Category Archives: Writing

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Intimations of Mortality

My sister Diane died on July 8 of this year, not quite two months ago. She was 68.

I am past the major grieving, I believe—several weeks have passed since my tears have welled up unexpectedly.

I may still be surprised by some sudden emotion, but there are now only persistent evocations of times shared with Diane, and of her forceful and positive spirit.

I no longer can forward to her a YouTube presentation of a popular singer or a clip from a TV comedy show of long ago, nor receive any from her. When I experience something that evokes a time we shared, I can no longer email or telephone to her about it.

She is really gone, but my sympathetic nervous system has not yet absorbed the fact of her permanent absence on this side of the great divide between life and death.

I have read and written and spoken occasionally on the subject of death, always in the abstract—for I haven’t yet experienced it, nor had anyone whose writing I have read.

With the extinguishing of Diane’s earthly presence so suddenly and completely, I feel closer to death. It is not as abstract to me as before.

When our parents died at advanced ages, these deaths were expected and even welcomed, for their last few years were difficult in each separate circumstance.

Not so with Diane’s death. She was younger than I by five- and-a-half years.

I have begun to imagine my spirit suddenly being extinguished. What can it be like? It is a very strange feeling or perception. Will the soul survive and, if so, in what manner?

I have known people who dwelt on the subject of death overly much in my view, or for my continuing interest. Will I now become such a person?

As I write this I wonder what lesson there may be in this new feeling or perception. What comes immediately to mind are the several aphorisms I have read and quoted, all tending toward this conclusion:

Death is always at your left hand (as Don Juan Matus remarked to Carlos Castaneda), so accept it and live life as this were your last moment.

Granddaughter Sydney learned a variant of this recently in Bible camp; she repeated it at the memorial we held for Diane in Sydney’s home.

To me this does not mean to become a pursuer of transient pleasures. Rather, it is to continue to act and build upon values that will have some lasting usefulness, at least for a few generations beyond.

I wrote the following during a low period, some 16 years ago:

Will It Be a Good Death?

When all the patterns close around me,
As my spirals play out all their energies,
When the sun no longer burns inside me,
And the waters cease coursing through me,
Will we cry good tears and say goodbye without regret?

Will it be a good death?

I pray it will be a good death
For the sake of my soul,
And the souls of my children, and of their children,
And of others who love me.

I pray my life will warrant a good death.

Will those with whom I am love-connected say,
“It was a good death: There was honor and completeness”?
Will they peacefully help my spirit to reunite with
The Great Everything?

To die a good death I must live a good life:
Be brave, be true, my soul;
Help me toward that good death.

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Certain Communications: Man/Woman

I’m talking about when a man needs to expound upon a sudden flash of an idea, a vision, a plan, a fantasy.

When I am struck, or imbued, or captured by an idea, I need to see it out loud, develop it, expand it, take side trips, have thoughtful pauses and, eventually, come to completion at the point where I have, at least temporarily, exhausted my energy on the subject.

Most men I know will nod their collective head in the presence of the expounder, and make some noncommittal grunts and other sounds peculiar to each to let him know they are still alert and want to give the impression they are still listening.

Women, on the other hand, want to be part of the action, want to partner with their man on this little adventure. Therefore they interrupt, take side trips not intended by the man, and innocently make turbulent the flow of ideas and words emanating from his little moment of creativity.

Further, other things will interrupt if the man does not choose his moment carefully.

If we are at dinner, for instance, the children will have no hesitation to demand Mom’s attention for the most trivial or transitory of things. This, of course, means the polite and gentle father, husband, man, stops his discourse until this moment has passed.

For some men such as I, when in a certain state, these interruptions and interjections and sidetracks cause a bottling up, a damming of the flow of images and ideas. This can turn things toward the bad, so the experienced man says–I’ll continue this later.

But the woman, who can multitask and hear and understand all things simultaneously, insists on the man continuing.

This does not ease his distress. Rather, the man feels forced to continue with a much narrower and more focused stream of energy so that a reasonable conclusion can be reached quickly.

On learns about and from such things over and over.

Sudden enthusiasms are dampened if the setting and the mood isn’t carefully chosen–but there goes spontaneity.

What to do about it?

Write!

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Perhaps, “The Soul”…

… or, perhaps, “Sagging Skin and the C Minor Mass of Mozart.”

It started with a day off. Despite being a pensionär, I usually have a full-enough schedule every day. I had not had a day off from my various travels, meetings, readings and writings in too long, so I set out last Wednesday morning equipped only with my writing pad and pen. I had no book, no camera, and no plan, other than to deposit the recyclables at the recycle station between home and the subway station.

