I often wonder what it takes to really succeed as a writer. How do you ingratiate yourself with readers and fellow authors? How do you even alert readers and fellow authors to your existence? What’s more, how do you do it without being an annoying dick? These are all questions that I’m a million miles away from answering in any meaningful way. Sure, writing a great book helps but does a book really exist if nobody reads it? What if a few wonderful people read it? It’s a nice little ego boost but where does it really get you? You turn from an author who fits in writing around his day job to an author with a few fans who fits in writing around his day job.

When you consider the many, many thousands of books that are published each year, it’s really amazing that anything manages to penetrate the white noise. There’s so much vying for our attention that it’s much easier to tune out and focus on what you already know. This is perfectly understandable. Let’s face it – the influx of new books isn’t going to stop, it will only increase. What you’re left with is a million authors holding their books high above their heads, yelling “pick me!” into a black void. At the end of the day, authors are just spam with a potentially good product.

So through it all, it’s important to understand that as an author you’ll probably never be noticed in any meaningful way. It’s probably best to go into it with that mindset. If you expect to become an acknowledged author overnight, you’ll be in for plenty of disappointment. So just write something that you care about and stick to your path. Maybe one day, others will care about it too.

M

Imagine looking at life from the other side, that is the side of evil. What would be the strongest attractions evil has and what would be its greatest weaknesses? Obviously if you were going to persuade people that evil was “better” [of course how could evil suggest that it was better than anything, doesn't that imply an impartial standard and then the whole of evil unravels] than the pursuit of the good?

Evil clearly must be doing some good for Christians are dropping like flies in the United States and indifferent spirituality is taking its place. Evil has either succeeded in making its case, whatever that may be, or it has succeeding make millions believe that to do nothing is just as good. The only think evil need to do to succeed is for good people to do nothing.

CS Lewis takes on the challenge of evil in the Screwtape Letters. It is a wonderful read not only of how evil effects people in negative ways, which is often obvious, but in very subtle ways by making Christians proud of their Christianity to the point of snubbing their noses at those less “spiritual” then themselves. There is not greater evil in the world than that done with the enthusiasm of religious fervor.

I’m hope our Sunday School Class will take on the Screwtape letter this spring. If you’re interested in joining us I’ll be sending out weekly notes and highlights from the group. Feel free to join and know that Christians can, and do, unite in honest fellowship and faithful community.

Blessings,

Steve

Here are some other links you may find helpful in your study of this masterpiece:

* The reading guide from the Harper Collins website

* An expansive study guide in PDF format from Gethsemane Lutheran Church’s Bible Resources page

* Christian e-Course Screwtape Letters website that includes synopsis, analysis, Lewis bio, an in-depth study guide, forum and links to other C.S. Lewis sites

* Apparently there’s even a stage version of this — coming to Washington DC. Visit the site and check out the video. Looks incredible — I’d love to see it!

I know, I know, 2nd blog of the day in less than 5 minutes of the first blog, but I can’t help feeling inspirational because my sister is playing “with or without you” on the piano, and although it’s not necessarily pitch-perfect, it sounds good. So heres some random notes/writing/drafts/whatever:

IT IS IMPORTANT THAT YOU LISTEN TO WITH OR WITHOUT YOU- U2 WHEN READING THIS ENTRY

I don’t want to waste a minute without you, I want to move slowly through the ages, stay here, I don’t want time to pass, I don’t want you to grow old, I don’t want to see you age, I don’t want you to see me age, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to see you die, I don’t want us to die. I can’t see you forget me, I don’t want to ever forget you. I don’t want us to be forgotten. I don’t want the world to keep spinning when you’re gone, I don’t want to see the world keep spinning when I’m gone, I don’t want it to ever keep spinning when we’re gone. I don’t want anyone else but you, I don’t want anything else but what you have to offer, but  I don’t ever want to live without or without you.

inspirational moods,

elaine

I don’t get men.

It’s as simple as that. I don’t get men. I don’t get their moods, their texts, their thoughts. I don’t know what else to say. I just completely, and utterly, don’t understand their functions. They’re so complicatedly simple. I’m so simply complicated. Opposites attract, you have to have things in common. Everything seems like a riddle.  I can see why so many women in their 30s are single. It’s simple- the dating scene is pro-quo. It’s give or take. It’s fuck or not to fuck. Mind my crudeness, the weather seems to affect my mood. But i really don’t know how to express myself other than that. We spend half our lives educating ourselves, becoming culturally-aware, changing our features, running around in circles, and it’s all for a species we don’t understand.

