The Sheila Variations

You know you're from Roe Dylin' if...

Just found this very funny list about Roe Dylindaz. (Rhode Islanders... to the uninitiated.)

Half of these I do exhibit, although I am now in exile from my homeland.

Check out this post I wrote a while back about getting directions from a Rhode Islander. In it I say: Rhode Island is the kind of state where you ask for directions, and this is what someone will tell you: "Okay, so you go down this street and you take a right where the A&P used to be ... then you stay on that road, and when you come to the end of it, take a left where the Bess Eaton used to be ... and what you're looking for is on Rt. 138 where that Tae Kwan Do studio used to be." Rhode Islanders give directions based on things that USED to be there.

Well, one of the items on this "You know you're from Rhode Island if..." list is:

You have used a demolished landmark such as ALMACS or Finast when giving directions.

Oh, I felt vindicated.

As I read the list, many many memories came to my mind:

-- You own garden tools from Job Lot. (I have a watering can that I bought at Job Lot in Wakefield. Of course I do. Job Lot's the best.)

-- Your first live concert was at The Civic Center or Rocky Point. (The first concert I ever went to was Huey Lewis at the Civic Center - which is NO LONGER CALLED THE CIVIC CENTER - but just so you know: everybody in RI still calls it the Civic Center, and will, until the sun rises no more.)

-- You still call the Rhode Island Mall the Midland Mall. (The RI Mall has not been "the Midland Mall" since I was in high school, many many years ago, but I still refer to it as "the Midland Mall" - and have to take a minute to remember the "new" name of it. "New" meaning something that is 20 years old.)

-- You know what a burger "The Newport Creamery Way" is. (Ah, Newport Creamery - which has very recently closed its doors. It's like a Friendly's, but much friendlier, and VERY Rhode Island. They sell huge chocolate shakes called Awful Awfuls. My friends and I spent more time at Newport Creamery than we ever spent in the hallowed halls of high school. Newport Creamery also put us under a spell, which I will call "The Laughing Spell". Any time we sat down to eat there, hilarity and hi-jinks ensued. So much so that we literally could not get ourselves together enough to order. The waitress would come over to our table, and we would collectively start howling with laughter. Another favorite Newport Creamery story is from my college years: a bitchy Newport Creamery waitress made the mistake of saying something bitchy to my already-very-bitchy friend Sue (I say that with love.) It became a bitch-fest, Rhode Island-style. Sue said, "I'd like to get the banana split with extra fudge, please." The bitchy waitress said, "Uhm ... that's called a Double-Fudge-Ramalama Ding Dong." (Or whatever. Basically, the waitress corrected Sue.) Sue gave her a withering glare and said, "I don't care if it's called Wannie on the Half-Shell. That's what I want, bitch." (Heads up: "Wannie" was one of our joke names for "vagina" in college.) We all BURST into laughter, and literally did not stop laughing until we left the restaurant. We were under the spell.

-- You think vodka and Del's is a great combination. (What - you're gonna tell me it's not??)

-- You put vinegar on your french fries. (Of course I do. It is the only way to go. I never ever ever put ketchup on my fries. Only vinegar.)

-- You can recognize a Cranston accent. (Not only can I recognize it, but I can do it to a T. In Cranston, all "r"s become "v"s: Cvanston Vho Diland = Cranston, Rhode Island.)

-- You've eaten at Haven Brothers, drunk. (Yes, I have. Many many many many times. Haven Brothers is ... well, God, it is actually hard to explain. It is late-night eatery on wheels in downtown Providence - and I don't think anyone who is sober has ever eaten there.)

-- You know what "ProJo" stands for. (The Providence Journal, of course.)

-- You always start giving directions by saying, "Well, you get on 95." (That is hilarious. I'm sorry, but it is. And so true. I would add to this: "You always start giving directions by saying, "So you pass the Dunkin Donuts, and then you get on 95...")

-- You know what Allie's makes. (The best donuts in the world. Krispy Kreme's are NOTHIN' to Allie's Donuts. Because there is now a freeway which bypasses the Allie's Donuts road - thereby re-routing all the traffic - I am not sure of the fate of Allie's. Do any of my friends who still live in RI know? My family and I used to stop at Allie's on our way up to Massachusetts on Christmas, Easter, etc. It was always a huge treat. The donuts are twice as large as regular donuts - huge. And steaming hot from the oven, with the glazed sugar dripping off of them.)

-- You know what a "package store" is. (When in the borders of the state of Rhode Island, I say, "We should go to the package store..." Or - no, that's true. A true Rhode Island saying is: "Let's do a packy run." A PACKY RUN. Here in the Manhattan area, I just say "liquor store." But I think "packy run" has a much better feel to it.)

-- You've gone to Cumbie's for milk or gas. (HAHAHAHA Cumbie's!!)

-- You know that there is never any school in Fosta-Glosta when it snows. (Okay, these are all such inside jokes - but I love them. "Fosta-Glosta" is the joined name of "Foster" and "Gloucester" said in Rhode Island accents - and whenever we, as children, would huddle by the radio on snowy mornings, waiting to hear if our school down in the south of the state would be canceled - the list of "snow day" schools ALWAYS began with "Fosta-Glosta". The kids in "Fosta-Glosta" were so lucky. We envied them. We lived closer to the ocean down in our neck of the woods, so most of the time we had school since the snow invariably would turn to rain or mist. That is, except for in 1978.)

Anyway, there are more amusing things on this list ... I especially like the running joke about getting your car mechanic to give you a new inspection sticker even though your car failed.

That is so true.

And now, gotta go do a packy run. I'm goin' to a pahtee t'night.

Here's a link to that list again.

Before I take off...

One short comment: The news has been annoying me lately. The commentary about the news has been annoying me lately. I can barely read any of it. I scan the headlines briefly, so I can at least know, on the surfact, what is happening - but I feel a bit ... what is the word ... fed up??

Hence, my posts about Match.com, The Ring Trilogy, and movies.

Please stick with me, my readers! I know many of you come to me for different reasons. That's wonderful. I love that.

I am sure I will get outraged, again, in an articulate way (that's the key) ... and give everybody much fodder for discussion.

And before I head off into the Manhattan night, I will leave you with a category which I will entitle "Sheila's Beloved Movies."

How did this category come to be? I have a long list of films which I love, but which are not strictly guilty pleasures. And they also, for various reasons, do not warrant a spot on the Top 50 Movies.

But they hold special places in my heart.

SHEILA'S BELOVED MOVIES

-- Blast From the Past

-- Pleasantville

-- When Harry Met Sally

-- Office Space (this movie is HILARIOUS - so insightful, so funny)

-- Swingers

-- Love & Basketball (terrible title, but very good movie.)

-- Happy Texas (God, this movie makes me laugh)

-- Foul Play

-- Gods and Monsters

-- Murder by Numbers (I cannot tell you why. I just really like this movie. Except for the bogus ending.)

-- The Legend of Bagger Vance

-- Air Force One

-- Manhattan Murder Mystery (I love it when Woody Allen gets FUNNY - this movie is so wonderful - great stuff)

-- The Thin Blue Line

-- The Gift (If you did not know that Cate Blanchett was an Aussie, you would completely believe she came from the Louisiana south - a fantastic performance)

-- Mystic Pizza (That was filmed when I was in college, very close to Mystic, CT, and a friend of mine got a nice part in it. Also - this was the first time I ever saw Lily Taylor, one of my all-time faves)

-- Barbershop (if you have not seen this movie, put it on the list. Love this movie.)

I wouldn't call any of these great films - I wouldn't call any of these guilty pleasures - but I love them all just the same.

Thanks, Dr. Frank...

...for linking to my post about my Match.com dates, and also for pulling out what is, for me, the funniest quote from the whole thing.

Pulled out as a title, the quote even looks more absurd.

Re-reading the Ring Trilogy

I have rarely had so much FUN with a book. The last time I read them I was 4 1/2 feet tall and weighed 82 pounds, and rode to school on a yellow bus. Come to think of it, I probably read some of these books ON the school bus itself.

So - woah. I am completely LOVING reading it again - after so long - as an adult. Parts of it are so complex (the historical information, the long lines of names and events, etc.) I am shocked that I was able to tolerate much of it. (However, I also read All the President's Men when I was 11 years old, and somehow kept track of Howard Hunt and John Dean and Haldeman, and memos and unwilling witnesses...)

I love looking at the maps. I love the huge indexes in my book where I look stuff up. I love the appendices.

And the story ...

I am loving getting to know the story again. It has reiterated, for me, how astonishing the films are. How much they were able to get in.

For example - the incident at "Weathertop", with the Wraiths coming upon the Hobbits. The Hobbits are then saved at the last minute by Aragorn, waving a flaming piece of firewood at the Wraiths. That scene was so truthfully rendered in the movie - and by that I mean - Peter Jackson respected the original text so much, he loved the original tale so much, that he didn't add too much to it. He didn't mess it up. The only thing he added was that Aragorn took off for a look-around, and the Hobbits lit up a fire - which attracted the Wraiths' attention. In the book, as they climb up Weathertop, Frodo begins to have an overwhelming sense of dread. He feels that something terrible is coming. Really what is going on is that the Ring is starting to work on him. The Ring is starting to sap him, and starting to make him more aware of the enemy.

I suppose Jackson didn't want the Ring to start dominating Frodo too early in the trilogy - since it's rather difficult to sustain, cinematically - especially over 3 separate movies.

But anyway - I am having the best time. With this beloved book from my childhood.

I have just finished the section where they stay at Lorien, and Frodo looks in Galadriel's mirror - and the elves give them boats to start off on their journey down-river.

I can't get enough.

Stop Complaining...

A great observation about the year in film, made by A.O. Scott, film critic at the New York Times - which I will print here in full (or mostly in full).

...It's true, 2003 gave us a lot to gripe about — overblown action pictures, witless sequels, pointless remakes, misbegotten literary adaptations, mopey little art films shot in headache-inducing digital video — but these failures reveal less about the state of cinema than about the fate of most creative endeavors, which is to land in the fat, mediocre middle of the artistic bell curve.

To look at the three top 10 film lists displayed in this section — and at the dozens more that sprout from nearly every printed publication and Web site in the land — is to be struck by the sheer variety and vitality of the movies, which, according to some historians, marked their centenary as a narrative art form this year. The number of good motion pictures released this year is less impressive — and harder to agree on — than their diversity. This makes any kind of authoritative summary — always a dubious exercise, if also, for some of us, an obligatory one — especially treacherous. Any generalization seems immediately to generate its opposite, making 2003 the year of "Yes, but."

Couldn't you say that about any year? Yes, but consider the following. It was a year of dreadful, dispiriting sequels, from the unraveling of "The Matrix" trilogy to the uninspired rehashes of "Charlie's Angels" and "Legally Blonde." Yes, but it was also the year in which "X-Men 2" surpassed its clumsy first chapter, and in which "The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King" triumphantly surpassed every other recent attempt at franchise filmmaking. Speaking of which, it seems that large-scale, big-budget filmmaking — the kind Hollywood likes to call "epic" — reclaimed some of its traditional vigor and ambition, as well as its claim on the attention of critics and mass audiences alike. Some of the best movies of the year — "Return of the King," "Pirates of the Caribbean," "Master and Commander," "Finding Nemo" — were also among the most expensive and the most popular. Others that did not make the Times critics' lists — "Cold Mountain" and "The Last Samurai," for example — were nonetheless part of an industry-wide attempt to revive old-fashioned Hollywood pomp, sweep and grandeur (and also, in some cases, to take back the Oscars from the art house upstarts in the specialty divisions of the major studios).

Yes, but it was also a year full of wonderful small movies — defined less by their low budgets than by the exquisite intimacy of their storytelling. If Sofia Coppola's "Lost in Translation" was, in essence, a short story with two characters in a single setting, then it was a story told with the sophistication and dexterity of a pop culture-savvy Henry James. There was also the quiet, compassionate precision of Tom McCarthy's "Station Agent" and the meticulous psychological drama of Billy Ray's "Shattered Glass," movies with a cast of several whose modesty brought them close to perfection. And audiences, more than in past years, seemed to respond as much to their whispers as to the big noises of the blockbusters.

More than in past years, movies big and small — from "Mystic River" to "House of Sand and Fog," from "Capturing the Friedmans" to "The Human Stain" — seemed to assume an audience with a high tolerance for misery, as Hollywood overcame its historic allergy to the downbeat. A month into its theatrical release, Danny's Boyle's apocalyptic "28 Days Later" was given an alternative ending, for viewers who found the sort-of-happy original conclusion too uplifting for their tastes. It was, in short, a very good year for death, disease and family tragedy, perhaps because the grief and shock of 9/11 have at last begun to find widespread cultural expression.

But then again (to vary the formula a little), many of the year's best performances were in comic roles: Jamie Lee Curtis in "Freaky Friday" (a notable exception, like "The Italian Job," to the bad remake rule); Bill Murray in "Lost in Translation"; Ellen DeGeneres in "Nemo"; Johnny Depp in "Pirates"; Billy Bob Thornton in "Bad Santa" and everyone with a line of dialogue or a second of screen time in "A Mighty Wind."

And yes, we should not forget the staggering array of documentaries, which could easily have filled a list of their own, as they offered their share of tragedy ("Friedmans," "Bus 174"), excitement ("Spellbound," "Winged Migration") and wrenching ambiguity ("The Fog of War," "My Architect.") Though if it was a great year for documentaries, it was also a very good year for cartoons ("Nemo," "The Triplets of Belleville") and even for movies that appeared to be both documentaries and cartoons, a category that might include "American Splendor" and Satoshi Kon's sublime, little-seen "Millennium Actress."

