I Can't See What You See

The impetus for this post would have at one point in my life done a couple of things that it no longer does, namely made me angry and/or depressed about the world that I see, when I look around. I don’t get mad or depressed, nor am I numb. I just realize that I can only work on myself, and hopefully, from that example, if I affect just one other person, just one, then maybe like a pebble in the water that can spread over the ocean of humanity.

I recently had a conversation about Nietzsche with a friend of mine, regarding a few misconceptions of his ideas, most prominently the idea of the Übermensch, sometimes translated as the Superman, though more literally, the Overman.

Nietzsche’s idea was that we could evolve within our own lifetimes, but not necessarily physically as was mistakenly interpreted by the Nazis and their eu-genetics programs (we have them too, it’s called honors housing at universities...), but mentally, spiritually, and emotionally. Nietzsche looked around the world and what he saw was Human, all too Human. He believed that humans were capable of great things, so why do we keep doing the things we do. I wonder the same question.

I myself have accepted my “human” limitations, but, when I did, I actually became stronger, which I now see was Nietzsche’s point (it is Nietzsche after all who originally said, "what doesn't kill us, makes us stronger). To realize that we are “human, all too human” is not a concession, but a celebration because we, as humans, can do great things. We are and can be amazing, but there is much work to be done. Do I believe that humans will ever evolve to be the spiritually and philosophically advanced race that Nietzsche spoke of?

In a word. No. And, ultimately neither did he.

But, to quote my friend, “The world is fucked up and only by focusing inwardly on whom we are, creating peace on the inside and radiating that love and peace can we make a difference in this world.”

The world is indeed fucked up. Don’t kid yourself. 

Women who are raped in Afghanistan are sent to prison or murdered as the guilty party.

The world is melting, fast. No matter how far you stick your head in the ground, an ostrich point of view will not change that if we don’t change our ways, even if it is partially precipitated by a nature cycle in the Earth, it is also partially triggered by us.

In Belgium yesterday, someone who had it in for “the whole world” killed himself and three others, wounding over 100 people with grenades at a public bus station in Liège.

A video of an enlisted US army soldier shows him beating a goat to death with an aluminum softball bat, while Afghanistan teenage boys and his unit cheer him on.

WTF people? Really.

I can't see what you see...

Make a change from within, it’s our only true hope.

You Go, Girl

The so-called God Particle, or the Higgs Boson may have made an appearance at CERN, the Large Hadron Collider that has been the Holy Grail for the Standard Model of the Universe for Modern Physics of the past 50 years.

Questions?

Let Alpinekat break it down for you then...saw this first a couple of years ago...and who said that nerds can't be fun??

Kick it.

Something More than Mockery

I was recently reminded of The Cure's breakthrough 1989 CD "Disintegration" and have been listening to it quite a bit lately.

When I lived in Austin some 20 years ago, there were a couple of times that I lived alone during my student years. One of them was quasi-alone as I lived in an attic apartment above the house that my sister and her friend rented. However, for all intents and purposes, I was living alone.

It was a heady time, thinking that I had become a man. Silly Rabbit, Tricks are for kids, and that was one trick that I had been playing upon myself. I was no Man, merely a large kid. In the interim, I believe that I have in fact become a "man" and have learned to live life on life's terms, but that comes at a great price, namely a sacrifice of one's Ego upon the chopping block of Humility. Anything short of that won't do, it is nothing more than a mockery, a travesty of life's greatest gifts of love, forgiveness, and trust.

I used to listen to Disintegration in my attic abode, and like the Dude, I tried to abide, and for the most part I did. It was the year that I read more books than I have since, and perhaps will. It was a year of living dangerously, and of just living. I think that that year shaped much of the things to come about who I was to be, for better and for worse. Good habits as well as bad grew from that year, and while I have shed the bad, I have re-embraced the good ones. Though, as I believe, the relative perspective of what is good and bad on a small scale, and even on a big one, is like the ebb and flow of the tidal pools that are so rich in diversity amidst the maelstroms of the storms around them.

I once had a great sound system, one that could blow my then longish hair back like the Maxell Tape Dude from the commercial (for you young 'uns, that was big, and was pre-Family Guy), and I would sit in my couch and turn up Disintegration til the knob reached "11" and be taken away somewhere else.  Thinking back, it was the "opening song", "Closedown" that was perhaps the first time that I achieved something like "meditation" by sound. I remember listening to that song, over and over, on repeat, maybe up to twenty times before listening to the rest of the CD. It moved me.

That CD is one of the most influential compilations of music in my life to date, and it has not lost its power over me one bit as I now listen to it again, this time, alone, but in a new apartment after having been in my "own house" for nearly two decades. This time, however, I am in fact a "man," and have lived many lifetimes in the meanwhile.

Music transports us to other Places, other Times. Lyrics can bring us to tears, or to bliss. To dis-integrate one's life is to break it down into the pieces, like a smashed vase, and not to try and re-build the vase, but to sit on the floor and to look at each piece carefully, full of care, and to appreciate how beautifully complex our lives are, how vastly unique, yet somehow intertwined in the chaotic scrambling.

When I listen to Disintegration, I realize that my life has dis-integrated on some levels, yet, on others, has been re-integrated. Where there is a sundering, there is a reconciliation, so it goes...

And, of course, the Maxell Tape Commercial....

Childhood's End

I have been puzzling this past weekend, which in large part explains the dearth of posts on my blogs of recent.

Puzzling is meditation for me and is a way for me to sift through the pieces of my allegorical life as well as my physical, literal one. It gives me a moment of solitude, which to the outside world appears trifled and mere play. Child’s play. Real men don’t do puzzles. They watch sports and burp and fart in public, because they are real men.

A puzzle for me, and when I speak of puzzles I am now speaking of jigsaw puzzles, though I love nearly all kinds, makes one stop and see the trees for the forest, for in our big, modern world, we are so worried about not be able to see the forest for the trees. A turn of phrase often yields a turn of the view.

We are so busy trying to see the forest, that it is even easier to lose sight of the trees than vice versa, the condition of so much angst for some. I saw a big forest of people and things in India, but it served me of no use if I lost sight of the trees. Losing sight o the individual leaves one calloused to empathy and compassion. It’s easy to fell a swath of trees with one stroke if you do not know which ones are affected.

