Adam Smith Abounds

When I play the piano or organ, I have the guarantee that I will not have a seizure. Or, if I do, I will not feel it. I will not be aware of it.

Yesterday and the day before, I spent six hours preparing a booklet in Spanish of Biblical meditations for Advent. I hate Advent. If there is a spiritual dimension to life (which, as anyone knows who’s read any of my recent writings, I am quite skeptical about), it is utterly destroyed in the month leading to christmas. This destruction is one of the greatest mysteries I know. And the fact that it bothers me is an even greater mystery.

I don’t get it. And I am not smart or disciplined enough to say anything about it that some one else has not already said. The supposed birth of God in human form (“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and Word was God…and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us…” and all of that nonsense) ought to be, if one could really believe it, the single most frightening event since the first chemical reaction among H2O and other chemicals somewhere in the vast earth-covering ocean became one cell of what we, in our vast wisdom, call “life.” This terrifying possibility is reduced, in Texas at any rate, to a frenzy of bottom-feeding that totally ignores both the mystery of life and the awesomeness of the possibility that “God” became a living, breathing, yelling-obscenities-at-the-christmas-merchants-of-his-day part of the fabric of the “highest” form of the life that one cell started sometime in the last 6,000,000,000 years. And in Texas (I can’t vouch for any other place), even people who have never thought about the possibility that one cell (or maybe a trillion trillion cells all at once) sprang to “life” out of the liquid muck celebrate this season of “the Word made” flesh and are willing to go to the mat (or at least to the Supreme Court) to make sure that we call it “Word-Made-Flesh” season rather than what it is: capitalism run amuck season.

If my dad’s cousin sends me one more idiotic mass-email about calling this season “Christmas” instead of “The Holiday,” I will find him and personally. . . .

We, of course, have Adam Smith to thank for all of this nonsense. When he invented the “invisible hand” that guides our every move, he codified in one fell swoop the inviolable principle that “greed” (which is what the “invisible hand” is—not my idea, but I don’t remember where I first read it) will be the byword of our social contract—if, indeed we have one. Americans are convinced (as part of the ridiculous “metanarrative” under which we all live) that we have a written Constitution that determines the workings of our society (at least the “political” aspects of it), but everything we, as a people, do, say, and think, is controlled by the “invisible hand” of greed. Look at the so-called “economy” for the last two years. It has been absolutely in charge of our resources and thinking—including the “political” process that is supposedly governed by the Constitution—and everything else we do.

Even I, who refuse to own a credit card because those little pieces of plastic tie one without recourse to the “invisible hand” of greed, have not, as is obvious, been able to escape the insanity of Adam Smith’s intellectual nonsense.

Oh, silly, undisciplined, TLEptic me, I digress. Who first said that? Everything we do is a digression.

I spent all of this time making a Spanish-language booklet of Biblical mediations for the yearly orgy of Adam Smith-ness that I hate. I have good reason to hate it (except, of course, my more spiritually evolved brothers and sisters would tell me that I shouldn’t waste the time, energy, or spiritual capital “hating” anything). I am caught in a paradox from which I cannot extricate myself.

When I play the piano or organ, I have the guarantee that I will not have a seizure. Or, if I do, I will not feel it. I will not be aware of it. This is the time of year when friends most want me to play the piano or organ, I think because real music, made by a living, breathing human being—whether the Word was made flesh or not—is one way people can wrench themselves away from their abject discipleship to Adam Smith and at least pretend they live in some dimension other than greed.

So I am caught in the conundrum, the Catch-22 of wanting nothing to do with living in our social contract of greed but knowing the time of year when Adam Smith is most worshipped is the time of each year when I could, if I gave in to the temptation, be most likely to go for hours without any strange electrical misfiring in my brain.

So what’s wrong with greed? I don’t know. I made the foolish decision somewhere along the line that I don’t want any part of this greediness. The fact is, of course, that it may be my mental “disorders” that brought about my decision in the first place. Another conundrum. My Bipolar Disorder and my Temporal Lobe Epilepsy prompted my decision to try to avoid the feeding-frenzy of greed , but the feeding-frenzy accounts for the time of year when my own greatest delight is useful to other people and I can be freed from the misfiring of my own brain more now than at any time of the year.

The real paradox is that I spent all of that time, instead of playing the organ or piano, making a little folder of meditations for the season I hate, in a language I have to work much too hard at to understand or communicate in. I am part of a community who speak Spanish—at my church (the greatest paradox of all—I doubt I will ever sort that one out), and I was trying to give them a gift. As if anything I would give anyone would be other than a cruel hoax.

OK. I love that community.

The aspect of Adam Smith’s Gospel of Greed that most repulses me is that, in greed, any given community can smugly reject any other community. As if we’re not all descended from that same chemical reaction billions of years ago that resulted in “life.” Feeding frenzies are also hatred frenzies that “…express an imagined difference and sameness, elaborated from actual or apparent differences such as race, ethnicity, religion, sexuality, class, or gender. The cultural work of representations of boundaries is to enhance the differences and make them a part of a community’s self-conception, or ideology. The symbols of community themselves are heavily invested in signs of difference no less than commonality.”**

If the “Word became flesh,” then it became all flesh, not just Anglo Americans who live on the plastic they can slide through a machine at Target or Bloomingdale’s. **

**Morgan, David. “The look of sympathy: religion, visual culture, and the social life of feeling.” Material Religion 5.2 (2009): 132+.

Some of us start to research our Family History and already have a head start thanks to a family member who may have written a comprehensive Personal History and has included lots of useful information. However, its more likely that we don’t have this type of information at our disposal and we are, therefore, at a loss. Where do we start? Which websites offer the best information? The Genealogy side to Family History is as important as the stories of our ancestors. It helps set the scene and provides a background to the stories you may have heard. The BBC has a fantastic web site that will help you get started exploring your Family History:

BBC Family History

This web site covers every aspect of the Family History spectrum, from tracing your ancestry to hearing stories and sharing photos.

We knew it was coming! And here it is! Going Rogue is now officially #1 on the New York Times Best Seller List for nonfiction titles! (Mike Huckabee’s A Simple Christmas is #5.)

Here is a little closer look:

NYT Best Seller List: http://www.nytimes.com/pages/books/bestseller/index.html?adxnnl=1&adxnnlx=1259441743-bG+OK6UgMOHV2zbacfkZmA

NYT Hardcover Nonfiction List: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/06/books/bestseller/besthardnonfiction.html?_r=1&ref=bestseller

Sicilian Mariners

Twentieth-century philosophers (especially those who think about thinking and writing) have written incessantly about “metanarrative.” The first time I heard the word in a graduate seminar, I boggled my mind asking, “Why can’t they just say ‘the big story,’ or, as Most Normal Americans would say, ‘the big picture’?”

The word “metanarrative” is a big word academics made up to sound smart. It’s like “homosexual,” a ridiculous pastiche of parts from two languages slopping around in languages resembling neither of the originals. Trying to sort out meaning is as fruitful as trying to figure out which of my cats knocked the philodendron off my kitchen counter while I was out.

(Today my “thesis” is more obscure than usual. My personal narrative begins and ends in confusion. Read on.)

I entertain myself finding word origins. This is not for “academic” purposes. I like to try to figure out what people are saying in reality—especially if they don’t mean what they say.

Meta-: prefix meaning 1. “after, behind,” 2. “changed, altered,” 3. “higher, beyond,” from Gk. meta (prep.) “in the midst of, among, with, after.” Definition of the third meaning, “higher, beyond,” is “due to misinterpretation of metaphysics as ‘transcending physical science.’”

Philosopher/academics add meta- to:  narrative, 1432, from L. narrationem from narrare “to tell, relate, recount, explain,” literally “to make acquainted with.”

“Metanarrative” means a (story, telling, recounting) that’s “higher” or “beyond” some other story.

“Metanarrative” is the Greek “big” coupled with the Latin “to tell.” I (who live in total untidiness) think it’s an untidy way to invent a word.

(I’m getting to my thesis, but I’m like Johann Gottfried Herder; see below.)

The French aren’t much tidier. They use métarécit.

They’ve used the Greek meta-, and added to it the Latin recitare “read aloud, repeat from memory,” from L. re- “back, again” + citare “to summon.” We can take our pick, “the narration (of a BIG story)” or “the recitation (of a BIG story).”

Shall we look for “the BIG one that got away?”

