every hour takes part of the things that please

"All I know is that my happiness is built on the misery of others, so that I eat because others go hungry, that I am clothed when other people go almost naked through the frozen cities in winter; and that fact poisons me, disturbs my serenity, makes me write propaganda when I would rather play …"
—Jack Reed

And so, it is May 1. May Day. The worker's day (and appropriate, considering how mine went ...). A good day, I think, to take a [brief] look at propaganda. While both the former Soviet Union and the American government (conservatively called "Loyalty Day" or "Americanism Day") associate May Day with militarism, the origins of this day have been obscured (and this is a testament to the power of it) by the specific designs of propaganda. The truth of May Day is two sided. There is a Green and there is a Red. The green is the day's relationship to the natural earth, its abundance and the necessary aspects of life; the red (as red often is) is blood spilt, class struggle, and social exploitation. Historically, both sides of the propaganda machine have used May Day as a tool to further their agendas. And both sides are equally adept with their use of powerful textual and visual imagery; the green tending toward creation and desire and the red of class struggle.

Green May Day, being closer to the earth, is also more ancient in nature and its traditional celebrations. Its modern day form takes shape as expressions of freedom from oppression—and this stems from historical efforts to fight the relentless attempts to establish industrial order of the factory owners. Led by the Puritans and their desire to spread word that to toil was be godly and that less toil was wicked. The green could only be destroyed by increasing the workday and abolishing holidays. There is an historic piece of propaganda about this called "Funebria Florae," or "The Downfall of the May Games." In it, the author attacks "ignorants, atheists, papists, drunkards, swearers, swashbucklers, maid-marians, morrice-dancers, maskers, mummers, Maypole stealers, health-drinkers, together with a rapscallion rout of fiddlers, fools fighters, gamesters, lewd-women, light-women, contemmers of magistracy, affronters of ministry, disobedients to parents, misspenders of time, and abusers of the creature, &c." For the green represents thought and doubt. Decadence. It is hedonism and free love—"all the scume of the earth," as one colonial governor wrote. Sounds like my kind of group.

While my tendency is to associate more with the green on a personal level, my interest tends to lean more to the Red; the modern and political associations of propaganda, particularly that of the early twentieth century with its stark cubist visuals and black & white world view expression of it. The beginnings of the red of May Day is generally associated with the events of Haymarket and "The Day of the Chicago Martyrs," particularly with regard to the American view of the day and its "revolutionary" nature—sad that revolution after 1776 in this country means "union"—but it is the1917 Bolshevik victory in Russia (and as an aside, the 1905 Revolution began on May 1) and its Red associations that really advanced the day's shift to the Red and truly rearranged it to its modern associations, while transforming the style of modern propaganda. The fear extracted by that political shift in the general population of the United States in the 1920s and 1930s, was celebrated by union organizers and those the day was meant for to begin with, the workers. It became a day of political action, and a time for the radicals to offer up their pamphlets attempting to manifest class solidarity, strengthening the socialist movements throughout the world. And as is often the case with radical movements, many of the artists of the time were fascinated by the upheaval of political thought and used the new and exciting world view to create and explore new aspects of the arts; new ways to express the world. Activists and artists such as Jack Reed (quoted above), Emma Goldman, Max Eastman and Isadora Duncan (to name a very few), actively provoked through their creative and nofiction work, and later, in 1920, F. Scott Fitzgerald published one of his earliest short stories, "May Day," The tale represented his fleeting curiosity about naturalistic fiction and it related his personal frustration at his soul-deadening work at an advertising agency, the fruitless nature of labor in a society that has no respect for the worker, as well as his failure to conform. In "May Day" he writes:

"Mr. In and Mr. Out are not listed by the census-taker. You will search for them in vain through the social register or the births, marriages, and deaths, or the grocer's credit list. Oblivion has swallowed them and the testimony that they ever existed at all is vague and shadowy, and inadmissible in a court of law. Yet I have it upon the best authority that for a brief space Mr. In and Mr. Out lived, breathed, answered to their names and radiated vivid personalities of their own.... During the brief span of their lives they walked in their native garments down the great highway of a great nation; were laughed at, sworn at, chased, and fled from. Then they passed and were heard of no more."