One of my favorite books is Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, which comes as no surprise to those who know me, but it is one that sticks with you, and teaches you likewise to become unstuck.

Quality.

That words haunts the book and the mental well-being of the author/narrator Robert Pirsig. It was a life struggle parlayed into fiction that he nearly lost his mind contemplating the dilemma of Quality.

A tree has Quality, a forest, Quantity. A puzzle has a picture, but the pieces are unique.

One of the CDs that I was listening to while puzzling was Pink Floyd’s “Obscured by the Clouds,” which in essence was a soundtrack for the underground film “The Valley.” Pink Floyd’s album, “The Dark Side of The Moon” is considered one of the perennial best albums ever made and expected to ever be made by many. It was when Roger Waters firmly took the helm of the band, leaving a bewildered in his own fog of confusion Syd Barrett to fade into blackened obscurity and delusion.

Waters in his own right is a musical genius, make no mistake. However, listening to “Obscured by the Clouds” again after several years, it was rather interesting. I listened to it without thinking of Pink Floyd post-Dark Side, but rather as a stand-alone CD in its own right. It was pretty amazing. I had always enjoyed it, but like one enjoys a light comedy after a hard week of work, not as a “serious” piece of Floyd, mind you.

All of that changed this weekend when I was listening to the CD, not as a piece of Pink Floyd, but just on its own, a tree that makes up the forest. As a stand-alone piece of Quality, not lost in the mass-produced Quantity.

Though we may feel that it is overly important to view the forest, the sun itself can be obscured by the clouds, but for want of trees, there is no forest, and for want of clouds, no reason to notice the absence of the sun.

Mad, Mad World

OK, got Entanglement , Time, and dark humor on the brain.

Donnie Darko pretty much sums up all of those ideas for me in one of, in my opinion least, the most creative and poignant explorations in the question of "what if I could go back in Time and change..."

I remember watching this movie on my laptop while living in Castiglion Fiorentino where I was teaching a course called, "Portrait of the Student in Exile," and based on the conversations that we had in class, several of the students told me, this is Donnie Darko! I had not seen the movie yet, but one of the students had a copy and lent it to me.

I remember very well watching in with no expectations, and when it finished, with tears in my eyes , I immediately pressed play and watched it through again without a break.

Bells Toll.

Rush’s Signals is an oft-maligned piece, which left many people to either become new Rush fans, or for other to leave the fold. It was not without its diatribes of musical pundits bantering back and forth about what this meant for the future of Rush, much like Van Halen’s 1984, causing a similar rift amongst die-hards. Considering I ended up mainly listening to the older Rush, for me it was a bit of a harbinger of things to come. However, I also stopped listening to Dokken, Vandenberg, and Whitesnake around the same time, so that does not mean much as I still listen to Rush, but unless startled by VH1, none of the latter. Neither here, nor there, sort of.

Signals was the end of a Rush era, things did change.  This song haunted me throughout high school though. Being known as “the Swimmer,” I knew that there would be a day when I would “lose it,” and no longer be the fastest. It terrified me.

That day did happen, and it was hard, very hard.

This song did capture that feeling quite well. I recently thought of it though in a different light, actually in the opposite way. What happens if you do lose it, if you lose nearly everything that you thought was “you,” what happens then? How will you react? Those are the questions that temper the meddle that we are made of, the ones that determine how that sun will rise again tomorrow.

Losing It

The dancer slows her frantic pace

In pain and desperation,

Her aching limbs and downcast face

Aglow with perspiration

Stiff as wire, her lungs on fire,

With just the briefest pause

The flooding through her memory,

The echoes of old applause.

She limps across the floor

And closes her bedroom door...

The writer stares with glassy eyes

Defies the empty page

His beard is white, his face is lined

And streaked with tears of rage.

Thirty years ago, how the words would flow

With passion and precision,

But now his mind is dark and dulled

By sickness and indecision

And he stares out the kitchen door

Where the sun will rise no more...

Some are born to move the world

To live their fantasies

But most of us just dream about

The things we'd like to be

Sadder still to watch it die

Than never to have known it

For you, the blind who once could see

The bell tolls for thee...

lyrics by Neil Peart of Rush

The Funeral

This past Friday was Armistice Day, or Wapenstilstand here in Belgium. This day always makes me think of my father, and his father. Both were military, and both are dead.

My father had a very difficult relationship with his father, and I inherited that legacy, having a rather strained relationship with him. I maybe saw my grandfather a half a dozen times, at least that I remember, so I don’t know if I would have had such a relationship with him as well. It is a non question.

My father lived in a world of intense Fear, and he ultimately drank because of it. He was a surgeon in the Vietnam War, and most likely, he never got over it, nor was he able to fully deal with the fears that that period of time instilled in him.

Although an insanely gifted thoracic surgeon and professor of surgery, my father was plagued with insecurity as a result of his fears. He would never be good enough in his eyes, and he punished those around him, often unwittingly, as a result of that fear. It had paralyzed him at a certain point in his life and he was never able to get unstuck.

He had great periods of luminosity and brilliance. At his funeral, there were hundreds of people to pay respect to a man whom each of them knew differently. Some knew him because of his job as a surgeon, others knew him because of his passion as a Grand National racecar driver and mechanic, and still others knew him because of his drinking, for better or for worse. But, they all loved him. As did I. My final conversation, though nearly a year before he died, was in a dingy phone office in Castiglion Fiorentino I remember it well. Funny how sometimes we know that that will be the last time we talk to someone.

He was a tragic Faulkneresque man who carried on his back a heavy burden of guilt and self-loathing, something I inherited from him for a while as well, but have since thankfully shed over the years. He was god-plagued, booze-plagued, and fear-plagued...and, he was the American Dream.

This video has always reminded me of him. He did not die behind the wheel, though that in itself is a bit of a miracle, but this was a part of him that I remember all too well. He loved his dogs, and he loved his scotch, he could relate to them better than he could to people. It was not all that he was, by any means, he was a great many in many respects, but seldom do we know the full picture of anyone in our lives, no matter how close we are too them.

I hope that he is resting in Peace at last though, without Fear.

