tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-142232702024-03-17T00:52:09.124-07:00Captain Future's Dreaming Up DailyHope in a Darkening Age...
news, comment, arts, ecology, wisdom, obsessions, the past, the future...
"THE END OF ALL INTELLIGENT ANALYSIS IS TO CLEAR THE WAY FOR SYNTHESIS."--H.G. Wells. "It's always a leap into the unknown future to write anything."--Margaret Atwood "Be kind, be useful, be fearless."--President Barack Obama.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger6397125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-17074480225843888552024-03-17T00:11:00.000-07:002024-03-17T00:51:34.815-07:00History of My Reading: Bluebird of Nothingness<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGQr5gay-_MPdQ-IcJJg6ElX4G3yHomamFOe6piFIwsgr4yzZDzssWHAGCTMfuZTEtmb-de9WPxAB5scML4MLa0Jk0SHjY2QqUwjI9tyWgsBezKJg2DnTFC5WcnJHC3dIMpIttn8v7YaZoOE1idzNT6qBIFWyft3hajIIITMveN0eQ2zp5FYNB/s1609/flograd02a.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1609" data-original-width="1270" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGQr5gay-_MPdQ-IcJJg6ElX4G3yHomamFOe6piFIwsgr4yzZDzssWHAGCTMfuZTEtmb-de9WPxAB5scML4MLa0Jk0SHjY2QqUwjI9tyWgsBezKJg2DnTFC5WcnJHC3dIMpIttn8v7YaZoOE1idzNT6qBIFWyft3hajIIITMveN0eQ2zp5FYNB/w506-h640/flograd02a.jpg" width="506" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flora Severini high school graduation photo 1938 from a local newspaper</td></tr></tbody></table><br />In late January 1974 my father called me in Cambridge to say
my mother was in the hospital again and I should come home as soon as I
could. I did. She had passed the five -year mark that was supposed to indicate
she was safe from cancer’s recurrence, but nevertheless it had returned.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> She was in a hospital in Pittsburgh for evaluation and
treatment, but basically because of her alarming condition. I soon learned that
when my father had called, he’d been told she might not last the night. When I
got there, she was out of immediate danger but was being given morphine for her
severe pain. When she was conscious she talked a great deal, at times abruptly
and irrationally, so that I barely recognized her. But at other times she spoke
more calmly, with such conviction that even her strangest insights were
compelling. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The one instance I recall was her insistence that there was
an essential piece of information in the work of Christopher Morley, and that a
certain high school classmate would know what it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She pleaded with me to search it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So even as I knew how crazy it was I found this classmate from
Youngwood High School in the late 1930s and called her from a pay phone near
the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course she didn’t know
anything but that they had both liked Morley’s writing. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdIGG73WqLNACTHsvQQLqfTpwSp23-pR00yJBpWN5SzeWQbuOeiV5WcSLZrNLq7sH2ri1SwQyXbjexwEAMXB7S7x3aQFbxNh7MJezdqEP6bIVotOyQim6dA2SLzhwEjM_GyA3WAhyphenhyphenoTuzN6iSdANEdUoTdq0nD3zVknLKifU7NVWxCHI-RFQVR/s310/KittyFoyle.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="220" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdIGG73WqLNACTHsvQQLqfTpwSp23-pR00yJBpWN5SzeWQbuOeiV5WcSLZrNLq7sH2ri1SwQyXbjexwEAMXB7S7x3aQFbxNh7MJezdqEP6bIVotOyQim6dA2SLzhwEjM_GyA3WAhyphenhyphenoTuzN6iSdANEdUoTdq0nD3zVknLKifU7NVWxCHI-RFQVR/s1600/KittyFoyle.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>Morley was a prolific and well-known American journalist,
humorist, essayist, poet and novelist from the 1920s through the 40s. I don’t recall my mother mentioning him
before, but I now surmise that his 1939-1940 best-selling novel <i>Kitty Foyle</i>
(later a popular dramatic film starring Ginger Rodgers) was something she would
have read. It was about the trials of a young working class woman from a small
town who joined the new generation of overworked and underpaid office workers,
and had romantic—and tragic--misadventures in confronting the biases of the wealthy ruling class. Flora Severini, my
mother, grew up in a small town in an immigrant family of modest means,
graduated high school in 1938, and did some subsequent secretarial and clerical work, among
other jobs before her marriage. But what she
remembered in the hospital, if anything real, remained a mystery.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> After a few days she had improved enough that she was taken
off morphine and given other medication for pain. But the doctors also concluded that further treatment of the
disease itself was useless. She was taken to Westmoreland Hospital in our
hometown of Greensburg. She had been
employed by that hospital for more than a decade, beginning when I was around 11
years old. She’d worked her way up from
a night shift clerk to an administrator and head of her department. Though she hadn’t worked there for several years due to her illness, she was known and loved there.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLIMm-wTAsAfvCNsdzUlnwv3S0kaq9l8b5IcP_4c1akgs3WObxa6GvdMJZMkGqC57VmaayfqxNiiE167N9dkStjMb-2b_mAXGiTen0Zs0MXNQQuFynXDSewr-ruYw9UOLSkaMQbKg4W1JA-0o7euyl0gs97cmeMLBR0eB5ZpMGzl5odjPvz0IQ/s2048/florafirstcom.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1653" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLIMm-wTAsAfvCNsdzUlnwv3S0kaq9l8b5IcP_4c1akgs3WObxa6GvdMJZMkGqC57VmaayfqxNiiE167N9dkStjMb-2b_mAXGiTen0Zs0MXNQQuFynXDSewr-ruYw9UOLSkaMQbKg4W1JA-0o7euyl0gs97cmeMLBR0eB5ZpMGzl5odjPvz0IQ/s320/florafirstcom.jpg" width="258" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flora's First Communion photo</td></tr></tbody></table> She was given a private room, the last at the end of a
corridor on an upper floor. Across from
her room was a visitors’ lounge. Much
of the time our family had it to ourselves.
Only a few of us could be in my mother’s room at a time. Besides myself, there was my father and my
sisters, Kathy and Debbie, joined many times by Kathy’s six year old daughter
Chrissy, Debbie’s boyfriend Jerry, Kathy’s boyfriend Chad. My uncle Carl, Flora’s younger brother came
often from his job in Pittsburgh or his home in Murrysville, and eventually her
younger sister Antoinette, who taught school in Maryland, came for the
duration. My grandmother was nearly always there. Other relatives who lived in
the area dropped by, as did Flora’s friends, especially those who worked with
her at the hospital.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Though her pain meds were less intense, my mother struggled
with their effects. At times she was
lucid but dreamy. Her bed faced a large window, and I remember one day when we
watched fast moving clouds over Seton Hill College, high on a distant hill. The
school was built around the last remnants of what had been the most elaborate
dwelling in Greensburg, built by a wealthy industrialist. According to Andrew Carnegie, it was where
he saw his first private library as a young railroad employee, and was inspired
to someday build his own.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Seen from the south, the college now was a collection of
massive stone and brick buildings, replete with spires and turrets. That day
she said it reminded her of <i>Wuthering Heights</i>. I said that when I was younger, and gazing out at it from the
living room picture window in our house on a different hill, I used to imagine
it as a castle, and associated it with Robin Hood.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> (In fact my mother and I had seen it from a much closer
vantage point in our first home together in the late 40s, from an attic
apartment on College Avenue, at the foot of that long hill.) </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLZECepIlm_yhWm-NyOzt6Q0QoiafEtPipisB49lZprD-sGSAFyZFuakjp9yd5PKiCObzveeR_Jpmwaug0fMRU4zWq4xRGmHD6BSl0o3j9t7upribCCc3-A06K_0_TAIVp4OGcF-vqKW4hIZP30zhlaNESGpDNlzwlzyc7Xu4b_AQnY7f3XSur/s1143/flodreamer%20at%201601.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="903" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLZECepIlm_yhWm-NyOzt6Q0QoiafEtPipisB49lZprD-sGSAFyZFuakjp9yd5PKiCObzveeR_Jpmwaug0fMRU4zWq4xRGmHD6BSl0o3j9t7upribCCc3-A06K_0_TAIVp4OGcF-vqKW4hIZP30zhlaNESGpDNlzwlzyc7Xu4b_AQnY7f3XSur/s320/flodreamer%20at%201601.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flora at 16. On the back she'd<br />written "The Dreamer"</td></tr></tbody></table>There were moments I found my mother’s dreamy talk, with its
sudden associations, its quick and at times surreal changes and non sequiturs
(she once referred to “the letter Pete”) much more comfortable than what I was
seeing and hearing around me. The daily
incongruities, the grotesque contrasts, set to the cheerful inanities from the
television; the strained conversations and hospital absurdities, were hard to
take. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But both the pain meds and the pain played havoc with her
lucidity. She got to the point that she (briefly) refused to eat, because she
said she didn’t want to wake up one more day and not know where she was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><b><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">F</span></b>or the roughly eight weeks I was there, I lived in the
family home. I’d been there in November
and most recently at Christmas. For some reason I had recorded the meal my
mother made me the night before I started back to Cambridge: a hot turkey
sandwich, mashed potatoes and gravy, and corn--probably made from Christmas
leftovers. It would turn out to be the
last meal she made me, out of many. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I went to the hospital every day, sometimes with my father
but often on my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t far: I
could see it—and had seen it most of my life—from that same picture
window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our house was on a hill just
outside the city limits, and the hospital was on the next hill within the city
itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So now I often walked to the
hospital, on very familiar streets.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> I walked down along the West Newton Road to Hamilton Avenue,
facing the corner where, as the first-born child, I’d waited with my mother for
the green Hamilton-Stanton bus to downtown.
As I crossed Hamilton, a few blocks to my right was the building where
I’d first gone to school—it was called Sacred Heart then. It had been built when my mother was a girl,
living close by, though she was already going to the nearest public school.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> If I chose to walk on Hamilton along its upward slope, I
passed houses where schoolmates had lived, and the church rectory. Down an alley was the old church where I’d
had my First Communion and Confirmation, and where I’d served Mass on many
early weekday mornings as well as Sundays.
This was likely the first church my grandparents and my mother had
attended in their New World.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Near the crest of
the hill at Pittsburgh Street was the house where some Severini relatives still
lived. In the 1920s it was where my
grandparents and mother first lived in America. Looking ahead to where Hamilton terminated, I could see the
corner that once hosted a pizza place, where as a young adolescent I played the
nickel jukebox and mourned the sudden early death of Buddy Holly. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhC82yTWC2yi2FH4n4qXw1WgG7IjUbNeCxnM1WQeOpbYA8h0GjKIkOLOrOjk88zrahZ0BJcMOVFoCx303CRRWdoB2gzXGAWUFir2KKnrMUAxIeNUdRMI7u-GU5wJZ-cZ8oG53TMG-tfuX544W1LcP5CoosvvgTOI0dFM3GAwcwRwA2lMXx52x/s767/westm%20hospfa%20(2).jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="767" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhC82yTWC2yi2FH4n4qXw1WgG7IjUbNeCxnM1WQeOpbYA8h0GjKIkOLOrOjk88zrahZ0BJcMOVFoCx303CRRWdoB2gzXGAWUFir2KKnrMUAxIeNUdRMI7u-GU5wJZ-cZ8oG53TMG-tfuX544W1LcP5CoosvvgTOI0dFM3GAwcwRwA2lMXx52x/w320-h222/westm%20hospfa%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pittsburgh St. approach to Westmoreland Hospital</td></tr></tbody></table>Up the steep hill of Pittsburgh Street—again passing family
homes of high school classmates—was the entrance of Westmoreland Hospital,
where I’d been born. But it was now connected to a newer, taller building, and
was at least twice the size in 1974 as it had been in 1946.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Or if I wanted the shorter way I might come at it from
behind by walking straight up West Newton St. toward downtown, as I had
countless times, carrying a baseball glove or books to return to the library,
or 25 cents for the Saturday afternoon movies plus a nickel for a box of Dots
or Root Beer Barrels. But this time I
would cut across on side streets to the hospital parking lot.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> I was there at all hours and often walked home late at
night, reacquainting myself with a sky full of stars that had been hidden from
me in Cambridge. Or seeing those old streets from the other side of dawn. I enjoyed these walks, especially returning home. Even if the air was cold and damp it was
better than the stale florescent blankness inside the hospital. Occasionally I
would escape for a few minutes outside, just to feel the rare winter sun on my
face, and be assured it was still there. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> I kept irregular hours and slept in spurts or great
chunks. Once in mid-March after falling
asleep just after midnight I awoke at 2 a.m. in the silent house, and looked
out the picture window into the now snowy night. Through snowflakes I saw the white street lights, the green light
down at the crossroads, the lit dome of the Court House, the Cathedral obscured
by snow and trees. I saw a township
truck with sand for the roads stuck on my street, its yellow light turning and
its wheels whining.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26_unnrQRZy7KxEWwuzb9nNOf8fKpq6mgXvIkU19cgs1Onz2vo3W4H9mP1ROv4e6r-MPbbxUXee2puIqO0Q1zjuAAOluw0kPmkwsEEvxwE2R6q6hLdJzspOIJW8M_gn-1C0PCYnX0bFwg4DCvUSalJjx6hJRjMiXJokqs1jxN3wiICPOvT_C9/s970/florworldfair3.1.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="970" data-original-width="862" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26_unnrQRZy7KxEWwuzb9nNOf8fKpq6mgXvIkU19cgs1Onz2vo3W4H9mP1ROv4e6r-MPbbxUXee2puIqO0Q1zjuAAOluw0kPmkwsEEvxwE2R6q6hLdJzspOIJW8M_gn-1C0PCYnX0bFwg4DCvUSalJjx6hJRjMiXJokqs1jxN3wiICPOvT_C9/s320/florworldfair3.1.jpg" width="284" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flora at the 1939 New York World's Fair</td></tr></tbody></table> At first I did get away from the hospital at times, to escape
the threatening tedium and persistent overload, and absorbing some sense of
Greensburg now, where the late 60s I had left behind were still making waves. I
recall once being in an unfamiliar bar in a familiar oddly shaped
building--when it was new, it was the hip new food place eatery on Otterman
Street where my father took me for hot chocolate after my Confirmation. Now it featured drinks and a live rock band,
and I remember standing too close to a guitar speaker, the music burning
through me.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later I couldn’t stray far from my mother’s room, but I
recall once feeling so stir-crazy that I called my old friend Clayton and
extracted him from his family dinner to sit with me in a restaurant near the
hospital. Once I escaped by myself up to Pennsylvania Avenue to a movie
theatre, but alerted the manager that I might get a phone call from the
hospital, and I sat at the end of the aisle at the back. I don’t remember what was playing. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> By early March, some remaining Cambridge and Boston Phoenix
friends had learned from my housemate where I was and why, and I got a few
letters. Housemate Andrea herself wrote
about house matters but also gossip. I
got Phoenix and “poetry biz” gossip from Celia Gilbert, and Janet Maslin wrote
about hosting Joni Mitchell when she was in Boston for a concert. She even went bowling with her and her
traveling entourage. Joni’s team always
won, she reported: she had been on her high school bowling team and she had
skills.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As this is ostensibly a series about my reading, it is worth
recording that splayed on a plastic cushioned chair in the small narrow visitors lounge, or eating
countless toasted cheese and other bland sandwiches and slurping endless weak
coffees at the brown counter of the hospital snack and gift shop (“The
Hospitality Shop”) for those eight weeks, I was probably reading something
almost constantly, but I don’t recall what.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember there wasn’t a lot of choice. The lounge (according to one of the
notebooks and scraps that have survived) had a scattering of old magazines—months’
old Time, years old Sports Illustrated.
The Hospitality Shop had little of interest on its publications racks:
lots of women’s magazines (“Cancer Tests That Can Save Your Life,” and 29
Spring Hairdos, plus the latest on the Kennedys and the Nixons), rifle
magazines and True Detectives, gothic novels and comic books, and books of
crossword puzzles. My father bought
those. He did dozens of them in that
visitors’ lounge.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> There were books at home: a miscellany of my mother’s book
club books, books I’d left behind and some acquired by my sister Kathy and left
there. Among my fugitives was probably
a set of three F. Scott Fitzgerald novels-- a few quotes in a notebook suggests
that I re-read Fitzgerald’s <i>Tender Is The Night.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuGIQeqMS0zbNPQXffXZGL3BfoG6MbOqRyCzbh_1zIZuJ-vIXG4JkfhH9JZPSpnrR9lJv4CfKmozE5wBNOO2AzUIyXPrb5rRe88b9NNwR4xLnBDtOPQULziC89NyFAJoFrF3JL1yyYaf4lmYYaCDQFnIsd2kipy6EFPDlX0228zZLxsyj3b5Vk/s550/nesbit.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuGIQeqMS0zbNPQXffXZGL3BfoG6MbOqRyCzbh_1zIZuJ-vIXG4JkfhH9JZPSpnrR9lJv4CfKmozE5wBNOO2AzUIyXPrb5rRe88b9NNwR4xLnBDtOPQULziC89NyFAJoFrF3JL1yyYaf4lmYYaCDQFnIsd2kipy6EFPDlX0228zZLxsyj3b5Vk/s320/nesbit.jpg" width="209" /></a></div> The one book I associate with this time was a children’s
book, but not from my own childhood (though, for example, the My Book House set
was still there.) It was a hardback
with an orange cover of <i>The New Treasure Seekers </i>by E. Nesbit. It was evidently bought used, probably by
Kathy, possibly to read to Chrissy. I’d
never heard of Nesbit, but I was completely charmed by this book. It was a very English set of childhood
adventures in the late 19<sup>th</sup> century. The tales of the Bastable family are supposedly told by the
eldest, Oswald, who suggests that when he grows up he hopes to be a pirate in
his spare time. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Racial, ethnic and class attitudes of the times get a little
squirmy now and then, though the children always have their hearts in the right
place. It’s very well written, and over
the years I’ve acquired and read several more E. Nesbit children’s books. When I first started reading the Harry
Potter books, E. Nesbit was the first possible influence that came to mind, and
I was pleased when J.K. Rowling said so. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> This book did not remind me of my childhood, though I
suppose you could say indirectly it did. It offered an alternative space, which
I guess counts as escape. Still, as far as I recall, I did not seek or find
inspiration or solace or anything profound in my reading in those weeks, partly
I assume because those hours were characterized by the need to be vaguely alert
amidst the tense boredom and exhaustion that mostly resulted in a persistent
spaciness, with sharp moments that were emotional and yet complex and
ambiguous, and very new to me. I don’t
know what this absence in my reading means.
I still don’t know what any of it meant. I do recall that I guiltily experienced so much of it as
grotesque. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> In particular I did not read about death, though beyond
poetry and philosophy there wasn’t much to read yet specifically about dealing
with the situation we were in. It was
still something of a forbidden topic, which might help account for the fact
that visitors didn’t really know what to say.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Everyone knew my mother was dying, and no one said so—least
of all to her. When the doctors in Pittsburgh told us but not her, I was
angry. My father followed the
authority, the expert. I somewhat
self-righteously announced that if my mother ever asked me, I would tell her.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Just after one of the doctor’s infrequent visits, probably
in early March, she admitted that she almost asked him if she was ever getting
out of this room, but was afraid of the answer. So I kept quiet about it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVSpv4PSIDq0fA2vAQNUb7jX__XlznqDWnV2jeyKkjrxsuRi7eIV5WH2XGdAIIPbsdPFsXFHssZXcJa51JhK839UsdXimZOEac_-4RVJ5Qohd5gxGRW5bciDmO9pMQGLC2_4hS_d_aSqXX5E22zQcH6yiHN4hFIKvfQkPbGZ7gQR6QRcu-TJLX/s405/flora44aj.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="405" data-original-width="310" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVSpv4PSIDq0fA2vAQNUb7jX__XlznqDWnV2jeyKkjrxsuRi7eIV5WH2XGdAIIPbsdPFsXFHssZXcJa51JhK839UsdXimZOEac_-4RVJ5Qohd5gxGRW5bciDmO9pMQGLC2_4hS_d_aSqXX5E22zQcH6yiHN4hFIKvfQkPbGZ7gQR6QRcu-TJLX/s320/flora44aj.jpg" width="245" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flora in her back yard 1944</td></tr></tbody></table> When she was asleep or it was my turn to retreat to the
lounge, I wrote letters (I specifically remember writing to Carol) and in
notebooks. I noted the plethora of smoking in the hospital: smoke choking the
few green plants; standing ashtrays full of butts under a No Smoking sign. Perhaps
that’s what sent me to the public library, to look up stories on smoking in the
Reader’s Guide to Periodical Literature, with an eye to eventually doing my own
article.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Generally we were a hapless and helpless lot. We stood around, we sat around. The television
in her room was a cynically cheerful counterpoint, though once I saw that it
scared her—it was Nixon on the screen, and she was afraid of him. Watergate was well underway, it had been for
years; it was just five months or so from President Nixon’s resignation.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Visitors came and went, most of them (like us) not really
knowing what to say, struggling against the desire to get back to their lives,
and the fear of facing sickness unto death.
