Poem of the Week (or month, or year)

We Did Not Make Ourselves

By Michael Dickman

(from this week's New Yorker, and my apologies because the formatting isn't perfect)

We did not make ourselves is one thing

I keep singing into my hands

while falling

asleep

for just a second

before I have to get up and turn on all the lights in the house, one after the

other, like opening an Advent calendar

My brain opening

the chemical miracles in my brain

switching on

I can hear

dogs barking

some trees

last stars

You think you’ll be missed

it won’t last long

I promise

____________

I’m not dead but I am

standing very still

in the back yard

staring up at the maple

thirty years ago

a tiny kid waiting on the ground

alone in heaven

in the world

in white sneakers

I’m having a good time humming along to everything I can still remember

back there

How we’re born

Made to look up at everything we didn’t make

We didn’t

make grass, mosquitoes

or breast cancer

We didn’t make yellow jackets

or sunlight

either

_____________

I didn’t make my brain

but I’m helping

to finish it

Carefully stacking up everything I made next to everything I ruined in broad

daylight in bright

brainlight

This morning I killed a fly

and didn’t lie down

next to the body

like we’re supposed to

We’re supposed to

Soon I’m going to wake up

Dogs

Trees

Stars

There is only this world and this world

What a relief

created

over and over

Talk, Talk, Talk, Talk, Talk

To spend two solid nights flipping between coverage of the US Open and the Democratic National Convention is to spend two solid nights watching a little bit of action and listening to a whole lot of commentary. Prime time early round matches tend to the boring, pitting top players against unheralded qualifiers, so I'm used to opinion trumping actual tennis during the first week of a Grand Slam event. It's been a while since I've watched more than a few minutes of a party convention, though, so I'm not used to half an hour of speechifying surrounded by what feels like hours of punditry.

In the hours leading up to Hillary's speech last night very little happened other than incessant discussion of what she "needed to accomplish" with said speech. I saw the last quarter of Casey's address and most of Warner's keynote, and am not surprised that most of the delegates who were actually in the hall were more interested in dancing, jumping up and down, and hugging each other than they were in listening. Both speeches were simultaneously vague and redundant: time for change, Democrats are great, let's create "green collar" jobs, let's all vote for Barak Obama. What else is there to say, given the fact that the platform was drafted before the convention, given the fact that the covention's outcome, a nominee for President and Vice President, has been predetermined?

The only intrigue, the only plot point, was what Hillary would say, and how effectively she'd say it, and even the first half of this "plot" was something manufactured so that the pundits would have something to talk about for the four hours leading up to her address. Of course she was going to support Obama and exhort her supporters to do the same. Of course she was going to emphasize "unity." Politically, what other options did she have? But just as she emphasized the need for the party to keep going, the pundits needed something to keep them going, hence the hours of idle speculation that led nowhere.

I suppose her address could have been as much of a letdown as Venus Williams' first round opponent, although given the fact that she followed a series of benign speeches given by mediocre public speakers she was able to shine with relative ease. It wasn't just that her text was very well-written, or that she's just more dynamic than Mark Warner, it's that the entirety of the proceedings that led up to her address were just plain boring. Halfway through her address I found myself feeling happy for Pat Buchannan, et. al.: finally, something real for them to talk about.

Perhaps tonight will provide more entertainment the whole way through. Roddick takes on Santoro over at the Open, while Bill Clinton takes on Bill Clinton in Denver. The trick to making it though, I think, is the mute button.

Another Report from the Economic Front

Brody ran through the woods Saturday and emerged looking like Julius Caesar, wearing a crown of brambles plastered around his head and to his ears, so I did something I don't ordinarily do: I went to the mall, to get a flea comb to help remove said brambles. School starts today or tomorrow all over the region, so I expected the mall to be crowded with kids and parents buying clothes and whatever. The place was crowded, but it didn't look like too many people were actually buying anything. Maybe the crowds were all there to steal vacuum cleaners.

When money's tight, puppies are probably down there on the bottom of a shopping list. The puppies at the mall pet store therefore tended to be much older than eight weeks, and to be on sale. It's never good to be a puppy in a pet store, but the present economic environment would seem to make it an even worse lot in life. Because the store happened to have a Brittany pup, I spent a few minutes visiting with him and finding out about his history. He's six months old, came from a puppy mill in Oklahoma, and had been shuttled around from store to store; this was his fourth pet store. I asked what happens to puppies they aren't able to sell, but the salesperson claimed not to know. I probably don't want to know the answer anyway. The Brittany was on sale for $399, with an additional $78 off Saturday afternoon.