A Return to Self

Ludwig Van Beethoven was probably not much fun to be around. He was cantankerous and abusive, obsessive and possessive, but what would this world (at least mine, for that is all I can speak of) be without his music. For me, there would be a gaping hole, one that I would be aware of, without quite knowing what it was that was missing, but would feel it all the same.

Gary Oldman’s articulation of the troubled Maestro is nothing short of inspired in my eyes. Like Antony Quinn’s Zorba, I have a hard time imagining anyone else playing the role of Beethoven after watching this film several times over the years. For me, he nails it.

Beethoven lost the support and belief of nearly everyone in his life. Falling from quite great heights, he was pissing himself drunk in the gutter after the gargantuan successes of his earlier works. The Ninth Symphony was doomed for failure. A silly, simple little tune from a dawdling has-been drunk. The world was sure to get the last laugh on this belligerent fool. He did not play by the rules, and therefore he should pay.

However, that was not to be. Beethoven had one last work in him that he had to set free, it was a return to the Self. And, when an Artist returns to the Source, to the Self, the waves of indifference and mockery are of paltry effect. To conquer the inner turmoil and demons that one has can provide strength that leaves others wondering, “what happened?”

Beethoven was just such an example, and I am grateful that I can come back to my apartment and listen to the works of a true genius, one who beat the odds and who came back from the veritable grave, beyond expectation, and beyond the droning criticism of those who lack the ability to acknowledge, let alone accept, that down is not necessarily out.

Miles From Nowhere

I know that my life would be none the poorer had I not seen the Taj Mahal, but had I never experienced the music of Cat Stevens, I do believe that I would be deficit in my Soul.

I love all music, I believe that much is clear from this blog. There are very few types that I do not like. Being in India I have been exposed to a whole new world of music, whether it be the videos of Bollywood or the music of the horns on the busy streets.

Music is so crucial to my life, that I cannot imagine a world without it. It would not be life for me.

Wherever I go, Cat is always there in the background, bouncing off the walls of my head. Sitting here in my hotel room in Varanasi, preparing to pack and to take the cab to the airport, Cat is on my mind.

I am miles from nowhere. I am literally half the way around the world from where I was born, where I was surrounded by another group of “Indians” at the Indian Hospital in New Mexico, where there too, I was the only white baby, not too easy to swap kids that day.

I am miles away from my daughter, whom I will see in 48 hours or so, a thought that I have kept at bay as to not be overwhelmed in the meantime. I am miles away from friends and family.

And, yet, I am not. I have also re-connected with some of the most important people in my life while here, via these blogs and email, and have made new friends, and solidified existing friendships. So, although I am indeed “miles from nowhere,” I have never been closer to many in my life, and for that I am grateful.

You Are a Dead Man

Without a doubt, my favorite characters from my favorite movie, William Blake and Nobody from Jim Jarmusch's "Dead Man."

I Want More

The Four Noble Truths of the Buddha paraphrased, state:

1. Suffering is a integral part of Life
2. Suffering is caused by the attachment to Desire
3. Suffering ceases when this attachment to Desire ceases
4. The Eight-fold Path of right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration is the means to the end of Suffering.

Maxi Jazz, a Soka Gakkai Buddhist, and frontman of the band Faithless, has taught me a great deal over the years through his lyrics.

I was reminded of them when I woke up today.

An American Boy in Benares

Not quite what Estelle had in mind when she sang about an "American Boy," but it is in essence who I am at the heart of the matter.

There have been times that I have wished perhaps this was not true, but over the years, and with the more travel that I do, there could be worse things to be, much worse.

Being in Varanasi, formerly known as Benares to the Americans and British, I am staying in a hotel that is adjacent to the Varanasi Mall, sporting the first Pizza Hut and the second McDonald's that I have seen in India, the first being on the road from New Dehli to Agra, go figure.

As the mall is a bit out, I did not feel like taking a rickshaw to the center for lunch, so was hoping to find a general store in the mall. Not opting for Pizza Hut nor McDonald's I entered the mall, only to hear Estelle and Kanye West booming down on me from the loudspeaker. I have almost ceased to be amazed at the timing, irony, and  wonder of coincidences in India, but this one did make me smile.

I have enjoyed this song since it came out a few years ago, notwithstanding that I find Estelle smoking in this video, and looking rather Indian with her eye make-up, but this timing was quite funny. It was the first time that I have stepped into a "western" type establishment in India. Perhaps the only thing more awkward that white people trying to look Indian in India is Indians trying to be completely western. In the first place, nothing is finished in India, and the mall was no exception as half of the top two stories were not and probably never will be finished. All of the ceiling lights were out or broken, or never installed. Indians in traditional dress were hanging out being "mall rats." As I said, awkward. Americans know how to do malls and how to walk the walk in them.

Having finished a surprisingly good shahi paneer and dal, I was reminded of Dobie Mall in Austin, Texas, where I used to eat surprisingly good Indian food for lunch often during one of my several jobs at the University of Texas and during graduate school.

I am using Varanasi as a bit of a weigh station, a buffer zone between the India of my past couple of months and the Belgium that I will be heading back to as an American. The mall seemed to do just that.

Breakfast with Taj Mahal

Woke up this morning in Agra, Uttar Pradesh, having visited the Taj Mahal yesterday. I could see the Taj from the balcony of the hotel's breakfast veranda. And, yes, that is smog, not my camera. The amount of added pollution from the fireworks for Diwali is staggering.

I will save my comments for a full posting on the Taj Mahal for tomorrow with many more pictures, but I was reminded of the other Taj Mahal, namely the amazing guitarist, who along with John Lee Hooker and Miles Davis scored the soundtrack for Dennis Hopper's film noiresque "The Hot Spot".

I already miss the South of India for many reasons. There is an attitude down there and a feeling of life that is not found here in the North, or at least, I have yet to feel it.

Like the movie, it is a different pace (frenetic as well, but differently), a different style, something different. Can't put a finger on it yet, but the wheels are turning...

In the meantime, my favorite piece from the soundtrack...

