Two Unique Chicago Theatrical Experiences

I’ve talked a lot in these blogs about how much I love Chicago and how much this great city has to offer.  I want to concentrate on theater today, and in particular two brilliant performances I saw within a week of each other.

The first was An Iliad at the Court Theatre, a professional theater on the campus of the University of Chicago.  An Iliad had been here before, about a year ago, but because the U. of  C. campus is so far south, it’s difficult for me to get there, and even though the critics and everyone I knew from the university sang its praises, I didn’t get a chance to see it.  It left and went to New York, again playing to great praise.  And then the Court brought it back, and I was able to arrange a ride to the campus and several of us went to see it.  It was, perhaps, the single most singular evening in a theater I’ve ever spent.  It’s a retelling of the Iliad, on the surface anyway, but it’s so much more.  The single actor, Timothy Edward Kane, retells the epic story, pretty much complete, in an hour and a half, without intermission.  The premise of the play is that he is a story teller, perhaps Homer, perhaps a Universal Story Teller, but he’s been telling and retelling the story of our wars for centuries and as he recounts the horrors of the Trojan War he makes references to many other wars; in fact, one of the most gripping moments is when he starts to list all the major wars of humankind through the centuries. He builds in intensity until it seems he will explode with the horror of what we humans can do to each other—and continue to do even up to modern times.  The lesson is clear: we never learn and we will not change in the future.  It’s most disheartening.  You can see that scene here, which is from the first production; when I saw it several more wars had already been added in slightly over a year: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6veWKP6PIuE.  Our saving grace is our art.  In spite of the ghastly record we humans have, productions like this give me some sliver of hope.  When the lights dimmed at the end of this production, there was a stunned silence, no applause, not even any breathing, I think.  When the lights came back up on Kane, everyone jumped to their feet and the applause was thunderous.  It was a revelatory evening in the theater, and one I will never forget.  (Here’s another scene from earlier in the play: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AUwMwDhJeuw.)

The second impressive play I saw in that week was The Normal Heart by Larry Kramer.  This play recounts the early years of the AIDS epidemic, as seen from the point of view of the outspoken and often grating character of Ned, clearly a stand-in for the outspoken and grating Larry Kramer (he’s still at it, by the way).  Ned rails, with little success, against the government’s refusal to acknowledge the epidemic, contrasting the number of deaths and the lack of funding and research to the relatively minor number of deaths from legionnaires disease which received massive funding—because, he believes, as did most of us, that it was considered a “gay disease” and therefore of little note.  He takes special aim at Mayor Koch, very likely a closeted gay himself, who refused to work with Ned and the organization he finally cobbles together (referred to as the “Organization” in the play but is the Gay Men’s Health Crisis in “real” life).  A particular and well-deserved target is President Reagan, who didn’t mention the disease until well into his second term.  And even then it was dismissive and horribly cruel: (http://www.actupny.org/reports/reagan.html).  The plot of the play centers around the relationship with Ned and his lover (as we said back in those days) Felix, who comes down with AIDS.  As Ned fights with the government, the crisis is brought home, touchingly and sadly.  Larry Kramer survived, as did I, but many of our friends did not.  And so many deaths could have been prevented but for the Conservative government’s head-in-the-sand attitude toward gays and the disease.  It’s a shameful moment in our history.  And this great production brings that home.  (You can see a preview of it here:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pQ-LeXpjCAs&feature=youtu.be.  It’s not easy to watch, but I do encourage you to do so.)

I love Chicago, I love the operas I’ve seen, the concerts, the parks, the museums, but I also love our theaters and the enormous pool of acting talent here.  And these two plays bring that home.

Living Small with Lots of Stuff

A dear friend was visiting a while back and, as he looked around my tiny apartment, noted that I “have lots of stuff.”  Well, yes, I do.  And?  Okay, I have lots of stuff in a very small apartment.  There are two reasons for that, I think.

The first reason is simply practical: I moved from a three bedroom, two-car garage home to this tiny one bedroom apartment.  I downsized tons of stuff, but I still ended up with more than I probably need.  Especially books.  In this apartment, I have five bookcases—and a fair number of books stacked here and there.  But I started with over 3,000 (I counted them before moving) and feel pretty good about reducing them to what I have now.  Additionally, I just counted 60 pieces of art or memorabilia hanging on the walls (art, photos, plaques).  And again, I reduced the number before moving (and I have a stack of un-matted and unframed works I’m giving away as I’m out of room to hang more).

Secondly, there is genuine “stuff,” which I define as bits and pieces from my past—and which others probably define as tchotchkes.  But to me they are important reminders of what’s come before.  And at my age there is a whole lot more “before” than there will be “after.”  For example, looking up from the computer I see a framed announcement/invitation to a going away party some friends threw for me before I moved to Chicago.  More or less at random, looking around, I see ceramic pieces made by my sister-in-law, souvenirs of various trips to Port Aransas, a figurine given to me by a former associate, now deceased, and a wooden antelope given me by my great friend Donna, also dead.  And lots more.  How could I part with them?  Each one brings back an important memory.  When I’m gone, they will be just so much junk to be tossed away.  But they are staying until someone else has to figure out what to do with them.