In the late sixties, all of the social, sexual, and political movements of the time brought back renewed interest in May Day with new slogans (the poster below, roughly translated means "Be Young and Be Quiet" or "Be Young and Shut Up," is one of the more well-known posters from the French civil actions) and radical expression. In 1968 ('68 Mai), that storied year, some European events saw Allen Ginsberg made the "Lord of Misrule" in Prague (just before the Russians arrived, appropriately enough, to effectively shut expression down); students in London protested Britain's Parliament against a bill to stop Third World immigration into England; and most notably, the student strikes in Paris, that eventually extended throughout France and ended with over ten million workers following suit in support, paralyzing the country across all industries and all parts of French society in a general strike of near-revolutionary proportions. Here in the United States, African-American students in Mississippi could not be disuaded from protesting their jailed friends, while locally, Columbia University students petitioned against armed police on campus. Union workers also actively organized themselves for the first time in over a decade with the help of the Dodge Revolutionary Union Movement (DRUM) who aided a wildcat strike at the Hamtrack Assembly plant in Detroit, in a fight against management's "speed-up" productivity requirements. And while the movements in the U.S. were less unifying, and tended to either be political or artistic in nature (rather than a melding of the two), the extensive nature of the unrest, and their manifestations on May Day, attest to the historical significance and its meaning for both.

The nineteenth century essayist, Leigh Hunt, said of May Day that it is "the union of the two best things in the world, the love of nature, and the love of each other." I would say this is definitely true of the "green" aspects, but, for the "red," there is less the union of the world and more awareness of the division and the only way to a semblance of unity may be seen as the continuing struggle. And the struggle is for the workers to realize and overcome—it is they who have the responsibility, who exist in a world defined by the pushing aside of dreams; of pain before joy—and it is they who must fight for relief against this in order to create social change. As Reed wrote:

"And yet I cannot give up the idea that out of democracy will be born the new world—richer, braver, freer, more beautiful. As for me, I don’t know what I can do to help—I don’t know yet."

that makes life worth living for the ordinary

I don't know if I'll be able to respect myself in the morning after this post, but, so be it. It's spring and the trees are delicate green and I am finally able to walk outside without automatically cringing at the chilled air. I did not wear black today, and everyone made comment, but I did not feel self-conscious. I believe I may have entered an entirely other realm. Maybe because it was "Take your Child to Work Day" and I had friends' babies placed in my arms every five minutes (not something I usually find any comfort in ...) and spent my lunch hour being fed Cheerios by (how time flies) one-year-old X on the grass in Central Park. Maybe it was because I was able to just do my job (which is a joyful one) and not deal with the murk of office politics (we should have babies everyday).

Whatever it was about today, everything about it just made me happy. And to celebrate children, happiness, and budding trees, I thought I'd post a note today about a wonderful children's book Art & Poetry Series that Welcome Books published in the mid-nineties. And much like that mix of springtime and babies, the editors at Welcome took beautiful poems and songs and equally lovely artwork and matched them up just as naturally. I own, no surprise, Dance Me to the End of Love, which uses that most romantic, nay, giddy as Leonard Cohen gets, songs, and combines it with the ever bold, bright, and joyous (and sensual) images of Henri Matisse in that comfortingly familiar, for me anyway, slim page count and oversized trim. A tactile experience that automatically makes me feel five-years-old again.

The Art & Poetry Series has been out of print for a number of years, however, each of the books is set for re-release, and this time I will not miss snatching up a copy of the perhaps doubly romantic May I Feel Said He, the edition that takes that playful e e cummings poem and one of my favorite artists, Marc Chagall, with his misty-floaty imagery--and creates perhaps the only combination that is sexier, more lyrical, and giddier than the above.

