Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Thursday, June 23, 2011

George Rosen, historian of medicine: birthday 6-23-1910

I came across a photocopy of George Rosen's birth certificate in a box and was delighted by the information that it contained. His name on the certificate is Joseph, not George. Joseph or the Yiddish Yussel was changed when he entered the New York Public system. Either because of a misunderstanding or a preference for George, my father miraculously became known as George Rosen. Once so named, he never changed it. His mother Rose Engelman and his father Morris Rosen had emigrated from Russia. Rose was 22, Morris 23. My grandfather's occupation is given as a laundryman. The birth, my grandmother's first, was at home, at 365 Osborn Street in Brooklyn. A nearby family member L. Rosenson signed as a witness. Rosenson was obviously shortened to Rosen. I do not know the relationship between Morris and "L." This document corrects an error in Saul Benison's fine biographical essay on his friend George. That essay appeared in the Festschrift which my father was never able to enjoy, since he died in the summer of 1977, before its publication. Benison wrote that my father grew up on the Lower East Side. Clearly that was not the case. But what was this area of Brooklyn like in 1910?

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

A skull : in profile. drawn by nature

seeking signs in nature, a preoccupation of sixteenth-century science, but it is also found among religious believers. curious. The eye sees what the mind perceives, and that perception is predicated on concepts, memory, images, or belief systems as well as other phenomena. Curious. Vines that do not possess the capacity to visualize nonetheless create forms, geometric or otherwise that promote its well-being, its longevity, but which are not designs endowed with human thought or sentiment .

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

thinking of Michael R: wintertime but it was spring

Looking back and Looking at the future

devoid of the beautiful, a cursed world in the making

spring: 2 June 2011

spring is the season of lovers. velvet air caresses the skin and puffs of erotic wind casually, tenderly touch the body. but not this year. spring never settled in. she was chased by frigid winter, forcing her to flee into the arms of summer. never did she have time to lower herself onto the cool delicious new grass of green, and warmed by a mirthful sun tickling her with splashes of warm gold light. no. not 2011.

the garden is bedecked with flowers of spring, adorned with blue, red, yellow, white, a radiant rainbow of hues, but the sun uttered a curse, and cast blasts of heat, weltering heat fit for summer when the corn prepares herself for fall harvest. what has happened. why have the gods robbed us of the sweetest season, the season of love?