In the faces of such paradoxical riches, the only proper response is gratitude, and perhaps also a determination to be less ungrateful in the future. That would be a fine basis for a new year's resolution: let's all try to be more optimistic, more supportive, less grumpy in the coming year. Yes, by all means, yes — but we all know how long such resolutions last. And we can be sure that by the time the first summer blockbusters invade the multiplexes — which should be around the middle of March — we'll all have plenty to grouse about. Yes, of course. But when we are tempted to inflate our local discomforts into epic complaints, we should remember 2003, the great year of feeling bad.

In the faces of such paradoxical riches, the only proper response is gratitude...

I couldn't agree more.

Wolf-Man and The Whisperer

I had my bout with Match.com a couple years ago - a bout that lasted 3 dates (which, I realize, is very half-assed). I am not a big date-r, it's never been my thing. But New York City felt like a howling wilderness at the time, I missed my wacko busy social life in the Windy City, I wasn't meeting anyone, and my co-worker had recently gotten engaged to someone she met on an online-date site. She was very big on giving online dating a shot and she overcame my objections forcefully.

"I hate going on dates. I would rather read a book." I stated.

"Come on, Sheila, you're not looking to get married - if it doesn't work out, who cares? It's just one night! You try people on, if you don't like it, you don't go out with them again."

"I hate small talk." was my intelligent reply.

"Look at it this way: A couple nights a month you'll get a free dinner, and maybe you'll meet somebody nice."

So whatever, I signed up.

I went on 3 dates before I threw in the towel. Maybe I'm too rigid. (It is highly possible.) My friend who ended up getting married had gone on ... 70 dates or something like that ... before she finally met a guy she clicked with.

70 dates??

Here is a brief description of each one of my Match.com dates:

1. Date #1 - Jazz Physics Man
The morning of my date, I woke up with a summer flu. I am sure it was psychosomatic. I didn't want to go. I was meeting the guy at the Central Park boathouse for brunch or something like that. I felt like it was a CHORE. My nose was red. I wanted to stay in bed.

But I got it together, powdered the red nose, and went to meet him. He was pretty normal, he had responded to my profile cause I said something about Einstein ... which was kind of a mistake because he proceeded to talk about physics the entire time, as we ate our eggs benedict. He talked about physics and asked my opinion, and it went way over my head. I had nothing to contribute.

He also loved jazz. Sorry, folks, but in my book, that is a very bad sign. Not in terms of their music taste, but in terms of their abilities to be good boyfriends. (I'll get a lot of flack for that one, I know. It's not jazz I have a problem with so much - Not at all ... it's the obsessive jazz FANS.) Anyway - there was no spark. He never called me, I never called him, no big deal, buh-bye. I was glad I got it over with - no biggie.

2. Date #2 was with someone I ended up calling "Wolf-Man" in my head, AS the date was occurring.

He met me outside of work and we walked to a nearby bar for a drink. I towered over him. He had not put his height in his profile. I am only 5'5", so that gives you some idea of his short-ness. Please understand that wanting a tall man is just a personal taste of mine - not an indictment of an entire body-type. I like big tall strappy jocky guys. Can't help it.

We had a drink. He talked a LOT. A bit too much - but it was okay. He was funny. He was a tough guy. With a crotchety sense of humor. Kind of self-deprecating.

I enjoyed him, until: He had wolf tattoes up and down his arms. I commented on them, and he said, "I love wolves. I love wolves mainly because they are monogamous and they mate for life." I almost burst out laughing in his face. (I'm not saying I am a particularly easy woman to date ... as a matter of fact, I am a nightmare.) It was just so ... so ... hilarious - like he had read it in a book somewhere: Tell her that you love swans because they choose one mate. Who knows, maybe he really does love wolves because they mate for life. I love wolves, too, but not because they are monogamous, for God's sake. I love wolves because they are fierce and gorgeous with unbelievable eyes. So - I held back the laughter and nodded seriously. Trying to keep my face impassive. I am sure he was looking for SOME kind of a girlie response from me, which is usually a mistake when you are dealing with me. I may be afraid of "s"s, but I'm not really "girlie".

We left the bar - it had begun to rain. We ran for the train. I didn't care that I had no umbrella, I was laughing up into the downpour, and he was completely blown away by this. He couldn't believe it. He must date nightmare high-maintenance women or something. "Wow! You don't care that you just got rained on!!" gushed Wolf-Man. I almost scorned his enthusiasm but again - I restrained myself. He was obviously a freakin' SWEETheart, to tell you the truth.

Unfortunately, during my date with Wolf-Man, I had one of those weird "flashbacks" (no, not drug-induced) - but one of those moments when the past rushes up from out of the past, and overwhelms the present. Like when you hear a random song, and are suddenly catapulted back 25 years in time. Or you get a whiff of ginger cookies, and you feel like you are 5 years old again. Well, I had one of those moments on this date with Wolf-Man, and ... it was pretty terrible, actually. If anything, you want to stay in the Present Moment on any date. I was waiting in line for the bathroom, (basically to get a moment's PEACE AND QUIET from my date's constant chatter) and suddenly I looked over at the waitress station. There was a coffee pot, I could see the gleaming orange light on the top, the light that tells you it is "on", I could suddenly smell the fresh coffee dripping down into the pot ... and suddenly, out of nowhere, I got this huge sense of overwhelming melancholy. Tears welled up in my eyes. For whatever reason, the sight of the waitress station made me feel lonely for a guy I once loved - I yearned for him - I remembered how he and I had laughed so hard we cried ...

And a big crack opened, and grief came up out of me like lava.

WHILE I WAS ON A DATE.

This is not good. You do not want to be having a nice beer with somebody and suddenly be filled up with hot lava. I got myself together and went out to join Wolf-Man, but I already knew that I wasn't gonna be his wolf-mate. He didn't stand a chance.

3. And now we come to The Whisperer. Or: The Last Match.com Date I Went On, Thank the Good Lord

I had written something about TS Eliot in my profile (I'm so pretentious). He and I were meeting up at the Atrium in the World Trade Center ... so strange, to remember that space now. Anyway, we were gonna have dinner. I had very much liked his emails. He was Irish. He had a way with words. All was well. As long as it was completely digital.

I approached a bench in the Atrium with a single man sitting on it, holding a book up, reading. He was the only man alone, so I assumed it must be him. As I got closer, I saw what book he was holding up - The Collected Works of TS Eliot.

I almost turned around and walked away then and there.

If you want me to explain to you why - I will. Some women might have swooned and thought this was so sensitive, so sweet, so great. But I immediately felt warning signals go off inside - "freak! freak! freak!" Should have listened to those signs.

We went out to dinner. He was extremely nervous. He was awkward, fumbling ... and very much in love with me already. He had never met me so this was my clue that he was a little bit insane. He spoke to himself, IN MY PRESENCE, "Okay, calm down, calm down, everything doesn't need to be settled tonight..."

Uh ... no shit, Sherlock.

But the single most annoying thing about the whole night was that he never spoke above a whisper. It was like that Seinfeld episode, with the "low talker".

I was trying to be polite, really I was, even though I did not want to be on a date with him, the second I saw him reading TS Eliot. The whispering made it worse, but I tried to stay nice. I kept saying, leaning across the table, "I'm sorry ... what did you say?"

"And so you were saying ... what was that again?"

Or more bluntly, "Huh?"

Finally, at the end of the dinner, I had had it. I said, "I am no longer going to ask you to speak up. I cannot hear a word you are saying."

He laughed - nervously - but I saw a flicker of panic and despair in his eyes.

Oh God. Get me out of here. If he starts to weep, I do not know what I will do.

I asked him if he went to college, and he had this entire freaked-out response ... He shrugged, he blushed, he rolled his eyes, obviously there was a HUGE story attached to the answer to my simple question ... and I had asked the question in all innocence ... When I saw his flustery rolling eyes I said, putting on the brakes, "It's okay. Don't tell me the story. Please." He did anyway. (Although I had to strain across the table to hear it.) Turns out, he had had a nervous breakdown and had to withdraw from school so that he could be hospitalized.

Again - no judgment on that! But ... on a first date?? It was ... sorry to be so juvenile, but ... it was ikky.

Basically - he was head over heels with ... the idea of me. And there is nothing that annoys me more than someone being head over heels with the IDEA of me. It happens to me a lot, I suppose. What - the REAL me ain't good enough for you? You've got to go reaching for the IDEA?

So we strolled back to the subway together, him talking, and me saying, "What did you just say?", and him repeating what he had whispered, in a just slightly higher voice, and me nodding like I gave a shit.

At the subway, he whispered, fluttery, "I suppose it's too early for a kiss."

I said, bluntly, "I'm very shy."

He nodded and whispered, "Okay."

You know who he reminded me of? Laura in The Glass Menagerie. So sensitive that you could shatter him if you looked at him wrong. Afterwards, when I thought it all over, I found compassion in my heart for him. It took a while though, because the date had been so annoying - but I did find it. GOOD for him for trying Match.com, and being brave enough to put up a profile - because obviously the man is too shy to speak at a normal volume.

One small note:
I am FAR from perfect and I do not post these stories under the category of "Sheila's Proudest Moments". I am sure those 3 guys left me and said stuff about me too. "She looked like she was about to burst into laughter when I told her about what wolves mean to me, and then she came back from the bathroom and she obviously had been crying. What a FREAK."

I am unreasonably annoyed...

that the leads in Cold Mountain, a film about the Civil War, are Australian and British.

I'm not saying I am reasonably annoyed.

I'm saying I am unreasonably annoyed.

It would be like ... having an entirely American cast in a film about the storming of the Bastille ... I mean, isn't that a bit bizarre?

The other thing that annoyed me was the recent huge headline in The New York Times promoting the film:

Lovers Striving for a Reunion, with a War in the Way

Oh - the Civil War was just one of those annoying things "in the way", was it? Like an ottoman you trip over, or a crack in the sidewalk...

The really important thing is that the lovers achieve their reunion.

It's the same issue I have with movies that use the Holocaust as some kind of plot-point. The Holocaust is there to provide context, or - it's just another event among many. Swing Kids is the most egregious example. Sure, 6 million Jews were being murdered, but what REALLY matters is that a group of German kids managed to have a good time and - against all odds - kept up their swing-dance clubs! Good for them!!

Damn that Civil War. It's always in the way.

Top Guilty Pleasures

These movies would not make it onto my Top 50 Movies list because, frankly, they are guilty pleasures and I am relatively embarrassed that I love them SO MUCH. But we all have those guilty pleasures ... and so I figured I would bring mine out into the open.

I would love to hear what y'all have to say, what yours are.

Guilty Pleasures (Movies)

1. Bring It On - this has got to be # 1. A cheerleading competition. Kirsten Dunst. "Brr...it's COLD in here ... there must be some Toros in the atmosphere ... I said Brr...it's COLD in here..." Also, I went on ONE date with one of the members of the cast. But I'm not sayin' who.

2. Center Stage - ballerinas studying at the American Ballet. One of them feels stifled, unappreciated. She breaks out and takes a jazz class, and realizes, again, how much she loves dancing. Terribly rendered love story. But I own this movie. Love the dancing.

3. Blue Crush - Girl surfers in Hawaii. I went to this movie on its opening day - mainly because it was a heat wave in NYC and I wanted to be in air-conditioning. But I ended up LOVING this movie. It's embarrassing.

4. GI Jane - You think I'm made fun of for my love of Titanic?? Well, my love for THIS movie is even more embarrassing. I know it's stupid and unrealistic, but I BUY it. Every single time I see it, I succumb. I own it. How mortifying.

5. Kate & Leopold - A time machine brings a 19th century Duke into modern-day Manhattan. Hi-jinks ensue. Very romantic, very silly. LOVE IT.

6. Basic Instinct - a ridiculous film. Ridiculous. But here is what I maintain: Sharon Stone gives one of the greatest film-noir performances of all time. However - an unbeLIEVably silly film. With the stupidest view of homosexuality I have ever seen.

Top 50 Movies

Creating this list took 10 years off my life - but I figured I would give it a shot. My top 50 movies. Of all time. Seen by me. Ever. It was torture - and I am sure I have forgotten many worthy candidates.

I had one rule: None of the movies could be from the last year. Because time is fleeting, and many things can change.

Once upon a time I thought The Karate Kid was the best movie ever made - and that opinion changed as the years passed. (Nothing against that movie - I still love it - and still love that fancy crane move on the beach ... but it's not on my Top 50.)

Also - except for the top 10 - these movies are in no particular order. I just couldn't organize myself that much, as in: Do I like Deer Hunter BETTER than Annie Hall? Such questions are far too difficult.

The only choices which do not change (more or less) are the movies in the Top 10. Those are pretty much ever fixed. The same ones keep showing up, and have been doing so for years and years and years.

God bless the movies. What the hell would we do without them?

Top 50 Movies

1. Another Woman - my favorite Woody Allen film. It's one of his "serious" ones, which normally I find annoying. But this one haunts my dreams. It haunts my life. It stars Gena Rowlands. The woman is my idol. Too many great scenes to count. A brilliant story - like a poem, like a dream. Great acting by Sandy Dennis, Ian Holm, Gene Hackman - John Gielgud shows up for a couple of scenes and you think your heart might crack. Betty Buckley has one scene which is so painful I find it, frankly, unwatchable. And through it all, strolls Gena Rowlands - goddess of the independent film movement, one of the greatest American actresses ever. Thank God Woody Allen wrote this for her.

2. Running on Empty - God. This movie. I cry every time I see it. The actors do power-house jobs. The scene between Christine Lahti and Steven Hill (now of Law & Order fame) is perhaps the best acting I have ever seen. Beautiful movie.

3. Fearless - I love Jeff Bridges. This film is one of the reasons why. A plane crashes into a corn field. There are only a couple of survivors. He is one of them. Because he escapes death - he begins to think he is immortal. If you haven't seen it - you really must.

