The other night, I posted a link on Facebook to a clip from a speech Hillary Clinton had given in Boston the day before. In the speech, she was talking about imbalances in our criminal justice system and the need to address them. I was struck by how stiff the former Secretary of State seemed in her delivery and how ineffectively she conveyed sincerity. In short, to be truthful, I didn't believe a single word she said, though there was nothing actually wrong with the speech itself, beyond seeming calculated. There was something in it for everyone, that's for sure.
I posted the clip and made the comment that I didn't find her credible, that I'd thought so for a long time, and that--speaking as a lifelong Democrat--I wouldn't vote for her for president. (I don't think I'd vote for her for dogcatcher, either, not to put too fine a point on it.) I'm used to posting things that reflect my opinions and not getting much of a response, so I wouldn't have been surprised if no one had said anything. I got a "Like" from someone, turned off the computer, and eventually went to bed--and then found I couldn't get to sleep, no matter how hard I tried. I had to get up in the wee hours and read a book until I finally felt sleepy.
I asked myself, "Why am I so restless?" It took me a little while to realize that a lot of it had to do with that posting and the feelings I had about its subject, the state of our country, and the "leadership" we're stuck with. I was angry, and part of the anger, I realized, stems from the fact that I believe we, the public, have participated in creating a leadership crisis in our country by our complacency, reluctance to question our own cherished assumptions, and refusal to ask hard questions. As I was tossing and turning, I thought to myself, "If only, for once--just once--someone would ask me, 'Why do you say that about Hillary Clinton?' or 'What makes you feel that way?' I would feel so much better. A discussion beats silence any day, in my book.
The next day, when I got online, I saw that a couple of other people had agreed with me, and--lo, what wonder is this!--someone had actually asked me what kind of problems I had with Clinton's credibility. Someone actually wanted to know! Stop the presses! A Christmas miracle! In that moment, I thought I knew what the Fisher King, in the Grail legend, might have felt like if only Perceval, instead of hesitating, had asked him the right question: "What ails thee?" Shackles, peculiar enchantments, rotting castle walls, festering wounds, and all would have fallen away in a flash if only the Grail Knight had had the courage to ask the obvious.
In fact, I was so taken aback that someone asked me a plain question that it took me a minute to realize that the person was quite serious. I'm so used to the rah-rah treatment the Clintons get in our state, the seemingly unthinking endorsements the former Secretary of State gets from so many feminists, and the too-frequent assumption by the media that she's the one to beat in the next election. My feelings of discomfort with Secretary Clinton actually go back a way and have several sources, but not least among them is, it must be said, Benghazi.
As I said to my questioner, I realize that Benghazi has been made into a political football. I realize, too, that the investigations that have been done so far largely absolve the government of wrongdoing in the aftermath. But all of the accusations and counter accusations as to who said what when on TV afterwards seem to me to focus on the wrong issue. What I find incredible is the fact that the State Department did so little to defend the consulate, considering its location in such a dangerous place. I just didn't believe Ms. Clinton when she said she didn't know about the requests for more security and that it was all an unfortunate oversight. Not only did the explanation not make sense, but her demeanor during the Congressional hearings bothered me. In short, I still think that the government, including the State Department, is culpable in the deaths of those Americans.
I'm constantly amazed at people's willingness to lionize people who have done little to deserve it. If you think talking a pretty good lick about this and that is enough of a basis to make someone president, I think your standards are way too low. You realize, of course, that many politicians, including Ms. Clinton (and our president), are lawyers, and that talking is one of the things they excel at. This is not a slur against lawyers in general--I know quite a few who are fine people--but you know, making a good appearance is an art, a craft, and a science with them. If you're ever going to know who they truly are, you have to look way beyond the surface. Forget about this "It's high time we had a woman president" business. It may be past due, but that's a very poor basis for selecting someone for the job. Are you going to make me ambassador to Liechtenstein because they've never had one from Kentucky?
Do you want to elect someone who's worthy of your trust rather than someone who merely spends every waking moment trying to cultivate an image of someone you can trust? Start by asking the hard questions and checking your assumptions at the door. I've stopped assuming that because someone thinks like me (or says they do), that they must be a good Scout. (The reverse is also true; it's possible that someone who thinks differently than I do isn't a miscreant; in fact, they may be right about certain things.)