Don’t mistake me, no, no no, I’m no avid feminist, I’d like to be, but I’m not. I can’t be.  So anyway, I hope I’ve left some of my non-existent readers with something to contemplate other than the weather.

that’s all,

elaine

I crossed the street today,

I saw you come my way,

I had nothing to say,

Not today.

You saw me standing there,

Holding her hand,

She had no idea,

Of the games you played,

That you play.

Why do you haunt me when I

Let you go, such a long, long time ago,

Why do you taunt me with the

Memories of a love I’ll never know.

Time is not on your side,

Why do you try to hide ,

From the hurt inside.

Your foolish pride.

How does it feel to know, that

 You let me go such a long, long, time ago,

How does it feel to see the change in her,

The way things could have been.

But you don’t see..

You never see…

I crossed the street today,

I saw you come my way,

I had nothing to say..

No not today….

R.M Roberts ©2009

Debating whether I should purchase Norah Jones’ new cd. Thinking about it.

One of those nights. Had a “date” tonight. Two nights in a row with dates. Different women – same result. Indifference. Neither really felt like “dates” per se rather, two people sitting together drinking alcohol with the same conclusion: my paying for aforementioned drinks. For some reason I always feel obligated to pay. Not sure why. I’m not going to see them again. Waste of money. Need to be open to dutch when they extend the offer. Indeed these are tough times we find ourselves in.

Back to my reference of “indifference” earlier. One thing I’ve never felt with women is indifferent. I was a killer when it came to the ladies. I knew the game and played it well. Knew just how to get your attention and your thong off with the quickness. I remember getting drinks and it was as if foreplay had already commenced. Now – it’s just drinks and jilted talk on both fronts. Even if she’s a crazy attractive woman with an amazing body, it takes effort these days I’m  typically not game to expend. Does something happen post 32 years of existence that creates this no so awkward but authentic reality? I really wish I was sitting across the table from these dames thinking, “I’m so gonna bang her.” Now, it’s more, “I hope I get home in time to watch Charlie Rose.”

Bjork’s ‘Violently Happy’ just came on via iPod shuffle. It feels very cold. Icelandic.

A few new developments on this front. When it comes to chicks, this Richly Layered & Sensitive dude has made some decisions. These are 4 Dealbreakers.

1. The woman is  unavailable in some shape or form

2. The woman has drama going on in her life or is in a “transition period”

3. I feel obligated to tell her, “I really like you”. Insecurity…on my end, I know.

4. If I have to do all the “work”. I hate when I’m out with a woman and her communication skills mimic a rotting tree. I can’t do all the work. Exhausting

Those 4 things above are huge. I’ve known about them for a really long time but I really like telling women that I really like them. And then treating them really good and stuff. And then being an awesome guy. And then seeing them get disinterested. Somewhere I become a bitch and lose my mojo. That’s my next mission: To find my mojo and ejaculate it’s swagger on great women. Metaphor.

In the mood for the Indigo Girls. Enjoy

The young boy walked across the church parking lot, tossing a ball in the air and catching it as it fell, casually wandering toward a busy highway. One man noticed this, and, being a religious man, he began to wring his hands, pray, and ask the boy politely to stop, to change directions, or at least to pay attention to where he was going. The boy remained oblivious and kept moving toward the highway. Another man observed the boy, and, being a caring man, he ran in a flat-out sprint toward the boy, dove through the air, and crashed into the boy with a flying shoulder tackle. Both he and the boy landed, just short of the path of a speeding truck, in a ditch filled with mud, weeds, and broken glass. The boy was shaken up, crying, cut, and bruised, but still alive.

The two men had taken drastically different approaches. One man appeared loving and polite, but his passivity was evidence of a callow cruelty toward the boy. One man appeared hateful and rash, but his willingness to act was evidence of a true love for the boy.

Open rebuke is better than secret love. Faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.

Proverbs 27:5-6

Christians are not supposed to just “have” friends. They are supposed to love their friends. Christian love is more than just a “feeling.” It always involves action. If I have a friend who is walking toward destruction, my “secret love” for this friend will be of little help. However, a loud verbal warning during a face-to-face confrontation, even though it may cause hard feelings, could do a world of good. I need to have a loving willingness to batter and bruise (and then bandage) my friends, instead of a weak-willed sentimental desire to give them little kisses good-bye as they head for damnation.