When I was very young, the family made a visit to my Aunt Mabel.  Aunt Mabel was, according to family legend, the wild one on that side of the family.  At one point we had a photo of Mabel in a long beaver coat standing in front of her Stutz-Bearcat, although I haven’t seen the photo in years and assume it’s lost.  But when we visited, I was too young to appreciate what an interesting character Aunt Mabel was: just think of the stories she could have told.  And what I remember most is her small house was filled with, well, tchotchkes, every bit of space covered with items that clearly meant something to her, but to no one else.  Just like my stuff.  I have become Aunt Mabel!

My Brush with History

When you’ve lived 70 years, you’ve lived through a lot of history.  Most of that history is at a distance, something you read about but don’t experience personally.  But I did have my brush with history when I had a front row view of the ceremonies surrounding the funeral of President John F. Kennedy.

After boot camp in San Diego I was stationed at the Naval School of Music, which at the time was located at the Anacostia Annex in Washington, D.C.  I don’t remember exactly when I arrived at the school, but I was there on November 22, 1963.

A friend and I had taken the bus into town to see a movie and celebrate my 21st birthday—The Wheeler Dealers: it’s the small things one doesn’t forget, although I remember nothing about the movie itself.  Before going into the show I stopped at a watch repair shop to drop off my wristwatch; the man there said he just heard on the news that the president had been shot.  It registered, but I don’t think for one minute I believed him or that it was serious.  We went on to the movie.  When we left, almost instinctively, I looked up at the flags on the buildings; all were at half-mast.  I knew then the president had died.  I also knew that all military personnel would have to be back at the base.  We caught the first bus, and that’s my second and one of the most vivid moments of those days: no one on the bus spoke, most looked rather dazed, and many were crying.  It was a surreal and silent ride.

Back at base we were informed that we would have a small part in the ceremonies.  If you look at photos of the various ceremonies, you’ll see military personnel lining the street on either side.  It was called an honorary cordon, and because the president had been in the Navy, the Navy sections of the cordon were always nearest the ceremony:  we were outside the White House and we lined the street at the entrance to Arlington National Cemetery.  In the photo above I am one of the sailors on the right side of the street near the gate post at Arlington; I remember at one point I was very, very cold as I stood in the shadow of the post as the day moved on.

I don’t remember how long we stood at each spot, but at Arlington it was certainly for several hours as the cars of dignitaries came by as well as the body of the president and all that went along with that.  I think the time at the White House was much shorter.  But several memories stand out through that long day.

The most moving part at the White House, perhaps even more than the flag-draped casket, was the riderless horse with boots reversed in the stirrups. The horse was skittish, perhaps from the crowd, and it appeared the handler could barely control it.

At Arlington I was on a front row to see the cars of dignitaries go by.  I remember seeing Mrs. Kennedy.  And for some reason, I vividly remember Charles de Gaulle going by, perhaps because of his very distinctive profile.  At some point the sun put the shadow of the post over me and I became very cold. 

And then there was the single most significant moment for me: Taps.  Probably because of the cold, the sound of the bugle carried a long distance and I could hear it quite clearly.  It’s a melody that I, along with most everyone, can’t listen to without deep emotion.  Imagine hearing it that day.  And then on the sixth note of Taps the bugler broke the note—he made a mistake.  I can remember as vividly as though I had been there yesterday.  Perhaps because I was a musician and I had some inkling of the kind of pressure the bugler was under, I understood.  It was an emotional day for us all, and I can only imagine the kind of pressure he was under.  Later we were told that it wasn’t a mistake, that it was deliberate and was called a “sob.”  Not true.  It was a mistake, pure and simple, a mistake the bugler never denied making.  You can hear it as it was recorded that day at this site—and read bugler Keith Clark’s own account of that memorable and somehow significant mistake:  http://tapsbugler.com/a-bugle-call-remembered/.  You can also watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qbNfOpTx5CQ.

Fifty years have passed since that day, and we are still assessing the impact of the assignation of President Kennedy.  For those of us who lived through those times, it seemed to signal a falling apart, or, as Yeats put it, the center not holding:

TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

We, both as a nation and as individuals, lost our innocence on November 22, 1963, and I for one was never the same afterwards.

Ragged and Jagged Memory

I don’t trust memories.  Especially now that I’ve reached, officially, senior citizen-hood.  And as my recent unsuccessful bout with the study of Latin confirms, my memory ain’t what it used to be.  But then memory seldom was what it used to be, even when I was younger. 

