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28 July 2014
Vol. IV, No. 212

 
From The Editor: This week . . . sociologist William Ramp writes lyrically and at length about Indigenous Canadians, the Bakken shale formation, and resource development on the Canadian plains and in the inter-mountain West: this is an important essay you will not find elsewhere, so please read and share. In addition, Diana Farr Louis lovingly recalls her ten most memorable meals (which selection, considering the dinners Louis has prepared and shared, required quite a bit of sifting and sorting on the part of our widely-published gourmand); Santorini-based photographer Doris Athanassakis presents a portfolio of engaging portraits she shot while visiting Cuba; your editor laments (and rejoices in) her departure from Gotham; and, from darkest Florida, Sanford Rose, in “Dolors & Sense,” turns again to dolors, writing about orthopaedists, the procedures they foist upon the unwary, and how better (all round) to approach the crankiness of human shoulders, elbows, knees, hips, etc.

Bakken from space.

Bakken from space.

Small Things Recollected

“Dreams in a Sliver of Time: Plains Songs” By William Ramp

LETHBRIDGE Alberta, Canada—(Weekly Hubris)—7/28/2014—In my last column, I wrote about the population crisis of North American grassland birds, and how it might affect and be affected by our awareness of our environment. The issue seemed to creep up by stealth, but it is a crisis which derives from the past few hundred years of modernity. (Read more . . .)

Shoulder prosthesis: pretty, but was it necessary?

Shoulder prosthesis: pretty, but was it necessary?

Dolors & Sense

“Dispatches from OO” By Sanford Rose

KISSIMMEE Florida—(Weekly Hubris)—7/28/2014—Dispatches from OO? Remember that I live at the junction of Laminectomy Lane and Arthroplasty Avenue in a town that might be called Orthopaedists’ Oasis. What’s that? You may remember the place as Quackery Corner. Yes, that name serves as well. It’s a place in Central Florida where old folks live and spend the better part of their days in the waiting rooms of orthopaedic surgeons. It is really Any Town, Florida. (Read more . . .)

The menu doesn’t have to be elaborate.

The menu doesn’t have to be elaborate.

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

“Meals That Linger In The Memory” By Diana Farr Louis

ANDROS Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—7/28/2014—A week ago, a new friend and fellow writer, though about subjects far removed from food, asked me to tell her about the ten most memorable meals I’d ever eaten. The question started my mind racing back over countless lunches and dinners, but as I riffled through the images stored somewhere in my taste buds, we turned the discussion to what makes certain meals stand out from the ordinary. After all, eating is an act we lucky ones perform on average three times a day, and remembering them all would not leave much room for anything else. (Read more . . .)

Faces of Cuba I.

Faces of Cuba I.

Out of Santorini

“Faces of Cuba” By Doris Athanassakis

IMEROVIGLI Santorini, Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—7/28/2014—Note: This portfolio of  images represents the fourth offering of works by photographer Doris Athanassakis at Weekly Hubris. Athanassakis lives in Imerovigli,  a caldera-side village on the volcanic island of  Santorini. Of Greek and Austrian heritage, Athanassakis has been photographing her island home, its architecture, and its myriad residents, all her life. Her work comprises an ongoing and lifelong meditation upon her stunningly unique surroundings . . . and herself in them. During the Greek winters, Athanassakis travels the world, with her camera, and this and the portfolios that follow document her visit to Cuba. (All Athanassakis’s works are for sale, in limited edition archival prints: please contact her regarding gallery sales through her Weekly Hubris email address: athanassakis@gmx.at.) (Read more . . .)

New York: urban in all the worst ways.

New York: urban in all the worst ways.

Ruminant With A View

“Bye-bye to Dubai (on The Hudson)” By Elizabeth Boleman-Herring

BRIDGE & TUNNEL New Jersey—(Weekly Hubris)—7/28/2014—I, myself, will not be making a brutalist argument. I will, instead, be voting with my feet and, shortly, leaving New York literally in my rear-view. Driving along the Hudson, our ancient SUV crammed with valuables (trumpets, icons, my mother’s flatware), I will steal glances at that (brutalist) skyline, and then turn back to the mad traffic just ahead of me, girding myself for the long, fraught, interstate slog south. At that moment of separation, I will feel very, very little indeed, I predict, except a slight sense of lightening. (Read more . . .)

Delicately calibrated sounds made by a complicated set of brass gears and pulleys.

Delicately calibrated sounds made by a complicated set of brass gears and pulleys.

The Highest Cauldron

“Clocking Memory” By Anita Sullivan

EUGENE Oregon—(Weekly Hubris)—7/21/2014—Lying in bed in a silent room I am hearing the voice of my grandfather’s clock as if it were striking downstairs and the sound coming up. The clock does actually stand in the ground floor living room of my house but, for over five years, the old family heirloom has been broken, unrepaired, and unplugged—a largish piece of furniture with no further useful function. Shortly before we moved to this house, it completed an eight-year stint standing fit but silent in the corner of a friend’s dining room, waiting, because I had no space for it in my apartment. A sequence of overlapping periods in which I did not hear this clock at all stretches through the capillaries of memory, back to my childhood, when the clock spoke regularly and with dignified authority in the entry hall of my grandparents’ house.  (Read more . . .)

It’s a terminal disease, this indifference to the erosion of our civil rights.

It’s a terminal disease, this indifference to the erosion of our civil rights.

Waking Point

“Words & Our World” By Helen Noakes

SAN FRANCISCO California—(Weekly Hubris)—7/21/14—I’ve stopped watching newscasts as regularly as I used to. There’s really no point. Things don’t change that much from one week to the next. Politicians continue to squabble over money and what they call power. Corporations continue to gouge the ordinary people and decimate the planet. Religious factions continue to oppress and kill in the name of God. Our current Supreme Court, with the exception of a few Justices, continues to serve its corporate and political masters. And all these so-called leaders of our country continue to be derelict in their duties, betraying not only those whom they have sworn to represent but their own humanity.  (Read more . . .)

Von Tschirschky: From dove to hawk and back.

Von Tschirschky: from dove to hawk and back.

Dolors & Sense

“Unsung Villains of World War I” By Sanford Rose

KISSIMMEE Florida—(Weekly Hubris)—7/21/2014—Let’s start with someone who was named Villain—Raoul Villain. He shot Jean Jaurès, the French socialist leader, on July 31, 1914, just days before the outbreak of the war.  Jaurès was a pacifist, with ties to German pacifists and socialists. Had he lived, would it have made a difference? Unlikely, but I can’t resist mentioning the name of his assassin. Now, let’s turn to those who clearly made a difference in the march toward war, but are comparatively unknown, relegated to historical footnotes. (Read more . . .)

"Beneath the Mystic River Bridge," Oil on Canvas, 21.5" X 16.25" (1995).

“Beneath the Mystic River Bridge,” Oil on Canvas, 21.5″ X 16.25″ (1995).

The Disappearing Land

“Summer Heat” By Meredith d’Ambrosio

DUXBURY Massachusetts—(Weekly Hubris)—7/21/2014— In the early 1950s, on our weekly trek to Magnolia, my father would drive the family in our beach wagon to the North Shore of Boston, by way of the Mystic River Bridge, overlooking Boston Harbor. I would always strain my neck looking out of the left side of the car as we passed this Charlestown street below. The view haunted me for decades, and I was determined to paint it. When I finally returned to sketch the scene beneath the bridge, nothing had changed, even the clothes on the line, as if it had all been stopped in time, waiting for me to capture it. (Read more . . .)

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