My state of mind upon leaving the house on a day off is to have no destination in mind and with no expectations. I must admit that it has been so  often that a serendipitous something happens to me on such days that I knew I would not be surprised if such happened again—but I didn’t allow myself to expect.

And so it came to pass that, among other places visited in Stockholm, I found myself in the audio-visual section of the Stockholm City Library in Kulturhuset, the large House of Culture in the center of new Stockholm (as distinct from the Old Town around a kilometer away).

I have borrowed many CDs from this branch of the library but I didn’t want to focus my energies on searching the bins. I thought of my friend Vasil who loves opera and looked for the first time through the collection of DVDs devoted to musical presentations, including ballet. I chose four albums, including the one shown here.

As I went to the self-service station check out the DVDs I found that my library card was missing. I went to the librarian with my problem and she quickly found that I had left it at this branch on my last visit. It was quickly retrieved for me. There was my unexpected something, I thought.

I listened to and watched the Mozart DVD later in the day, before Eva came home from her job, and found that of the two pieces I was most moved by the performance of the Mass. I was often in tears.

The two sopranos and the conductor, John Eliot Gardiner, are the stars of this performance, in my opinion, but all performers are of the highest quality. I had not heard of the lyric soprano Barbara Bonney and was entranced by her presentation, as I was by that of mezzo-soprano Anne Sofie von Otter about whom I have heard and seen in advertisements of her local performances.

Eva’s son Leo visited us two days later for a small family gathering on the Easter holiday. While Eva prepared a meal, I put the DVD on again to show Leo the Mass. He was quite willing, telling me part way through that he used to play this piece every Sunday morning. We both wept, each in our own way, at the sublimity of the music and its presentation. I was struck, additionally, by the resemblance of Anne Sofie von Otter to a woman I loved around 40 years ago. So, here were two more synchronicities.

But this was the most important to me: these artists, the four soloists, the singers in the chorus, the musicians at their period instruments, all of them seemed in thrall to something Mozart had captured (or which had been revealed to him) in the notes he had written. Their persons seemed subordinated, yet elevated. The most thrilling moments were during the duets of the sopranos; no, it was when Barbara Bonney and the woodwinds played against and with each other; no, it was when Gardiner embraced the entire assembly of musicians in his conductor’s virtual grasp; no, it was when the chorus soared and swooped…

Ah, Mozart!

Two days later as Eva and I were traveling on the subway to buy garden supplies, I mentioned to her that the skin at my throat and under my upper arms was getting that crepey old-age look. She smiled gently and said nothing. I went further to say that it didn’t seem like my skin; or, rather, that the message the sight my skin might possibly send to others didn’t seem to be a message about me. We discussed a bit about the body being the carrier for our soul. It seemed obvious to us and there wasn’t much more to say.

Pondering this conversation and observation, I thought again about the performers in the Mass. They, individually and in the whole, were using their bodies but were beyond their bodies. How serenely magical it is that the notes revealed to Mozart which he recorded on manuscript, centuries later coursed through the bodies of these performers and subsequently through Leo and me.

Perhaps, the soul…

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What is an "Intellectual," Really?

… and why am I dwelling upon this question?

I, once again, have decided not to renew my subscription to the New York Review of Books (NYRB).

I admit to a growing prejudice against those who publicly accept the label “intellectual.” However this appellation is to be translated into ordinary language, those who consciously and conspicuously carry it apparently deem themselves and their ilk better than those who do not warrant the label.

I think, in particular, of the editors and (not all) writers in such literary journals as the NYRB and the London Review of Books. I have not recently read either Harper’s or The Atlantic, although there are times I am tempted to buy a copy from a newsstand at an airport. The writing and especially the editorializing, in too many instances for me, is presented with pompous assuredness that their respective views of the world are the only ones worth holding and that all dissenters are, most charitably, ignorant or, least charitably, uncivilized.

It’s quite annoying, and I am moved to get other opinions about what it is to be “intellectual” to either buttress my prejudice or to dispel it.
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Intellectual (Wikipedia):

An intellectual (from the adjective meaning “involving thought and reason“) is a person who tries to use his or her intelligence and analytical thinking, either in their profession or for the benefit of personal pursuits.

“Intellectual” can be used to mean, broadly, one of three classifications of human beings:

Source: uwosh.edu
[Click on the Image]

1. An individual who is deeply involved in abstract erudite ideas and theories.
2. An individual whose profession solely involves the dissemination and/or production of ideas, as opposed to producing products (e.g. a steel worker) or services (e.g. an electrician). For example, lawyers, accountants, professors, politicians, entertainers, and scientists.
3. Third, “cultural intellectuals” are those of notable expertise in culture and the arts, expertise which allows them some cultural authority, which they then use to speak in public on other matters.