4. Opening Night - A John Cassavetes film. If you don't know who Cassavetes is, then shame on you. Without Cassavetes, there would be no Martin Scorsese. There would be no Independent Film Channel. Cassavetes created independent film-making, and did it before it was hip. Opening Night, while not his most famous (Woman under the Influence is his most famous - was nominated for Oscars) is his best. It stars his wife Gena Rowlands. It stars Ben Gazzara. I cannot tell you why this movie is so fantastic. I cannot defend my choice. All I know is - it grips my throat. Not a pleasant experience watching it. But DAMN. A film that is burned into my brain.

5. Witness - Harrison Ford's best performance. I love this movie. It works on multiple levels. Also, if you see it now: look for a young Viggo Mortenson, as an Amish farmer (he has no lines in the film, but he is in the
barn-raising scene, and many others.) Witness is evidence that you do not need to have one single sex scene to make an erotic movie.

6. Empire Strikes Back -My favorite of the Star Wars extravaganza. I saw it for the first time at age 11 or something like that, in a drive-in. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. A magical film.

7. Schindler's List - Not a movie I want to watch a million times, too painful - but I believe it is a work of art. The scenes between Ben Kingsley and Liam Neeson take my breath away. Ben Kingsley, with one single tear rolling down his face, but his features not moving: "I think I'd better have that drink now."

8. What's Up Doc? - One of the funniest movies ever made. Do not argue. I do not want to hear it. Peter Bogdonavich, screenplay by Buck Henry - Ryan O'Neal and Barbra Streisand - and Madeline Kahn, in her screen debut ... It is a modern-day Bringing Up Baby. I can recite the film. "So how much is it without the Bufferin?"

9. Sense & Sensibility - This movie kills me. Great acting, great story - great realization of a project. The Jane Austen book is great. The film is better.

10. On the Waterfront - Even just saying the name of this movie gives me the chills. I watch it now, and am still amazed at its relevance and at the power and timelessness of the acting.

11. Apollo 13 - This is what I call a "satisfying" movie. Every scene has its little arc, every scene accomplishes EXACTLY what Ron Howard wants it to ... and yet there is still a huge arc - the arc of the entire piece - and every scene fits into that arc. I have seen it, probably, 20 times. And it still gets me.

12. Some Like it Hot - the Billy Wilder classic. Another one of the funniest movies ever made. Jack Lemmon tangoing with the rose in his teeth, Marilyn Monroe's delicious-ness - I'll never get over being surprised by this film.

13. Fargo - In my opinion, this is one of the best movies ever made. Bravo. Bravo.

14. Diner - The movie that launched about 25 careers. Basically, it's just a bunch of guys, sitting around a table in a diner, talking about food, and cars, and sex ... and yet it is so much more. The scenes are rich, the acting is startlingly good - oh, and did I mention how funny it is?

15. The Conversation - the Gene Hackman classic. He plays a surveillance guy, who ... well, let me just say one thing about my choices, and about my taste. I like movies which are light on plot, and heavy on character. I can tell you what the movies are ABOUT but it's really about WHO these people are. Gene Hackman's character is a surveillance guy who ends up overhearing a conversation with his equipment ... an ominous conversation ... He is a man who cannot connect with other people, who has no feelings for other people - His whole life is his equipment. It is a phenomenal acting job. I love Gene Hackman. Do yourself a favor and rent this one.

16. Blow Out - Brian De Palma. The first big role for John Travolta (besides Welcome Back Kotter) It's another film like The Conversation ... same theme. Travolta plays a sound-guy for movies - and he is out one night, trying to get sounds of frogs or something for a film - and he hears what he thinks is a tire blowing out. But it ends up being much more ominous. And he's just a little sound-guy for a film, but he becomes very very important, because he has the whole thing on tape. Hard to explain why this movie is so good. It's raw. It's Brian Da Palma. It is terrifying.

17. Arizona Dream - You've probably never even heard of this film. It got no distribution here, and is out on video - but in a highly truncated version. I saw it at a little art film-house in Chicago with my friend Ted and we could not BELIEVE it. We still talk about this movie. Faye Dunaway, Lily Taylor, Johnny Depp ... it is an insane film. With flying machines, and wandering turtles, and a big house in the middle of the desert, and a crazy dinner party, and Lily Taylor plays an enraged depressed accordian-player ... it's a wacked movie ... and SO GOOD.

18. The Sting - Words fail me. Great movie. Like a big box of candy corn or something.

19. Moulin Rouge - I don't know why this film GOT to me so much but it did. I bought it, hook line and sinker. I didn't find it too much, or too garish, or too flashy - I thought that was the point. What kept it all going for me was the depth and power of Ewan McGregor's performance - In the midst of this operatic flourish, he played it all totally real. I also have fallen in love like that. To me, love has felt like what it looks like in Moulin Rouge. Tortured, passionate, hilarious, operatic ... To me, that movie felt real.

20. The Double Life of Veronique - another movie which I can't get out of my mind. A girl strolls through the streets of Prague. Suddenly, a bus drives by, and through the windows of the bus, she sees a girl who looks EXACTLY like her. She sees her twin. Her doppelganger. This movie broke my heart. Great acting. Very heartfelt. Not all the attitude you normally get in French films - where everybody stands around looking existential and tragic - This film is real. Irene Jacob stars. A painful film. Makes you think. And the mystery is never really solved.

21. The Winslow Boy - directed by David Mamet. I rented this movie, and watched it. I finished it. And then - I immediately rewound it, and watched the entire thing again.

22. Postcards from the Edge - Dammit, this movie is FUNNY. Meryl Streep's best work. She is a comedic genius. This is another movie which is like a big box of candy. I cannot count how many times I have seen this one. I own it.

23. The Producers - Uh. Do I need to say anything else? I didn't think so.

24. This is Spinal Tap - This has got to be one of the funniest movies ever made. I can't even STAND it. I love, too, the 2 second cameo by Anjelica Houston, who plays the person who designed the "Stone Henge" for their concert ... to tragic results.

25. East of Eden - I'm not sure I can even talk about why this movie is on the list. I loved James Dean so much in high school - he is one of the reasons why I decided that acting was an honorable profession, a craft. This movie is why.

26. Dogfight - I hate River Phoenix for being a drug addict and checking out of this planet, thus depriving us of his amazing gift for years to come. This film stars River and Lily Taylor. River Phoenix plays a cocky asshole Marine, just about to ship out to Vietnam, in the early 60s, before anyone really knew what they were getting themselves into. He tells Lily's character where he is off to, and she asks, "Where's that?" He and his cocky buddies are on leave for 4 days in San Francisco and they host something called a "Dogfight" - The contest is: who can invite the UGLIEST girl to a party they host? So they scour the streets for "dogs" - none of the women are in on the joke, of course - They are all excited to have been approached by hot young soldiers. Anyway, River Phoenix's character asks Lily Taylor's character to come - she has a big bouffant, she's plump, she's a goof-ball who wants to be a folk singer, a la Joan Baez. Needless to say - they spend an epic night together. Where he learns some important lessons about himself - and she learns some important lessons about herself. They are SO GOOD together. I never want this movie to end.

27. Raiders of the Lost Ark - I still have not fully recovered from the first time I saw this movie when I was in high school.

28. Contact - Science vs. God. Pure research vs. Applied science. Faith vs. Knowledge. All of this wrapped up in a gripping story - with Jodie Foster's best acting job yet. Even better than Silence of the Lambs. Let me tell you something, as an actress, having done some films: Silence of the Lambs was filmed almost entirely in close-up, with Jodie Foster looking directly into the camera. You don't have to do ANYTHING when the camera is that close to you. The camera picks up every thought you have, however fleeting. It sees things that you could never plan - it sees inside your brain. It does all the work for you. So everybody thought she was so great in that movie, and yeah, she was, but I thought to myself: Silence of the Lambs was probably the easiest job she ever had. Contacft requires more subtlety, more pain, more feeling, more work. And she is awesome. I love the IDEAS in this movie, too.

29. Reds - This movie is still unmatched, in terms of storytelling. Nobody is brave enough anymore to do what Warren Beatty did, in this movie. Scenes start in the middle, and cut off abruptly. You are suddenly thrust into an argument, and have to catch up, figuring out what they are talking about. Nothing is spelled out. It feels like a documentary (not to mention the brilliant touch of interviewing all of the real people from that time). The scene between Diane Keaton (as Louise Bryant) and Jack Nicholson (as Eugene O'Neill) in the beach house is one of the sexiest scenes I have EVER seen, and they never touch each other. Beatty knows what to keep in, what to leave out. He obviously loves actors. And dearly. They trust him implicitly. Movies are not made like this one anymore. It is gritty. It is raw. Things look like they are really happening, nothing seems simulated. I love that. I love that reality.

30. Magnolia - A movie which takes enormous risks. (Tom Cruise as a misogynistic motivational speaker?) Some of the movie doesn't work, some of it does and brilliantly (John C. Reilly has never been better) - but I love every second of this flawed and moving movie, because it takes RISKS. It takes risks with its script, it asks the actors to take risks - and it expects much from its audience. I love that. A film that demands something of its audience.

31. Taxi Driver - still one of the scariest films I have ever seen. Watch the scene again where he talks to himself in the mirror. It has been parodied so many times, that it is easy to forget how terrifying the original rendition is. It is not a joke. It is fucking scary.

32. The Full Monty - Yeah, I know, ha ha ha, a bunch of steel-workers take off their clothes for money, ha ha ... But I think there is something deeper going on in this film, and that is why it works. It has something to say about men today, it has something to say about the "plight" of men (oh, Jesus, I seem to remember a very pertinent essay by Kim DuToit on this very topic...) - It has something to say about the emasculation of men and how we cannot allow that to occur. Men can't let that happen, but women need to be invested in that struggle too. We should not want our men to be emasculated and domesticated. That, to me, is what that movie is about, and why it brings me to tears every time.

33. Breaking Away - I LOVE THIS MOVIE. I need to see it again, actually, it's been years. I still can hear Paul Dooley's horrified voice, "REE-FUND?? REFUND? REFUND!!! REFUND!!" A coming-of-age story with a great twist. I fell in love with every single one of the characters. Dennis Quaid in his break-out part.

34. The Deer Hunter - That Russian roulette scene. The absolute greatness of the acting. Reminds me of the quote from Isaac Newton about the "shoulders of giants". We must never forget (whatever our profession) that we are standing on the shoulders of giants. Robert DeNiro, Chris Walken, John Cazale, Jon Savage, Michael Cimino ... these men are giants. We owe them a huge debt.

35. The Big Easy - This may not be a great movie - it may not be on anybody else's list, but I love it. I love Dennis Quaid as the charming rakish semi-dirty cop in New Orleans, I love Ellen Barkin as the stick-up-her-ass assistant district attorney, sent to investigate police corruption. The love story is so hot that I lie in bed at night running it over in my mind. Steamy, I tell ya. But it's not like Basic Instinct steamy, or anything cheap ... Quaid and Barkin don't do sexual gymnastics. What makes the love scenes so great, and so unusual, is that the characters take their insecurities, their fears, their senses of humor into bed with them. Like most people do on the face of this earth, except for characters in films who suddenly become contortionists, with no insecurities, and no feelings about being naked for the first time with somebody else. THAT'S why this movie is so sexy, so moving.

36. Citizen Kane - All the special effects in the world cannot hold a candle to what Orson Welles was able to achieve manually. This film is a huge visual accomplishment, yes - but like with all the movies on my list - why it's a success in MY book is because you care about the characters. Or - perhaps that's too simple. Tommy Lee Jones said, when he did a seminar at my school, "I don't think I, as an actor, need to like the characters I play. But I do think that you should want to watch the character." The characters in Citizen Kane are all flawed, all interesting, all highly watch-able. And I can recite the monologue about the woman in white seen through the fog on the ferry from memory.

37. The Misfits - Clark Gable's last film. Directed by John Huston. Screenplay by Arthur Miller. He wrote it for his wife at the time, Marilyn Monroe. Montgomery Clift is in it. Eli Wallach. The stories about the nightmares of this shooting (Clark Gable died of a heart attack soon after wrap) are legendary. A book has been written about it. Regardless: this is the kind of movie I love. With complex characters, all in highly stressful situations ... We, as audience members, can see them better than they can see themselves. All of the acting is top-notch, particularly Clift.

38. The Fisher King - Jeff Bridges is one of my all-time faves. In this he plays a shock-jock who makes a terrible mistake - or, one of his casual comments on the air ends up having tragic consequences. He loses everything. Directed by Terry Gilliam - this movie is more allegory, more myth and legend than reality. And Mercedes Ruehl as Jeff Bridge's girlfriend (she won the Oscar, I think ... or at least was nominated, and rightly so) is fantastic. I loved their relationship, the two of them together. The kind of relationship that can only exist between ADULTS. Where you are scarred, you are damaged by life, you have lost much - but you don't particularly want to talk about your past ... you just want a warm body beside you in the night.

39. Three Kings - Woah, what a breakout film for David Russell. Highly prophetic, too, in the world we now live in. The world of the legacy of leaving Saddam Hussein in power. Great acting, but more than that: awesome film-making. There are scenes in this as powerful and as arresting as those in Apocalypse Now. The random insanity of war, the incongruities, flashing images you won't ever forget.

40. Traffic - I'm an actress. My interest is acting, primarily. Does a performance startle? Do they inhabit their parts? Do I completely believe that these actors ARE these people? Well, every single last person in this film, even down to the very small roles, completely inhabit their parts. Benicio Del Torro WAS that Mexican cop. Catherine Zeta Jones WAS that wife of a drug lord. Don Cheadle and Luis (what is his last name?? He is awesome..) WERE those DEA agents. There was absolutely no barrier between the characters, the story, the film-maker, and the actors. This is so rare that when it does occur it is startling.

41. Lion in Winter - This probably should be higher on the list. GodDAMN is this a great movie. "Well, what family doesn't have its problems..." muses Katherine Hepburn, as Eleanor of Aquitaine. Classic.