A Farewell To Kings

Growing up in the mid-80’s as a decently educated white male in America, it is not too surprising that Rush would have come across my radar screen to some extent. For a while, at least, I was the self-proclaimed “biggest fan” in Amarillo, listening endlessly to Moving Pictures, Hemispheres, Permanent Waves, and 2112, Anthology, and Exit, Stage Left  down in my basement room on my dad’s old record player that he had left many years before. Geddy, Alex, and Neil were my solace. Like the narrator of 2112, I had found this strange, new thing that gave music, and for a Time, that discovery, which would define a great deal of my teenage musical inclinations, was Rush.

Perhaps the most important to me, however, was A Farewell To Kings. And, for all intents and purposes, it still is. Yet, it is with bittersweet fondness and regret that I listen to the title track. It is a memory of losing my greatest childhood friend. By losing, I don’t mean that she died, but that we lost track of each other during a transitional phase in each of our lives, and unfortunately, the thread was never regained, despite my attempted efforts to do so.

Teresita and I never lived in the same city or town, never dated, never even kissed, but there was a deep love and respect for each other’s plight in the sea of teenage angst. We wrote hundreds of letters over the years, having met at a swim meet in Odessa when I was 13, and she 15. For about a decade, we shared every triumph and every defeat in our lives, each dream and hope, whether fantasies in life to be unrequited, or sincere desires or expectations to be fulfilled.

Our common joke was that should life got too tough and “the dragons grow too mighty, to slay with pen or sword,” we would go start a pineapple farm on some deserted tropical island. Life did get pretty tough for me at times, and I often thought about that pineapple farm and whether Teresita had found her respite in the turmoil that our lives can throw at us. I know that she had some very difficult times, and for many of them, I was her only ear willing to listen, if only per letters, or by phone when possible. This, of course, was pre-cell phone and regular email contact, and a phone call used to take concerted planning and was a thing of expectation, rather than mere commonplace. It was the means to a deep, caring conversation that we held for those many formative years.

I am saddened at writing this, in all honesty, for of all my life, I believe that over the years, in spite of hardships and difficult times, I have been able to recover or at least make the attempt to redeem lost friendships of those whom I had valued so dearly, except for Teresita, a dear and respected friend.

Thinking of “Kings,” it was not unexpected to me that the memory of her came to my mind, and this song.

Given this, I can say that this is one of my one regrets in life, that I let this friendship slip away...and, throwing it out to the cosmos, I have learned the hard way not to take such precious gifts of friendship for granted.

For a good friend, I wish you the best.

No New Tale to Tell

Blah, Blah, Blah

Funny how mentioning Krishnamurti seems to raise people's ire and suspicion. And, somehow, when one mentions that he or she likes Krishnamurti, suddenly that person does not believe in beliefs, scriptures, or even Truth. I was questioned by more than one school administrator for using him in classrooms, though never asked why, or how.

Wow. Could not be further from the Truth.

As for me, and I can only speak for myself, as it does not matter what others have said before me, or for that matter after me, I alone can be responsible for saying what I do or do not "believe" in.

I love words. They are my life. I cherish and value them like good friends. I am grateful for the writers, prophets, both false and true, who came before me to provide me with good material to read and to contemplate.

But, in the end, when the day is done, what have we said, what have we gained, what have we dared to loose if it is merely  words, words, words?

I believe in many things. I believe the world is as it should be, for it is the best of all possible worlds. I believe in love, laughter, pain, sorrow, loss, anger, fear, and every other human emotion. But, why write? Why blog? Why do we do it?

Do we have a new tale to tell?

No New Tale to Tell

OR

Is it All in My Mind? 

Watching the Wheels in the Dark

This evening in Madurai, we had the most spectacular Thunderstorm and torrential downpour. The monsoon season has been late in coming to Southern India, and perhaps this was the harbinger of the fall rains. In any event, it was pretty dramatic.

About half-way into the light show, the power went out, which is not too surprising since the power goes out for various reasons about once a day here. But, this was obviously storm related.

Sitting in the dark, with the flashes of lightning illuminating the interior of the flat as well as the banana trees outside, it was quite a performance.

I was reminded of our old house in Austin which had a very special room in the back. With 9 or so 1930's style single-pane windows, one of Austin's thunderstorms could be quite entertaining, if not eerie. The first few years there we had banana trees as well in the back and I remember watching from that room several highly electrical storms that had likewise knocked out the power. Tonight's ghostly images of the banana trees flashed those images from Austin through my head as well.

While sitting on the bed, wondering when or if the electricity would come back on for the evening, I was also reminded of John Lennon's Watching the Wheels Go Round, a song that has resonated in my head quite often throughout my life. Sometimes, we really can't do much, but just sit and watch, as was the case tonight.

And, sometimes, that is just as it should be...

Thank You Terror

Although dear Alanis forever altered the word of "ironic" in our vocabulary in a very bad way, I have been a great admirer of her work for many years. She is daring, introspective, challenging, and above all an excellent singer and musician.

This song speaks directly to my situation here in India. I, too, have the feeling to say, "thank you India" for what I have already experienced in less than a month's time. It has been a maturing process and reality check that no books could have ever taught me, nor any surrogate experience of another's. It has been personal and life-altering.

However, given today's thoughts, I think the line, "thank you Terror" is no less appropriate. By no means do I want terror in our world, but it is there. There is no wishing it away, and how do you respond. I have written today about how a very special group of students responded ten years ago to the events of 9/11 as well as I how felt at times being in the Bologna Train Station, another site of a terrorist act.

Like Alanis, humanity is stripped down naked, exposed, vulnerable in times of attack. Throughout history, over Time and Space, no people has been excepted from this lot that humans seem to draw for themselves. Paralysis is one answer, creation another. I prefer the latter.

Thank you, Alanis.

If God Were a DJ

DJ Cheb i Sabbah is most likely my favorite "DJ" alongside Moby, though many purists would contend that they are no longer DJ's.

I used to play this CD whenever I taught Yoga as it has some very good ups and downs, slow meditative parts and then more intense tracks, including one that I used to use for the infamous Camels.

Here is most likely the most commercial track, but gives you a good feel for his style and range.

Enjoy.

System's Down

Well, today's Tak-Tak ride to school was rather hectic, so I thought that if I had had a soundtrack to it, it might have been something like System of a Down's "Chop Suey." These Armenians know how to kick it. Might need to use this if I make a video of what it is like to cross a street in Madurai during Rush Hour. You will have to see it to believe it...hope I can pull off a semblance of verity.