By their deeds shall ye know them. Not by what they learned in law school about selling themselves to a jury or by what an image consultant told them they should say to get elected or how good they are at figuring out what your values are so they can twist them around and trip you up with them.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Madeline's Casement
Does the unconscious have a sense of humor? I'm only asking because of the dream I had the other night, which seemed in some way a response to my blog post of last week, in which I talked about two previous dreams I had eight years apart. My dreaming mind wasted no time in coming up with another installment of the cliff's edge/oceanic/sea creature saga that sprang to life so vividly in the first dream and turned sort of Moby-Dickish in the second.
First off, I have to say that the latest dream was in no way as dramatic as the previous two. There's no rapidly rising tide and no sea monster. In the beginning, the dream didn't even seem to be taking place near the sea. I worked for someone who lived in a large house and was apparently a wealthy invalid. I was in the role of a personal assistant and went into an upstairs bathroom to check on a bottle of medicine; then I went into my own room, which opened out of it. There was a small desk in front of a tall window, and I opened the drawer.
To my surprise, opening the desk caused the bottom to slide out and tilt down at an angle. There was no glass in the window, though the bottom of the desk drawer appeared to be glass--and its contents were hanging precariously over a rocky cliff that plunged into the ocean about 50 feet below. I could see a man cliff diving from the rocks, and I wanted to slide the bottom of the drawer back in so as not to drop anything into the water. There was a long, cylindrical object on the right side of the drawer, but as if it had a will of its own, the drawer slipped further down, tumbling the contents into the water.
The cliff diver had just made another dive, so he and my projectile hit the water at about the same time. I waited to see him come up, and he did. I was glad I hadn't inadvertently drowned him, but it was a near thing. After that, I noticed other people of various ages swimming nearby, none of whom seemed to have noticed that contents were raining down on their heads from an open window. I hadn't knocked anyone out, but on the other hand, wasn't their carefree attitude a bit surprising? I stood looking in some perplexity at the desk that turned gravity into a launch pad.
In this dream there was no sense of danger to me. I was an actor--though an unwitting one--not a reactor. The ocean posed no threat, I did not mourn the loss of the contents, and I was more concerned with the safety of the people in the water than they appeared to be. Above all, I was mystified by the trick drawer that seemed to have been set up to act as it did. There was an inevitability about the scene and a feeling of a sly sense of humor at work.
If you're interested in setting, I will say that the house, while having a more or less 20th-century look (and an up-to-date bathroom) had the heavy atmosphere of established wealth. I believe I had driven there in my car, which was parked on the street. As for the room with the desk, it was something like Madeline's chamber in Keats's The Eve of St. Agnes, except for the fact that it wasn't winter (or even nighttime), there was no stained glass, and in fact no feeling at all of anything medieval. I'm not sure there was even a bed.
If you're thinking, "That doesn't sound much like Madeline's chamber," all I can say is it must have been the slightly ponderous air of the house, the feeling of looking down from a height, and the unexpected drama of the window treatment. Her window was pretty to look at, but mine was notable for its absence, the difference between a romance and the dream of a modern writer, I suppose. At least I was dry this time.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Mythologist Dreams of a Blue Fish
I don't know why I dreamed this week about a giant blue fish jumping over a house, but I did. A few nights ago, in my dream, I was sitting or leaning on the porch railing of a white frame house very much like one I actually lived in when I was young. It was an overcast day in a small town neighborhood, and there were a number of people standing in the yard between our house and the one next door. All of a sudden, an enormous blue fish rose out of the depths, leaped over our house, and landed in a pool in the front yard.
Where the fish came from is an open question, since we were nowhere near the sea but in about as landlocked a situation as you could imagine. Not that that matters in a dream, of course. The sudden appearance of this enormous creature was extraordinary, but the lack of an ocean didn't seem to signify. Perhaps there was a subterranean ocean underneath the house.
My first thought was, "It's a blue whale." However, it was not a whale, but rather a large, flexible flatfish with a big head. It was not a kite or a ray--its shape was elongated and sinuous. It turned itself around in the pool to face us, and it may be anthropomorphizing to say so, but it did not have a friendly look. (Actually, I'm not sure it's possible to anthropomorphize in a dream, even if it sometimes is in waking life.)
It may be good to mention that Jung compared the stages of consciousness with the chakras of kundalini, so that the Leviathan that swims in the unconscious is associated with the second chakra, svadhisthana. In this stage, Jung said, one moves from lack of awareness to a confrontation with unconscious contents, a tricky undertaking requiring considerable courage since the flooding one experiences can threaten equilibrium. It's no minnow you're facing; certainly the fish in my dream had the menacing aspect of a Leviathan as it turned to look at us.
