my ranting against Hollywood. Need to get some work done. I am panicked because I am going to be away from the hospital and Medicine from tomorrow until the 10 of July. That slightly freaks me out. Not that I don't think some of my patients won't email me during that time.

Oh, that's nasty!

This is so WRONG! It has been a while since I visited this crazy site, but Jeez. Are these secrets for real?

Buehler? Buehler...

The weekend went by too quickly. And as often is the case on Sunday nights, I slept terribly. I had a hard time falling asleep, and then when I did I tossed and turned and slept fitfully.

I have much to get done today and tomorrow before heading off to Ashville. The worse part of travel is the laundry and packing and crap to get finished before being away for a while. It is at times like these I want a personal assistant.

One of my best friends got the first copies of her book over the weekend. We went out to dinner to celebrate. The book is gorgeous. LSU did a phenomenal job with it. She is one lucky ducky. I have seen some books lately that weren't produced with any kind of attention to detail.

July is almost here. What are you all doing for the Fourth?

Under the Rainbow

I didn't plan on it, but I ended up going down to the big post Gay Pride Parade party today at Civic Center. I definitely think it topped 1,000,000 this year. It was just packed despite the streets shut down and turned into party space. All the usual suspects were there. And, like any festival, there were the hot dogs, the pretzels, the chicken on a stick, the garlic fries, etc. Oh and lots of beer and frozen margaritas (Vive Cuervo, the Queer in cuervo annoyingly overemphasized by everyone and sadly the result of Cuervo's own marketing). Add to that Smirnoff vodka drinks and you can just imagine what the crowd was like. My friends, Ron and Kevin, had never been to pride here in San Francisco. They were shocked to see how large it is compared to NYC and San Diego. But hell, this is San Francisco. The only Pride celebrations of this magnitude are in Montreal and Sidney. I didn't expect to have fun at the party, but I did. I always go to these things with a slight amount of dread. But all in all, everyone there was just fairly laid back and having fun. My favorite sight? The country western stage with all these men in cowboy hats two-stepping. It is a sight to be seen.

Thought of the Day

falcon
raven
seagull
emu
puffin
robin
penguin
blackbird
eagle
peacock
chicken
ostrich
parrot
ibis
egret
bluebird
magpie
osprey
turkey
heron
lapwing
spoonbill
condor
swallow
martin
blue jay
mynah
raptor
cuckoo
quetzal
toucan
junco

Why are so many bird names two syllable words?

Sorry, I just couldn't help it...

I know everyone is sick of these quizzes, but I just couldn't help it with this one. I find Tarot weird and kind of cool. So, I had to take this quiz. It seems to be dead on in many ways!


You are the Fool card. The Fool fearlessly begins
the journey into the unknown. To do this, he
does not regard the world he knows as firm and
fixed. He has a seemingly reckless disregard
for obstacles. In the Ryder-Waite deck, he is
seen stepping off a cliff with his gaze on the
sky, and a rainbow is there to catch him. In
order to explore and expand, one must disregard
convention and conformity. Those in the throes
of convention look at the unconventional,
non-conformist personality and think What a
fool. They lack the point of view to understand
The Fool's actions. But The Fool has roots in
tradition as one who is closest to the spirit
world. In many tribal cultures, those born with
strange and unusual character traits were held
in awe. Shamans were people who could see
visions and go on journeys that we now label
hallucinations and schizophrenia. Those with
physical differences had experience and
knowledge that the average person could not
understand. The Fool is God. The number of the
card is zero, which when drawn is a perfect
circle. This circle represents both emptiness
and infinity. The Fool is not shackled by
mountains and valleys or by his physical body.
He does not accept the appearance of cliff and
air as being distinct or real. Image from: Mary
DeLave http://www.marydelave.com/


Which Tarot Card Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

The Heap

Well, so far, not a single poem has cut the mustard with Little Emerson. I find this interesting. But I am not surprised at all. It is hard enough to get 3 people to agree on things, much less the number of editors that have to say yes over at Little Emerson. ADT jokes we should convince Ashbery to submit. I will keep tuning in to see if and when a poem makes it to the top of the heap.

Still nausea free. Sadly though, I am having a full-blown allergy attack today. Basically, I feel like I am just falling apart. Pathetic.

Okay, back to work.

Lovesong

1. One pill makes you larger
One pill makes you small
And the pills that Mother gives you
Don't do anything at all

2. Somebody told me you have a boyfriend
Who looks like a girlfriend that I had
In February of last year

3. Son, he said, Grab your things
I've come to take you home

4. Your love isn't fair
You live in a world
Where you didn't listen
And you didn't care

5. Out on the road today
I saw a dead head sticker
On a Cadillac

A little voice inside my head
Said don't look back
You can never look back

6. I don't wanna be lonely no more
I don't wanna have to pay for this

7. And you know who you are:
I Love You I Love You
I Love You I Love You
Thank You I Love YOU!

Not Dead, No, Not Dead...

Thank you to all of those who emailed me. Yes, I am finally feeling better this morning. Monday night was awful. I couldn't keep it down anymore and started throwing up. And yesterday was not much better except I had stopped vomiting. I still had to work and go to Group Meeting, all of which just depressed me to no end. When I finally got home last night at close to 11:00pm, I felt awful. I was tired, sick, and depressed about a lot of stuff. I just don't do well being sick. I don't handle it well at all. I guess what they say is true: Doctors make the worst patients.

