BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The man who fights for his fellow-man is a better man than the one who fights for himself.
To think is to differ
Liberty is the most jealous and exacting mistress that can beguile the soul and brain of man.
As long as the world shall last there will be wrongs, and if no man objected and no man rebelled, those wrongs would last forever.
There is no such thing as justice - in or out of court.
You can only protect your liberties in this world by protecting the other man's freedom. You can only be free if I am free.
True patriotism hates injustice in its own land more than anywhere else.
If a man is happy in America, it is considered he is doing something wrong.
No other offense has ever been visited with such severe penalties as seeking to help the oppressed.
I don't believe in God because I don't believe in Mother Goose.
The law does not pretend to punish everything that is dishonest. That would seriously interfere with business.
Clarence Darrow
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Monday, July 18, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
To Maria:
Past three o'clock, before dawn,
I woke and looked over for you,
Needing you,
And I was comforted
To see you there, near,
Your legs wrestling with a pillow,
Your fingers stretched out
To me.
To Maria:
Past three o'clock, before dawn,
I woke and looked over for you,
Needing you,
And I was comforted
To see you there, near,
Your legs wrestling with a pillow,
Your fingers stretched out
To me.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
One of the mysteries of my life has been my neglect of you in correspondence. You remain one of the persons most beloved in my life. You may justifiably feel skeptical about what I say now, you really would be astonished at the number of times and places I've thought of you with affection--even when I am sad about something because I know that you would understand the sadness even if no one else on earth did.
One of the mysteries of my life has been my neglect of you in correspondence. You remain one of the persons most beloved in my life. You may justifiably feel skeptical about what I say now, you really would be astonished at the number of times and places I've thought of you with affection--even when I am sad about something because I know that you would understand the sadness even if no one else on earth did.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"He lay there in the dark thinking of all the things he did not know about his father and he realized that the father he knew was all the father he would ever know.
Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
"He lay there in the dark thinking of all the things he did not know about his father and he realized that the father he knew was all the father he would ever know.
Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
Monday, July 11, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Just for the record.
Volume of a sphere: 4.19 x radius cubed.
Why is the night sky not filled to the brim with stars? Because there has not been enough time for the light from all stars to reach us. In the event that enough time would have passed the night sky would be brilliant with the light of myriad stars.
The number of stars increases with distance cubed -- but star brightness fades with distance squared.
Just for the record.
Volume of a sphere: 4.19 x radius cubed.
Why is the night sky not filled to the brim with stars? Because there has not been enough time for the light from all stars to reach us. In the event that enough time would have passed the night sky would be brilliant with the light of myriad stars.
The number of stars increases with distance cubed -- but star brightness fades with distance squared.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"The steamships bound for New York left from Hamburg. The old three-masted, bark-rigged sail ships still left from Bremen. The steamships made the crossing in two weeks, the sail ships in six. But the sail ships were cheaper. They arrived in Bremen with their between decks loaded with cargo. After the cargo was discharged, crude accommodations were readied for poor travelers seeking outward passage. When the between deck held living cargo it was called "steerage class." The worth of incoming cargo was realized on arrival and thus was cared for accordingly. The value of the steerage passengers ended with their purchase of a ticket."
"The steamships bound for New York left from Hamburg. The old three-masted, bark-rigged sail ships still left from Bremen. The steamships made the crossing in two weeks, the sail ships in six. But the sail ships were cheaper. They arrived in Bremen with their between decks loaded with cargo. After the cargo was discharged, crude accommodations were readied for poor travelers seeking outward passage. When the between deck held living cargo it was called "steerage class." The worth of incoming cargo was realized on arrival and thus was cared for accordingly. The value of the steerage passengers ended with their purchase of a ticket."
Nick Tosches "King of the Jews."
Friday, June 17, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Oh yeah?, " said the big man, try this. He reached his huge fist up to the highest shelf and brought down Habana Caliente Caliente! It was a tiny bottle shaped in the image of Fidel Castro. My sinuses began to open and water... My eyes teared before the bottle cap was unscrewed.
mek
We made brothers into others and others into brothers.
mek
"Oh yeah?, " said the big man, try this. He reached his huge fist up to the highest shelf and brought down Habana Caliente Caliente! It was a tiny bottle shaped in the image of Fidel Castro. My sinuses began to open and water... My eyes teared before the bottle cap was unscrewed.
mek
We made brothers into others and others into brothers.
mek
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I was at physical therapy for my shoulder late this afternoon. After some discussion the therapists had agreed to play The White Stripes on the sound system,and my fellow patients were pulling ropes, lifting medical weights, having ice applied, you know, the usual stuff. My therapist, Sara, a nifty 25 year old woman was gently massaging my shoulder and was deep into her work.
Suddenly someone opened the door and shouted: "Michael Jackson Not Guilty on All Counts! "
Without missing a beat Sara said, "Put on 'Beat It'."
mek
I was at physical therapy for my shoulder late this afternoon. After some discussion the therapists had agreed to play The White Stripes on the sound system,and my fellow patients were pulling ropes, lifting medical weights, having ice applied, you know, the usual stuff. My therapist, Sara, a nifty 25 year old woman was gently massaging my shoulder and was deep into her work.
Suddenly someone opened the door and shouted: "Michael Jackson Not Guilty on All Counts! "
Without missing a beat Sara said, "Put on 'Beat It'."
mek
Thursday, June 02, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A skull is more interesting than a naked woman.
______________________________________
One must live -- until the plague takes him.
.............................................................................Ingmar Bergman.....
A skull is more interesting than a naked woman.
______________________________________
One must live -- until the plague takes him.
.............................................................................Ingmar Bergman.....
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com dialog from Ingmar Bergman,
(the Knight notices the Priest behind the confessional's bars)
(Knight)
I want to confess as best I can.
But my heart is a void.
The void is a mirror.
I see my face...
I feel loathing and horror.
My indifference to men has shut me out.
I live now in a world of ghosts...
A prisoner in my dreams and illusions.
(Priest)
Yet you want to die.
(Knight)
Yes, I do.
(Priest)
What are you waiting for?
(Knight)
Knowledge.
(Priest)
You want a guarantee.
(Knight)
Call it what you will.
Is it so hard to conceive God with one's senses?
Why must He hide in a mist of vague promises and invisible miracles?
How are we to to believe the believers
When we don't believe ourselves?
What will become of us who want to believe but cannot?
And what will become of those who neither will nor can believe?
Why cannot I kill God within me?
Why does He go on living in a painful, humiliating way?
I want to tear Him out of my heart.
Be He remains a mocking reality
Which I cannot get rid of.
Do you hear me?
(Priest)
Perhaps there is no one there.
(Knight)
Then life is a senseless terror.
No man can live with Death
And know that everything is nothing.
Most people think neither of Death nor nothingness
Until the day they stand on the edge of life and see the darkness.
(Priest, with longing)
Ah....the day.
(Knight)
I see.
We must make an idol of our fear
And call it "God."
(Priest)
You are uneasy.
(Knight)
Death visited me this morning.
We are playing chess.
This respite enables me to perform a vital errand.
(Priest)
What errand?
(Knight)
My whole life has been a meaningless search.
I say that without bitterness nor self-reproach.
I know it is the same for all
But I want to use my respite for one significant action.
(Priest)
So you play chess with death?
(Knight)
He is a skillful tactician but I have not yet lost one piece.
(Priest)
How can you outwit Death?
(Knight)
By a combination of Bishop and Knight.
(The Knight looks up at the Priest and realizes that it is Death not the Priest. )
(the Knight notices the Priest behind the confessional's bars)
(Knight)
I want to confess as best I can.
But my heart is a void.
The void is a mirror.
I see my face...
I feel loathing and horror.
My indifference to men has shut me out.
I live now in a world of ghosts...
A prisoner in my dreams and illusions.
(Priest)
Yet you want to die.
(Knight)
Yes, I do.
(Priest)
What are you waiting for?
(Knight)
Knowledge.
(Priest)
You want a guarantee.
(Knight)
Call it what you will.
Is it so hard to conceive God with one's senses?
Why must He hide in a mist of vague promises and invisible miracles?
How are we to to believe the believers
When we don't believe ourselves?
What will become of us who want to believe but cannot?
And what will become of those who neither will nor can believe?
Why cannot I kill God within me?
Why does He go on living in a painful, humiliating way?
I want to tear Him out of my heart.
Be He remains a mocking reality
Which I cannot get rid of.
Do you hear me?
(Priest)
Perhaps there is no one there.
(Knight)
Then life is a senseless terror.
No man can live with Death
And know that everything is nothing.
Most people think neither of Death nor nothingness
Until the day they stand on the edge of life and see the darkness.
(Priest, with longing)
Ah....the day.
(Knight)
I see.
We must make an idol of our fear
And call it "God."
(Priest)
You are uneasy.
(Knight)
Death visited me this morning.
We are playing chess.
This respite enables me to perform a vital errand.
(Priest)
What errand?
(Knight)
My whole life has been a meaningless search.
I say that without bitterness nor self-reproach.
I know it is the same for all
But I want to use my respite for one significant action.
(Priest)
So you play chess with death?
(Knight)
He is a skillful tactician but I have not yet lost one piece.
(Priest)
How can you outwit Death?
(Knight)
By a combination of Bishop and Knight.
(The Knight looks up at the Priest and realizes that it is Death not the Priest. )
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In his Press Conference yesterday, did President Bush say:
"Detainees have been trained to disassemble. Disassemble is a word than means not to tell the truth."
That's what I heard--but then my ears may may be biased.
In his Press Conference yesterday, did President Bush say:
"Detainees have been trained to disassemble. Disassemble is a word than means not to tell the truth."
That's what I heard--but then my ears may may be biased.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
We are in the middle of a thunderstorm on the first day of the hurricane season. Last year's four big ones put everyone on edge and all kinds of preparations are being made that were never made before.
In Florida when it rains people act like people do in New York when there is an eight inch snowstorm. Dinner dates are cancelled, theater tickets are given to the maids and doormen, and every one stays inside.
Florida has rescinded (for a week) the sales tax on anything related to hurricanes, so this is a good time to buy plywood, batteries, and plastic sheeting. I must look at the list to see what else is on the tax free list. The state is advertising tax free sales so much that if I were a retailer I would leave everything at full price, which I am sure most retailers are doing.
Maria and I have half of the North Atlantic tuna catch cached in a closet here along with enough water to supply the most of the elephants at Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey.
We are in the middle of a thunderstorm on the first day of the hurricane season. Last year's four big ones put everyone on edge and all kinds of preparations are being made that were never made before.
In Florida when it rains people act like people do in New York when there is an eight inch snowstorm. Dinner dates are cancelled, theater tickets are given to the maids and doormen, and every one stays inside.
Florida has rescinded (for a week) the sales tax on anything related to hurricanes, so this is a good time to buy plywood, batteries, and plastic sheeting. I must look at the list to see what else is on the tax free list. The state is advertising tax free sales so much that if I were a retailer I would leave everything at full price, which I am sure most retailers are doing.
Maria and I have half of the North Atlantic tuna catch cached in a closet here along with enough water to supply the most of the elephants at Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Friday, May 20, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
.S. Eliot (1888–1965). Prufrock and Other Observations. 1917.
4. Rhapsody on a Windy Night
TWELVE o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
5
And all its clear relations
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
10
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered,
15
The street-lamp said, “Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
20
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.”
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
25
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
30
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
“Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
35
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.”
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
40
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
45
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
“Regard the moon,
50
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
55
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
60
That cross and cross across her brain.”