Everybody seemed to know the fish was going to make another leap and probably land on the house. There seemed to be a collective impulse to move out of the way, even a surge of panic. But for some reason, no one really did anything except stand and watch. I remained on the porch, oddly disinclined to move quickly, though part of me thought it was a grand idea. The fish did leap and actually landed on the house . . . but all that came down were a few splinters.
This dream reminds me of one I had some years ago (and have written about before) in which I was lounging on a cliff high above the sea, a brief idyll that ended when the water began to rise. It was not a single creature but rather the ocean itself that threatened. Interestingly, it was not so much physical danger in that dream but the damage to my belongings that concerned me; I was urging people in the house on the cliff to help me move things inside before they got wet.
In the fish dream, there was no water visible except in the pool, which was somewhat shallow, and though the fish carried through on its destructive leap, the result was anticlimactic--though there was still some talk of adjourning to the neighboring house for safety. The situation seemed unresolved, some feeling of uncertainty still remaining.
Maybe it's too much to pair two dreams occurring eight years apart, but I do seem to see a kind of progression from one dream to the next: from a diffuse but overwhelming threat to a specific, visible one; from a beautiful but exotic location to homely, familiar ground; from a frustrated feeling of trying to rouse others to a shared (but measured) sense of danger. The contrast between the urgent activity of the first dream and the watchfulness of the second dream is also striking, though I am not sure what we all were waiting for. A fish fry, maybe?
Where the fish came from is an open question, since we were nowhere near the sea but in about as landlocked a situation as you could imagine. Not that that matters in a dream, of course. The sudden appearance of this enormous creature was extraordinary, but the lack of an ocean didn't seem to signify. Perhaps there was a subterranean ocean underneath the house.
My first thought was, "It's a blue whale." However, it was not a whale, but rather a large, flexible flatfish with a big head. It was not a kite or a ray--its shape was elongated and sinuous. It turned itself around in the pool to face us, and it may be anthropomorphizing to say so, but it did not have a friendly look. (Actually, I'm not sure it's possible to anthropomorphize in a dream, even if it sometimes is in waking life.)
It may be good to mention that Jung compared the stages of consciousness with the chakras of kundalini, so that the Leviathan that swims in the unconscious is associated with the second chakra, svadhisthana. In this stage, Jung said, one moves from lack of awareness to a confrontation with unconscious contents, a tricky undertaking requiring considerable courage since the flooding one experiences can threaten equilibrium. It's no minnow you're facing; certainly the fish in my dream had the menacing aspect of a Leviathan as it turned to look at us.
Everybody seemed to know the fish was going to make another leap and probably land on the house. There seemed to be a collective impulse to move out of the way, even a surge of panic. But for some reason, no one really did anything except stand and watch. I remained on the porch, oddly disinclined to move quickly, though part of me thought it was a grand idea. The fish did leap and actually landed on the house . . . but all that came down were a few splinters.
This dream reminds me of one I had some years ago (and have written about before) in which I was lounging on a cliff high above the sea, a brief idyll that ended when the water began to rise. It was not a single creature but rather the ocean itself that threatened. Interestingly, it was not so much physical danger in that dream but the damage to my belongings that concerned me; I was urging people in the house on the cliff to help me move things inside before they got wet.
In the fish dream, there was no water visible except in the pool, which was somewhat shallow, and though the fish carried through on its destructive leap, the result was anticlimactic--though there was still some talk of adjourning to the neighboring house for safety. The situation seemed unresolved, some feeling of uncertainty still remaining.
Maybe it's too much to pair two dreams occurring eight years apart, but I do seem to see a kind of progression from one dream to the next: from a diffuse but overwhelming threat to a specific, visible one; from a beautiful but exotic location to homely, familiar ground; from a frustrated feeling of trying to rouse others to a shared (but measured) sense of danger. The contrast between the urgent activity of the first dream and the watchfulness of the second dream is also striking, though I am not sure what we all were waiting for. A fish fry, maybe?
Sunday, November 16, 2014
Natural Phenomenon
I have a memory of sitting in a car with my brother in downtown Fort Myers, Florida, when I was about seven or eight, and he was nine or ten. If I remember right, our Dad had gone into the insurance company to pay a premium or take care of some other business. I'm not sure why I recall that, but I do. Anyway, it was a mostly cloudy day, late in the afternoon, and while we were sitting there, looking toward the roofs at the other end of the street, an unusual cloud formation filled the spaces between buildings to create a shape that looked, for a brief time, uncannily like the state of Florida. To my eyes, it was quite incredible.
