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Off the Page: Notebooks of an Occasional Optimist (A Rededication)

For almost twenty years this space has been called “Planet of the Blind”—a nod to my first memoir and, for a long time, an accurate description of its subjects: blindness, accessibility, the struggles of opposing ableism. That work isn’t done — it never will be — but the blog has quietly outlived its name. Over the years I’ve used this space to write about disability rights, but also about history, horror films, wordplay, literary biography, and the jottings of other writers. Its time for the title to reflect the writing.

So: welcome to “Off the Page”

I’ve always been drawn to the notebook as a form. Years ago I co-edited (with poets David Weiss and Deborah Tall)  “The Poet’s Notebook” for W.W. Norton, a collection of the fast jottings, marginalia, and half-formed thoughts that poets keep before a poem exists. There’s something clarifying about the notebook— unpolished, occasional, closer to thinking out loud than to argument. This blog has always worked that way too, even when I didn’t say so. A post about accommodation law sits next to a post about Bela Lugosi which in turn sits next to a fragment from an actual notebook. That miscellany was never a flaw. It was the point.

As for “occasional optimist” — I chose the phrase carefully. More than thirty years of working on accessibility at universities, watching the gap between institutional assurance and grassroots reality, teaches you not to be naive. Optimism, for me, isn’t a temperament so much as a discipline — something closer to what Gramsci meant by pessimism of the intellect, optimism of the will. I don’t expect things to go well. I do the work anyway, and every so often — reading a poem, watching a student’s reading habits change, standing at a lectern in a room full of people who came out for disability poetry on a summer night in Washington — I catch myself feeling something like hope. Occasional is the right word. Earned, not constant.

So this is still the same notebook it always was: kept in the old commonplace tradition of writing things down because they mattered enough, that day, to write down. The title’s new. The habit of attention behind it isn’t.

Thank you for reading, then and now.

— Stephen Kuusisto

Of or Pertaining to Tenderness

One day in a museum a companion described for me exquisite, soulful, miniature drawings by Daumier. She said there was a little dog, a dog made of curlicues. He was jumping in the wholly invisible wind. And I loved him, though I’d never see him. This is what Rainer Rilke understood as creaturely love, a tenderness.                    

Of tenderness there’s much to say. “Be tender with the world’s wounds” Rilke says. 

Robert Bly:

“I am proud only of those days that pass in

undivided tenderness.” 

I love the link between prideful satisfaction and tenderness. 

The crucial word in Bly’s lines—“only:—-

We can assess our tenderness success. 

My neighbor built an ugly fence behind my house. I don’t like him. Ans so I am a tenderness failure on the days where I talk unkindly under my breath. 

It is harder and harder to achieve tenderness let alone sustain it.

Oh my tenderness we’ve been through so much. The discrimination in employment. The ableism and all the accrued distresses of a painful childhood. I walk about the streets knowing that the strangers who pass me by have suffered the same or even worse.

Oh tenderness, you’ve kept me alive. Don’t forsake me now. 

My Uncle’s Nether Parts

I had an uncle who used to scratch his nether parts rather frequently. While most people agree that alleviation of this sort should be done in private, he’d go at his crotch without mercy while standing in the dining room. He knew he was doing it. “I worked my balls off today” he’d declare as if clawing his nuts and capitalism were connected. 

Of course he was correct about this but not in the way he thought. The man simply had jock itch and loathed his job. “I worked my balls off” was code for “I’m about to drink my face off and you best take cover.” “I worked my balls off!” Vodka. And guzzling. After many snorts he’d go out to the barn and toss heavy metal objects around while howling. 

I have no desire to moralize. He was unhappy. He drank. He was unintentionally funny. Then scary. Even as a boy I liked the man. 

Mark Fisher writes: “Capital is an abstract parasite, an insatiable vampire and zombie maker; but the living flesh it converts into dead labor is ours, and the zombies it makes are us.” (Mark Fisher, Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative?) 

Uncle M was resisting zombie-hood. He’d scratch his nuts like a bonobo. 

Karl Marx wrote: “Catch a man a fish, and you can sell it to him. Teach a man to fish, and you ruin a wonderful business opportunity.”

I don’t know how this relates to my uncle. 

AI (Claude) Writes in the Manner of Dorothy Parker Imitating Jane Austen

Pride and Prejudice, After Dark

Dorothy Parker writing Jane Austen:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, and one I have personally suffered through at three separate dinner parties, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. It is further acknowledged, though less frequently admitted, that he is generally in want of very little else, least of all conversation.