My brother Ken and I have swapped stories about growing up.  And the tales are wildly different.  In many cases I have no recollection of the events he relates, and he looks with surprise at the tales I tell.  Were we both really there?  And then I remember my mother telling stories about our youth.  Most of the time, I looked at her with perplexity: that didn’t happen, Mom; or, that’s not the way it happened.  But she was as convinced of the truth of her memories as I was of the truth of mine.

The brain is not a computer, easily rebooted.  It is a filter, one which sorts, retains, and loses whatever it chooses, mostly without one’s input (to continue the computer analogy).  Computers are, in fact, way more reliable and can actually be rebooted.  The brain, not so much.  I suppose with years of counseling with a psychologist, one can dredge up something forgotten or misremembered, but for most of us that’s not an option.

And I’m not entirely sure that such a mental reboot would even be something to value.  Generally, I like my memories, and if I unconsciously censored them over the years, then there’s probably a reason for it.  I may not know what that reason is, but that doesn’t mean the censoring is a bad thing; it probably means just the opposite: something is best forgotten.

Which is not to say the aging brain doesn’t cause problems.  I have gotten especially bad with names.  I’ll be discussing authors with someone, as I used to do with my students, and say something like, “That reminds me of one of my favorite poets, . . . uh . . .”  And it’s not there.  It may be Emily Dickinson or Walt Whitman, poets I know well, but the name is not ready to hand; it’s there, I can sense it, it’s on, as they say, the tip of my tongue, but I can’t pull it into consciousness.  That’s frustrating and on occasion embarrassing.  And I used to panic when it happened: can Alzheimer’s be far behind?  But a little research convinced me it’s a normal part of aging, and I now just laugh about it.  As I once heard, if you forget where your keys are, not to worry; if you forget what your keys are for, then you worry.

I’ll end with a favorite poem by Billy Collins (yea, I remembered the author!), the brilliantly funny and poignant “Forgetfulness”:

The name of the author is the first to go


followed obediently by the title, the plot,


the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel


which suddenly becomes one you have never read,


never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor


decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,


to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye


and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,


and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,


the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,


it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,


not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river


whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,


well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those


who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night


to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.

No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted


out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Cervus lux in lucerna.

Sometimes I think I am suffering from insanity.  Maybe it’s dementia?  Whatever it is, in a moment of madness that I fear will haunt me the next ten weeks, I signed up for a Latin class.  It was offered through the same branch of the University of Chicago as the Great Books program I’m just finishing up, so I thought what the hell.  I took two years in high school.  Surely some of that will come back?

Nope.  Nothing.  Nada.  Nihilo.  Other than the vaguely familiar terms such as “dative case” and “ablative case” nothing remains.  And only the terms remain; there’s nothing anywhere in my scrambled brain about what they mean, how they are used, and just what the heck to do with them.

I found that out yesterday in the first class.  I had worked hours--and I’m not exaggerating--to make flash cards for vocabulary and major concepts such as declensions, conjugations, and word order, and I labored over translations trying to get everything exactly right.  I wasn’t even close in some cases, and in others I had the wrong declension or conjugation and had something being done to someone when he or she should have been being done to.  Or something like that.  Two and a half hours of class and I was totally befuddled.  I had misunderstood several key concepts (there’s a “second conjugation”?) and once we started class the vocabulary left for parts unknown.  It was not a good day.

But I’m sticking it out.  I’m going back and rereading the early parts, sorting out all those cases and declensions and whatnot and, in two weeks when I return to class, maybe I’ll have a firmer grasp.  And yes, I have to miss next week’s class (it only meets once a week) for a family wedding (don’t get me started on that!) which is not going to help me with Latin one little bit.

Fortunately, I keep my liquor cabinet stocked.  Oh, and don’t bother going to Google Translate; the title above means “Deer in the headlights,” or, actually, lamplight, since the Romans didn’t have cars.  At least I pretty sure about that.

[Update: I gave the Latin class up.  I had high hopes.  But I just couldn’t manage to retain vocabulary--nor syntax nor inflections nor much of anything else.  Although I drilled (for vocabulary, I made flash cards) over and over, I would find that I couldn’t remember translations of words from chapter 1, even though I was working on chapter 6.  And all the declensions and conjugations never organized themselves in my brain with anything resembling coherence.  I was disappointed, but I did recognize that I was working way too hard for far too little reward.  Even after some much appreciated encouragement from Michaelangelo, the instructor, I just couldn’t justify continuing.  And he’s one of the best teachers in the program, one I’ve had several times in the past; I regretted my failure for fear that he would see it as a failure on his part.  It wasn’t.  I take all the blame for biting off way more than I could mentally chew.  I suppose ancient Greek is out . . .  ]

Thoreau: “I might have loved him, had I loved him less. . . .”