The BIG one got away

One day the semester of that graduate seminar, I was walking across campus. It must have been close to Christmas time (or not). I was humming an old German (not Greek, Latin, French, or English) Christmas carol sung to an Italian tune (see what musicologists know?). I learned this carol in high school German class in about 1962. It came to me that I could change the words, and

      O du fröhliche, o du selige,
      Gnadenbringende Weihnachtszeit! 

became forever etched in my mind as: 

     Metanarrative, metanarrative,
     Gnadenbringende Weihnachtszeit! 

From a carol in praise of “joyful, holy, Grace-giving Christmastime” to a hymn in praise of the “Grace-giving metanarrative.”  (O du fröhliche has five syllables with the first syllable accented as does “metanarrative,” so the words can be interchangeably set to the tune). Most Lutherans in this country, since a hymn about Italian fishermen strays too far from the metanarrative of Lutheran piety, know the tune with the words “Lord, Dismiss Us with Thy Blessing.” Obviously Italian Catholic Christmas words would not do for Lutherans, but the bouncy (folk) tune from Sicily (named “Sicilian Mariners”) is too much fun to jettison. 

Greek, Latin, and Italian to German, English, and the universal language of the academy, to say nothing of Christian Protestant versus Catholic theology. Now there’s a METANARRATIVE! 

We each have a story we tell ourselves about where we came from—because we remember it, or others have told us, or we’ve dreamed it (or perhaps consciously made it up), or it’s what really happened. Yesterday I found myself in the middle of a group of people almost none of whom I knew. Most of them were related in some way—brothers, sisters, cousins of brothers-in-law, mothers-in-law of brothers. It was Thanksgiving dinner. The host had also invited a few of his friends. I was there because he is a kind and gracious and generous man (my narrative about him, whether or not he knows it, is part of his story). 

I was chatting with someone who was not a member of the extended family, but was obviously close to our host. I asked if she “had known him forever.” She said they were in college together. I don’t know how long ago that was, but more recent than my college days. “I guess that qualifies as ‘forever,’” she added. In the narrative of her life and the host’s life, it is forever. 

I, on the other hand, have known him for only about six months. Is that “forever” in his narrative? One might not think so, except he and I have similar stories, and we have experienced similar shame and misery so deep and change and recovery so dramatic, that, based on our differing but congruent experience of grief and joy, we have become part of each other’s narratives in way that even his oldest and dearest friends cannot be for him—or most of mine for me. 

One of the few (always and continually) joyful aspects of the story I know, invent, tell myself about my life (oh—go ahead and say it, my “metanarrative”) is the layers of meaning I discover, mostly through other people. 

A tune arises from anonymous Sicilian fishermen. Johann Gottfried von Herder, a German philosopher (he studied with Kant and taught Goethe) tears himself away from the frigid north of Europe and travels to Italy. When he returns to the Land of Luther, he remembers the Sicilian Mariners’ tune (1788). (He was my kind of thinker. He wrote to his wife, “I have too little reason and too much idiosyncrasy.” He helped sow the seeds of Sturm und Drang in Germany, the romantic wildness that probably describes my thinking.) Another German Lutheran writes words that fit the unusual meter of the tune. The song becomes a favorite German Christmas Carol. Lutherans in 19^th-century America learn it, and it becomes one of their favorites. In 1962 Gretchen Schutte, teaching high school German in Omaha, Nebraska, teaches the carol (she is German Catholic, not Lutheran) to her (mainly Baptist and Jewish) classes. I discover the tune in many places, including set to non-Christmas words in Lutheran hymnals. One day I think of it when I am pondering metanarratives.

A metanarrative is born. Oh, I know, I know. That’s much too trivial to be a metanarrative in the Jacques Derrida or Victor Vitanza sense.

This is an extension of my recent mediation on the problem of God. The problem, as I see it, is mixing all of this purely human stuff up into some kind of “forever-ness.” God did not introduce the Sicilian fisherfolk to the German theologian. God didn’t inspire the 20^th-century philosophers to add “big” to “story” or “narrative.” God didn’t bring my Thanksgiving dinner friends and me together. We have to believe those things, those “big stories,” in order to believe we’re alive and well and living on Earth. Derrida and his ilk might agree with me about that.

But then they go right on making up their own “metanarrative” about how the “metanarrative” is not real, and they get trapped into their own avoidance. The only true philosophers or social critics or academics are people we’ve never heard of because they are living on mountainsides contemplating the universe, not metanarratives. Or, perhaps, they’re carrying on Jane Goodall’s work unraveling the only metanarrative that matters.

The only metanarrative that counts

Hassib’s welcome home party; (Nov. 26, 2009)

My cousin Hassib is visiting Lebanon after 30 years of absence; he left in 1979 to France for specialization in Pediatrics; his British wife Sonia was then pregnant.  Hassib is currently working in Al Ain in the Arab Emirate, healing, teaching, and doing research. Hassib’s married sister Joelle is throwing a welcome home dinner party this Friday’s evening; all the first generation cousins and cousines are invited; the second generations are too numerous; besides, on their own volition they would not join.

The invitees were: from the Bouhatab (Julie, she wouldn’t miss a gathering, Raymonde, Victor Choukeir, Ghassan and his wife Diane, and I; dad does no longer do dinners anymore; he goes to bed by7:30 pm; he was missed because he is very funny in gatherings); from the Fahkoury (Edward, Joe and Marianne his wife and their elder kid Eddy; my aunt Therese could not join because the steep and many steps; Tony and Janine failed to come); from the Ghoussoub-Tannous (Marie, George, Noel, Viviane, Bernard and his wife Nellie); from the plain Ghoussoub or Gsub (Jihad and his wife Nada, Joseph or Zouzou, and sessine Moukarzel; Jihad tried several times to contact Nassif in Vancouver, at home and on his cellular, but failed); from the Narchi (Montaha, Joelle, Hassib, Jean or Jeannot, and Khaled).

Jihad had arrived from Dubai a couple of days ago. Khaled has signed up with another French company “Air Liquide” with a branch in Lebanon. Jean is teaching 6 credit-hour at a new French university in Bikfaya; the courses are opened from 5 pm to 9 pm; this university is branching out in Tripoli, Baakleen, and Gaza (the west Bekaa in Lebanon).

Smoking was prohibited in the house. The smokers such as Montaha, Nada, Jihad, Zouzou, and I took relay in the enclosed front porch. Hassib used to smoke pipe but quit 20 years ago. Montaha reminded her son-in-law Jean, when she visited him in France, that she was banished outside for a s moke and then it got cold; she asked Jean to hand her a Vison coat; Jean invited her to the kitchen and opened slightly a window and told her “As for the Vison, you just have to wait”.

There was plenty of food and in a dozen varieties such as “kebeh nayeh”, tabouli, hot fish “samkeh harra”, homus, chicken shaworma, mouton with rice, rocca salad, and mother brought in “kebbeh bil hileh of kara3”.  I might also mention the dozen varieties of deserts that we enjoyed an hour after the first break. Jihad loves “kebbeh nayeh” and Zouzou was relentless on that matter: I guess Jihad should have been on strict diet. Zouzou also was relentless when Jihad enjoyed the sweet “karabeej”

My brother Ghassan cracked a joke: Our ex-Seniora PM was out of Lebanon for a few days; whereabouts unknown.  Then, the rumor said that Seniora was asked financial counsel from the Emir of Dubai. As Seniora returned Dubai declared bankruptcy.  I had two small glasses of arak “mtalat” (grape wine distilled three times).  I felt tipsy and kept my silence for ten minutes. Bernard is hot for the next municipal elections (if it is, most likely, not postponed); he wants to be member of the next council.  I am never asked on these matters: my CV in community services is nil and void.

Then a lovely and memorable feud among the kids in the 70’s was resurrected. Two groups got upset for one thing or another and two buses were hired by each group for a trip on a Sunday. Hassib was leading the first gang of Katia, Joelle, my brother Ghassan, and twenty other friends and relatives. Zouzou and Ghassan Ghoussoub were leading the second gang, including Nassif and twenty others gathered in great difficulty and in no time.  As Zouzou recounts: “I was on the street and then, I saw a bus passing by and Joelle was mocking me with agitated signs from the window. I hurriedly hired Milad, a bus driver, and he was drunk and just arriving home but he relented and agreed to drive us.”  The two gangs met at the same places during the trip but they would not speak with one another for two weeks. Joelle and Diane mentioned that they have photos of that trip; I have no idea who took pictures at that period; most probably a photographer showing up at expected touristic locations. Hassib said that he had to wait for me because I was not home in Koneitra and that I boarded the other bus on the return trip and didn’t pay my fair. Five minutes after we finished these recollections then my brother Ghassan remembered the event. He said: “Nassif saw me and said “we smash heads” and I retorted “we pluck out beards (min nattef leha)”; most probably Nassif was growing a beard; I was lucky that I did not have then beard; it will grow several times at two occasions..

