Chicago
I suppose I ought to be flattered that some people think of me as a dapper, controlled, smooth, strong, reliable, orderly man. This new fellow is off-the-rack neat enough; volatile, rough edged, reliable, organized, but loose with not dapper diction, but a plain Midwestern flat homely tongue. Both men have twinkles in their eyes, but the new guy smiles big and easily, and looks for the jokes. Some people will be happy to see me this way. Will they too think that I was born this way? Or will it be apparent that both men are creations out of me?
This is a time of changes for me.
I’m demonstrative, not docile. I will be relieved to show this looseness to many at one time. Maybe professionals will see, at last. Maybe they’ll put two and two together and get one, me, who can act anyone. Maybe they won’t. I know. That has to be enough.
A thunderstorm came slathering through about any hour ago. It licked at these high windows, clattered and soughed. I kept thinking that the building was shaking, or should be. It was so insistent. The sensation was erotic. So I took off my clothes and typed. I am pornographic, but safe.
Three hotel signs atop three tall buildings are very orange. I wonder if they’ve seen washed vivid. I’ll bet. Other signs on many rooftops and thousands of windows seem glittery. Cleaned up. I’ll clean myself up soon. Before getting naked, I went to the gym one floor up and sweated. Now I’m cool, dry, free, and worldly. It’s a kick.
Tomorrow I’ll play scenes. I’ll think the thoughts: What am I hear for; what do I mean to say; say it, and move on. I’ll have the words in my head, but I’ll speak the thoughts and be believable and interesting. Better be. Someone else does that. I’m always relieved he knows how. I don’t worry about it. I expect him to do it. It’s so pleasing. It’s complicated and simple at once. It’s nothing and much. It’s entertaining and edifying. It’s a thoughtful thing. It’s all feeling, mostly intuition, actually. It’s a microworld I control. The writer has encircled it. I operate in it. It’s complete. Perfect. Satisfying. I like it. It’s like a glass snowball—a scene in a bubble, hard and clear—in weather that starts suddenly and clears fast. The scene is always there. Exact. Safe. Perfect? It can be repeated, moved about, shipped, returned, stored, duplicated. Forgotten and resurrected. Fantasy. But real as real can be.
Last night I dreamed of a white empty hospital. Everything was white—so glaring that I could hardly see the doors and the corners of the rooms. Some rooms were small, too small to be closets. People were looking for me, but they never showed up. Still, I kept running. No way out. White. White. Nothing.
I’m still here.
This concrete and glass tall box will not let me open a window. The wind once tore open the ceiling of this room during a rain storm. The housekeeper told me. The air conditioning keeps the apartment cool, but it assaults my sinuses. I must remember to close the windows.
At least, I can come and go.
Undated Entry
Have you noticed that pessimists don’t get equal time? Objections don’t say casually. Oh, so you’re a pessimist? I’m not an optimist myself. So, let’s talk. No. . . they say “Ooh, you’re so pessimistic.” That’s a dismissal, you understand.
To build your inspired piece of writing, you need five tools. Good grammar, proper syntax, clear expression, accurate punctuation, the rules of language are five tools for the intuition to use.
You want to know what he’s afraid of? Listen to his jokes. There’s a great deal of hostility in jokes. We are hostile to what we fear, especially when we’re joking about it because it’s fearful, all right, but it’s not present, and this joke will get a laugh (he expects), so things aren’t gloomy right now. Besides which, the laugh will get me sympathy, support, and validation of my anger *maybe even my hatred. Listen to the jokes. You’ll learn plenty.
Jokes
Daniel J. Travanti
Hey, Buddy, whata you so upset about? It’s only a joke. That means, I don’t really mean it. I don’t say what I really mean in jokes. There are jokes, and there is the truth. WRONG, mister. Do you want to know some of a person’s innermost feeling? Listen to his jokes. MY, my, well, that’s a philosophical way to look at it. Or, You certainly have a philosophical attitude about that. That’s just wonderful. This means, I know you’re devastated, but you’re shining it on, and that’s all right. You have this way of covering up what you really feel, and if that sustains you, well, Okay. There are your true feelings, then there is this ruse, this pretense, that you speak. You can be realistic, or you can be philosophical. Philosophical is not practical. Only anger, desolation, despair, consternation, catatonia, or suicide could be constructed as practical. Any reasonable response, any measured emotion, any moderation in this matter is certainly not reasonable or USEFUL. It’s being philosophical, meaning “his way of coping; by telling himself this lie.”
Remember
I do forget. I mustn’t forget. I have been feeling that somehow I have been abandoned by my profession, but there is no such thing as an entity that is the Profession. I am alone. Everyone is, but once a number of people have recognized your ability you feel that at last they and others will not forget you; and they will seek your services. That is not how the process works.
Remember that this is only entertainment.
Remember that I enjoy doing the work.
Remember that the one benefit of being found is that you will work if you will take whatever they offer you.