On the Road Again

Saw a young man who looked like the young Cat Stevens today, and it reminded me once again about how much his music, both as Cat and as Yusuf has been an integral part of my life.

The "Roadsinger" album came out during a very difficult year for me and I would often watch this video over and over, just trying to get some grounding on my life. It was quite effective and I was working at a place where others where having a difficult time because of the external circumstances at play. I sent this out to the school that I was working at and which was experiencing major staff cuts and quite a bit of bad blood.

Roadsinger

I had many, many people tell me how much this song helped them at such a difficult juncture in life, regardless of what each person's own issue at hand was.

Though rather melancholic, it is important to see the second video that goes along with the "Roadsinger." You can see the "alter ego" of Yusuf going to Cat whenever he is wearing sunglasses.

And, the second part to this road trip...

In-Flight Entertainment

Recently I flew from Mumbai to Madurai on Kingfisher airlines. It is a relatively new company on the international market, but for sure it got my thumbs up. My flight from Mumbai to my connection in Bangalore was delayed due to some heavy rains that Mumbai has been having, and it so happened that my flight to Madurai was bumped up the day before, so when I landed I had fifteen minutes to exit my plane, go back through security, only to find the gate closed. But, the incredibly helpful and friendly Kingfisher staff got me on a staff vehicle and drove me out to the plane on the tarmac (it was a prop plane, so had to be boarded by stairs) and got me on in time. Moreover, when I got to Madurai, my baggage was there. I was pretty impressed.

But, what I really got from this trip was more exposure to Indian music on the in-flight entertainment. After watching Family Guy, which I was very surprised was part of the programming, Coke Studio came on with several clips featuring the Wadali brothers and various guest artists.

I loved this one. Just wanted to share.

Phone Home?

Walking through the darkened back streets of Madurai to get to the Internet Cafe as it gets dark around 6 pm here and sun rises at 6 am as we are nearly at the Equator and many streets don't have lights, I was "accosted" by a group of young children who live on the street I am staying at. There were probably all between ages of 7 and 10 or so, playing barefoot in the trash-littered streets with no abandon.

First one of them came up, then within minutes, I was surrounded by little dark faces with smiling eyes, asking me "where from?" "Countries?" "What occupation?" and whether I was going to the Gandhi museum in Madurai and numerous other things, all at once. Luckily I have taught Italians in Italy who also all talk at once, so I was semi-prepared for the onslaught of questions. They kept this up for ten minutes or so, but I assured them that I would be here for a while, so they left me to go back to their playing, laughing and speaking again in Tamil with each other, surely about the strange, white guy walking in the dark.

It reminded me of this scene from Bernardo Bertolucci's Little Buddha in which the young American boy, Jessie, has just arrived in Katmandu and has an unexpected "tour" of its backstreets, similar to my trip to the slums of Mumbai (though watching this again, the slums were much, much, poorer than this). Later, he and his dad try to phone home, with limited success as has been my experience so far with coodinating emails. However, I was speaking with Pradeep, my host, about how strange all of this world traveling must have been when you could only send letters that would take weeks or months to receive, and you would never know if they actually had been received. One of the modern conveniences of the Internet and mobile phones (which I have yet to get, much to the chagrin of a few people, but I will!) that we so readily take for granted.

Like Jessie, and Dorothy, I know that I am not in Kansas any more, however, and will make do with what I can in the meantime. As well as serve for the evening entertainment of my new, curious little friends.

Reunion

Yesterday I was reminded of an extraordinary memory that I have from my time here living in Antwerp, Belgium.

Last year on this weekend, there was a weekend-long street theater performance by the Nantes-based French company Royal De Luxe, whose specialty is enormous marionettes, most notably The Sultan's Elephant, The Little Giant, and the Diver. These three characters have been used in a couple of RdL's performances, and last summer, as part of Antwerp's city summer programming, RdL put together "De Duiker, Zijn Hand en de Kleine Reuzin" (The Diver, His Hand and the Little Giant(ess). The story was a nod to the legend of Brabo and Antigoon, a type of David and Goliath feel-good story and the folk etymological origin of Antwerpen's name.

The basic premise was that the Little Giant is shipwrecked in Antwerp and she is in search of her uncle, The Diver, who has been raised out of Antwerp Harbor and is likewise searching the city for his lost niece. The city took an incredibly proactive stance on this performance in collaboration with the newspapers and city branding program, making it a true "Antwerp" event. It is reported that nearly a million people took part in the various acts throughout the weekend, the largest street performance ever.

We followed the Little Giant and the Diver for the entire weekend, seeing them in various venues ranging from the St. Jansplein, the Quays, the newly-created green space of Park Spoor Nord, (where there was a huge citywide picnic while the giants "rested" in the Park), and finally when they departed in the Little Giant's boat from London Bridge at the base of Antwerp's dominating harbor leading out to the Scheldt and to the North Sea.

What struck me the most was how incredibly attached to these characters I became in a matter of hours. By the second day I was really torn up inside that they had not found each other and felt bad that they were wandering around the city in vain. Now, that is serious performance! To make the audience care about puppets the size of four-story townhouse and weighing several tons of wood, steel, and cables and to actually become emotional about them. There was nary a dry eye when the two actually did meet in the St. Jansplein at twilight and gave each other a hug.

In the video below, you can see that meeting, but realize that there was months of build-up before this and then a day and a half of teasers of them meeting. But, when it actually happened, well, I just got goosebumps writing this, it was magical. Then, as you see, the Little Giant was so happy to find her uncle that she does an amazing little jig. So amazing that you nearly forget that there are over a dozen Lilliputian workers helping her to do this! The supporting cast was huge, but it was truly stunning how easy it was to become completely absorbed by the Diver and the Little Giant and actually believe that these helpers were really helping living creatures.

If you ever get a chance to see one of Royal De Luxe's street performances, do it. Don't even hesitate. But, they only choose about seven cities around the world, and apparently Antwerp is one of their favorites because of the enormous support that they get from the people who live here. I know that I will make sure that I have absolutely nothing planned the next time the Giants come to town.

