former Citigroup CEO John Reed on Bill Moyers

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Just watched Bill Moyers' TV interview with former Citigroup CEO John Reed. For those interested, I hope the shoddy vimeo production works better on your computer than mine, but it's worth a try, even with the dimestore delivery.

Anyway, I recommend Bill Moyers to anyone willing to listen to someone who both thinks and has an unabashed and credible sense of morality. What a pleasure in a day and age of who-can-yell-louder to hear someone -- anyone -- digging for facts and willing to point out who it was who screwed the pooch.

PS. It seems mildly ironic that the big-bucks capitalist should bear the same name as the left-leaning journalist who wrote a moderately good book about the Russian Revolution. "Ten Days That Shook the World" was published in 1919.
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beyond the beyond

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Across Main Street from the peace picket line yesterday, I noticed a shop called "Ten Thousand Villages." The store contains, as the name suggests, artifacts and bric-a-brac from around the world.

In ancient China, the number 10,000 was used to denote the infinite -- a number so great that the human mind could not honestly compass or digest it.

Wikipedia notes, "As of January 9, 2012 the gross [U.S.] debt was $15.23 trillion...."

Is it any wonder that there are times when the world seems to turn into a fairy tale of its own devising?
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above and below the radar

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Is it true or am I wrong: Great ideas that gain traction and wider applause tend to devolve into mediocrity. Great ideas that are largely overlooked or held within remain bright and compelling.

Today I read a story about the Sundance Film Festival winners. It made me happy to think that someone, somewhere was addressing gritty, imaginative, heart-felt projects and not just relying on cookie-cutter love stories or action-adventure. And simultaneously, I knew I would be unlikely to search out these movies and be wracked by their truths. I like to be entertained, to find small jets of light within what is big and bossy and, overall, pretty mediocre.

Above the radar is the Catholic Church.

Below the radar there is an individual's love of God.

Above the radar is democracy as a political label.

Below the radar is a tender love of kindness and consideration.

Above the radar is the snazziness of education.

Below the radar is all the stuff anyone might not know and yearn to know.

Above the radar, a person or event becomes famous.

Below the radar is that which the fame is premised.

The limelight is compelling, but the shadows remain. I guess everyone makes up his or her own mind whether walking into the shadows is warranted. I am happy to know that Sundance takes a swing at whatever shadows -- the world of imagination, the facts behind the bravado, etc. -- it sees. Big and brassy and mediocre can drag anyone down.

The world below the radar is not for sissies, but I, like a lot of others, I imagine, am a sissy.
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endlessly fascinating

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It's a small bit of human hyperbole, I imagine, but strange as well -- the passing reference to one thing or another as "endlessly fascinating."

Astronomy, astrology, religion, car mechanics, long-distance running, stamp collecting, child-rearing, music, fine art, graffiti, bomb-making, wealth, love, athletics, sleeping, geology, war, NASCAR, simplicity, farming, whistling, movies, poker, philosophy ... in the course of expressing an agog enthusiasm or devotion, someone is bound to utter the phrase, whether within or without: "Endlessly fascinating."

It's lively, it's fun, it's confounding, it's loveable, it's important it's ... "endlessly fascinating."

And it's a good tool, I think. "Endlessly fascinating" is what anyone actually cares about and what anyone actually cares about has the capacity to make them happy. The only fly in the ointment is in imagining that what is "endlessly fascinating" is something "else," something that is not, in the end, just "me."

It's tricky, mentioning such things, because there are wads of people who take such an observation and turn it into a philosophical or spiritual bludgeon. "Me" is just a fantasy or delusion, they may intone with gusto: You'd better get on board with a program that is not bamboozled by the notion of an "abiding self." This program, for anyone who gives it a whirl, is "endlessly fascinating."

Those not inclined to get with the program can spend entirely lifetimes being "endlessly fascinated" without finding much happiness.

Tricky ... a razor's edge.

But I think it's worth risking the distinct possibility of getting your throat slit to go with what is beloved, what is "endlessly fascinating." Go with that because that is true for the moment and it is also true to the ends of the universe. Imagine: When this "me" who is endlessly fascinating and fascinated loses his or her endlessly fascinating force, what could possibly be left besides what is endlessly fascinating?

Being a good liar is important to telling a good truth.

