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Category Archives: Personality

In Honor of Carl Reiner

We can all use a laugh lately. Carl Reiner (3/20/1922–6/29/2020) and Mel Brooks were/are two of the best in delivering them. Please enjoy the following excerpt read as a tribute by one of our staff from The 2000 Year Old Man. Brooks and Reiner created and performed this sketch in the 1960s. — DA

Skin Trouble, 1943

An excerpt read from Woody Guthrie’s book Bound for Glory; as relevant now as when he published it in 1943.

This is included in an event we planned to celebrate Guthrie’s music, life and writings.

— DA

P.S. Please see the following written text for the excerpt.

While we walked away, holding our faces to the slight breath of air that was moving across the yards, he asked , ‘Say your name was?’

I said, ‘Woody.’

‘Mine’s Brown. Glad ta meet you, Woody. You know I’e run onto this skin color before.’ He walked long the cinders.

‘Skin trouble. That’s a damn good name for it. ‘ I walked along beside him.

‘Hard to cure it after it gets started, too. I was born and raised in a country that’s got all kinds of diseases, and this skin trouble is the worst on of the lot,’ he told me.

‘Bad,’ I answered him.

‘I got sick and tired of that kind of stuff when I was just a kid growing up at home. You know. God, I had hell with some of my folks about things like that. But, seems like, little at a time, I’d sort of convince them, you know; lots of folks I never could convince. They’re kind of like the old bellyache fellow, they cause a lot of trouble to a hundred people. and then to a thousand people, all on account of just some silly, crazy notion. Like you can help what color you are. Goddamit all. Why do’t they spend that same amount of time and trouble doing something good…?

— Woody Guthrie, Bound for Glory pg. 221

What Goes Around —

— Seems to comes around again eventually. Before Nickle & Dimed, there was George Orwell’s Down & Out in Paris & London on the plight of the poor in the 1920s. While ‘sheltering’, coping with lockdown puritanism, and hoping you can pay your bills, you can listen to Down & Out, plus Orwell’s other work, courtesy of BBC Radio. – DA

The stars are a free show; it don’t cost anything to use your eyes.’

‘What a good idea! I should never have thought of it.’

‘Well, you got to take an interest in something. It don’t follow that because a man’s on the road he can’t think of anything but tea-and-two-slices.’

‘But isn’t it very hard to take an interest in things—things like stars—living this life?’

‘Screeving, you mean? Not necessarily. It don’t need turn you into a bloody rabbit—that is, not if you set your mind to it.’

‘It seems to have that effect on most people.’

… ‘But you don’t need to get like that. If you’ve got any education, it don’t matter to you if you’re on the road for the rest of your life.’

‘Well, I’ve found just the contrary,’ I said. ‘It seems to me that when you take a man’s money away he’s fit for nothing from that moment.’

‘No, not necessarily. If you set yourself to it, you can live the same life, rich or poor. You can still keep on with your books and your ideas. You just got to say to yourself, “I’m a free man in here”‘—he tapped his forehead—’and you’re all right…’

George Orwell, Down and Out in Paris and London, 1933

Life in a TB Sanitorium: Two New Episodes

We’ve posted two new readings from an ongoing work-in-progress we’re sponsoring about a young woman diagnosed with tuberculosis in the 1950s.

Episode 5: The White Rabbit and a New Friend.

Latest Episode: Francine.

Please click to hear previous episodes on the project page.

Leadership Trivia

One of our associates used the following inspiring speech in teaching his English class. Do you know the name of the person who originally presented the speech? Extra points for the year and occasion. Hint: It’s not by one of our current world leaders.

I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be an Emperor — that’s not my business. I don’t want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone, if possible — Jew, gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another; human beings are like that. We want to live by each other’s happiness, not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another. In this world there’s room for everyone and the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone.

The way of life can be free and beautiful.

But we have lost the way.

Greed has poisoned men’s souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical, our cleverness hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery, we need humanity. More than cleverness, we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost.

The aeroplane and the radio have brought us closer together. The very nature of these inventions cries out for the goodness in men, cries out for universal brotherhood for the unity of us all. Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world, millions of despairing men, women, and little children, victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people.