Mrs. Bennet, who had five daughters and the nerves of a cat in a thunderstorm, received the news of Mr. Bingley’s arrival at Netherfield with the composure of a woman who has just been told the house is on fire and the fire is eligible. “A single man of large fortune!” she cried. “Four or five thousand a year! What a fine thing for our girls!” Mr. Bennet, who had long ago taken refuge in his library the way other men take refuge in drink, replied that he did not see how it could affect them, and went on reading. It was the most sensible thing anyone said all evening, and it was wasted entirely.

Elizabeth, the second daughter, had a lively mind and an opinion of herself that she would have called discernment and her enemies would have called a hobby. She disliked Mr. Darcy upon sight, which saved considerable time later when she had to reverse herself. He was tall, proud, and rich, three qualities that in a woman would be called a character flaw and in a man are called a catch. He declined to dance with her, remarking that she was tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt him. She laughed about it for the rest of the evening, in the bright, brittle manner of a person who will be thinking about it in the carriage, and at four in the morning, and probably in 1847.

Love, as it developed, proceeded the way it always does in these matters: with a great deal of walking about in the rain, a number of letters better left unsent, and a good many words that would have to be eaten later without so much as a pinch of salt. Everyone concerned behaved abominably, and was rewarded with an income. I have always said that virtue is its own reward, but I have noticed that it is considerably improved by ten thousand a year and a house in Derbyshire.

Relief from Your Fear of Racoons

If you live in the United States, own a television, and watch the evening news you’ve likely seen those treacle slingshots from big Pharma. The commercials feature happy people dancing beside a lake and tossing beachballs while your ears are tortured with a song about Racoon-do, the miracle drug that promises relief from procyonophobia. This is insulting enough but then the kicker: the voice over announcer, usually a woman who sounds a like Mary Poppins says “ask your doctor about…” This in an era when hospitals are being shut down, when insurance companies routinely deny coverage for cancer screenings—ask your doctor. As if you can find one and afford the visit. Ask your doctor about “specific phobia, animal type.” 

The citizens of other countries are not subjected to this. They have national health insurance and prescription drugs aren’t reduced to commodity fetishism, and frankly, people would go on strike if forced to watch such intelligence insulting corporate garbage. 

Now because I’ve learned that Anthropic’s Claude has a sense of humor, I asked it to come up with a jingle:

Here’s an original jingle in the style of those pharma ads, with the cheerful tone doing the satirical work against the grim reality underneath:

“Racoon-do” (the jingle)

(Soft acoustic guitar. Lakeside. Beachballs.)

Oh, there’s a rustle in the trash can,
And your heart begins to race,
But with Racoon-do, you can face it,
Just a smile upon your face!

Racoon-do, Racoon-do,
Brings the sunshine back to you!
Dance beside the lake again,
Like you used to do!

(Spoken, breathy, Mary Poppins-ish:)
Ask your doctor if Racoon-do is right for you.

(Spoken, rapid-fire, sped up:)

Racoon-do may cause dizziness, dry mouth, sudden urges to apologize to raccoons, loss of appetite for garbage, mild existential dread, and an unexplained fondness for trash pandas. Do not take Racoon-do if you are allergic to Racoon-do, or if you are a raccoon. Side effects may include speaking in commercials. If your fear lasts more than four hours, call a lawyer. Or a doctor. We’re not sure which. Neither is your insurance.

(Back to singing, brighter than ever:)

Racoon-do, Racoon-do,
Prior auth is up to you!
Beachballs bounce, the sun is high,
And the copay’s sky-high too!

(Fade out. Tiny print on screen: “Not covered.”)

Thanks Claude. My favorite line is “do not take Racoon-do if your are allergic to Raccoon-do or if you’re a real raccoon”…

And because I’m a glutton for punishment I asked Claude to make me a video: 

 

There’s a box you can click to turn on screen reading. https://claude.ai/artifact/YY9cDdhcg7VRdsQft7p6Dk

The video, like Claude itself, isn’t truly blind friendly. 

But of course blind people do not fear raccoons. 

And a staggering number of disabled people can’t get medical care anyway.

 

Of AI, Martini Shakers, Dorothy Parker, and Winnie the Pooh

In 1926 The New Yorker published a review entitled “Far from Well” by Dorothy Parker which attacked “Winnie the Pooh”. I’ve always loved Dorothy Parker who seems to me like Groucho waving a martini shaker in a cocktail dress—and yes, how that shaker got in his cocktail dress is anybody’s guess. Meanwhile, Parker hated Milne’s toddling simplicity and all its treacle:

“The more it
snows-tiddely-pom,
The more it
goes-tiddely-pom
The more it
goes-tiddely-pom
On
Snowing.

“And nobody
knows-tiddely-pom,
How cold my
toes-tiddely-pom
How cold my
toes-tiddely-pom
Are
Growing.”

