.
How peaceful the 'coexistence' of rain and sky as the drops almost gushed onto the street and into the gutter this morning. Neither affirming nor denying, the 'two' were so peacefully aligned as to refuse a designation of 'one.' You could almost hear them snickering at the suggestion.
Again I marveled at how much can be learned by what is right in front of my nose.
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Sunday, August 14, 2011
Saturday, August 13, 2011
bits and pieces of news
.
Last night on the TV, a talking-head woman who seemed to be acquainted with economics said she really did think that the United States was seeing the end of an era. She wasn't flamboyant about it. She didn't wave a sign reading, "Repent! The end is nigh." She just adduced facts as she saw them -- a fragile economy getting more fragile, the rise of China coupled with the dwindling of Europe. She made a pretty good case for the implosion of a sometimes rambunctious and self-centered West. The leadership baton that implied a democratic outlook -- however thoughtless -- was changing hands.
And today there were bits and pieces of news. Relevant? Irrelevant? I don't know: They just caught my eye.
-- Although the price of crude oil has been dropping, the price of gasoline at the pump -- which usually parallels crude prices -- has not.
-- In San Francisco, transit officials blocked cell phone transmissions in an effort to curtail planned demonstrations.
-- In Louisiana, a migrant Mexican teenager, died of rabies inflicted by a vampire bat. The spooky mythology of vampire bats, long disavowed by serious researchers, appears to have gained a foothold.
-- And, in an event that excites widespread disinterest as far as I can figure out, a straw poll will be held today in Iowa and whittle down the number of contenders for the Republican nomination as a presidential candidate in 2012. When people are hungry or desperate or on edge and when politicians are seen as complicit in their plight, who can get positively excited about creating or applauding even more of them?
.
Last night on the TV, a talking-head woman who seemed to be acquainted with economics said she really did think that the United States was seeing the end of an era. She wasn't flamboyant about it. She didn't wave a sign reading, "Repent! The end is nigh." She just adduced facts as she saw them -- a fragile economy getting more fragile, the rise of China coupled with the dwindling of Europe. She made a pretty good case for the implosion of a sometimes rambunctious and self-centered West. The leadership baton that implied a democratic outlook -- however thoughtless -- was changing hands.
And today there were bits and pieces of news. Relevant? Irrelevant? I don't know: They just caught my eye.
-- Although the price of crude oil has been dropping, the price of gasoline at the pump -- which usually parallels crude prices -- has not.
-- In San Francisco, transit officials blocked cell phone transmissions in an effort to curtail planned demonstrations.
-- In Louisiana, a migrant Mexican teenager, died of rabies inflicted by a vampire bat. The spooky mythology of vampire bats, long disavowed by serious researchers, appears to have gained a foothold.
-- And, in an event that excites widespread disinterest as far as I can figure out, a straw poll will be held today in Iowa and whittle down the number of contenders for the Republican nomination as a presidential candidate in 2012. When people are hungry or desperate or on edge and when politicians are seen as complicit in their plight, who can get positively excited about creating or applauding even more of them?
.
having kids
.
I hate being caught out -- either by myself or others --in some bare-assed bias, but this morning I ran across what I suspect may qualify. As a Ku Klux Klan adherent might look on a black person with disdain or loathing without knowing anything about the person, so there is some file box in my mind that assesses and is wary of people who have no children.
Not that I am proposing a large-scale lynching, but, in some amorphous and poorly-examined fashion, I feel informed by childless adults -- suspecting that there is some very important information they lack and it would be wise to factor it into their pronouncements and actions. Do I think this because I have children and, as with any good bias, if I do or think something, then everybody else ought to do or think the same? Is it because if I have been hit by a truck, everyone else should? Is it like war ... a situation in which those who have been involved are the ones who have earned the right to talk and the rest, however kindly disposed, simply have no way of 'getting it?'
Before I walk too far into this cloud of unknowing, I would like to say that I don't think it has anything to do with right or wrong, good or bad. I am not trying to set a Vatican-esque every-sperm-is-sacred (to borrow from Monty Python) point of view off against some austere and pristine life in the woods. It is more a matter of experience. The experience is one I can recognize because I have three children. It is not an experience for which there are merit badges ... it makes exactly zero difference if anyone does have and has had children. Assholes with children and saints with children stand on a level playing field. Gautama had a child which he left behind. The news is replete with examples of people who had children and treated them abominably and lived idiotic or exalted lives. Except in group hug settings, it's never news if parents treat their children with care ... endless, attentive care.
I guess my bias goes to the fact that children require attention ... sometimes responsibility as well, but anyway attention. Children are, to greater and lesser extents, ego-eaters and getting your ego eaten and challenged and bruised is important. It is important to confront a sense of self ... and discover its wispy fragility. This is a challenge that inevitably arises in life, but kids put a sharp point on the stick, not least if their parents like or love them.
Maybe it's all a little like having a college degree -- it's useless ... unless, due to the widespread mediocrity of those who have them -- you haven't got one.
A while back, a repairman came here to fix the dishwasher. He was missing one and a half or perhaps two fingers on one hand. When I asked him how it happened, he told me he had been careless with a wood chipper or some other piece of machinery. But he said that he was glad the doctors could not reattach the fingers. If they had, he would forever have been saddled with the imperfections and aches and pains that such reattachment would entail. Today, he could do pretty much anything and he was at ease.
And when I hear that someone has been in the military, there is an instant understanding between us. Not that I ever killed anyone -- I don't have that experience. But having been in the military is a 'shared' experience ... something of no particular import and yet understood as having been an important experience with important parameters.
Kids, to me, are like that. Important in a way that cannot be enhanced or described by calling it "important." Good for a laugh. Good for a tear. Good for an understanding of what it is like -- in your face and on the ground -- to feel the ego whittled and sanded away ... leaving ... leaving ... I don't know exactly what it leaves, but whatever it is, its unimportance is important ... or anyway that's what my whispering bias tells me.
.
I hate being caught out -- either by myself or others --in some bare-assed bias, but this morning I ran across what I suspect may qualify. As a Ku Klux Klan adherent might look on a black person with disdain or loathing without knowing anything about the person, so there is some file box in my mind that assesses and is wary of people who have no children.
Not that I am proposing a large-scale lynching, but, in some amorphous and poorly-examined fashion, I feel informed by childless adults -- suspecting that there is some very important information they lack and it would be wise to factor it into their pronouncements and actions. Do I think this because I have children and, as with any good bias, if I do or think something, then everybody else ought to do or think the same? Is it because if I have been hit by a truck, everyone else should? Is it like war ... a situation in which those who have been involved are the ones who have earned the right to talk and the rest, however kindly disposed, simply have no way of 'getting it?'
Before I walk too far into this cloud of unknowing, I would like to say that I don't think it has anything to do with right or wrong, good or bad. I am not trying to set a Vatican-esque every-sperm-is-sacred (to borrow from Monty Python) point of view off against some austere and pristine life in the woods. It is more a matter of experience. The experience is one I can recognize because I have three children. It is not an experience for which there are merit badges ... it makes exactly zero difference if anyone does have and has had children. Assholes with children and saints with children stand on a level playing field. Gautama had a child which he left behind. The news is replete with examples of people who had children and treated them abominably and lived idiotic or exalted lives. Except in group hug settings, it's never news if parents treat their children with care ... endless, attentive care.
I guess my bias goes to the fact that children require attention ... sometimes responsibility as well, but anyway attention. Children are, to greater and lesser extents, ego-eaters and getting your ego eaten and challenged and bruised is important. It is important to confront a sense of self ... and discover its wispy fragility. This is a challenge that inevitably arises in life, but kids put a sharp point on the stick, not least if their parents like or love them.
Maybe it's all a little like having a college degree -- it's useless ... unless, due to the widespread mediocrity of those who have them -- you haven't got one.
A while back, a repairman came here to fix the dishwasher. He was missing one and a half or perhaps two fingers on one hand. When I asked him how it happened, he told me he had been careless with a wood chipper or some other piece of machinery. But he said that he was glad the doctors could not reattach the fingers. If they had, he would forever have been saddled with the imperfections and aches and pains that such reattachment would entail. Today, he could do pretty much anything and he was at ease.
And when I hear that someone has been in the military, there is an instant understanding between us. Not that I ever killed anyone -- I don't have that experience. But having been in the military is a 'shared' experience ... something of no particular import and yet understood as having been an important experience with important parameters.
Kids, to me, are like that. Important in a way that cannot be enhanced or described by calling it "important." Good for a laugh. Good for a tear. Good for an understanding of what it is like -- in your face and on the ground -- to feel the ego whittled and sanded away ... leaving ... leaving ... I don't know exactly what it leaves, but whatever it is, its unimportance is important ... or anyway that's what my whispering bias tells me.
.
Friday, August 12, 2011
going, going, gone
.
Fast, faster, fastest ...
It may or may not have any relevance, but the loss of an experimental plane expected to travel at 20 or more times the speed of sound reminded me of the old joke about the little bird flying in ever-decreasing circles around a mountain top ... around and around until finally he flew up his own asshole and disappeared.
.
Fast, faster, fastest ...
It may or may not have any relevance, but the loss of an experimental plane expected to travel at 20 or more times the speed of sound reminded me of the old joke about the little bird flying in ever-decreasing circles around a mountain top ... around and around until finally he flew up his own asshole and disappeared.
.
the man with no skin
.
It may ask more questions than it answers, but this clip is an interesting reminder of the usefulness -- perhaps needfulness? -- of memory.
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It may ask more questions than it answers, but this clip is an interesting reminder of the usefulness -- perhaps needfulness? -- of memory.
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read your bible
.
To my mind, the vortex of spiritual endeavor cannot be overemphasized. Those who are inclined towards the ineffable, however they conceive it, are sucked into an arena that requires blood, sweat and tears -- a whole-hearted commitment that can, as easily as not, segue into idiocy, cruelty and an array of self-deluding nonsense. That vortex can, as well, produce some sweet and indubitable fruit. So, put bluntly, the whole matter is a crapshoot.
Naturally, as in Las Vegas, there are some who choose not to play the game. They remain on the sidelines, perhaps quietly amused or caustically observant or intellectually aloof from the vortex. Their lives too are a crapshoot -- your life, your choice -- but it is those who choose to commit themselves to the vortex of spiritual endeavor who interest me.
The willingness to say "yes" to anything requires an ability to examine with care the "no" that is inherent within it. Or at least it requires that care if there is some hope of sidestepping the idiocy, cruelty and self-deluding nonsense that spiritual endeavor (or any other pastime) has proved itself capable of throughout history. Building a "yes" in the heart becomes a weak and dangerous tea without some close and willing examination of the "no."
