a letter to Sharon Olds

olds
Originally uploaded by bripc.

Dear Sharon Olds,

I’ve been teaching and reading your poetry since I was an undergraduate at the State University of New York at Binghamton. Only glanced upon in an anthology of famous Americans, I noticed your style and thought now this is a writer...a poet. Soon after, I came across a poem in the New Yorker which I ripped out. It may be the very first poem I actually tore from the passion of words: I needed it in one of my journals. I remember that poem was about a daughter at an airport and was dedicated, I believe, to your father.

I’m writing today because I’ve read online, in several places, the letter you wrote Laura Bush. Blessed are the opportunities for all of us, as Americans, to make such choices. We have political opportunities in which we can rally forces, motivate masses and initiate anger. Every American, educated or not, has the chance to make their place in this world and from their education and drive, should make a stand with how they feel. I’m pleased that you could tap into the miracle of words to share your concerns.

In your biographies across America, it is written you were raised under San Franciscan Calvinists, and schooled at brilliant educational facilities such as Standford and Columbia Unviersity. Currently, you’re teaching at New York State University, and your love of the written word has brought you accolades and accomplishments I’m proud of. Your interaction with some of America’s brightest and best, not to mention, economically comfortable, has allowed your mind to springboard into territories I can only imagine. You are an American, and you’ve tapped into your opportunities to live a successful life in poetry, thought, story and fiction. It is a talent and I’m still in awe.

I do wonder, however, if you could name an Iraqi woman who has had the same opportunities as you. In your letter to Laura Bush, you noted you lack the ability to support the American involvement in Iraq and the current political administration. I’m curious about your justification. It seems to me that in America, a great writer such as yourself has been allowed to tap into a great educational experience to do amazing things for the world and the writer in me wonders why we don’t read more about the Iraqi woman’s experience. Perhaps it’s because of the life described in “Reading Lolita in Tehran,” -- which is about Iran and not Iraq -- where women are kept in veils and not educated. Or maybe it is because there’s censorship that doesn’t allow for freedom of speech nor female voice. I don’t know. I’m an amateur in my thinking, but I thought perhaps you had an answer.

It sort of seems to me that this great woman who I admire as a writer is, indeed, putting herself in a camp very similar to the one she criticizes. I don’t like war. I’m a middle child, in fact, who likes to iron out all the wrinkles before me. Yet, from history I’ve seen that war has always brought with it the literary traditions of the world. It takes a culture who has won to have the power to write its story. In America, the poetry displayed at the Holocaust museum, and the phenomenal diaspora of immigrant writing that has flourished in our liberal, democratic nation has taught me amazing things about oppression elsewhere: poverty, hardship and what it looks like to live in a world without education and under strict, oppressive rule. Currently, I work with fifteen Sudanese refugees as they try to make their way in our country: gaining an education, working two to three jobs and sending money to their loved ones who live in fear of another Islamic jihad. So, I guess what I’m wondering is how can you be an advocate for the written word, but remain in the esoteric circle of accomplished American writers by denying the truth that the written word is a privilege? You have a phenomenal education which allowed you much opportunity in this world and knowing how the academic game is played, how much of your true soul and thinking have you had to sell in order to get to a point where you can’t accept a national recognition to speak for our country because you don’t want democratic values brought to other lands? Why do you want educated, middle class, caucasion woman of American to be succestul with words, bu fight so hard against allowing this opportunity to find its way into third world countries and nations of oppression?

The fact that you are a phenomenal writer is evident by all the work I’ve ever read. I admire you and think, “wow, this is what a creative mind and a great imagination can accomplish.” I have trouble, however, with the disconnect to see beyond your world to the benefits our American Democracy can have elsewhere. I have yet to find a story where one walks up, knocks on a door, and brings about social change out of kindness and love. As sick, disgusting and repulsive as it is, war and physical conflict are the only things that have worked upon on pig-like humanity. I’m trying to draw a parallel to World War II and think how a writer, like you, could possibly stand up for not helping the fight against Nazis. It doesn’t make sense to me and with the knowledge that has transcended that period of time, how one would ever work to stop that evil. Yet, you’re doing this, proudly and for much fame.

I don’t get it.

Bryan

Fievel

Fievel
Originally uploaded by bripc.