Remember that Olivia DeHavilland had to fight to get the role in “To Each His Own.”
Remember that Bette Davis fought to get many good roles that others did not want her to play, including Mildred in “Of Human Bondage.”
Remember that Frank Capra, Fred Zinneman, Vicente Minelli, David Lean and Billy Wilder, all among the greatest film directors of all time, couldn’t get work for the last twenty years of their lives.
Remember that entire generations have already forgotten Alice Faye and Louis Rainer, George Arliss, Frederic March, Carole Lombard, Marie Dressler and so many others.
Remember that most people have never even heard of Katharine Cornell.
Remember that few ever saw Alfred Lunt and Lynee Fontanne.
Remember that you are God’s kid.
Remember that your life goes on whether you are known or not.
Remember that you are growing old.
Remember that you must keep your own house in order.
Remember what matters most: health.
Remember to take good care of yourself.
Remember to take good care of your friends.
Remember to take care of your pets.
Remember to love.
Remember to show your love.
Remember to give and receive love for free and for fun.
Remember to love and care for your family.
Remember to protect the Planet.
Remember to keep the harmony the best you can.
Remember to provide for your future needs.
Remember to enjoy this moment.
Remember to celebrate the Earth.
Remember to be grateful for what you have.
Remember to remember what you have, not what you don’t have or can’t get.
Remember to take material things lightly.
Remember to respect others.
Remember to respect their things.
Remember to be honest.
Remember to keep growing while you are growing old.
Dear Bernardo
Dear Bernardo,
Once again I am having to give up the idea of being an actor. I gave it up about nineteen years ago, too, and felt better for it. My daily relief comes from imagining that the New York apartment is sold, and that the bleeding of money has stopped. I didn’t have this problem all those years ago, and I suppose this situation is better. But, as my first agent said to me once, “If you think your problems will be solved when you become successful, you’re in for a big surprise. I’m afraid you’ll just have a new set of bigger problems.” He was right, of course. As of this week, an offer is being negotiated. As of last week, you are the fourth party to ask to use the apartment. I’m glad it’s being used just in time. But it will not be mine much longer to loan. I hope. The sale will give me some breathing space and some peace of mind that I am not going broke; that I need not accept the next bad role at a small salary, just to stay alive. And I don’t like being a victim.
I have always wanted only one freedom: to play good roles and to work as frequently as I wished. The business of being a star or of being popular I have never quite understood; nor have I believed in their usefulness to me. My old lament was that no one was even going to see what I could do because I was not being given any good chances. My new pain comes with the realization that many people have finally seen some of what I can do; they have applauded and even given me some prizes, but still they do not seek my services. This is a relentless frustration. So, I must give up. I understand that I have no power—I never thought I did have any—and I feel better when I let go. But I’m not yet surrendered so far as to be willing to release this house and its gigantic expenses. One of my excuses is that I would have to give it away in this bad market. I’m giving away the apartment, so I’m not completely stubborn, but I am reluctant to leave this place and comfort, and at a financial loss.
I know, when the pain is too much, I’ll give in.
There is hope for the nation, though, and I am buoyed by it. Mr. Clinton is better than the voters even know. He and Gore and their wives are the most impressively bright and sensitive quartet ever to reign here. Surely, they will be able to accomplish something; but I shall be prepared to be disappointed. Yet, I have never felt this hopeful of an administration. A new generation is in charge, the first which understands the number one problem is the destruction of the planet. The campaign did not emphasize that because that issue does not bring votes, so they stressed the need for jobs. I believe that Gore knows they are the same issue. I think Clinton believes this, too.
Everyone sends love. We’ll be gathering here for Thanksgiving, thinking of you even if we don’t see you…but you’re invited.
Stay warm in that chilly climate—and that chilly household.
Love,
Daniel J.
Entries, November 2, 1992
On the eve of the election, I am hopeful of a new beginning. For the first time, we have a chance to put into the White House two men who know that our destruction of the planet is the biggest problem. That is reason enough to elect them.
I have just told my accountant to stop sending money to the Foster Parents program. I have been supporting eight children in various parts of the world. In 1991, I spent over $1700. Already in 1992, I have spent over $1800. I want to cut that amount by two-thirds in 1993. Just when I feel overwhelmed by the tide of poverty and suffering, drowned in the gloom of man’s grotesque torture and murder of masses of people, I am cutting back my support. Am I protesting, giving up, committing suicide, or trying to protect myself?
Let me try to see it. If I am good, they will find me. They don’t. So maybe I’m not. If I am attractive, they will be attracted. Not; so they aren’t. If I’ve given fine performances, they will want more. They seek nothing from me. If they can only think of you, they will ask for you. The agents make sure they think of you. They still don’t ask. There’s always someone else they’d rather have. So…can I see that I have nothing to offer: is this what is being shown to me by their actions (in-action)? Or, do I see my own worth? Apart from them? Am I the oasis or a mirage? Do I exist even if they don’t see me? I am a tree in the woods. Do I exist if no one sees me? If I fall and no one is there to hear or see me hit the ground, am I cut down and was there a sound? Is it possible for me to be standing and be cut down too? Oh, yes. An oasis or a clearing in the woods, I am alone.
