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After some days away from Paradelle, television news and the Net, I have returned. Was it the cleansing that being offline might provide, as I had written about earlier? Yes, though even on a literal faraway island, news creeps in on you. Perhaps, I needed a deserted island. Still, my sleep changed for the better and my mind turned to things too often pushed aside (poetry, sketching, mindful and mindless meditation) for more “serious” matters.
I had some posts that were in the queue for this first weekend back in Paradelle, so they will go off into the universe of bits floating in a cloud. But the important thing for me this weekend is trying to keep that clear horizon clear?
The Dodge Foundation has run a program for many years of poetry as renewal that they call “Clearing the Spring, Tending the Fountain.” The title comes from a short poem by Robert Frost.
I’m going out to clean the pasture spring;
I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.
I’m going out to fetch the little calf
That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.
Though I don’t have a literal pasture spring to clean out for the new season, I did clear away some leaves from the garden yesterday on a warm, sunny, breezy day here in Paradelle. Today it is snowing. And next week even more snow predicted.
After you clear away what is blocking you, how do you keep the path clear?
Frost used that poem as the introduction to his 1915 collection, North of Boston. (The book is in the public domain now and you can read the poems online.) I think of the poem as a statement of intent. Frost wants these poems to move away the leaves that might block a reader’s perception. As the water clears, you can move further into the collection. Like the little calf that is also being cleaned by its mother, we can totter ahead.
In this time before spring when the weather reminds us of both the recent past and the coming days too, it is a good time to think about many kinds of rebirth and renewal. It’s a better time for new resolutions for the year than January first.
I am going to try to tend the fountain and keep what has cleared for me open and moving ahead. You come too.
Just a brief note: I’ll be dropping off the grid, slipping away to some wilderness or wildness, escaping to an island in these early morning hours, taking my own advice about resetting my internal clock. All the signs were here.
Maybe I’ll be back online in a week or two. Or maybe I’ll go native. The universe will have to give me a sign.
You take care of yourselves and the Net for a while.
I was eager to check all my blog statistics at the end of January because I had calculated that the numbers would trip my blog odometer over to a big number.
I keep a spreadsheet for the 8 blogs where I write online. I don’t keep track of stats for my Tumblr or Facebook, Twitter, Instagram or any of the other social sites I use. And I don’t obsess over the numbers month to month because I don’t get any income from people just viewing a page. I am curious about which posts got the most attention because it gives me some insight into what people want to read.
Looking at the total page hits for the eight blogs over their lifetimes, the number has now crossed the 100,000,000 mark.
That’s one hundred million page hits, which doesn’t mean there were that number of “unique visitors.” It is safe to assume that many of those hits come from the same people – and that’s a great thing. Blogs get subscribers and followers who are usually notified of new content and who, hopefully, come back to read more of your posts.
That number – 100,000,000 – sounds like the population of a country – my own little country of blogs. My blog country is a bit smaller than the 12th largest, the Philippines at 107,668,232, but we are bigger than Ethiopia (96,633,456) and Vietnam (93,421,832). Sure, we are only half the population of Brazil (202,656,784) and Pakistan (196,174,384), but everyone in Austria (8,223,062) could visit the site a dozen times each to get us to 100,000,000.
Weekends in Paradelle has a largely North American readership, but the UK, Germany, France and India account for about 25 percent of visitors to this particular blog.
My most oldest and most read blog is Serendipity35. I have been writing about technology and education there since 2006, so it has a head start on the other blogs. It pulls in about a half million hits every month (532,468 in January and 859,860 in December 2016) and accounts for 97 million of those hits.
Serious bloggers look at when people access their blog and then try to post in that time period. For Serendipity35, which has a much wider global audience than this blog, there is no “hot” hour. People are dropping by all day and night from somewhere.
You would assume that Weekends in Paradelle gets most of its hits on the weekends since that is when I post (mostly in the morning). Wrong. The most popular day is actually Wednesday (30% of all views), and the most popular time is 4 p.m. ET. Go figure. But I’ll still be posting on Fridays – Sundays most weeks.
It’s nice to know there is a country of visitors out there. It’s even nicer when you leave a comment, so I know it’s not just Google search bots visiting!
I still subscribe to and read a few magazines printed on paper. One of those that I have subscribed to pretty much without a break is Esquire. I realized while looking through a few old issues that I saved that I have been reading it for 50 years.
Esquire is an American men’s magazine, published by the Hearst Corporation in the United States. It was first issued in October 1933.
Its boom time was probably during the Great Depression when it was guided along by one of its founders, Arnold Gingrich.
I started reading it when I was in high school at the end of the 1960s. As someone who planned on being an English major, I figured I had to read magazines such as Esquire and The New Yorker.
