Pennies
Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.
Abe Lincoln
******************
I have nothing to say. Almost.
We all got together to go someplace and then decided not to go there. So we went someplace else.
Trombones and trumpets playing with a pipe organ. Everything is tubes.
I have a large bowl of coins sitting on my desk.
Don't display relics.
Air vibrates through the tubes and makes sound.
I lost my watch. Almost.
When I accidentally knock over the bowl, the coins spill on the floor and then I have to pick them all up and put them back into the bowl, one by one.
Don't display ruins.
Our blood vibrates through our bodies tubes.
Where did we all go, I wonder?
A pipe organ is all tubes. Think of that.
I don't collect pennies, almost.
I used to carry a card in my wallet that said "Keep you big mouth shut"
When something costs $9.98 it's easier to give her a $10 bill than to count out 98 cents if there are people in line behind you. You get 2 pennies in change to put into your bowl.
Maybe we went dancing. I don't remember.
I pick them all up, all the thoughts, ideas, facts, figures, hopes, dreams, fears, regrets and put them back into the bowl, one by one.
Don't display errors.
At the bottom of the ocean there are creatures who live in tubes.
Most of the coins are pennies.
No, I think we all went home.
I found my watch. It was also on the floor.
Yes. I think we all came home, one by one.
Display love.
The Vagabond
************************
Posted by DB at 10:41 AM 2 comments
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Mailing the leaves
MAILING THE LEAVES
by
Dana Bate
A few years ago an actress friend of mine, Lily Knight, moved from New York City to Los Angeles. She wrote that one of the things she missed was seeing the beautiful colors of the Fall foliage season. So I thought it would be nice if I collected some of the beautiful leaves and sent them to her.
I avoided the blanket of colors on the Lion's Park lawn, as tempting as it was, and left the leaves that were still on the trees. I went instead to the only patch of wilderness I know of here in Bristol Borough. It starts from the banks of the Delaware River and runs alongside a marsh land, all of it protected by the Nature Conservancy. There isn't much to it but it's big enough to have a hiking trail through it and it's lush with plants and trees.
I entered near the river at the edge of Lion's Park and soon found myself surrounded by tree limbs and large bushes of many varieties reaching out their branches to greet me with their colorful wares. I soon filled my bag with what I was looking for but kept walking. There are occasional lookouts where one can stop and view the marsh beyond, see the birds playing and listen to them.
The whole journey took about a half an hour but it was a pleasant walk in the forest. Back home I stuffed the leaves in a plastic bag. put it in a box and mailed it to Lily. A bit of Pennsylvania Autumn was on it's way to sunny Southern California.
by
Dana Bate
A few years ago an actress friend of mine, Lily Knight, moved from New York City to Los Angeles. She wrote that one of the things she missed was seeing the beautiful colors of the Fall foliage season. So I thought it would be nice if I collected some of the beautiful leaves and sent them to her.
I avoided the blanket of colors on the Lion's Park lawn, as tempting as it was, and left the leaves that were still on the trees. I went instead to the only patch of wilderness I know of here in Bristol Borough. It starts from the banks of the Delaware River and runs alongside a marsh land, all of it protected by the Nature Conservancy. There isn't much to it but it's big enough to have a hiking trail through it and it's lush with plants and trees.
I entered near the river at the edge of Lion's Park and soon found myself surrounded by tree limbs and large bushes of many varieties reaching out their branches to greet me with their colorful wares. I soon filled my bag with what I was looking for but kept walking. There are occasional lookouts where one can stop and view the marsh beyond, see the birds playing and listen to them.
The whole journey took about a half an hour but it was a pleasant walk in the forest. Back home I stuffed the leaves in a plastic bag. put it in a box and mailed it to Lily. A bit of Pennsylvania Autumn was on it's way to sunny Southern California.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Light The Lights
Do we stand in our own light wherever we go,
And fight our own shadows forever?
Edward Bulwer-Lytton
***********************
"I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see."
(Robert Louis Stevenson)
Years ago I knew a photographer who told me one day that she had mounted an exhibit of her pictures at a photography gallery in lower Manhattan, and that they were self portraits. I thought that was intriguing so I went down to see it.
It was a nice big gallery with some beautiful pictures. In one large room there were films and videos. One of the videos consisted of people cavorting around in very active and suggestive ways. But the video screen was very small. I went over to it to see what they were doing and as soon as I stepped up to the screen the image changed to a very lonely scene. I shrugged and walked away, and as soon as I did the original scene returned. So I stepped back and again the video changed to the lonely scene. It seems there was a switch which would change the video whenever anyone came close to the screen.
In another room there was a very large print of a photo taken with a camera obscura. That's a technique in which one frame of film is exposed over a period of time. In this case the film was in a box with a pin point lens using ambient light. And what the artist had done was to set up nine chairs in a row and put a model in each one of them. Every ten minutes, from one end or the other one of the models would get up and leave. At the end of ninety minutes the only model remaining was the one in the center. The resulting photograph showed her, very clearly, and those on either side of her gradually becoming transparent as your eye moved along the surface of the picture.
Finally I found my friend's self portraits. What she had done was to go all over the city on a sunny day and take pictures of her shadow, on the sidewalks, on the grass, up against a wall and so on.
I could have said "Hm" and left the exhibit simply having spent an entertaining two hours. But those three exhibits, the changing videos, the slowly disappearing models and the shadows, all pointed toward the same thing and I had to think about it.
There's an existential carpet there. But is it a magic carpet, does it fly or is it only to sweep confusing hair balls of thinking under. "Cogito ergo sum." I once knew a philosopher who paraphrased that Cartesian axiom by saying, I think therefore I am, I think. Carefully setting under the carpet for today the possibility that I may not exist in the form in which I think I do, is the fact that I am a thinking creature irrefutable evidence that I exist? It can be a fearful thing to face one's own thinking if it is honestly and conscientiously done. Where do my thoughts come from? Are they a product of the passionate love affair between imagination and reason, are they the product of some phylogenic process, are they the intellectual merchandise of some tyrannical brain seeding, are they (heaven forbid) mental weeds which grow out of nature's chaos to fill a vacuum? How many of the thoughts that twirl and bounce around in my head like a bunch of lottery balls can I claim to be my own. The fewer of those there are the more transparent I have become and the earlier I have quit the scene.
What is the reluctance we have for facing the clear light of reality? Is it fear, indifference or ignorance? It doesn't hurt to turn one's attention to ideas and experiences greater than one's own. It shouldn't hurt to explore the open fields and mountain tops of one's own thinking. Why then do we habitually look away from the light and define ourselves by our own shadows when we could let ourselves be defined by the brightness that is hiding in us like a prehistoric creature in a cave?
I grew up in a threadbare family; no father, a difficult and demanding mother, a brother and sister who were a whole decade and more older than I. I suffered a great lack of the feelings and experiences of a family life. Hence I tried to make a family out of whatever theatre company I was with. I tried thinking of them as my fathers and mothers, my sisters and brothers and, eventually, my sons and daughters. Of course it didn't work. They all had families somewhere, and other lives. When I retired it was my destiny to live alone and lonely. But it was also the time to start learning about, understanding and appreciating myself. The party is going on, the games are being played and the crowd may be fun to be with, but you won't find yourself there. You will find yourself in the vast, bright, mysterious, secret and sacred cathedral of your own mind.
DB - The Vagabond
*******************
And fight our own shadows forever?
Edward Bulwer-Lytton
***********************
"I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see."
(Robert Louis Stevenson)
Years ago I knew a photographer who told me one day that she had mounted an exhibit of her pictures at a photography gallery in lower Manhattan, and that they were self portraits. I thought that was intriguing so I went down to see it.
It was a nice big gallery with some beautiful pictures. In one large room there were films and videos. One of the videos consisted of people cavorting around in very active and suggestive ways. But the video screen was very small. I went over to it to see what they were doing and as soon as I stepped up to the screen the image changed to a very lonely scene. I shrugged and walked away, and as soon as I did the original scene returned. So I stepped back and again the video changed to the lonely scene. It seems there was a switch which would change the video whenever anyone came close to the screen.
In another room there was a very large print of a photo taken with a camera obscura. That's a technique in which one frame of film is exposed over a period of time. In this case the film was in a box with a pin point lens using ambient light. And what the artist had done was to set up nine chairs in a row and put a model in each one of them. Every ten minutes, from one end or the other one of the models would get up and leave. At the end of ninety minutes the only model remaining was the one in the center. The resulting photograph showed her, very clearly, and those on either side of her gradually becoming transparent as your eye moved along the surface of the picture.
Finally I found my friend's self portraits. What she had done was to go all over the city on a sunny day and take pictures of her shadow, on the sidewalks, on the grass, up against a wall and so on.
I could have said "Hm" and left the exhibit simply having spent an entertaining two hours. But those three exhibits, the changing videos, the slowly disappearing models and the shadows, all pointed toward the same thing and I had to think about it.