All that said, I checked the mail last night and in my mailbox was one of my SASEs. And in that was a very nice letter from Chris Wiman accepting my poem "Corpus Medicum" for POETRY. I was more than a little surprised. For some of you who have been stopping by here for a while, this is the poem that arose from the notes I posted when Eduardo made his notebook challenge. I drafted the poem not too long after I posted those notes and finished tinkering with the poem in early March. I still like this poem, even though it is still a very unsettling and odd poem.

Anyway, my nausea is practically gone. Again, thanks to those who checked up on me yesterday. I think it is funny that I don't post for one day and some of you think I must be near dead in the hospital.

End of the Tunnel

Thankfully, the day is almost over. I am less nauseated now, but still nauseated a little bit. Will be glad to get home. It is on days like this I wish I were anything except a physician.

Need to get to work...

Since yesterday morning, I have not been feeling so well. I was nauseated off and on much of yesterday morning. Last night, I couldn't sit and talk with guests we had over for a dinner. I had to just go lie down. But even this morning, I still feel kind of nauseated. I wish I could stay home, but there isn't anyone to cover me today. So, I have to go in. And I am the one on-call this week anyway. I hate the nausea feeling. Nothing else is going on. No fever, no other cold or flu symptoms. Maybe I just ate something bad on Saturday night.

Mysterious Thing

I cannot explain why, but I am completely enamored with composers of music. Yes, Jacob is also a composer, so maybe that explains part of it. But I was this way before I met him. Jacob has a computer program that allows him to note music for multiple instruments and it allows him to play back the music with the corresponding instruments playing their parts. He complains about aspects of the software, but I continue to find it one of the coolest things I have ever seen on a computer.

Jacob has a variation on Faure's "Elegy" that he wrote for piano years and years ago. He "played" it for me on his computer this morning and I was just overwhelmed. He played it for me because I found myself humming parts of it late last night. What fascinates me is how despite the fact this is a variation on Faure, it sounds wholly like Jacob. The tempo and all the variations in the piano just seem to rise entirely from him and not from Faure. When I listen to this music written by Jacob, I always hear a violin in some of the more up-tempo piano notes. And I hear a cello in some of the lower registers crooning its song the way only a cello can. I mentioned this to him, joked that I want to commission a Trio for Violin, Cello, and Piano based on this piece. Of course, he immediately asked for an advance of 15%.

I am intrigued by this variation business because I saw it over and over in painting. Hell, many mixed media collage pieces are essentially variations of other works. And yet, like the variations in music, they rise and become something else entirely. Is this true with poetry? Why do I not have an answer? I find this kind of pathetic seeing I have spent my adult life writing poems and almost my entire life reading them. Why is it the only variation I can think of is the Justice variation on the poem by Vallejo. And is that truly far from the original? Once side of me says yes, absolutely, but then another part of me disagrees almost immediately.

This morning, I also got to hear Jacob's compositions based on two poems by our friend, Geri Doran. One, titled "Dusk in the Palm of the Lord" and based on her poem of the same title, is just gorgeous. It is heartbreakingly gorgeous. Written for voice as well as strings, etc., it is a beautiful choral piece. And then I heard what he has written so far for a poem of Geri's titled "Daylillies of Shiloh." This is a much larger piece, written for strings, percussion, horns, etc. Of course I was jealous, that this music was "based" on another poet's work. But in the end, it is so beautiful how could I be so small to want my own work orchestrated. Jacob can recite many of Geri's poems by heart. He connects to her work in a way he has not and probably cannot connect to mine. It isn't that he doesn't like my work, but it is blatantly obvious that her work generates music in his head where mine doesn't.

And this brings me to my last point in this rambling silly post. It is simply amazing and beyond my comprehension the way he writes music. He can hear it in his head before he hears it out loud. When he writes, his face seems both highly concentrated and relaxed at the same time. When he jots those notes and markings on his sheets of paper, it is both impressive and utterly confusing to me. You see the music hit the paper, but my mind cannot hear any of it. It isn't until the keyboard or the computer that I can really hear what he has written. The music is both there and not there for me when it is that swarm of notes flittering across the pages. And this is a beautiful and mysterious thing, a beautiful and mysterious thing.

The Waste Remains

I collect poems the way some collect moths. I like to put them in folders with names sometime as simple as "Sonnets" or as bizarre as "Ocean." I have quite a number of these folders, and I realize my need for them pre-dates my writing of poems. I used to keep folders of images and perspective lines and blueprints. But anyway, today while looking for a poem in my folder labeled "Sadness, Loss, and Regret," I found a poem that sent me to a folder I labeled "Same Sex." There I found another poem, one that sent me to another folder, this one titled "Dusty Patriarchs." In "Dusty Patriarchs," I found a poem that sent me to the folder labeled simply "Villanelles." In it I found this poem that I had completely forgotten:



Missing Dates


Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.
It is not the effort nor the failure tires.
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.