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
65
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.
The lamp said,
“Four o’clock,
70
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
Mount.
75
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.”
The last twist of the knife.
.S. Eliot (1888–1965). Prufrock and Other Observations. 1917.
4. Rhapsody on a Windy Night
TWELVE o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
5
And all its clear relations
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
10
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered,
15
The street-lamp said, “Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
20
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin.”
The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
25
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
30
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
“Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
35
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.”
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
40
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
45
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
“Regard the moon,
50
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
55
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
60
That cross and cross across her brain.”
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
65
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.
The lamp said,
“Four o’clock,
70
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
Mount.
75
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.”
The last twist of the knife.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"people are dying because of a belief in an imaginary God.
Sam Harris.org
"
...The end of faith, religion, error--and the beginning of reason."
Stem cells; Blastocyst. 150 cells in a spheroid shape. The brain of a fly has 100,000 cells.
Sam Harris.org
You are trumping the needs of a little girl with diabetes, a total burn victim, a parkinsons victim, an alzheimer's patient when you deny the use of stem cells for reserach.
Sam harris.org
Dogma can be secular too--Stalinism, Naziism, Polpot, --political religions. When mass murder of innocent non-combatants occurs ask yourself what the motive might be. What do the murderers believe. Always it will preposterous.
SamHarris.org
We shouldn't close the door on belief until all the possibilities have been exhausted.
"people are dying because of a belief in an imaginary God.
Sam Harris.org
"
...The end of faith, religion, error--and the beginning of reason."
Stem cells; Blastocyst. 150 cells in a spheroid shape. The brain of a fly has 100,000 cells.
Sam Harris.org
You are trumping the needs of a little girl with diabetes, a total burn victim, a parkinsons victim, an alzheimer's patient when you deny the use of stem cells for reserach.
Sam harris.org
Dogma can be secular too--Stalinism, Naziism, Polpot, --political religions. When mass murder of innocent non-combatants occurs ask yourself what the motive might be. What do the murderers believe. Always it will preposterous.
SamHarris.org
We shouldn't close the door on belief until all the possibilities have been exhausted.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
To the Man on the Thirtieth Floor
Looking down
You think
Because you're so high up there
You don't stink
Like the rest of us.
mek
To the Man on the Thirtieth Floor
Looking down
You think
Because you're so high up there
You don't stink
Like the rest of us.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
peri·pe·teia
Pronunciation: "per-&-p&-'tE-&, -'tI-Function: nounEtymology: Greek, from peripiptein to fall around, change suddenly, from peri- + piptein to fall —more at FEATHER Date: 1591:
a sudden or unexpected reversal of circumstances or situation especially in a literary work
peri·pe·teia
Pronunciation: "per-&-p&-'tE-&, -'tI-Function: nounEtymology: Greek, from peripiptein to fall around, change suddenly, from peri- + piptein to fall —more at FEATHER Date: 1591:
a sudden or unexpected reversal of circumstances or situation especially in a literary work
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
To choose doubt as a philosophy is akin to choosing immobility as a means of philosophy.
Life of Pi.
To choose doubt as a philosophy is akin to choosing immobility as a means of philosophy.
Life of Pi.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
If a fool would throw a stone into water ten wise men could not take it out.
Yiddish saying.
If a fool would throw a stone into water ten wise men could not take it out.
Yiddish saying.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Two quotes from Remi:
Remi's tooth fell out and it was in her hand. She asked me: "Grandpa, how much do you think the tooth fairy will leave under my pillow for this tooth? "
I asnwered: "About a dime."
Remi: "Did you say a diam-mond?"
________________________________________________
Later we were sitting on opposite ends of a sofa while pretending to have a conversation by cell phone. The conversation went on for some time and then she said, "Grandpa, hold on, I'm driving through a tunnel."
Remi's tooth fell out and it was in her hand. She asked me: "Grandpa, how much do you think the tooth fairy will leave under my pillow for this tooth? "
I asnwered: "About a dime."
Remi: "Did you say a diam-mond?"
________________________________________________
Later we were sitting on opposite ends of a sofa while pretending to have a conversation by cell phone. The conversation went on for some time and then she said, "Grandpa, hold on, I'm driving through a tunnel."
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
My used Solara convertible gets 19 miles per gallon. It uses regular gas --
Today I paid $2.25 per gallon -- the cheapest in this area.
At that rate I am getting 8.5 miles per dollar.
Walking becomes a more attractive alternative....
My used Solara convertible gets 19 miles per gallon. It uses regular gas --
Today I paid $2.25 per gallon -- the cheapest in this area.
At that rate I am getting 8.5 miles per dollar.
Walking becomes a more attractive alternative....
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Q. from Buster to all and sundry:
Has every grandisonic, lexiphnanic phrasemonger found his way to Deadwood on Sunday nights? Have I been hornswoggled by its magniloquent, bedizened language? Am I getting cock sucking over-excited, overly enthusiastic, about this fucking program, or is it really approaching fucking Shakespearean heights?
Buster Stronghart
A: MG
Buster:
Can we not deduce that the Cocksucker who employs Shakespearean ways of speaking likely intends Shakespearean fucking themes? MG
A: SS
Dearest Buster:
It is laughable that you would think that you are too excited overly enthusiastic about Deadwood. I too find it the greatest.
The characters and their interplay cast i na forming American town is high art. The language and actionunconstrained by our present day experience is transporting .
K. and M. are repelled by it. I wont miss it if I can help it. I gladly pay the HBO bill -cheap at double the price. Each and everycharacter is complex and nuanced. I love it. I love it.
I even watchthe Tues nite repeat to fill in for bathroom abscence or frig visits. There is nothing on TV that even comes close. Epic.
ss
A: HR
I MUST AGREE WITH STEVE, DEADWOOD IS TRULY ONE OF THE MOST ORIGINAL TVDRAMAS TO EVER HIT THE AIRWAVES.I LOVE THE DIRTY FILTHY LOOK OF THE SHOW, AND OF COURSE THE WAY THEAVAILABLE EASY SEX WITH WHORES IS DEPICTED. NO DINNERS, NO FLOWERS;THE WAY GOD INTENDED IT TO BE. JUST LIFT UP YOUR SKIRTS. FORGET SHAKESPEARE....hr
Q. from Buster to all and sundry:
Has every grandisonic, lexiphnanic phrasemonger found his way to Deadwood on Sunday nights? Have I been hornswoggled by its magniloquent, bedizened language? Am I getting cock sucking over-excited, overly enthusiastic, about this fucking program, or is it really approaching fucking Shakespearean heights?
Buster Stronghart
A: MG
Buster:
Can we not deduce that the Cocksucker who employs Shakespearean ways of speaking likely intends Shakespearean fucking themes? MG
A: SS
Dearest Buster:
It is laughable that you would think that you are too excited overly enthusiastic about Deadwood. I too find it the greatest.
The characters and their interplay cast i na forming American town is high art. The language and actionunconstrained by our present day experience is transporting .
K. and M. are repelled by it. I wont miss it if I can help it. I gladly pay the HBO bill -cheap at double the price. Each and everycharacter is complex and nuanced. I love it. I love it.
I even watchthe Tues nite repeat to fill in for bathroom abscence or frig visits. There is nothing on TV that even comes close. Epic.
ss
A: HR
I MUST AGREE WITH STEVE, DEADWOOD IS TRULY ONE OF THE MOST ORIGINAL TVDRAMAS TO EVER HIT THE AIRWAVES.I LOVE THE DIRTY FILTHY LOOK OF THE SHOW, AND OF COURSE THE WAY THEAVAILABLE EASY SEX WITH WHORES IS DEPICTED. NO DINNERS, NO FLOWERS;THE WAY GOD INTENDED IT TO BE. JUST LIFT UP YOUR SKIRTS. FORGET SHAKESPEARE....hr
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Q. from Buster to all and sundry:
Has every grandisonic, lexiphnanic phrasemonger found his way to Deadwood on Sunday nights? Have I been hornswoggled by its magniloquent, bedizened language? Am I getting cock sucking over-excited, overly enthusiastic, about this fucking program, or is it really approaching fucking Shakespearean heights?
Buster Stronghart
A: MG
Buster:
Can we not deduce that the Cocksucker who employs Shakespearean ways of speaking likely intends Shakespearean fucking themes? MG
A: SS
Dearest Buster:
It is laughable that you would think that you are too excited overly enthusiastic about Deadwood. I too find it the greatest.
The characters and their interplay cast i na forming American town is high art. The language and actionunconstrained by our present day experience is transporting .
K. and M. are repelled by it. I wont miss it if I can help it. I gladly pay the HBO bill -cheap at double the price. Each and everycharacter is complex and nuanced. I love it. I love it.
I even watchthe Tues nite repeat to fill in for bathroom abscence or frig visits. There is nothing on TV that even comes close. Epic.
ss
A: HR
I MUST AGREE WITH STEVE, DEADWOOD IS TRULY ONE OF THE MOST ORIGINAL TVDRAMAS TO EVER HIT THE AIRWAVES.I LOVE THE DIRTY FILTHY LOOK OF THE SHOW, AND OF COURSE THE WAY THEAVAILABLE EASY SEX WITH WHORES IS DEPICTED. NO DINNERS, NO FLOWERS;THE WAY GOD INTENDED IT TO BE. JUST LIFT UP YOUR SKIRTS. FORGET SHAKESPEARE....hr
Q. from Buster to all and sundry:
Has every grandisonic, lexiphnanic phrasemonger found his way to Deadwood on Sunday nights? Have I been hornswoggled by its magniloquent, bedizened language? Am I getting cock sucking over-excited, overly enthusiastic, about this fucking program, or is it really approaching fucking Shakespearean heights?
Buster Stronghart
A: MG
Buster:
Can we not deduce that the Cocksucker who employs Shakespearean ways of speaking likely intends Shakespearean fucking themes? MG
A: SS
Dearest Buster:
It is laughable that you would think that you are too excited overly enthusiastic about Deadwood. I too find it the greatest.
The characters and their interplay cast i na forming American town is high art. The language and actionunconstrained by our present day experience is transporting .
K. and M. are repelled by it. I wont miss it if I can help it. I gladly pay the HBO bill -cheap at double the price. Each and everycharacter is complex and nuanced. I love it. I love it.
I even watchthe Tues nite repeat to fill in for bathroom abscence or frig visits. There is nothing on TV that even comes close. Epic.
ss
A: HR
I MUST AGREE WITH STEVE, DEADWOOD IS TRULY ONE OF THE MOST ORIGINAL TVDRAMAS TO EVER HIT THE AIRWAVES.I LOVE THE DIRTY FILTHY LOOK OF THE SHOW, AND OF COURSE THE WAY THEAVAILABLE EASY SEX WITH WHORES IS DEPICTED. NO DINNERS, NO FLOWERS;THE WAY GOD INTENDED IT TO BE. JUST LIFT UP YOUR SKIRTS. FORGET SHAKESPEARE....hr
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
re: Deadwood
Am I getting over-excited, overly enthusiastic about this program, or is it really approaching Shakespearean heights?
re: Deadwood
Am I getting over-excited, overly enthusiastic about this program, or is it really approaching Shakespearean heights?
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Fed Ex Letter received at the offices of a certain Attorney
Fed Ex Letter received at the offices of a certain Attorney
Sirs:
A hypothetical question:
If an individual were making love with his mistress or wife and took an actual bite, a chunk of meat, out of her shoulder while possessed by passion, what crime would that be?