As an English teacher, retired, I am often asked who I thought was the greatest author.  Or who was my favorite.  The first is a bit tricky; after all, I haven’t read all the great works out there so I was hardly in a position to make such a judgment.  The second one was easy: Henry David Thoreau.  I used to reread Walden once or twice a year, and I’ve taught it several times.  But since I retired and moved to Chicago, I haven’t touched it.  Perhaps it’s living in a big city?  I once imagined that I would retire and live in a small place deep in the woods somewhere, reading and meditating and communing with Nature.  That didn’t work out, nor, at least as I see myself now, would I have liked it; I’m a big city boy at heart.

What brought all this to mind is a novel I’m reading: Thoreau in Love, by John Schuyler Bishop.  The premise of the novel is that Henry heads off to Staten Island to tutor Ralph Waldo Emerson’s brother’s children for six months, which is fact.  Thoreau, an inveterate journal keeper, must have kept a record of his time in New York, but some 200+ pages of his journal during this time have been torn out and lost to us, perhaps by Thoreau but more probably by someone after Thoreau died, perhaps acting as censor.  The novel posits what Henry did during his time in New York: among other things is his trying to come to terms with being attracted to men; in fact, in the novel, he is having an affair with a young sailor he meets on the clipper taking him to New York.

Is there any chance that Thoreau was gay (keeping in mind that the term wasn’t used then and even the concept of “being gay” would hardly have been conceivable)?  Thoreau is generally thought of as being almost asexual.  He was described by his friends as such.  He seems to have been rather a bluenose.  Certainly he never married, and when he proposed to Ellen Sewall, and was turned down, he seemed more relieved than anything.  But the great Thoreau scholar Walter Harding believed there was a very real possibility that Thoreau was, indeed, gay.  While he didn’t include that viewpoint in his biography of Thoreau, The Days of Henry Thoreau: A Biography, he later wrote an article for The Journal of Homosexuality* arguing just such a case.  Harding points out that in Thoreau’s journals, probably his most important writing, there are many references to men and masculine physical attractiveness--and few about women.  One example: “A man may be young, athletic, active, beautiful.  Then, too, his thoughts will be like his person.  They will wander in a living and beautiful world.”  At one point he describes a young man as a “brawny New Hampshire man . . . bareheaded . . . and in shirt and trousers only, a rude Apollo of a man, coming down from that ‘vast uplandish country’ to the main; . . . with flaxen hair and vigorous, weather-bleached countenance.”  What’s especially interesting about this, aside from the obvious gay undertone, is the use of “vast uplandish country,” a direct quote from Christopher Marlowe’s “Hero and Leander” in a passage talking about the beauty of Hippolytus--a man.  Finally, Harding points to Thoreau’s most famous poem, “Sympathy,” written about a young student of his, Edmund Sewall, younger brother of Ellen.  A link to the poem is provided below; it’s hard not to see this as a love poem.  Since reading Harding’s essay many years ago, I’ve always believed that Thoreau was indeed gay--in a time when such feelings could hardly be acknowledged.  That speculation has influenced my reading of Thoreau ever since.

Thoreau in Love is a good novel.  It’s plausible and well-written.  If you have any interest in Thoreau at all, I would encourage you to read it.  I would especially encourage you to read Harding’s biography also.  And if you can find a copy of the article by Harding, read that too; it’s a convincing argument.

Now, time to reread some Thoreau.  I’ll start with my favorite essay, “Life Without Principle,” and then dive back into the crystalline prose and lucid, relevant ideas of Walden.  But first, Thoreau’s poem to Edmund, “Sympathy”**.
-------------------
* Harding, Walter.  “Thoreau’s Sexuality.” Journal of Homosexuality, Vol. 21(3), 1991.
**  Thoreau’s poem “Sympathy”: http://www.thoreau-online.org/sympathy.html

The Good, the Bad, and the So-So

In one of my first years as a teacher, I was in front of the class railing against “bad” literature; as an example, I used the ubiquitous Harlequin Romances, so beloved of the young girls in the class.  That was a mistake.  One of the young women asked me if I had actually read a Harlequin Romance.  Even as a young teacher I knew that lying to students never worked, so I had to confess, sheepishly, that I hadn’t.  She handed me one and told me to read it.  I had no choice.  I did attempt to read it, and it was even worse that I thought it might be, and I gave up after about 30 pages.  But I decided right then and there that I would no longer refer to books or authors as “bad.”  No matter how awful I thought a book to be, someone (sometimes lots of someones) liked the book, and I would only end up insulting them.  My opinions certainly had no effect on the book.

I can’t say I have stuck to that promise completely.  I’m sure I have stood in front of students and  made pronouncements about the lack of quality of Stephen King, a writer I have never been able to get through; and then there’s Anne Rice: impenetrable stuff--to me.  But clearly there are many people, including some I highly respect, who love King and Rice.  Go figure.