What brought all this to mind was an article about the "Bible Project" in Jerusalem. The project is now 53-years-old and many of the original researchers are dead. Those working on it are likely to be dead before the project is completed. Were the project more widely known, there would probably be a hue and cry from many who have entered spiritual endeavor from the Christian or Jewish edge of the swirl. The Bible Project collates and compares as many texts as possible in an effort to set the biblical record straight.
The project may be particularly compelling to Jews, for example, who consider the Torah inviolable and true. But Christians are not exempt from correction either. What of the prophecy that appears to have been written after the actual events occurred? What of the earliest wordings that appear to have been truncated or rewritten through time? This is the stuff on which beliefs are sometimes based and belief is a wonderful and wily companion, no matter what edge of the vortex chooses to enter from.
Pains-taking -- that strikes me as a fair word to describe the "Bible Project." Slowly, slowly, bit by bit, comma by comma, source by source, refinement by refinement ... looking for, looking for, looking for....
Without such examination, whether on the page or in the heart, everything ends up dumber than a box of rocks. And dangerous as well. News outlets and their consumers may delight in the reporting of mass cult suicides using Kool Aid or Christians who have themselves nailed to crosses come Easter time or polygamists who rape children while allowing their followers to elevate them to god-like status. But all that is just shooting fish in a barrel.
What is far more important and far more wily and far more difficult is to examine the bible enshrined in the individual heart. Really examine. The die-trying kind of examination. How can spiritual endeavor ever hope to wring out an honest and thorough-going understanding without the bit-by-bit, comma by comma, resource by resource investigation ... not of what somebody else says but of what I say? To rest on a belief or book or persuasion risks being swallowed in the eat-you-alive waters of belief and laziness that run rampant through the vortex of spiritual endeavor.
Making nice is simply not the same as being nice. Dabbling the in the waters of "compassion" and "enlightenment" are simply not the same as being compassionate or exercising a clear understanding. How long will anyone be content with half-measures, with "good enough," with approximations and bottle-rocket hope and flaccid belief?
The waters of spiritual endeavor hold out a smooth and soothing promise. But the currents beneath are no-kidding-around powerful and swift. Success is by no means guaranteed. When everything is on the line, everything is on the line. Anything less than "everything" is for believers and do-gooders and kiddie rapers.
Where the vortex sucks you in, I see no other option, no other choice: Seek and receive no quarter; read your bible.
Read your very own bible.
.
To my mind, the vortex of spiritual endeavor cannot be overemphasized. Those who are inclined towards the ineffable, however they conceive it, are sucked into an arena that requires blood, sweat and tears -- a whole-hearted commitment that can, as easily as not, segue into idiocy, cruelty and an array of self-deluding nonsense. That vortex can, as well, produce some sweet and indubitable fruit. So, put bluntly, the whole matter is a crapshoot.
Naturally, as in Las Vegas, there are some who choose not to play the game. They remain on the sidelines, perhaps quietly amused or caustically observant or intellectually aloof from the vortex. Their lives too are a crapshoot -- your life, your choice -- but it is those who choose to commit themselves to the vortex of spiritual endeavor who interest me.
The willingness to say "yes" to anything requires an ability to examine with care the "no" that is inherent within it. Or at least it requires that care if there is some hope of sidestepping the idiocy, cruelty and self-deluding nonsense that spiritual endeavor (or any other pastime) has proved itself capable of throughout history. Building a "yes" in the heart becomes a weak and dangerous tea without some close and willing examination of the "no."
What brought all this to mind was an article about the "Bible Project" in Jerusalem. The project is now 53-years-old and many of the original researchers are dead. Those working on it are likely to be dead before the project is completed. Were the project more widely known, there would probably be a hue and cry from many who have entered spiritual endeavor from the Christian or Jewish edge of the swirl. The Bible Project collates and compares as many texts as possible in an effort to set the biblical record straight.
The project may be particularly compelling to Jews, for example, who consider the Torah inviolable and true. But Christians are not exempt from correction either. What of the prophecy that appears to have been written after the actual events occurred? What of the earliest wordings that appear to have been truncated or rewritten through time? This is the stuff on which beliefs are sometimes based and belief is a wonderful and wily companion, no matter what edge of the vortex chooses to enter from.
Pains-taking -- that strikes me as a fair word to describe the "Bible Project." Slowly, slowly, bit by bit, comma by comma, source by source, refinement by refinement ... looking for, looking for, looking for....
Without such examination, whether on the page or in the heart, everything ends up dumber than a box of rocks. And dangerous as well. News outlets and their consumers may delight in the reporting of mass cult suicides using Kool Aid or Christians who have themselves nailed to crosses come Easter time or polygamists who rape children while allowing their followers to elevate them to god-like status. But all that is just shooting fish in a barrel.
What is far more important and far more wily and far more difficult is to examine the bible enshrined in the individual heart. Really examine. The die-trying kind of examination. How can spiritual endeavor ever hope to wring out an honest and thorough-going understanding without the bit-by-bit, comma by comma, resource by resource investigation ... not of what somebody else says but of what I say? To rest on a belief or book or persuasion risks being swallowed in the eat-you-alive waters of belief and laziness that run rampant through the vortex of spiritual endeavor.
Making nice is simply not the same as being nice. Dabbling the in the waters of "compassion" and "enlightenment" are simply not the same as being compassionate or exercising a clear understanding. How long will anyone be content with half-measures, with "good enough," with approximations and bottle-rocket hope and flaccid belief?
The waters of spiritual endeavor hold out a smooth and soothing promise. But the currents beneath are no-kidding-around powerful and swift. Success is by no means guaranteed. When everything is on the line, everything is on the line. Anything less than "everything" is for believers and do-gooders and kiddie rapers.
Where the vortex sucks you in, I see no other option, no other choice: Seek and receive no quarter; read your bible.
Read your very own bible.
.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
genetic code redesigned
.
I can't pretend to understand the meanings, but it sounds as if there are some wonderful and potentially spooky implications in the fact that scientists have redesigned a genetic code.
But my confused reaction may just be a result of watching too much TV.
.
I can't pretend to understand the meanings, but it sounds as if there are some wonderful and potentially spooky implications in the fact that scientists have redesigned a genetic code.
But my confused reaction may just be a result of watching too much TV.
.
all in good fun
.
Looking back, one of the things about I admired about my Zen teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa Roshi, then-abbot of Ryutaku-ji monastery in Japan, was that I could never say with certainty that he was an abbot ... or even a Zen teacher. He was just too plain, somehow, and simultaneously too full of expansive laughter to be button-holed. He didn't actively disdain the labels anyone put on him. It was just that, somehow they simply didn't work or fit very well.
I wanted to be like that.
I once saw the Dalai Lama on TV giving a talk to an academic gathering that had bestowed on him an honorary Ph.D. A mortarboard accompanied the honor and he wore it during his address. The hat kept slipping and he kept ruefully repositioning it on his head. There was an apologetic look on his face as he did this ... as if, yes, he was willing to play the game but he really wasn't very good at it ... but it was all in good fun.
Kyudo was just Kyudo.
The Dalai Lama was just the Dalai Lama.
What the hell else could they possibly be?
Ikkyu, a monk who centuries later can still excite oooh's and ahhh's from adoring Buddhists, once commented, "I am not a Buddha. I am just an ordinary fellow who understands things."
And I once heard that the Bedouins, a nomadic tribe of the Middle Eastern deserts, had a greeting they would extend to strangers ... and for all I know they still do: "I salute you and I thank you for your life."
It's all in good fun, right?
.
Looking back, one of the things about I admired about my Zen teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa Roshi, then-abbot of Ryutaku-ji monastery in Japan, was that I could never say with certainty that he was an abbot ... or even a Zen teacher. He was just too plain, somehow, and simultaneously too full of expansive laughter to be button-holed. He didn't actively disdain the labels anyone put on him. It was just that, somehow they simply didn't work or fit very well.
I wanted to be like that.
I once saw the Dalai Lama on TV giving a talk to an academic gathering that had bestowed on him an honorary Ph.D. A mortarboard accompanied the honor and he wore it during his address. The hat kept slipping and he kept ruefully repositioning it on his head. There was an apologetic look on his face as he did this ... as if, yes, he was willing to play the game but he really wasn't very good at it ... but it was all in good fun.
Kyudo was just Kyudo.
The Dalai Lama was just the Dalai Lama.
What the hell else could they possibly be?
Ikkyu, a monk who centuries later can still excite oooh's and ahhh's from adoring Buddhists, once commented, "I am not a Buddha. I am just an ordinary fellow who understands things."
And I once heard that the Bedouins, a nomadic tribe of the Middle Eastern deserts, had a greeting they would extend to strangers ... and for all I know they still do: "I salute you and I thank you for your life."
It's all in good fun, right?
.
what counts
.
The army recruiter was as peppy as popcorn. Sporting a Combat Infantryman's Badge (one combat tour in Iraq, one in Afghanistan), he laid out the possibilities of enlistment to my younger son, 17, who had expressed some interest in the military. I am not much of a fan of the military, but I am a fan of investigating as many possibilities as possible ... even the ones I don't like. So my son and I drove to the office and listened to what the sergeant had to say.
And one of the things he had to say was pretty interesting. The Army is filling up. Recruits are no longer a problem. In hard times, even young people with BA's and MA's have been snooping the terrain. Even with two American-made wars in progress and the likelihood of being used as cannon fodder rising ... the sergeant is a busy man.
Death on the home front, death on the battle front. Nobody wants to die but sometimes death for an imagined "something" is more attractive than a numbing, grinding, piece-by-piece demise. And there is a paycheck, food and medical care.
Strange, the need to somehow "count" in this life, to weave mufflers of "accomplishment" against the cold cruelties of loneliness ... when all the time, what really takes nerve is not to count at all.
Everything "counts" ... not.
.
The army recruiter was as peppy as popcorn. Sporting a Combat Infantryman's Badge (one combat tour in Iraq, one in Afghanistan), he laid out the possibilities of enlistment to my younger son, 17, who had expressed some interest in the military. I am not much of a fan of the military, but I am a fan of investigating as many possibilities as possible ... even the ones I don't like. So my son and I drove to the office and listened to what the sergeant had to say.And one of the things he had to say was pretty interesting. The Army is filling up. Recruits are no longer a problem. In hard times, even young people with BA's and MA's have been snooping the terrain. Even with two American-made wars in progress and the likelihood of being used as cannon fodder rising ... the sergeant is a busy man.
