Saturday, June 16, 2012
Postscript
Oddly, today is Bloomsday (June 16) Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes were married intentionally on this date in 1956 to pay tribute to Joyce. I didn't know this until just now reading about Ted Hughes in Wikipedia.
Sylvia had it right even before Betty Friedan
The victim of an unrelenting summer cold, I sit propped on pillows in bed re-reading The Bell Jar. I am too exhausted to practice the piano (my scolding brain chastises me with, if Chopin could compose and play with tuberculosis, then you should be able to also) Before picking up my ancient paperback copy of The Bell Jar I had made a brief stab at reading the poems of Philip Larkin and a formidable book by George Perle called Serial Composition and Atonality. I realized that I just could not focus on anything difficult. Curtiss and I had been having a conversation and suddenly the idea of revisiting the original Girl, Interrupted came to me. My copy of BJ had come from the Newton recycling center's book swap shed--it looks as though it had survived a fire, the covers are motheaten, and someone's pink highlighter and red pen have invaded the text here and there.
This autobiographical novel, written in the Mad Men era before Plath took her own life in 1963, is even darker than Mad Men (and that's difficult to achieve) It contains some beautiful descriptive writing indicative of the great poet she was. It is unmistakably the product of a depressed mind, a lost soul, a self-aware and self-conscious genius who had the misfortune to be born a woman in an era when women were taken even less seriously than we are today. Her insights on the "private, totalitarian state" of marriage do not refer solely to her own dismal marriage to Ted Hughes in 1957.
I have not yet reached the famous shock therapy part of the novel. When I first read the book in college, this resonated with me because I had my own "schizo-affective" breakdown at age 18 resulting in a brief hospitalization. Although I was never given electroconvulsive therapy, there were patients on the ward who had been. They were like zombies, drifting around in a fog of lost memory, and I dreaded that I might be the next to join them. I did undergo an electroencephalogram (EEG) which all entering patients had to take. I will never forget the science-fiction creepiness of a dozen electrodes clipped to various parts of my scalp. It was never explained to me what this procedure was for. I could have written my own book about my experiences in Thompkins One Ward at Yale-New Haven Hospital in the summer of 1971, and indeed I chronicled this experience in my journals which have since disappeared. I have never been able to rid myself of the fear that someday this episode will be used against me, and I have no doubt that it exists to this day in some dossier or dossiers held by some sinister government agency.
But I digress.
In 1963, the same year as Sylvia's suicide, Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique was published, widely regarded as the seminal tome of the women's liberation movement.
"The problem that has no name" was soon to have a name: sexism, or its vaguely synonymous "male chauvinism." The following are quotes from Plath and Friedan:
I tried to imagine what it would be like if Constantin were my husband...it would mean getting up at seven and cooking him eggs and bacon and toast and coffee and dawdling about in my nightgown and curlers after he'd left for work to wash up the dirty plates and make the bed, and then when he came home after a lively, fascinating day he'd expect a big dinner, and I'd spend the evening washing up even more dirty plates till I fell into bed, utterly exhausted. This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's... Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
...I wash the dishes, rush the older children off to school, dash out in the yard to cultivate the chrysanthemums, run back in to make a phone call about a committee meeting, help the youngest child build a blockhouse, spend fifteen minutes skimming the newspapers
so I can be well-informed, then scamper down to the washing machines...By noon I'm ready for a padded cell. Betty Friedan, The Feminine Mystique
It should be noted that Friedan is quoting a woman with a PhD in anthropology who became "a Nebraska housewife with three children." And that Sylvia Plath, the girl with fifteen years of straight A's, became one of our greatest poets but ended up a housewife married to another lesser poet. And then ended up with her head in a gas oven, finally a successful suicide after two failed attempts.
For some reason, the name on her tombstone reads "Sylvia Plath Hughes" and is subject to constant attempts by feminists to scrape off the "Hughes." Ted Hughes presumably made the decision to append his own name to hers, as though her being his wife was more important than her status as a poet. This is why I kept my maiden (father's!) name when I married my ex-husband. Women don't own their own names. Still.