It was my brother who pointed it out to me, and I can still remember him saying, in an authoritative, scientific sort of way, "That's what you call a natural phenomenon."
I'm bringing this up because of what happened when I was out walking Friday afternoon. It was five o'clock, probably pretty close to the same time of day as that long-ago wonder. It's also a bit of a coincidence because I wrote another post about something that happened at five o'clock a while back; if there's a quota on five o'clock phenomena, I seem to be running through it rapidly.
I had put my sunglasses on when I left home, appreciating the blue sky and bright afternoon but doubting whether I really needed them; it was partly cloudy, and, anyway, the sun was rather low in the sky. It kept peeking in and out of the clouds, but by the time I'd gone nearly all the way around the Arboretum, it was shining directly in front of me.
That's when it happened. Due no doubt to moisture in the air and the layers of clouds above and below, the sunlight shaped itself, briefly, into a column of fire, dead center in the sky. It was so remarkable that the first thing I wondered was if anybody in rush hour traffic was seeing it, too. It looked like something that, in ancient times, would have been taken by astrologers or prophets as a "sign," as in, "Yo, a plague of locusts is at hand," or at least, "It's time to harvest the persimmons."
I'm cynical about "signs," which seem to me to be overdone these days, "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing," but the event was beautiful and striking and certainly fit into my brother's category of natural phenomena--so I have another to add to the list of the many I've seen. I know there are names for almost any atmospheric occurrence you can think of, but I don't know what the name for a column of light is. I was mainly just happy that I had my sunglasses on so I didn't have to squint at it and also that it happened when I was facing in the right direction. It did occur to me that there's no telling how many wondrous and amazing things happen around us all the time when we happen to be looking the other way.
It was my brother who pointed it out to me, and I can still remember him saying, in an authoritative, scientific sort of way, "That's what you call a natural phenomenon."
I'm bringing this up because of what happened when I was out walking Friday afternoon. It was five o'clock, probably pretty close to the same time of day as that long-ago wonder. It's also a bit of a coincidence because I wrote another post about something that happened at five o'clock a while back; if there's a quota on five o'clock phenomena, I seem to be running through it rapidly.
I had put my sunglasses on when I left home, appreciating the blue sky and bright afternoon but doubting whether I really needed them; it was partly cloudy, and, anyway, the sun was rather low in the sky. It kept peeking in and out of the clouds, but by the time I'd gone nearly all the way around the Arboretum, it was shining directly in front of me.
That's when it happened. Due no doubt to moisture in the air and the layers of clouds above and below, the sunlight shaped itself, briefly, into a column of fire, dead center in the sky. It was so remarkable that the first thing I wondered was if anybody in rush hour traffic was seeing it, too. It looked like something that, in ancient times, would have been taken by astrologers or prophets as a "sign," as in, "Yo, a plague of locusts is at hand," or at least, "It's time to harvest the persimmons."
I'm cynical about "signs," which seem to me to be overdone these days, "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing," but the event was beautiful and striking and certainly fit into my brother's category of natural phenomena--so I have another to add to the list of the many I've seen. I know there are names for almost any atmospheric occurrence you can think of, but I don't know what the name for a column of light is. I was mainly just happy that I had my sunglasses on so I didn't have to squint at it and also that it happened when I was facing in the right direction. It did occur to me that there's no telling how many wondrous and amazing things happen around us all the time when we happen to be looking the other way.
Monday, November 10, 2014
Berlin Adventure
It's hard to believe it's been 25 years since the fall of the Berlin Wall. That means it's been 25 years since my friends and I undertook our three-week whirlwind European vacation (nine countries in 20 days). What was happening in Berlin actually affected us because we had a friend living there; going to visit her was part of our itinerary.
There were probably several times for each of us on that trip when we felt ourselves especially far from home. I had been to England before and was familiar with London; one of my friends found it unfriendly and didn't care for it at all. One of us had already been to West Germany and considered it a "been there, done that" item; I found Amsterdam to be rather scary (but fascinating). I think all of us would agree, though, that crossing the border from the West to the East in Germany (a border still being maintained even as the Wall was coming down) was both unforgettable and Kafka-esque.
It was like slipping into a time warp and landing in the barbed wire and searchlight days of World War II. Both were in evidence from the train windows as we showed our passports to an extremely grim-faced guard. A brief, unexplained stop once the train started moving again caused someone to quip, in a whistling past the graveyard moment, that perhaps some unfortunate soul had been thrown from the back. It seemed remotely possible. It was November, and East Germany was cold and dark, with a twilight, industrial sort of darkness even during the day. By contrast, Berlin, once we arrived there, reminded me of New York: though gritty and gray, it was edgy, electric, and sophisticated--a world-class city.