Oh, I'm going to have a helluva hangover because of this tomorrow ...

of what is not present in the senses (part 2b)

I don't think one can sit down and say, "I want to write
a magnificent poem, and so I'm going to take LSD."
- Aldous Huxley
A little digging around and some interesting finds, including the Huxley quote above, which I like because it's the opposite of what Kerouac wanted from speed and expresses a different reasoning (or anticipated effect) behind experimenting with mind-altering substancees. Also came across some info on experimental work done by Oscar Janiger, a scientist who worked in the 1950s and 60s researching connections between LSD on creativity. The book LSD, Spirituality, and the Creative Process is about his work and was published in 2003. His studies are especially interesting because of the personalities who took part in his study--Janiger himself took part, admitting to having experimented over 10 times with LSD, which he described as having helped him see "many, many things were possible" (not especially helpful, but I suppose it gives him some sort of personal reference by which to judge other reactions.) In one trial, he used an artist, a scientist, and a writer--his belief was that a "prepared mind"--one inclined toward expansion and experimentation were the best subjects. This suits my needs as far as my personal exploration on the topic, but I wonder if it removes the science behind it by stacking the decks, as it were. In any event, his theory was that the writer--in this case, Anais Nin (though he worked with Huxley as well)--would be most able to describe the experience and whether their mind's world was in any way expanded by it. It appears he was correct in his theory, as apparently the artist was merely able to express "being expanded" by taking the drug, while Nin wrote of the experience:

The memory of the LSD experience is very clear and I wrote the whole thing out--a long, long, long reverie. And then I compared it to see whether the images brought on by LSD were similar to images and sensations and impressions I had already described. And I found them in my work--particularly in the first book I wrote, a prose poem, The House of Incest, which was made up of dreams. The material was so like what was brought on by LSD that it proved my point that this dream world is a world accessible to the poet, accessible to the artist. If we wouldn't belittle the artist and the poet so much, we wouldn't need drugs to reach these visions.

A fascinating slap at the world, those last two sentences, if a bit self-pitying (something no self-respecting artist is without a bit of ... heh). But, I especially like that for Nin, her aesthetic is consistent as far as her artistic output (whether it was good under either circumstance, well, that's subjective). She achieved, consciously through memory of her unconscious, and through drug-induced "expanded" consciousness, the same result. It's all just reaching in and being able to drag it out. Curious.

a single carrot, freshly observed (part 2)

So, (sorta) continuing where I left off in a pile of stones, with regard to the art of (or in) scientific writing ... What started out as a straight exchange of thoughts on the Lightman review, quickly devolved (on my end, naturally) when at some point in the email exchange, my friend mentioned, among others, some of Carl Sagan’s books as an example of “popular science writing.” I wrote in response that his work did indeed fall under the banner of being both artistic and scientific, and added, a bit facetiously, that part of his creative success might have had to do with his alleged frequent pot smoking. To which my friend responded:

The dope-smoking connection is probably empirical evidence for similar creative processes in the arts and sciences! If you can do art and creative aspects science while high, and especially effectively when high, but you can't do other types of work in an altered state, then that definitely suggests a commonality ...

And, well, a bit more scientific in nature than I dare go into here … but (yes, I always, eventually, bring it all back around) what this reminded me of was another Joshua Foer article that appeared in Slate where he used himself as a willing guinea pig for an experiment about creativity while under the influence. There’s nothing new in attempting to alter your conscious state in an effort to achieve a different perspective, but, what I liked about Foer’s attempt was his desired result. In the interest of science (always), Foer started taking Adderall, a drug usually prescribed to treat ADHD. Speed, essentially. I quite like the idea of amphetamines, a “cognitive” drug, as opposed to say, opium, or LSD. Basically Adderall and its ilk focus the individual’s brain, almost painfully, making it intent upon whatever the user is seeking to accomplish. Foer describes the effect, amusingly, as akin to having “been bitten by a radioactive spider”:

The results were miraculous … after whipping my brother in two out of three games of pingpong [sic]—a triumph that has occurred exactly once before in the history of our rivalry—I proceeded to best my previous high score by almost 10 percent in the online anagrams game that has been my recent procrastination tool of choice. Then I sat down and read 175 pages of Stephen Jay Gould's impenetrably dense book The Structure of Evolutionary Theory … When I tried writing on the drug, it was like I had a choir of angels sitting on my shoulders. I became almost mechanical in my ability to pump out sentences. The part of my brain that makes me curious about whether I have new e-mails in my inbox apparently shut down ... I didn't feel like I was becoming smarter or even like I was thinking more clearly. I just felt more directed, less distracted by rogue thoughts, less day-dreamy.