Fascinating ... in a manner of speaking.
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race to enlightenment

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Passed along in email:

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"democracy"

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A local reporter, Dan Crowley, had a page-one story today about patronage in the local court system. I felt moved to add my two cents on the internet version and, since it will probably go unread, decided to save it here as well:

Nice job, Dan Crowley! Your story brought to mind ....

A number of years ago as a news reporter, I took it into my head to explore what it was that the phrase "participatory democracy" might mean. I found the phrase both redundant and smarmy and yet it was common coin at the time, flung around without examination in the same way that the word "terrorism" is today.

"Participatory democracy" at the time (and perhaps now?) suggests that everyone will get an equal vote. More broadly, it suggests that the best-qualified person will be given the job. Patronage -- the hiring of friends and family, however badly qualified -- is a no-no in the lexicon of those who employ "participatory democracy" with a straight face.

In the course of calling up those who might be able to shed some light on "participatory democracy" and its nemesis, "patronage," I got through to Anthony Scibelli, then chairmain of the House Ways and Means Committee, and arguably the most powerful politician in Massachusetts. Scibelli's power was exemplified, at least in my mind, by the fact that he would answer questions truthfully -- a quality not often associated with politicians looking forward to re-election.

So when I asked Scibelli what he thought of "participatory democracy" and the accusations of those who suggested he and his colleagues had a long history of patronage appointments and were therefore foiling the one-man-one-vote, democratic will of the people, he didn't get angry. Instead, he was good-natured and affable, as if speaking to a small child. Yes, he agreed, the perversion of a meritocracy was unfortunate. Yes, he agreed, his detractors had a very good point. Yes, democracy was a wonderful thing and deserved a robust defense.

But then he delivered the coup de grace: If his detractors, those who swooned for "participatory democracy" and the installation of the best-qualified candidates for any given position, were truly committed to their principles and prose, "let them go out and get elected." Talk about a knock-out blow for the white-whiners ... me included!

The conversation lingered in my mind. Democracy is not, in fact, democratic. It does not assure that the best-qualified will win. There are loopholes (think Congress) aplenty and sometimes it's enough to make anyone weep. Anyone with two brain cells can imagine improvements and cite awful mistakes.

But in the end, I guess we're all stuck with Winston Churchill's observation: "Democracy is the worst form of government except for all the rest."

-- adam fisher

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the good stuff

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Twice, I hitchhiked across the United States, each time from West to East. It took 3-5 days to travel approximately 3,500 miles and what I remember of each trip is ... the good stuff, the unusual stuff, the lucky stuff, the weird-without-frightening stuff. There was a fellow who had a cranky sheep dog that sat between us in his Jeep station wagon. And when, out over the prairie, we noticed a herd of elk, he asked me kindly if I had ever seen elk up close. When I said I hadn't, he immediately hung a sharp left off the highway -- no braking, at perhaps 60 mph -- out onto the prairie and we chased elk for 30 minutes or so. And there were other incidents that have taken up residence in memory.

The army was the same. Three years of training and travel and adventure, but I remember the good stuff, the unusual stuff, the lucky stuff, the weird-without-frightening stuff. I remember the time when Dean Spinanger, without any permission from anyone, checked out a military passenger bus and spent the better part of an entire night, driving his German girlfriend (later wife) around Berlin.

And I suppose the same is true for Zen Buddhism ... looking back, I pick out the good stuff, the extraordinary stuff, the drama stuff, the spotlighted stuff.

But I don't pick out the hours or days or weeks or years that were ordinary or boring or ... must have been there in order for the good stuff to arise. Hitchhiking, for example, involves a lot of waiting, waiting and then waiting some more. The army was painted with hours and hours of eating lunch or marching or hurry-up-and-waiting. Formal Zen Buddhism is largely a matter of sitting on a cushion ... being as quiet and still as possible. To remember such things in detail would be about as captivating as watching paint dry.

It occurs to me that our lives are that way in memory ... picking out the good stuff.

Somehow the entire thought process above arose out of wondering why it was that anyone would suppose or hope or insist that his or her teachers -- the people or events of note in their lives -- should somehow be "good." In spiritual life, there is some demand ... teachers should be nourishing and good and praise-worthy and wise. Of course, the spiritual adventure does not advertise itself as being nasty, mean, painful and conniving, but what is nasty, mean, painful and conniving is part of anyone's actual-factual life ... and without actual-factual life, spiritual life becomes as useless as a fart in a wind storm ... another bright, stylish, substance-free religion.

