Saturday, June 30, 2012
My Old Friend
A book is like a garden carried in the pocket.
Chinese proverb
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Hello Frosty
*******************
For me, one of the most poignant moments in all of grand opera is in the last act of Puccini's "La Boheme." Four men live together in a cold attic apartment in Paris. One of them, Colline, decides to go out and sell his overcoat to buy medicine for his roommate's very ill girl friend in the hope of keeping her alive. He sings a short but sad farewell to his coat, the friend who has kept him warm and whose pockets always carried the poetry and philosophy that he loves. "Addio. Addio."
It brings a lump to my throat every time I hear it.
A few times in my life, for various reasons I have had to abandon my library. I love books and I hope that wherever mine have ended up they are loved as much I loveed them. But there is one book I have never parted with. It sits at my elbow when I am at my desk. If I go anywhere for more than a day it goes with me in my back pack or suitcase. It is one of my dearest friends.
I bought it brand new from a bookstore in Harvard Square, Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1957. It's almost as old as I am. I paid $6.50 for it. You can barely read the price, written in pencil on the inside. I wrote my name underneath the price in red ink which is still quite visible.
It's a small volume, very small considering what it contains. It's 7 1/2 inches by 5 1/2 inches and 1 inch thick. In all the bookstores I've been in over the years, I've never seen another copy of it. It was printed by Oxford University Press in 1947.It is in very threadbare condition due to age and use. I've taped the inside of the hard cover to the pages, but the tape on the outside spine is coming loose again. The pages are very thin India paper and fortunately I haven't torn any of them.
What is it? It's my complete Shakespeare. And it is complete; all the plays and all the poems, including all the sonnets, in one small volume. Shakespeare is a divine gift to the human race, and no matter what English professors and stage directors do to it, it remains a rare treasure, recognized the world over.
This book has been a continuous inspiration to me for 55 years. I need a magnifying glass to read it now, but, so what? Falstaff, Lear and Juliet still come alive whenever the book is opened. I would never part with it. If, heaven forbid, I had to move suddenly this book would be one of the first things I would grab.
I love it. It's my old friend. It's the garden in my pocket.
Dana Bate - The Vagabond
Never Give Up
------------------------
Friday, June 29, 2012
Your True Value
They are but beggars that can count their worth.
Shakespeare
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Hello Frosty
****************
As I add more years of experience to my calendar I come to realize more and more how unimportant my past is. It is preverbal that gray headed ones, particularly those with no grand children, tend to dwell with memories, in an atmosphere of a life lived almost as uif that life was over. There are regrets, of course, but there is also pride of accomplishment and, maybe, satisfaction. Well and good, up to a point. But just because the hair is gray doesn't have to mean that the head is.
Sometimes, in this journal, I may bring up some event from the past to illustrate a point, and I might remember an event in conversation with someone who shared it. But otherwise I don't want to think about the past. It's gone. It doesn't exist. It is not an extant in the world.
The best part is to realize that my past, my childhood, the loss of my father, poverty, scorn, abuse, itinerancy, the education I got, the failures, the successes, the tragedies, the delights, the accidents, the injuries, the pain, the fights, the sex, the loves, the fears, do not define who I am. Put them sll together in a biography and they don't even begin to summerize me.
Woven in and out though all those threads on the loom of time are the invisible, intangible, inestimable virtues and values that have always been there and have always been who I am. Most of the events of my past were cover ups, things I did while I was waiting to discover myself or things that happened to me which beclouded the discovery.
Even if you are a young person your worth is not measured by the events of your life, including your hopes and plans. True human value is above all the tangibles and materials. I discovered this truth by going back and looking at some of the entries in my private paper journal. I was amused and annoyed to discover, in light of my recent slowly growing realization of my real value, how inconsequential many of those entries are.
Think about it. How much of your current life will you count as worth and how much will you eventually discard as worthless? I used to be amused at the answer sometimes given to interviewers of older peopled that if they had it to live over again they wouldn't chance a thing. What amused me was the bland acknowledgement that seemed to imply life was over and the belief that if they thought about it there were probably a great many things they would change. Now, today, I think about it and ask myself if there was anything I would change. My first impulse is to say that I would probably change all of it. But then I think again and say that maybe I would not, in fact, change any of it except to acknowledge to myself that none of it was true.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
**************************
Shakespeare
****************
Hello Frosty
****************
As I add more years of experience to my calendar I come to realize more and more how unimportant my past is. It is preverbal that gray headed ones, particularly those with no grand children, tend to dwell with memories, in an atmosphere of a life lived almost as uif that life was over. There are regrets, of course, but there is also pride of accomplishment and, maybe, satisfaction. Well and good, up to a point. But just because the hair is gray doesn't have to mean that the head is.
Sometimes, in this journal, I may bring up some event from the past to illustrate a point, and I might remember an event in conversation with someone who shared it. But otherwise I don't want to think about the past. It's gone. It doesn't exist. It is not an extant in the world.
The best part is to realize that my past, my childhood, the loss of my father, poverty, scorn, abuse, itinerancy, the education I got, the failures, the successes, the tragedies, the delights, the accidents, the injuries, the pain, the fights, the sex, the loves, the fears, do not define who I am. Put them sll together in a biography and they don't even begin to summerize me.
Woven in and out though all those threads on the loom of time are the invisible, intangible, inestimable virtues and values that have always been there and have always been who I am. Most of the events of my past were cover ups, things I did while I was waiting to discover myself or things that happened to me which beclouded the discovery.
Even if you are a young person your worth is not measured by the events of your life, including your hopes and plans. True human value is above all the tangibles and materials. I discovered this truth by going back and looking at some of the entries in my private paper journal. I was amused and annoyed to discover, in light of my recent slowly growing realization of my real value, how inconsequential many of those entries are.
Think about it. How much of your current life will you count as worth and how much will you eventually discard as worthless? I used to be amused at the answer sometimes given to interviewers of older peopled that if they had it to live over again they wouldn't chance a thing. What amused me was the bland acknowledgement that seemed to imply life was over and the belief that if they thought about it there were probably a great many things they would change. Now, today, I think about it and ask myself if there was anything I would change. My first impulse is to say that I would probably change all of it. But then I think again and say that maybe I would not, in fact, change any of it except to acknowledge to myself that none of it was true.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
**************************
Thursday, June 28, 2012
The Unfamiliar
Somebody must always be doing something new, or life would get very dull.
Ninette de Valois
*******************
Hello Val
*******************
Years ago there was a TV commercial for a company that offered classical music recordings. You join a club and once every month or two they send you a record containing some great music. Except, in the middle of the commercial the announcer said "We've taken out all the unfamiliar music."
I threw my shoe at the TV screen, Fortunately it was just a slipper so it did no damage. I was as much outraged as I was amused. What is the point of listening to the same pieces over and over again, no matter how good they are, and not discover the vast amount of music in the world of great music, to learn to appreciate it and make it familiar?
Imagine going into you local art museum and seeing the same 20 paintings every time you go there. Pretty soon you would stop going and the museum would close. We've taken out all the unfamiliar music.
I knew a man who whenever he went to an Italian Restaurant always ordered pasta fagioli, nothing else. If I took my mother out for Chinese food it was chicken chow mein. That was it. My agent told me that his uncle came all the way down from northern Vermont to visit. They took him out to one of New York's finest restaurants. Much to their dismay he ordered Vermont fried chicken, We've taken out all the unfamiliar music.
There are conservatives who won't read a liberal newspaper and vice versa. There's the CEO of a large company who proclaims that he has never given a dollar to any cultural cause and never will and is proud of it. And there's the theatre director who would only direct "Saint Joan" by George Bernard Shaw because none of the other Shaw plays are worthy doing. We've taken out all the unfamiliar music.
A closed mind is one of the worst catastrophes on the face of humanity. It ensures ignorance and denies freedom of expression. It discourages experimentation, puts a lid on personal progress and makes a very dull life.
Listen to the unfamiliar music. You're in for some delightful surprises.
DB - The Vagabond
Never Give Up
************************
Ninette de Valois
*******************
Hello Val
*******************
Years ago there was a TV commercial for a company that offered classical music recordings. You join a club and once every month or two they send you a record containing some great music. Except, in the middle of the commercial the announcer said "We've taken out all the unfamiliar music."
I threw my shoe at the TV screen, Fortunately it was just a slipper so it did no damage. I was as much outraged as I was amused. What is the point of listening to the same pieces over and over again, no matter how good they are, and not discover the vast amount of music in the world of great music, to learn to appreciate it and make it familiar?
Imagine going into you local art museum and seeing the same 20 paintings every time you go there. Pretty soon you would stop going and the museum would close. We've taken out all the unfamiliar music.
I knew a man who whenever he went to an Italian Restaurant always ordered pasta fagioli, nothing else. If I took my mother out for Chinese food it was chicken chow mein. That was it. My agent told me that his uncle came all the way down from northern Vermont to visit. They took him out to one of New York's finest restaurants. Much to their dismay he ordered Vermont fried chicken, We've taken out all the unfamiliar music.
There are conservatives who won't read a liberal newspaper and vice versa. There's the CEO of a large company who proclaims that he has never given a dollar to any cultural cause and never will and is proud of it. And there's the theatre director who would only direct "Saint Joan" by George Bernard Shaw because none of the other Shaw plays are worthy doing. We've taken out all the unfamiliar music.
A closed mind is one of the worst catastrophes on the face of humanity. It ensures ignorance and denies freedom of expression. It discourages experimentation, puts a lid on personal progress and makes a very dull life.
Listen to the unfamiliar music. You're in for some delightful surprises.
DB - The Vagabond
Never Give Up
************************
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Travels
I'm not a world traveler. I've never been abroad. The only foreign country I've ever been to is California.
Racing Against The Cloud
Watchman, tell us of the night.
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Do you want to know what I hear? I hear the unheard.
Ssu-Hsin
*****************
Hello Frosty
*****************
Any serious imaginative thinker, any serious creative thinker must inevitably face the primal source of everything. The true thinker must listen to the silence, seek the invisible and know the word which is neither written nor spoken. All the music of the world, all the buildings of the world, all the forests surround it. It may be known but can it be understood? Any awareness is gained only through metaphor, parable or fable. It moves through our lives and never touches us. It is everywhere and nowhere. It is what is between the tip of the brush and the canvas, between the pianist's finger and the key It is what is between the words and the notes.
Most people see a cloud. A very few, the daring, consecrated thinkers, see a Shekinah of spirituality in the temple.
In the Aesop fable of the race between the tortoise and the hare where the tortoise wins because the hare stopped to rest, we are amused by the obvious lessons: don't stop to rest just because you are way ahead and never underestimate your opponent. And we leave it at that.
But Aesop was a brilliant man. There are questions in that story that aren't easily answered. Why did the tortoise enter the race in the first place when he was clearly not going to win it? What kept him going? And the most important question of all. What grabbed hold of the hare and made him stop. That's a question that has no easy answer. One can make up human answers, laziness, exhaustion, pride, self indulgence. None of them work, because they are all labels, excuses, justifications for the real reason to hang itself on. That is the invisible culprit that will run and ruin our lives if we aren't aware of it's presence.
It doesn't have a name. You can't kick it, punch it or stick a knife in it. It has no shape but will assume many. It likes to pretend it's the voice of God.
The other day I was talking with a few people and they mentioned a woman in this town who smothered her two children and tried to kill herself. She survived, her children did not. I said "Oh, that poor woman." Someone said scornfully "Poor woman? What about the children?" I said that it was tragic about the children but when that woman finally gets a clear head what remorse is she going to have to face for the rest of her life and how will she ever identify what it was that grabbed hold of her to make her do such a desperate act. Someone will give it a reason, but it will only be a label.
The primal sorce of everything is a benevolent power. It does not cause people to lose or murder, but when it is absent, when it is not sought and listened to, when it is not acknowledged and believe in, true sight becomes a cloud and darkness takes over.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
------------------------------------
Do you want to know what I hear? I hear the unheard.
Ssu-Hsin
*****************
Hello Frosty
*****************
Any serious imaginative thinker, any serious creative thinker must inevitably face the primal source of everything. The true thinker must listen to the silence, seek the invisible and know the word which is neither written nor spoken. All the music of the world, all the buildings of the world, all the forests surround it. It may be known but can it be understood? Any awareness is gained only through metaphor, parable or fable. It moves through our lives and never touches us. It is everywhere and nowhere. It is what is between the tip of the brush and the canvas, between the pianist's finger and the key It is what is between the words and the notes.
Most people see a cloud. A very few, the daring, consecrated thinkers, see a Shekinah of spirituality in the temple.
In the Aesop fable of the race between the tortoise and the hare where the tortoise wins because the hare stopped to rest, we are amused by the obvious lessons: don't stop to rest just because you are way ahead and never underestimate your opponent. And we leave it at that.
But Aesop was a brilliant man. There are questions in that story that aren't easily answered. Why did the tortoise enter the race in the first place when he was clearly not going to win it? What kept him going? And the most important question of all. What grabbed hold of the hare and made him stop. That's a question that has no easy answer. One can make up human answers, laziness, exhaustion, pride, self indulgence. None of them work, because they are all labels, excuses, justifications for the real reason to hang itself on. That is the invisible culprit that will run and ruin our lives if we aren't aware of it's presence.
It doesn't have a name. You can't kick it, punch it or stick a knife in it. It has no shape but will assume many. It likes to pretend it's the voice of God.
The other day I was talking with a few people and they mentioned a woman in this town who smothered her two children and tried to kill herself. She survived, her children did not. I said "Oh, that poor woman." Someone said scornfully "Poor woman? What about the children?" I said that it was tragic about the children but when that woman finally gets a clear head what remorse is she going to have to face for the rest of her life and how will she ever identify what it was that grabbed hold of her to make her do such a desperate act. Someone will give it a reason, but it will only be a label.
The primal sorce of everything is a benevolent power. It does not cause people to lose or murder, but when it is absent, when it is not sought and listened to, when it is not acknowledged and believe in, true sight becomes a cloud and darkness takes over.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Clear Out The Foes
Loving your enemies means you must forgive them. But it does not mean that you must believe them, respect them or trust them.
Dana Bate
****************
Hello Sue
****************
The worst kind of enemies are those you make yourself through carelessness, selfishness and unnecessary animosity. By those enemies you need to be forgiven. But what happens when you make an enemy without being brutish to them? That usually comes about because someone expects something from you which is either too much or too little of who you really are. Or that person has simply put the blindfold on when it came to thinking clearly about you and seeing the real person you are. That form of misunderstanding can cause a lot of alienation and loss of friendship. But does it make for an enemy? It might.
But, as I turn that mirror around and gaqze at my own nature, I realize that I have enemies whom I thought were friends, because I expected too much from them. I inaccurately judged the characters of some people because I wanted them to be who I thought they were, who I thought they represented themselves to be. I can't believe, respect or trust those people, but I can forgive them for their masquerades and forgive myself for being fooled.
Then there are people who just don't like you. They probably don't know why but they will find a reason to justify their hatred. It is quite impossible to trust someone who hates you, but, though difficult, it's not impossible to forgive them for their hatred.
One must be prepared to defend oneself against one's enemies if the enmity spills over into some kind of attack, but revenge is not the intelligent defense. Forgiveness is. It doesn't even need to be expressed. It just needs to be chosen and confirmed in one's own thinking. One can go through thinking about all the things one should have said or done but the fact that they weren't said or done allows for peace.
It's hard to forgave you enemies. Life is hard. But it can be lived more easily without having enemies occupy space in your mind.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
*************************
Dana Bate
****************
Hello Sue
****************
The worst kind of enemies are those you make yourself through carelessness, selfishness and unnecessary animosity. By those enemies you need to be forgiven. But what happens when you make an enemy without being brutish to them? That usually comes about because someone expects something from you which is either too much or too little of who you really are. Or that person has simply put the blindfold on when it came to thinking clearly about you and seeing the real person you are. That form of misunderstanding can cause a lot of alienation and loss of friendship. But does it make for an enemy? It might.