But The New Yorker, despite poetry, John Updike and friends and great cartoons, was very expensive for a high school kid saving for college. I subscribed once and the weekly issues kept piling up. I couldn’t just throw them away and tried to go through every issue, but it was overwhelming.
Esquire lacked regular cartoons and didn’t run poems, but it had its own set of famous writers like Ernest Hemingway, Dashiell Hammett, F. Scott Fitzgerald and André Gide back in the early days, and starting in the 1940s, it had Petty Girls and Vargas Girls. Those pinups moved to Playboy in the 1950s but Esquire provided some occasional sexy or semi-nude photos, but it never became a “men’s magazine” in the Playboy way.
I started reading Esquire in 1967 and probably subscribed around 1969. That was the time of “New Journalism” and the magazine featured writers as Norman Mailer, Tim O’Brien, Gay Talese, Tom Wolfe, and Terry Southern.
One of the issues I still have is the October 1970 issue with Hemingway on the cover. It is a nice time capsule of the fall of my senior year of high school when I was full of thoughts of college, reading literature and becoming a writer. That issue has “Bimini” the first publication of a major episode from the forthcoming novel by Hemingway, Islands in the Stream. As I page past ads for the Chevrolet Vega, a Yamaha 60cc mini-bike and a section on Johnny Carson’s new fashion wardrobe, I read about “Esquire’s Heavy 100” who’s who and who isn’t in rock music, and “Lost Chapters” of Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan, and an article on Sundance Kid Robert Redford. That’s a pretty good time capsule.
David M. Granger became editor-in-chief in 1997. No surprise, the magazine has changed over the years and as editors change.
It still picks up National Magazine Awards, but there is less fiction and more non-fiction and politics.
It changed, but so did I. I’m less in love with the magazine these days, but we have been friends for so long that I can’t give up on it.
These days the writers I read most regularly there are the profiles and essays of Tom Chiarella, Scott Raab and Tom Junod.
The women are still there. In a time when even Playboy gave up on the nude photos because no magazine can compete with the Internet, Esquire has its annual “Sexiest Woman Alive” issue and regularly has “Women We Love.” I’m sure that many women still find all that to be sexist, but I think it’s done in good taste – and often with humor.
The magazine published its 1,000th issue and is still going strong.
The magazine has online “Esquire Classic,” a subscriber service archive that allows you to read “anything Esquire has ever published.” I probably don’t have time for any of the unread 50,000+ articles they have published. It also has audio and there was a free podcast (I think that is done) and you can read and listen to things like F.Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Crack-Up,” or “Superman Comes to the Supermarket” by Norman Mailer ,” or “A Few Words about Breasts” by Nora Ephron and “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold” by Gay Talese.
There was a Donald Trump Cover in 2004 to accompany an article titled “How I’d Run the Country (Better).” In it, he pulls Esquire into his Iraq War fantasy. You should have read in 2004. You really should have read it in 2016. You’d better read it in 2017.
I know it’s hard times for print publications, but you can subscribe to Esquire for $5 (10 issues) and I can guarantee that in a year you are going to find a lot more than five dollars worth of entertainment in there. Support print!
I wrote a letter to John Glenn in 1963. I was 10 years old. That was a traumatic year for me. A year when my father became very ill with a disease that would take his life six years later. Glenn was heroic to many people and especially to kids then. He was a space cowboy. But, looking back, I think that he also represented to me some escape from this world which wasn’t a place I wanted to be.
John Glenn Jr. died yesterday. He was 95. He was an aviator, engineer, astronaut, and United States Senator from Ohio. But my connection to him was strongest back when he was one of the “Mercury Seven” test pilots selected by NASA to become America’s first astronauts and fly the Project Mercury spacecraft.
At my elementary school, we watched him in 1962 when he flew the Friendship 7 mission and became the first American to orbit the Earth. We sat in a half-circle on the floor of the school gymnasium and looked at a medium-sized black and white television set. It was great.
He wasn’t the first person to go into space. He was the fifth person. Two Russian cosmonauts were first, and there were earlier sub-orbital flights by Mercury astronauts Alan Shepard and Gus Grissom. Glenn became the first American to orbit the Earth. He circled the planet three times in a flight that lasted just under five hours.
John Glenn answered my letter. He sent a short note that seemed to be written in response to my own letter, and it had what I’ll assume is his own signature, an 8×10 photo and a booklet about the space program.
I had told him that as much as I wanted to be an astronaut, I was sure I would never have that chance. For one thing, I wore eyeglasses and had read that knocked me out of the flight school path to space that all the astronauts had followed. I also said I thought I would be too afraid to go into space.
He replied that there were many things I could do to help the country and the space program besides being an astronaut.
My father wanted me to be an engineer. He worked at Bell Labs in New Jersey before he became ill and had worked on components for the Telstar satellite.
