Resurrecting the Dead

I have few regrets about my life.  I figure if one is happy with the way life has turned out, then one must be grateful for all that went before, good and bad.  And so I am.  But of course there are a few moments one would like to go back and change.  For me, a major regret is that I never got an advanced degree.  That’s especially sad as I went through an entire master of arts program in creative writing, 1973-1974, did all the course work, and completed everything, including a thesis.  Since it was a creative writing program, my thesis was a novel.  Mine was called In Mighty Silence.  I worked on it for a year under the supervision of the writer in residence, Marilyn Harris.  At the end of the year, instead of submitting the novel for final approval and sitting for the oral defense, I decided, in a moment of noble foolishness, that the book wasn’t good enough.  I was going to write another one.  Ah, well, you can see where this is going.  So I did everything except the actual oral defense of the thesis, put the novel away—and then never wrote another.  Or another one for the masters program.  Not having the advanced degree didn’t seem to affect my getting a job in Oklahoma and Texas, but it certainly affected my salary for those 26 years I taught.  And I feel educationally “incomplete,” unfinished, as it were.

I haven’t dwelt on it over the years; what would be the point.  But there is that little niggling regret always in the back of my mind.  I wouldn’t be thinking about it now, or blogging about it, except, much to my surprise, I found the manuscript of the novel the last time I was in Texas, a manuscript that I thought was long lost.  It was tucked into a cache of papers I had stored.  When I went to clean out the storage space and toss most of the junk in there, I found In Mighty Silence.

And I have decided to retype it, revising it as I go, almost exactly 40 years on from finishing the novel, resurrecting the characters like zombies.  So far, it’s been an interesting experience, to say the least, and I’ve only just finished chapter 1.  The novel is better than I expected it would be; and it’s still not very good.  But I am plodding away on it, reworking it as best I can, trying to read the faded type through the yellowed paper, my marks and corrections, Marilyn’s annotations, missing pages, duplicated and altered pages.  I have no plans for publication, although should I get it into some kind of finished product I’ll have a few copies printed up for . . .  I don’t know why.  My “legacy”?  That seems hardly worth the time.  It’s probably just to get a sense of completion, even though I’ll not get the degree for it.  But having the book in front of me, printed up, copyrighted, bound with a cover, somehow makes the time I spent on it somewhat worthwhile.

I’ve done more foolish things for much less reward. 

Am I a Socialist?

Any time the discussion over coffee or drinks turns to politics, it becomes evident pretty quickly that my views lean far to the left.  And it doesn’t take long before someone asks, “Are you a socialist?”  I wish I could give a quick answer.  But the fact of the matter is that there is so much confusion and misunderstanding out there about socialism, so many myths and errors, that to answer yes would just lead to more confusion.  So let me clarify a few things before I try to answer the question.

First off, the is no one socialism, no block of beliefs carved from stone.  There are many socialisms.  A quick glance at Wikipedia and you’ll find these, among others:  Utopian socialism, Marxist socialism, anarchism, democratic socialism, eco-socialism, religious socialism, and even libertarian socialism (which seems to me to be an oxymoron); and some of these categories have sub-categories.  There are also a number of historical political movements that have used the term socialism which were not remotely socialist—The National Socialist German Workers' Party, the Nazi Party, comes to mind.  There are a number of socialist political movements through history which perhaps started as socialist, or at least envisioned themselves as socialist, which either weren’t or didn’t last long in that form: the USSR and Communist China, for example.

The most basic definition I can come up with would be that socialism is the communal ownership of the means of economic production and the subsequent management of that production.  But there is more than one problem with this definition: what does “communal ownership” mean, for example?  Does that mean government?  A co-op?  A group of workers?  A city?  Mostly, the answer depends on the type of socialism you are talking about.  And what is meant by “management”?  Certainly not the type of dictatorship we saw quickly grow in the USSR.  But some entity has to do that management.

Want to see a good example of socialism?  Check out the U.S. military:  “[I]f there was any question about how socialist the army is, they removed all doubt when they adopted their last slogan: Army of One. That sounds positively communist. Why don't they just call it the collective? And in the US military everyone pledges to support one another no matter what. No one gets left behind. Everyone gets government provided housing, health care, and even government clothing. The military is the most socialist institution we have.”*

And let’s make one thing clear: regardless of what Fox “News” and the ignorant Palins of the world claim, President Obama isn’t remotely a socialist; hell, he’s not even a particularly good leftist.

What socialism could do is stop or curtail the built-in, self-destructive structural problems inherent in capitalism, “the concentration of wealth at the top, which eventually makes economic growth impossible — stagnant wages mean capitalists’ customers don’t have the money to keep the economy growing—and leads to crisis.”**  

Socialism can put ethics back into politics.

So when people ask me if I’m a socialist, I hedge; I ask them what they mean and when they mention the USSR or Marx or, good grief, President Obama, I say simply, “Probably.”  If pinned down I’ll call myself a democratic socialist (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Democratic_socialism).