With the idea of men. They honestly believe they are special … different somehow than the rest. And I test them on it. And they fail … miserably. My friend said, “sexcapades.” And I laughed. Because when it comes down to it, I’m not having sex … at all. With anyone. But men don’t believe that.

I’ve perhaps become too jaded. Or hopefully it’s just more discerning. I go out. And I drink. And so one would assume … but be careful about those assumptions.

And don’t underestimate me.

I’m always paying attention … even when you believe I’m not. And at the end of the night, I still operate under my own terms. My own bizarre sense of logic.

And I wake up in the morning … alone. And I am soooo perfectly OK with that.

Were I not, hell, I could change it. But not today … not today.

As visitors to ‘At the BookShelf’ would know, I have been reading ‘Reformers and Their Stepchildren,’ by Leonard Verduin. I have now started chapter four and progress through the book may appear slow and you may think this is a reflection on the quality of the book. That would be a mistaken assumption however.

In reality I am finding the book a brilliant treatment of the differences between the ‘partial reformers’ (such as Luther, Calvin, Zwingli, etc) and the more ‘radical reformer’ who sought a complete transformation of the church to that which more accurately reflected the New Testament model.

The ‘slowness’ of my reading is more a reflection of my reading half a dozen or so books at the same time. Reading so many books at any given time is fairly normal for me – in fact, I would call normal (for me) reading far more books at any given time, but I am trying to reign myself in a little here. I just love reading – I am a bibliophile and bookworm remember

The third chapter of Verduin’s work has to do with the lack of true church discipline in the churches of the Reformers and their indifference (generally speaking) to ungodliness in the church (remembering that their churches basically included all in a given location or region).

The third chapter presents a very clear case of the real time contradiction of the Reformers and the reform they were bringing to bear on such places as Geneva, Zurich, etc. To a large extent their work of reform didn’t go anywhere near far enough to satisfy their ‘stepchildren,’ who when they tried to go further were branded as heretics, with their efforts at a more thorough reform being identified by the reformers as evidence of their heresy.

It is a very engaging chapter I believe and one that is helpful for shedding light on Christianity even to this day.

She looks at him with distaste, as though he has just shat upon her desk and asked her to take a deep whiff. “I just want to check in and make sure we are okay,” he says, “because, you know, we have two classes together and…” She stops him abruptly. “I know, I know,” she says, “but I do not hold hands. It’s graduate school and it’s not your first semester.” Her sentences turn upwards into menacing smirks, her green, algae-covered teeth scream bloody murder and she stares at him with an indifferent anger unknown to him. A deep breath and he looks away at a poster on the wall, breaks eye contact, slowly turns back and begins to study the  beast.

Cropped dyed-red hair, little to no makeup save a light blue eyeshadow and flesh-colored lipstick. Hazel eyes, pursed, full lips, white satin skin marked with dark chocolate moles. She keeps her neck careened upwards facing her computer, meanders aimlessly with the mouse, fumbling through applications and websites. He speaks but she clearly does not care so he stops. Long enough for her to turn around and look at him again and continues. Her eyes roll upwards, he is steadily losing ground while she loses patience.”So we are okay,” he says. “We’re fine,” she responds and turns back to her computer.

Dissonance erupts between the words she utters and the actions she portrays. Her body deceives her darkened intentions and she remains shrouded in steady indifference.

The conversation has ended.

I’ve not showered today. I’ve not eaten today. All I’ve really done is written, read, re-written and read more … just to put off the inevitability of writing about the one thing I don’t think I’m ready to write about yet.

But I write what I know. And even though I still don’t know all, I know my parts.

My next ex and I met the old fashioned way, over the internet .  I was full-fledged into the behavior I know now as, “I’m getting a divorce.” It consists mainly of 2 parts alcohol, 1 part denial, 1 part dating to forget the motherfucker.

And I was in full swing. My first ex and I were getting nasty – like him stealing the child nasty – and I wasn’t coping, at all.

I imagine most believe R was my rebound, but that’s not true either. I had my rebound during the end of the marriage and the beginning of the cycle.

R. We met. I used my meager “allowance” to sign up for a month on the service, so he and I could communicate.

And we communicated well. So well, in fact, that we had our first and last date a few weeks later.