So, it makes complete sense that amphetamines would be a favorite of scientists (and students, etc.) as much as artists. What I am curious about the effect is, as far as the individual user responds, does it make the person better at things they are already good at or does it allow them to focus enough to be better at anything? Or a little of both? I imagine this would be difficult to gauge as most users are taking it to accomplish a specific task that they already have some affinity for and are seeking something they presume to exist inside themselves already.

Now, it’s no secret (certainly not here) that Jack Kerouac wrote On the Road while high on caffeine and Benzedrine (I can't imagine ...). What many might not know is that he did this specifically to write On the Road, he didn’t do it and then have the result be On the Road. That’s an important difference. What’s wonderful about him, as well, is how methodical he was in his spontaneity. All of his detailed preparation to achieve the effect of free-form. Take a look at his last requirement from his list of “Essentials of Spontaneous Prose”:

If possible write "without consciousness" in semi-trance (as Yeats' later "trance writing") allowing subconscious to admit in own uninhibited interesting necessary and so "modern" language what conscious art would censor, and write excitedly, swiftly, with writing-or-typing-cramps, in accordance (as from center to periphery) with laws of orgasm, Reich's "beclouding of consciousness." Come from within, out-to relaxed and said.

It’s incredible how close that is to Foer’s description of taking Adderall. What's interesting to me about Kerouac choosing speed is, it would seem to contradict his need for the free flow of ideas. Everything he writes in his "essentials" from the "set up" and the avoidance of structure, to the need for language without limit, I'd think would be blocked by having the mind pointed so much on the act, and yet, not so. And what of the resultant art? Is it more honest, as Kerouac suggests, by not being bogged down by our internal and external censors? And if so, how does putting the mind into extreme focus do this? And to what extent is the drug a part of the art itself—and could it even be considered a co-creator? Certainly it opens up avenues, but it doesn’t explain why some people need to use these kinds of “enhancements” to achieve the mental state that allows them to be able to create, where others don’t. And I don’t know the answers to these questions, but they fascinate me.

As for Sagan, I believe he was exceptional not only in his ability to work exclusively as a scientist and exclusively as a novelist, but also with the high level he was able achieve at both. He also had an acute awareness of where to draw the line when adding creativity and personality to science in order to effectively communicate, inform, and entertain (ie, Cosmos) on a “popular” level. I can’t think of anyone else right now that managed such a range, though I’m sure there are a few. As for Sagan’s use of pot, well, the choice suggests the need for the opposite effect of Adderall and Foer’s experiment, and that Sagan’s reason for using it was what my friend suggested above, that in this altered state he felt he was more effective than when he wasn’t (one could only assume he experimented and compared work he’d completed in both states before reaching any conclusion). I’d guess Sagan wanted assistance in freeing the more creatively inclined parts of a brain, that I’d also imagine, was dominated by science (I’m only assuming this, of course, he could well have used it for his scientific work, too).

Eh, but I do go on ... Haven’t even begun to touch on two of the other main topics I wanted to. Will (eventually, or perhaps continuously) go to additional parts of this, can’t not discuss the issue of memory and altered consciousness and of course, The Yage Letters. But I may need to slow down a little to gather it all better.

a pile of stones is not a house (part 1)

