gratwicker@aol.com

I am not sleeping with S. and therefore I do not know he facts of her economic existence She received a settlement from the accident and purchased what she described as a house. At the time I assumed it was in Brooklyn but maybe she meant an apartment in Manhattan, though come to think of it perhaps it might be in the Bronx where there are neighborhoods with houses.

She did not want to meet. Otherwise I would have liked to do so.

gratwicker@aol.com


Charlemagne had 4500 Saxons beheaded in one day in the year 782 at Verdun. I can imagine the night before the scene of the axmen being order to sharpen their axes, and the tree stumps being arranged for the next morning. There must have been a general busy-ness as the prisoners' hands were tied behind their backs. Imagine the merchant who received the huge order for rope. When the order was made known there might have been a general panic among the prisoners--they were pagans, however, and might have had thoughts of honorable deaths and Valhalla.

Charlemagne justified his brutality by his desire to unite Germany as a Christian state. Germany was still a mass of fighting tribes of savages and soon he would join the Frenchies into his brutally Christianized kingdom.

gratwicker@aol.com

Divorce is on my mind. Aaron's marriage is on the rocks--his wife wants a man who makes more money. She's bitter and is going to be a nasty adversary. I doubt that she'll play fair.

What is a divorce to the children? Some people say "it's good for the children, it gets them out of a house where parents argue and the atmosphere is unhealthy. They survive."

Sure, they survive, but at what cost? It's an incredible wound. Each child somehow believes himself responsible. Children take sides without even knowing it. They become objects of manipulation. This was a marriage where there was a child who was il. Perhaps attention was diverted from the marriage to the child. Maybe. But in my opinion, it's something different. She isn't capable of really loving a man. She sees the material first, and is a user. She is not capable of deep love. The marriage wasn't a romance marriage. It was a money marriage.

About 15 years ago someone discovered that it was William Carlos Williams' birthday, so naturally Schultz, Gross and I rushed to the Great Falls of the Passaic River at Paterson, New Jersey to pay homage to the good doctor and graduate of our alma mater Horace Mann, and also to honor the Wobblies whose efforts for the workers of the world were concentrated, for a time, in Paterson's silk factories. We noted the irony of Alexander Hamilton’s statue overlooking the hallowed ground of a thirteen month bitter strike, to which IWW leaders Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, Big Bill Haywood, and Carlo Tresca often came to harangue the bosses and to support the strikers.



Then, one of us clutching William Carlos Williams poem in his hand, we worked our way to the base of the Great Falls and began a reading of the 150 page poem. The roar of the falls mixed with our voices, and each of his took his turn until it was time for lunch. We trudged up the side of the river bank and found a grocer who made us a hero sandwich, a long, crusty loaf of bread slathered in olive oil, filled with salami, provolone, lettuce, tomatoes, and certain never-identified lunch meats. As none of us were true, real heroes, we had the loaf sliced three ways and shared it, easing its way to our bellies with a quart of Rheingold, a beer once made in one of the brick-work, honest breweries of Brooklyn, but sadly, now only a name, made in a generic, effete beeratorium somewhere in the Midwest.



We returned to the falls to continue our reading. This time we remained at the top of the falls, on an overview, as from this point the sound of the falls did not quite overcome our voices. Our declamation did, however, attract a following of young children, and a few older men who had nothing better to do. We bravely forged on, but at around three o’clock decided that though our clothing was well-misted our throats were dry.



A suitable working man’s tavern was found and we re-charged ourselves, losing several dollars at darts, a local game played by the charming patrons of this particular tavern with particular meticulousness and disarming skill.



The dart players proved not to be poetry lovers and as we wanted to finish the poem we cut short our losses and made our way back to the falls.



Our following of children had abandoned us, but a few of the older men had loyally awaited our return. None, however, followed us down to the river-edge, as perhaps they were not in the mood for swimming. Like the adults at Basil’s Passover table those not reading hurried the reader along. New Jersey’s tired sun was falling below the gorge and a chill worked its way under our damp clothing—but we were determined to complete our homage. Someone’s foot found its way into the water, and our celebration completed, wet and muddied but undiscouraged we made our way back to New York, waving at Hamiliton, while remembering the honor of Big Bill. Only Emma Goldman was absent.



mek

A very close, lifelong friend of mine was an Episcopalian Theologian who lived a very compartmentalized life, keeping several groups of his friends separate from each other. One topic that we avoided was the exact nature of his sexuality.