It has become fashionable to demean the work of Sylvia Plath, but reading her poetry proves that she deserves her laurels. Perhaps nothing could have dissuaded her from taking her life, even though I like to think that if she had not been in the gilded cage of mid-century middle-class womanhood, she might eventually have gained the desire to live. I myself have contemplated that dark place and stood upon the edge of the abyss.
Yet even though the world remains hostile or indifferent to women of genius, I will not go to that place again. I made the decision to live for art's sake and for the sake of those I love.
This autobiographical novel, written in the Mad Men era before Plath took her own life in 1963, is even darker than Mad Men (and that's difficult to achieve) It contains some beautiful descriptive writing indicative of the great poet she was. It is unmistakably the product of a depressed mind, a lost soul, a self-aware and self-conscious genius who had the misfortune to be born a woman in an era when women were taken even less seriously than we are today. Her insights on the "private, totalitarian state" of marriage do not refer solely to her own dismal marriage to Ted Hughes in 1957.
I have not yet reached the famous shock therapy part of the novel. When I first read the book in college, this resonated with me because I had my own "schizo-affective" breakdown at age 18 resulting in a brief hospitalization. Although I was never given electroconvulsive therapy, there were patients on the ward who had been. They were like zombies, drifting around in a fog of lost memory, and I dreaded that I might be the next to join them. I did undergo an electroencephalogram (EEG) which all entering patients had to take. I will never forget the science-fiction creepiness of a dozen electrodes clipped to various parts of my scalp. It was never explained to me what this procedure was for. I could have written my own book about my experiences in Thompkins One Ward at Yale-New Haven Hospital in the summer of 1971, and indeed I chronicled this experience in my journals which have since disappeared. I have never been able to rid myself of the fear that someday this episode will be used against me, and I have no doubt that it exists to this day in some dossier or dossiers held by some sinister government agency.
But I digress.
In 1963, the same year as Sylvia's suicide, Betty Friedan's The Feminine Mystique was published, widely regarded as the seminal tome of the women's liberation movement.
"The problem that has no name" was soon to have a name: sexism, or its vaguely synonymous "male chauvinism." The following are quotes from Plath and Friedan:
I tried to imagine what it would be like if Constantin were my husband...it would mean getting up at seven and cooking him eggs and bacon and toast and coffee and dawdling about in my nightgown and curlers after he'd left for work to wash up the dirty plates and make the bed, and then when he came home after a lively, fascinating day he'd expect a big dinner, and I'd spend the evening washing up even more dirty plates till I fell into bed, utterly exhausted. This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's... Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
...I wash the dishes, rush the older children off to school, dash out in the yard to cultivate the chrysanthemums, run back in to make a phone call about a committee meeting, help the youngest child build a blockhouse, spend fifteen minutes skimming the newspapers
so I can be well-informed, then scamper down to the washing machines...By noon I'm ready for a padded cell. Betty Friedan, The Feminine Mystique
It should be noted that Friedan is quoting a woman with a PhD in anthropology who became "a Nebraska housewife with three children." And that Sylvia Plath, the girl with fifteen years of straight A's, became one of our greatest poets but ended up a housewife married to another lesser poet. And then ended up with her head in a gas oven, finally a successful suicide after two failed attempts.
For some reason, the name on her tombstone reads "Sylvia Plath Hughes" and is subject to constant attempts by feminists to scrape off the "Hughes." Ted Hughes presumably made the decision to append his own name to hers, as though her being his wife was more important than her status as a poet. This is why I kept my maiden (father's!) name when I married my ex-husband. Women don't own their own names. Still.
It has become fashionable to demean the work of Sylvia Plath, but reading her poetry proves that she deserves her laurels. Perhaps nothing could have dissuaded her from taking her life, even though I like to think that if she had not been in the gilded cage of mid-century middle-class womanhood, she might eventually have gained the desire to live. I myself have contemplated that dark place and stood upon the edge of the abyss.
Yet even though the world remains hostile or indifferent to women of genius, I will not go to that place again. I made the decision to live for art's sake and for the sake of those I love.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
What is music? what does it contain?
