News from the Hellmouth

I don't know how much I believe in astrology, but it sure was a comfort to think of the past few weeks' communication breakdowns as attributable to Mercury being in retrograde. Sometimes it just helps to have a reason - any reason - not to take things too personally. (It's also my excuse for blogging a week late!) Those kind of jags make me glad, once again, to not have to talk too much at work; to rely on low-tech tools (needles don't usually break down, unlike our uncooperative printer and Jen's 4-year-old washing machine) and on touch to communicate.

So, here are some random picks, vaguely related to communication:

1) If you need a good novel to curl up with, I really enjoyed the new Michael Chabon book, "The Yiddish Policemen's Union." I love noirish detective stories, and this one's thick with missed connections, unrecognized blessings, and unheeded calls. Would that I knew Yiddish and could have gotten more of the jokes. Working class girl turned scholar turned NPR commentator Maureen Corrigan argues in "Leave Me Alone, I'm Reading" that one of the appeals of detective fiction is that they're about work. (Her book - that chapter in particular - is also worth a read.)

2) If you're not listening to "Radio Lab" you're a chump (or you don't have a computer and they don't play it on your local NPR station). Seriously, if you don't like this show, then I don't even know if we can be friends anymore. Listen to the episode about time, and the "Beyond Time" one, and the one about placebo, and the "Musical Language" episode (which has a lovely bit about Mandarin, and about the riot Stravinsky started, among other things), and the one about stress, and the "Emergence" episode. And the latest one, "Where am I?" has some great segments about proprioception and phantom limbs and a really funny intro with Oliver Sacks and his magnetic balls, and how they help him with his poor sense of "diwection."
http://www.wnyc.org/shows/radiolab/episodes/2006/05/05

Oh, and if you don't believe the segment on how the body knows things before the mind is consciously aware of them, you weren't within 100 miles of Milpitas the night before Halloween, when my amygdalae totally clued into what was happening before I could say, "honey, I think we're having an earthquake." (Luckily it was just a minor one, and we only have little demons to contend with now.) But of course you do believe all that, because you're acupuncturists!

3) "Buddha", the comic book series by Osamu Tezuka. Eight volumes, epic in feel, and highly enjoyable (even if, like me, you're not a huge fan of manga - what can I say, I like more anatomical detail.) Short on dharma, long on great storytelling, with some very moving moments.

4) Did you all see Amy Goodman's op ed piece about getting Bell's Palsy? She mentions acupuncture. Plus, what a mensch.
http://www.alternet.org/healthwellness/66623/

5) I leave you with this very Metal-phase poem, about work and class and the difficulty of communication, by Detroit son Philip Levine; because poetry is another mode of communicating, and because I love it so much.

What Work Is

We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is--if you're
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it's someone else's brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, "No,
we're not hiring today," for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who's not beside you or behind or
ahead because he's home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You've never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you're too young or too dumb,
not because you're jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don't know what work is.