Yes, I got up before 5:00 this morning and tuned in to the hoopla from London where a prince (who just happens to be my 22nd cousin twice removed) married an uncommon commoner who will do wonders for the British monarchy.
The new Duchess of Cambridge had the whole thing and herself completely under control. I remember Diana looking like she was being led to slaughter, whereas Kate -- except for sounding a little shy while repeating the vows -- appeared to be having a wonderful time. There was one moment that could have overwhelmed, when the newlyweds came out onto the balcony of Buckingham Palace for the traditional wave and kiss. When she got a load of the crowd (probably a million people) waiting for them, a flash of astonishment crossed her face, and, if my lip reading hasn't failed me, she said "Oh my god," then immediately gathered herself together and broke into a genuinely delighted smile.
The Queen, still my favorite royal, looked wonderful in yellow, and she stood looking -- well, if not exactly humble, at least solemn and somewhat grateful -- during the singing of "God Save the Queen." She, of course, does not sing it, but today, with all those cameras all over Westminster Abbey, you can bet everybody else did.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Original Origin of the Originally Gifted
While checking out the web site of the Academy of American Poets, which had declared April as National Poetry Month, I signed up to receive the free "Poem-A-Day" via email. I've received same every day for the last ten days, and without exception, they are all dreadful. Most don't even qualify as poems in my book -- they are just prose set out in short lines to look like poems, but one actually was just a lengthy paragraph.
I can write stuff every bit as bad as that with one metaphor tied behind my back.
Here is the problem. Over the last hundred years, and especially the last 50 or so, art has gotten so avant garde that there is nothing much left to experiment with, but originality is so highly regarded that people with a creative streak (and maybe talent, or maybe not) strike out in bold new directions anyway, even though most of those directions require nothing in the way of formal or stylistic constraints.
I once witnessed the performance of a "composition" where a guy crawled into a large cardboard carton (like a dishwasher would come in) on the stage, and once inside made strange sounds on the mouthpiece of a trombone.
As for what Judith Viorst called "paintings of stripes and blobs," I won't even go there.
Undisciplined artistic freedom and too high a premium on originality open to the door to charlatans and persons, even if earnest, of little or no talent. Today you can put anything on canvas and call it a painting, put any words on paper and call it a poem, and make any sort of noise and call it music.
We could stop this if the viewers/listeners/readers of such works would stop nodding their heads and muttering, "Very interesting," and come right out and say, "This really sucks." But your average consumers won't do that because they are living in abject terror that someone will dismiss them with the famous, "You know nothing about art," and call them Philistines.
Well, this Philistine is here to tell you that the Academy of American Poets is passing off as poetry actual works of crap.
I can write stuff every bit as bad as that with one metaphor tied behind my back.
Here is the problem. Over the last hundred years, and especially the last 50 or so, art has gotten so avant garde that there is nothing much left to experiment with, but originality is so highly regarded that people with a creative streak (and maybe talent, or maybe not) strike out in bold new directions anyway, even though most of those directions require nothing in the way of formal or stylistic constraints.
I once witnessed the performance of a "composition" where a guy crawled into a large cardboard carton (like a dishwasher would come in) on the stage, and once inside made strange sounds on the mouthpiece of a trombone.
As for what Judith Viorst called "paintings of stripes and blobs," I won't even go there.
Undisciplined artistic freedom and too high a premium on originality open to the door to charlatans and persons, even if earnest, of little or no talent. Today you can put anything on canvas and call it a painting, put any words on paper and call it a poem, and make any sort of noise and call it music.
We could stop this if the viewers/listeners/readers of such works would stop nodding their heads and muttering, "Very interesting," and come right out and say, "This really sucks." But your average consumers won't do that because they are living in abject terror that someone will dismiss them with the famous, "You know nothing about art," and call them Philistines.
Well, this Philistine is here to tell you that the Academy of American Poets is passing off as poetry actual works of crap.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Okay, Okay Already
Loyal readers have complained that I spoke of poems I wrote and then offered none. I probably never will, at least not anything serious, but since tomorrow (April 22) is the guy's birthday (and it's not every day you turn seven), following is an example of the doggerel I tend to write on special occasions.
My Great Nephew, Macguire Jacob Mersberger
by Jan Knez
The given name of this fine young lad
Is as good as one could desire,
Part of it being the name of his dad,
And the other part being Macguire.
Future sweethearts may call him Jakie,
Cutely taking his names in reverse.
He will, of course, find that quite flaky,
But he’ll like that his chums call him Mers.
M. J., Mc-Gee, Higher Flyer Macguire--
Of nicknames there may be no lack,
But no matter what name he tries to require,
To me he will always be Mac.