Human beings are the only animals who compose and perform music (an animal such as an ape which has been trained to "perform" is merely mimicking and responding to training.) Only a human being can imbue music with meaning in its performance and in the experience of listening to it. Birdsong is musical in the sense of having ordered pitches but it is not music. When we hear a great piece of music, it makes us feel an emotion or emotions the catalyst of which is already inherent in the music itself. This process is independent of any lyrics the music may have.
I have chosen some examples of my favorite music to illustrate this point. There are those who insist that the experience of listening to and feeling music is entirely subjective; a piece that thrills one listener may leave another indifferent. This may be true, but just because a person is unmoved by a piece of music does not mean that the emotional catalysts are not there.
KEYS
I seem to have a preference for the key of G minor. Mozart is said to have preferred either G major or G minor to other keys. This may or may not be related to absolute pitch, which unfortunately is the only thing shared by Mozart and myself. Keys remain an utter mystery after playing and studying piano my entire life. As a composer, I am aware that the same music sounds different when played in different keys.
Classical The Bach Keyboard Concerto in Fm contains all of human emotion in its three movements. This is true whether it is played on the harpsichord or the piano. The piano, being an infinitely more expressive instrument than the harpsichord, delineates these emotions profoundly. The hands, heart, and mind of Glenn Gould makes this all the more profound, together with a great orchestra and conductor. While most music can be moving even when played by performers who are less than virtuosi, any music is more powerful when played by a genius. Bach Goldberg Variations #25 and #21 (both in G minor) are quite different in tone from the other variations. Emotional intensity is created by intense chromaticism. #25 also foreshadows stylistically in its harmonies* the classical and romantic periods in Western music: if one listens carefully as one plays it, Wagner's unresolved half diminished appears followed by a Mozartian phrase.
*created by the contrapuntal lines
Chopin G minor Ballade
[Note: I continue to struggle with this piece: my technique is barely adequate to execute it, even though I have the soul to express it!] From the age of 5 I grew up hearing this piece played by Artur Rubinstein. I came to love all of the Ballades, which are magnificent works and arguably Chopin's crowning achievement. For reasons I cannot explain, the theme of the G minor is one of the most beautiful I have ever heard. And the way it morphs into passionate cascades of sound is thrilling.
Mozart Symphony #40 in G minor
Mozart Piano Concerto in D minor
Two other early favorites.
Beethoven Pathetique Sonata (C minor) I played this in college when studying piano with Phyllis Moss.
Beethoven Symphony #9
Bach The Art of the Fugue both keyboard version (Glenn Gould, organ, and Charles Rosen, piano) and orchestra version
Jazz examples (after all, I am a jazz pianist) John Coltrane: Moment's Notice, I'm Old Fashioned, Giant Steps Miles Davis: My Funny Valentine, Someday My Prince Will Come, So What, Seven Steps to Heaven Bill Evans Trio: You Must Believe in Spring, B minor Waltz
Even atonal and microtonal music has the potential to move us (listen to Glenn Gould playing Schoenberg) Music with lyrics is specifically intended to move us. Sometimes, as in Bob Dylan's work, the lyrics stand alone as poetry, but they are given added power and dimension by the music. Lyrics are understood by a different part of the brain. The intellectual and the emotional are continually mixed in any music, with lyrics or not.
Music is the sound that numbers make. The inherent mathematical structure of music can deceive us into regarding it as a product of the intellect alone. Some composers do indeed write music "by the numbers." But most of us compose music more intuitively. Part of the beauty and power of music is its symmetrical and mathematical underlying structure: there are 3 different diminished seventh chords, each with 4 inversions, to total 12 keys, and two whole tone scales (6 + 6) But music is so much more than its structure alone. (To be continued)
KEYS
I seem to have a preference for the key of G minor. Mozart is said to have preferred either G major or G minor to other keys. This may or may not be related to absolute pitch, which unfortunately is the only thing shared by Mozart and myself. Keys remain an utter mystery after playing and studying piano my entire life. As a composer, I am aware that the same music sounds different when played in different keys.
