Having mostly favored writers and thinkers who exhibit synoptic views I find myself, via some osmotic transference,
inhibited from chronicling some of the thoughts and observations
that are whizzing around some part of my mental space because
they are small and somewhat self-contained. Or at least do
not, at the moment they occur to me, connect to something
else. Perhaps that Weltanschauung will keep me from
mastering the art of the aphorism—I hope not. Just this
last week I have been flush with ideational monads, little
billiard balls of thoughts. Perhaps I will be able to expand
upon them in the forthcoming memoir of my turbulent elementary
school career, What Would George Orwell Say? In the
meantime, what follows are some this and that kind of thoughts:
Eyestrain or ennui or perhaps even a frisson
of schadenfruede found me spending a good part of
a day recently watching videos. First up was the masterful
Standing in the Shadows of Motown. This documentary
tells the story of the studio musicians, known by themselves
and a few insiders as the Funk
Brothers. These men were contributors to more number-one
hits than the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Michael Jackson and
a few more superstars combined. And, of course, nobody knows
their names. Interestingly, someone suggests in the film that
(not taking away anything from the people who sang the songs)
a monkey could have sung these songs and they would have been
hits. Any way, it is a terrific film and story with guest
appearances by Gerald Levert, Joan Osbourne, Meshell Ndegeocello,
Bootsie Collins, Ben Harper and Chaka Khan.
Later in the day I watched Emimem's 8 Mile.
I was quite impressed with almost everything in the film except
for the music. Probably because I had trouble hearing it (though
later in listening to The Eminem Show CD I was moved
by "Cleaning out my Closet," which is sung in the
film and "White America," which isn’t (I don't
think). Occasionally, seeing a movie triggers an impulse to
curate a film festival around it. Some titles that I would
love to see connected to 8 Mile: Before Night
Falls (the Renaldo Arenas story filmed by Julian Schnabel),
Pollack (Ed Harris' film about Jackson Pollack),
Theo and Vincent (Robert Altman's movie on Vincent
Van Gogh) and —as kind of a reach—Barton Fink
(the Coen brothers story of struggling writer with a fictional
cameo by William Faulkner).
Last week a couple of items that got attention
in the blogosphere had me to wondering. Adam Kirsch, who is
purportedly the New York Sun (that's the only paper
that reported Prince of Darkness Richard Perle's braggadocio
about suing Seymour
Hersh) Book editor, wrote a piece on Dante Alegheri for
Slate. Kirsch mentioned the history of translating
The Divine Comedy and recent translations and even
a recent novel by one of those Harvard youngsters. But astoundingly
(to me) no notice of Nick
Tosches' In The Hand of Dante. Since the book
was published in October of 2002 and as Nick Tosches is a
worthy and able writer and author of numerable important books,
how to explain this glaring omission? I have asked around
and I intend get to the bottom of this.
Also, one of those snarly and snide publications
that contributes to Manhattan's reputation as a snake pit
published a list of 50 Most Loathsome New Yorkers. Now the
captions were of the highest New York style vitriol (funny
and accurate) and yet I was disturbed at the whole shabby
gesture. Though I must admit a certain guilty pleasure at
the number-one slot being occupied by the self-proclaimed
savior of magazine publishing who edits Maxim. And
oh yeah, Henry Kissinger was on the list. I found the claim
that this was a Reader's Poll unbelievable and more to the
point I thought that just because this paper had the ability
to trash fifty celebrities does not mean that they should.
Michael at Literary
Saloon @ the complete review did have the best take on
this sordid matter suggesting that:
††One can understand that the
ideologues (Safire, Moore, Coulter) irritate, but it's nice
to see that plain ol' writers can also be considered significant
enough that people actually bother to loathe them!
Given the infestation of the infosphere with
cliche-ridden prattling and ululating by embedded news robots
and other wage-earning primates it occurred to me that if
(given the nature of modern warfare) one could distinguish
the first casualties of war, truth and dissent probably fall
behind originality as victims of this formidable Horseman.
Since I do not watch television I know very little about the
Iraqi conflict (I do not even know if we have formally declared
war). Anyway, I have caught talk radio in a number of public
places and have heard two jamooks arguing about military strategy—as
if they knew anything and battlefield commanders should be
taking their advice. Yow! One bloodthirsty war criminal in
the making disdained any concern for civilians since the Iraqi
military was guilty of using these noncombatants as shields.
So much for liberating the Iraqis.
Thankfully John Lee Anderson (who wrote the
definitive Che Guevera biography and recently a book of his
New Yorker filings from Afghanistan, The Lion's
Grave) is not in bed with anyone except his well-honed
sense of observation and reportage. His "Letters from
Baghdad" in the New Yorker should be required
reading by all the careerist androids polluting the infosphere
with their pre-digested Defense Department press releases.
I am proud to call Barry Crimmins a friend and
a comrade and Elsewhere on Identity Theory Barry's
quips are regularly posted. When I read through his latest
posting, also found on his
own website, it occurred to me that Crimmer is subject
(at least by me) to being taken for granted because he is
so prolific. Anyway, this "quip" stopped me:
NO JOKE
Blowhard politicians and hack journalists are making big career
moves with this war. They act as if they are going through
great tribulations to serve mankind at this time. But the
most expensive commodity required to fuel the war machine
-- blood -- will be heavily infused with salt of the earth
not commonly found at networks or among political spin-doctors.
It's the poor and middle class kids who will be maimed in
this war, die in this war and get held captive in this war.
They will live with this war long after the rest of us think
it has ended. They will know of the true horror of war first
hand. Their families and friends will receive secondary exposure.
The newest batch of vets will be misled by implication to
believe that to speak of what they have seen and done would
be tantamount to disloyalty and cowardice. And so their torment
will be internalized and a lifelong soul-gnawing experience
will commence. These troops will be forgotten very quickly
as they head back to neighborhoods and rural locations that
are even more impoverished than those they left behind for
war. The misuse of our national resources for this unjust
military action will have made sure that what's gone around
to the Mideast, has come around to the cities and towns of
America.
The very people who claimed devotion for our troops will turn
their backs on those they called heroes when they needed cannon
fodder to help further their jingoistic goals. And the same
commentators, who called for people to attend pro-carnage
rallies, will denounce any GWII vet who speaks out against
the madness of the next war as "treacherous and un-American."
Returned troops learn quickly that just because they know
better doesn't mean anyone wants to hear about it…
Squamscott River / November 2002 / foto.Red
Diaz