It is not your system or clear sight that mills
Down small to the consequence a life requires;
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.

They bled an old dog dry yet the exchange rills
Of young dog blood gave but a month's desires.
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.

It is the Chinese tombs and the slag hills
Usurp the soil, and not the soil retires.
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.

Not to have fire is to be a skin that shrills.
The complete fire is death. From partial fires
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.

It is the poems you have lost, the ills
From missing dates, at which the heart expires.
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.


William Empson




I can find so many things in this poem I could call flaws, and yet, there is something in this poem that still fascinates me. Not the form, no, not the villanelle. I can think of many villanelles more wonderful in the use of that bizarre and obsessive form. What fascinates me about "Missing Dates" is the dread, the eerie quality that arises from the use of blood and the waste that remains and kills. The psychology of this poem is disturbing, and I think now that must have been why I filed it away in my villanelle folder. It must have surprised me in its subject matter. Certainly it wasn't the meter in the poem, that clunky sing-songy nonsense. Certainly it was that god-forsaken inverted syntax. But it was the subject and that odd tone. Anyway, I have procrastinated enough. Back to revising my essay and the poem I went in search of originally. But what serendipity to find this having forgotten it for so many years.

Quick Note from Doctor Punctuation

I have been super busy today with some extremely complicated cases, so I haven't had a chance to stop by here until now. It has been just a crazy morning.

This morning, driving in to work, I drove down the Great Highway, along the Pacific Coast for a while. It was that murky light over the ocean, product of fog and the rising sun in the East. And all along the beach surfers in their black wet suits scrambling into the surf, swimming out, rising and falling with their surf boards. It is a beautiful thing to see them out there even if I think they are totally nuts. There is a shark attack here at least once or twice a year! And they dress up in wet suits that make them look like seals to sharks. Craziness.

Tonight, Margaret Cho. I am expecting to laugh my ass off. She is just so funny. Made me just think about how funny Eddie Murphy used to be. He just totally left the whole comedy thing once he started making mega bucks in the movie business.

Okay, back to dictating and driving the poor unseen transcriptionist insane with all of my commas, semicolons and parentheticals. I am apparently nicknamed Dr. Punctuation by the transcriptionists because I dictate all punctuation. Thankfully, I do so correctly!

Reb ROCKS

Okay, fine, I will admit it, I took down the 10 things people might not know about me because I started feeling weird after seeing comments from various bloggers about people doing this. They probably weren't even aimed at me, but I felt compelled to remove my secrets. Now, thinking back on it, I have no idea why I felt like that at all. Maybe I was tired? Who knows?

Anyway, as always, Reb Livingston rocks my world with her blog. Not only did she leave her things you didn't know about her up on her blog, she demanded to know what kind of underwear we wear and now slaps us all silly with her disgustingly detailed report of her day. Why? because she won't be bullied by anyone. Well, bully for you, Reb Livingston. You ROCK!

Out of Body Experience?

Rewatched Return of the Jedi last night. Why? Not sure. But it did confirm one thing for me: I totally effing HATE the Ewoks!

Have you ever found one of your really early poems and felt as if someone else had written it? I found a poem I wrote in my first workshop ever (1990). I read it and just couldn't believe I had written it. I don't even remember writing it. This is weird because there are other poems I wrote back then that I, whether I like them or not, totally remember writing. William Logan once threatened me by saying he would release the poems I used for admission to graduate school if I didn't behave myself. I laughed then. Now, after finding this poem, I would never dismiss such a threat. Scary stuff.

Anyway, over in San Mateo today covering clinic. I want French food for dinner (if you are reading this, Jacob). French food. As in Chapeaux or other French bistro. Okay, back to work.

Can We Say OCD?

Normally, I don't cave to challenges like the one Deb made on her blog. But because it is Deb, it is just eating away at me. I find myself thinking, why am I one of the least likely people to do this? And then, damn it, I want to do it. Which, of course, makes no sense, but when do any of us make that much sense to anyone but ourselves? And hell, I don't even make sense to myself sometime. So, here goes:


Things You (probably) Didn't Know About Me:


Well, you didn't really think I was going to leave these up here forever, did you? They are gone! Gone.

Tsunami false alarm

So, imagine our surprise when watching an episode of OZ last night the Emergency Broadcast system is triggered announcing, after a sound so loud a siren seemed soft, that two earthquakes had struck off the coast and there was now a Tsunami warning! Jacob and I almost had a heart attack. This was around 9pm, and the ETA for tsunami was 9:23pm. The broadcast asked people near the low-lying ocean areas to move to higher ground. I thought this had to be a bad dream. But then, at 9:18pm, as we were really preparing ourselves (and hoping we were high enough up the hillside from the ocean), they cancelled the warning. I have to say, I was pretty freaked out for much of the rest of the night. I had never really considered San Francisco to be a tsunami risk region. Damn.

Because Reb has lost her mind...

She has started asking people to tell her what underwear they are wearing right now. The weird thing is that people are actually telling her!

I Might As Well Be Hosting Entertainment Tonight

I am still in shock that Michael Jackson was found not guilty on all of the counts against him. It is not that I think he was guilty (maybe he was, maybe not, who really knows?), just that some of the counts seemed difficult for him to be considered not guilty, like the alcohol to minors thing. Anyway, regardless of the verdict, I think his career has been all but destroyed. The sad part? He really is one of the most talented singers/performers out there.