Classical The Bach Keyboard Concerto in Fm contains all of human emotion in its three movements. This is true whether it is played on the harpsichord or the piano. The piano, being an infinitely more expressive instrument than the harpsichord, delineates these emotions profoundly. The hands, heart, and mind of Glenn Gould makes this all the more profound, together with a great orchestra and conductor. While most music can be moving even when played by performers who are less than virtuosi, any music is more powerful when played by a genius. Bach Goldberg Variations #25 and #21 (both in G minor) are quite different in tone from the other variations. Emotional intensity is created by intense chromaticism. #25 also foreshadows stylistically in its harmonies* the classical and romantic periods in Western music: if one listens carefully as one plays it, Wagner's unresolved half diminished appears followed by a Mozartian phrase.
*created by the contrapuntal lines
Chopin G minor Ballade
[Note: I continue to struggle with this piece: my technique is barely adequate to execute it, even though I have the soul to express it!] From the age of 5 I grew up hearing this piece played by Artur Rubinstein. I came to love all of the Ballades, which are magnificent works and arguably Chopin's crowning achievement. For reasons I cannot explain, the theme of the G minor is one of the most beautiful I have ever heard. And the way it morphs into passionate cascades of sound is thrilling.
Mozart Symphony #40 in G minor
Mozart Piano Concerto in D minor
Two other early favorites.
Beethoven Pathetique Sonata (C minor) I played this in college when studying piano with Phyllis Moss.
Beethoven Symphony #9
Bach The Art of the Fugue both keyboard version (Glenn Gould, organ, and Charles Rosen, piano) and orchestra version
Jazz examples (after all, I am a jazz pianist) John Coltrane: Moment's Notice, I'm Old Fashioned, Giant Steps Miles Davis: My Funny Valentine, Someday My Prince Will Come, So What, Seven Steps to Heaven Bill Evans Trio: You Must Believe in Spring, B minor Waltz
Even atonal and microtonal music has the potential to move us (listen to Glenn Gould playing Schoenberg) Music with lyrics is specifically intended to move us. Sometimes, as in Bob Dylan's work, the lyrics stand alone as poetry, but they are given added power and dimension by the music. Lyrics are understood by a different part of the brain. The intellectual and the emotional are continually mixed in any music, with lyrics or not.
Music is the sound that numbers make. The inherent mathematical structure of music can deceive us into regarding it as a product of the intellect alone. Some composers do indeed write music "by the numbers." But most of us compose music more intuitively. Part of the beauty and power of music is its symmetrical and mathematical underlying structure: there are 3 different diminished seventh chords, each with 4 inversions, to total 12 keys, and two whole tone scales (6 + 6) But music is so much more than its structure alone. (To be continued)
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Remembering Lou Colombo
I have not written a post in some time, but there has been a tragedy. Lou Colombo was killed in a car accident. As I write these words, I still can't wrap my brain around it. I have been thinking about it all day and I keep waiting to wake up from the nightmare.
I can't say that I knew him well, but I knew him well enough to love him. Everyone did. He was in his eighties, still playing trumpet like a master. I only played one gig with him, a memorable one because I had broken my shoulder right before driving to the Cape for the gig, and trouper that I am, I played a three hour gig with him at a private function--just the two of us--playing bass lines on the keyboard with my uninjured left arm while Lou worked the room, intermittently playing and chatting.
Lou never hired me again, but not because I didn't do a great job. It's just that I was not on his radar screen: after all, he was friends with Tony Bennett and a host of other jazz celebrities. And there are several good local Cape pianists who were in his band at the Road House, his son David's restaurant on Main St. in Hyannis. Lou was king of the stage at the Road House, a larger-than-life personality, expansive, controlling (not to say bossy)but above all charming, funny, gregarious.
Lou's daughter Lori and I are close friends. I met her at the Oyster Company, a restaurant in Dennis where I played with Bart Weisman for a few years during the season. I had been told about her ahead of time, but had never seen a photo of her and thus had no idea what she looked like. When a strikingly beautiful dark-haired woman wearing a broad-brimmed hat came through the door, I had a strange psychic feeling that I had to meet her. On my break, Bart introduced me to Lori Colombo, who had just moved back to her hometown to try to make it as a jazz vocalist after spending many years in Ohai, California working as a Reiki and massage therapist.