I hadn’t yet read Tolstoy’s <i>The Death of Ivan Illych</i> but by the
time I did, this aspect of it would be familiar. Years later, I taught this novella in an evening class with
Margaret; the students were nurses from this very hospital.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> It struck me as hypocritical, but it was very human:the false optimism, both hollow and helpless, with everyone playing the cheerfulness no
one could actually feel: the bluebird of nothingness. It was a phrase I
scribbled in my notebook at the time.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> When there were visitors in her more alert moments, I
noticed my mother playing hostess, smoothing over any awkwardness with
questions and conversation, calming their conflicting emotions and unease,
their nervousness, their fear to get too close.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> We in the family who
were there every day were so dependent on the nurses. When one was bad, it led to alarm, anxiety and prolonged
discussions of what to do. Then she was
replaced by an older nurse, who immediately took charge. She was from “the sticks,” where she had a
pet crow. Her vocabulary and
pronunciation said she lacked education and sophistication. But she had a sure touch, physically and
otherwise. My mother told her she was
worried that she couldn’t help with the family’s problems. “You let them take care of their problems,”
Gussie said, “and we’ll take care of yours.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Over the weeks, the pain and the fog got worse. “A dream within a dream within a dream,” she
said. When asked how the pain was, she didn’t know. She couldn’t remember feeling it in the night. Sometimes she couldn’t say how she felt at
that moment. She improvised, sometimes
getting canny about her responses, and subtly suspicious, then sometimes
abruptly frustrated because she wasn’t sure what she was being told and not
told. At times she wanted it to be
over, and the next second she prayed that she could get up and walk.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> each breath was a cry</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">in that landscape of soft-edged</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">denial</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">but for now:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">three merged</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">sighs of sleep</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">in the last hour</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">before dawn</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and the next uncertain moment</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> She found some
escape. She’d said that she’d been
thinking about England, she didn’t know why. (I expect it was that view of
Seton Hill.) But it had an eerie
feeling, she said. Later she had times
during several days when she believed that she was actually in England. She had never been there but she named
places she had perhaps seen in the movies or photographs or just read about,
like Trafalgar Square.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9lBSpla28uWwCtnmRNBGzf3Y8U88UpDciUK5m2pxtMr7zaWvb-xdY9OyZJA1irV3NvROdvGOGfqlHrdLxkprIfY9LzRCs_oot7ZI555UJyS5sbcL6E3RTJT9odSj-IU6M21nEHK-sOBVDphatqdSFU4CTCvFYWHcGvl_a5OuNwnWGVJD5cfcl/s1632/walflora45.1.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1632" data-original-width="1412" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9lBSpla28uWwCtnmRNBGzf3Y8U88UpDciUK5m2pxtMr7zaWvb-xdY9OyZJA1irV3NvROdvGOGfqlHrdLxkprIfY9LzRCs_oot7ZI555UJyS5sbcL6E3RTJT9odSj-IU6M21nEHK-sOBVDphatqdSFU4CTCvFYWHcGvl_a5OuNwnWGVJD5cfcl/s320/walflora45.1.jpg" width="277" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walt and Flora in 1945, year of their marriage</td></tr></tbody></table> Probably in mid March, my father’s father, my paternal
grandfather Frank Kowinski, came to visit, and sat for some minutes at her
bedside in his somber dark suit. In my life I’d seen him maybe a half dozen
times outside of the home he shared with his daughter and her family in the
“coal patch” town of United, the house where my father grew up, built by the
United Coal Company. He probably still frequented the nearby Calumet Club, but
otherwise, he seemed to spend most of his time alone in his basement. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Some time after he left my mother said, “When I saw that old
man, I knew I had to be dying. That’s
the only thing that could get him here.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> But it was also probably in mid-March that Debbie and her
boyfriend Jerry talked to her alone, to tell her they were engaged to be
married. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At times my mother still spoke from a different realm. I wrote down what she
said to me late at night on Saturday, March 16.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this remove I can only guess where I might have embellished a
bit, but this is the essence of it, including most of the words:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> “One hundred years, one hundred years, one hundred years, to
sleep, you’re sleepy, go ahead. You’re
sleepy, aren’t you? Go ahead and sleep. Go ahead and sleep.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s too late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There. It’s gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I want you to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Put on your coat and get your things and go
away and forget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forget
everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then write it all down
on paper, as something you have forgotten for a long time and then suddenly
remembered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now don’t move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t get up or you will die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Promise me, promise me that you’ll lie back,
lie back and sleep and never get up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And write it all down on paper, remember that your mother told you,
think of other worlds…Now go, please, promise me that you’ll go now.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> And yet soon she seemed much better. That week she even sat
up in a chair for the first time in awhile.
We wondered at it, but the nurse cautioned us. She’d seen this before, just ahead of the end.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> The room became more
cheerful. Debbie repositioned some of
Chrissie’s painting high on the glass window of the door. Near the bed was a ceramic goldfinch I’d
purchased from the Hospitality Shop, when my mother wished for a bird to perch
on the window ledge. It’s now on a shelf looking over my left shoulder.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> On Sunday, March 17, she sat up in bed and looked out on a
bright day. She watched a clear blue sunny sky, and white clouds passing by
slowly, slowly moving in one direction, some slowly breaking up, with pieces
floating upward, and she listened to the wind blowing.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Sunday evening she
was visited by a priest and I believe made her confession, though I don’t
remember being around at the time. By then she believed she was dying. Sunday night she had the whole family gathered around her and she said
her final goodbye to everyone. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> But when the moment was over, life resumed as if it hadn’t
happened. She asked for the television
to be turned on. It was a Peanuts
special, which nobody watched. She
hadn’t been eating much, even with her mother and her children feeding
her. But now she ate one of the Girl
Scout cookies someone had bought, a chocolate one. Everyone else also had one, like a communion. Then she napped, and awoke to ask if the bills had been
paid.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Later she called me to her.
“ A long time ago, there was something I wanted to do. I almost did it one night a long time ago,
but I didn’t. Everything sounds
melodramatic coming out of this mouth, but now I guess it’s ok, I’m getting
things straight in my mind bit by bit.
But today I did it, and I’m so glad.
I’m so glad I did it and it’s done.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> “What did you do?”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> “I can’t tell you.
It was a little thing but it was the world and life and religion, you
know. I don’t know why I want to tell
you these things but I do. And now
everything that I do, I’ll start and finish, start and finish, and the past is
past, with nothing to do with the past.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By then her sister Antoinette was there, my Aunt
Toni, who my mother called Ant. Once my
mother was talking in spontaneous rhyme.
“She used to write poetry,” Ant said, and asked her, “Do you still write
poetry?” “Yes,” she said. “Where is it? Where is your poetry?” “Billy has it.” I didn’t, or maybe I did.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> On the following Monday she was feeling worse. “Something is wrong. I don’t know what it is. I try to get through but nobody understands. I can’t tell what it is, because I don’t
know what it is.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> “I told you before, that I wanted to be pretty. I didn’t want everyone to have to see me
when I wasn’t pretty. I’m sorry for
that. I wanted to make it easier. But I couldn’t make it easier.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> The last conversation I had with her was short and
convoluted. I don’t remember what it
was about, something to do with how she was feeling at the moment, and finding the
nurse. I don’t recall what I said. But
I do remember that she said: “If I trust anybody, I trust you.” I still wonder if I earned that trust, or
how. But that’s the last conversation
we had, and possibly the last words she spoke, except perhaps to the nurse.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> By then we knew the end was very close, and we were there all the time, however bleary and
nearly numb. On Friday night, March 22,
my aunt came into the visitors’ lounge and quietly told us all to come into the
room. When we got there my mother was
breathing long throaty breaths. I
remember I was standing on her left side, at or near the head of the bed. We stood without a word as she took those
long heaving breaths until after an exhalation suddenly no inhalation came, just
a long silence, a true absence of any sound.
Only my grandmother cried. None of the rest of us moved, we just looked
down at my mother. Eventually Aunt Toni
standing across from me told us all we could touch her.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKIREuTMHUeSBokmnQXBhV5Rb9u_Out3cUAIj_rMjjXSTTzsCjBu1XCaEwmx7ZTogEuDGyLvIBUgT9XGQSQkJAZBVyKjKKdlI4WrBQTs1cWQvwXP8O48m6ozHiOGs3IQ8wiVsRZQ8M1NgrfSumS9CyF4TLrtv4I24IPR-49-mNZkmskI8DPfQ/s640/snowman2.1a.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="640" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKIREuTMHUeSBokmnQXBhV5Rb9u_Out3cUAIj_rMjjXSTTzsCjBu1XCaEwmx7ZTogEuDGyLvIBUgT9XGQSQkJAZBVyKjKKdlI4WrBQTs1cWQvwXP8O48m6ozHiOGs3IQ8wiVsRZQ8M1NgrfSumS9CyF4TLrtv4I24IPR-49-mNZkmskI8DPfQ/w400-h346/snowman2.1a.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mother and I making a snowman in front<br />of our first home together on College Ave.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> I certainly had been closer to my mother than I was with my
father, and I once overheard him telling his father that I had taken her death
harder than anyone. I wasn’t aware of
that at the time. At this remove, I see
myself then as a self-absorbed 27 year old, immersed in the world of contemporaries
in the contemporary world, with only a vague sense of the past and an anxious
purchase on the present, which was elsewhere.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> We had always written letters back and forth, talked on the
phone as much as long distance rates permitted, and we talked when I visited
home. At the time I still felt, as I
had since college, or perhaps since adolescence, that she and I inhabited
different worlds. The whole generation gap thing didn’t help. That distance and my defensiveness might
well have faded in time. In any case, I felt the deprivation, the absence of
her presence in subsequent years. I missed the conversations we might have had
as we both got older, comparing memories and sharing observations. She was only 54.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> But any process at that moment leading to any realization,
even any real grief, had to be withheld, to first confront what to me were the
bizarre protocols of the funeral, as they were in that time and place. </p><p class="MsoNormal"> I was a relative innocent to these. This was only the second
death in my close family. Although I
was home from college the summer my grandfather died, and I called some
relatives to tell them, wrote his obituary for the newspaper and served as a
pallbearer, that was the extent of my involvement with “the arrangements.” </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But now I suffered for the first time the (to me) absurd
rituals: reviewing the long rows of coffins to select one, listening to
discussions on the decision of a dress, of how to deal with relatives who felt
snubbed, while privacy was suddenly gone as people trooped through the house
with obscene amounts of food and solemn sentimentality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The loud incongruity of it—which I
experienced as indignity akin to cruelty—was too much for me. I erupted in
violence against several innocent objects in the storage garage.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> I was particularly appalled by the so-called “viewing” at
the funeral home. My mother’s body and
barely recognizable face in an open casket behind us and mostly ignored as the
family stood in a placid line facing the other way to chat amiably with people
we might not know well or hadn’t seen in years. Even the nun who had most made my high school life miserable and
who my mother despised, evidently showed up, although only Kathy saw her
entrance, now habitless (thanks to those late 60s reforms.) Even the Darvon or whatever I’d been given
to take to cope with these hours didn’t insulate me, and I quietly sailed for
the men’s room. Whereupon, my sister
said, the nun left in a huff. And the next day we did it again. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was however calm enough to appreciate the sincerity of the
women from the hospital who had worked in my mother’s department, and who
wanted us to know how much they admired her, how fair she was with
everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They wanted to tell their
story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, the venue freaked me out. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We gathered for the funeral Mass at the relatively new St.
Paul’s Church, just up to the next street from ours and across the Carbon Road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The church had originally been designed to eventually become a gymnasium for the adjacent new school, but funds (and a large enough
congregation) for a proper new church never materialized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On this morning, before the service could
begin and while the organist was played the preliminaries, a young altar boy in his
cassock and surplus suddenly ran out to the altar and began crying “Fire!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually we saw wisps of smoke coming from
the sacristy and cooler heads had everyone file out.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUv9dmwnkrosym7nwMeiC7EJmT1ZrcnmwEkZYi7IxL_ckbkuzGqNW0rdPVKSMX18TFDM2ls73W1qTKFSft_1wwktwYmjnUvIAJpNiusnqEJKrTAGpWjTl0SVWFhVJ2QGrbk17axJomQ_JSVhtvyY_5KD_m-SATkGS79TqGtXxxzEvlE2DcrdW/s1024/PA-01-WE7_001.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="1024" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUv9dmwnkrosym7nwMeiC7EJmT1ZrcnmwEkZYi7IxL_ckbkuzGqNW0rdPVKSMX18TFDM2ls73W1qTKFSft_1wwktwYmjnUvIAJpNiusnqEJKrTAGpWjTl0SVWFhVJ2QGrbk17axJomQ_JSVhtvyY_5KD_m-SATkGS79TqGtXxxzEvlE2DcrdW/w320-h230/PA-01-WE7_001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> Of the many people who attended, at this remove I remember
only my cousins on my mother’s side. We stood around the parking lot and sat in
cars as fire trucks arrived and departed, until we were told to go on to the
Blessed Sacrament Cathedral, a large, tall gray stone building with turrets and
spires, at the northern peak of Main Street in Greensburg. The funeral would take place there. Later the priest told the local newspaper
that if this service hadn’t been scheduled, the fire at St. Paul’s might not
have been discovered until much greater damage was done. Meanwhile, my mother got a funeral Mass in
the largest church in the county. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Shortly after the funeral I returned to Cambridge. I would not be back to Greensburg for awhile,
even missing the next Christmas.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-77852098056255312042024-03-11T03:06:00.000-07:002024-03-11T03:06:23.238-07:00The Lack of Repose<span style="font-size: medium;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWyg5_5l8cm7Ac7Qol26ZatKplof8TEI_mqj_9HQz_Hm7xBFSj3FJ6BRsS4ymChpZDzCm6P6kLRdLGoVei1smW0rwH-RVaMgiCt2eL7BxXWXxR5hrA05ygCJODjl_hLdS6xYN-wCR5wnDg066ry3YLFe9R_GarjChb7Izy3zfjoQf9PSFcEIxp/s981/cafe01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="981" data-original-width="736" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWyg5_5l8cm7Ac7Qol26ZatKplof8TEI_mqj_9HQz_Hm7xBFSj3FJ6BRsS4ymChpZDzCm6P6kLRdLGoVei1smW0rwH-RVaMgiCt2eL7BxXWXxR5hrA05ygCJODjl_hLdS6xYN-wCR5wnDg066ry3YLFe9R_GarjChb7Izy3zfjoQf9PSFcEIxp/w480-h640/cafe01.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />A young man seated at his table</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> Holds in his hand a book you have never written</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Staring at the secretions of the words as</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">They reveal themselves.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> It is not midnight. It is mid-day,</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The young man is well-disclosed, one of the gang,</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Andrew Jackson Something. But this book</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Is a cloud in which a voice mumbles.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">It is a ghost that inhabits a cloud,</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> But a ghost for Andrew, not lean, catarrhal</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">And pallid. It is the grandfather he liked,</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">With an understanding compounded by death.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> And the associations beyond death, even if only</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Time. What a thing it is to believe that</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">One understands, in the intense disclosures</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Of a parent in the French sense. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> And not yet to have written a book in which</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">One is already a grandfather and to have put there</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">A few sounds of meaning, a momentary end</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">To the complication, is good, is a good.
</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>--Wallace Stevens</i></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-40236184405027637412024-03-03T02:21:00.000-08:002024-03-03T02:34:01.998-08:00Who's Afraid...?<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyntk-4_hcvoDbb7FX_0zkz8bHr4rOPAvW46uKRInEshLysE2dUOOQYe4i5cz9NFpfdhGAzBCS00mdyH_8nhmwg2D1sjJnHUTPeaU426xQluGRqHeG7XsIzX-wqO93hBhCKCr7pFo0C8-uZwJFTpzH2W2fUkigUY9Q7Tqvn7CuwnBYev9ft7ao/s899/720px-Jean-Baptiste_Greuze_-_Fear,_Expression_Head_-_WGA10675%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyntk-4_hcvoDbb7FX_0zkz8bHr4rOPAvW46uKRInEshLysE2dUOOQYe4i5cz9NFpfdhGAzBCS00mdyH_8nhmwg2D1sjJnHUTPeaU426xQluGRqHeG7XsIzX-wqO93hBhCKCr7pFo0C8-uZwJFTpzH2W2fUkigUY9Q7Tqvn7CuwnBYev9ft7ao/w512-h640/720px-Jean-Baptiste_Greuze_-_Fear,_Expression_Head_-_WGA10675%20(1).jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Fear" by Jean-Baptist Greuze</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Fear, says a John Cale lyric, is a man’s best friend. In
certain situations it must be, or it would not have survived evolution’s
editing. Fear protects us from present
danger by igniting the instantaneous flight or fight response. When it wells up more slowly, it responds to
unconscious perceptions related to hidden danger, or the near prospect of it:
darkness and thrashing sounds, for example.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fear can give us an adrenalin buzz, which seems to be why
some people enjoy scary movies. But more generally, over time, fear is a
distinctly unpleasant feeling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It can
be paralyzing, all-encompassing, stressful and painful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We avoid fear whenever possible. One way of
avoiding fear is by denying that there’s something to be afraid of.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Denial in this sense, like fear, can also be a survival
tool. The most fearful thing in our
lives is our death, and yet the possibility of death exists every moment we are
alive. We can most easily escape the
paralysis or obsession of fear by ignoring this. And we do, or we couldn’t function. In this sense, it is healthy.
Carl Jung told an interviewer that among the old people who were his
patients, the healthier ones simply didn’t think much about their impending
deaths, and just got on with it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> But when fear is a response to a threat distant in time and
place, but still very real, it becomes more complicated and perhaps
perverted. The fear of a distant enemy
can become disproportionate, and abstracted into prejudice against all outsiders,
all others. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNl4c1G5LyNsqLMwSvXnhTkV4exHPkrbG2RNSL0QGQssG5oXZb10RKiXklFvOamykowHf4k0lpZ1XRds_3TNPhKRJpzvSM1fSIZWeRTlkfclTXrHVvUbzheWGCAcQW_3E9DoEcWnjJtGswhpsuywH0p269ldmhoSje-99YeXo-gyaraG-fC1X/s580/nagasaki.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="580" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNl4c1G5LyNsqLMwSvXnhTkV4exHPkrbG2RNSL0QGQssG5oXZb10RKiXklFvOamykowHf4k0lpZ1XRds_3TNPhKRJpzvSM1fSIZWeRTlkfclTXrHVvUbzheWGCAcQW_3E9DoEcWnjJtGswhpsuywH0p269ldmhoSje-99YeXo-gyaraG-fC1X/w400-h310/nagasaki.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nagasaki 1945</td></tr></tbody></table> With the dropping of two atomic bombs in 1945, each which
wiped out a city and left lingering effects that slowly killed many more than
died from the initial blast and fire, something awful entered civilized life.
World War II itself saw the final erosion of the distinction between combatants
and civilians in war, and massive airpower threatened sudden death to anyone,
anywhere. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> With thousands of guided missiles armed with thermonuclear
warheads by the early 1960s, the world had firmly entered an age of permanent
anxiety. Most everyone in the world, and civilization itself, could be
destroyed in an hour, any hour of any day.
Life could be normal, and the next second plunged into the horrors
imagined as hell.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Such is the prehistory of the politics of our moment. Though
for too many the horrors of war still exist, the interplay of fear and denial
in individuals and groups now goes beyond just that situation. It applies as
well to other cases of huge threats, including potential threats, which people
are or believe themselves to be powerless to stop or prevent.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> What are the responses to danger and the fear it
evokes? To run away from it, if that is
possible. To fight it—that is, to
address its effects, learn its causes and devise ways to end or neutralize
them. Or if the threat is not
immediately visible or loudly audible, simply to deny there is anything to be
afraid of.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> We all feel this impulse.
But today this denial has become a bonding mechanism in our
politics. Afraid of the effects of the
climate crisis? Deny that the climate
crisis exists. Afraid of the effects of
Covid-19 and epidemics in general? Deny
that they exist, or are anything to be afraid of. Facts to the contrary are just lies.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Deny with another product of fear: anger. Anger is one way humans channel the
adrenalin of fear. There are arguably
other sources or kinds of anger. But
most can be traced back ultimately to fear.
And in many cases, there’s little distance between fear and anger.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Anger is energizing.
It probably evolved to quickly hype the body’s forces to fight an imminent
danger. These days, anger is a major means of political bonding. As it grows in power, anger leads to a more
general and undifferentiated hostility to everyone who doesn’t share it. It occurs on both the so-called left and
right. But it is especially important to those whose binding creed includes
denial of the climate crisis, and of Covid.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGQiX0ticSTmyPdz1zXcXt8hZ4MHOpvvw57LU9pkCF5Q3vkVGXnumqRqST2Om1YzLe3C-7fTbs3pflDhzveYaD45YMzj7PGmMA1tfk8zHgXiysbbvT-RUgaeIRpTYFsJ922BVR3hMBSram6sqiYpVgLwudodGJMfFHvf3VPEt8hUAQACJQHKR/s1000/719iut1A-TL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="657" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGQiX0ticSTmyPdz1zXcXt8hZ4MHOpvvw57LU9pkCF5Q3vkVGXnumqRqST2Om1YzLe3C-7fTbs3pflDhzveYaD45YMzj7PGmMA1tfk8zHgXiysbbvT-RUgaeIRpTYFsJ922BVR3hMBSram6sqiYpVgLwudodGJMfFHvf3VPEt8hUAQACJQHKR/s320/719iut1A-TL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="210" /></a></div> We do seem to be witnessing another case of what Eric Hoffer described in his 1951 book <i>The True Believer</i> as a mass movement: a cult grown large. He suggests that people who are disappointed
in their lives, and may have real grievances and are the victims of real and
widespread injustices, deal with their perceived powerlessness by banding together behind
an authoritarian leader who purports to identify their enemies and promises to smite
them, and to restore the world they expect and want. You know, make America great again.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> While radio was the technological innovation that powered
authoritarian leaders of the 1930s, social media and the Internet power group bonding behind a leader or symbol. In order to be accepted
by the group and to identify with it, there are articles of faith that must be
repeated and even made more extreme.
Real grievances tend to get exaggerated or even falsified. Most
importantly, the group also defines itself by the people they aren't--those who are defined as outside it, as
part of the group that’s the real problem.
Individuals don’t matter—only group allegiances. Other considerations don't matter--only the attitudes that bind the group. Again, much of this is
not restricted to so-called right wing groups.