I recollect these events but I have this strong impression that I watched “Hassib bus” passing by while I was on the balcony of his mother Montaha’s in Beit Chabab. There are discrepancies on the date of this feud.  Zouzou is under the impression that it took place in 1974 but I am sure he is far off the date.  I believe that it might be in 1970.  A few people mentioned that it was the year of the play that we gave; then it should be in 1969; I was to be playing and then I dropped because I realized that I had to prepare for the second session exam of my first failed attempt at the Matheleme general public exam. I am confused and whoever has better memory then he is invited to join in his comments.

Khaled was in charge of taking pictures; ask him to post pictures on facebook. We parted company by midnight. Happy Adha Eid to all.

Book Six — Chapter Five Conception, Adam Becomes An MC, Marriage Moments, First Night

CONTENTS

I think I have supplied a hint regarding an interpretation of young Panflick’s activities in recent chapters. He was, I suggest, anxious to achieve some synthesis with, shall we say, normality. I am not saying that Adam was harboring some deep recollection of childhood trauma, though he may well have done so. Nor that he was conflicted regarding his sexual identity. Though in later years he did at least recognize some inclination toward his own gender.

I believe his sudden and determined move toward marriage may have been the result of two factors:

1. A reversion to his “Demarest persona” of uninhibited, impulsive activity, demonstrated by his willingness to compete openly for Ganya’s affections, or

2. A drive to repress any doubts about his capacity for relationship and somehow get on with his life.

Maybe both.

As I cogitate on the matter, I can also see that Ganya herself was a marvelous reality for Adam. She possessed beauty that placed her in the realm of Calista and Mildred. She may have had a somewhat flaky intellect but that was hardly a liability, given her clear willingness to travel the potentially eccentric and impoverished road that Adam seemed to be on.

And, interestingly, Ganya’s explanation of her reason for saying Yes to Adam squared exactly with what Reginald had said on the porch of the Red Lion Inn. “I figure,” said Ganya, “you have good genes.”

After the close of the school year, the incipient newly weds had summer jobs in the city. They planned their marriage for September. Ganya’s parents lived in South Dakota but had roots near Boston. So did Ganya, given her Wellesley connection. The Old Cambridge Baptist Church was selected as the venue for the marriage.

Before they began their summer work, Adam and Ganya visited Pickinsboro. They made it in a shade over four hours in the Dauphine.

Melchizedek and Mildred were, on a scale of one to ten, about a seven on Ganya. They had been closest to ten on Portia. It is remarkable that Adam could gauge the unexpressed feelings of his parents with such precision. But gauge he did and he did not care. Oh no? Sure, he did. But he let it slide. Did it matter what the senior Panflicks thought if he was embarked on a road far from the culture of Pickinsboro? Yes, it did. No, it didn’t. Maybe it did. Adam would never really cut the cord. Rolling around inside him was not so much a need for approval as for the counsel he had never quite had. Melchizedek and Mildred were founts of wisdom in their way. But they had never lavished it on him. Perhaps such counsel, had it been forthcoming, would only have alienated him. Perhaps it was best to maintain things just as they were.

+

Ganya was blithe about her body rhythms. There would be no accidents as far as unprotected sex was concerned. She enjoyed unprotected sex. And she and Adam had no problem getting started. The happy event took place on the very first night of their visit to Vermont.

There was a problem though.

By the time the moment came, Adam was seriously out of sorts. He tended to get that way in Pickinsboro for such reasons as I have outlined. As a result, he entered the realm of physical intimacy with neither the caring concern nor skill of the accomplished lover. More with the blustering force of an utter novice. The hasty and ill-managed encounter would have been swiftly repressed save for another salient fact.

Ganya was wrong about her body. This very union initiated the development in Ganya’s receptive womb of their very first child.

They were married in September. The following March Fiona was born, a daughter of such seraphic calm that she almost seemed born of a virgin. Nobody, including Mildred and Melchizedek, had any problem with the early arrival. Or with the result, Adam could only conclude with relief that his mood had no effect whatsoever on the outcome. Clearly the soul is present from the start.

I’ve jumped ahead.

Ganya had a summer job at Youth House for Girls in the Bronx. Adam worked at the New York City Youth Board. His boss was for a flamboyant man named Al Wilks. The job involved MC-ing dances for public school teens in school yards and other venues in all the boroughs. The New York City musician’s union 802 supplied bands, generally not versed in music desired by the kids. Adam and a few other MCs went around, got things set up and took the mike as needed to keep things moving.

Adam, whose driving was much closer to Reginald’s style than Melchizedek’s, whipped around at high speed in the Dauphine, hitting Sauer Park on the Lower East Side, Bland Housing in Queens and the Casino in the South Bronx. Mastering the parkways and drives. Welcoming kids. Getting the bands to play “Mashed Potato”. Generally hanging out and hanging on through a languid and remarkably peaceful summer.

Al Wilks was voluble, unthreatening, and enjoyable as a companion at lunch or dinner around the corner from the Youth Board offices on Madison Avenue. There was something soothing and pleasurable in a job involving kids, the city, a changeable schedule and clear expectations. Adam was quite happy that summer.

Ganya remained in her apartment on West 98th. Adam stayed at 86th Street. Sometimes he and Melchizadek went to one of the neighborhood restaurants. By now, the wounds of Williams had healed. Melchizedek showed little curiosity about Adam’s job or his coming marriage. Ganya’s family was far off. Had they been wealthy, Melchizedek might have known them. But George Mede appeared to a shopkeepers with the wherewithal to send children to Eastern colleges. The Medes were not on the Panflick radar screen.

(Ironically George Mede had been to Harvard Business School and managed to parlay a retail drug store into a multi-million dollar midwest domain before the word K-mart entered the commercial vocabulary. It took several years before the full extent of Ganya’s familial wealth registered among the Panflicks.)

Melchizedek was at sea when it came to comprehending Adam’s trajectory. The senior Panflick had some ago passed on being a church member. His conversation subjects remained money and friends. Common ground was the Broadleys. Melchizedek was a bit peremptory regarding Adam’s apparent closeness to Reginald. He did not want another Froggy experience. “Take good care of that car,” he said, referring to the Dauphine. When Adam asked about Panflick House matters, conversation moved to profits and balances and the satisfactions of buying low and selling high.

“Will you and, um, Ganya want to be in the Social Register, Adam?” Melchizedek asked one evening over steak at Beggi’s. “I should think so.”

“Um, ah, I doubt it,” Adam replied.

“It means quite a bit,” Melchizedek said. “Most of your friends from Exeter are in it. Do you see, um, who is it, a, ah yes, Lancelot?” The last time Adam saw Lancelot was in a crowded student apartment at Yale. He had recently married a beautiful young woman who was the sister of the equally beautiful person Adam had encountered at Riggs.

“No,” Adam replied.

“Well your friends are important,” Melchizedek said softly. “You don’t want to lose contact.”

+

The wedding passed without incident. Al Carmines and a few other Union Seminary friends provided Adam with support as the hour drew nigh. Spence Parsons, the minister at Old Cambridge Baptist, officiated. Ganya looked wonderful’y serene in a wedding dress of pure white, no details of which entered Adam’s mind. After a reception at the Hotel Commander, the happy couple set off in Adam’s spanking new used Chevy station wagon, a gift from Melchizedek. Adam had, as a consequence, returned the Renault to Reginald.

You will recall that Melchizedek’s wedding night was marked by a considerable brake on his and Mildred’s intimacy. No such delay occurred at the Old Sturbridge Inn. Adam was penitent after the outing in Pickinsboro. He was hardly an accomplished lover but he was improving. They made a stop in Pickinsboro to drop off wedding presents and continued south to some of Adam’s old haunts in Virginia. On their return to New York, they had difficulty finding a place to live. They took a temporary room at a fleabag hotel on Amsterdam Avenue. When they returned the first night the place had been ransacked. The rare drawing Morton gave them was gone. A week later, the seminary came up with a room on the first floor of Hastings Hall. They remained there until Fiona’s birth was immanent.

CONTENTS

Buy this today. Great to listen to in the car and share with writer friends.

This is excerpted from my CD, The Writer’s Cave, Why Writers Write What They Do. It is available from amazon for $10. To order click here: http://www.amazon.com/Writers-Cave-CD-John-Lehman/dp/0974172847/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1259259763&sr=8-7 and the correct page will automatically come up. 