But, as I turn that mirror around and gaqze at my own nature, I realize that I have enemies whom I thought were friends, because I expected too much from them. I inaccurately judged the characters of some people because I wanted them to be who I thought they were, who I thought they represented themselves to be. I can't believe, respect or trust those people, but I can forgive them for their masquerades and forgive myself for being fooled.
Then there are people who just don't like you. They probably don't know why but they will find a reason to justify their hatred. It is quite impossible to trust someone who hates you, but, though difficult, it's not impossible to forgive them for their hatred.
One must be prepared to defend oneself against one's enemies if the enmity spills over into some kind of attack, but revenge is not the intelligent defense. Forgiveness is. It doesn't even need to be expressed. It just needs to be chosen and confirmed in one's own thinking. One can go through thinking about all the things one should have said or done but the fact that they weren't said or done allows for peace.
It's hard to forgave you enemies. Life is hard. But it can be lived more easily without having enemies occupy space in your mind.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
*************************
Monday, June 25, 2012
Joy In Art
Development of an aesthetic sense brings a lifetime of joy.
Denise Low-Wesa (Cherokee)
***************************
Hello Val
***************************
Years ago I had a friend, Della, who was one of the most ebullient, fun loving people I've ever known. When she laughed, which was often, there was nothing tentative about it. Della wasn't a giggler, she was a laugher. She enjoyed life and she let everyone know it.
I took her to a Broadway show, a comedy, and before the first act was over, she had the entire section of the audience laughing and the cast of six playing right to us. I know, because I'm an actor, those six performers had a great night.
I can remember many occasions when I was overcome with joy in the presence of some cultural achievement that was above expectations and which generated a special feeling of excitement in me.
I attended an exhibit of Van Gogh paintings at a large museum. At first there were a few rooms of his drawings. Then I stepped into a large, circular room of his paintings. It took me a moment to catch my breath. I was in a whirlwind of genius. The energy coming to me and grabbing me from all parts of the room was overwhelming. I was in heaven. I wanted to own all of those paintings.
Eventually I walked up to one of them and began the slow circle around the room giving the most time I could to each one of them. I don't remember how long I was there but I didn't want to leave.
The Los Angeles Philharmonic came to New York for a concert at Lincoln Center. The last piece on the program was the Brahms Sympnony number 1. All the pieces they played were excellent but about half way through the last movement of the Brahms I became aware that something very unusual was taking place. It was a performance beyond the reach of the ordinary. The music was playing itself. A grand, warm feeling of joy was slowly arising from deep inside of me. I was in the presence of something extraordinary. The musicians knew it and so did many people in the audience. Just as the last chords were playing people stood up. Not to put their coats on and leave but to cheer. And cheer we did.
I can't think or write about joy in any aesthetic experience without telling of my own career. After many years of working as an actor I began to realize my own talent, potential and value as an artist. The skill and confidence I gained made it so that I was completely at home and comfortable on the stage. To do a great play with a cast of good, professional actors is a joy that is hard to describe to anyone who hasn't experienced it.
I can only sum it up by saying there were moments when I came off the stage saying "I love this. I love this more than life itself." And that's the truth.
Dana Bate
Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
************************
Denise Low-Wesa (Cherokee)
***************************
Hello Val
***************************
Years ago I had a friend, Della, who was one of the most ebullient, fun loving people I've ever known. When she laughed, which was often, there was nothing tentative about it. Della wasn't a giggler, she was a laugher. She enjoyed life and she let everyone know it.
I took her to a Broadway show, a comedy, and before the first act was over, she had the entire section of the audience laughing and the cast of six playing right to us. I know, because I'm an actor, those six performers had a great night.
I can remember many occasions when I was overcome with joy in the presence of some cultural achievement that was above expectations and which generated a special feeling of excitement in me.
I attended an exhibit of Van Gogh paintings at a large museum. At first there were a few rooms of his drawings. Then I stepped into a large, circular room of his paintings. It took me a moment to catch my breath. I was in a whirlwind of genius. The energy coming to me and grabbing me from all parts of the room was overwhelming. I was in heaven. I wanted to own all of those paintings.
Eventually I walked up to one of them and began the slow circle around the room giving the most time I could to each one of them. I don't remember how long I was there but I didn't want to leave.
The Los Angeles Philharmonic came to New York for a concert at Lincoln Center. The last piece on the program was the Brahms Sympnony number 1. All the pieces they played were excellent but about half way through the last movement of the Brahms I became aware that something very unusual was taking place. It was a performance beyond the reach of the ordinary. The music was playing itself. A grand, warm feeling of joy was slowly arising from deep inside of me. I was in the presence of something extraordinary. The musicians knew it and so did many people in the audience. Just as the last chords were playing people stood up. Not to put their coats on and leave but to cheer. And cheer we did.
I can't think or write about joy in any aesthetic experience without telling of my own career. After many years of working as an actor I began to realize my own talent, potential and value as an artist. The skill and confidence I gained made it so that I was completely at home and comfortable on the stage. To do a great play with a cast of good, professional actors is a joy that is hard to describe to anyone who hasn't experienced it.
I can only sum it up by saying there were moments when I came off the stage saying "I love this. I love this more than life itself." And that's the truth.
Dana Bate
Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
************************
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Contest Results
CONTEST - And the winner is...
Here's the contest How hot is it? When I first ran this contest the winner was a school teacher who wrote: "It's so hot my hot flashes cool me off." it's your turn. How hot is it?
It's so hot my toaster pops up before I push it down. (DB)
Its so hot we are using our dog's panting as an extra fan (SH)
it's so hot that sweat runs uphill. (BK)
It's so hot....the microwave popcorn packets are popping in the cupboard (LS)
It's so hot I saw two trees fighting over a dog. (Donna)
It's so hot here in Texas that people have been deliberately committing crimes so they can go to hell and cool off. (JV)
it's so hot here I tried to order another vodka on the rocks but my breath caught fire. (Geo)
After not so careful consideration I've decided to award the grand prize of a pair of genuine aluminum mittens to Donna for the trees fighting for a dog because it was the only one that made me laugh out loud.
An honorable mention goes to Sue for the panting dog fan.
Thank you all.
DB
************************
Here's the contest How hot is it? When I first ran this contest the winner was a school teacher who wrote: "It's so hot my hot flashes cool me off." it's your turn. How hot is it?
It's so hot my toaster pops up before I push it down. (DB)
Its so hot we are using our dog's panting as an extra fan (SH)
it's so hot that sweat runs uphill. (BK)
It's so hot....the microwave popcorn packets are popping in the cupboard (LS)
It's so hot I saw two trees fighting over a dog. (Donna)
It's so hot here in Texas that people have been deliberately committing crimes so they can go to hell and cool off. (JV)
it's so hot here I tried to order another vodka on the rocks but my breath caught fire. (Geo)
After not so careful consideration I've decided to award the grand prize of a pair of genuine aluminum mittens to Donna for the trees fighting for a dog because it was the only one that made me laugh out loud.
An honorable mention goes to Sue for the panting dog fan.
Thank you all.
DB
************************
Listen To The Violet
CONTEST - Following the contest will be today's journal entry "Listen To The Violet"
Here's a contest for you. How hot is it? When I first ran this contest the winner was a school teacher who wrote: "It's so hot my hot flashes cool me off."
it's your turn. How hot is it?
It's so hot my toaster pops up before I push it down. (DB)
Its so hot we are using our dog's panting as an extra fan (SH)
it's so hot that sweat runs uphill. (BK)
It's so hot....the microwave popcorn packets are popping in the cupboard (LS)
It's so hot I saw two trees fighting over a dog. (Donna)
It's so hot here in Texas that people have been deliberately committing crimes so they can go to hell and cool off. (JV)
it's so hot here I tried to order another vodka on the rocks but my breath caught fire.
It's so hot....
Good luck, prizes will be awarded, the decision of the certifiably mad judge is final.
DB
************************
Language is the house of being.
Martin Heidegger
*********************
Hello Lily
*********************
We would know a lot more about nature and the world we live if we could understand all, or even some, of the languages around us. People try to, and think they do, understand the singing of some of the birds. Others study the dolphins' talk and still others are listening to the whales.
But the fact is that everything that exists has a language, and what a story some of them could tell. Take, for example, the humble violet. If we could read it's biography it would tell us of an almost microscopic story of struggle and travail to become what it is: tiny, tender fingers grasping a bit of earth, growing unseen underground, bravely pushing against enormous weight to slip out into the sunlight and breath the air to open up to be what it is, a beautiful little flower.
The small rock lying in the meadow could tell us how it was once part of a mighty boulder, baked and changed by the intense heat of volcanic action. thrust to the surface by mountainous underground movements, picked up by an advancing glacier, scraped against other rocks which left scars on it's surface finally, as the glacier receded, to be left at rest in the meadow.
Take the meadow itself. Walk through it, see it and listen to the endless chatter of tales being told, stories traded, information shared.
That old house down the street has histories of love, pain, romance, lives thrown away and lives revived. It won't all be in the town records, but the house knows.
There is language everywhere, in the Earth, in the Solar System, the Galaxy and on. And we are only just beginning to translate. We need dictionaries to give us the terms for the inaudible, invisible universe around us.
That's why there are poets.
--------------------------------
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
******************************
Here's a contest for you. How hot is it? When I first ran this contest the winner was a school teacher who wrote: "It's so hot my hot flashes cool me off."
it's your turn. How hot is it?
It's so hot my toaster pops up before I push it down. (DB)
Its so hot we are using our dog's panting as an extra fan (SH)
it's so hot that sweat runs uphill. (BK)
It's so hot....the microwave popcorn packets are popping in the cupboard (LS)
It's so hot I saw two trees fighting over a dog. (Donna)
It's so hot here in Texas that people have been deliberately committing crimes so they can go to hell and cool off. (JV)
it's so hot here I tried to order another vodka on the rocks but my breath caught fire.
It's so hot....
Good luck, prizes will be awarded, the decision of the certifiably mad judge is final.
DB
************************
Language is the house of being.
Martin Heidegger
*********************
Hello Lily
*********************
We would know a lot more about nature and the world we live if we could understand all, or even some, of the languages around us. People try to, and think they do, understand the singing of some of the birds. Others study the dolphins' talk and still others are listening to the whales.
But the fact is that everything that exists has a language, and what a story some of them could tell. Take, for example, the humble violet. If we could read it's biography it would tell us of an almost microscopic story of struggle and travail to become what it is: tiny, tender fingers grasping a bit of earth, growing unseen underground, bravely pushing against enormous weight to slip out into the sunlight and breath the air to open up to be what it is, a beautiful little flower.
The small rock lying in the meadow could tell us how it was once part of a mighty boulder, baked and changed by the intense heat of volcanic action. thrust to the surface by mountainous underground movements, picked up by an advancing glacier, scraped against other rocks which left scars on it's surface finally, as the glacier receded, to be left at rest in the meadow.
Take the meadow itself. Walk through it, see it and listen to the endless chatter of tales being told, stories traded, information shared.
That old house down the street has histories of love, pain, romance, lives thrown away and lives revived. It won't all be in the town records, but the house knows.
There is language everywhere, in the Earth, in the Solar System, the Galaxy and on. And we are only just beginning to translate. We need dictionaries to give us the terms for the inaudible, invisible universe around us.
That's why there are poets.
--------------------------------
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
******************************
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Love and Contest
Check out the contest after the journal entry.
---------------------------------------------------
Though lovers be lost love shall not.
Dylan Thomas
******************
Hello Ken
******************
At one time I wrote "I have loved and lost, but I will live to love again." At the time I wrote that it didn't seem possible. But as certain as Spring someone came along and grabbed my heart. Since then I've been wary of proclaiming to myself any tautologies of my, or anyone else's, susceptibility to the untreatable madness we call "love."
Most of my history of love affairs has been about loss. It's a sad and heart breaking thing, but as my friend Skip says "It sure gets your emotions flexed." and is that a bad thing after all?
When we lose the perfect soul mate, the perfect life partner, the perfect man or woman, the one to make our lives complete, we are sure another such a one will never come along again. Until the next time. What I have discovered in my rough and tumble romantic history is that, just as Thomas says, the propensity, the desire, the affection, the need, the self sacrifice, the idolatry are never lost. They abide in us, silently and patiently, waiting for the door to open to express themselves in whatever way our imagination and circumstances provide.
Strange things happen. You may meet someone you find not attractive, not your "type," only to find yourself in love with that person six months later. It happened a year later for me. She was sitting next to me at a party. I thought she was interesting but not my type. A year later at another party she was again sitting next to me and I saw a different quality to her. We had lunch. Then she invited me over for dinner. I stayed. That was a six year relationship which ended only when she met another guy more to her liking. C'est l'amour.
Sometimes it's not another person but a group of people, a family, an organization, a cause, a job, all of which can be lost, and the pain may be awful, but it just proves that the love still exists in the heart and it needs to find another way to manifest itself.
Love comes because it's always there. You don't need to wear your heart on your sleeve (or leave it outside on a plate, as I am guilty of doing sometimes). I think the answer is to appreciate that the sensitivity, the affection, the passion and the adventure are all a permanent part of your being and, yes, love yourself for them and be ready to share them when the arrow flies. To be in love, to be ready to love, to be eager for love, one is never more alive.
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
***************************
CONTEST Here's a contest for you. How hot is it? When I first ran this contest the winner was a school teacher who wrote: "It's so hot my hot flashes cool me off." Now it's your turn. How hot is it? It's so hot my toaster pops up before I push it down. (DB) Its so hot we are using our dog's panting as an extra fan (SH) it's so hot that sweat runs uphill. (BK) It's so hot....the microwave popcorn packets are popping in the cupboard (LS) It's so hot I saw two trees fighting over a dog. It's so hot here in Texas that people have been deliberately committing crimes so they can go to hell and cool off. (JV)
It's so hot.... Good luck, prizes will be awarded, the decision of the certifiably mad judge is final. DB ************************
---------------------------------------------------
Though lovers be lost love shall not.
Dylan Thomas
******************
Hello Ken
******************
At one time I wrote "I have loved and lost, but I will live to love again." At the time I wrote that it didn't seem possible. But as certain as Spring someone came along and grabbed my heart. Since then I've been wary of proclaiming to myself any tautologies of my, or anyone else's, susceptibility to the untreatable madness we call "love."
Most of my history of love affairs has been about loss. It's a sad and heart breaking thing, but as my friend Skip says "It sure gets your emotions flexed." and is that a bad thing after all?
When we lose the perfect soul mate, the perfect life partner, the perfect man or woman, the one to make our lives complete, we are sure another such a one will never come along again. Until the next time. What I have discovered in my rough and tumble romantic history is that, just as Thomas says, the propensity, the desire, the affection, the need, the self sacrifice, the idolatry are never lost. They abide in us, silently and patiently, waiting for the door to open to express themselves in whatever way our imagination and circumstances provide.
Strange things happen. You may meet someone you find not attractive, not your "type," only to find yourself in love with that person six months later. It happened a year later for me. She was sitting next to me at a party. I thought she was interesting but not my type. A year later at another party she was again sitting next to me and I saw a different quality to her. We had lunch. Then she invited me over for dinner. I stayed. That was a six year relationship which ended only when she met another guy more to her liking. C'est l'amour.
Sometimes it's not another person but a group of people, a family, an organization, a cause, a job, all of which can be lost, and the pain may be awful, but it just proves that the love still exists in the heart and it needs to find another way to manifest itself.
Love comes because it's always there. You don't need to wear your heart on your sleeve (or leave it outside on a plate, as I am guilty of doing sometimes). I think the answer is to appreciate that the sensitivity, the affection, the passion and the adventure are all a permanent part of your being and, yes, love yourself for them and be ready to share them when the arrow flies. To be in love, to be ready to love, to be eager for love, one is never more alive.
