Did Ricky Nelson ever smile in public? The late rock'n roll teenage idol thrilled millions with his good looks, "dreamy" voice, guitar playing and almost lethargic mien, but I cannot recall a single occasion when he was able or inclined to use the twenty six, or whatever the precise count of muscles in his face that permit most of us to raise the corners of our mouths and crinkle the skin near the outer corners of our eyes to signal pleasure or at least offer a grin of dutiful cooperation in an appropriate social situation. Most smiles are captivating, though to widely varying degrees. They very often transform a seeming sourpuss into an "he ain't such a bad fellow" type when they're displayed spontaneously and are heartfelt expressions of a genuine conviviality. Usually we can tell, instinctively, when these human expressions of warmth that are beamed our way, are the "real thing." Not always, of course, is this true. Actors among us, both theatrical and other kinds of benign dissemblers with varying motives can and often do, out of habit or for professional reasons, shine their "little lights" upon us and we bask in the glow time and again. This is not necessarily a bad thing. The social lubricative that is a smile, whether its birth is from the "milk of human kindness" or from the wellsprings of a darker motive, is something we come to depend upon, like the open palm preceding a handshake. The two are similar; they generally speak of reassurances that no threat is intended. Great smiles are a gift not forgotten. They are so often recalled when reactions to the untimely death of a dear one are expressed. How the lost one offered his warm heart, how he or she was kindly and how that inviting visage complemented his/her loving deeds: these are the chief sources of genuine pain and grief, not the departed one's bank account, social standing, fame or power.
But to return to the power of a smile's absence as in Nelson's case: what is it about this very human phenomenon? Why do fashion models religiously refrain from smiling as they amble down a runway? Like perhaps Ricky, is the "less is more" mindset in play here? Is sexuality and/or the appeal of the apparel or "rock star" image enhanced by withholding the generosity of a smile's promise of sunshine? Is danger and the chance of rejection (via a vacant stare) to an audience or marketplace, a way to ramp up anxiety and desire: to enthrall one's customers? The femme fatale in history, whether a Garbo, a Keely Smith, a Cher or various regal female monarchs or would-be ones, remind us that upbeat and joyful expressions are not distributed freely or without great merit of one's fans, subjects or underlings. Among males of prominence, the sorrowful poker face of a James Lipton comes to mind as well as Buster Keaton's "Great Stoneface" and Edward R. Murow's "weight-of-the-world" expression that all helped to make them memorable figures. But were their infrequent, rare or even non-existent smiles a calculation of power or just a natural development of temperament, concentrated thoughtfulness and seriousness of purpose not intended necessarily to intimidate? Still, in American society, the prevalent bias is toward a social informality and a lightheartedness, however artificial, that places the unsmiling as seemingly judgmental types who are silently disapproving of something (made more unnerving by their lack of explication or any assurance, thirsted for by many an insecure smiler or one needful of being a "smilee").
We long for and love the smiler, in short. A green light of welcome is communicated, perhaps like the earliest loving gazes of our mothers or the first validation of one's attraction to an adolescent friend of the opposite sex whose first risibility meant for us may well be a priceless memory. Mystery can still reside, of course, in a smile or "das Lacheln" as the Germans call it. Mona Lisa's almost indescribably nuanced expression stirs minds and hearts then and now in a way that makes even the most fixated atheist, amenable at least, to the concept of immortality. The overwhelming attraction for some of the mile wide smile of a Julia Roberts, the devastating one of a Clark Gable or the repetitive, but for a good while the comforting one of a Jimmy Carter, all had qualities that were more complex than a mother's enveloping one of unconditional love. Sexuality, unbridled power, a self-comforting strategy (perhaps in Carter's case) all were some of the components that did keep them alive in our memories and hearts and continue to do so. They all shared our common humanity naturally, and yet each one was and is a unique soul, renewing, each time their gifts were bestowed on us, their expression of individuality that delighted us and spoke to that fundamental human "sine qua non": recognition of a loving other and the opportunity to love and imaginarily, be loved. The smile is simply the most potent entity we have to see others, be seen and to give of ourselves. "You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile" was one of the more popular numbers in the famed Broadway musical "Annie" of more than thirty years ago. The title is a fine statement about the duality of a smile and it may be instructive here. Though it teaches about smiling as a close cousin to good grooming and sartorial success, it also, intentionally or not, tells of the power of "clothing" one in a smile, that is, to actually conceal and provide a kind of armor for ourselves with this very special human gift.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Trying To Wrap One's Mitts Around The Inevitability Of Mitt (And Thus Spake The Teutonic Rapper Hans Mitgiftjager : What's Up Mit That?)
