The Ha-Ha by David Kirby
Someone Naked and Adorable
When I see the sign that says "Nude Beach,"
I scuttle right over, though when I get there,
all I see is three guys who look like me,
two in baggy Kmart-type bathing suits
and one in a "banana hammock" of the type favored
by speed racers and the lesser European nobility,
and as they wait for the naked people to appear,
all three scowl at the sand, the water,
the very heavens themselves, the clouds
as raw as the marble from which Bernini
carved the Apollo and Daphne whose bodies rang like bells
when the restorers touched them,
like the bells of Santa Croce that summer
that woke me and Barbara every morning
in Florence, which we called, not "Florence,"
but "Guangdong Province," because
Hong Kong was in the news a lot in those days,
and Hong Kong is near Guangdong Province,
and the bells would go guang! dong! as though
a drunken priest were swinging from the bellrope.
Now surely that is "the music of the spheres"
(Sir Thomas Browne) as opposed to
"the still, sad music of humanity" (Wordsworth),
which is just some guy playing a violin in the corner.
Or four guys: a string quartet, and not a good one, either,
one that meant well but hadn't practiced
very much, or maybe one that hadn't even
meant well, that just wanted to get paid,
maybe meet a scullery maid or two,
perhaps a nymphomaniacal marchioness . . .
What the hell do people want, anyway?
Why does Barbara adore the cameo I gave her
that depicts Leda and the swan, an episode
in interspecies relationships that just gives me
the creeps? There must be something there
about being, not dominated, but overcome—
about allowing oneself to be mastered
by a force greater than oneself
or just another person who has taken on
temporary godlike powers,
for life has a sting in its tail, like a chimera,
and you can no more draw that sting yourself
than you can tickle yourself,
whereas another person can do both.
Why, in the "cabinet of secrets"
of the Archeological Museum in Naples,
I saw a bell in the shape of a gladiator at war
not with another warrior but with his own Schwanz!
It had rolled up on its back,
if a penis can be said to have a back,
and was clawing and snapping at its master
with the nails and teeth of a lion!
And in turn he, the gladiator, was slashing back
with a broadsword in one hand and some kind
of lion-slapper or Schwanz-slapper in the other!
Slap, slap, slice, slap! That would sting,
wouldn't it? And it's a bell, remember,
so the whole was meant to be struck
and struck hard, be it by angry bachelor
or vengeful wife! Dong! And given the choice
of which part of the bell to strike,
who wouldn't strike the pecker-penis,
the ravening lion of unrequited desire?
As if to say, you're the one who's causing
all the problems, you're the one body part
who's making trouble for all the others!
No, no, we want something else altogether,
for, as wise old Mr. Emerson says in
A Room with a View, Love is not the body
but is of the body, the one we are waiting for
there on the beach, rooted in the sand like shore birds,
our every atom tingling with desire.
***
Lame as a Robin
The cumulative ticket is nominative and it can be used within three days. On the ticket is showed an entrance time table: this time table is indicative.
-on the back of a ticket to the Uffizi
Halfway across the piazza, I turn to wave at Barbara,
and she says, "Don't forget to buy some Tenderly!"
because in Italy we have the habit of calling products
by their brand names, not only to create a third language
in addition to our native tongue and that of the locals
but also to avoid such vulgar public reminders
as "Don't forget to buy some toilet paper!"
so that milk is Mukki, facial tissue becomes Tempo,
laundry detergent is now Cocolino, and so on,
and as I stand waving the way a beauty queen
taught me once, my hand not flopping up and down
like a catfish out of water but swinging back and forth
the way you'd do if you were trying to unscrew the lid
of a family-size jar of mayonnaise, I can't help thinking,
first, of the little neighborhood boy who thought
that the Broadway musical was called Lame as a Robin,
its connotation of injured innocence at least as expressive as,
if not more so than, Monsieur Hugo's original title,
and then, in quick succession, of that guy Ragnor asking me
Do you say, "I hate French" or "I hate the French?"
and me saying, "The French!" and him asking,
Is it, "You are sweetheart" or "You are the sweetheart?"
and me saying, It's either "You're a sweetheart"
or "You're my sweetheart," and him saying, What is difference?
and then asking, Is it "I study maths" or "I study the maths?"
and me saying, "I study maths," though we don't say "maths"
in this country! and him saying, Why not?
and me saying, Because we're not English!
and him saying, This what we speak is not the English?
Then how do you call what is it what we speak?
and me saying, It's English, it just isn't English English,
and him saying, Okay, we forget about this one,
let me ask you instead if we say "I eat beans"
or "I eat the beans?" and me saying, It's "I eat beans"
if that's all there is but "I eat the beans" if you eat the beans
instead of the peas and him saying, I don't see difference,
and it occurs to me that if the world depended
on our precise description of it for its existence,
it would be a spotty patch, indeed, consisting
of little more than childhood memories, a clutch
of keen resentments, and a vague sense of our last few meals.
On the one hand, we do not wish to find ourselves in
the position of the bewildered older female relative who looked
at the menu in the trendy restaurant and said, How do you know
what to order when you don't know what anything is,
just as we don't want to become such misguided champions
of clarity that we find ourselves in the position
of the commentators on Homer and Aristotle
in Gulliver's Travels who are forced to keep their distance
in the underworld "through a consciousness of Shame
and Guilt, because they had so horribly represented
the Meaning of those Authors to Posterity,"
remembering that if the great tragedy of science
is that a beautiful hypothesis can be slain by an ugly fact,
as Thomas Huxley said, so is it equally certain
that a beautiful reality can be reduced to a pile of rubbish
by the application of some slipshod language, like a coat
of naval-issue battleship-gray paint on a fine old Tuscan table.
Meanwhile, no one in the piazza is giving any indication
that they are in the least bit aware of what we say or do,
lost as they are in their own search for personal-care products,
their brains humming with code, the specks and flashes
that make a phrase, a memory, the face of someone they love.
***
France / Francine’s Begonias (excerpt)
. . . . Alors, there has to be more to life than life.
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The Sandman: Season 1 will be released on 4K Ultra HD, Blu-ray, and DVD on November 28 via Warner Bros. The Netflix dark fantasy series is based on the DC comic series by Neil Gaiman.
Gaiman developed the show with David S. Goyer (Blade) and Allan Heinberg (Wonder Woman). Tom Sturridge, Boyd Holbrook, Vivienne Acheampong, Patton Oswalt, David Thewlis, Jenna Coleman, Gwendoline Christie, and Kirby Howell-Baptiste star.
The Sandman is presented in 4K with HDR and Dolby Atmos Audio. Special features are listed below.
Special features:
The Sandman - Behind the Scenes
The World of the Endless
There is another world that waits for all of us when we close our eyes and sleep — a place called the Dreaming, where The Sandman, Master of Dreams (Tom Sturridge), gives shape to all of our deepest fears and fantasies. But when Dream is unexpectedly captured and held prisoner for a century, his absence sets off a series of events that will change both the dreaming and waking worlds forever.
The Sandman: The Complete First Season.
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