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
***************************
CONTEST Here's a contest for you. How hot is it? When I first ran this contest the winner was a school teacher who wrote: "It's so hot my hot flashes cool me off." Now it's your turn. How hot is it? It's so hot my toaster pops up before I push it down. (DB) Its so hot we are using our dog's panting as an extra fan (SH) it's so hot that sweat runs uphill. (BK) It's so hot....the microwave popcorn packets are popping in the cupboard (LS) It's so hot I saw two trees fighting over a dog. It's so hot here in Texas that people have been deliberately committing crimes so they can go to hell and cool off. (JV)
It's so hot.... Good luck, prizes will be awarded, the decision of the certifiably mad judge is final. DB ************************
Friday, June 22, 2012
Stand Up
Contest to follow.
--------------------------
Only when we have drunk from the river of darkness can we truly see.
Brother Theodore
******************
Hello Kate
******************
The comedian Brother Theodore, Theodore Gottlieb (1906 - 2001), probably saw more and drank more of the river of darkness than most of us, even the most sinister of us, can imagine.
He was captured by the Nazis and taken to Dachau Concentration Camp where he witnessed all the terrible tortures, including seeing the guards laughing loudly as they watched men being eaten alive by vicious dogs.
He escaped Dachau by signing over his family's fortune to the Germans hoping t see his family again, which he never did. Having run into trouble in Europe he moved to America with the help of Albert Einstein, a family friend.
He worked at many odd jobs while developing an act as an anti existentialist monologist. He tried performing it in California whiteout success. During the time of his greatest struggle his wife left him and his son, his only child, went with her.
He eventually found a place for himself playing small out of the way clubs in NYC and developed a cult following. He was finally recognized by some of the TV talk show hosts and made appearances on TV, particularly toward the end with David Letterman.
Starting from an absurdist premise such as that we should walk on all fours, or that we shouldn't eat food because it's bad for us, he would weave a speech that challenged all the pretensions and broke all the rules.
The title of his act was "Stand Up Tragedy"
----------------------------------------------
Fortunately most of us never have to look into a river of darkness, much less drink from it, though we may have approached it sometimes during a dark night of the soul. We can be thankful for Theodore who knew it well, witnessed it, drank from it and yet could make humor out of it. Dark humor, for sure, but there's nothing wrong with that.
-------------------------------
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
**************************
CONTEST
Here's a contest for you.
How hot is it?
When I first ran this contest the winner was a school teacher who wrote:
"It's so hot my hot flashes cool me off."
Now it's your turn. How hot is it?
It's so hot my toaster pops up before I push it down. (DB)
Its so hot we are using our dog's panting as an extra fan (SH)
it's so hot that sweat runs uphill. (BK)
It's so hot....the microwave popcorn packets are popping in the cupboard (LS)
It's so hot I saw two trees fighting over a dog.
It's so hot here in Texas that people have been deliberately committing crimes so they can go to hell and cool off. (JV)It's so hot....
Good luck, prizes will be awarded, the decision of the certifiably mad judge is final.
DB
************************
--------------------------
Only when we have drunk from the river of darkness can we truly see.
Brother Theodore
******************
Hello Kate
******************
The comedian Brother Theodore, Theodore Gottlieb (1906 - 2001), probably saw more and drank more of the river of darkness than most of us, even the most sinister of us, can imagine.
He was captured by the Nazis and taken to Dachau Concentration Camp where he witnessed all the terrible tortures, including seeing the guards laughing loudly as they watched men being eaten alive by vicious dogs.
He escaped Dachau by signing over his family's fortune to the Germans hoping t see his family again, which he never did. Having run into trouble in Europe he moved to America with the help of Albert Einstein, a family friend.
He worked at many odd jobs while developing an act as an anti existentialist monologist. He tried performing it in California whiteout success. During the time of his greatest struggle his wife left him and his son, his only child, went with her.
He eventually found a place for himself playing small out of the way clubs in NYC and developed a cult following. He was finally recognized by some of the TV talk show hosts and made appearances on TV, particularly toward the end with David Letterman.
Starting from an absurdist premise such as that we should walk on all fours, or that we shouldn't eat food because it's bad for us, he would weave a speech that challenged all the pretensions and broke all the rules.
The title of his act was "Stand Up Tragedy"
----------------------------------------------
Fortunately most of us never have to look into a river of darkness, much less drink from it, though we may have approached it sometimes during a dark night of the soul. We can be thankful for Theodore who knew it well, witnessed it, drank from it and yet could make humor out of it. Dark humor, for sure, but there's nothing wrong with that.
-------------------------------
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
**************************
CONTEST
Here's a contest for you.
How hot is it?
When I first ran this contest the winner was a school teacher who wrote:
"It's so hot my hot flashes cool me off."
Now it's your turn. How hot is it?
It's so hot my toaster pops up before I push it down. (DB)
Its so hot we are using our dog's panting as an extra fan (SH)
it's so hot that sweat runs uphill. (BK)
It's so hot....the microwave popcorn packets are popping in the cupboard (LS)
It's so hot I saw two trees fighting over a dog.
It's so hot here in Texas that people have been deliberately committing crimes so they can go to hell and cool off. (JV)It's so hot....
Good luck, prizes will be awarded, the decision of the certifiably mad judge is final.
DB
************************
Thursday, June 21, 2012
CONTEST
Here's a contest for you.
How hot is it?
When I first ran this contest the winner was a school teacher who wrote:
"It's so hot my hot flashes cool me off."
Now it's your turn. How hot is it?
It's so hot my toaster pops up before I push it down. (DB)
Its so hot we are using our dog's panting as an extra fan (SH)
It's so hot....
Good luck, prizes will be awarded, the decision of the certifiably mad judge is final.
DB
************************
How hot is it?
When I first ran this contest the winner was a school teacher who wrote:
"It's so hot my hot flashes cool me off."
Now it's your turn. How hot is it?
It's so hot my toaster pops up before I push it down. (DB)
Its so hot we are using our dog's panting as an extra fan (SH)
It's so hot....
Good luck, prizes will be awarded, the decision of the certifiably mad judge is final.
DB
************************
Journal
"They can steal my fish, but they can't steal my ocean." (Bate) I will write it again for tomorrow
DB
Never give up.
DB
Never give up.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Talk To Me
What a lovely surprise to finally discover how unlovely being alone can be.
Ellen Burstyn
*******************
Hello Stuart
*******************
My God, I need a friend !! (Oh, I said that already.)
Being alone is not just a matter of not having someone else around.
I have a room with music playing (Tannhauser at the moment), a couple of comfortable chairs and three windows. I have another room with a very large sofa, a table, a chair and two windows. I have a big kitchen with a table to sit around and three more windows. I have a nice big porch with a table and chairs, not much of a view but there is a wind chime and usually a refreshing breeze. I have a library of books and paintings spread out all over. I am all set up to receive visitors.
My apartment is a mess. The bed isn't made, there's stuff on the chairs, the books are stacked up in no particular order, there are paintings blocking some of the windows, the living room table is covered with litter, the kitchen table is pushed against the wall, the dishes aren't washed and I hardly ever go out on the porch. Why? Because no one visits me.
MY one friend Linda lives several towns away. Sometimes its weeks before I see her, and then it's usually business, not a social call.
I live alone, and sometimes I am alone. I'm not alone when I'm writing, like right now. But after I"ve written and edited this, I will put it on the "mail waiting to be sent" file where it will sit (until it's time to post it). And then my aloneness will echo from the walls.
I live in a world of ideas, but the ideas only go one way, out.
I read other people's journals and I get the same feeling, an attempt to communicate out to a nameless void, ideas going out from an aloneness. There is no doubt the Internet is a great boon for the human race, but its bad side is the abatement of real conversation. Some of my best memories are those times in the theatre when cast and crew get together between performances or on a break and converse. I miss that very much.
Where are the discussions? In school everything is computerized. In church one guy does all the talking. In Congress they just insult each other. In city council people talk just to hear themselves. TV interviews are just questions and answers.
I will never forget a discussion I had one evening about the creative process with three other artists. I spoke only English, one woman spoke English and Greek, one woman spoke Greek and French and the other man only spoke French. Everything had to be said 2 or 3 times. Those ideas got a real workout and I came away from it with knowledge.
Are people afraid of ideas, afraid of expressing them, afraid of having their ideas challenged, or accepted and improved on, or put with another idea creating a third one?
It's unlovely and unhealthy for a person to chew on his own thoughts all day simply because he is alone. Fortunately I have books to challenge and improve my thinking. They are filled with ideas, but I have no one to discuss them with.
Maybe I'll just play solitaire.
----------------------------------
DB - Vagabond
Never give up.
**********************
Ellen Burstyn
*******************
Hello Stuart
*******************
My God, I need a friend !! (Oh, I said that already.)
Being alone is not just a matter of not having someone else around.
I have a room with music playing (Tannhauser at the moment), a couple of comfortable chairs and three windows. I have another room with a very large sofa, a table, a chair and two windows. I have a big kitchen with a table to sit around and three more windows. I have a nice big porch with a table and chairs, not much of a view but there is a wind chime and usually a refreshing breeze. I have a library of books and paintings spread out all over. I am all set up to receive visitors.
My apartment is a mess. The bed isn't made, there's stuff on the chairs, the books are stacked up in no particular order, there are paintings blocking some of the windows, the living room table is covered with litter, the kitchen table is pushed against the wall, the dishes aren't washed and I hardly ever go out on the porch. Why? Because no one visits me.
MY one friend Linda lives several towns away. Sometimes its weeks before I see her, and then it's usually business, not a social call.
I live alone, and sometimes I am alone. I'm not alone when I'm writing, like right now. But after I"ve written and edited this, I will put it on the "mail waiting to be sent" file where it will sit (until it's time to post it). And then my aloneness will echo from the walls.
I live in a world of ideas, but the ideas only go one way, out.
I read other people's journals and I get the same feeling, an attempt to communicate out to a nameless void, ideas going out from an aloneness. There is no doubt the Internet is a great boon for the human race, but its bad side is the abatement of real conversation. Some of my best memories are those times in the theatre when cast and crew get together between performances or on a break and converse. I miss that very much.
Where are the discussions? In school everything is computerized. In church one guy does all the talking. In Congress they just insult each other. In city council people talk just to hear themselves. TV interviews are just questions and answers.
I will never forget a discussion I had one evening about the creative process with three other artists. I spoke only English, one woman spoke English and Greek, one woman spoke Greek and French and the other man only spoke French. Everything had to be said 2 or 3 times. Those ideas got a real workout and I came away from it with knowledge.
Are people afraid of ideas, afraid of expressing them, afraid of having their ideas challenged, or accepted and improved on, or put with another idea creating a third one?
It's unlovely and unhealthy for a person to chew on his own thoughts all day simply because he is alone. Fortunately I have books to challenge and improve my thinking. They are filled with ideas, but I have no one to discuss them with.
Maybe I'll just play solitaire.
----------------------------------
DB - Vagabond
Never give up.
**********************
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
The Seed
The principles now planted in thy bosom will grow, and one day reach maturity, and in that maturity thou will find thy heaven or thy hell.
David Thomas
*******************
Hello Margie
*******************
I have a seed sitting on my kitchen window sill. It's dark brown and slightly smaller than a golf ball. I picked it up off a lush green yard in Staten Island, New York one afternoon. A botanist, perhaps a forester, might be able to tell what would grow from that seed. In fact, the yard where the seed was found had a number of tall, grand, stately trees.
I read somewhere that those seeds get planted by squirrels who bury them for the winter and then forget where they are. So if you see one of those poor critters frantically digging in the snow he's probably saying "Where the heck did I put that seed?"
The amazing thing is that everything that tree is going to be is embryonic information already contained in the seed. The seed knows just how tall the tree will be in maturity, how many branches it will have, how many leaves and other blossoms it will produce and how many seeds of it's own it will drop to the ground for the squirrels.
I have been bothered lately by the rampant immorality I see around me. I guess unethical behavior has always been in the world, but since I haven't always been in the world, it's the current crop of egregious behavior that concerns me, particularly when I see evidence of it among people I know.
Now I don't pretend tome be crystal pure, bleached white clean myself, but I have learned to monitor myself to catch it if I'm about to do or say something that smacks of dishonesty, disrespect, scorn or some other negative impulse, and if something like that sneaks through, I've learned to regret it. I've discovered that I've finally grown into some of the principles "planted in my bosom" as a child.
But, even so, my life has been good and my behavior toward others has been fair compared to what some people display, even some seniors who should know better. I once heard an executive with a very large insurance company say about a client that he didn't mind if the fellow was dishonest as long as he had a sense of humor about it. That remark made me grind my teeth. I'm in favor of humor, but I'm against dishonesty. For some people lying is a way of life. So is cheating, which is a polite word for theft.
I knew a broadcasting producer who thought nothing of stealing other people's ideas and believing that he had thought of them himself. Road rage, drugs, loud music, trashing other people's property, kidnapping children, political smear campaigns, corporate greed, terrorism, torture, mass murder. The list is endless.
I wonder what principles, if any, were placed in the hearts of those destroyers of peace, freedom and society that causes them to grow into the weeds and poison ivy of the world. What awful seed was buried in the dark ground of a youngster's mind that allows him to grow up to be a depraved, iniquitous waste, or even an otherwise nice guy who just bends the twig to suit his will with no regard for morality whatsoever.
Some religionists will say it is because of the hubris of Adam and Eve. That is an easy, quick fix non-answer and should be thrust out of the churches and synagogues.
Something should be done about it. I don';t know what to do. Maybe I should plant that seed somewhere and give the world another tall, sturdy, honest tree.
We are all leaves on the great tree that is life, all expressions of life. The seed of that tree is a good one and there is something about every leaf that is worthy of respect. I want to say to the villains of the world "Wake up and join the human race."
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
*****************************
David Thomas
*******************
Hello Margie
*******************
I have a seed sitting on my kitchen window sill. It's dark brown and slightly smaller than a golf ball. I picked it up off a lush green yard in Staten Island, New York one afternoon. A botanist, perhaps a forester, might be able to tell what would grow from that seed. In fact, the yard where the seed was found had a number of tall, grand, stately trees.
I read somewhere that those seeds get planted by squirrels who bury them for the winter and then forget where they are. So if you see one of those poor critters frantically digging in the snow he's probably saying "Where the heck did I put that seed?"
The amazing thing is that everything that tree is going to be is embryonic information already contained in the seed. The seed knows just how tall the tree will be in maturity, how many branches it will have, how many leaves and other blossoms it will produce and how many seeds of it's own it will drop to the ground for the squirrels.
I have been bothered lately by the rampant immorality I see around me. I guess unethical behavior has always been in the world, but since I haven't always been in the world, it's the current crop of egregious behavior that concerns me, particularly when I see evidence of it among people I know.
Now I don't pretend tome be crystal pure, bleached white clean myself, but I have learned to monitor myself to catch it if I'm about to do or say something that smacks of dishonesty, disrespect, scorn or some other negative impulse, and if something like that sneaks through, I've learned to regret it. I've discovered that I've finally grown into some of the principles "planted in my bosom" as a child.
But, even so, my life has been good and my behavior toward others has been fair compared to what some people display, even some seniors who should know better. I once heard an executive with a very large insurance company say about a client that he didn't mind if the fellow was dishonest as long as he had a sense of humor about it. That remark made me grind my teeth. I'm in favor of humor, but I'm against dishonesty. For some people lying is a way of life. So is cheating, which is a polite word for theft.
I knew a broadcasting producer who thought nothing of stealing other people's ideas and believing that he had thought of them himself. Road rage, drugs, loud music, trashing other people's property, kidnapping children, political smear campaigns, corporate greed, terrorism, torture, mass murder. The list is endless.