Mus Musculus Ridiculous
Alice Stevenson who is genetically engineered for useless information and obsessive compulsive disorder has educated me once more. Mice Infected With Bubonic Plague Missing, she writes me, “NEWARK, N.J. (AP) - Three mice infected with the bacteria responsible for bubonic plague apparently disappeared from a laboratory about two weeks ago, and authorities launched a search though health experts said there was scant public risk (http://www.phri.org ). Alice wanted me to know that the mice who have infested my home this summer were part of her vindictive plot to see me ruined. Biologically, I’m already ruined, however, because I have over productive fat cells that crave McDonald’s Value Meals, supersized, so her vendetta to destroy me through plague is a futile attempt; Even if I do get plagued bubonically, I still will have the strabismus in my eye which wanders from Broadway to Clarksville. Still, I’m a genetic mutant, then, but now under the mutiny of Kingdom: Animalia, Phylum: Chordata, Class: Mammalia, Order: Rodentia, Family: Muridae, Subfamily: Murinae, Genus: Mus and species: M. musculus, and in other words, the binomial name, M. musculus, common field mice, have invaded my home.
The first sighting of these Mickey Mice occurred over the summer while I was hunting moose, bear and deer with rubber bands in a land mass known as Vermont -- home to Animalia Hippies who don’t shave, don’t bathe and believe the 1960s still exists. Before departing for my summer studies, I left a bag of Tortilla Chips (corn, partially hydrogenated soybean oil and salt) unopened in a cabinet of my southern Indiana home (genus: Hoosier). While away, the vermin found my hidden house key and let themselves in. They were here when I returned, but they are, indeed, unwanted house guests.
I’m a lover of life really -- even feel mosquitos have a role in this world -- but I don’t like to kill animals. I tend to save even house spiders from death by putting them on a leash and letting them outside. “Be and let be” is my motto, and the one time I accidentally crunched a ground squirrel with my Toyota Tercel in high school caused me weeks of insomnia where I was sure a revenge of nut eaters would attack me while bathing in the shower. That would hurt. Another time, same year, I happened to fall victim to a bizarre tunnel incident where I was driving innocently in a dark tunnel (had my lights on because I’m not nocturnal) when a flock of Canadian Geese flew into my windshield. Bizarre yes, but true. Well, sort of -- it wasn’t my car, but I was a passenger in the back seat. Then there was the time my mom hit a dog who was chasing a deer. It was a traumatic experience, really. Watching my mom go door to door for someone to identify the hound was something I’ll never forget(and something I hang over her head when she tries to lay a guilt trip on me).
Yes, I have mice and even though they were cute at first, they’ve become a wee bit too abundant. When I came home from school the other day, I teach, there was a field party in my living room. Several mice have been seen playing volleyball with a balloon and diving off my furniture into a bowl of Kibbles and Bits. Everyone must eat, true, but the fact that they created a jacuzzi out of my toilet and a roller rink in my kitchen, perturbed me and I knew I had to do something. The mice ran instinctively when I entered any room, but the fact they made my dog cry was the last straw. My 150 lb. dog did not like the fact that mice were eating her Kibbles and Bits and even though I told her, Juliette, you’re much bigger than they are, she still wouldn’t fight them. Instead, she whimpered and I felt dirty. I had this internal wisdom that they’d become a sci fi horror film and nibble on me in my sleep. The time came for me to buy camouflage pants...in order to adapt to my environment...and peg them off, one by one. I did.
I went to Home Depot. Actually, I went to Feeders Supply, first, who had a $79 mouse trap which I avoided because I’m cheap. Home Depot had a variety of items in which I could catch and kill mice, including DCON Cheese which I decided to buy for $4.99 plus tax. As I was walking to the checkout line I had flashbacks of how my grandmother would never kill a mouse, but instead would decorate their holes in her house with satin curtains and ribbons so they felt welcome and loved. I pride myself after my grandmother’s philosophy, and felt bad for opting for musculus murder. I read the package of another item which guaranteed to catch mice by adhesive strips, but I have heard that mice will gnaw off their little, cute feet in order to free themselves and that at times, others will come and chew them out, as well, which results in a bloody mess of hemoglobin goo cake. I don’t like hemoglobin goo cake.
As I walked to the check out, an elderly lady heading towards years of incontinence and other aging problems, called me over to her line, the return line, to check me out. “Looks like ya’ got rodents,” she said, scanning the item across the beeper, “I hope this poison works for ya.” She also told me she didn’t like to kill animals and asked me if I had a cat. I sad no and she said to get one...or a rat terrier, both of which will chomp a chunk out of the mouse and then leave pieces of it by your feet for approval. I told her I’d rather not have such gifts, and she began to educate me on the other humane ways to keep mice out of a home:

*old fashion traps -- they snap the skull of the little mouse and at times, reported, they remain alive even though they are missing half their brain. these cases, she said, it is best to take them outside and run over the half-minded minnie with a truck tire. It puts them out of their misery.