And of course the "bad" stuff is often remembered as well -- a bright light on memory's plateau. A bruise, a stumbling block, a yowl in the night ... remembered with the same importance as the "good" stuff ... only that stuff was "bad." And still, the inconsequential in-betweens that fill the landscape between high points and low ... where are they?

My Zen teacher's teacher, Soen Nakagawa Roshi, once remarked during a sesshin or Zen retreat, "There is birth and there is death. In between is enlightenment." He wasn't laughing when he said it and today I wonder mildly why he was not laughing.

"In between" is pretty silly when you think about it. Good stuff, bad stuff, in-between stuff ... as I've thought before, "If you're so serious, why aren't you laughing?"

Laughter is the good stuff.

Just like tears.
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the truth ... that's nice dear

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People care about "the truth" and I guess I do too or I wouldn't be typing.

What are the attributes of truth, what are its characteristics?

Did anyone ever succeed in living a life that was somehow "not true?"

Whatever the truth is and however it is defined, it seems to me that the minute anyone tries to hold onto it, then it is like a child who reaches into the ocean, grabs a handful, and rushes home with a clenched fist to show his mom what a wondrous discovery he's made: By the time he bursts through the kitchen door, fist clenched and fully prepared to show off his prize ....

Maybe that's why moms everywhere have learned the soothing phrase, "that's nice dear" and returned to their chores.

Cultivating our own mom factor may be as close to 'the truth' as anyone is ever going to get.
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old folks in prison

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A report on the rising number of aging and infirm inmates in prison suggests, between the lines, that someone who is elderly, infirm and poor might receive better treatment if s/he bludgeoned or shot a next-door neighbor to death and then went to jail.
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circling the wagons

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At a memorial service, longtime Penn State football coach Joe Paterno was eulogized in front of 12,000 mourners. Paterno, who died Sunday, had been fired for not doing enough in the sex-abuse scandal that has rocked the fabled football team. An undercurrent of seething anger at Paterno's treatment by the university was palpable at the service. Joe was a legend. Joe was a man of stature and character. Joe deserved better. Tarnish the belief system at your peril!

Messing with people's beliefs -- suggesting those beliefs might be less than complete or downright corrupt -- brings down the wrath of God. Circle the wagons. Protect the sanctified. Kill the messenger. The good outweighs the bad ... protect and extol the good!

At the Vatican, an archbishop was shipped out after detailing the corruption rife within the awarding of Vatican contracts. Everyone had been content with the status quo. Nepotism played a role. Everyone made money and there was a lot of money to make. Kill the messenger.

All this is easy-peasy on the social front -- being aghast at the worm in the apple, trying desperately to retie an untied shoe lace. But I think the same problem can be found closer to home -- within ... building, brick by believable brick, some structure which is honorable or good or sustaining only to come upon the stumbling block that runs amok with allegations/facts that assert that what can be very, very good can also be the source of what is very, very bad. How hard it is, after all that sweat, to find that the temple is built on sandy soil.

And the more virtuous the enterprise, the fiercer the battle to maintain and protect ... to revile and discount the sandy soil. What is good is good, period. What is bad is bad, period.

Socially, personally, what a difficult and arousing thing it can all be.

Socially, personally ... what a lot of complex tears can be shed; what a lot of defensive maneuvering can be employed. And how infuriating to have to concede that my complex and adorable temples can be summed up by anything as mundane as a bumper sticker:

"Don't believe everything you think."

Read 'em and weep!
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"salvation"

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"Salvation" is a word I use very reluctantly. It means too many different things to too many different people and most of those meanings strike me as more imaginative and thus debilitating than they do as providing a clear indicator.

But for all that, in my heart of hearts, I guess I do think "salvation" means something and is worth attending to ... even if I can't define it adequately and get pretty testy when I or others try. Or anyway that's what I think today: There are salvations in people's lives... good, bad or indifferent, still, salvations.

After sitting around gabbing with three other people participating in "The Wisdom Project" yesterday, Carl (Karl?), one of the participants, button-holed me as I was about to leave the senior center where the conversation took place. We sat in the lobby of the center.

Carl is a lanky, angular man in his 70's, I'd guess. His face is relaxed and gentle, as is his way of presenting things. His tone is upbeat, but not sappy ... Carl has been to hard places and yet smiles ... not the sappy and desperate smiles of someone who fears something and longs to overcome the harshness, but the smile of someone who has come out the other side and chooses.