I wonder what principles, if any, were placed in the hearts of those destroyers of peace, freedom and society that causes them to grow into the weeds and poison ivy of the world. What awful seed was buried in the dark ground of a youngster's mind that allows him to grow up to be a depraved, iniquitous waste, or even an otherwise nice guy who just bends the twig to suit his will with no regard for morality whatsoever.
Some religionists will say it is because of the hubris of Adam and Eve. That is an easy, quick fix non-answer and should be thrust out of the churches and synagogues.
Something should be done about it. I don';t know what to do. Maybe I should plant that seed somewhere and give the world another tall, sturdy, honest tree.
We are all leaves on the great tree that is life, all expressions of life. The seed of that tree is a good one and there is something about every leaf that is worthy of respect. I want to say to the villains of the world "Wake up and join the human race."
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
*****************************
Monday, June 18, 2012
Poking The Nose
Curiosity is the direct incontinence of the spirit.
Jeremy Taylor
*******************
Hello Stuart
*******************
Incontinence? One definition is "a lacking in moderation or self-control." It can also be described as "wantonness."
Albert Einstein once said that he wasn't so clever but that he was just very curious. Thank goodness for the wantonness of curiosity. Without it we wouldn't have half the modern world that we do. There is always something for scientists, artists, philosophers and cats to poke their noses into. And the experience is usually very private and personal, even though the world may benefit from what is discovered.
One of my favorite photographs is of a NASA geologist peering at a small piece of moon rock. Every time I look at that picture it awakens my own curiosity, not about the rock, but about the man himself.
I wonder if his knowledge of earth's geology can help him make any sense out of what he sees. I wonder if in his youth, when he knew he was going to be a scientist, and eventually decided on geology, if he ever thought that someday he would be looking at a piece of the moon, holding it in his hand. I winder if he thinks about that as he stares at that chunk of the universe.
1,000 years ago going to the moon was conceivable, because it was the stuff of imagination for philosophers, scientists and poets. 100 years ago it wasn't conceivable for we hadn't even lifted off the ground yet. (To some die hard revisionists it's still inconceivable.)
Curiosity is one of those things that doesn't go away. It demands answers. It may perplex thinkers for thousands of years, but eventually the digging, the poking of the nose, will pay off with answers, the human spirit will see to that.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
************************
Jeremy Taylor
*******************
Hello Stuart
*******************
Incontinence? One definition is "a lacking in moderation or self-control." It can also be described as "wantonness."
Albert Einstein once said that he wasn't so clever but that he was just very curious. Thank goodness for the wantonness of curiosity. Without it we wouldn't have half the modern world that we do. There is always something for scientists, artists, philosophers and cats to poke their noses into. And the experience is usually very private and personal, even though the world may benefit from what is discovered.
One of my favorite photographs is of a NASA geologist peering at a small piece of moon rock. Every time I look at that picture it awakens my own curiosity, not about the rock, but about the man himself.
I wonder if his knowledge of earth's geology can help him make any sense out of what he sees. I wonder if in his youth, when he knew he was going to be a scientist, and eventually decided on geology, if he ever thought that someday he would be looking at a piece of the moon, holding it in his hand. I winder if he thinks about that as he stares at that chunk of the universe.
1,000 years ago going to the moon was conceivable, because it was the stuff of imagination for philosophers, scientists and poets. 100 years ago it wasn't conceivable for we hadn't even lifted off the ground yet. (To some die hard revisionists it's still inconceivable.)
Curiosity is one of those things that doesn't go away. It demands answers. It may perplex thinkers for thousands of years, but eventually the digging, the poking of the nose, will pay off with answers, the human spirit will see to that.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
************************
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Father's Day
What do I want for Father's Day?
*************************************
I want a home.
I want a home I can afford.
I want a home in New York City where my heart is.
Or a home in LA where my son is.
And a way to get there with my stuff.
I want a home where I can write and paint and do theatre.
Such a home would begin to make me a happy Dad.
******************************
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
********************************
*************************************
I want a home.
I want a home I can afford.
I want a home in New York City where my heart is.
Or a home in LA where my son is.
And a way to get there with my stuff.
I want a home where I can write and paint and do theatre.
Such a home would begin to make me a happy Dad.
******************************
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
********************************
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Father's Day
What do I want for Father's Day?
*************************************
I want a home.
I want a home I can afford.
I want a home in New York City where my heart is.
Or a home in LA where my son is.
And a way to get there with my stuff.
That would begin to make me a happy Dad.
******************************
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
********************************
*************************************
I want a home.
I want a home I can afford.
I want a home in New York City where my heart is.
Or a home in LA where my son is.
And a way to get there with my stuff.
That would begin to make me a happy Dad.
******************************
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
********************************
Real Time
Just remember, once you're over the hill you begin to pick up speed.
Arthur Schopenhauer
***********************
Hello Margie
***********************
What's the difference between real time and obligatory time? If you are invited to a party by a friend and you go delighted to be there, to meet their friends and share some stories, laughs and good companionship, that's real time. If you go to meet someone you think will be there just to do make a contact and maybe do some business, even that is real time. If you go to put in an appearance just to make sure that you don't lose an acquaintance or insult the host, that's obligatory time.
If you take your kids to the playground and enjoy seeing them play and maybe pushing them on a swing or catching them as they come down the slide, laughing with them and listening to their chatter, that's real time. If you take them to the park just to sit and talk with another parent or do nothing but keep an eye on them while they do whatever they can find to do on their own, that's obligatory time and the average child knows the difference.
Now answer this, what is the difference between a real life and an obligatory life?
One of the advantages of growing older, going "over the hill," as Schopenhauer and others put it, is the realization of how much obligatory time one has logged on one's time sheet and how sparse the real time measurements are. Those vacations at the beach which were meant to be relaxing times were actually obligatory escapes from a difficult or time consuming job. Getting with the guys for horseshoes or the girls for your bridge club may seem to have been real time but as you look back it seems more like a waste of time, an obligatory waste of time. Time you could have spent doing what? Something real?
Some of those of us who are masquerading as senior citizens (for want of a better term) take on projects. We learn a foreign language as I am trying to do. We join a book club to read and discuss some of the world's great, or not so great, literature. We go on cruises to see what the Earth looks like in the Caribbean, or Mediterranean or in the Fjords of Norway or Alaska. We volunteer our services in hospitals, day care centers or other institutions where some senior wisdom will be useful. We take up painting or writing and produce works that will beautify and enhance other lives. We take up a new enterprise or a new business and go back to work. And why do we do it?
We do not do it because life is short and we had better do something with the little time we have left while we're waiting to die. No. We do it because we are alive and wish to live real lives and not obligatory ones any more. Let the magazines and the TV talk show hosts admire her for teaching a college course at the age of 80. She's not thinking about being 80. She's thinking about teaching.
Old fogies pick up speed because they no longer waste time on obligatory lives. Let pretence, guile, artificiality and acting-their-age go out with the trash along with the false eyelashes. They're out for the real stuff.
Dana Bate - The Vagabond
Never Give Up
******************************
Arthur Schopenhauer
***********************
Hello Margie
***********************
What's the difference between real time and obligatory time? If you are invited to a party by a friend and you go delighted to be there, to meet their friends and share some stories, laughs and good companionship, that's real time. If you go to meet someone you think will be there just to do make a contact and maybe do some business, even that is real time. If you go to put in an appearance just to make sure that you don't lose an acquaintance or insult the host, that's obligatory time.
If you take your kids to the playground and enjoy seeing them play and maybe pushing them on a swing or catching them as they come down the slide, laughing with them and listening to their chatter, that's real time. If you take them to the park just to sit and talk with another parent or do nothing but keep an eye on them while they do whatever they can find to do on their own, that's obligatory time and the average child knows the difference.
Now answer this, what is the difference between a real life and an obligatory life?
One of the advantages of growing older, going "over the hill," as Schopenhauer and others put it, is the realization of how much obligatory time one has logged on one's time sheet and how sparse the real time measurements are. Those vacations at the beach which were meant to be relaxing times were actually obligatory escapes from a difficult or time consuming job. Getting with the guys for horseshoes or the girls for your bridge club may seem to have been real time but as you look back it seems more like a waste of time, an obligatory waste of time. Time you could have spent doing what? Something real?
Some of those of us who are masquerading as senior citizens (for want of a better term) take on projects. We learn a foreign language as I am trying to do. We join a book club to read and discuss some of the world's great, or not so great, literature. We go on cruises to see what the Earth looks like in the Caribbean, or Mediterranean or in the Fjords of Norway or Alaska. We volunteer our services in hospitals, day care centers or other institutions where some senior wisdom will be useful. We take up painting or writing and produce works that will beautify and enhance other lives. We take up a new enterprise or a new business and go back to work. And why do we do it?
We do not do it because life is short and we had better do something with the little time we have left while we're waiting to die. No. We do it because we are alive and wish to live real lives and not obligatory ones any more. Let the magazines and the TV talk show hosts admire her for teaching a college course at the age of 80. She's not thinking about being 80. She's thinking about teaching.
Old fogies pick up speed because they no longer waste time on obligatory lives. Let pretence, guile, artificiality and acting-their-age go out with the trash along with the false eyelashes. They're out for the real stuff.
Dana Bate - The Vagabond
Never Give Up
******************************
Friday, June 15, 2012
Amen
The worker must have bread, but she must have roses, too.
Rose Schneiderman
**********************
Hello Arlene
**********************
It is truly a beautiful moment when you smile at a flower and see it smiling back at you. It's a reaffirmation of the greatness of nature. The same intelligence that grows the wheat for your bread also brings up flowers upon the earth, Someone once wrote "The Amen of nature is always a flower. " The blessing has been done, the crops are grown, the bread is baked, the live stock has been fed and there is nothing left but "Amen."
When I lived in northern New Hampshire I loved to go hiking in the forest. There were well kept trails all through the White Mountains and almost everyday from Spring to Autumn I would be out for several hours exploring them. I enjoyed stopping to rest in an interesting place, surrounded by the sounds and sights of nature. If there was a brook or river next to me I could hear the laugher of the water as it slipped past the grasp of the banks and occasional "ooo" of amazement as it spilled over a rock formation and now and then the clunk of a stone being placed like a chess piece at a different location on the bottom.
There were trees around me, each with a different character to them. I would focus on one near me and try to listen to it's story. Dickens used to say there were spirits in the trees and if you listen carefully you can hear them speak, if they wanted to. In Shakespeare's ply "The Tempest" Ariel, a spirit of the air, is confined inside a tee by a curse. When Prospero, through his mystical powers releases him, Ariel becomes his servant. Imagine what it would be like if you had the power to release the spirits from the trees. I just listened.
And there are wild flowers in the forest also. And they are as their names imply wild, and do not wish to be domesticated. But they have a special beauty to them and a special smile.
One does not need to go into a forest to enjoy the beauties of nature. So once the bread is baked, if there is a rose anywhere around smile at it and say "Amen."
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
Rose Schneiderman
**********************
Hello Arlene
**********************
It is truly a beautiful moment when you smile at a flower and see it smiling back at you. It's a reaffirmation of the greatness of nature. The same intelligence that grows the wheat for your bread also brings up flowers upon the earth, Someone once wrote "The Amen of nature is always a flower. " The blessing has been done, the crops are grown, the bread is baked, the live stock has been fed and there is nothing left but "Amen."
When I lived in northern New Hampshire I loved to go hiking in the forest. There were well kept trails all through the White Mountains and almost everyday from Spring to Autumn I would be out for several hours exploring them. I enjoyed stopping to rest in an interesting place, surrounded by the sounds and sights of nature. If there was a brook or river next to me I could hear the laugher of the water as it slipped past the grasp of the banks and occasional "ooo" of amazement as it spilled over a rock formation and now and then the clunk of a stone being placed like a chess piece at a different location on the bottom.
There were trees around me, each with a different character to them. I would focus on one near me and try to listen to it's story. Dickens used to say there were spirits in the trees and if you listen carefully you can hear them speak, if they wanted to. In Shakespeare's ply "The Tempest" Ariel, a spirit of the air, is confined inside a tee by a curse. When Prospero, through his mystical powers releases him, Ariel becomes his servant. Imagine what it would be like if you had the power to release the spirits from the trees. I just listened.
And there are wild flowers in the forest also. And they are as their names imply wild, and do not wish to be domesticated. But they have a special beauty to them and a special smile.
One does not need to go into a forest to enjoy the beauties of nature. So once the bread is baked, if there is a rose anywhere around smile at it and say "Amen."
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Discover Thyself
No matter how many goals you have achieved, you must set your sights on a higher one.
Jessica Savitch
********************
Hello Stuart
********************
In the early days of my acting career, when it became cold water obvious that I was not going to be an overnight sensation, with a Hollywood contract in my pocket too young to know what I had. I, at least, wanted to do more acting and less temp work. So one of the things I did was to keep a journal, a diary which recorded my experiences both working and trying to get work. One of the things I found was that it took me on average 10 auditions to get a job. "Well," I said in my boyish wisdom, "The answer is quite simple. Get more auditions."
That's not as easy as it sounds but I solved the problem by saying yes to everything. I went out for things I would have turned my talented nose up at, things I probably wasn't right for and things the heavy duty actors were trying out for. I was initially just trying to get more auditions but there were some surprising results.
For one thing I lowered the ratio to 6 or 7 auditions per job. And for another I was beginning to establish a reputation for myself so that even directors who didn't cast me would recommend me to other directors who did. Twice in my career I auditioned for someone who didn't cast me but then did a year later in a different production without an audition.
Gradually, as the years took their places on the string of my life and I was making a living as a performer, I began to think seriously about what entertainment was and how it fit in to the world of art. I knew other actors, of course, and singers, dancers and musicians, and we all had something in common. We were performing artists. That probably doesn't mean much to someone who isn't one, but to me it was very important.
From that level of acceptance I faced a vacuum. I needed to know more about art as a humble but cosmic adventure. So I began to take instructions in drawing and painting. I once described it as opening up a room in my house that I didn't know was there. I wish I could go back and learn sculpture and graphics. But I discovered myself as a painter
About 10 years ago I also began to write and now have written 2 novels, a bunch of short stories and this journal, Vagabond Journeys, which now has over 1,700 issues. I have discovered myself as a writer. And that is the point of this whole tome.
Some wise one said "If you keep doing the same thing, you'll keep getting the same result." It's alright to achieve success in some field and congratulate yourself for it. The reverse side of that coin is that your success has defined you, not just to the world outside, but also to yourself. And you will know that when you move on and "set your sights on" other levels of achievement and experience to reach for. Not only are we all capable of more than we do there is also more to us than we think there is. People are proving that every day.
Your achievements may make the papers, or strike you rich, but those are not what's important. Self discovery is what's important.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
*************************
Jessica Savitch
********************
Hello Stuart
********************
In the early days of my acting career, when it became cold water obvious that I was not going to be an overnight sensation, with a Hollywood contract in my pocket too young to know what I had. I, at least, wanted to do more acting and less temp work. So one of the things I did was to keep a journal, a diary which recorded my experiences both working and trying to get work. One of the things I found was that it took me on average 10 auditions to get a job. "Well," I said in my boyish wisdom, "The answer is quite simple. Get more auditions."
That's not as easy as it sounds but I solved the problem by saying yes to everything. I went out for things I would have turned my talented nose up at, things I probably wasn't right for and things the heavy duty actors were trying out for. I was initially just trying to get more auditions but there were some surprising results.
For one thing I lowered the ratio to 6 or 7 auditions per job. And for another I was beginning to establish a reputation for myself so that even directors who didn't cast me would recommend me to other directors who did. Twice in my career I auditioned for someone who didn't cast me but then did a year later in a different production without an audition.
Gradually, as the years took their places on the string of my life and I was making a living as a performer, I began to think seriously about what entertainment was and how it fit in to the world of art. I knew other actors, of course, and singers, dancers and musicians, and we all had something in common. We were performing artists. That probably doesn't mean much to someone who isn't one, but to me it was very important.