Willard Mitt Romney, in all likelihood will oppose Barrack Hussein Obama for the presidency of these not so United States this November. Dyed in the wool Reagan conservatives like myself must learn to become inured to this fact. We are told that the former governor of Massachusetts supports conservative positions. He says he supports them. He properly castigates B.O.'s policies. He promises no illicit love affairs with tax and spend liberals and he seems to love his wife and obviously religiously combs his very presidential looking hair. What's my beef? Yes, again, he certainly looks like a president. Yet something is missing. Like a soup that one has scrupulously followed the written recipe for, and after numerous tastings from pot to ladle to wooden spoon to a tongue's eager taste buds, one's hopes for a savory concoction are consistently dashed and the question lingers: "something is missing." The problem was there early on. A huge field of Republican hopefuls, like a call from central casting, gave at first, a thrill: that of many warm bodies with at least one statistically likely to show the brains and the political brawn needed to excite a nation and lace into the empty suit in the Oval Office who, with his mannered cool, faux common touch and failed policies appears possessed of the biggest glass jaw in years and ripe for "a one-way ticket to Palookaville." And yet, each G.O.P. hopeful had his "fifteen minutes of fame", even more than once, especially in Newt's case, but no sustained, exciting breakout ever materialized. Romney was well trained, seeking the job for more than four years. Gingrich was the scholarly firebrand, socking it to Democrats and leftwing media types alike and revving up the faithful of the party. Ron Paul promised fans with ancient American isolationist longings a revival of their nostalgic lusting and seemed ready to catch fire. Rick Perry caused a sensation in the polls with his handsome visage, evangelical fervor and seemingly unstoppable southern charisma…until he opened his mouth. Herman Cain wowed 'em for somewhat longer, but his libido's history, at least as told by one aggrieved woman from his past, derailed his bid pronto. All the while, Mitt hovered at the threshold of galvanizing the party, but he never was able to enter the room, "close the deal", or make hearts flutter with the right ideological poetry to cause folks to soar with dreams of transcendence and a map of the country richly Republican red. Rick Santorum was the most recent warrior to joust for glory. He won some primaries, but Mitt's steady turtle-like pace continued to pile up the delegate count, however uninspiringly. Each guy had something, but none had the "whole package." Would that one could construct a customized Republican candidate to unseat "The Anointed One" (as Sean Hannity long ago dubbed him), would the whole be greater than the sum of its parts? Those parts would include: Romney's hair and handsome visage, Gingrich's intellect, Santorum's boyish ideological purity, Paul's irrascibility, Cain's confidence, and Perry's charm. For better or for worse, the choice seems to be to play it down the middle and logically, it makes sense, if winning the election is the only priority. Yes, we're probably a center-right nation and the bloody independent (read: "brain dead" or to be kind, politically and intellectually disengaged) voter holds the balance of power in his fickle-prone hands. But it's not so much that Mitt may be a not-so-deeply- in-the-closet "moderate" that troubles an old righty like myself. It's that "something's missing" feeling that, again, I cannot shake. He forever and a day, comes across as a guy who wants to be president to the exclusion of truly thoughtful conversation and anything that would rock the boat, in his estimation, like passionate views about the issues and fearlessness about offending any group or interest, in short, one extraordinarily ordinary politician who would not let butter melt in his mouth or mouth off about anything that is bothering him. In fact, I wonder, IS anything bothering Mitt at all? Really (other than the remaining few "flies" like Santorum and Newt that he less and less often seems in need of swatting)?? One flash of acerbic wit or righteous anger at a stupid or hostile question would cause me to be enamored in a nanosecond. Colorless substance trumps glitzy style, it would appear. One only prays that he has the former, however chromatically challenged, and that it would be used in the service of uniting reasonable men (I emphasize "reasonable") before it's too late, even if he can't or won't display the crowd pleasing latter.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Taking It Like A Man
"Don't worry, be happy!" was the fashionable cry and title of a popular tune of a generation ago from the reggae genre and traditions of West Indian music. The simplicity and especially, the gentleness of the song's atmospherics was quite appealing after years of manic (and maniacal) driving rhythms and violence-tinged rock and related lifestyles. An alternative viewpoint for coping, quite distinct from this advice from the musical world, was suggested to me by a fellow "Palace" blogger recently. It is perhaps best expressed by this aphoristic counsel: "don't worry, be catatonic!"