Our friend was expecting her first child, and we spent the first couple of days close to her comfortable home, catching up on news and going with her to a doctor's appointment. On the third day, we took the train to Kochstrasse, which I believe was the last subway stop before East Berlin, and walked to Checkpoint Charlie. We were immediately enveloped in the mood of excitement that seemed to have gripped everyone in the vicinity (if not the entire world). The Wall hadn't been torn down yet, but it wasn't for lack of trying. People who weren't taking photographs were renting hammers and chisels for a few marks to do their part.
I have pictures of the three of us at the Wall, hammering, chiseling, and looking cold. I was taking a picture of one of my friends chipping away, and something was said about the angle or posing. I said, "Just keep doing what you're doing." At that, a young man who was passing, apparently British from his accent, paused, laughed, and said, "You have a long way to go!" True enough for one person, but of course in the end the Wall--as solid as it was then--came down. I have some pieces of it still, packed away with other mementos.
My most vivid memories of that visit to Checkpoint Charlie, other than the graffiti and the pervasive excitement in the air, are of my friend attacking the Wall valiantly with a Swiss Army Knife and the exhibits in the Wall Museum that dealt with people's escape attempts. One woman had hidden her four-year-old in a shoulder bag and escaped via subway to Kochstrasse Station; someone else had a false bottom in a car and hid underneath it. The consequences were grim for those who were caught, but it didn't stop people from trying.
In the end, you wonder what it's all about. Politics, wars, international agreements . . . and the end result was a city divided in two. I was reading an article by a diplomatic expert earlier that said not all the results of the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of the Cold War were favorable. He may have been right about some of the things he said, but to me a lot of the events that have happened since 1989 can be interpreted as missed opportunities to create a more stable world.
Some people don't believe such stability is possible, I know. But if you were to ask some of the people who were divided from one another by the Wall that broke their city in two (or the loved ones of those who died trying to cross it) what they thought about its demise, I bet you'd get a different opinion from that of the diplomatic expert. People living with the results of decisions made by the great powers ruling the world often have a different outlook than any number of diplomats do. And their outlook may be truer.
There were probably several times for each of us on that trip when we felt ourselves especially far from home. I had been to England before and was familiar with London; one of my friends found it unfriendly and didn't care for it at all. One of us had already been to West Germany and considered it a "been there, done that" item; I found Amsterdam to be rather scary (but fascinating). I think all of us would agree, though, that crossing the border from the West to the East in Germany (a border still being maintained even as the Wall was coming down) was both unforgettable and Kafka-esque.
It was like slipping into a time warp and landing in the barbed wire and searchlight days of World War II. Both were in evidence from the train windows as we showed our passports to an extremely grim-faced guard. A brief, unexplained stop once the train started moving again caused someone to quip, in a whistling past the graveyard moment, that perhaps some unfortunate soul had been thrown from the back. It seemed remotely possible. It was November, and East Germany was cold and dark, with a twilight, industrial sort of darkness even during the day. By contrast, Berlin, once we arrived there, reminded me of New York: though gritty and gray, it was edgy, electric, and sophisticated--a world-class city.
Our friend was expecting her first child, and we spent the first couple of days close to her comfortable home, catching up on news and going with her to a doctor's appointment. On the third day, we took the train to Kochstrasse, which I believe was the last subway stop before East Berlin, and walked to Checkpoint Charlie. We were immediately enveloped in the mood of excitement that seemed to have gripped everyone in the vicinity (if not the entire world). The Wall hadn't been torn down yet, but it wasn't for lack of trying. People who weren't taking photographs were renting hammers and chisels for a few marks to do their part.
I have pictures of the three of us at the Wall, hammering, chiseling, and looking cold. I was taking a picture of one of my friends chipping away, and something was said about the angle or posing. I said, "Just keep doing what you're doing." At that, a young man who was passing, apparently British from his accent, paused, laughed, and said, "You have a long way to go!" True enough for one person, but of course in the end the Wall--as solid as it was then--came down. I have some pieces of it still, packed away with other mementos.
My most vivid memories of that visit to Checkpoint Charlie, other than the graffiti and the pervasive excitement in the air, are of my friend attacking the Wall valiantly with a Swiss Army Knife and the exhibits in the Wall Museum that dealt with people's escape attempts. One woman had hidden her four-year-old in a shoulder bag and escaped via subway to Kochstrasse Station; someone else had a false bottom in a car and hid underneath it. The consequences were grim for those who were caught, but it didn't stop people from trying.
