U.S. consumption of oil for personal transportation is a problematic issue for two main reasons: first because the supply of oil is finite, and secondly because the burning of fossil fuels such as oil adds disproportionate amounts of CO2 to the atmosphere, a gas that is in part responsible for global warming. Curtailing the miles the average citizen drives per year or increasing the efficiency of those miles, could serve to extend our oil supply as well as reduce CO2 emissions.
"Total U.S. car and light truck VMT [vehicle miles of travel] in 2004 amounted to 2.6 trillion miles" (DeCicco and Fung). With a fuel economy of the 2004 U.S. automobile stock averaging 19.6 mpg (DeCicco and Fung), the U.S. consumed approximately 3 billion barrels of oil that year just to drive personal automobiles. If world production of oil peaks in the year 2020 as it is predicted to do (Savinar), what will happen to all our cars and drivers?
To compound the problem of the massive amount of oil burned to drive, "[t]he CO2 directly released when fuel is burned [is a factor of about] 5.3 pounds of carbon per gallon of gasoline" (DeCicco and Fung). Therefore 'in 2004, U.S. cars and light trucks traveling 2.6 trillion miles emitted 314 million metric tons of carbon' (DeCicco and Fung), or approximately 692 billion pounds of carbon into the atmosphere. 'This adds to the layer of greenhouse gases that heat the Earth' (Environmental Defense). "Excessive amounts of these gases—especially CO2—are forming too thick a heat blanket around the Earth and leading to climate change" (Environmental Defense).
"Americans now rank climate change as the country's most pressing environmental concern, […]. This is a dramatic shift from just three years ago, when climate change ranked only sixth out of 10 environmental problems" (MSNBC). If this statement is true, now might be the time to ask Americans to take steps to mitigate the problem of climate change, starting with their personal transportation. 'The single most effective measure that has brought down motorists' fuel use in Europe is taxation' (Ford). Perhaps it is time to start taxing American fuel to a greater degree.
"A penny a gallon tax was first imposed on gasoline in 1932 in order to help fund the federal budget, but in 1956, […] reform created the Highway Trust Fund into which most gasoline tax revenues go and which are used mostly for highway maintenance and construction" (Hilton). In 2006 the U.S. tax at the gasoline pump is approximately 23 percent of the price per gallon (ENVS class notes 14 Nov.). With a price of $2.17 per gallon, as it is today, the U.S. government is collecting for road maintenance and construction $0.50 for every gallon of gasoline purchased. In contrast, "[o]n average, 60 percent of the price European drivers pay at the pump goes to their governments in taxes" (Ford). With European gas prices hovering around an average of $6.00 per gallon, European governments are collecting around $3.60 in taxes for every gallon of gasoline sold. "The biggest hole in [U.S.] policy today is fuel taxation, […]" (Lee Schipper quoted in Ford). This is a hole that can be filled and in so doing, could serve to increase fuel efficiency and decrease the amount of CO2 emissions by forcing drivers to become more conscious of their driving habits.
"While people ranked climate change as a higher priority, their understanding of much of the science involved with the problem and the ways to mitigate it (including wind and solar power, increased efficiency, nuclear power, and carbon sequestration) has changed little" (MSNBC). This is an opportunity to implement higher taxes on gasoline at the pump and appropriate that revenue to environmental education and advertising as necessary to help the general public understand why it is imperative that we learn to decrease our consumption of oil, and provide suggestions and incentives about how this might be done.
To begin the process, a commercial, or a billboard, or even a newspaper campaign providing educational tips to drivers such as: "Drive less aggressively. Aggressive driving—rapid acceleration and braking—can lower gas mileage by as much as 33 percent on the highway and 5 percent in town. Aggressive drivers are using an extra 125 gallons of gas and spending over $250 more than average drivers each year" (Environmental Defense), might be enough to begin to attract attention from people on the road. Branching off to schools and reaching the millions of young people in the U.S. could start a new trend of environmentally sound practices. Perhaps some of the tax money could go to free bus passes for students, encouraging them to learn how to use and rely on public transportation instead of private vehicles. No matter what form it takes, public education is key to the mitigation of the consumption of fossil fuels for transportation.