42. Children of Heaven - absolute gem of a film from Iran. I know I can't persuade you to see it ... but if you are ever at a loss, and see it on a shelf, please rent it. A lower-class family in Tehran, with 2 small children. The little boy inadvertently loses his little sister's shoes, her school shoes. They are afraid to tell their parents. So they set up an elaborate scheme - he goes to school in the mornings, then races home, gives her his shoes, and she galumphs to school wearing his sneakers (underneath her chador). She, of course, as any little 8 year old girl would be, is MORTIFIED at wearing her brother's sneakers. She is MAD. He sees that a running race is going to be held - and second prize is a pair of nice little shoes. So he decides: I am going to run in this race, and although I am a very good runner, the best runner in my school, I have to somehow come in second so that I can win the shoes. Oh shit, just rent it. It's absolutely exhilarating.

43. Titanic I will not apologize. This is not a guilty pleasure for me. I think that this is the most expensive art-house film ever made. Don't berate me. Make your own list. I loved this movie. Every stinking minute.

44. The Godfather - So classic it's hard to remember that it was once original and fresh and new. I see it now, and it still surprises me. I never get over being surprised by it. By that first long extended wedding scene, interspersed with the meetings with Marlon Brando, who is stroking the little kitten ... It's so brilliant. Robert Duvall?? Fuggedaboutit...

45. Nixon - Again, with the top-notched-ness of the acting. James Woods, JT Walsh, Joan Allen (God!), the guy from Frasier, not to mention Anthony Hopkins. It was not about doing an imitation of Nixon. It wasn't about that for Oliver Stone, and it wasn't about that for Anthony Hopkins. It was about getting at who this man might have been when he was alone. It is a guess at the answer to that. I love the cinematography of this movie too. And the way the story is constructed. The first shot is a direct steal from the first shot of Citizen Kane - a rainy night, peering through the bars of the gate at the big gloomy-looking house ... a sense of grandiosity, but also a sense of imprisonment ... Anyway, there are many references to Citizen Kane throughout and I think that is a very smart move. After all, Citizen Kane ends with a mystery. The mystery of Rosebud. If you haven't seen the movie, then you will just have to go and rent it, because I will not reveal the identity of Rosebud - and PLEASE - don't anybody else!! But Citizen Kane while - by the end of the movie, you know who Rosebud is ... it just leaves you with more questions. The answer answers NOTHING. Nixon is the same way. Oliver Stone uses the same documentary-newsreel setup for the film - people are trying to figure out who is this Nixon, what is the missing piece - what is Nixon's "Rosebud"? And - rightly so - by the end of the film, you have no answers. Just more questions.

46. Roman Holiday - I almost forgot to put this one on the list. Audrey Hepburn - Gregory Peck - an escaped princess, a journalist - in Rome - somehow they hook up - and ... of course ... magic happens. It is a love story but in the greatest sense. This movie is the forerunner to so many other great love stories, only it does it better, with more grace. I love Gregory Peck. And speaking of Gregory Peck...

47. To Kill a Mockingbird - No, it is not as good as the book. But dammit, it comes pretty close. Atticus Finch. A character who lives on in my imagination in the same way that Holden Caulfield does. Atticus Finch. God. What an amazing character - and Gregory Peck found exactly the right way to play him. Perhaps he just played himself, I do not know. But the second I saw the movie, I thought: Yes. He IS Atticus. He is exactly what I pictured.

48. Dead Man Walking - Never in the history of films has a movie star allowed herself to be filmed so unflatteringly (and by her "husband", no less)! She wears no makeup. The side views of her face show the lines, the slight sagging of the chin. She wears unflattering clothes. I don't mean to just talk about the superficials - but to me, her lack of adornment, and her willingness to forego vanity, was exactly the spirit of the entire project. Everybody worked for next to no money. The shooting schedule was incredibly tight. There was no room for vanity or egos. And wow - the acting in this film. I appreciated too that the last scene - where he is executed - did not take the easy way out. Yes, throughout the film, you come to see that this man has had a shit life himself, he has been abused, he is a mess, you have some feeling for him. But Tim Robbins didn't sidestep the real issue - and throughout the entire execution scene - which is pretty awful - with Sarandon praying - trying to keep it together - Robbins keeps cutting back to the night of the rape and murder. He shows Sean Penn doing exactly what it is he is now being punished for. Robbins doesn't go for the cheap way out. As in: Oooh, the murderer was abused, poor man, now look at how the prison system punishes him ... isn't life awful ... isn't man's inhumanity to man awful??? Robbins lets you the audience decide. You can cry for the criminal if you want to - but Robbins will not let you forget the horrible things that he did. I think it was a tremendously courageous film.

49. Annie Hall - Enough said. This movie is so funny I don't even know what to DO with myself. I like to watch it with my friend Mitchell who has probably seen it 579 times.

50. Pulp Fiction - This movie is so enjoyable that I almost had an anxiety attack the first time I saw it. It was in the movie theatres and it was so GOOD, and the writing was so DELICIOUS - that I immediately wanted to start rewinding scenes to watch them again, study them ... and I couldn't!! I was in the movie theatre!! Great movie. Every actor, every scene ... but it's really the writing that is the star of this film. It doesn't get any better than that.

Okay - I am going to post this now before I have second thoughts.

Please add your own thoughts.

Uzbekistan Essays

A compilation of all of the essays posted below on Uzbekistan.

I. The People

II. Samarqand and Tamerlane

III. Bukhara

IV. Tashkent

V. The Aral Sea

VI. Uzbekistan Today

Best Movies of 2003

Here are the 5 best movies I saw this year, in order of their greatness.

1. Mystic River - Acting rarely gets that good. I continue to be haunted by those characters. Fantastic film, all around. The movie almost affected me physically. When Tim Robbins starts talking about vampires and werewolves to his wife, in the middle of the night ... and it is as though the mask is taken off ... and you see the horror in his soul ... The first time I saw that scene I thought I was going to stop breathing altogether.

2. American Splendor - SUCH a wonderful movie. About Harvey Pekar, star of a comic book drawn by Robert Crumb, called "American Splendor". He's just a shlump, a file clerk, a hypochondriac, a pessimist ... American Splendor tells his story. It is hilarious, touching ... and I loved seeing Paul Giamatti, this great character actor who has been in 1000 movies, be given a lead. And a romantic lead no less! See it, if you haven't already.

3. In America - Jim Sheridan's semi-autobiographical story about an Irish family, coming to live in NYC in the 1990s. The story of immigrants, told in a modern setting. There is a mother and father and 2 young daughters, played by real-life sisters. You can't even call these girls "child actors" because you never ever catch them acting. The entire movie has a documentary feel. The family lost a son, and each member deals with it in their own way. The family is haunted. Damaged. They try to go on. The movie is funny, touching, interesting ... a great film. I loved every second of it.

4. 21 Grams - Sean Penn's 1-2 punch, with Mystic River. The character he plays in this film is completely different from the guy he plays in Mystic River. If there is a more gifted actor working on the planet right now, you would have to work hard to convince me of it. Additionally: Naomi Watts has this power as an actress - it's the kind of acting which clutches you at your throat. It doesn't look like acting. It looks REAL. Great story, told non-chronologically - The story unfolds mysteriously. You have to have patience. I love acting because of the kind of stuff you see in this movie. Total transformation.

5. Return of the King - A magnificent accomplishment. An entire world created. You believe that what you are looking at is real, and 3-D ... even though your brain knows it is mostly digital. But the special effects do not take away from the performances. Wonderful and real characters created. I cared about them all.

Uzbekistan - Part VI - Uzbekistan Today

This will be my last piece on Uzbekistan. I just wanted to give a brief picture of what is going on there now, since I have spent so much time back in the dark ages with Genghis Khan and Tamerlane.

UZBEKISTAN TODAY

Uzbekistan reluctantly became independent of the Soviet Union in 1991.

Islam Karimov is the president of Uzbekistan, and has been so since 1990, when he was elected by the still-in-power Supreme Soviet. It says a lot about who the people of Uzbekistan are that Karimov, emblematic of the old regime, a symbol of the Communist state which wrecked their country, continues to be elected as their leader. Other countries, Eastern European countries, (the Czech Republic is a perfect example) had purges of their entire government. Anyone connected with Communism at all had to GO.

Uzbekistan is not really a country yet, not really a nation. They don't know what it really feels like to be free citizens, to participate in the government of their country ... there is a disconnect between the leadership and the citizenry, which, of course, existed during Communism, but it continues today.

The regime in Uzbekistan is run by former Soviet-Brezhnev-style bosses, and Karimov heads up a sterile dictatorship which, so far, has kept the country from fracturing. Democracy would be useless here, at the moment, since there is no infrastructure, nothing set up to support and uphold democratic institutions.

Karimov is a very isolated leader. He came up through the ranks of the bureacracy, very much insulated within the Communist hierarchy. He is a Communist, for God's sake. What that means, in a practical sense, is that he doesn't understand economics AT ALL. He has been unable to help the country modernize, or integrate into world markets. He doesn't get it.

On the flipside, however, he is not averse to allowing businessmen come from all over the world to set up businesses here, to get things going. Some of the other "stans" take a "we can do it on our own" attitude (Turkmenistan), and because of that, their people are starving and ignorant. Uzbekistan at least has interaction with other cultures in this way. Karimov is also very authoritarian, very uncompromising. He doesn't really behave like a Western leader. His regime is very tribal. He looks out for his tribe. He sees the Uzbeks as his tribe, he is responsible for them. They need a strong hand.

Uzbekistan also has the worst human rights record of any of the former Soviet republics.

The police are completely corrupt. The mafia is everywhere. It is a completely unsafe place for Westerners to travel. Westerners have to shack up in the local fleabag hotel, and must carry all their money on them at all times, and never leave anything of value in the room, because it will not be there when they return. A Westerner coming to town is still a relatively rare thing, and word is out on the street in a matter of moments. The Westerner is prey, here. The criminal element is highly visible. Everyone is broke, poor, with no prospects, and many people are raging alcoholics. This is a powder-keg.

In the early 1990s, as I mentioned in another post, there was a mass exodus of Russians from Uzbekistan. The Uzbeks had harassed them into leaving. However, this had a result which could have been foreseen if the Uzbeks had thought about it at all: the Russians leaving decimated the ranks of professionals in the republic, and institutions and businesses were left empty, with nobody there who could train the Uzbeks, nobody knew how to do anything.

From their history, the people of Uzbekistan assume that the government is not there to serve them. They have no experience with representative government. They were not ready for nationhood.

Karimov's dictatorship became less severe throughout the 1990s ... but at all times it is a modern-day version of Genghis Khan's and Stalin's regimes of absolute power.

Some of the issues for present-day Uzbekistan:

Chaos is breaking out all around them. In Afghanistan, in Tajikstan. There is a worry in regards to Tajikstan, which has a massive Uzbek population. (Tajikstan is an ally of Iran, due to ethnic similarities, and Iran is a mortal enemy of Uzbekistan from way back when, when the Persian empire conquered them. People have very long memories here) The fear is that Tajikstan could become a base for Iranian influence in Central Asia. And Uzbeks fear that Iran is trying to promote a "Greater Tajikstan", which would include the millions of Tajiks in southeast Uzbekistan and 4 million in Afghanistan.

I've said this before and I will say it again: anytime any leader talks about wanting to create a "greater" anything, know that what that basically means is war and ethnic cleansing.

Uzbekistan is a bit of an expansionist threat itself. There are millions and millions of Uzbeks who live outside the borders. Uzbekistan covets territory in Tajikstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan.

Karimov, a secular man, uses the "Islamist threat" from Afghanistan as his rationale for authoritarianism. He refuses to countenance any organized Muslim piety, and persecutes Muslims. Which could end up being a big ol' boomerang, eventually, dressed up like a suicide bomber. In 1998, the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan was formed, and they stated as their aim the overthrow of the Karimov government. So far this has not occurred, but it is a potentially very dangerous situation. Karimov becomes more authoritarian, the Islamic Movement becomes more vocal, there are more despotic crackdowns ... it is very bad and could easily get much much worse.

The whole place is chaotic, enigmatic, contradictory. The Communist rulers persist in power here, only they are under another name, the regime pays lip service to Islam and yet cracks down on militants, the economy has continued to loosen up, which is good, but there is absolutely no promise of democracy here. At least not yet.

I'll close with an anecdote from Colin Thubron's book The Lost Heart of Asia. Thubron visits the tomb of Tamerlane (the terrifying warrior of long ago who conquered the entire area, and made his capital in Samarqand). He has an encounter with a caretaker.

...from the emperor's skull the Soviet scientist Gerasimov painstakingly reconstructed a bronze portrait-head, before sealing Tamerlane back in the tomb. Under the sculptor's hands there emerged a face of hardened power, compassionless, bitter and suble. Perhaps some Slavic prejudice heightened the epicanthic cruelty of the eyes; perhaps not ...

"He was a hero," said a voice behind me. I jumped. The caretaker had entered noiselessly and was looking down at the tumult of calligraphy on the slab. "What a history!"

"Perhaps he should have done less," I said.

"Less? No. Timur [Tamerlane] turned us into one country." He seemed light-hearted, but a reticent evangelism tinged him. "Yes, he was cruel, I know. People come to this grave from Iran and Afghanistan and they hate him. They say, 'He destroyed our land, he enslaved us!' And of course it's true. He smashed Isfahan and Baghdad." He smiled charmingly. "He was ruthless."

I said, "Ulug Beg might be a better hero for your nation."..

The caretaker laughed ... "He was only a teacher ... But Timur was world-class! If I was an Iranian, I'd hate him too!" He was laughing at himself a little ... "But Timur was not a savage. He knew about Alexander of Macedon, and the slave leader Spartacus and ... "

"Spartacus?" This was a Soviet cult leftover. "Did he?"

