Taking stock of whatever this is…

In this entry, I’m going to reflect upon the process of blogging itself.

Through various mechanisms available to bloggers, I can see that the number of readers is creeping up.

Right direction!

And I’m patient with this experiment, as I’m told it can take many months for a blog to catch fire, if catch fire it does.

Not all blogs do. 

Ones with a neat niche that interests lots of people grow faster than others.

And some blogs die eventually.  The blogger and his or her readers, it turns out, have more interesting things to do with their time.

Such as . . . write novels. 

Two short syllables implying monumental amounts of work and rework and rework again, and that’s for trashy flashy tales and big sprawling amazing books like The Brothers Karamazov as well, and everything in between.

So what is my purpose in starting and continuing this blog?

I suppose there are multiple purposes, and also none at all.

Because if I drive this from any of my possible purposes, it’s purpose-driven and that’s not nearly as interesting as top-of-the-head spontaneity.

I think the purpose-which-is-no-purpose is to loosen up my writing mechanism, to let this modified form of free-writing influence how I write, with great freedom in front of imagined–but actual–crowds of people pausing to watch the show.

I don’t know if Harlan Ellison still does this, but he has often sat in bookstore windows with his typewriter and written a story right there.

In a way, that’s what blogging, non-fictionally of course, is about as well.

I have it in my power to delete a blog entry or not post it in the first place.  But it’s unlikely I’ll exercise that power.

These are lightning storms, or swarms of fireflies above the back lawns of my Long Island past. 

They come, have their moment, and pass by, leaving what detritus they may.

I watch them unfold, as you do, attaching them to passing ticks of time, to moments of now.

Will this amount to much?  I don’t much care, and I hope you’re with me on that.

Memoirs.  Journals.  Now blogs.

We love to stop and gawk at other people’s lives.  In many ways, they mirror ours.  We glance off them, like billiard balls, and suddenly our lives take a modestly different turn.

Them’s the power of words!

Robert Devereaux

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All about Arthur Miller…

I’m in the midst of reading Martin Gottfried’s Arthur Miller:  His Life and Work.

Having acted in The Crucible and long admired Death of a Salesman and somewhat less All My Sons, though I’ve been remiss in reading his other plays (must rectify that!), it’s a sheer joy to track the life of the young Art Miller, his early discouragements and determination always.

Then to see All My Sons catch fire, give him international acclaim and enough money to breathe more freely, what a relief for the readers of this book as well.

And then came Death of a Salesman, a reinvention of the modern theatre.  (You must see the Lee J. Cobb 1966 DVD revival, with much of the original cast, on DVD.)

Now this is an inspiration for all writers.  To trust to one’s boldness of vision, as Miller did in the forties. 

Elia Kazan had him remove all the dream/past sequences in the early going, then saw that they were essential and that, given a proper mounting, audiences are not in the least confused by it all.

Reinvention reigneth!

Robert Devereaux

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The terrorists win again, thanks to GOP…

And the Constitution is further dismantled by our so-called representatives, infuriating cowardly robots on the Republican side, insufficiently oppositional, abandoning even an attempt at a filibuster on the Democratic side, handing the sociopathic asshole in the White House even more discretionary powers, saying that torture’s just fine with us, and tossing even more American liberties and just plain humane values out the window.

I commend Andrew Cohen’s editorial to your attention.

Lead paragraph:  "Of all the stupid, lazy, short-sighted, hasty, ill-conceived, partisan-inspired, damage-inflicting, dangerous and offensive things this Congress has done (or not done) in its past few recent miserable terms, the [passage] of the terror detainee bill takes the cake. At least when Congress voted to authorize the Iraq War legislators can point to the fact that they were deceived by Administration officials. But what’s Congress’ excuse now for agreeing to sign off on a law that would give the executive branch even more unfettered power over the rest of us than it already has?"

Please, God, let the American people be sufficiently awake to toss wholesale the GOP scoundrels out on their ear, the voting machines not as compromised as we fear, the Supreme Court not quite yet so wacko-rightward-listing as to let this assault against law and sheer decency stand!

Robert Devereaux

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Airports…

I was in Denver International Airport Monday and Tuesday, jetting back and forth to L.A.

It had been at least a year since my last plane flight.

How sad and omnipresent the institutionalized paranoia is.

"Due to heightened security…" really means "Due to heightened INsecurity…".