When the public is more acutely aware of the dire situation into which we dig ourselves by driving recklessly, it might be more willing to accept a slow but steady increase on the initial rise in taxes on gasoline. These new revenues could be used to enhance public transportation infrastructure in and around cities, it could help to fund technologies that would increase alternatives to fossil fuels for energy, and it could also be used to boost incentives to buy more fuel efficient vehicles. "Belgian drivers who buy a low-emissions vehicle get a 15% price rebate; Spain cuts $865 from the cost of registering a car if it replaces a car using leaded gas more than 10 years old; Hungary waives registration tax for hybrid cars" (Ford). By redistributing a portion of gasoline tax revenues back to the public, the U.S. could give like incentives to encourage consumers to make more environmentally sound, fuel efficient decisions when purchasing a vehicle.
Even if the taxes on gasoline increased and the revenue was squandered foolishly, the higher prices at the pump would force consumers to weigh heavily the value of what they are purchasing, and more likely than not, serve as an incentive for them to monitor and increase fuel efficiency.
The consumer force in the U.S. is incredibly powerful. It is time to tax that power, educate the people, and move more safely into a greener future.
- Amanda Jackson
- Freelance Writer working to fulfill the needs of businesses and individuals that desire print material to reflect their best image.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
The Soles of the Feet Reach the Pelvic Floor
Recently I’ve had the opportunity to take classes with renowned yogi Richard Freeman. Richard reminds students again and again that the soles of the feet are in direct correlation with the pelvic floor muscles. He goes so far as to say that, “the soles of the feet are the ambassadors of the pelvic floor.” ‘Ok,’ I think, ‘that’s neat, but what really does it mean?’ Curious, I did a little research to find out.
The foot, being the base of the body, determines how the skeleton will line up above it. Much like the base of a building, if the foundation is lopsided the structure above cannot help but be shifted out of alignment. For many people, the feet are forgotten and distant parts of the body that go unnoticed unless they are sore or tired. If the arches of these far away body parts are collapsed, this lack of muscle tone can translate all the way into the torso. “Lifeless arches are often linked to lack of responsiveness in the muscles of the legs and back, and people with collapsed arches frequently suffer from lower back compression and pain”(Little, 81). Ida Rolf, founder of the popular Rolfing technique, determined that, “If one foot is consistently everted [tilted onto its inner edge], the ankle, the knee, or perhaps more likely, the entire pelvic basin is rotated.” If there is little or no muscle tone in the soles of the feet, energy cannot be drawn up through the legs and into the pelvic floor. “Once the inner ankle drops, the inner groin at the top of the inner leg often also collapses” (Little, 81). It is difficult to create stability in the body without the energy of the legs and lift of the pelvic floor muscles to do the work.
To begin to access energy through the feet, a connection between the foot and the ground must be created. Since the muscles of the foot cannot be voluntarily lifted like those in the pelvic floor, strong arches are created by making space in the foot by stretching the foot muscles and connective tissue to increase elasticity. This elasticity in turn produces a sort of foot trampoline that can spring the weight of the body and with it muscular energy, upward through the legs and into the pelvis. Pressing into the ball of the big toe, the ball of the little toe and center of the heel while in Tadasana is a good way to begin lifting the arches, stretching the feet, and forming a steady foundation. Feeling the body from the ground up and attempting to align the center of the cranium and the center of the pelvis directly over the center of the heel bone while lifting the muscles of the shins and thighs, will initiate a connection between the lines of energy that run lengthwise through the body. Remembering to keep the roots of the toes spreading and pressing while practicing the alignment of Tadasana will bring intelligence to the feet while relieving muscles tension and creating greater flexibility in the plantar region.
It is interesting to note that when we were a barefoot walking people, “microadjustments required of the foot when walking on uneven terrain promoted small movements in the pelvis and spine that led to pliability throughout the body” (Little, 84). Evidence suggests that walking in tight shoes across hard, unnaturally even surfaces as we do today, “typically results in a clumping effect: The feet, ankles, and lower back become solid and fixed instead of sensitive and minutely adjustable” (Little, 84). The message here: reintroduce yourself to those two ambassadors down below, walk barefoot as much as you can, maybe get a pair of those funky rubber toe shoes, and practice yoga from the ground up.
