Ruminations From The Brink ....

I just feel something involving fundamental world change is upon us.  Not the-end-is-near kind that the religious maniacs parade out on a regular basis, but huge none-the-less. And it ain't good. Despite the demonstrations against Wall Street, and the President's still ever-pending Jobs Bill.

Up until the recently I had some hope that even the many with views from another dimension would come around.  But, really, we can see they didn't. 

What little faith I had in our political leaders has evaporated; whatever hope I had for some decisive action on any level is running on empty. Our Republican candidates are back to their true calling: mostly endless fierce/farce debates, position changes, and roller coaster popularity rankings. I hardly have expected more from them--- petty, partisan  unimaginative, often uninformed, with noses to the wind (except for Paul, who already primarily inhabits a place far, far away). But even our President dithers and fund raises while invoking Teddy Roosevelt and trying to appropriate the vision of scattered bands of Occupiers. Oh, I know. He does things in a more subdued and conciliatory manner than, say, Newt. But the cards are on the table. 

In the the world he inhabits personally and professionally, he may believe he has the time to move in increments.  But I live in that world, too. And so does Drew Westen, a professor of psychology, and writer. His brilliant opinion piece in the Sunday NY Times way back on August 7, is entitled "What Happened To Obama," but it is a warning to all of us. Here is his his concluding paragraph. Read it and then and tell me you too don't think we are on the brink:

"But the arc of history does not bend toward justice through capitulation cast as compromise. It does not bend when 400 people control more of the wealth than 150 million of their fellow Americans. It does not bend when the average middle-class family has seen its income stagnate over the last 30 years while the richest 1 percent has seen its income rise astronomically. It does not bend when we cut the fixed incomes of our parents and grandparents so hedge fund managers can keep their 15 percent tax rates. It does not bend when only one side in negotiations between workers and their bosses is allowed representation. And it does not bend when, as political scientists have shown, it is not public opinion but the opinions of the wealthy that predict the votes of the Senate. The arc of history can bend only so far before it breaks." 

It's breaking.  Have you noticed?

Levine ....

In such a deeply troubled time, so far as I am concerned about the only good news recently has been the naming of 83-year-old Philip Levine as our new Poet Laureate. Even as it honors him, it speaks well of us. Levine has a raspy, gritty, familiar voice. Often it is our own. And he has lived, or at least understands, the life we lead, and the times in which we find ourselves.

You can turn up almost all of his poems by searching on the web. I hope you will; they may help get you through the days.

Here is a link to him reading his own, on PBS.

And this, from his wonderful tribute and reminder, You Don't Know What Work Is:

  

"How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You've never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you're too young or too dumb,
not because you're jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don't know what work is"

News Of The World ...

I know, I know. I am back here much sooner than usual.  But I just wanted to add my few words on the evolving scandal involving phone hacking, The (soon to be former) News Of The World, and the tumultuous state of the media generally.

It is hard for me to believe that only a few weeks ago I was wandering the streets of London, reveling in the fabulous traditions and the extreme generosity of the people I was meeting there. (See my post just below.)  Now, of course we know that in certain quarters the insatiable appetite for details, and more details, by the tabloids (and other press) knows no bounds, real or virtual.

Hacking away, The News Of The World apparently had neither conscience, nor knew any boundaries.  And, according to many reports now filtering out, cautious though they may be in the face of the extreme power and renowned capacity for vengeance by Rupert Murdoch, the case at hand was not the first time either. If you want a detailed and thorough and fair analysis of what is going on here's a link to a report by ProPublica, which has no master, except for decency and the pursuit of truthfulness. 

We'll see how it plays out in this situation.  But I tell you there is much more, just as ugly, just as lacking in professional morality or standards, roiling away just under the surface hidden --- for now --- from view.

In the words of the 4 wise lads from Liverpool:

I read the news today, oh boy
About a lucky man who made the grade
And though the news was rather sad .... 

LONDON and PARIS

Back here again. Every five to seven months it would seem.

I am writing now because I just returned from a trip to London and Paris; first time to London in many years, and the second time to Paris since last October.  I went because, well, I could.  And because I had just completed four wearying months closely examining. and teaching about media at Harvard and to a seminar group on Beacon Hill in Boston.