But it is with these groups that denial as integral is most prominent. (Similarly, they do use fear as a binding mechanism--often projecting threatening qualities onto the groups they define as enemies. Although not all their fears are without foundation, they tend to be twisted products of their continuously nurtured and never examined collective unconscious.)</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwA56kvsw_7m9s2xEje4JWb5MkgpMjp0q77i_K4jfQYKTBLDv2TH2qzJ4lhyxwjdomfGRSbjBOAZ8IW97sEMQZX_IqyAEBmYCA5jVDhR77Vzh3wGE_Bs1yrp3Qj0Pp5vZ5JjNGVHFW8_rOWlJUFGeGQQTjI8PtIuEJb6dC7khvAYAXVc5rFUK6/s1280/nuclear-missile-parade-cover.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="1280" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwA56kvsw_7m9s2xEje4JWb5MkgpMjp0q77i_K4jfQYKTBLDv2TH2qzJ4lhyxwjdomfGRSbjBOAZ8IW97sEMQZX_IqyAEBmYCA5jVDhR77Vzh3wGE_Bs1yrp3Qj0Pp5vZ5JjNGVHFW8_rOWlJUFGeGQQTjI8PtIuEJb6dC7khvAYAXVc5rFUK6/s320/nuclear-missile-parade-cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Denying the climate crisis, denying the realities of Covid,
with anger and hostility, are articles of their faith. Now there’s a comparatively new wrinkle. The
effects of anxiety over nuclear Armageddon, and the unconscious effects of our
general daily denial of that danger, dominated the history of post-World War II
generations. Now as the culture has largely forgotten the existence of nuclear
weapons at the ready, or downgraded their power, elements of the political
right are busily denying that Russia constitutes any threat at all. As if they didn’t still have enough missiles
pointed at the US with nuclear and thermonuclear bombs to devastate their lives
in a moment. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> In order for the political right to deny that there’s
anything to be afraid of, the authority of those who say there is must be
questioned and ultimately denied. In
the case of climate and the case of Covid, the authorities are scientists,
their institutions, and the political institutions that support and listen to
them. These political and cultural institutions are conveniently the same ones
that are seen as enemies in general, and not without reason. America’s educated elites that benefited
from today’s economy have largely ignored the devastation suffered by others as a byproduct
of that economy. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> These institutions and elites make things worse by
exploiting this anger and simultaneously by giving in to it. For a crisis that might end the future of
civilization and most forms of life currently on the planet, their response to
climate distortion continues to be timid and—because of the economic powers and
interests involved—dishonest. In Covid,
even the CDC is now supporting the fiction that this is just another
respiratory disease on a par with flu, while evidence mounts of its major
effects on the heart and on the brain in a significant number of patients. Denying Covid also denies future pandemics and epidemics, and weakens the institutions that could (or could have) addressed them. Denial can kill, now and later.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> For some, denial and our temptations to denial are handy
tools to ensure profits and not rock the boat that’s working for them. For all of us, denial is convenient. Nobody wants to think about this stuff. Some denial may also be necessary for our mental health. But denial also raises anxiety because we
all know what happens, sooner or later, when we act as if danger isn’t out
there. The irony is that our lives
would be infused with so much more meaning if we just addressed ourselves as a whole society to
the dangers we are right to fear. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-62094126861749445862024-02-23T02:23:00.000-08:002024-03-02T03:31:55.028-08:00This North Coast Place: It Began Here<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPZEHfJvhu72P-3haIuKJNI7FCOq0-kwtcaAad4fsM5ybHVkrc7IBHUkV-B2jHPHLuUJn43qiK8pwzcstG4lBKJqswtGcaf80BuhFZq5ajX0Xg5mcwJV36qdystP5SweCSI39g5l2R90jl6yVX5jMxUY1JzlTUypAukckU5zQ7Fwgjt-pW22l/s720/salmon05.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiPZEHfJvhu72P-3haIuKJNI7FCOq0-kwtcaAad4fsM5ybHVkrc7IBHUkV-B2jHPHLuUJn43qiK8pwzcstG4lBKJqswtGcaf80BuhFZq5ajX0Xg5mcwJV36qdystP5SweCSI39g5l2R90jl6yVX5jMxUY1JzlTUypAukckU5zQ7Fwgjt-pW22l/w400-h266/salmon05.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> In the San Francisco Chronicle Wednesday, Kurtis Alexander reported on "the nation's largest dam-removal project"--the dismantling of four dams on the Klamath River in far northern California and southern Oregon. One of the dams is gone, and the other three are due to be erased by autumn this year. <p></p><p>The article also focuses on the Shasta tribe, exiled from their land along the Klamath more than 100 years ago, when a dam and reservoir were being built. Now the remaining members are eager to return, especially as land is reclaimed after the dam is gone. The article mentions that some 12,000 acres in California had been returned to Native tribes by the state and conservation groups. </p><p>It brings to mind that both of these actions--the removal of the dams, and the return of Native lands, began in some significant way on the North Coast.</p><p>The basic reason for the removal of these dams is the sharp decline in salmon in the Klamath River. Several surviving tribes along the river have centuries' old cultures with the salmon at their center. These tribes, including the Yurok, Karuk, Klamath and Hupa, have been a driving force in this and other efforts to restore healthy conditions in the Klamath and other rivers (like the Trinity) so that the salmon can return. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmqgxut09zcDo6DNkFyc5lVcLHQLuQh8Mc0CUPkOBvcYmu4UMoJiqaMbjfONOYl7DNz5kpN7uvy5zMM2c8XQPLPev_gu952tDsezhzIJFvbdP5OI6lfIWMeIUyzgWynB9Z6zJ0LZimW3GbdJ6Ow23idU_KVLcEMObDeFlt9B3XyNXL9fbp-dq/s1000/salmon01.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="667" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmqgxut09zcDo6DNkFyc5lVcLHQLuQh8Mc0CUPkOBvcYmu4UMoJiqaMbjfONOYl7DNz5kpN7uvy5zMM2c8XQPLPev_gu952tDsezhzIJFvbdP5OI6lfIWMeIUyzgWynB9Z6zJ0LZimW3GbdJ6Ow23idU_KVLcEMObDeFlt9B3XyNXL9fbp-dq/s320/salmon01.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>This focused activity goes back to the traumatic salmon kill in 2002, when some 34,000 salmon died before the astonished eyes of tribal members. A few years later, Humboldt State University theatre professor Teresa May convened a group of tribal members and other interested parties to begin discussions that would eventually result in a play dramatizing the issue, entitled<i> Salmon Is Everything</i>. It was first produced at HSU in 2006, and traveled to a few other venues. A new production was mounted in Oregon in 2011. By 2015, these productions resulted in a book on the process and the issue. <p></p><p>HSU made it the university's book of the year, and a reading of the play was produced in August 2015. Several participants in the original process spoke, and all lauded the process and the play as a milestone in defining issues, spreading awareness and gathering crucial support that ultimately led to the decision to destroy the dams and allow the Klamath to flow freely again. Of course, years of painstaking and detailed negotiations made this accomplishment possible, which included the leadership of the tribes such as the Yurok. But this effort played a part. </p><p>As for the return of Native land, the precedent was set in 2004 in Eureka. Indian Island in Humboldt Bay was the site of a notorious massacre in 1860 that nearly wiped out the Wiyot tribe. The Wiyots and members of other local tribes were participating in their World Renewal Ceremony at the village site on the island the Wiyot called Tuluwat. In 1992, tribal chair Cheryl Seidner, direct descendant of the only known survivor of that massacre, began the annual candlelight vigil in Eureka to commemorate the ancestors. Two non-Natives from Eureka also cosponsored the vigil, for part of its intent from the beginning was to heal the whole community. This was only two years after the Wiyot had finally regained federal recognition as a tribe.</p><p>In the late 1990s, Seidner began a campaign to raise money to buy back the 1.5 acres of Tuluwat, so the World Renewal Ceremony could be revived. In 2000, she announced the sale was about to happen, though more funds would be needed for the site's restoration. In February of 2004, the San Francisco Chronicle published my article about the 1860 massacre, the candlelight vigils (which I had been attending) and efforts to revive the Wiyot cultural identity, and the reacquiring of the Tuluwat land--something that at the time seemed without precedent. Seidner had expressed the desire to see all of Indian Island back in Wiyot hands--while a few parcels were in private hands, most of it was owned by the city of Eureka. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0QS3dmq0QKivokiJk5iPxeeNTNqr3FShSWranTHXyAQqNVgdw1iYCW6g0OPOLKippZe0l6o8uwo4iBvV8ogshOxasP8kf77AYAysVGHW8Efj_0Ae5mlRAES-8XIJgE6Ih9D5tksR5WP6iSpB72c2OztXMcg_6_MK6jrS4WUNHFFUNtXrL9KS/s260/salmon02.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="260" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0QS3dmq0QKivokiJk5iPxeeNTNqr3FShSWranTHXyAQqNVgdw1iYCW6g0OPOLKippZe0l6o8uwo4iBvV8ogshOxasP8kf77AYAysVGHW8Efj_0Ae5mlRAES-8XIJgE6Ih9D5tksR5WP6iSpB72c2OztXMcg_6_MK6jrS4WUNHFFUNtXrL9KS/s1600/salmon02.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>After months of negotiation, the Eureka City Council voted in May 2004 to deed all of its land on the island to the Wiyot. The ceremony of transfer of 40 acres (with 60 acres more added later) was held in June. No one knew of another voluntary transfer of land by a municipality back to the tribe that held it sacred. Not in California, and probably not anywhere in North America. After extensive cleanup of toxic industrial waste, the site was restored, and the first 10 day World Renewal Ceremony in more than a century was held in 2014. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVUwPQYym7lPSJQq0F17dh47rHAoQAu7rTvRvcgdVto_hLMQbcpARhmmaL-YPxzpkVcJY5Dq_zYi86iYu-RtpyV9VsqBx4ytXZNdyHZ6-T_smcy6iTYLTh6fY8Vc0ptkQIEcbhYBZ2_Im8k2txeuGkGUCZPqTJWgve_PMwfrNa-Xjti9cXl6qC/s299/salmon06.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="299" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVUwPQYym7lPSJQq0F17dh47rHAoQAu7rTvRvcgdVto_hLMQbcpARhmmaL-YPxzpkVcJY5Dq_zYi86iYu-RtpyV9VsqBx4ytXZNdyHZ6-T_smcy6iTYLTh6fY8Vc0ptkQIEcbhYBZ2_Im8k2txeuGkGUCZPqTJWgve_PMwfrNa-Xjti9cXl6qC/s1600/salmon06.jpg" width="299" /></a></div>Another major contributor to what has become a trend of returning Native land and especially recognizing Native tribes as environmental administrators of ancestral lands, as well as fostering grassroots cultural revival, has for long been the <a href="https://7genfund.org/">Seventh Generation Fund,</a> headquartered for years in Arcata and now in nearby McKinleyville. I'm proud to have worked with this group shortly after I came to the North Coast. <p></p><p>The efforts of Cheryl Seidner and others in the Wiyot vigils and subsequent activities also set a template for other efforts, in involving both tribal and non-Native communities in a common process. The<i> Salmon Is Everything</i> project also included voices of concerned parties beyond the tribes, like farmers. One possible result is that, while the dam removal project was very controversial when proposed, it seems now mostly accepted. So more and more are the partnerships with tribes. For example, the Siskiyou County board of supervisors, who long opposed the dam removal, recently endorsed the transfer of property that will result from the dam removal to the Shasta tribe, because they would make "good neighbors."</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-84826527427296115082024-02-18T23:39:00.000-08:002024-02-18T23:39:23.910-08:00Dreaming Up Daily Quote<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheaXMpwZameSkAB7mlT7Zkts1qvaAOnG2u8DSciPefMqW9RFfUePsnpq30DTVDvGwS5qj0rVU2kgnOwT6y3Q89Li8UrlsZu-Sef3oJcg06jDHLVPSahf47Hi6OK5AjwBVAurxuhGAShs0dTRnNYParn6JRjjbbQqi1FnIeQnwluC62el-O68CB/s880/kiowa01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="542" data-original-width="880" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheaXMpwZameSkAB7mlT7Zkts1qvaAOnG2u8DSciPefMqW9RFfUePsnpq30DTVDvGwS5qj0rVU2kgnOwT6y3Q89Li8UrlsZu-Sef3oJcg06jDHLVPSahf47Hi6OK5AjwBVAurxuhGAShs0dTRnNYParn6JRjjbbQqi1FnIeQnwluC62el-O68CB/w640-h394/kiowa01.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Kiowa artist Stephen Mopope 1937</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> “My grandmother was a storyteller; she knew her way around
words…She had learned that in words and in language, and there only, she could
have whole and consummate being….You see, for her words were medicine; they
were magic and invisible. They came from nothing into sound and meaning. They
were beyond price; they could neither be bought nor sold….”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">N. Scott Momaday (1934-2024)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <i>House Made of Dawn</i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoSz-pnGau2BhmsPU3S7sfTGwVKskZHOmA0WV1tpny3-jndSdABQEnfo3CCA8pl_XF4tVtr09KLoB1zWz2fgqiP4p5Hjh_AstfWiTbN1H2YqIWhRug6HUqRgxrhUzEuG8xIz0sTwtaLpZHcl984MT-Hc0bkb-wHPgD8PA_FLLzQDJsoAOv-ofE/s1479/momaday03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1479" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoSz-pnGau2BhmsPU3S7sfTGwVKskZHOmA0WV1tpny3-jndSdABQEnfo3CCA8pl_XF4tVtr09KLoB1zWz2fgqiP4p5Hjh_AstfWiTbN1H2YqIWhRug6HUqRgxrhUzEuG8xIz0sTwtaLpZHcl984MT-Hc0bkb-wHPgD8PA_FLLzQDJsoAOv-ofE/s320/momaday03.jpg" width="260" /></a></i></div><i><br /></i><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-11397776925861481082024-02-13T01:23:00.000-08:002024-02-13T04:26:53.543-08:00Origins: Valentine's Day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyIzB5WmEHE7oZYAp2DeV1OXZDHAq9T4P3PwzxWcePwng9xd3_VSGHLP7Z8tgiQHus3SomuYoANAlQhY3qTLASOl9Pw2d_bbU7lf-ViDildUyupbUluxWVBe_tDzJyTA31RFjLDLNalb66jTEg1kdGMvr-SiX9I0Tkp0pgBNbDJq0X-mrGMkJr/s1080/val03%20victorian.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="803" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyIzB5WmEHE7oZYAp2DeV1OXZDHAq9T4P3PwzxWcePwng9xd3_VSGHLP7Z8tgiQHus3SomuYoANAlQhY3qTLASOl9Pw2d_bbU7lf-ViDildUyupbUluxWVBe_tDzJyTA31RFjLDLNalb66jTEg1kdGMvr-SiX9I0Tkp0pgBNbDJq0X-mrGMkJr/w476-h640/val03%20victorian.jpg" width="476" /></a></div><br />As is often true, the ultimate origin of Valentine's Day is unknown, though there are plenty of juicy legends repeated as fact, all disputed by at least some scholars. But the one makes the most sense to me is this: its roots are in the ancient Roman festival of Lupercalia, held on the Ides of February (February 15.) <p></p><p> Lupercalia was an early spring fertility festival, ostensibly in honor of a god of agriculture but also of Rome's founders, Romulus and Remus. According to that origin legend, they were twin boys abandoned in a cave and raised by a wolf (Latin and Harry Potter scholars will recognize that the"lupa" in Lupercalia means a she-wolf.) The festival traditionally began with a rite at that legendary cave.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin8kKWedmZv-it4hu-e2SAtG1U447w1mDo_Y5gPpz_vMuWLgrXCD_2OLtiN3ZRlQVMTbt1bxfzpp52liWDqnKkbS41GpLu0JURdKbMLELW_ODtOWk9sRVzKkyXZUJYV_DbDiAgl79bEOLFRKYUudc67RFJJ-sJDcoqD59_OM5KjkybfVA5g5dW/s632/val10.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="632" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin8kKWedmZv-it4hu-e2SAtG1U447w1mDo_Y5gPpz_vMuWLgrXCD_2OLtiN3ZRlQVMTbt1bxfzpp52liWDqnKkbS41GpLu0JURdKbMLELW_ODtOWk9sRVzKkyXZUJYV_DbDiAgl79bEOLFRKYUudc67RFJJ-sJDcoqD59_OM5KjkybfVA5g5dW/s320/val10.png" width="320" /></a></div>But the rest of Lupercalia was dedicated to different sorts of fertility, with naked drunks running through the streets (some suggest the day also honored the god Pan), past married women who hoped they would become pregnant or have an easy delivery if they were touched by the goat's hide strips the men brandished. <p></p><p>Yet another custom--more related to today's holiday-- was a lottery in which unmarried women dropped their names into an urn for unmarried men to randomly extract. The two would become a couple, presumably including sexual favors, either for the course of the festival or (according to other sources) the entire year. This even speedier variation on speed dating often (it is said) resulted in marriage. </p><p>All of this went on for centuries, until the Catholic Church finally predominated. In the fifth century, the Pope banned Lupercalia, and replaced it with St. Valentine's Day. Some sources claim that the choice of St. Valentine was simply because he was officially martyred on that date. Maybe. But whenever the Church replaced a pagan feast day, or built a church over a pre-Christian sacred site, the replacement is often related to the earlier intent-- especially since Indigenous and other pre-Christian special days were related to natural cycles of the calendar, such as when birds and other animals begin mating in the early spring.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6MqAKbgzfa5rnwnZMGhSyqxfxjESEJucRb1hwPBoT6-skEvcxCAhr2kAhjwRHIqeAkeF067ToydMO1jbmLOGEw6M1W6AlYBgSwTbtP_egY71PemYZwLL_-5Vi4bk5mc2F_XPDEcX-vIxY0EtbYrx4sr0hyphenhyphenfmHvfQSW44NY4rdB1_FHSBi2vQJ/s1219/val12.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1219" data-original-width="717" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6MqAKbgzfa5rnwnZMGhSyqxfxjESEJucRb1hwPBoT6-skEvcxCAhr2kAhjwRHIqeAkeF067ToydMO1jbmLOGEw6M1W6AlYBgSwTbtP_egY71PemYZwLL_-5Vi4bk5mc2F_XPDEcX-vIxY0EtbYrx4sr0hyphenhyphenfmHvfQSW44NY4rdB1_FHSBi2vQJ/s320/val12.jpg" width="188" /></a></div>Besides, there are stories of at least three St. Valentines, all supposedly martyred, and none proven to have existed. But by the Middle Ages the Church had a great cover story that related Valentine to the date, without saying so. According to this legend, it all started when the third century Roman emperor Claudius II banned marriage.<p></p><p>Claudius had risen through the military (the first Emperor to have done so, and the first to be of "barbarian" birth) and thought marriage made soldiers weak and fretful, distracted by wives and children at home. And Claudius was often at war.</p><p> But a Christian prelate in Rome called Valentine continued to secretly marry couples, until he came to the attention of Claudius. During Valentine's imprisonment, he and Claudius had lively discussions, each trying to convert the other to their religion. But only one of them was the emperor, so Valentine was executed.</p><p>Did any of this happen? Outlawing marriage was not entirely unknown in Rome, but the encyclopedia entry that Wikipedia uses doesn't mention Claudius II (also known as Claudius Gothicus) doing so. There is a further addition to the legend that says while he was imprisoned, Valentine had some sort of relationship--perhaps even fell in love with--his jailer's daughter. Before his execution, he left her a note, "from your Valentine." Right--at least a degree of cuteness too far. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjrZxbZ4aXe8z8C6WscsLVxpM3ilER4JhyEZgEDRQDLMzZGa0t_3BrwK-WqxMQkMoJ9N2X2lRkfsQox_Bv3lsReEUW8BzMCAXcRcO1pOaFMiOM58NUnoEaSpmEYrAXwPL0P55qmIlmPbwmZywp8PvedKKXnlRBLS04fLbMh8mjmIkpnJvWWUj7/s581/val06.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="370" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjrZxbZ4aXe8z8C6WscsLVxpM3ilER4JhyEZgEDRQDLMzZGa0t_3BrwK-WqxMQkMoJ9N2X2lRkfsQox_Bv3lsReEUW8BzMCAXcRcO1pOaFMiOM58NUnoEaSpmEYrAXwPL0P55qmIlmPbwmZywp8PvedKKXnlRBLS04fLbMh8mjmIkpnJvWWUj7/s320/val06.jpg" width="204" /></a></div>But by the Middle Ages, Valentine was a popular saint across Europe, and St. Valentine's Day became a day for celebrating early love, a sanitized--or at least euphemistic-- version of the Roman holiday. The tradition of the card now called the valentine may have also derived from the age-old traditions of Lupercalia. Denied their lottery, it's said that young Roman men sent handwritten greetings to women they admired on the mid-February date.<p></p><p>But the first documented (and still existing) valentine card was sent by Charles, duke of Orleans in 1415. He sent it to his wife, who happened to be a prisoner in the Tower of London at the time. </p><p> Handmade cards began to bear the image of Cupid (also related to Roman love customs) and to include amorous verses. The printing press made the "mechanical valentine" a thing, and lower postal rates in 19th century England meant they didn't need to be hand-delivered, and could even be sent anonymously. This led to more explicit imagery and racy verses, to the extent that in 19th century Chicago, some 25,000 valentines were deemed too obscene to deliver. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9e_xYnMSK4_BABb4T3CB1RvYCOQsJJh6NFYk_m1yYlgLcZTu9aL9wRlfzYv1JTgt0q0kdWXtYCMdFWsIZgHq8wG4SAmRXNaYKG21neUvNtp8i8q0XOaaCIkmVhz5ZqMqVMiDNlJ_tzKt5FpAtaqdBSP_VLUYktLPDtol9lTzkKDEkB8HvNQnu/s865/val04%20vinegar.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="701" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9e_xYnMSK4_BABb4T3CB1RvYCOQsJJh6NFYk_m1yYlgLcZTu9aL9wRlfzYv1JTgt0q0kdWXtYCMdFWsIZgHq8wG4SAmRXNaYKG21neUvNtp8i8q0XOaaCIkmVhz5ZqMqVMiDNlJ_tzKt5FpAtaqdBSP_VLUYktLPDtol9lTzkKDEkB8HvNQnu/s320/val04%20vinegar.jpg" width="259" /></a></div>Among the rude cards of the 19th and early 20th centuries were "vinegar valentines," that expressed insults--doubly so, since it often was the receiver and not the sender who had to pay the postage. Meanwhile, erotic valentines--intended as humorous or maybe not--survive into the 21st century.<p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz-tGfd31BeH8I2vuC_JRQiYLTsbHpfQkUtxLzhdJlCyfO9uuNvFTbWAbSRWjsDRNcXNqFeE-4nq_89UE2yOR-gT9ZtdAA1377H4uNppej1paP3iV9X4gw5_Qjy5q6Nqr0ddu7R8yzRJbf-ISOMGKzFVY3LPq2_UBBpqKPQUzjL7PpMngG_X1b/s1071/val09.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1071" data-original-width="892" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz-tGfd31BeH8I2vuC_JRQiYLTsbHpfQkUtxLzhdJlCyfO9uuNvFTbWAbSRWjsDRNcXNqFeE-4nq_89UE2yOR-gT9ZtdAA1377H4uNppej1paP3iV9X4gw5_Qjy5q6Nqr0ddu7R8yzRJbf-ISOMGKzFVY3LPq2_UBBpqKPQUzjL7PpMngG_X1b/s320/val09.JPG" width="267" /></a></div>The first printed valentines in America were pricey, but when greeting card companies produced less expensive versions, the practice of sending them became almost obligatory, rivaling only Christmas for predominance. Through the 20th century at least, many faced Valentine's Day with anxiety and dread, counting the cards they got from fellow fifth graders, or mourning the first February 14 that their mailbox was bereft. <p></p><p>As for the Xs denoting kisses on valentines and other written notes--which likely makes it the first emoji--they seem to be a remnant from illiterate times when many could sign their name only with an X, and sealed it with a kiss. If present trends continue, those days may not be gone forever. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-59216204918510587472024-02-12T02:09:00.000-08:002024-02-12T02:09:15.289-08:00At The Same Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXLQPM-1nEHaoNln325S4hRQXVB1bKF4EEv2cESbxhyphenhyphenQXmcdzUGbsIO74fI4QefhsStpZnPmKz5nq0uS9Bpx_tmjhELKFB-DQAyuQIlj8_YdEuTuS9IiKRBFqhptdmKYqhSe3rYwacRdDER7frnDFwgDQKP3yeGWbA6FVtTBLVzkyuNrpMpK0k/s630/winter%20woods03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="522" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXLQPM-1nEHaoNln325S4hRQXVB1bKF4EEv2cESbxhyphenhyphenQXmcdzUGbsIO74fI4QefhsStpZnPmKz5nq0uS9Bpx_tmjhELKFB-DQAyuQIlj8_YdEuTuS9IiKRBFqhptdmKYqhSe3rYwacRdDER7frnDFwgDQKP3yeGWbA6FVtTBLVzkyuNrpMpK0k/w530-h640/winter%20woods03.jpg" width="530" /></a></div><br />While we talk<div> thousands of languages are listening</div><div> saying nothing</div><div><br /></div><div> while we close a door</div><div> flocks of birds are flying through winters</div><div> of endless light</div><div><br /></div><div>while we sign our names</div><div>more of us</div><div> lets go</div><div><br /></div><div> and will never answer</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i> --W.S. Merwin