So, no one was buying pets. While I was there, I thought I'd look for new pair of jeans. Jeans shopping is the bane of the American woman, or at least of this American woman, so it's important to follow through while an urge exists. I went to one of the department stores to check out the selection. The department store was essentially empty; the crowds were circling the mall itself, but not flowing into this particular store at all. I don't blame them, since all I found there were a bunch of Mom jeans. On to American Eagle.

This store was full of teenagers and their mothers pawing through the merchandise, but I was alone back in the dressing area. As crowded as was the store, I was also alone at the cash register, where I found that my jeans were not only on sale, but that I could get a second pair at half off. In other words, people weren't buying despite a pretty impressive sale.

I stopped at the Gap on my way out, just because everything in that store is perpetually marked down to ridiculous levels, and sure enough I found a nice blouse for $7.99. I also found an actual line at the cash register, three people ahead of me, all buying items marked down below ten bucks. Good news for the Gap, a company that has been battered in recent years: it was the only store making sales that afternoon. Bad news for the Gap: everything purchased was on clearance.

I've never been a retailer, but I do know that we are entering the crucial time of year for retailers, that mid-August through Christmas is the time when all the profit for the year is made. If Saturday was any indication, the last quarter of 08 is going to be a bumpy ride.

The Old Man and the Brittany

If you're not watching The Greatest American Dog you're not missing much. I had high hopes for the show before it premiered - it's Survivor meets Big Brother meets America's Next Top Model, with dogs! - but in reality while all the dogs in the competition are great, the humans tend to bore. Brody and I continue to watch every week because of the presence of what must be the sweetest old man in the world, Bill, and his orange and white Brittany, Star. Bill and Star are simply in love with each other, and Star is incredibly well-behaved while Bill is incredibly, well, nice. We're rooting them on for the win, as I'm sure is every other Brittany owner in the country. We've never won Westminster, but our breed can at least win this piece of crap.

I naturally think Brody's the greatest American dog, but while we watch we play a game called "Imagine What Brody Would Do if He was on the Television Show." Brody participates by lying on my lap and listening to me talk. "Look, Brody, none of these dogs is humping another," I'll say. "If you were on TV you'd be humping the Pomeranian right now." Sometimes I'll exclaim, "Look, buddy, a good Brittany! She's sitting rather than chasing the other dogs around the sofa!" Sometimes it will be something like, "Wow, none of those dogs are taking a poop in the basement. Look at that, they all go on the grass, outside." Brody takes all this with poise and calm. He is an exceptionally good sport.

Even if you don't have a Brittany, you really should watch the show just once before it ends if only to see Bill and Star. I wish he was my grandfather. I wish Star had raised Brody. I wish Brody would stop pooping in the basement. It airs Wednesday nights at 8 on CBS.

At the Intersection

In front of me, a Subaru plastered with bumper stickers: Grow Local, Eat Local; Go Green; Organic Food is Good Food; No Farms No Food; I'm a Locavore. I continued straight through the intersection to meet my friend. The Subaru made a left turn, into the Wendy's drive-thru.

At Least I Wasn't Naked

School always started the Wednesday after Labor Day. I think my college even began its term after Labor Day because we had 12.5-week semesters, rather than the more common 14-week terms, but I honestly don't completely remember. I really liked college and always looked forward to going back, so we could have started the middle of August and I would have been fine with that. Something's changed, though; my friends who are teachers or guidance counselors all go back to school the end of this week, with the students starting class Monday, a full week before Labor Day. Where did the summer go?

During times of transition I have dreams where past and present are confused. This happens to many of us, and the shape of my dreams also follows the predictable: I have to return to college or high school because someone has discovered I was missing credits for graduation, and I can no longer keep up with the classes. Or I'm back in college or high school and ready to graduate but it turns out there's one class I was registered for that I'd completely forgotten about, and I have to take a final exam in Chemistry V or something like that when I've never been to one class. Or I'm in college and it's my college but I don't know anyone. Or I'm naked and have to give an oral report.

Last night I dreamed that I was a senior in college, although I was my current age. The dream was populated with my real college classmates, all of us fortysomethings. The campus had been moved so some urban center, though, when in actuality my alma mater comprises thousands of acres in central Virginia. We are about to graduate, and are all bar-hopping. I find out that I'm going to receive some sort of award and will have to make a speech at graduation, and although I realize I should call it a night and go home to prepare I stay out with my friends. Suddenly it's the next day, after the ceremony, and I have no recollection of my speech, what I said, how it went. I don't think my lapse has to do with being drunk, because in the dream I'm not drunk. It was just some sort of blackout.