In the end, you wonder what it's all about. Politics, wars, international agreements . . . and the end result was a city divided in two. I was reading an article by a diplomatic expert earlier that said not all the results of the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of the Cold War were favorable. He may have been right about some of the things he said, but to me a lot of the events that have happened since 1989 can be interpreted as missed opportunities to create a more stable world.
Some people don't believe such stability is possible, I know. But if you were to ask some of the people who were divided from one another by the Wall that broke their city in two (or the loved ones of those who died trying to cross it) what they thought about its demise, I bet you'd get a different opinion from that of the diplomatic expert. People living with the results of decisions made by the great powers ruling the world often have a different outlook than any number of diplomats do. And their outlook may be truer.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
Reason for the Season
The weather's been veering, as it does in October. You get the feeling, with the way the wind changes, that Mary Poppins could drop in any minute. Yesterday, snow was in the forecast for the evening. I didn't see any, but apparently a little fell overnight, though not enough to show for much. I was trying to imagine what an autumn day would look like with flaming orange, red, and yellow leaves glowering under a layer of snow, but we didn't get to find out.
This conjured up an incongruous but picturesque image, like the time I was in Berkeley in the fall and walked down a neighborhood street where deciduous trees shedding leaves alternated with ever-blooming varieties and bright fruits and flowers that seemed to belong to spring and summer. The effect reminded me a little bit of a painting I've seen in which a motley group of buildings, including an Egyptian pyramid, a Greek temple, and a Gothic cathedral, are all lumped together in a fantasy spot by the sea: it's more or less impossible, unless you're in Disneyland, but it's fun to look at. (The painting is Thomas Cole's The Architect's Dream.) That street, where three seasons seemed to coexist at once, was a little like that. All that was missing was a snowdrift.
But I'm digressing. I was really thinking about an article I once read in The Old Farmer's Almanac about something called cross-quarter days, of which yesterday, October 31, is one. The others occur on February 2, May 1, and August 1. These originated in British and Celtic customs, and the article explained how other traditions, enduring even in America, are attached to these dates, which divide the intervals between the quarter days (the two solstices and equinoxes) in half.
October 31 is All Hallow's Eve (Celtic Samhain), February 2 is Candlemas (Celtic Imbolc), May 1 is May Day (Celtic Beltane), and August 1 is Lammas (Celtic Lughnasadh). Most people are aware of the connection between Halloween and the Celtic traditions relating to the dead; American customs like pumpkin-carving and trick-or-treating have their counterparts in Samhain. What I didn't know was that other customs, like Election Day--which seems totally unrelated to Halloween--are actually a part of this post-harvest celebration. What better time to hold elections than when all the work in the fields is over?
Our version of Candlemas is Groundhog Day, when we're looking forward to the spring equinox still some six weeks away (and trying to hurry it along). Less well-known (at least to me) was the Celtic Imbolc, which refers to sheep and lambs, whose season is the latter part of winter. Even I, a town girl, was able to make a connection to this ancient tradition when I remembered a college roommate, an agriculture major, who was always getting up in the middle of those frozen February nights to check on ewes about to give birth. It sure didn't sound like something I wanted to do in the wee hours of a cold, dark month, but I suspect your perspective is different if you're a farmer.
Beltane, of course, is May Day, a spring and fertility celebration. We don't do much with May Poles and mummers, but in Kentucky, we hold the Derby on the first Saturday in May, a bourbon- and equine-infused version of a spring fling, complete with elaborate hats. Lammas or Lughnasadh, probably not that well known in America, signals the start of the harvest and early crops. The thing to do on that day might be to bake a loaf of bread or a fruit pie. Lughnasadh commemorates the Celtic god Lugh, whose emblem was a spear that supposedly always hit its mark. (I've forgotten why he's celebrated in August, but I do remember once knocking on my ceiling with a broom handle to alert a noisy neighbor and later laughing when I realized it was August 1, the day of Lugh. A broom handle isn't much like a spear unless you're annoyed, I guess.)
This cross-quarter weekend, we're celebrating Halloween, All Saints, and All Souls Days, changing from Daylight Time to Standard Time, and getting ready for Election Day on Tuesday. In calendrical terms there's quite a bit going on, which might explain the restless energy in the air (it could also be the zing of unseen money changing hands as candidates continue to vy for votes).