*hammers -- this is a dirty way to rid mice, and she said, “it ruins your bathtub unless you wash it out with bleach.

*DCON -- which I’m attempting and

*the bucket approach. Now, this is a clever way to rid mice and even though the genius of it has me intrigued, I haven’t found the time to experiment.
Betsy Blevin(I got her name because I have a thing for geriatrics) advised me to locate one of those Budweiser cans laying around the house -- not in my house....American ale, please!...and she directed to drill a hole through it to run a wire which could be attached at two sides of a water bucket. In the bucket should be a half foot of water and to get a ramp, I needed to find wood that would lean against the apparatus. The next step was to spread peanut butter around the balancing can and then leave it. The mice, Betsy said, would run up the wood, onto the wire and towards the Jiffy goods. He/She then would lick the Peter Pan ecstasy with great frivolity before losing its balance and falling into the pit of H20. The mouse woulf then drown, which she reported was beautiful to watch. If I had the means, too, it is good to put acid in the water to quicken its death.

She never mentioned boa constrictors, cottonmouths nor hawks as an approach which would also solve my problem quite nicely, and I left, thanking my friendly Home Depot employee and drove home to slice my DCON cheese and place it in areas I knew mice could be found.
Here’s the clever thing about mice. They may be quick and flexible, running away in glimpses making you think that you hallucinated them and that they are not real, but they are defecating demons. I have come to the conclusion that mice perpetually poop and leave little rat turds with every step they take...step/poop/step/poop/step/poop, etc. This, above everything else, is probably the main reason I opted to destroy these creatures instead of finding the humane way to go. Everyone poops, I know, and the Encyclopedia of Ca-Ca, which I have visited upon occasion, shows me there’s beauty in feces of the world. Even so, mouse crap does not make Bryan a happy man, especially when it looks like the chocolate sprinkles I enjoy thoroughly on my cupcakes.
It has been four days since I’ve seen a mouse in my house and I have seen the chewed evidence of the REAL-KILL DCON Cheese. The ingredients are supposed to sit in their stomach until they drink water and then activates a death much like those greek writers enjoyed. Apparently, the Bromethian .01% and other ingredients - 99.99% work, and I’ve only used two .5 ounce baits. I’ve not tried to ingest a chunk myself even if the package came with several precautionary statements including a 1-800 number for accidental swallowing (this would be an interesting event, I’m sure --- 1-800-897-8524. I imagine that when you call, you must yell, “I accidentally ate mouse poison. It looked like a green Oreo cookie and I couldn’t help myself. I love cookies so much, I couldn’t resist, etc.). Also, the box notes dead rodents should be taken away by helicopter and to assure that further infestation does not occur, it recommends the purchase of much tupperware to store Tortilla Chips and Dog Food so that the temptation for more mice and their arrival ceases. If one happens to be close by to a doctor, too, there’s a note which advises, “This mouse killer is not an anticoagulant type of rodenticide. If ingested, limit absorption by either emesis or gastric lavage. Sublethal symptoms, if present, would be the result of cerebral edema and should be treated accordingly through administration of an osmotic diuretic and corticosteroid.” I am glad to know that.
If luck is at my side, I will not die from the bubonic plague sent to me via Alice Stevenson, nor will I become a part of some psychotic food web designed by my imagination where a fleet of musculus morons meander onto my bed and chew me from my earlobes down. Instead, I will die from a more interesting fate such as an elephant enema which knocked off a zoo keeper in Germany or a bowling ball doomed by gravity to land on my head, as happened to my cousin’s roommate in college. Life, itself, is a mysterious thing and perhaps it is the human role to alter our environment as best we can, so we can live a good life. I know this to be true: air conditioning, MTV, leaf blowers and nail clippers are evidence that it is survival of the fittest. My home is still my castle, and for now, I prefer it to be minus mus musculus. Call me a savage beast and super glue my nostrils shut, but know that I will sleep better without the pitter patter of paws breakdancing on my linoleum floors at 3 a.m..
This piece is dedicated to Fieval:


- B. R. Crandall