The above lyric is culled from the fifth page of Mr. A. A. Milne’s new book, “The House at Pooh Corner,” for, although the work is in prose, there are frequent droppings into more cadenced whimsy. This one is designated as a “Hum,” that pops into the head of Winnie-the-Pooh as he is standing outside Piglet’s house in the snow, jumping up and down to keep warm. It “seemed to him a Good Hum, such as is Hummed Hopefully to Others.” In fact, so Good a Hum did it seem that he and Piglet started right out through the snow to Hum It Hopefully to Eeyore. Oh darn—there I’ve gone and given away the plot. I could bite my tongue out.

As they are trotting along against the flakes, Piglet begins to weaken a bit.

“ ‘Pooh,’ he said at last and a little timidly, because he didn’t want Pooh to think he was Giving In, ‘I was just wondering. How would it be if we went home now and practised your song, and then sang it to Eeyore tomorrow—or—or the next day, when we happen to see him.’

“ ‘That’s a very good idea, Piglet,’ said Pooh. ‘We’ll practise it now as we go along. But it’s no good going home to practise it, because it’s a special Outdoor Song which Has To Be Sung In The Snow.’

“ ‘Are you sure?’ asked Piglet anxiously.

“ ‘Well, you’ll see, Piglet, when you listen. Because this is how it begins. The more it snows, tiddely-pom—’

“ ‘Tiddely what?’ said Piglet.” (He took, as you might say, the very words out of your correspondent’s mouth.)

“ ‘Pom,’ said Pooh. ‘I put that in to make it more hummy.’ ”

And it is that word “hummy,” my darlings, that marks the first place in “The House at Pooh Corner” at which Tonstant Weader Fwowed up.”

This is excellent but I wondered what AI would come up with when prompted to write in the manner of Dorothy Parker lampooning Milne.  Here’s what Claude generated:

Here is Parker doing Milne, which is to say, Parker wearing Milne’s cardigan and complaining about the fit. (Her real review, as “Constant Reader” in The New Yorker, famously ended with “and it is that word ‘hummy,’ my darlings, that marks the first place in ‘The House at Pooh Corner’ at which Tonstant Weader Fwowed up.” I’ll leave that one alone and write something new.)

In Which Pooh Is Invited to Tea, and Regrets It

One afternoon, when the sun was doing what it could and the Forest was doing rather less, Winnie-the-Pooh sat down on a log to think. It was a very good log for thinking, being hard, damp, and entirely without opinions.

“I think,” said Pooh, “that it is almost time for a little something.”

He thought about this for a long while, and then he thought about it a little longer, because that was the sort of Bear he was, and the something, whatever it was, did not seem in any hurry to arrive.

Presently Piglet came along, trembling slightly, as he always did, like a very small man who has been told the bill is on him.

“Oh, Pooh,” said Piglet. “I’ve been so worried.”

“What about?” said Pooh.

“I don’t know,” said Piglet. “But I’m sure it’s something.”

“That,” said Pooh, “is the most sensible thing anybody has said all week,” and they both felt very much better, though neither of them could have said why, and one of them was beginning to suspect it was the honey.

Then Eeyore came by, in the manner of a rain cloud that has taken up walking.

“Good morning, Eeyore,” said Pooh.

“Is it?” said Eeyore. “I hadn’t noticed. Nobody tells me anything. I expect there was a party, and I expect I wasn’t asked, and I expect that’s just as well, since I should only have come.”

“We were just going to have tea,” said Pooh helpfully.

“Ah,” said Eeyore. “How nice for you. I shall stand over here and be an Example.”

Christopher Robin arrived then, with the air of a small boy who has never been wrong and sees no reason to start. “I have had,” he announced, “a Very Clever Idea.”

“Oh, good,” said Eeyore. “I do so enjoy those.”

“We shall all go on an Expotition.”

“And where,” said Eeyore, “does one expotit to?”

“Nowhere in particular,” said Christopher Robin, “which is the best sort of place, because nobody can say you’ve got lost.”

“Quite,” said Eeyore. “Or found.”

So they set off in a line, the Bear, the Pig, the Donkey, and the Boy, marching nowhere with tremendous purpose, and the Forest watched them go, and thought, not for the first time, that if one were going to be this precious about nothing, one might at least have the decency to drink about it.

Cue the martini shaker. 

**

Yes I’m part of the vast lawsuit filed against Anthropic by writers whose books were used to train LLM without permission. I have serious reservations about AI. But cyber Parker now invented by Claude has written a rather good line: “…if one were going to be this precious about nothing, one might at lease have the decency to drink about it.”

I’ll feel better about Claude when it asks for a mulligan. 