What brought this to mind was my recent reading of The Killing Floor, the first Jack Reacher novel by Lee Childs.  At first it was mildly interesting as the characters were developed, along with plot and setting.  But it didn’t take long before I realized I knew exactly where this novel was going; I could have outlined the entire plot after reading the first chapters.  The prose lay like cold noodles in front of me.  The Jack Reacher at the end of the novel is exactly the same as he was at the beginning.  I finished the novel, although I only scanned the last few chapters.  What made this stand out so much for me was the next book I picked up: Travels with My Aunt by Graham Greene.  The difference was evident within the first few pages: Greene’s prose can only be described as luminous, his characters vivid and unexpectedly eccentric, his mastery of detail was exquisite, the settings unique, and the plot unpredictable.  And the main character, Henry Pulling, is noticeably changed by the end of the novel: “I have escaped,” he says, meaning his whole previous life is behind him as he moves on into uncharted territory.  Reading Greene was like standing in the mountains on a sunny day, feeling a cool breeze and hearing the tumbling of a nearby stream--after standing in the dry and vacant desert of the previous book.  The experience was liberating.

There’s no way one can classify literature as good or bad or so-so without making someone unhappy.  And I can be rather a snob about the whole process--on the grounds that teaching literature for 26 years gives me some insight.  So I will continue to make judgments based on my years of reading and learning and studying works of literature.  You are welcome to disagree with me.  I sometimes disagree with myself: I hated Pride and Prejudice when I read it as an undergrad, but rereading it a few months ago I found it brilliant.

In the final analysis literary judgment is subjective and, while I have my opinions, I have to accept that others, including others whom I respect, have differing views.  I fall back on my 65 or so years of reading, but I understand everyone won’t agree with me.  I can live with that.

"The Undiscovered Country"

“The fear of death follows from the fear of life.  A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.”  ~Mark Twain

Once I turned 70, I noticed that I watched the news with a slightly different take; when there is news that some well-known person has died, I always note the birth date and age.  While I don’t actually keep score, it feels like I give a plus mark to anyone who lived longer than 70, and a minus mark to those who didn’t make it that long.  I don’t consider this ghoulish or depressing, but simply a reckoning for my own chances or odds for a long life.

I’m not afraid of death since I simply believe I will cease to exist.  But there is no doubt that I’m not ready for death: I have much more to do, and since this is my one shot at living, I want to enjoy every possible moment.  It’s the finality of death that makes living so precious and wonderful.  Philosophers have pondered the “existential void” of the finality of death; some have despaired.  For me that void is all the more reason to savor what time we have here.

The photo above is one I took in Paris at Père Lachaise Cemetery; it’s a pretty grand place, filled with the tombs of many famous people.  It would be tempting to want to be buried in such a place.  But I’m not a great author or musician, so we’ll leave the few places left there for the famous.  My ashes will go elsewhere.  For a long time I just planned on having them scattered (a euphemism for being dumped!) in Stillhouse Hollow Lake by whoever lives longer than I, followed by a beer poured in after me; and then everyone jumps in for a swim.  But lately I have given some thought to having my ashes interred at the Texas State Veteran’s Cemetery.  I’m not sure why that is, other than the cemetery is right down the road from my brother’s house and he’ll have to think about me every time he drives past.  But maybe at least a part of it is that desire to endure past death, and there will be my name, my military branch, and the fact that I’m a Vietnam veteran.  For as long as the cemetery lasts.

But even that kind of memory, or durability, won’t last forever.  I will eventually join that great mass of men and women who roll “around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.”   I hope, when death does come, I will be able to approach it as another poet put it, and be like “one who wraps the drapery of his couch / About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”

Moving on . . .

According to Albert Einstein, “Life is like riding a bicycle.  To keep your balance you must keep moving.”  Apparently, I’ve taken this to heart.  I’m 70 years old and by my count I have moved 33 times; that is, I have only lived in each house/home for an average of 2 1/2 years.  According to Einstein I must be truly balanced.  Frankly, all that moving suggests quite the opposite.

I’ve lived in some places longer than others, of course; 2 1/2 years is an average.  I lived on the farm as a kid for 14 years, the longest location (my first three years were spent in Oklahoma City).  I left the farm to begin my moving around at age 17 as I headed to my first ill-fated attempt at college.  Before moving to Chicago I lived near Killeen, Texas, for nine years.  That’s the second longest.  The shortest, as near as I can remember, was when I moved to Oklahoma City from eastern Oklahoma and after about three months I headed to San Diego.  I wasn’t sure how to count my time in the Navy, since I virtually traveled around the world--on a ship; I settled for listing my shore assignments and counting my ship assignment as one location.

The reasons for moving are manifold: jobs, escaping jobs, lovers, the excitement of new places, and once to be near my mother as she got older and needed me more and more.  The only common denominator I can find is a general and ongoing discontent.

