666: Happy Armageddon to You!

Hey everybody, before we begin today, I want to add one personal note, since the end of the world is upon us. I thought I'd take this time to thank everyone who has allowed me into their blog-reading life. It's been great being one of your bloggers over the past year and a half. I guess (since we don't exactly qualify for the Rupture, er, I mean Rapture) maybe I'll see you in Hell. After all, as everyone knows (if you don't, just click the graphic), www = 666.

So I was wondering today, if this is the End Times, what message would I like to leave with my friends in the blogosphere before I become just another lump of charcoal in Rick Warren's barbecue pit of eternal damnation?

Since I'm a blogger and have little of substance to offer as original insight, maybe I'd quote the message of the poet of Walden Pond, that Heaven is stretched beneath our feet as well as beyond the skies.

Then, perhaps, I would let old Lao Tzu speak again that message he heard on the road to exile, some 2,600 years ago:

There is something whole and formless,
That existed before any universe was born.
It makes no sound,
Has no substance,
Can’t be fixed in time or space—
It is inexhaustible, unchanging, perduring:
It is the uterus of being,
And I call it Tao,
Just so it has a home in my mind.

It may also be called the great,
Since all beings arise from it,
And it is the home to which they return.

Nature is great;
The sky is great;
The earth is great;
Even humans can be great.

But please do not separate them,
For they work correctly only as One.

Humans: honor the earth, embrace it!
As the earth loves its sky,
As the sky reflects her Tao,
And as the Tao moves in harmony
With its own eternal Consciousness.

Monday with McKenna:Hooray for American art

I fully realize we've been coming on rather strong lately here at Daily Rev. There is, after all, a certain urgency to our moment in history: the Earth is under a petrochemical assault that the oil-fed neocon hegemony will not acknowledge except to produce TV ads in which carbon dioxide emissions symbolize Mom, apple pie, bunny rabbits, and Hallmark emotions. Murder, war, and institutional thievery rage on a scale unseen for at least a generation in American government. For those of us with children, it is not a time of celebration and breast-beating complacency; but rather of a certain dread and a grim resolve.

But while we work to take back our government and media from the grip of corporate obesity, we also need to take back our own center; to recover, if you will, what is truly "fair and balanced" within us, as individuals and as a nation. For as Mark Morford reminded us recently:

The wise ones tell us that whatever you focus on, expands. Wherever you direct your attention and wherever you put your energy and your heart and your concern, that thing will suddenly seem bigger and more important and potentially all-consuming. Is your attention excessively on death and corruption at the expense of laughter and perspective? That is your reality.

So this week at Daily Rev, a review of what's promising, positive, encouraging, and illuminating about American life, culture, art, and yes, even politics (and for a very encouraging international story, check out the news of the escape of the "singing nuns" of Tibet). We begin here with Terry McKenna on art.

Well, after months of muckraking, Brian suggested a time out to celebrate what is positive in America. So I thought I’d have a go at art.

I’m interested in the 50 years from 1920 to 1970. During this period, America’s place in the world changed utterly. Before 1920, Americans looked to Europe for culture. By the 1970’s, Europe and the Japanese visited the US to soak in the current scene. I’m also stopping in 1970, because by then, American Art began to put on “airs.” For the visual arts and classical music, art has since retreated to the academy, the concert hall and the museum. Thus, where in their heyday, most Americans had heard of the likes of the conductor Leonard Bernstein, or of painters Jackson Pollock and Andy Warhol (or for that matter Andrew Wyeth), the current generation of similar artists are known only by their peers.

If you want to understand this period of American Art, start with the picnic. For as much as the artistic soul may require bouts of personal suffering, the production of art comes when we have abundance. And the picnic stands in for much of where Americans parted company with Europeans.

The European picnic began in the 17 century when aristocrats gathered their friends (and their fine china) for elaborate luncheons in the countryside. This picture is from pre-revolutionary France. It depicts a luncheon after the hunt.

Like much of European “high” art, this picnic was designed for members of the ruling elite. I’m sure the meal was delightful, and the conversation stimulating. But I doubt that either Brian or I would have been invited.

Contrast this with the American picnic (the following is an undated picture probably from the turn of the last century).


These people could be either middle or working class. They were in their Sunday best, but other than that, the scene is familiar.
We can tell some things from the picture. The event itself is comfortable, but not grand. There do not appear to be any servants in attendance. (There are servants in the French picnic.) Beyond what we can know from the picture, we would expect abundant but common food (baked bean, corn and lemonade – but no foie gras or oysters). I would assume everyone pitched in to set up and serve – and also to clean up. Whatever conversation they had would probably be no different than that around the family dinner table. And folks like my grandparents would have been invited.

Now to the art itself.