</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-5944064134184501222024-02-07T22:49:00.000-08:002024-02-07T22:49:27.588-08:00Snyder For The Day #2<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9GmF5MC3s8xwNJazv4C5M8cG5aMCv32EqQoUTzZKoO7vN7ziV-aUgZK-bI4aKQyd62BNC4Mgi0u7p55Qr2BZVZn5Dg4LVzBOsBcrCOOb3b3DNTLn2Svvs35rM3lv9jGs6V2Ehyvs4ibKW_6wynR5sjjZRXrXBCsxy7D05HdzTzyDIFTwpFMZ/s1000/jan604.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9GmF5MC3s8xwNJazv4C5M8cG5aMCv32EqQoUTzZKoO7vN7ziV-aUgZK-bI4aKQyd62BNC4Mgi0u7p55Qr2BZVZn5Dg4LVzBOsBcrCOOb3b3DNTLn2Svvs35rM3lv9jGs6V2Ehyvs4ibKW_6wynR5sjjZRXrXBCsxy7D05HdzTzyDIFTwpFMZ/w400-h266/jan604.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />"Now [past] the end of the twentieth century, most societies are not even halfway functioning. What does poetry do then? For at least a century and a half, the socially engaged writers of the developed world have taken their role to be one of resistance and subversion. Poetry can disclose the misuse of language by holders of power, it can attack dangerous archetypes employed to oppress, and it can expose the flimsiness of shabby made-up mythologies."<p></p><p>Gary Snyder</p><p><i>A Place in Space </i></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-75812586508410431392024-02-02T23:33:00.000-08:002024-02-03T02:59:41.241-08:00Happy Birthday, JJ<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGdc2TCbkEgycrQMFTwemiipGjC_r7VcMC94GvujjWNbKViX_Sa5fG7WagJM9d2__kWgmXEr2CxlQUO3O5_ZFZgPILUq7uvCKbjpfdWSe4Tq6RdG0xXmdQDxbvsbTeW9hUIGbUnElKJRdOtAfDEF2MUO7A5GhHrybm7py3j0cjktqeu6uHcvA4/s800/james-joyce-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="396" data-original-width="800" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGdc2TCbkEgycrQMFTwemiipGjC_r7VcMC94GvujjWNbKViX_Sa5fG7WagJM9d2__kWgmXEr2CxlQUO3O5_ZFZgPILUq7uvCKbjpfdWSe4Tq6RdG0xXmdQDxbvsbTeW9hUIGbUnElKJRdOtAfDEF2MUO7A5GhHrybm7py3j0cjktqeu6uHcvA4/w640-h316/james-joyce-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>"This race and this country and this life produced me, he said. I shall express myself as I am."<p></p><p><i>A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man</i> by James Joyce. Born February 2, 1882 in Dublin, Ireland.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-35515673503762480262024-02-01T15:22:00.000-08:002024-02-01T15:22:19.758-08:00Our Foolish World<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia;">"The iPhone 12 runs on a chip with 11.8 billion transistors etched into
its silicon. Only one company in the world can make that chip. That company
relies, in turn, on machines and materials that are also made only by singular
firms. Those machines and materials rely on similarly complex and fragile
supply chains. If any node in this supply chain breaks, so too will much of the
global economy break. If a country or alliance of countries can control these
advanced supply chains, locking others out, they will have a powerful advantage
in both war and commerce."</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #363636; font-family: Georgia;">Ezra Klein <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/03/opinion/books-list-2023.html">summarizing</a> a point made in the book <i>Chip Wars</i> by Chris Miller<o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-22290390026906365202024-01-26T22:37:00.000-08:002024-02-03T03:00:56.081-08:00Snyder for the Day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgykbZ_Nki6CwGw96fkWIat9vZXSz15mC4hFy3m58g7rNwosPapH6F4jqDJ3galbM5o5HWSOFJnPucvF5DL9MtqQ-IsyrM93Nb_Ew0egRF7CnlkFktw7iJ0PJZ45mGIhRGhmfu2GmN3vw6py6E9kK2NGOmyswdVJ1Z-PRPikp2EG9ZyGzP22SHa/s400/638_houghton.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="400" height="429" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgykbZ_Nki6CwGw96fkWIat9vZXSz15mC4hFy3m58g7rNwosPapH6F4jqDJ3galbM5o5HWSOFJnPucvF5DL9MtqQ-IsyrM93Nb_Ew0egRF7CnlkFktw7iJ0PJZ45mGIhRGhmfu2GmN3vw6py6E9kK2NGOmyswdVJ1Z-PRPikp2EG9ZyGzP22SHa/w640-h429/638_houghton.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> "Civilization is part of nature--our egos play in the fields of the unconscious--history takes place in the Holocene--human culture is rooted in the primitive and the paleolithic--our body is a vertebrate mammal being--and our souls are out in the wilderness."<p></p><p>--Gary Snyder</p><p>The Practice of the Wild</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-56257442247894316492024-01-22T00:44:00.000-08:002024-01-23T06:13:33.081-08:00To The Rain <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbQ-YfhyJdgDjhvFYf1CU02sS1MfwPA2mjzlVlvSvPL4dIam_iwFcF1I6uUom9hrRq4_wZB3fcc04inTARXcChgKkLCYdBXRUPNFxMphkdgYgDYPkJoMj-T2CK4pxLMp177ja5OCdAn5uKOPzinqciECHVBYc8FRAMpnnl4068uFPwb2_RY69D/s644/fernrain.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="644" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbQ-YfhyJdgDjhvFYf1CU02sS1MfwPA2mjzlVlvSvPL4dIam_iwFcF1I6uUom9hrRq4_wZB3fcc04inTARXcChgKkLCYdBXRUPNFxMphkdgYgDYPkJoMj-T2CK4pxLMp177ja5OCdAn5uKOPzinqciECHVBYc8FRAMpnnl4068uFPwb2_RY69D/w640-h374/fernrain.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Y<span style="font-size: medium;">ou reach me out of the age of the air </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> clear</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> falling toward me</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> each one new</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> if any of you has a name</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> it is unknown</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> but waited for you here</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> that long</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> for you to fall through it knowing nothing</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> hem of the garment</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">do not wait</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> until I can love all that I am to know</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> for maybe that will never be</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> touch me this time</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> let me love what I cannot know</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> as the man born blind may love color</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> until all that he loves</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> fills him with color</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;">--W.S Merwin</span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div>Generally when Merwin writes a poem "to" something or someone, the "I" in the poem is talking "to" that "person." So he is addressing the rain (and, the raindrops.) That seems clear enough in the first stanza. But there are some tricky tenses and referents in the second. Perhaps what waited was the unknown name:"rain." Something perhaps is suggested about individuality and what they are in common, as well as the difference between the physical drops and their name. The "it" could be the rain again, but it more likely seems to be the air the rain falls through. </div><div><br /></div><div> In the next stanza, "hem of the garment" is addressed, often interpreted as a Biblical reference, an instrument of revelation perhaps, but it may still be (at the same time) the rain. The imploring "touch me this time" would still be the rain but as a kind of revelation? In any case, the final lines are very powerful. The repetition of word sounds in the otherwise awkward "maybe that will never be" sets up this powerful repetition of "color," partly through the music of the lines. Another repetition in sound and sense is the word "know" (or "knowing") that appears three times in this short poem, each time in some way incomplete. What lies beyond it can only be expressed in the final lines and what they suggest to us.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-87935861804322714092024-01-12T02:55:00.000-08:002024-01-12T03:16:53.267-08:00Year of Dread?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz5BiDa79WE_asUdz3SF1sm4xupy33snU50rivJTf9uKmPCDLMm9HRrbi0TcNoGJAwHIVuGZkKDxENRY8_NQUN4WmKB0nyZpNPwbA_0tRwr79Hs_YZUt0BKVcmL9jcFG500v8l-ilOQ0nu37rF5FQEIwDlLXSr_aUlzYj3L2Bjm7j5TCVVZ_tw/s1200/cap%20aftermath.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz5BiDa79WE_asUdz3SF1sm4xupy33snU50rivJTf9uKmPCDLMm9HRrbi0TcNoGJAwHIVuGZkKDxENRY8_NQUN4WmKB0nyZpNPwbA_0tRwr79Hs_YZUt0BKVcmL9jcFG500v8l-ilOQ0nu37rF5FQEIwDlLXSr_aUlzYj3L2Bjm7j5TCVVZ_tw/w400-h225/cap%20aftermath.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> The most obvious cause for dread is the 2024 election campaign and the elections themselves. As 2023 ended, the polls showed President Biden with low approval ratings, and several polls showed Trump ahead in preference for November's voting. But politically, November is a long time in the future. Nobody really knows what polls measure these days, except whatever it is they measure is in the present, not that future. A lot will happen between now and then--and I suppose that's as much reason for dread as the possible outcome.<p></p><p>I've called him Homegrown Hitler on this blog since 2016, and so I am not surprised that Trump has become so obvious about it that even major media has noticed. His election would be a defining tragedy for this country, as it is likely to complete the destruction of constitutional government he and his cronies and minions have begun. I don't think he will be elected, but the institutions of government and law, as well as the Constitution itself have already been seriously weakened, perhaps fatally in the long run, with the pressure that the future is highly likely to bring. </p><p>Regardless of the election outcome, it's all but assured that the coming year of news will relentlessly and copiously be about Trump. Even worse that last year. The media can't shake its addiction to him (even the progressive British paper the Guardian features his photo on every online front page, sometimes several of them), since he is for many the ultimate in clickbait. President Biden has so far signaled that he will make Trump and his threat to democracy the primary issue of his campaign, which may only be acknowledging reality. (But my few readers be forewarned: you'll need to get your Trump fix elsewhere this year.) </p><p>There's almost inevitably going to be a lot of related drama this year: trials for 91 felonies, Supreme Court decisions, the campaign, the election, probably extending into 2025. Just dreading the drama has to head the list. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQxm2DJ7108SZUV0Bllk93Fb7rZ0U-zEqeXGEpoRU7j78NoCO6n-gdAbJqYqIsfHCwuqgJBZiTJH1tj-PRHU2lsfbzSUvxNY9qkgasrnHXWEaqOUBeT3llWnN5zrvzSZMF_oBCr_4Gl6bYRVVRTvIGVJMLwQJuhfxQXbC9R4CTvOI57wHLzX7X/s1280/ahawaii03.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQxm2DJ7108SZUV0Bllk93Fb7rZ0U-zEqeXGEpoRU7j78NoCO6n-gdAbJqYqIsfHCwuqgJBZiTJH1tj-PRHU2lsfbzSUvxNY9qkgasrnHXWEaqOUBeT3llWnN5zrvzSZMF_oBCr_4Gl6bYRVVRTvIGVJMLwQJuhfxQXbC9R4CTvOI57wHLzX7X/w400-h225/ahawaii03.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />For me, another cause for public dread in 2024 is that, partly because Trump is likely to be the major campaign issue, once again this year we are no going to get the clear, forthright and vocal leadership on the climate crisis that we need.<p></p><p>If you got past the war news, the front page lifestyle features and celebrity controversies, you may have noticed that 2023 was officially the hottest year in history, and not this time by a little. <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2024/jan/09/2023-record-world-hottest-climate-fossil-fuel">By a lot</a>. Human civilization is perhaps ten or twelve thousand years old, but the Earth's temperature hasn't been this high in 100,000 years, at least. The jump far exceeded predictions and scientists' expectations.</p><p>For the past decade, the clarion cry for climate action has been fixed on keeping the world's temperature from rising 1.5 degrees Centigrade on average. 2023 hit 1.48 and some scientists believe it is likely that sometime in 2024 or shortly afterwards, it will be official that the 1.5C has been breached as the average. This is the number that the nations of the world said in the Paris Agreement of 2015 that they wanted to avoid. "Above that threshold," said a <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2024/01/09/climate/temperature-rise-2023-climate-copernicus-intl/index.html">CNN</a> report, "many of Earth's ecosystems will struggle to adapt and summertime heat will approach the limits of human survivability is some places." That's the minimal impact. If it pushes the planet past various tipping points, it will be much worse, especially in the long term. </p><p>There was <a href="https://www.bbc.com/future/article/20231214-nine-breakthroughs-for-climate-and-nature-in-2023-you-may-have-missed">positive news</a> during the year on addressing climate distortion, and the Guardian (the most reliable daily news source for climate issues) published dueling year-end evaluations: "<i>World will look back at 2023 as year humanity exposed its inability to tackle climate crisis, <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2023/dec/29/world-will-look-back-at-2023-as-year-humanity-exposed-its-inability-to-tackle-climate-crisis">scientist says</a>"</i> vs. <i>"I thought most of us were going to die from the climate crisis. <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2024/jan/02/hannah-ritchie-not-the-end-of-the-world-extract-climate-crisis">I was wrong</a>."</i></p><p>The title of that second one is disingenuous--nobody expected most "of us", i.e. people now alive to die from the climate crisis. Just when in the future that might be a real possibility depends on a lot of other things as well. It's an annoying simplistic way to talk about the real concerns. (On the other hand, some thousands of people will likely die of effects of climate distortion effects this very year.)</p><p> The author of this piece and the book it comes from, Hannah Ritchie, bases her optimism chiefly on statistics about the growth and prospects of renewable energy, especially as it becomes cheaper than coal and oil. She pushes these conclusions to the point where she accuses anyone with doomsday warnings as aiding climate crisis denialists. </p><p>The title of the first one, on the other hand, fails to mention that the scientist in question is not just any scientist--it is James Hansen, formerly of NASA, the scientist who brought the news of the climate crisis to Congress and the world--in 1988. </p><p>While I don't dispute the numbers that Ritchie and some other climate writers use and apply to temperature rises (she believes the rise could be stopped at 2C or a fraction more) due to the phenomenal growth of renewables, the climate crisis is not just about balance sheets, it doesn't just go by the numbers.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8uAfvAhSADdIKOJymbq9PivGQCXVPodYxBmvv0Sf_qrhibV91m2ESj8Wfulxnv7ohVmQWXSy5iH3t_s_Y95RpF3ta-VqHygScS1PH5LQTvGq4mK_uwJpSUMBaIsBEglKaC9DWav2tOHlq5-Ww1-1CSXCeb9ZBfx0e9rh6wkV86dblpue6a-dP/s920/deforestation-2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="517" data-original-width="920" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8uAfvAhSADdIKOJymbq9PivGQCXVPodYxBmvv0Sf_qrhibV91m2ESj8Wfulxnv7ohVmQWXSy5iH3t_s_Y95RpF3ta-VqHygScS1PH5LQTvGq4mK_uwJpSUMBaIsBEglKaC9DWav2tOHlq5-Ww1-1CSXCeb9ZBfx0e9rh6wkV86dblpue6a-dP/w400-h225/deforestation-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The dangers of the climate crisis to the natural world and to civilization, even in the rest of this century, are not about absolute numbers. They are also about what the effects of climate distortion in the real world can do to push at vulnerable situations, and make already dangerous matters catastrophically worse. That includes exacerbating threats to the natural world on which we depend, from species extinction to the now fragile life of the oceans. But it also includes threats to vulnerable institutions and to the now fragile global civilization, and these may well become more dangerous sooner than later.<p></p><p>Some of the direct effects of climate distortion are evident now--we don't even have to wait for the spring and summer fires and heatwaves of 2024--we're about to see climate distortion-fed and energized storms and coldwaves in much of America, with attendant direct and indirect damage, including flooding. We're seeing coastal flooding on the increase as well. Meanwhile, a quarter of the world's population is living in drought, and huge parts of the world are drying up to a lethal extent.</p><p>These begin cascades of consequences. Even in America there are mounting costs of addressing multiple disasters, with communities slow to recover. The danger of disease and epidemics increases. Worldwide, we are especially seeing probably the most proximate cause of danger for the rest of this century: large scale migration; that is, large numbers of refugees. Sometimes it is caused directly by climate effects, sometimes by warfare and political turmoil that is in part caused by climate effects. </p><p>But we don't talk about migration that way. We don't see it that way. Many take no thought as to the reasons, and have no empathy for the refugees--something we haven't seen for awhile in the global north, but with dangerous potential for the stability of governments and public institutions. This is one obvious problem related to climate that increases the dangers of violence and warfare, including the eventual use of nuclear weapons. (Speaking of dread, I worry the dread of nuclear bombs has weakened, and their use against people is likely to happen again.)</p><p>Refugees and the reaction to them is only one issue that needs to be addressed in the context of the climate crisis. The world dearly needs the leadership to spell it out clearly: to talk about causes and effects, and to outline action to address each. But there is no such leader, even on the horizon. There really isn't one I see in the US. The only possibility I know of is Vice-President Kamala Harris, who seems to have some grasp of the problems, and who I once heard speak in terms of the causes and effects of the climate crisis--which is possibly the only terms that can organize the information in a form people at large can immediately grasp.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiI90_NGj3ehCXhQczzqUu68QiLUoysTunhOtghLPtuTPyY7fwcjTZEdIAL8Y3NOHgR8ErLzOPOyh-Db3NP-7oBlyhW08IvUDhR4LdCGp-hHlOQr4wEMuuhmrqRRyQ3C4BjH6sjsog3TQnBEblewHPtUkOlCROS32BSiz_OYWWQl66KUdks-d/s800/a_friend_of_order_1964.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="645" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiI90_NGj3ehCXhQczzqUu68QiLUoysTunhOtghLPtuTPyY7fwcjTZEdIAL8Y3NOHgR8ErLzOPOyh-Db3NP-7oBlyhW08IvUDhR4LdCGp-hHlOQr4wEMuuhmrqRRyQ3C4BjH6sjsog3TQnBEblewHPtUkOlCROS32BSiz_OYWWQl66KUdks-d/w323-h400/a_friend_of_order_1964.jpg" width="323" /></a></div>Here are the causes, here is what we need to do, and here is what we're doing about them. Here are effects, here is what we need to do, and here is what are doing about them. There is a plan, and I will keep updating you on our progress. This is what we need, and what--in 2024--we are once again unlikely to get.<p></p><p>While Republicans continue their delusional and self-serving rants, Democratic politicians are afraid to name the crisis and its components. Everything is obscured, disorganized, coded. Electric cars alone aren't going to do it. Saying that the climate crisis is about jobs is not enough. It's just more hiding from really confronting the crisis and its dimensions.</p><p>The United Nations had another climate meeting in 2023, another COP. This year's much lauded outcome was to declare that the age of fossil fuels is over, we're going to end them. Excuse me if I see this as akin to an alcoholic declaring an end to drinking, and celebrating that with another round. Meanwhile the US is pumping more oil than any nation in the world, and any nation in history.</p><p>Most of the COPs beginning with the Paris Agreement have been about promises. They set goals for reducing carbon output. They never meet them. They set up a fund for rich nations to help the poor nations most affected, especially by rising tides. They failed to put any money in it, and then they contributed too little. It's been mostly about promises. Similarly, there are lots of ideas for technologies and things to do; some of the oldest have been known for years but still nothing is done. And others will require decades more of refinement, when it will likely be too late to apply them effectively. Yes, people and nations are trying, and showing some progress. But not enough to keep the promises from becoming lies we tell ourselves.</p><p>Until we dread the lies more than the work that needs to be done, every year will be a year of dread. That's all I've got to say. Captain Future, over and out.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-66775038315536217152024-01-04T00:26:00.000-08:002024-01-04T00:39:37.626-08:00R.I.P. 2023<p> Honoring some of the prominent people who died in the past year as I usually do seems a little hollow this time, for my thoughts are heavy with people prominent in my life who passed away in 2023, even if they are not so famous. They were all good people, and they live in my memory. So I can't go on to more generally recognizable names without at least mentioning them. </p><p> I've <a href="http://dreamingup.blogspot.com/2023/07/rip-carl-t-severini-1932-2023.html">written previously</a> about my uncle, Carl Severini. I've <a href="http://dreamingup.blogspot.com/2023/09/waiting-by-sea.html">mentioned</a> my friend since high school, Joyce Davis (my first prom date, and first teenage kiss.) Towards the end of the year there were more: Bernadette Cheyne and Charlie Meyers, friends from Humboldt State drama department (I wrote about them<a href="http://stagematters.blogspot.com/2023/12/rip-2023-north-coast-donald-charlie-and.html"> here</a>); and most recently, Janet Morrison, who I knew first at Carnegie Mellon drama and as Margaret's close friend, and who we saw a few times more recently. The world is a lesser place without them.</p><p>But here's at least a curtain call for people who were part of many lives, some of whom will continue to live in films, books and recordings, and some of whom will remained anchored to a particular time in our memories.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZebHLGUJB501pBO2vsTHIUDKRm3iglOb9z7F8YehXkN_NP-BsMmMbRQIXq4lHr-ossEQuqfpoiO9kOTOKeVrElpXocTWiRf04nWCerTtgJYjG8soy3TqczmvLYCjNdgQaunfu5Z7eaTqVU2lKZAX5Ox1vHn9CTawhaW9Q_PxUcBxGzLZYelXW/s1600/harryb02.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZebHLGUJB501pBO2vsTHIUDKRm3iglOb9z7F8YehXkN_NP-BsMmMbRQIXq4lHr-ossEQuqfpoiO9kOTOKeVrElpXocTWiRf04nWCerTtgJYjG8soy3TqczmvLYCjNdgQaunfu5Z7eaTqVU2lKZAX5Ox1vHn9CTawhaW9Q_PxUcBxGzLZYelXW/s320/harryb02.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>So a last hurrah to <b>Harry Belafonte</b>, as admirable a man as he was talented. After stardom with The Band, <b>Robbie Robertson</b> explored his Native roots and wrote tantalizing film scores. He must have been an interesting guy to know. <b>Michael Gambon</b> was masterful in so many roles, from his early work on <i>The Singing Detective</i> to the great French detective <i>Maigret</i> in a British TV series, to international fame as the second Dumbledore in the Harry Potter films, with lots of wonderful supporting roles as well (I recall expecially his role as Mr. Woodhouse in the 2009 BBC/PBS series of Jane Austen's <i>Emma</i>.) <p></p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTK5BFmFkNua80Ewp55OaOi5Nr31XBsdn-V-Ks45-GJODkcpDooMlNdpbWvAK9fy9DOXTOudWPz_2XmgE6SyJMX13oWXpPyr2bFq7im9IFxJLIISs7tGBZ2e1D-0QCFGsIyJ5iuiOO0fXSrYJHnL64dVOSxbOTQ_w291bXHk3CgQc0Uw7SrOO/s1600/Glenda2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1600" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTK5BFmFkNua80Ewp55OaOi5Nr31XBsdn-V-Ks45-GJODkcpDooMlNdpbWvAK9fy9DOXTOudWPz_2XmgE6SyJMX13oWXpPyr2bFq7im9IFxJLIISs7tGBZ2e1D-0QCFGsIyJ5iuiOO0fXSrYJHnL64dVOSxbOTQ_w291bXHk3CgQc0Uw7SrOO/s320/Glenda2.