Carl grew up in Holyoke, a nearby community known for its Irish Catholics and its blue collar history -- a history that once meant the paper industry. When Carl was about to graduate from high school, he received a full scholarship to college. His stepfather, however, had four daughters to provide for and he yanked Carl off the college path, took him to a local Veterans Administration hospital, and signed him up as a bricklayer's apprentice. His stepfather also took Carl's wages and applied them to his abundant family. And now, so many years later, Carl can look back and say, "I was a bricklayer."

Carl's two sons have done well -- one selling a company he started for $7 million and then moving to Switzerland to live with a Swedish wife. The other, not quite so enterprising, is nevertheless competent and whole. Carl is pleased, even if he mentions in an understated parenthesis that "there are no grandchildren."

The friendly gabbiness with which Carl delivered his tale was in some sense wondrous. The implications of one aspect or another were enormous, in human terms, and yet Carl retailed them simply with his gentle tone and no whining.

And in the midst of it all, there was his salvation -- or what I chose to think of that way. Carl plays mandolin, guitar, fiddle and bass. He loves "the old music" and gathers with several friends on Sundays to play and sing. He doesn't do blue grass -- it's too fast, he said. And occasionally he has to fill in on bass because the other fellow who plays it ... well, his hands get tired. For all the years Carl was a "bricklayer," there was music in his life. Music he loved. Music that loved him back. Music that carries and informs him to this day. Carl did not say he "loved" music. I said that. To say he "loved" music would be too fancy for Carl, too desperate, too pretentious, too talk-the-talk instead of walk-the-walk. To express too much gratitude for salvation is to give the things from which we are saved more power than they deserve.

There is music of a million million kinds and my hunch is that everyone has the capacity for a similar salvation -- not a gushy, frightened salvation of God or heaven or enlightenment or peace, but something steady and quite ordinary. It's so-what or what-did-you-expect in one sense. And in another sense, it's enough to bring a smile to the lips. It is a salvation that reaches beyond the furthest heavens and yet never gets out of the living room. It is timeless because, well, it's right now and what other possibility is there?

Carl invited me to one of his Sunday afternoon jam sessions and perhaps I'll go.

I like music as well as the next fellow.
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'The Wisdom Project'

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Today, as a challenge to myself, I plan to drive over to the senior center and check out a gathering billed as "The Wisdom Project." The group is advertised as being open to those over 55 and is said to focus on the notion of wisdom ... with a goal of creating "community," whatever that means.

The challenge lies in the fact that I am simultaneously touched by and wary of groups or individuals intent on nailing Jell-O to the wall. What that means is that I am simultaneously touched by and wary of my own efforts to nail Jell-O to the wall.

Whatever 'wisdom' may be, it reminds me of the brown-rice-circuit devotees intent on learning to levitate. What the hell would anyone do with levitation if they could do it? Likewise, what the hell would anyone do with wisdom, by whatever definition, if they actually had it?

It's an adventure.
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the statistical mind

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Throughout history, there appear to have been a lot of people who used the sentiment in one way or another so it is hard to nail down one particular 'source.' But since I like the sometimes acid humor of the American writer Mark Twain, and since he did use the idea, I will attribute it to him for the moment:

There are lies, there are damned lies, and there are statistics.

 Yesterday, I went to the local district court, paid fifty bucks, and filed the small-claims paperwork that would address my point of view about a fender-bender accident my son was party to last month. After I had been to the court to get the legal ball rolling, I went to the scene of the accident, took some pictures and then came home. There, I spent some time trying to make clear on paper what had happened and why I disagreed with the insurance company's judgment that my son was at least 20% negligent in the accident. The other driver claims he didn't see my son's car and suspected he was speeding. The other driver had exited from a street that sported a "stop" sign at the intersection with the road my son was driving on. The small claims exercise seeks to recoup something more than $500 (plus court costs) I had to pay in order to get my son's car fixed.

Anyway, I wanted to build as good an argument as I could before the court hearing that is likely in five or six weeks. I wanted it to be clear and as simple as I could make it. And in order to do that, I had to factor in not just my arguments, but also the arguments the other driver might bring to the table.

As I munched and crunched on the subject matter, one of the arguments I thought the other driver might make reference to was the fact that my son is 17. Statistically, and to the delight of insurance companies that use the argument as a means of charging inflated rates, teenagers get into more accidents. And perhaps, I imagined, the other driver might suggest my son was just another reckless teenager -- the kind of person the statistics liked to point to.