It is 10:23 P.M. Clinton sounds like Kennedy. His left-handed gesture is Jack’s. His running mate is the most impressive in my lifetime of vice presidents. It could be a new era spiritually for America. There is a man in the White House who knows what our problems are. And his partner is his equal! Maybe most impressive is that the two women there are their match. We won. Time, oh Time. Destiny, oh Destiny…I am hope-full. May they have the strength and luck to prevail.
The Thinker
October 13, 1992
Daniel J. Travanti
It’s painful. I suppose other actors realize this, too; maybe most do. I must deliberately concentrate my thoughts on the few people who like my work and think of me when hiring.
But I am preoccupied with the thought that most producers, directors and networks are rejecting me. I know that the nature of my work and the normal condition for an actor is rejection. This weighs on me. It hurts. I can shift the weight off, if I remember to remember.
That there are only a few good roles available ever, at any time or at any stage of an actor’s career is not consoling me. It never was. I don’t see that there are so many more talented actors than me that I am rightly passed by, in favor of them.
There is no reason, in the strictest, analytic, objective sense, why I am rejected and someone else is accepted. There is the fact of the selection each time, or of the acceptance. That’s all. The reasons themselves are victims of circumstance. The reasons producers give are not necessarily the reasons why they make their choices.
Everyone wants to believe that his reasons are in his control and are good and will bring success. Every actor wants to believe that there is a logical reason, each time, why he is taken or not. Such thinking presumes or at least wishes that it is in charge. It needs to think that it controls itself. It’s one of the myths human beings agree to live by.
The thinker himself is a victim of circumstances. The thought is not separate from the thinker. The thinker is not separate from his world or its influences. When my world does not please me, I say it is wrong. Or I feel it is. But I’d rather feel that it is correct. There is no pain in that.
My only assignment is to take care and obey.
There is a circumstance that would be more pleasant for me: to be free enough not to have to care about being accepted. I can be free enough if I have enough money. Soon, maybe.
Museums of Our Lives
September 22, 1992
Evans Road
Daniel J. Travanti
Some days, I find the pretense almost unbearable. I am reading Primo Levi’s The Drowned and the Saved. Naturally, any other considerations after his accounts—of the importance of a life lived normally—seem trivial. Yet, Levi himself would say, I believe, that my life is no more trivial than his, certainly, or anyone’s. I now know that pretending is an important part of the ritual of survival. It is a ritual, it really is. I establish patterns, change them, reject some, acquire new ones, and perpetrate my illusion on a grand scale.
Every day I ask—either directly in my mind, out loud, or tacitly by my actions—what it is I shall be doing today, and whether it is worth going through with. I move things around. Paper and strange objects like luggage tags given to me by my former agent. Silver circles with my initials engraved on them, but without the “J,” which annoys me, but which I can’t bring myself to throw out because they’re sterling and each has a genuine leather strap attached. These are valuable, sort of, or at least not ordinary junk. Even though I have no use for them, (Why would I need to identify my own luggage with initials alone, as if I don’t recognize my own property, and with an incorrect, or at least incomplete inscription? An address label is useful, but not this redundant semi-informative bauble) I can’t bring myself to eradicate them as I do used up scraps of paper. And you know, so many things I have are of this same nature.
A friend of mine calls houses and apartments the museums of our lives. Correct. Like most museums—almost all I’ve seen, actually—the contents are poorly catalogued and haphazardly collected. Either badly displayed, exasperatingly hidden, or lost behind some door, in some box or drawer, and of minimal or questionable value. Junk. Is this true? A museum of junk, representing my life? This then could mean that life, or at least mine, is merely a junk heap. I have suspected as much for many years now. I’ve joked about it. I’ve complained about badly arranged museums, though. I must complain about my own junk heap.
I arrange and rearrange. If I toss out, I must replace the thing. Sometimes, I plant flowers. We talk of “spending time”, “passing the time”, “killing time”, or “wasting time”; or we ask, ‘What are you doing with yourself these days?’. We are probably doing little with our own selves, except turning our selves loose on all the “stuff” around us. Is this a primary function? Is this a basic need, this activity, these things to push around? Are they even better than pets, because they are even more pliant? I move things. I move myself about moving these things. I could fairly call it exercise, I guess. This arrangement might be necessary. It might keep my body ticking; my mind and spirit groveling. A dictionary says this is “to give oneself over to base pleasures.” Could be that this shifting things around is a base instinct, like masturbation, or lolling in warm water? Maybe it’s not a trivial pursuit.