If it's any consolation, the next time you're annoyed by a robocall or political advertisement, or if you forget to change your clock and end up at work an hour early on Monday, or if you get indigestion from too much Halloween candy, just think about being part of a tradition that stretches back to ancient times and started on the other side of the sea. Young or old, tricker or treater, candidate or voter, we each have our part to play. Exciting, isn't it?
This conjured up an incongruous but picturesque image, like the time I was in Berkeley in the fall and walked down a neighborhood street where deciduous trees shedding leaves alternated with ever-blooming varieties and bright fruits and flowers that seemed to belong to spring and summer. The effect reminded me a little bit of a painting I've seen in which a motley group of buildings, including an Egyptian pyramid, a Greek temple, and a Gothic cathedral, are all lumped together in a fantasy spot by the sea: it's more or less impossible, unless you're in Disneyland, but it's fun to look at. (The painting is Thomas Cole's The Architect's Dream.) That street, where three seasons seemed to coexist at once, was a little like that. All that was missing was a snowdrift.
But I'm digressing. I was really thinking about an article I once read in The Old Farmer's Almanac about something called cross-quarter days, of which yesterday, October 31, is one. The others occur on February 2, May 1, and August 1. These originated in British and Celtic customs, and the article explained how other traditions, enduring even in America, are attached to these dates, which divide the intervals between the quarter days (the two solstices and equinoxes) in half.
October 31 is All Hallow's Eve (Celtic Samhain), February 2 is Candlemas (Celtic Imbolc), May 1 is May Day (Celtic Beltane), and August 1 is Lammas (Celtic Lughnasadh). Most people are aware of the connection between Halloween and the Celtic traditions relating to the dead; American customs like pumpkin-carving and trick-or-treating have their counterparts in Samhain. What I didn't know was that other customs, like Election Day--which seems totally unrelated to Halloween--are actually a part of this post-harvest celebration. What better time to hold elections than when all the work in the fields is over?
Our version of Candlemas is Groundhog Day, when we're looking forward to the spring equinox still some six weeks away (and trying to hurry it along). Less well-known (at least to me) was the Celtic Imbolc, which refers to sheep and lambs, whose season is the latter part of winter. Even I, a town girl, was able to make a connection to this ancient tradition when I remembered a college roommate, an agriculture major, who was always getting up in the middle of those frozen February nights to check on ewes about to give birth. It sure didn't sound like something I wanted to do in the wee hours of a cold, dark month, but I suspect your perspective is different if you're a farmer.
Beltane, of course, is May Day, a spring and fertility celebration. We don't do much with May Poles and mummers, but in Kentucky, we hold the Derby on the first Saturday in May, a bourbon- and equine-infused version of a spring fling, complete with elaborate hats. Lammas or Lughnasadh, probably not that well known in America, signals the start of the harvest and early crops. The thing to do on that day might be to bake a loaf of bread or a fruit pie. Lughnasadh commemorates the Celtic god Lugh, whose emblem was a spear that supposedly always hit its mark. (I've forgotten why he's celebrated in August, but I do remember once knocking on my ceiling with a broom handle to alert a noisy neighbor and later laughing when I realized it was August 1, the day of Lugh. A broom handle isn't much like a spear unless you're annoyed, I guess.)
This cross-quarter weekend, we're celebrating Halloween, All Saints, and All Souls Days, changing from Daylight Time to Standard Time, and getting ready for Election Day on Tuesday. In calendrical terms there's quite a bit going on, which might explain the restless energy in the air (it could also be the zing of unseen money changing hands as candidates continue to vy for votes).
If it's any consolation, the next time you're annoyed by a robocall or political advertisement, or if you forget to change your clock and end up at work an hour early on Monday, or if you get indigestion from too much Halloween candy, just think about being part of a tradition that stretches back to ancient times and started on the other side of the sea. Young or old, tricker or treater, candidate or voter, we each have our part to play. Exciting, isn't it?
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Song for the Corner of Broadway and Vine
I was in the grocery store the other day when Billy Joel's song "New York State of Mind" came on, with that familiar fall of tinkling piano keys, over the in-store radio. There I was, innocently shopping for vegetables and milk, when I heard the line, "I know what I'm needin', and I don't want to waste more time." A wave of emotion, sad and imperative, washed over me, which I don't usually associate with that song. I like a lot of Mr. Joel's material, but that song has always been just one of many, never a particular favorite.
But you know how it is with these things: sometimes a book or a song takes on a different meaning as you live with it over time, just as it almost certainly has for Mr. Joel, who, I believe, wrote it long ago on returning home to New York after living on the West Coast for several years. It's a slice of life story that, in its gentle, elegiac tone, has risen above particulars--especially post 9/11--to become a love song to a great city. It has taken its place as a standard in the great American songbook, where I'm sure it will remain.