There's an existential carpet there. But is it a magic carpet, does it fly or is it only to sweep confusing hair balls of thinking under. "Cogito ergo sum." I once knew a philosopher who paraphrased that Cartesian axiom by saying, I think therefore I am, I think. Carefully setting under the carpet for today the possibility that I may not exist in the form in which I think I do, is the fact that I am a thinking creature irrefutable evidence that I exist? It can be a fearful thing to face one's own thinking if it is honestly and conscientiously done. Where do my thoughts come from? Are they a product of the passionate love affair between imagination and reason, are they the product of some phylogenic process, are they the intellectual merchandise of some tyrannical brain seeding, are they (heaven forbid) mental weeds which grow out of nature's chaos to fill a vacuum? How many of the thoughts that twirl and bounce around in my head like a bunch of lottery balls can I claim to be my own. The fewer of those there are the more transparent I have become and the earlier I have quit the scene.
What is the reluctance we have for facing the clear light of reality? Is it fear, indifference or ignorance? It doesn't hurt to turn one's attention to ideas and experiences greater than one's own. It shouldn't hurt to explore the open fields and mountain tops of one's own thinking. Why then do we habitually look away from the light and define ourselves by our own shadows when we could let ourselves be defined by the brightness that is hiding in us like a prehistoric creature in a cave?
I grew up in a threadbare family; no father, a difficult and demanding mother, a brother and sister who were a whole decade and more older than I. I suffered a great lack of the feelings and experiences of a family life. Hence I tried to make a family out of whatever theatre company I was with. I tried thinking of them as my fathers and mothers, my sisters and brothers and, eventually, my sons and daughters. Of course it didn't work. They all had families somewhere, and other lives. When I retired it was my destiny to live alone and lonely. But it was also the time to start learning about, understanding and appreciating myself. The party is going on, the games are being played and the crowd may be fun to be with, but you won't find yourself there. You will find yourself in the vast, bright, mysterious, secret and sacred cathedral of your own mind.
DB - The Vagabond
*******************
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Sanctum Sacriligium
I care not for a person's religion whose dog and cat are not the better for it.
Abe Lincoln
******************
I am the beggar on the steps of the temple asking for and living on alms. There is no bench between here and the market. There is one stone about knee high. I sit on that to rest with my groceries at my feet, my cane in my lap and mutter out loud to myself as an old man should. Those who pass by think there's a crazy old man sitting there. And they;re right. I sit in the cave staring at the shadows on the wall. I am one who knows they are only shadows that others call realities. As with others before me and after me I try to interpret those shadows.
I am a caricature, a cartoon, a shadow on the wall that resembles an old man with a cane who mutters to himself and never goes to church.
I will remain on the steps and not enter the temple because I've been inside and I know it is a magnificent and beautiful chamber of hypocrisy. Inside is preached the negation of life, the removal of the vital forces of existence, the degrading of the innocent, the veil that covers true holiness,. The great door of the temple is an invitation to enter the sanctum of false security, to relax into the arms of unreason, to join in the celebration of a paradigm of delivery to an unknown source and to emerge cleansed and purged of the need to affirm any responsibility for ignorance and wrong doing.
Humanity is dressed in white robes of purity which cover up the sweat of true worship if there is any.. I no longer listen to what men in pious robes or everyman costumes tell me what God thinks, says, does or doesn't do. The simple fact is they don't know. They are staring at the shadows in the cave like everyone else. Concepts of God change with the flickering decades.
They can hang the Ten Commandments on the wall if they want to, but a plaque on the wall is not going to save anyone. There is no less paganism today than there ever was. Once outside the temple people go about worshipping the old gods of money, power, medicine, war, litigation, vengeance, hatred, exclusivity, status, prejudice, bias, ignorance: subtle sorcery, beliefs and practices of every shape, size and color.
One may get to heaven by being good. Good is what we are supposed to be. But leave me the freedom to try to be better than good. Don't coax me to accept your faith. Don't pray for my immortal soul. No one has the right to do that. Don't quote scripture to me. I've read it over myself many times. I wonder how many pious pseudo deists, including the ones in the robes, visit the fatherless and widows and keep themselves unspotted from the world.
I will practice my religion, if I practice any, at home, away from the candles, choirs and cheering mobs. And I know my dog and cat, if I had them, would prefer it that way.
DB - The Vagabond
Abe Lincoln
******************
I am the beggar on the steps of the temple asking for and living on alms. There is no bench between here and the market. There is one stone about knee high. I sit on that to rest with my groceries at my feet, my cane in my lap and mutter out loud to myself as an old man should. Those who pass by think there's a crazy old man sitting there. And they;re right. I sit in the cave staring at the shadows on the wall. I am one who knows they are only shadows that others call realities. As with others before me and after me I try to interpret those shadows.
I am a caricature, a cartoon, a shadow on the wall that resembles an old man with a cane who mutters to himself and never goes to church.
I will remain on the steps and not enter the temple because I've been inside and I know it is a magnificent and beautiful chamber of hypocrisy. Inside is preached the negation of life, the removal of the vital forces of existence, the degrading of the innocent, the veil that covers true holiness,. The great door of the temple is an invitation to enter the sanctum of false security, to relax into the arms of unreason, to join in the celebration of a paradigm of delivery to an unknown source and to emerge cleansed and purged of the need to affirm any responsibility for ignorance and wrong doing.
Humanity is dressed in white robes of purity which cover up the sweat of true worship if there is any.. I no longer listen to what men in pious robes or everyman costumes tell me what God thinks, says, does or doesn't do. The simple fact is they don't know. They are staring at the shadows in the cave like everyone else. Concepts of God change with the flickering decades.
They can hang the Ten Commandments on the wall if they want to, but a plaque on the wall is not going to save anyone. There is no less paganism today than there ever was. Once outside the temple people go about worshipping the old gods of money, power, medicine, war, litigation, vengeance, hatred, exclusivity, status, prejudice, bias, ignorance: subtle sorcery, beliefs and practices of every shape, size and color.
One may get to heaven by being good. Good is what we are supposed to be. But leave me the freedom to try to be better than good. Don't coax me to accept your faith. Don't pray for my immortal soul. No one has the right to do that. Don't quote scripture to me. I've read it over myself many times. I wonder how many pious pseudo deists, including the ones in the robes, visit the fatherless and widows and keep themselves unspotted from the world.
I will practice my religion, if I practice any, at home, away from the candles, choirs and cheering mobs. And I know my dog and cat, if I had them, would prefer it that way.
DB - The Vagabond
Monday, April 26, 2010
My Old Friend
A book is like a garden carried in the pocket.
Chinese proverb
*******************
For me, one of the most poignant moments in all of grand opera is in the last act of Puccini's "La Boheme." Four men live together in a cold attic apartment in Paris. One of them, Colline, decides to go out and sell his overcoat to buy medicine for his roommate's very ill girl friend in the hope of keeping her alive. He sings a short but sad farewell to his coat, the friend who has kept him warm and whose pockets always carried the poetry and philosophy that he loves. "Addio. Addio."
It brings a lump to my throat every time I hear it.
A few times in my life, for various reasons I have had to abandon my library. I love books and I hope that wherever mine have ended up they are loved as much I loveed them. But there is one book I have never parted with. It sits at my elbow when I am at my desk. If I go anywhere for more than a day it goes with me in my back pack or suitcase. It is one of my dearest friends.
I bought it brand new from a bookstore in Harvard Square, Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1957. It's almost as old as I am. I paid $6.50 for it. You can barely read the price, written in pencil on the inside. I wrote my name underneath the price in red ink which is still quite visible.
It's a small volume, very small considering what it contains. It's 7 1/2 inches by 5 1/2 inches and 1 inch thick. In all the bookstores I've been in over the years, I've never seen another copy of it. It was printed by Oxford University Press in 1947.
It is in very threadbare condition due to age and use. I've taped the inside of the hard cover to the pages, but the tape on the outside spine is coming loose again. The pages are very thin India paper and fortunately I haven't torn any of them.
What is it? It's my complete Shakespeare. And it is complete; all the plays and all the poems, including all the sonnets in one small volume. Shakespeare is a divine gift to the human race, and no matter what English professors and stage directors do to it, it remains a rare treasure, recognized the world over.
This book has been a continuous inspiration to me for 53 years. I need a magnifying glass to read it now, but, so what? Falstaff, Lear and Juliet still come alive whenever the book is opened. I would never part with it. If, heaven forbid, I had to move suddenly this book would be one of the first things I would grab.
I love it. It's my old friend. It's the garden in my pocket.
DB
------------------------
Chinese proverb
*******************
For me, one of the most poignant moments in all of grand opera is in the last act of Puccini's "La Boheme." Four men live together in a cold attic apartment in Paris. One of them, Colline, decides to go out and sell his overcoat to buy medicine for his roommate's very ill girl friend in the hope of keeping her alive. He sings a short but sad farewell to his coat, the friend who has kept him warm and whose pockets always carried the poetry and philosophy that he loves. "Addio. Addio."
