jrlewis's blog

After humpty dumpty falls 

Only eleven eggs left…

Onze is seasoned with his parsley

Sprig soft mustache. 

Dix becomes scrambled.

I am the yoke and white he is

Whisking together so swiftly his fingers blur. 

The result is thick custard.

Neuf and huit are covered with béchamel and tomato paste

The color of my nipples, sauce aurore.

A two tone stipple coat eggs sept et six

Teal overlays aquamarine, reflecting

His brilliant blue eyes. 

Cinq is served sur les canapés he is

Baby cakes, burns eyelashes and all.

Just call me Emma.

Quatre requires a well-lubricated pan for

He plans to make an omelet of me. 

Tongue tastes the fine pores of my skin

Deux and trois

They pair eggs and white wine

Copying Julia Child, why else

Would one drink champagne on cinco de mayo?

The ultimate egg in her lap

She cradles because it will taste better when

Cooked from room temperature

This ultimate pleasure.

Masticating

Swallowing substantial nutrients

Gut absorbed, proteins are taken into my cells

I have digested my sin.  It sits

Memory, making me into a dromedary

For my travels through the desert Elizabeth

Like a prayer I repeat her name

Lizzy, Elizabeth, girlfriend.

Your woman, me

An animal. 

Who slept with you for a poem.

Can you say it three times fast?

A solitary figure

Continues to wage his war

Against the sand.  This worker

Is out late, the others already retired.

Charged with guarding the compound

From elements and predator’s alike is

Twisted bits of wood and wire

Fortifying the exterior

The burden of a mature ant.

He is patrolling the Cliffside

Listening for rustling

In the grass.

He hears leaves

Overturned by fluttering

Of a young queen ant.  Female

Calling syndrome, this courtship

His transformation from worker to male

Makes him a morphological monstrosity!

Beyond the biological sciences

The nuptial flight commences

Away from the anthill

I revealed cornflower blue

Eyes, a passion for soccer, signs

Of humanity.  He is a man big enough

To ride my father’s bike.  “part pirate,

part precious metal” sterling sideburns roan

chest and back.  I am telling my own

legend of the silver stallion.

But tertia non datur…

The name Nantucket

Faraway land in the words

Of the Wampanoag. He is a son

Of the Grey Lady and I an aphid

He tended me only for my honeydew

Off the coast of Cape Cod

Is a grimacing monster cyclops

Creature of three eyes, all owl yellow

Carved jack o’ lantern watching, wondering

Forming an equilateral triangle of sight

Guarded against surgery, removal

Of the simple vestigial lump

Ever frightful

Her tempestuous mind

Moods dancing on a Cliffside

Before melancholy storms brewing

Beaches being overwhelmed by waves

Raging wild words with Apollo or lunar cycles

Eroding dunes and dragging away roots

From fields of salt grasses growing

Fine feeling skin hairs

Ripping apart

It hurts

She cries out

Great gritty tears

Streams of sand grains

Chunks of stone gliding down

Cowering with cracks and weakness

Wrapped in an obscure suspension is she

“William Faulkner

Failed freshmen English

Three times,” said the professor

Shaking her head, ringing sterling bells

Clapping against the nape of her neck

A triplicate charm or choice

Of silver stirrups slapping

A horse’s stomach

Carrying the rider

Further, higher, way away

Following a well-worn bridle path

With powerful long flanks flashing

In the soft sunlight she herself flourishes

Horses are a potent metaphor

A student sitting

In the spring light studying

Illustrations of olive leaved algae

Sargassum, abundant weeds of deceit

Feed and shade a special seahorse

Grazing on anthozoan inhabitants

In the sea without shores

The doldrums

I have missed Serendip.  This website is the chance for meaningful intellectual exchange, as I understand it.  It is a playground for people who like to think and think about thinking. 

Lately, I have been thinking about writing.  I’ve been writing too: poetry, short stories, and essays. Writing for oneself is all well and good.  However, an alphabetical list of Microsoft word documents in isn’t a great measure of intellectual growth.  So I’m going to experiment with Serendip and keeping a blog of my writing and thoughts about writing.  Hoping that other Serendipians will participate too.  Writers are zebras, they thrive in a herd. 

If a course syllabus is a menu for a classroom experience, then here is my summary of the House of Wits Course 2010.  Each dish is a culinary representation of the James family member it is matched with opposite.  Anyone with allergies to pragmatism or relativism should avoid the preparations of William James.  They will result in a strong reaction.  They are arranged in reverse chronological order as the course primarily was.  Note how all the dishes work together... do they form a coherent meal?  Are their clashes in flavor?  Repetition?  All this is designed to bring out the family dynamics of the James.  Enjoy the meal!!!  And feel free to comment on your favorite dishes and personalities. 

What to do with William James?  His writings on psychology formed the primary textbook for that discipline.  The school of philosophy he developed, pragmatism appeals to philosophers and scientists alike.  Jacques Barzun identifies him as an American hero.  So it would seem that the works of William James have been assimilated into American culture and intellectual life.  If this is true, then what is the point of reading his original writings?  Or why should one use “The Writings of William James: A Comprehensive

Perhaps this is a stupid question…  Especially for someone who has taken almost enough literature courses to be an English minor… An avid reader of novels, graphic narratives, biographies, and texts on philosophy and science… 

WHAT IS LITERATURE?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? 

Is it the texts of the Western Canon?  Is it global?  Is it any kind of artist writing?  What about important articles? Comics? Papers? Speeches? Films? Recipes?

In our discussion of The Portrait of a Lady, Anne asked our class to consider “who is the tyrant” of the novel.  She was inquiring what character or concept constrained the formerly free and independent character of Isabel Archer.  A discussion ensued about whether Gilbert Osmond or Isabel Archer’s imagination was the tyrant.  I would like to propose a third interpretation; Henry James, himself, is the great tyrant of his own novel. 

This paper unfolds as a ribbon rolling off a reel...

I love being a teaching assistant, but I hate grading! The monotony of comparing minute differences in framing answers to the same questions is almost unbearable.  Trying to remember the best response is an exercise in tediousness, overwhelming repetition.  It is a task I dread every week. 

The first twist of the ribbon was…