To say I never went home isn’t completely true, but it’s close. He took me to a nice place for dinner. We drank. A lot.

We went to his house afterward. His nephew was there, awake, waiting. And holy hell. He went to school with my daughter.

Smart, funny, acerbic, anti-establishment – those are the traits he put off. Those are the ones he cultivates.

We had sex, of course. And he insisted I stay. I had no car, so it wasn’t really a choice.

The next day he had a toothbrush (new) for me. He took his time. He didn’t want to take me to my car, but I insisted. I mean, I’m a girl. It’s bad enough to do the walk of shame, but to do it in his little gated, golf community … well … yeah.

But he made me promise to return that day. And I did. And I went home every other day after that to clean up, take care of the mail and the cats. And go back to his house.

It was refreshing. He was charming. And good looking. And he’d … yeah … never been married. So?

So, then he told me, when it was just the two of us …

“I’m into S&M and you need to know that,” he told me. Well, ok. I mean I had an understanding of it. At least I thought I did. Whips, chains, handcuffs, blindfolds, easy enough, right?

Yeah no.

I want to grab you by the shoulders
and convert you to the church of
garment removal, which is not a church
but a method by which I might convince you
to willfully remove your garments.

Clearly, nobody was made for anybody
but the fateless geometry of your face
is reminding me that we only have so much time
to waste, and I waste so much goddamn time
when your torso comes to life, fluently.

A world occupied by indifferent objects
should not be forced to share our horrible
emotions, and oh my god you are infinitely better
in real life than in pictures, so stop doing anything
but folding your hands into my church.

How do you write about a childhood you don’t remember? My best friend, S, has memories dating back to four. I don’t.

I have stories – the ones told to me by my mother or my siblings – but they aren’t my memories.

I do remember a few things: riding my bike without training wheels, the neighbors in Houston who had the kitchen I always wanted, visiting my Dad at Johnson Space Center once when he worked there … bits and pieces, no rhyme or reason.

Then we moved. And I don’t remember much about that either. I was in first grade. We were reading Pug when I moved. They hadn’t caught up yet.

The shame I felt when my dad picked me up in his cab – he’d been laid off and we relocated to a town my mom used to live and they bought the cab company.

Standing at school one day, waiting for my sister to pick me up. She never showed.

How much I loved my dad. And how he used to love me, too. I think.

How he slapped me when I was six and back talked him. How he slapped me when I was 17 because I was outside talking to a guy.

And how I never realized until later on, our home was a facade. I realize everyone’s is … to an extent … but we perfected it to an art form.

No one talks about what goes on inside the family – even to one another. It’s just the rule.

And each of us, typically, has different memories – even of the others’ upbringing.

My brother – he’s unscathed – at least from all appearances. I wonder sometimes if he’s operating under the ignorance is bliss model.

My second eldest, my lesbian sister, who used to have “friends” spend holidays with us. Even at 10, I knew this was ludicrous. She was a lesbian. But not in our family. No way.

She was a gifted violist. I found this out later … when I grew up. Julliard was looking at her.

They told her they’d be back to see her the next year – in Houston. And we were gone. And she was angry. I think she still is, and I suppose I don’t blame her.

But my dad. My first love. He somehow, somewhere, one day just stopped liking me. And I never got it.

My friend and I were talking about this the other day. His dad is equally distant. Re-married to a controlling woman, he sits back and takes orders.

My dad, while not seemingly so, does to a degree. Mom hates – dad complies.

And, S said it … the same thing we’d talked about all week. Men are very simple. Fathers are men ergo; fathers must be simple, too.

So carrying it over psychologically, I know why I love the unavailable man. I’m not an idiot. I’ve just not done anything to change it.

But I thought my dad was superhuman.

He’s not.

But I know who is in our family – my eldest. My big sister. My idol turned nemesis. And the CEO of our little corporate family.

And she, by God, deserves a lot of space. And I’ll give it to her willingly. No strings, sis. Not like the ones you put on me. And my mother, her puppet. What a combination they make.

And if there were a hell, I would gladly see them burn. Gladly.