Often a strong, heliotropic-like pull towards justice or simply a revulsion against injustice can, "here in the real world" as Alan Jackson once reminded us, wear away the rock of one's idealism and lead to despair about slaking one's thirst for the success of righteousness. Apoplectic and other choleric responses to unchecked and emboldened boorish behavior and thoughtlessness that become indistinguishable from incivility, sloth or much worse, begins in time, to drain one's resources and eventually can critically wound a healthy mind and soul. Assuming a vibrant intellect and perceptive mind, the "Don't worry, be happy" strategy is from the get-go, a non-starter. Railing against the dark and other fulminations, as mentioned, can sap one's strength dangerously.
So how about some form of passivity? Passive aggressive behavior may be a stop gap measure on the way to a white flag of silence and inaction. But it is only a variant of being "in the game." Resistance to the intolerable is still its purpose, however subversive, and frankly, ineffective. Embracing the catatonic contrastingly, can empower one, strange as it may seem. Survival remains the overarching goal, but not necessarily the preservation of life of the body. Many a holocaust survivor (the definition of "survivor" must be expanded here to include those who "beat the odds", i.e. lived significantly longer than the average inmate of the death camps) explained his schemes to live as predominantly characterized by the determination to behave in a scrupulously not readily noticeable way and to carry oneself in a manner one might deem remarkably unremarkable: the soul of inconspicuousness. This entailed a kind of "dying to oneself", almost a Christ-like plan of eradication of the ego and all emotionalism. To no longer desire anything or anyone, emptying the vessel of one's non-corporeal self, could that be a road worth traveling? Would that not be brave or manly? Would it not bring peace to the survivalist? With a broken body, the mind can often become keener in its reckonings and the approach of death may concentrate it to handle tasks before it: knowing that one's antagonists, whether they be the pugilist, the lout, the venal, the careless or the demonic one, can hold sway only as long as the enormous energy required to hate and to ignore others' rights and needs lasts. Oppression may seem unending when choked by its grip, but that venom of the beastly overlord debilitates, more corrosively over time, he who spews such bile, rather than the intended victims. If virtue is its own reward, is not vile behavior its own punishment (the spiritual "Typhoid Marys" among these miscreants, notwithstanding)?
In practical terms and short of saintly patience, it may seem that nothing other than an insurrection will do. This presupposes a world with some resources: persons of good will in positions of power who can enjoin "bad actors" to desist in their less than neighborly habits, or persons who will provide more than just moral support to the survivalist. Sometimes the good guys are just not there, or their resources are strained and their options are limited by various "Catch 22" ordinances and other vagaries of the law that the villains in our midst are all too aware of. How many times has a long suffering resident of an urban neighborhood called the local precinct about a raucous weekend party next door that had been blasting music into the night keeping him/her and others awake into the wee hours? Cops may eventually arrive, but other complaints of a higher priority usually result in a "too-little-too-late" scenario, well established by the officers' almost polite urgings to lower the volume and backed up by nothing more than the hoped for good faith of the revelers who return matters to a mega-decibel level very soon after the policemen's departure, knowing another visit from the Law is unlikely. What of other more egregious behavior, such as lewdness in front of one's property, dumping of litter, brawling and drug dealing in the same vicinity? Another enquiry to the precinct about these situations, not unusually, results in the counter query: is anyone armed? A negative response to this question, or not vigorously reporting such a critical thing in the first place, will ensure, except for possibly reporting drugs, the dispatcher's continued somnolency and inaction.