The Writer’s Cave, True Stories of Why We Write What We Do, written and presented  by John Lehman

Music

BOB: Part One, THE WRITER AS VAMPIRE

Music

JOHN:  Question: Do writers sleep in coffins?

     In the old days, victims of writers, e.g. readers, were occasionally interred while still in an author-induced deep sleep.  This may have given rise to the myth from gravediggers and others who observed them emerging from coffins and crypts that literary people do sleep in coffins. So the answer is “no,” though a writer may choose to sleep in a coffin for other reasons. I understand coffins are quite dark and very quiet.

 John, excitedly.

     I get this idea for a one-person presentation. A DVD commentary on an Ingmar Bergman film, Persona, suggests that a director/writer is like a vampire. Wow, I think, the writer as vampire.  So I write something up. It begins this way:

     It’s 35 years ago in one of the Slavic countries that gave rise to the legend of vampires in the 11^th century. My first wife and I are wandering the streets of Split, Yugoslavia—an ancient Venetian city on the blue Mediterranean with white buildings stacked up its hills.

He turns to the audience.

     Come along with me.

John continues conversationally.

     I’d just left the Army and we are on the first leg of a year’s journey that will take us to Greece, Bulgaria, Italy, Austria, France, Spain, Portugal and back to Germany.

          Anyway, it’s a warm early fall afternoon and a crowd is gathering several blocks away. With our one-year-old in a carrier on my back, we hurry down the seaside street to see what possibly could be going on.

      There’s the snapshot in my memory that remains. A movie is being shot in front of an old hotel. This is intriguing in itself. But then we look past the actors and cameras and see that the man directing it is none other than…the legendary…

…Orson Welles.

John looks off to their left. His initial enthusiasm is replaced by disillusionment.

     He looks terrible. As wide as he is tall, he’s dressed in a black shirt, black trousers, and a black suit coat that he must have slept in. His hair is greasy and hanging straight over his forehead and his corpulent face is a sweaty, beet red. He seems to be tilting slightly backwards to balance his colossal weight.

     But it is the Orson Welles. Orson Welles directing!

John looks back as if they are seeing the action of the movie shoot.

     A taxi pulls in front of the hotel entrance and as the woman gets out the camera on the other side zooms in, shooting into the interior of the automobile she’s leaving.

       All this is done without any verbal direction. In fact this seems to be more a rehearsal for a scene that will be shot.

       Orson Welles is turning to the cameraman.

       My God, I am going to hear the greatest cinematic genius of all time actually tell his cameraman what to do.

     He says, with that still-sonorous Orson Welles voice coming from deep in his diaphragm as if from the bottom of a huge, empty barrel,

     “Mario, keep your eyes on the camera, these people will steal anything.” 

     That’s it?

     That’s it. Probably no one in the crowd but Pat and I understand English, but we laugh all afternoon repeating the words:

     “Mario, keep your eyes on the camera.”

     And the baby laughs too…so hard and so beautifully…

     … that during the whole rest of the trip if we want him to roll with laughter, we say…

“Mario, keep your eyes on the camera!”

Laughing.

John  returns to his own thoughts. The joy starts to dissolve.

     What an anticlimax, but looking back what could he have said that would be more memorable? For Orson Welles—known as the boy genius because of his early masterpiece, Citizen Kane—making movies for TV in Yugoslavia was probably the low point of his career.  And here was my son beginning his life…with wonderful giggles. My little boy’s laughter was his masterpiece. To his parents, he was “our baby genius.”

 When John begins again his voice is weary, more confessional.

He sighs.

     A nice story, but now, almost 35 years later, here’s why I think it fits the topic, “The Writer as Vampire.”

      As writers, we’re consumed with finding significant “meaning.” We are elated when we think we have that. But then times change. Life moves on. And what is significant changes for us.

     When I sit down to write a poem about the Orson Welles encounter 20 years later, my son is a teenager in the Air Force—neither a “teenage genius” nor an “Air Force genius,” and my wife has left me. So the cheery ending of the little memory doesn’t seem quite appropriate anymore.

      Here are the last two stanzas I come up with:

U

His shot seemed a curious choice.

When the woman stepped out from

the cab a camera entered through

a door that opened on the other

side. Did it make sense, to film

the empty  space  where  once she

had  been, leaving us to watch her

parting shape from the dark inside?

In twenty years, my wife, herself,

would go, never once looking back

on unedited footage decomposing

in the can.

U

His face was crimson with broken

veins and greased with sweat; his

voice—that voice—no longer Harry

Lime’s, but the mumbled growl of

Hank Quinlan toward his seedy end. 

What I wanted most that day, was

a shimmering globe to hold forever

dear, instead, in his voice I heard

only shards of broken glass. “Mario,”

he said, “you keep your eyes on the

people or they will steal everything.” 

And she did.

U

     I like the Citizen Kane snow-scene-in-a-glass-globe allusion, but now, my emphasis switches from watching the camera to “keep your eyes on the people.” Now I had “truth” that fit my current situation.

The subtitle annoyed me already – how is it that in this country a child of one black and one white parent is called black (as if the white part somehow doesn’t count) instead of mixed?

Anyway, most of the book, I enjoyed: By telling the story of his Jewish American mother who had 12 children with 2 consecutive black husbands, James McBride also tells part of the social history of America of this time (from the 40ies to the present day). By going against the grain of defined racial differences, her story highlights a lot of them. What I enjoyed beyond the obvious issue of race and multi-racial families was to learn something about being poor in America in times past, when being poor didn’t necessarily mean coming from a wrecked family background or living in high crime areas. Nice contrast to the present day black poverty account of “Gang Leader for a Day” (below).

A friend once told me: If you want to teach people from your own experience, you have to tell them a story without spelling out the moral of the story. And that’s why I only enjoyed most and not all of this book. If he could have resisted the urge to explain what this all means to the reader and just stopped when the story was done, it would have been a much stronger book.

When I was a child, and into my teenage years and early twenties, I absolutely devoured fiction. Some time around the age of 22 or 23, though, I veered away from it and begun a search for ‘The Truth’. In terms of my reading habits, this manifested as an almost exclusive concentration on non-fiction. Yoga and nutrition textbooks, politically and socially-focussed tomes, that kind of thing. Naturally enough, this line of exploration led me towards an understanding of climate change. As it was presented to me, climate change seemed a very factual narrative: “This is what’s happening. These are the consequences. We need to do something about it.”

Recently, a number of events have led me to question how effective this storyline is in actually creating change. First of all, I’ve returned to reading more fiction. This has reminded me how much I enjoy the sense of awe and wonder that hearing stories can inspire. Secondly, I’ve become aware of just how great the levels of skepticism are regarding this line of thinking. With the summit in Copenhagen approaching fast, only about 10% of the UK population apparently believe that climate change is a major issue. Finally, the leak of emails from the CRU at the University of East Anglia. Whilst this episode did nothing to shift my beliefs on the veracity of climate change as a phenomenon (as George Monbiot writes: “They damage the credibility of three or four scientists. They raise questions about the integrity of one or perhaps two out of several hundred lines of evidence. To bury manmade climate change, a far wider conspiracy would have to be revealed”), it did demonstrate to me how much the non-fiction storyline depends upon authority. If scientists are seen as experts passing down knowledge to the rest of us, anything that casts the slightest doubt on their credibility can undermine their work.

All of which has set me wondering whether the stories we tell ourselves, and each other, about climate change are a major part of the reason for inaction and even downright disbelief. What comes to mind is the popular perception that those who warn of dangerous climate change are peddling apocalypse: massive crop failures; millions (perhaps billions) starving; economies devastated; climate refugees swarming towards the few remaining habitable areas of the planet. It’s a hellish vision. It’s also pretty discouraging – which makes it easy to imagine that anyone exposed to it might feel overwhelmed and powerless … and might react by refusing to grant it credence.

I think it’s also plausible to suggest that such horrific projections offer a golden opportunity to the self-styled ‘skeptics’ to control the public discourse on the subject. It is so extreme that it takes a strong heart to resist the urge to recoil from it. It also contains handy echoes with biblical floods and plagues that can be used to paint those who discuss climate change openly as fundamentalists. The stories the deniers conjure, of course, are mostly ludicrous: climate change is a grand leftist conspiracy to stifle the American economy and bring communism to the world, for example. Taking action is hard, though; and believing that we are being viciously targetted by evil folk, through no fault of our own, offers a lot more opportunity for moral outrage than believing that we are responsible for wreaking some pretty horrendous damage on the planet. We all want to feel good about ourselves, and recognising the consequences of rapacious industrialism is likely to lead, at the very least, to some uncomfortable moments of self-reflection.