The thing about all this moving about is that I have never really felt that I belonged anywhere.  Even as a kid I was totally focused on getting away from the farm--and the small town nearby and the unpleasantness of most of my elementary and high school experience.  I lived in Texas four different times: twice in Dallas, once in Houston, and then in Killeen, and yet I never felt like a Texan.  Nor did I feel like an Okie either, even though I lived in that state the longest.  California likewise.  And I’ve been in Chicago almost six years, and while I love the city and moving here was one of the best moves I’ve ever made--and I have no plans to move again--I don’t feel like a Chicagoan either; I feel like an import.  No place that I’ve ever lived have I felt like I was a total and complete “fit.” 

I’m running out of time in my life.  I don’t envision any more moves, and maybe with a little more time I’ll settle into being a Chicagoan; but I’m not holding out much hope.  Why this lifelong discontent with my place of residence?  I haven’t a clue.  Maybe in another blog I’ll explore that some; but I’m already uncomfortable just thinking about it.  Maybe I’ll just concentrate on the “balance” part and leave the actual motivation alone.

"School's Out for Summer!"

Okay, technically, my school is not out forever; I have one term to make up which I expect to do this summer.  But my four years spent studying classic literature and philosophy have been a remarkable journey, and I’ve loved almost every moment.

I’m taking about my four years in the Basic Program for Liberal Education for Adults.  What a singularly silly name: it sounds like a remedial program.  But it’s part of the University of Chicago’s Graham School of Continuing Liberal and Professional Studies.  Add those two together and that’s a mouthful.  What it is is simply a four year program for studying the Great Books.

Great Books is capitalized, as it was a compilation of important western literature and philosophy developed out of the University of Chicago in the early 20th century by, among other, Jacques Barzun and Mortimer J. Adler.  I first ran across it when my grandmother subscribed, for me mostly, to the Great Books from Harvard University arriving regularly in 51 green volumes (I have no idea where she ran across this subscription but I am grateful).  I had them for years, but now they are gone.

The program consists of three terms for each of the four years.  There are no exams nor papers to write.  There is simply a group of interested people led by a professor in the program.  The student body is varied; in my class there were three lawyers, two retired, two public school teachers, me and a retired librarian, a retired nurse with a PhD, a semi-retired priest, and a retired, although only around 50, air traffic controller, among others.  It was as varied a group of people as one could pull together.  There were Liberals, moderates, and Conservatives, religionists and pagans.

The curriculum is set by the department.  There's a link at the bottom where you can get all the information about the program including a complete reading list.  But I want to mention a few works I’ve studied and my reactions to them.

The works probably wouldn’t surprise anyone, although some are better known than others.  Sometimes the authors are well-known but the selection of the work is not what one might expect.  For example Nietzsche is on the list, but we didn’t read Thus Spake Zarathustra; rather, we read his Genealogy of Morals.  Other works are totally expected:  Machiavelli’s The Prince and Hobbes Leviathan, the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Aeneid.  One term rotates a work of literature each year, reading either War and Peace, Don Quixote, Moby Dick, Tom Jones, or, the year I went through, Middlemarch.  We read six dialogues of Plato, but that’s hardly a surprise (The Symposium was my favorite).

Some of the works I had read before, some I had even taught.  A few I had read before and either didn’t remember or didn’t like them originally: Pride and Prejudice, for example, was a book I hated when I read it as an undergrad over 40 years ago; this time I loved it.  Some works came easy; some I struggled with; I never really got my mind around Aristotle (except his Poetics, which I read in college and later taught); his Nicomachean Ethics is mostly a blur.

If I had to pick a favorite it would Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian War.  But going back to Dante’s Inferno was a delight; and I was reintroduced to the amazing essays of Montaigne (about which I wrote an earlier blog).  The least favorite would probably be Aquinas and Pascal and the aforementioned Aristotle.  But I intend to revisit Aristotle to wrestle with him again.

I’ll miss my friends in the program and the regularity of the process.  Fortunately, the Basic Program offers a wide range of alumni courses, which I plan on taking as long as my mind--and my knee--holds out.

It has been voyage of great discovery, and I am grateful for the opportunity to have gone through this.  And my reward?  A certificate to hang on the wall. And an extraordinary introduction to some of the great minds of human history.
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Web site for the Basic Program:  https://grahamschool.uchicago.edu/content/about-basic-program

"Priscilla" in London and Chicago

If you’ve not seen the 1994 film The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, you should.  It’s a delightful romp through the Australian Outback, led by three improbable drag queens (two, actually, and one transsexual); it’s a movie which, underneath its surface, deals with such themes as the trials of being different, cross-cultural bonding, being gay--and family values.  Priscilla is the bus this trio uses to drive into the heart of Australia--a pink bus (I won’t explain how it became pink as I don’t want to spoil the fun).  And in 2009, after runs in Australia and then New Zealand, the musical based on the movie opened in London; in 2011 it opened in New York; and two weeks ago it came to Chicago for a limited run.  And I was fortunate enough to see the show both in London and, this weekend, here in Chicago.

And what a delightful theatrical experience this show is.  Perhaps it’s not the stuff Broadway legends are made of, but this show is a keeper, and it gives one of the most fun-filled and delightful afternoons in the theater I’ve had since.....well, since The Book of Mormon.