© 2004 Jan Knez
My Great Nephew, Macguire Jacob Mersberger
by Jan Knez
The given name of this fine young lad
Is as good as one could desire,
Part of it being the name of his dad,
And the other part being Macguire.
Future sweethearts may call him Jakie,
Cutely taking his names in reverse.
He will, of course, find that quite flaky,
But he’ll like that his chums call him Mers.
M. J., Mc-Gee, Higher Flyer Macguire--
Of nicknames there may be no lack,
But no matter what name he tries to require,
To me he will always be Mac.
© 2004 Jan Knez
Sunday, April 17, 2011
But I still have a rhyming dictionary on my book shelf
An outfit called the Academy of American Poets has designated April as National Poetry Month. Their goal, of course, is greater appreciation of poetry, but they are obviously doing a lousy job since this is the 15th year for it, and I never heard about it until today.
I like poetry. One might even say I love it. My tastes are extremely eclectic, but Robert Frost is probably my favorite poet. I also like Sarah Teasdale and Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Dorothy Parker and e. e. cummings and Gwendolyn Brooks, and who doesn't love Keats and Tennyson?
Like most moody youngsters, I wrote poetry too, starting in high school. I kept at it until I was in my late twenties, whereupon I gave up trying to write serious poetry, although I continue to this day to write doggerel whenever the spirit moves me.
A number of years ago I came across this plastic file box in which I keep keepsakes, and it contained a folder crammed with pieces of paper -- typing paper, notebook paper, stationery, foolscap -- that had been typed or written or scribbled upon and which represented my entire poetic oeuvre. Among the dozens of "serious" poems there was one that was really very good (though I say it myself), and one or two that weren't too bad. The rest was junk.
I must have sensed at some level I was creating garbage, which is why I quit doing it. There is nothing worse than bad poetry that takes itself seriously.
I have heard that the shortest poem in English is entitled "Fleas" and goes like this:
Adam
Had 'em.
I hope that's not true. Or maybe Adam was a dog.
I like poetry. One might even say I love it. My tastes are extremely eclectic, but Robert Frost is probably my favorite poet. I also like Sarah Teasdale and Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Dorothy Parker and e. e. cummings and Gwendolyn Brooks, and who doesn't love Keats and Tennyson?
Like most moody youngsters, I wrote poetry too, starting in high school. I kept at it until I was in my late twenties, whereupon I gave up trying to write serious poetry, although I continue to this day to write doggerel whenever the spirit moves me.
A number of years ago I came across this plastic file box in which I keep keepsakes, and it contained a folder crammed with pieces of paper -- typing paper, notebook paper, stationery, foolscap -- that had been typed or written or scribbled upon and which represented my entire poetic oeuvre. Among the dozens of "serious" poems there was one that was really very good (though I say it myself), and one or two that weren't too bad. The rest was junk.
I must have sensed at some level I was creating garbage, which is why I quit doing it. There is nothing worse than bad poetry that takes itself seriously.
I have heard that the shortest poem in English is entitled "Fleas" and goes like this:
Adam
Had 'em.
I hope that's not true. Or maybe Adam was a dog.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
A big day for the birthday buffs
Thomas Jefferson was born on this date in 1743, and besides him there are three other people born on this date who are or were very important to me.
My grandfather, Vojetch Knez, was born on April 13, 1890, in a town called Cernic in what is now the Czech Republic. He immigrated to the United States in 1903, and when he became a citizen in 1923, he had his first name legally changed to Albert.
His daughter, Mae Tillie Knez (also sometimes Mary T.) was also born on April 13, in Chicago in 1909. She was always my favorite aunt.
And one of his grandsons was born on April 13 also -- that would be my brother, O. Richard Knez, born in 1941, which means he is now a septuagenarian.
Happy birthday, Bruddah, and many, many more!
My grandfather, Vojetch Knez, was born on April 13, 1890, in a town called Cernic in what is now the Czech Republic. He immigrated to the United States in 1903, and when he became a citizen in 1923, he had his first name legally changed to Albert.
His daughter, Mae Tillie Knez (also sometimes Mary T.) was also born on April 13, in Chicago in 1909. She was always my favorite aunt.
And one of his grandsons was born on April 13 also -- that would be my brother, O. Richard Knez, born in 1941, which means he is now a septuagenarian.
Happy birthday, Bruddah, and many, many more!
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
A great day for the Civil War buffs
As everybody surely has heard, it was exactly 150 years ago today that the Civil War started when Fort Sumter was bombarded by South Carolina artillery.