Here they are at the citywide picnic at Park Spoor Noord and then leaving from London Bridge out to the Scheldt.

Zero, My Hero

As part of my crusade to bring back Schoolhouse Rock! to every kid in America and beyond, I figured I should at least post one, right?

These videos appeared on TV during my childhood as mini infomercials, and I can honestly say that this was one of the fondest memories I have with regards to my informal education. Catchy tunes, spiffy graphics, politically conscious and culturally aware (for the most part, at least), these three-minute clips literally changed my life.

I re-discovered the availability of SHR when I had a child of my own and I searched via Youtube to find them on-line. For the most part, you can find all of them. However, when I broke down to get an iPad (not just so that my daughter and I can play Angry Birds, well, sort of), I downloaded the thirty-volume set for my daughter and she now knows most of them by heart as well.

I seem to have an aphasia of sorts when it comes to remembering song lyrics, ask anyone who knows me well, I can tell you the name of the artist, record company, album, what the album (yes, I still harken back to the Dark Ages of vinyl in my speech) cover looked like, the band's history, the band's dog's name, their first cousin's name, the dog's first cousin's name, and so on, but I can't usually re-produce lyrics to save my life. I can name that tune in 2 notes, but asked to finish the lyric, I draw a blank. Don't know why, but it is cross that I have to bear because I love music.

HOWEVER, I can remember most of SHR lyrics after 30 years!! Go Figure. They are genius, writ large.

I used SHR when I was teaching adults ESL in Antwerp last year, and I cannot begin to explain the mirth I felt when I came in and heard a Colombian, South Korean, and Maldavian humming "Unpack Your Adjectives." If that doesn't make a teacher smile, I don't know what will.

Well, thinking about my upcoming journey to India, and as a nod to Indian mathematicians who brought us our numbering system and integrated (yes, pun very much intended) the zero into our consciousness, here is one of my favorites on the importance of being no-thing:

Zero, you are my Hero!

Take on Me

Sitting in the coffee shop this morning, again...I heard a re-make of the classic A-ha song, "Take on Me," and of course anyone my age will immediately think of the unforgettable video for that song. It was a true harbinger of the future of MTV, at least for the better part of the 1980's. Being back in Amarillo it is not uncommon to hear references to the likes of Rick Springfield or the Human League on a regular basis. So, hearing this cover (a very bad one) this morning made me smile.

However, this adaptation of the original Alice in Wonderland-esque through the storyboard version will make you laugh out loud...(ie, before LOL). I am glad that I had just gone to the bathroom or I might have PIMP'ed (figure it out).

For a good Laugh, watch and Enjoy!!!!

Take on Me

Looking for Space

Speaking with a good friend last evening, the topic of John Denver came up, an oft-maligned figure, quirky at best, but also a deeply troubled soul.

I love John Denver.

There it is, out to the cosmos.

I have my dad's old records in my apartment back in Antwerp, and a couple of years ago, for a gift, I received a turntable that can play LP's through the computer.

First thing I played was ol' JD. I have about a dozen of his old records, and it was amazing to hear his voice again on the cracklin' bacon sound of an LP.

I have a feeling that something akin to his own song, "Looking for Space" was going through his mind in the last moments that he lived on this Earth. Deeply melancholic at times and brilliantly playful with his Muppet appearances, and one of my favorite usages of song on a TV show, on Magnum P.I., John Denver was a bit of a "Twinkie" as my dad would say, but he was also a visionary.

"Poems, Prayers and Promises," a song that true lovers of Mr. Deutschendorf would agree, sums up the man and his music.

However, for now, Looking for Space, serves that purpose quite well for me.

May your spirit soar in peace, John.

And, for good measure:

Poems, Prayers and Promises, and the Muppets

Waiting for the End

I remember hearing this Linkin Park song last time I was in Santa Fe. I had just left a lecture at St. John's College on Leibniz's concept of the "best of all possible worlds" and had many thoughts going through my head.

I was in a major transition point in my life for a variety of factors and thoughts and I was fully realizing that many things were in motion in my life that I wasn't even aware of, but that were shaping my future.

Sitting under the incredible Santa Fe sky that evening, the thought of the "best of all possible worlds" truly began to make sense in life.

Waiting for the End

Cell Phone's Dead

When thinking about details today, I could not help but think of Michel Gondry and his music videos, most notably for me, at least, Beck's Cell Phone's Dead.

Not only because I am somewhat of a cell-phone ludite, inter alia, but also because I think that many times the director of the millions of videos out there is overlooked. In a day when any one of us can whip up a video with an iPad, the art of directing seems to be faded to black in a sense.

Gondry's work never ceases to intrigue me and I sometimes actually almost forget that there is a song in the background.

Here's a phone movie detail to notice. In an age of cell phone's isn't it funny that everyone still has an old-fashioned answering machine in the movies so that we can still hear the "beep" and the message? Check it out next time you see a movie.

Enjoy.

Cell Phone's Dead 

Slumdog

Teaching English and the Theory of Knowledge at the Antwerp International School in Antwerp, Belgium a couple of years ago, the movie Slumdog Millionaire came out and became a heated topic at the school for a variety of reasons.

The student body has a near-majority of wealthy Indian students, mostly hailing from Mumbai, and they come and go to Mumbai several times a year, often along with their parents who are all high-level players and owners in the diamond industry of cutting and trading.

When Slumdog came out, it was met with highly mixed reviews from the students. Some of them loved it as a movie about India had broke into the social consciousness of Belgium and the West, while others were extremely defensive about the movie, saying that "Mumbai and/or India is not like that!" To which others would respond in two ways, in agreement, or astonishment.

Apparently, as I will soon find out, you have to drive past kilometers of slums to get from the airport to the center. In other words, there is no way you could not see this part of Mumbai if you fly into it. I was reminded of living in Italy when President Bush came to visit Rome. Being chums with Berlisconi at the time, there was a massive, and I mean massive protest of over one million angry Italians lining the streets of Rome to protest the motorcade. What happened was rather spectacular. The Italian government finagled it so that Bush's motorcade was redirected and did not pass a single protest manifestation! Bush did not see a thing.

Similar to Forester's A Passage to India, Slumdog was made by a "white" guy. Like the more recent movie, Hangover 2, there has been a backlash of negative imaging by an outsider, India in the former, Bangkok/Thailand in the latter.