Jacob and I finally watched the season finale of the third season of 6FU last night. As is typical of HBO, the fourth season is already gone from the on-demand window. This means that now, once again, we cannot watch the season playing now because we cannot catch up. How are we to watch season five, the current season, having missed all of season four? HBO just doesn't get it sometimes. They would have more viewers for the current season if they let viewers catch up with the freakin story!

Since clearly so far this has been an entertainment post of sorts, let me end by saying that I cannot wait for Friday night. No, not because I start another week of being on-call but because Jacob and I are going to see Margaret Cho, live at Symphony Hall. I think she is one of the funniest comedians out there. I just can't wait. Her notorious CHO show made me laugh so hard I cried. And I have watched it on DVD many times. Just too funny for words.

Happy Monday

Went with my friend, Rick, last night to hear Martha Rhodes, Robert Thomas, and Daniel Tobin read at Cody's in Berkeley. It was a really good reading despite the fact it was hotter than hell in that room. I don't remember it ever being so hot in there. It was "languish" heat! Anyway, the readings were really good. Martha did something I have never seen done in a reading before in that she didn't read the titles of the poems or talk about them at all. She just read them, one after the other. At first, it was a little weird, but then it seemed normal. She read from her new book, Mother Quiet, which is a sequence of poems about a mother battling Alzheimers. Because the poems are so tightly woven together, the way she read them made the most sense when looking back on it.

I swear to God I might hug my physician associate when she returns to clinic tomorrow. It has been a rough ten days without her! But come the end of the month, I will be gone for ten days, so what goes around comes around. Anyhoo, Happy Monday, people.

Tunnel of Love

"Well, cuddle up little angel,
cuddle up my little dove,
and we'll ride down baby
into this Tunnel of Love..."


I know I shouldn't admit this, but I already know I will. Yes, one of my weirder guilty pleasures is that I love Bruce Springsteen. Yes, this ranks right up there with other surprising things about me you would never guess, like the fact I like bowling and am actually kind of good at it. My absolute favorite song by Springsteen is a shortish song titled "Tunnel of Love." Unlike many songs, whenever I hear this song, an entire other world opens for me. I know some will think this kind of retarded, but it is true. Not sure why, but everytime I hear it, far more than the "world" in its lyrics come rushing up to me. Even the opening section of the song, before the lyrics start being sung, has the ability to conjure up this other world. And now, I have to confess (you know who you are who asked me about this rather too directly for words) that I have a poem about this world. It is in the current issue of The Yale Review.



The Tunnel


I had been there before, of course, the air
still faintly smelling of smoke. Three dollars
to ride, to navigate the currents of Love,

the crests and slurries of opportunity sold as easily
as cotton candy or a soda, as easily as my heart.
O god of Free Enterprise. O winged child

smiling from the placard with your arrow
set to fly. Which couple did you choose that night?
The boat motored ahead, its track sunken

but there to offer safe passage through rough times.
I clasped the edge of his flannel shirt, warmer
and different from the silk one I had held on to

so many years ago as the sulfur flames fanned out
above our heads. The mirrors showed our faces
silvered in that flash, my hair almost white

with surprise. What called us to such things?
What drew us into that boat without a ferryman?
A goddess whispered that all would be seen

and foreseen along Love’s tides and riptides.
At the end of that journey, we walked out
under a sky bleeding pink and orange. And then,

it darkened with birdsong and so many possibilities.
Make me a candle, Lord. Make me less blue.
Make me faithful, something tried but true.




I realized recently that I listen to songs in strange ways. Sometimes I hear only the music and its cadences (and sometimes even try to emulate them in a poem). Sometimes I hear only the lyrics and obsess about them (ie. "Come Undone" by Duran Duran). And then there are times when I hear both or neither, depending on how you look at it, where the song triggers something other altogether.

Why am I thinking about this today? I am not entirely sure except maybe the fact a friend saw this poem and emailed demanding to know the song out of which it rose. To be honest, I was a little surprised by the email. I went back to listen to Springsteen and realized how odd the song really is. And yes, I know the poem is kind of sappy and sweet, but the man for whom it is written deserves that more than anyone. I could have revised this poem, revised the sappiness out of it, removed the apostrophe moments, clarified things, made it shine, but sometimes, life is more important than Art. For me, this was one of those times. I think I listened to Mr. Springsteen himself. In this song, toward the end, he sings:


"But this house is haunted
and the ride gets rough.

You've got to learn to live
with what you can't rise above
if you want to ride on down
down in through this Tunnel of Love."



To this I say "Amen, brother. Amen."

