Friday, February 29, 2008

The Time of Our Time - February 26th, 2008

“My body is my temple”, Roger Clemens said before the House Committee this past February 13th, having sworn he would tell the truth. Clemens did not say, my body is my pyramid, my cathedral or my Trojan horse. Why ‘temple’? Where does it come from? Why does it matter?

Clemens’ phrase is a cliché for anyone who knows about 5th century Greece as well as for those who do not, but get the drift. Pericles, who was running Athens as the time, planned the buildings on the hill above it and called them the Acropolis. He got the choice from the first democracy in the West.

Architects Iktinos and Kallicrates designed the Parthenon, a large Doric temple that dominated the Acropolis. It stands there yet, damaged but serene, against the Attic sky. The magnificent columns have slight differences of pitch and thickness that looked equidistant and straight. The frieze portrayed a myriad of people - some in chariots - some on horses – many on foot. They bore gifts and sacrifices to the goddess Athena, the golden beacon who stood inside the temple. The suffering of living animals that frieze reveals cries out to us still. How do I know? Lord Elgin, an English marauder and thief, stole it in the 19th century. I saw it at the British Museum in London, along with other heroic sculptures he took from the pediments.

Praxiteles, Pheidias, Socrates, Plato, Sophocles, Euripides Pericles, those 5th century Athenian guys, believed that the spirit’s highest aspirations could be expressed in reality. The Parthenon proves that they had it then and they have it now.

Did Roger Clemens think of the Parthenon on February 13th? Maybe. And maybe February 13th shall have been one of his last evenings on earth.

That Was in Another Country and Besides the Wench is Dead Department



Mets Pitcher Pedro Martinez (and Juan Marichal) made a stunning debut last week on You Tube - our own Interpol. They were spotted at a cockfight in the Dominican Republic, Martinez’ birthplace. Now I saw part of a cockfight on Guam. Nobody had to sing Viva Viagra there. But there was the acrid ooze of betting men’s sweat, and that was just one of the rewards. Large and beautiful cocks had been trained to be aggressive toward each other. Metal spurs on their legs curved upward like a scimitar drew blood. However long the fight may have lasted, the dead cock would have lost it - on Guam, anyway.

The Humane Society correctly had a fit over the Martinez clip. “Cockfighting is a part of my Dominican culture,” he explained. “It’s legal there.” And the Mets added, “We do not condone animal cruelty but we understand that many other countries’ activities such as bullfighting and cockfighting are both legal and part of the culture.”

Thursday, February 21, 2008

On Roger Clemens


The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough best, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

William Butler Yeats