I am something of a student of the Civil War myself, although the period that interests me most is the coming of the war from, say, the end of the Mexican War to Lincoln's inauguration. Once the shooting starts, my interest wanes a little.
But I couldn't let a sesquicentennial go by without comment, and so here is what I have to say about it: The beginning of the bloodiest, most costly and devastating war in our history is certainly not a glorious event to be celebrated, but neither should it be ignored. It should be recognized for what it was and what we became as a result.
I am something of a student of the Civil War myself, although the period that interests me most is the coming of the war from, say, the end of the Mexican War to Lincoln's inauguration. Once the shooting starts, my interest wanes a little.
But I couldn't let a sesquicentennial go by without comment, and so here is what I have to say about it: The beginning of the bloodiest, most costly and devastating war in our history is certainly not a glorious event to be celebrated, but neither should it be ignored. It should be recognized for what it was and what we became as a result.
Monday, April 11, 2011
There should be a complex associated with this
Family Tree Maker is pretty much the standard genealogical software most people use. I'm using FTM 2005. It might be time to think about another upgrade, but it works fine for now.
It has many interesting features -- you can navigate through the people in charts or family group sheets, and there's room to tell stories and add pictures. It will also produce all manner of charts and reports. One of them is called a kinship report. You click on one person you've entered into your program, and it will show you everybody who is related to that person as well as what the relationship is.
I just ran the report for myself, and the results are extremely disturbing. Because my 4th-great-grandparents, Andrew S. King (1783-1856) and Hannah Gattis (1786-1853), were first cousins, that means that my mother is also my 6th cousin removed once. As if that were not enough, the report shows that I am also my own 7th cousin.
That's creepy.
It has many interesting features -- you can navigate through the people in charts or family group sheets, and there's room to tell stories and add pictures. It will also produce all manner of charts and reports. One of them is called a kinship report. You click on one person you've entered into your program, and it will show you everybody who is related to that person as well as what the relationship is.
I just ran the report for myself, and the results are extremely disturbing. Because my 4th-great-grandparents, Andrew S. King (1783-1856) and Hannah Gattis (1786-1853), were first cousins, that means that my mother is also my 6th cousin removed once. As if that were not enough, the report shows that I am also my own 7th cousin.
That's creepy.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
...four...five...zyx
I love the word zyxnoid. It is a sniglet, that is, a word somebody made up because there was no word for what it was made up for. A zyxnoid is defined as the strange and improbable word you create when you are doing a crossword puzzle and can’t figure out what goes in the last blank square, so you put any old letter.
My liking for the word stems from my own experience working crossword puzzles. I admit I have been known to create zyxnoids when I have been stuck. Besides, I just like the sound of the word.
So, imagine my delight in having discovered that I have an ancestor whose last name was Zyx. Yes, Ursula Zyx, born about 1520 in Germany, probably Bavaria, perhaps Augsburg. She married Hans Killian, and their descendants, a couple hundred years later, left Germany for the new world, starting out in North Carolina, then pioneering west to Tennessee and finally to Illinois.
I’ve sat here several minutes trying to think of a punch line for this story and coming up with nothing. I guess Great-Grandma Zyx is not as inspirational as I had hoped.
My liking for the word stems from my own experience working crossword puzzles. I admit I have been known to create zyxnoids when I have been stuck. Besides, I just like the sound of the word.
So, imagine my delight in having discovered that I have an ancestor whose last name was Zyx. Yes, Ursula Zyx, born about 1520 in Germany, probably Bavaria, perhaps Augsburg. She married Hans Killian, and their descendants, a couple hundred years later, left Germany for the new world, starting out in North Carolina, then pioneering west to Tennessee and finally to Illinois.
I’ve sat here several minutes trying to think of a punch line for this story and coming up with nothing. I guess Great-Grandma Zyx is not as inspirational as I had hoped.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Marching to a different drummer, or none at all
I just heard on the radio a piece by Claude Debussy called Marche Ecossaise. Debussy was commissioned to write this piece in 1891 by a Scottish general named Meredith Reid, who wanted a march based on a traditional Scottish melody that was associated with his clan. Debussy originally composed it for four-hands piano but later orchestrated it
It was the orchestral version I just heard. It is rather moody, and there are plenty of hints of the kind of musical experimentation Debussy would get seriously into in future years. It's a nice enough piece, but a military march it ain't. And four-hands piano? General Reid would be in the same boat as Woody Allen trying to play the cello in the marching band.
If you were a Scottish general and you wanted somebody to compose a march, wouldn’t you ask somebody who could write you a piece of music you could actually march to? He could have asked Edward Elgar. A couple English dudes who could really have done justice to this tune were Holst and Vaughan Williams, but they were both youthful unknowns in 1891.