From that level of acceptance I faced a vacuum. I needed to know more about art as a humble but cosmic adventure. So I began to take instructions in drawing and painting. I once described it as opening up a room in my house that I didn't know was there. I wish I could go back and learn sculpture and graphics. But I discovered myself as a painter
About 10 years ago I also began to write and now have written 2 novels, a bunch of short stories and this journal, Vagabond Journeys, which now has over 1,700 issues. I have discovered myself as a writer. And that is the point of this whole tome.
Some wise one said "If you keep doing the same thing, you'll keep getting the same result." It's alright to achieve success in some field and congratulate yourself for it. The reverse side of that coin is that your success has defined you, not just to the world outside, but also to yourself. And you will know that when you move on and "set your sights on" other levels of achievement and experience to reach for. Not only are we all capable of more than we do there is also more to us than we think there is. People are proving that every day.
Your achievements may make the papers, or strike you rich, but those are not what's important. Self discovery is what's important.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
*************************
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Olaf
He who does not look ahead remains behind.
Mexican proverb
*********************************
Hello Rose
********************************
This is the tale of Olaf, the prophet, a New England story.
Any man can tell you that some of the most arcane literature can be found written on men's room walls. Contrary to what most people think, and against old wives tales, I don't remember ever reading anything that said something like:
"For a good time call Daisy"
with a phone number attached. But there are statements that seem to find their way onto all the men's room walls of the world. If I have to read one more time:
"I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy"
I think I will kick the wall down in a rage. Maybe it was mildly clever the first time around, 35 years ago, maybe, but enough is enough. It is worth noting that in some rare cases something can be found of interest. Near a theatre I used to manage was a bar and grill that I liked to frequent at night after the show was over. Among the other nonsense on the walls of the men's room someone had written:
"What's hot and swims"
That curiosity kept me and my colleagues amused for some time.
I used to live in northern New Hampshire, near the White Mountains. It was a tourist town. Almost all year round people would come up from southern New England, what the locals called Flatlanders, to enjoy the recreational aspects of the area. In the winter that meant skiing. There was a lounge with food and entertainment not far from where I lived, and I used to like to go there for lunch after my radio shift was over.
It was usual that there would be plenty of snow by mid to late December for the visiting skiers. But one year the snow was late in coming. And on the men's room wall someone, probably a frustrated flatlander, had written:
"There's no snow"
A few days later I was in the same restaurant and underneath it someone else had written:
"Olaf knows why there is no snow"
As the winter progressed with still no significant precipitation some one else had written:
"Why, Olaf, is there no snow?"
The Winter came and went. During the Spring the walls of the men's room had been painted, thus erasing all communications to and about Olaf.
But the next Winter's weather was comparable. Folks were waiting and hoping for a major snow storm that wasn't happening. I ventured into that men's room one afternoon and, sure enough, there on the wall someone had written:
"Where's the snow"
After about a week I found written this plea:
"Where is Olaf when you need him?"
That seemed like a serious, ongoing saga about Olaf and the lack of snow when a few days later another men's room journalist had written
"Olaf moved to North Carolina"
It seems that in North Carolina they had mastered the art of making snow.
And thus ends the tale of Olaf, the prophet..
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
*****************************
Mexican proverb
*********************************
Hello Rose
********************************
This is the tale of Olaf, the prophet, a New England story.
Any man can tell you that some of the most arcane literature can be found written on men's room walls. Contrary to what most people think, and against old wives tales, I don't remember ever reading anything that said something like:
"For a good time call Daisy"
with a phone number attached. But there are statements that seem to find their way onto all the men's room walls of the world. If I have to read one more time:
"I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy"
I think I will kick the wall down in a rage. Maybe it was mildly clever the first time around, 35 years ago, maybe, but enough is enough. It is worth noting that in some rare cases something can be found of interest. Near a theatre I used to manage was a bar and grill that I liked to frequent at night after the show was over. Among the other nonsense on the walls of the men's room someone had written:
"What's hot and swims"
That curiosity kept me and my colleagues amused for some time.
I used to live in northern New Hampshire, near the White Mountains. It was a tourist town. Almost all year round people would come up from southern New England, what the locals called Flatlanders, to enjoy the recreational aspects of the area. In the winter that meant skiing. There was a lounge with food and entertainment not far from where I lived, and I used to like to go there for lunch after my radio shift was over.
It was usual that there would be plenty of snow by mid to late December for the visiting skiers. But one year the snow was late in coming. And on the men's room wall someone, probably a frustrated flatlander, had written:
"There's no snow"
A few days later I was in the same restaurant and underneath it someone else had written:
"Olaf knows why there is no snow"
As the winter progressed with still no significant precipitation some one else had written:
"Why, Olaf, is there no snow?"
The Winter came and went. During the Spring the walls of the men's room had been painted, thus erasing all communications to and about Olaf.
But the next Winter's weather was comparable. Folks were waiting and hoping for a major snow storm that wasn't happening. I ventured into that men's room one afternoon and, sure enough, there on the wall someone had written:
"Where's the snow"
After about a week I found written this plea:
"Where is Olaf when you need him?"
That seemed like a serious, ongoing saga about Olaf and the lack of snow when a few days later another men's room journalist had written
"Olaf moved to North Carolina"
It seems that in North Carolina they had mastered the art of making snow.
And thus ends the tale of Olaf, the prophet..
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
*****************************
Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.
Abraham Lincoln
*****************
Hello Ernie
*****************
In the Autumn of 1960 I hitchhiked across the country. from Massachusetts to California. Along the way I met some interesting people with some fascinating stories. Yesterday afternoon I was telling an acquaintance about some of them. She is a woman who had an unfortunate marriage to a guy who turned out to be no good to her, himself or anyone else. Out of it she has a daughter and three grandchildren. The husband is out of her life.
The following is an extract from the rough draft of a novel I wrote about my trip. It needs editing and some rewriting. I'm sdorry it doesn't come acrss with the paragraphs. But I hope yu enjoy it. The novel is called "Brian On The Road." It starts out on the Arizona desert, Route 66. It's a true story.
-----------------------------------------------
At one point a car passed that was completely full of people and things. Brian could see through the passenger window a woman with a child on her lap and a pile of clothes behind her. There was definitely no room for him in that car. He kept walking and in about five minutes he was amazed to see the same car coming down the road in the opposite direction. The driver slowed down, made a U turn and stopped next to Brian. The woman was tossing kids and things into the back seat, then she opened the door and moved on over next to the man who was driving. The woman smiled at Brian and patted the seat, so he got in and pulled the door closed with his left hand. It was a tight squeeze but he was in. The man said he had been a hitchhiker in his younger days, knew what it was like and couldn't bear to pass him up. They went on their way. The man was about 30 Brian guessed. The woman was a few years younger. Brian looked over his shoulder into the back seat and saw some suitcases and a pile of clothes. Sitting on the clothes were two twin boys about 4 years old and one small brown curly haired dog. As they were driving along the man asked Brian a lot of questions about him, including where he came from and where he was going. When Brian said he was on his way to California the man said "Well, we'll take you there." Brian was relieved to know he had his ride across the desert. The man asked him what he was going to do in California. "A friend and I want to open a movie studio." "Oh, I love movies" said the woman. "I almost never get to see them. I hope you and your friend succeed. Make some good ones." "We'll try." They passed over the border, went through Needles, California quickly and headed out on to the desert. Brian looked behind him again at the two boys and the dog. He was amazed at how quiet they were, even the dog. The woman asked them a few times how they were doing and one boy would answer "Okay." "Where are you folks headed?" Brian asked. "Oregon" was the only reply. "Where'd you come from?" "We came from Saint Louis" said the woman. "And we're moving to Oregon." Brian was impressed with her. She was a very sweet and polite person, and was not complaining at all that she was being jammed in between two men without much room to move. Brian watched out the window as the desert flashed by. It was a lone and forlorn looking place but also beautiful in its severity. There were strange plants growing out of the sand, twisted trees and cracked earth. There were tiny flowers growing from what looked like dead wood. There were dunes for miles with occasional trees in them. A colony of cactus in strange shapes seemed to burst up out of the ground in clumps. In the distance towered demanding natural rock formations like castles and temples. If there was animal life it was furtive and hidden. Everything else was exposed by the blazing sun. This is a mystical place, thought Brian. I wonder who lives here. After a while the woman spoke up suddenly and quietly as if she had been keeping a secret or a valuable piece of gossip. "I'm leaving my husband." Brian was stunned. He couldn't speak. "He's a mean man" said the woman. "He beats her" said the man. "He beats me. My husband is a cruel man. He's unfaithful. He gets drunk and beats me up and he smacks the kids around and the dog. We're all afraid of him. I can't take it any more. So we're leaving him. It's awful." "You seem like a good man. So I guess we can tell you" said the man. "Bob here is not the other man. He's my friend." "We've been friends since we were kids in school together" said Bob. "I'm Mary Lou." "I'm Brian. Why Oregon?" "My brother has a farm there. He said to come on up and stay. He can use the help" said Bob. "Are you also from Saint Louis, Bob?" asked Brian. "Yes, but I don't have a family there or anything so this seems like the right thing to do, for me also." "How long have you been on the road?" "Three days ago. We only stop for gas and a short nap. I want to get there" said Bob. "How did it happen?" "He went to work in the morning. I packed as much as I could in the suitcases and the rest I just piled in the back. Bob helped me. And then we left." "Did you leave a note?" "Yeah. I told him not to try to follow us or find us. I don't think he will. He doesn't want the responsibility any more. I think he's probably glad to see us go." "Probably" said Bob. "It's best for us. A new life. For me, the boys and Fluffy." "Who's Fluffy, the dog?" "Yes." Brian looked behind him at Fluffy who was sitting up and wagging a tail at the mention of his name. "He's a cute dog." "He used to kick Fluffy" said Mary Lou. "Well, I'm sorry you suffered so much but you're probably doing the best thing" said Brian. "I have to thank you two times for picking me up in your full car and considering your circumstances." "Happy to do it" said Bob. The blazing afternoon sun was setting behind the hills ahead. Slowly things were becoming greener and cooler. They went on for another hour until Bob pulled into a gas station and filled up the car. Then he drove over to a convenience store, everybody got out, snacks were bought and he said "Nap time." "Nap time" meant a lot of activity. Bob took the boys into the rest room. Fluffy was led out and taken on a walk to sniff out the right tree for his business and then was fed and watered. Brian went into the store and bought a pack of Pall Malls. The cigarette he got from the Cherokee was so good he thought he'd have another while he waited. Soon snacks were distributed and quickly consumed. Everyone was back in the car with the doors closed. Bob put his head back and was quickly asleep. Brian was exhausted, so he had no trouble nodding off. He woke up briefly once to find the car on the road again. He saw it going over a series of corrugated hills, up and down like a gentle amusement park ride. It soon lulled him back to sleep. November 16, 1960 When he woke up again it was daylight and there was more traffic on the road. "We're coming into the edges of LA, Brian. Is that good for you?" Brian didn't know where in California Green's Point was but he thought that LA, Hollywood would be an appropriate place to start. "Yeah, I think so." Bob pulled the car over. Brian opened the door and slid halfway out of the seat. He looked behind him. Fluffy picked his head up, the two boys were watching him, Bob and Mary Lou were smiling. "I am really grateful to you for bringing me all this way, Bob. I know it's been hard on you, but I'm very thankful. I hope you have good luck in Oregon and a happy life from now on, all of you." "Thank you" said Mary Lou. "Well now, you have good luck and happiness yourself." "Thank you, I'll try." He closed the door and stepped back. The car drove off. He was sorry to see it go. Bran would never see those people again but for the rest of his life he would wonder how they made out in Oregon.
--------------------------------------------------
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
***************************
Abraham Lincoln
*****************
Hello Ernie
*****************
In the Autumn of 1960 I hitchhiked across the country. from Massachusetts to California. Along the way I met some interesting people with some fascinating stories. Yesterday afternoon I was telling an acquaintance about some of them. She is a woman who had an unfortunate marriage to a guy who turned out to be no good to her, himself or anyone else. Out of it she has a daughter and three grandchildren. The husband is out of her life.
The following is an extract from the rough draft of a novel I wrote about my trip. It needs editing and some rewriting. I'm sdorry it doesn't come acrss with the paragraphs. But I hope yu enjoy it. The novel is called "Brian On The Road." It starts out on the Arizona desert, Route 66. It's a true story.
-----------------------------------------------
At one point a car passed that was completely full of people and things. Brian could see through the passenger window a woman with a child on her lap and a pile of clothes behind her. There was definitely no room for him in that car. He kept walking and in about five minutes he was amazed to see the same car coming down the road in the opposite direction. The driver slowed down, made a U turn and stopped next to Brian. The woman was tossing kids and things into the back seat, then she opened the door and moved on over next to the man who was driving. The woman smiled at Brian and patted the seat, so he got in and pulled the door closed with his left hand. It was a tight squeeze but he was in. The man said he had been a hitchhiker in his younger days, knew what it was like and couldn't bear to pass him up. They went on their way. The man was about 30 Brian guessed. The woman was a few years younger. Brian looked over his shoulder into the back seat and saw some suitcases and a pile of clothes. Sitting on the clothes were two twin boys about 4 years old and one small brown curly haired dog. As they were driving along the man asked Brian a lot of questions about him, including where he came from and where he was going. When Brian said he was on his way to California the man said "Well, we'll take you there." Brian was relieved to know he had his ride across the desert. The man asked him what he was going to do in California. "A friend and I want to open a movie studio." "Oh, I love movies" said the woman. "I almost never get to see them. I hope you and your friend succeed. Make some good ones." "We'll try." They passed over the border, went through Needles, California quickly and headed out on to the desert. Brian looked behind him again at the two boys and the dog. He was amazed at how quiet they were, even the dog. The woman asked them a few times how they were doing and one boy would answer "Okay." "Where are you folks headed?" Brian asked. "Oregon" was the only reply. "Where'd you come from?" "We came from Saint Louis" said the woman. "And we're moving to Oregon." Brian was impressed with her. She was a very sweet and polite person, and was not complaining at all that she was being jammed in between two men without much room to move. Brian watched out the window as the desert flashed by. It was a lone and forlorn looking place but also beautiful in its severity. There were strange plants growing out of the sand, twisted trees and cracked earth. There were tiny flowers growing from what looked like dead wood. There were dunes for miles with occasional trees in them. A colony of cactus in strange shapes seemed to burst up out of the ground in clumps. In the distance towered demanding natural rock formations like castles and temples. If there was animal life it was furtive and hidden. Everything else was exposed by the blazing sun. This is a mystical place, thought Brian. I wonder who lives here. After a while the woman spoke up suddenly and quietly as if she had been keeping a secret or a valuable piece of gossip. "I'm leaving my husband." Brian was stunned. He couldn't speak. "He's a mean man" said the woman. "He beats her" said the man. "He beats me. My husband is a cruel man. He's unfaithful. He gets drunk and beats me up and he smacks the kids around and the dog. We're all afraid of him. I can't take it any more. So we're leaving him. It's awful." "You seem like a good man. So I guess we can tell you" said the man. "Bob here is not the other man. He's my friend." "We've been friends since we were kids in school together" said Bob. "I'm Mary Lou." "I'm Brian. Why Oregon?" "My brother has a farm there. He said to come on up and stay. He can use the help" said Bob. "Are you also from Saint Louis, Bob?" asked Brian. "Yes, but I don't have a family there or anything so this seems like the right thing to do, for me also." "How long have you been on the road?" "Three days ago. We only stop for gas and a short nap. I want to get there" said Bob. "How did it happen?" "He went to work in the morning. I packed as much as I could in the suitcases and the rest I just piled in the back. Bob helped me. And then we left." "Did you leave a note?" "Yeah. I told him not to try to follow us or find us. I don't think he will. He doesn't want the responsibility any more. I think he's probably glad to see us go." "Probably" said Bob. "It's best for us. A new life. For me, the boys and Fluffy." "Who's Fluffy, the dog?" "Yes." Brian looked behind him at Fluffy who was sitting up and wagging a tail at the mention of his name. "He's a cute dog." "He used to kick Fluffy" said Mary Lou. "Well, I'm sorry you suffered so much but you're probably doing the best thing" said Brian. "I have to thank you two times for picking me up in your full car and considering your circumstances." "Happy to do it" said Bob. The blazing afternoon sun was setting behind the hills ahead. Slowly things were becoming greener and cooler. They went on for another hour until Bob pulled into a gas station and filled up the car. Then he drove over to a convenience store, everybody got out, snacks were bought and he said "Nap time." "Nap time" meant a lot of activity. Bob took the boys into the rest room. Fluffy was led out and taken on a walk to sniff out the right tree for his business and then was fed and watered. Brian went into the store and bought a pack of Pall Malls. The cigarette he got from the Cherokee was so good he thought he'd have another while he waited. Soon snacks were distributed and quickly consumed. Everyone was back in the car with the doors closed. Bob put his head back and was quickly asleep. Brian was exhausted, so he had no trouble nodding off. He woke up briefly once to find the car on the road again. He saw it going over a series of corrugated hills, up and down like a gentle amusement park ride. It soon lulled him back to sleep. November 16, 1960 When he woke up again it was daylight and there was more traffic on the road. "We're coming into the edges of LA, Brian. Is that good for you?" Brian didn't know where in California Green's Point was but he thought that LA, Hollywood would be an appropriate place to start. "Yeah, I think so." Bob pulled the car over. Brian opened the door and slid halfway out of the seat. He looked behind him. Fluffy picked his head up, the two boys were watching him, Bob and Mary Lou were smiling. "I am really grateful to you for bringing me all this way, Bob. I know it's been hard on you, but I'm very thankful. I hope you have good luck in Oregon and a happy life from now on, all of you." "Thank you" said Mary Lou. "Well now, you have good luck and happiness yourself." "Thank you, I'll try." He closed the door and stepped back. The car drove off. He was sorry to see it go. Bran would never see those people again but for the rest of his life he would wonder how they made out in Oregon.