I personally thoroughly enjoyed the movie, but I will be interested to see what my reaction will be to it as I will soon be making that journey from the airport to Mumbai center.

I will let you know.

In the meantime, this video gives a good montage of the movie.

Slumdog Millionaire's Jai Ho

Ek Ladki Ko Dekha, A Love Song

One of the greatest things that a culture can produce, at least I believe so, is its own music. The music of a culture can reveal its collective soul at some level. Though this paints a rather broad stroke of a generalization, I maintain that the music is integral to a people.

I have long loved the Classical music of India, highlighted by the Sitar and Tabla, however, I am a huge fan of Dj i Cheb and am now beginning to move into the realm of Bollywood!

So, hurray for Bollywood today!

I bought a collection of Indian songs for our short road trip from Amarillo to Santa Fe yesterday, and this is by far my favorite from the anthology. My daughter asked me to play this at least ten times, so I think it is safe to say that she is pretty keen on it too. I promised her to learn the Hindi lyrics as well, so I better make good on that one.

I love the contrast of this with most contemporary love songs, very sweet.

Enjoy.

Ek Ladki Ko Dekha, A Love Song

Beauty in the Hurricane's Eye

Ultimately, I look for Beauty.

I like beautiful things, even when they are not beautiful. An absence of beauty has often been the key to finding the beautiful in my life.

Love and Rockets is a perennial favorite for me. An offshoot of Bauhaus when Peter Murphy, who moved to Turkey and pursued another dimension of his own music, leaving David J, Daniel Ash, and Kevin Haskins to create the legacy of the Bubble People. Both Love and Rockets and Peter Murphy have served as personal challenges to me as well, raising pertinent questions in my life, sometimes poetically in song, and sometimes with cacophony and chaos, much like Bauhaus's "Bela Lugosi's Dead." The Yin and Yang of sound.

Finding Beauty in the Hurricane's eye has helped me to weather the ensuing storm, when I have been most vulnerable.

May you find your own Beauty in the Eye.

Yin and Yang and the Flowerpot Man

I'm not on Facebook, but...

... if I still were to be on there and you would  have looked me up, this is the video that you would have found on my homepage. How about that for a subjunctive conditional of sorts?

This song sort of summed up a great deal for me when I was on Facebook, but don't expect to see me there any time soon.

So, sorry if you tried to look me up. Here I am.

Stay Tuned on Indra's Net.

Everybody's Changing

Millions and Millions of Fireflies

Once when we lived in Italy, our friend Marco (one of many named as such), took us for a drive through the colline outside of Bologna to eat at a local taverna in the hills.

At one point, he turned off the headlights of the car, and there indeed were 10,000 fireflies. Driving to the pool today, I hear this song again and my daughter for the first time. I could see her just imagine millions and millions of fireflies as she closed her eyes and listened.

If you have a child, play this for them.

10,000 Fireflies

Why India? The Host of Seraphim

When I was teaching in an in situ study-abroad program for American students in a small Tuscan town, Castiglione Fiorentino in Italy, I taught a course called, "A Portrait of the Student in Exile." In this class, we explored stereotypes of both North Americans (there was a Canadian in the group) and Italy and preconceptions of what it would be like to live in Italy as a North American. Throughout the semester, we talked about various preconceptions of other countries and the world in general.

One of my students, the Canadian in fact, told me about the Koyanisqaatsi series of movies that were visual documentaries of the worlds around us, for better or for worse.

After I watched those, I was reminded of Baraka, a movie I had seen many years before and which was a similar format. Whereas the former were completely scored by Phillip Glass, Baraka had a multi-artist soundtrack.

Watching the movie again recently, this segment sticks out most vividly for me. It is also a part of India that I know I will see. It is part of our world as well.

Host of Seraphim


The most striking thing about this video for me is at about 2:00 minutes and the look that the two little girls give the camera. Words fail me.

Everybody Hurts

I was lead to this video for a couple of reasons, one of which was the image of "Carmageddon" in Los Angeles. I saw the aerial view of the 405 empty, devoid of traffic, and thought, "that reminds me of something..." Then, later, driving in Amarillo, I was listening to the radio, and this song came on, so maybe someone else had that nagging thought in his or her head and decided to play this song.

I dislike driving short distances. Everyone, especially in Belgium, is cranky when driving. Lots of anger comes out through the horns. Or, like sitting in the tram in Brussels, it is like one big funeral. We are all slowly driving to our deaths, living in a dirge. Eliot in "The Waste Land" commented on people crossing the bridge, on the way to work,

Unreal City,	60
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

To avoid the dreaded, "Carmageddon," supposedly Angelinos found alternate ways to get to work. Wonder if they were happier?

What if, like at the end of the video, everyone just got out and walked one day, face to face...

Paper Planes

Touching down in Newark's Liberty airport is always an interesting feeling for me. I am back, here I am, in America. Sometimes this feeling is relief, sometimes with misgivings.

This time was reflective, but nice. Hot, but nice.

I Heart Newark, the airport at least. I have flown into Dallas, Houston, JFK, Dulles (now Reagan), Atlanta,  Chicago, and Newark for my port of entry to the US, and by far I enjoy coming into Newark the most, much to the chagrin of my sister who lives in Chicago, though it is not personal, I just like Newark the best. Something about the atmosphere in the Customs/Passport control that I just love. It is edgy with a smile.

I have never had to wait more than about 10 minutes to get through. It is efficient, with talkative and friendly agents, but with that edge that you can only get in the East Coast. There were many of us coming from various flights, being shuffled quite smoothly into about forty lanes with only a few people in line. Some of us jockeyed for a better position in a line other than the one assigned, sheepishly admitting, myself included as my daughter really had to go to the bathroom... One of the boisterous, large African American officers said to another woman next to me who had done the same jostling, and with a sardonic smile, laugh, half-mocking, half-welcome to the US, said, "oh, that line is a couple inches shorter, feels good doesn't it? Better you feel much better now." I had to smile at myself for being so impatient after having to be so patient already.