Everyone acts like I did well, that my speech was great. I'm upset because I can't recall any of it, and I rush around the town looking for someone who has recorded the ceremony. During my search I run into various friends' parents, not just college friends but parents of friends from as far back as elementary school. All ask me what I'm looking for, and when I tell them it's documentary evidence of my speech, they sigh and tell me they can't help me.

I gave myself until the end of the summer to decide what I'm going to do now that my business has been sold. I still have no idea. Clearly, the past can't help me. At least, not in my dreams.

Cerealized Drama

On with life. Remember Quisp? Back in the day it was my favorite cereal for two reasons. First, I loved Quisp himself, that short outer space man with the propeller on his head. Secondly, because my mother didn't understand that it was essentially Captain Crunch in a different shape made by a different company, it was the only really sweet "sugar" cereal I was allowed to have.

Rules about food in our house were randomly created and steadfastly maintained. For example, my mother wasn't kosher, but she had been raised that way. Our house was in no way kosher, not by any stretch of the imagination. But shrimp were the only shellfish allowed. She'd serve pork chops, but not ham. We had bacon, but not sausage. We also had Christmas stockings, but no tree, so at least she was consistent in her randomness.

What she referred to as "sugar cereals" were bad for me and were forbidden. I understand that packaged food wasn't labeled as thorougly then as it is today, so maybe that explains why I was allowed to have Fruit Loops, Apple Jacks, and Corn Pops; if it had a healthy-sounding word in its name, it must be healthy, right? What I wanted most of all was Captain Crunch, that nirvanna of a bowl full of sweet I encountered at friends' houses the mornings after sleepovers. No way; strictly forbidden. Maybe the docile, smiling Quaker on the label gave my mother a false sense of security (after all, would a Quaker ever endanger America's youth?), maybe it was the word "oats" in the Quaker Oats logo, but for some reason she felt that Quisp and it's brother-cereal, Quake, were acceptable.

Quisp and Quake were exactly the same cereal but in different shapes, and named for different cartoon characters. Quisp was of course from another galaxy and so was not truly sexually determined. His dress and hairstyle seemed to indicate that he was in fact a "he," but his masculinity was akin to that of a stuffed animal. His voice was high-pitched, his mannerisms childlike. Whatever masculinity he had was pre-pubescent, unthreatening. Quake, on the other hand, came from underground. While Quisp's cereal came from the galaxies, Quake's was of the earth, produced by earthquakes. Quake was muscle-bound, deep-voiced, virile. In the commercials shown during Saturday morning cartoons, Quisp and Quake are rivals for our affection. They are presented as superheroes, and in ad after ad they compete to see who can save the earth, Quake with brawn, Quisp with brains.

Naturally, I loved Quisp and hated Quake. After all, I could never grow up to be Quake. I'd never have brawn or a deep voice, but I could one day save the world through intellect and charm. My nerdiness could one day pay off. I don't know if the Quaker Oats marketers introduced two versions of the same cereal so that one would appeal to girls and one boys, but whatever they were thinking it didn't work. Sometime in the early 70s they decided they weren't selling enough of either cereal and to stop competing with themselves; one cereal would be discontinued.

They had a contest, and everyone could vote, including kids. Who do you want to keep around, Quisp or Quake? I enthusiastically voted for Quisp. How could he lose? He was cute, he was smart, he had a propeller on his head, for crying out loud! In what would become a lifelong pattern, I was on the wrong end of the vote. Quisp was toast, relegated to the infinite cosmos of memory.

Proud, defiant, I never ate Quake. Golden Grahams became my favorite cereal (again, the name of the cereal tricking my mother into a belief in imaginary health benefits) until I was old enough to stop eating cereal altogether. I never liked milk, you see. I only wanted sweet cereals to flavor the milk so that I could drink it. Quake also eventually disappeared from supermarket shelves, another victim of free love and disco.

All these years later I am avenged. A Quisp cult has been slowly growing, aided and abbetted by the internet. By the turn of the century, Quisp was again being produced in limited quantities. Today, it's available nationwide, at least according to Quaker Oats. Quisp has his own website, and a very good one at that. If you can't find it at your local grocery store, you can order some from the site. Chalk another one up for the nerds.