It brings a lump to my throat every time I hear it.
A few times in my life, for various reasons I have had to abandon my library. I love books and I hope that wherever mine have ended up they are loved as much I loveed them. But there is one book I have never parted with. It sits at my elbow when I am at my desk. If I go anywhere for more than a day it goes with me in my back pack or suitcase. It is one of my dearest friends.
I bought it brand new from a bookstore in Harvard Square, Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1957. It's almost as old as I am. I paid $6.50 for it. You can barely read the price, written in pencil on the inside. I wrote my name underneath the price in red ink which is still quite visible.
It's a small volume, very small considering what it contains. It's 7 1/2 inches by 5 1/2 inches and 1 inch thick. In all the bookstores I've been in over the years, I've never seen another copy of it. It was printed by Oxford University Press in 1947.
It is in very threadbare condition due to age and use. I've taped the inside of the hard cover to the pages, but the tape on the outside spine is coming loose again. The pages are very thin India paper and fortunately I haven't torn any of them.
What is it? It's my complete Shakespeare. And it is complete; all the plays and all the poems, including all the sonnets in one small volume. Shakespeare is a divine gift to the human race, and no matter what English professors and stage directors do to it, it remains a rare treasure, recognized the world over.
This book has been a continuous inspiration to me for 53 years. I need a magnifying glass to read it now, but, so what? Falstaff, Lear and Juliet still come alive whenever the book is opened. I would never part with it. If, heaven forbid, I had to move suddenly this book would be one of the first things I would grab.
I love it. It's my old friend. It's the garden in my pocket.
DB
------------------------
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Law
Vagabond's Law: No matter how hard you work or how much you get done, you will always have more left over work to do tomorrow than you had today.
DB
DB
Fashioning The Infinite
Somewhere in the heart of experience there is an order and a coherence which we might surprise if we were attentive enough, loving enough or patient enough.
Lawrence Durrell
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
A few days ago in this journal I posted an entry entitled Behind The Wall in which I said that I know there is a meaning behind the words I write and that I keep writing to discover it. I know I didn't make myself clear. Comments came back to me saying that words mean one thing to one person and another to another person. That's true, of course, but that is not what I was hoping to put forth.
An artist draws inspiration from the universal bank of ideas, which is eternal and infinite in its varieties, as numerous as the stars and as vast as the distances between them. What the artist makes of those ideas depends partly on his talent and skill, partly on dedication and hard work and partly on the need to seek and find, to expose or not, the unknown reality of the existence of those ideas, the unheard sounds and unseen colors.
When searching through the universal mind of ideas and creations trying to find the reality of all realities, we artists are poor tailors, cutting out patterns and trying to fashion together something that fits. It never does and that's why we keep trying.
I know that what I write has a greater meaning and a greater purpose that isn't mine. Musicians know that also. There is no end to what can be discovered in music. In a certain way music is what all art is trying to achieve.
But as science is trying to discover the universal law of physics which will explain everything, and medicine is trying for the universal panacea, the door remains not closed and locked but undiscovered. Once the opening is found, and the genius can step out into the unknown, unheard and unseen, art my disappear or take a new form, science may also, but we will know that all of our efforts to find the truth and understand it, from the simple drawing of a flower to a monumental Russian novel were never done in vain.
Durrell is correct. The first important step is to pay attention, to carefully read the words, really listen to the music and really look at the painting, realizing that you are looking "through a glass darkly."
Next comes the love. "The mightiest space in fortune nature brings to join like likes and kiss like native things" says Shakespeare. The courage of honest desire to find the light and share it no matter what it may be is requisite to understand what is written. That honest, humble affection can't help bring a greater coherence into one's experience.
It is the nature of truth to reveal itself, especially to the waiting, expectant mind. The hidden secret truth of the universe is harder to find because it is so complex and so undefinable and yet so simple. The paintings, poems, songs and dances are merely the outward shapes and patterns of the gown. They are invitations for the immortal truth to visit us.
The patient, persistent search for the truth behind the truth will never end. It can't.
DB
******************
Lawrence Durrell
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
A few days ago in this journal I posted an entry entitled Behind The Wall in which I said that I know there is a meaning behind the words I write and that I keep writing to discover it. I know I didn't make myself clear. Comments came back to me saying that words mean one thing to one person and another to another person. That's true, of course, but that is not what I was hoping to put forth.
An artist draws inspiration from the universal bank of ideas, which is eternal and infinite in its varieties, as numerous as the stars and as vast as the distances between them. What the artist makes of those ideas depends partly on his talent and skill, partly on dedication and hard work and partly on the need to seek and find, to expose or not, the unknown reality of the existence of those ideas, the unheard sounds and unseen colors.
When searching through the universal mind of ideas and creations trying to find the reality of all realities, we artists are poor tailors, cutting out patterns and trying to fashion together something that fits. It never does and that's why we keep trying.
I know that what I write has a greater meaning and a greater purpose that isn't mine. Musicians know that also. There is no end to what can be discovered in music. In a certain way music is what all art is trying to achieve.
But as science is trying to discover the universal law of physics which will explain everything, and medicine is trying for the universal panacea, the door remains not closed and locked but undiscovered. Once the opening is found, and the genius can step out into the unknown, unheard and unseen, art my disappear or take a new form, science may also, but we will know that all of our efforts to find the truth and understand it, from the simple drawing of a flower to a monumental Russian novel were never done in vain.
Durrell is correct. The first important step is to pay attention, to carefully read the words, really listen to the music and really look at the painting, realizing that you are looking "through a glass darkly."
Next comes the love. "The mightiest space in fortune nature brings to join like likes and kiss like native things" says Shakespeare. The courage of honest desire to find the light and share it no matter what it may be is requisite to understand what is written. That honest, humble affection can't help bring a greater coherence into one's experience.
It is the nature of truth to reveal itself, especially to the waiting, expectant mind. The hidden secret truth of the universe is harder to find because it is so complex and so undefinable and yet so simple. The paintings, poems, songs and dances are merely the outward shapes and patterns of the gown. They are invitations for the immortal truth to visit us.
The patient, persistent search for the truth behind the truth will never end. It can't.
DB
******************
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Prepare To Be Shocked
Who controls the past controls the future.
Who controls the present controls the past.
George Orwell
********************
I have a lot of books and magazines about history. I enjoy reading them because an historical event looked at from different perspectives gives a many dimensional understanding of that event, of course. A single point of view about a time in history may have the strength of authority behind it, but it is never the whole story.
When I was in elementary school the text book on history gave the distinct impression that the Middle Ages, the so-called Dark Ages, was a long period of hundreds of years in which there were kings and illiterate serfs and, except for the Crusades, nothing much happened and nobody did anything. What a surprise to find out, when I finally got to do some reading on my own, how vibrant and active that time was.
One of the things people like to do and keep on doing is to rewrite history. There are two ways of doing that. One is the open minded manner of gathering together the confusing bunch of recently discovered facts, trying to organize them into a coherent whole, examining the possibilities, formulating theories about what actually happened and comparing them with the previous rounds of historical literature, present and past. Some statements by ancient writers are confusing to us because we don't know what they were referring to. When at last we do know a different interpretation of some event emerges.
The other way of rewriting history is the pernicious and closed minded method now being employed by the Texas Board of Education. That method involves rearranging the established facts, changing some of them and eliminating others. There is nothing new about this method. It has been going on for centuries. As a result it has kept historians busy trying to reconstruct what actually happened.
The most shameful part of this second method is that it influences the way people think and causes them to form incorrect opinions and beliefs, such as I did about the Middle Ages.
I've been doing a lot of fascinating research into the origins of western religions. And I've found out some interesting facts and probabilities.
The first book of the Bible ever written was probably Job, possibly written by him or one of his friends, or possibly dictated to a scribe by one of his friends. It predated Moses.
Abraham was not just a herder of livestock, but a powerful man who traveled throughout Mesopotamia and into Egypt as far as Heliopolis teaching as he went. What did he teach? (I will write someday about Heliopolis if I haven't already I may also write about the Templars the Merovingians and the Cathars, all of whom still exist on one form or another.)
There were, no doubt, several "Messiahs" crucified by the Romans. Some of the remarks Jesus made are right out of the Old Testament. Even the famous "My God My Go. Why hast thou forsaken me?" is taken verbatim from the book of Psalms. Was Jesus quoting David, or was it put in afterward by some historian or was the Psalm subsequently adjusted to accommodate? The possibilities are fascinating. And "The Da Vinci Code" aside, there is evidence that Jesus may have had children. There may be his blood line existing today in southern France.