Well, Lori turned out to be a kindred spirit. We soon found out that besides being fellow Aquarians (I have an uncanny ability to detect them) we shared a lot of common interests and viewpoints. We ended up playing many gigs together. She and Fay Whittaker are the two best singers I have ever worked with. Lori has great time, pitch, feeling, and creativity in choosing repertoire. In addition to music, we spent many hours talking about Reiki (because of her, I took Reiki 1 and will take Reiki 2 this year) and other natural healing methods. She gave Curtiss and me a Reiki treatment on the table she kept at her parents' house.
Through Lori, I came to know about Lou Colombo--his amazing career, the musicians he played with, how her mother devoted her life to him. Sometimes Lori and Lou locked horns--both were passionate and strong-willed. Lori began by performing with her father's band, but soon made the artistic decision to go on her own.
I spent some happy hours around the kitchen table talking to Noel Colombo, Lou's wife, and occasionally Lou would come in to joke and chat after mowing the lawn or doing some heavy yard work. He had the vitality and physical strength of a much younger man. The trumpet is a very difficult instrument to play--I can barely blow a note on it using all my strength--so it was extraordinary to see this man in his eighties playing as vigorously as ever.
Lou insisted on driving despite the protests of his children. At this point, I don't know the details of the accident--all I know is what Lori told me today, that the police came to her door in the middle of the night to inform her that her father had been killed in an accident. He was pulling out of a parking lot after a gig and a car hit his car. I can't help but think that it must have been a speeding car--how else could a fatal accident be caused? Lou Colombo might have lived for another 10 years--he was in excellent health, which makes this tragedy doubly cruel.
Unfortunately, I learned of Lou's death when I looked at my Facebook page this morning. Bart Weisman had thoughtlessly posted a photo of Lou saying he would be missed. (I wonder how he knew so quickly? Lori was the first to be told, in the middle of the night.) Thoughtless and presumptuous because, as Lori said, she has family members who are on Facebook all the time, and what a terrible way to learn of Lou's death. I wept along with Lori on the phone, and I wanted to drop my plans for the day and drive straightaway to the Cape to be with her, but she convinced me not to because her family was gathering to get a flight to Florida as soon as possible.
I considered calling her again this evening, but decided not to intrude on her grief when she was with her family. I was unable to stop thinking about Lou and Lori all day. I lost my appetite and finally had to drink a glass of wine in an attempt to stop the pain. The shock is terrible, and I can only imagine the grief and shock that Noel is going through--she is not in good health and it will be very hard for her to endure. I am praying to the protective spirits who watch over us to sustain the Colombo family in the wake of this tragedy.
I can't say that I knew him well, but I knew him well enough to love him. Everyone did. He was in his eighties, still playing trumpet like a master. I only played one gig with him, a memorable one because I had broken my shoulder right before driving to the Cape for the gig, and trouper that I am, I played a three hour gig with him at a private function--just the two of us--playing bass lines on the keyboard with my uninjured left arm while Lou worked the room, intermittently playing and chatting.
Lou never hired me again, but not because I didn't do a great job. It's just that I was not on his radar screen: after all, he was friends with Tony Bennett and a host of other jazz celebrities. And there are several good local Cape pianists who were in his band at the Road House, his son David's restaurant on Main St. in Hyannis. Lou was king of the stage at the Road House, a larger-than-life personality, expansive, controlling (not to say bossy)but above all charming, funny, gregarious.
Lou's daughter Lori and I are close friends. I met her at the Oyster Company, a restaurant in Dennis where I played with Bart Weisman for a few years during the season. I had been told about her ahead of time, but had never seen a photo of her and thus had no idea what she looked like. When a strikingly beautiful dark-haired woman wearing a broad-brimmed hat came through the door, I had a strange psychic feeling that I had to meet her. On my break, Bart introduced me to Lori Colombo, who had just moved back to her hometown to try to make it as a jazz vocalist after spending many years in Ohai, California working as a Reiki and massage therapist.
Well, Lori turned out to be a kindred spirit. We soon found out that besides being fellow Aquarians (I have an uncanny ability to detect them) we shared a lot of common interests and viewpoints. We ended up playing many gigs together. She and Fay Whittaker are the two best singers I have ever worked with. Lori has great time, pitch, feeling, and creativity in choosing repertoire. In addition to music, we spent many hours talking about Reiki (because of her, I took Reiki 1 and will take Reiki 2 this year) and other natural healing methods. She gave Curtiss and me a Reiki treatment on the table she kept at her parents' house.