On Beethoven's Ninth

What is it about certain works that simply enthrall you from the inside out? I hear the word genius bandied about a lot for Beethoven's Ninth, but I have no way to quantify that. I simply don't know enough about music or have the vocabulary to discuss the way say Jacob or Rebecca Loudon do. What I can say is that even though I closed my eyes a few times last night, I never fell asleep, never left my station for another world known as dream or silence. I think I was more impressed with last night's performance than the one I heard in Boston so many years ago. Maybe it is because I am older? Because I have lived and experienced so much since then? I don't know. What I do know is that I "felt" Beethoven's symphony, felt it inside of me. The second movement actually seemed a challenge of sorts, made my mind race with so many possibilities it almost hurt. And the final movement, despite all of its gloria and the voices lifting everything in the room, saddened me immensely. All I could think about is how we as human beings are so base, so terrible. Despite the finale being a testament to man and his/her relationship to the divine, what I heard was something so hopeful it only pointed to our complete lack of desire to become better. Of course, this is likely all in my mind. But I felt great sadness after that performance, felt as if we as a people had failed miserably. But maybe Beethoven's music understands that. Maybe he, himself, understood our lives are about failure and that to live means to take one's failures in one's arms and nurture them, forgive them, accept them. Clearly, I am overly contemplative right now.

For every person I have helped cure themselves of cancer, there are many who have succumbed to it. I was struck yesterday, while seeing a new patient, how much of the consult is simply me listening to and absorbing their fears and grief. In that moment, so many patients seem to feel as if a part of them has died by receiving the diagnosis of cancer. I have little to say other than how we will treat it, what our hopes are for the outcomes, details about scheduling etc. But people hear little of this. In fact, most patients hear about 30% of what we talk about. This is why I am always so grateful when a friend or family member comes with them. What is the transaction between patient and oncologist? I still don't know. In follow-up visits, we seem to have a relationship, something tangible at play. There is joy and there is sadness at times, but the new patient? What do we share in that hour to 90 minutes?

I have been asked many times if I share my sexual orientation with my patients, my love of poetry, etc. Well, I think this is why I don't. At least I don't with new patients or patients receiving treatment. It is, in essence, irrelevant. In that situation, I am irrelevant. No amount of discussion of me and my goals is even remotely helpful to them. It is, essentially, all about them. And I believe that is the way it should be. One of my follow-up patients yesterday, saw my engagement ring and said, "Oh, that's new!" I laughed. And then this big burly guy said, "It is good find happiness with another person." I was struck by the fact he said another person and not a woman. I said little and he then said: "How long have you been with him?" When I looked surprised he said, "Sorry if I am making assumptions." I tried to laugh but he knew I was uncomfortable. He went on to say: "My sister is the one who was convinced you are gay. I guess I was wrong. Sorry." It was then I said, "No, your sister is right. We have been together five years." He then looked pleased as punch and said, "I am glad you have someone. Life is hard enough. It is harder when you deny yourself love because others don't approve." I was so shocked at this statement from him that all I could say was that I would be seeing him again in 6 months.

Yes, I am contemplative today. Yes, my little mind is in overdrive. What the vast populace of America still doesn't get is that being gay isn't about sex. This man, this burly trucker of a man, got it. It is about love. I can have sex with women. I did for many years before realizing (or better yet, admitting to myself) that I was gay. The key here though is not sex. I can have sex with the same woman for all eternity, but I simply cannot feel love for her. I don't know why my brain is wired that way. It just is. With all this ridiculous political storm around same-sex marriage, people have overlooked this one fact. It isn't about sex. It is about love. And although I know some will say it can be unlearned or relearned, I don't believe that is true. Lord knows, I tried for years to unlearn, to be "normal." It is only in the past 5 years that I see something I didn't see for all my life before. I AM normal. Virtually everything I worry about, feel joy about, feel sadness about, are things straight people feel the same ways about. I am far more like my father and brother because of our common background than I am to other gay men. And this makes sense to me. Being gay doesn't make you and other gay men suddenly similar. It has never been about sex. But I fear for the foreseeable future, it will be spun this way. We will continue arguing over the morality of sex. Beethoven is right. Our goal is unity, is respect for each other, is love. My sadness arises because we still live in a world where love cannot be held up as something beautiful and necessary, but as a moral act. I will stop now knowing full well most of this post makes no sense.

Stalking Charlie

It has been a busy morning for me so far, hence the reason it has taken me so long to post. I have already done two new patient consults and three follow-up visits. I am in San Mateo today, so my follow-ups are, for the most part, patients I treated when I first joined my practice three years ago. Many of these people make my day, my week, if not my month. One woman I saw this morning had a terrible Gynecological malignancy. She was scared to death at the time. She had been told by her primary doctor that the cancer she had would probably take her life within a year. I advocated she have chemotherapy with radiation using the chemotherapy as a radiation sensitizer. I also pushed her god damned insurance company to pay for her to have a radiation implant for a boost done at UCSF. Well, she has already crossed the two-year mark. That is freakin awesome.

Tonight, Jacob and I are off to hear the SF Symphony. They will be performing Beethoven's Ninth. I haven't heard the Ninth performed live since I lived in Boston (1990). I went on the day of the concert and got last-minute student tickets. You never knew what kind of seat you would get, but for that show I got a pretty good seat. Since then, the Ninth has been etched into my mind as the source of the anthem for the European Union. Unfortunate. Anyway, I have to race out of here this evening and grab dinner with Jacob at 2223 before the concert. I pray I am not so tired I fall asleep during the performance.