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><b>Glenda Jackson</b> had a superb run as a movie actor, as well as a theatre actor in the UK (the only time I saw her onstage in the US was in a regrettable production of <i>Macbeth</i>.) The British actor <b>Tom Wilkinson</b> and the American actor<b> Alan Arkin</b> were always worth watching in everything they did.<p></p><p>In an episode of NCIS, DeNozzo asks Gibbs what Dr. Donald "Ducky" Mallard looked like as a young man. "Illya Kuryakin," he replied. <b> David McCallum</b> of course played both, replacing the smoldering enigmatic spy with the vitality and charm of the older doctor. </p><p>I've written at length about the timeless <a href="http://dreamingup.blogspot.com/2023/09/tony-bennett-1926-2023.html"><b>Tony Bennett</b>.</a> I remember <b>Jimmy Buffett</b> and <b>Randy Meisner</b> (a founder of the Eagles) from the 70s, the dynamic <b>Tina Turner</b> from even earlier. I met and interviewed <b>David Crosby</b>, not an entirely happy experience, but perhaps as much my fault as his. I suddenly came face to face with <b>Raquel Welch</b> in a Manhattan bookstore--she seemed shorter than those statuesque poster poses. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx43NfzwPvu7K9k9_d8sBgo00-RyEshA4Y3YSzAHXVfkwlOJKYu8yy5MyJD8Mh8gjQchJ8AZk2FqNJCAByC6cFbCIbEw8_lqPHXSrK-jw-KlvKWGOoOSAlYFCB-ZeapEIRNfJx63hupARyaStpXBB0AcFQNlrNC5DplLf9EjMdfqjTkYKM9pv2/s1480/melindad01.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="833" data-original-width="1480" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx43NfzwPvu7K9k9_d8sBgo00-RyEshA4Y3YSzAHXVfkwlOJKYu8yy5MyJD8Mh8gjQchJ8AZk2FqNJCAByC6cFbCIbEw8_lqPHXSrK-jw-KlvKWGOoOSAlYFCB-ZeapEIRNfJx63hupARyaStpXBB0AcFQNlrNC5DplLf9EjMdfqjTkYKM9pv2/s320/melindad01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I fell absolutely in love with <b>Melinda Dillon</b> in <i>Close Encounters</i>, and though she got a bit typecast, she played her character well in <i>Absence of Malice</i>. <b>Andre Braugher</b> and<b> Richard Belzer</b> I will remember from the <i>Homicide </i>series (though I recall Belzer even earlier as a standup comic.) I was not a <i>Friends</i> fan, but admired Matthew Perry's work on <i>The West Wing</i> and<i> Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip</i>. I encountered <b>Barbara Bossom</b>, a western Pennsylvania girl, at CMU with her husband Steven Bochco. I of course had watched her on the iconic <i>Hill Street Blues</i>.<p></p><p><b></b></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPvKGLCBl97SzIYVCcpEgZoW0JBAC9EdK4TstVE0B-p20Uzse38iA8c7RqkWBERKYrqGj9abFhyphenhyphen0dVOHZTIJWVGjasH1qktcsRQRyzuPJ3bczzOdQzIdB_LTRL-C5r-ScYj8yjfjASHw8oXg6DgeLOF_FrCoHq56U7W962SCOZWc8tHMgUA17/s262/jane%20birkin02.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="262" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJPvKGLCBl97SzIYVCcpEgZoW0JBAC9EdK4TstVE0B-p20Uzse38iA8c7RqkWBERKYrqGj9abFhyphenhyphen0dVOHZTIJWVGjasH1qktcsRQRyzuPJ3bczzOdQzIdB_LTRL-C5r-ScYj8yjfjASHw8oXg6DgeLOF_FrCoHq56U7W962SCOZWc8tHMgUA17/s1600/jane%20birkin02.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jane Birkin</td></tr></tbody></table><b>Mary Quant</b> and <b>Jane Birkin</b> are linked forever to the England Swings 1960s (as is the lesser known actor<b> Shirley Ann Field</b> in several British films of their golden era in the early 60s.) <b> Daniel Ellsberg</b> represented a different 60s and 70s, as did <b>Tom Smothers</b> of the Smothers Brothers, and Vietnam era pacifist <b>David Harris</b>, while<b> Newton Minnow</b> will forever be associated with "the vast wasteland" of TV he described as FCC commissioner in the 60s. <b>Astrud Gilberto</b> had a hit with "The Girl From Ipanema" in 1964, influencing a generation of musical talents. I recall the bold installations of <b>Robert Irwin </b>as part of the liberation of the 60s.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJB5jco1H_D1h_qecxILZEkZZx2duD6LZUsHIdi7_t1Uw5XOjx2zQXgbH68Pngp2UePHqVJRUWouAnI7zVtVN_5Fz23EgovNZrs7wbI4Ci6D005KQG0gA23j3UXynJOdIKdSWMxS4xfe4GkviYeq27IektnRuqLpEqMwuCOOn-SqXCWQi0zoq/s336/LujackLIFE.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJB5jco1H_D1h_qecxILZEkZZx2duD6LZUsHIdi7_t1Uw5XOjx2zQXgbH68Pngp2UePHqVJRUWouAnI7zVtVN_5Fz23EgovNZrs7wbI4Ci6D005KQG0gA23j3UXynJOdIKdSWMxS4xfe4GkviYeq27IektnRuqLpEqMwuCOOn-SqXCWQi0zoq/s320/LujackLIFE.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>I remember <b>Dick Groat</b> as the shortstop on my beloved 1960s Pittsburgh Pirates world champs (He hit .325 that year and won the batting title and was the co-MVP, and I don't even have to look those up.) <b>Johnny Lujack</b> was the fabled record-setting quarterback for Notre Dame and the Chicago Bears who had a long career as a sports announcer. My father told me he was a second cousin, probably through my paternal grandmother's family, but I never met him. <p></p><p>Even further back, <b>Phyllis Coates</b> was the first Lois Lane in the 1950s <i>Adventures of Superman</i> TV series, and <b>Franco Misliacci</b> was the lyricist of "nel blu, di pinto de blu," one of a few Italian language hit records of the 50s, which later was a hit again for Robert Ridirelli (Bobby Rydell) and others by the title of its most recognizable word, "Volare." </p><p>I've written about writers who passed away in 2023 <a href="http://booksinheat.blogspot.com/2024/01/rip-2023-review.html">here</a>. Many of these strangers were part of the texture of my life, so in partial and mysterious ways, you could say I knew them. May they rest in peace and in our memories.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-44873099041506321182024-01-01T02:12:00.000-08:002024-01-01T02:12:07.567-08:00New Year's Resolution?<p> "Are you going to try to improve yourself, or are you going to let the universe improve you?"</p><p><i>Dogen</i></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-35305915440147351642023-12-28T00:51:00.000-08:002023-12-28T00:51:18.493-08:00Dreaming Up Daily Quote<p><span style="font-size: medium;">"One of the first things I noticed when I came back was that everybody talked a little too fast, and they took too much for granted."</span></p><p><i>Gary Snyder, recalling his return to the US in the 1960s from living in a Buddhist monastery in Japan.</i> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-57618269799951251052023-12-21T15:31:00.000-08:002023-12-21T15:31:45.601-08:00The Morning <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6yV5niA0Kg6Xewvf7LDcoXOPHOBtcChBqINW_pOCvEAihQerWFbhYV0GUr9c5RGnwQsIlpJqjwZL-1LGY1ORvFe0ug5oC9HsLbTGfi_Bu8XlpbUyXHe0upXGlhg0wN2xKu1dG6K16X9wnnyFxmOMh9He7LkYUg36f2wchRla9j3hVgdXZ2mPU/s880/merwin05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="880" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6yV5niA0Kg6Xewvf7LDcoXOPHOBtcChBqINW_pOCvEAihQerWFbhYV0GUr9c5RGnwQsIlpJqjwZL-1LGY1ORvFe0ug5oC9HsLbTGfi_Bu8XlpbUyXHe0upXGlhg0wN2xKu1dG6K16X9wnnyFxmOMh9He7LkYUg36f2wchRla9j3hVgdXZ2mPU/w640-h480/merwin05.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Would I love it this way if it could last<div> would I love it this way if it</div><div> were the whole sky the one heaven</div><div> or if I could believe it belonged to me</div><div> a possession that was mine alone</div><div> or if I imagined that it noticed me</div><div> recognized me and may have come to see me</div><div> out of all the mornings that I never knew</div><div> and all those that I have forgotten</div><div> would I love it this way if I were somewhere else</div><div> or if I were younger for the first time</div><div>or if these very birds were not singing</div><div> or I could not hear them or see their trees</div><div> would I love it this way if I were in pain</div><div> red torment of body or gray void of grief</div><div> would I love it this way if I knew</div><div> that I would remember anything that is</div><div> here now anything anything</div><div><br /></div><div> <i>--W.S. Merwin</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-68694523008195310452023-12-18T16:44:00.000-08:002023-12-21T15:35:47.230-08:00Three Guides<p> Among the concepts I regard as guides are three with
non-English names, from three different cultures.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <i>Ahimsa</i> is a Sanskrit word which literally means
non-harming, the most basic Buddhist precept. Poet Gary Snyder, who studied Buddhism for many years, defines
the concept as “do the least possible harm.”
So it is less restrictive than total non-violence, but it is broader in
application. It means do the least
possible harm to everything—not just humans but animals, plants and even
rocks. It turns out to be an ecological
as well as a moral principle. In life it means a change in assumptions—that is,
think first before making a harmful change, not exactly second nature to
western civilization. Personally it means
being mindful, respecting the other, and sincerely evaluating whether causing
harm is necessary. This is a key to the
sacred attitude towards eating and other aspects of ordinary life that
nevertheless have profound meaning.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <i>Hozho</i> is a concept from Navajo culture, part of the
Beauty Way. A Navajo character in a
Tony Hillerman novel explains it with an example: In times of drought the Hopi
and some other cultures will pray for rain.
“The Navajo has the proper ceremony done to restore himself to harmony
with the drought…. The system is designed to recognize what’s beyond human
power to change, then to change the human’s attitude to be content with the
inevitable.” This does not eliminate trying to right wrongs, address problems,
or change what needs to be changed. But
where it applies, this concept is not only a profound act of humility, but a
necessary human response of adjustment to reality. It’s something that other animals do instinctively—they find ways
to cope with drought, for example. They adapt to the environment. Instead of being angry or frightened, or
obsessing on things as unjust and taking them personally, people accept the
conditions and work within them to make life better—by conserving water, for
instance. Being in harmony is not easy. The Navajo ceremonies take days. But as a general principle, it only makes sense.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The third concept is Italian, and so part of my own Italian
American culture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Sprezzatura</i>
can be defined in various ways, but it can come down to making a personal style
part of life, an elegance that is natural and appears effortless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tony Bennett applied it to music, but
outwardly it can most often be seen in modes of dress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are places where such expression is
noticed and valued, but more places where it isn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that doesn’t matter so much, because <i>sprezzatura</i> is an
attitude, and expression (playfulness, authenticity) for its own sake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or to quote another Italian saying: <i>Niente senza gioia</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing without joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-21212198116285893652023-12-13T01:02:00.000-08:002023-12-13T01:02:24.083-08:00Readings: Its Own Reward<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZn9YQkHfYmhqhZ2CttGWWUqgyjjHvEnhz8iQTNJ-enUe4yxqxuD8tPHZalQ3HbRgSJ97kDvkaG0v9z_n_P66wsTC3xTzX9tH3jHRV3U0_uEIXJBsdlJ8Ivlz6DaxXdF3jcmidDSshyphenhyphenX6LN36lwxFdJBglynU9l_Jt1cqP0ahrRn88yIzszFXp/s1500/picasso%20blue%20guitar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="997" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZn9YQkHfYmhqhZ2CttGWWUqgyjjHvEnhz8iQTNJ-enUe4yxqxuD8tPHZalQ3HbRgSJ97kDvkaG0v9z_n_P66wsTC3xTzX9tH3jHRV3U0_uEIXJBsdlJ8Ivlz6DaxXdF3jcmidDSshyphenhyphenX6LN36lwxFdJBglynU9l_Jt1cqP0ahrRn88yIzszFXp/w426-h640/picasso%20blue%20guitar.jpg" width="426" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /> “As the Lord Krishna on the battlefield said to the warrior
prince Arjuna, ‘ To the work alone you are entitled, never to its fruits…He who
knows that the way of renunciation and the way of action are one, he verily
knows.’</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Life as an art and art as a game—as action for its own sake,
without thought of gain or loss, praise or blame—is a key, then, to the turning
of living itself into a yoga, and art into a means to such a life.”</span></p>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Joseph
Campbell <i>Myths to Live By</i><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span></span><div><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">But this is not necessarily an either/or--just that this point of view is ultimately the one. It connects to a couple of other quotes posted here (or <a href="http://bluevoice.blogspot.com/2015/07/music.html">there</a>) in the past:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 16px;">"Writing becomes its own reward. What do you need from others--except a little money--if you have satisfied the stern critic of yourself?"</span></span></div><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 16px;"></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 16px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Malcolm Cowley </span></i></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"You don't have to sell a hundred million records, you don't need thousands of platinum disks, you don't need to sing to millions and millions of people for music to nourish your soul. You can sing and play to the cat, it will still mend your life. My mantra is five simple words: Music is its own reward."</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sting</span></i></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-77761553684601287192023-12-05T23:04:00.000-08:002023-12-06T23:41:00.788-08:00Ignoble Nobel? Is That Why They Ignore Margaret Atwood?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAuC6ntW1qi8Rr-nN1uOBmzHNBzDbyCFLIeAyRiLkAKJA4Q_LrtrDZIPmRaRkod57O5Yod0PbddzZM-RA0wc_FPmRwmtJNRUrwSlfmdVBI-XQRgGknxJQHuOqcfusEwrRw9utrS14gC-7ApYA2ErlDU9N04ITYM9cXJ3IZq9BaBlWWv3dtrMiRZw/s1225/atwood.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1225" data-original-width="980" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAuC6ntW1qi8Rr-nN1uOBmzHNBzDbyCFLIeAyRiLkAKJA4Q_LrtrDZIPmRaRkod57O5Yod0PbddzZM-RA0wc_FPmRwmtJNRUrwSlfmdVBI-XQRgGknxJQHuOqcfusEwrRw9utrS14gC-7ApYA2ErlDU9N04ITYM9cXJ3IZq9BaBlWWv3dtrMiRZw/w320-h400/atwood.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> It's been over for awhile but it still bothers me. 2023 was the latest year in which Margaret Atwood did not win the Nobel Prize for Literature.<p></p><p>At least the Pulitzer Prize committee finally recognized Barbara Kingsolver. There's been no better US novelist, none more consistent and capacious in the breadth, depth and style of her work. But also this year the Nobel committee has once again ignored not only my now-perennial favorite--and the world's-- in yet again passing over Margaret Atwood.</p><p>Atwood was widely believed to be the favorite back in 2017--so much so that the actual winner, Kazuo Ishiguro, publicly <a href="https://www.elle.com/uk/life-and-culture/culture/news/a39149/kazuo-ishiguro-apologises-margaret-atwood-nobel-prize-literature/">apologized</a> for winning it instead of her. But there was always next year. And next year. And next year... And now Margaret Atwood is 84.</p><p>I don't claim to have read all the fine writers of the world, and I must defer judgment on a lot of prizes, like the Booker. But the Nobel has a specific, specified mission. In the words of founder Alfred Nobel, it is for the writer "who, in the preceding year, shall have conferred the greatest benefit on mankind."</p><p>That person, year after year for the past decade (I've been touting her since at least 2011), has been Margaret Atwood. She is unique in the world for sustaining quality literary work over many years, while her work consistently engages the contemporary world. She is now a global presence, for the shared present and future dilemmas she writes about (and the increasingly relevance of <i>The Handmaid's Tale)</i>, but also as a literary figure and an active voice. Her contributions are immeasurable. </p><p>Of course the Nobel committee in Sweden has ignored their founder's goals for years. They tend to award for a body of work rather than something from the previous year, which is defensible. But they also tend to choose writers who are perhaps known mostly within a single nation (usually a small one), if, frankly, at all. Their influence on the world is minimal, at least until they win and their work gets new editions. At least, that's what they usually do, when they're not awarding it to a legendary popular music lyricist who is either a skillful selector in the folk music tradition, or a serial plagiarist, including portions of his Nobel Prize acceptance address. </p><p>If the body of work is a major consideration, consider this: Margaret Atwood has published 18 novels, nine story collections, 18 volumes of poetry, 11 books of nonfiction, eight children's books and two graphic novels--and these are only works brought out by major publishers and presumably translated widely. She writes and speaks on ecology and economics as well as literature. And the world reads and listens.</p><p>But there's no point in making the case. Everyone knows it. Everyone knows she is the perfect Nobel Laureate, and has been for years. </p><p>So why hasn't she been one? It can't be only because she sometimes writes speculative or science fiction--they gave the award to Doris Lessing many years ago. Atwood herself hasn't commented on it in interviews I've read or watched on Youtube, usually praising whoever just won. But I got the feeling that she doesn't expect to ever win it, because of some problem with the Nobel committee regarding her. Maybe there's animosity, personal or otherwise, from a member or members of the committee. Maybe they feel she's gotten too many other awards. Who knows? (Actually, I think she does.)</p><p>The Nobel committee in any case has a well known track record of not getting around to honoring major literary figures in their lifetimes, and therefore never honoring them at all. So why should I care? I probably shouldn't. But to me it calls into question not only the Nobel committee's judgment but their integrity. I know all these prizes are political to some extent, and this is not the worst injustice in the world. But seeing some justice done is a rare but good feeling. She deserves this.</p><p>So I don't care who wins the Nobel anymore. Not until the name that's announced is Margaret Atwood. </p><p>P.S. Margaret Atwood's latest fiction is a story collection, <i>Old Babes in the Woods</i>. Barbara Kingsolver's Pulitzer-winning novel is <i>Demon Copperhead</i>. Both are fine gifts for discerning and appreciative readers.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-85421310036344549452023-11-27T03:26:00.000-08:002023-11-27T03:43:34.578-08:00Then and Now: Mourning in America<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-e4wh1HZ50Thc1NkeUIRVprcJMxTtJxV3EzZNswkqyu_D2gtRFaoZNvxTyURCGlZkaiRUU4s81qUxXOAbBhMi_3W2_vcnDn-DHQCErPFTOMTmEJ-5FF01p7fm1LK9VWK05pGuuJQfAt-PYGYKAVtWo-fjd2VGdC0iMDJJQpwyTeAvNkC-_S2-/s1000/jfk%20eternal%20flame.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-e4wh1HZ50Thc1NkeUIRVprcJMxTtJxV3EzZNswkqyu_D2gtRFaoZNvxTyURCGlZkaiRUU4s81qUxXOAbBhMi_3W2_vcnDn-DHQCErPFTOMTmEJ-5FF01p7fm1LK9VWK05pGuuJQfAt-PYGYKAVtWo-fjd2VGdC0iMDJJQpwyTeAvNkC-_S2-/s320/jfk%20eternal%20flame.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> In a 1964 essay Joseph Campbell chose as his example of "the high service of ritual to a society" the funeral of President John F. Kennedy in November 1963: "For here was an enormous nation; yet during those four days it was made a unanimous community, all of us participating in the same way, simultaneously, in a single symbolic event. To my knowledge, this was the first and only thing of its kind in peacetime that has ever given me the sense of being a member of this whole national community, engaged as a unit in the observance of a deeply significant rite."<p></p><p>It's not hyperbole (if a bit exaggerated in detail): that's how it was. And as it has never been again--which probably makes it inconceivable to the majority of Americans today, who were not old enough or even alive then, sixty years ago this month. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZIZNeRPQl9Gwve2SgwRg_kRIsWzJ_lsEpOJK_9vKxNnR93ZR0G104PZRm1yaGPSayeJ9pXGBQtNkJfG65S6kJI0FvsLzRCdXFLymH-MRz2SS_-EH7hFAep7szzIX27VwcmOIy4EyPw3iL0As2ovzl360uuPLD9le_BIHRSRqTGzCWRTM7RgLo/s1116/d070593044-jpg.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1116" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZIZNeRPQl9Gwve2SgwRg_kRIsWzJ_lsEpOJK_9vKxNnR93ZR0G104PZRm1yaGPSayeJ9pXGBQtNkJfG65S6kJI0FvsLzRCdXFLymH-MRz2SS_-EH7hFAep7szzIX27VwcmOIy4EyPw3iL0As2ovzl360uuPLD9le_BIHRSRqTGzCWRTM7RgLo/s320/d070593044-jpg.jpg" width="215" /></a></div>Among the contributing factors to the national response was the status of the presidency, and of the President as a kind of personification of the nation, that's largely gone now. There was the shock: it broke the continuity of time. Few if any then alive could remember McKinley's assassination in 1901. There was also the new intimacy which the Kennedys brought, largely through the relatively new national medium of television. People had never been as familiar with a President and his family. <p></p><p>John F. Kennedy became a national figure at the 1956 Democratic convention, one of the first covered by television, when the presidential nominee Adlai Stevenson left the choice of the vice-presidential candidate to the convention. So there were nominating speeches and a tense vote. Kennedy came up short by about 20 votes, and took the platform to move that the nomination of his rival Estes Kefauver be made unanimous. </p><p> Early in 1960, Kennedy was frequently seen on the evening news as he took the new route to the presidential nomination of competing in primary elections. The campaigns in Wisconsin and West Virginia were particularly dramatic and heavily covered. The Democratic National Convention was in media-saturated Los Angeles and dominated the networks all that August week, as they played up the drama, though eventually Kennedy secured the nomination on the first ballot.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif9oO5ZIG33e5FlLQr4ut76wjwDeHg6n1Fyh5Zml6AtT7PvMAIaaaunx2bswwS_igZlWozGWgjTtIc6rwdqobYNQtjD92nfmmk0wNhCqmf1e7XsMc6D6faMk-6l0cKekCJhfFwK5q2-zr-FjqNioLW-1CWQemExg7z2d245BBuq4RIW6luvYOz/s843/805d7a34338bbfd045b8e8e5ef6748cb.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="843" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif9oO5ZIG33e5FlLQr4ut76wjwDeHg6n1Fyh5Zml6AtT7PvMAIaaaunx2bswwS_igZlWozGWgjTtIc6rwdqobYNQtjD92nfmmk0wNhCqmf1e7XsMc6D6faMk-6l0cKekCJhfFwK5q2-zr-FjqNioLW-1CWQemExg7z2d245BBuq4RIW6luvYOz/s320/805d7a34338bbfd045b8e8e5ef6748cb.