Most of the flowers I plant don’t grow, except for the bulb varieties. They keep coming back. It’s almost impossible for me to plant an annual. It seems such a waste. You have to keep replacing them. But I’m sick of stuff; sick of moving things around and replacing things. I want every thing to be a perennial. I don’t mind that flowers come and go. At least they’re organic. I can recycle them immediately. I used to clean up the garden. I even let my gardeners gather up leaves and twigs, bag them, and lug them out to the garbage pickup spot. Something told me this was redundant—downright stupid. Then I received permission to do it my way. A gardener—a real gardener, not just one of our rakers and leaf-blowers—on a B.B.C. horticulture program looked at me and said, fervently, “Just turn this all back into the soil. Let your garden feed itself! Don’t muck about in these twigs and rotting leaves, just kick and rake them back down into the dirt and make this lovely natural compost” (pronounced as the “O” in “off”). The man was positively giddy. So was I, at last. I thanked the television screen and came back to instruct everyone who went into my gardens to leave natural debris on the ground.
I wish I could do the same with the less destructible stuff. I do recycle clothes, appliances, and books, but they still replace themselves. They’re perennials, I guess, like the bulbs; they just keep coming back.
Animals
No human being is as beautiful as a peacock, a parrot, a deer, or a butterfly. No human being sees as well as eagles and cats do. No person can run as fast or smoothly as the cheetah. Travel as far on foot without water as a camel. Swim as well as a dolphin. Is as strong as a gorilla. Is as faithful as a wolf or to its mate. Can leap as far and high as a kangaroo or an impala or bears as well as an owl. Can smell as sensitively as a dog or can climb as efficiently as a monkey. Is as dependably tender to its babies as a lioness or a chimp or a robin. Can fly like a hawk, or is as neat and well-organized as the ants. Yet, when we praise other creatures, we say they seem so human. Why do we demean them?
Handkerchief
September 24, 1990
Daniel J. Travanti
Ironing a handkerchief so that every edge is flat, seeing the cotton turn from dull soft to shiny slick under the hot plate, pressing the tip of the iron firmly into the corner to unfurl the hem and warm it down, as if forcing it into submission, looking at the once wrinkled scrap now a large neat vast pure expanse ready for action to be crumpled in service to wipe your nose or rub away wetness or grime or food from your hand a humble but bold cloth tool. This common enterprise excites me. Yet, on second thought, it is a thrill not experienced by many. To housewives it is a chore. To we it is recreation.
Dear Mrs. Thomas
Dear Mrs. Thomas,
My mother canned so much in the 40’s that the basement floor was carpeted by a mosaic of glass, a bass relief, would appear from the top of the stairs, of shadowy and glittering circles outlined in a terra cotta color of protruding rubber gaskets. She canned everything that came from their gardens. You had to pick your way carefully across the floor to the furnace, for instance, or to find a particular jar. Some jars sat for months or even years, I expect, and from time to time, odd explosions would splutter up through the floor; wheezes and long hissings came slithering up the short stairway into the kitchen. Ma wasted nothing. Almost all our produce came from our own dirt. And our milk was from Fleece’s Farm. I would walk up about five blocks with our boarden Nazareno, with empty bottles. We would wait in the farmhouse kitchen as the Fleece sons would roll in large steel tanks. I remember the smell of the room and the sloshing inside the torpedoes, and the vapor and the sweet steamy white smell of milk just out of the utter, as the containers were tilted by the big boys to fill up Mrs. Fleece’s grand pitcher. I’ve often recalled her sliding her hand way around through the handle to sort of cradle the heavy load with her whole arm so she could poor the creamy streams accurately into our empties. She must’ve used a funnel, but the legend in my memory sees her not spilling a drop as she aimed the milk fall perfectly through the gaping circle mouth of each bottle; and cut off the flow just as the milk reached the right level, exactly at the bottom line of the flared lip. But the final move was the capper, in more ways than one. She’d reach behind her and palm off a shelf several stiff cardboardy circles, each with a tiny protruding tongue. Then she positioned each bottle just so slightly to her right, and jammed snap a lid into each one. The sound gave me a shiver each time. Phlpp, phlpp! One-two. She was smooth, quick, accurate, and cheerful. At the end of the bottle line she’d smile, thumbs out of her palm a couple extra caps and slip them over the counter to me. Fresh ones! Stiff, clean, unused, and the tongue tabs not even bent. They were treasures. As long as they remained stiff and unsoiled. Those slick little heart circles were purity, a new beginning, first time around, original, unstained by use, but useful; only what a shame to press on them, crease them, let the tabs go limp. Keep them dry and lined up, the tabs squarely set a top one another, the edges of the circles aligned exactly. Neat, but this neatness never lasted. The caps got bent and misaligned in my pocket and not a day later they’d be used goods, floppy like the ones pulled off the bottles we brought home. At the kitchen table, the rule was strict: shake the bottle of milk before you pour. ‘Hey, hey, what do ya think yer doin? Shake it!’ That was to get the cream distributed. You weren’t supposed to squander the pale yellow portion that rested in the neck of the bottle, you had to spread the wealth before you filled the glasses. Pa had certain values.