"...and he'd read the great Persian poet Firdausi, who claimed that the Iranians were natural rulers and the Turks were natural slaves ... Our two worlds have always been at war. And when Timur overran Persia and came to Firdausi's tomb he shouted: 'Stand up! Look at me! A Turk in the heart of your empire! You said we were slaves, but look now!'" ...

He glowed with vicarious triumph. Tamerlane for him was the unifier and recreator of his national fatherland, of the Pan-Turkic dream. He said, "The Persians were here once, you see. You've been to Afrasiab? You've seen those Sogdian paintings, Persian things? They were our conquerors."

"Those paintings are extraordinary..."

"So Timur avenged us. He created a Turkish empire ... He's our hero."

I said: "But he was a Mongol."

"No, Timur was not a Mongol, he was a Turk."

I stayed silent. Everyone was claiming Tamerlane now. Uzbeks and even Tajiks whom I met would debonairly enroll him in their nations. In fact Tamerlane had been a pure Mongol of the Barlas clan, infected by Turkic customs. But this pedantry could not staunch the caretaker's sense of ownership or belonging.

"I may be an Uzbek," he said, "but above all I am a Turk. Most people have forgotten their tribes now, but I know my father was a Kungrat, my mother a Mangit -- these are Turkic tribes."

"They're Uzbek tribes too."

"But you can't feel Uzbek." He was losing the infant Uzbek nation in a Turkic sea. "Look at our ancesors! We have Navoi, we have Mirkhwand, we have ... " His list spilt into the unknown for me. In fact his people were ethnically too complex to shelter under any name. Even his Turkic umbrella was full of Persian holes.

The hero of Uzbek literature, the 15th century Timurid poet Navoi, had written of Uzbeks only to disparage them. Yet his name and image were ... ubiquitous in Uzbekistan ... Young in their state, Uzbeks and Tajiks were suddenly annexing poets or scientists out of the past, steeping their nation in the magic of great men. The Tajiks were even appropriating Saadi and Omar Khayyam, any Persian at all. To challenge such claims was to wander an ethnic labyrinth until the concept of a country became meaninigless.

The caretaker got to his feet, still reeling off names ... "And we have Timur!"

He switched off the sad bulb and locked the narrow door behind us. In the sanity of daylight he relented a little. "Well," he said, "occasionally somebody does feel quite strongly 'I'm an Uzbek' " -- he feebly thumped his chest -- "but you don't hear it much."

We walked around the mausoleum in the sun. Some ease and lightness had returned to us. Uzbek independence had freed him into pride, he said, instead of condemning him to some Slavic sub-species. "Of course I'm pleased by it. Everyone I know is pleased. You've found some not? Well, those are the uneducated ... Some people don't know what to feel. They can't see beyond their faces. They just know that things are bad now. But I'm thinking of my children, and the world they'll grow into. I want it to be their own."

...I was gazing into the crypt. it was a vent for whispered prayers. I straightened and moved away, shaking off the notion that some dreadful authority lingered in those shreds of gristle and calcium under the stone.

The man went on eagerly. "How can anyone regret the Soviet Union falling to bits? They bled us. In the old days they gave us five kopeks for a kilo of cotton. Just five kopeks. One factory in Russia used to make two shirts out of a kilo and sell them for forty roubles each. Moscow said we were partners, but what kind of partnership is that?" He clasped my hand in illustration. "Partnership should mean friendship, shouldn't it?"

We had circled the building now,and the handclasp turned into farewell. As I walked back across the courtyard, his shouted optimisms followed me to the gate. "Enjoy our country! Everything will get better!"

Above him the great dome made a lonely tumor above the ogre-king.

Uzbekistan - Part V - The Aral Sea

There are a couple of other things I want to talk about.

I want to talk about what the Soviet Imperium did (ecologically) to the region. And I also want to talk about the Uzbek people now ... how they are trying to adjust to independence, how they feel about their government (a secular regime ... basically old Communists are in the government, just under another name), and who they align themselves with (Turkey? Iran? Russia?)

So I will start with the story of the Aral Sea, in the northwest corner of Uzbekistan.

UZBEKISTAN - THE ARAL SEA

It is important to remember what Uzbekistan used to be like: a string of fertile oases, stretched along two great rivers, the Amu Darya and the Syr Darya. People had been living and thriving on these river banks for thousands and thousands of years. Uzbekistan is mostly a desert country, dry, uninhabitable, yet all along there have been green and luscious spots, where people could survive.

Ryszard Kapucinski describes the contrast thus, in his book Imperium:

Central Asia is deserts and more deserts, fields of brown weathered stones, the heat from the sun above, sandstorms.

But the world of the Syr Darya and the Amu Darya is different. Arable fields stretch along both rivers, abundant orchards; everywhere profusions of nut trees, apple trees, fig trees, palms, pomegranates...

The waters of the Syr Darya and the Amu Darya, as well as of their tributaries, allowed famous cities to arise and to flourish --Bukhara and Khiva, Kokand and Samarqand. This way, too, passed the loaded-down caravans of the Silk Road, thanks to which the markets of Venice and Florence, Nice and Seville, acquired their importance and color.

Heads up: Kapuscinski has written an incredible essay, included in his book Imperium called: "Central Asia -- The Destruction of the Sea". I will quote from it extensively, because he says it all. It is a horrible story. And completely irrevocable. Nothing can be done to reverse the destructive process. It's over.

Blame Brezhnev.

He decided to turn all of Uzbekistan into one large cotton plantation. Brezhnev wanted Uzbekistan to be a showpiece of Bolshevik ingenuity.

One of the worst and most unintelligent things about Communism is that it treats nature and the natural world as just another element of production, to be controlled, dominated, manipulated. So that is what Brezhnev set out to do in Uzbekistan: no longer would the people along the two rivers grow fruit, and figs and apples (things they could actually survive on). All of their orchards and green fields were appropriated by the Soviet state, and planted with cotton. The repercussions of this ill-thought-out move were apocalyptically disastrous. You cannot treat nature that way. It will rebel. It will punish you, harshly, for thinking that you can control things.

But Brezhnev was obsessed with the idea of Uzbekistan being turned into the Land of Cotton ... a place where the Soviet system of Communism could work miracles, could transform desert nomads and oasis merchants into cotton-growers, could make the desert bloom with cotton plants. Nobody ever said, "Y'know what, Brezhnev? Let's look at the long term ... I don't think this is such a good idea." Nobody ever said "No" to these despots. So Brezhnev was free to move forward on this crackpot illogical scheme ... (Can you tell I'm angry? He ruined the ecology in Uzbekistan, perhaps forever.)

So anyway: Uzbekistan is not a natural for cotton plantations. It's a DESERT, for God's sake. The people along the two great rivers lived in careful equilibrium with nature, growing things to support their communities, carefully handling the water supply, carefully monitoring how many people lived in each oasis ... because oases are not meant to overflow with people. One too many camels, and suddenly your water supply dries up. Brezhnev and his Communist goons had no understanding of this, didn't want to have any understanding of this, so blind was their faith in the Communist utopia, that they bulldozed through Uzbekistan, upending all of the orchards, all of the fields, and forced everybody to plant cotton.

Kapuscinski describes this process:

First, bulldozers were brought in from all over the Imperium. The hot metal cockroaches crawled over the sandy plains. Starting from the banks of the Syr Darya and the Amu Darya, the steel rams began to carve deep ditches and fissures in the sand, into which the water from the rivers was then channeled. They had to dig an endless number of these ditches (and they are still digging them now), considering that the combined length of the Syr Darya and the Amu Darya is 3,662 kilometers! Then along those canals, the kolkhoz workers had to plant cotton. [Kolkhoz is the name for collective farms.] At first they planted upon desert barrens, but because there was still not enough of the white fibers, the authorities ordered that arable fields, gardens, and orchards be given over to cotton. It is easy to imagine the despair and terror of peasants from whom one takes the only thing they have -- the currant bush, the apricot tree, the scrap of shade. In villages, cotton was now planted right up against the cottage windows, in former flower beds, in courtyards, near fences. It was planted instead of tomatoes and onions, instead of olives and watermelons. Over these villages drowning in cotton, planes and helicopters flew, dumping on them avalanches of artificial fertilizers, clouds of poisonous pesticides. People choked, they had nothing to breathe, went blind.

The rivers Amu and Syr Darya had been doing their thing for millennia. By diverting the waters of the rivers, by imposing an artificial restriction on them, the delicate balance of the desert land changed ... and it changed rapidly.

Kapuscinski:

The fields of rice and wheat, the green meadows, the stands of kale and paprika, the plantations of peaches and lemons, all vanished. Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, cotton grew. Its fields, its white drowsy sea, stretched for tens, hundreds of kilometers ...

Grigory Reznichenko wrote a book in 1989 called The Aral Catastrophe, which is such upsetting reading that I was barely able to get through it. He elaborates:

Around 20 million people live in the countryside in Central Asia. Two-thirds work with cotton and really with nothing else besides. Farmers, gardeners, orchard keepers have all had to change profession -- they are now employed as laborers on cotton plantations. Coercion and fear compel them to work with cotton. Coercion and fear, for it surely isn't money. One earns pennies harvesting cotton. And the work is tiring and monotonous. To fulfill his daily quota, a man mustbend down ten to twelve thousand times. An atrocious, forty-degree heat [Celsius], air that stinks of virulent chemicals, aridity, and constant thirst destroy the human being, especially women and children ... people pay with their health and their life for the personal well-being and power of a handful of demoralized careerists.

The "careerists" in Moscow would agree upon, beforehand, the amount of the coming cotton harvest. It was always a number which was completely unattainable. Then when the smaller harvest came in, Brezhnev and his goons would inflate the numbers and spread positive propaganda about the miracle they had worked in Uzbekistan. It is now called "the cotton mafia". The mafia got rich off of the completely imaginary massive cotton harvests. And the people working the cotton starved, because no longer could they feed themselves with their own orchards.

But all of this is pretty much just the normal tragedy (with different details) of all of the republics in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The Communists raped the land, enslaved the citizens, and closed the borders. This is all par for the course.

What makes the tragedy in Uzbekistan stand out is the Aral Sea, the once-beautiful and vital Aral Sea, a sea which, in a matter of 25 years, has dried up off the face of the earth, creating global ecological issues.

The Soviets never thought long-term about the environment. You want to build a highway? Hack down the forest. You want to create a city out of nothing? Bulldoze down the peasants' wheat fields and cover them up with concrete.

So the Soviets over-taxed the Amu and Syr Darya rivers, they cut tributaries into the desert, to divert the water where they wanted it to go. And almost immediately (the balance of nature is so delicate in any desert), both ancient and great rivers began to dry up, and shrink to nothing. Amu and Syr are what feed the Aral Sea. So the drying up of the two rivers had massive consequences for the Aral Sea, which began to shrink. It shrank so rapidly that if you look at satellite photographs of the sea, from 1967 to 1997, you see it almost completely disappear. It makes me sick to my stomach.

Kapuscinski again, describing the crux of the issue:

The waters of the Syr Darya and the Amu Darya, instead of flowing into the Aral Sea, were, according to man's will, sqandered along the way, spilled over fields, over unending deserts, along an immense distance of more than 3000 kilometers. For this reason, the calm and broad currents of both powerful rivers -- the only source of life in this part of the world -- instead of swelling and intensifying in the course of their journey (as is customary in nature), began to decline, to shrink, to get narrower and shallower, until, short of reaching the sea, they were transformed into salty, poisoned, and muddy pools, into spongy and foul-smelling ditches, into treacherous puddles of duckweed, finally sinking below ground and disappearing from view.

So the rivers shrink. Because the river shrinks, the sea disappears. And then there's the issue with salt. Here's some info about what the Aral Sea once was (I got this from the Aral Sea homepage):

The salt deposits rising to the surface because of the shrinking of the rivers destroyed the land, and because of all the windstorms and duststorms common to deserts, these salt deposits also ruined the atmosphere. This was exacerbated by all of the pesticides which had soaked into the land over the decades, so the pesticides are stirred up by the windstorms, and spread, ruining the air for miles and miles around.

Kapuscinski on the salt problem:

It is a known fact that a dozen or so meters below the surface of every desert lie large deposits of concentrated salt. If water is conducted to it, the salt, together with the moisture, will rise to the surface. And that is exactly what happened now in Uzbekistan. The concealed, crushed, deeply secreted salt started to move upward, to regain its liberty. The golden land of Uzbekistan, which was first cloaked in the white of cotton, was now glazed over with a lustrous crust of white salt.

But one doesn't have to study the ground. When the wind blows, one can taste the salt on one's lips, on one's tongue. It stings the eyes.

More:

The Aral Sea and its tributaries provided sustenance for 3 million people. But the fate of this sea and its two rivers also impinges on the situaion of all the inhabitants of this region, of whom there are 32 million..

The Soviet authorities have long worried about how to reverse the disaster -- the destruction of the Aral Sea, the ruination of half of Central Asia. It is after all well known that the unprecedented increase in cotton cultivation has led to a tragic shortage of water, a shortage that is destroying a large part of the world (a fact which to this day continues to be concealed.

Then, of course, the USSR collapsed. Although the USSR was an ungainly bohemoth, an "evil empire", and although this whole frigging mess was their fault in the first place, they still were the only ones aware enough of the problem to try to find solutions. Granted their "solutions" were insane: bombing glaciers in the Tienshan and Pamir mountains, so that the run-off would flood the land again (what?? I'm no environmental engineer but even I know that this would not work), or redirecting the rivers of Siberia (thousands and thousands and thousands of miles away) to come down into Uzbekistan, so that Brezhnev's crazy dream of a Land of Cotton could be realized. This, if they had followed through with it, of course would have meant the ruination of Siberia.