I don’t think Debussy was a house-hold name in 1891 either. It would be interesting to know how the General came to know about him at all, wouldn’t it?
Well, like I said, it's a nice enough piece, but if you're in a marching mood, stick with John Philip Sousa.
It was the orchestral version I just heard. It is rather moody, and there are plenty of hints of the kind of musical experimentation Debussy would get seriously into in future years. It's a nice enough piece, but a military march it ain't. And four-hands piano? General Reid would be in the same boat as Woody Allen trying to play the cello in the marching band.
If you were a Scottish general and you wanted somebody to compose a march, wouldn’t you ask somebody who could write you a piece of music you could actually march to? He could have asked Edward Elgar. A couple English dudes who could really have done justice to this tune were Holst and Vaughan Williams, but they were both youthful unknowns in 1891.
I don’t think Debussy was a house-hold name in 1891 either. It would be interesting to know how the General came to know about him at all, wouldn’t it?
Well, like I said, it's a nice enough piece, but if you're in a marching mood, stick with John Philip Sousa.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Where they're stored might make a difference
An announcement on our local NPR station says something like, "First a book, then a movie, now a play." It seems that Michigan State's theater department is presenting the play version of Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. The play is called The Grapes of Wrath and the movie is "The Grapes of Wrath." I don't know why movies get quotes and books and plays get italics.
But it reminds me of a story a friend told me about the time she rented the movie. She had gone to the video rental store to get something to entertain her three kids for a Saturday evening. I don't remember what film it was now, but she also rented the John Ford classic for herself.
After her three children had watched the kid movie, she told them she was going to watch "The Grapes of Wrath" and they were welcome to watch it too. Only her ten-year-old son took her up on it. She was impressed that he was interested.
About twenty minutes into the movie, however, he got up and started to leave the room. "Where are you going?" she asked.
"To my room."
"I thought you wanted to watch this movie."
"It's not what I thought it was going to be," he said.
"What were you expecting?"
"I thought it would be like 'The Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.'"
But it reminds me of a story a friend told me about the time she rented the movie. She had gone to the video rental store to get something to entertain her three kids for a Saturday evening. I don't remember what film it was now, but she also rented the John Ford classic for herself.
After her three children had watched the kid movie, she told them she was going to watch "The Grapes of Wrath" and they were welcome to watch it too. Only her ten-year-old son took her up on it. She was impressed that he was interested.
About twenty minutes into the movie, however, he got up and started to leave the room. "Where are you going?" she asked.
"To my room."
"I thought you wanted to watch this movie."
"It's not what I thought it was going to be," he said.
"What were you expecting?"
"I thought it would be like 'The Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.'"
Friday, April 1, 2011
Nobody's Fool
I cannot think of April Fools' Day without remembering my mother and her harmless practical jokes. She especially enjoyed fooling with food. On the sandwiches she made for us to take to work or school, she might add a piece of cardboard or use individually-wrapped slices of cheese without unwrapping them. After the third time in seven years, we were wise to the supper of spaghetti with rubber bands in it.
It didn't even have to be April Fools' Day. She would go for it any time a good idea presented itself, like the time she was mending the waistband on a pair of my brother's jockey shorts. While she was at it, she sewed up the fly too.
One April 1st she made a sandwich for my Dad just the way he liked them -- an inch of meat and two pieces of bread. Oh, and one small rubber band. She chuckled to herself all day long, picturing him sitting around with the guys at lunch time and having to tangle with the elastic in his sandwich. When he came home from work that night, he didn't say anything about it, and she, of course, wouldn't bring it up. He didn't say anything about it the next day either or the day after that, and she began to worry that he had actually swallowed it, so she finally asked him about it. She knew he had gotten back at her good when all he did was laugh.
Note to JB: Instead of the left-over chicken, how about spaghetti for supper tonight?
It didn't even have to be April Fools' Day. She would go for it any time a good idea presented itself, like the time she was mending the waistband on a pair of my brother's jockey shorts. While she was at it, she sewed up the fly too.
One April 1st she made a sandwich for my Dad just the way he liked them -- an inch of meat and two pieces of bread. Oh, and one small rubber band. She chuckled to herself all day long, picturing him sitting around with the guys at lunch time and having to tangle with the elastic in his sandwich. When he came home from work that night, he didn't say anything about it, and she, of course, wouldn't bring it up. He didn't say anything about it the next day either or the day after that, and she began to worry that he had actually swallowed it, so she finally asked him about it. She knew he had gotten back at her good when all he did was laugh.
Note to JB: Instead of the left-over chicken, how about spaghetti for supper tonight?
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