Tick (Mitzi), Bernadette, and Adam (Felicia) head to Alice Springs to perform at a resort run by Tick’s wife Marion; they have long been separated, but before the separation Tick and Marion had a child, Benji.  Caught up in the gay life of Sydney, Tick has never told anyone he is a father.  Adventures follow the three men as they drive across the desert encountering improbable characters and facing dangers ranging from death in the desert from lack of water (but looking fabulous!) to ugly homophobia.  The climax comes when Tick must face his son for, basically, the first time, attempting to bond as father-son, helped by grounding from Marion, and, no matter the cost, look wonderful.

Yes, the bus is there on stage!  Slightly smaller, to be sure, but pink--and every other color and design imaginable: it’s covered it LED lights which change as needed.  There are background curtains of LED lights and divas descending from above and country music and disco balls and . . .  more, so much more.  The show is a feast for the senses.

Most importantly it affirms the simple fact that a family can consist of all sorts of arrangements.  Whether it’s two men and a transsexual in a bus or a father and son making ties over great emotional distances, families, one understands upon leaving this show, are now and forever changed and mean something different than they did for Mom and Dad way back in the dark ages.

If you’re gay, this show is absolutely life-affirming.  After the show I told Roger, one of three friends who accompanied me, that this was the gayest show I had ever seen.  And it was so in such a way that made one proud to be gay and confident that the regardless of how awful our past has been, the future will be better--no, the future will be fabulous!

My Need for Ritual

I don’t suppose I am much different from a good many people in my need for order and ritual in my life.  I do tend, as I have talked about in these blogs before, toward a slight OCD.  Nothing major, I don’t wash my hand obsessively, or have to skip cracks in the sidewalk (although I do wash my hands a lot and if possible I do skip the sidewalk cracks--who doesn’t?).  But I do like to know what is happening before it happens, and, as I’ve gotten older, I have lost most of my desire for spontaneity.  A little planning--okay, a lot of planning--is a good thing.

I get up at 6:00 every morning.  People, especially young people, don’t understand why I get up at a certain time when I’m retired and can sleep as late as I want.  But I like to keep regular hours and I find that I get more done in the mornings than later, so up early it is.  I check my e-mail, shower, and then head to Starbucks (yes, I wrote an earlier blog blasting what I called Starbucks’ zombies and now I am one) for morning coffee, two cups, no more no less, a banana, and, against my doctor’s orders, a pastry.  At 10:30 I join my friend Roger for whatever shopping we might want to do; or, if nothing is needed, we go for coffee, cup number 3.  After lunch I usually take a nap, 30 to 45 minutes, followed by coffee number 4 here at home.  If I get up from the nap in time, I watch Jeopardy!, just to be reminded how much I don’t know.  I’ll use the afternoon for housecleaning, studying for class, watching movies, or reading.  Don’t call or knock on my door between 5:30 and 6:00 as I’m watching my 16 minutes of evening news and 14 minutes of commercials.  Later, I may watch a little TV, catch another episode of Downton Abbey, or read.  I have a bowl of cereal around 10:00, catch the weather, shower (yes, again), and head to bed.

And Jake, my cat, is also a lover of ritual.  When I get up in the morning she expects, and always gets, her morning treats.  When I nap she usually naps with me.  Before bed she expects her 1/3 can of wet food, and will let me know if I’m running late (she hates opera night).  She gets brushed before my evening shower and is there waiting--demanding--that I not forget.  Then we have this snuggling ritual before falling asleep.

Leave the unpremeditated life to the young; I want my life planned, organized, and ritualized.

Mom and the Murder of Crows

The other night I watched a fascinating PBS special on crows, the ubiquitous and surprisingly intelligent bird everyone recognizes.*  Among a number of interesting facts, I learned that the crow is a tool-maker--only they are a step beyond the apes: not only do they make tools out of sticks, they make them with a hook on the end to retrieve items they need.  They mate for life and they have communities with shared duties, like feeding the young.  They can recognize human faces; and most astonishingly, they can teach their young to fear the same face.

But their problem solving abilities are far more complex than, until recently, scientists had reckoned.  The video included an experiment where a crow, if he wanted to fetch a tasty chunk of meat, had to use a long stick to pull it from a tube; but the long stick was in another cage and they had to use a shorter stick to first pull the long stick within reach before they could use the long stick to reach the meat.  Quickly done.  And then they moved the experiment to a third problem-solving level: they hung the shorter stick on a piece of string from a bar above the other two cages.  After hopping around a bit, the crow flew to the bar, used his beak and feet to pull up the string with the short stick, detached the stick from the string, carried it down to the cage with the long stick, used it to pull the long stick out, and then took the long stick over and inched the meat to within reach.  It was amazing to watch.