So what to do? I like the approach of The Transition Movement. Founded by Rob Hopkins, and based on an understanding of both climate change and peak oil, the transition approach involves bringing people together to envision a positive future of community interdependence, increased leisure and resilience to oil shocks, amongst other things. There’s also an awareness that a lot of this may be a vast improvement upon a consumerist culture that encourages long work hours, high waste and isolation. Transition is a voluntary movement, however; by definition, the people who become involved are already willing to consider changing their ways of living. While the movement has already made a certain amount of impact, and may yet hit a tipping point that will engage millions, it is presently still fairly marginal. It’s very much a bottom-up approach, relying considerably on goodwill and a willingness to work together. In general, it seems to work best in places where there is already a strong sense of community, and where people are free and affluent enough to dedicate their spare time. In areas where there is a high transient population, and weaker links between people, the transition model seems to be less successful.

With all of the above in mind, I’d like to suggest a narrative that I think has the potential to inspire positive action on climate change: a coming-of-age story. Duncan Campbell, of Living Dialogues, is fond of quoting a phrase of Bob Keck’s: that the attitude of Western cultures to the environment is analogous to the attitude of a teenager to the refrigerator. We don’t think about where the food comes from, or whether the supply is exhaustible, or indeed or own responsibility for ensuring the future of that supply. We just eat. Taking the metaphor further, I think it’s fair to say that as a culture we are moving through an adolescent phase. We are selfish and thoughtless, obsessed with appearance and other shallow concerns. Duane Elgin has actually taken this idea a step further and asked groups of people in many different countries to decide whether, as a whole, we are behaving like toddlers, teenagers, adults or elders. He reports that between two thirds and three quarters of people generally agree that we are behaving like teenagers. Which is fine, as far as it goes. Climate change is our signal that is has gone far enough. It’s time for us to grow up. Sure, it’ll be tough at first. We’ll need to move from selfishness to responsibility. We’ll need to recognise limits on our consumption and our partying. We’ll need to work. On the other hand, the potential rewards are many and great: a solid, grounded sense of self. A confidence in our accomplishments that can only come from meeting great challenges. A more mature and compassionate culture. Most of all, perhaps, the protection of this beautiful planet on which we all depend.

OBJECTIVE
To obtain a graphic design position utilizing my organization, leadership, and planning skills.

PROFESSIONAL SKILLS
• Results oriented project leader with excellent organizational skills
• Systematic approach to problem solving
• Manage tight deadlines, challenging roles and assignments
• Dedicated to building a highly motivated team aware of their roles within the organization

SKILLS
SOFTWARE: Adobe Bridge, Adobe Illustrator, Adobe InDesign, Adobe PageMaker, Adobe PhotoShop, AdSpeed, Canvas, CasMate, Composer, Corel, Enroute, MX32 controller, Flexi-Sign, Inspire, Neon Wizard, MS Excel, MS Outlook, MS PowerPoint, MS Publisher, MS Word, PhotoPaint, QuarkXpress, Roland VersaWorks, Sign Wizard
 

EDUCATION

Present – August 2010
Colorado Technical University Online Colorado Springs, CO
Concentration: Human Resource Management

EMPLOYMENT HISTORY
July 2009 to Present

April 2007 to June 2008

January 2006 to March 2007

January 2005 to May 2005

January 2004 to January 2005

August 2000 to February 2002

May 1995 to May 1998

June 1993 to May 1995

     One way to read contemporary philosophy of religion and philosophical 
     theology is to view it as a series of attempts to determine how God
     became a problem in the West. . . .Their arguments already seem to be
     part of a high modernity which has been deconstructed by end-of-
     ontotheology arguments which claim that the only appropriate
     language for God in the postmodern context is no, not, never.**

Anthony Godzieba (Associate Professor, Villanova University) ought to be ashamed of himself!  

I know how God became a problem in the West. 

God finally—after trying for millennia—became a problem in the West (dare I assume speaking  for myself is speaking for “the West?”) in a 1400-square-foot apartment on a street—lined with live oak trees so old they spread a canopy over the street for neighbors to walk their dogs, the Asian-American medical students’ families to meet and talk and the gay melting-pot Americans to meet to plan rendezvous—in Dallas, Texas, United States, North America, the West, Earth. 

A canopy of (graitude?)

“For health and strength and daily bread, we give you thanks, O Lord.” Two-part, incipit an ascending octave leap on the dominant, the melody descending through the scale omitting the seventh. (I can write in the technical jargon of my discipline.) I have no idea when I first sang this as a blessing before a meal. 

The simple round is the gist of the Thanksgiving Eve sermon by the Rector of a large, wealthy, Episcopal parish in Dallas about the nature and need for Thanksgiving, We are to be grateful for what we have been given (presumably by God). 

The service was deeply moving, the “Noise of Solemn Assemblies” *** at its finest. The organ music was delicious. The choir sang Maurice Green’s “Thou Visiteth the Earth.” We sang the Thanksgiving hymns one might expect. I am emotionally and spiritually (?) engaged in services at this church (until the Creed when I either choke in grief or am enraged, and unable to say the words).  

All but the Credo

God became a problem not when Nietzsche announced his death (Nietzsche was myopic—he killed off only the Western god). God became a problem not with Heidegger’s convolutions; not with Kierkegaard’s grief—although that was close; not with Foucault’s Religion and Culture; not with Niebuhr, Faigley, Frankl, or Lyotard. Perhaps God became a problem with Baudrillard. 

God became a problem (and becomes a problem) each time a person (and then another, and another) discovers that the “metanarrative” (words invented by people in the above list are a problem) we have learned to be true (or we have assumed from infancy) is not. Life is not civilization, or theology, or good works, sociology, politics, love, hate, education, the economy, automobiles, wars in Iraq, or health care reform. And life is not “God.” 

God has worked up to being a problem for millennia. God tries to garner attention. God will, in fact, allow peoples’ lives to come unhinged, to be disasters, miserable, or intolerable. Or God will allow people to be happy, joyous, and free, to be billionaires, to have the power of the Presidency, to celebrate Thanksgiving in style and ease, and luxury. God allows these things (don’t go criticizing my theology—I don’t give a fig about theology; I report the facts as I see them) in order, now and then, to get one person’s attention. Each one who comes to the understanding that God is a problem has to do so alone. 

Discovering that the metanarrative, whatever version of it one has come to believe, is not true is one’s discovery that God is a problem. I can claim to have discovered this for the “West” in my apartment because, for me, the discovery is universal—it shakes my universe, so it must shake THE universe. And once discovered, the problem is never undiscovered. 

Discovering God is a problem means everything else is a problem. “For health and strength and daily bread, we give you thanks, O Lord” is meaningless (or at least problematic). Why give thanks for something that does not exist. God is a problem for me because I for so long had all of my hope, my comfort, my understanding of reality bound up with God.  

My grateful admission that God is a problem does not mean I have concluded God does not exist. How would I know? It means simply that, this Thanksgiving Day I cannot trust the metanarrative, what Wikipedia (Hah! laugh at my scholarship) calls the “abstract idea that is thought to be a comprehensive explanation of historical experience or knowledge.”  

I’m not throwing my lot in with Lyotard (although his work is clever) and the other “post-modernists.” They wrangle over metanarratives as surely as the ancient theologians who asked how many angels danced on the head of your hatpin. 

I don’t think about abstractions that explain history or knowledge. When my friends read philosophy in college and thought deep thoughts, I was learning organ music. I was drunk. I was trying to find sexual bliss. I read (and tried to write) novels. I can’t participate in discussions of Lyotard and Foucault (Foucault may have discovered that God is a problem). 

I grieve God as a problem. I am grateful for it. I assume that, if I live long enough (“what is life” is the first question one asks when one discovers that God is a problem), I may find some grace in the discovery. 

I do not want to over-emphasize the ways in which my body (mostly my brain) works differently than most human bodies. My twin disorders, Temporal Lobe Epilepsy and Bipolar Disorder, are perhaps not disorders at all. Perhaps they are the true gifts for which I celebrate Thanksgiving. They have forced me to understand God is a problem. Nothing is what it seems. Nothing is real. If reality is impossible to define, nothing survives when our bodies no longer participate in life on Earth. I am ill (but isn’t everyone?). One of my “illnesses” consists in a misfiring of brain cells that causes me dissociation, the physical beginning of my intellectual understanding that God is [unreal] a problem. 