Dream Spider

Dreamt I was in an apartment of sorts, a place half familiar, and I was asleep in this dream but then awoke to see an enormous spider had built its web across the area I presumed was the kitchen. There were others in the room, people I knew, though they weren’t clear. One of them had an opinion about the spider but I don’t remember what it was. In general I don’t like to hear people’s dreams, especially before coffee. I share this because the spider was perfectly still and satisfied. 

**

Big trucks have arrived outside my house. They are going to cut down my neighbors trees. The men involved are just little boys who have grown strangely large. 

**

Watched ten minutes of cable news while the men began sawing dead trees. A politician who I admire said the US now has a government that is fully corrupted. Of course he didn’t mean to include himself, but, without irony, he did. Such observations are the result of having been an English major. 

**

All I can say for sure is that the spider in my unconscious was really fat. 

 

Mrs. Dalloway and Claude’s List

“She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged. She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside, looking on. She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxicabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.”

This morning sitting with my coffee I’m reminded of this passage from 

Virginia Woolf’s novel “Mrs. Dalloway”. Here in upstate New York trees are dropping leaves and we’ve entered the season of greyness. I too am out to sea and alone. As for it being very dangerous to live even one day—who would dispute this feeling as the oligarchs and fascists bomb hospitals across the globe? In short, feeling deeply and with a sense of precarity is the true dark phenomenology of living and there’s no help for it. 

Claude writes: “Woolf’s novel is less about events than about consciousness, memory, mortality, class, and the lingering damage of war.” This is true but AI can’t capture the terrible state of mind that the American poet James Tate once referred to as “crucial moments before a shave”—the very business of living is reduced to the most essential actions, or, inactions. Not an elegant sentence, I agree. Do you, like me, feel that your consciousness is now a dented can?

Look at Claude’s list: “consciousness, memory, mortality, class, and the lingering damage of war.”

While the talking heads on TV and in the cyber-spheres go on and on about Trump’s hair or the bulges in his suit, those of us with souls intact are struggling with the biggest issues of all. 

Again, James Tate: “Come quick, Hans—a leaf has fallen inside me.”

I See the Souls of Strangers in Airports…

I see the souls of strangers in airports. Souls are all about. The tenderness and mercy of God falls around me. How can I tell you? How can anyone talk about the true life of that small woman pulling her luggage? Inside her bag the linens damp with tears.

**

It’s kindness I’m after. Not cheap forgiveness. I’ve been wronged over and over. And I will stay open and expectant and free in my immaterial parts.

**

Some mornings, to cheer myself I think about Noah’s Ark. There must have been a pair of Sasquatch aboard.  

You know I’m onto something. 

In Eric Wiener’s review of John Zada’s book “In the Valleys of the Noble Beyond: In Search of the Sasquatch” we learn that “you see a Sasquatch only if you’re undergoing a personal crisis.”

Yesterday in the elevator of a suburban Washington, DC Hilton I saw a tiny Sasquatch with a head like a fuzzy anvil. He was checking in to the executive suite.

How did I get here from seeing souls in airports? Perhaps you can help me?

**

Sasquatch have souls. 

**

I have this life which I do not understand 

I have death approaching which I do not understand

I have this body which is a staircase

A long list of the dead

Is like music 

And the car hurries obedient

I promise that today I shall do some small good

I’d beg forgiveness 

If I knew where to stop

The Five Types of Ableists

There are five basic types of ableists and why not define them? 

  1. “The Peanut Gallery Ableist” 

The “I have a disabled friend” type. She/he/they will tell you how much they care about disability issues cuz they were once within hailing distance of a cripple. Or they have a relative or a neighbor who’s “got something” etc.

This person is essentially dangerous. They’ll stab you in the back of the old wheelchair whenever it’s convenient. 

  1. “The Running Dog Ableist” 

This is the “I’d Like to Help You, But It’s too Expensive” version. I call them running dogs in memory of the old IWW expression: “the running dogs of the bourgeoisie.”

Whatever the boss tells us, that’s what we’re gonna do. And you, my crippled pal, you are not cost-effective.

  1. (From “Tartuffe” by Moliere) 

The Geronte: when his son is kidnapped he says: “Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère?” (What in the deuce did he want to go on that galley for?” In other words, he brought this upon himself. “Really, shouldn’t you try something easier? I could have told you.”

Cripples hear this all the time. 

4.    “The Tragedy Monger”

Sees disability as a great misfortune. Loves “overcoming” stories and inspiration porn. Believes in mind over matter. Thinks if only the disabled have the right attitude, well, anything could be possible. Forgets there were optimists on the Titanic.

  1.   “The Wag Staff”

Loves to lecture about disability but has none himself. Plenty of academics fall into this category but also NGO types and charity officials. They live without irony or nuance but boy can they talk.