Death on the home front, death on the battle front. Nobody wants to die but sometimes death for an imagined "something" is more attractive than a numbing, grinding, piece-by-piece demise. And there is a paycheck, food and medical care.
Strange, the need to somehow "count" in this life, to weave mufflers of "accomplishment" against the cold cruelties of loneliness ... when all the time, what really takes nerve is not to count at all.
Everything "counts" ... not.
.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
life without Facebook?
.
It may be an idle boast or it may not, but the internet-hacking group Anonymous has allegedly promised to disembowel and decimate Facebook, a 'social' networking site where untold millions spend large portions of their days and nights.
In a small way, it reminds me of the horror that might be visited on any country if, instead of explosive bombs, an ElectroMagnetic Pulse bomb were to knock out some or all national forms of communication and other electronic applications. Is there life after electricity? Probably, but it's not a scenario that looks very rosy.
Kids without Facebook? Will they implode? Based on the amount of enthusiastic use, it's a hard question not to ask.
But then, of course, it may just be an idle threat.
.
It may be an idle boast or it may not, but the internet-hacking group Anonymous has allegedly promised to disembowel and decimate Facebook, a 'social' networking site where untold millions spend large portions of their days and nights.
In a small way, it reminds me of the horror that might be visited on any country if, instead of explosive bombs, an ElectroMagnetic Pulse bomb were to knock out some or all national forms of communication and other electronic applications. Is there life after electricity? Probably, but it's not a scenario that looks very rosy.
Kids without Facebook? Will they implode? Based on the amount of enthusiastic use, it's a hard question not to ask.
But then, of course, it may just be an idle threat.
.
real and manufactured courage
.
The tale was told in a Zen center I once attended. The tale was told by a man who admired, even if he could not emulate, the way of the samurai and the code of bushido. The tale was not exactly a tale, but more a brief encouragement to the assembled Zen students ... muster your courage even in the most extreme of circumstances. The tale was this:
A samurai warrior who has not eaten for days walks down the street picking his teeth as if he has just finished a fine meal.
"How admirable. How courageous. How grounded in strong vision," the tale-teller implied. Zen students should be every bit as courageous and undeterred and stable in their efforts.
But I wondered then and no longer wonder today: Wouldn't a courageous man ask for a bit of food? It takes real courage to beg, to have nothing to give in return, to put your life in someone else's hands. There is no pretense in it. It is as hard as it is honest.
And honesty takes real balls.
.
The tale was told in a Zen center I once attended. The tale was told by a man who admired, even if he could not emulate, the way of the samurai and the code of bushido. The tale was not exactly a tale, but more a brief encouragement to the assembled Zen students ... muster your courage even in the most extreme of circumstances. The tale was this:
A samurai warrior who has not eaten for days walks down the street picking his teeth as if he has just finished a fine meal.
"How admirable. How courageous. How grounded in strong vision," the tale-teller implied. Zen students should be every bit as courageous and undeterred and stable in their efforts.
But I wondered then and no longer wonder today: Wouldn't a courageous man ask for a bit of food? It takes real courage to beg, to have nothing to give in return, to put your life in someone else's hands. There is no pretense in it. It is as hard as it is honest.
And honesty takes real balls.
.
signs of the times
.
Received the following photo in email today ... reminding me somehow of George Orwell's observation that there is no such thing as a philosopher with an empty stomach ... which made me wonder about the fate of those interested in or devoted to Buddhism ... which made me think that golden-calf, lottery-jackpot religions, like dictators, will fare well in parlous times ... which made me remember the Dalai Lama addressing a gathering of local college students and urging them to use their intellectual gifts to assert a nourishing harmony (rather than a self-centered acquisitiveness and expectation) in the world and thinking, somewhat skeptically, that he was casting pearls before swine but ... that was his job.
.
Received the following photo in email today ... reminding me somehow of George Orwell's observation that there is no such thing as a philosopher with an empty stomach ... which made me wonder about the fate of those interested in or devoted to Buddhism ... which made me think that golden-calf, lottery-jackpot religions, like dictators, will fare well in parlous times ... which made me remember the Dalai Lama addressing a gathering of local college students and urging them to use their intellectual gifts to assert a nourishing harmony (rather than a self-centered acquisitiveness and expectation) in the world and thinking, somewhat skeptically, that he was casting pearls before swine but ... that was his job.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
truth, lies and other entertainments
.
Today is my older son's birthday. How he ever got to be 19 beats the hell out of me. But he's a good egg, so, however it happened, I'm happy to see his current outcome.
Yesterday, I went to a sporting goods store to get him some small gift. I had already given him "The Divine Comedy," which he asked for, but I wanted something to mark the actual day. I wandered around the store, marveling at what seemed to me to be enormous prices for very small goods. Finally, I settled lazily on a couple of polo shirts. Kind of a blah choice in my mind. Sure, they were useful and handsome to some extent, but as a present, they bored me. I wanted to give him something unusual, something outside what he might have expected, something to delight or annoy or be somehow outside his box.
Driving home, I passed a house with a large sign in front offering palm readings, Tarot and other prognostication efforts. Once upon a time, such places were illegal but, well, time passes and there was the big sign. I pulled a U-turn, went to the house and bought a "sale" certificate for $5. The woman explained that it would not be for a "full reading" -- just a personality assessment. I didn't care. The idea tickled my fancy ... something off-the-wall; another indicator that the old man loved his son and was slightly nuts; something to make the teenager think ... if only for a nanosecond.
To "entertain an idea" is to let it roll around in the mind, see how it fits with previous ideas and beliefs and conclusions. Some ideas that are entertained dovetail beautifully with what has gone before. Some excite an imperious rejection. Some beckon to a wider horizon. Does it matter? To entertain and idea is to be entertained. Truth, lies, pure ghee or unadulterated bullshit -- it's all entertaining and the only question left unanswered is, who is this entertainer?
I wonder if there isn't some strand of inescapable DNA that knows that the strenuous efforts that can be made on behalf of "the truth" are everywhere and always shadowed by the longing for a really good "lie." Really, it's hard to find an overarching, compelling lie just as it is hard to find a compelling and overarching truth. The libraries of this world stand as testimony to such searches for meaning ... and libraries receive endless additions to their fabled and fabulous collections... searching for the one true lie, the one prevaricating truth. And no library can hold a candle to the human mind.
Now that's entertainment.
.
Today is my older son's birthday. How he ever got to be 19 beats the hell out of me. But he's a good egg, so, however it happened, I'm happy to see his current outcome.
Yesterday, I went to a sporting goods store to get him some small gift. I had already given him "The Divine Comedy," which he asked for, but I wanted something to mark the actual day. I wandered around the store, marveling at what seemed to me to be enormous prices for very small goods. Finally, I settled lazily on a couple of polo shirts. Kind of a blah choice in my mind. Sure, they were useful and handsome to some extent, but as a present, they bored me. I wanted to give him something unusual, something outside what he might have expected, something to delight or annoy or be somehow outside his box.
Driving home, I passed a house with a large sign in front offering palm readings, Tarot and other prognostication efforts. Once upon a time, such places were illegal but, well, time passes and there was the big sign. I pulled a U-turn, went to the house and bought a "sale" certificate for $5. The woman explained that it would not be for a "full reading" -- just a personality assessment. I didn't care. The idea tickled my fancy ... something off-the-wall; another indicator that the old man loved his son and was slightly nuts; something to make the teenager think ... if only for a nanosecond.
To "entertain an idea" is to let it roll around in the mind, see how it fits with previous ideas and beliefs and conclusions. Some ideas that are entertained dovetail beautifully with what has gone before. Some excite an imperious rejection. Some beckon to a wider horizon. Does it matter? To entertain and idea is to be entertained. Truth, lies, pure ghee or unadulterated bullshit -- it's all entertaining and the only question left unanswered is, who is this entertainer?
I wonder if there isn't some strand of inescapable DNA that knows that the strenuous efforts that can be made on behalf of "the truth" are everywhere and always shadowed by the longing for a really good "lie." Really, it's hard to find an overarching, compelling lie just as it is hard to find a compelling and overarching truth. The libraries of this world stand as testimony to such searches for meaning ... and libraries receive endless additions to their fabled and fabulous collections... searching for the one true lie, the one prevaricating truth. And no library can hold a candle to the human mind.
Now that's entertainment.
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the perpetrators
.
The perpetrators are always one step ahead. They create and leave it to others to undo the damage. Uncreating is so much harder than creating and those who create unkindly know this ... by the time the damage is discovered and attempts are made to correct the harm, they are long gone, profits in hand. No one will remember; it's all ancient history; their accomplishments are enshrined in their hearts; their excuses are as seamless as an Ivy League diploma.
It's endless and spineless, bemoaning such activities. Pass the white whine!
But there is something to be said for looking in the mirror and not getting caught up in such hellish and sadistic realms. Social action may be a very good thing, but nothing beats looking in the mirror.
.
The perpetrators are always one step ahead. They create and leave it to others to undo the damage. Uncreating is so much harder than creating and those who create unkindly know this ... by the time the damage is discovered and attempts are made to correct the harm, they are long gone, profits in hand. No one will remember; it's all ancient history; their accomplishments are enshrined in their hearts; their excuses are as seamless as an Ivy League diploma.
It's endless and spineless, bemoaning such activities. Pass the white whine!
But there is something to be said for looking in the mirror and not getting caught up in such hellish and sadistic realms. Social action may be a very good thing, but nothing beats looking in the mirror.
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Monday, August 8, 2011
assumptions
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Perhaps it is only in times of discomfort that anyone might be willing to examine the deepest assumptions of the heart. Those assumptions usually boil down to "I like it" or "I want it," and there is nothing necessarily wrong with that.
What is mistaken is the unwillingness or inability to concede such assumptions openly and know that they are -- however correct -- just a personal preference and hence, in the end, unreliable.
Sometimes personal preferences are surrounded by gossamer arguments and proofs and defensive explanations and righteousness. Castles of 'meaning' reach to the heavens. And sometimes those preferences are entirely warranted given the circumstances. But without investigating the base line from which anyone might be operating, the result is confused and confusing and in constant need of repair.
Find the assumptions. Examine them, not with an eye to right or wrong, but with an eye towards honesty. Things work better that way -- however great the expenditure of courage. Or anyway, that's my guess.
.
Perhaps it is only in times of discomfort that anyone might be willing to examine the deepest assumptions of the heart. Those assumptions usually boil down to "I like it" or "I want it," and there is nothing necessarily wrong with that.
What is mistaken is the unwillingness or inability to concede such assumptions openly and know that they are -- however correct -- just a personal preference and hence, in the end, unreliable.