In the Spirit of Charlie, I thought I would share some of my new favorites Google terms that led people to this blog:

strangelove + sin
"charles jensen" blog (hahhaahhahaha, someone is stalking Charles)
vegas whores
doctor love
Indian boytoy
porno poetics

Okay folks, have a good weekend. Don't get into too much trouble.

Bamboo and Biden

Yes, it is true. I do have two bamboo plants in my office in Redwood City. I know. I know. "That's typical GAY." My brother says this phrase often. It is only recently I realized he was actually quoting some show or another. Bamboo is supposedly a thing that brings luck, but it also, supposedly, shouldn't be put in a place you are trying to be creative because it saps that aspect of you. So, I keep mine at the hospital as opposed to my studio at home. Has it brought me luck? I guess it has. Not sure.

On NPR this morning, they spent a fairly long time talking to a professor at the American University in Beirut about the perceptions people in the Arab world have of the U.S. after the whole Newsweek article on desecration of the Q'uoran. It was a sad and depressing thing to hear how even moderate and mainstream Muslims now have a hard time thinking of the U.S. as anything but a secular place that abhors religion, any religion. Senator Biden has called for the closing of Guantanomo, but he wants it closed because it is a bad image being used by Islamist propagandists. As this professor pointed out, the problem isn't that it looks bad but that it IS bad. I think Senator Biden is usually a decent guy, but I have to agree with this professor. It isn't that it looks bad for America but that it is bad for America. We live in a sad time. I listen to the news and feel nauseated as I drive to work. I can no longer watch the news much at night for fear of not sleeping well.

This is Hilarious!

You are Marianne Moore. You are one weird poet who
is totally obsessive-compulsive. Thankfully,
people think you are harmless and somewhat like
you and your work.


Which Famous Modern American Poet Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Eduardo, Is that You? Oh, guess not...

So, I have heard many tales of identity theft over the past couple of years. Well, my friends, identity theft is closer than you think. So, we all know Eduardo stopped blogging. Well, someone took his blog address and has started posting photos over there. That isn't the weird thing though. The person posting is "E" but it is not Eduardo. That is the strange part because it seems like the person is trying to hint at being Eduardo by using an initial only. Odd. Anyway, our Eduardo, the real Eduardo, is not posting photos now. Let us remember how difficult it was for our Eduardo to post a link much less a photo. It took him forever to learn that. ;)

And hey, has anyone seen the magazine VOLT recently? Are they still around? Did they fold? This may sound like an odd question, but so many lit mags fold within a short period of time it becomes difficult to keep track of them. And no, I am not planning on submitting to VOLT. Dear God, the people there would die if I did. Die of boredom, probably.

The weather here in SF sucks today. Gloom central. Drizzle. Chilly. Great weather for a day off, especially since I have a lot of work to do. Ciao.

La Familia, Episode 4

Previously on La Familia: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3


There is a shot of Charles taking photographs of the townhouse believed to belong to Carl Phillips.

Sam Witt chatters on about having a secret plan.

There is a shot of a plate crashing and Peter looking shocked as he is eliminated.



Yes, it is that time again. Cue up the NRG remix of "Clocks." It is time for Episode 4. Again we get the face shots of each of the five poets but when Peter's photo pops up the words eliminated are in red under his face.


In the Blue Room, C. Dale: "I am so over this contest. I have things to do people. Things to do. And we all know Charles is up to something. He had no qualms getting rid of Peter."

In the kitchen, Sam Witt is making a sandwich. Charles walks in and tries to chat him up. When Sam Witt doesn't respond, Charles glares at him and says: "You are next, my friend. If we don't work together, you are gone." Before Sam can say anything, Charles storms off to his room.

The door to Eduardo's room opens and a guy sneaks out. C. Dale says: "Hey, aren't you the guy who delivered our pizza last night?" The front door slams. It is then C. Dale spots a letter on the floor by the door.

Inside, it reads:

Today, there will be a surprise elimination and a special guest. Be here at 4:00pm.

Sam Witt heads out. So does Charles. Soon, we realize Charles is following Sam Witt. Sam Witt ends up in front of the townhouse Charles was previously photographing. Carl Phillips walks up to Sam Witt and hands him a paper bag. The two say nothing to each other but Sam Witt turns to smile into the camera. Charles ducks behind a car to avoid being seen.

Back in the house, C. Dale knocks on Eduardo's door. There is no answer. He knocks again. No answer. Concerned, C. Dale pushes open the door. The room is empty. Eduardo is not there.

Cut to commercials. The obnoxious Mazda commercial is on with its oh so catchy tune.

Flash to the Blue Room, Eduardo tells us he already knows where the hidden studio is and needs only one more day to get to the ms. He winks at us and says it will take just a little more work.

The front door opens and in comes C. Dale, Charles and Sam Witt. Eduardo comes out of the Blue Room. C. Dale asks Eduardo where he has been and Eduardo says "The last time I checked, no one in this house was required to account for their activities to anyone."

Sam Witt: "Well, clearly. The amount of activity that goes on your room could fill an entire log book and more!"

Eduardo laughs. Charles glares at Eduardo then at Sam Witt.

It is 4:00pm and the courier arrives. He explains that once again each contestant will enter the Blue room and vote for the one they want eliminated.