If, still in a state of passion he were actually to eat, that chunk of flesh, to swallow it in some fury of blinded love, would that act be cannibalism? If so, would it be a criminal act or would it be muted, mitigated, by the court's recognition of the uncontrollable power of their explosive passion?
Kindly let me know as soon as possible.
m
Monday, April 25, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I know nothing about art: But like Justice Stewart I know it when I see it. Buying on line? I don't know. Even when you buy from the biggest auction houses in the world errors in attribution are made.
Myfriend Muggsy Feldstein, the plumber, attributed one of his daughter's finger paintings to George Braque and I paid him half a month's salary for it thinking that I was stealing it from him. Muggsy had the lastlaugh.
Now in re the feminized painting of St Michael and the Dragon. that you are thinking of purchasing...I can tell you that that painting the hero of a painting as anadolescent, androgynous figure was very popular in the fifteenth and sixteenth century.
Recently I saw a slide of Andrea Del Verrocchio's David, the one in Florence that was restored a few years ago. Magnifico!
David appears hand on hip, Goliath's sword in his other. He wears a short skirt, and the detail of his musculature is very soft. His hair is curled and comes down to his neck. His face is feminine,one hip is thrust to the side.
If a woman were in this pose you wouldsay she was flirting. He has a bonnet on his head, flowered, definitely a woman's head covering.
The Medici's contracted for the statue and placed in in a privatewalled garden so that the hoi polloi (Joel and me -- not you Lew & Stella) would not be shocked by it.
I know nothing about art: But like Justice Stewart I know it when I see it. Buying on line? I don't know. Even when you buy from the biggest auction houses in the world errors in attribution are made.
Myfriend Muggsy Feldstein, the plumber, attributed one of his daughter's finger paintings to George Braque and I paid him half a month's salary for it thinking that I was stealing it from him. Muggsy had the lastlaugh.
Now in re the feminized painting of St Michael and the Dragon. that you are thinking of purchasing...I can tell you that that painting the hero of a painting as anadolescent, androgynous figure was very popular in the fifteenth and sixteenth century.
Recently I saw a slide of Andrea Del Verrocchio's David, the one in Florence that was restored a few years ago. Magnifico!
David appears hand on hip, Goliath's sword in his other. He wears a short skirt, and the detail of his musculature is very soft. His hair is curled and comes down to his neck. His face is feminine,one hip is thrust to the side.
If a woman were in this pose you wouldsay she was flirting. He has a bonnet on his head, flowered, definitely a woman's head covering.
The Medici's contracted for the statue and placed in in a privatewalled garden so that the hoi polloi (Joel and me -- not you Lew & Stella) would not be shocked by it.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A few months ago I noticed that an index listing in the NY Public library was incorrect.
Man Ray was listed as "Ray, Man," as though his last name was Ray. ..
Man Ray created his name and considered it as one piece. MAN RAY.
The listing should be "Man Ray." I reported this to the NY Public Librarian at 42nd Street, and was told that it was not under their control, but rather under the control of the Library of Congress (LOC). I followed up with a letter to the "Name Authority File," of the LOC, in Washington, D.C.
Yesterday I received an email from them. “After a month of research we have discovered that you are correct. The change has been made. Thank you for your message."
This change will affect thousands of college and town libraries all of which use the LOC system as well as some commercial libraries.
I was elated! I finally made my mark.. Now on to the Dewey decimal system.
A few months ago I noticed that an index listing in the NY Public library was incorrect.
Man Ray was listed as "Ray, Man," as though his last name was Ray. ..
Man Ray created his name and considered it as one piece. MAN RAY.
The listing should be "Man Ray." I reported this to the NY Public Librarian at 42nd Street, and was told that it was not under their control, but rather under the control of the Library of Congress (LOC). I followed up with a letter to the "Name Authority File," of the LOC, in Washington, D.C.
Yesterday I received an email from them. “After a month of research we have discovered that you are correct. The change has been made. Thank you for your message."
This change will affect thousands of college and town libraries all of which use the LOC system as well as some commercial libraries.
I was elated! I finally made my mark.. Now on to the Dewey decimal system.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"What do lawyers do that is immoral? " I asked,.
My friend answered, "Fight so hard to insure that everyone gets a fair trial, even if it means that a young man from Brooklyn who kills a man because he spilled his beer goes free of punishment. "
Ouch.
"What do lawyers do that is immoral? " I asked,.
My friend answered, "Fight so hard to insure that everyone gets a fair trial, even if it means that a young man from Brooklyn who kills a man because he spilled his beer goes free of punishment. "
Ouch.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It is strange, this painless death. Like stepping through a door held politely open for him. It doesn't seem right, somehow; a trivialization of the event. Death ought to be harder to achieve. Better to be hunted down, rooted out, hurting and bloody. Then death would come as a relief. It would be welcome.
Richard Selzer
--Raising the Dead
It is strange, this painless death. Like stepping through a door held politely open for him. It doesn't seem right, somehow; a trivialization of the event. Death ought to be harder to achieve. Better to be hunted down, rooted out, hurting and bloody. Then death would come as a relief. It would be welcome.
Richard Selzer
--Raising the Dead
Friday, April 08, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A second gold star to anyone who can find for me the short story, " The Last Escapade," by Harry (Mark?) _____________.
In fact, as many gold stars as the finder wishes and my eternal gratitude. It was once read by Ed Asner of NPR's "Selected Shorts."
A second gold star to anyone who can find for me the short story, " The Last Escapade," by Harry (Mark?) _____________.
In fact, as many gold stars as the finder wishes and my eternal gratitude. It was once read by Ed Asner of NPR's "Selected Shorts."
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The streetlamp sputtered
The streetlamp muttered
The streetlamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin."
________________________________________
A gold star for the first person to identify the surprising author of
"Rhapsody on a Windy Night."
The streetlamp sputtered
The streetlamp muttered
The streetlamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin."
________________________________________
A gold star for the first person to identify the surprising author of
"Rhapsody on a Windy Night."
Friday, April 01, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful pet poodle along for company. One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long he discovers that he is lost. Wandering about, he notices a leopard heading rapidly in his direction with the obvious intention of having lunch. The poodle thinks, "Uh-oh, I'm in deep trouble now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, he immediately settles down to chew on the bones with his back to the approaching cat. Just as the leopard is about to leap, the poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard. I wonder if there are any more around here." Hearing this, the leopard halts his attack in mid-stride, a look of terror comes over him, and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew," says the leopard. "That was close. That poodle nearly had me." Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. So, off he goes. But the poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that something must be up. The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard. The leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine." Now the poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?" But instead of running, the dog sits down with his back to his attackers, pretending he hasn't seen them yet and, just when they get close enough to hear, the poodle says..................... "Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off half an hour ago to bring me another leopard!" MORAL: SOMETIMES BULLSHIT AND BRILLIANCE ARE THE SAME
A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful pet poodle along for company. One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long he discovers that he is lost. Wandering about, he notices a leopard heading rapidly in his direction with the obvious intention of having lunch. The poodle thinks, "Uh-oh, I'm in deep trouble now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, he immediately settles down to chew on the bones with his back to the approaching cat. Just as the leopard is about to leap, the poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard. I wonder if there are any more around here." Hearing this, the leopard halts his attack in mid-stride, a look of terror comes over him, and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew," says the leopard. "That was close. That poodle nearly had me." Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. So, off he goes. But the poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that something must be up. The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard. The leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine." Now the poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?" But instead of running, the dog sits down with his back to his attackers, pretending he hasn't seen them yet and, just when they get close enough to hear, the poodle says..................... "Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off half an hour ago to bring me another leopard!" MORAL: SOMETIMES BULLSHIT AND BRILLIANCE ARE THE SAME
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Basil:
A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful pet poodle along for company. One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long he discovers that he is lost. Wandering about, he notices a leopard heading rapidly in his direction with the obvious intention of having lunch. The poodle thinks, "Uh-oh, I'm in deep trouble now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, he immediately settles down to chew on the bones with his back to the approaching cat. Just as the leopard is about to leap, the poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard. I wonder if there are any more around here." Hearing this, the leopard halts his attack in mid-stride, a look of terror comes over him, and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew," says the leopard. "That was close. That poodle nearly had me." Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. So, off he goes. But the poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that something must be up. The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard. The leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine." Now the poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?" But instead of running, the dog sits down with his back to his attackers, pretending he hasn't seen them yet and, just when they get close enough to hear, the poodle says..................... "Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off half an hour ago to bring me another leopard!" MORAL: SOMETIMES BULLSHIT AND BRILLIANCE ARE THE SAME
From Basil:
A wealthy old lady decides to go on a photo safari in Africa, taking her faithful pet poodle along for company. One day the poodle starts chasing butterflies and before long he discovers that he is lost. Wandering about, he notices a leopard heading rapidly in his direction with the obvious intention of having lunch. The poodle thinks, "Uh-oh, I'm in deep trouble now!" Noticing some bones on the ground close by, he immediately settles down to chew on the bones with his back to the approaching cat. Just as the leopard is about to leap, the poodle exclaims loudly, "Boy, that was one delicious leopard. I wonder if there are any more around here." Hearing this, the leopard halts his attack in mid-stride, a look of terror comes over him, and he slinks away into the trees. "Whew," says the leopard. "That was close. That poodle nearly had me." Meanwhile, a monkey who had been watching the whole scene from a nearby tree, figures he can put this knowledge to good use and trade it for protection from the leopard. So, off he goes. But the poodle sees him heading after the leopard with great speed, and figures that something must be up. The monkey soon catches up with the leopard, spills the beans and strikes a deal for himself with the leopard. The leopard is furious at being made a fool of and says, "Here monkey, hop on my back and see what's going to happen to that conniving canine." Now the poodle sees the leopard coming with the monkey on his back and thinks, "What am I going to do now?" But instead of running, the dog sits down with his back to his attackers, pretending he hasn't seen them yet and, just when they get close enough to hear, the poodle says..................... "Where's that damn monkey? I sent him off half an hour ago to bring me another leopard!" MORAL: SOMETIMES BULLSHIT AND BRILLIANCE ARE THE SAME
Monday, March 28, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Travel, once thought to be enlightening, broadening and educational, has become nothing more than an experience of shopping, restaurants and hotels.
Travel, once thought to be enlightening, broadening and educational, has become nothing more than an experience of shopping, restaurants and hotels.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Notes to be developed:
perceived difference. otherness--difference
"Jewface" as in "Blackface" the face Jews put on when they went on stage...a shallow appearance of Jewishness
Conflicted Jewishness--were the original deniers the second generation Jews of America?
Sense of denying, the actuality of the holocaust, we were unwilling or unable to express/accept our Jewishness,
the showbusiness term, "too Jewish." The second generation actively rejected the foriegnness of their parents.
Hansens Thesis: "The third generation remembers what the second generation forgets."
Notes to be developed:
perceived difference. otherness--difference
"Jewface" as in "Blackface" the face Jews put on when they went on stage...a shallow appearance of Jewishness
Conflicted Jewishness--were the original deniers the second generation Jews of America?
Sense of denying, the actuality of the holocaust, we were unwilling or unable to express/accept our Jewishness,
the showbusiness term, "too Jewish." The second generation actively rejected the foriegnness of their parents.
Hansens Thesis: "The third generation remembers what the second generation forgets."
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Notes to be developed:
perceived difference. otherness--difference
"Jewface" as in "Blackface" the face Jews put on when they went on stage...a shallow appearance of Jewishness
Conflicted Jewishness--were the original deniers the second generation Jews of America?