The sad fact is that, at 71 years of age, I will not live to see a socialist society as I envision it.  For now, capitalism reigns supreme, and one has only to watch the news on a regular basis to see where that is leading us.  Frankly, I am pretty pessimistic about the future.
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A couple of short videos to watch if you want to know more:

The great Howard Zinn on socialism:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJ9UChMSJPU


Bill Maher on socialism:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LMS_P09dKbc

Three books I can recommend:
Looking Backward, by Edward Bellamy
The Case for Socialism, by Alan Maass
Imagine: Living in a Socialist USA, edited by Frances Goldin, et al.
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*http://www.huffingtonpost.com/cenk-uygur/is-the-us-military-a-soci_b_252526.html
**http://www.dailykos.com/story/2013/04/04/1199205/-Socialism-what-it-isn-t#

Sorry, Ken, I'm Spending Your Inheritance

I live on a rather tight budget.  I have my Social Security check and my retirement pension, but that’s it.  So when I recently decided to take an Adriatic cruise in August with my best friend Roger, there was nothing to be done but to withdraw some funds from my rather limited investment account.  This is the account that is designated to go to my brother Ken when I shuffle off this mortal coil—years and years in the future, of course.  The investment account isn’t busted, but it’s greatly reduced (I’m also paying off a credit card bill).  Fortunately, Ken is way better off than I am, so my paltry sum won’t be missed much.

And the photo above is totally misleading.  But I couldn’t resist using it.  Ken is actually the best-natured of brothers, and although the inheritance has been reduced somewhat, he won’t even miss it.  I hope.  I hope, in fact, that he’ll miss me!  I mean I keep him on his toes with cartoons that put Republicans in a bad light (it’s so easy to do) and constantly rag him about his inexplicable aversion to opera (he actually walked out of a performance of Porgy and Bess, a performance for which people were clamoring for tickets; truly, I don’t understand it).  He’s more likely to miss my wiseacre-ing (is that even a word?) than my money.

So, Brother-Mine, perhaps you should lower expectations about that even bigger sailboat you were going to get with my money; you might even consider downsizing to a canoe.

Here’s a much better photo of Ken.  This is he with a favorite cat of his, both snoozing away.  What’s not to love!

My Year in Review

A summing up seems to be in order for the end of the year.  Of course my summing is insignificant compared to the world at large, but you can read about the world at large elsewhere; this is my blog so it will be about my year.

Here are some of the significant events for me in 2013:

—I finished the four-year Basic Program of Liberal Education for Adults through The University of Chicago’s Graham School of Continuing Liberal and Professions Studies—what a mouthful, so we just call it the Basic Program.  This terrific program is centered around the Great Books (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_books), a collection of significant and enduring works of literature and philosophy.  During each of three terms each year, we studied four to six works.  The class is divided into two section; in one section one work is covered in depth through the ten weeks of the term; in the other section several works are covered in less depth.  During the four years we studied a total of 58 works; most of these were read entire, although with a few (like The Wealth of Nations and Marx’s Capital) we studied only excerpts.  The selections in literature ranged from novels (Middlemarch) to plays (Shakespeare and the Greeks) and poetry.  Philosophy included six works by Plato alone, as well as representative other philosophers.  Some of the works studied I had read or even taught before (the Iliad, The Prince, and Oedipus Rex) while others were new to me (Middlemarch).  Some of the new works I loved (Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian War), some I did not care much for (Aquinas’s Treatise on Morals), and some I never really understood (Aristotle’s Ethics).  And my reward?  A certificate to hang on the wall.  But what a grand trip it has been through these wonderful works!
—It was a good year for theater.  I attended 12 plays, five of which were musicals.  There ranged from memorable (the unforgettable An Iliad at the Court Theater) to the tedious (a recent Merry Wives of Windsor at Chicago Shakespeare Theater).  Outstanding musicals included Book of Mormon and Priscilla.  The acting resources in Chicago are astonishing so it’s rare to have a less than sterling evening in the theater.
—13 operas!  Still not enough, if you ask me.  Highlights were another brilliant production from our newest opera company, The Haymarket Opera: Pimpinone by Telemann.  Lyric Opera is always good, although some are better than others.  A nicely sung Butterfly was marred by the rumble of a set piece moving ponderous in the midst of the beautiful “Humming Chorus,” although I could barely hear it.  I saw my first Parsifal this year, beautifully done, and yet another Traviata and another Rigoletto (I guess the “war horses” bring in the bucks).  Those overdone operas were balanced by a wonderful Streetcar.
—17 concerts, mostly excellent.  The musical talent in Chicago is amazing.  I’ve especially enjoyed the Lincoln Center Chamber Players and in particular their evening of Benjamin Britten works.
—Books: a mere 34.  Too much time reading magazines, which I don’t keep count of, and watching movies, which I also don’t keep count of, although I think I’ll start.  Still, 34 is 2.83 books a month.  It could be worse.

So, it’s been a good year.  I have never for an instant regretted my move to Chicago and looking over this list it’s easy to see why.  And as I look out the window now at the snow falling heavily, I love it here even more!

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.