A lot of people don't know this, but I've had fantasies since childhood about being a singer, out there on a stage, just singing my heart out in front of a thousand people. I used to have recurring dreams about returning to my high school and singing in front of an assembly, dreams that stopped after I found my voice as a writer. I find, though, that the urge for singing has remained for some reason. Maybe I was too quiet as a child and am still trying to make up for it.
You know what I wish? I wish I could transport Mr. Joel, his piano, and the sax player of his choice down to the corner of, say, Broadway and Vine in downtown Lexington. There's a plaza in front of the Triangle Park fountain, and the street corner there would do nicely for a stage. You know the old adage: Location! Location! Location! Well, everybody passes by there--and people from the nearby office towers would have a birds-eye view. I know it would do nicely for an evening concert (Lexington is always looking for new ways to get people downtown), but there's just not enough going on, in my opinion, in the morning hours, between 8:45 and 9-ish, when people have had time to get their coffee and are just getting started on their day.
Picture me in a long, black dress, with elegant earrings and an up-do. Mr. Joel plays the jazzy introduction as people start to stop and look, wondering what's going on. I'm leaning just as cool as you please on that baby grand, in diamonds and glittering heels, and when he gets to the verse and pauses, I pick up the microphone and enunciate, in my sexiest voice, "Some folks like to get a-waaaay, take a hol-i-daaaay from the neigh-bor-hooood . . . "
Could a Kentucky girl pull off a love song to the Big Apple? Well, come on down; you might be surprised.
I haven't shared this plan with Mr. Joel, but you never know, he might fall in with the spirit of it sometime. We would be very close to Rupp Arena, where I have seen him perform energetic shows twice in years past . . . and that has kind of nice, round sense of completion about it, doesn't it? Also, he's very fond of New York, I think.
By the way, leave your money at home. This is a concert for the people, and no admission is required. We may have to pass a hat to pay the sax player, though.
Here's something to get you in the mood.
http://youtu.be/UFlsXgw_SFE
But you know how it is with these things: sometimes a book or a song takes on a different meaning as you live with it over time, just as it almost certainly has for Mr. Joel, who, I believe, wrote it long ago on returning home to New York after living on the West Coast for several years. It's a slice of life story that, in its gentle, elegiac tone, has risen above particulars--especially post 9/11--to become a love song to a great city. It has taken its place as a standard in the great American songbook, where I'm sure it will remain.
A lot of people don't know this, but I've had fantasies since childhood about being a singer, out there on a stage, just singing my heart out in front of a thousand people. I used to have recurring dreams about returning to my high school and singing in front of an assembly, dreams that stopped after I found my voice as a writer. I find, though, that the urge for singing has remained for some reason. Maybe I was too quiet as a child and am still trying to make up for it.
You know what I wish? I wish I could transport Mr. Joel, his piano, and the sax player of his choice down to the corner of, say, Broadway and Vine in downtown Lexington. There's a plaza in front of the Triangle Park fountain, and the street corner there would do nicely for a stage. You know the old adage: Location! Location! Location! Well, everybody passes by there--and people from the nearby office towers would have a birds-eye view. I know it would do nicely for an evening concert (Lexington is always looking for new ways to get people downtown), but there's just not enough going on, in my opinion, in the morning hours, between 8:45 and 9-ish, when people have had time to get their coffee and are just getting started on their day.
Picture me in a long, black dress, with elegant earrings and an up-do. Mr. Joel plays the jazzy introduction as people start to stop and look, wondering what's going on. I'm leaning just as cool as you please on that baby grand, in diamonds and glittering heels, and when he gets to the verse and pauses, I pick up the microphone and enunciate, in my sexiest voice, "Some folks like to get a-waaaay, take a hol-i-daaaay from the neigh-bor-hooood . . . "
Could a Kentucky girl pull off a love song to the Big Apple? Well, come on down; you might be surprised.
I haven't shared this plan with Mr. Joel, but you never know, he might fall in with the spirit of it sometime. We would be very close to Rupp Arena, where I have seen him perform energetic shows twice in years past . . . and that has kind of nice, round sense of completion about it, doesn't it? Also, he's very fond of New York, I think.
By the way, leave your money at home. This is a concert for the people, and no admission is required. We may have to pass a hat to pay the sax player, though.
Here's something to get you in the mood.
http://youtu.be/UFlsXgw_SFE
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