There were many different versions of Christianity at the time and they didn't all agree with each other. The first Christian church ever built was probably the one in Cornwall, England. When the power struggle was over and Rome took control, the church fathers expunged from the literature everything that didn't agree with their version Sort of like what's going on now in Texas.
I continue my research. More bits of information are unearthed all the time. Facts lead to possibilities which lead to theories which lead to more facts. Uncovering the truth about one's religion should not diminish one's faith but should increase and strengthen it. for it removes one's worship from the realm of mythology and plants it firmly in the practical world of real knowledge and real life.
DB - The Vagabond
Who controls the present controls the past.
George Orwell
********************
I have a lot of books and magazines about history. I enjoy reading them because an historical event looked at from different perspectives gives a many dimensional understanding of that event, of course. A single point of view about a time in history may have the strength of authority behind it, but it is never the whole story.
When I was in elementary school the text book on history gave the distinct impression that the Middle Ages, the so-called Dark Ages, was a long period of hundreds of years in which there were kings and illiterate serfs and, except for the Crusades, nothing much happened and nobody did anything. What a surprise to find out, when I finally got to do some reading on my own, how vibrant and active that time was.
One of the things people like to do and keep on doing is to rewrite history. There are two ways of doing that. One is the open minded manner of gathering together the confusing bunch of recently discovered facts, trying to organize them into a coherent whole, examining the possibilities, formulating theories about what actually happened and comparing them with the previous rounds of historical literature, present and past. Some statements by ancient writers are confusing to us because we don't know what they were referring to. When at last we do know a different interpretation of some event emerges.
The other way of rewriting history is the pernicious and closed minded method now being employed by the Texas Board of Education. That method involves rearranging the established facts, changing some of them and eliminating others. There is nothing new about this method. It has been going on for centuries. As a result it has kept historians busy trying to reconstruct what actually happened.
The most shameful part of this second method is that it influences the way people think and causes them to form incorrect opinions and beliefs, such as I did about the Middle Ages.
I've been doing a lot of fascinating research into the origins of western religions. And I've found out some interesting facts and probabilities.
The first book of the Bible ever written was probably Job, possibly written by him or one of his friends, or possibly dictated to a scribe by one of his friends. It predated Moses.
Abraham was not just a herder of livestock, but a powerful man who traveled throughout Mesopotamia and into Egypt as far as Heliopolis teaching as he went. What did he teach? (I will write someday about Heliopolis if I haven't already I may also write about the Templars the Merovingians and the Cathars, all of whom still exist on one form or another.)
There were, no doubt, several "Messiahs" crucified by the Romans. Some of the remarks Jesus made are right out of the Old Testament. Even the famous "My God My Go. Why hast thou forsaken me?" is taken verbatim from the book of Psalms. Was Jesus quoting David, or was it put in afterward by some historian or was the Psalm subsequently adjusted to accommodate? The possibilities are fascinating. And "The Da Vinci Code" aside, there is evidence that Jesus may have had children. There may be his blood line existing today in southern France.
There were many different versions of Christianity at the time and they didn't all agree with each other. The first Christian church ever built was probably the one in Cornwall, England. When the power struggle was over and Rome took control, the church fathers expunged from the literature everything that didn't agree with their version Sort of like what's going on now in Texas.
I continue my research. More bits of information are unearthed all the time. Facts lead to possibilities which lead to theories which lead to more facts. Uncovering the truth about one's religion should not diminish one's faith but should increase and strengthen it. for it removes one's worship from the realm of mythology and plants it firmly in the practical world of real knowledge and real life.
DB - The Vagabond
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Pennies
Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.
Abe Lincoln
******************
I have nothing to say. Almost.
We all got together to go someplace and then decided not to go there. So we went someplace else.
Trombones and trumpets playing with a pipe organ. Everything is tubes.
I have a large bowl of coins sitting on my desk.
Don't display relics.
Air vibrates through the tubes and makes sound.
I lost my watch. Almost.
When I accidentally knock over the bowl, the coins spill on the floor and then I have to pick them all up and put them back into the bowl, one by one.
Don't display ruins.
Our blood vibrates through our tubes.
Where did we all go, I wonder?
A pipe organ is all tubes. Think of that.
I don't collect pennies.
Why didn't Elsa keep her mouth shut? "Just like a woman" he said.
When something costs $9.98 it's easier to give her a $10 bill than to count out 98 cents with people in line behind you.
Maybe we went dancing. I don't remember.
I pick them all up, all the thoughts, ideas, facts, figures, hopes, dreams, fears, regrets and put them back into the bowl, one by one.
Don't display errors.
At the bottom of the ocean there are creatures who live in tubes.
Most of the coins are pennies.
No, I think we all went home.
I found my watch. It was also on the floor.
Yes. I think we all came home, one by one.
Display love.
The Vagabond
************************
Abe Lincoln
******************
I have nothing to say. Almost.
We all got together to go someplace and then decided not to go there. So we went someplace else.
Trombones and trumpets playing with a pipe organ. Everything is tubes.
I have a large bowl of coins sitting on my desk.
Don't display relics.
Air vibrates through the tubes and makes sound.
I lost my watch. Almost.
When I accidentally knock over the bowl, the coins spill on the floor and then I have to pick them all up and put them back into the bowl, one by one.
Don't display ruins.
Our blood vibrates through our tubes.
Where did we all go, I wonder?
A pipe organ is all tubes. Think of that.
I don't collect pennies.
Why didn't Elsa keep her mouth shut? "Just like a woman" he said.
When something costs $9.98 it's easier to give her a $10 bill than to count out 98 cents with people in line behind you.
Maybe we went dancing. I don't remember.
I pick them all up, all the thoughts, ideas, facts, figures, hopes, dreams, fears, regrets and put them back into the bowl, one by one.
Don't display errors.
At the bottom of the ocean there are creatures who live in tubes.
Most of the coins are pennies.
No, I think we all went home.
I found my watch. It was also on the floor.
Yes. I think we all came home, one by one.
Display love.
The Vagabond
************************
Friday, February 26, 2010
Basic Blessedness
May holy angels dip their fingers in your soup.
>
> DB - The Vagabond
> *********************
> I once read a play written by a Catholic priest turned playwright. In it
> was a conversation between two priests who had gone out for a drink together
> one evening. One of them says that with all the robes and other
> paraphernalia that they wear when they are up there in front of the
> congregation his favorite garment is his ordinary t-shirt because it shows
> that underneath he's just a regular slob like everybody else.
>
> I knew an Episcopal priest who one Sunday morning took off all the
> various vestments he was wearing and threw them on the floor. Some of
> the people got up and left but the ones who remained he invited downstairs
> to sit around and share communion. Every Sunday after that a loyal
> congregation joined him for bread and wine at the table downstairs and they
> talked about things.
>
> I have and I read from books on many different religious topics. I have
> three Bibles, also the Koran, the Zohar, Oahspe (what's that?), Lao Tzu,
> books on Buddhism, Hinduism, Martinism, (what's that?), Shintoism, Christian
> Science, New Age, Wicca, I've read Saint Augustine, Saint Thomas Aquinas,
> the Dalai Lama. and Moses Maimonides, studied Tarot and the I Ching, I have
> a Daily Missal, The Book of Mormon and The Book Of Common Prayer and I could
> go on.
>
> So what do I think of religion? Two very important and related things.
>
> First: give me religion that is willing to get its hands and face dirty, to
> turn over the rocks, to plow the fields, to peer into the corners and walk
> down the dark alleys. Prayer for those who need it, like sex, is never
> safe. Compassion in a vigorous, effective practice has a boomerang attached
> to it. Cowards may go to church but they don't belong in religion. The
> healing of the multiplying ills of the world is the task of religion and
> anything less is hypocrisy.
>
> Second: I think, as do many of those I've read, that the destiny of mankind
> is to ultimately go beyond what it seems capable of. To achieve
> perfection. And the only road leading to that end is through spirituality,
> holiness and the overcoming of all binding limitations of the mortal world.
>
> I think you can see how these two thoughts are related. The classic chalice
> of the Eucharistic sacrifice has a base, a stem and a cup. Starting from the
> lowest level of human life, right down to the t-shirt, benevolent energies
> must spread out to embrace the world in every place. and in every
> condition. No lines can be drawn. No exclusions can be made. From there
> the feeding and the healing must proceed, Healing not preaching. There may
> be time enough to talk after the soup is poured and drunk. If not, then
> not. Leave the doctrine behind, the work is not done.
>
> With every spoonful of soup, with every bandaging of a wound, with every
> nail hammered into a dwelling place the religionist must never lose sight of
> the supreme goal: freedom from the bondage of limitation. loss, despair and
> ignorance, the attainment of celestial realities, the true perfection of
> spiritual life. No self-conngratulations are in order. He must be brought,
> and bring all, up through the stem to the place where they are ready to
> receive the wine of wisdom, the gracious soup of peace and liberation from
> all harm, hazard, danger and mortality.