“You’re not very hungry, eh?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m eating.” As I chewed a mouthful of meat.
“Aren’t you going to have some soup?”
“I just want la carne.”
“That’s ale?”
“Yeah, why?”
“If you’re hungry, you should eat. Have some soup, first.”
“I--.” I took some soup and ate it quickly, reaching as I downed the last spoonful, for the plate with the meat on it. Pa was standing with a plate in his hand, probably soup, eating and watching.
“Take some bread.”“I don’t want any.”
“You didn’t eat much soup, you’ll still be hungry, if you don’t eat some bread. Have some bread and meat.”
“But I just want…”
“The breads fresh. It’s good today.” I took some bread. Pa finished his soup, still hovering and reached for some bread. Ma offered him a plate of meat. Pa waved it off. “No, no, per Dan’s,” sticking his chin out in my direction. “For Danny.” Later he took some meat with his bread.
“Giova, why don’t you sit down?”
“No, you eat, never mind me. I’m alright.”
London PreMatinee
London 3:45pm
Far down a long road! Thanks. The next play will have to hold great attractions, before I’ll give much of myself again. The theater is all-consuming.
______________________________________________________________________________
I want to be with my animals in the garden, to walk around the house. I have renewed appreciate. My gratitude has grown.
______________________________________________________________________________
Jeni and Robbie please me. They care, they are aware of living sanely. Jeni inspired Rob, but only while they were together. She is enchanted right now in Venezia.
Oh, to travel light to Kenya! To be paid for it!!
London Pr Matinee September 15,1990
Saturday, September 15, 1990
London 3:45pm
Pre-matinee
Daniel J. Travanti
Far down a long road! Thanks. The next play will have to hold great attractions, before I’ll give much of myself again. The theater is all-consuming.
______________________________________________________________________________
I want to be with my animals in the garden, to walk around the house. I have renewed appreciate. My gratitude has grown.
______________________________________________________________________________
Jeni and Robbie please me. They care, they are aware of living sanely. Jeni inspired Rob, but only while they were together. She is enchanted right now in Venezia.
Oh, to travel light to Kenya! To be paid for it!!
Love
Erich Fromm and C.S. Lewis go on about the kinds of love people feel. There’s love of a mother and father, lust which we call romantic love, charity, etc. I’m sure this view confuses a much simpler issue. Love is a feeling. This feeling gives pleasure, sometimes great pleasure; on occasion in fact—overwhelmingly welcome—we call it ecstasy. I know that when the tiny baby appears from around the corner in the arms of its father, the mother feels a surge of delicious joy. In the reverse situation, a father would be just as thrilled. I say this feeling is the same as the pleasure the mother felt when her lover would appear at the door, and may still feel every time he reappears.
One can have this feeling for a brother, a friend, or a forest. Inside the body, the juices are released; adrenaline, tranquilizing agents which we know exist, extra blood flow, and the rise of temperature which causes blushing. This surge we have all felt. All of this is the same process whatever might be the stimulant. When it feels this good we call it love. I love the feeling. I just love that I love you so! I love it. I’m in love with you (which probably means—beyond the pleasurable feeling I’ve described—I am obsessed with you, and jealous; neither of which responses is love, though we mistakenly call them, too, love).
So how can we keep on saying that there are kinds of love? I believe what we mean is that there are, after the feeling occurs, various kinds of responses, as a result. Hug the baby and you’ll feel the thrill. Hug your lover and you’ll feel the same thrill. Embrace the forest on the pristine meadow, or watch your friend disembark from the plane after a long absence, and you’ll feel a surge of love. Love is love is love—and it always feels good. Fear is its counterpart. Fear of losing a lover to someone else brings jealousy to a romance. Fear of any kind of loss of a lover leads to anxiety. Jealously and anxiety can make one impatient and testy, then anger comes. Fear of injury of a loved one can make you fearful. Fear of the destruction of the planet itself, an object of your love, can hurt your feelings and make you angry. Angry people hurt others and commit destruction. Some people don’t love, but are obsessed. If you are obsessed with someone, you are not loving. Obsession is stronger than love and overwhelms it. It is also dangerous, because it is the cause of disturbing acts that limit and even destroy life instead of promoting it.
So, when we talk of love, we mean the life-enhancing emotion that feels good. Other emotions that may accompany loving can be destructive. We say they are part of loving. No, they are apart from loving and destructive of it. But they are not mandatory when you love. They too frequently accompany love, so we believe they are part of love. Not necessarily is this so.
The Fence
Rennie Court
Whenever I chose to climb over the fence, I’d find a broken board. Either completely separated from its post, or splintered at the spot where the nail secured it originally. About every fourth time there would be a large ripped end, there was bare wood like deep flesh glaring out of the white plank. It seemed hurt and poignant, even sometimes dangling like a horribly wrecked limb—jagged and abandoned—too agonized anymore to scream. For one whole week in October five years ago, I noticed that the fence was intact, no matter where I approached along more than its two-hundred foot length. It made me feel whole again and happy that order was restored. It was neat and reassuring, and I guess I needed that in the aftermath of my trip. Don must have fixed it.