C. Dale: "Well, Charles has to go, but I voted for him last time and then he eliminated Peter. Gag! I guess I vote to eliminate Sam Witt because I am pretty sure Sam will eliminate Charles."

Sam Witt: "Who the fuck knows what they are going to do with this vote. I vote for myself!"

Charles: "I vote for Eduardo. Nuff said."

Eduardo: "I vote for Charles. That bitch is too busy following everyone around."


Once everyone is assembled, the courier announces that the person with the most votes is Sam Witt and asks Sam to eliminate one of the other contestants. Sam Witt hands the plates to the courier. The courier announces that Charles is safe. That leaves C. Dale and Eduardo. He then throws a plate against the wall and it shatters. The plate left in his hands has C. Dale's photo. He announces that for Eduardo, this is the end of the line. Eduardo storms off to his room.

But then the courier announces that there is a surprise guest. In walks Peter! The courier announces that Peter will get to eliminate one of the three remaining contestants. Peter throws a plate against the wall. The camera pans to the shards of the plate. We realize that it is Sam Witt's plate. Sam Witt has been eliminated. Fade out.

Snickers for Breakfast

I found out, bright and early this morning, that the new New Hampshire Review accepted one of my poems, a very dark (I know, not surprising for me) poem about War and the terrible rhetoric of War we all subscribe to, most times unknowingly. I do not consider myself a political poet, but as I get older I am realizing every day that all poetry is, in a way, political. I want to say more about that, but my time is limited today. I am alone again in clinic and must see all 51 patients we have on treatment right now. So, in and out of rooms I will keep running today.

A patient of mine who finished this morning hugged me and cried. It kind of freaked me out because for the entire 6 weeks she has been here she has barely said a word and has been quiet to the point of being almost cold. The staff call her "stately." But today, when she was all done, she just cried on me. I told her it would be okay and she said she knew it would, that she was just happy to be done. She has been through surgery, months of chemo, and now radiation. She is young, in her late 50's. She gave me a chocolate bar, a snickers bar, because she had overheard me tell someone it was my favorite candy bar. I actually almost teared up when she handed it to me. It had to be one of the sweetest gestures I have seen in a long time. I ate it within 2 minutes. Snickers for breakfast. It can't get any better than that!

Congratulations to Amaud Johnson!

He is this year's winner of the Dorset Prize from Tupelo Press. Seeing that I published some of Mr. Johnson's early poems, I am expecting him to buy me gins and tonic the next time I see him (especially now that he has an extra $10,000!). Ha! Just kidding. Amaud is a very talented poet. I am anxiously awaiting his first book.

Gameplan

Just getting settled at work today. It will be a rough week because the doctor that is usually here working with me is off this week. This site really is a two doctor site, so it will be a trying day. But I have already reviewed my appointment and procedures list, so I have already laid it all out in my head for the day. Always a good first step.

On a different note, I did put together the ms. and stuff to send off to another publisher yesterday. It is ridiculous how long it has taken me to do this. I should have done it over a week ago. This publisher will definitely not think me over eager, that's for sure.

Okay, time to see patients.

Congratulations to Paul Guest

He just had his second book picked up. Stop by his place and offer congrats when you have a chance.

Finding Needles In the Haystack

Between last night and 10 minutes ago, I read through 390 poems. In that time I also went to dinner with my friend, Geri, and slept. In these poems, I was thrilled to find 8 poems and a suite of translations. The translations were amazing. I wish I could say more, but I know it is best not to do that until the work is contracted officially. But I am always amazed at the feeling of joy when one finds something to publish. I swear it is like a high. It must be what keeps editors doing the thankless job of editing year after year. At ten years being a poetry editor, I am a veteran of sorts. And that seems weird to me. Once again, in this bunch of poems I want, there is a range from early in career to late in career. This always excites me.

This afternoon, printing up my own submission and working again on my lecture. I also need to get some expense reports done for the practice. And I need to read a new clinical trial protocol report for the treatment of orbital lymphoma. And I should make an effort to eat something. Jacob returns late tonight. I have missed him terribly, even though he has only been away since Wednesday. I used to laugh at that age old sophist question about would you kill someone to preserve the life of the one you love. Now I understand it.

To Love the Obscure

I spent my entire morning writing the introductory section for my lecture on the elegy. At first I was hesitant, even somewhat nervous, but as I began to write, my little brain went into overdrive. Within a few hours, I had written the first 5 pages, a quick sketch of how the Elegy evolved from its use as a metrical device in the 7th century BCE to a form mostly based on content by the 19th century. I often forget how much I love knowing obscure things like the derivation of words in the English language and my bizarre love of classical poets like Mimnermus, that Greek elegist who dared to write about the male form in a way most contemporary gay poets would be well challenged to emulate. I remain fascinated by the fact the elegy began as a simply metric alternative to the Epic hexameters but has evolved into the construct we think of as Elegy today. That step from the Epic to the Elegy is, for a lyric poet, something monumental. It is that step that led to the birth of the lyric in Western Literature. Seeing it is like seeing the two sticks rubbed together that made fire. Okay, that might be a little melodramatic, but it is a beautiful thing nonetheless. And, not surprisingly, that moment happens within the construct of War.