Fog rises from the subway grill, rolls across the face of the icebound midnight moon. Smells of old socks, mildew and burnt chestnuts from the lone vendor a few blocks away on the corner singe his nose hairs as he traverses the lonely streets of the old financial district near Gold and Liberty streets. Spotty lights shoot forth from the silhouettes of the sordid emblems of capitalistic endeavor where the legal crimes take place: the Nordic pillaging of villages unseen, the trades of people’s livelihoods, the desire for more continually unsated. He tips his fedora back, lifts his head upwards towards that chilled night sky and watches through the windows of the first few floors as the immigrant workers clean the cubicles and conference rooms, hallways and offices of those that have much. He shakes his head, looks down at the soiled concrete sidewalks below, the gum and trash, the homeless people bundled up and sleeping in the recesses of the wealthy’s playground, the layer after layer of dirt and grime in the shadows of the pristine corporate headquarters, lifts his head back up to see the workers still toiling away and walks away slowly, subdued by the numbing indifference of it all.

A dusty yellow cab pulls up, “On Duty” shines golden through the mossy air. “You need a lift, mister?” The cabbie looks at him with a sideways grin, pulls his hat back towards his neck to open us his face. He shakes his head, tells the cabbie there’s no time for joy rides. “There’s too much work to be done,” he adds and continues traversing the bowels of New York City.

Right on Liberty and up to William street, he turns left, heads towards Pine and Wall Street, Exchange Place, the belly of the beast. All is quiet. He can hear the scuffle of rats in the black bags of garbage left out for collection in the morning, smells the always-pervasive smell of shit that seeps through the darkened cracks of the city and settles down for a good, long stay. Sees the security guards sleeping at the New York Stock Exchange, the ghostly figure of Washington lit up like a Christmas tree watching over the center of capital trading. The wind rips through the cobblestone streets, lifts the giant American flag on the face of the Exchange and yanks at its ropes, bends it to its will, threatens to snap it off and send it flying into the dirtied Hudson. He pauses for a second, takes in the filtered light of the lampposts, the recognizable hums of vacuum cleaners, the violent whispers of the icy wind. Looks down and sees that here at the junction of Wall street and William street that the sidewalks are spotless, knows that the filth here has moved fully inwards to the weaknesses of man encased in stony structures. A couple approaches, the man in a navy blue suit, slicked back hair, a silk pink tie and a clean, pressed white shirt. His loafers click in step with his companion’s six-inch stilettos, shiny ebony lost in the shadows of the capital-rich calluses. Her flowing watermelon dress, her white sash, her soft blond hair and thick, catty carvings of makeup on her baby blue eyes. They move in sync, robotic marching at a midnight hour, pay no attention to him and walks right past, pauses at the door of the latest luxury apartments around the corner. With a twist of the key, the woman enters. The man pauses, looks back at him and scowls. “You are trash,” he transmits and enters. And they are gone.

The light from the nearest lamppost begins to flicker. He turns to face it, looks upwards. Smoke curls upwards from the subways in droves. The light expands, blinding rays shoot outwards to the murky intricacies of that baleful junction. A high-pitched emission and the light explodes. Shadowed curtains fall, he hears the menacing whispers of those all around him, sits on the soiled corner and pulls his coat in tight around his shoulders, flips up the collar to protect his neck from the increasing winds.

The dimly-lit carcass of the American flag on the Exchange looks on, bemused.

En terminant le précédent article (« découragement »), je vous disais mon bonheur d’avoir redécouvert (en brocante !) Bernard Martino, à travers un livre d’abord (« Le bébé est un combat ») et aussi la vidéo VHS de « TF1 vidéo » : Le bébé est une personne.

 

Bernard Martino et son formidable « Le bébé est une personne » que nous avions tous plus ou moins intégré, au point que l’expression nous semblait être une évidence, comme un des éléments essentiels de notre culture. Il est vrai que Dolto, Brazelton, Spitz… nous avaient déjà plus que convertis au respect des tout petits.

Mais le film de Bernard Martino – ces Bébés si vivants, si humains, si proches de nous adultes – venait comme une démonstration désormais irréfutable, au point que ceux qui persisteraient à ne plus en être persuadés feraient figure de tristes négationnistes.

Du mur de Berlin au « mur de Bébé ».

Hier soir, je suivais, comme beaucoup, les cérémonies de commémoration de la chute du mur de Berlin. Et à la vue de ce mur de dominos géants qui tombaient peu à peu, comme autant de freins à la liberté – enfin levés, comme autant d’obstacles – enfin abattus, au respect de la personne de chaque Berlinois, j’ai soudain fait le rapprochement avec tous les freins, tous les obstacles qui longtemps, bien trop longtemps se sont opposés au respect des tout petits, à leur reconnaissance en tant que personnes.