--------------------------------------------------
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
***************************
Monday, June 11, 2012
Polish Up
The gem cannot be polished without friction nor people without trials.
Confucius
***************
Hello Margie
***************
Human life is a totally harmonious, satisfactory, fulfilling experience in which we all live in perfect peace and mutual love. Right? Hardly.
Whenever I hear someone warn me of trials, problems, tough times I want to tense up a bit in fear and dread about having to face something I don't want to face, something that is going to disturb the calm waters of my life. But then I have to stop and reflect that the moment of panic has made me momentarily forget all the problems that are already on my plate and that I have taken for granted. One more test, other than the frustration, will hardly be noticed as it disappears in the crowd. To amend the opening comment, life is a continual test of our intelligence, ingenuity, patience and courage. It's also an opportunity to practice the fine art of staying on the right road.
The mental highway is filled with a myriad of detours and some of them are so attractive they resemble the highway itself. It is easy to be fooled. Down some of those detours are all the dire things that could happen but probably won't. Other detours take you where you don't know enough, you don't have enough information to deal with the problems. Then there are the detours that leave you confused and in doubt about what to do. There is even a side road that runs along next to the highway for a while that is the suggestion that you should feel sorry for yourself considering all the problems you have. Staying on the highway that leads to solution and harmony is tricky business.
My mother, bless her, was a first rate worrier. She worried over things there was no need to worry about. In fact, she was such an accomplished worrier that she eventually convinced me of the righteousness of it and I became a worrier myself. I was a good student.
It took me many years to break myself of the habit. I was a heart palpitating, fingernail biting, floor pacing maniac. Until I learned a great lesson. It's the lesson of the night watchman, the palace guard, the traffic cop. One of our rights, guaranteed by nature, is the right to think what we want to think, the right to choose the thoughts that we let in and the right to bar from the door harmful, discouraging and destructive thoughts. In short we have the right to not worry.
This exercise as border guard is important for other reasons. Thoughts held firmly in mind will produce results. "For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me," it says in Job 3:25. Which means get rid of the fear if you don't want the results. And since fear, like everything else, begins in thought it means to blow the whistle, hold up your hand and say "Stop."
Let the trials you have and the solving of them polish you. No need to add extras to the plate.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
Confucius
***************
Hello Margie
***************
Human life is a totally harmonious, satisfactory, fulfilling experience in which we all live in perfect peace and mutual love. Right? Hardly.
Whenever I hear someone warn me of trials, problems, tough times I want to tense up a bit in fear and dread about having to face something I don't want to face, something that is going to disturb the calm waters of my life. But then I have to stop and reflect that the moment of panic has made me momentarily forget all the problems that are already on my plate and that I have taken for granted. One more test, other than the frustration, will hardly be noticed as it disappears in the crowd. To amend the opening comment, life is a continual test of our intelligence, ingenuity, patience and courage. It's also an opportunity to practice the fine art of staying on the right road.
The mental highway is filled with a myriad of detours and some of them are so attractive they resemble the highway itself. It is easy to be fooled. Down some of those detours are all the dire things that could happen but probably won't. Other detours take you where you don't know enough, you don't have enough information to deal with the problems. Then there are the detours that leave you confused and in doubt about what to do. There is even a side road that runs along next to the highway for a while that is the suggestion that you should feel sorry for yourself considering all the problems you have. Staying on the highway that leads to solution and harmony is tricky business.
My mother, bless her, was a first rate worrier. She worried over things there was no need to worry about. In fact, she was such an accomplished worrier that she eventually convinced me of the righteousness of it and I became a worrier myself. I was a good student.
It took me many years to break myself of the habit. I was a heart palpitating, fingernail biting, floor pacing maniac. Until I learned a great lesson. It's the lesson of the night watchman, the palace guard, the traffic cop. One of our rights, guaranteed by nature, is the right to think what we want to think, the right to choose the thoughts that we let in and the right to bar from the door harmful, discouraging and destructive thoughts. In short we have the right to not worry.
This exercise as border guard is important for other reasons. Thoughts held firmly in mind will produce results. "For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me," it says in Job 3:25. Which means get rid of the fear if you don't want the results. And since fear, like everything else, begins in thought it means to blow the whistle, hold up your hand and say "Stop."
Let the trials you have and the solving of them polish you. No need to add extras to the plate.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Mime It
Sometimes talking is just too much. Sometimes just showing is enough.
Marjane Satrapi
*********************
Hello Marty
*********************
Over the last 5 decades I have had some remarkable experiences as an actor in theatre, memorable times when the play and the role seemed to take over my mind and my emotions and play me as an instrument. Those are the times which every performing artist hopes for. Thy are magical. And they are particularly luxurious when they are accompanied by a lesson, a gain of wisdom in the art, a gift of learning.
Samuel Beckett, the Irish playwright, wrote two short plays which contain no dialogue whatsoever. Under the title "Act Without Words" They are Mime For One Player and Mime For Two Players. I was involved in productions of both of them but it was the Mime For One Player that was the most exciting. I forget a lot of plays and performances but I will never forget that one.
The play takes about a half an hour to perform. A man is thrown into a room. He tries to leave and is thrown back again. The third time he is thrown in he stays. He looks at his hands. He frequently looks at his hands as if he wasn't quite sure what they are. In the room are two blocks, one a foot square and another larger one.
As he sits there a bottle of water comes down from above on a cord. He tries to take it it but it's pulled up out of reach. He stares at it, then notices the blocks. He places the smaller one under the bottle, stands and tries to reach it but it's still too far away. He places the second larger box on top of the first one then climbs up. He reaches for the bottle but the larger box topples over to the floor and he falls. Then he gets the idea of putting the smaller box on top of the larger one. He climbs up and is about to take the bottle when it is pulled up out of sight.
He sits back down on the floor and looks at his hands. A large pair of scissors descends from above on a cord. He reaches for it and takes it. He examines the scissors and finds that the edges are very sharp. While he is examining the scissors the bottle of water descends again. He gets the idea of cutting the cord holding the bottle. He stands, takes the scissors and grabs the cord. But the bottle starts ascending again and he can't hold on to it as it rises out of sight. He sits, looks at his hands. holds the scissors, feels the sharp edge and with frustration and a sense of hopelessness he decides to use the scissors to cut his throat. Then the scissors are pulled up out of sight. He looks at his hands. Curtain.
I did one performance of this play in Northamton, Massachusetts. During it I became so involved with performing those actions it was one of those magical times when the play seemed to be playing itself. I lost all sense of space or time. I even forgot there was an audience watching me. I was only reminded of it once. I had a slight action of surprise when I saw that the handles of the scissors would separate. I heard a short chuckle from someone. Otherwise I was all by myself.
When it ended I was surprised. I literally had a slight shock of realization of where I was. There was applause, I bowed and left the stage to think about what had just happened. And what happened was that after the scissors disappeared and I was left, sitting, staring at my hands, I was thinking that if I couldn't have the water and couldn't kill myself what could I do. In other words even though the play was over I kept acting it. So that the ending, when the lights went out on me, was an abrupt interruption into my own personal experience.
That was the lesson, the gift of wisdom. When I am on stage at the end of a performance I will keep working mentally, as if the life of the character continues, until the lights are out or the curtain is closed. Since then that bit of artistry has served me very well in many other performances, even in auditions. And not a word is spoken.
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
********************************
Marjane Satrapi
*********************
Hello Marty
*********************
Over the last 5 decades I have had some remarkable experiences as an actor in theatre, memorable times when the play and the role seemed to take over my mind and my emotions and play me as an instrument. Those are the times which every performing artist hopes for. Thy are magical. And they are particularly luxurious when they are accompanied by a lesson, a gain of wisdom in the art, a gift of learning.
Samuel Beckett, the Irish playwright, wrote two short plays which contain no dialogue whatsoever. Under the title "Act Without Words" They are Mime For One Player and Mime For Two Players. I was involved in productions of both of them but it was the Mime For One Player that was the most exciting. I forget a lot of plays and performances but I will never forget that one.
The play takes about a half an hour to perform. A man is thrown into a room. He tries to leave and is thrown back again. The third time he is thrown in he stays. He looks at his hands. He frequently looks at his hands as if he wasn't quite sure what they are. In the room are two blocks, one a foot square and another larger one.
As he sits there a bottle of water comes down from above on a cord. He tries to take it it but it's pulled up out of reach. He stares at it, then notices the blocks. He places the smaller one under the bottle, stands and tries to reach it but it's still too far away. He places the second larger box on top of the first one then climbs up. He reaches for the bottle but the larger box topples over to the floor and he falls. Then he gets the idea of putting the smaller box on top of the larger one. He climbs up and is about to take the bottle when it is pulled up out of sight.
He sits back down on the floor and looks at his hands. A large pair of scissors descends from above on a cord. He reaches for it and takes it. He examines the scissors and finds that the edges are very sharp. While he is examining the scissors the bottle of water descends again. He gets the idea of cutting the cord holding the bottle. He stands, takes the scissors and grabs the cord. But the bottle starts ascending again and he can't hold on to it as it rises out of sight. He sits, looks at his hands. holds the scissors, feels the sharp edge and with frustration and a sense of hopelessness he decides to use the scissors to cut his throat. Then the scissors are pulled up out of sight. He looks at his hands. Curtain.
I did one performance of this play in Northamton, Massachusetts. During it I became so involved with performing those actions it was one of those magical times when the play seemed to be playing itself. I lost all sense of space or time. I even forgot there was an audience watching me. I was only reminded of it once. I had a slight action of surprise when I saw that the handles of the scissors would separate. I heard a short chuckle from someone. Otherwise I was all by myself.
When it ended I was surprised. I literally had a slight shock of realization of where I was. There was applause, I bowed and left the stage to think about what had just happened. And what happened was that after the scissors disappeared and I was left, sitting, staring at my hands, I was thinking that if I couldn't have the water and couldn't kill myself what could I do. In other words even though the play was over I kept acting it. So that the ending, when the lights went out on me, was an abrupt interruption into my own personal experience.
That was the lesson, the gift of wisdom. When I am on stage at the end of a performance I will keep working mentally, as if the life of the character continues, until the lights are out or the curtain is closed. Since then that bit of artistry has served me very well in many other performances, even in auditions. And not a word is spoken.
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
********************************
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Love It
I think we are blind. Blind people who can see, but do not see.
Jose Saramago
***********************
Hello Arlene
***********************
There are three ways of looking at something. With the eyes, with the mind and with love. Most of us ignore the second two most of the time.
Yesterday afternoon when I went down for the mail I sat for a while on the porch outside my apartment to enjoy some sunshine. I had been reading some articles on sight and as I looked around I began to really notice some things: the chair I was sitting in, the porch with its railing, the steps down to the ground level, the car parked in front of the building, another car passing with music coming from it, the mail box, the mail.
Who was it who first designed the folding chair? I don't know, but what a great invention, easily transported and stacked and yet opens out to provide a comfortable place for a person to sit.
Then there was the porch, an ample space outside my kitchen door with a railing for me to stand next to and rest my arms on and also to protect me so I won't fall off the porch to the hard ground below. Then the wide staircase to the lower level. The architect didn't just design a stairway to my door but a nice porch in front of it. I will never know that architect or the carpenter who built them.
I observed the parked car and saw a machine that enables someone to transport themselves quickly, safely and comfortably. A lot of design and careful manufacture went into that.
I admired the fact that a person can drive and listen to the music the like at the same time through a car radio or cd player.
I descended the stairs and walked down the alley where there was my mail box. Someone had attached it years ago. I will never know who that was. Inside was my mail. Some anonymous person from the postal service had put it in my box. I thought about how great it is that we have a postal service. We drop a letter in the mail box and it may go thousands of miles to its destination and we hardly ever think about it. It's still the best deal in America.
My mail was a magazine with articles to help me be a better writer (don't you dare say I need it, I know I do). And a postcard from Beth and Ken, somewhere along Route 66, Beth's favorite highway.
When I got back to my apartment I put on a Bach violin concerto, while I checked out Beth's card.
I admire the love behind the workmanship that gave me a comfortable chair to sit in on a pleasant porch.
I admire the love behind automotive manufacturing with all the safety features and beauty of design.
I admire the love of the singers and bands that provide the music that is meaningful and important to people's lives and the companies that record it..
I note the love that motivates the earnestness of the postal workers and mail carriers.
My magazine was written, edited and published so that others can improve their writing skills and through the love of words and communication speak through them to many other people.
I appreciate the love from Beth and Ken for their friends to take the time to send us cards during their 66 adventures.
And I admire the genius, J. S. Bach, who a few centuries ago loved his music enough to write it down and leave it for the musicians today who also love it, play it and record it so that I may enjoy it in my own humble home.
We do take things for granted. We should stop that. There is a lot of ugliness and hate in the world. I prefer to look for the beauty and the love.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
*******************************
Jose Saramago
***********************
Hello Arlene
***********************
There are three ways of looking at something. With the eyes, with the mind and with love. Most of us ignore the second two most of the time.
Yesterday afternoon when I went down for the mail I sat for a while on the porch outside my apartment to enjoy some sunshine. I had been reading some articles on sight and as I looked around I began to really notice some things: the chair I was sitting in, the porch with its railing, the steps down to the ground level, the car parked in front of the building, another car passing with music coming from it, the mail box, the mail.
Who was it who first designed the folding chair? I don't know, but what a great invention, easily transported and stacked and yet opens out to provide a comfortable place for a person to sit.
Then there was the porch, an ample space outside my kitchen door with a railing for me to stand next to and rest my arms on and also to protect me so I won't fall off the porch to the hard ground below. Then the wide staircase to the lower level. The architect didn't just design a stairway to my door but a nice porch in front of it. I will never know that architect or the carpenter who built them.
I observed the parked car and saw a machine that enables someone to transport themselves quickly, safely and comfortably. A lot of design and careful manufacture went into that.