But they had screwed up, and the Soviets were desperate for a solution. As crackpot as the schemes were, at least they were schemes! Once the USSR collapsed, Uzbekistan was completely abandoned. All of the Russians who knew how to do anything fled the country, leaving it in the hands of a down-trodden uneducated populace, who know nothing about anything. And so the Aral Sea has died.

Environmental groups all over the world have stepped in, to try to save the situation. But certainly it's not the Uzbeks spearheading anything. The Soviets had enslaved them, had given them no sense of agency in their destinies, they just harvested the cotton and tried to live their lives, while the environmental disaster in their own country intensified almost on a minute to minute basis. People die much earlier there. People get weird unclassifiable diseases. People are poisoned.

It's a lost cause.

So the Aral Sea is shrinking, and a process of "desertification" is taking place. The sands growing more and more insistent, taking over more and more acreage ... the entire region drying up, and cracking shut.

Here's a final (and terrible) image to leave you with. Kapuscinski, on his travels, visits Muynak, which was, only a couple of years ago, a fishing port on the Aral Sea. I can't get these images out of my head:

[Muynak] now stands in the middle of the desert; the sea is 60 to 80 kilometers from here. Near the settlement, where the port once was, rusting carcasses of trawlers, cutters, barges, and other boats lie in the sand. Despite the fact that the paint is peeling and falling off, one can still make out some of the names: Estonia, Dagestan, Nahodka. The place is deserted; there is no one around ...

It is a sad settlement -- Muynak. It once lay in the spot where the beautiful life-giving Amu Darya flowed into the Aral Sea, an extraordinary sea in the heart of a great desert. Today, there is neither river nor sea. In the town the vegetation has withered; the dogs have died. Half the residents have left, and those who stayed have nowhere else to go. They do not work, for they are fishermen, and there are no fish. Of the Aral Sea's 178 species of fish and frutti di mare, only 38 remain. Besides, the sea is far away; how is one to get there across the desert? If there is no strong wind, people sit on little benches, leaning against the shabby and crumbling walls of their decrepit houses. It is impossible to ascertain how they make a living; it is difficult to communicate with them about anything. They are Karakalpaks -- they barely speak any Russian, and the children no longer speak Russian at all. If one smiles at the people sitting against the walls, they become even more gloomy, and the women veil their faces. Indeed, a smile does look false here, and laughter would sound like the screech of a rusty nail against glass.

Children play in the sand with a plastic bucket that's missing a handle. Ragged, skinny, sad. I did not visit the nearest hospital, which is on the other side of the sea, but in Tashkent I was shown a film made in that hospital. For every 1000 children born, 100 die immediately. And those that survive? The doctor picks up in his hands little white skeletons, still alive, although it is difficult to tell.

Here are some pictures of Muynak ... and there is the terrible sight of a fishing boat sitting in the middle of the desert.

The whole thing makes me feel hopeless and mad.

Uzbekistan - Part IV - Tashkent

Uzbekistan, rather than being a modern nation-state, as we understand it, is still a collection of "oasis cities", made famous and prosperous by the Silk Road - cities with names famous round the world: Samarqand, Bukhara.

The following post is about Tashkent:

UZBEKISTAN - TASHKENT

Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan, is a similar story to the story of Bukhara, and all of the other oases in Central Asia.

In the 1st century A.D. it was an oasis settlement.

Throughout the following millennium, Tashkent was conquered and released and re-conquered over and over again. Persians, Mongol hordes, Turkic khans swept through, owned it, and passed it back and forth between them over the years.

And then, on June 15, 1865, the Russians arrived. And basically they never left. They are still there. In 1990, the population of Tashkent was 40% Russian. After the Soviet collapse, the Russians were a lost and sad community, abandoned by the motherland, adrift in a society wracked with upheaval and a Muslim revival. They were the old oppressors, trying to live with the conquered people, who were now trying to take back their country. So Tashkent has a Russian overlay, unlike Bukhara, which is a Muslim center. It is a very religious town, filled with fundamentalists. Tashkent is also a Russian outpost.

Tashkent, in the years after 1865, became Russia's base of operations for further conquests in Turkestan. The Russians built a colonial city here which swallowed up the medieval Turkic city.

Thubron says, "The Russians had captured Tashkent in 1865, not on orders from St. Petersburg but by the adventurism of local generals. Wiithin a few years it became the capital of Russian Turkestan, and there grew up beside the native town a pleasant, nondescript cantonment, where water channels trickled and great trees bloomed. Its first governor-general, the vain and chilly Kaufmann, ruled like a petty emperor. His army and administrations were filled with exiled bankrupts and adventurers. Far from home, local society became inward-looking and licentious, while beside it the Uzbek community continued almost unstudied, as if it would one day fade away."

Finally, with the advent of the Bolsheviks and their terrible aesthetic sense, the old Tashkent disappeared forever. Stalinist architecture (massive homely buildings, dauntingly wide concrete boulevards) stamped out the medieval nature of the desert town ... there isn't much left to be seen of the old Tashkent.

And then in 1966 there was a tremendous earthquake which gutted half of the city. Soviet builders rushed in to fill the vacuum and rebuild the city according to their own disgusting sensibilities.

Tashkent, judging from the pictures, is one of the ugliest places on earth. Everything is grandiose, inflated, with massive gaunt spaces meant to make the citizens feel tiny and insignificant. The avenues are 6 lanes wide, the squares are massive vistas watched over by mammoth statues. It looks oppressive. Like someone is always watching, or like the city is always waiting for something terrible to happen.

Stalin's legacy persists here, not just in the architecture, but in the population of Tashkent. Tashkent is filled with Russians and Armenians. Taskent still has very strong ties with Moscow ... much stronger than other areas in Uzbekistan. This adds to the regional divides in the country; it is very difficult for the nation to join together, unify, and agree on who they are as a people, as a place. Nobody agrees. Everybody battles for power.

The Russians, while they were the leaders of Tashkent, erected a state playhouse, a ballet, a circus. So Tchaikovsky was introduced to Uzbekistan, to a disgruntled Muslim populace (who, quite frankly, have no curiosity about other cultures in general. They could not GIVE a shit about what Western culture might have to offer. Meanwhile, we translate all of their top novels and poets into English or French or German or Italian, we watch their films, we give them Oscars ... but the exchange is almost completely one-sided. Well - except for the proliferation of Leonardo deCaprio T-shirts in Tehran).

And Tashkent today? Over a million people live in the city. There is much crime; it is not safe for anybody. It is very polluted. There is no work. And the youth population has exploded, so the city is crowded with drunken young men, filled with vague senses of grievance, who have nothing to do. The suburbs continue to spread. Everything looks the same. There is no traditional Uzbek community here. Everyone yearns to be part of the West, and yet they live in a poverty-struck and dangerous society, where they basically have to leave in order to live productive lives. The mafia is ever-present, their influence in everything.

It's a bad situation, a powder keg. Islamic fundamentalism on the rise, reacting to the youthful population who want nothing more than to have access to Western music and Western movies.

These people have had their histories, their indigenous culture, amputated. There is no memory, no sense of who they are. The Russians who still live here live in fear, hiding out in their houses, dreaming about the good old days of Stalin.

Kind of a sick scenario, no?

Uzbekistan - Part III - Bukhara

This post is about Bukhara, another of the famous cities of Uzbekistan.

UZBEKISTAN - BUKHARA

Bukhara was a medieval city-state, a very important commercial center. By the time Genghis Khan sacked the joint in 1220, Bukhara had already been around for over a thousand years. Genghis Khan laid waste to Bukhara, sparing nothing. Only minaret remained, and it still stands today. That minaret, called the Kalan minaret, was a marvel when it was constructed and it is still a marvel today. It is 148 feet high, and once was a beacon to the Silk Road caravans, letting them know that Bukhara was near.

There are bazaars in Bukhara which have been operating, nonstop, for a thousand years. There are madrassahs in Bukhara, built in the 1500s, which still have students today.

Bukhara was once seen as one of the centers of the world. There was a Sufi religious center here, built in the 1300s ... a major mecca for Sufi scholars and pilgrims. Everyone passed through Bukhara, and the Silk Road helped establish Bukhara's position as one of the premier city-states in the known world.

I don't know much about the Samanids, but they were a dynasty in the 10th century, and under their reign, Bukhara blossomed. They built a great library here that had 45,000 manuscripts in it. The Samanids were eventually destroyed by the Mongols, everything destroyed, nothing survived of that brief great era.

An interesting fact: The Samanids had built a wall around their oasis. But during the time of prosperity, the Samanids let down their guard ... they relaxed ... they let the wall fall to bits, they did not maintain their wall ... so when the Turkic invaders came along in 999 A.D., they easily captured the town.

First off, a quote, from Colin Thubron's great book The Lost Heart of Asia:

Across this region, for some two thousand years, the Silk Road has nourished caravan-towns -- Samarqand, Bukhara, Margilan -- whose populace had spoken an Iranian tongue. The Uzbeks were latecomers, migrating south at the end of the 15th century. They took their name froma khan of the Golden Horde, for their origins were Turkic, but already their blood was mixed with Iranians', and they added only the last layer to a palimpsest of peoples identifying themselves less by nation than by clan. On my map Uzbekistan made a multi-colored confusion. It was shaped like a dog barking at China. A country of 20 million -- more than 70% of them Uzbeks -- it butted against the Tienshan and the Pamir mountains in green-tinted lowlands and a sudden spaghetti of roads. But it remained an enigma: a land whose Communist rulers had persisted in power under another name, offering only lipservice to Islam, and loosening the economy without promise of democracy.

Thubron rhapsodizes about what the word "Bukhara" has always meant to him:

Bukhara! For centuries it had glimmered remote in the Western consciousness: the most secretive and fanatical of the great caravan-cities, shored up in its desert fastness against time and change. To either side of it the Silk Road had withered away, so that by the 19th century the town had folded its battlements around its people in self-immolated barbarism, and receded into fable.

So the Mongols sacked the joint in 1220, and trashed the entire town. But then along came Tamerlane the Terrible, and in the 16th century the mosques and madrassahs were rebuilt. They still stand today, but nothing older than that survives.

Once the sea route to India and to China was discovered, Central Asia was done. In a matter of 100 years, the place closed shut like a trap, forgotten by the rest of the world. Bukhara (and Samarqand, and others) fell into wretched decay. Nobody passed through. For hundreds of years, Uzbeks never saw someone from the West. The cultural exchange stopped. Technological advances stopped passing through the area. They were forgotten by history.

In 2001, when Uzbekistan let us operate from their bases (Russian-built), during our attacks on Afghanistan, that was the first time that Western soldiers had operated in this area since Alexander the Great passed through in 329 B.C. Incredible, no?

Colin Thubron, who traveled through the region during the first summer and spring of independence from Moscow, describes Bukhara's own journey (because, like I said, Uzbekistan is not a real country yet. At least not like we would define. People in Uzbekistan, for millennia, have identified themselves as citizens of Bukhara, Samarqand, etc. Now, they are starting to identify themselves ethnically ... "We are Uzbeks. Everything good comes from Uzbek culture!" So far, they do not have an identity as a coherent nation yet.) So Bukhara's own story definitely can stand in for the whole, to some degree.

It was the failure of water, as well as conservative ferocity, which hurried on the isolation of Bukhara. The Zerafshan river, flowing 500 miles out of the Pamirs, expends its last breath on the oasis, and is withering away. To north and west the sands have buried a multitude of towns and villages which the exhausted irrigation could not save.

Even in the 19th century, the accounts of travellers were filled with ambiguity. To Moslems Bukhara was "the Noble, the Sublime". It was wrapped round by eight miles of walls and fortified gates, and its mosques and medresehs were beyond counting. The Bukhariots, it was said, were the most polished and civilized inhabitants of Central Asia, and their manners and dress became a yardstick of oriental fashion ...

Even in decline, the bazaars were rumoured magnificent, and teemed with Hindus, Persians, Jews, and Tartars.

Yet this splendour barely concealed an inner wretchedness. Men who walked abroad like kings returned at night to hovels. The city gates and walls were a gimcrack theatre-set, and the famed medresehs in decay ... Ordinary people seemed inured to cruelty and subterfuge. Scarcely a Westerner dared enter before the 1870s.

The decline had begun in earnest during the end of the 18th century. And in the 19th century, there were two vicious and degenerate emirs who were brutal, and terrifying. Their behavior alienated them from their own people. The discontent and anger of the citizens of Bukhara made it relatively easy for the Russians to sweep in in the mid-1800s, and reduce Bukhara to a client state. This was part of the famous "Great Game", played by Russia and England in the middle of Central Asia.

Here's a passage about the czarist triumph:

In all their Central Asian wars, between 1847-73, the Russians claimed to have lost only 400 dead, while the Moslem casualties mounted to tens of thousands.

The ensuing years brought the ambiguous peace of subservience. The czarist Russians, like the Bolsheviks after them, were contemptuous of the world which they had conquered. They stilled the Turcoman raids and abolished slavery, at least in name, but they entertained few visions of betterment for their subjects. As for the Moslems, who could stoically endure their own despots, the tyranny of the Great White Czar insulted them by its alien unbelief. "Better your own land's weeds," they murmured, "than other men's wheat."

Yet there would come a time when they would look back on the czarist indifference as a golden age.

In 1918, Mahomet Alim, the last emir of Bukhara, repulsed the (now) Red Invaders, booting out the Bolsheviks. This wasn't altogether a great thing for the people of Bukhara because the last emir was a tyrannical lunatic, with a massive harem, who sent tax collectors out to basically terrorize the populace. He wasn't a great guy. But he did defeat the Russians. However, 2 years later, in 1920, as General Frunze, in the Red Army, advanced again on the oasis, the last emir flipped out, and fled with his harem, leaving the populace to fend for themselves.

And then followed six decades of communism. Stalin closed down all the mosques. He criminalized private property, and entrepreneurship ... Uzbekistan was crushed beyond repair. They have still not recovered.