This is not really about him, but, I love Joshua Foer. I don't know too much about him, but I do know I find myself reading his reviews a lot (and that he is Jonathan Safran Foer's brother). He's one of those columnists that you get lucky to find every now and again, who always seems to write about topics that strike your fancy, do it consistently, and do it well. I often don't pay attention to reviewer names, particularly with online articles, but, Foer contributes to just about every online magazine I read, and I started to recognize him. When his review of Alan Lightman’s book The Discoveries: Great Breakthroughs in 20th Century Science, Including the Original Papers appeared in last week's issue of The Nation, I forwarded it to a friend. And after a little back and forth email discussion, Foer's review, some of his previous articles, and my friend's responses all kind of get intertangled into the next few (?) posts (bear with me ...). It's all got me thinking a little more about how we write (under what circumstances, state of mind, etc.), what we write (fiction, nonfiction, grocery lists), and how it is perceived (why is it being read? who needs to read it?), and oh, yeah, is it art?

From what I've gathered, Lightman's book is a celebration of the artistic aesthetic in scientific writing. Foer quotes him as writing, "Like poetry these papers have their internal rhythms, their images, their beautiful crystallizations, their sometimes fleeting truths ... [they are] the great novels and symphonies of science." Foer argues that in science "it's the ideas that matter, not how they're expressed." His example is the loss of the literary experience when reading the Cliffs Notes as opposed to reading the actual text versus reading a summary of Albert Einstein's original paper on special relativity compared to an updated text summary, which he felt would be more clear. His issue with Lightman’s “Sense of the Mysterious” (also the title of another Lightman book) is the question of whether scientists have a compulsive need to validate the worth of their work through the celebration of their part in it as creators, because, “in the arts, the individual is the essence,” whereas “the most important thing about a scientific result is not the scientist who found it.” (Dr. Robert Gallo might disagree ...) Foer argues that the strict guidelines required for scientific publication don't allow for stylistic freedoms; that for authors of peer reviewed papers, the focus must be on precision rather than "artistry."

The comparison of science and art is a trope that runs through much of Lightman's writing. In The Discoveries he writes that "Einstein was an artist as much as a scientist." What does that really mean? In what sense were Einstein's discoveries art—or for that matter any of the original papers Lightman has collected—except in the most meaningless stretch of metaphor?

But is it art? Ah, that question. If a scientific paper is “enjoyable” in the sense that the author’s ability compels the reader to finish and learn something from it, then I say, yes it is. It would necessarily have to involve craft to accomplish this. It's not enough to detail facts, even the most unimpeachable data is only as good as the author conveying it. As my friend wrote in his response to me, “it's not necessarily in these sorts of experiments, where new facts are discovered, it's in the synthesis, in the ability to put together a new paradigm from bits and pieces of seemingly unrelated evidence.” There is an art to that. I get the sense that this is part of Lightman’s point.

On the other hand, and this contradicts a lot of the above, there is the danger when considering the “art” of scientific writing—which often happens when discussing the more accessible Trade titles—of the work appearing less true somehow. It’s only natural, I suppose, like cookies over broccoli, anything that's fun or easy to understand must not be worthwhile. However, I don’t buy into the belief that language made more user-friendly (write for your audience) is somehow less true. If the facts are sound and haven’t been altered, legitimacy shouldn’t be questioned simply because it can be understood by a larger audience. I hesitate to be one to rail against complexity, but, frankly, it is more difficult to write for the masses, as it were, and to have the work be universally understood and enjoyed, than it is to write for your peers, especially between those with dueling PhDs. And when I’m feeling particularly prickly, I’ll argue that this is one of the things scientists don't appreciate, and why they are so hard on their “popular” peers. I think there exists a fear that their work is somehow made less important because it can be simplified and understood, when in fact, just the opposite is true. There are multiple issues to take into account when writing outside your peer group. In addition to having to simplify language and terminologies, without changing meaning or factual data (difficult enough, surely), the hardest part as far as communicating your ideas is, you are writing blindly and can no longer assume the level of knowledge of your reader. Your words must be accessible to a much greater range without being boring or condescending to either the higher or lower levels of comprehension. That something can be understood and expressed across such a broad range, only enhances its importance. These are ideas relevant to existence, and that’s why they translate to all manner of us. And yes, that is art, in its purest form, as far as I'm concerned.