The foot, being the base of the body, determines how the skeleton will line up above it. Much like the base of a building, if the foundation is lopsided the structure above cannot help but be shifted out of alignment. For many people, the feet are forgotten and distant parts of the body that go unnoticed unless they are sore or tired. If the arches of these far away body parts are collapsed, this lack of muscle tone can translate all the way into the torso. “Lifeless arches are often linked to lack of responsiveness in the muscles of the legs and back, and people with collapsed arches frequently suffer from lower back compression and pain”(Little, 81). Ida Rolf, founder of the popular Rolfing technique, determined that, “If one foot is consistently everted [tilted onto its inner edge], the ankle, the knee, or perhaps more likely, the entire pelvic basin is rotated.” If there is little or no muscle tone in the soles of the feet, energy cannot be drawn up through the legs and into the pelvic floor. “Once the inner ankle drops, the inner groin at the top of the inner leg often also collapses” (Little, 81). It is difficult to create stability in the body without the energy of the legs and lift of the pelvic floor muscles to do the work.
To begin to access energy through the feet, a connection between the foot and the ground must be created. Since the muscles of the foot cannot be voluntarily lifted like those in the pelvic floor, strong arches are created by making space in the foot by stretching the foot muscles and connective tissue to increase elasticity. This elasticity in turn produces a sort of foot trampoline that can spring the weight of the body and with it muscular energy, upward through the legs and into the pelvis. Pressing into the ball of the big toe, the ball of the little toe and center of the heel while in Tadasana is a good way to begin lifting the arches, stretching the feet, and forming a steady foundation. Feeling the body from the ground up and attempting to align the center of the cranium and the center of the pelvis directly over the center of the heel bone while lifting the muscles of the shins and thighs, will initiate a connection between the lines of energy that run lengthwise through the body. Remembering to keep the roots of the toes spreading and pressing while practicing the alignment of Tadasana will bring intelligence to the feet while relieving muscles tension and creating greater flexibility in the plantar region.
It is interesting to note that when we were a barefoot walking people, “microadjustments required of the foot when walking on uneven terrain promoted small movements in the pelvis and spine that led to pliability throughout the body” (Little, 84). Evidence suggests that walking in tight shoes across hard, unnaturally even surfaces as we do today, “typically results in a clumping effect: The feet, ankles, and lower back become solid and fixed instead of sensitive and minutely adjustable” (Little, 84). The message here: reintroduce yourself to those two ambassadors down below, walk barefoot as much as you can, maybe get a pair of those funky rubber toe shoes, and practice yoga from the ground up.
Short Bio. For In-Store Marketing
Jean Cali, lifetime resident of the Slate Belt, began studying art in high school under artist Robert Doney. With Mr. Doney, she studied drawing and painting, experimenting with charcoal, oils and watercolors. Her love of art continued, and as a young adult Jean took private painting lessons with Mr. Doney, as well as watercolor classes at the Bangor High School. She also dabbled in oil painting at Northampton Community College before taking her first jewelry making class with long time art teacher, Mr. Faust, at Pen Argyl High School. Later, her brother and artist, John Cali, introduced her to a silversmith in Bethlehem where Jean learned to create sterling silver bangle bracelets. Her brother’s influence paired with the strong influence of her daughter and current art teacher at the Pen Argyl High School, artist Alison Cesare, pushed Jean’s love of art from painting into jewelry making. When Alison showed Jean how to hammer metal, Jean was inspired to work from thin sheets of precious and non-precious metals unique sets of earrings and bracelets which in their turn sprouted her now familiar company moniker, “Bangles Baubles and Beads.”