The story of what has happened to the Aral Sea is one of the most disturbing and devastating legacies left by the Russians. It has been described as "the world's greatest environmental disaster". It makes me sick to my stomach.

Thubron again, on strolling through the ancient bazaars in the early 1990s:

A hesitant free enterprise was surfacing, but the inflation raging through the old Soviet empire had turned everyone poor. Sad traders peered from their kiosks like glove-puppets, or threaded the bazaars with a predatory vigilance. But they had almost nothing to sell. Once the name 'Bukhara' had been synonymous with lustrous dyed silks and the crimson rugs of the Turcomans who traded here, and carpets of Persian design were woven on domestic looms all over the city. But under Stalin, home industries became criminal. Mass production laid a dead hand on all the old crafts. I trudged through the market quarter until dark, but found no trace of handmade silk or rug.

Nobody alive today can know what the ancient Bukhara was like. It's lost. Lost for good.

Here are some pictures of modern-day Bukhara. I can see why everyone refers to the oasis as "monochromatic". Everything is the color of chalk.

If you take a look at the lower left picture, you will see the old city gate, which still stands. Part of the remaining wall that has always surrounded the oasis. And the top left, the emir's summer palace, is the residence of the last emir who flew the coop when he was threatened by Frunze. He and all his many many many lovely ladies. Additionally, in the last post I talked about the Kalyan minaret, erected in 1127, the only surviving structure from Genghis Khan's attack in 1220. It is 148 feet high, and actually kind of homely, in my opinion, but there was a time on this planet, when that minaret (pictured in the right hand column, second photo down) was as famous a sight as the Eiffel Tower. I have never seen the Eiffel Tower but I know exactly what it looks like. The camel caravans on the Silk Road kept their eyes open for that minaret, knowing exactly what it would look like, counting on it to be there.

Oh, and also notice the bottom right hand picture: the Ulugh Beg madrassah. He was the grandson of Tamerlane, who took over the empire after his grandfather's death. But Ulugh Beg was a scientist, an astronomer ... and actually, quite brilliant. He built observatories and sponsored scientists visiting Bukhara. He wanted the place to be a cultural center, not just a hotbed of fanaticism, and a place to rest in between military ventures and wars. The madrassah you see in the picture was completed in 1420. It was one of the places shut down by Stalin, but now it is open again, and filled with students.

I am a little afraid of what they may be learning in there these days ("And today's lesson ... Americans are Satan." "Don't forget to do your homework ... write an essay on why you think the Zionists are taking over the world."), but still: the Ulugh Beg madrassah is an amazing structure, and actually was built by quite an enlightened and educated man. A curious man.

So perhaps that legacy will rub off. I can only hope.

I found some descriptive quotes of Bukhara in Thubron's book that I wanted to share. It makes me feel as though I can see this famous city with my own eyes. Which is, after all, why I read all of these historical travelogues. I want to see the world. And not just Paris or Rome, although I'd love to go there, too. The places I really want to see are the so-called backwaters of Central Asia and the Middle East. Samarqand, Bukhara, Shiraz (in Iran), the Fergana Valley (in Kyrgyzstan), Herat (in Afghanstan)... all of Alexander the Great's old hangouts.

Thubron strolls through Bukhara:

...I entered a dust-filled wasteland fringed by a pale host of mosques and medresehs. The din and pall of restoration shook the air. The earth dazzled. The buildings glared in a blank, shadowless uniformity. Dressed in cement-colored brick, they had not the rich plenitude of the tiled mosques of Iran, but were patterned only sparsely with a glaze of indigo or green. For the rest, they were the color of the earth beneath them: a dead platinum. It was as if the dust had hardened into walls and turrets and latticed windows. Everything-- even the clay-colored sky -- shone with the same bleached stare.

But above, in radiant atonement, hovered a tumult of turquoise domes. Beyond the high gateways and iwans -- the great vaulted porches-- they swam up from their drums like unearthly fruit, and flooded the sky with the heaven-sent blue of Persia. From a distance they seemed to shine in unified aquamarine, but in fact the tiles which coated them were subtly different from one another, so that they spread a vibrant, changing patina over every cupola: eggshell, kingfisher, deep sapphire.

These mosques and medresehs were mostly raised by the successors of Tamerlane or by the 16th century Sheibanids, the first and most glorious Uzbek dynasty that succeeded them. Little that is older survives...

The blanched aridity all around oppressed me inexplicably, as though the city were dying instead of being restored. Even the dust seemed to have been leached by some ghostly peroxide. But in fact Bukhara was being resurrected indiscriminately: walls rebuilt shoddily en masse, tilework reproduced wholesale. Work had started in the Soviet period, but events had overtaken it, and the mosques which had been reconstituted cold in the service of art or tourism were stirring again with a half-life of their own.

The following descriptive passage is also very interesting because it captures what appears to be the inherent contradictions not only in Bukhara but in all of Uzbekistan. They don't really fit in with the rest of Central Asia ... they are not homogenous, they practice Islam but with elements of shamanism and Sufism, they don't subscribe to fundamentalism (at least not yet) ... They try to resist being sucked into the issues plaguing Afghanistan, the civil war next door in Tajikstan, the tyrannical dictatorship in Turkmenistan next door ... They are a milder people. But this struggle is difficult. Very difficult. Because, of course, there are many radical elements in the populations. There are millions of Uzbeks who do not live in Uzbekistan proper, who live in Afghanistan, Turkmenistan, China, Tajikstan ... and these people bring home radicalism, fanaticism.

Thubron discusses the glorious Renaissance that Bukhara experienced in the10th century, a great era of art and literature, and although it was back in the Middle Ages, the tensions he describes in the society still exist, and still simmer beneath the surface.

He visits "The Tomb of the Samanids", a 10th century mausoleum that stands on the outskirts of the city.

The tomb is all that survives of the precocious Samanid dynasty, the last Persians to rule in Central Asia, whose empire pushed south of the Caspian and deep into Afghanistan. The tomb escaped the Mongol sack because it lay buried under windblownsands, its builders half forgotten, and it perhaps finds its architectural origins in the palaces and fire-temples of pre-Islamic times. But its sophistication -- the lavish, almost playful deployment of its brick -- betrays an age more daring, more intellectual, than any which succeeded it.

For over a hundred years, until the end of the 10th century, a creative frenzy gripped the capital. Alongside the moral austerity of Islam, there bloomed an aesthetic Persian spirit which looked back to the magnificence and philosophic liberalism of the Sassanian age, extinguished by the Arabs more than two centuries before. As the Silk Road spilt into and out of Bukhara -- furs, amber and honey travelling east; silks, jewellry and jade going west -- the Samanids sent horses and glass to China, and received spices and ceramics in exchange.

An era of peace brought men of letters and science crowding to the court, and the Persian language flowered again in a galaxy of native poets. It was an ebullient age. Iranian music, painting and wine flourished heretically alongside Koranic learning, and the great library of Bukhara, stacked with 45,000 manuscripts,became the haunt of doctors, mathematicians, astronomers, and geographers.

The short era produced men of striking genius: the polymathic al-Biruni, who computed the earth's radius; the lyric poet Rudaki; and the great Ibn Sina, Avicenna, who wrote 242 scientific books of stupefying variety, and whose 'Canons of Medicine' became a vital textbook in the hospitals even of Christian Europe for 500 years.

Uzbekistan - Part II - Samarqand and Tamerlane

The following post is about the storied city of Samarqand and the horrors of Timur.

UZBEKISTAN - SAMARQAND AND TIMUR

The history of Uzbekistan in the 20th century is, admittedly, quite riveting: a Muslim state, a mish-mash of people, under the thumb of Stalin, holding out, holding on, and then ... in one shot ... before they are at all ready, they become independent. They were one of the few republics in the Soviet Union which had to be forced into independence. They knew they were not ready, they didn't know what to do.

But, for me, the really gripping history in the area goes way way back, to medieval times, when this section of the planet was one of the centers of the world, if not the center. An amazing thing, to have that in your cultural memory.

Uzbekistan was part of the old Persian empire, and things did not change much here from the 6th century BC to the 19th century. In the 4th century B.C., Alexander the Great passed through (that boy certainly got around), and married the daughter of a local chieftain near Samarqand. This connected the region to the outside world. The Silk Road propelled the region to the center of the world. The Silk Road was a peaceful connector, a trade-driven connector. Regions did not have to be conquered by outsiders anymore in order to learn about innovations in other cultures. Camel caravans brought news and technology and inventions to these remote areas, and the world got a bit smaller.

In the 6th century AD, Western Turks galloped into the region from the vast steppes and brought Islam with them. They also brought a written alphabet. This changed everything.

Uzbekistan is one of the crossroads of the world. Everybody passed through here in those days, avoiding the Himalayas, avoiding the deserts, following the great rivers. Oases and towns sprung up, people became rich, civilization flourished. The Turks moved on, and the Persians took over again.

City-states were passed from leader to leader over the centuries. For example: Tashkent: in the 1st century AD, it was your basic oasis settlement. And then Persian armies, Mongol hordes, and Turkic khans swapped it back and forth through the medieval centuries. One despot would subside, leaving room for another. By the middle ages, Tashkent, Samarqand and Bukhara were not just desert oases. They were centers of learning and culture. They were the Pragues of the 12th century.

Genghis Khan comes along in the 13th century and sacks the entire region. Every oasis was destroyed. I'm not sure what exactly his point was ... Genghis didn't seem to be a typical conqueror as in: I will come in, kick you all out or enslave you, and take over all your buildings. He was more like: I will come in, kill everybody, and burn all of your cities to the ground. Then I will decapitate the intelligentsia and I will put their heads on stakes outside of your libraries, and I will smash all of your mirrors. And then he would ride on to the next oasis. Not sure what that accomplished. But that was his deal. Ha ha ... such an oversimplification! I don't even really know what I'm talking about, but all I DO know is that the history books describing the 13th century in this area are peppered with the following sentences: "And they flourished until Genghis Khan." "And then Genghis Khan sacked the city." "All was well until the terror of Genghis Khan came from the north." Who knows. He was a destroyer, not a builder. The same is true, and more so, for Tamerlane.

An explanatory quote about Mr. Khan (unfortunately, I have no idea where this quote came from - it's on one of my "Uzbekistan"index cards ... sorry.)

The Mongols were illiterate, religiously shamanistic and sparsely populated, perhaps no more than around 700,000 in number, living in good-sized felt tents. They were herdsmen around an area called Karakorum. They had been moving across great distances on the grassy plains -- steppe lands -- north and east of China, frequently fighting wars over turf. Before 1200 they had been fragmented ... In the late 1100s and early 1200s a Mongol military leader named Temüjin was creating a confederation of tribes, Mongol and non-Mongol but which would be called Mongol. He was a good manager, collecting under him people of talent. And, when necessary, he warred ... In 1206, at the age of 42, Temüjin took the title Universal Ruler, which translates to Genghis Khan.

Like others, Genghis Khan's subjects saw themselves at the center of the universe and the greatest of people -- favored, of course, by the gods. And they justified Genghis Khan's conquests in previous years by claiming that he was the rightful master not only over the "peoples of the felt tent" but the entire world.

More on Genghis Khan right here. It's mind-boggling, how much territory he conquered, on horseback. Genghis Khan described himself as "the punishment of God".

And then there was Tamerlane (or Timur). Tamerlane was a Muslim and has routinely been chosen as one of the most ruthless warriors of the millennium. (At least, Time Magazine voted him so in 2000.)

Tamerlane was a brutal warrior, the terror of the land, but he also loved and appreciated art and architecture ... So when he would capture a town, he would enslave the best artists in that town, capture them, spare them from execution, and drag them to Samarqand (the oasis he chose as his capital). He then made these prisoners of war build him the perfect city. A very contradictory mix, that Tamerlane. Samarqand became one of the most famous Islamic cities in the world while Tamerlane was around.

Ulugh Beg (1394-1449) was Tamerlane's grandson, and he took over when his grandfather died. He wasn't a ruthless murderer like his grandfather. Ulugh Beg was an astronomer, and also a great patron of scientists and astronomers. He built observatories. Another unattributable quote about the fascinating Ulugh Beg:

He was certainly the most important observational astronomer of the 15th century. He was one of the first to advocate and build permanently mounted astronomical instruments. His catalogue of 1018 stars (some sources count 1022) was the only such undertaking carried out between the times of Claudius Ptolemy (ca. 170 A.D.) and Tycho Brahe (ca. 1600).

Blows the mind. Ulugh Beg only ruled for two years, because he was assassinated, but in that time, he was able to supervise the building of astronomical observatories, the ruins of which still stand. Fascinating man. There are madrassahs in Uzbekistan named after him today. He is one of their cultural heroes.

The history of the oases of Uzbekistan tells the story of the whole area. This post is about Samarqand. I'll do Bukhara tomorrow.

Samarqand is one of those cities which has never NOT been inhabited, since its inception, two thousand years ago.

In the 6th century B.C., ancient Samarqand was called Maraconda. It was the capital of the Sogdians (who were, basically, Iranians ... the forefathers of Iranians, anyway.)

In the 4th century (329 B.C.), Samarqand was captured by Alexander the Great, during his push east. The Sogdians outlasted Alexander's rule, however. (Those resourceful Iranians ... they cannot be completely conquered!)

In the 2nd century B.C., Samarqand was made into an essential junction point of the Silk Road by China. Chinese merchants chose it because of its location, and its nearness to a river, a perfect combination. Samarqand flourished. Became a very wealthy and cosmopolitan medieval city throughout the centuries that followed.

In 712 A.D., Samarqand (Maraconda) was conquered by the Arabs.

In the 13th century A.D., Samarqand was, you guessed it, sacked by Genghis Khan. The entire city was wrecked. And then built back up.