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>The 1960 campaign featured the first four televised debates. The election was close and so demanded a lot of media attention. Once Kennedy became President, he and his administration and especially his family were everywhere in the broadcast and print media, which included not only newspapers but magazines from newsmagazines to glossy photo-rich weekly magazines like Life and Look, plus glossy women's magazines like Good Housekeeping that featured Jacqueline Kennedy and daughter Caroline. Jacqueline Kennedy refurbished the White House public rooms to reflect their historic character, and the networks all carried her one-hour tour of the result. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6h8AZYgrvMs3VrbTL5dNk8AuUv2HlQvqdTtpbmQzDCgkwIoMB8ftt86wA11-iC1J2UZ7h37YBgX9TgLmwVSb6nJ3_SIlv9X2npx9yawD1bMpjEzBEBUMd5J9GjpXSCXL95IjKlt4YV_r3tC-NGpfVKQjQj-a-GTzJrv5v1F5BnExfk54R9NyR/s790/JFK-Press-Conference.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="790" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6h8AZYgrvMs3VrbTL5dNk8AuUv2HlQvqdTtpbmQzDCgkwIoMB8ftt86wA11-iC1J2UZ7h37YBgX9TgLmwVSb6nJ3_SIlv9X2npx9yawD1bMpjEzBEBUMd5J9GjpXSCXL95IjKlt4YV_r3tC-NGpfVKQjQj-a-GTzJrv5v1F5BnExfk54R9NyR/s320/JFK-Press-Conference.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The nation watched not only as JFK confronted crises in Berlin, Cuba and elsewhere internationally, and domestic crises like his confrontation with Big Steel, but as he and his wife brought a baby boy into the White House, and also lost a son at birth. Kennedy was the first to hold live televised press conferences, which displayed his charm and wit as well as command of the issues. He entered the White House at age 43, as the youngest man to be elected President in American history. <p></p><p>In other words, the American public had the opportunity to become more intimate with JFK than any President before him. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8NHYQumRcdBsLS3MKbyWgcnTzXfNhWIYjxvwn7WjT1JuMPjCt2M4YEqIpV2cuJzfMY7Y6XkENjmlTbiLLnpqg-w1Pb5vGlznn0L3kWZ-3gPg1gQDCJnB7Q_0GJplVVwI3hl7LrJDWWPfaxq03hXBqZM_OTyNtQ_OCGENBP-fDQcBJ62brZ9uT/s600/1963_John_Kennedy_&_Son.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="493" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8NHYQumRcdBsLS3MKbyWgcnTzXfNhWIYjxvwn7WjT1JuMPjCt2M4YEqIpV2cuJzfMY7Y6XkENjmlTbiLLnpqg-w1Pb5vGlznn0L3kWZ-3gPg1gQDCJnB7Q_0GJplVVwI3hl7LrJDWWPfaxq03hXBqZM_OTyNtQ_OCGENBP-fDQcBJ62brZ9uT/s320/1963_John_Kennedy_&_Son.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>In both senses of the word, Kennedy appealed to a wide variety of Americans. The industrial and working middle class was strong and unionized, and he was supported by the unions. His first big legislative goal was to increase the minimum wage (to $1.25 an hour. Opponents warned it would tank the economy.) The young flocked to join the Peace Corps that he began. He proposed and fought for "medical care for the aged," that became Medicare, finally passed in 1965. He spoke often about education, and about the arts. He brought artists and entertainers to the White House. He supported the sciences, committed the US to landing an American on the moon, which at first resulted in probably the global event that came closest to presaging the attention to his funeral rites, which was the fully televised launching of John Glenn as the first American to orbit the Earth, as well as those three orbits and his splashdown. <p></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_hJSV0sg7kUqi1E0mdXMC2vw07jdm7Oh14wjVjDcHwFLqZ8wNKEj8c7QgMCM9r00gQnoR03Ao8FSr2Nn7zkW25GZtGKzBTsGwUrInsuJxYg71QrlJ2XLPZVuJ4SWBYqOeKilaB_3rTfY51pqu2xRv_2PRMoMmkmx71IEud682lD-EO4yhNHr/s1278/jfk3.bmp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1258" data-original-width="1278" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_hJSV0sg7kUqi1E0mdXMC2vw07jdm7Oh14wjVjDcHwFLqZ8wNKEj8c7QgMCM9r00gQnoR03Ao8FSr2Nn7zkW25GZtGKzBTsGwUrInsuJxYg71QrlJ2XLPZVuJ4SWBYqOeKilaB_3rTfY51pqu2xRv_2PRMoMmkmx71IEud682lD-EO4yhNHr/s320/jfk3.bmp" width="320" /></a></div><br />Then there was the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962--which definitely had the nation's attention. On its 40th anniversary, when several of the principals involved were still alive, his Secretary of Defense Robert MacNamara and White House aide Theodore Sorensen agreed, that if anyone else then on the scene--Democrat or Republican-- had been President (with the exception of his brother Robert) and faced the same circumstances, thermonuclear war would most likely have resulted.<p></p><p> Kennedy called for and negotiated a nuclear test ban treaty with the USSR, crucially important as the first reversal in Cold War hostilities and the arms race. He gave his signature speeches on the test ban and on civil rights one after the other in two days, and it was his words--the eloquence and directness of his argument-- even more than the acts themselves that set the stage for at least the near future, and that continue to echo through history. Most historians and political observers now agree that he was about to end direct American involvement in Vietnam. As 1963 was coming to a close, he told political advisors his 1964 campaign issues would be pursuing peace and addressing poverty in America. </p><p> He was up and down politically, and he was hated by some. There were cynics, as there are many more now. But Americans felt a connection, and he inspired widespread affection and admiration, confidence in his ability as President, and an optimism for the future. His assassination was a shock on so many levels--of vulnerability, of an unimagined violence, of reality cut loose, then of grief for a young family we'd come to know. Part of it for many was the feeling that it was a turning point in history--a turning back, a turning away. It turns out sadly that we were right. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7F_V45vIRK6C5LJkoWPirDRV_IqpMpXMuL20mdXuLy0mJrr_TJH5OilbcojcHuSemH92cQJzkem4sQ0qVH9gSNQBd_bVnLDLg9cLIny-rfO7MLuTEGxEVnJzWIjUIjBlt2r_FyDEX7axt6umOVwsLBnu3LrVZ3Jxr-DmugQ81j1_W80FUqgN/s621/jfk%20dallas.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="561" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB7F_V45vIRK6C5LJkoWPirDRV_IqpMpXMuL20mdXuLy0mJrr_TJH5OilbcojcHuSemH92cQJzkem4sQ0qVH9gSNQBd_bVnLDLg9cLIny-rfO7MLuTEGxEVnJzWIjUIjBlt2r_FyDEX7axt6umOVwsLBnu3LrVZ3Jxr-DmugQ81j1_W80FUqgN/s320/jfk%20dallas.jpg" width="289" /></a></div>It is true that most of us experienced those four days through television. Although I don't recall watching all that much on Friday, the day of the assassination itself. I was in an afternoon class in high school when the principal, Father Sheridan, came on the p.a. (as he often did), but this time announced that TV was reporting that President Kennedy had been shot in a Dallas motorcade. My next class was gym, which we held outside, engaged in some sports activity that allowed me to almost forget what I'd heard, as if it hadn't happened. Then we showered and dressed, and as I walked up the narrow stairs to the gym itself, a boy coming down for his own gym class answered my inquiry with a fatal nod--President Kennedy was dead. <p></p><p>I remember wandering the dark silent halls, then walking home with my two best friends, including my debate partner, Mike. We were scheduled to work on our debate case at my house. Instead we spent the evening talking about what had happened and what might happen next. </p><p>But by the next day I was watching almost all the time. The entire broadcast day was devoted to this news coverage, and would be through Monday. There were no commercials whatsoever. Much of the time on Saturday especially, the TV coverage highlighted events in Kennedy's campaign and presidency--at least for another day, he was more alive than dead on the TV screen.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionVFT3d_tqvVmUS-qIkwYzxSC0o0zg6LkcsGxD1WCM-bV-P4AM2GfRs47zbqCvUe-qjz95CqZR-NKMBhs0BCIkILPiYUkfykeZt0WYErs-RNXFQ2Gux6fO97p894P4VVENmbmCqMEgmJIvqfj53_N8IGTGa32CjdhCg12kc6-Gy4JiZvY4Uic/s640/the-caisson.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionVFT3d_tqvVmUS-qIkwYzxSC0o0zg6LkcsGxD1WCM-bV-P4AM2GfRs47zbqCvUe-qjz95CqZR-NKMBhs0BCIkILPiYUkfykeZt0WYErs-RNXFQ2Gux6fO97p894P4VVENmbmCqMEgmJIvqfj53_N8IGTGa32CjdhCg12kc6-Gy4JiZvY4Uic/s320/the-caisson.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> On Sunday I didn't go to Mass with my family so I could watch the procession to the Capitol, and thereby happened to witness Oswald being shot on live TV. A moment before I'd been startled by what I thought was a gun, but it turned out to be a microphone. Then the real shot, and the chaos. Like most people, I watched the funeral Mass (in the same church where, two days after his Inauguration, Kennedy reached back to shake my 14 year old hand), then the procession to Arlington National Cemetery on TV (although Margaret, having grown up in Arlington, was there.) We saw the caisson drawn by six horses--one of many deliberate echoes of Lincoln's funeral--and the riderless black horse, rearing and bucking. We saw Kennedy's three year old son John and his salute, and all the closeups of Mrs. Kennedy, a contemporary portrait of Our Lady of Sorrows.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKmLPrHwjfdYZVMKEAdIaVkG_-w-O-FFTqnBh_B6Bx_yE5TpVA_8kF6CeCOsd7tRaIkHgeORcCg9LGBg-QCTOupnpfEEAAEeR806ct7bPosgVZoBUCm4im_8qzFL8dT7uovqtbFGZlTSp9kjxNNJb4kjM26XtGq0Ah__5hNThbjTASHypInq5o/s460/jfk50006-1604.r.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="460" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKmLPrHwjfdYZVMKEAdIaVkG_-w-O-FFTqnBh_B6Bx_yE5TpVA_8kF6CeCOsd7tRaIkHgeORcCg9LGBg-QCTOupnpfEEAAEeR806ct7bPosgVZoBUCm4im_8qzFL8dT7uovqtbFGZlTSp9kjxNNJb4kjM26XtGq0Ah__5hNThbjTASHypInq5o/w400-h295/jfk50006-1604.r.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>But though we were bound together through television, it wasn't the total measure of our participation or expression. I remember going with my father to Main Street in Greensburg, probably late Friday or early Saturday, to the Singer Sewing Machine store he managed, where we placed one of my Kennedy photos in the storefront window, surrounded by black bunting. Every store on the street had a similar display. None of them would be open for business until Tuesday. Main Street was in mourning--here and everywhere.<p></p><p>When Kennedy's coffin was displayed in the Capitol rotunda, nearly half a million ordinary Americans filed by to pay their respects, all day and night and into the next day. On Monday, the coffin entered St. Mathew Cathedral at 12:14 pm. Historian William Manchester wrote in his book <i>The Death of a President</i>, that "millions of individuals, reading the funeral timetable in the morning papers, had spontaneously chosen that moment to express their own bereavement." </p><p>"For the next five minutes, the continental United States was virtually isolated: telephone and cable communication with the outside world was suspended until 12:19." Traffic in cities stopped. The New Jersey Turnpike was deserted. Trains across America stopped. Subway trains under cities stopped in their stations. Buses pulled off the highways and stopped. Planes scheduled for takeoff remained on the runways. Even elevators stopped.</p><p>There were official memorials: sailors on US ships at sea cast wreaths into the waters. Thousands of artillery pieces at 7,000 US military posts fired salutes. But citizens invented their own tributes. Two Eagle scouts played taps to a totally silent Times Square, where taxi drivers stood by their cabs with bowed heads. A railroad conductor got down from his stopped train in rural Pennsylvania and blew taps on his own trumpet. And it wasn't just Americans. It was rush hour in Athens but Greek police still stopped traffic for a period of silence. A tribal ceremony of mourning was held in Nairobi.</p><p>Manchester reports that television viewing dipped to its lowest during the funeral Mass, as people attended memorial services in their own churches, synagogues and mosques, and in San Francisco, at Buddhist temples. There were memorial programs at all fifty state capitals. These rituals kept the country from going crazy, but they did not heal the nation completely, nor the lives of many of us. </p><p>The mourning, and certainly the effects, did not stop at the end of those four days. But those days remain a moment in America without precedent and without repetition (though the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy in 1968 prompted extensive response.) For most Americans now I'd guess, it is only the faded black and white television images sampled briefly now and then that prevent it from sliding completely into the historical obscurity of the response to FDR's death, or Lincoln's assassination. Those of us still around who lived through it consciously will remember a different America, and especially the different America that could have been. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-62282742271123384102023-11-20T01:38:00.000-08:002023-11-23T01:30:36.082-08:00Then and Now: Conspiracy Theory<p> Sixty years later, the assassination of President John F. Kennedy still reverberates through American culture and politics. For example, the matter of conspiracies.</p><p> Apparently the first "conspiracy theories"that were applied to a presidential assassination, followed the 1881 shooting of President James Garfield and his subsequent death. What befuddles me is that hardly anyone mentions the documented conspiracy to commit the first presidential assassination, of Abraham Lincoln. John Wilkes Booth conspired with at least two others to also kill the vice-president and secretary of state on the same night. They were angry white supremacists and ardent supporters of the defeated Confederacy. But our histories tend to ignore this, and focus on Booth as a deranged lone gunman with mysterious motives.</p><p>Still, the contemporary pattern of conspiracy theories really began a few years after JFK's death in Dallas on November 22, 1963. The Warren Commission Report in 1964, published in a fat tome that a lot of people bought (including me) and almost no one read, repeated the conclusion that Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone gunman. But talk of conspiracy began almost immediately: it was the Mafia, it was the Pentagon, it was the CIA, it was Cuba, it was LBJ, it was none or all of the above, mix and match. There was so much of it that Barbara Garson wrote a Shakespearian parody called <i>MacBird</i>! that pinned it on LBJ, and it ran for several years in various theatres on the West and East coasts beginning in 1966. </p><p>At first the receptivity to these possible conspiracies was fed by the sense of loss--not only of JFK himself but of his promise--of the kind of presidency and country he embodied. LBJ was a lesser usurper in every way; JFK's differences with some military leaders during the Cuban Missile Crisis and perhaps the Nuclear Test Ban Treaty fed other (or contributing) scenarios. That LBJ and the military and "Intelligence" establishment swiftly escalated the war in Vietnam that JFK was winding down, only added credibility to these impressions and suspicions.</p><p>And then the evidence started coming in--not of actual conspiracies, but of the implausible single gunman/"magic bullet" official explanation. The same debates are renewed today as they basically were formed over the past half century. A conspiracy in which nobody talked remains as implausible as the magic bullet single assassin explanation. Now nearly everyone who might have been involved is dead, and pretty clearly, we will never know.</p><p>Just to entertain the idea of some dark plot among the powerful was further encouraged by the revelations of the conspiracies of lies that supported the Vietnam war. That systematic lies and secret wars and assassinations have been used by US government agents since at least the start of the Cold War if not much earlier, is documented. </p><p>With those shocking revelations and speculations as background, all kinds of conspiracy theories are now available for those who need them. Perhaps only a small number of Americans believe the transparently absurd conspiracies pushed by Qanon and other extremists, but apparently a lot of Republicans believe federal and state governments conspired to steal the 2020 presidential election (though they seem less willing to concede that the Republican Supreme Court actually did steal the 2000 election.) </p><p>The link specifically to the JFK assassination is strong, as in the QAnon announcement two years ago that its anniversary in Dallas would be marked by the return of John F. Kennedy, Jr., to stand beside Donald Trump as they triumphantly expose the usual suspects, and return to the White House. For just as tabloids for years "revealed" that JFK was still alive and hidden on an island, his son's death in a plane crash also didn't happen. These wish fulfillments have apparently become part of today's extremist fever dreams, complete with a MAGA conversion. (See this<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2023/oct/26/it-splintered-our-sense-of-reality-how-jfks-assassination-spawned-60-years-of-conspiracy-theories"> Guardian piece by Steve Rose</a> for more.) </p><p>This 60th anniversary also marks the first year in which a Kennedy not of JFK's generation is ostensibly running for President, though not nominated by either major party. Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.'s candidacy has been linked with a number of what are called conspiracy theories. I don't know all that much about him, but he does seem a puzzling and paradoxical character. He was a persistent and effective environmental advocate (and still supports efforts to address climate distortion), and his<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iZUZZTtZw_s"> foreign policy speech </a>earlier in his campaign put his finger on the change that JFK brought, from a policy of war to a policy of peace, and of the return since to what RFK jr. called "the forever war," and the attitudes it reflects and engenders applied to every area of foreign policy. His distrust of Big Pharma is well-earned, since he represented its victims in many successful lawsuits. But even though some nuances in his positions do get ignored, he does go to extremes, which we identify with the extreme right, along with playing fast and loose with facts.</p><p>A<a href="https://slate.com/technology/2023/07/robert-f-kennedy-jr-rfk-covid-conspiracy-history.html"> piece this summer in Slate</a> reviews his positions and troubling tendencies, and relates them to the characteristics of conspiracy theories and those who adhere to them. But it never mentions what is very likely their origin in his life: the assassinations of his uncle and his father in the 1960s. Reputable sources have suggested that RFK senior did not much believe in the Warren Report explanation. Others suggest the killing of RFK was not necessarily as simple as reported. When I was the editor of an alternative weekly called Washington Newsworks in 1975 and much of 76, we covered the forthcoming congressional hearings that seriously examined alternative explanations to the lone lunatic orthodoxy of the killing of Martin Luther King, Jr. In fact, Coretta Scott King (we learned exclusively) was coming to Washington to be part of it.</p><p>It now seems likely that there will never be explanations of any of these monumental and world-changing events that convince everyone, or perhaps even a majority. But there are distinctions to be made between credible conspiracy "theories," and insane explanations promoted as fact. </p><p>I reinterate: I don't know Robert Kennedy, Jr. But it's not hard to imagine the residual suspicions and perhaps the psychological damage that might come with the burdens of uncertainty with such high stakes, for a nephew of JFK and the eldest son of RFK. A very long book about Robert Kennedy's 1968 presidential campaign by Lewis Chester, Godfrey Hodgson and Bruce Page was titled<i> An American Melodrama.</i> I think of RFK Jr.'s campaign as an American tragedy, a further ramification of that day in Dallas sixty year ago.</p><p>But there is another 60th anniversary this week that is of course related but too often gets overlooked as it is conflated with the assassination itself: the funeral of John F. Kennedy, and what that was like for America and the world. Which is my subject next time.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-19908745499218231932023-11-12T22:55:00.000-08:002023-11-14T23:06:59.472-08:00Origins: Chewing Gum<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcfzqxM-TjGY9dob8u1CEFBahVqquZMqYRrfmTJJigBmMAdzfHsH5JWl2IkhuCzsfuIXkNqx4qHLCCi9USG4icj1kJF-aN5vOHW_Ema9pDp3dkwZ_v5uqbifgFuY7IFgpVmRwwcPDUzmCnMbbk41_Rmb19TYBNxCFbEOC45wXtlkDJMKyuV8BI/s644/b9f3bf51766d021d3591fe6a00fe0b73.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="644" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcfzqxM-TjGY9dob8u1CEFBahVqquZMqYRrfmTJJigBmMAdzfHsH5JWl2IkhuCzsfuIXkNqx4qHLCCi9USG4icj1kJF-aN5vOHW_Ema9pDp3dkwZ_v5uqbifgFuY7IFgpVmRwwcPDUzmCnMbbk41_Rmb19TYBNxCFbEOC45wXtlkDJMKyuV8BI/w280-h400/b9f3bf51766d021d3591fe6a00fe0b73.jpg" width="280" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ad from the 1930s</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> Every year, for who knows how long, Knox College seniors in Galesburg, Illinois (though apparently only men) would receive a mimeographed note in their campus
mailbox. I got one my senior year of
1967-68. It read:<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <i>“ Mr. Lester
Smiley, Vice-President of the American Chicle Company, will be on the campus
Friday, February 23. He would like to
hold a group meeting for those men interested in a job opportunity with their
company. The interviews will be held on Friday, February 23 in the College
Placement Office. Mr. Smiley is a Knox
College graduate and, as you know, we have placed many Knox graduates with
American Chicle.”</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> I can quote this notice so precisely because I experienced
it as a bit of found poetry, and literally stapled it into the draft of the play
I was writing, “What’s Happening, Baby Jesus?”
When the play was performed that May, freshman Michael Shain came out in
a business suit and recited it, with the cheerful addition: “So come on out and
keep America chewing!” It got one of
the bigger laughs of the show. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9Lp0fjqjQ0Dgf5AcQHil7Xn7i61dP5K7d9p7yq8rYD_Z4pgpZozX25FO5Zf0KxxKTj0MqgwL5gAV0Y5_13fccuwMO1Dui33RSvih6E8LvjLpt0ViQTImLZfQ_xVcv9e_-nB0VNx-TKX1g7y32XEnuUPhbDxJSQgyRvF-sWvN4Kn3PM3YqPw3/s642/American-Chicle_0001.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="472" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9Lp0fjqjQ0Dgf5AcQHil7Xn7i61dP5K7d9p7yq8rYD_Z4pgpZozX25FO5Zf0KxxKTj0MqgwL5gAV0Y5_13fccuwMO1Dui33RSvih6E8LvjLpt0ViQTImLZfQ_xVcv9e_-nB0VNx-TKX1g7y32XEnuUPhbDxJSQgyRvF-sWvN4Kn3PM3YqPw3/w147-h200/American-Chicle_0001.jpg" width="147" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rockford High yearbook </td></tr></tbody></table>For decades, American Chicle made chewing gum in Rockford,
Illinois, and (at various times) in Newark, Brooklyn, Cleveland, New Orleans,
Portland, Oregon and around the world. They don’t make so much of it anymore (in fact, after being
swallowed up by a succession of bigger companies—even though swallowing is
something you shouldn’t do with chewing gum-- a company by that name no longer
exists.) Chewing gum has apparently dropped out of fashion, at least for
awhile. But for a long time, America kept on chewing.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <b><span style="font-size: large;">“C</span></b>hewing gum” as we know it began in the USA, though humans
everywhere have been chewing stuff without swallowing it for a very long
time. Some Indigenous peoples in South
America (for example) chewed particular
plants for energy and stamina, and/or to get high. Chewing tobacco is another such instance.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> People chewed various leaves, nuts, twigs and gummy
substances for millennia, as breath sweeteners and digestive aids, to stave off
hunger and thirst, and just for the fun of it.