Lately, I have been comforted, when I am overwhelmed knowing God is a problem, by the writings of Arthur Frank which I discovered in an article by Cristina Rocha. 

In The Wounded Storyteller, Arthur Frank argues that people use illness narratives ‘to repair the damage that illness has done to the ill person’s sense of where she is in life, and where she maybe going.’ He identifies three kinds of narratives—restitution, chaos, and quest. . . .Finally, in the quest narrative, ‘illness is the occasion of a journey that becomes a quest.’ The ill person has an active role in it, as s/he finds a sense of purpose in the illness, and uses it to undergo transformation. **** 

Thanksgiving Day is a day for me to remember my gratitude that God is a problem for me. I am grateful to be on a quest.

** Godzieba, Anthony J. ”Ontotheology to excess: imagining God without being. ” Theological Studies. 56.1 (March 1995): 3(18).  Associate Professor, Villanova University; Editor of Horizons, the journal of the College Theology Society.
*** Berger, Peter. The Noise of Solemn Assemblies; Christian Commitment and the Religious Establishment in America. New York: Doubleday, 1961. “Mainline Protestantism has always been in a symbiotic relationship with the middle-class culture, which is to a large extent its own historical product (after all, it is this type of Protestantism that has been a crucially important factor in the formation of American bourgeois civilization) and that continues to be its social context [in which people do not know God is a problem].”
**** Rocha, Cristina. ”Seeking healing transnationally: Australians, John of God and Brazilian Spiritism. ” The Australian Journal of Anthropology  20.2 (August 2009): 229(18).  Cristina Rocha is a staff member at the Centre for Cultural Research, University of Western Sydney.

We Plow the Fields and Scatter

Time to play major catch-up, so we’ll begin with this piece from the NY Post on Darryl Strawberry that was published during the World Series (I told you I was backed-up).

In his Oct. 17 column, Kevin Kernan writes

His book “Straw: Finding My Way” has sold 60,000 copies and has landed him on the best-seller lists. There are negotiations to turn the book into a movie. He is working on several other ventures.

How hard would it be to leave a bowl of these in the room?

(Update: 3:30 p.m. PST, 11/25/09. Cat won’t be going home tonight; we’ll be staying another night here at Club Med. She’s fine; she’s just not recovered enough to leave. So tomorrow’s a Thanksgiving we won’t forget!)

(This post is a continuation of my last four or five posts.)

Why won’t the nurses who are taking care of my wife give me drugs, too? For her they’re concocting Morphine Delight milkshakes, and filling her with Percocets like she’s Nummo, the Pain-Killing Pez dispenser. Meanwhile, I’m stuck popping Skittles from a vending machine in the parking garage. How is that fair?

“This cot you gave me is not that soft,” I said. “Lying on it has made my shoulder pretty sore. Ow.” But the nurse only turned her back on me, and continued screwing into Cat’s I.V. tube the kind of drugs Houdini probably used for his own private disappearing act.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Just squirt a little into my broth here.”

“And will you please stop eating your wife’s food?” snapped Nurse Attitude.

You know, for a group afflicted with such tragic fashion sense, you’d think nurses would develop better people skills. I hope there’s something in Obama’s health care plan that addresses this serious problem, which I’m sure every day affects tens of thousands of spouses of patients.

In the meantime, I’ll just have to wait. And, of course, take the opportunity of my wife napping just now to find out what all those buttons do on the wall panel next to her bed.

(Ha, ha; is drug humor ever not funny? Oh. Well, good time to get serious, then: Cat’s fine. Actually, she’s having a bit of a rough go of it. She may not get to go home today as originally planned. The amount of blood she lost yesterday has left her pretty anemic today—which has left her unable to walk, and to do some of the breathing exercises and other such things she needs to in order to avoid developing pneumonia and a whole assortment of other post-operative maladies lurking for a chance to take hold. So she may have to get a transfusion, and then stay another night for monitoring. It’ll depend on how the next four or five hours go. But basically she’s good; it’ll work out. Poor thing. This has been a rough ride. She’s napping right now. And she’s been asleep now for at least ten minutes—which means it’s absolutely certain that within moments someone will burst in here to do anything from taking her blood to taking away the linens. I’m deeply awed by the number and range of miracles that I know are happening every moment throughout this hospital—not to mention the ones happening right now in this room—but dang, I wish they could let a girl sleep for more than five minutes straight. It’s weird: out in the real world, everyone knows that one of the best ways to heal is to sleep. But trying to sleep in a hospital is like trying to play badminton in a sandstorm. Oh, well. Once I get her home, I’ll let her sleep like the angel she is.

Hey, thank you all for the love, prayers, and wonderful thoughts you’ve been sending our way. I’ve read and re-read everything you’ve written us. Bless you guys for taking the time to send us your love. We sure do appreciate it.)

**********************************************************************************************************

Follow: http://twitter.com/johnshore
Befriend: http://www.facebook.com/john.shore1
Be Fan: http://www.facebook.com/pages/John-Shore/89494795412?ref=

Of all of the insanity that has come out of our current democrat/communist congress, this has to really take the cake. These dangerous loons have been spending us into oblivion for quite some time. The spending has been beyond irresponsible, it borders on treason.

This is a bi-partisan effort, by the way. Both parties are out of control, but the democrat/communist party is now out there where the busses don’t run.

We all know the far left loons that infect Congress, and the nation as a whole, hate our military, despise it, actually. The left’s contempt for our military is palpable, has been forever. Now they are really letting it all hang out, going for broke.

Congress is now saying they want to add a “war surtax” to everyone’s tax bill to pay for our national security. They are now whining that the cost of war is hurting their march toward turning America into a communist hell hole.

In a bit of political grandstanding Congressman David Obey (D/C-Wisc.), the chairman of the House Appropriations Committee, warned that if President Barack Obama decides to send additional troops to Afghanistan, it should be funded with the new tax.

Don’t you just love how democrat/communists want to tax EVERYTHING?

Obie went on to say this:

“If we don’t pay for it, then the cost of the Afghan war will wipe out every other initiative that we have to try to rebuild our own economy,” he said. “I’m going to be fighting to get whatever they do paid for.”

That’s pretty rich! Just what are they doing to rebuild our economy? I see nothing.

Sarah weighed in on this last night:

Congress Never Ceases to Amaze

Really? A tax on national defense? I hear liberal Congressional proposals and I, like most Americans, wonder if they’re serious. We’re going to put a price tag on security?

With Congress and President Obama spending money on everything at breakneck speed, it’s interesting that they are only now getting nervous about spending – but only when it comes to providing the necessary funds to complete our mission in Afghanistan. They don’t need a new “war tax” to fund a strategy for victory in the war zone. They simply need to prioritize our money appropriately.

I find it telling that the Pelosi-Reid Congress is only cost-conscious when it comes to our national defense. Scary. Nonsensical. Unacceptable.

- Sarah Palin

I know most in Congress these days have either never read the Constitution, or have chose to ignore it, but the American people haven’t. Having read our Constitution front to back, I can tell you that as far as spending, and responsibilities go, national defense and funding for it, is talked about frequently. In fact, it’s one of the few responsibilities of the federal government that is actually, and explicitly, spelled out!

In other words, constitutionally, Congress has no authority to do things like take over our health care, private businesses, or even schools, but they are directed to defend the nation and the Constitution.

So here is where we are at. We have a Congress that is trying to fundamentally change America, take her in a direction that an overwhelming number of Americans, a super majority, do not want to go.

Congress has spent more money since Barack Obama has been in office than was spent in the previous 233 years of our nation’s existence, combined. From George Washington, to George W Bush, Obama and his thug Congress has spent more than all of the other 43 Presidents, combined.

And yet, with all of the trillions of dollars spent on social engineering, and “change,” these evil little devils can’t seem to find the money to pay for the ONE THING they are actually REQUIRED to pay for constitutionally!

I think it’s well past the time we continue to give these people the benefit of the doubt. Congress is out of control, and their refusal to listen to the American people is bordering on treason. We must hold these thieves, these scoundrels, accountable.

We must stop Congress from throwing our money away on social engineering and programs like their so-called “heath care reform” that will collapse our economy and send America into bankruptcy. We must demand that Congress stop spending and start cutting the fat.