Statistics
Rennie Court
Words are dangerous. Like statistics, they are used to gain advantage and they are selected to prove the unproveable and to lie, if there be need. They are invented by cultures to spread particular propaganda, often to harm. They carry meanings that are from their inceptions prejudicial and unfair, too often. Words like primitive and barbaric and civilized have struck me recently as inaccurate and dangerous. They can be used without implying anything negative, but the first two are most often derogatory, when in fact they are neutral, at least according to their basic intent. They have come to connote of course, under sir able behavior or characteristics. Worse, under the definition of primitive, we find the word savage, no, not directly, there in the definition, but by strong indirection. The implication is clear: “to civilize is to bring out of savagery or barbarism into as tale characteristics of civilization.” To be primitive, according to the same dictionary, is to be “crude or uncivilized.” So a primitive society, by clear implication, is crude and savage. How misleading can language be! Oh, but we don’t automatically mean something bad when we say primitive. No, we mean to be patronizing, don’t we? Just as presumptuous and insidious: “It’s good, it’s really good, a little primitive, but beautiful, in it’s own way—isn’t it?” To civilize is to refine, educate, or enlighten. “A primitive person is “crude or uncivilized,” so to attempt to civilize him is to presume first that he is not refined or aware or worthy, according to our artificial standards: not living up to our standards. We are elevated, he is low. We say “Reduced circumstances, meaning not so much superfluous stuff,” usually savage means “wild” and “furious,” yet primitive peoples (uncorrupted, clear thinking, unmaterialistic, respectful of the planet, and all its harmonies, I mean) are called savages, though they are not at all mean or disorderly. We civilized folks, who write the definitions, are notoriously mean, and the most civilized nations have caused the worlds worst disorders, the pollution of the entire planet and worldwide genocide. Yet such nations think of themselves as civilizations, having “an advanced state in social development.” Advanced. What we call diplomacy is a game, a pernicious conspiracy, often a connivance, aimed at gaining advantage. It justifies its deceptions. It excuses lies. It defends its right to cheat, because it asserts, we are doing this for the greater good. Ours, of course. Ours is always proper. Killing itself is justified by diplomats, but not in public because that would be diplomatic. Hypocrisy is sometimes good, says the diplomat’s code ‘twas ever thus. This is an ancient “advanced” state of affairs. In bloodier and less honest times, the history books insist we were not so civilized. These days we don’t believe in genocide or assassination or conspiratorial overthrow of rival companies or national regimes, do we? No, we’ve advanced. Haven’t we?
Scientific Method
There is amusing foolishness in the scientific method which exasperates me. It is an irony that the scientific method is considered valid because it is precise and offers proof—physical proof—but it’s conclusions are expected to be temporary. By now so many of the conclusions it draws are, of course, invalid because they will be contradicted by new findings, we can be sure. So why do we insist on scientific proof, when we know that’s a fool’s guest? I don’t need tests to show me that oil and it’s bi-products, manufactured chemicals, plastics, and industrial waste of every kind are poisons to the planet. I can breathe and taste the acrid and bitter effects and see the filth and debris. Sometimes simple observation tells us the truth. But that’s not very scientific, people actually still say to you—in defense, or in rebuttal. They also enjoy warning that it is not very economical or cost-effective.
The catch is this: scientific proof—the results of surveys and of tests—are used by the self-deceivers—the corrupt and greedy—to protect profits. The scientific method, when it reveals a crime against the cosmos, is a useful exercise to the caring scientist and the sensitive citizen. When the crime leads to the perpetrator, the method that exposed it is often declared to be insufficient. If the conclusions it draws are useful to the perpetrators, the results will be celebrated and offered as a valid motive to continue exploitation. If the results expose destructive processes, the perpetrators say the method is insufficient. The scientific method, like statistics, is expected to comply with the needs of the exploiters. As long as this is so, it cannot be trusted, so it must be invalid. That word also means a sick person. Words are sometimes versatile actors.
Less Matters
Rennie Court
London Se 2
Less and less matters. The history of each day is the history of human beings—the newspapers are telling us—the television says, too. This history is more than ever, mostly, to face the truth, about money. Goods and services. Profit is the only aim. But the history of the planet, of the circle of life, the swirls of interspersed turned, interdependent phases of chrysalis into butterfly, fetus to baby, to baboon and man, the clouds watering the trees that shelter the ground that cradles the streams, the chains, rhythms, flows, and whirls of smooth slippery life are everything of value, while mankind artificializes everything he sees and proclaims it alone, his doings, the only reality. Everything. Irony is too feeble a word to characterize this madness. Nothing. Everything else is everything. Man kind’s all is naught. This attack he will repulse with murder, so strong is the grip of greed and the lust for things manufactured, in his spirit and in his groins.