>
> Am I ready for that kind of religion? I don't know. But I know I wouldn't
> settle for anything less. The proof is in the soup.
>
> DB
>
> DB - The Vagabond
> *********************
> I once read a play written by a Catholic priest turned playwright. In it
> was a conversation between two priests who had gone out for a drink together
> one evening. One of them says that with all the robes and other
> paraphernalia that they wear when they are up there in front of the
> congregation his favorite garment is his ordinary t-shirt because it shows
> that underneath he's just a regular slob like everybody else.
>
> I knew an Episcopal priest who one Sunday morning took off all the
> various vestments he was wearing and threw them on the floor. Some of
> the people got up and left but the ones who remained he invited downstairs
> to sit around and share communion. Every Sunday after that a loyal
> congregation joined him for bread and wine at the table downstairs and they
> talked about things.
>
> I have and I read from books on many different religious topics. I have
> three Bibles, also the Koran, the Zohar, Oahspe (what's that?), Lao Tzu,
> books on Buddhism, Hinduism, Martinism, (what's that?), Shintoism, Christian
> Science, New Age, Wicca, I've read Saint Augustine, Saint Thomas Aquinas,
> the Dalai Lama. and Moses Maimonides, studied Tarot and the I Ching, I have
> a Daily Missal, The Book of Mormon and The Book Of Common Prayer and I could
> go on.
>
> So what do I think of religion? Two very important and related things.
>
> First: give me religion that is willing to get its hands and face dirty, to
> turn over the rocks, to plow the fields, to peer into the corners and walk
> down the dark alleys. Prayer for those who need it, like sex, is never
> safe. Compassion in a vigorous, effective practice has a boomerang attached
> to it. Cowards may go to church but they don't belong in religion. The
> healing of the multiplying ills of the world is the task of religion and
> anything less is hypocrisy.
>
> Second: I think, as do many of those I've read, that the destiny of mankind
> is to ultimately go beyond what it seems capable of. To achieve
> perfection. And the only road leading to that end is through spirituality,
> holiness and the overcoming of all binding limitations of the mortal world.
>
> I think you can see how these two thoughts are related. The classic chalice
> of the Eucharistic sacrifice has a base, a stem and a cup. Starting from the
> lowest level of human life, right down to the t-shirt, benevolent energies
> must spread out to embrace the world in every place. and in every
> condition. No lines can be drawn. No exclusions can be made. From there
> the feeding and the healing must proceed, Healing not preaching. There may
> be time enough to talk after the soup is poured and drunk. If not, then
> not. Leave the doctrine behind, the work is not done.
>
> With every spoonful of soup, with every bandaging of a wound, with every
> nail hammered into a dwelling place the religionist must never lose sight of
> the supreme goal: freedom from the bondage of limitation. loss, despair and
> ignorance, the attainment of celestial realities, the true perfection of
> spiritual life. No self-conngratulations are in order. He must be brought,
> and bring all, up through the stem to the place where they are ready to
> receive the wine of wisdom, the gracious soup of peace and liberation from
> all harm, hazard, danger and mortality.
>
> Am I ready for that kind of religion? I don't know. But I know I wouldn't
> settle for anything less. The proof is in the soup.
>
> DB
Monday, February 8, 2010
The Ten
2/08/10
Let me never mar the beauty of creation with the ugliness of destruction.
Let me never hold or cherish in my mind images of fear, hate, anger, cruelty, pain, poverty, suffering, injustice and revenge.
Let me never use my gifts of intelligence, talent and creative imagination for any harmful or ignorant purpose so that I may avoid the punishment of regret.
Let me never forget the source of the goodness in my life and the processes which have brought about the blessings I enjoy.
Let me never lose respect for or attention to the great geniuses of the past who nurture me, lead me and influence me in all positive ways and enable me to be the person I am.
Let me never be responsible for the discouragement, abatement or destruction of any worthy thing that exists.
Let me never take another man's ideas and accomplishments and claim them as my own.
Let me never misrepresent the knowledge, wisdom and truth of all things as I understand them.
Let me never show disrespect or lack of compassion for my fellow creatures to the extent they are deserving of it.
Let me never desire to own another man's life or any of its accompaniments.
DB
Let me never mar the beauty of creation with the ugliness of destruction.
Let me never hold or cherish in my mind images of fear, hate, anger, cruelty, pain, poverty, suffering, injustice and revenge.
Let me never use my gifts of intelligence, talent and creative imagination for any harmful or ignorant purpose so that I may avoid the punishment of regret.
Let me never forget the source of the goodness in my life and the processes which have brought about the blessings I enjoy.
Let me never lose respect for or attention to the great geniuses of the past who nurture me, lead me and influence me in all positive ways and enable me to be the person I am.
Let me never be responsible for the discouragement, abatement or destruction of any worthy thing that exists.
Let me never take another man's ideas and accomplishments and claim them as my own.
Let me never misrepresent the knowledge, wisdom and truth of all things as I understand them.
Let me never show disrespect or lack of compassion for my fellow creatures to the extent they are deserving of it.
Let me never desire to own another man's life or any of its accompaniments.
DB
A Letter to a Friend
2/08/10
Dear Friend
As one who always wanted to sleep late I find myself rising before the sunshine these days, much to my puzzlement. And so at 6:45 of a Friday morning I find myself confronted by your amazing letter. I say amazing because I find most of it pertinent, important, insightful and needing to be addressed.
Acting is an interpretive art form. And so I suppose that is my habit. Without realizing it, or gaining any personal perspective about it, I seem to need the ideas of others to unlatch my own thinking. I have about 110 pages of quotations from various sources, single spaced, small font. I still collect them.
Another habit I have is to be continually overcoming limitations. One view of retirement is that I am like a bush the world has finally stopped pruning. But since the world doesn't cut me back any more I have to do it myself. It's a bad habit of creating impassible situations for myself and then fighting my way out of them. There is an ancient reason for that. From an early age until I established myself in show business I was continually made to feel unimportant, by family and teachers. When I emerged enough from that shell to look around I realized I was unimportant in the eyes of others because I was different. I didn't fit in my family and I was a poor student because I didn't conform to the processes some really poor teachers wanted me to. And frankly I wasn't much interested in getting an education. That all changed one day. Then I went about sopping up the wisdom of the ages. I still do that. Which is why I have so many quotations on my desk.
What really struck me about your letter was the idea of emerging as a writer without the need to interpret the words of others. It relates back to having been an actor, of course, but also to the misleading influence that whatever I had to say wasn't important. I developed a blindness to any sort of encouragement or praise. I felt that people were just being nice if they said they appreciated and approved of what I did. That was a self imposed limitation as well.
I knew Norman Mailer, had frequent discussions with him and was invited to his home. The public Mailer was a belligerent, He seemed to be always looking for a fight. But the private Mailer was different. He enjoyed and approved of my acting and he told me so. Why didn't I believe him?
I will take to heart what you have written. My mentor and teacher, Edward, once said that to be an actor one has to have poetry in his heart. I have never considered myself a poet, but I have felt that Vagabond Journeys needs to be reorganized and freed up in some significant way. In fact, I was pondering that this morning even before I read your letter.
The girl who is sailing her boat solo through the ocean got over 200 comments on Wednesday. I got 6. No doubt there is a lesson to be learned there. Though I am known as a generous person and one who will tax himself to the limit to accomplish something he really wants to do, I am also known as one who peers out from his hibernating cave to interpret what he sees. Not a coward, just cautious.
I don't know if I will ever be any different or even if I can be, old dogs and new tricks, you know. But I'm certainly going to keep typing for as long as I can and maybe the writer will emerge someday.
Dear Friend
As one who always wanted to sleep late I find myself rising before the sunshine these days, much to my puzzlement. And so at 6:45 of a Friday morning I find myself confronted by your amazing letter. I say amazing because I find most of it pertinent, important, insightful and needing to be addressed.
Acting is an interpretive art form. And so I suppose that is my habit. Without realizing it, or gaining any personal perspective about it, I seem to need the ideas of others to unlatch my own thinking. I have about 110 pages of quotations from various sources, single spaced, small font. I still collect them.
Another habit I have is to be continually overcoming limitations. One view of retirement is that I am like a bush the world has finally stopped pruning. But since the world doesn't cut me back any more I have to do it myself. It's a bad habit of creating impassible situations for myself and then fighting my way out of them. There is an ancient reason for that. From an early age until I established myself in show business I was continually made to feel unimportant, by family and teachers. When I emerged enough from that shell to look around I realized I was unimportant in the eyes of others because I was different. I didn't fit in my family and I was a poor student because I didn't conform to the processes some really poor teachers wanted me to. And frankly I wasn't much interested in getting an education. That all changed one day. Then I went about sopping up the wisdom of the ages. I still do that. Which is why I have so many quotations on my desk.