Many of my friends who met him through me over the years believed him to be homosexual, but I remained agnostic on the subject, perhaps naive, or perhaps feeling that it was his business to express himself if he wished. Sometimes I thought that he was asexual and celibate.

Most of my friends, in my opinion, were cynics when it came to Bob, and I always took their opinion with a grain a salt. Maria and I were often invited to his famous New Year's dinners which were always formal, and many of his guests would be knock-out women who adored him. The point that you should understand is that part of him remained a mystery to me. This was bewildering to me because most of my close friends hide nothing from each other except the exact amount of the income--and sometimes even that is shared.

Seven years ago Bob died and was cremated. I spoke at his funeral, at St. John the Divine, in New York Where his ashes are interred in what you may know is called a columbarium.

A few weeks ago while in New York I went to St. John the Divine, and was amazed to see that someone else was sharing his niche. A name with which I was not familiar.

I wrote to a friend who is graphic artist and who works at St. John, and asked her whether it was possible for strangers to share a niche. Her answer follows. Her remark about Paterson and Alan Ginsberg involves a reading of a poem by William Carlos Williams at Paterson, and that story is another long one. I will save you more agony by not passing it on.

I thought it would interest you and Howard because of her reason for leaving the Catholic Church:


Mike,

I know that the Columbarium niches can hold up to four individuals, but usually they choose their crypt-mates at the time they purchase the space. While I do know unrelated individuals who have decided to share eternity together, I think it would be highly unusual for strangers to be added willy-nilly. I was in the Columbarium myself on Good Friday as part of the service I attended and I found it pleasantly meditative as always (not to mention they finally built a much better ramp up there).

As I am sure you know, the whole same-sex partner thing is a huge issue right now in the Episcopal church, even before the rash of "gay marriage" events around the country. It started last summer with the national convention's vote to accept Gene Robinson, the openly gay bishop of New Hampshire, and then a lot of fluff at the international level since of course the Third World members want nothing of it. Sisk, the New York bishop, is walking a very fine line with a lot of skill, but there are some very odd schisms in the making here.

I feel obligated to support the gay rights movement within the church, since gender equality is the main reason I could not remain a Roman Catholic. On the other hand, last summer I was starting to feel like it was the only issue anyone would talk about. Yes, it's important, but this is not exactly the 1964 Civil Rights Act. The oppression of the educated middle-class homosexuals leading the discussion is painful, but not on the same scale as a lot of other human rights issues, or even the war, which is personally of more interest to me.

The whole issue is sort of fascinating from the point of view that while its official expression is splitting congregations and city councils in two, everybody at these contentious meetings is setting their Tivos for Queer Eye or Will and Grace. It's clearly the last gasp of resistance before the cultural tide sweeps in, but I'm sorry so many people are hurting each other over it.

I'm now going to attempt a massive turnaround to link this to our initial subject, and I suppose it will have to be Alan Ginsburg, who was both a homosexual and a Pattersonian. And whose memorial service I attended at St. John the Divine.

Anyway, all of this sounds more angry and negative than I really feel these days. Spring is good. My mood has lifted after a long dark winter. I feel changes in the air but I have no inkling yet of what they will be. Maybe I just need more Ted Hughes.

S

It isn't only the pressure of the need for money that makes people unhappy, it is confusion and misunderstanding, above all it is the failure to grasp the simple truth that other people are as real as you--that they have hopes and aspirations and that we all want only the best for each other.

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The ability to fend off harm is a test of vitality. The spent is drawn to destruction. Robert Musil

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Money from inheritance is much more respectable than money from acquisition.

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Personally I am relaxed about sodomy--which is not the same about being relaxed during sodomy. Mark Twain.

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Never avenge anything -- especially if you have the power to do so.

Winston Churchill

Fathers always expect their sons to have their own virtues
without their faults. Winston Churchill

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This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths...
Walt Whitman

Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
And the long journey towards oblivion.

The apples falling like great drops of dew
To bruise themselves an exit from themselves.

And it is time to go, to bid farewell
To one's self, and find an exit
from the fallen self.