Sarah speaks more about these issues and other issues regarding Barack Obama’s inability to take care of our troops, and perform his duties as Commander-in-Chief to our armed forces in an interview with Greta. There is some serious red meat here, well worth watching every segment:

Roger Moore was the James Bond I grew up with. I didn’t like his character at the time because the grown-ups in my life told me that Sean Connery was much better. “Growing up” changed me, though. Roger Moore has gone from my least favorite Bond to being, well, my second favorite. (My favorite is the fifth Bond, Pierce Brosnan.)  I developed a new understanding and appreciation for Sir Roger’s tenure in the role of 007 after enjoying his memoir My Word is My Bond.

Sir Roger takes us through his days as a contract player in the mid-1950s during the dying days of the studio system, all the way to his current role as an ambassador for UNICEF. There are many stops along the way, including his role as Simon Templar in the television show The Saint during the 1960s and perhaps his best known work as James Bond in the 1970s and 1980s.

Sir Roger is too much of a gentleman to indulge in idle gossip, but the book does have some very funny stories about Sean Connery, Rex Harrison, Hal Roach and others.  It is witty and charming reading.

If you want to view Roger Moore in action as James Bond you may want to check out two of his better known films.

Live and Let Die is Roger Moore’s first performance as James Bond and features Jane Seymour in an early “Bond Girl” performance as Solitaire who is a psychic of many talents.

The Spy Who Loved Me is Roger Moore’s favorite Bond film and features the first of two appearances of the seven foot tall henchman, Jaws, with his trademark steel teeth played by actor Richard Kiel.

David

Natural and ripe.   Reminds me of Eddie Izzard’s routine about the fruit bowl.  Definitely on that cusp.

Glad somethings are jokes.

Going_Rogue_In_Rochester_NY_1(Nov_21_2009)1.avi http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=td7llYRW9So

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 22

Video: Supporters line up hours in advance to see Sarah Palin in Roanoke
http://www.roanoke.com/multimedia/video/wb/227300
Hundreds waiting for Palin’s book signing in Roanoke; video of overnight campers http://www.roanoke.com/news/breaking/wb/227301
Sarah Palin Book Signing Roanoke, VA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BgeomclZIg4

Gov. Palin arrives in Asheville NC (Buncombe County Republican Party Nov 22 2009)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31Inkk-nqr4
Sarah Palin comes to Asheville NC to have Dinner with Billy Graham & Family http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ADWQlRZlPag

Just when you think you’re prepared for life, it’s decreed you don’t need to be. Just when you think you’re ready to shoulder the world, you’re told you’re not Atlas.

Amongst all the permutations and combinations of situations, I was going through in my head this was something that I didn’t give a thought to. Easy to guess why it has slipped my mind. I’m not relieved, like I’m expected to be, but a kind of sadness is sweeping in. Did I find what I was looking for or did I lose what I found? Wonder if I failed or passed my test. I wonder what the test was, or if at all it was a test.

But the recent happenings did make me look at some things more intricately. Specially the importance of some people in my life, and the lack thereof of some others. Most people reacted the way I expected them to. I wonder if I acted the way I was expected to, in the first place!

I can’t thank everyone enough for being there even if one said she won’t be at my corner because I was making a mistake and another for actually questioning if I could discern the right from the wrong from where I stood, keeping in mind morals seemed to be getting the upper hand over pragmatic existence.

I’m thankful to the people who shed the tears. For they meant a lot to me. For once I knew I wouldn’t be doing it alone. For someone young enough to be my kid to say that she’d help whatever way she can, meant a lot. As did an ex-roomie saying that once his job gets confirmed he would help financially. Or a friend, I haven’t talked to for sometime, offering consultation on Facebook, easing away most of the fears. Also important were all the people who said that they were proud of me for I needed to know that I was doing the right thing. It’s hard to make choices. Specially if you’re not making them all for yourself. And the right is just the one after the wrong – most times.

It brought into perspective my own inscrutable, incorrigible immaturity and how I was in fault of passing it on. Almost.  Also, it opened up to me, how even after my tumultuous relationship with my parents, I vie for their approval. I’m glad I wrote that unsent letter to my parents for it showed me who I was, to me. Yeah, the eternal prodigal son coming back home. Everytime.

But of all everything that passed helped me discover the one person I don’t mind holding on to for the rest of my life. Maybe I’ll get a chance at redemption!
This time I’ll make sure the settings are right.

Today my facebook status said – Just when you thnk you’re prepared, its decreed you don’t need to be. Thanks to all my friends for being there. You can have other plans in December now – but it meant much more than that.

Sometimes things are more than a Facebook status message. They are real. And happening to you. They are life itself. But like all things past and all things future, they too will befriend you, albeit after scaring the living daylights out of you. But later you’ll be sitting together and patting each other’s back. And then someday look back in reminiscence. For in the end, you’ll walk away wiser, learning to see, that bit clearer. And that’s life for you, my child.

(Update: 3:30 p.m. PST, 11/25/09. Cat won’t be going home tonight; we’ll be staying another night here at Club Med. She’s fine; she’s just not where she’d need to be to leave. So tomorrow’s a Thanksgiving we won’t forget!)

(To catch up if you wanna, please see my last three posts, of which this is a continuation.)

Just created this iPod playlist, “Waitin on Cat.” Here are the songs I found myself needing to hear for the next ten hours I’ll be in this waiting room:

Martha 4:03 Pret-A-Porter Various Artists
Fast Car 4:57 Tracy Chapman Tracy Chapman
Free Fallin’ 4:16 Greatest Hits Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers
My Girl 2:58 Hitsville USA: The Motown Singles … The Temptations
Story of My Life 5:47 Greatest Hits Social Distortion
America 3:41 Collected Works [Disc 2] Simon & Garfunkel
Scarborough Fair/Canticle 3:11 Collected Works [Disc 2] Simon & Garfunkel
Whatta Man 5:08 Very Necessary Salt-N-Pepa
Nitty Gritty Mississippi 2:57 Crossroads Ry CooderCotton Needs Pickin‘ 2:58 Crossroads Ry Cooder
Down In Mississippi 4:26 Crossroads Ry Cooder
Gone At Last 3:41 Still Crazy After All These Years Paul Simon
Born At The Right Time 3:48 Rhythm Of The Saints Paul Simon
How Bizarre (Mix) 3:44 How Bizzare OMC
Ride Wit Me 4:52 Country Grammar Nelly featuring City Spud
Paper Planes 3:24 Kala (Bonus Track Version) M.I.A.
Ohio 3:05 So Far Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
Feelin’ Blue 5:17 Willy And The Poor Boys Creedence Clearwater Revival
Pretty 3:41 Pret-A-Porter The Cranberries
Shenandoah 4:53 We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Ses… Bruce Springsteen
Mrs. McGrath 4:20 We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Ses… Bruce Springsteen
Texan Love Song 3:33 Don’t Shoot Me I’m Only the Piano P… Elton John
Helpless 3:40 So Far Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
Iris 4:50 Dizzy Up the Girl The Goo Goo Dolls
A Mhaithrin, A’Leigfea ‘Un An Aonai… 2:57 The Music Of What Happens Cathie Ryan
Erie Canal 4:03 We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Ses… Bruce Springsteen

Cat’s insane about Christmas. And I’m talking … deeply disturbed. Starting about Dec. 26 of every year, she begins to ask me a minimum of three times a week, “Is it Christmas yet?” Her entire relationship to Christmas is just beyond telling. Anyway, we’re thinking this year’s should be one of our all-time greatest Christmases ever. Got a room at the Disneyland Grand Californian for the night of Dec. 23rd and everything.

It’s such a disorienting thing, to watch your wife’s energy seriously fade over the course of two or so years. This operation should finally whisk that evil specter away.

When I met Cat in the fall of 1978 she was 24 years old. And that’s exactly the age she remained until about two years ago.

And suddenly we were old.

And the poor girl was always so very, very tired, and sick with one thing or another. She stopped exercising. She stopped wanting to go out. Life became less something to enjoy than endure.

And now here we are, hoping the shower-capped gods of modern medicine will give us a do-over.

Thanksgiving.

No kidding.

**********************************************************************************************************

Follow: http://twitter.com/johnshore
Befriend: http://www.facebook.com/john.shore1
Be Fan: http://www.facebook.com/pages/John-Shore/89494795412?ref=

quantum?

There’s nothing unusual here. Except, perhaps, and only perhaps, my perception.

 

epistemology:
ἐπιστήμη – episteme-, “knowledge, science” + λόγος “logos” – “theory of knowledge,” 1856; branch of philosophy that investigates the limits of human knowledge

ontology:
ὄν, genitive ὄντος: of being (neuter participle of εἶναι: to be) and -λογία, “metaphysical science or study of being,” 692; branch of metaphysics that studies the nature of existence.