Another repeated announcement very (un)helpfully informed us that today’s threat level was at ORANGE ALERT and we were to please be aware of this heightened alert, which is to say, "Kindly feel even more fear than before; oh, there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it, but Feel the Fear anyway."

How badly we need leaders of FDR’s persuasion.  "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."  And yet we are run by a pack of lying fearmongers, led about by the nose, fed catch-phrases to force our minds their way.  You cannot make war on terror, and the desecrater of People’s House is not a war president, he’s a poseur, a dangerous fellow whose mental instability alone should be sufficient to boot him out of office.

That’s by no means to say that I’m blind to our perils.

But the world is so much more complex than the current pack of jackals pretends it is.

So much potential for right leadership, so much of it squandered to make the rich even richer.

Let’s do all we can to ensure accurate vote counts this time, and soundly reject a strayward direction.

After that, we really need to figure out how to fight back against propagandistic techniques long before the practitioners of same get anywhere near a seat of power.

Robert Devereaux

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Gizmos that neatly distract…

Technology provides such delightful time wasters.

There are the obvious ones, TV and movies and such.

Then there are the delightful offshoots.

Lately, some of my spare time has been eaten away flying above and between old addresses, some of them going way back.

I’m speaking, of course, of Google Earth.

If you haven’t tried this, you should.

I was able to fly over Capitol View School in Morrisville, PA, identifying with amazing precision, the memories 54 years old, my walking route as a first grader from 528 Hamilton Blvd.

And Park Avenue School (yep, there’s where the tether ball court was), Grand Avenue Junior High School (now Middle School), and Wellington C. Mepham High School (there’s where that bastard motherfucker of a sadist Ken Hunt made us do push-ups and laps, and the football-game bleachers where we bored trombonists squirted water bottles at kids below) in North Merrick and Bellmore, NY.

With a finger flick, you can appear to fly over these places. 

You can "tilt" the view or rotate it, zoom up and on over to the Eiffel Tower.

Off on a vacation or business trip?  There’s your hotel, and by gum there’s Grant Park and the Art Institute of Chicago, a mere six blocks away.

Neat toy, that!

Robert Devereaux

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The great compromise continues…

This is an apology to the world for the sorry state of U.S. politics.

Yesterday, after putting up a fake struggle of principle against torture and Bush’s violations of the Geneva conventions, the so-called rebellious Republican senators, led by that odd duck John McCain, caved in to our dictator yet again.  We see again an inexorable descent into totalitarianism, though for six years progressives among us have done everything they can to stop it.

And we didn’t believe it could happen here.

How naive we were.

My judgment of the German people during the twenties and thirties has softened considerably.

We will work to make the 2006 elections, assuming they are not stolen though automatic voting machines with no paper trail, an upset victory for the so-called opposition party, and then work to make them truly hew to the ever-receding ideals of the American republic.

If you are religious, pray for us. 

We need all the help we can get.

Robert Devereaux

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The ears too well trained…

How wondrous, though halting, it was to discover opera in my early twenties!

I had been fortunate, trombone player that I was from 4th through 12th grade, to have an after-school music theory and appreciation class from our assistant band conductor, whose name now escapes me.

First hearings of Shostakovich and Bartok and many others.

But it took going to Oberlin College to uncover operatic joys.

My first foray was a chance ticket to Lohengrin in a vast hall in Cleveland, no idea what it was nor why masses of singers moved into place and stood there for ten minutes before moving again, belting mad incomprehensible German at us all the while.

Then some Puccini on record, nice, very nice.

A try at Verdi did nothing for me.

Finally, I ordered Rheingold, a mere three LPs compared to five and six for other Wagner operas.  Gave it a listen.  Couldn’t grok it.  Put it away.

Another try a few months later.  Nope.

Ah but the third try hooked me.  And winter came, between semesters, and I ensconced myself in the Oberlin Conservatory library, with full scores, the complete Solti Ring cycle, and a room full of turntables and headsets.

There unfolded before me then that vast mythic telling, the strings in ever-increasing tremolo as Mime fears his coming demise, no way to reforge the sword, and the full score, at the turn of a page, rotates ninety degrees to handle the deluge, the scattered agitations of the string section as Mime’s terror billows and comes to a head.

That sealed it.  I became a Wagner fanatic and stayed that way for many years after.

And Salome soon drew me in to appreciate Strauss even more.  Ahead lay Elektra and many years later Rosenkavalier and all the other wonderfully wrought spirit/mind/passion massagers from Richard Strauss, an absolute master at depicting emotion in music.

