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Showing posts from June, 2013

The History Behind

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I remember the magazine article like it was last week.  Newsweek.   I found it in the Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature, something that might not exist anymore.  At least in the minds of those assigned research papers. It was in Mr. Elcott's U.S. History class that I chose from among the list of approved topics.  The Spring of '64 featured all manner of Cold War issues, post Kennedy assassination speculation, and a new "brushfire war" taking hold in an unfamiliar corner of Southeast Asia called Vietnam.  But there was one line in that article about voting rights for black people in the South that took my breath away. "How many bubbles are there in a bar of soap?"  That was the question framed in this unforgettable sentence.  It appeared as part of a discussion on literacy tests, poll taxes and grandfather clauses used to deny black people the right to vote.  A question on a test that couldn't be answered correctly.  A tax for a Constitutional

Inside Saturday Morning

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In this cafe people wander in and out.  The sun is pleased today and it's warmth is telling folks to be outside.  So they obey.  They filter in and out with steaming cups because they do not trust the sun in this town.  It's so warm inside now that a barista has left the front door open.  It soon closes with each pass of entrance /exit. Those who remain inside are mostly tethered to their devices.  Orwell would love this.  The overweight position themselves in overstuffed chairs to see their small screens.  Here and there two people sit face to face and talk.  It is so quiet, save the whirrrr of an espresso machine, that any conversation is audible...there for the taking. Real estate prices...what she said...who invited whom to sit where....what "I knew" what  "I think" about this one's marriage, and what "I do not"...your choice. I enter the rest room, a small dark, flowery cubicle that smells like a woman I knew in the 1970s.  That nigh

Drop Down

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I have a copy of George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty Four on my bookshelf.  Unlike many other books considered 20th Century classics, this one I did not use in the classroom.  I did not read this one in college.  In fact it was a gift.  The book was given to me by a friend who is no longer alive but happened to be in the right place at the right time. On New year's eve in the waning days of 1983, he was at a rather opulent party in New York city.  At exactly 12:00 a.m. on January 1st 1984, along with the balloons and confetti, hundreds of copies of Nineteen Eighty Four came tumbling down on the party goers.  It was all tres chic and probably a good laugh. Last week, I read that sales of the Orwell classic have increased sharply in the wake of the recent NSA revelations.  Guess that's not too surprising given that most of the country is wondering whether or not it's a good thing for the government to know everything. Their phone calls, their credit information, their photo

Wither?

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Who are we now and who are we becoming?  We walk along with our heads down constantly checking electronic devices, missing everything from urban wildlife to cars narrowly passing by.  We "submit" everything from ideas, essays, applications, poetry, and payment.  But what else is being submitted in the process.  We are down for the word count.  Awesome, amazing, and your're out.  What does it mean to be amazed anyway? We sublet our wars, our dirty business, our licensing, our clothing, our jobs, our cars, our lives...to independent contractors.  Our Constitution is in a vice.  The federal government knows who and when we called our Aunt Dorothy, but doesn't seem to be able to track mentally ill patients when they want to procure automatic weapons.  We sit around, like I'm doing now, in cafes and coffeehouses, with remarkable people surrounding us, yet we rarely speak to them.  Too many boundaries to cross.  A polite smile to plug in a cord, an unconscious involunt

Tale of Two Lives

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It appears that the death of Nelson Mandela is imminent.  Word from South Africa tonight is that his family is coming in from all over to be near his bedside.  At 94, this remarkable life will not go quietly.  It will hardly go unnoticed.  If ever the arc of a lifetime could become a paradigm for a century, for the moral enlightenment of a country, for the inspiration and wisdom of reconciliation, it would have t be Mandela.  From prisoner to President is beyond remarkable. When Mandela leave this earth, there will be plenty of time to savor his impact.  And while that could be any day now, the news in my corner of the planet is tempered by another loss of life.  A life, arguably that contrasts with Mandela's in mysterious and profound ways, nonetheless.      It seems the body of a newborn was found in a recycling center near Portland.  The child had once been alive.  Disturbing as this is, the case continues to baffle and disturb so much that authorities today have released a

See Me

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     In Amanda Coplin's wonderful new novel, The Orchardist, there is a brief scene where a young woman has her picture taken for the first time.  The setting is American West and the time is the late 19th century.  For this badly abused, now reborn character the fascination with her own image is understandable.  We all are interested in what we look like to others.  It's part of how we define ourselves, and certainly has a significant impact on such important things as self-image/concept and personal identity.  As Coplin notes in the text, it's as if she thought her image was fixed for life, would never change. Our self image over time has always seemed to fascinate people.  From films like longitudinal study "Seven and Up," to attempts to recreate childhood photos (now very popular on social media) our certain "look" and how or if it holds up over time commands attention. With this in mind I was wondering the other day about the photos of various