The actual dynamic in the classroom with the participants was not a problem, in fact it was exhilarating.  It was having to make constant, daily, intense, detailed reviews of the workings of the media that did me in.  I felt like I was slowly trudging through heavy, polluted waters most of the time, and the effort made me tired, discouraged, and in need of rejuvenation.   

So, London and Paris was it.   I know, I know: both of those cities have plenty wrong with them both inside the media and out.  But I am not a part of that there, and these places  have a grandeur, culture, and history which is impossibly alluring. They are also far away.  So I went, and it was a cleansing experience. Fresh waters after foul.

I don't want to turn this into one of those dull, self-involved, living room travelogue slide shows.  Like Rick Steves without any production values.  What I want to concentrate on are the qualities in both cities that I found rejuvenating. 

LONDON:  First the people I met.  Friendly, helpful, chatty, open, patient.  In the underground where several times I had to ask hard-pressed Information booth people how the damned Oyster Transportation Card worked, while those queue-loving Britishers waited as the impossibly dense American tried to get it straight.The Information people always smiled, always took the time, and no one in the crowd behind me ever threatened my life, or complained at all.  In the museums where, even though I was carrying a labeled map, written in my very own language, I was often not quite certain how to get to the painting or the sculpture I needed to see. There, the guards not only pointed me in the right direction, but every time walked part of the way with me to make certain I was on the right path.  Or on the streets and in the theaters, where residents struck up conversations and impressions, and invited me to share a table or a bench.  They always seemed to have the time, and inclination to let me in.  Every night I returned to my hotel restored and made happy by my encounters.

The city and the culture itself:  London is somehow larger than I remembered from years ago.  Unlike Boston where I came from, or Paris where I was going, I had to take the tube to wherever I wanted to explore.  But once I was in the right area I never stopped walking.What there is to see is endless there.  There's always one more museum nearby, a hundred more Impressionists to view, the restored original Churchill bunkers, or constant living reminders of the city's past like the original home of Dr.Johnson tucked, along with a memorial to his beloved cat, into a dense, urban city square. Building after building and park after park, small and large, all used, all defining the values and aesthetics of the city.  There's plenty new that's going on, particularly across the Thames where the Tate Modern and National Theater are located. The cranes are up there. But it is the old that defines the city, giving it a weight and a connection to the past which is enduring and reassuring.

Then I took the on-time high sped train from the heart of London to the heart of Paris.  

 PARIS: It's all been said, practically.  So I won't go on about the beauty, the romance, the history --- tempting though it is.

I did all the usual things.  The long walk to the cemetery where Jim Morrison (and Chopin, and Piaf, and Stein and the rest of the gang) are buried.  The Louvre, where even in early June every human on the planet was crowded inside, except for no one in front of the single Vermeer, which was all I really wanted to see there.  The folk art Musee du Quai Branly which has placed its brazen modern self directly next to the stolid, massive Eiffel Tower. The silent beauty of the Water Lillies at Monet's Musee de l'Orangerie. And on and on.

But there are two moments in Paris that stand out.

One was the first touch on my tongue of the Cassis sorbet from Berthillon's on the Ile St. Louis. There is a god, and he or she runs that place, and makes those ice creams and sorbets. It is an instant reminder of what we can aspire to, and achieve. That the experience quickly disappears, and needs to be constantly replenished, is yet another important lesson.

The other was when I walked out of  a small movie house across from the Pompidou after seeing (at a friend's suggestion) the new Woody Allen film, Midnight In Paris.  The film is lovely, and intensified my feelings and my affection for the city for the entire visit.  But the moment itself was the scene just across from the theater. Here it is:

This is Paris in 2011. His name is Antoine, and he is, as the sign really says, a Public Poet. Typewriter(!) at the ready. My media person of the moment.  It was a surging reminder that a Public Poet can still exist, still survive, still be relevant, and still be needed, despite (and because of) these times where so much depressing information descends in an instant avalanche.

I felt cleansed.

Then I came home to Weiner.