These discoveries still resonate.

But it’s also true that the ears accommodate.  They seek what is new, and stop hearing what is amazing right in front of one.

So one buys the next new, perhaps not as great, recording, hoping this new conductor and the latest engineering will help separate out the marvelous interplaying threads, bringing new focus to these marvels so that one can hear them anew.

One revisits the classic recordings, still ever hearing newness there, but so much goes on automatic pilot, and one appreciates the maturity of one’s hearing but also looks back with gentle longing at those youthful forays into the treasures of opera.

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A game of Go…

My father’s father, with the bushy eyebrows, who lived (when he lived) in Union, New Jersey, used to beat the pants off me in chess. 

No letting the little kid win so as not to discourage him. 

Nor did it.

Thus did I learn chess and I love it to this day, though it’s been many years indeed since I last played a game.  Love at a distance then, though I by no means feel distant from it.

At Vicki’s prompting, we now have a functional 19×19 board and simple stones for the game of Go.  We played our first fumbling game in Santa Fe at that disastrous excuse for a B&B, Pueblo Bonito.  Stumbling in the dark, unsure as to the exact application of this or that rule, we covered the board in black and white and concluded, though again without surety, that I had won the first game.

From my lack of enthusiasm at this confused situation, Vicki concluded, incorrectly, that I wasn’t interested in pursuing the game.

But now we have one beginner’s book, picked up at Moby Dickens Books in Taos, and a reversible board with 13×13 on one side and 9×9 on the other.

The latter is best for learning and applying the basics, according to the book.  (I’ll amend this entry later, when I can find the book and identify it for you.)

And two additional books are on order.

Life is such a rich place to visit, with so many demands and enticements upon one’s time, it’s difficult to say how long our new fascination with this centuries-old game will last.

But continual lifelong learning is, as far as we’re concerned, the name of the "game," and I’m sure Grandpa Devereaux, wherever he resides in other realms, is flasing that wise smile of his across the board at me.

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One of the deadly sins…

I want to talk about sloth.

It’s one of my favorite vices.

Especially does it kick in when I contemplate working outside the house, mowing the lawn, weed-whacking, picking up hordes of dropped pears, re-staining the sides of the hot tub, tending to the shutting down of the sprinkler system.

I love the outdoors, as in hiking, biking, taking long or short walks.

But as to upkeep of the yard?  Forget it!

So I do it with as much good cheer as I can muster, which is a lot.

Ditto, my study.  An accumulation of piles of books and papers on the floor, on my computer desk, in the double closet.  But that place is even worse, because the room is all mine.  No pressure from my beloved to tidy it up.

What’s this all about?

I’m okay with dressing, staying in good recent clothing, trimming the beard and mustache, showering daily, all of that.  I keep the dishes washed and stacked away.

There are just certain places which hold no interest, or very slight, in pride of upkeep.

It’s fascinating.  I think about putting to true my study and all the energy drains from me.  I so do not want to do that, to waste the time I could be wasting in so many more interesting ways.

If anyone out there has found fixes for their own slothful ways, I’m all ears!

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In praise of Sounds True…

We’re just back, Vicki and I, from three days in Santa Fe and two days in Taos, two of our favorite places which we try to visit at least once per year.

We chanced upon the burning of Old Man Gloom, which launches a great fiesta in Santa Fe.  It was raining barrels, so we stopped at the muddy field and turned back, content to listen to the groans of the great figure and the fireworks from our so-so room at the Pueblo Bonito pseudo-B&B.

Then on to Taos and the Mabel Dodge Luhan House B&B, wondrous, a great cultural history to it, reasonable room prices, great peace, and an easy walk to all the galleries downtown.

But my focus here is on the six hour drive home.  We had brought music CDs with us and also the Sounds True 6-CD set from Pema Chodron, True Happiness.  We listened to the first two of six.

Now I love Boulder (we’re less than an hour from there, with its Pearl Street mall and its Naropa Institute and its Mahlerfest), and I love this company Sounds True.  Some of what they offer is pretty far out stuff, probably flaky.  But there are gems among the paste.  Any of Pema Chodron’s offerings qualify.  Marshall Rosenberg‘s too.

Straight talk from a woman on her spiritual path.  Generous, alive, compassionate.

The perfect conclusion to a wondrous trip!

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