If you want to think about the origins of the universe you can find enough resources to keep busy for the rest of a natural lifetime. Stephen Hawkings (Brief History of Time); Richard Dawkins (The Greatest Show on Earth: The Evidence for Evolution and [absurdly] Everything You Know About God Is Wrong: The Disinformation Guide to Religion);  “The Universe,” and “How the Earth Was Made” on the Discovery Channel; the journal Astrobiology (“Why is the definition of life so elusive? epistemological considerations,” by Serhiy A. Tsokolov; “Signatures of a shadow biosphere,” by Paul C. W. Davies et al; and hundreds more); the evangelical Christian geneticist Francis Collins (The Language of God: A Scientist Presents Evidence for Belief).

I read stuff—too much—what I  comprehend I can’t assimilate with what I “know.”

One can learn some sort of cosmic plan is behind the universe and the development of “life.” Or one can learn the universe—including homo sapiens—is a cosmic accident. One can discover the theory of evolution is incontrovertible. Or one can read Texas newspapers and find out why it’s not so. 

I’ve already written about all of this stuff here, and about my life-long, somewhat erratic and contradictory thinking about epistemology, ontology, evolution, and why I could never in a thousand years get the hang of using an I-Phone. But this stuff has been on my mind again in the past few days. 

This morning  I realized I didn’t have studs my ear, unusual because I’ve had two in that ear virtually constantly since 1980 when I entered a relationship in which a public sign was required for people to understand its dynamics. I took them out last Friday to have an MRI on my poor brain. My neurologist wants to see it for himself rather than relying on 15-year-old scans He keeps mentioning surgery on the TLE spots. I tell him he can have the whole brain to play with when I die. That doesn’t end the discussion. I took the diamond and the sapphire out of my earlobe four days ago and forgot to put them back. I decided to find different sparkles to wear. Yes, I am too old for such nonsense. It’s probably “arrested development” from being in love with Yul Brynner in The King and I when I was eleven.

I went looking for other ear studs. I live 24/7 in what most people would consider an intolerable mess. Stuff is here, there, and everywhere. I knew the box of sparkles (all genuine, some ridiculously expensive) was in the top drawer of my antique high-boy (burled walnut inlays on light wood, original brass pulls circa 1879). In the drawer were three socks I can’t find mates for, two empty underwear boxes, two hand towels, the plastic bag my C-Pap mask came in, other pieces of clothing, family pictures in frames, Mom’s old red-leather New Testament, two lacquered boxes with lots of interesting stuff in them, a box with a dozen or so rings I’d wear if I could stand to have anything on my hands, two original Colt Studios photographs given to me by a friend twenty years ago (worth something in some gay second-hand store), and two watches and a cameo pendant that belonged to my late ex-wife’s grandmother. The box with the diamonds, garnet, and the other sapphire was not in the drawer.

The stuff of my life.

My life? Exactly what is my life? That is not an idle question or an epistemological dilemma. Friends tell me to stop fretting: it is not a matter of angst that we may be living in parallel universes or that quantum mechanics has opened the possibility that we are flying off in all directions at all times and the fact is that nothing is real or solid, and we just think it is. The epistemology of ontology. The knowledge of being. I have no (certain) knowledge of my being.

When I was a kid having daily seizures (I wish TLE seizures were visible—I might have had care before I was 38 years old), I began to assume, since nothing “felt” real much of the time, that nothing IS real. Heisenberg’s principle in my brain? I knew the more I thought about what was whirling in my mind, the less certain I could be of my position in time and space. I knew the less I thought about the dissociation in my brain, the more certain I was of my place in time and space.

An then one day I discovered that I will die. That set off a chain reaction of trying to figure out whether or not I was really alive or ever had been, and if I were alive or ever had been, what that meant for the rest of my existence and why it had to end, but at the same time how bizarre were all of those theories and beliefs about eternal life that filled the hymns I played (and loved) as a child.

There’s a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar;
For the Father waits over the way,
To prepare us a dwelling place there.
In the sweet by and by, We shall meet on that beautiful shore:
In the sweet by and by, We shall meet on that beautiful shore.

The beautiful shore?

So now I am old; I must, by law, sign up for Medicare within six weeks. Got it? 65 approaches. My recurrent theme, the dreadful awareness that it’s all going to be over almost immediately for me. It could happen today.

And then what. Whom will I meet on the beautiful shore? No one. Because the beautiful shore isn’t. Or is it? And if the electrons whirling around at a speed that only a quantum physicist can think about that make up what is commonly held by other human beings to be my body suddenly stop whirling in exactly the same way they are right now, and the electrons that make up my breath stop moving in and out, and that causes the sub-atomic particles of the electrical synapses that make up my awareness to stop doing whatever it is they are doing right now (or do I—or some creature I can’t even comprehend—imagine they are doing what they are doing), and my “awareness” of myself ceases, then what happens to all of these sub-atomic particles whirling dizzyingly around the matrix that I experience as ME? Don’t they keep whirling dizzily around without me? And do I go on to the beautiful shore, or does the illusion that is “me” simply cease to exist and no one and no thing and no subatomic particle is any the wiser. Except I am not even aware that I am not aware any more.

And my brother and sister are left to sort out all that stuff in my high boy bureau and get rid of all this stuff floating around in my apartment and my nieces get my diamonds and then the universe (if there is a universe) waits for their subatomic particles to stop whirling so it can have back all of its stuff. People and diamonds.

1. First, happy birthday to my brother! Hope the day is a good one.

2. Tomorrow, after Cavorter gets out of work, we’re driving to Chicago for a familial visit. We will bring birthday and Christmas presents for my various nieces. Buying adorable presents for infants reminds me of the more pleasant moments of my kids’ own infancy. But not quite enough to mask the memories of sleeplessness, poop, and spit-up.

3. Tern is giving the weekly music lesson to the kids as I type this. M is faintly adorable as he sings, and K’s piano playing is progressing nicely.

4. Last night Cavorter and I watched Jackie Chan’s Operation Condor. I could not, at this moment, tell you the plot. In fact, I’m not sure I could tell you the plot of any Jackie Chan movies. I sort of zone out and think about writing projects or look around the house, wondering what needs cleaning, when the plot are happening. But I love the martial arts set pieces. I would buy and love a dvd that was nothing but excerpted Jackie Chan fight scenes.

5. We still have not eliminated the mice. A friend of ours mentioned that she had to dig three feet down all the way around the outside of her foundation to find and plug the mice entrances. This thought fills me with despair.

(Update: 3:30 p.m. PST, 11/25/09. Cat won’t be going home tonight; we’ll be staying another night here at Club Med. She’s fine; she’s just not where she’d need to be to leave. So tomorrow’s a Thanksgiving we won’t forget!)

Wife Cat due at hospital this morning for operation at 7 o’clock. (Thanks for loving notes yesterday!!) Me, up. Check. Dressed. Check. Wearing lucky shoes. Check. Not feeling sacrilegious due to declaring the possession of lucky shoes. Check. Lined up and ready to go: laptop, Sedaris book, wallet, watch, glasses, camera, phone, DVD’s, headphones: check, check, check, allrightallready.

Breakfast of scrambled eggs with bell peppers and onions in stomach: check, even though bizarre cuz Cat can’t eat. (She’s upstairs showering with some weird Sani-Soap she had to lather up with and then stand there for five minutes before she can rinse off, a process for which she’s turned on the heat in our place, temporarily turning me here in the kitchen into Lawrence of Lelabia, though I’m not sure that’s spelled right.)

Peppercorns sprayed all over kitchen and dining room because I brought this pepper-grinder combo thing at Trader Joe’s and then tore it open like a maniac about two minutes ago because I wanted pepper on my eggs  and now I’m sitting in the middle of all these pepper balls feeling like a cobb salad gone berserk.

Identification with lettuce-based entrée. Check.

Okay, don’t panic! We’re leaving in a half hour! I have to go! I don’t know if I’ll be able to connect with the outside world once we’re there! If I can, I will! If not I won’t! Life’s like that! Whaddaya gonna do! We’re out of control! Everything’s up to God! We all die anyway! But let’s not think about that right now! LOVE TO YOU ALL!

Insanely yours,

John

From yesterday: Top 10 Things I’ll Worry About While My Wife is In Surgery Tomorrow.

**********************************************************************************************************

Follow: http://twitter.com/johnshore
Befriend: http://www.facebook.com/john.shore1
Be Fan: http://www.facebook.com/pages/John-Shore/89494795412?ref=