BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Travel, once thought to be enlightening, broadening and educational, has become nothing more than an experience of shopping, restaurants and hotels.
Monday, March 28, 2005
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,
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