Jean’s love of jewelry and fashion attracted her to the resplendent colors and patterns of beaded jewelry. Encouraged by her friend Jane to investigate this avenue of jewelry making more thoroughly, Jean found that the texture and sparkle that can be created with beads captured her imagination, and soon she was attending beading classes at Knit and Pearl in Stroudsburg. Jean's beading endeavor turned into one of a kind pieces like you see before you now, intricate pieces of jewelry worked into being at the fingertips of this careful artist.
When you by a piece of jewelry by Jean Cali, you are buying an offering of beauty. Jean puts her heart into her hands to make each piece, so that every person who wears her earrings, bracelets, and necklaces can share in her joy while adding color and sparkle to the world around them.
Jean’s love of jewelry and fashion attracted her to the resplendent colors and patterns of beaded jewelry. Encouraged by her friend Jane to investigate this avenue of jewelry making more thoroughly, Jean found that the texture and sparkle that can be created with beads captured her imagination, and soon she was attending beading classes at Knit and Pearl in Stroudsburg. Jean's beading endeavor turned into one of a kind pieces like you see before you now, intricate pieces of jewelry worked into being at the fingertips of this careful artist.
When you by a piece of jewelry by Jean Cali, you are buying an offering of beauty. Jean puts her heart into her hands to make each piece, so that every person who wears her earrings, bracelets, and necklaces can share in her joy while adding color and sparkle to the world around them.
In My Mother's Kitchen
The brown refrigerator door sucks open to the song “Bacon on the griddle, my oh my, bacon on the griddle…” And there I am in the middle, the shortest of the five of us, stumbling around in my footy pajamas, holding out arms to be held. Giggling, my middle sister with her beautiful hand in the puppet Snoopy, bends over me, wagging his tail, singing the refrain up close.
There is bacon, the fat burning crisp on the flat hot griddle. There are probably pancakes or waffles too. My father and my mother are there, both of them, together, like gods in their dominion of bacon smoke, whistling tea, and black coffee percolating into crystal.
An egg shatters against the floor I imagine, smearing its transparent innards out from beneath a pile of crumpled brown shell. I see the domed yolk of its inner sunshine sliding across the deep blue linoleum. The gods are laughing, looking at each other. Like in a 1950’s TV show, they adore the messy egg of their clumsy offspring. And the sisters, the two bigger ones, argue gently about who will get the paper towels. It’s floating away from me, this dream, and I focus harder on the bacon and the Snoopy doll and holding out my arms.
“Bacon on the griddle, yeah yeah yeah, bacon…”
I am smiling again at the close world created by these five creatures. I am five too. Tiny enough still to spy the fat yellow cat curled on the chair. I want to touch him, but I want more to hold tight to these people and their song, a longing cutting itself loose from the truth in my guts. That swirling feeling of lonely that starts out a small spiky ball in your belly, then creeps into your throat. It’s there, in the middle of the end, and I know it, can feel it moving fast and quick, even as they sing and I dance the slippery dance of the footy pajamas on this sunny Saturday morning near the yellow cat and the smoking bacon and steaming coffee, I know, the way a child’s heart knows the tears inside her mother’s eyes. And I force myself open, to push from my throat, the last sound of my family’s song.
There is bacon, the fat burning crisp on the flat hot griddle. There are probably pancakes or waffles too. My father and my mother are there, both of them, together, like gods in their dominion of bacon smoke, whistling tea, and black coffee percolating into crystal.
An egg shatters against the floor I imagine, smearing its transparent innards out from beneath a pile of crumpled brown shell. I see the domed yolk of its inner sunshine sliding across the deep blue linoleum. The gods are laughing, looking at each other. Like in a 1950’s TV show, they adore the messy egg of their clumsy offspring. And the sisters, the two bigger ones, argue gently about who will get the paper towels. It’s floating away from me, this dream, and I focus harder on the bacon and the Snoopy doll and holding out my arms.
“Bacon on the griddle, yeah yeah yeah, bacon…”
I am smiling again at the close world created by these five creatures. I am five too. Tiny enough still to spy the fat yellow cat curled on the chair. I want to touch him, but I want more to hold tight to these people and their song, a longing cutting itself loose from the truth in my guts. That swirling feeling of lonely that starts out a small spiky ball in your belly, then creeps into your throat. It’s there, in the middle of the end, and I know it, can feel it moving fast and quick, even as they sing and I dance the slippery dance of the footy pajamas on this sunny Saturday morning near the yellow cat and the smoking bacon and steaming coffee, I know, the way a child’s heart knows the tears inside her mother’s eyes. And I force myself open, to push from my throat, the last sound of my family’s song.