To those who can hear me I say, “Do not despair.” The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed, the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress. The hate of men will pass and dictators die; and the power they took from the people will return to the people and so long as men die, liberty will never perish.

Soldiers: Don’t give yourselves to brutes, men who despise you, enslave you, who regiment your lives, tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel; who drill you, diet you, treat you like cattle, use you as cannon fodder. Don’t give yourselves to these unnatural men, machine men, with machine minds and machine hearts! You are not machines! You are not cattle! You are men! You have the love of humanity in your hearts. You don’t hate; only the unloved hate, the unloved and the unnatural.

Soldiers: Don’t fight for slavery! Fight for liberty! In the seventeenth chapter of Saint Luke it is written, “the kingdom of God is within man” — not one man, nor a group of men, but in all men, in you, you the people have the power, the power to create machines, the power to create happiness. You the people have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure.

Then, in the name of democracy, let us use that power! Let us all unite!! Let us fight for a new world, a decent world that will give men a chance to work, that will give you the future and old age a security. By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power, but they lie! They do not fulfill their promise; they never will. Dictators free themselves, but they enslave the people!! Now, let us fight to fulfill that promise!! Let us fight to free the world, to do away with national barriers, to do away with greed, with hate and intolerance. Let us fight for a world of reason, a world where science and progress will lead to all men’s happiness.

Soldiers: In the name of democracy, let us all unite!!!

 

Please click the link to hear the original audio of this speech in a new page at American Rhetoric.

– DA

Words & Pictures

There seems to be an overabundance of words recently: describing, explaining and inflaming our reactions to events from those in my previous home town to politics, to immigrants at the border.

Words seem to have lost their power to change anything. My own are no exception.

Emails, tweets, texts, blog entries, advertisements demand our attention this time of year and encourage us to buy and consume. We’ve all become desensitized to loquaciousness.

We send words out into the void, hoping for an intelligent reply, an acknowledgement from the common mass of men and women that we are not alone. Yet our own intimate conversations suffer. It’s obvious words have their limits. So I am drawing the birds in our garden.

Hummingbirds hover in the bamboo and sip nectar from the flowers. Doves land like B-52s and strut around like they own the place.

A pair of male and female gorriones (house sparrows) arrive each morning hopeful of finding breakfast if the doves haven’t eaten it all.

I stopped drawing and painting when I was younger, frustrated by a lack of skill and afraid of being a dilettante. The word dilettante is close to the more positive word amateur, with its root in the Latin amatore. You could do worse than to do a thing motivated by passion and love.

Drawing provides a different way of seeing. Cellphones allow us to collect images without looking, look without seeing. In our obsession with immediacy and sharing, we lose the interest and capacity for reflecting and appreciating the world around us in our own hearts and minds.

We all want to create and maintain an image of ourselves in the eyes of others. But our desire to be heard and noticed competes against all the other images and undifferentiated content, including cat videos.

At the same time our institutions seem increasingly in the hands of dilettantes, men and women who pursue politics, business, education and the arts serve mainly to fill their own hollowness; fulfilling an image but not the reality.

The Roman Empire fell because its citizens failed to create and support the substance beneath their institutions. Governing was given over to amateurs, or worse. The society maintained the image of civilization until reality intervened in the form of Goths, Vandals and internal corruption.

The Romans left behind wonderful sculptures, architecture, roads and aqueducts, and some not bad literature and theater. But ultimately their civilization failed to endure. – CDL

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Bon Voyage, Tony

I enjoy cooking. I find it creative and practical, and I’m not bad it it. I used to joke that I wanted Anthony Bourdain’s job. Now I guess that’s more of a possibility.

His death Friday from apparent suicide hit me. He was my age. I have the usual thoughts and questions:

  • He had such a cool job
  • He had a girlfriend and a young daughter
  • He traveled all the world, talked to people, ate with them, got paid for it
  • He kicked heroin

What the hell?