Part Two, hopefully tomorrow …

they shall not pass

My early morning free association Google search took me to an interesting place today, one very close to my family history. Looking for some good photojournalism exhibits to check out this weekend, I came across Shots of War: Photojournalism During the Spanish Civil War. While I was very familiar with Robert Capa's series, and his famous "Death of a Loyalist Militiaman," I did not realize that this particular period of time was such a turning point for war photography. Newly intrigued, I began looking into what other information might be found, specifically, information about the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, the group of American volunteers that fought as part of a larger anti-fascist, anti-Franco International force. And much to my surprise and joy, I found this photograph of my great-Uncle, who served as a Lieutenant after stowing away on a large freighter in late 1937, violating U.S. neutrality laws to join the fight. This photo is just one of almost 2,000 that The Tamiment Library & Robert F. Wagner Labor Archives has online. Their archives include the works of the 15th International Brigade Photo Unit, under the supervision of Harry W. Randall, Jr., covering the ALB's daily activities, combat missions, and portraits. It's incredible stuff, and I can't wait for the opportunity to sift through it more closely.

Thinking about this time as a whole, you also realize what a wealth of creative expression--in forms never seen before--was coming out of the period. And it was art and writing that was alive with relevance, often literally, coming from the frontlines. There was, of course, Hemingway, who I rather not consider much in this space. But, there was also George Orwell, who went to Spain in 1936 to report, but wound up joining the militia; and Pablo Neruda, who acted in a diplomatic role as well as serving in the International Brigades, while still finding time to write his stunning collection of poems entitled España en el Corazón about the war. And the tragedy of Federico Garcia Lorca, whose writings, opinions, and sexual preference earned him "enemy of the state" status, which resulted in his brutal murder at the hands of Franco's falangists. And the art. Picasso's Guernica, Miró's "Black & Red Series," the graphic power of the political posters, and even by the children.

It all has me wondering where the writers and artists of this time are. And why they seem to have so little say. Can anyone imagine Rick Moody or Jonathan Franzen taking up arms in Darfur or even just going there to bear witness? To use their (sometimes questionable) talent for something other than the hope of their next NEA grant? Franzen who sends his characters to "hip" places in Europe while holing up in his apartment for close to a year? And Moody, who could only think to write about his trip to D.C. on 9/11? Are we really to be satisfied with the too-clever-by-half McSweeney's (thankfully, no, not all of us) and the end of irony? Flower puppies and elephant dung? Is this really it? Perhaps I've missed some movement somewhere, but if so, they're keeping a very low profile. I understood (to a degree) the paralyzed silence after September 11. But, it seems to me that those who complain about the lack of good fiction, art, and music, etc., are missing the point. Artists no longer consider their voice outside of their own heads, and don't want to take a stand from their position in this world. In interviews, Franzen has even said as much:

"The way I understand things now, the culture serves the novelist, the novelist doesn't serve the culture. If I happen to choose to weave various strands of our contemporary social fabric into the story I'm telling, I do it because it helps the characters feel alive and vital to me, not because I think the novelist has some duty to report on society. What matters is that the book work as a book."

Every generation has had its creative dissidents, from WWI to Vietnam. I'm not just referring to the lack of American artists, either, it's worldwide artistic ennui and navel-gazing, our current "intelligentsia" prefer to preen and pick at each other. I never read or hear of any outrage (and lord knows there's no shortage of things to be outraged about) resulting in action or a point of view that isn't framed by "IMHO." And now that Lewis Lapham is leaving Harper's, there really is no hope. Distressing, really.

For his efforts, upon returning from Spain, my Uncle became a fugitive. He wound up in hiding for the rest of his life, from the FBI and various other government groups. He worked as a printer and signmaker, moving frequently, living on the most remote farms or hunter's lodges in the mountains of upstate New York. Usually off dirt roads, a mile from his nearest neighbor, in towns with names like Deposit. He died in 1981. He never liked his picture taken, and until today's find, there were just two that I knew of. The one shown above, where he is trying to hide behind me, taken in 1973, and another of him in Spain that was published in the book The Lincoln Battalion, by Edwin Rolfe back in 1938. I'm hoping that while going through the collection at Tamiment that I find some more.

"Painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war."
-- Pablo Picasso

rebellious jukebox

Lots of links tonight ... not a lot of writing. Sometimes it's best to let others speak. And so, I was reading a review in the NY Times today about the release of the U.S. edition of Simon Reynolds', Rip It Up and Start Again: Postpunk 1978-1984. I'm usually wary of any book (or any thing for that matter) that gets described as "definitive" (particularly when it involves music), unless you're discussing Lester Bangs, in which case, if you've only skimmed through Mainlines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste or perhaps the 30+ page article about one band (the only band that matters, in this case) in Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung, you can consider yourself informed on punk, postpunk, and everything thereafter. Thankfully, I am familiar with Reynolds and I know I'll pick this book up (I'm sure it's excellent). My ire is up only because, once again, a Times review left me gritting my teeth and wondering if all any of the writers do there anymore is write for their own amusement (I use a less ladylike description in private company). But, I digress.

Reynolds is an ex-pat, which is important as far as perspective and he's also one of the last truly smart music journalists out there. I loved the other book of his that I read, The Sex Revolts: Gender, Rebellion, and Rock 'n' Roll, which could basically be described as a sophomore-year gender-study text book--a topic I generally cringe at, because it only ever seems to be handled by reactionaries--set to music, except that it's not. His review of 24-Hour Party People is dead on, too, and it's also worthwhile to take a look at his blog (you'll need to skim for a while, there's a lot there).

For more Lester Bangs (that letter is a wonderful look into what kind of person he was and why he was adored by even the most misanthropic of musicians), and other terrific articles see the Creem Magazine Archives.

"Every great work of art has two faces, one toward its own time and one toward the future, toward eternity." -- Lester Bangs

life during wartime

A couple of years ago I read A. Alvarez's Life After Marriage. There was a reason for this then, as there is for me to be thinking about it now (and I'm disappointed in myself on both counts). The book uses cases from "real" life, which, left me cold, tired, and more furious than before I'd picked it up. There's something so stale about reading through someone else's "real" hurt and anger when you are going through it yourself. And particularly as someone who has never subscribed to the "self-help" book club (g*d forbid), it is terrifying to find that there are times when one is at such a loss in their own head as to grasp at anything to bring them back. I am lucky in that there is a limit to my flailing before my brain simply shuts down in self-defense of such desperation. But the further result is that I also find myself unable to look at any words on a page without their blurring into memory. This is not entirely without merit. I start to use my other senses ... start taking pictures, listening to music more (though that is ripe with memory, too, and only comes into play, as it were, upon the healing end). Every book I own is a memory, and every author I seek (new and old) is born out of one as well. And so, I find myself thinking about this tonight because it has been more than three months since I have been able to read a new novel ... and am just now finding myself slowly returning to the page. Tentatively reaching out; thinking about stories again, talking about them (ala therapy) and finding myself able to re-read those books that are the equivalent of "comfort food" ... small bites, whenever possible.

Prior to my shut down, I found my reading list increasingly headed toward the inevitable, even before I was conscious of what that was (or willing to acknowledge it, in any event); The Sportswriter, by Richard Ford, Revolutionary Road, by Richard Yates, It's All Right Now, by Charles Chadwick (the book that made up my mind), Couples, by John Updike--anything, frankly, by Updike, because I despise him so much for his misogyny; his thrill at adultery, and because his sentences please him so much. It is part of the healing to focus such personally powerful anger at something so outside of yourself and yet so close. Because it is in the novel and the novelist's expression that I find a more generous voice of what it truly feels to be hurt, angry, and bewildered. Divorce is common, as human experience is common. What I find in novels is the complexity and tragedy, and even the poetry and comedy, of the thing. And that's something only a novel can accomplish, because it is within the "bounds" of fiction that an author is free to put a truth to the page that is impossible when you are in the midst of the storm.