Review of Alice Walker's "A Poem Traveled Down My Arm"
A Poem Traveled Down My Arm
By Alice Walker.
151 pp. Random House, 2003.
$11.
Having a vast selection of poetry to choose from and wanting something moving and inspirational, I was pleased to find Alice Walker smiling at me from between the volumes on the bookstore shelf. A huge fan of her stirring prose, "The Temple of My Familiar" and "The Color Purple," two emotionally evocative novels wrought by beautiful images twisted into deep meaning, I was hopeful and curious about her poetry.
Skimming the small, purple book I was taken with the crude, yet lovable drawings dispersed intermittently among the text, and wanted to know more about how Walker's attempts at folk art renderings would inform her written work. Though I must admit, I was somewhat apprehensive about the crown of flowers atop the angelic head of the serenely smiling Alice Walker of the cover. Somehow she seemed to be attempting to possess and convey to the point of adnauseam the Earth Goddess icon that crops up in our culture as a sort of saving grace. I dismissed my reservations and purchased the book.
Each poem is short, no more than ten lines long, with lines consisting of just enough words to convey the intended meaning. There is, in keeping with the good Earth Goddess motif, a moral to each poem, but this intention is not given away in any title, because no title exists in the pages, save the one given the book itself: "A Poem Traveled Down My Arm". It does indeed seem that each poem traveled down Ms. Walker's arm. The sense that these pieces of moral rectitude and siphoned insight began at her shoulder and marched with purpose to her elbow, wrist, then out each finger is completely plausible with lines like "What is/ a promise/ if/ not/ your/ hand/ in mine?" She makes in these lines a valiant attempt to lead the way to a better, more wholesome world. Yet the strain to reach that world with barely a leg to stand on is acutely felt by the reader.
As for the accompanying drawings that seemed quaintly intriguing during the skim-through, they wind up being merely watered-down art. Some are serene and pleasant, but none expand the nature of the work. If anything, the little doodles make the poems more reminiscent of inspirational greeting cards.
As I read the book a second time, I realized Walker might have been pushing for a rendition of Confucius for modern folks. If that is the case she has often missed her mark with this selection of poems. There are however those few like, "Do not/ cling/ to being/ lost," that leap from the page and startle the reader awake. Unfortunately these gems are few and far between, and though the reader searches harder after having found one, there is only disappointment in the end at not having found more, and a dissatisfaction with having to settle for less engaging tidbits like, "We have seen/ Paradise/ over &/ over/ &/ we have/ lost/ it/ every/ time," pieces that ring true, yet fail to resonate.
Perhaps my expectations of Walker as prose goddess of glowing images linked to fervent meaning and deep emotion subtly advance by a crafted pen, marred my reading of these poems before I even opened to page one. Walker says in the introduction that "[she] saw the poems spoke a different poem-language than [she] usually use[s], which meant [she] was somewhere, within [herself], new." I am happy for Walker that she has found that new place, but as a reader, the leap into this unknown poetry made me want to scurry quickly back to the language of her prose.
By Alice Walker.
151 pp. Random House, 2003.
$11.
Having a vast selection of poetry to choose from and wanting something moving and inspirational, I was pleased to find Alice Walker smiling at me from between the volumes on the bookstore shelf. A huge fan of her stirring prose, "The Temple of My Familiar" and "The Color Purple," two emotionally evocative novels wrought by beautiful images twisted into deep meaning, I was hopeful and curious about her poetry.
Skimming the small, purple book I was taken with the crude, yet lovable drawings dispersed intermittently among the text, and wanted to know more about how Walker's attempts at folk art renderings would inform her written work. Though I must admit, I was somewhat apprehensive about the crown of flowers atop the angelic head of the serenely smiling Alice Walker of the cover. Somehow she seemed to be attempting to possess and convey to the point of adnauseam the Earth Goddess icon that crops up in our culture as a sort of saving grace. I dismissed my reservations and purchased the book.