As a survivor of someone who committed suicide, over the past year I’ve reached out to friends, family, strangers, professionals and colleagues. I sought comfort, peace and reconnection. With important exceptions what I encountered disappointed me. Our get-ahead go-ahead society turns our thoughts, feelings, need for intimacy, friends and acquaintances into commodities to be bought, sold and easily discarded. (And thanks for capitalizing on that Facebook.) Most people I tried to connect with did not have time or patience for the grief, loss, nagging thoughts and memories I experienced and am still experiencing. You may have spent a week with someone or a lifetime, known them casually or intimately, said hello at the office or woke up in the same bed, who was enmeshed in so much pain, confusion and despair in their head (or body) that they decided to leave this world. As you struggle to comprehend, to move on, people you’ve known for years throw a few clichés at you. They tell you to see a therapist, ask if you’re on meds, and are gone. No time for conversation, tears, laughter or reminiscences or even a meal together. And sure as hell not serious questions.

I don’t know why Anthony Bourdain killed himself. We’ve created a world that pushes our buttons and makes us constantly doubt and feel afraid and anxious about whether we fit in and at the same time makes us feel isolated. That requires us to do crazy things and pretend to like it. Then, when we act out and feel bad, we sell ourselves services and products and meds and therapy. Nice little business you got going on there. Be a shame if anything happened to it.

I was told that people often don’t know what to say. Certainly this life (and death) can leave us at a loss for words. But people know what to say about plenty of other things, like politics or their sex lives (or other people’s sex lives if they don’t have one). My expectations are not high. Maybe I’m idealizing here (Thank you Big Chill), but give it a shot. Knock on the door of someone who’s experienced a loss like I and millions of others have. Take five minutes to give them a call. Invite them them to lunch or to take a walk or have a beer, or take a bicycle ride. And for the sake of whatever belief system you have, mention the name of the person they lost instead of pretending they never existed. Even if you’re afraid it might upset them (um, what, more?). Grow an anatomically-correct pair of ovaries or testicles. Or a heart. Dare to be brave. Don’t make them do all the work themselves in isolation, which helped create the mess we’re in in the first place.

I don’t know whether Anthony Bourdain was depressed (as if that explains anything) or narcissistic or had a personality disorder. I’ll leave the armchair therapizing to the self-appointed experts. To me cooking and enjoying good food and traveling and telling stories and getting people to share their stories and recipes around the world and having an ego does not mean you have a personality disorder. It means you contributed just a tiny part of the solution in this crazy mixed up world.

In my mind I imagine me and Tony drinking mojitos in Cuba and arguing baseball. Or sitting down in Istanbul for shish kebab or in Barcelona for tapas.

My sense from watching is that he could be a cranky son-of-a-bitch: standoffish, opinionated and garrulous. He also appeared witty, wry and self- deprecating, generous and kind. And to genuinely savor life. We could use more of that in the human species.

So for me now keep your tributes, your marches, your causes, your ribbons, your 1-800 suicide hotlines, your therapists on the clock, your platitudes and statistics, your by-the-book support groups, your medications that distance those of us left behind from our anguish and questions so we can work and buy groceries and feed the cat and ourselves and maybe our kids. Don’t ask me for money, or to write my congress-person.

Show up.

And I don’t want Anthony Bourdain’s job. I’ll skip the heroin, thanks. I think I would hate running a restaurant. But for a long while he seems to have recovered and turned it into a pretty good life and work. I want him back so i can continue watching him show us how it’s done.

Bon voyage, Tony. Buen provecho. – CDL

 

But Let’s Not

(Facebook Deletion Notice)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, what the hell —

An Apology for the Internet from the People Who Built It (Noah Kulwin, New York Magazine)

Shoshana Zuboff: No Escape from the Panopticon (Lance Farrell, Sciencenode)

–CDL

The Troubadour & the Gypsy Princess

We live surrounded lately by dark made-up events, people and stories confabulations. I figured I might as well make up one of my own with some light.

The Fable of the Sleeping Troubadour & the Gypsy Princess1

A troubadour lived in a village long ago and far away. He made his way telling stories and singing in return for a meal and a bed for the night. Once he had a family, but something happened and he was alone.

He met other travelers in the village who told him of their adventures. For a night or two they shared songs and stories by the fire. They laughed and drank and entertained each other against the darkness and cold and loneliness. Then the other travelers went out into the world again, bidding each other to be safe and happy until next time, leaving him behind.