Through Lori, I came to know about Lou Colombo--his amazing career, the musicians he played with, how her mother devoted her life to him. Sometimes Lori and Lou locked horns--both were passionate and strong-willed. Lori began by performing with her father's band, but soon made the artistic decision to go on her own.
I spent some happy hours around the kitchen table talking to Noel Colombo, Lou's wife, and occasionally Lou would come in to joke and chat after mowing the lawn or doing some heavy yard work. He had the vitality and physical strength of a much younger man. The trumpet is a very difficult instrument to play--I can barely blow a note on it using all my strength--so it was extraordinary to see this man in his eighties playing as vigorously as ever.
Lou insisted on driving despite the protests of his children. At this point, I don't know the details of the accident--all I know is what Lori told me today, that the police came to her door in the middle of the night to inform her that her father had been killed in an accident. He was pulling out of a parking lot after a gig and a car hit his car. I can't help but think that it must have been a speeding car--how else could a fatal accident be caused? Lou Colombo might have lived for another 10 years--he was in excellent health, which makes this tragedy doubly cruel.
Unfortunately, I learned of Lou's death when I looked at my Facebook page this morning. Bart Weisman had thoughtlessly posted a photo of Lou saying he would be missed. (I wonder how he knew so quickly? Lori was the first to be told, in the middle of the night.) Thoughtless and presumptuous because, as Lori said, she has family members who are on Facebook all the time, and what a terrible way to learn of Lou's death. I wept along with Lori on the phone, and I wanted to drop my plans for the day and drive straightaway to the Cape to be with her, but she convinced me not to because her family was gathering to get a flight to Florida as soon as possible.
I considered calling her again this evening, but decided not to intrude on her grief when she was with her family. I was unable to stop thinking about Lou and Lori all day. I lost my appetite and finally had to drink a glass of wine in an attempt to stop the pain. The shock is terrible, and I can only imagine the grief and shock that Noel is going through--she is not in good health and it will be very hard for her to endure. I am praying to the protective spirits who watch over us to sustain the Colombo family in the wake of this tragedy.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Occupy Boston and the police state
The folks at Fox "News" were pleased as can be, gloating their faces off at the news that Occupy Boston was forced to evacuate their tents from Dewey Square. The restraining order against the city was lifted after their lawyers got to work on it. The protesters, unfazed, are talking about setting up camp elsewhere in Boston. I attended a rally last weekend in Copley Square--there was a march beginning at Dewey and ending at Copley which unfortunately drew only about 50 people. The whole crowd was probably under 200 people. The speakers were using mike check and some ineffectual bullhorns, and I couldn't help noticing that the anti-Assad demonstration at the far corner of the square had a very loud P.A. system and no police presence to speak of. I counted seven police motorcycles parked alongside the Copley Plaza Hotel. There were at least two dozen cops surrounding the Occupy demonstration. (I spoke to someone who told me that these police are all getting overtime pay--our tax dollars! And meanwhile, crime is rampant in other parts of the city.) No one at this demonstration so much as pushed or shoved.
I observed the police state in action as I stood near the Socialist Workers' table of literature. I had just given a woman some money as a donation in exchange for their very well written, intelligent newspaper. Suddenly not one but three cops were in her face, asking if they had a permit to display their literature. They said no. One cop replied, "You can't distribute literature here without a permit." The woman I was speaking to said (politely) "It's a public sidewalk. It is legal." She cited a court ruling. The cop sneered back at her: "I'm not going to discuss constitutional law with you. If you don't pack it up, you are all going in the wagon." Translation: The only law that matters is the law that I make right here and now because I carry a gun. They had no choice but to pack up their stuff. I saw a young man carrying a sign that read "The Boston police are protecting and serving the shit out of us." Later, the woman at the Socialist Workers' table gave a speech in which she described the incident I had witnessed. There were reporters from local news stations all over the place filming trivia. Not one of them filmed either the incident itself or the woman's speech.
America, the land of free speech (NOT!)
America, the land of freedom of assembly in a public place (NOT!)