Well, until help arrives or bad karma at last, returns the favor to the ogres in question, a kind of manna from heaven is required to nourish the sorely pressed who choose to neither murder nor self-annihilate. This sustenance is from some unfathomable well of the human psyche and one can never go to it too often. It's an inexhaustible source. One may seem catatonic when borrowing its power, but the apparent impotence enshrouds a phenomenon that is nothing other than a direct connection to the Divine. Martyrdom may be one of its culminations, but just "hanging on" is one of its prescriptions that one can follow when one has decided to "grab on." Maybe it's called Faith, maybe it's something else. But it is real and the heroes, seen and unseen throughout history, have all touched its meta-electrical pulsations and have given hope to the hopeless thereby. Gunga Din (title character of the '39 film) took a bayonet between his ribs, much like Christ did when a Roman soldier ran Him through with a spear to ensure His demise. Din, this "regimental bhisti" was a "goner" or at least headed for oblivion. He continued to think not of himself, but of his comrades-in-arms as he lay dying. All ignoble shades in the vicinity whispered to him "Stay down, you're beat (much like George Kennedy's Dragline advised his pummeled boxing opponent, Paul Newman's title character Cool Hand Luke in the '67 film)." But neither character knew what quitting meant. Luke's will to be free may have seemed like overweeningly prideful stubbornness, but it arose from the same God-given and yet human source of potential greatness that sparked Din: free will. And "Cool Hand" chose passionately if not wisely (because of his initially brief sentence as a chain gang inmate). "The Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din", unlike Luke, was not a freedom fighter driven by a perhaps low threshold of boredom. No, this member of "them black-faced crew" was impelled by love. The lowly water bearer saw his opportunity as a "real" soldier, not as a career move, but as a tremendously exciting, new path to continue living the life of abundant spiritual wealth he already enjoyed. Nearly bled out, he climbs to the pinnacle of a spire of the enemy's temple and with his last few breaths blows the bugle gifted to him by the kindly Sgt. Cutter (Cary Grant). The warning alerts the Empire's troops about to be ambushed and allows for victory and the eventual rescue of his party. Glorious, heroic? Yes, it was, especially contrasted with his humble station. But what of his brothers, cousins, neighbors, etc., the vast majority of whom would never similarly soar thanks to a Kipling or other myth maker? Well, they and subsequent generations must trod the "catatonic" path too, but a less exciting one. Okay, we know it's not truly a contrived kind of autism, but "lives of quiet desperation" are their lot and that of most of us. Take it like a man…or like a woman. This is not some manifesto of "machismo." It's a recognition of the human condition. It's not even a challenge, necessarily, to throw in with the forces of stoicism or to follow the urging to "grin and bear it." In fact, going on the offensive instead, is a valid way to interpret "take." Canadian country singer Michelle Wright's hit of the same title as this blog entry, makes this point emphatically and seductively. "Go for it!" is the oft used battle cry of recent years for any uphill climb. Whatever choice is chosen by a battered soul to proceed, the human spirit can, in the end, though dust be our apparent destiny, prove indomitable.
The anchor that represents hope is what will not allow us to drift. But we need crew members aboard this ship. Just as "no man is an island", Robinson Crusoe needed and providentially found his man Friday to survive on his literal one. Companionship is a topic for another blog entry, perhaps by another blogger. To encapsulate today's musings however, I'd offer the following. Call it a prayer, call it an invocation, call it anything but lip service: "Long live courage and human freedom!"
Often a strong, heliotropic-like pull towards justice or simply a revulsion against injustice can, "here in the real world" as Alan Jackson once reminded us, wear away the rock of one's idealism and lead to despair about slaking one's thirst for the success of righteousness. Apoplectic and other choleric responses to unchecked and emboldened boorish behavior and thoughtlessness that become indistinguishable from incivility, sloth or much worse, begins in time, to drain one's resources and eventually can critically wound a healthy mind and soul. Assuming a vibrant intellect and perceptive mind, the "Don't worry, be happy" strategy is from the get-go, a non-starter. Railing against the dark and other fulminations, as mentioned, can sap one's strength dangerously.