The troubadour was no longer young, but neither was he too old to dream. Everywhere he went he encountered ghosts and memories of his former life. Some of these he remembered fondly. Others were so sad he could barely stand to live with them. His friends and relatives told him, ‘Forget the past. Stop dwelling on your memories.’ They were part of his life that was gone. He wondered about the future and what would become of him.


The travelers he met in the village told the troubadour about a land to the south in the middle of the world where the sun shone and winter never came. The troubadour decided he wanted to see it. His friends and relatives warned him, ‘It’s dangerous. Stay here with us where it’s safe’. The troubadour answered, ‘You tell me me to forget sad memories and the past. Alright, I’m going to leave and make new ones.

The troubadour traveled through the jungle and saw strange beasts. He paddled through rivers and lagoons. He drank with local people and ate their food. They spoke a a language he didn’t know, but he laughed and talked with them anyway. They welcomed him. The head of one village offered the troubadour his daughter in marriage. ‘Stay here with us. You’ll have land. You can have many children and become rich.’ The troubadour considered the offer. He thanked the man and said, ‘I am a stranger and traveler in your lands. My settling down days are over.’
After many miles and many days the troubadour arrived at a great city in the land to the south where a gypsy princess lived. The gypsy princess had the face and spirit of a girl but was no longer young either. She had had lovers but never settled down. She enjoyed children, but had none of her own. As a maiden she went to distant lands on her own, carrying her harp and sword. She fought battles and suffered wounds and deep scars. Even those she trusted to care for her had hurt her. Maybe that’s why she left.

After many years she finally returned home to the city of her birth to rest. But she felt strange among her own family and friends. Her aging parents worried about her. ‘What will become of her? ‘There must be something wrong with me,’ the gypsy princess thought. Her family, friends country-men and women told her, ‘Who do you think you are? Why don’t you get married and settle down?” No one knew she was a gypsy princess. Or if they knew, they forgot to tell her.

When the troubadour arrived in the city of the gypsy princess, the journey had begun to make him feel anxious and afraid. He wasn’t sure traveling all that way had really been a good idea. He wanted to rest. Generally people were kind, but it tired him to constantly learn a new language and new ways. On his second day he came across a magnificent mansion. The people there gave him something to eat and a place to stay for the night. In return he sang a song and told a story about his home to the north. When he lay down to sleep, the troubadour didn’t wake up. His songs and stories were silent. His memories went away, both the happy and sad ones. He knew nothing that went on around him in the world any longer. His friends and family forgot about him as though he never existed. Thorns and thick vines grew up around the mansion. The people who owned it went away. What had once been a resplendent home filled with life and happiness appeared as a crumbling ruin to passersby .

Each morning the gypsy princess woke in the bed she had slept in as a girl. Her parents slept downstairs. Possessions of her childhood surrounded her. But now when she had nightmares, no one comforted her. Since her parents were getting older, she decided she would devote herself to caring for them. If that would be her life, so be it.

Sometimes she would take out her harp and sword and look at them. When she did her old wounds twinged. The sword bore the nicks and scars of her battles. The harp was tarnished and missing a string. She would carefully put them away and tell her parents she was leaving. Then she went out into the city to meet her friends. They would go to entertainments and talk about when they were younger. Many of them were married and had children. Her former suitors had gone on to make their own lives. Once she imagined marrying a star in one of the entertainments. When she saw her friends’ comfortable lives, her old scars and wounds bothered her even more. She grew angry and frightened of the busyness of life in the city, and the obliviousness of people. The streets were filled with noise and traffic and people with lives unlike her own. She felt unconnected, floating in the world.

On her walks the gypsy princess often passed a crumbling old mansion covered in vines and surrounded by cedron trees. It had once been owned by a local family. Some tragedy befell them and their home was abandoned. There was a beauty about it that intrigued her. She returned again and again. Sometimes she climbed the wall to get a better look and see what might be inside. But the vines and thorns were too thick to see more.