Still think it can't happen here? It has.
I observed the police state in action as I stood near the Socialist Workers' table of literature. I had just given a woman some money as a donation in exchange for their very well written, intelligent newspaper. Suddenly not one but three cops were in her face, asking if they had a permit to display their literature. They said no. One cop replied, "You can't distribute literature here without a permit." The woman I was speaking to said (politely) "It's a public sidewalk. It is legal." She cited a court ruling. The cop sneered back at her: "I'm not going to discuss constitutional law with you. If you don't pack it up, you are all going in the wagon." Translation: The only law that matters is the law that I make right here and now because I carry a gun. They had no choice but to pack up their stuff. I saw a young man carrying a sign that read "The Boston police are protecting and serving the shit out of us." Later, the woman at the Socialist Workers' table gave a speech in which she described the incident I had witnessed. There were reporters from local news stations all over the place filming trivia. Not one of them filmed either the incident itself or the woman's speech.
America, the land of free speech (NOT!)
America, the land of freedom of assembly in a public place (NOT!)
Still think it can't happen here? It has.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Occupy!
The occupation of U.S. cities must continue until we break the backs of the banks.
It's amusing that FOX news and their ilk are saying that the protesters don't have a clear message, when to anyone but an idiot it's clear as day: wealth needs to be redistributed from the 1% haves to the 99% have nots. The mass unemployment of the 99% is a direct result of the 1% sitting on its ill-gotten gains. The banks are even adding insult to injury by adding fees for use of a debit card. That's right, folks: pay for the privilege of withdrawing your own money from the bank! What took them so long to think of this? It wasn't enough, apparently, to steal people's money obtained with sub-prime mortgages and invest it in guaranteed-to-lose operations. No, they have to pick our pockets at every opportunity.
They have no shame. They have no decency, no human kindness, no morals, and no soul.
Hell exists: it is here on earth and the banks and corporations are the devil.
It's amusing that FOX news and their ilk are saying that the protesters don't have a clear message, when to anyone but an idiot it's clear as day: wealth needs to be redistributed from the 1% haves to the 99% have nots. The mass unemployment of the 99% is a direct result of the 1% sitting on its ill-gotten gains. The banks are even adding insult to injury by adding fees for use of a debit card. That's right, folks: pay for the privilege of withdrawing your own money from the bank! What took them so long to think of this? It wasn't enough, apparently, to steal people's money obtained with sub-prime mortgages and invest it in guaranteed-to-lose operations. No, they have to pick our pockets at every opportunity.
They have no shame. They have no decency, no human kindness, no morals, and no soul.
Hell exists: it is here on earth and the banks and corporations are the devil.
More about Facebook
Since my last posts, I have been frustrated by certain people I know who don't have a FB page (and should--one is a musician and presumably could get gigs. Wait! Have I ever gotten a gig via FB?) Also, I was wrong about my former BF--he has now deemed it safe to have a FB page, with friends and all. Yes! I even friended him, after I swore i was not stalking him but was merely in search of "information" about him. (As were the sinister beings on The Prisoner("You won't get it!" snarls Patrick McGoohan, a.k.a, Number Six.) Actually, I didn't use the word "information." I just said I was curious about what he was doing after all these years. He responded that he was self-employed and broke. Maybe there are some things you just don't want to know from FB.
Scientific research will soon reveal that FB makes depressed people more depressed. I am firmly convinced of it. People on the Unclutterer Forum are in favor of a weekly information blackout or unplugging. You know, no cell phone, TV, internet (which includes FB, Twitter, and other forms of social networking.) Some people even ban DVDs, magazines, and newspapers. Is this going a bit too far? I don't know. The surfeit of information to which we are daily being exposed is not healthy.
TO BE CONTINUED
Scientific research will soon reveal that FB makes depressed people more depressed. I am firmly convinced of it. People on the Unclutterer Forum are in favor of a weekly information blackout or unplugging. You know, no cell phone, TV, internet (which includes FB, Twitter, and other forms of social networking.) Some people even ban DVDs, magazines, and newspapers. Is this going a bit too far? I don't know. The surfeit of information to which we are daily being exposed is not healthy.
TO BE CONTINUED
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