Each poem is short, no more than ten lines long, with lines consisting of just enough words to convey the intended meaning. There is, in keeping with the good Earth Goddess motif, a moral to each poem, but this intention is not given away in any title, because no title exists in the pages, save the one given the book itself: "A Poem Traveled Down My Arm". It does indeed seem that each poem traveled down Ms. Walker's arm. The sense that these pieces of moral rectitude and siphoned insight began at her shoulder and marched with purpose to her elbow, wrist, then out each finger is completely plausible with lines like "What is/ a promise/ if/ not/ your/ hand/ in mine?" She makes in these lines a valiant attempt to lead the way to a better, more wholesome world. Yet the strain to reach that world with barely a leg to stand on is acutely felt by the reader.
As for the accompanying drawings that seemed quaintly intriguing during the skim-through, they wind up being merely watered-down art. Some are serene and pleasant, but none expand the nature of the work. If anything, the little doodles make the poems more reminiscent of inspirational greeting cards.
As I read the book a second time, I realized Walker might have been pushing for a rendition of Confucius for modern folks. If that is the case she has often missed her mark with this selection of poems. There are however those few like, "Do not/ cling/ to being/ lost," that leap from the page and startle the reader awake. Unfortunately these gems are few and far between, and though the reader searches harder after having found one, there is only disappointment in the end at not having found more, and a dissatisfaction with having to settle for less engaging tidbits like, "We have seen/ Paradise/ over &/ over/ &/ we have/ lost/ it/ every/ time," pieces that ring true, yet fail to resonate.
Perhaps my expectations of Walker as prose goddess of glowing images linked to fervent meaning and deep emotion subtly advance by a crafted pen, marred my reading of these poems before I even opened to page one. Walker says in the introduction that "[she] saw the poems spoke a different poem-language than [she] usually use[s], which meant [she] was somewhere, within [herself], new." I am happy for Walker that she has found that new place, but as a reader, the leap into this unknown poetry made me want to scurry quickly back to the language of her prose.
Review of Poetry Reading
On March 8, 2007 I attended a student/faculty reading from the University Creative Writing Reading Series. Upon entering Hale 270 I was determined not to let the shabby seat-covers and disheveled lecture hall feel of the venue mar the reading. As the room filled up there was an air of excitement from readers and friends of readers, but what I heard most clearly was the embarrassingly loud and obnoxious man in front of me recounting a ridiculous break-up with lady "X" (he never actually referred to her as anything but feminine pronouns), to one friend, then yet again to another friend who was unfortunate enough to straggle in and sit near him. This same man was visibly disgruntled by the fact that the reading was to include poetry as well as prose, and dog-gone-it, that the prose was not coming until the end.
I was grateful then when Elizabeth Robinson rose to the podium to introduce the first reader, a graduate student in poetry, Clarissa Cuttrell who would be reading selections from a new manuscript. Poor lighting aside, Cuttrell had a decent stage presence, but she attempted an affected reaching into the audience with her neck and head that she must have picked up from another poet, during another reading. After a few minutes this affectation died away and Cuttrell assumed more natural poses to convey her work.
"Peregrination" was repeated mercilessly throughout her poems, as was "Field Sample," making these words the most memorable bits of her reading, much like one remembers a stone in a shoe. Cuttrell had a lovely reading voice and it rose out over the audience beautifully, however her poems left me with the impression that the world is really khaki-colored and I just hadn't noticed. Each poem read so much like the poem before it, words that sounded similar, words that evoked the same images, that it was difficult to tell one poem from the next, but the resemblance was too vague to call it a body with many parts. Cuttrell read lots of poems about travel, yet I didn't get to go anywhere or see anything, and felt that she left the audience with a better understanding of wicking fabric and internal frame backpacks than of lands far away.