Sense of denying, the actuality of the holocaust, we were unwilling or unable to express/accept our Jewishness,
the showbusiness term, "too Jewish." The second generation actively rejected the foriegnness of their parents.
Hansens Thesis: "The third generation remembers what the second generation forgets."
Notes to be developed:
perceived difference. otherness--difference
"Jewface" as in "Blackface" the face Jews put on when they went on stage...a shallow appearance of Jewishness
Conflicted Jewishness--were the original deniers the second generation Jews of America?
Sense of denying, the actuality of the holocaust, we were unwilling or unable to express/accept our Jewishness,
the showbusiness term, "too Jewish." The second generation actively rejected the foriegnness of their parents.
Hansens Thesis: "The third generation remembers what the second generation forgets."
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"If a lion could talk we could not understand him." Wittgenstein
Maybe this is why liberals and conservative don't seem to understand each other.
"If a lion could talk we could not understand him." Wittgenstein
Maybe this is why liberals and conservative don't seem to understand each other.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Hanson's Thesis on immigration: "the third generation remembers what the second forgot."
Hanson's Thesis on immigration: "the third generation remembers what the second forgot."
Saturday, March 12, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
These are further thoughts on the posting dated Feb 25.
Death’s dark exile from life and family.
Love’s bright journey
Exiles rooted in sand
Held up in fair air only by a few dry tendrils.
Dada grounded in the joy of doubt.
**
How did we divide away from them? Ambitious to become part of the “other” how did they fail on the one hand to assimilate, while, on the other hand, becoming so much an influence on American-European culture. Where would the twentieth century have gone were it not for Freud, Einstein and Marx? If you think about it there is only one other transforming catalyst of the twentieth century and that would be Darwin, whose work was done in the 19th Century but whose effect, like Marx was felt mainly in the twentieth century.
By the end of the second world war Jews were among the major novelists in America, The film world,as well as the theater were also filled with Jews, and their influence on what became of America should not be underestimated. In medicine and music, in all of the modern media Jews played a major part. The civil rights movement was reinforced (at the least) by Jews, both practicing and secular—and by many who had consciously forgotten their Jewish heritage.
But while ambitious to become part of this culture, we never grafted on to it. The graft remains unhealed and very visible whether we call ourselves Greenberg or Green.
We are the perpetual Dadaists, grounded in the joy of doubt, exiles rooted in sand, held up, only in fair weather, by a few dry tendrils.
Our past has suffered a slow, stoic death. It has been inescapable. There has been the loss, the destruction or dissipation of what once was valued and loved. Now reduced detritus cast on the wind. Everything we love is an unendurably fragile. The personal is always lost.
My veins flow with a ghostly blood that calls their names. But I know nothing of them. I am full of an inaccessible history of everything that happened but it is utterly lost and wasted except for a few mysterious spiritual, unconscious strains of a music barely heard, yet, somehow I still march to it.
These are further thoughts on the posting dated Feb 25.
Death’s dark exile from life and family.
Love’s bright journey
Exiles rooted in sand
Held up in fair air only by a few dry tendrils.
Dada grounded in the joy of doubt.
**
How did we divide away from them? Ambitious to become part of the “other” how did they fail on the one hand to assimilate, while, on the other hand, becoming so much an influence on American-European culture. Where would the twentieth century have gone were it not for Freud, Einstein and Marx? If you think about it there is only one other transforming catalyst of the twentieth century and that would be Darwin, whose work was done in the 19th Century but whose effect, like Marx was felt mainly in the twentieth century.
By the end of the second world war Jews were among the major novelists in America, The film world,as well as the theater were also filled with Jews, and their influence on what became of America should not be underestimated. In medicine and music, in all of the modern media Jews played a major part. The civil rights movement was reinforced (at the least) by Jews, both practicing and secular—and by many who had consciously forgotten their Jewish heritage.
But while ambitious to become part of this culture, we never grafted on to it. The graft remains unhealed and very visible whether we call ourselves Greenberg or Green.
We are the perpetual Dadaists, grounded in the joy of doubt, exiles rooted in sand, held up, only in fair weather, by a few dry tendrils.
Our past has suffered a slow, stoic death. It has been inescapable. There has been the loss, the destruction or dissipation of what once was valued and loved. Now reduced detritus cast on the wind. Everything we love is an unendurably fragile. The personal is always lost.
My veins flow with a ghostly blood that calls their names. But I know nothing of them. I am full of an inaccessible history of everything that happened but it is utterly lost and wasted except for a few mysterious spiritual, unconscious strains of a music barely heard, yet, somehow I still march to it.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Artists are paid to dance at the edge of the cliff--the closer to the edge the more they get paid. Christos has walked at the very verge. He must walk at the edge and dodge the arrows shot at him by those unhappy with is vision. Before the gates were installed Christos had created a loaded moment. Expectations. Upon installation the moment exploded brilliantly for some and sighed like a smokey dud to others.
Artists are paid to dance at the edge of the cliff--the closer to the edge the more they get paid. Christos has walked at the very verge. He must walk at the edge and dodge the arrows shot at him by those unhappy with is vision. Before the gates were installed Christos had created a loaded moment. Expectations. Upon installation the moment exploded brilliantly for some and sighed like a smokey dud to others.
Friday, February 25, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From Basil to me:
A Stranger Among Us. Did you ever see that movie guys? I just watchedit on TV. A female cop goes undercover in a Hasidic community inBrooklyn to solve a murder. It is a crime movie but for me it was reallya spiritual one. It takes place in the heavily Hasidic population ofBrooklyn. The image you have in your mind of Hasidim, it was all there.In the homes, on the streets, in the shops, in cheddahs, in synagogue.Mobs of men with beards and peos, black wide rimmed hats, long black coats,open and flopping in the wind, long tsitzsis fringes visible, walkingquickly to who knows where. Kiddish and kaddish, women in shietels,plainly dressed, cooking, holding babies, little boys with yarmulkes andpeos. My people.... How can I be so different. It's as if we live ondifferent planets. They believe in so much. I believe in nothing.I know they are no better or worse than anyone else andthey hold no mystery for me. Why then do I feel that their veryexistence removes the burden of being Jewish from my shoulders? Why am Iso grateful for that? How can we be so different from each other? Ilove them with all my heart and soul.
From me to Basil:
Great Minds Think Alike:
On JetBlue back from NYC we were seated behind a family of Hasids. Grandmother, mother, two sisters, one with a baby and a grandfather. The grandfather took the window seat and buried himself in a book of Hebrew writing and remained in it until landing. The women and the baby however were in constant chatter and sharing of food across the aisle.
On the spot I wrote this:
2-22-2005,
JetBlue, LAG to FLL.
What is it? Why do these Hasids irk me so? They take so long to get seated, to stow their belongings, to decide who should sit where. The gradfather says nothing-- just takes a window seat and suddenly is apart from everyone and everthing. A book in Hebrew appears in his hand as though by magic and he buries himself in it.
Grandma has a large plastic container of food. I am afraid that it is going to smell. Why am I tempted to say something about the food they bring with them--or to make sure that they see that I am eating a ham sandwich? They open the container--surprise: it doesn't smell--it seems to be a mixture of kasha and mushrooms, maybe nuts. Grandma is putting some into a small cup and is giving some to her daughter.
Grandma leans over the aisle, reaching over to her daughter to pass the food and to talk. She makes herself unaware that she is different. Oblivious to the scene she is making. Leaning into the aisle, speaking loudly, in Hebrew or Yiddish to her daughter. It might as well be Greek to me.
What is it that annoys me?
And yet, there are times when I yearn to be one of them, to understand better who we were when we came one-hundred and twenty years ago. There is only one photo of my great-grandfather and very few of my grandfather, but I look deeply into each one trying to discern who they were. But it is impossible, and yet I peer and peer.
I crave understanding, but I know I will never carve it out of these photos.
If only I could have dinner with them, each of us at the same age--maybe 50, or even now at 65. What a dinner that would be. Great-grandfather Abraham, Grandfather Aaron, Father Bernie and me. I think that Max would like to be a part of the conversation too, Cousin Arnold might like to come.
Who are we really. How much have we changed since we landed here in the 1880s? How much are we the same? How much have we been affected by the thoughts of these ancestors--even though we may never have known them? I look into the mirror on my bathroom wall and I see my father's face. Did he see his father's? I make certain gestures that I know he made. Did those gestures come down from a previous generation too? Or has the slate been erased? Like a palimpsest how much of the writing underlies what is written over it? How much of them underlies what I am?
Seeing these Hasid's, awakens once again, my overwhelming sense of loss.
From Basil to me:
A Stranger Among Us. Did you ever see that movie guys? I just watchedit on TV. A female cop goes undercover in a Hasidic community inBrooklyn to solve a murder. It is a crime movie but for me it was reallya spiritual one. It takes place in the heavily Hasidic population ofBrooklyn. The image you have in your mind of Hasidim, it was all there.In the homes, on the streets, in the shops, in cheddahs, in synagogue.Mobs of men with beards and peos, black wide rimmed hats, long black coats,open and flopping in the wind, long tsitzsis fringes visible, walkingquickly to who knows where. Kiddish and kaddish, women in shietels,plainly dressed, cooking, holding babies, little boys with yarmulkes andpeos. My people.... How can I be so different. It's as if we live ondifferent planets. They believe in so much. I believe in nothing.I know they are no better or worse than anyone else andthey hold no mystery for me. Why then do I feel that their veryexistence removes the burden of being Jewish from my shoulders? Why am Iso grateful for that? How can we be so different from each other? Ilove them with all my heart and soul.
From me to Basil:
Great Minds Think Alike:
On JetBlue back from NYC we were seated behind a family of Hasids. Grandmother, mother, two sisters, one with a baby and a grandfather. The grandfather took the window seat and buried himself in a book of Hebrew writing and remained in it until landing. The women and the baby however were in constant chatter and sharing of food across the aisle.
On the spot I wrote this:
2-22-2005,
JetBlue, LAG to FLL.
What is it? Why do these Hasids irk me so? They take so long to get seated, to stow their belongings, to decide who should sit where. The gradfather says nothing-- just takes a window seat and suddenly is apart from everyone and everthing. A book in Hebrew appears in his hand as though by magic and he buries himself in it.
Grandma has a large plastic container of food. I am afraid that it is going to smell. Why am I tempted to say something about the food they bring with them--or to make sure that they see that I am eating a ham sandwich? They open the container--surprise: it doesn't smell--it seems to be a mixture of kasha and mushrooms, maybe nuts. Grandma is putting some into a small cup and is giving some to her daughter.
Grandma leans over the aisle, reaching over to her daughter to pass the food and to talk. She makes herself unaware that she is different. Oblivious to the scene she is making. Leaning into the aisle, speaking loudly, in Hebrew or Yiddish to her daughter. It might as well be Greek to me.
What is it that annoys me?
And yet, there are times when I yearn to be one of them, to understand better who we were when we came one-hundred and twenty years ago. There is only one photo of my great-grandfather and very few of my grandfather, but I look deeply into each one trying to discern who they were. But it is impossible, and yet I peer and peer.
I crave understanding, but I know I will never carve it out of these photos.
If only I could have dinner with them, each of us at the same age--maybe 50, or even now at 65. What a dinner that would be. Great-grandfather Abraham, Grandfather Aaron, Father Bernie and me. I think that Max would like to be a part of the conversation too, Cousin Arnold might like to come.
