JOURNAL ENTRY: VISITING RUSSELL ATKINS for the HOLIDAYS

JOURNAL ENTRY

Sunday, December 19th - 


I drove in the driving rain to visit Russell, taking a pink poinsettia (one of his favorite colors), cookies, a thermos of very hot, sweet coffee, two prints of the Cleveland Museum of Art, and a homemade book of 30 perfume-paged samples, titled Aromatics for Russell.

When I arrived, he was asleep and a curious attendant shook him brusquely, raised the headboard just a bit  and hollered, "Wake up, wake up. You have a visitor."  Russell responded, "I'm dying. I'm dying." "No you're not," the attendant harumphed. I said, "He's fine. He'll wake up. Or I'll just sit here." The attendant walked out.

Gradually, Russell came to, and I offered plastic spoonsful of coffee, which really woke him up. He loves strong caffeinated very sugared up coffee and was wide-eyed, cheerful. Not always coherent but he talked on many topics, often coherently

He tried three of the "aromatics" pages, including Chanel No. 5, which he has always loved, and he claimed to perceive all of them. (I have some doubts. A lot of people lose smell with age or covid, both of which he's had.)     


 Then I had him look at the two CMS cards. One is a postcard that shows the building in daytime and then in dark (its lights go on pink) as you tilt it. He could see it, and we used it to talk about the night Paul and I took him to accept the Cleveland Arts Prize for Lifetime Achievement. I reminded him he was the only one who received a standing ovation that night. That was after he gave his (unplanned) speech, and Sunday he seemed pleased for me to recall it. Then we looked at the other card, based on a painting by an artist who won the CA prize the year before Russell, "And Russell," I said, "he died a year later." "He what?" "He died, the year you won it" And he smiled and laughed softly, not disrespectfully, at the irony, so surprised he is at "still kicking."

Although he wasn't always coherent, he was talkative and cheerful. We spoke of the Simons. I told him I am trying to write an article on Adelaide. She died so young (of breast cancer) that a lot of people have forgotten her, but she was a big part of Free Lance,  I said. "Yes, she was," he repeated emphatically. He recalled the photo of Martin Simon that I showed him this past summer, and he remembered it: "A large photo of Martin at his cello," that ran with Martin's obituary.

Russell ate two mini-cupcakes (one chocolate, one vanilla, though his preference is white cake with chocolate frosting, which I couldn't find), a 2-bite brownie, and a homemade soft chocolate chip, which he spit the nuts out from. (He has no teeth and is on all soft food now.) This on top of the lunch he had polished off half an hour earlier. "All of it," the attendant reported. "He still has a really great appetite." He drank the whole large cup of coffee, three sugars. (May his nurses and diabetes forgive me, but he so loves it.)

I was hoping I could bring myself to stay for 45 minutes, but I looked at my phone, and an hour and a half had fled by, and I needed to get out before the Browns' fans hit the highway. Russell grew pensive and said, "I've done writing and music. I wonder what I'll do next. I think I'll try painting." 

I looked at him, nearly flat on his back and said, "How about if I bring you a set of pastels?"

He looked at me, "But that wouldn't be paint, would it?"

"But Russell, where would we put the paint? Here in the bed. How about water colors?" At least, I thought, we could just rinse the brushes with water.

He looked at me and began to outline the problems with working in water colors: it pools, the paper gets wavery....

I flashed on a mental photo of Kahlo, lying back, a canvas propped over her, a paint brush in her hand. Who cleaned up after that? 

He is having problems gripping. He couldn't even grip the cupcake. I had to help. But I know if I brought paint in, he'd paint with his teeth if he had to

He is bull-headed, just like another Russell I knew: my dad, whose birthday was one year and one week from Russell's. The two knew about each other, but never met. Some people might call Russell a nicer word like "persistent" or "determined." But I am sticking with the word "stubborn." It means "not open to change," and it fits.  Russell was change, and he wasn't about to change even when the whole literary world ignored him, bid him write about protest and the present and forget his wacky punctuation and syntax, his interest in Cleveland and buses and cemeteries. The world came around, thanks to Kevin Prufer, his editor and literary executor. 

Russell will be 98 in February. If you haven't read him yet, read his book World'd Too Much. Catch up with him.


AI Takes a Crack at Being my Poetry, and I'm Like "Wha?"