Sometimes personal preferences are surrounded by gossamer arguments and proofs and defensive explanations and righteousness. Castles of 'meaning' reach to the heavens. And sometimes those preferences are entirely warranted given the circumstances. But without investigating the base line from which anyone might be operating, the result is confused and confusing and in constant need of repair.
Find the assumptions. Examine them, not with an eye to right or wrong, but with an eye towards honesty. Things work better that way -- however great the expenditure of courage. Or anyway, that's my guess.
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presto, change-o!
.
A Washington Post story about social protests in Israel contained the following paragraph today:
Perhaps that is a good generalized description of the rising tide in the United States: For so many years the political accolades for fearing alleged enemies have kept the electorate docile and more or less united. Other, more self-serving, agendas are and were nourished behind this veil of 'patriotism' and 'defense.' Not the least of these is "re-elect me."
But this political misdirection -- this righteous legerdemain ... "Look! Look! Over there! Over there!" -- only works as long as there is some comfort, some security, worth defending. When comfort and security begin to fray -- when men and women can no longer provide for themselves or their families -- such programs as "the war on terror" lose their savor and the question begins to be asked, "who are the actual terrorists?"
.
A Washington Post story about social protests in Israel contained the following paragraph today:
The cries for “social justice” have signaled a shift from the traditional preoccupation with security and the Arab-Israeli conflict to an economic agenda focusing on issues often shunted aside in the face of what have been presented as more pressing external threats.
Perhaps that is a good generalized description of the rising tide in the United States: For so many years the political accolades for fearing alleged enemies have kept the electorate docile and more or less united. Other, more self-serving, agendas are and were nourished behind this veil of 'patriotism' and 'defense.' Not the least of these is "re-elect me."
But this political misdirection -- this righteous legerdemain ... "Look! Look! Over there! Over there!" -- only works as long as there is some comfort, some security, worth defending. When comfort and security begin to fray -- when men and women can no longer provide for themselves or their families -- such programs as "the war on terror" lose their savor and the question begins to be asked, "who are the actual terrorists?"
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Sunday, August 7, 2011
fairy tales
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I grew up sitting on the couch next to my mother as she read me fairy tales before bedtime. Tales from the brothers Grimm. "At the Back of the North Wind." "The Secret Garden." And later the whole of "Frankenstein," all 900 or whatever pages. My father, on the various occasions when I saw him, read me Dickens (which made me cry) and told me made-up tales of Googlamont and the White Knight. Googlamont had a magic ring which -- when he said "whisk! whisk! whisk!" -- allowed him to disappear. The White Knight was his sidekick and the two of them had vast and magical adventures ... stolen largely from Greek or biblical mythology I think.
I was enfolded and enthralled by such stories. When you don't see stories on a screen, when your ears and mind are the only tools available, the limitless qualities rise up like toadstools after a rain. I was taken to faraway places and granted, as I imagined it, unimaginable powers and skill. Since kids are largely helpless when it comes to understanding their universe, it was nice to be granted power, however ephemeral, while sitting on the couch.
What brought this to mind was a jolt of sympathy I felt and feel for those inclined towards spiritual endeavor. Not that vast and mystical vistas are wrong or naughty or bad, but they contain the same magnetism a child might feel for a winged horse or a blazing sword or a magical ring. In the far, far away, out there and up ahead, lies an "unconditional realm," perhaps, in which everything, all cares and quandaries, simply cease to have relevance. It may be a perilous and energetic journey, but there are rewards to be had ... vast, ineffable rewards. Imputing those rewards to others is part of the tale that the children of spiritual life indulge in because if others have entered a mystical and perfected je-ne-sais-quoi ... well, hell, it's true! Higher and higher the realms spiral. Brighter and brighter the light shines. Until, until, until ... well, ahhhhhh!
I wouldn't gainsay those who have spoken of such heights and encouraged others to strive for them. Some of those speaking seem to be honest brokers doing their best to express what cannot be expressed. And I am sympathetic to those who listen and strive and, yes, dream a bit.
But I am really grateful not to be part of a spiritual enthusiasm that can do no better than hope or belief. Yes, hope and belief for starters, for inspiration, for building a fire under an often inactive ass. But then ... well, enough is enough. Believing in heaven or hell can only take a person so far. Eventually it is time to get off the dime and enter heaven or hell -- to investigate the experience of heaven or hell.
Zen is pretty good about that: Sit down, erect the spine, sit still, shut up, and focus the mind. Never mind the inspiring tales -- they are far too limited. Never mind the holy men and holy women -- they have their problems, I have mine. And Gautama put it succinctly when he suggested, "Better your own truth, however weak, than the truth of another, however noble."
Sure, the fairy tales are true ... as true as they are untrue. But without finding out, people just wind up on the couch, relaxed and safe and dreaming. I figure it's OK to feel sympathy for the fairy tales of others. I am less comfortable being lazy about my own.
.
I grew up sitting on the couch next to my mother as she read me fairy tales before bedtime. Tales from the brothers Grimm. "At the Back of the North Wind." "The Secret Garden." And later the whole of "Frankenstein," all 900 or whatever pages. My father, on the various occasions when I saw him, read me Dickens (which made me cry) and told me made-up tales of Googlamont and the White Knight. Googlamont had a magic ring which -- when he said "whisk! whisk! whisk!" -- allowed him to disappear. The White Knight was his sidekick and the two of them had vast and magical adventures ... stolen largely from Greek or biblical mythology I think.
I was enfolded and enthralled by such stories. When you don't see stories on a screen, when your ears and mind are the only tools available, the limitless qualities rise up like toadstools after a rain. I was taken to faraway places and granted, as I imagined it, unimaginable powers and skill. Since kids are largely helpless when it comes to understanding their universe, it was nice to be granted power, however ephemeral, while sitting on the couch.
What brought this to mind was a jolt of sympathy I felt and feel for those inclined towards spiritual endeavor. Not that vast and mystical vistas are wrong or naughty or bad, but they contain the same magnetism a child might feel for a winged horse or a blazing sword or a magical ring. In the far, far away, out there and up ahead, lies an "unconditional realm," perhaps, in which everything, all cares and quandaries, simply cease to have relevance. It may be a perilous and energetic journey, but there are rewards to be had ... vast, ineffable rewards. Imputing those rewards to others is part of the tale that the children of spiritual life indulge in because if others have entered a mystical and perfected je-ne-sais-quoi ... well, hell, it's true! Higher and higher the realms spiral. Brighter and brighter the light shines. Until, until, until ... well, ahhhhhh!
I wouldn't gainsay those who have spoken of such heights and encouraged others to strive for them. Some of those speaking seem to be honest brokers doing their best to express what cannot be expressed. And I am sympathetic to those who listen and strive and, yes, dream a bit.
But I am really grateful not to be part of a spiritual enthusiasm that can do no better than hope or belief. Yes, hope and belief for starters, for inspiration, for building a fire under an often inactive ass. But then ... well, enough is enough. Believing in heaven or hell can only take a person so far. Eventually it is time to get off the dime and enter heaven or hell -- to investigate the experience of heaven or hell.
Zen is pretty good about that: Sit down, erect the spine, sit still, shut up, and focus the mind. Never mind the inspiring tales -- they are far too limited. Never mind the holy men and holy women -- they have their problems, I have mine. And Gautama put it succinctly when he suggested, "Better your own truth, however weak, than the truth of another, however noble."
Sure, the fairy tales are true ... as true as they are untrue. But without finding out, people just wind up on the couch, relaxed and safe and dreaming. I figure it's OK to feel sympathy for the fairy tales of others. I am less comfortable being lazy about my own.
.
lost in the light
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Howard Bump, a wiry fellow of about 50 and a former member of the Flying Tigers whose rag-tag airforce was based in China during World War II, was one of my mentors during a summer job I once had in the Oregon woods. I was 19 in 1959 and dumber than a box of rocks when it came to the ways of the forest which butted up against the Pacific Ocean and provided profits for the lumbering company I was working for.
Howard was a good teacher -- tough and understanding by turns as I learned a little about swinging a machete or ax and creating property lines in a terrain that was often up-hill-and-down-dale ... a terrain that could be unforgiving and secretive. "Don't expect anyone to help you if you get hurt out here," the older guys would taunt people like me. Each of us was required to carry a small first-aid kit that included ammonia ampules to help awaken those who, for one reason or another, might have been knocked out. This was not a job for sissies or for those who overlooked the dangers that were very real. The older guys may have made light of those dangers, but their jokes and taunts were based on real possibilities.
And one day, as our three- or four-man crew was cutting rough trails that the surveyor might later follow with more precision, we came upon the skeleton of a single-engine plane. Much of the fuselage covering had long since rotted away, but the skeleton remained. There were no human remains. And it may have been Howard who told me that the plane had crashed in the woods several years ago. People knew the crash had occurred, but "no one found it for two and a half years." That's how dense and filled with hiding places the terrain was.That's a lesson any of us might remember if we found ourselves lost.
There were many suggestions about what to do if we got lost. But the one that stuck with me was this: People often think that if they can see the sun, they can plot a useful course to safety. But in Oregon, many of the days were overcast -- a pall of barely-varying grey from horizon to horizon. Looking up into such a sky might provide bright spots that seemed to indicate where the sun was, but too often such bright spots were highly unreliable and indicate only where the grey cloud cover was less dense. Thus, a bright spot might appear in the North when the sun was actually in the East. The sun was untrustworthy if you got lost.
What was trustworthy? "Walk downhill," Howard said firmly. "Just walk downhill. Eventually, if you follow a stream or the downhill lay of the land, you will come to the ocean." Beaches in that part of Oregon invariably led to communities that made money from tourists who liked to swim or fish.
Lost. Which one of us has not felt that sense of anxiety that arises when the direction is unclear and yet the impetus to get somewhere is strong. Which one of us has not searched for the light that would point the way, only to become worse entangled in a universe that had no direction or solace? What do you do when the light that promises proves again and again to be a false prophet?
Walk downhill. Just walk downhill. Or, put another way, just walk. Never mind the light and darkness, the fear or insecurity ... just walk and keep on walking. What other choice is there? And where there is no other choice, you might as well enjoy the choice you make. No need to worry that no one will find you for two and a half years.
Just walk. Even if the safety and relief of the ocean never appears, still, this step, and this one, and this one are safe and sure and cannot be classified as 'lost.' Sure, sometimes it's scarier than shit ... but what other choice is there? The light is everywhere and it is the same. Let the light worry about itself. You have bigger fish to fry.
Just walk. And never stop.