Disappointed as I was with the first reader I was hopeful about the second poet, Elizabeth Robinson. She prefaced her reading by informing the audience that the poems stemmed from her interest in a particular polyglot, the long dead Pasoa, and that they were written in a style that varied greatly from her usual writing. Unfortunately I was not familiar with that writing so had nothing with which to compare.
Robinson was relaxed behind the podium and her voice had an exciting strength. However, after a few poems I began to find myself confused, as though she was speaking a language of which I knew only a few words and was desperate to piece together to make meaning. I could not follow the stream of thought running from Pasao, nor could I glean a greater meaning from the body of work. I did however catch and cling to one lovely line, 'death is a ghost with uneven legs'. That image was real to me and because she made it so, I took it as a souvenir and gave up my futile attempts at interpreting. The room was still but not rapt, so I assumed I was not alone in the dark.
"I feel like I am getting a rash on my soul," Pasao said through Robinson, and by the end of this reading, I concurred.
I was grateful then when Elizabeth Robinson rose to the podium to introduce the first reader, a graduate student in poetry, Clarissa Cuttrell who would be reading selections from a new manuscript. Poor lighting aside, Cuttrell had a decent stage presence, but she attempted an affected reaching into the audience with her neck and head that she must have picked up from another poet, during another reading. After a few minutes this affectation died away and Cuttrell assumed more natural poses to convey her work.
"Peregrination" was repeated mercilessly throughout her poems, as was "Field Sample," making these words the most memorable bits of her reading, much like one remembers a stone in a shoe. Cuttrell had a lovely reading voice and it rose out over the audience beautifully, however her poems left me with the impression that the world is really khaki-colored and I just hadn't noticed. Each poem read so much like the poem before it, words that sounded similar, words that evoked the same images, that it was difficult to tell one poem from the next, but the resemblance was too vague to call it a body with many parts. Cuttrell read lots of poems about travel, yet I didn't get to go anywhere or see anything, and felt that she left the audience with a better understanding of wicking fabric and internal frame backpacks than of lands far away.
Disappointed as I was with the first reader I was hopeful about the second poet, Elizabeth Robinson. She prefaced her reading by informing the audience that the poems stemmed from her interest in a particular polyglot, the long dead Pasoa, and that they were written in a style that varied greatly from her usual writing. Unfortunately I was not familiar with that writing so had nothing with which to compare.
Robinson was relaxed behind the podium and her voice had an exciting strength. However, after a few poems I began to find myself confused, as though she was speaking a language of which I knew only a few words and was desperate to piece together to make meaning. I could not follow the stream of thought running from Pasao, nor could I glean a greater meaning from the body of work. I did however catch and cling to one lovely line, 'death is a ghost with uneven legs'. That image was real to me and because she made it so, I took it as a souvenir and gave up my futile attempts at interpreting. The room was still but not rapt, so I assumed I was not alone in the dark.
"I feel like I am getting a rash on my soul," Pasao said through Robinson, and by the end of this reading, I concurred.
Small Press Fest Review
Saturday, March 17, 2007, I attended the culminating event of the Small Press Fest, part of the University's Creative Writing Reading Series, a reading by three professional poets, Laynie Browne, Brian Henry, and Andrew Joron.
The secret elevator lifted me swiftly to the British Studies room on the fifth floor of Norlin Library where it spit me out onto a busy carpet. The room was long and large with beamed ceilings and dark furniture. There was a folding table against a sidewall besmirched with haphazardly placed trays of food. The lighting above the podium was non-existent, making the baby grand stuffed behind the podium look almost as dark and ominous as the open mouth of the fireplace. I chose an armchair near the window, behind the only other people in the room, and waited.
When finally the reading began, it was Laynie Brown who was introduced first. She addressed the audience, which had multiplied to about twenty or so, in a soft, steadied voice. She read her poetry in the same small voice, and I couldn't help but think that had she delivered it more boldly, the words might have carried more weight.