—

Here is what I derive from the above definition:

1. An intellectual uses (or tries to use) analytical thought, intelligence and reason in his or her pursuits.

My comment: Who doesn’t, at least to some degree? And, how should one label a person who presumably doesn’t meet these criteria? I reject this portion of the definition.

2. A person engaged primarily in the production and manipulation of ideas as distinct from tangible objects.

My comment: this has the ring of truth in it. An intellectual has a tendency or preference to live in a world of abstractions. I like it because it is clear and non-judgmental.

3. A subset of those who prefer abstractions is called “Cultural Intellectuals.” These people accrue public authority through some means unavailable to most others and are considered by many people as “experts.”

Source: oldsite.criticalthinking.org
(Click on Image)

My comment: This is a special set of human beings, many of whom we see giving public lectures and most often as talking heads on television. They also write a lot of opinions in literary journals (such as those mentioned above) and in politically-oriented journals and newspapers. Some of these are people who locate themselves primarily in institutions of higher learning and think tanks.

Now on to another set of definitions to see if I can discover more useful ideas.

Dictionary.com

in⋅tel⋅lec⋅tu⋅al –adjective
1. appealing to or engaging the intellect: intellectual pursuits.
2. of or pertaining to the intellect or its use: intellectual powers.
3. possessing or showing intellect or mental capacity, esp. to a high degree: an intellectual person.
4. guided or developed by or relying on the intellect rather than upon emotions or feelings; rational.
5. characterized by or suggesting a predominance of intellect: an intellectual way of speaking.
–noun
6. a person of superior intellect.
7. a person who places a high value on or pursues things of interest to the intellect or the more complex forms and fields of knowledge, as aesthetic or philosophical matters, esp. on an abstract and general level.
8. an extremely rational person; a person who relies on intellect rather than on emotions or feelings.
9. a person professionally engaged in mental labor, as a writer or teacher.

My comment: Most of the above is tautological and, therefore, useless. What does ring out clearly is the notion of superiority: rationality vs. emotionality, the placing of high value on complexity vs. (by inference) simplicity, and, as in the previous definition, the placing of high value on abstract thinking vs. (by inference) concrete thinking or doing. Writers and teachers are singled out as candidates for being intellectual. I’m getting nervous now—I am beginning to see myself forming in this abstract ooze.

The Floating Island of Laputa from “Gulliver’s Travels”
(Source: hirvine.com/blog/890)

After Gulliver’s ship is attacked by pirates, he is marooned near a desolate rocky island, near India. Fortunately he is rescued by the flying island of Laputa, a kingdom devoted to the arts of music and mathematics but utterly unable to use these for practical ends.

It’s very likely, given Swift’s way of satire, that he was well aware of the Spanish meaning (“the whore”); Gulliver himself claimed Spanish among the many languages in which he was fluent. Some find a parallel with Martin Luther’s famous quote “That great whore, Reason”, given Laputians’ extreme fondness of reason. However, that Swift’s intention was to mock the so-called “Age of Reason” is not without doubt, given the story-teller’s great admiration of Houyhnhnms for their rational thinking. Source

OK, last set of definitions for “Intellectual”:
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US Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, Article 53860

•noun The intellect or understanding; mental powers or faculties.
•adj Belonging to, or performed by, the intellect; mental; as, intellectual powers, activities, •etc.
•adj Relating to the understanding; treating of the mind; as, intellectual philosophy, sometimes called “mental” philosophy.
•adj Suitable for exercising the intellect; formed by, and existing for, the intellect alone; perceived by the intellect; as, intellectual employments.
•adj Endowed with intellect; having the power of understanding; having capacity for the higher forms of knowledge or thought; characterized by intelligence or mental capacity; as, an intellectual person.

My comment: Again, there is much that is tautological here. The new thought or phrase is “having capacity for higher forms of knowledge …” Aha! “Higher.” This relates back to my original complaint. The clear implication is that abstract stuff is “higher” than concrete stuff and, therefore, people who can successfully carry around the label “intellectual” are higher-order human beings than those who cannot carry this label successfully, or who do not give a rat’s patoot if they do or do not carry it.
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Here is a definition that provides another new notion:

Intellectualism

The Ism Book
1. (ethics) The view that knowledge is sufficient for excellence — that a person will do what is right or best as a result of understanding what is right or best; sometimes also called Socraticism.
2. (approach) Another term for rationalism* or scholasticism.
*rationalism [From Latin rationalis: having the power of reasoning.]
—
1. (epistemology) Specifically, a tradition of philosophy in the 17th and 18th centuries that emphasized deductive reasoning and focused on the “hard” branches of philosophy (e.g., epistemology) instead of the value branches (e.g., ethics, politics, and aesthetics); the most prominent rationalists were Descartes (1596-1650), Leibniz (1646-1716), and Spinoza (1632-1677). More generally, any philosophy that is overly deductive and attempts to mold reality to fit its theories rather than the other way around.