Who are we really. How much have we changed since we landed here in the 1880s? How much are we the same? How much have we been affected by the thoughts of these ancestors--even though we may never have known them? I look into the mirror on my bathroom wall and I see my father's face. Did he see his father's? I make certain gestures that I know he made. Did those gestures come down from a previous generation too? Or has the slate been erased? Like a palimpsest how much of the writing underlies what is written over it? How much of them underlies what I am?
Seeing these Hasid's, awakens once again, my overwhelming sense of loss.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Monday, February 07, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
People are dying everyday on behalf of an imaginary God.
Well, after all these years I realize now that I will have traveled this earth from birth to death without experiencing a single bursting wonderful week in my lifetime. Nothing has happened, not tragedy, not eleation, not discovery. My life, like most, has been nothing more than that of the average middle class American-- a lot better than most of the human beings on earth, yes-- but still, there hasn;t been a sense of brilliant moments, unbearable excitement, just an on going soap opera, a melodrama in which nothing happens that can't be fixed.
That ignores the loss of friends and family.
People are dying everyday on behalf of an imaginary God.
Well, after all these years I realize now that I will have traveled this earth from birth to death without experiencing a single bursting wonderful week in my lifetime. Nothing has happened, not tragedy, not eleation, not discovery. My life, like most, has been nothing more than that of the average middle class American-- a lot better than most of the human beings on earth, yes-- but still, there hasn;t been a sense of brilliant moments, unbearable excitement, just an on going soap opera, a melodrama in which nothing happens that can't be fixed.
That ignores the loss of friends and family.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A Tale of Love and Darkness, Amos Oz
The first tale:
I could not get to see Bob as things got very complicated. I was to drive to a certain house in the far west of Ft, Lauderdale, a little known section of Tamarac, where he would be visiting another friend who is living with an Israeli. Then we would go aside for a time together.
Finding this place in Tamarac is harder than finding Timbuktu--and Spencer and I had a hard enough time getting there.
I obtained sets of directions from the friend, the Israeli, and later from MapQuest. MapQuest could not find the house until prompted by a US Postal Zipcode.
But then he left a voice mail asking me to come earlier but I was at the gym and so did not get his call until I got out of the gym returned to my car, the Solera convertible of which we spoke the other day.
And there was a second voice mail that he had arrived at the friend's house and that I should come there for a short time after which he would be going to still another house where Robin's brother, Mason, was staying (or lived?) ... At his point I decided that I should just go home and see Bob the next time that I am in New York which will be in February.
Is Robin's brother actually named Mason, or is he a bricklayer, or a member of a secret society? I'd like to get to the bottom of this. If he is a Mason perhaps he would have shown me a secret handshake or two--maybe I should have gone.
The second tale:
I am sending a copy of the Amos Oz book to Michel's (Patti's daughter) husband who is a history buff and who has a special interest in things Jewish. I can't finish the book because I keep rereading his sentences and paragraphs. He is delicious. Better than eating a warm, fresh apple pie with a slice of cheddar cheese and better than most sex. Oz knows how to write--and yes, the translator did a fine job. I can't help reading the same lines over and over again.
But, from the memoir you can see that he had the genes to write and was brought up in a house of writers. Gad, there's so much to do. Now we have to find out about S. Y. Agnon. Did you know anything about him before the book? I had heard of him--but that's all.
I was speaking with my mother this morning who sends regards to all and who reminds me to be tolerant.
A Tale of Love and Darkness, Amos Oz
The first tale:
I could not get to see Bob as things got very complicated. I was to drive to a certain house in the far west of Ft, Lauderdale, a little known section of Tamarac, where he would be visiting another friend who is living with an Israeli. Then we would go aside for a time together.
Finding this place in Tamarac is harder than finding Timbuktu--and Spencer and I had a hard enough time getting there.
I obtained sets of directions from the friend, the Israeli, and later from MapQuest. MapQuest could not find the house until prompted by a US Postal Zipcode.
But then he left a voice mail asking me to come earlier but I was at the gym and so did not get his call until I got out of the gym returned to my car, the Solera convertible of which we spoke the other day.
And there was a second voice mail that he had arrived at the friend's house and that I should come there for a short time after which he would be going to still another house where Robin's brother, Mason, was staying (or lived?) ... At his point I decided that I should just go home and see Bob the next time that I am in New York which will be in February.
Is Robin's brother actually named Mason, or is he a bricklayer, or a member of a secret society? I'd like to get to the bottom of this. If he is a Mason perhaps he would have shown me a secret handshake or two--maybe I should have gone.
The second tale:
I am sending a copy of the Amos Oz book to Michel's (Patti's daughter) husband who is a history buff and who has a special interest in things Jewish. I can't finish the book because I keep rereading his sentences and paragraphs. He is delicious. Better than eating a warm, fresh apple pie with a slice of cheddar cheese and better than most sex. Oz knows how to write--and yes, the translator did a fine job. I can't help reading the same lines over and over again.
But, from the memoir you can see that he had the genes to write and was brought up in a house of writers. Gad, there's so much to do. Now we have to find out about S. Y. Agnon. Did you know anything about him before the book? I had heard of him--but that's all.
I was speaking with my mother this morning who sends regards to all and who reminds me to be tolerant.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Like me, whether trabeated, arcuated, or suspended, a structure seeks stasis by balancing forces in tension and compression.
Like me, whether trabeated, arcuated, or suspended, a structure seeks stasis by balancing forces in tension and compression.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Like me, whether trabeated, arcuated, or suspended, a structure seeks stasis by balancing forces in tension and compression.
Like me, whether trabeated, arcuated, or suspended, a structure seeks stasis by balancing forces in tension and compression.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
You scored as Verbal/Linguistic.
You have highly developed auditory skills, enjoy reading and writing and telling stories, and are good at getting your point across. You learn best by saying and hearing words. People like you include poets, authors, speakers, attorneys, politicians, lecturers and teachers.
Verbal/Linguistic 100%
Intrapersonal 92%
Interpersonal 89%
Bodily/Kinesthetic 79%
Visual/Spatial 64%
Logical/Mathematical 64%
Musical/Rhythmic 14%
You scored as Verbal/Linguistic. The Rogers Indicator of Multiple Intelligencescreated with QuizFarm.com";
You scored as Verbal/Linguistic.
You have highly developed auditory skills, enjoy reading and writing and telling stories, and are good at getting your point across. You learn best by saying and hearing words. People like you include poets, authors, speakers, attorneys, politicians, lecturers and teachers.
Verbal/Linguistic 100%
Intrapersonal 92%
Interpersonal 89%
Bodily/Kinesthetic 79%
Visual/Spatial 64%
Logical/Mathematical 64%
Musical/Rhythmic 14%
You scored as Verbal/Linguistic. The Rogers Indicator of Multiple Intelligencescreated with QuizFarm.com";
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"I would have liked to have been a man with with three shadows..."
"He may not be a good man. But at least he knows bad from good, and he knows we haven't much choice. "
Amos Oz, A Tale of Love and Darkness
"I would have liked to have been a man with with three shadows..."
"He may not be a good man. But at least he knows bad from good, and he knows we haven't much choice. "
Amos Oz, A Tale of Love and Darkness
Thursday, January 20, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
if the person taking the test had a brain tumor or stroke that allowed him to see to his left only (a right homonymous hemianopsia) he might start on the right and read to the left. since he can't see to the right he might move vertically in an attempt to find a starting point within the blind area. by the way, he should not drive.....its a complicated subject...call later i'll try for a better explanation.....bob
----- Original Message -----
if the person taking the test had a brain tumor or stroke that allowed him to see to his left only (a right homonymous hemianopsia) he might start on the right and read to the left. since he can't see to the right he might move vertically in an attempt to find a starting point within the blind area. by the way, he should not drive.....its a complicated subject...call later i'll try for a better explanation.....bob
----- Original Message -----
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
From "an interesting blog"
Listen, Buster (which I couln't resist)-I don't know how old you think I am, but I'm no spring chicken myself. I am 45 if I'm a day, and well versed in maskery. I think other people force me into masks, and I am too polite to climb out of them or point out that they actually aren't there. Perhaps masks work like snake skins- as soon as you're aware of your mask you shed it. So many questions, so few typewriter keys.
16:30
From "an interesting blog"
Listen, Buster (which I couln't resist)-I don't know how old you think I am, but I'm no spring chicken myself. I am 45 if I'm a day, and well versed in maskery. I think other people force me into masks, and I am too polite to climb out of them or point out that they actually aren't there. Perhaps masks work like snake skins- as soon as you're aware of your mask you shed it. So many questions, so few typewriter keys.
16:30
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Sunday, December 26, 2004
My Dear Stephen,
I received your New Year’s missive this morning. I recognized your firm, manly hand immediately, and avidly opened its envelope eagerly expecting a jolly note, and I wasn’t disappointed.
But, dear Stephen, an assertion that a check is enclosed is not the same as actually enclosing one. Perhaps it has something to do with appearance and reality. This is usually discussed in Philosophy 101. There are people who think that saying something makes it true. I believe that it was Kant who wrote several volumes discussing this problem—or it may have been my mother.
Search as I may, even after carefully inspecting every corner of the envelope, even calling Sam the Bloodhound, Mrs. Garamond’s affable pet, and even after resurrecting Sherlock Holmes and putting him on the case—no check was found.
Sherlock mentioned the ideograms at the bottom right-side of your letter. Watson has been unable to find a dictionary in any language with which to decipher them. Any clues that you might share will be appreciated.
Another mystery to be solved is the regular alternation of lines in bold with lines in regular font in my letters. Please take no ill meaning, friend, in fact, take no meaning at all. My printer is out of control, mischievous, and needs a good thrashing—or, perhaps, defenestration.
I remain your devoted servant, sir,
Sunday, December 26, 2004
My Dear Stephen,
I received your New Year’s missive this morning. I recognized your firm, manly hand immediately, and avidly opened its envelope eagerly expecting a jolly note, and I wasn’t disappointed.
But, dear Stephen, an assertion that a check is enclosed is not the same as actually enclosing one. Perhaps it has something to do with appearance and reality. This is usually discussed in Philosophy 101. There are people who think that saying something makes it true. I believe that it was Kant who wrote several volumes discussing this problem—or it may have been my mother.
Search as I may, even after carefully inspecting every corner of the envelope, even calling Sam the Bloodhound, Mrs. Garamond’s affable pet, and even after resurrecting Sherlock Holmes and putting him on the case—no check was found.
Sherlock mentioned the ideograms at the bottom right-side of your letter. Watson has been unable to find a dictionary in any language with which to decipher them. Any clues that you might share will be appreciated.
Another mystery to be solved is the regular alternation of lines in bold with lines in regular font in my letters. Please take no ill meaning, friend, in fact, take no meaning at all. My printer is out of control, mischievous, and needs a good thrashing—or, perhaps, defenestration.
I remain your devoted servant, sir,
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Note to Bob-
Bob:
I had to go the motor vehicle bureau in order to make a change on my license.
While I was there I saw a man taking an eye test using an optical device that looked like a long pair of binoculars.
I assume that there is an eye-chart within the device.
Apparently he misunderstood the instructions and he read the eye-chart vertically. Has this ever happened in your office? Is this very rare?
When the examiner asked him to read horizontally he read from right to left. No, he was neither Chinese nor Hebrew.
Does this happen in your office?
mek
Note to Bob-
Bob:
I had to go the motor vehicle bureau in order to make a change on my license.
While I was there I saw a man taking an eye test using an optical device that looked like a long pair of binoculars.