What really struck me about your letter was the idea of emerging as a writer without the need to interpret the words of others. It relates back to having been an actor, of course, but also to the misleading influence that whatever I had to say wasn't important. I developed a blindness to any sort of encouragement or praise. I felt that people were just being nice if they said they appreciated and approved of what I did. That was a self imposed limitation as well.
I knew Norman Mailer, had frequent discussions with him and was invited to his home. The public Mailer was a belligerent, He seemed to be always looking for a fight. But the private Mailer was different. He enjoyed and approved of my acting and he told me so. Why didn't I believe him?
I will take to heart what you have written. My mentor and teacher, Edward, once said that to be an actor one has to have poetry in his heart. I have never considered myself a poet, but I have felt that Vagabond Journeys needs to be reorganized and freed up in some significant way. In fact, I was pondering that this morning even before I read your letter.
The girl who is sailing her boat solo through the ocean got over 200 comments on Wednesday. I got 6. No doubt there is a lesson to be learned there. Though I am known as a generous person and one who will tax himself to the limit to accomplish something he really wants to do, I am also known as one who peers out from his hibernating cave to interpret what he sees. Not a coward, just cautious.
I don't know if I will ever be any different or even if I can be, old dogs and new tricks, you know. But I'm certainly going to keep typing for as long as I can and maybe the writer will emerge someday.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Quintessential Quality 10/14/09
Friday, July 25, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
1:33:00 AM EDT
Quintessential Quality
There are glimpses of heaven to us in every act, or thought, or word, that raises us above ourselves.
Robert Quillan
???????????????????
If you want to know the truth about something you did in the past, ask 3 separate people who were there. You will get 3 different versions and none of them will match your own.
DB
*****************
Monday, May 5, 2008
1:33:00 AM EDT
Quintessential Quality
There are glimpses of heaven to us in every act, or thought, or word, that raises us above ourselves.
Robert Quillan
???????????????????
If you want to know the truth about something you did in the past, ask 3 separate people who were there. You will get 3 different versions and none of them will match your own.
DB
*****************
Fearsome Fact 10/14/09
Saturday, July 12, 2008
12:15:00 AM EDT
Fearsome Fact
Creative minds have always been known to survive any kind of bad training.
Anna Freud
********************************************
Don't put your daughter on the stage, Mrs. Worthington,
Don't put your daughter on the stage,
Though they said at the school of acting
She was lovely as Peer Gynt,
I'm afraid on the whole
An ingnue role
Would emphasize her squint,
She's a big girl, and though her teeth are fairly good
She's not the type I ever would
Be eager to engage,
No more buts,
Mrs. Worthington,
NUTS,
Mrs. Worthington,
Don't put your daughter on the stage.
Noel Coward
I don't think there is any enterprise that has more phonies in it than show business (except perhaps politics). I have seen and, unfortunately, had to work with a lot of "actors" and "directors" who didn't know what they were doing. I think I will address the question of good directors and idiotic directors on another day. Now I'll discuss the poor creatures who think they know how to be actors, but don't.
It seems so easy. Someone goes to see a play or a film and says "What's the big deal. I can do that." They start imagining themselves in front of a cheering audience or up on the silver screen, bigger than life. So they get into an amateur production somewhere and come out with some if the most egregious bad acting; artificial, rubber stamp, cliched nonsense. Their friends all tell them how good they were and they're convinced. Or maybe they have a favorite actor. Then they come out doing a bad impression of Marlon Brando or Katherine Hepburn.
Maybe they are really serious about it and go to an acting school. Some of the biggest and most dangerous charlatans in the business are acting teachers. A lot of them haven't been actors themselves, or if so, not for very long. Usually what they are are directors. I always tell youngsters, if they ask me, to study with an actor not a director for the simple reason that if you want to learn to play the clarinet, do you study with a clarinetist or a conductor? What they learn from a director is only how to deal with that director.
I've seen kids come to New York with some moronic theory about acting from some Drama School somewhere and face the misery of having to have that theory beaten out of them by the brass knuckles reality of professional theatre.
I did a show in Florida years ago, All the members of the cast were seasoned professional, of all ages, except the girl, who was a recent graduate from some big fancy Academy of the Arts somewhere in the South. This girl didn't know anything. She had no idea at all what we do as actors, but she thought she did. One of the other actors in the show said to me, on the sly, that she should go to that school and ask for her money back.
There was an acting teacher in New York who said to his students not to audition for anything or do any acting work at all, but to study with him for three years, do what he said and at the end they would be ready to be actors. I hope he was arrested. There was another teacher who said that if he got an acting job he would be away from the class and that he hoped his students would do the same. He was a very popular, very good teacher. Some of his students are famous.
DB
12:15:00 AM EDT
Fearsome Fact
Creative minds have always been known to survive any kind of bad training.
Anna Freud
********************************************
Don't put your daughter on the stage, Mrs. Worthington,
Don't put your daughter on the stage,
Though they said at the school of acting
She was lovely as Peer Gynt,
I'm afraid on the whole
An ingnue role
Would emphasize her squint,
She's a big girl, and though her teeth are fairly good
She's not the type I ever would
Be eager to engage,
No more buts,
Mrs. Worthington,
NUTS,
Mrs. Worthington,
Don't put your daughter on the stage.
Noel Coward
I don't think there is any enterprise that has more phonies in it than show business (except perhaps politics). I have seen and, unfortunately, had to work with a lot of "actors" and "directors" who didn't know what they were doing. I think I will address the question of good directors and idiotic directors on another day. Now I'll discuss the poor creatures who think they know how to be actors, but don't.
It seems so easy. Someone goes to see a play or a film and says "What's the big deal. I can do that." They start imagining themselves in front of a cheering audience or up on the silver screen, bigger than life. So they get into an amateur production somewhere and come out with some if the most egregious bad acting; artificial, rubber stamp, cliched nonsense. Their friends all tell them how good they were and they're convinced. Or maybe they have a favorite actor. Then they come out doing a bad impression of Marlon Brando or Katherine Hepburn.
Maybe they are really serious about it and go to an acting school. Some of the biggest and most dangerous charlatans in the business are acting teachers. A lot of them haven't been actors themselves, or if so, not for very long. Usually what they are are directors. I always tell youngsters, if they ask me, to study with an actor not a director for the simple reason that if you want to learn to play the clarinet, do you study with a clarinetist or a conductor? What they learn from a director is only how to deal with that director.
I've seen kids come to New York with some moronic theory about acting from some Drama School somewhere and face the misery of having to have that theory beaten out of them by the brass knuckles reality of professional theatre.
I did a show in Florida years ago, All the members of the cast were seasoned professional, of all ages, except the girl, who was a recent graduate from some big fancy Academy of the Arts somewhere in the South. This girl didn't know anything. She had no idea at all what we do as actors, but she thought she did. One of the other actors in the show said to me, on the sly, that she should go to that school and ask for her money back.
There was an acting teacher in New York who said to his students not to audition for anything or do any acting work at all, but to study with him for three years, do what he said and at the end they would be ready to be actors. I hope he was arrested. There was another teacher who said that if he got an acting job he would be away from the class and that he hoped his students would do the same. He was a very popular, very good teacher. Some of his students are famous.
DB
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Wise Words 10/13/09
Wise Words
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Wise Words
"Money spent on getting mad or getting even is money wasted."
Richard Wagner
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
What this world really needs is a War On Vengeance.
DB
******************
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Wise Words
"Money spent on getting mad or getting even is money wasted."
Richard Wagner
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
What this world really needs is a War On Vengeance.
DB
******************
Monday, October 12, 2009
Great Grievance 10/12/09
Sunday, July 13, 2008
12:13:00 AM EDT
Great Grievance
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
Kahlil Gibran
??????????????????
I have a friend, David, who's a potter. I watched him work one day. I saw him brutally cut off a chunk of clay, thump it on the table and then throw it on a wheel. Then, while it was spinning within an inch of it's life he wet his hands and started strangling it. He forced it out of it's natural shape and then, as if that wasn't enough, he stuck his thumbs in it and then his fingers and carved it even more into something round, Then he poked and scraped down into it's innards with some fiendish instruments, covered it all over with some sticky stuff and tucked into an oven that was hotter than hell. When it finally came out it was a beautiful, delicate, gentle bowl asking to be filled with the elixir of life.
I don't know about you, but I have been cut and thumped by the meanness of life, thrown on the wheel and spun into confusion, strangled with poverty, pushed and squeezed with hard work until I was rebuilt and reformed, poked and scraped by lies and betrayals, glazed over with tears and baked in the oven of hellish experiences. And when they finally took me out I had a joyous smile on my face
DB - The Vagabond.
12:13:00 AM EDT
Great Grievance
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
Kahlil Gibran
??????????????????