.
Howard Bump, a wiry fellow of about 50 and a former member of the Flying Tigers whose rag-tag airforce was based in China during World War II, was one of my mentors during a summer job I once had in the Oregon woods. I was 19 in 1959 and dumber than a box of rocks when it came to the ways of the forest which butted up against the Pacific Ocean and provided profits for the lumbering company I was working for.
Howard was a good teacher -- tough and understanding by turns as I learned a little about swinging a machete or ax and creating property lines in a terrain that was often up-hill-and-down-dale ... a terrain that could be unforgiving and secretive. "Don't expect anyone to help you if you get hurt out here," the older guys would taunt people like me. Each of us was required to carry a small first-aid kit that included ammonia ampules to help awaken those who, for one reason or another, might have been knocked out. This was not a job for sissies or for those who overlooked the dangers that were very real. The older guys may have made light of those dangers, but their jokes and taunts were based on real possibilities.
And one day, as our three- or four-man crew was cutting rough trails that the surveyor might later follow with more precision, we came upon the skeleton of a single-engine plane. Much of the fuselage covering had long since rotted away, but the skeleton remained. There were no human remains. And it may have been Howard who told me that the plane had crashed in the woods several years ago. People knew the crash had occurred, but "no one found it for two and a half years." That's how dense and filled with hiding places the terrain was.That's a lesson any of us might remember if we found ourselves lost.
There were many suggestions about what to do if we got lost. But the one that stuck with me was this: People often think that if they can see the sun, they can plot a useful course to safety. But in Oregon, many of the days were overcast -- a pall of barely-varying grey from horizon to horizon. Looking up into such a sky might provide bright spots that seemed to indicate where the sun was, but too often such bright spots were highly unreliable and indicate only where the grey cloud cover was less dense. Thus, a bright spot might appear in the North when the sun was actually in the East. The sun was untrustworthy if you got lost.
What was trustworthy? "Walk downhill," Howard said firmly. "Just walk downhill. Eventually, if you follow a stream or the downhill lay of the land, you will come to the ocean." Beaches in that part of Oregon invariably led to communities that made money from tourists who liked to swim or fish.
Lost. Which one of us has not felt that sense of anxiety that arises when the direction is unclear and yet the impetus to get somewhere is strong. Which one of us has not searched for the light that would point the way, only to become worse entangled in a universe that had no direction or solace? What do you do when the light that promises proves again and again to be a false prophet?
Walk downhill. Just walk downhill. Or, put another way, just walk. Never mind the light and darkness, the fear or insecurity ... just walk and keep on walking. What other choice is there? And where there is no other choice, you might as well enjoy the choice you make. No need to worry that no one will find you for two and a half years.
Just walk. Even if the safety and relief of the ocean never appears, still, this step, and this one, and this one are safe and sure and cannot be classified as 'lost.' Sure, sometimes it's scarier than shit ... but what other choice is there? The light is everywhere and it is the same. Let the light worry about itself. You have bigger fish to fry.
Just walk. And never stop.
.
"to restore normality"
.
In north London, a Scotland Yard Commander who was assessing the riots that broke out today in the wake of a police shooting, seemed to sum up an edgy world and its attempts to find a more stable direction:
(Stephen Watson said): "Our intention at this time is to bring things to as swift a conclusion as we can. Our absolute aim is to restore normality."
Given the economic pressures around the world, there were other hints of an increasingly heated search for that even keel. And the Greek chorus in the background whispers the question no one has yet found an answer for: "Whose normality?"
-- Top gun financial leaders were on the phone today, trying to get a handle on the implications of a financial downgrading of the United States. This, they seemed to imply by their concerns, could really screw up the financial markets ... never mind what it might do to those more concerned with getting spaghetti on the table than with stocks, bonds and cufflinks.
-- In Israel, bastion of U.S. interests in the Middle East and a country many Americans may recognize as 'just like us,' hundreds of thousands took to the streets Saturday, some chanting, "Social justice for the people" and "Revolution!"
-- On the East Coast of the United States, 45,000 Verizon workers went out on strike today after contract negotiations failed. The workers belong to a union, one of those entities under assault across the country, notably in Wisconsin, but elsewhere as well. If business can eviscerate or eradicate unions, what a wonderful, 'normal' and profitable world it might be.
Everyone longs for "normality," for a chance to lead a safe and secure life, but whose "normality" is a question thrown into relief by economic hard times. In my mind, there is a half-formed wet dream of thousands gathering for a silent vigil in Washington. Not talking. No politicians, whether actual or aspiring. No rich. No poor. No right. No left. No Christians. No Jews. Just witnessing ... in silence. The only ones with bullhorns would be those maintaining the safety of the gathering. Just shut up and speak your mind. As I say, it's a wet dream... probably one that is miles too 'abnormal.'
Yesterday, a friend passed along the following screed by Michael Moore. I cannot pretend that it doesn't inspire my agreement:
In north London, a Scotland Yard Commander who was assessing the riots that broke out today in the wake of a police shooting, seemed to sum up an edgy world and its attempts to find a more stable direction:
(Stephen Watson said): "Our intention at this time is to bring things to as swift a conclusion as we can. Our absolute aim is to restore normality."
Given the economic pressures around the world, there were other hints of an increasingly heated search for that even keel. And the Greek chorus in the background whispers the question no one has yet found an answer for: "Whose normality?"
-- Top gun financial leaders were on the phone today, trying to get a handle on the implications of a financial downgrading of the United States. This, they seemed to imply by their concerns, could really screw up the financial markets ... never mind what it might do to those more concerned with getting spaghetti on the table than with stocks, bonds and cufflinks.
-- In Israel, bastion of U.S. interests in the Middle East and a country many Americans may recognize as 'just like us,' hundreds of thousands took to the streets Saturday, some chanting, "Social justice for the people" and "Revolution!"
-- On the East Coast of the United States, 45,000 Verizon workers went out on strike today after contract negotiations failed. The workers belong to a union, one of those entities under assault across the country, notably in Wisconsin, but elsewhere as well. If business can eviscerate or eradicate unions, what a wonderful, 'normal' and profitable world it might be.
Everyone longs for "normality," for a chance to lead a safe and secure life, but whose "normality" is a question thrown into relief by economic hard times. In my mind, there is a half-formed wet dream of thousands gathering for a silent vigil in Washington. Not talking. No politicians, whether actual or aspiring. No rich. No poor. No right. No left. No Christians. No Jews. Just witnessing ... in silence. The only ones with bullhorns would be those maintaining the safety of the gathering. Just shut up and speak your mind. As I say, it's a wet dream... probably one that is miles too 'abnormal.'
Yesterday, a friend passed along the following screed by Michael Moore. I cannot pretend that it doesn't inspire my agreement:
30 Years Ago Today: The Day the Middle Class Died ...a letter from Michael Moore
Friday, August 5th, 2011
Friends,.
From time to time, someone under 30 will ask me, "When did this all begin, America's downward slide?" They say they've heard of a time when working people could raise a family and send the kids to college on just one parent's income (and that college in states like California and New York was almost free). That anyone who wanted a decent paying job could get one. That people only worked five days a week, eight hours a day, got the whole weekend off and had a paid vacation every summer. That many jobs were union jobs, from baggers at the grocery store to the guy painting your house, and this meant that no matter how "lowly" your job was you had guarantees of a pension, occasional raises, health insurance and someone to stick up for you if you were unfairly treated.
Young people have heard of this mythical time -- but it was no myth, it was real. And when they ask, "When did this all end?", I say, "It ended on this day: August 5th, 1981."
Beginning on this date, 30 years ago, Big Business and the Right Wing decided to "go for it" -- to see if they could actually destroy the middle class so that they could become richer themselves.
And they've succeeded.
On August 5, 1981, President Ronald Reagan fired every member of the air traffic controllers union (PATCO) who'd defied his order to return to work and declared their union illegal. They had been on strike for just two days.
It was a bold and brash move. No one had ever tried it. What made it even bolder was that PATCO was one of only three unions that had endorsed Reagan for president! It sent a shock wave through workers across the country. If he would do this to the people who were with him, what would he do to us?
Reagan had been backed by Wall Street in his run for the White House and they, along with right-wing Christians, wanted to restructure America and turn back the tide that President Franklin D. Roosevelt started -- a tide that was intended to make life better for the average working person. The rich hated paying better wages and providing benefits. They hated paying taxes even more. And they despised unions. The right-wing Christians hated anything that sounded like socialism or holding out a helping hand to minorities or women.
Reagan promised to end all that. So when the air traffic controllers went on strike, he seized the moment. In getting rid of every single last one of them and outlawing their union, he sent a clear and strong message: The days of everyone having a comfortable middle class life were over. America, from now on, would be run this way:
* The super-rich will make more, much much more, and the rest of you will scramble for the crumbs that are left.
* Everyone must work! Mom, Dad, the teenagers in the house! Dad, you work a second job! Kids, here's your latch-key! Your parents might be home in time to put you to bed.
* 50 million of you must go without health insurance! And health insurance companies: you go ahead and decide who you want to help -- or not.
* Unions are evil! You will not belong to a union! You do not need an advocate! Shut up and get back to work! No, you can't leave now, we're not done. Your kids can make their own dinner.
* You want to go to college? No problem -- just sign here and be in hock to a bank for the next 20 years!
* What's "a raise"? Get back to work and shut up!
And so it went. But Reagan could not have pulled this off by himself in 1981. He had some big help:
The AFL-CIO.
The biggest organization of unions in America told its members to cross the picket lines of the air traffic controllers and go to work. And that's just what these union members did. Union pilots, flight attendants, delivery truck drivers, baggage handlers -- they all crossed the line and helped to break the strike. And union members of all stripes crossed the picket lines and continued to fly.
Reagan and Wall Street could not believe their eyes! Hundreds of thousands of working people and union members endorsing the firing of fellow union members. It was Christmas in August for Corporate America.
And that was the beginning of the end. Reagan and the Republicans knew they could get away with anything -- and they did. They slashed taxes on the rich. They made it harder for you to start a union at your workplace. They eliminated safety regulations on the job. They ignored the monopoly laws and allowed thousands of companies to merge or be bought out and closed down. Corporations froze wages and threatened to move overseas if the workers didn't accept lower pay and less benefits. And when the workers agreed to work for less, they moved the jobs overseas anyway.
And at every step along the way, the majority of Americans went along with this. There was little opposition or fight-back. The "masses" did not rise up and protect their jobs, their homes, their schools (which used to be the best in the world). They just accepted their fate and took the beating.