I admired the fact that a person can drive and listen to the music the like at the same time through a car radio or cd player.
I descended the stairs and walked down the alley where there was my mail box. Someone had attached it years ago. I will never know who that was. Inside was my mail. Some anonymous person from the postal service had put it in my box. I thought about how great it is that we have a postal service. We drop a letter in the mail box and it may go thousands of miles to its destination and we hardly ever think about it. It's still the best deal in America.
My mail was a magazine with articles to help me be a better writer (don't you dare say I need it, I know I do). And a postcard from Beth and Ken, somewhere along Route 66, Beth's favorite highway.
When I got back to my apartment I put on a Bach violin concerto, while I checked out Beth's card.
I admire the love behind the workmanship that gave me a comfortable chair to sit in on a pleasant porch.
I admire the love behind automotive manufacturing with all the safety features and beauty of design.
I admire the love of the singers and bands that provide the music that is meaningful and important to people's lives and the companies that record it..
I note the love that motivates the earnestness of the postal workers and mail carriers.
My magazine was written, edited and published so that others can improve their writing skills and through the love of words and communication speak through them to many other people.
I appreciate the love from Beth and Ken for their friends to take the time to send us cards during their 66 adventures.
And I admire the genius, J. S. Bach, who a few centuries ago loved his music enough to write it down and leave it for the musicians today who also love it, play it and record it so that I may enjoy it in my own humble home.
We do take things for granted. We should stop that. There is a lot of ugliness and hate in the world. I prefer to look for the beauty and the love.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
*******************************
Friday, June 8, 2012
Which One?
THURSDAY CONTEST ANSWER
Here is a list of things. One of them does not belong on the list. Which one?
-----------------------------------------
Free Gift PIN Number Opening Gambit ATM Machine VCR Recorder Opuses Sum Total Rapid Transit Close Proximity ICBM Missile He Exits NATO Organization Unexpected Surprise Philharmonic Orchestra False Pretenses UFO Object
--------------------------------------
Several of them are redundancies. It's clear that it isn't a gift unless it's free, proximity means close and a surprise is always unexpected. Then an ATM is a machine and a PIN is a number. I must thank Geo for correcting me on my initial posting of ICBM. It is a missile, not a missal. It is not the Pope going ballistic and throwing books at people. It's a rocket.
Several people liked He Exits. Now you may think I'm caviling and picking nits but the fact is "exit" is a Latin word meaning "he leaves" or "he goes " or she., (or it, which is highly unlikely unless you're talking about a robot). So "He exits" is literally "He, he goes,s." The term, though incorrect, is usually found in play scripts. I don't know when this practice of using Latin first got started but it predates Shakespeare and it refers to a character leaving the stage. It is only recently that it is found in the form "he exits." Formerly, if you didn't know whether it was Tom, Dick or Harry who left you would write "Exit Tom." And if they all left you would write "Exeunt Omnes." Cute, huh? (Parenthetically, it was customary to list the Cast of Characters as "Dramatis Personae." The word persona also means "mask.")
A philharmonic is an orchestra. There is no other use of the term. Sometimes you will hear a classical music announcer refer to something as, say, the New York Philharmonic Orchestra if he wants to sound particularly important. But it's wrong and he just sounds pompous.
Now let's take up the word :Opuses." Here we are in the world of Latin again. The word means "a work" and the plural of opus is not opuses. It's opera, as Geo once again graciously pointed out.
One evening I gave a lecture on opera before a concert by the Queens Symphony Orchestra (no, that's correct) in New York. During the lecture I read from my Webster's the definition of opera and the first thing it said was "plural of opus." I pointed out that most operas, particularly from the Italian and French repertory were divided up into numbered sections: number 1, the overture, number 2 the opening chorus, etc. Each one of those sections is an opus. If you ever see a score of Handel's Messiah you will see the parts listed as opus 1, opus 2, opus 3 and such.
On the orchestras schedule was the shimmeringly beautiful and heart wrenching Intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana by Pietro Mascagni. (I know you probably won't, but you should check it out, and listen carefully. It's a masterpiece.)
I happened to have a vocal score of the opera with me. I opened it to the Intermezzo and asked a woman in the front row what it said at the top of the page. She read it and replied "10." So then I told the audience that when they heard the Intermezzo later they would be hearing Opus 10 from the Opera Cavalleria Rusticana.
(Parenthetically, there was a New York radio personality whose program was about Broadway composers. For some strange reason he could not refer to their "works" as opera, probably because he was afraid of the term and didn't want to sound like a snob. So instead he wormed his way into using the French term "ouvre" and thus sounded even more snobbish. At least he didn't say opuses.)
So what's the answer? The Vagabond prefers the phrase "Rapid Transit." If you walk across the bridge that's slow transit. If you take the bus, that's rapid transit, provided the bus comes. And once you reach the other side you may leave the bus at the EXIT sign. And if everyone gets off the bus it will be exeunt omnes.
There was one winner Rubye Jack of the Blogspot Tigers who wins the grand prize of a genuine Tupperware bus ticket or one of my autographed shoes. Whichever I can find.
Thank you for playing.
DB - The Vagabond
Never Give Up
****************************
Here is a list of things. One of them does not belong on the list. Which one?
-----------------------------------------
Free Gift PIN Number Opening Gambit ATM Machine VCR Recorder Opuses Sum Total Rapid Transit Close Proximity ICBM Missile He Exits NATO Organization Unexpected Surprise Philharmonic Orchestra False Pretenses UFO Object
--------------------------------------
Several of them are redundancies. It's clear that it isn't a gift unless it's free, proximity means close and a surprise is always unexpected. Then an ATM is a machine and a PIN is a number. I must thank Geo for correcting me on my initial posting of ICBM. It is a missile, not a missal. It is not the Pope going ballistic and throwing books at people. It's a rocket.
Several people liked He Exits. Now you may think I'm caviling and picking nits but the fact is "exit" is a Latin word meaning "he leaves" or "he goes " or she., (or it, which is highly unlikely unless you're talking about a robot). So "He exits" is literally "He, he goes,s." The term, though incorrect, is usually found in play scripts. I don't know when this practice of using Latin first got started but it predates Shakespeare and it refers to a character leaving the stage. It is only recently that it is found in the form "he exits." Formerly, if you didn't know whether it was Tom, Dick or Harry who left you would write "Exit Tom." And if they all left you would write "Exeunt Omnes." Cute, huh? (Parenthetically, it was customary to list the Cast of Characters as "Dramatis Personae." The word persona also means "mask.")
A philharmonic is an orchestra. There is no other use of the term. Sometimes you will hear a classical music announcer refer to something as, say, the New York Philharmonic Orchestra if he wants to sound particularly important. But it's wrong and he just sounds pompous.
Now let's take up the word :Opuses." Here we are in the world of Latin again. The word means "a work" and the plural of opus is not opuses. It's opera, as Geo once again graciously pointed out.
One evening I gave a lecture on opera before a concert by the Queens Symphony Orchestra (no, that's correct) in New York. During the lecture I read from my Webster's the definition of opera and the first thing it said was "plural of opus." I pointed out that most operas, particularly from the Italian and French repertory were divided up into numbered sections: number 1, the overture, number 2 the opening chorus, etc. Each one of those sections is an opus. If you ever see a score of Handel's Messiah you will see the parts listed as opus 1, opus 2, opus 3 and such.
On the orchestras schedule was the shimmeringly beautiful and heart wrenching Intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana by Pietro Mascagni. (I know you probably won't, but you should check it out, and listen carefully. It's a masterpiece.)
I happened to have a vocal score of the opera with me. I opened it to the Intermezzo and asked a woman in the front row what it said at the top of the page. She read it and replied "10." So then I told the audience that when they heard the Intermezzo later they would be hearing Opus 10 from the Opera Cavalleria Rusticana.
(Parenthetically, there was a New York radio personality whose program was about Broadway composers. For some strange reason he could not refer to their "works" as opera, probably because he was afraid of the term and didn't want to sound like a snob. So instead he wormed his way into using the French term "ouvre" and thus sounded even more snobbish. At least he didn't say opuses.)
So what's the answer? The Vagabond prefers the phrase "Rapid Transit." If you walk across the bridge that's slow transit. If you take the bus, that's rapid transit, provided the bus comes. And once you reach the other side you may leave the bus at the EXIT sign. And if everyone gets off the bus it will be exeunt omnes.
There was one winner Rubye Jack of the Blogspot Tigers who wins the grand prize of a genuine Tupperware bus ticket or one of my autographed shoes. Whichever I can find.
Thank you for playing.
DB - The Vagabond
Never Give Up
****************************
Thursday, June 7, 2012
A Friend
Damn I need a friend in this dark and sinister town.
The only person I know within 50 miles of me is on a cruise and I haven't seen her in a month and then only for a few minutes.
The artists group is too far away for me to get to and the senior bus doesn't run at night.
My neighbors stand in the parking lot and yell obscenities at each other.
There is nothing to my life now.
Maybe if I was a more likeable guy.
Maybe if I didn't look like a hillbilly farmer.
Maybe if I wasn't a vagabond.
I feel like an extra in a bad film.
I neeeed a friend.
DB
The only person I know within 50 miles of me is on a cruise and I haven't seen her in a month and then only for a few minutes.
The artists group is too far away for me to get to and the senior bus doesn't run at night.
My neighbors stand in the parking lot and yell obscenities at each other.
There is nothing to my life now.
Maybe if I was a more likeable guy.
Maybe if I didn't look like a hillbilly farmer.
Maybe if I wasn't a vagabond.
I feel like an extra in a bad film.
I neeeed a friend.
DB
Which one?
A THURSDAY CONTEST
CORRECTED
*********************
Hello Bruce
*********************************
I haven't thrown a contest in your faces for many months. So I'm making up for it today. Here is a list of things. One of them does not fit on the list. Which one, in your expert opinion, does not belong on the list, and why.
--------------------------------------------------
Free Gift
PIN Number
Opening Gambit
ATM Machine
VCR Recorder
Opuses
Sum Total
Rapid Transit
Close Proximity
ICBM Missile
He Exits
NATO Organization
Unexpected Surprise
Philharmonic Orchestra
False Pretenses
UFO Object
**********************
The decision of the ornery, biased judge is final.
Good luck.
DB
CORRECTED
*********************
Hello Bruce
*********************************
I haven't thrown a contest in your faces for many months. So I'm making up for it today. Here is a list of things. One of them does not fit on the list. Which one, in your expert opinion, does not belong on the list, and why.
--------------------------------------------------
Free Gift
PIN Number
Opening Gambit
ATM Machine
VCR Recorder
Opuses
Sum Total
Rapid Transit
Close Proximity
ICBM Missile
He Exits
NATO Organization
Unexpected Surprise
Philharmonic Orchestra
False Pretenses
UFO Object
**********************
The decision of the ornery, biased judge is final.
Good luck.
DB
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
By George
Knowledge of what is possible is the beginning of happiness.
George Santayana
**********************
Hello Stuart
*********************
Philosophy is a deep pit which once you fall into it you might not get out. But it's walls are painted with fabulous and beautiful scenes. There are strange objects to discover, precious jewels and lights in a vast array of colors, some of them very bright. One of those who left his gems down in the pit was the Spanish philosopher Jorge AgustÃn Nicolás Ruiz de Santayana y Borrás (George Santayana , 1863 - 1952).
As a philosopher Santayana was also a prophet. He was a naturalist before it was popular. He was a multiculturalist before it was popular. And he believed in philosophy as literature which eventually became the style of many American philosophers.
He wrote on art:
"An artist is a dreamer consenting to dream of the actual world."
"Graphic design is the paradise of individuality, eccentricity, heresy, abnormality, hobbies and humors."
"The degree in which a poet's imagination dominates reality is, in the end, the exact measure of his importance and dignity."
He wrote of knowledge:
"Chaos is a name for any order that produces confusion in our minds."
"Knowledge is recognition of something absent, it is a salutation, not an embrace."
"I believe in general in a dualism between facts and the idea of those facts in the human head."
On living in general:
"Happiness is the only sanction of life; when happiness fails, existence remains a mad and lamentable experiment."
"Nothing can so pierce the soul as the uttermost sigh of the body."
"For gold is tried in the fire and acceptable men in the furnace of adversity."
--------------------------------------------
I love philosophy and philosophers. If you want to know where I am, I'm down in the pit picking through more of Santayana's gems of wisdom.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
***************************
George Santayana
**********************
Hello Stuart
*********************
Philosophy is a deep pit which once you fall into it you might not get out. But it's walls are painted with fabulous and beautiful scenes. There are strange objects to discover, precious jewels and lights in a vast array of colors, some of them very bright. One of those who left his gems down in the pit was the Spanish philosopher Jorge AgustÃn Nicolás Ruiz de Santayana y Borrás (George Santayana , 1863 - 1952).
As a philosopher Santayana was also a prophet. He was a naturalist before it was popular. He was a multiculturalist before it was popular. And he believed in philosophy as literature which eventually became the style of many American philosophers.
He wrote on art:
"An artist is a dreamer consenting to dream of the actual world."
"Graphic design is the paradise of individuality, eccentricity, heresy, abnormality, hobbies and humors."
"The degree in which a poet's imagination dominates reality is, in the end, the exact measure of his importance and dignity."
He wrote of knowledge:
"Chaos is a name for any order that produces confusion in our minds."
"Knowledge is recognition of something absent, it is a salutation, not an embrace."
"I believe in general in a dualism between facts and the idea of those facts in the human head."
On living in general:
"Happiness is the only sanction of life; when happiness fails, existence remains a mad and lamentable experiment."
"Nothing can so pierce the soul as the uttermost sigh of the body."
"For gold is tried in the fire and acceptable men in the furnace of adversity."
--------------------------------------------
I love philosophy and philosophers. If you want to know where I am, I'm down in the pit picking through more of Santayana's gems of wisdom.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
***************************
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Seriously
Art is too serious to be taken seriously.
Ad Reinhardt
*****************
Hello Sandy
*****************
The only people who take serious art seriously are some artists, (occasionally), people who buy art and art critics. The people who don't take it seriously are those who do it, those who sell it and those wretched people who are somehow forced unfortunately to look at it or listen to it against their will. How do I know this? Because I'm an artist and because I've observed the way art is handled in this age.
Watch a good musician in concert. You may see intense concentration while a piece is being performed, but at the end the musician will probably break into a big smile and maybe even a laugh. Sometimes you even see the smile while the piece is being played. It is the joy of music, or dance that you are seeing. The smiles on the faces of the actors at a curtain call are showing the same joy.
I've known artists who will chuckle at a painting they've done or are working on. It's the same with writers. I know that I will get a laugh out of a particularly strange and subtle twist of language when I'm writing. I avoid cliches, because I champion original thought in myself and in others, so I will go searching for the expression that tells the story without repeating the tried and true. And when I see it in other arts, the dancer who pushes his body into a movement I've never seen, or the musician who gives me a surprising cluster of tones, I feel the same delight.
There is a solid bedrock of mystery involved in the relationship between an artist and the work being done. It has to do with value and origination, an invisible generic bond of co-creation between the artist, the work and the inspiration that demands and forces it into being. It is as if there is an anonymous angel of pure spirit that finds it in whatever galaxy it lives, brings it out of hiding and gives it to the artist who is ready to respond.
The scientist will study to uncover the secret laws of nature. The engineer will design the mechanism that measures. moves and controls the natural forces. But what the artist does is transcendental. And who can be serious about that.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
***********************
Ad Reinhardt
*****************
Hello Sandy
*****************
The only people who take serious art seriously are some artists, (occasionally), people who buy art and art critics. The people who don't take it seriously are those who do it, those who sell it and those wretched people who are somehow forced unfortunately to look at it or listen to it against their will. How do I know this? Because I'm an artist and because I've observed the way art is handled in this age.