One evening she noticed dim light shining in one room of the mansion. The next evening she took her sword from the drawer. She lifted down her dusty harp from its place on the wall. She told her parents she was going out for a walk as usual. The streets of the city were quiet. The moon shone strongly through the leaves of the cedron trees. She went straight to the old crumbling mansion. With the harp slung over her shoulder, she lay the sword on top of the wall and hoisted herself up onto it. She peered through the dense foliage toward the window on the second floor where the light shone. Twisted trees with thorns filled the yard like beasts and dragons. Only one spot in the yard near the wall was clear. The gypsy princess leaped down and landed with a thud. Her knees bent and her feet hurt. Her old wounds pained her. She shook her curly red hair and gritted her teeth. She grabbed the sword from atop the wall and began hacking through the undergrowth. Her arm and shoulder found their rhythm. Though nicked and long disused, the blade retained its power to cut. The thorns drew blood from her fair skin. She raised her arm to shield her face. But the sword did its work. Branches fell to the ground beneath her feet. The night was silent except for crickets. The sounds of the city faded. She cleared a path until she stood outside the mansion wall covered in vines. She stood for a moment looking up at the window, then began to climb.

She turned her head to avoid branches hitting her in the face. She inhaled the scent of bird droppings. Her legs and arms shook. Finally she reached the second-floor window. She pulled herself over the windowsill and looked in. Through a gap in the heavy curtains the moonlight revealed a figure on a bed. It was a man. She could see that much. A graying beard covered his face. His arm lay across his face. He was sleeping. The glass was broken from one of the window panes. The gypsy princess reached in and undid the latch, swung the window open, and stepped inside.

The room was still and quiet. Dust and broken plaster covered the floor. As the gypsy princess approached the bed, the man’s chest rose and fell. His nose was straight and his lips full. Lines showed around his mouth, but his chin was strong. His hair, which at first appeared entirely gray, was mostly covered in plaster dust. The gypsy princess reached out to touch his sleeve, but he did not stir. She touched his hand. His skin was warm. She looked down, wondering what to do. Should she she let him slumber? She touched his face gently. She felt his beard with her fingers, touched his strong nose. He was not an apparition. He had flaws and imperfections on his skin, a scar on his cheek. A bit of dried saliva showed at the corner of his mouth. Some impulse made her touch his hair. When she brushed away the dust, gray showed there like frost. She leaned down and kissed his lips, feeling their warmth. She lay her head on his chest. Her heart beat twice to every one of his. She unslung the harp and began to play. Sound filled the room. The strings miraculously sounded notes as she plucked them with her fingers. Slowly at first and uncertainly she remembered a tune from her childhood. The stranger drew a deep breath, then another. His arm moved away from his face and he opened his eyes. A puzzled expression crossed his face.

I’ve been asleep.’

She didn’t understand his words as she continued to play.

He looked around the room, then at her. His eyes were blue in contrast to her own of warm hazel. He spoke again, and suddenly his words were as clear as water.

Yes,’ she answered. ‘I found you.’

You are beautiful,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘I am a little strange.’

He shrugged. ‘And I am a lost stranger.’

The troubadour touched her face and smiled at her. The gypsy princess took his hand. It was warm and strong. The mansion was no longer derelict. Dust and plaster no longer lay on its floor. Birds sang and the smell of the cedron tree came through the open window. Outside darkness gave way to light.

They stood and embraced. The mansion became a cottage by the sea. And instead of being in the city filled with noise and confusion and worry, they found themselves in a village surrounded by friends. Outside waves rolled against the shore and the delicious smell of the ocean surrounded them. From that day forward the gypsy princess and the troubadour lived together surrounded by light and love and laughter. — CDL

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1For all gypsy princesses, hidden or otherwise, and one in particular.

 

Political Advice from Poets

Proto Surfer-Dude & Fellow Subversive

From 19th-Century American manly man and poet, Walt Whitman:

The genius of the United States is not best or most in its executives or legislatures, nor its ambassadors or authors or colleges or churches or parlors; nor even in its newspapers or inventors …  but always most in the common people … the air they have of persons who never knew how it felt to stand in the presence of their superiors… the terrible significance of their elections – the President’s taking off his hat to them them, not they to him…

– DA

 

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