Denizens of the far north chewed whale blubber, and Europeans chewed
animal fats, sometimes in social hours at the end of meals (hence, perhaps, the
expression “chewing the fat” to mean convivial—and trivial—conversation, though
the origins of this phrase are obscure, based on what seem to be barely
educated guesses.) By the nineteenth
century in America, chewing wax was the popular if not entirely satisfactory
favorite.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> But the substances we know as chewing gum had their origins
in the 1850s. For some of us you could
say the story starts with Davy Crockett.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Just about anyone who went to Knox College—or any college--
in the 1960s would have experienced the Davy Crockett craze of the 50s,
centered on TV films starring Fess Parker, shown endlessly on the Disneyland
anthology hour. The last of the three
supposedly biographical tales was about Davy Crockett joining the heroic band
defending the Alamo—150 or so men facing 1500 Mexican soldiers. After holding the Alamo for ten days, Davy
Crockett and his compatriots were all killed in the battle or executed
afterwards. The general of the Mexican
forces, who was named but never seen in the Disney film, was Santa Anna. We knew that name. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNzAlbFLwls8GS-9swKuy5n4tWEkzcIaiG_aPFNB1vPLguQm_PG8mdnugLb1rduiteTxCuGk_XceZY5n5wUWNjxp25s3N996SxPFV_UQ_3i_wZg7j2tcnPo20PpyyKlU9oKzHuj9AR7s5p4vhwN_ZsoVUB5emx20LjjUkkFDkPTBLrNcvgDTMs/s453/320px-Antonio_Lopez_de_Santa_Anna_c1853.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNzAlbFLwls8GS-9swKuy5n4tWEkzcIaiG_aPFNB1vPLguQm_PG8mdnugLb1rduiteTxCuGk_XceZY5n5wUWNjxp25s3N996SxPFV_UQ_3i_wZg7j2tcnPo20PpyyKlU9oKzHuj9AR7s5p4vhwN_ZsoVUB5emx20LjjUkkFDkPTBLrNcvgDTMs/s320/320px-Antonio_Lopez_de_Santa_Anna_c1853.png" width="226" /></a></div> Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna was not only the General of the
army ruthlessly intent on putting down a rebellious attempt of Texas to secede
from Mexico—he was also at the time the President of Mexico. In fact he was President of Mexico at least
five times. He was also the General
that soon after the Alamo, was defeated by Sam Houston’s forces, and thereby
lost Texas. Later he was the general
(and president) who provoked and then lost a war with the entire United
States. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Santa Anna’s career was marked by idealism, hypocrisy,
vanity, charm, chicanery, avarice, incompetence and betrayal, and by a
remarkable ability to survive. He was
also in it for the money. His brief
last term as president was a mockery of a monarchy. After he was deposed he went into exile, and ended up for a time
in—of all places-- Staten Island in New York, where he cultivated a partner in
a get-rich-quick scheme.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> There are several versions of this story. In one, he brought
with him about a ton of chicle, the sap of the manikara zapota or sapodilla
tree, an evergreen found in jungles of southern Mexico and Central
America. His American partner (or
employee or go-between-- the exact relationship varies with the telling) was
Thomas Adams, a photographer and inventor.
Santa Anna liked to chew the chicle, so Adams was tasked with finding a
market for it—as the basis for rubber tires attached to buggy wheels. Santa Anna convinced him it was a great
idea.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> No one was
interested. Then Santa Anna decamped,
leaving Adams with a ton of chicle. He
recalled how one of his sons picked up the habit of chewing it from Santa Anna,
and got another son, a traveling salesman, to try selling it as a chewing
substitute for paraffin wax. Probably
unbeknownst to him, the product had been test-marketed for ages by the Aztecs,
who chewed this <i>chictli</i>. But after
a little success, Adams gave it the American mass-production spin by inventing
a machine in 1871 that divided the chicle into strips. He also invented the
first gumballs. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij6h96gp0_V4BMAgeM4RMAD8JvAfP_zV4Y0DTdmjlsiJugI2aC1hjuKKbuKSA8Ofg3DNz7xtf9Q88KVaOWPwkl6p4a-zl1ByZb9UjeceUvZlEAYCp-ruejboo42wQAYRBXqnlWcPLMWQKEV7tr_a39_0kXLh3EGJmTFVQ8Z9QDyH9OItqttuhu/s762/Black_jacks_gum2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="762" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij6h96gp0_V4BMAgeM4RMAD8JvAfP_zV4Y0DTdmjlsiJugI2aC1hjuKKbuKSA8Ofg3DNz7xtf9Q88KVaOWPwkl6p4a-zl1ByZb9UjeceUvZlEAYCp-ruejboo42wQAYRBXqnlWcPLMWQKEV7tr_a39_0kXLh3EGJmTFVQ8Z9QDyH9OItqttuhu/w200-h146/Black_jacks_gum2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>An enterprising druggist in Kentucky began adding flavor to
the gum, though the taste was medicinal.
Adams then created a licorice-flavored gum he called Black Jack. It was
the longest surviving brand of chewing gum, still sticking to the bottom of
movie theatre seats almost a century later. Adams sold Black Jack and another
venerable brand, Tutti Frutti, through vending machines in New York. Later he would market Chiclets. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGIldg3_CpfjWbMz3LMJo9uSzdwUyWiwNQ9bJNUXJC-qHpYNPNaTMcnRWNXj12YMS_6GRT-MMGYN65wg-vqmDWZXD9CGrEhvj49BCJZje4Qbb8JW532_Qu-9-YLXSszRO-tbpGooTtvFL1zzlWzIuyF9w-fk0eeTk-y6miADKI0EjOzJrfh9l/s310/beemans02.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="163" data-original-width="310" height="105" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGIldg3_CpfjWbMz3LMJo9uSzdwUyWiwNQ9bJNUXJC-qHpYNPNaTMcnRWNXj12YMS_6GRT-MMGYN65wg-vqmDWZXD9CGrEhvj49BCJZje4Qbb8JW532_Qu-9-YLXSszRO-tbpGooTtvFL1zzlWzIuyF9w-fk0eeTk-y6miADKI0EjOzJrfh9l/w200-h105/beemans02.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>In the late 1880s,
a candy store owner in Cleveland named William J. White, who supposedly
invented chewing gum all over again when he mistakenly ordered a barrel of
Yucatan chicle, added a peppermint taste. Then other brands familiar to my
generation began arriving. Physician
Edward Beeman began processing pepsin for its stomach-soothing properties, and
heeded a suggestion to add it to chewing gum: Beeman’s Pepsin Chewing Gum. It
was still marketed as such in the 1950s and possibly longer.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> In 1890, Adams brought together several existing
manufacturers, including Beeman and White, to form the American Chicle company.
Eventually it would become an international giant. Together with production and
product refinements (the first Adams chewing gum was the consistency of taffy),
chewing gum became a lucrative product. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdo4pGJHGzhANP8LFMyn0_62l6ZjwJfE6yi8xclMyvl-YPan-EGnPGJZMe_ORWdny0tubzX4UvnMVhJdnyN40JWBGIxJpCYOz83Z_B7VP-tOm7M2mFAZFGMm1TJ61zPzmy-c1gPLjlaO8gcWTJZ8wByjtFYlvdqeX0X8EnI_OIVICVPLkjbzKQ/s720/wrigley01.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdo4pGJHGzhANP8LFMyn0_62l6ZjwJfE6yi8xclMyvl-YPan-EGnPGJZMe_ORWdny0tubzX4UvnMVhJdnyN40JWBGIxJpCYOz83Z_B7VP-tOm7M2mFAZFGMm1TJ61zPzmy-c1gPLjlaO8gcWTJZ8wByjtFYlvdqeX0X8EnI_OIVICVPLkjbzKQ/w200-h200/wrigley01.png" width="200" /></a></div>Helping that popularity along was a former soap salesman
named William Wrigley, Jr., who introduced his Spearmint gum in 1892, followed
by Juicy Fruit in 1893. Wrigley was
also a pioneer in advertising and publicity—perhaps giving rise to the
expression “selling it like soap.” <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> Wrigley headquartered his own company in Chicago, which
became enormously prosperous, presenting the city with the Wrigley Building and
the classic ballpark Wrigley Field for his Chicago Cubs baseball team. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNMm7HhycwQj0AuaEltP4Q7lhQYhn4Z7w1luPwSDzcaps1ckHUnRqoDGm7eazaL3HDq7wc3RkpsjS31K5_k24s3Ky7u545xd2O1S0JNgMsgcJ_MP5sH0zxVSQxobxK-udGRi3V96jSoNFqeKb6oHJ2UNEdQRYvs1orLR-qMavEn_s8n9BNCwGO/s846/beech-nut.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="598" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNMm7HhycwQj0AuaEltP4Q7lhQYhn4Z7w1luPwSDzcaps1ckHUnRqoDGm7eazaL3HDq7wc3RkpsjS31K5_k24s3Ky7u545xd2O1S0JNgMsgcJ_MP5sH0zxVSQxobxK-udGRi3V96jSoNFqeKb6oHJ2UNEdQRYvs1orLR-qMavEn_s8n9BNCwGO/w226-h320/beech-nut.jpg" width="226" /></a></div>Another company that formed around this time was Beech-Nut,
which started out as a baby food company but soon branched out in some weird
ways, into chewing tobacco, for instance.
Beech-Nut also entered the chewing gum market with their peppermint,
spearmint and Doublemint brands. <p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSCS_L_a3TMxfVyNbVImKCf0BcIFdjKrkf2__lEnY6NUZaHYXgdXsdNbxzaMPNFQWYOTLNMo8Pj1Ed6hrD2c-mLG4yi8Yd0z371bCPLHKOIRBkGgI0sYb4qk8mxe3MAP6UGKU62vIqlcymhRzGKAVGxlXnhYvDkTbgkZyNZimdHpSXGntLKlj/s254/wrigley%20wwI.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="165" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSCS_L_a3TMxfVyNbVImKCf0BcIFdjKrkf2__lEnY6NUZaHYXgdXsdNbxzaMPNFQWYOTLNMo8Pj1Ed6hrD2c-mLG4yi8Yd0z371bCPLHKOIRBkGgI0sYb4qk8mxe3MAP6UGKU62vIqlcymhRzGKAVGxlXnhYvDkTbgkZyNZimdHpSXGntLKlj/w260-h400/wrigley%20wwI.jpg" width="260" /></a></div> Like the first manufactured cigarettes and American
chocolate bars, the presence of chewing gum in the rations of American soldiers
during World War I created a larger market when the soldiers returned, in
addition to giving Europe a taste of America. So it was in the 1920s that
chewing gum began to be a defining feature of American life, and began its
spread to Europe and beyond. Even Coca
Cola briefly got into the act with its own gum.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> By my childhood in the 1950s and adolescence in the early
1960s, chewing gum was a somewhat controversial but still ubiquitous part of
the every day. The brands we knew and
chewed included some of the age-old: many early brands failed, but bright
yellow Juicy Fruit packages were everywhere, and Black Jack and Cloves rattled
down from the lobby vending machines at the movies. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2gD6_587piQQYr5nCtdp3t-sU1q-V0SOMCvkKNc2Vp7rFnxUv_UexL7WZoj_hij-noHK8_UQRP2SNurQrWqPZCYTc3EjqyMVWz_hVQnHSzELVdRn7ALZUMSMtu7Xeb-2HUjOKeRBa8dfmkytf8ezznXZjUbIj8Rm-kodcMXxHt37jCspk2pB/s226/dentyne02.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="223" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2gD6_587piQQYr5nCtdp3t-sU1q-V0SOMCvkKNc2Vp7rFnxUv_UexL7WZoj_hij-noHK8_UQRP2SNurQrWqPZCYTc3EjqyMVWz_hVQnHSzELVdRn7ALZUMSMtu7Xeb-2HUjOKeRBa8dfmkytf8ezznXZjUbIj8Rm-kodcMXxHt37jCspk2pB/s1600/dentyne02.jpg" width="223" /></a></div><br />Chewing gum brands were heavily advertised, including on
television (<i>Double your pleasure, double your fun, with Doublemint,
Doublemint, Doublemint Gum!</i>) Though chewing gum became associated with
rebellious teenagers (teachers generally frowned on it, and institutions hated
the mess) it was mainly marketed to adults.
New additives, it was claimed, helped clean teeth and breath as well as
calm nerves. If a stick of chewing gum stuffed in your mouth seemed too vulgar,
there was cinnamon flavored Dentyne, in a different sized package and divided
in petite pieces, marketed as a dental—and mental--health aid.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> There was chewing gum for everything: Aspergum contained
aspirin, there were nicotine gums; my father regularly chewed tablets of an
antacid gum called Chooz. By the 1970s
there were sugarless gums, marketed as dieting aids. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlmCsbqd5KqaPpvsLFyDmZwgkX5YNNkCajWbncjQHw0bP4OAccieni_PXP3GW_Gl1MzP6wtNOv26Z4J-soPbbNHSBwKV4zG4fwbeXdzZbIAkYjlIqbynvxzNgYVSE8nAexxhJiW-eFU1xVzV0HWGRJ9zDxzhUc6TYWA_tiX-ZijEmwhhWio-1/s262/baz02.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="193" data-original-width="262" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlmCsbqd5KqaPpvsLFyDmZwgkX5YNNkCajWbncjQHw0bP4OAccieni_PXP3GW_Gl1MzP6wtNOv26Z4J-soPbbNHSBwKV4zG4fwbeXdzZbIAkYjlIqbynvxzNgYVSE8nAexxhJiW-eFU1xVzV0HWGRJ9zDxzhUc6TYWA_tiX-ZijEmwhhWio-1/s1600/baz02.jpg" width="262" /></a></div>My generation got the gum habit from childhood bubble
gum. It had a separate and later
history, because it took longer to create a gum that produced durable bubbles.
But the techniques were finally perfected, and the Fleer Company began selling
Dubble Bubble in the 1930s, though with sugar shortages it devoted its entire
production to the armed forces in World War II and didn’t resume domestic sales
until 1951. Around then, Topps began
selling Bazooka bubble gum.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> In my childhood we got Dubble Bubble and Bazooka in small,
fat squares, wrapped tightly and individually. Both brands were wrapped on the
inside with paper containing a comic strip or panel. For Bazooka it was the adventures of Bazooka Joe. Dubble Bubble’s hero was called Pud. Both also included fortunes; Dubble added
interesting “facts.” </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgBQu276Xq9VEBa-CNRyZIdoSTUrVOeEA1uJykIjgj9hp3YtFQTkvzNCgpAwDZjeh7YM70tO-HoBWi4S9ytirkEp7F30WmO13Fl4rMsSQaQgqLH_6lK3zsNLRdQ-KLWrE1SBB2ataswdTe75o3W0T4R5zZikCvwgdrpKn1ycWrAaROhnATj4Z/s382/baseball%20cards%2050s.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="382" data-original-width="276" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWgBQu276Xq9VEBa-CNRyZIdoSTUrVOeEA1uJykIjgj9hp3YtFQTkvzNCgpAwDZjeh7YM70tO-HoBWi4S9ytirkEp7F30WmO13Fl4rMsSQaQgqLH_6lK3zsNLRdQ-KLWrE1SBB2ataswdTe75o3W0T4R5zZikCvwgdrpKn1ycWrAaROhnATj4Z/w144-h200/baseball%20cards%2050s.jpg" width="144" /></a></div>In the 1930s, Fleer also started selling packages of bubble
gum with cardboard photos of major league baseball players. By my 1950s childhood, Topps had joined and
perhaps surpassed them. Those packages
were single thin rectangles of gum slightly smaller than the cards that we all
collected, treasured, traded and played with. It was also our early form of gambling, as you did not know what players you were getting in each package.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> We also got football cards, with
pictures of professional football players (much less popular than baseball players--college and even
high school football teams were better known then.)
Eventually there would be cards of many different kinds: from Davy
Crockett to the Beatles, Star Trek and Star Wars, and yes (I reluctantly admit)
the Brady Bunch. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpgWWSGGHQcwYQawZfNfvn92xVplt7u-azBbhP_I61qkQdzowSRLGsEHoizwAz2qcIyUYzXzKNT53GTvunR9tqVJEaUpYfFvicyQHFVonH5QpFYcUiOHSIoWpQm0VZ_NtEAsacDtRxdxlQLGjckauv4sD-49oSdbePevxdYRp09RFFIjLblteL/s1024/Dick-Clark-Beech-Nut-mcrfb-2021-761x1024.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="761" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpgWWSGGHQcwYQawZfNfvn92xVplt7u-azBbhP_I61qkQdzowSRLGsEHoizwAz2qcIyUYzXzKNT53GTvunR9tqVJEaUpYfFvicyQHFVonH5QpFYcUiOHSIoWpQm0VZ_NtEAsacDtRxdxlQLGjckauv4sD-49oSdbePevxdYRp09RFFIjLblteL/s320/Dick-Clark-Beech-Nut-mcrfb-2021-761x1024.png" width="238" /></a></div>A switch from bubble gum to chewing
gum exclusively was part of the transition from childhood to adolescence, and
the Beech-Nut gums in particular were part of that, if only for sponsoring Dick
Clark’s Saturday night music show starting in 1958, which featured many of the
current stars lip-synching to their latest singles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though this was black and white television, I still remember the
dark green package of spearmint gum he would display.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"> Chewing gum in a bewildering number
of new tastes continues to be sold around the world. Still, as the 20<sup>th</sup>
century wound down, chewing gum began to lose its cultural flavor. It was less fashionable, a little
déclassé. Beemans got a boost when the
Tom Wolfe book and the 1983 film <i>The Right Stuff </i>revealed it as famed
test pilot Chuck Yeager’s favorite ritual before a dangerous flight. But that didn’t slow the trend downward.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho8F5ZTReVfGBnPRYXRQKjA_ZzOgH97vmKlJXYZVeHHm51Ja5qZVN6gQLWrmv_rU3wmiYmPpiekogDORReQkeUVfzqyVOSa5aFS8mL8sspgFK1z5amMRWd-4b_nNRaxRNlQGQkmhPjsuhAIJqmbwaSuKdgXxdrW7b7K3WNF1TCKJ46Jlem29cD/s500/lennon.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho8F5ZTReVfGBnPRYXRQKjA_ZzOgH97vmKlJXYZVeHHm51Ja5qZVN6gQLWrmv_rU3wmiYmPpiekogDORReQkeUVfzqyVOSa5aFS8mL8sspgFK1z5amMRWd-4b_nNRaxRNlQGQkmhPjsuhAIJqmbwaSuKdgXxdrW7b7K3WNF1TCKJ46Jlem29cD/w200-h200/lennon.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />Still, even some celebrities kept
chewing, if somewhat secretly. One of the last public gum chewers was John
Lennon, who famously was seen chewing gum while singing “All You Need Is Love”
to an international TV audience. By the
24<sup>th</sup> century, gum is so unknown that when offered a stick of gum by
a libidinous desk sergeant in a 1940s holodeck simulation, Doctor Beverly
Crusher committed the cardinal rookie mistake, and swallowed it.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> The fortunes of those great chewing
gum companies has followed, along with the disappearance of many classic
brands. American Chicle is gone,
Beech-Nut is back to making just baby food.