Recently, my dear friend Robin Johnson sent me a poem titled "Silent Stones," prefaced with, "So what do you think of this?" 
I dread getting poems from strangers who want to know what I think when what they mean is,  tell me this is a great poem, ready to publish. I usually try to answer as politely as I can that I prefer not to respond to work of someone I don't know, suggesting they find a poetry group to get feedback from, thanking them sincerely for thinking of me, but how I am overwhelmed just now (as I have been most waking moments of my life).  I was going to hold off showing it to you, but here we are in the narrative, so here it is:

Silent Stones

The stones are silent,
But they carry the weight
Of a thousand stories,
Whispers of forgotten lives.

They've seen empires rise and fall,
Watched as time slipped away,
Witnessed the joy and pain
Of generations come and gone.

And yet, they remain still,
Steadfast and resolute,
A testament to endurance,
An anchor in an ever-changing world.

So when you pass by a stone,
Take a moment to listen,
For within its silent surface
Lies a tale waiting to be told.


But Robin is no stranger, and I knew this wasn't her writing. She does write, but I think of her primarily as an actress and director in Minneapolis-St. Paul (and a wonderful one, best known for her portrayal of Elizabeth I in Timothy Findley's Elizabeth Rex.) She also is worlds ahead of me in using technology; she builds a website in the time it takes me to pull up a page. I thought it might be the poem of a friend of hers who was desperate for...something. I skimmed it, cast my eyes to the skies, looked up the title and saw a new book with the same title as the poem so replied, hoping to sound more insightful than I was being, "Nice. Is it a Susan Cummins poem?"

Robin replied, way too enthusiastically:
Oh, thank God you approve! (maybe not for much longer) I was messing with ChatGPT last night and I asked it if it knew who you were. It responded yes and proceeded to list your CV. I then asked it to write a poem “in the style of Diane Kendig” and this is what it came up with. After I shared it, I thought “What will you say if she tells you she hates it?” I don’t know how you feel about artificial intelligence, but there it is… aspiring to be you.


I reread the poem over and over, trying to see what of me was in that poem. I have never written about stones. I may never have written the word "stone." Not crags or rocks or overhangs. To my discredit, I seldom write poems about nature at all, especially not her more inanimate subjects. A bit on deer, skunks, dogs, a coyote... okay, one on water. Still, no stones. The end-stops of most of the lines drove me crazy, and ending with the imperative struck me so hard, I went back and re-read all of my poems online. Not a single imperative in any of them. Oh, and I only ever capitalized every line in ONE poem in which I was trying to capture an 18th century feel, and it's not online. And the
clichés were killing me: rise and fall, joy and pain, ever-changing world, tale waiting to be told. Yikes!

And then, my decades-asleep paranoia awoke, and I thought, "What if other poets think I write like this?" (Note, I didn't think, "Do I write like this?" ah, haha.) And I sent it to my monthly poetry group, saying, "I can give you the backstory if you want it, but don't spend too much time on this one." We never give backstories until we have eviscerated the poems, but I hated to think of Laurie, Laura, and Richard trying to breathe life into this, or pick at commas in order to have something to say. No one wanted a backstory.

Still, when the group met, I couldn't help myself and against all our protocols, I quickly blabbed a one-sentence backstory. One person said, "I thought to myself, 'This doesn't even sound like Diane.'" I so should have shut-up and listened to what they thought on their own reading, but I couldn't because something about this really unhinged me. (For one thing, it thinks I am my CV, so there's that.) I don't even know ChatGPT, but it purports to know me. It might say, like my students used to, "But I didn't have enough ti-i-i-ime," which is how Robin explained it:

BTW, that poem was generated in about 10 seconds. It took that little time for it to scan the ‘web and cull from your work.

 I sent Robin an email pointing out the many troublesome aspects of this poem I would never write, and she pointed out that it was her first go at working with ChatGT, and one would need to be much more specific in telling it what to do. I mean, uh, coaxing it along.

She's right, as was exemplified in the recent NYT article "A.I. Is an Expert At Making Bad Art." The article insists that the right artist can get A.I. to do better, just as a good teacher can help a willing student to write better. The article follows a visual artist as he coaches A.I. in improving its imitation of him: "[S]ome of the first experiments were underwhelming: blobby landscapes, figures drawn without brushstrokes, flat abstractions...." And then, the artist critiques A.I., and the work improves.

