January’s poetry

… reminisces about the Trojan Horse.

I’ve begun watching The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, my first “real housewives”-type show. The religious angle picqued my interest. (The mountains are nice, too.)

So far, I’ve been struck by:

(a) The Jesus artwork in the McMansions.

(b) The very early marriages (late teens for the women). Performed in the Temple.

It’s hard to see how Mormonism or anything Christian has anything else to do with these people’s lives, even as a force to be reacted against. The characters make some half-baked references to resisting the patriarchy, but it’s clear that they just do whatever feels good at the time.

Or whatever makes money for them on TikTok.

Anyway, here is the poetry. The Greeks could have starred in one of these shows.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

But Helen, child of Zeus, had other ideas.

She threw a drug into the wine bowl

They were drinking from, a drug

That stilled all pain, quieted all anger

And brought forgetfulness of every ill …

“… I couldn’t begin to tell you

All that Odysseus endured and accomplished,

But listen to what that hero did once

In the land of Troy, where the Achaeans suffered.

First, he beat himself up – gave himself some nasty bruises –

Then put on a cheap cloak so he looked like a slave,

And in this disguise he entered the wide streets

Of the enemy city. He looked like a beggar,

Far from what he was back in the Greek camp,

And fooled everyone when he entered Troy.

I alone recognized him in his disguise

And questioned him, but he cleverly put me off.

It was only after I had bathed him

And rubbed him down with oil and clothed him

And had sworn a great oath not to tell the Trojans

Who he really was until he got back to the ships,

That he told me, at last, what the Achaeans planned.

He killed many Trojans before he left

And arrived back at camp with much to report.

The other women in Troy wailed aloud,

But I was glad inside, for my heart had turned

Homeward, and I rued the infatuation

Aphrodite gave me when she led me away

From my native land, leaving my dear child,

My bridal chamber, and my husband,

A man who lacked nothing in wisdom or looks.”

And Menelaus, the red-haired king:

“A very good story, my wife, and well told.

By now I have come to know the minds

Of many heroes, and have traveled far and wide,

But I have never laid eyes on anyone

Who had an enduring heart like Odysseus.

Listen to what he did in the wooden horse,

Where all we Argive chiefs sat waiting

To bring slaughter and death to the Trojans.

You came there then, with godlike Deiphobus.

Some god who favored the Trojans

Must have lured you on. Three times you circled

Our hollow hiding place, feeling it

With your hands, and you called out the names

Of all the Argive leaders, making your voice

Sound like each of our wives’ in turn.

Diomedes and I, sitting in the middle

With Odysseus, heard you calling

And couldn’t take it. We were frantic

To come out, or answer you from inside,

But Odysseus held us back and stopped us.

Then everyone else stayed quiet also,

Except for Anticlus, who wanted to answer you,

But Odysseus saved us all by clamping

His strong hands over Anticlus’ mouth

And holding them there until Athena led you off.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

From the Odyssey, bk. 4, ll. 200–300 (approx.). Translated by Stanley Lombardo.

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 37: Trees Lounge

Again I must defer to Roger Ebert, who says that this movie “is the most accurate portrait of the daily saloon drinker” that he has seen. (For Ebert’s description of his own alcoholism, see his book Life Itself, which is built from his blog entries; here is one of them.)

Steve Buscemi – who also used to drink too much – is the director and star of Trees Lounge. This is a quintessential Buscemi performance. His role in Ghost World, Ebert says, is

like the flip side of his alcoholic barfly in Trees Lounge, who also becomes entangled with a younger girl, not so fortunately.

In Ghost World, the Buscemi character is indrawn and timid; only the girl gets close to him. Tommy, his counterpart in Trees Lounge, is obnoxious, assertive, and gregarious. Everyone knows and sort of likes him.

This doesn’t make him any less sad. His drinking is inseparable from his compulsive manipulating of bartenders, friends, and women. In an especially touching scene, an ex-girlfriend watches a home video of what appears to be a Christmas gathering. Tommy is the life of the party: he exudes tenderness and fun: other revelers brim with affection for him. This is poignant because the viewer knows that Tommy has alienated most of these friends.