The meadow matters. The spotted owl and the doe and the lizards and the brook and the ancient redwood tree and the tortoise and the leopard and the babies and the dust of Ethiopia matter. We don’t know this. Even our sacrifices are hypocritical. We will defend the laying off of workers at the automobile factory in Detroit and the release of thousands, many just short of tenure that would guarantee a life’s pension, from work in the steel mills. We will allow—even excuse—corporate leaders who have profited mightily while petting huge companies—we will accept, and bid good lucks in your next phase to these giants profit-making leadership when they dissolve solid companies and leave town strewing in their wake thousands of loyal workers too old to start again or to learn a new trade or to be desirable to any other employer. We say that big business must be allowed to grow. But when we say we must put out of work people who have been engaged in destructive enterprises that pollute the planet and threaten all lives on it, the objectors from the giant corporations that support the raping of the planet cry in righteous indignation that it is too cruel to think of disenfranchising innocent people for a traditional, if wrong-headed activity. The forest cutters, the whale and dolphin killers, the chemical makers and toxic smoke producers will have to rearrange their lives. Pity to kick them out. Wait! It is not pitiful of the profiteers to let people go, but this move, a temporary, short-term loss for a long-term gain, we can reasonably assume, which will bring ultimate profits of immeasurable worth to all, this admission of wrong doings and willingness to swallow hard, pay the price and ultimately rejoice at a recaptured cleanliness and harmony; this rearrangement of activities for the good of all is not good business, is it? It is, in fact, are only business left. It is an uncompromising reality. But human beings are not inspired by goodness or rightness. Human beings are immediate materialists. Even our imaginations want satisfaction now. But even our imaginations have been dulled half to death. We seek pleasure that punishes, relaxations that aggravate, food that “tastes so good” but harms us so badly, things that burden us and ‘conveniences’ that irritate and make us ill. We do not know how to live. A vacation is a shopping trip or a cluttered trudge among steamy hoards and a nervous struggle to avoid being overcharged. It is likely to be too costly and so painful and debilitating that we return from such a holiday looking forward to being safe at home again in order to recover from all the grueling activity of our leisure. We don’t see and experience. We buy ugly souvenirs and snap dozens of very bad pictures. If you want to be entertained, you buy something. If you wish some recreation, you purchase it. You get another thing, you plan a trip, and save a bunch of money to make it. You drink more alcohol or soft sugar drinks or you go somewhere where the music is painfully loud and the smoke is thick and the place is crowded. Yes, you do that. You. Almost all of you. Us. If the school is failing to teach well, just spend more money and the teaching will improve. If you wish to run for office to try to help society as a city or state leader, you raise money to run. If you want to feel better about your limited capacity to buy things you don’t actually need, you spend beyond your means and feel worse, because the things don’t help and you’re worried about making the payments you’ve incurred. You don’t know how to live. We don’t.
We don’t start the eliminating of the eternal combustion engine, we build more roads. We call nuclear waste that has a deterioration life of 500 years a “low grade” substance. The experts, relatives of those irresponsible, ignoramuses who smiled and assured us that the nuclear tests in the South Pacific in the 50’s would cause no harm, these authorities say this nuclear waste now can be safely stored in concrete tombs in Washington state, in Colorado, and in New Mexico, and will not harm anyone. How can I, a mere inexpert citizen, how is that I can know that this is a lie? How is it that I, but not they, can see that nuclear waste cannot be stored safely, not here nor beyond the planet? How? They speak as priests of power, the government, clergy, and servants of commerce, businesses messenger boys. They are among the true sociopaths, unfeeling and insensitive to reason. Dulled and determined and deadly because of greed.
Once upon a time, we were swayed grateful whenever we saw pictures and accounts of the foul air and cluttered conditions of life in cities too poor to support large populations. We said we were sorry for those unfortunate people, but we appreciated all the more our own affluent world and ease of transportation and recreation and especially our modern sanitary conditions. Has no one at the top noticed? Virtually every large city in the world is a pitiful miasma strewn with unmanageable garbage dumps, with a acrid air, tainted water, and inefficient transport and unaffordable, unsuitable housing for thousands. The general welfare is not being promoted as the U.S. Constitution orders. Welfare, in fact, is a dirty word.
To the credit of the British, on one recent Sunday late morning and early afternoon, I saw a television in London, a program on the subject of herring and the way they “listen to the signals of the sea.” Another documentary film featured the story of the dangerous undercover work done by agents of the RSPCA and regulatory agencies to expose men engaged in cruel badger baiting practices. A third program is tracing the “pupae count” of moth eggs in Elcho’s Forest, including such details as male moth population in 1979-80 and the development of “mating disruption” plan to reduce the population of destructive moths. When I was a boy I had a recurring fantasy, to be a forest ranger, in a neat little cabin in the woods, with a lookout platform near the top of the tree. But I worried about being bored out there, so I never went so far as to work out the details of that existence. I know now that I couldn’t work it out because I had no pattern of living at that young age, or I didn’t feel I had. I hadn’t accumulated enough in forests, like soaking beans and improvising a dish by adding an Indian garlic pickle sauce to them and ladling them over brown rice made quickly—and neatly—in a microwave oven. I didn’t begin to write these essays, which relax me and helps me feel useful, until I was forty nine—last year. I hadn’t yet lost all faith and respect for human beings. Now, I’m a planetarian. I have faith in the cycles of harmonies, in the vibrancy and purity of nature, and I respect all other creatures.