But where would I begin with instructing this particular poem? Suggest a new topic, like my current landscaping endeavors? No land(es)caping endeavors. Think about what Rebecca Dunham is saying about contemporary pastorals. About Keats. Did he write about stones? (*googling*): One stoney metaphor's all. That's enough on stones. Maybe grass. Fescue as one poet recently wrote. 

I think I'd just prefer to read a poem. Or write another poem. Which is exactly what I am going to go do. It will not be about stones.


(Many thanks to Robin for continuing to show the way through technology and art and education. )

MY SUMMER AUTHOR EVENTS:

Workshops, Writings, Booksales, & more! 

(Most of these are open to the public. *NP if not public)

June 2 - First Friday in Canton, 5-9 p.m.
My book of poems and essays about the Spanish artist Maria Blanchard, Woman with a Fan goes on sale in the Canton Museum of Art Gift shop. The Canton Museum of Art is free on First Fridays. Come on downtown and see me in the museum 5:00 -7:00 and visit all the neat activities for this month's theme, "Chalk the Walk," in the museum and out on the street.

June 3 - Street Poetry Project in Cleveland,  5-7 p.m.
 I will be joining the "Free Poetry Project" to write poems on request using typewriters. The brain child of Geoff Polk, I will join him and Cherie Bullock to fill pages with poetry on demand for a private gala fundraiser for the Cleveland Borderlight (Fringe) August 3-5 Festival. The Chicago version of our event is "Poems While You Wait," by Kathleen Rooney, et. al. Read about them here. 

Along with my neighbor, Vance Voyles, author of Soldier's Heart and other works, I'll be selling and signing my books, including Prison Terms, about my 18 years in medium security, and Woman with a Fan, about Spanish Painter, Maria Blanchard. At Hartwick Park, on the 13th Street, between Perry H.S. and Edison Middle School. Bring a picnic!

*NP July 5 & 26 - Creative Writing Workshop for families
The Canton City Schools are sponsoring arts workshops for homeless families, and I am excited to be a part of this activity, leading  participants in making "Cut-Out" poems and "Color-Out" poems. 




WOMAN WITH A FAN, LINK 4: review

 Woman with a Fan, Link to Kaleidoscope

Kaleidoscope Magazine,  a journal "exploring the experience of disability through Literature and the Fine Arts," published my first poem about Maria Blanchard in 2009, and now they have published a three page review on the book in a wonderful layout with several photos of Blanchard's work. 





I invite you to read the whole wonderful issue and to find the review on page 66 (65 on TOC) here: Summer Fall Online 2022

I am grateful to the thoughtful reviewer, Sandra J. Lindlow, whom I do not know at all but I  you can find more about her, including the poem, "If Your Clothes Catch Light" at the link on her name. She has nine poetry collections, most recently, Chasing Wild Grief and a recent scholarly book on the Nigerian-American writer, Nnedi Okorafor: Magic, Myth, Morality and the Future 
coming out this fall. 

My Father's WWII Journals: #4 and Final

This journal is most interesting, and least interesting, because Dad never tells about the air battle itself. He describes the situation going into the battle, and data account of the mission says it was a "Hit," but his narrative ends with his feeling (and, he suggests, the feelings of the other men) about being assigned to bomb Hamburg. Nothing about the seven and a half hours in the air. I learned on the 100 Bomb Group Foundation website that the December mission over Hamburg was horrendous. I wrote to Dad's friend, Joe Urice, another tailgunner in the 100th (whose birthday is the same day as Dad's), and he replied: "I was also on that Jan 1945 Hamburg mission and it was nothing comparable to the losses of the Dec 31 mission.  Flak but no fighters. "
Dad, Joe Urice, & Will Kreamer
at a 100 BG  reunion

So maybe this mission was anticlimactic. Hard to imagine with flak that was not only heavy, but as Dad notes, "accurate." Or maybe they didn't do so hot, even though they hit their target. Dad being Dad, and a Kendig, he still took time to appreciate the good breakfast they had beforehand. He remained mindful of what was good about some Air Corps life: a bed and meals. 

