Meditations In An Emergency -Frank O'Hara

Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French?

Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there'll be nothing left with which to venture forth.

Why should I share you? Why don't you get rid of someone else for a change? I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves.

However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes--I can't even enjoy a blade of grass unless i know there's a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally _regret_ life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. Do they know what they're missing?

Uh huh.

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them still. If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I would stay at home and do something. It's not that I'm curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it's my duty to be attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the earth. And lately, so great has _their_ anxiety become, I can spare myself little sleep.

Now there is only one man I like to kiss when he is unshaven. Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How best discourage her?)

St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How I am to become a legend, my dear? I've tried love, but that holds you in the bosom of another and I'm always springing forth from it like the lotus--the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, "to keep the filth of life away," yes, even in the heart, where the filth is pumped in and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in that department, that greenhouse.

Destroy yourself, if you don't know!

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you've set. It's like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

"Fanny Brown is run away--scampered off with a Cornet of Horse; I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho' She has vexed me by this exploit a little too.--Poor silly Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her.--I wish She had a good Whipping and 10,000 pounds."--Mrs. Thrale

I've got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I'll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don't want me to go where you go, so I go where
you don't want me to. It's only afternoon, there's a lot ahead. There won't be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in the lock and the knob turns.

'Mad Men': Smart, subtle character study

In the first episode of the second season of "Mad Men," there's a great moment - in fact, many great moments - that immediately justify the runaway critical acclaim for this series while underscoring the primary mechanism for its brilliance, which is acute subtlety.

Don Draper (Jon Hamm), the central character in AMC's "Mad Men," and perhaps the only figure in prime-time television to be absolutely mired in existentialism, is at a bar, having a drink. This should come as no surprise, even to new fans interested in jumping on the heavily hyped, multi-Emmy-nominated drama, which starts Sunday. Drinking and smoking and stylized sets and clothes are the touchstones of the series and are frequently mentioned in the buzz that surrounds the show.

Almost none of the coverage for "Mad Men" explains that this is a show about interiors.

So Draper, the advertising executive at the heart of darkness that is this contemplative character study, is not out of place having a drink at midday.

But, as he's about to find out, he's out of place in the world. (He always has been - it's one of the primary drives in the "Mad Men" narrative - but Season 2 looks to be bringing this personal isolation into sharper focus.) Sitting at the bar with Draper is another man, perhaps slightly younger, reading Frank O'Hara's "Meditations in an Emergency," a collection of poems from the young, acclaimed poet. Don remarks that reading at the bar is a convenient excuse for not doing anything, not being at work. He barely hears the reply, which is a veiled swipe at the notion that doing something (like work) is even important.

"Is it good?" Draper asks the other man. "I don't think you'd like it," comes the reply. And there's an ever-so-faint look on Draper's face - the kind of nuanced acting that Hamm is rightfully getting credit for - he can't quite figure out whether he's been insulted or if it's merely the end of a conversation going nowhere between two disparate men.

But right in that moment, series creator and main writer Matthew Weiner has reset the hook on what's so alluring about Don Draper and "Mad Men." Times are changing. Men like Draper don't really know it yet, but the world has inched in a different direction from the way they are going. It's a wonderful scene, evocative of the nuances at the heart of "Mad Men." It's note perfect. Understated, undersold.

Out of place

Later Draper will be seen reading "Meditations in an Emergency," looking as if he's trying to understand some kind of coded text, some message he doesn't quite get. (No doubt copies will be flying off the shelves soon.) In some way, the poems are a message from the future - which is already surfacing in the New York that Draper walks through every day. And the insinuation is that despite his not being a man who values poetry - he's an adman, after all - there's something in the words that made a connection. At the end of the episode, part of one of the poems is voiced as Draper walks down the street looking, as always, out of place.

The first two episodes of "Mad Men" reaffirm its place in the upper echelon of television dramas. The writing is a real thing of beauty - from the aforementioned nuance to searing workplace witticisms and pitch-perfect tone from a multitude of characters. You can't overstate how accomplished "Mad Men" is at understanding the vagaries of dialogue among disparate characters.

So too is the acting. Hopefully "Mad Men's" subtlety will appeal to the new viewers expected to turn out in response to the series' rising profile. You don't find a lot of physicality in "Mad Men" - fights or guns or running or screaming fits. The series is mannered. The first season took place in 1960 for a reason: The country was still living in a 1950s-influenced time. The roiling decade ahead was in its nascent form. For the Don Drapers of the world, change was going to be what other people did, at least initially. The racism and sexism and old-school values and habits (which often form the basis for the best jokes in "Mad Men") were in their DNA.

Others at Draper's advertising firm, Sterling Cooper, are aware of the changes, but not the series' central character. Paul Kinsey (Michael Gladis), one of the copywriters at the firm, has grown a beard and started smoking a pipe, playing at being hipper than he really is. Even Draper's disaffected wife, Betty (January Jones), is feeling the cultural plates shift below her.

Kennedy era has begun

Weiner has smartly started Season 2 in 1962. John Kennedy is in the White House. A new era has begun. Draper is the core of the "Mad Men" universe. His worldview is beginning to be at odds (especially in advertising) with what is percolating up in the zeitgeist. He's only 36 and straddling two eras. Even in two episodes, you can tell that Weiner and company will be mining the change for all it's worth. When Joan (Christina Hendricks), the office manager at Sterling Cooper, goes to a would-be bohemian party that Paul throws, she sees that he's got an African American girlfriend and calls him out the next day in the office.

"You, out there in your poor little rich-boy apartment in Newark or wherever. Walking around with your pipe and your beard. Falling in love with that girl just to show how interesting you are." When Paul looks peeved, Joan adds casually, "Go ahead. What part is wrong?"

In perfect contrast, Draper is not playing at being someone other than himself or embracing change - mostly because he doesn't truly know who he is or where he fits. No doubt all around him will grapple at a quicker pace with what 1962 really means - his wife, his co-workers, the agency. His existential state might not yet be an emergency, but it's something Don Draper will have to meditate on, and that's going to make for compelling television of the smartest (and possibly most subversive) kind.

Meditations In An Emergency

Tonight was the premiere of the second season of AMC's Mad Men (great show), and one short scene led me to a pretty cool poem. One of the central characters is eating lunch in a bar and strikes up a conversation with the barfly to his right, who's intently reading Mediations In An Emergency by Frank O'Hara. The show, set in the early 1960's, is great about little details of the era, so I decided to google the book. Turns out it's a book of selected poetry, and the following is a short part of the poem by the same name:

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time;
they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and
disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away.
Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me
restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them
still. If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I
would stay at home and do something. It's not that I'm
curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it's my duty to be
attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the
earth. And lately, so great has their anxiety become, I can
spare myself little sleep.