The Spanish invaders were ‘horrified’ by the human sacrifices practiced by the Aztecs, so they tortured and murdered the Indians and burned their city. The Aztecs performed rituals of sacrifice and cannibalism to appease the gods, so the sun would return every day. They were preserving life itself. The Spaniards wanted gold and goods, so they sacrificed an entire nation to get them. Religions kill other religions and governments attack other governments. Forty-thousands die every day in THIRD WORLD countries around the world. We could stop the carnage due to neglect by contributing the cost of a fighter-bomber. We spend $4 million to try to rescue two whales and spread the news of the attempt.
Like A Child
Rennie Court
The tensions ease subtly. That means they come and hold subtly. You know there’s too much work to do. You feel there isn’t enough time, so you use more time. There is no time you are actually off. Maybe a little, when you go to a play. But during the performance I kept saying the lines in my mind—on the street, too, in the market, across the bridge, in bed, pacing the living room, while making coffee, along the river, awake briefly in the middle of the night, and the first thing after arising in the morning.
We’ve given two performances. The first was charged—by fear and the rushing relief of getting under way—and the audience seemed appreciative and happy. The second run, on Tuesday, was a typical sluggish aftermath of the first night let down. But we were not bad. If my mind strays even a little, I can be blank when my cue comes, because the first word of the response isn’t on my tongue, so that I stare and strain inside, as if running frantically back and forth across the room in my brain searching for the line. I must anticipate many responses, have them ready by having gone on ahead to get hold of the words, ready to fling them out. But I dare not wander off sideways, out of the path. The brain speaks and hears itself, so when I said “I feel Madame De Tourvel is right as usual. . .” I mean Madame de Valanges a trip around the grounds, perhaps. . . my tongue knew to go back and correct a disastrous bit of illogicality.
So, you want to be on automatic pilot with your hands near the controls to adjust (manually) if need be. Through this week the words become more familiar. The tenson eases, and you know it only because it all comes out more easily. You don’t feel you have to practice the lives off stage—which I still do because they’re comfortably encoded and come quickly and accurately, on command or just, best of all, smoothly correct as logical responses to the other character’s question or statement. But the only way to get to this point is to repeat and repeat and repeat. We haven’t had enough run throughs. We’ve getting them now, under fire. The relaxation comes, soothing your mind, massaging your strained body. The words follow one another in patterns, flowing and skipping, sometimes tumbling out. There are confident sentences like two year old children reaching out and falling forward propelled by glee toward a bright butterfly, giggling and flailing chubby little paws toward the preppy prey. You experience the same pleasure as the child’s. You are the child, playing the play. And the grown-ups are smiling, laughing, chuckling, gasping, approving. Or they’re just watching, but intently, while you careen from moment to moment, sometimes touching briefly the other character’s words or looks, sometimes perching for a while, sometimes zig-zagging across the stage and up and down.
In this play, Valmont is a childlike hunter. He pursues women. He stalks victims. He captures hearts and the bodies follow. He is childishly selfish. Like a child, he hasn’t the capacity to see certain harsh consequences. He seems immune, without conscience or regret. He is rich enough to afford all the toys money can buy, so he craves [the] (butterflies) exotic elusive creatures. Like the child who grabs at a big beautiful free bit of prey—and surprises himself by getting it—he is suddenly shocked and filled with remorse when he finds he’s crushed it. He opens his fist again, fast, but it’s too late. His vengeful, even more selfish partner goads him into returning to his quarry and crushing her altogether. Valmont is Merteuil’s creature, so he does as she strongly suggests.
Saturday, 11:15am June 23, 1990
[bread in the oven, oatmeal, coffee]
POEMS FROM AROUND THE WORLD
29 Rennie Court
POEMS FROM AROUND THE WORLD
When I step around the corner
Into the dark corridor
I swing round night
And I glance down the dim passage
To my left, every time.
I see the mail slot
In the small oval mirror before me,
And I hear my heavy treads
Upon the shedding mossy carpet.
It’s new and still emerging
As if its form is still being constituted
And as it becomes its cushiony self
It shuffles off excess in linty balls
And strands, wisps of matter,
Fringe particles, rubbed off existence.
In the vacuum cleaner bag a bale forms,
Reconstituted pale green fluff
Compacted into a cube of carpet
Contained in a plain brown wrapper.
The rug goes on. The rub does, too.
And I plod on, in barefeet