So how about some form of passivity? Passive aggressive behavior may be a stop gap measure on the way to a white flag of silence and inaction. But it is only a variant of being "in the game." Resistance to the intolerable is still its purpose, however subversive, and frankly, ineffective. Embracing the catatonic contrastingly, can empower one, strange as it may seem. Survival remains the overarching goal, but not necessarily the preservation of life of the body. Many a holocaust survivor (the definition of "survivor" must be expanded here to include those who "beat the odds", i.e. lived significantly longer than the average inmate of the death camps) explained his schemes to live as predominantly characterized by the determination to behave in a scrupulously not readily noticeable way and to carry oneself in a manner one might deem remarkably unremarkable: the soul of inconspicuousness. This entailed a kind of "dying to oneself", almost a Christ-like plan of eradication of the ego and all emotionalism. To no longer desire anything or anyone, emptying the vessel of one's non-corporeal self, could that be a road worth traveling? Would that not be brave or manly? Would it not bring peace to the survivalist? With a broken body, the mind can often become keener in its reckonings and the approach of death may concentrate it to handle tasks before it: knowing that one's antagonists, whether they be the pugilist, the lout, the venal, the careless or the demonic one, can hold sway only as long as the enormous energy required to hate and to ignore others' rights and needs lasts. Oppression may seem unending when choked by its grip, but that venom of the beastly overlord debilitates, more corrosively over time, he who spews such bile, rather than the intended victims. If virtue is its own reward, is not vile behavior its own punishment (the spiritual "Typhoid Marys" among these miscreants, notwithstanding)?
In practical terms and short of saintly patience, it may seem that nothing other than an insurrection will do. This presupposes a world with some resources: persons of good will in positions of power who can enjoin "bad actors" to desist in their less than neighborly habits, or persons who will provide more than just moral support to the survivalist. Sometimes the good guys are just not there, or their resources are strained and their options are limited by various "Catch 22" ordinances and other vagaries of the law that the villains in our midst are all too aware of. How many times has a long suffering resident of an urban neighborhood called the local precinct about a raucous weekend party next door that had been blasting music into the night keeping him/her and others awake into the wee hours? Cops may eventually arrive, but other complaints of a higher priority usually result in a "too-little-too-late" scenario, well established by the officers' almost polite urgings to lower the volume and backed up by nothing more than the hoped for good faith of the revelers who return matters to a mega-decibel level very soon after the policemen's departure, knowing another visit from the Law is unlikely. What of other more egregious behavior, such as lewdness in front of one's property, dumping of litter, brawling and drug dealing in the same vicinity? Another enquiry to the precinct about these situations, not unusually, results in the counter query: is anyone armed? A negative response to this question, or not vigorously reporting such a critical thing in the first place, will ensure, except for possibly reporting drugs, the dispatcher's continued somnolency and inaction.
Well, until help arrives or bad karma at last, returns the favor to the ogres in question, a kind of manna from heaven is required to nourish the sorely pressed who choose to neither murder nor self-annihilate. This sustenance is from some unfathomable well of the human psyche and one can never go to it too often. It's an inexhaustible source. One may seem catatonic when borrowing its power, but the apparent impotence enshrouds a phenomenon that is nothing other than a direct connection to the Divine. Martyrdom may be one of its culminations, but just "hanging on" is one of its prescriptions that one can follow when one has decided to "grab on." Maybe it's called Faith, maybe it's something else. But it is real and the heroes, seen and unseen throughout history, have all touched its meta-electrical pulsations and have given hope to the hopeless thereby. Gunga Din (title character of the '39 film) took a bayonet between his ribs, much like Christ did when a Roman soldier ran Him through with a spear to ensure His demise. Din, this "regimental bhisti" was a "goner" or at least headed for oblivion. He continued to think not of himself, but of his comrades-in-arms as he lay dying. All ignoble shades in the vicinity whispered to him "Stay down, you're beat (much like George Kennedy's Dragline advised his pummeled boxing opponent, Paul Newman's title character Cool Hand Luke in the '67 film)." But neither character knew what quitting meant. Luke's will to be free may have seemed like overweeningly prideful stubbornness, but