I assume that there is an eye-chart within the device.
Apparently he misunderstood the instructions and he read the eye-chart vertically. Has this ever happened in your office? Is this very rare?
When the examiner asked him to read horizontally he read from right to left. No, he was neither Chinese nor Hebrew.
Does this happen in your office?
mek
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Masks, roles: we never get rid of them. Maybe years of meditation, or of analysis would strip them away. Right now the Guggenheim Museum in NYC has an exhibit of Aztec art and one of the pieces shows a face being un-wrapped from two other faces that cover the orginal face. I think it is on the Guggenheim website--better if you are in NYC go to see the exhibit before it leaves town.
I am an old man--at least much older than you. I am lucky enough to have retained many friends from my high school days. When we get together all masks that life has painted upon us are stripped away. We know each other as the real boys we once were. We can breathe again, without restriction, and laugh, and find our essential honest selves again.
Masks, roles: we never get rid of them. Maybe years of meditation, or of analysis would strip them away. Right now the Guggenheim Museum in NYC has an exhibit of Aztec art and one of the pieces shows a face being un-wrapped from two other faces that cover the orginal face. I think it is on the Guggenheim website--better if you are in NYC go to see the exhibit before it leaves town.
I am an old man--at least much older than you. I am lucky enough to have retained many friends from my high school days. When we get together all masks that life has painted upon us are stripped away. We know each other as the real boys we once were. We can breathe again, without restriction, and laugh, and find our essential honest selves again.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Often
I awaken to an eldritch sunrise at my window,
And black clouds floating east towards me,
Their furthest eastern edges gilded in a pinkish gold,
And a narrow beam of the bright light seemingly aimed right for my eye.
Often
I awaken to an eldritch sunrise at my window,
And black clouds floating east towards me,
Their furthest eastern edges gilded in a pinkish gold,
And a narrow beam of the bright light seemingly aimed right for my eye.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Monday, January 03, 2005
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
New Year's Resolution.
Well, here's a few things that I already do. No resolutions needed here--except to try harder to live up to them. And then, the resolutions:
Punctuality. My score is close to perfect.
Truth: My word is my bond. My score is close to perfect.
Justice: personally I try to be just. My score, however, could be improved.
Getting things done quickly. The sooner I get things done, the sooner I can get to something else. I believe in this, but my score is close to Failure.
Routine: Someone pointed out to me that having a routine helps to get things done, while hardly noticing that I am doing them. My score? Failure.
Do the hard things first. This came from a woman with three names who was editor of a woman's magazine for several years, decades ago. She was incredibly efficient, and handled many jobs simultaneously. Her husband's name was Brown and he, too, was a man with his own successes. I would add remembering names to my list, but one one of my resolutions is to not worry about my memory. O, it comes to me. Like magic: her name was Helen Gurly Brown.
MORE: More exercise. More water. More Sleep. These three imperatives could be from Ben Franklin. Every one has had them on their resolution list at one time or another, or every time. I won't give myself a grade, a another resolution is not to criticise myself.
LESS: Less food. Gloria Vanderbilt reminds us that even a leaf of lettuce has calories.
Do not worry about Memory: It's there or it isn't.
Criticism. Most criticism, though it may seem objective is actually self-criticism. I must boost myself -- and others too. I give myself an A+ for boosting others; but a D for boosting myself. Instead of boosting myself I boot myself.
--
New Year's Resolution.
Well, here's a few things that I already do. No resolutions needed here--except to try harder to live up to them. And then, the resolutions:
Punctuality. My score is close to perfect.
Truth: My word is my bond. My score is close to perfect.
Justice: personally I try to be just. My score, however, could be improved.
Getting things done quickly. The sooner I get things done, the sooner I can get to something else. I believe in this, but my score is close to Failure.
Routine: Someone pointed out to me that having a routine helps to get things done, while hardly noticing that I am doing them. My score? Failure.
Do the hard things first. This came from a woman with three names who was editor of a woman's magazine for several years, decades ago. She was incredibly efficient, and handled many jobs simultaneously. Her husband's name was Brown and he, too, was a man with his own successes. I would add remembering names to my list, but one one of my resolutions is to not worry about my memory. O, it comes to me. Like magic: her name was Helen Gurly Brown.
MORE: More exercise. More water. More Sleep. These three imperatives could be from Ben Franklin. Every one has had them on their resolution list at one time or another, or every time. I won't give myself a grade, a another resolution is not to criticise myself.
LESS: Less food. Gloria Vanderbilt reminds us that even a leaf of lettuce has calories.
Do not worry about Memory: It's there or it isn't.
Criticism. Most criticism, though it may seem objective is actually self-criticism. I must boost myself -- and others too. I give myself an A+ for boosting others; but a D for boosting myself. Instead of boosting myself I boot myself.
--
Thursday, December 30, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Every morning she would appear at the bakery precisely at ten A.M. with a shopping list purportedly for the three women who lived with her, but actually it was all for her--and most of the workers at the bakery knew it. I sat at the small cafe table, eying her huge ass, her mountainous breasts, pushing at her holey knitted sweater, and watched as it rode up from her waist over her belly.
Her eyes would widen as the counter girl placed a prune danish into the bottom of the bag, then a almond cheese danish, and a brioche, at last a croissant, some liquefied butter appearing as it was squeezed slightly to fit it into the bag. Usually at this time she would push some hair off her forehead and then, after she paid for the baked goods she would go behind the shed to have her four pastries out of sight. She daintily nibbled at first, but finally devoured all, using her pudgy fingers to push them into her mouth in a last desperate moment, determined to finish before being discovered.
Every morning she would appear at the bakery precisely at ten A.M. with a shopping list purportedly for the three women who lived with her, but actually it was all for her--and most of the workers at the bakery knew it. I sat at the small cafe table, eying her huge ass, her mountainous breasts, pushing at her holey knitted sweater, and watched as it rode up from her waist over her belly.
Her eyes would widen as the counter girl placed a prune danish into the bottom of the bag, then a almond cheese danish, and a brioche, at last a croissant, some liquefied butter appearing as it was squeezed slightly to fit it into the bag. Usually at this time she would push some hair off her forehead and then, after she paid for the baked goods she would go behind the shed to have her four pastries out of sight. She daintily nibbled at first, but finally devoured all, using her pudgy fingers to push them into her mouth in a last desperate moment, determined to finish before being discovered.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Her eyes revealed a no longer suppressed, ever present sorrow, a sadness drawn out of bitterness. Of course, I was drawn to her.
Her eyes revealed a no longer suppressed, ever present sorrow, a sadness drawn out of bitterness. Of course, I was drawn to her.
Monday, December 27, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Yes, twelve stories up. But no stories to speak.
At dawn the lights of night still lit,
From the west
A yellow light over the city.
On the eastern horizon,
A red blip, as yet only the top of the arc,
I feel my morning urge to pee.
Dark clouds gilded in red and gold.
Watching, alone, I wonder.
A few cars speed on the roads.
--and a siren breaks my only possession,
My peaceful, happy silence.
For a moment I deliberate—I should pee.
Shall I start the coffee first?
Or pee? I get out the coffee can,
Carefully measure out
Exactly four cups of water. Then,
Four heaping tablespoons of Brown Gold
Into the filter. I turn on the machine, hear
Its slight hiss as the water seeps through the grounds.
And make my way through the dawn-light in
The familiar apartment. I hear Maria sleep-breathing
In the bedroom. At last, I make my pee.
Yes, she labors, even in sleep.
MEK, December 2004
Yes, twelve stories up. But no stories to speak.
At dawn the lights of night still lit,
From the west
A yellow light over the city.
On the eastern horizon,
A red blip, as yet only the top of the arc,
I feel my morning urge to pee.
Dark clouds gilded in red and gold.
Watching, alone, I wonder.
A few cars speed on the roads.
--and a siren breaks my only possession,
My peaceful, happy silence.
For a moment I deliberate—I should pee.
Shall I start the coffee first?
Or pee? I get out the coffee can,
Carefully measure out
Exactly four cups of water. Then,
Four heaping tablespoons of Brown Gold
Into the filter. I turn on the machine, hear
Its slight hiss as the water seeps through the grounds.
And make my way through the dawn-light in
The familiar apartment. I hear Maria sleep-breathing
In the bedroom. At last, I make my pee.
Yes, she labors, even in sleep.
MEK, December 2004
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Someone said:
People don't seem to realize that their opinion of the world is a confession of character.
Someone said:
People don't seem to realize that their opinion of the world is a confession of character.
Monday, December 20, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I have come to a conclusion: My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
Vladimir Nabokov
I have come to a conclusion: My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
Vladimir Nabokov
Friday, December 10, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Serious literature fans:
You couldn't do better than "The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll," Alvaro Mutis.
Serious literature fans:
You couldn't do better than "The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll," Alvaro Mutis.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Yes, I want to be attentive, involved in what I am doing, involved in what is going on around me. I want to engage with with friends, my family members. But somehow, I am not really engaged. I am apart. I keep myself that way. I am like Alvaro Mutis' character, Maqroll, known to his friends as the 'watchman.' But my habit of keeping myself at a distance from my own life, and from the lives of my friends and my dearest removes me from what is real. I am always peering through a window trying to see what is real. But I can't feel through the glass. I only observe.
Is that the way I want it?
And, by the way, you couldn't find a better book than, Alvaro Mutis, "The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll."
Yes, I want to be attentive, involved in what I am doing, involved in what is going on around me. I want to engage with with friends, my family members. But somehow, I am not really engaged. I am apart. I keep myself that way. I am like Alvaro Mutis' character, Maqroll, known to his friends as the 'watchman.' But my habit of keeping myself at a distance from my own life, and from the lives of my friends and my dearest removes me from what is real. I am always peering through a window trying to see what is real. But I can't feel through the glass. I only observe.
Is that the way I want it?
And, by the way, you couldn't find a better book than, Alvaro Mutis, "The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll."
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Another aspect of the Bush vote was that the great unwashed and the bourgeoisie have been bamboozled by the Republican Propaganda Machine. Patriotism,. The American flag, "socialist" ideas, the danger of gov't subsidized medical care...etc. -- It's really amazing how stupid Mr. Average Joe is; can't he see how good Medicare is? Can't he see how good even Medicaid is (in some states.)
It's great to believe in Democracy, but until there is an educational system, with educable students, we are never going to have a rational, fair and just government. And now they are falling for the privatization of Social Security. Under Mrs. Thatcher the old age pension system was revamped partially privatized--and it doesn't work.There have been scandals and failures. But the Republicans want Privatization. But the Brits also have a National Health Care System.
But, Heaven forefend!! No No!! They don't want that!
Another aspect of the Bush vote was that the great unwashed and the bourgeoisie have been bamboozled by the Republican Propaganda Machine. Patriotism,. The American flag, "socialist" ideas, the danger of gov't subsidized medical care...etc. -- It's really amazing how stupid Mr. Average Joe is; can't he see how good Medicare is? Can't he see how good even Medicaid is (in some states.)
It's great to believe in Democracy, but until there is an educational system, with educable students, we are never going to have a rational, fair and just government. And now they are falling for the privatization of Social Security. Under Mrs. Thatcher the old age pension system was revamped partially privatized--and it doesn't work.There have been scandals and failures. But the Republicans want Privatization. But the Brits also have a National Health Care System.
But, Heaven forefend!! No No!! They don't want that!