Despite this, the movie is a pleasure to watch because it is very funny. Tommy clowns his way through life, and a lot of the clowning is instinctively brilliant. You used to be funny, the teenaged girl (Chloë Sevigny) teases him. He’s still funny: he even knows how to ham it up when the girl’s father chases him with a baseball bat. (Come to think of it, Buscemi gets beaten up at the end of Ghost World, too.)

As one might expect, there are many closely observed supporting characters who drink in Trees Lounge. Ebert singles out Bill, an old man “whose world has grown smaller and smaller, until finally it has defined itself as the task of drinking”; he stares “blankly into space before rousing himself to use sign language to order another double shot.” Another drinker looks like a scuzzy loser but turns out to be relatively successful (he owns a delivery company). A theme is that even those who are crippled by alcoholism need not be totally dysfunctional. On the other hand, a measure of blindness seems to go with the disease. The bartender who scolds Tommy for drinking too much himself turns into a barfly when he’s not working a shift.

It’s also surprising how many women pass through the bar looking for one-night stands. The regulars who are steadiest on their feet are happy to oblige; even so, precious little consummation results from the wobbly mating dances performed in Trees Lounge. And then, afterward, the regulars are racked with guilt because they have girlfriends or wives from whom they’re only partly estranged. They idealize those girlfriends and wives, but not enough to quit drinking. The movie isn’t very interested in asking how hard it is for addicts to quit, whether it’s possible for a given person to quit (though it suggests that the prevailing attitude among the drinkers is that they could quit if they wanted to – if they had good enough reason to). The movie’s goal is simpler. It shows the costs of this sort of life – and some of the perks.

The gynecologist’s; Milkman; Silver Blaze

I went with Karin to her gynecological exam. A lot of men were there with their WAGs. They looked as if they absolutely did not want to be there. I’m sure I looked the same. On the whole, though, the experience wasn’t too bad (from a spectator’s perspective). The doctor was very nice. “Girl power” music – Katy Perry, etc. – was piped into every room.

Also feminine is the newest Man Booker Prize-winning novel, Milkman by Anna Burns. It offers a taxonomy of men. Being categorized unnerves me as a masculine reader. The book is set in a nationally and religiously divided city in Northern Ireland, where the constant fighting allows men to behave in manly ways and turns the women into collateral damage. But I’m sure the narrator, “middle sister,” will overcome her powerlessness and invisibilty (or, rather, her undesired visibility). She’s a voracious reader, for one thing, which means she’s smarter than the other characters, especially the men (or is she?). And she’s quite a runner, which means she’s physically tough.

Inspired by “middle sister,” I rode Silver Blaze, the bike, yesterday, which was not so painful as when I’d try to run after months of inactivity. I endured moments after the bike ride when I was unable to stand, but I suffered no blistering, no aching of joints. Alas, I didn’t burn nearly as many calories as when I used to run, but one must begin somewhere.

The WAG

Saturday night. We’re in our back yard, using our new patio furniture. We’ve bought Bianca a leash and a harness; even so, she refuses to join us outside. …

Aaaannnddd now we’re inside. We missed Bianca too much to stay apart from her. Also, it’s warmer in here.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

You should come to watch your bf play soccer, I tell Edoarda. You probably don’t realize how good he is. Stephen is very, very good.

Absentmindedly she replies: I think somebody told me that.

I’m not that good, says Stephen.

Don’t listen to him, I tell Edoarda. Stephen is truly excellent.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Easter Sunday. Extravagant breakfast at the church; then, pickup soccer from 2:00 to 4:30. Edoarda goes with us. The sole WAG, she watches from the bench, the sun beating down on her. Stephen and I play quite well, but this doesn’t alleviate Edoarda’s misery. Did you see my golazos?, I ask. Uh huh, she murmurs. With my toe I arch a lovely assist to the male Sabby (I’ve gone back to wearing Venus shoes instead of cleats, and, once again, my touch is beautifully precise). I turn toward the bench: Did you see that pass? Uh huh, says Edoarda.

There’s nothing to do but sit, she says.

Well, that’s how it is, watching soccer.

Afterward, driving home, Stephen turns to Edoarda: Did you like how we played? Yes, Edoarda smiles. I did.