C’est que je venais de lire le remarquable ouvrage de Bernard Martino « Le bébé est un combat ».

Ainsi donc, la reconnaissance en tant que personne du bébé ne suffisait pas.
Il restait encore des combats à mener, des conquêtes à confirmer, un mur à abattre, un mur d’indifférence, d’insensibilité, de silence.

Deux évènements médiatiques, humains, exceptionnels, à  quelque 10 ans d’intervalle, 2 livres, 2 séries de  3 émissions d’1 heure sur Tf1 :

-          Le bébé est une personne (1984)

-          Le bébé est un combat (1995)

Et chaque fois un immense succès d’audience.
Les ouvrages écrits correspondants, précieux compléments très fidèles aux documentaires, le premier (« le bébé est une personne ») a été un très grand succès de librairie, mais le second (Le bébé est un combat) n’a pas connu, me semble-t-il, le même succès, et la vidéo du film des trois émissions de 1995 est introuvable.

« Le bébé est un combat » : quelques citations de l’introduction de Bernard Martino.

-          « [ Je me désolais de voir que] ce titre … qui exprimait si parfaitement ce qu’il me semblait essentiel de dire au sujet du bébé en 1995, suscitait de si fortes résistances. »

-          « L’idée que le bébé est un combat ne peut se comprendre sans faire référence au Bébé est une personne. »

-          « Le bébé est une personne » est pour ainsi dire tombé dans le domaine public et ce qui n’était au départ que le titre d’une émission de télévision est devenu un mot d’ordre, un signe de ralliement, presque un slogan. Un peu l’équivalent, dans le champ de la petite enfance, du « touche pas à mon pote » de S.O.S.-Racisme dans le domaine sociopolitique. »

-          « Le bébé est une personne, ce n’était pas non plus une émission « médicale ». C’est-à-dire ce type d’émissions animées par des gens que l’on sent plus proches des médecins qu’ils interviewent que des usagers de la Santé que nous sommes. Des émissions dont la malade est plus l’objet que le sujet. Des émissions toujours respectueuses, jamais critiques vis-à-vis du discours médical. »

-          « On l’aura compris, la notion d’un combat à entreprendre ou à poursuivre, autour du bébé ou à partir du bébé, était déjà présente en filigrane dans Le bébé est une personne. Force est de reconnaître qu’il ne s’agissait nullement d’une émission pacifique et consensuelle. »

« [Ce qu’]il était tentant d’ignorer, c’était la découverte, vis-à-vis de ce petit être, de responsabilité nouvelles qui s’imposaient à nous, qui nous engageaient tout entiers ; qui impliquaient […] un minimum de remises en question. »

-          « Faire que le bébé soit reconnu comme une personne fut en soi un rude combat.

-          « Mais il est un autre combat, très actuel celui-là, beaucoup plus difficile à mener parce que moins évident, plus subtil : le combat pour que chacun d’entre nous, et cela suppose une vigilance de tous les instants, traite effectivement le bébé comme une personne. Ce qui signifie s’évertue à lui épargner toutes sortes de souffrances jadis ignorées ou niées dans la diversité des situations qu’il vit.

Comme un mur de silence, une mise à l’index, comme une censure discrète ?

Ces évènement médiatiques qui datent de 25 et 14 ans, mais qui sont inscrits dans les mémoires de celles et ceux qui les ont vécus ou qui ont pu les revoir, n’ont semble-t-il pas été du goût de tout le monde.
Nous verrons bientôt – (prochain (s ?) article (s) )- à quel point ils furent subversifs et donc vécus comme dangereux, par des professionnels de la Santé, pour le train-train routinier, le confort adulte de certaines pratiques médicales dans les soins apportés aux tout petits souffrants.

Ces émissions et leurs supports médiatiques (livres, VHS, DVD…), je les situe très exactement sur le même plan que les émissions de Françoise Dolto de 1976-1977, immense succès d’audience et de librairie, reprises récemment en une édition du centenaire, l’anthologie radiophonique en 6 CD « Lorsque l’enfant paraît ».

À Dolto comme à Martino, les critiques n’ont pas été épargnées. En particulier d’une certaine incompétence, elle par trop de psycho pédagogie, lui par manque de formation médicale.