Standing there in line, I remembered M.I.A.'s "Paper Planes" for some reason. It became popular from "Slumdog Millionaire" and many of my students had it on their iPods at the International school I taught at in Antwerp, in addition to Harry Potter Puppet videos  to torture me with. M.I.A. is a Tamil native who made it big. Would love to catch her live sometime in India.

This video, though, is not from the movie, but clips of New York, with a cameo from Fulton Street if you look closely around 55 seconds in.

Enjoy!

Paper Planes

Like a Diamond Bullet

In my first teaching position at The University of Texas at Austin with the Plan II program, I was fortunate enough to work under Professor Tom Palaima, a man of many letters and who wears many hats. The course was the Myths of War and Violence, and focused on the "dark side" of what we can be as humans, specifically in the context of war. Brando's soliloquy is a haunting reminder of the fact that this too, is part of our lives. To turn a blind eye is to not fully be part of the human condition and that as humans, we are complicated, multifaceted, capable of great good and great evil at the same time.

Like a Diamond Bullet

Snape, Snape, Severus Snape

Had to do it, closure.

Went to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Pt. II in 3-D last evening and enjoyed it immensely.

It is phenomenal that this began from someone living out of a van. There was a preview for a movie with Jim Carrey, who also lived out of a van for a while. Sppoookkyy.

Now, for all of you purists out there, I have this to say. Nothing, really.

I went about Harry Potter the complete opposite way of nearly everyone else on the planet. In fact, after the movie, I may have had coffee with the last remaining soul in the universe who has not read at least one Harry Potter book. I saw the first one before reading the book, and well, then the snowball effect. I heard how different the movies were, etc., and I just didn't feel like getting into that whole spider's nest (yes, the giant spiders make an odd cameo), so I "opted out" and just watched the movies.

Now, the real purists probably just started a anti-Robert campaign...but, I will get to the books. I am usually the other way around, and in fact, I can only name a couple book-movie pairings that I did see the movie first, or if I did, I had no intention of reading the book and/or vice versa.

Perhaps the strongest example of seeing the movie first was Zorba the Greek. How can I not think about Anthony Quinn while reading Kazantzakis' book? Quinn channeled Zorba.

Ok, this is not about Zorba, well, kind of, everything in Indra' Net is related, but I digress.

So, saw the movie, talked to another Harry Potter lost soul (he had a good excuse, at least...), and since my friend is a former colleague of the Antwerp International School, where I taught for a while, why not have full circle?

One of my classes was a study skills class, which was pretty much like Mr. Kotter's class. OOOhh OOOhh Mista Fuull--toon. Sweathogs redux.

Loved these guys so much I could scream. Seriously, they had a knack for being able to simultaneously drive me up the wall and make me laugh really hard.

And, so we come to Severus Snape. This was my kryptonite and I made the mistake of letting them know. This little ditty about a Snape and Diane..., no, no Diane. But, this little ditty will stick in your head like the tar baby on Bre'r Rabbit. The more you try to get it out, the more it sticks. They were merciless with this. Whenever they could tell I was having a bad day at work, they would play it. How could I be upset, those little Sweathogs. Yo, Lloyd, Freddie, Michael, and Felix, hope this sticks in your head:

Snape, Snape, Severus Snape

I am going out to buy a van to go live in...

PS: Shouldn't Hogwarts have been called more like Ravenstein...

Cockles and Mussels, Alive, Alive, Hoo..ooo..

OK, I am making a confession here. I am secretly (ok, guess not anymore) in love with Sinead O'Connor. I love Sinead. I just want to cuddle that little ragamuffin like a little stuffed teddy bear.

Seriously.

I am pretty confident that I will not have the experience of hearing someone sing live as I have with Ms. O'Connor. I have now seen/heard her perform live three times, and that is not nearly enough. I don't know if I would ever get tired of listening to her. It is sometimes cliched I think to say, "I got goosebumps when I heard that." Well, I got goosebumps the first time I heard Sinead O'Connor sing live a cappella. We went to see her at The University of Texas at Austin in a rather small venue, so were not too far from the stage. She had a phenomenal band, but on a few songs, she came out alone and blew my mind.

Sinead is still, regrettably known for her stint nearly 20 years ago!!! of tearing the picture of the Pope on Saturday Night Live in 1992. That is not an exaggerated statement. The next day at work, still in complete euphoria from the music the night before, I went around trying to relate the experience. Without fail, everyone I talked to said, "Sinead? the one who tore the picture of the Pope?" Not kidding.

Now, for my part, when she did that stunt, I was "outraged." I wasn't even Catholic, but I remember thinking, "that stupid, uppity bald b***h, who the hell does she think she is." She was supposed to perform soon afterwards at UT in fact, where I was a student at the time, and she did not show. I remember having a wonderful sense of leedvermaak, (a fancy Dutch word I had just learned for schadenfreude), thinking, "ha, where's your hero now, you skin-headed lesbos." Yes, I probably said something that stupid. I was a moron.

Well, I have grown up some since, and hopefully matured a bit. In the meanwhile, I have become one of Sinead's biggest fans and (before today) secret admirers. I have seen many interviews with her and have pretty much every CD she has produced, and beyond everything, I have respect for her. She has suffered from mental illness (a form of bi-polarism) and addiction and had to live down that event on SNL that has literally haunted her now for two decades.

When I saw her come out on stage in Austin, I was speechless. She is tiny, dresses quite frumpily. She has the sweetest demeanor I have ever seen in a performer and a smile that will melt your heart in a second. And, she is morbidly SHY!! "This is Sinead???," I remember thinking.  And then, she sang.

And sang. And sang.

And, the audience went nuts. I went nuts. I myself was on-another-planet nuts.

Midway through the show, Sinead referred to her last trip to Austin, which was the time she did not show, and thanked the crowd for forgiving her.

If we had gone nuts before, that is when the house came down and she, if memory serves me well, went into a paroxysm of music and song with "Emperor's New Clothes" which was life-changing for everyone there. I was a fan for life from that evening on.

Since, I have seen Sinead at the outdoor stage at Antwerp's Rivierenhof and at a fantasy-like setting in Brussels' outdoor Abbey venue. Each time, I am just swept away to that other planet.

Here she is singing "Molly Malone"

Cockles & Mussels (Molly Malone)

Brava! Brava!

Go raibh míle míle maith agat.