The Ellis Crew
Another good thing was his crew, which remained friends for life. Bob Ellis and Dad were in each other's weddings, and Bob, whether living in San Juan, Cartagena, or Abu Dhabi, usually stayed at our house on his trips back to the States, as he did for Mom and Dad's 50th anniversary. I remember Randleman and his family coming one summer, and Dad and Mom visiting Will Kreamer, who lived in Minnesota, near my sister, Daun. I heard stories about Gibberson and Moriarty. Mom and Dad went to many 100 BG reunions. Mom once said she didn't believe half of Dad's stories until the crew got together, and they all told the exact same story. Mom loved all these guys, including many other 100th BG guys she met for decades of reunions, like Joe Urice and his family. I am still friends with Bob's son, Drake, who lives in Youngstown. The friendships continue. 

1-17-45
No. 14

Target – Hamburg  – Oil Refinery

Visibility – visual            Results – Hit

Flak – Heavy and Very Accurate

Takeoff – 0837               Land 1538

Bombs Away -1157                  Altitude 25000´

Temp. - 36°                    Load – 12 -500 lb.  G.P.'s

Oxygen – 3 ½ hrs.                     Mission – 7 ½ hrs.

Position High Element Lead

This morning, we were awakened at 0400 for chow and briefing. One consolation about these missions is that we always get fresh eggs and oranges. When we found out that the target was to be Hamburg, there were a lot of oohs because any time y ou go to Hamburg you know that a bad time is due you.

My Father's WWII Journals, No. 3


Page 3

Dad's third journal, and once again, it's the ending that gets me, "Thank God once more we are home in bed." This after the somewhat jocular, "This wasn't bad enough" and "Woe is me," and I always remember Dad saying that the one good thing about being in the Air Corps (not the Air Force yet) was that IF you got home, you had a bed and food. He was always aware that his older brother and his hero, Uncle Les, was on the ground, in fact, in the very middle of the Battle of the Bulge, which was occurring as these journals were written. Uncle Les went days without dry socks, never mind a dry bed.


Counter Clockwise from 
l. front: Les, Dad, Leroy, Bob

And now, this is off track, but here is a story about Uncle Les, who was in the war as were two of Dad's other brothers (Uncle Bumps --Robert-- and Uncle Curly--Leroy). At one of Uncle Les's war reunions, decades later, Malcom Forbes showed up looking for Les Kendig. He said, "I heard it said during those days, 'We have no idea who Les Kendig is, but he is working miracles with whatever he gets, so get as many weapons to him as you can.'"  Uncle Les went on to help liberate Belgium, where the citizens decades later, gave him a national award. Uncle Les was not at the reunion to meet Malcolm Forbes, nor in Belgium for his award because although he was most alive still, he wouldn't get on an airplane. 


I am struck too by the fact that that day they "never lost a ship" because the 100BG lost many ships.  Another memory Dad shared with me later in life was the horrible experience of knowing a plane had gone down and in the evening, seeing workers come in to pack up the downed men's effects and carry them away. "They wheeled them away in a cart," Dad said, "and the sound made me sick." To be "home" in bed was no small thing.

12-11-44

No. 3

TARGET    DERBEN    OIL STORAGE

VISIBILITY – VISUAL    RESULTS- GOOD HIT

FLAK-  MEDIUM -  INACCURATE

TAKE OFF 0739                  LAND 1535

BOBMS AWAY 13O4        ALTITUDE 26,700´

TEMP – 44 °

LOAD – 5- 10000 LB. G.P.’S

OXYGEN 4 HRS.              MISSION 8 HRS

POSITION HIGHELEMENT LEAD

 

We were awakened at 3 o’clock for briefing and it was pretty cold this morning. At briefing we[re] were informed that our target was to be an underground storage for oil at Derben, near Hamburg. There was to be flak and a few fighters. Everything seemed O.K. on the ground, but once in the air we test fired and I found that my right gun was out of commission and I couldn’t get it working. It was pretty cold today and the contrails were heavy. Just before we got to the target, the viskers unit in my turret went bad and started to burn, and then my sight went out. This wasn’t bad enough, because just about then bandits appeared out of 3 o’clock level. I believe this to be one of the biggest air battles I will ever see because the sky was literally covered with burning planes and there were as many ours as theirs going down. About this time woe is me a FW 190 hit us from 11 o’clock low and he was close enough that I could have kicked him but my turret was in bad shape and I never got a decent shot, but I let him know I was there. The group in front of us took the brunt of the battle and we dropped out bombs and came home. We never lost a ship, but we had a fairly tough time of it. We hit the target and that is what counts. Thank God once more we are home in Bed.

                                                         Sgt. Russell Kendig