Friday, November 26, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
November 25, 2004
The first time I saw waxed fruit I knew it was wrong. -- Fake fruit? Who, I thought, did Mrs. Craven think she was fooling? I was six, maybe seven, but I knew instinctively that I would never have fake fruit in my house.It was off. Its ugliness began to dominate the kitchen. From that very moment I knew that I was better than Brian and his mother. My innocence had been lost and I knew that I could never again trust appearances.That didn't, however, stop me from lusting after Brian's redheaded, slim and smiling mother. I didn't yet know why, but I wanted her. (A precursor, perhaps, of my future, far ahead, when I would lust after a nurse or maid hired by my children to look after me, but will have forgotten why, or what to do with them.)I would have regained that precious innocence, undeserved of course, because between that morning of the waxed fruit and my future years of decrepitude much will have happened.
But padding around the apartment or house in my robe and deerskin, fur-lined slippers (fake fur, now that I think of it) an harmless old man, grey headed, already partly ghost or spirit, I will be glad to pass through the warm dust-mote laden sunbeams that will float through the windows, and stripe the wall and carpet. I know that I will engage a faulty memory, confusing a nephew with a child, a teen-age romance with a French film seen in middle age, or perhaps a business failure with some one else's successful invasion of the perfume import market
November 25, 2004
The first time I saw waxed fruit I knew it was wrong. -- Fake fruit? Who, I thought, did Mrs. Craven think she was fooling? I was six, maybe seven, but I knew instinctively that I would never have fake fruit in my house.It was off. Its ugliness began to dominate the kitchen. From that very moment I knew that I was better than Brian and his mother. My innocence had been lost and I knew that I could never again trust appearances.That didn't, however, stop me from lusting after Brian's redheaded, slim and smiling mother. I didn't yet know why, but I wanted her. (A precursor, perhaps, of my future, far ahead, when I would lust after a nurse or maid hired by my children to look after me, but will have forgotten why, or what to do with them.)I would have regained that precious innocence, undeserved of course, because between that morning of the waxed fruit and my future years of decrepitude much will have happened.
But padding around the apartment or house in my robe and deerskin, fur-lined slippers (fake fur, now that I think of it) an harmless old man, grey headed, already partly ghost or spirit, I will be glad to pass through the warm dust-mote laden sunbeams that will float through the windows, and stripe the wall and carpet. I know that I will engage a faulty memory, confusing a nephew with a child, a teen-age romance with a French film seen in middle age, or perhaps a business failure with some one else's successful invasion of the perfume import market
Monday, November 15, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
So much has been lost that any account of the Katz-Iverson saga will be of necessity mostly surmise and fictional. The reader is invited to gather around him/herself an aura of what might have been and what has formed the existing generation. There are some facts that we know and from them we will generate an history biased by hope, and conjured up in my mind and the minds of my father and mother and, much later, my sister.
My claim to truth is limited by lack of information. For the most part, my story is merely conjecture.
So much has been lost that any account of the Katz-Iverson saga will be of necessity mostly surmise and fictional. The reader is invited to gather around him/herself an aura of what might have been and what has formed the existing generation. There are some facts that we know and from them we will generate an history biased by hope, and conjured up in my mind and the minds of my father and mother and, much later, my sister.
My claim to truth is limited by lack of information. For the most part, my story is merely conjecture.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Of my proud agnosticism:
In my life I have always distrusted those with provincial fixed opinion, and my faith in the "man who cannot say, 'I am,' who remains himself and another," remains unabated. I am a cosmopolitan, admittedly only half-educated, but still a person with a view of the world that encompasses all. My scale is often in balance, and when one side or another of any issue puts too heavy a thumb on the mechanism I become anxious, and my sense of justice becomes inflamed. I need to see both sides just as I need to have beauty in my life.
mek
Of my proud agnosticism:
In my life I have always distrusted those with provincial fixed opinion, and my faith in the "man who cannot say, 'I am,' who remains himself and another," remains unabated. I am a cosmopolitan, admittedly only half-educated, but still a person with a view of the world that encompasses all. My scale is often in balance, and when one side or another of any issue puts too heavy a thumb on the mechanism I become anxious, and my sense of justice becomes inflamed. I need to see both sides just as I need to have beauty in my life.
mek
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot
To names ignoble, born to be forgot!
In vain, recorded in historic page
They court the notice of a future age:
Those tiny twinkling lusters of the land
Drop one by one from Fame’s neglecting hand:
Lethaean gulphs receive them as they fall,
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.
William Cowper, “Observing Some Names of Little Note Recorded in the Biographia Brittanica”
Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot
To names ignoble, born to be forgot!
In vain, recorded in historic page
They court the notice of a future age:
Those tiny twinkling lusters of the land
Drop one by one from Fame’s neglecting hand:
Lethaean gulphs receive them as they fall,
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.
William Cowper, “Observing Some Names of Little Note Recorded in the Biographia Brittanica”
Monday, November 08, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The morning of the election results Gross asked what our shields should be:
my reply:
At last something to think about. What design on our shield?
The ostrich rampant, head buried in a pile of charoset. A tongue aiguisee. A finger pointed dexter and a second sinister. A wolf ravissant in shadow behind the ostrich. The shield to be transparent.
mek
my reply:
At last something to think about. What design on our shield?
The ostrich rampant, head buried in a pile of charoset. A tongue aiguisee. A finger pointed dexter and a second sinister. A wolf ravissant in shadow behind the ostrich. The shield to be transparent.
mek
Sunday, November 07, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The election is over.
Depending on your point of view, this might have been the best imaginable outcome or the second-worst possible outcome.
The world still spins.
The election is over.
Depending on your point of view, this might have been the best imaginable outcome or the second-worst possible outcome.
The world still spins.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
An interesting and perhaps telling difference between Gross and Katz is the method by which we mark our places in books. Gross boldly earmarks almost a quarter of the page, while I timidly turn a tiny piece of the page or use a piece of ribbon so as to leave the page pristine.
Gross' earmarking is much more than a bookmark, which only marks a place in a book; while the larger earmarking crease, being permanent is a display denoting ownership of the book's content.
mek
An interesting and perhaps telling difference between Gross and Katz is the method by which we mark our places in books. Gross boldly earmarks almost a quarter of the page, while I timidly turn a tiny piece of the page or use a piece of ribbon so as to leave the page pristine.
Gross' earmarking is much more than a bookmark, which only marks a place in a book; while the larger earmarking crease, being permanent is a display denoting ownership of the book's content.
mek
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Reading Edith Weisskopf-Joelson's Father, Have I Kept My Promise? Madness as Seen From Wthin.
She describes her escape from Austria, and her engagement with teaching.
Then, she quickly draws her introduction to Viktor Frankl, explaining that he believed that psychotherapy works because the therapist helps the patient develop a philosphophy of life that dares go beyond the the body and the psyche. Therapy should be through meaning, and make use of the resources of the human spirit, which, Frankl believed included a will to find meaning, to have goals and to make commitments. He saw the nature of his patients not only determined by their past, including trauma, but also determined by the by their future,--goals and tasks that pulled them forward.
Does this sound like Gross talking???
Reading Edith Weisskopf-Joelson's Father, Have I Kept My Promise? Madness as Seen From Wthin.
She describes her escape from Austria, and her engagement with teaching.
Then, she quickly draws her introduction to Viktor Frankl, explaining that he believed that psychotherapy works because the therapist helps the patient develop a philosphophy of life that dares go beyond the the body and the psyche. Therapy should be through meaning, and make use of the resources of the human spirit, which, Frankl believed included a will to find meaning, to have goals and to make commitments. He saw the nature of his patients not only determined by their past, including trauma, but also determined by the by their future,--goals and tasks that pulled them forward.
Does this sound like Gross talking???
Thursday, October 28, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Filled up the car with $2.08 gasoline. Last fill was 7 days ago. Total was about $31.00.
If gasoline was $1.25 a gallon; the difference would be about $600.00 per year!
Just think, I am giving that $600 to the enemy in Arabia and to the fortune 500 oil companies--and I am not spending it on my family.
If this were a tax imposed bu the democrats would Bush, Limbo, and that little twerp, on Fox be screaming their heads off?
Enjoy your money Mr. Bush.
Filled up the car with $2.08 gasoline. Last fill was 7 days ago. Total was about $31.00.
If gasoline was $1.25 a gallon; the difference would be about $600.00 per year!
Just think, I am giving that $600 to the enemy in Arabia and to the fortune 500 oil companies--and I am not spending it on my family.
If this were a tax imposed bu the democrats would Bush, Limbo, and that little twerp, on Fox be screaming their heads off?
Enjoy your money Mr. Bush.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
there has never been so much distrust of the voting process as there is now. Not in my memory, anyway. This all started after the vote of 2000. The extremists on the radio haven't helped either. Their constant ad homimum attacks have made people feel that the other side is vicious, crooked, mealy mouthed, stupid--and worse, anti-American. Can you imagine Kerry as an anti-American?
We're in a dangerous place right now.
there has never been so much distrust of the voting process as there is now. Not in my memory, anyway. This all started after the vote of 2000. The extremists on the radio haven't helped either. Their constant ad homimum attacks have made people feel that the other side is vicious, crooked, mealy mouthed, stupid--and worse, anti-American. Can you imagine Kerry as an anti-American?
We're in a dangerous place right now.
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Fanatic: A man who does what the Lord would do, if only He knew the facts of the case.
Fanatic: A man who does what the Lord would do, if only He knew the facts of the case.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Does each step carry me only further into empty space? Is that where I have been living?
What is the measure of all things. What is the measure by which I should measure myself? Is my ruler too long? Or is it my cock that is too short?
Does each step carry me only further into empty space? Is that where I have been living?
What is the measure of all things. What is the measure by which I should measure myself? Is my ruler too long? Or is it my cock that is too short?
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Perhaps life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender to dreams--this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness. And, maddest of all, to see life as it is, and not as it should be.
Don Quixote
Perhaps life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender to dreams--this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness. And, maddest of all, to see life as it is, and not as it should be.
Don Quixote
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
from Art Theil's sports column: ...(Kurt) Schilling's right ankle, soon to be the most celebrated baseball joint since Toots Shor's saloon in 1940s New York...
Thursday, October 21, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
There's little escape from her black hole of abulia. Abulia: the inability to make decisions.
There's little escape from her black hole of abulia. Abulia: the inability to make decisions.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I voted today along faster than most voters will, so my 7 minutes tells me to expect at least 700 minutes for a hundred voters. But remember, I think that I am faster than most voters will be.Prediction: long lines, shouting, accusations.. There was a very short line, three people before and plenty of voting machines to work with. I signed in, they found my registration, reminded me that I had an absentee ballot at home, asked me to destroy it, and passed me on to the "inspector" whose job it was to show me the machine and set me up for voting. It took her a few seconds and I finished voting about seven minutes later... The machine worked fairly well--of course, I am half-way smart and I could easily read the resolutions and already was familiar with them. I think I moved
I voted today along faster than most voters will, so my 7 minutes tells me to expect at least 700 minutes for a hundred voters. But remember, I think that I am faster than most voters will be.Prediction: long lines, shouting, accusations.. There was a very short line, three people before and plenty of voting machines to work with. I signed in, they found my registration, reminded me that I had an absentee ballot at home, asked me to destroy it, and passed me on to the "inspector" whose job it was to show me the machine and set me up for voting. It took her a few seconds and I finished voting about seven minutes later... The machine worked fairly well--of course, I am half-way smart and I could easily read the resolutions and already was familiar with them. I think I moved
Monday, October 18, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
We live in interesting times. Tomorrow I am going to vote early so that I can get a look at the new voting machine--new in the sense that we did use it for the primary on Aug 31--but then the ballot was only a page or two.