I have often wondered what would have happened had we all just stopped flying, period, back in 1981. What if all the unions had said to Reagan, "Give those controllers their jobs back or we're shutting the country down!"? You know what would have happened. The corporate elite and their boy Reagan would have buckled.
But we didn't do it. And so, bit by bit, piece by piece, in the ensuing 30 years, those in power have destroyed the middle class of our country and, in turn, have wrecked the future for our young people. Wages have remained stagnant for 30 years. Take a look at the statistics and you can see that every decline we're now suffering with had its beginning in 1981 (here's a little scene to illustrate that from my last movie).
It all began on this day, 30 years ago. One of the darkest days in American history. And we let it happen to us. Yes, they had the money, and the media and the cops. But we had 200 million of us. Ever wonder what it would look like if 200 million got truly upset and wanted their country, their life, their job, their weekend, their time with their kids back?
Have we all just given up? What are we waiting for? Forget about the 20% who support the Tea Party -- we are the other 80%! This decline will only end when we demand it. And not through an online petition or a tweet. We are going to have to turn the TV and the computer and the video games off and get out in the streets (like they've done in Wisconsin). Some of you need to run for local office next year. We need to demand that the Democrats either get a spine and stop taking corporate money -- or step aside.
When is enough, enough? The middle class dream will not just magically reappear. Wall Street's plan is clear: America is to be a nation of Haves and Have Nothings. Is that OK for you?
Why not use today to pause and think about the little steps you can take to turn this around in your neighborhood, at your workplace, in your school? Is there any better day to start than today?
Yours,
Michael Moore
Saturday, August 6, 2011
the discourtesy of adulation
.
In vain, I just searched the great god Google, trying to find a compendium of statements made by those who have been awarded the Medal of Honor, the highest military medal this country hands out.
I could find statements about these heroes, but not a collection of statements made at the moment they received the medal. Many, of course, received the medal posthumously, but it seems to me that every time I have seen living recipients receiving the award, their remarks were strikingly similar: It was nothing special I did.
But no one listens. Instead, they chalk up the remarks to a 'becoming modesty' or something similar. Those bestowing the medal and those appreciating the ceremony are so involved in their desperate needs that they disdain the very people whose heroism they admire. It never seems to occur to them to suppose that these recipients are expressing a profound and unadorned truth -- that from their point of view, the point of view that really counts, it was nothing special.
And the same seems to go for those whose accomplishments shine in the world of spiritual endeavor. It is not they who are cheering or fawning or elevating their status. More often than not, they too see nothing peculiar or enthroned in their activities ... unless, of course, they are swept away and credulous of the adulation they have excited.
I think it is a good idea to examine the heroisms we create. It's not a bad thing or a naughty thing, but I do think it is a mistaken and discourteous thing.
.
In vain, I just searched the great god Google, trying to find a compendium of statements made by those who have been awarded the Medal of Honor, the highest military medal this country hands out.
I could find statements about these heroes, but not a collection of statements made at the moment they received the medal. Many, of course, received the medal posthumously, but it seems to me that every time I have seen living recipients receiving the award, their remarks were strikingly similar: It was nothing special I did.
But no one listens. Instead, they chalk up the remarks to a 'becoming modesty' or something similar. Those bestowing the medal and those appreciating the ceremony are so involved in their desperate needs that they disdain the very people whose heroism they admire. It never seems to occur to them to suppose that these recipients are expressing a profound and unadorned truth -- that from their point of view, the point of view that really counts, it was nothing special.
And the same seems to go for those whose accomplishments shine in the world of spiritual endeavor. It is not they who are cheering or fawning or elevating their status. More often than not, they too see nothing peculiar or enthroned in their activities ... unless, of course, they are swept away and credulous of the adulation they have excited.
I think it is a good idea to examine the heroisms we create. It's not a bad thing or a naughty thing, but I do think it is a mistaken and discourteous thing.
.
know-it-all, know-it-not
.
Hard times do not always bring out the best in us. Sometimes it brings out what is plug-ugly and insanely simplistic and vastly cruel. But what is mysterious is always there for the taking -- whispering, "You think you know it all? Get a load of this!"
-- In the United States, the wealthiest country in the world, Standard and Poors, a rating agency, down-graded American fiscal reliability to AA+ yesterday. It's the first time since 1907 that the U.S. managed such a nadir. S&P suggested that the political gridlock in Washington was largely responsible for a rating that implies a pervasive political irresponsibility. It's the kind of news that defies the usual understanding of news as something we can conveniently forget about as we make room for newer news. This one is in your face, on-going, affecting one and all, and providing another marker of the U.S. descent into third-world status and capability. The cruelty of what stock brokers and bankers engineer(ed) hangs in the air like tear gas.
-- In New Orleans, five present or former police officers were convicted yesterday in the deliberate and mindless slaying of two people during the aftermath of the 2005 disaster hurricane called Katrina. Their lawless brutality (one man shot in the back; another shot in the back of the head) contradicts the trust people hope to have in their police departments. Not that such trust was ever really on a solid footing (back-story police work is something any law enforcement officer can recognize as riddled with lies and illicit connivance), but the hope for a protected, civil society lingers. The horror of Katrina, like the horror of war, stripped away the patina of righteousness and revealed the ravenous horror that anyone might exhibit: I ... am ... god. Or anyway, that's what I imagine.
-- New assessments show that the Tea Party -- a term used to describe a variety of often patriotic, sometimes religious, and invariably simplistic people -- may be losing its luster after helping to steer Congress towards a largely-uncaring right and a gridlocked acerbity. Their inept and harmful simplicities seem to be waning as the ugliness of those simplicities becomes clear. But that doesn't mean that simplicities aren't still attractive.
-- In Houston, Texas, Gov. Rick Perry, an undeclared presidential possibility, is holding a gigantic rally of faith-based voters today. When the answers seem impossible, when the terrain becomes ugly and confused, go for God. "More than 1,000 churches around the country plan to stream the seven-hour event on the Internet." Oh Lord! I'm not sure which is more frightening, Perry's rally or the implications of a remembrance of America's atomic bombing of Hiroshima today. At least the bombing contains a straight-forward, unalloyed cruelty.
-- And yet whatever litany of cruelty is adduced in this life, whatever edgy fear and horror may arise, whatever simplistic misanthropy and cynicism may seem to provide a harbor and home, still there are reminders and hints that finding answers is a poor man's pastime... and acknowledging that what is unknown will always outstrip what is known is an important first step. Not that anyone has to dissolve into a pool of zombie ignorance, but to acknowledge and be at peace with our very simple ignorance is a good first step, I think. However much anyone knows, still 'knowing' puts limits on things and the question needs to be asked, "Are things really limited? Really?" And so, for example, I kind of like the story today of a strange orange goo experienced by an Alaska village. No one knows what it is. It sits in the harbor off the remote community of Kivalina. It doesn't seem to be petroleum-based. It doesn't have an explanation or precedent. Elders cannot remember a similar occurrence. Some of the goo has been sent off for analysis, but for the moment, the plain fact, the inescapable fact, the in-your-face fact is that no one knows. What is in your face has no explanation save what people who don't know bring to it. Fidget and squirm, apply to God or drop a bomb, free the cruelty within or assert a barely-investigated and yet ferocious political bias ... find meanings and explanations and espouse lofty or degraded points of view ... and still there is the orange goo of unknowing.
That and the courage and patience it takes to make an honest peace with it.
.
Hard times do not always bring out the best in us. Sometimes it brings out what is plug-ugly and insanely simplistic and vastly cruel. But what is mysterious is always there for the taking -- whispering, "You think you know it all? Get a load of this!"
-- In the United States, the wealthiest country in the world, Standard and Poors, a rating agency, down-graded American fiscal reliability to AA+ yesterday. It's the first time since 1907 that the U.S. managed such a nadir. S&P suggested that the political gridlock in Washington was largely responsible for a rating that implies a pervasive political irresponsibility. It's the kind of news that defies the usual understanding of news as something we can conveniently forget about as we make room for newer news. This one is in your face, on-going, affecting one and all, and providing another marker of the U.S. descent into third-world status and capability. The cruelty of what stock brokers and bankers engineer(ed) hangs in the air like tear gas.
-- In New Orleans, five present or former police officers were convicted yesterday in the deliberate and mindless slaying of two people during the aftermath of the 2005 disaster hurricane called Katrina. Their lawless brutality (one man shot in the back; another shot in the back of the head) contradicts the trust people hope to have in their police departments. Not that such trust was ever really on a solid footing (back-story police work is something any law enforcement officer can recognize as riddled with lies and illicit connivance), but the hope for a protected, civil society lingers. The horror of Katrina, like the horror of war, stripped away the patina of righteousness and revealed the ravenous horror that anyone might exhibit: I ... am ... god. Or anyway, that's what I imagine.
-- New assessments show that the Tea Party -- a term used to describe a variety of often patriotic, sometimes religious, and invariably simplistic people -- may be losing its luster after helping to steer Congress towards a largely-uncaring right and a gridlocked acerbity. Their inept and harmful simplicities seem to be waning as the ugliness of those simplicities becomes clear. But that doesn't mean that simplicities aren't still attractive.
-- In Houston, Texas, Gov. Rick Perry, an undeclared presidential possibility, is holding a gigantic rally of faith-based voters today. When the answers seem impossible, when the terrain becomes ugly and confused, go for God. "More than 1,000 churches around the country plan to stream the seven-hour event on the Internet." Oh Lord! I'm not sure which is more frightening, Perry's rally or the implications of a remembrance of America's atomic bombing of Hiroshima today. At least the bombing contains a straight-forward, unalloyed cruelty.
-- And yet whatever litany of cruelty is adduced in this life, whatever edgy fear and horror may arise, whatever simplistic misanthropy and cynicism may seem to provide a harbor and home, still there are reminders and hints that finding answers is a poor man's pastime... and acknowledging that what is unknown will always outstrip what is known is an important first step. Not that anyone has to dissolve into a pool of zombie ignorance, but to acknowledge and be at peace with our very simple ignorance is a good first step, I think. However much anyone knows, still 'knowing' puts limits on things and the question needs to be asked, "Are things really limited? Really?" And so, for example, I kind of like the story today of a strange orange goo experienced by an Alaska village. No one knows what it is. It sits in the harbor off the remote community of Kivalina. It doesn't seem to be petroleum-based. It doesn't have an explanation or precedent. Elders cannot remember a similar occurrence. Some of the goo has been sent off for analysis, but for the moment, the plain fact, the inescapable fact, the in-your-face fact is that no one knows. What is in your face has no explanation save what people who don't know bring to it. Fidget and squirm, apply to God or drop a bomb, free the cruelty within or assert a barely-investigated and yet ferocious political bias ... find meanings and explanations and espouse lofty or degraded points of view ... and still there is the orange goo of unknowing.