I have a friend, David, who's a potter. I watched him work one day. I saw him brutally cut off a chunk of clay, thump it on the table and then throw it on a wheel. Then, while it was spinning within an inch of it's life he wet his hands and started strangling it. He forced it out of it's natural shape and then, as if that wasn't enough, he stuck his thumbs in it and then his fingers and carved it even more into something round, Then he poked and scraped down into it's innards with some fiendish instruments, covered it all over with some sticky stuff and tucked into an oven that was hotter than hell. When it finally came out it was a beautiful, delicate, gentle bowl asking to be filled with the elixir of life.
I don't know about you, but I have been cut and thumped by the meanness of life, thrown on the wheel and spun into confusion, strangled with poverty, pushed and squeezed with hard work until I was rebuilt and reformed, poked and scraped by lies and betrayals, glazed over with tears and baked in the oven of hellish experiences. And when they finally took me out I had a joyous smile on my face
DB - The Vagabond.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Daring Do 10/11/09
Daring Do
Thursday, July 10, 2008
12:38:00 AM EDT
D's Daring Do
Greatness is a road leading towards the unknown.
Charles deGaulle
**********************
Star Trek
The bear went over the mountain to see what he could see.
Those who are given the opportunity and freedom to follow a line of study as far as it can take them are blessed with the possibility of discovering areas of unrevealed knowledge and understanding. It is what no one has ever encountered before, where no one has ver been. Mathematicians, astronomers, physicists, those practicing on the esoteric edges of science, anthropologists, architects, composers of music and, yes, also poets, when engaged to their utmost, may reach the end of the traveled path, step into an unknown territory of discovery, put down a marker for the future and try to describe what they find.
I don't know much about science, but I know something about art. The first and every time I see "The Piano Lesson" by Matisse I am taken gently by the hand and led into a world of painting I know nothing about.
I have heard Beethoven's "Grosse Fugue" for string quartet many times and it is still a mystery. What was it that Beethoven saw in his deafness and what was he trying to tell us about it?
On what obscure mountain top was Shakespeare when he wrote "The mightiest space in fortune nature brings to join like likes and kiss like native things."? And what was he saying when he wrote to lead us there "Impossible be strange attempts to those who weight their pains in sense and do suppose what hath been cannot be." ?
The air is thin and hard to breathe, the way is treacherous and the terrain frustratingly difficult to describe but though we may be standing on the shoulders of the great ones who went before us the experience of our own genius can only be won by moving off of the shoulders and placing a foot carefully but steadily down onto a step we cannot see.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Thursday, July 10, 2008
12:38:00 AM EDT
D's Daring Do
Greatness is a road leading towards the unknown.
Charles deGaulle
**********************
Star Trek
The bear went over the mountain to see what he could see.
Those who are given the opportunity and freedom to follow a line of study as far as it can take them are blessed with the possibility of discovering areas of unrevealed knowledge and understanding. It is what no one has ever encountered before, where no one has ver been. Mathematicians, astronomers, physicists, those practicing on the esoteric edges of science, anthropologists, architects, composers of music and, yes, also poets, when engaged to their utmost, may reach the end of the traveled path, step into an unknown territory of discovery, put down a marker for the future and try to describe what they find.
I don't know much about science, but I know something about art. The first and every time I see "The Piano Lesson" by Matisse I am taken gently by the hand and led into a world of painting I know nothing about.
I have heard Beethoven's "Grosse Fugue" for string quartet many times and it is still a mystery. What was it that Beethoven saw in his deafness and what was he trying to tell us about it?
On what obscure mountain top was Shakespeare when he wrote "The mightiest space in fortune nature brings to join like likes and kiss like native things."? And what was he saying when he wrote to lead us there "Impossible be strange attempts to those who weight their pains in sense and do suppose what hath been cannot be." ?
The air is thin and hard to breathe, the way is treacherous and the terrain frustratingly difficult to describe but though we may be standing on the shoulders of the great ones who went before us the experience of our own genius can only be won by moving off of the shoulders and placing a foot carefully but steadily down onto a step we cannot see.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Friday, October 9, 2009
Tested Truth 10/09/09
Saturday, July 26, 2008
12:09:49 AM EDT
Tested Truth
The whole worth of a kind deed,
is in the love that inspires it.
The Talmud
******************
MY DAY IN THE DUNGEON
It happened like this. When no guards were watching I snuck around to the back of the castle where I found a door leading down to the lower levels of the AOL prison. I opened the door and entered. Immediately I came upon another flight of steps going down into the darkness. Lucky for me I had brought my Bic to flick, and my mouse. I came next upon an iron gate which was fortunately not locked. I pried it open and entered a tunnel with cobwebs everywhere, bats flying around and slimy things crawling all over my feet. I kicked them away and kept walking.
Up ahead I could see some sort of a cavern with flickering lights. Just before entering it there was a moat, with crocodiles. There were evidently well fed, probably with chunks of disgraced tech support workers, because they didn't bother to move as I stepped on a couple to get into the cavern. There I was met by some troll-like creatures. They were very nasty and vicious. But a few sharp stabs with my mouse and they scattered, whimpering like the cowards they were. Presently I came upon a door with a sign over it saying "Abandon hope all ye who enter here." I figured that this must be the right door. I knew it would only open with the proper password. But I had cleverly overheard one of the guards talking with another guard just the day before and he mentioned the password. So I stood in front of the door and spoke it loud and clear. "GEEKS" Slowly the door began to rumble and tremble. I heard the unmistakable sound of stone on stone and the creaking of rusty hinges exposing a dark, dank, airless cavern. I flicked my Bic and there they were, languishing, pathetic and at the point of death. I recognized them, every one, my deleted journal entries. A few were tucked into various cells and pens. Some were missing, but not many.
When they saw me they began to revive. Some even had the strength to come over to me and hug me. The rest struggled to their feet and obeyed my command: "Come on, guys. Let's split this scene."
So they followed me through the forbidden door, across the cavern where the trolls were still trembling from my mouse attack, over the dopey crocodiles, down the cobweb and bat infested tunnel, kicking slimy things as they went, through the iron gate, up the steps, through the back door and up the cellar stairs to the broad daylight of GOOGOOLAND.
Once back in Vagabond Journeys they completely revived, even the wounded ones, (except for 20 I couldn't find, who, I guess, have gone to journal heaven, alas). Then they all started behaving like a litter of puppies. Everyone wanted to be on top. It was quite a struggle but, even though they are not in any recognizable order, I did manage to find homes for all of them somewhere in the journal.
Whew! What a day.
Db - The Vagabond
12:09:49 AM EDT
Tested Truth
The whole worth of a kind deed,
is in the love that inspires it.
The Talmud
******************
MY DAY IN THE DUNGEON
It happened like this. When no guards were watching I snuck around to the back of the castle where I found a door leading down to the lower levels of the AOL prison. I opened the door and entered. Immediately I came upon another flight of steps going down into the darkness. Lucky for me I had brought my Bic to flick, and my mouse. I came next upon an iron gate which was fortunately not locked. I pried it open and entered a tunnel with cobwebs everywhere, bats flying around and slimy things crawling all over my feet. I kicked them away and kept walking.
Up ahead I could see some sort of a cavern with flickering lights. Just before entering it there was a moat, with crocodiles. There were evidently well fed, probably with chunks of disgraced tech support workers, because they didn't bother to move as I stepped on a couple to get into the cavern. There I was met by some troll-like creatures. They were very nasty and vicious. But a few sharp stabs with my mouse and they scattered, whimpering like the cowards they were. Presently I came upon a door with a sign over it saying "Abandon hope all ye who enter here." I figured that this must be the right door. I knew it would only open with the proper password. But I had cleverly overheard one of the guards talking with another guard just the day before and he mentioned the password. So I stood in front of the door and spoke it loud and clear. "GEEKS" Slowly the door began to rumble and tremble. I heard the unmistakable sound of stone on stone and the creaking of rusty hinges exposing a dark, dank, airless cavern. I flicked my Bic and there they were, languishing, pathetic and at the point of death. I recognized them, every one, my deleted journal entries. A few were tucked into various cells and pens. Some were missing, but not many.
When they saw me they began to revive. Some even had the strength to come over to me and hug me. The rest struggled to their feet and obeyed my command: "Come on, guys. Let's split this scene."
So they followed me through the forbidden door, across the cavern where the trolls were still trembling from my mouse attack, over the dopey crocodiles, down the cobweb and bat infested tunnel, kicking slimy things as they went, through the iron gate, up the steps, through the back door and up the cellar stairs to the broad daylight of GOOGOOLAND.
Once back in Vagabond Journeys they completely revived, even the wounded ones, (except for 20 I couldn't find, who, I guess, have gone to journal heaven, alas). Then they all started behaving like a litter of puppies. Everyone wanted to be on top. It was quite a struggle but, even though they are not in any recognizable order, I did manage to find homes for all of them somewhere in the journal.
Whew! What a day.
Db - The Vagabond
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Untimely Understanding 10/07/09
12:15:51 AM EDT
Untimely Understanding
Time is but a ship that bears thee, not thy home.