My comment: I feel we are now at the heart of the matter: “knowledge is sufficient for excellence;” “attempts to mold reality to fit…theories rather than the other way around.” Considering myself a rational person, I certainly have no issue with a rational approach to discussing any issue or in the doing of anything concrete. My issue is with the implicit or explicit position of any presenter that he or she possesses absolute knowledge of the facts and their true interpretation.

An intellectual contrasted with a prize-fighter; by Thomas Nast ca. 1875. His caricature encapsulates the popular view that sees reading and study as being in opposition to sport and athletic pursuits, although the bovine figure of the fighter is no less negative than that of the scholar. (Wikipedia)

Last, I want to see how others who may share my prejudice are defined:

Anti-intellectualism

Wikipedia

Anti-intellectualism describes a sentiment of hostility towards, or mistrust of, intellectuals and intellectual pursuits. This may be expressed in various ways, such as attacks on the merits of science, education, art, or literature.
Anti-intellectuals often perceive themselves as champions of the ordinary people and egalitarianism against elitism, especially academic elitism. These critics argue that highly educated people form an isolated social group tend to dominate political discourse and higher education (academia).

Anti-intellectualism can also be used as a term to criticize an educational system if it seems to place minimal emphasis on academic and intellectual accomplishment, or if a government has a tendency to formulate policies without consulting academic and scholarly study.

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OK, enough with definitions already. As I have stated elsewhere in this journal, “all words are lies;” they cannot adequately substitute for the experience of the moment.

I will relent at this point to offer an olive branch to any person, whether having donned the label intellectual or not, regarding the proper way to argue an issue—if only he or she is open to hear and consider my position, as well.

The people I have no patience with, and these appear in the pages of the journals referenced above, are those who come from an ideological position. That is, they “know” that they know how the world is or should be constructed and will use any words or “fact” to fit their prejudices. Worse, they have no ability to hear and use observable, or at least arguable, facts that are counter to their position. These people have no claim to the label intellectual. They are not arguing from a rational position, but from an emotional position. There is nothing wrong and myriad things right about emotion and emotions, but not in a rational argument. Intellectual means rational. See above.

I reject, for myself, all labels that have the suffixes “-ism,” “-ist” and “-ian”. To accept such would be to limit my universe to those ideas and concepts contained in the boxes these suffixes imply. And, certainly, I am not a totalitarian. See my poem Boxes.

  • “Get your facts first, and then you can distort them as much as you please.” —Mark Twain
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Words

"All words are lies:" (possibly George I. Gurdjieff, depicted here)

“All words are lies:” (possibly George I. Gurdjieff, depicted here)

Words, Words, Words. My head is filled with words; my mouth issues streams of words; my pencil scribbles across the page … toward what end? Or is it just a compulsion, nervous or otherwise…or no-wise, given that “nervous” is just another word used to approximate something innate and ineffable?

“To name something is to destroy it:” (unknown)

I wrote this to myself a few years ago:

Words are all I have.
Words are my sword and my shield.
Words, written and spoken, are the tools of my work.

Pity me, while you ponder what others have written on the subject:
—

CONFUCIUS SAID:

If words are not true, concepts are not right.
If concepts are not right, morality and the arts do not thrive.
If morality and the arts do not thrive, justice miscarries.
If justice miscarries, the nation does not know where to put its feet and hands.
Therefore, disorder in words must not be tolerated.
___

Joseph Conrad

Joseph Conrad

Words, as is well known, are the great foes of reality.
—Joseph Conrad in Under Western Eyes

Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.
—Rudyard Kipling

Words are dwarfs, but examples are giants.
—Swiss-German Proverb

So, with all the above and more in mind, here I go with my writing career, starting with a rigorous online writing course. I do not, cannot any longer, allow myself to dream great dreams about what may come of the words I continue to spew. I feel that I must explain the world as I see it in the most concise way to those would listen with their eyes. It is just something I have to do.

I enjoy the play of words. It is as if the Great Everything were an infinitely-sided crystal that I am allowed to see and attempt to describe, one facet at a time.
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California, Sierra Nevada, near Donner Pass, September 1998

California, Sierra Nevada, near Donner Pass, September 1998

I am a lucky man, I am
I sit in mountains watching sky
As Moon traverses showing path
For Sun to take in just an hour

The trees, my friends, stand ever straight
And radiate their calmness true
My soul’s enraptured with the touch
Of cool thin air embracing me

My breast does swell with nameless warmth
A joyful feeling calmly felt
How easily I might, I think
Become a tree and friend to all

There is no ending to this poem
Like Nature’s patterns through us all
And we are played as instruments
In this celestial symphony …