The Musical and The Great American songbook

After WW1, America entered its first era of self confidence. Europe was captivated by American Jazz. And American movies became a common cultural denominator. Musical theater was taken over by a number of new composers who wrote sophisticated music which at the same time was popular and sing-able. Jerome Kern was one of the first. In style, he was a link to the operetta tradition that preceded Broadway. Two of his better known musicals were Show Boat (still performed today) and Swing Time. Cole Porter was another early composer. Although his shows are still performed, his most important legacy is songs like What Is This Thing Called Love?; Night And Day; and Just One Of Those Things. By the 1940’s, composer Richard Rodgers began a long collaboration with wordsmith Oscar Hammerstein. Their first work together was Oklahoma, a work that transformed Broadway and in its wake all musical theater. Before Oklahoma, musicals were glorified reviews - but from that point on, characters had to be real.


Taking the show tunes and also hits from Tin Pan Alley*, a new generation of singers came to the fore. Singing before a microphone, they brought conversational expression to singing. Starting with Bing Crosby and Mildred Bailey (and Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday) the era peaked with Frank Sinatra, whose best work remakes the art song into an American genre.

The era faded in the 50’s and was overthrown by the Beatles. But we continue to look forward to the creation of new musicals to provide a certain kind of bold expression not available in any other art form.

The Great American Songbook also remains alive as a body of songs that are both a monument to their era – and a focus for continued study by musicians intent on performing with the earnest emotion that was the original intention of the composers.

Action Painting

Big canvasses, slathered in paint. This is what happened with American painting after WW2. Our nation had just come out of the great depression and as a people, we were flush with victory. A generation of painters came to the fore with brash new works that redefined how paintings would continue to be made. After they had their say, European modernism slipped into the background. The first slide is from Jackson Pollock who was the most celebrated of his peers.




Then we have Willem DeKooning (my personal favorite). Let’s look at 2 of his best – and not say anything.

Even if you don’t know what to make of these pictures, you should try to remember that until this time, paintings were done with small brushes in the traditional way. A 30” x 40” canvas would have been considered large. After this era, artists bought canvas by the roll and paint by the gallon.






Movies

Are movies art? I don’t know. But they are expression. And they are a form of expression seen around the world. Americans invented movies and the Hollywood that fills movie houses around the world with films to show. Our movies have always been made for the world, and actors from around the world have always come to Hollywood to be a part of it. In the 30’s and 40’s we received refugee actors from France and Germany. In the current era, many Asians come to see if they can make it. A recent Sony picture “Memoirs of a Geisha” was an American film with Chinese actors, interpreting an Japanese themed book.

So.. are movies art? I don’t know, but I know that around the world, people look to Hollywood for images of virility and glamour.

—T. McKenna

___________________________________

*Tin Pan Alley (the name given for the small studios along Broadway where aggressive you songsmiths turned out hits for popular consumption… The last of the Tin Pan Alley composers were probably the likes of Carole King, Neil Sedaka who toiled in the Brill Building.

A Tyrant's Last Stand

How do you spell "desperation"? If you're George W. Bush, you spell it, "g-a-y m-a-r-r-i-a-g-e b-a-n".

So maybe the clueless coward from Crawford wouldn't stand a chance against young Katherine Close, but this latest bit of psychotic decompensation tells us a lot about where this administration lies on the credibility continuum, and how close we really are to ridding ourselves of them.

Never mind that some 60% of Americans are against a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage. Never mind that our military is being branded as a band of lawless murderers by the so-called President of the nation we were supposed to be liberating. Never mind that another Abu Ghraib torturer got 90 days of KP and no jail time while his bosses, all the way to the very top (the ones who deserve indictment more than anyone) are skipping off scot-free. Never mind that Iraq's civil war continues apace, degenerating to new depths of murder and US-backed ethnic cleansing every day. Never mind that our economy is nearing the brink of another collapse from rising international debt, inflation, a falling dollar, and slackening employment figures.

Never mind any of that: let's just get those fagots in their place and America will be whole and healthy again.

Can this picture be any clearer? The time to move on impeachment is now; the time to destroy an ideology of tyranny and racism is now; the time to restore democracy (you know, the form of government that those gay Greeks invented and which is still held up as the model for American government in history classes today) is now.

But the time to wait for mewling Democrats to finally take action is long over with. Hillary: shut up, get out of the way; go burn a flag or something, and let some real leaders take over from here.

Friday Reflection: The War Prayer

For our Friday reflection, I'd like to hand the blog over to a voice that many of you will recognize, as a continuation on the theme of the dehumanization of the enemy that Terry McKenna touched upon yesterday.

First, however, a short, plain rant on my part. Have you noticed that right-wing media rags (such as the New York Post), not to mention Republican politicians, are climbing all over each other today in a furious response to the government's financial hosing of the big cities in their homeland security allotments?