That and the courage and patience it takes to make an honest peace with it.
.
Preludes? Get real!
.
It's high summer now and yet there are preludes of things to come ... and somehow 'preludes' is one of those arrogant, got-things-pigeon-holed words that hardly bears scrutiny.
From the porch and across the street, my neighbor's Japanese maple has edged away from a regal maroon and in the heated days begun to display a rusty green ... a sure sign that it is gearing up for the brown of fall and winter. But how can what is yet-to-be not be here already? Nothing mystical -- just a plain fact. Life has no edges. Only people who talk about 'preludes' try to hog-tie what is.
In the far distance, behind the other bird calls, there is a chorus of blue jays somewhere. Jays are so insistent and seemingly self-important. They are like the one member of a group who, whenever he opens his mouth, says something that is boring ... and his volume lets you know that he expects you to listen and be impressed. Jays are the harbinger of death and cold in my mind. They say, "Get ready! Winter is coming! The last rose of summer is right around the corner!" Where there are jays, Canada geese are bound to follow and, shortly thereafter, snowblowers. It's a prelude but the question remains, what prelude?
The philosophical squirming that preludes can excite is pretty tedious. T.S. Eliot's "Four Quartets" ... what an elegant effort to nail things down from all directions. "Time past and time present/ Are both perhaps present in time future...." But when has elegance ever eased the human heart, the heart burdened and uncertain in a world of preludes?
You can't tell people to stop ingesting philosophical or religious or poetic answers. You can only wait until they drop, sweaty and spent, and begin to enjoy themselves.
.
It's high summer now and yet there are preludes of things to come ... and somehow 'preludes' is one of those arrogant, got-things-pigeon-holed words that hardly bears scrutiny.
From the porch and across the street, my neighbor's Japanese maple has edged away from a regal maroon and in the heated days begun to display a rusty green ... a sure sign that it is gearing up for the brown of fall and winter. But how can what is yet-to-be not be here already? Nothing mystical -- just a plain fact. Life has no edges. Only people who talk about 'preludes' try to hog-tie what is.
In the far distance, behind the other bird calls, there is a chorus of blue jays somewhere. Jays are so insistent and seemingly self-important. They are like the one member of a group who, whenever he opens his mouth, says something that is boring ... and his volume lets you know that he expects you to listen and be impressed. Jays are the harbinger of death and cold in my mind. They say, "Get ready! Winter is coming! The last rose of summer is right around the corner!" Where there are jays, Canada geese are bound to follow and, shortly thereafter, snowblowers. It's a prelude but the question remains, what prelude?
The philosophical squirming that preludes can excite is pretty tedious. T.S. Eliot's "Four Quartets" ... what an elegant effort to nail things down from all directions. "Time past and time present/ Are both perhaps present in time future...." But when has elegance ever eased the human heart, the heart burdened and uncertain in a world of preludes?
You can't tell people to stop ingesting philosophical or religious or poetic answers. You can only wait until they drop, sweaty and spent, and begin to enjoy themselves.
.
Friday, August 5, 2011
empty hands
.
A strange silence has descended on the house. The family has headed out for four days in New Jersey and, in essence, I can do what I want without thinking around me.
An odd sensation -- sort of like sitting in a zendo ... everything is as it has always been. Now what?
.
A strange silence has descended on the house. The family has headed out for four days in New Jersey and, in essence, I can do what I want without thinking around me.
An odd sensation -- sort of like sitting in a zendo ... everything is as it has always been. Now what?
.
the hidden music
.
A Denver woodworker has created an elaborate desk whose music can only be released by those able to solve the puzzles embedded in it.
Secrets within secrets. Music within music. Essence within essence.
And all for the price of a luxury car.
I wish spiritual endeavor were that cheap.
.
A Denver woodworker has created an elaborate desk whose music can only be released by those able to solve the puzzles embedded in it.
The desk, crafted from ebony, Bastogne walnut and pink ivory, has eight square drawers that act like bellows on a pipe organ. When a drawer is pushed in, it emits a tone. Play the right tune of 12 notes, and a secret drawer is unlocked.
Secrets within secrets. Music within music. Essence within essence.
And all for the price of a luxury car.
I wish spiritual endeavor were that cheap.
.
(D)evolution
.
It feels stupid to say so, but what evolves devolves and vice versa. What was a blessing evolves into a curse and vice versa. What was a shining revolution devolves into a dictatorship and vice versa. What was the bright banner of Zen Buddhism devolves into the "authentic" and relic-strewn arena of institutions and teachers and vice versa.
Evolution and devolution are thus constructs of the mind. (D)evolution is just what happens. And what happens cannot be named.
.
It feels stupid to say so, but what evolves devolves and vice versa. What was a blessing evolves into a curse and vice versa. What was a shining revolution devolves into a dictatorship and vice versa. What was the bright banner of Zen Buddhism devolves into the "authentic" and relic-strewn arena of institutions and teachers and vice versa.
Evolution and devolution are thus constructs of the mind. (D)evolution is just what happens. And what happens cannot be named.
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Thursday, August 4, 2011
morality without virtue
.
When it comes to a peaceful life, perhaps the only option is morality without virtue.
.
When it comes to a peaceful life, perhaps the only option is morality without virtue.
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nutrition as privilege
.
A news story points out that the well-heeled are better positioned to be healthy.
Everywhere, disparity in income tells the same tale -- those who have, prosper; those who have not, are stricken. And there is no teaching the prosperous that their prosperousness amounts to little more than ego-tripping and cruelty if they give no thought or effort to those who are less prosperous.
Railing invective or soothing, well-shaped arguments make no difference: Whether prosperous or stricken, there is no convincing a man to get his head out of his ass until he convinces himself.
Of course the good thing about noticing mistakes is that anyone might have the opportunity not to repeat them.
.
A news story points out that the well-heeled are better positioned to be healthy.
An update of what used to be known as a food pyramid in 2010 had called on Americans to eat more foods containing potassium, dietary fiber, vitamin D and calcium. But if they did that, the journal Health Affairs said, they would add hundreds more dollars to their annual grocery bill.
Everywhere, disparity in income tells the same tale -- those who have, prosper; those who have not, are stricken. And there is no teaching the prosperous that their prosperousness amounts to little more than ego-tripping and cruelty if they give no thought or effort to those who are less prosperous.Railing invective or soothing, well-shaped arguments make no difference: Whether prosperous or stricken, there is no convincing a man to get his head out of his ass until he convinces himself.
Of course the good thing about noticing mistakes is that anyone might have the opportunity not to repeat them.
.
up with the crackpot revolution!
.
What is it that I find so delightful about individuals who decide to experiment -- without any sanction whatsoever -- with disciplines that are often walled-off and sanctified for a rare elite? Such, perhaps, was the successful premise of a 2006 movie called "The Astronaut Farmer," a somewhat far-fetched tale about a farmer who decides to build his own rocket with which to circle the earth.
The movie may have had a suspend-your-disbelief quality about it, but there was also a strange delight that it doesn't take a bureaucracy to have a dream and make that dream come true.
What excited a similar delight today was the news item about a fellow in Sweden who was arrested for trying to split atoms ... in his kitchen. I don't know diddly about splitting atoms, but I do know that there are billion-dollar laboratories around the world -- places chock-a-block with very savvy scientists -- dedicated to splitting atoms and following up on the implications and uses of actually doing it.
The man referred to his efforts as "a hobby" ... and somehow my heart soared. Was he a crackpot or a visionary? It makes no difference to me. The fact that he tried, quite on his own, impressed me.
And maybe that's a facet of what draws me to serious spiritual endeavor. All over the world, there are religious institutions, theologians, monks, nuns, tall spires, ancient texts, corrupt and pure agencies ... a veritable armada of experts and charlatans ... institutions and philosophies that are accepted and sometimes revered ... it's huge, huge-r, huge-st ... and in the end, the only thing that makes any sense is the crackpot and visionary in all of us, the one willing to try to split the atom in our own kitchens. All the rest is simply inspirational eyewash -- encouraging, perhaps, but not really convincing.
Can I do it? I don't know, but I damned sure am going to try.
Institutions and belief systems may try to shower me with their blessings, but it is the crackpots who actually try, despite all institutional blessing ... they are the ones who fill my heart with gladness. They are my brothers and sisters and I am glad if I can be included in their family.
No guts, no blue chips.
The crackpots have the guts. Win, lose or draw. Nut cases or visionaries. In jail or out. They bless me in ways that no institution ever can. They walk the walk. They are the one-man or one-woman revolutionaries. Thank you very much.
And now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to go out to the kitchen, split my own versions of the atom, and make some oatmeal.
.
What is it that I find so delightful about individuals who decide to experiment -- without any sanction whatsoever -- with disciplines that are often walled-off and sanctified for a rare elite? Such, perhaps, was the successful premise of a 2006 movie called "The Astronaut Farmer," a somewhat far-fetched tale about a farmer who decides to build his own rocket with which to circle the earth.
The movie may have had a suspend-your-disbelief quality about it, but there was also a strange delight that it doesn't take a bureaucracy to have a dream and make that dream come true.
What excited a similar delight today was the news item about a fellow in Sweden who was arrested for trying to split atoms ... in his kitchen. I don't know diddly about splitting atoms, but I do know that there are billion-dollar laboratories around the world -- places chock-a-block with very savvy scientists -- dedicated to splitting atoms and following up on the implications and uses of actually doing it.
The man referred to his efforts as "a hobby" ... and somehow my heart soared. Was he a crackpot or a visionary? It makes no difference to me. The fact that he tried, quite on his own, impressed me.
And maybe that's a facet of what draws me to serious spiritual endeavor. All over the world, there are religious institutions, theologians, monks, nuns, tall spires, ancient texts, corrupt and pure agencies ... a veritable armada of experts and charlatans ... institutions and philosophies that are accepted and sometimes revered ... it's huge, huge-r, huge-st ... and in the end, the only thing that makes any sense is the crackpot and visionary in all of us, the one willing to try to split the atom in our own kitchens. All the rest is simply inspirational eyewash -- encouraging, perhaps, but not really convincing.
Can I do it? I don't know, but I damned sure am going to try.
Institutions and belief systems may try to shower me with their blessings, but it is the crackpots who actually try, despite all institutional blessing ... they are the ones who fill my heart with gladness. They are my brothers and sisters and I am glad if I can be included in their family.
No guts, no blue chips.