The original Telstar belonged to AT&T as part of a multi-national agreement among AT&T, Bell Telephone Laboratories, NASA, GPO (United Kingdom) and the National PTT (France) in order to develop experimental satellite communications over the Atlantic Ocean.
Our family went to a Christmas party at Bell Labs in 1962. There was full size model of Telstar there which I assumed was the actual satellite and that it had been brought down for the party.
Telstar relayed through space the first television pictures, telephone calls, and fax images, and provided the first live transatlantic television feed.
I read a book about Glenn many years later when he first announced a run for the Senate. I remember that he said that he saw no contradiction between believing in God and the knowledge that evolution is “a fact” that should be taught in schools. I liked that ability to hold two supposedly incompatible ideas as beliefs simultaneously, and I agree with him.
Glenn gave me second hope for my childhood astronaut dream when on October 29, 1998 (while still a sitting senator) he became the oldest person to fly in space. At 77, he flew on the Space Shuttle as a Payload Specialist on Discovery mission STS-95.
Telstar 1 and 2 are no longer functional, but they still orbit the Earth.
I like that they are still out there in space.
Stock-still I stand,
And him I see
I don’t think most people would associate this short, light poem with the novelist Herman Melville, its author. I like Melville’s writing. A lot of people don’t. Generally, he is not an easy read. He gets praise for Moby Dick, but even that novel was a commercial failure in his time.
He had some early success with his tales of sailing and exotic natives on distant islands. But every succeeding book seemed to sell less and finally with the publication of the satiric Pierre in 1852, it must have seemed like the end for him. The fame would come after his death.
He never stopped writing. He still got published – a Revolutionary War novel, Israel Potter, a few years later and stories in magazines. Some of those late stories are still read today (“Bartleby, the Scrivener,” “The Encantadas,” and “Benito Cereno.” These and three other stories were collected in 1856 as The Piazza Tales. sales were poor.
He had been friends with fellow author Nathaniel Hawthorne when moved his family to Arrowhead, a farm near Pittsfield, Massachusetts, in the summer of 1850. My reading of that relationship is that Melville considered Hawthorne a close friend, but Hawthorne didn’t see it as being very close. He dedicated Moby-Dick to Hawthorne. They met up again in 1857 when he was in England.
Melville made a tour of the Near East. He had The Confidence-Man, a novel I like, published in 1857, and that was the last prose work he published during his lifetime.
He moved to New York. He took a regular job as a Customs Inspector. He wrote poetry. A few books of it were published. Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the War was about the morality of war, particularly the Civil War, and his trip to the Holy Land inspired the poems in Clarel. The latter was a metaphysical epic. I find most of the poetry impenetrable and not enjoyable – and I am not the average reader because I actually read books of poetry.
“To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme,” Melville, Moby-Dick
When Herman Melville died, on September 28th, 1891, he was working on that small chipmunk poem above. He had spent the last 25 years being a private citizen. And he wrote poems. But he was a commercial failure as a poet.
As he got older, he went from mighty themes and grand language to simplicity.
Through an orchard I follow
Two children in glee.
From an apple-tree’s hollow
They startle the bee.
Melville was 72 and pretty much anonymous when he died in Manhattan. But I would like to believe that in his simple poems in the last years, he found some peace. No need to publish. No big themes.
Six days a week, he walked west across lower Manhattan to his job along the Hudson River (then known as the North River) to earn a fixed salary of four dollars a day. He walked home in the evening, and after dinner, wrote poems.
Soft as the morning
When South winds blow,
Sweet as peach-orchards
When blossoms are seen,
Pure as a fresco
Of roses and snow,
Or an opal serene.
On a chilly, rainy, autumn day like today in 2001, I tried walking Melville’s New York City. I was going through a pretty bad depression. Unfortunately, in that state of mind, people often drag themselves deeper. I don’t know why I thought that walking by the bay at the Battery I might commune with the spirits of Melville or Walt Whitman and that would somehow make things better.
I stopped at Trinity Church in the neighborhood of Bartleby’s Wall Street. It was empty and cold.
I walked past 97 Nassau Street where Melville had frequented Gowan’s Antiquarian Bookstore. It is supposed that he “probably exchanged pleasantries with Edgar Allan Poe, whom he had met through their mutual editor. On one visit, Melville bought an edition of Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy which, he discovered at a later time, had once belonged to his father’s library.”
Melancholy – that feeling of pensive sadness, with no obvious cause. Melville knew it too. He may have written through it sometimes.
Ah, Love, when life closes,
Dying the death of the just,
May we vie with Hearth-Roses,
Smelling sweet in our dust.
When he died, there were several dozen unpublished poems on his desk. They are about roses and irises, bluebirds and chipmunks, the Berkshires and dreams.They have been published as Weeds and Wildings, with a Rose or Two.
I suspect critics would not think much of these last poems. I suspect that Melville didn’t care.