II...

III
And can a man his own quietus make
with a bare bodkin?

D. H. Lawrence.

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People everywhere confuse what they read in newspapers with news. A.J. Liebling

Check with the doorman.

I think that, in general, doormen look better when smartly dressed as Czarist Russian Admirals in heavy woolen overcoats with gold fringed epaulets, huge lapped pockets, and also wearing eight point, gold trimmed, leather-visored officers' hats.

You should want to promptly make arrangements for proper uniforming. Maybe I got such a get-up in the back of the store. I don't know....

Solomon.

Michael Gross: a vigilant servant of the truth.

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what is a capitalist?

One who hopes to gain heaven by knowing the ropes.
E. M. Forster

If a piece of art must be understood through the brain first it has that much further to go to reach the heart.

Phillip Toshio Sudo
Zen Guitar

If you have to appreciate a work of art via your brain ....

Basically we have no home. We move from apartment to apartment, or from city to city. There is no generational plot of land that calls us, that keeps us.

Rather, it is our friends, our life long friends that bind us together. We expect friendship without guilt a commitment which lives in us just because we are who we are, and as time goes on the glue of friedhip stiffens, and holds fast. We complement each other, like a setting on a table. the fork needs the knife, the soup calls for the spoon and napkin.

Our friendship has been refined over the years--perhaps it is true that we would not sacrifice everything we have for each other--but that's only money. I would not be surprised, however if we'd sacrifice our lives for each other. There has been an unreakable harmony amongst our little group--until now. there is no way to curtail the inclination of our feelings--but something has shattered within the group--and attention must be paid. Thisis not an implacable break. I would ask here that we not confront, to pick at the scab, but to leave punishment, resentment and reprisal to life and its changing fortune.

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The Gypsy looked me in the eye knowingly. She ignored my wife who sat at my side. She held my hand lightly in her's and mumbled to herself, "what's this?" She turned directly to me, somehow putting herself between my wife and me. My wife's curiosity level must have sky-rocketed.

The palm reader began, " You have two parallel love lines. Each is very long, each is very deep, each is unbroken. " I gritted my teeth. The wife leaned closer to hear what was becoming a gypsy incantation.

mek

"It makes me feel a certain zest
To bear your body's weight upon my breast
but let me make it plain:

I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again."

Edna St. Vincent M.

Larry, The Iceman Cometh

I was forced to admit, at the end of thirty years’ devotion to the Cause, that I was never made for it. I was condemned to be one of those who has to see all sides of a question.
When you’re damned like that, the questions multiply for you until in the end it’s all questions and no answer. As history proves, to be a worldly success at anything, especially revolution, you have to wear blinders like a horse and see only straight in front of you. You have to see, too, that this is all black, and that is all white.

Eugene Gladstone O’Neill.



Life can never be completed. It can only be abandoned.

Michael E. Katz

One day the news came that Lenin would be making a visit to Poland. What could they do for the great man?

A delegation convened and they decided to commission a painting, a large and glorious oil painting on the theme "Lenin in Poland"

They went to the town's master painter. He promised to have it ready in a month. After a month they returned but he put them off. Two weeks later they were back. He needed still more time. But at last, just one day before Lenin's arrival they went to the studio. As they stood there the painter pulled back the cloth from the enormous canvas. They gazed in shocked silence. In the painting they saw Trotsky climbing into bed with Lenin's wife.

At last one of the delegation spoke up. But where is Lenin?

Ah, replied the painter Lenin is in Poland

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A few days later the town's Mathematics teacher, Professor Goldstein, who had been in Poland with Lenin, returned home and discovered his best friend, the town's English teacher, Professor Kittridge, in bed with his wife.

"Kittridge!" shouted the Mathematics Professor, "I am surprised to find you in bed with my wife. "

"No, Goldstein!" answered the English professor, now sitting upright in the marital bed.

"It is your wife and I who have been surprised. -- You are shocked to find me in bed with your wife."


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Credit for the story above goes to Bernie Katz

It was another damn sunny afternoon, the thermometer showed 82 degrees, so I went to see Fog of War which is a filmed interview of Bob McNamara including clips from family photos and newsreels. McNamara comes off very well, I thought, and he quotes poetry. I think you will be interested.