Though now a subsidiary of a candy company, only Wrigley remains an
international giant in chewing gum.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> But such is the power of nostalgia
for classic chewing gum brands that a wrinkled up package, a decades-dry stick or related item can
fetch tens, hundreds, even thousands of dollars. And of course it’s become a cliché of my generation to bemoan the
bubble gum baseball cards that were thrown away with the other detritus of
childhood. A 1952 Mickey Mantle hauled
in $12.6 million. Chew on that awhile.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Gallery</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfU8ikioKrOYCfU7JC5kyuqqrzEEMUa0nqC7q6st1w9ZCRzKtlvI28M77sYbFCFeVsK5_T8hYGoOVviThqGiPrckeCgPFP1iCyIbBz5tVT_USlHUgu6PKQyx-LoEtnU2fAgSaypvJrjp4DPVm-FAWVIJL8PnMOeNZtN6qdl2bz1HNbDVif-LZ/s631/americanchiclecompanybuildingportlandor.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="631" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfU8ikioKrOYCfU7JC5kyuqqrzEEMUa0nqC7q6st1w9ZCRzKtlvI28M77sYbFCFeVsK5_T8hYGoOVviThqGiPrckeCgPFP1iCyIbBz5tVT_USlHUgu6PKQyx-LoEtnU2fAgSaypvJrjp4DPVm-FAWVIJL8PnMOeNZtN6qdl2bz1HNbDVif-LZ/s320/americanchiclecompanybuildingportlandor.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span><br />American Chicle Building in Portland, Oregon.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><b><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .25in;">Thomas Adams (and sons) put their name on several products, and the Adams name was used for others long afterwards. This is one of the brands that didn't last.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZms70T3T2cKQVvM9ACX2zuRoYwt_HgzOSbO-j8aV13-0ANArdGHwEYkOmvOC5NXS4SvTZNMTdff8FRJDiQyvO08cbrYVNRgvpUZV8FJ6rTL064WXN2F0QvHi6wrCwmBYJy6M6pbD5SomO_ZH55TdIs80MeKL5s1Usbkk1cNF4OhCxRbxD9PlS/s1024/adams-california-fruit-chewing-gum-ad-ruth-roland-534c3b-1024.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="692" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZms70T3T2cKQVvM9ACX2zuRoYwt_HgzOSbO-j8aV13-0ANArdGHwEYkOmvOC5NXS4SvTZNMTdff8FRJDiQyvO08cbrYVNRgvpUZV8FJ6rTL064WXN2F0QvHi6wrCwmBYJy6M6pbD5SomO_ZH55TdIs80MeKL5s1Usbkk1cNF4OhCxRbxD9PlS/w270-h400/adams-california-fruit-chewing-gum-ad-ruth-roland-534c3b-1024.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Baseball players were known for chewing substances other than chewing gum. Nevertheless, Beech-Nut did a series of endorsement ads with prominent players--none more prominent than Stan the Man. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIU7MO81cjAeXOEIy7KLo6YCBdoDfaJBrCmrQTktvyhGJqgejhzPKnxd-1K3i-1GnfewlYD6CkqNz7ESieUzFi9ANVSJLcUsjwpS8UPuDT4a55k8Hee88tmuSi5GcB-6PZrgxOlj5nGG10iPypDL35-FFLKtQic8BA0Fhd29l_vdkNH3tqBkH_/s1000/share_1498236430-Stan-Musial-Signed-Beech-Nut-Gum-13-x-14-Tin-Sign-PSA-COA-PristineAuction.com.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIU7MO81cjAeXOEIy7KLo6YCBdoDfaJBrCmrQTktvyhGJqgejhzPKnxd-1K3i-1GnfewlYD6CkqNz7ESieUzFi9ANVSJLcUsjwpS8UPuDT4a55k8Hee88tmuSi5GcB-6PZrgxOlj5nGG10iPypDL35-FFLKtQic8BA0Fhd29l_vdkNH3tqBkH_/s320/share_1498236430-Stan-Musial-Signed-Beech-Nut-Gum-13-x-14-Tin-Sign-PSA-COA-PristineAuction.com.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The classic Dubble Bubble...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPGVWgj_ienmqi-RLVIPH8-wiQEyelBPgTI7ThGS_8uflq4O6yeQUicax_aheS9D3tnJDy4sRIsUGWbO_CbgLIuas_GFLanX3x_WJnUZfnwXm-9Icc7IcgjJg9oAIixRJ_5dvI19ow7HRmoXbw1nT3Oi2mJq91H16NJkgrOLW5S5OPm7oaVlcZ/s229/dubble01.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="229" data-original-width="220" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPGVWgj_ienmqi-RLVIPH8-wiQEyelBPgTI7ThGS_8uflq4O6yeQUicax_aheS9D3tnJDy4sRIsUGWbO_CbgLIuas_GFLanX3x_WJnUZfnwXm-9Icc7IcgjJg9oAIixRJ_5dvI19ow7HRmoXbw1nT3Oi2mJq91H16NJkgrOLW5S5OPm7oaVlcZ/s1600/dubble01.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">In the effort to give chewing gum legitimacy, especially in the early days, companies made various health claims. Beemans however was sincere--he was a champion of pepsin, and many other companies later used pepsin in their gum, and featured the word prominently in packaging and promotions.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wDqiIjVK8hG6EhK5QrUJRRPBqvPhvvJJaIpZCXyZdCJc_yAVG4YKKy2UkBrV3jvNN9sPEroTgbebd9OAxjHitUJRWgvoCCpErZ9zujtF9Jy4roU-uZQkYsEv7AKNBcKiCDVJYY8iyuLRG2_y3aTosZV3S6zFKW48SZr0p7n12iZzUvwCZHYI/s1441/Beemans-Ad-1919.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1441" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wDqiIjVK8hG6EhK5QrUJRRPBqvPhvvJJaIpZCXyZdCJc_yAVG4YKKy2UkBrV3jvNN9sPEroTgbebd9OAxjHitUJRWgvoCCpErZ9zujtF9Jy4roU-uZQkYsEv7AKNBcKiCDVJYY8iyuLRG2_y3aTosZV3S6zFKW48SZr0p7n12iZzUvwCZHYI/w278-h400/Beemans-Ad-1919.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">When I tried to recall specific baseball cards I actually had in my collecting years, I could remember of course the prominent names, like Mickey Mantle, Roberto Clemente, etc. But the actual card? For some reason the first I recalled was the Gene Baker card with the dark green background. Gene Baker is a forgotten player from the 50s and early 60s, but his last team was the Pittsburgh Pirates, which I followed religiously, especially in the 1957,58, 59 and World Championship 1960 seasons. When he came to the Pirates in the Dale Long trade in 1957, I kept waiting to see him but he rarely played, hobbled by injuries and better players in front of him. He'd been a shortstop, converted to second base in Chicago (sharing the infield with the great Ernie Banks--the two of them were among the first black players in the NL after Jackie Robinson) and a utility infielder in Pittsburgh. He was on the 1960 team, used sparingly to spell Don Hoak at third and pinch-hit. He soon retired but stayed with the Pirates organization, and became the first black manager and coach in organized baseball (in the minors), and if only for part of one game in 1963, the first black manager in the Major Leagues.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJlh7Hu4ASPh1y1S0VU-wg25-NrZK-jJ4Uyk1cF7N7-ywBwkmU47a9zr_ziWEWCZttCqpzduuDdYxghhkk7NuM6e6uxs_0L1_Xd98tpwtIqksWH1BYp6UZtW1jqttmXEGrhsDoYFzl4we_LrclcITp_FTeDtzeYkQiAoTLel4EKhtvYBLc_3iz/s2560/1959%20bcard.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1855" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJlh7Hu4ASPh1y1S0VU-wg25-NrZK-jJ4Uyk1cF7N7-ywBwkmU47a9zr_ziWEWCZttCqpzduuDdYxghhkk7NuM6e6uxs_0L1_Xd98tpwtIqksWH1BYp6UZtW1jqttmXEGrhsDoYFzl4we_LrclcITp_FTeDtzeYkQiAoTLel4EKhtvYBLc_3iz/s320/1959%20bcard.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><br /> </div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-42548649876735626922023-11-05T01:27:00.005-08:002023-11-15T00:43:36.139-08:00Now and Then<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbDX8ze40YflJlTNJyfiU3RNVX8sQsoieVc_tI7dkZONFuN8FnhQxL78NlGvRx0rsTbXF7rvZ5PQNnzjvDi35JoUiioff-Z6-7GCyKN95rA89FNrJw6MwizhdvJJ2swtO0XfURPhQ6H1wyNCiOMqpnfajIo23Q_J_ZzdpXCioa6EmjZeWb99x/s640/beatles-now-and-then-893119698-e1698406939436-Dr4nWb.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbDX8ze40YflJlTNJyfiU3RNVX8sQsoieVc_tI7dkZONFuN8FnhQxL78NlGvRx0rsTbXF7rvZ5PQNnzjvDi35JoUiioff-Z6-7GCyKN95rA89FNrJw6MwizhdvJJ2swtO0XfURPhQ6H1wyNCiOMqpnfajIo23Q_J_ZzdpXCioa6EmjZeWb99x/w640-h320/beatles-now-and-then-893119698-e1698406939436-Dr4nWb.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br />On November 2, a new song recording by the Beatles was released, the product of three recordings over 50 years or so: a demo cassette tape that John Lennon made at home in the mid-1970s (latest guess I've heard or seen was 1977, just three years before he was killed), then an aborted attempt to make the song into a Beatles record by Paul, George and Ringo in the mid-1990s, during the time they crafted "Free As A Bird" and "Real Love" from another Lennon tape, and now the final version created this year of 2023.<p></p><p>Technology that filmmaker Peter Jackson developed for the <a href="http://dreamingup.blogspot.com/2022/09/let-it-back.html">Get Back</a> TV film made it possible recently to extract Lennon's voice from the piano and extraneous noise on the 70s cassette, which was one of the problems that led to the song being abandoned in 1995. But George had recorded a guitar track before they gave up on it, so that was available for this recording. With Paul playing bass and slide guitar, and Ringo on the drums, this song--now titled "Now and Then"--includes all four Beatles. Since there are no known recordings of new songs with both John and George (who died in 2001), this is in effect--and officially--the last Beatles song. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi08jFssFsstrygs0QvJ1-GfXpYxy0lGotQJO3R23Ku-Ai76rXuV0LbD1N3uTE7BD3Vnny4d-1iCoNOggySJVJmzjPOpUlBSn6ngAnUiXhhjgI-uB_e2NSSVXHx6ys4VXaJ6dhbQy3CoOfPCzlMnrHryRyqYrHcwxfODdRxsnqekFo0e3jJKRJt/s300/images%20(3).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi08jFssFsstrygs0QvJ1-GfXpYxy0lGotQJO3R23Ku-Ai76rXuV0LbD1N3uTE7BD3Vnny4d-1iCoNOggySJVJmzjPOpUlBSn6ngAnUiXhhjgI-uB_e2NSSVXHx6ys4VXaJ6dhbQy3CoOfPCzlMnrHryRyqYrHcwxfODdRxsnqekFo0e3jJKRJt/s1600/images%20(3).jpg" width="300" /></a></div>The song was first played on BBC radio, and became available on vinyl, together with the Beatles first release, "Love Me Do." The official version appeared<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AW55J2zE3N4"> on YouTube</a> with just the plain blue and gray box, with the song's title in white. Although John's demo has been unofficially available, I'd never heard this particular song before.<p></p><p>The first thing that got to me was the clarity and vitality of John Lennon's voice. At a time when death seems all around, this was less a revival than a resurrection. The melody is enchanting, and the production is seamless. I liked the quickly neglected 90s songs more than many others did, but this is a contemporary Beatles record--part now, and part then. </p><p>The song itself has been edited from the demo version (partly because John hadn't finished the lyric), given a slightly faster tempo, and generally gets the Beatles treatment, with guitar solo and a string orchestra section. Paul and Ringo do new vocals but high harmony backgrounds by George, Paul and John are taken from previous recordings, notably "Because" on Abbey Road. There is one entire section of the demo that was dropped (which furnished its bootleg title, "I Don't Wanna Lose You,") that's now the center of online debates among Lennon enthusiasts. There were probably technical reasons for this as well as musical ones, but the song is given a classic Beatles shape, and I love it.</p><p>On November 3, the<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Opxhh9Oh3rg"> official music video</a> by Peter Jackson was released. It contained a few images never seen before, but that isn't its main contribution. Jackson crafted these few minutes to celebrate the Beatles career but most tellingly, he does so in the context of this song. "Now and Then" can seem to be a wistful meditation on a delicate love relationship, perhaps a lost love (The interrupted relationship with Yoko is an obvious possibility.) But the video presents it as a commentary on the bond among the Beatles themselves, estranged as they were for a time in the 1970s. (Though throughout that decade, two or three or even all four of them continued to work together on solo projects, and the big break between John and Paul was largely healed by the late 70s.)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVm22Ra7tZP5pmk0351H4z4eOPEVNwKFN1vi4zQSRpKA-Y_ZqsjykD1GIVycwCE1k7uBE2sAGmT8aoFTaoXp_T4Ahu8Hw0ZzN9ng56c563IToWcH-eQR5KHP0bda4sNhTjMfkFrHNBWMT8AqXsWVGGMN9oyelqBK7edXrZO6p1OjPRn-gyAQY/s300/images%20(6).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVm22Ra7tZP5pmk0351H4z4eOPEVNwKFN1vi4zQSRpKA-Y_ZqsjykD1GIVycwCE1k7uBE2sAGmT8aoFTaoXp_T4Ahu8Hw0ZzN9ng56c563IToWcH-eQR5KHP0bda4sNhTjMfkFrHNBWMT8AqXsWVGGMN9oyelqBK7edXrZO6p1OjPRn-gyAQY/s1600/images%20(6).jpg" width="300" /></a></div>Instead of just intercutting clips from the past with some shots of the 2023 and 1995 recording sessions, Jackson created dazzling combinations in which Beatles from different eras interacted with each other, and even versions of themselves from another time, just as memory is part of the present. The video suggests the power of playing together over time, with the visceral effect of presence even in absence. Now and then exist together. <p></p><p> (Another layer is added with the brief shot of Giles Martin, co-producer of this record and son of George Martin, who produced all the Beatles records. In this shot he even looks like his father.)</p><p>The video starts with the reality: Paul and George working out guitar for the song in 1995. While John's voice is heard, the first images aren't of him but the gauge that measures the sound level, moving with his vocal. He's present through the machines. And yet...</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEBx7oPx0GLC7mJ0fa4X-YZza5cqsHA6jwdVdozEFC2Bb8X-7b3QfFqPjsQr4ICn5qJkT7b48X4erENTnhZ7T7qGzpufFaEoL1k1o9KdRzE5rv5gP9XYdYrXneLRmKYfFTmmzQp6GEMdXgUAJycOPA1LrMbOUdUsRVRsHOyCIRenq3fHiMFuSX/s299/images%20(9).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="299" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEBx7oPx0GLC7mJ0fa4X-YZza5cqsHA6jwdVdozEFC2Bb8X-7b3QfFqPjsQr4ICn5qJkT7b48X4erENTnhZ7T7qGzpufFaEoL1k1o9KdRzE5rv5gP9XYdYrXneLRmKYfFTmmzQp6GEMdXgUAJycOPA1LrMbOUdUsRVRsHOyCIRenq3fHiMFuSX/s1600/images%20(9).jpg" width="299" /></a></div>To get inside the song, the first image of him is a kind of silhouette, in which a scene of sunset (or sunrise) on the sea is reflected in his glasses, and a mirage appears of the four very young Beatles clowning around. Then the dizzying combinations of all four of them in different times, mostly playing together (suggesting a higher octane version of the subtly surreal baggage car scene in <i>A Hard Day's Night</i>, and some scenes in <i>Help!</i>) The images of young Lennon are so bright and full, though Jackson presents only John the cut-up and clown, rather than his more intense or gloomy or distant moments. In fact, the others are also seen frequently being silly. (Even present-day Paul gets in the act, mocking his shot playing bass, with a mugging young McCartney behind him.)<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK-eIDXH0baZy2GGd_WFgyTNt9wW2_BfHlvTBMPCbOF8CdFgiz-PvU_5FkZxunxuEdPtyN1xEfnBJE2OevFZuXZioeoL0Q5BClokfiBH-kmW-lGXeq2peWFnBjDi_QOOrBo0bXwsFqTCrlvL3TwgflTUajX0pfAtJqxiAa2e_N8R1R-MaPwos2/s311/images%20(8).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="311" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK-eIDXH0baZy2GGd_WFgyTNt9wW2_BfHlvTBMPCbOF8CdFgiz-PvU_5FkZxunxuEdPtyN1xEfnBJE2OevFZuXZioeoL0Q5BClokfiBH-kmW-lGXeq2peWFnBjDi_QOOrBo0bXwsFqTCrlvL3TwgflTUajX0pfAtJqxiAa2e_N8R1R-MaPwos2/s1600/images%20(8).jpg" width="311" /></a></div>The video ends with a series of images that go backward in time to the four as young boys, and then the famous early 60s black-and-white bow from the stage with the bright Beatles sign behind them. Then their images disappear and the light goes dark. <div><br /></div><div>(It's the last Beatles song, but unlikely to be the last Beatles release. A number of remixed albums are in the works, and I look forward to some machine-learning magic applied to those 1995 vocals, and a new tech update to the accompanying videos.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Clearly there is a lot going on in this mesmerizing video, so I suggest that in addition to watching it, you also listen to the song with no visual accompaniment, as I did the first day of its release, to feel its full effect. Either way, joy and tears, now and then. <p>Inevitably, the song applies to us as listeners, for however long the Beatles have been part of our lives. For me there was a time I thought of them every day. I needed their rhythms to face everyday life. These days I think of them only now and then, and I miss them. But I know they will be there for me. </p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14223270.post-82189399593403615172023-10-28T01:44:00.005-07:002023-10-31T00:21:38.831-07:00Origins: The Jungle Gym<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9hsgTIrcwSkJpplJPcGLqKCbmL01FWhRfW0RkTluQKqbE7yPL5RaKA8X8mxOXXbnSQOr61e0Ua7_gY8G1oA5gr4jHZVknZBfzwmkwyuykTxoKS9lQ4Zbn6aQBdqLPGOYjvrmYRTY7YYfRBVjx3ouLRqpclZII84P16mT5rbuiPa-iqf3gXlWa/s300/boys%20jg%20color.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="297" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9hsgTIrcwSkJpplJPcGLqKCbmL01FWhRfW0RkTluQKqbE7yPL5RaKA8X8mxOXXbnSQOr61e0Ua7_gY8G1oA5gr4jHZVknZBfzwmkwyuykTxoKS9lQ4Zbn6aQBdqLPGOYjvrmYRTY7YYfRBVjx3ouLRqpclZII84P16mT5rbuiPa-iqf3gXlWa/w396-h400/boys%20jg%20color.jpg" width="396" /></a></div> The Jungle Gym turns 100 years old this year, sort of. The patent filed by Sebastian Hinton was approved in 1923, starting off its worldwide replications. However, Sebastian Hinton was not really an inventor -- he was a patent attorney in Illinois, so he wrote a good patent.<p></p><p> The idea and the basic structure was dreamed up and built many years before by his father, Charles Hinton, who <i>was</i> an inventor (he created the first baseball pitching machine. Unfortunately, it was powered by gunpowder.) Charles Hinton also wrote scientific romances in the era of H.G. Wells' classics, but chiefly he was a mathematician. And so the purpose of his jungle gym was to...teach his children math.</p><p>Charles Hinton came from a radical but highly educated family in the UK. His mathematical interest was what he called the fourth dimension, within which exist the three dimensions we know. Or something like that. (It wasn't the Wells' version of the fourth dimension, which was time.) In the late 19th century, when he proposed his ideas (more influential now than then), he came to believe that people couldn't understand his fourth dimension because they really didn't know the mathematics of three dimensions. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2Tb2QGfPADmSOz3fadZFxwDUm_kL3SqqAsvpCJnD91s1PRG_vKPCsZfnINP6JUiJqQXtlVJxjerA_R_y2TqwYvCEv3xMv9iQ7uqN2CHZpq25CUzrnIpChzrHRB-ZSuQuU4cF1q9enryKiZyL_bT3pE-t5GSqTOT2YKDtMoZIL0NYQqs7UK9w/s720/boys%20hinton.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="720" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2Tb2QGfPADmSOz3fadZFxwDUm_kL3SqqAsvpCJnD91s1PRG_vKPCsZfnINP6JUiJqQXtlVJxjerA_R_y2TqwYvCEv3xMv9iQ7uqN2CHZpq25CUzrnIpChzrHRB-ZSuQuU4cF1q9enryKiZyL_bT3pE-t5GSqTOT2YKDtMoZIL0NYQqs7UK9w/w200-h157/boys%20hinton.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>So to teach his children how three-dimensional math works, he built a backyard structure to illustrate it, and encouraged his kids to identify the junctures of the x, y and z axes by climbing to each point and calling it out. They climbed all right, but they ignored the math lesson.<p></p><p>Charles Hinton built his structure out of bamboo, since he was in Japan at the time. Later he moved to the US, taught at Princeton (where he invented the pitching machine), and worked at the US Naval Observatory and the Patent Office, though he never bothered to patent his "climbing frame."</p><p>Years later his son Sebastian suddenly remembered it, and described it to an educator at the progressive school system in the Chicago suburb of Winnetka, who encouraged him to build a prototype. It was tweaked, and eventually kids in Winnetka were climbing on the first jungle gyms (one of which still exists, also made of wood) and Hinton filed his patent. He didn't personally profit by it or see its success, for this is also the centennial of his death.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCfxTGbf8a8TVy8Aa3eG2fYPP0YbivS4D61ulbJdHf5A0KE5fYk9Ugs0ueAoVI7KuGDGTZ5L3nAG9YWOMH_EllXyjX1gCYX_PRcWTuqyEm5zAF4e7_76w5tykBpGlAzFztj6kYrArj5avCjvz3c6eGvdBWO6-b2lGqTffiUOHNigOUvQvm-Cx4/s711/boys%20vintage%20jg.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="711" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCfxTGbf8a8TVy8Aa3eG2fYPP0YbivS4D61ulbJdHf5A0KE5fYk9Ugs0ueAoVI7KuGDGTZ5L3nAG9YWOMH_EllXyjX1gCYX_PRcWTuqyEm5zAF4e7_76w5tykBpGlAzFztj6kYrArj5avCjvz3c6eGvdBWO6-b2lGqTffiUOHNigOUvQvm-Cx4/s320/boys%20vintage%20jg.jpg" width="254" /></a></div>The patent referred to the structure as a version of tree branches upon which "monkeys" climb. Experts say it's really ape species that do this kind of climbing, but kids are often called monkeys. and the name stuck for one part of the jungle gym: the monkey bars. The jungle gym has been varied over the years, getting more elaborate and more safety- (and lawsuit-) conscious. But something like the original still features in many if not most playgrounds and a lot of backyards.<p></p><p>There have been a few notices in the media of this centennial, notably the NPR <i>All Things Considered</i> <a href="https://www.npr.org/2023/10/24/1208312694/a-beloved-piece-of-playground-equipment-the-jungle-gym-turns-100-years-old">segment</a> by Matt Ozug. But no one answered the question that I had (nor did they ask it): The name "Jungle Gym" seems like an obvious pun on "Jungle Jim," of comic strip, film, radio and TV fame. But is it?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4586HGeBmjhRd8ZtQDG27f0kN2D4iuKlHFPYnjGFzlTlCJtLoGktaDUa6dgMYPaysyA6Hg4gnbTK7uaPVrtEmfQICjKg2g-y9FOwj8Uh05xUuZ8hqik0IH-hsU5ChnKRrHv2PMDgd_wyG9RHK1LQKX4BiLOjtcBWGEgCIzeTOnCCQ0tW5Hz_r/s1579/boys%20jj%20color.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1579" data-original-width="1069" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4586HGeBmjhRd8ZtQDG27f0kN2D4iuKlHFPYnjGFzlTlCJtLoGktaDUa6dgMYPaysyA6Hg4gnbTK7uaPVrtEmfQICjKg2g-y9FOwj8Uh05xUuZ8hqik0IH-hsU5ChnKRrHv2PMDgd_wyG9RHK1LQKX4BiLOjtcBWGEgCIzeTOnCCQ0tW5Hz_r/s320/boys%20jj%20color.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>Nope. Sebastian Hinton patented what he called the "junglegym" in 1923. Jungle Jim didn't appear in the newspaper comics pages until 1934. Jungle Jim was created by comics artist Alex Raymond (with writer Don Moore) as a lead-in to Raymond's other famous hero, Flash Gordon--they both appeared for the first time on the same day. The other thing that seems obvious about Jungle Jim is true: he was created to compete with the wildly popular Tarzan, who started out in a series of novels by Edgar Rice Burroughs, then swung into the movies (the first Tarzan in silent pictures was Elmo Lincoln, of Knox College) before dominating the funny papers starting in 1931. <p></p><p>So is it the other way around? Jungle Jim comes from the Jungle Gym? The official story is that Jungle Jim Bradley was named after Alex Raymond's brother Jim. But did the brothers ever play on a jungle gym as boys? I await the definitive Alex Raymond biography to answer that question.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0