The crackpots have the guts. Win, lose or draw. Nut cases or visionaries. In jail or out. They bless me in ways that no institution ever can. They walk the walk. They are the one-man or one-woman revolutionaries. Thank you very much.
And now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to go out to the kitchen, split my own versions of the atom, and make some oatmeal.
.
education
.
Yesterday, I entered the bureaucratic dust storm that defines college loans. I am not rich enough to spare my children from the debt associated with a college education, though lord knows I wish I were. My older son needed a loan. So I chatted a little with a $12-an-hour clerk who assured me that previous snafus (sometimes I think bureaucracies were created to prove that it was possible to fuck up a wet dream) had been ironed out and my older son was good-to-go for the upcoming school year.
College education. On the bureaucratic front, it's no good unless you haven't got one. There is simply too much bureaucratic pressure to judge people by their paper trail, so having a college degree is taken by $12-an-hour minds to prove something in the world of employment. But given the rampant ignorance among those who do have college degrees, well, it saddens me still further that my children will be financially burdened for something that doesn't prove a hell of a lot and has the potential to put them in the poor house.
I do wish I had the money to spare them this idiotic social requirement, but the fact is I have not and so I will just have to make do with being saddened.
But looking at so-called education as an employment tool is not the only way to see things. True, there needs to be a way to put food on the table, and eating is a requirement for life, but there is also the matter of what-kind-of-life.
Education means seeing a wider array of possibilities. The fewer the possibilities, the more likely the unhappiness. But since seeing a wide array of possibilities does not guarantee happiness -- and in fact may only support a more nuanced sense of unhappiness -- I think it is fair to infer that happiness (whatever it is) is something more than the opposite of unhappiness. No doubt a logician will find fault with this reasoning, but my response is: When has logic ever provided the deep-seated happiness that anyone might wish for and, with or without a college education, strive for?
Happiness as the antonym for unhappiness is like saying peace is the opposite of war ... a recipe and guarantor of more war, more unhappiness, I'd say.
Swami Vivekananda once observed that "The mind [he was referring to the intellectual mind that may or may not go to college] is a good servant and a poor master." The observation has the capacity to annoy the shit out of those who are intellectually averse to crediting any master other than their own bias, belief and judgment. But perhaps their raised hackles might be placated a little if the master Vivekananda was referring to were something as straight-forward as happiness.
The educated mind may tussle and twist in an effort to nail down a definition of happiness, but that's just more intellectual mind. People know when they are happy, just as they know when they are in love. Things are settled and easy and, somehow, just true.
But if the educated mind cannot create happiness, it can point out the possibilities of the variety of Yellow Brick Roads that hold out some hope of providing it. The educated mind, the intellectual mind, points.
After that, it's all about walking.
There's no out-thinking happiness or unhappiness, but there is getting-off-your-ass and doing something. There is attention. There is responsibility. There is determination. There is constancy. There is patience. There is courage. There is doubt.
As the Dalai Lama once observed, "Everyone wants to be happy." Never mind if the Dalai Lama is a 'spiritual leader.' Not everyone is cut out for spiritual folderol. But everyone is cut out for happiness.
Even those with a debt-laden, bureaucracy-inspired education.
.
Yesterday, I entered the bureaucratic dust storm that defines college loans. I am not rich enough to spare my children from the debt associated with a college education, though lord knows I wish I were. My older son needed a loan. So I chatted a little with a $12-an-hour clerk who assured me that previous snafus (sometimes I think bureaucracies were created to prove that it was possible to fuck up a wet dream) had been ironed out and my older son was good-to-go for the upcoming school year.
College education. On the bureaucratic front, it's no good unless you haven't got one. There is simply too much bureaucratic pressure to judge people by their paper trail, so having a college degree is taken by $12-an-hour minds to prove something in the world of employment. But given the rampant ignorance among those who do have college degrees, well, it saddens me still further that my children will be financially burdened for something that doesn't prove a hell of a lot and has the potential to put them in the poor house.
I do wish I had the money to spare them this idiotic social requirement, but the fact is I have not and so I will just have to make do with being saddened.
But looking at so-called education as an employment tool is not the only way to see things. True, there needs to be a way to put food on the table, and eating is a requirement for life, but there is also the matter of what-kind-of-life.
Education means seeing a wider array of possibilities. The fewer the possibilities, the more likely the unhappiness. But since seeing a wide array of possibilities does not guarantee happiness -- and in fact may only support a more nuanced sense of unhappiness -- I think it is fair to infer that happiness (whatever it is) is something more than the opposite of unhappiness. No doubt a logician will find fault with this reasoning, but my response is: When has logic ever provided the deep-seated happiness that anyone might wish for and, with or without a college education, strive for?
Happiness as the antonym for unhappiness is like saying peace is the opposite of war ... a recipe and guarantor of more war, more unhappiness, I'd say.
Swami Vivekananda once observed that "The mind [he was referring to the intellectual mind that may or may not go to college] is a good servant and a poor master." The observation has the capacity to annoy the shit out of those who are intellectually averse to crediting any master other than their own bias, belief and judgment. But perhaps their raised hackles might be placated a little if the master Vivekananda was referring to were something as straight-forward as happiness.
The educated mind may tussle and twist in an effort to nail down a definition of happiness, but that's just more intellectual mind. People know when they are happy, just as they know when they are in love. Things are settled and easy and, somehow, just true.
But if the educated mind cannot create happiness, it can point out the possibilities of the variety of Yellow Brick Roads that hold out some hope of providing it. The educated mind, the intellectual mind, points.
After that, it's all about walking.
There's no out-thinking happiness or unhappiness, but there is getting-off-your-ass and doing something. There is attention. There is responsibility. There is determination. There is constancy. There is patience. There is courage. There is doubt.
As the Dalai Lama once observed, "Everyone wants to be happy." Never mind if the Dalai Lama is a 'spiritual leader.' Not everyone is cut out for spiritual folderol. But everyone is cut out for happiness.
Even those with a debt-laden, bureaucracy-inspired education.
.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
a world of manners
.
I had thought the line appeared in the 18th century New England Primer, but a request to the great god Google went unanswered. The line was, "and if you must spit, spit in the corner."
In the course of searching out what I doubt I could have made up, I did run into some research on early American books of manners. Manners are the things that people put together as a means of oiling the social wheels or distinguishing themselves from their more barbaric or less well-to-do neighbors. Once upon a time, it was considered good manners to say, "thank you" and "please," for example. And earlier still, it was genteel not to spit on the floor.
The sifting of one research site yielded up some totally useless information that I thought was interesting.
And
And
In their classical plays of the 17th century, both French playwrights Corneille and Racine were at pains when it came to romantic love. A gallant knight would never express his love for his sweetheart with the diminutive and familiar "tu," a form of "you" reserved for animals and small children. He might get away with "Je vous aime" (I love you) which showed a distance from and respect for the object of his affections. But never "Je t'aime" (a shortening of "Je tu aime" that might be applied to babies or fuzzy kittens).
Even in the 1960's, I can remember a young German woman laughing at me when I asked if I might address her as "du" (the German version of "tu"). She was not especially offended, just tickled that someone might address a grown-up in that fashion.
Manners and mores -- without them things probably become harsh and self-centered whereas with them things can become smoother ... but not noticeably less self-centered.
At their best, manners can elevate the issue and put the ego on the back burner. At their worst, they can put the ego on the front burner and turn up the heat.
.
I had thought the line appeared in the 18th century New England Primer, but a request to the great god Google went unanswered. The line was, "and if you must spit, spit in the corner."
 |
| Gathered around the spittoon |
The sifting of one research site yielded up some totally useless information that I thought was interesting.
In the late nineteenth century, forks were still relatively new to the American table. As late as 1837, Eliza Ware Fairer wrote in a manners guide on the most polite way to bring food to mouth with a knife. Until forks were imported from Europe, people were accustomed to using only a knife and a spoon while eating. As late as the 1888 edition of Hill's Manual of Social and Business Forms, it was noted that, "As years have passed on, bringing their changes, the three or four-tined forks have come into use ... the advantage being that there is less danger to the mouth from using the fork, and food is less liable to drop from it when being conveyed to the plate. Thus the knife, which is now only used for cutting meat, mashing potatoes and for a few other purposes at the table, is now longer placed in the mouth by those who give attention to the etiquette of the table."
And
According to Mrs. E. B. Duffey in her 1877 book, The Ladies' and Gentlemen's Etiquette: A Complete Manual of the Manners and Dress of American Society, we are advised that, "No lady, if she wishes to preserve unsullied her patent of ladyhood, will be guilty of any feminine substitute for profanity. The woman who exclaims, 'The dickens!' or 'Mercy!' or 'Goodness!' when she is annoyed or astonished is as vulgar in spirit ... as though she had use expressions which in print are generally indicated by an initial letter and a dash!"
And
Just to the left of the sideboard is a tall window that opens from the floor -- a sash door -- that leads onto a small porch. One presumes that its placement off of the dining room allowed gentlemen to step outside for a post-dinner smoke or chew after the ladies' had adjourned to the parlor.
Smoking was typically forbidden at the table mostly because it offended gourmet standards, ruining the palate of the smoker, and the aroma of the food for everybody. Away from the table, however, the increased use of tobacco in the nineteenth century, especially in the United States, where it was both smoked and chewed, led to a heightened need to spit.
Visitors to the United States in the nineteenth century bemoaned the necessity of witnessing tobacco-spitting in public. The provision of spittoons was an important proof of civilized forethought. Spitting at the dinner table, however, was by this time out of the question. "If you must spit," the Illustrated Manners Book advised men in 1855, "then leave the room." By the early twentieth century, spitting had become officially unhealthy, thanks to the understanding that spitting helped to spread tuberculosis and other diseases.
In their classical plays of the 17th century, both French playwrights Corneille and Racine were at pains when it came to romantic love. A gallant knight would never express his love for his sweetheart with the diminutive and familiar "tu," a form of "you" reserved for animals and small children. He might get away with "Je vous aime" (I love you) which showed a distance from and respect for the object of his affections. But never "Je t'aime" (a shortening of "Je tu aime" that might be applied to babies or fuzzy kittens).
Even in the 1960's, I can remember a young German woman laughing at me when I asked if I might address her as "du" (the German version of "tu"). She was not especially offended, just tickled that someone might address a grown-up in that fashion.
Manners and mores -- without them things probably become harsh and self-centered whereas with them things can become smoother ... but not noticeably less self-centered.
At their best, manners can elevate the issue and put the ego on the back burner. At their worst, they can put the ego on the front burner and turn up the heat.
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