And as I considered this possible suggestion or imputation, it occurred to me that I had a perfectly reasonable counterpoint: Statistically, elderly people have slower reflexes and worse sight ... and the driver of the other car is 71. So ... I thought ... if the other party suggested or adduced statistical evidence, I might suggest or adduce similar statistical evidence.

The base line difficulty with a statistical argument is, as anyone with common sense can attest, that statistics don't tell the truth. They are indicators of one body of evidence that many may choose to agree with. But statistics always leave out 'the rest of the story.' There may be many teenagers who, based on accident reports, are reckless drivers. Likewise there may be many elderly drivers who, based on accident reports, are slower on the up-take. But tarring one group or the other with a single statistical brush does not address the truth. Statistics may be interesting and suggestive, but they prove precisely nothing as regards the truth.

Statistics are a lazy man's way of addressing life. If lots and lots of people say so and if evidence is heaped on evidence in support of a particular conclusion, then, the implication is that the truth has been reached. Politics and religion are chock-a-block with such notions. Taking a poll tells the story or describing god in one way or another tells the story ... and because many may agree, well, ahhhhh ... end of story. This is a social convenience that is apparent in the mind as well as among politicians, religious institutions, and courtroom arguments, perhaps.

It is the personal use of such evidence that I think deserves a second look. How much of what anyone considers to be true is based on the numbers of others who may agree? How sensible is this? And centrally, does this agreement have one damned thing to do with the truth?

A million people may say "god is good." Another million say "god is a figment of your imagination." Both can confect long and intricate arguments in support of their positions. Lots of 'proof.' And certainly a broad and well-laid story line can encourage anyone to consider one conclusion or another credible. Nothing wrong with a little encouragement, whether statistical or otherwise. But getting into the habit of relying on the statistical evidence really is an idea that deserves investigation. True, it's cozy and social ... I am a Democrat, I am a Buddhist, I dislike war ... and I can find a statistically significant number of people or a significant body of thought that might agree with me. But does this make anything true? Is it really the place in which a man or woman might reliably hang his or her life's hat?

Statistically, I would say that's a really bad idea. It may be comforting, but it is lazy and, in the end, doomed to failure. Conclusions based on agreement of others may be understandable, but it amounts to a fart in a windstorm. Our statistics are invariably approximate whereas out lives are invariably accurate. Relying on approximations is not nourishing, even as the statistical mind looks to agreement for nourishment and peace. It is not a matter of "good" or "bad," "right" or "wrong." It is a matter of what actually works, what actually makes some bedrock sense. Statistics and vast agreement encourage the understanding that there is a conclusion that can be reached and relied on. But there are always loose ends, always exceptions: Sometimes teenage drivers are really very good; sometimes the elderly are excellent behind the wheel; sometimes good ideas are pretty bad; sometimes bad ideas and damned good.

Sometimes ... sometimes.

Whether I win the court case or not is not so much the point, though of course I would like to win back my $500. What is important is not to allow statistical speculation and cozy proof to rule the roost. As a pointer, fine. But the fact is that if I want peace of mind, I will have to do the heavy lifting and address the facts that always throw a spanner in the statistical works.

Where is the peace I seek? Can I rely on for an answer on the others who may fill the statistical halls?

I seriously, seriously doubt it.

What do I say? What experience do I bring to bear? And what, in the end will I do with the whispering, lingering, nagging voice that murmurs ...

Sometimes ... sometimes.
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broken promises

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To the extent possible, I suppose everyone keeps bad news at a distance. It's comforting not to get too close to flames that can burn your face off if you let them. But then ....

Then, every once in a while, the flames flickering outside a well-locked door walk in and make themselves at home.

Around here, an ice cream company filed for bankruptcy. The benefits promised to longtime workers , some in their eighties, were abruptly withdrawn. The economic pain comes surging through the door. Those who were formerly hungry and dispossessed at a comforting, intellectual distance are now your neighbors and friends, people whose hard work and credulity anyone might sympathize with. A promise is a promise.

Except, of course, when it's not.

And, almost as galling as the facts, no one says, "I'm sorry."
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ornate excuses

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It's old, but I received it again yesterday in email and enjoyed it ... the ornate excuses offered for being caught in another man's closet.
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