it arose from the same God-given and yet human source of potential greatness that sparked Din: free will. And "Cool Hand" chose passionately if not wisely (because of his initially brief sentence as a chain gang inmate). "The Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din", unlike Luke, was not a freedom fighter driven by a perhaps low threshold of boredom. No, this member of "them black-faced crew" was impelled by love. The lowly water bearer saw his opportunity as a "real" soldier, not as a career move, but as a tremendously exciting, new path to continue living the life of abundant spiritual wealth he already enjoyed. Nearly bled out, he climbs to the pinnacle of a spire of the enemy's temple and with his last few breaths blows the bugle gifted to him by the kindly Sgt. Cutter (Cary Grant). The warning alerts the Empire's troops about to be ambushed and allows for victory and the eventual rescue of his party. Glorious, heroic? Yes, it was, especially contrasted with his humble station. But what of his brothers, cousins, neighbors, etc., the vast majority of whom would never similarly soar thanks to a Kipling or other myth maker? Well, they and subsequent generations must trod the "catatonic" path too, but a less exciting one. Okay, we know it's not truly a contrived kind of autism, but "lives of quiet desperation" are their lot and that of most of us. Take it like a man…or like a woman. This is not some manifesto of "machismo." It's a recognition of the human condition. It's not even a challenge, necessarily, to throw in with the forces of stoicism or to follow the urging to "grin and bear it." In fact, going on the offensive instead, is a valid way to interpret "take." Canadian country singer Michelle Wright's hit of the same title as this blog entry, makes this point emphatically and seductively. "Go for it!" is the oft used battle cry of recent years for any uphill climb. Whatever choice is chosen by a battered soul to proceed, the human spirit can, in the end, though dust be our apparent destiny, prove indomitable.
The anchor that represents hope is what will not allow us to drift. But we need crew members aboard this ship. Just as "no man is an island", Robinson Crusoe needed and providentially found his man Friday to survive on his literal one. Companionship is a topic for another blog entry, perhaps by another blogger. To encapsulate today's musings however, I'd offer the following. Call it a prayer, call it an invocation, call it anything but lip service: "Long live courage and human freedom!"
Monday, March 5, 2012
Razzing Erudition, Cool To Manumission, Marching To Perdition
Do we know whither thou goest? How about whether thou goest? The late great Mel Allen would reassure us: "Oh yes, we indubitably, every last one of us are: 'goingest, goingest, gonest!'" Honest! Maybe a ghost goeth before a fall (as well as pride) or likelier appears after one. Think of the various shades, noble and ignoble, of jolly old England (or thanks to recent paranormal themed t.v. programs incessantly informing us, just about anywhere else), who make their presences known after a violent cessation of human life.
A "pride of lions"…this term of venery, an image of regal power, but also that of a collection of gaping maws exuding atrociously bad breath and attached to beasts of vicious mood swings accompanied by very strong inclinations to crush bones, rip sinews and muscle and to lap up warm blood, all help us to more easily understand pride's less than noble side. Mussolini's morality, encapsulated by his pet Darwinian slogan "better to live one day as a lion than one hundred years as a lamb" is most instructive here. The "might makes right" crowd have never gone out of fashion in most parts of the globe. Why is freedom so hated, regardless of any nation's advertised political philosophy? Read the constitution of the old Soviet Union. It's an admirable piece of literature…on a par in many ways with that of the U.S. Still, gulags and the purges of Stalin are the only realities that speak volumes. Read the laws of our land and common sense, reason and concern for public safety inform most of the statutes. Still, we slaughter, whether by the unintended but inevitable consequences of constantly (collectively) negotiating tons of sheet metal at more than a mile a minute (on our highways) or riskily along congested urban thoroughfares... or by design (actually codified since 1973) with the murder of human life in the womb. Cautionary tales and long sustained safety campaigns aimed at the motoring public in order to save lives succeeds only marginally and in cold, statistical fashion and is curiously not in the mix when advising women in a family way. Too discomforting to perhaps err on the side of caution and determine an embryo as anything more than a blob of protoplasm…decency and the preciousness of life too inconvenient: the small voice of conscience, if ignored long enough, may no longer be heard, like the nuisance of someone's car alarm that we can, if determined enough, shut out from our brain and manage to, despite its insistent and plaintive beseeching, go back to sleep.