Here's my question to them: where the fuck were you people when all the lies were told, all the geopolitical deceit and estrangement fomented, all the murders committed, all the torture and unlawful detainment perpetrated, all the corrupt, thieving, arrogant, contemptible acts of state passed as policy in the name of the citizens of the United States? And why does it take cash to light a fire under you? Why money? Doesn't the murder of tens of thousands of innocents move you? Doesn't a program of studied, profit-driven lies told at the highest levels of government make your guts burn? Doesn't a trail of tyranny and incompetence that has killed and impoverished untold numbers of people both here and around the world get your mojo working? Does it have to take an economic act of thievery and incompetence at a parochial level to make your blood boil and your mouths open in anger? What in the name of god is wrong with you people? Have you thus lost every grain of human feeling, that only money (or its absence) moves you?

That's it, I can vent no more. Mr. Twain*, could you please take over?

It was a time of great exulting and excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and sputtering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest depths of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles, beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener. It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast doubt upon its righteousness straight way got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety's sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

Sunday morning came – next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams – visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender! – then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation:

"God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest, Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!"

Then came the "long" prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory – An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher's side and stood there, waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, "Bless our arms, grant us victory, O Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!"

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside – which the startled minister did – and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:

"I come from the Throne – bearing a message from Almighty God!" The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. "He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import – that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of – except he pause and think.

"God's servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two – one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this – keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor's crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

"You have heard your servant's prayer – the uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it – that part which the pastor – and also you in your hearts – fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: 'Grant us victory, O Lord our God!' That is sufficient. The whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory – must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God the Father fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!

"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle – be Thou near them! With them – in spirit – we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with hurricanes of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it – for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen."

[After a pause.] "Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits."

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.

*Mark Twain, The War Prayer (1905)

Moyers on Journalism, McKenna on Haditha

We have another contribution from Terry McKenna today, on the topic of Haditha. But first I have a little assignment for you—and indeed, if I were a professor of journalism, it would literally be an assignment. I would put away my lecture notes for a class and do this instead. Click the link at the right to the video of Bill Moyers' recent speech to his colleagues at PBS. It will be one of the most important 50 minutes you've ever spent; and if it doesn't put a fire in your belly for the future of this nation, then maybe nothing will. I recommend you watch and listen to the fire in Mr. Moyers' eyes, the feeling in his heart and voice; but if you prefer reading it, the transcript is here.

And now, Terry McKenna on Haditha.

We’ve just learned about the savagery in Haditha, but why are we surprised? War unleashes our base emotions.  Thus, in every war, the enemy is likened to the lowest of the low.  In WW1, the Germans were portrayed as bloodthirsty Huns.  Two centuries earlier after the Jacobite rebellion was crushed, the victorious British decorated the roadway back to Scotland with the heads of the defeated Scottish warriors. 
 
It is a pity we don’t read mythology today.  It is also a pity that prose has replaced poetry, for only in poetry can we read a true description of anguish and loss.  Rather than poetry, we rely on modern history to attempt to understand war, but in our modern histories, war has lost both its glory and its brutality. 
 
What did we think would happen to our fine young men as they saw the head of a buddy turned into a mass of goo?  We had to know that they would strike out.  So far it is only in one place and with only a relative few victims, but Iraqis are now complaining that our soldiers kill with impunity.  Again, I’m not surprised. 
 
We pretend that modern war is clean and that our smart weapons remove the risk of pointless carnage.  But it’s not so.  The smart weapons were never as smart as they were made to seem.  And in the end, war requires gutsy young men to go out and face danger.  (And yes, I’m emphasizing men.  For however much women are a part of modern war, they still can’t carry the weight of a full pack and a heavy rifle – and maybe they are not quite as foolhardy as you need to be to become the cannon fodder that the gods of war require.)
 
The ancients prepared themselves for battle by singing chants and by taking strong drink.  The ancient Norsemen loved combat, and envisioned wild warriors known as berserkers who fought without fear or pain.  The berserkers went gloriously and naked into battle.  Modern historians – who look for the true story behind the myth, believe that these furious fighters were armed with mead (an ancient alcoholic beverage) fortified with a hallucinogen.
 
The American Indians also prepared themselves by chanting their war chants and by smoking hallucinogens such as peyote.  They needed every bit of artificial courage to face an equally furious foe wielding a stone club.
 
Modern warfare began with the Greeks and Romans.  They developed tactics that allowed masses of not so brave men to fight effectively and with some protection.  But even so, personal valor was still required.  In the famous last stand at Thermopylae, King Leonidas led his Spartans to eternal glory as all of them died keeping the Persians at bay. 
 
So on to so called modern war.  The Americans have a well earned reputation (before Iraq) for the excellent treatment of civilians and prisoners of war.  Still, in WW2, a number of Germans were slaughtered rather than kept as prisoners – usually for convenience.  And in the Pacific, the rumor is that some of the Japanese who surrendered were slaughtered – this time out of vengeance for Japanese atrocities.  It’s all been covered over, and nearly impossible to prove now – but the story has the ring of truth. 
 
The ancients understood man’s foibles too.  They ancient story of Pandora’s box is a tempting analogy for the Iraq war.  In the fable, Pandora unleashes forces that cannot be contained.  The ancients would have understood Iraq quite well.

—T. McKenna