Unknown
********************
Oh God! methinks it were a happy life,
To be no better than homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point to point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run,
How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is done, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,
Pass'd over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
(Shakespeare)
_________________________
Time is a mortal measurement, a human idea. We measure it by space, how long it takes something to go from one place to another in comparison with how long it takes another object to do the same. The universe does not concern itself with time.
Why shouldn't the church bell ring 13? Because we have determined that a day is 2 sets of 12, 7 of those make a week and 52 of those make a year. But it's inaccurate, which is why we have to have the paradox of a leap year now and then. Why doesn't the earth revolve around the sun according to the nice neat pattern we have determined for it? Because the solar system does not concern itself with time.
People look through crystal telescopes at what they say is the past, stars which no longer exist but are only now announcing their light to us, because they were so many billion light years away, also a human measurement. Another person looks through a crystal ball at what he says is the future and what he sees is a projection of the unconscious thoughts that already exist in his mind.
The philosopher Hans Jonas was fond of citing the Psalmist's prayer "Teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom." That statement implies that the information is already known. The obverse side suggests that Jonas wanted to know how many hours of daylight he had to accomplish what he wanted to do in life. The reverse side may suggest that he wanted to know when the moment would be that he would surrender his "white hairs unto a quiet grave."
I have a seed I picked up off a grassy field with some tall trees in it. The seed is about the size of a golf ball, A botanist I know looked at it, told me what kind of a tree it came from and then explained that everything about that tree was already contained in the seed. The seed knows how tall the tree will grow, what it will look like, haw many branches it will have, how many twigs, how many leaves it will put out and how long it will live. The future of the tree already exists in the present seed.
So we can measure water levels, pollen counts, wind chill factors, topical storm categories and measure out our lives "in coffee spoons" (T. S. Eliot) or by any other means only to find that nature is (benignly or malevolently) indifferent and uninterested in our efforts. The sun and the earth identify themselves to each other, The moon talks to the ocean, the flowers listen to the sun. The ground welcomes the rain when it comes. And we, with our rulers, scales and "dials," are simply eavesdroppers in this cosmic conversation.
DB - Vagabonf Journeys
************************
Untimely Understanding
Time is but a ship that bears thee, not thy home.
Unknown
********************
Oh God! methinks it were a happy life,
To be no better than homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point to point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run,
How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is done, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,
Pass'd over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
(Shakespeare)
_________________________
Time is a mortal measurement, a human idea. We measure it by space, how long it takes something to go from one place to another in comparison with how long it takes another object to do the same. The universe does not concern itself with time.
Why shouldn't the church bell ring 13? Because we have determined that a day is 2 sets of 12, 7 of those make a week and 52 of those make a year. But it's inaccurate, which is why we have to have the paradox of a leap year now and then. Why doesn't the earth revolve around the sun according to the nice neat pattern we have determined for it? Because the solar system does not concern itself with time.
People look through crystal telescopes at what they say is the past, stars which no longer exist but are only now announcing their light to us, because they were so many billion light years away, also a human measurement. Another person looks through a crystal ball at what he says is the future and what he sees is a projection of the unconscious thoughts that already exist in his mind.
The philosopher Hans Jonas was fond of citing the Psalmist's prayer "Teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom." That statement implies that the information is already known. The obverse side suggests that Jonas wanted to know how many hours of daylight he had to accomplish what he wanted to do in life. The reverse side may suggest that he wanted to know when the moment would be that he would surrender his "white hairs unto a quiet grave."
I have a seed I picked up off a grassy field with some tall trees in it. The seed is about the size of a golf ball, A botanist I know looked at it, told me what kind of a tree it came from and then explained that everything about that tree was already contained in the seed. The seed knows how tall the tree will grow, what it will look like, haw many branches it will have, how many twigs, how many leaves it will put out and how long it will live. The future of the tree already exists in the present seed.
So we can measure water levels, pollen counts, wind chill factors, topical storm categories and measure out our lives "in coffee spoons" (T. S. Eliot) or by any other means only to find that nature is (benignly or malevolently) indifferent and uninterested in our efforts. The sun and the earth identify themselves to each other, The moon talks to the ocean, the flowers listen to the sun. The ground welcomes the rain when it comes. And we, with our rulers, scales and "dials," are simply eavesdroppers in this cosmic conversation.
DB - Vagabonf Journeys
************************
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Vital Voyage 10/06/09
12:12:09 AM EDT
Vital Voyage
Morality without a sense of paradox is mean.
Friedrich Von Schlegel
************************
BLESSINGS
I have always loved paradoxes, those things that can't be but are, the wrong way of doing something that somehow works, the unchangeable fact that sometimes changes, the sign that reads "this lane must turn right" over a sign that reads "no turns." Finding my lost journal entries after having been assured with no doubt by the experts and authorities that it was impossible and that they were gone for good.
One of the first paradoxes I remember was of an actress who was auditioning for a musical. She sang an upbeat number and was quite good. The director asked if she had a sad ballad. So quietly, very slowly and with an innocent pleading quality in her voice she sang "Take me out to the ball game," (this was a girl who never has a date) "take me out with the crowd," (she just wanted to be with people) "buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks," (it was heart rending) "I don't care if I never come back," (bless her).
I used to do summer theatre in Provincetown, Massachusetts, which is out at the end of Cape Cod. Provincetown is many things. There's an artists community, a gay community, some old time Yankees and the hundreds of tourists who visit every summer. But what it actually is year round is a Portuguese-American fishing village.
One summer I had a unit in a motel owned by a very nice couple. She took care of the motel and he was co-owner of a fishing boat. It was early summer and time for the Blessing of the Fleet. He invited me to come out on his boat for it, which I was eager to do. We circled around the bay with all the boats in a parade. When we approached the pier there was the Bishop of Fall River or New Bedford (I never knew which) and the local priest. The Provincetown priest was named Duarte and people used to call him Our Father Duarte in Heaven. While the Bishop said the prayer, Father Duarte flung the holy water on us. Then we all went out to the ocean for a while.
But the most paradoxical blessing I ever saw was a video of the Blessing of the Fleet on Kodiak Island, Alaska. It being Alaska, the clergy were of the Russian Orthodox branch of Christianity. The Bishop and local Priest were there, bearded, and in colorful robes. People were holding banners and icons and everyone had big smiles. They were having a joyous time. But there was a steep drop from where the priests were to the boats below, a bit too far to fling the water. So while the Bishop was saying the prayers the priest had a white plastic squeeze bottle in his hand with black letters that read HOLY WATER. I thought it was a hoot. Squirt the captain in the face if you have to but get the blessed water on the boat!
DB - The Vagabond
Vital Voyage
Morality without a sense of paradox is mean.
Friedrich Von Schlegel
************************
BLESSINGS
I have always loved paradoxes, those things that can't be but are, the wrong way of doing something that somehow works, the unchangeable fact that sometimes changes, the sign that reads "this lane must turn right" over a sign that reads "no turns." Finding my lost journal entries after having been assured with no doubt by the experts and authorities that it was impossible and that they were gone for good.
One of the first paradoxes I remember was of an actress who was auditioning for a musical. She sang an upbeat number and was quite good. The director asked if she had a sad ballad. So quietly, very slowly and with an innocent pleading quality in her voice she sang "Take me out to the ball game," (this was a girl who never has a date) "take me out with the crowd," (she just wanted to be with people) "buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks," (it was heart rending) "I don't care if I never come back," (bless her).
I used to do summer theatre in Provincetown, Massachusetts, which is out at the end of Cape Cod. Provincetown is many things. There's an artists community, a gay community, some old time Yankees and the hundreds of tourists who visit every summer. But what it actually is year round is a Portuguese-American fishing village.
One summer I had a unit in a motel owned by a very nice couple. She took care of the motel and he was co-owner of a fishing boat. It was early summer and time for the Blessing of the Fleet. He invited me to come out on his boat for it, which I was eager to do. We circled around the bay with all the boats in a parade. When we approached the pier there was the Bishop of Fall River or New Bedford (I never knew which) and the local priest. The Provincetown priest was named Duarte and people used to call him Our Father Duarte in Heaven. While the Bishop said the prayer, Father Duarte flung the holy water on us. Then we all went out to the ocean for a while.
But the most paradoxical blessing I ever saw was a video of the Blessing of the Fleet on Kodiak Island, Alaska. It being Alaska, the clergy were of the Russian Orthodox branch of Christianity. The Bishop and local Priest were there, bearded, and in colorful robes. People were holding banners and icons and everyone had big smiles. They were having a joyous time. But there was a steep drop from where the priests were to the boats below, a bit too far to fling the water. So while the Bishop was saying the prayers the priest had a white plastic squeeze bottle in his hand with black letters that read HOLY WATER. I thought it was a hoot. Squirt the captain in the face if you have to but get the blessed water on the boat!
DB - The Vagabond
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)