Then there was something even more startling: crows apparently have a concept of death.  They had video and there are records of crows gathering in the treetops over the body of a fallen comrade (I use that term on purpose).  They sat without making a sound for about ten minutes and then flew silently away.  That revelation gave me chills.  What else don’t we know?  And what don’t we know about the intelligence and emotional life of so many animals?

All that brought to mind my mother’s failed attempts to kill a murder of crows (a flock of crows is called a murder, as in a herd of cows, a colon of ants, a battery of barracudas, and a murder of crows).  We lived on a farm and crows were constantly in the garden, eating seeds, vegetables, sprouts, and just about anything else--crows are omnivores.  She tried scarecrows, a misnomer if ever there was one; they perched on them to better see the goodies in the garden.  She spent box after box of 4-10 gauge shotgun shells in a vain attempt to kill even a single crow; she had heard that by hanging the body of a crow near the garden, they would stay away.  She never got a one.  She claimed, and now I believe her, that they knew the exact range of the 4-10.  She would fire and miss.  She would move ten feet closer to them and they would fly ten feet away.  It was uncanny.  And for Mom, infuriating.  ‘Possums weren’t so lucky.  She hated them too as they would kill chickens in the henhouse for the fun of it, or so she claimed.  But then ’possums are about as intelligent as this stapler here on my desk.  She slaughtered them right and left.  Crows?  Nary a one.

She would have loved this video as she later, once the farm had been sold, became an avid birdwatcher.  Although I doubt if she ever grew to like crows; they would steal seeds from her favorite bird feeders!

*http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/episodes/a-murder-of-crows/full-episode/5977/

Me and the Granny Cart

About the only thing I miss about not having a car is the ability to drag large quantities of groceries home from the store.  Instead, I have to make multiple trips to the store carrying only what I can lug on my arms.  A possible solution is the wheeled cart, commonly called the “granny cart.”  And therein lies the problem: old people use these carts, and I’m not . . .  I don’t want . . .  Okay, it’s a matter of pure pride: I don’t want to be one of those old people dragging a cart wherever they go.

Silliness, I know.  And in this part of town, it’s not just old people who use these carts, since many young people also don’t have cars.  But who notices a 20-something with a granny cart?  But were I to use one, people would be offering me their seats on the train and passing to the other side of the street as I neared.  I’m not ready for that.

But a solution has presented itself: a stylish Trader Joe’s granny cart!  It’s colorful, useful, and light; and since the logo is clearly obvious, I can show that I’m trendy and cool and environmentally conscious. . . if still old.  My friend Roger got one and I’ve used it a few times.  Really a good way to go, I think: I’ll still have a granny cart, but I won’t look like a granny.

But life is never easy: I headed to Trader Joe’s to get one (only $12.95, too) and they are out!  And as far as anyone knows, they are not restocking them.  Damn, damn, damn . . .  I  may as well get a granny cart, put on a shawl, grab a cane, and head to the store.

Book Report

No, not that kind of book report.  This is my annual report on my reading from the previous year.  And it’s a depressing report: total books read last year, a mere 37.  2011 was 31 and 2010 was 46; but 2009 was 60. That’s as long as I’ve been keeping records.  The big question for me is why the totals have dropped so dramatically from 2009?

I am ahead of the average American reader.  The Pew Research Center jut published their findings on reading in America.  It’s called “The Rise of E-reading.”* Here’s a summary of the results:
Americans 18 and older read on average 17 books each year. 19% say they don’t read any books at all. Only 5% say they read more than 50.
Fewer Americans are reading books now than in 1978.
64% of respondents said they find the books they read from recommendations from family members, friends, or co-workers.
The average reader of e-books read 24 books (the mean number) in the past 12 months; the average non-e-book consumer read an average of 15.

I’m well ahead of the average (I also read e-books but just include them in my total with print books), but I’m way behind where I think I should be.  Why is that?

It’s entirely possible that my list of books read is not accurate; I could easily have forgotten to record some.  But I don’t think that would be many.  I also read a lot of magazines: The New Yorker, Time, Newsweek, The Threepenny Review, The Sun, Opera News, Smithsonian Magazine, The Gay and Lesbian Review, and, occasionally, The Atlantic.   I also read a number of articles each day from The New York Times.  Then there are the articles that friends forward, for example articles from The Wall Street Journal, sent by my Libertarian friend Phil.  All that magazine and newspaper reading takes time away from books.  I do include the books I’ve been reading for my classes at the University of Chicago, but those are often stretched out over a number of weeks; and I don’t include the books we only read selections from.  Another factor is quite simply that I no longer have the ability to concentrate like I used to; I sit for a while and my knees start to ache or my back begins to hurt; in other words: old age is interfering with my reading.  And then there are movies and TV;  Netflix is not a friend to readers.

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, but I certainly plan on reading more.  37 books a year?  Not acceptable.

*http://libraries.pewinternet.org/2012/04/04/the-rise-of-e-reading/