On a different note, I had one of those wonderful conversations on the phone with a friend today that makes you feel larger than yourself. No, I am not just approaching manic phase. But you know, one of those conversations that make you feel so alive and intelligent you forget for a few moments how stupid you really are. I love those kinds of conversations.

Okay, time to go read submissions and work on putting together a submission of my own. I guess at some point today I should eat something.

Because it is Friday Evening

Well, it has been a while since we have had the old Friday Evening Round Up here on "the Muse." So...


1. Patrick is geeking out (in a cute way) on Brian McKnight singing in Tagalog.

2. Woody is getting all dreamy with Berryman.

3. It is Reb Livingston's Time of the Month (hey, I don't make this stuff up--that is what her post was titled!) and she is busy crowing over at her place.

4. David is busy expounding on the Muppets and why it just isn't believable that Gonzo has nipples! The weird part is I totally followed this post from beginning to end.

5. And in case you missed it, check out this gorgeous poem by Peter Pereira. I printed it out and now it is above my desk at work.

Borges & Call

Yesterday, after work, I met up with an old friend for dinner. Ate some decent Mediteranean food, chit-chatted, etc. Afterward, I ran by a bookstore to look for a Borges book. They didn't have the one for which I was looking. I wanted to check on something, but alas, I may need to go to a library.

I am hoping that I can clear off my NER desk this weekend. I also need to get some other work done. Unfortunately, I am on-call starting today at 5pm, so I may or may not have the time I would like this weekend. But it is all part of the territory.

If a certain person in Iowa is reading this, I miss you, and I LYLMB.

=======================================================

P.S. Stop by and say congrats to Kelli who just got some work accepted.

Incomprehensible

I know this will sound weird, but I miss Eduardo. This makes no sense to me in some ways because I have never even met Eduardo. But it was really weird to go to his blog and to have nothing come up. And then at the same time, Emily Lloyd's blog disappeared temporarily. How is it I have become attached to various people in cyberspace? My rational brain doesn't comprehend this at all.

I keep saying I am not sure what a blog is exactly, but I keep coming back to the strange sense of community I have found here. I realize it may all be a figment of my imagination, but it seems real enough. I have found so many great dialogues about poetry, art, music, silly stuff, all kinds of stuff here in the blogosphere.

Today I signed off on the paperwork for the cremation of my patient who died alone. I still find it so sad. I know this post makes no sense.

Freak On....

According to the weird quiz over at Peter's place, I am 40% normal. To quote the quiz:

"While some of your behavior is quite normal...
Other things you do are downright strange
You've got a little of your freak going on
But you mostly keep your weirdness to yourself"


I guess that is about right. I guess. I mean don't most people arrange their money with the face sides all in the same direction from lowest denomination to highest in their wallets? Don't most people dislike the different foods on their plates touching? Don't most people shower twice a day?

Finally booked my flight to VT for Bread Loaf. I'll be there the last 4 days, so say hi to me if you go. The airlines are getting more and more evil. I have a ton of frequent flier miles and even have Gold Elite Status on Continental. This means nothing now. I used to be able to get upgrades everytime I flew. Now, it takes an Act of God to get an upgrade, even when I offer to have miles deducted. I better find something to use my 100,000+ miles on. I hate the airlines. All of them. I haven't flown Singapore (which everyone says is almost heavenly), but all the rest suck!

Risen

Well, Alberto is alive! He has returned from the Blogging grave with the following letter:



Dear C. Dale,

I rudely interrupt your post becaue for the life of me I cannot get your e-mail. Call me stupid. I just wanted you to know this:

“Little Emerson” is on the air. I kindly request—and isn’t my tone proper?—that you take a look at it. It is absolutely demented. Aside from that I kindly (again) request that you do the meme thing: that you, should you care to, send a message to three people that may be interested in this sort of crazy thing, so they can send it to another three people who may be interested in this sort of thing, and so forth. I know I’m coming short; this isn’t about your favourite ice cream flavour, but what the hell. I know I’m being redundant, but I am that insecure. Give it a whirl. Participate. See what comes out of it. Nothing will be just as well.

Thanks.
Alberto Romero Bermo





So, check it out. Submit your poems even. It sounds kind of cool.

Swans

Met a friend for a drink yesterday after work. We had a funny discussion about the differences between NYC and SF. In NYC, a guy tells you to F-off. Here he shows a picture of himself naked modeling in Honcho. I laughed so hard hearing this. I know SF has many stereotypes, but it cracks me up the fact so many cities have stereotypes.

Jacob and I finished the last episode of Season 4 of OZ last night. What an amazing season! Just amazing. None of the other seasons compare. Yes, it is graphic and violent, but the storylines this season were just so good. I can't wait to see Season 5. I think I might actually buy the first 4 seasons for our DVD collection. I should check Amazon.

Woke up this morning thinking of the poem "The Wild Swans at Coole." Not sure why. I do have a strange desire to understand how that poem works, how time shifts and is shifted by the speaker in that poem. It is complex and complicated, endlessly fascinating to me. I think I have to find it and read it today to remind myself of the exact structure of the poem. Right now, it is all haze and recollection.