Why do we disparage liberty? Hell, why do we spit on it? Do we not really remember what it is? License it's not. Repeating what others tell us, unquestioningly, it's not. Filling our bellies or checking not our libidos it's not. Taking no time to listen to or imagine: a dying man's words, or the scribblings of an aging blogger like myself, the silent scream of an unborn baby, the story of a shut-in, the cries of a neglected and/or hungry child, the intelligence and experience of a person whose advanced years may have slowed down his or her sharp and swift articulation but not the ability to deliberately speak his/her peace and to impart wisdom and a mature viewpoint: well, dismissing these marginalized members of society is a perilous habit at best. The strength of our land is only as great as the psychic health of our weakest members, i.e. how well we act and how nurturing we are toward them. I do NOT mean the organizing of this good will along the lines as envisioned by the secularists and "big government" sociopaths that have enslaved half of the electorate with their utopian excretions of control and mind-numbing nonsense. Our traditional institutions, local communities and religious institutions need reinvigorating and the old "let it begin with me (peace)" is not a bad starting point to consider if we can disabuse ourselves of the "shame'' of decency and self-examination that the Culture of Death keeps trying to promote while shutting our minds to service and old fashioned volunteerism. An end to enticing everyone through mass and pop culture to consume, fornicate and to greedily multi-task with all of the gadgetry of our cyber age is also needed now, right now.
And what of the intellectuals in our midst? The late Patrick Moynihan wrote about it at length more than forty years ago. In his "Anti-Intellectualism in America" he noted in depth the roots of pragmatism and a fevered American pysyche that was not comfortable with self-reflection and philosophy or mentation and analyses that could not tame a continent or harvest an ever increasing cornucopia of material wealth. Speak of existential angst, peruse a road map, tell of one's artistic endeavor or literary project and the interrogatives fly, all predictably along these lines and respectively: "Oh, did you take an aspirin (is it maybe all in your head)?; going on a trip?; are you making any money with that stuff?" Folks in the good ol' U.S.A want to know "does it work?", "will it help me to get rich?" and "will any of that book knowledge have any practical applications?" Scholarship is respected, but more in the sense of an awareness that mysterious communications, like opaque rites and incantations at a secret society's meeting, are impressive but inaccessible and quickly unable to interest or stimulate. The phrases "teacher's pet", "brown nose" and "nerd" all in fine fiddle as actively used pejorative terms, tells us much about how high, or rather how low a level of esteem scholarly and reflective strivers are held.
How about the news reports from Syria and from Sudan? Do we become inured to atrocities? Is one country's hell less hellish than another's? Does geography impact lethargy? Sure, it's harder to focus attention on a tsunami in the South China sea than it is on your next door neighbor's blazing house. But what about the man-made miseries? Watching that diminutive Chinese guy in Beijing more than twenty years ago as he stood in front of one of the Communist regime's tanks and repeatedly blocked its path in whatever direction the tank's driver sought to re-route his path around the protester, we remember the thrill and natural rooting interest in this Davey vs. Goliath drama. But where did our attentions go? Where did they drift toward as the news became bleaker and the cries for liberty became fading sounds with unhappy endings no longer a channel we wanted to stay tuned to. Our little "remote control" of life, came to the rescue, as always, as our senses demanded new sensations and yesterday's news was just that in most of our reckonings. What became of that guy? How many folks care?