Now the ballot has expanded to ten pages. This means that people unfamiliar with computers will have to learn how to move from page to page, from candidate to candidate, will have to figure out which judge is running under what party's banner. Then they may want to check their votes which is a new thing to learn...Finally they will have to find the button marked "CAST YOUR BALLOT." Many people will forget to press this BLINKING RED LIGHT button necessitating the following procedure. Two people from different parties must go to the machine and press the button together. Then an affidavit must be filled out and signed by the two poll workers (Inspectors) of different parties and their Clerk.
As a paid poll worker (my only paying job) I think that we will have trouble getting everyone to vote by closing time. Anyone on line at 7:00 PM may vote--even if we have to stay until midnight. Under some circumstances Governor Bush can extend voting hours as long as he wants. Let's say that there is a thunderstorm or blizzard--he can extend the time at which people may get on line. Or perhaps a shortage of Republican voters.
I am imagining myself pushing seniors through the process, then helping the halt to get to the machine, then teaching others how to move through the electronic ballot. Of course, we also have the Provisional Ballot to deal with too. That is used when we think that a voter is unqualified, at the wrong polling place, or has no identification. That voter gets to uses a provisional ballot, after signing a paper attesting to his good heart and soul. This must be witnessed by two poll workers of different parties. Luckily there are a few Naderites at my poll.
Our polling place is in the Plumber's Local on Andrews Avenue. Three out of four faucets in the Men's Room were leaking on Primary Day.
There is supposed to be a post election party in our building--nonpartisan, of course--but I think I'll be home too late to attend.
We live in interesting times. Tomorrow I am going to vote early so that I can get a look at the new voting machine--new in the sense that we did use it for the primary on Aug 31--but then the ballot was only a page or two.
Now the ballot has expanded to ten pages. This means that people unfamiliar with computers will have to learn how to move from page to page, from candidate to candidate, will have to figure out which judge is running under what party's banner. Then they may want to check their votes which is a new thing to learn...Finally they will have to find the button marked "CAST YOUR BALLOT." Many people will forget to press this BLINKING RED LIGHT button necessitating the following procedure. Two people from different parties must go to the machine and press the button together. Then an affidavit must be filled out and signed by the two poll workers (Inspectors) of different parties and their Clerk.
As a paid poll worker (my only paying job) I think that we will have trouble getting everyone to vote by closing time. Anyone on line at 7:00 PM may vote--even if we have to stay until midnight. Under some circumstances Governor Bush can extend voting hours as long as he wants. Let's say that there is a thunderstorm or blizzard--he can extend the time at which people may get on line. Or perhaps a shortage of Republican voters.
I am imagining myself pushing seniors through the process, then helping the halt to get to the machine, then teaching others how to move through the electronic ballot. Of course, we also have the Provisional Ballot to deal with too. That is used when we think that a voter is unqualified, at the wrong polling place, or has no identification. That voter gets to uses a provisional ballot, after signing a paper attesting to his good heart and soul. This must be witnessed by two poll workers of different parties. Luckily there are a few Naderites at my poll.
Our polling place is in the Plumber's Local on Andrews Avenue. Three out of four faucets in the Men's Room were leaking on Primary Day.
There is supposed to be a post election party in our building--nonpartisan, of course--but I think I'll be home too late to attend.
Monday, October 11, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Reasoning often leads to desired, preferred conclusions.
Prescription for certainty.
Reasoning often leads to desired, preferred conclusions.
Prescription for certainty.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The hard reality for many of us is that this is, essentially, a pretty conservative country. Norms that are taken for granted throughout the rest of the industrialized world are anathema to many Americans, including gay rights, universal health care, six-week vacations, gun control and the maintenance of a minimal social safety net.
SUSANNA RODELL is editorial page editor of the Charleston Gazette. (West Virginia)
The hard reality for many of us is that this is, essentially, a pretty conservative country. Norms that are taken for granted throughout the rest of the industrialized world are anathema to many Americans, including gay rights, universal health care, six-week vacations, gun control and the maintenance of a minimal social safety net.
SUSANNA RODELL is editorial page editor of the Charleston Gazette. (West Virginia)
Friday, October 08, 2004
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Re
From me to Gross:
It was hard for me to accept the tossing out of the hotel scene, and the overt anti-Semitism in the restaurant. I did not find it believable. I don't think that there has ever been another fiction that I found so unbelievable.
Why? It has something to do with my faith in America, and my lack of experience with anti-Semitism. Of course, I admit that my usual denseness makes me miss what others see; and my defense against anti-Semitic actions or words has always been to deny them--or to realize-rationalize that the remark came from a lowlife, not anyone whom I respected.
Elsewhere I have described the Ohio Wesleyan Sigma Chi incident, which was the only time in my life that I was ever directly affected in a meaningful way.
So what happened in the Katz household that protected me from knowing that anti-Semitism existed? Well, our parent's friends were mostly in mixed marriages like my father and mother. The families that weren't Jewish never expressed any overt indications of anti-Semitism. Dad never discussed the anti-Semitism issue--I don't think that it was an issue to him. His male friends were Jewish, Italian and a few Irishmen including one horse-playing priest and all other friends always were in our house or he was at theirs'.
Mother's side of the family seeemed fully accepting, as far as I could see.
It just didn't come up. When we went to Bermuda and he wanted to play mid-Ocean he found a way, although I think that later he did acknowledge that his Jewishness was a problem to be worked around. Mother and Dad vacationed at the Greenbriar, which later I learned was not a place to which Jews went--but....
and now to dinner, more later....
From Gross to me:
We are Jews by default. We are Jews because we are not Christians. We did not choose to be Jews, nor do we practice Judaism. Notwithstanding, we are not welcome in the society of our own country. That is humiliating, especially for a child. They long term effects of that exclusion are what we need to examine in order to understand ourselves.
From me to Gross:
Michael, something's wrong with your thought process here. The reverse is true also. Non-Jews are outsiders because they are not Jewish. Is that a tautology or what? We are Jews because we call ourselves Jews, we do not deny our Jewishness, and finally others call us Jews. The fact that some Jews insist that we are not Jews is irrelevant. That's their opinion.
"Notwithstanding, we are not welcome in the society of our own country."
Well, we are not welcome in some parts of our country. So? Do you welcome everyone, anyone into your home? the fear of the stranger is a part of the human dynamic. Some people overcome it. Others overcome their fear of the stranger to a small extent. The most fearful never overcome it.
"That is humiliating, especially for a child. They long term effects of that exclusion are what we need to examine in order to understand ourselves. "
I don't deny the sense of humiliation in others. I see it in X, and now, for the first time I see it you. I know it exists in me--but I do not relate it to being Jewish.
I was never accepted by groups--Malkin was asked to join a baseball team, the Spiders, long before I even knew him. Coincidentally, I knew other members of the team. they wouldn't have me--I was left out. Not unusual for me, but there was a sense of loss, of humiliation, yes. But it had nothing to do with being Jewish.
Boy, did I long for one of those Maroon rayon jackets with Spiders scrawled across its back.
But it was not to be. I had to peer through the cyclone fence and watch them practice. I was alone, only my trusty, loyal Schwin Phantom waiting patiently at my side.
Much later in life, when I received two luggage tags from Western Union as a prize for something or other, I put them on my luggage, proud to be a member of the Western Union team. At age 50 when Gary Miller gave me the HM letters that Coach Q. didn't give me, I still felt cheated, left out, and the falsity of my late award overwhelmed any proud or good feelings that Gary's gesture should have engendered. The fact that I knew I didn't deserve the letters from Coach Quinn made Gary's letters meaningless. But I wasn''t part of the team. Was that humiliating? It had nothing to do with being Jewish.
Humiliation, disappointment, loss each exist apart from being a Jew.
mek
Re
The Plot Against AmericaPhilip Roth.
From me to Gross:
It was hard for me to accept the tossing out of the hotel scene, and the overt anti-Semitism in the restaurant. I did not find it believable. I don't think that there has ever been another fiction that I found so unbelievable.
Why? It has something to do with my faith in America, and my lack of experience with anti-Semitism. Of course, I admit that my usual denseness makes me miss what others see; and my defense against anti-Semitic actions or words has always been to deny them--or to realize-rationalize that the remark came from a lowlife, not anyone whom I respected.
Elsewhere I have described the Ohio Wesleyan Sigma Chi incident, which was the only time in my life that I was ever directly affected in a meaningful way.
So what happened in the Katz household that protected me from knowing that anti-Semitism existed? Well, our parent's friends were mostly in mixed marriages like my father and mother. The families that weren't Jewish never expressed any overt indications of anti-Semitism. Dad never discussed the anti-Semitism issue--I don't think that it was an issue to him. His male friends were Jewish, Italian and a few Irishmen including one horse-playing priest and all other friends always were in our house or he was at theirs'.
Mother's side of the family seeemed fully accepting, as far as I could see.
It just didn't come up. When we went to Bermuda and he wanted to play mid-Ocean he found a way, although I think that later he did acknowledge that his Jewishness was a problem to be worked around. Mother and Dad vacationed at the Greenbriar, which later I learned was not a place to which Jews went--but....
and now to dinner, more later....
From Gross to me:
We are Jews by default. We are Jews because we are not Christians. We did not choose to be Jews, nor do we practice Judaism. Notwithstanding, we are not welcome in the society of our own country. That is humiliating, especially for a child. They long term effects of that exclusion are what we need to examine in order to understand ourselves.
From me to Gross:
Michael, something's wrong with your thought process here. The reverse is true also. Non-Jews are outsiders because they are not Jewish. Is that a tautology or what? We are Jews because we call ourselves Jews, we do not deny our Jewishness, and finally others call us Jews. The fact that some Jews insist that we are not Jews is irrelevant. That's their opinion.
"Notwithstanding, we are not welcome in the society of our own country."
Well, we are not welcome in some parts of our country. So? Do you welcome everyone, anyone into your home? the fear of the stranger is a part of the human dynamic. Some people overcome it. Others overcome their fear of the stranger to a small extent. The most fearful never overcome it.
"That is humiliating, especially for a child. They long term effects of that exclusion are what we need to examine in order to understand ourselves. "
I don't deny the sense of humiliation in others. I see it in X, and now, for the first time I see it you. I know it exists in me--but I do not relate it to being Jewish.
I was never accepted by groups--Malkin was asked to join a baseball team, the Spiders, long before I even knew him. Coincidentally, I knew other members of the team. they wouldn't have me--I was left out. Not unusual for me, but there was a sense of loss, of humiliation, yes. But it had nothing to do with being Jewish.
Boy, did I long for one of those Maroon rayon jackets with Spiders scrawled across its back.
But it was not to be. I had to peer through the cyclone fence and watch them practice. I was alone, only my trusty, loyal Schwin Phantom waiting patiently at my side.
Much later in life, when I received two luggage tags from Western Union as a prize for something or other, I put them on my luggage, proud to be a member of the Western Union team. At age 50 when Gary Miller gave me the HM letters that Coach Q. didn't give me, I still felt cheated, left out, and the falsity of my late award overwhelmed any proud or good feelings that Gary's gesture should have engendered. The fact that I knew I didn't deserve the letters from Coach Quinn made Gary's letters meaningless. But I wasn''t part of the team. Was that humiliating? It had nothing to do with being Jewish.
Humiliation, disappointment, loss each exist apart from being a Jew.
mek
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