Watch a good musician in concert. You may see intense concentration while a piece is being performed, but at the end the musician will probably break into a big smile and maybe even a laugh. Sometimes you even see the smile while the piece is being played. It is the joy of music, or dance that you are seeing. The smiles on the faces of the actors at a curtain call are showing the same joy.
I've known artists who will chuckle at a painting they've done or are working on. It's the same with writers. I know that I will get a laugh out of a particularly strange and subtle twist of language when I'm writing. I avoid cliches, because I champion original thought in myself and in others, so I will go searching for the expression that tells the story without repeating the tried and true. And when I see it in other arts, the dancer who pushes his body into a movement I've never seen, or the musician who gives me a surprising cluster of tones, I feel the same delight.
There is a solid bedrock of mystery involved in the relationship between an artist and the work being done. It has to do with value and origination, an invisible generic bond of co-creation between the artist, the work and the inspiration that demands and forces it into being. It is as if there is an anonymous angel of pure spirit that finds it in whatever galaxy it lives, brings it out of hiding and gives it to the artist who is ready to respond.
The scientist will study to uncover the secret laws of nature. The engineer will design the mechanism that measures. moves and controls the natural forces. But what the artist does is transcendental. And who can be serious about that.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
***********************
Monday, June 4, 2012
No Regrets
He who lives without folly isn't as wise as he thinks.
Francois Rochfoucauld
*********************
Hello Frosty
*********************
The old conductor had retired and was moving back to his home in Europe. As he packed up to go he was going through his belongings, deciding what to take and what to leave behind. A young member of his staff was helping him.
The maestro was carefully turning the pages of an orchestra score when he asked his assistant what it was. The young man replied that it was the first symphony by some not too well known composer. Then he told the old man that he had conducted the world premier of the work many years ago.
"I did?"
"Yes sir."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes Maestro."
The conductor stared at the score, shook his head and said "I was a fool."
Who hasn't done things that left a record for all to see of our extreme silliness and incapacity to live a reasonable life. It is after all the exercise of putting the foot in the mouth and the egg on the face that teaches us fundamental things that perhaps we should have known but didn't at the time.
Like the maestro, I could give you a short list of plays I wish I hadn't done and performances I wish I hadn't given. But just to preserve my peace of mind, I won't. I will tell you this however. The quickest way to learn how someone's name is pronounced is to mispronounce it while announcing on the radio. Before you finish speaking the phone is ringing.
If we aren't careful our folly will be echoed years later by regrets. We can really mess up our lives with regrets. Regrets are like a sore toe that you keep stubbing, or wearing too tight clothes. or a leaky faucet that won't get fixed, or having doggy poop on your shoe.
Doing foolish things are payments we make for growing up and growing wise. The man or woman who leeds a squeaky clean life, with nary a folly to their names, who congratulate themselves for their prudence and circumspection are living on credit and sooner or later the piper will get the best dance out of them he can. The best thing is learn the lesson, remember it and then forget how you learned it. And pass the wisdom along. You just might save another egg.
DB - The Vagabond
Never give up.
***********************
Francois Rochfoucauld
*********************
Hello Frosty
*********************
The old conductor had retired and was moving back to his home in Europe. As he packed up to go he was going through his belongings, deciding what to take and what to leave behind. A young member of his staff was helping him.
The maestro was carefully turning the pages of an orchestra score when he asked his assistant what it was. The young man replied that it was the first symphony by some not too well known composer. Then he told the old man that he had conducted the world premier of the work many years ago.
"I did?"
"Yes sir."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes Maestro."
The conductor stared at the score, shook his head and said "I was a fool."
Who hasn't done things that left a record for all to see of our extreme silliness and incapacity to live a reasonable life. It is after all the exercise of putting the foot in the mouth and the egg on the face that teaches us fundamental things that perhaps we should have known but didn't at the time.
Like the maestro, I could give you a short list of plays I wish I hadn't done and performances I wish I hadn't given. But just to preserve my peace of mind, I won't. I will tell you this however. The quickest way to learn how someone's name is pronounced is to mispronounce it while announcing on the radio. Before you finish speaking the phone is ringing.
If we aren't careful our folly will be echoed years later by regrets. We can really mess up our lives with regrets. Regrets are like a sore toe that you keep stubbing, or wearing too tight clothes. or a leaky faucet that won't get fixed, or having doggy poop on your shoe.
Doing foolish things are payments we make for growing up and growing wise. The man or woman who leeds a squeaky clean life, with nary a folly to their names, who congratulate themselves for their prudence and circumspection are living on credit and sooner or later the piper will get the best dance out of them he can. The best thing is learn the lesson, remember it and then forget how you learned it. And pass the wisdom along. You just might save another egg.
DB - The Vagabond
Never give up.
***********************
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Love Is
Love one another and you will be happy. It's as simple and as difficult as that.
Michael Leunig
***************
Hello Rose
****************
Anxiety is a worm that nibbles at your mind.
Depression is a dark, airless room that puts your mind in a fitful sleep.
Suspicion is a mad magician that twists your thoughts.
Rage is a hot, bright light that blinds your mind.
Hatred is a tunnel where your thoughts get lost.
Scorn is mud your mind has slipped in.
Lust is a whirlpool your mind is trapped in.
Fear is a fire that burns your thoughts.
Dishonesty is a betrayal of your mind.
Cruelty is a spider that weaves in your mind.
Laziness is a strong wind blowing your thoughts around.
Pretense is a mask hiding your true mind.
Jealousy is a bear that eats your mind.
Ignorance is grinder that make a mess of your thoughts.
Regret is a vice that squeezes your mind.
Love is medicine for a troubled mind.
Love is the sunshine that enlightens your thoughts.
Love is the enjoyment of companionship.
Love is appreciation for someone's individuality.
Love is the focus of good healing thoughts.
Love is sharing an adventurous time.
Love is making things come out right.
Love is being around when you're needed.
Love is making sure that someone is comfortable.
Love is helping to share other's burdens.
Love is being gentle with those who suffer.
Love is apologizing or forgiving when wrongs are done.
Love is looking for beauty in others and finding it.
Love is the expectation of goodness.
Love is happiness expressed.
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
******************************
Michael Leunig
***************
Hello Rose
****************
Anxiety is a worm that nibbles at your mind.
Depression is a dark, airless room that puts your mind in a fitful sleep.
Suspicion is a mad magician that twists your thoughts.
Rage is a hot, bright light that blinds your mind.
Hatred is a tunnel where your thoughts get lost.
Scorn is mud your mind has slipped in.
Lust is a whirlpool your mind is trapped in.
Fear is a fire that burns your thoughts.
Dishonesty is a betrayal of your mind.
Cruelty is a spider that weaves in your mind.
Laziness is a strong wind blowing your thoughts around.
Pretense is a mask hiding your true mind.
Jealousy is a bear that eats your mind.
Ignorance is grinder that make a mess of your thoughts.
Regret is a vice that squeezes your mind.
Love is medicine for a troubled mind.
Love is the sunshine that enlightens your thoughts.
Love is the enjoyment of companionship.
Love is appreciation for someone's individuality.
Love is the focus of good healing thoughts.
Love is sharing an adventurous time.
Love is making things come out right.
Love is being around when you're needed.
Love is making sure that someone is comfortable.
Love is helping to share other's burdens.
Love is being gentle with those who suffer.
Love is apologizing or forgiving when wrongs are done.
Love is looking for beauty in others and finding it.
Love is the expectation of goodness.
Love is happiness expressed.
Dana Bate - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
******************************
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Thinking Makes It So
The more you have thought, and the more you have done, the longer you have lived.
Immanuel Kant
************************
"All that thinkin' ain't good for the mind."
Recently I had a long conversation with my friend Charles. We do that about once every 6 weeks. Charles is an actor who lives in New York. He's about my age, a gentleman and a good liberal thinker. Our conversations are always vital, energetic and filled with humor.
What perplexed us both during the call was why some people have given up the right to think for themselves. Why do some people lapse into a pool of attitudes instead of the sea of ideas? Why are people so willing to adopt any theory that floats through the atmosphere no matter how inane it is? Why are they mentally inactive but emotionally reactive, and why do those two qualities seem to go together? There is a definite mental entropy at work in the human race.
A woman I used to know once flattered me by asking "Why do you insist on believing that everyone is as intelligent as you are?" My answer at the time was "Because I want them to be." But now, after some years of flapping my wings and flying over landscapes of experience, my answer would be "Because they potentially are."
I think we have been fooled, allowed ourselves to be tricked, into believing in intellectual self satisfaction. "What I know is enough. I don't need to know anything more" we say. Or, "Some things are beyond my comprehension." Or, "I know what I think and I don't want anything changing my mind." That's the worst.
All human activity begins in the mind. Thoughts, ideas and imaginations bring about the results of human behavior and accomplishments. Why do people seem to be so timid at exercising their right to such things? A candle contains all the heat and light within itself in a potential but dormant state. It only releases its strength and purpose when a flame is applied to the wick. Examples abound of thinkers who offer the flame, but there is that reluctance to accept it.
The essential truth of anything is not complicated. Once all the dots have been connected and the pieces joined together its truth can be stated very simply. But there is mental work to be done. It is easier to be lazy, easier not to do the work even though it costs very little to do.
I don't blame people for being ignorant. We are all ignorant about most things. The fault does not rest with the ignorant man. The fault, which probably cannot be defined, described or understood, is more like a world wide virus of ignorance, a parasite feeding on the innate mental might and leaving the vitals of emotion and undirected energy, an illness of spirit that we must challenge at every sign post.
Mental laziness also produces a life of unimportance. But here again we are fooled. We can be very active doing a lot of things and feel a sense of accomplishment. And one day, maybe, we look back and realize how little we actually did compared to what our potential was. The candle was never lit. We can blame our unsatisfactory lives on destiny, circumstances, environment, childhood and justify it with some religious reason.
"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings" Shakespeare wrote. I want the whole world of humans to wake up and start thinking better. I want to think better than I do. Can you imagine what life would be like for all of us if the human race was thinking better, clearer and with the mental vitality it is capable of?
-------------------------------------
DB - The Vagabond
Never give up.
***************************
Immanuel Kant
************************
"All that thinkin' ain't good for the mind."
Recently I had a long conversation with my friend Charles. We do that about once every 6 weeks. Charles is an actor who lives in New York. He's about my age, a gentleman and a good liberal thinker. Our conversations are always vital, energetic and filled with humor.
What perplexed us both during the call was why some people have given up the right to think for themselves. Why do some people lapse into a pool of attitudes instead of the sea of ideas? Why are people so willing to adopt any theory that floats through the atmosphere no matter how inane it is? Why are they mentally inactive but emotionally reactive, and why do those two qualities seem to go together? There is a definite mental entropy at work in the human race.
A woman I used to know once flattered me by asking "Why do you insist on believing that everyone is as intelligent as you are?" My answer at the time was "Because I want them to be." But now, after some years of flapping my wings and flying over landscapes of experience, my answer would be "Because they potentially are."
I think we have been fooled, allowed ourselves to be tricked, into believing in intellectual self satisfaction. "What I know is enough. I don't need to know anything more" we say. Or, "Some things are beyond my comprehension." Or, "I know what I think and I don't want anything changing my mind." That's the worst.
All human activity begins in the mind. Thoughts, ideas and imaginations bring about the results of human behavior and accomplishments. Why do people seem to be so timid at exercising their right to such things? A candle contains all the heat and light within itself in a potential but dormant state. It only releases its strength and purpose when a flame is applied to the wick. Examples abound of thinkers who offer the flame, but there is that reluctance to accept it.
The essential truth of anything is not complicated. Once all the dots have been connected and the pieces joined together its truth can be stated very simply. But there is mental work to be done. It is easier to be lazy, easier not to do the work even though it costs very little to do.
I don't blame people for being ignorant. We are all ignorant about most things. The fault does not rest with the ignorant man. The fault, which probably cannot be defined, described or understood, is more like a world wide virus of ignorance, a parasite feeding on the innate mental might and leaving the vitals of emotion and undirected energy, an illness of spirit that we must challenge at every sign post.
Mental laziness also produces a life of unimportance. But here again we are fooled. We can be very active doing a lot of things and feel a sense of accomplishment. And one day, maybe, we look back and realize how little we actually did compared to what our potential was. The candle was never lit. We can blame our unsatisfactory lives on destiny, circumstances, environment, childhood and justify it with some religious reason.
"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings" Shakespeare wrote. I want the whole world of humans to wake up and start thinking better. I want to think better than I do. Can you imagine what life would be like for all of us if the human race was thinking better, clearer and with the mental vitality it is capable of?
-------------------------------------
DB - The Vagabond
Never give up.
***************************
Friday, June 1, 2012
The Laugher
Even if there is nothing to laugh about, laugh on credit.
Unknown
***********
Hello Ernie
***********
In my novel "Brian and Christine" the Navajo chief's wife is named Laughing Woman. Someone asks the chief if she laughs and he answers, "Well, she smiles a lot." She is a character who faces life with not only a positive attitude but an ability to see the funny side of things. Her laugh is always just below the surface.
As I was preparing to write this article I thought about some people I know and have known who can throw back their heads and enjoy a good laugh when something strikes them funny. Stuart in New York, AZ in Maine and Della wherever she is, came to mind right away.
I knew a college girl named Joy. I've written about her before. She was the most appropriately named Joy I ever knew. One could tell by the look in her eye that she was enjoying life and that a good laugh was a definite probability at any moment. She was a theatre major and even when she played serious scenes she displayed a light source.
There are good laughs and bad laughs. To laugh at life's absurdities isn't bad. To laugh at yourself is good. To laugh at other people, and particularly their mistakes, is not so good. To laugh because you have no other reason than that you feel like laughing is probably the best.
I don't laugh much these day, but then I was never a big laugher. I enjoyed other people's humor and used to tell a lot of jokes just to see them laugh. These days I'm looking forward to laughter, to humor, to joy.
The last time I remember having a good laugh was in the first reading of "Best Friends" a play I did over 10 years ago. It was a comedy, of course, and we in the cast had the first laughs as we began to prepare it and then to play it well enough so the audience could laugh, which they did.
I don't hear anyone laugh around where I live now. An occasional wicked giggle is about the best this neighborhood can come up with. I'm looking for a good laugh and a good laugher. If you know of anyone, please send them here.
DB - The Vagabond
Never give up.
******************
Unknown
***********
Hello Ernie
***********
In my novel "Brian and Christine" the Navajo chief's wife is named Laughing Woman. Someone asks the chief if she laughs and he answers, "Well, she smiles a lot." She is a character who faces life with not only a positive attitude but an ability to see the funny side of things. Her laugh is always just below the surface.
As I was preparing to write this article I thought about some people I know and have known who can throw back their heads and enjoy a good laugh when something strikes them funny. Stuart in New York, AZ in Maine and Della wherever she is, came to mind right away.
I knew a college girl named Joy. I've written about her before. She was the most appropriately named Joy I ever knew. One could tell by the look in her eye that she was enjoying life and that a good laugh was a definite probability at any moment. She was a theatre major and even when she played serious scenes she displayed a light source.
There are good laughs and bad laughs. To laugh at life's absurdities isn't bad. To laugh at yourself is good. To laugh at other people, and particularly their mistakes, is not so good. To laugh because you have no other reason than that you feel like laughing is probably the best.
I don't laugh much these day, but then I was never a big laugher. I enjoyed other people's humor and used to tell a lot of jokes just to see them laugh. These days I'm looking forward to laughter, to humor, to joy.
The last time I remember having a good laugh was in the first reading of "Best Friends" a play I did over 10 years ago. It was a comedy, of course, and we in the cast had the first laughs as we began to prepare it and then to play it well enough so the audience could laugh, which they did.
I don't hear anyone laugh around where I live now. An occasional wicked giggle is about the best this neighborhood can come up with. I'm looking for a good laugh and a good laugher. If you know of anyone, please send them here.
DB - The Vagabond
Never give up.
******************
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