A "pride of lions"…this term of venery, an image of regal power, but also that of a collection of gaping maws exuding atrociously bad breath and attached to beasts of vicious mood swings accompanied by very strong inclinations to crush bones, rip sinews and muscle and to lap up warm blood, all help us to more easily understand pride's less than noble side. Mussolini's morality, encapsulated by his pet Darwinian slogan "better to live one day as a lion than one hundred years as a lamb" is most instructive here. The "might makes right" crowd have never gone out of fashion in most parts of the globe. Why is freedom so hated, regardless of any nation's advertised political philosophy? Read the constitution of the old Soviet Union. It's an admirable piece of literature…on a par in many ways with that of the U.S. Still, gulags and the purges of Stalin are the only realities that speak volumes. Read the laws of our land and common sense, reason and concern for public safety inform most of the statutes. Still, we slaughter, whether by the unintended but inevitable consequences of constantly (collectively) negotiating tons of sheet metal at more than a mile a minute (on our highways) or riskily along congested urban thoroughfares... or by design (actually codified since 1973) with the murder of human life in the womb. Cautionary tales and long sustained safety campaigns aimed at the motoring public in order to save lives succeeds only marginally and in cold, statistical fashion and is curiously not in the mix when advising women in a family way. Too discomforting to perhaps err on the side of caution and determine an embryo as anything more than a blob of protoplasm…decency and the preciousness of life too inconvenient: the small voice of conscience, if ignored long enough, may no longer be heard, like the nuisance of someone's car alarm that we can, if determined enough, shut out from our brain and manage to, despite its insistent and plaintive beseeching, go back to sleep.
Why do we disparage liberty? Hell, why do we spit on it? Do we not really remember what it is? License it's not. Repeating what others tell us, unquestioningly, it's not. Filling our bellies or checking not our libidos it's not. Taking no time to listen to or imagine: a dying man's words, or the scribblings of an aging blogger like myself, the silent scream of an unborn baby, the story of a shut-in, the cries of a neglected and/or hungry child, the intelligence and experience of a person whose advanced years may have slowed down his or her sharp and swift articulation but not the ability to deliberately speak his/her peace and to impart wisdom and a mature viewpoint: well, dismissing these marginalized members of society is a perilous habit at best. The strength of our land is only as great as the psychic health of our weakest members, i.e. how well we act and how nurturing we are toward them. I do NOT mean the organizing of this good will along the lines as envisioned by the secularists and "big government" sociopaths that have enslaved half of the electorate with their utopian excretions of control and mind-numbing nonsense. Our traditional institutions, local communities and religious institutions need reinvigorating and the old "let it begin with me (peace)" is not a bad starting point to consider if we can disabuse ourselves of the "shame'' of decency and self-examination that the Culture of Death keeps trying to promote while shutting our minds to service and old fashioned volunteerism. An end to enticing everyone through mass and pop culture to consume, fornicate and to greedily multi-task with all of the gadgetry of our cyber age is also needed now, right now.
And what of the intellectuals in our midst? The late Patrick Moynihan wrote about it at length more than forty years ago. In his "Anti-Intellectualism in America" he noted in depth the roots of pragmatism and a fevered American pysyche that was not comfortable with self-reflection and philosophy or mentation and analyses that could not tame a continent or harvest an ever increasing cornucopia of material wealth. Speak of existential angst, peruse a road map, tell of one's artistic endeavor or literary project and the interrogatives fly, all predictably along these lines and respectively: "Oh, did you take an aspirin (is it maybe all in your head)?; going on a trip?; are you making any money with that stuff?" Folks in the good ol' U.S.A want to know "does it work?", "will it help me to get rich?" and "will any of that book knowledge have any practical applications?" Scholarship is respected, but more in the sense of an awareness that mysterious communications, like opaque rites and incantations at a secret society's meeting, are impressive but inaccessible and quickly unable to interest or stimulate. The phrases "teacher's pet", "brown nose" and "nerd" all in fine fiddle as actively used pejorative terms, tells us much about how high, or rather how low a level of esteem scholarly and reflective strivers are held.
How about the news reports from Syria and from Sudan? Do we become inured to atrocities? Is one country's hell less hellish than another's? Does geography impact lethargy? Sure, it's harder to focus attention on a tsunami in the South China sea than it is on your next door neighbor's blazing house. But what about the man-made miseries? Watching that diminutive Chinese guy in Beijing more than twenty years ago as he stood in front of one of the Communist regime's tanks and repeatedly blocked its path in whatever direction the tank's driver sought to re-route his path around the protester, we remember the thrill and natural rooting interest in this Davey vs. Goliath drama. But where did our attentions go? Where did they drift toward as the news became bleaker and the cries for liberty became fading sounds with unhappy endings no longer a channel we wanted to stay tuned to. Our little "remote control" of life, came to the rescue, as always, as our senses demanded new sensations and yesterday's news was just that in most of our reckonings. What became of that guy? How many folks care?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)