Though there was no particular theme or poem I found utterly compelling in Brown's work, she did present a few ideas such as 'The sonnet as personal amulet', that I felt were of note. Thinking about the words of a sonnet coming together as a sort of personal protection was intriguing, and I would guess, an inventive way to market poetry. Brown also read a sound translation of Rilke. I was taken with the way her English words clanged together to make noise that was beautifully German. All in all the poems that were collaborations with Brown's children were the most salient of the bunch, and hung strongly in the air as Brown's voice became louder and surer with their reading.
Brian Henry took the podium next and immediately overwhelmed me with a feeling of his self-importance. Instead of being put off by this, I was hoping his poetry would serve to justify it. In my estimation it did not. Henry was a dynamic presenter, but the words carried less weight than their sounds. His brief preface to the poem "More Dangerous than Dying," describing the stench of a paper mill and the subsequent life of its workers, was more memorable than the poem itself, which conveyed little aside from his head bending to punctuate the important words. All in all, Henry's delivery, though engaging, could not make up for what his reading selections lacked.
Lastly, Andrew Joron stood in front of the audience, a shy man who would find it hard to look up while reading. The young woman who introduced Joron did a wonderful job of drawing his life from his sci-fi roots to his philosophy of language which includes the idea that language is haunted by its aloneness. It was this philosophy that carried Joron's work and made it compelling with lines like "silence needs no translation, in this it resembles a scream," "writing is the silencing of speech," and "poetry is neither true nor untrue." Joron used alliteration as a device to convey the jumble of sounds language truly is, and he managed this so artfully that I understood the deep philosophy behind the device before I understood that it was through mere repetition of sound that this philosophy was revealed.
If Joron could fortify his stage presence and mode of presentation, I imagine he could become a poet much sought after at readings.
This concludes the Small Press Fest.
The secret elevator lifted me swiftly to the British Studies room on the fifth floor of Norlin Library where it spit me out onto a busy carpet. The room was long and large with beamed ceilings and dark furniture. There was a folding table against a sidewall besmirched with haphazardly placed trays of food. The lighting above the podium was non-existent, making the baby grand stuffed behind the podium look almost as dark and ominous as the open mouth of the fireplace. I chose an armchair near the window, behind the only other people in the room, and waited.
When finally the reading began, it was Laynie Brown who was introduced first. She addressed the audience, which had multiplied to about twenty or so, in a soft, steadied voice. She read her poetry in the same small voice, and I couldn't help but think that had she delivered it more boldly, the words might have carried more weight.
Though there was no particular theme or poem I found utterly compelling in Brown's work, she did present a few ideas such as 'The sonnet as personal amulet', that I felt were of note. Thinking about the words of a sonnet coming together as a sort of personal protection was intriguing, and I would guess, an inventive way to market poetry. Brown also read a sound translation of Rilke. I was taken with the way her English words clanged together to make noise that was beautifully German. All in all the poems that were collaborations with Brown's children were the most salient of the bunch, and hung strongly in the air as Brown's voice became louder and surer with their reading.
Brian Henry took the podium next and immediately overwhelmed me with a feeling of his self-importance. Instead of being put off by this, I was hoping his poetry would serve to justify it. In my estimation it did not. Henry was a dynamic presenter, but the words carried less weight than their sounds. His brief preface to the poem "More Dangerous than Dying," describing the stench of a paper mill and the subsequent life of its workers, was more memorable than the poem itself, which conveyed little aside from his head bending to punctuate the important words. All in all, Henry's delivery, though engaging, could not make up for what his reading selections lacked.
Lastly, Andrew Joron stood in front of the audience, a shy man who would find it hard to look up while reading. The young woman who introduced Joron did a wonderful job of drawing his life from his sci-fi roots to his philosophy of language which includes the idea that language is haunted by its aloneness. It was this philosophy that carried Joron's work and made it compelling with lines like "silence needs no translation, in this it resembles a scream," "writing is the silencing of speech," and "poetry is neither true nor untrue." Joron used alliteration as a device to convey the jumble of sounds language truly is, and he managed this so artfully that I understood the deep philosophy behind the device before I understood that it was through mere repetition of sound that this philosophy was revealed.
If Joron could fortify his stage presence and mode of presentation, I imagine he could become a poet much sought after at readings.
This concludes the Small Press Fest.
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