À Françoise Dolto :

-          Pour avoir en quelque sorte démocratisé, partagé, mis généreusement à la porté du plus grand nombre son immense savoir, son immense expérience relationnelle avec les tout petits en souffrance et leurs parents.

-          Pour avoir ainsi révélé bien des « secrets » des pratiques psychanalytiques, pour avoir voulu faire œuvre pédagogique, pour avoir enfreint la sacrosainte réserve psychanalytique, le long silence des séances de cure censé laisser s’accomplir le travail d’émergence dans le champ de la conscience des anciens conflits refoulés.

À Bernard Martino :

-          pour être allé encore plus ouvertement plus loin sur les chemins de la pédagogie généreuse, de la démocratie vraie, de la critique délibérée et irréfutable de pratiques pour lui révoltantes – et pour beaucoup de nous désormais – de non respect des tout petits.
Ainsi, on peut dire que Bernard Martino a contribué (avec d’autres), à fissurer, à abattre par places, ce « mur de Bébé », un mur fait d’enceintes multiples  dont les matériaux étaient – et sont peut-être encore – le mépris, l’irrespect, la négation, le ravalement au rang d’objet.

L’œuvre multimédia de Bernard Martino, il est difficile de se la procurer.
Rien, inconnu au CDDP de mon département (16), et même au CRDP !
Pas un article sur Wikipedia qui lui soit directement consacré, bien qu’on puisse l’entrevoir par le biais d’autres articles (Dolto, Loczy…).

TF1 vidéo ne le connaît plus.

Restent les brocantes et sans doute quelques bibliothèques de maternelles, de crèches.

Croyez-moi, cette raréfaction est preuve de qualité, et procurez-vous, si vous ne les avez déjà, un maximum des œuvres de Bernard Martino. Elles vous transformeront en changeant définitivement votre regard sur la petite enfance.

(À suivre)

Standing on a pavement grey,

Dark damp Thursday afternoon

Cigarette in trembling hands,

Walking through these shadowed lands.

Neon lights are fading fast,

As echoes haunt the maddening mind.

They think they see, they don’t see at all,

The man that was, that man no more.

Control is gone, the twisted heart,

Unleashed on all who share his pain.

Silence speaks, the truth decays,

No one left to take the blame.

Not knowing….where you’re going…

Why the feelings of before have left you chained.

Suffocation….Isolation…

No future left, as life begins to wane…

Nowhere to run, you can’t escape the pain…

It’s closing in…

The light grows dim…

The end…of….him…

R.M Roberts ©2009

When I am done with the flu kicking my ass.

Tragically, most are the same … at least the ones I’ve spoken to. And still, with the exception of two I’ve had relationships with.

“Don’t you want to suck my cock?” Seriously? If that’s the best opener you have … move the fuck on.

I’ve seen too many things at this stage in my life. Perhaps, when I was 20, I would be flattered or grateful or maybe even willing. But once you cross over, there’s really no going back.

When you have two relationships where the sex was actually incredible, mind blowing and … yeah … even spiritual, how can you entertain the swinging dick types? I can’t. I won’t. I would rather be alone.

And that’s what I’ve gotten at 40. The best gifts ever. The knowledge that sex isn’t about lying there there and being pumped by some dude. It’s about reciprocity, it’s about fun, and it’s about bringing one another closer to God. “The moment of most intense pleasure in sexual intercourse.”

And guys, if you think just thrusting your penis inside a woman makes her orgasm, you have a lot to learn.

But you won’t learn it through a search engine. I just searched for definition of an orgasm, and most every one was about men. Like 98 percent or more on the first page. Well, damn. I wish you guys luck. Because it’s a skill you must WANT to have …….. and few I’ve known did.

The following is the “death poem” by the poet Bufu:

Died on the twenty-fourth day of the seventh month, 1792

Oh, I don’t care

where autumn clouds

are drifting to.

There is something more to the first line of this haiku than mere indifference.  In this moment, Bufu didn’t care and neither did the clouds he saw.  There is no distinction between the poet and the clouds, drifting off to who knows where.  The poet, the poem, the clouds, time… everything dissolves—into what?  Neither existence nor non-existence.   Unsayable.

~ ~ ~

Yoel Hoffman (editor), Japanese Death Poems, Boston: Tuttle Publishing, 1986, pg. 146.