In the 14th century A.D., Samarqand was chosen as Tamerlane's capital, which made it famous. Samarqand became Tamerlane's showpiece, his pride and joy. It was a mud city, but underneath the guidance of Tamerlane, the place bloomed. Artists and architects from Persia were captured and brought there to build it up, silk weavers from Syria, jewellers from India. It once was a mud city, but under Tamerlane the place exploded: tiled mosques, minarets, towers.

From 1407 - 1449, Samarqand was ruled by Ulugh Beg (Tamerlane's grandson).

In the 14th century, the Mongol tribes who called themselves "Uzbek" began moving south, and they eventually conquered all of Tamerlane's empire. By 1510, they controlled everything in the area (and the descendents still control that very same area today, the area known as modern-day Uzbekistan).

I'll close today with Ryzsard Kapuscinski's discussion of Samarqand, Bukhara, and Tamerlane:

Bukhara is brownish; it is the color of clay baked in the sun. Samarqand is intensely blue; it is the color of sky and water.

Bukhara is commercial, noisy, concrete, and material: it is a city of merchandise and marketplaces; it is an enormous warehouse, a desert port, Asia's belly. Samarqand is inspired, abstract, lofty, and beautiful; it is a city of concentration and reflection; it is a musical note and a painting; it is turned toward the stars. Erkin told me that one must look at Samarqand on a moonlit night, during a full moon. The ground remains dark; the walls and the towers catch all the light; the city starts to shimmer, then it floats upward, like a lantern.

H. Papworth, in his book The Legend of Timur, questions whether the miracle that is Samarqand is in fact the work of Timur, also known as Tamerlane. There is something incomprehensible -- he writes -- in the notion that this city, which with all its beauty and composition directs man's thoughts toward mysticism and contemplation, was created by such a cruel demon, marauder, and despot as was Timur,

But there is no denying the fact that the basis of Samarqand's fame was born at the turn of the 14th and 15th centuries and hence during Timur's reign. Timur is an astonishing historical phenomenon. His name aroused terror for decades. He was a great ruler who kept Asia under his heel, but his might did not stop him from concerning himself with details. His armies were famed for their cruelty. Wherever Timur appeared, writes the Arab historian Zaid Vosifi, "blood poured from people as from vessels," and "the sky was the color of a field of tulips". Timur himself would stand at the head of each and every expedition, overseeing everything himself. Those whom he conquered he ordered beheaded. He ordered towers built from their skulls, and walls and roads. He supervised the progress of the work himself. He ordered the stomachs of merchants ripped open and searched for gold. He himself supervised the process to ensure they were being searched diligently. He ordered his adversaries and opponents poisoned. He prepared the potions himself.

He carried the standard of death, and this mission absorbed him for half the day.

During the second half of the day, art absorbed him. Timur devoted himself to the dissemination of art with the same zeal he sustained for the spread of death. In Timur's consciousness, an extremely narrow line separated art and death, and it is precisely this fact that Papworth cannot comprehend. It is true that Timur killed. But it is also true that he did not kill all. He spared people with creative qualifications. In Timur's Imperium, the best sanctuary was talent.

Timur drew talent to Samarqand; he courted every artist. He did not allow anyone who carried within him the divine spark to be touched. Artists bloomed and Samarqand bloomed. The city was his pride. On one of its gates Timur ordered inscribed the sentence: IF YOU DOUBT OUR MIGHT -- LOOK AT OUR BUILDINGS! and that sentence has outlived Timur by many centuries. Today Samarqand still stuns us with its peerless beauty, its excellence of form, its artistic genius. Timur supervised each construction himself. That which was unsuccessful he ordered removed, and his taste was excellent. He deliberated about the various alternatives in ornamentation; he judged the delicacy of design, the purity of line. And then he threw himself again into the whirl of a new military expedition, into carnage, into blood, into flames, into cries.

Papworth does not understand that Timur was playing a game that few people have the means to play. Timur was sounding the limits of man's possibilities. Timur demonstrated that which Dostoyevsky later described -- that man is capable of everything. One can define Timur's creation through a sentence of Saint-Exupery's: "That which I have done no animal would ever do." Both the good and the bad. Timur's scissors had two blades -- the blade of creation and the blade of destruction. These two blades define the limits of every man's activity. Ordinarily, though, the scissors are barely open. Sometimes they are open a little more. In Timur's case they were open as far as they could go.

Erkin showed me Timur's grave in Samarqand, made of green nephrite. Before the entrance to the mausoleum there is an inscription, whose author is Timur: HAPPY IS HE WHO RENOUNCED THE WORLD BEFORE THE WORLD RENOUNCED HIM.

He died at the age of 69, in 1405, during an expedition to China.

I must go and see Samarqand one day. I really must.

Uzbekistan - Part I - The People

Here is an archive of the past countries I chose to focus on ... writing a brief essay a day, providing book excerpts, etc.

Now - before I head back to Manhattan - I am going to post the essays I wrote about Uzbekistan, a country which holds much fascination for me. I feel that I must go there some day.

The first essay I wrote is about the Uzbeks themselves.

As always, readers, please chime in, to add to this discussion, or to help me out on stuff I may be missing.

All of this stuff comes from my reading of other people, having never been there myself.

UZBEKISTAN - THE PEOPLE

Uzbekistan is the most ancient and the most populous country in Central Asia. Samarqand and Bukhara, two storied cities made famous by their importance to the Silk Road (they were the jewels to be captured by the hordes which continuously swept through the region), are in Uzbekistan. I think I've said it before, but if there were such thing as a time-machine, one of the times/places I would like to visit would be this area during the height of the Silk Road. (I'd also like to have been in Philadephia at the time of the Continental Congresses. Or in Boston during the Tea Party.)

Uzbekistan is the heartland of Central Asia. It has borders with all of the other "stans", as well as a small border with Afghanistan.

There are two ancient rivers flowing through Uzbekistan: the Amu-Darya and the Syr-Darya. Because of these two great rivers, oases were able to spring up left and right throughout the desert country, where people flourished and survived, in the middle of nothingness. Another example of geography as destiny. Bukhara and Samarqand would never have been so important without those two rivers.

Who are the Uzbek people? How the hell should I know ... I've never met an Uzbek. But here is what I can glean: They are of Turkic origin, but they also have genetic connections with Iranians. This makes for a very interesting mix, because Iranians are, historically, looked down upon throughout this area, because they are of Indo-European stock, not Turkic, and they are also Shiites, not Sunni. So the Uzbek people bridge that gap, uneasily at times. The Uzbeks were latecomers to the area, having migrated south at the end of the 15th century.

Uzbeks trace their lineage back to Uzbek Khan (1312-1340), from whom they take their name. Uzbek Khan was the great-grandson of the feared and infamous Genghis Khan. Uzbek Khan's forebears were part of Genghis' original Turko-Mongolian horde.

You don't have to be a rocket scientist to get that because of all this, Uzbek society is based on clan traditions. The notion of a nation-state is still very weak here. These people are desert nomads, they traveled throughout the centuries from oasis to oasis ... and the oasis was the center, the oasis was the basis of your identity. You did not say, "Yes, I am an Uzbek." You said, "I am from Samarqand." I think to some degree that this is still true. Stalin's repressive programs in this region certainly did not help! Russians poured into Uzbekistan, as colonizers. There are a ton of them still there.

But I'll get to that later.

Uzbeks are, traditionally, Sunni Muslim, but they have some interesting twists in it. There are elements of shamanism in their practice (anathema to traditional Sunnis ... you can be killed for this stuff in Saudi Arabia). They have a deep undercurrent of Persian philosophy in their faith, of Sufism (the whirling dervishes, you will recall). Uzbeks are a very proud and independent people, as desert nomads always are. They don't accept central authority. But they have handled being dominated in an interesting way: it's like they take on the attributes of their oppressor, as protective coloring, while underneath they remain committed to their own traditions, their own ways.

I have an awesome passage which illustrates this. Ryszard Kapuscinski, one of my favorite authors, traveled all through the "Soviet Imperium" throughout his life as a Polish foreign correspondent. Kapuscinski lived under Soviet domination. He suffered. So he wrote books about the tyranny of the last Shah in Iran, of Haile Selassie in Ethiopia, of revolutions in Central America, as a way to criticize the terrible regime Poles lived under at home. But he could not have gotten away with writing about his own country. He went at it another way. Finally, with the breakup of the Soviet Union, Kapuscinski wrote Imperium, a panoramic view of the USSR over the years. From 1939, when the Soviet tanks rolled into Kapuscinski's home town when he was a small boy, to the incredible years of 1989-1991. I can't recommend this book highly enough!

But back to Uzbekistan, and the trait of the Uzbek people I was talking about: their ability to take on the protective coloring of the dominant power:

Kapuscinski travels through all the "stans" in 1967. The Soviet Union has these republics on a short leash. But the leash is never short enough, as it turns out. And here is Kapuscinski's description of a town square in Bukhara, during the Soviet years:

It is noon. I go out of the fortress onto a large, dusty square. On the opposite side is a chaykhana. At this time of day the chaykhanas are full of Uzbeks. They squat, colorful skullcaps on their heads, drinking green tea. They drink like this for hours, often all day. It's a pleasant life, spent in the shadow of a tree, on a little carpet, among close friends. I sat down on the grass and ordered a pot of tea. On one side I had a view of the fortress, as big as Krakow's Vavel Castle, only made of clay. But on the other side I had an even better view.

On the other side stood a glorious mosque.

The mosque caught my attention because it was made of wood, which is extremely rare in Muslim architecture, whose materials are typically stone and clay. Furthermore, in the hot, numb silence of the desert at noon, one could hear a knocking inside the mosque. I put aside my teapot and went to investigate the matter.

It was billard balls knocking.

The mosque is called Bolo-Khauz. It is a unique example of 18th century Central Asian architecture, virtually the only structure from that period to have survived. The portal and exterior walls of Bolo-Khauz are decorated with a wooden ornamentation whose beauty and precision have no equal. One cannot help but be enraptured.

I looked inside. There were six green tables, and at each one young boys with tousled blond hair were playing billiards. A crowd of onlookers rooted for the various competitors. It cost eighty kopecks to rent a table for an hour, so it was cheap, and there were so many willing customers that there was a line in front of the entrance. I didn't feel like standing in it and so couldn't get a good look at the interior. I returned to the chaykhana.

Blinding sun fell on the square. Dogs wandered about. Tour groups were coming out of the fortress ... Between the fortress-turned-museum and the mosque-turned-billiards hall sat Uzbeks drinking tea. They sat in silence, facing the mosque, in accordance with the ways of the fathers. There was a kind of dignity in the silent presence of these people, and despite their worn gray smocks, they looked distinguished. I had the urge to walk up to them and shake their hands. I wanted to express my respect in some way, but I didn't know how. In these men, in their bearing, in their wise calm, was something that aroused my spontaneous and genuine admiration. They have sat for generations in this chaykhana, which is old, perhaps older than the fortress and the mosque. Many things are different now -- many, but not all. One can say that the world is changing, but it is not changing completely; in any case it is not changing to the degree that an Uzbek cannot sit in a chaykhana and drink tea even during working hours.

Russians moved into their country, and turned Uzbek mosques into billiard halls. Hard to comprehend. Terrible. Stalin closed down 26,000 mosques and only allowed 22 people to study in the madrassahs, when before they overflowed with people. Islam dove way underground.

The other thing Stalin attacked (which he did everywhere else as well) was the Uzbek language. Their language is Turkic, and was was born during the 16th century, and has survived through all of the chaos that has followed. Stalin prohibited the language to be used starting in 1937. This was an assault on the identity of the Uzbeks. History was cut off. Young Uzbeks today, kids who are 20 years old or whatever, have absolutely no sense of the ancient history of their culture. They are now trying to re-invent the past, mythologizing themselves, making up heroes out of nothing. Creating a glorious past that never really existed, because no accurate information has survived and people are ignorant and illiterate.

The Uzbeks, traditionally, like their great-great-great-granddaddy Genghis, were warriors. Nomadic warriors. They disdained trade. They were not sedentary. They were always on the move. They have a lot of ethnic pride, a ton of it, but that pride has not coalesced or transformed into a nationalistic thing.

The Heart-Cracking Emotional Bravery of Children

So as I explained, I have been the primary Lego assembler over this Christmas holiday. The house is now filled with my creations. Quite elaborate. Cashel and I have had fun putting them together.

This morning - Cashel was, of course, up before any of us. He was wide-eyed and alert, playing up and down the hallway with his Luke Skywalker and Han Solo action figures, as though he had been up for hours.

I got up at the fiery crack of 10:30 am. I made some toast. I poured a cup of coffee. I got my 56 pound "Ring trilogy", and went to sit in the living room, for a glorious bacchanal of reading and caffeine. And QUIET.

On the edges of my consciousness, I became aware that Cashel was talking about taking apart one of the Lego constructions - so that he could have the fun of re-assembling it.

He was blabbing to my parents. "I think I want to take the Harry Potter room apart and then put it back together again ..."

My parents: "Good idea, Cash! Good for you!"

Cashel then said, calling out to me, as he set himself up at the dining room table, "Auntie Sheila - I'm gonna take this apart ... "

I knew he was telling me because I was "the one", in terms of Legos. Did he need my help? Did he want my aid? Was he okay?

Then Cashel said, "But I don't need your help, Auntie Sheila. Don't worry. I can do it. You can have some time alone."

You can have some time alone.

The sensitivity of that ... the selflessness of that ... to even notice that I wanted "some time alone" ... and to inform me that he could do it on his own ...

My heart literally cracked at his emotional courage.

And - of course - the second he said those words, I had no more desire for any "time alone" whatsoever! - I had to put my book down, put the toast down, and go and play Legos with Cashel.

He is 6 years old. He is very brave. He is smart.

I'd rather hang out with him than read about Hobbits any day.

Cashel's Christmas

For those of you who do not know - Cashel is my nephew. He just turned 6. He is here for Christmas.

It took me 24 hours to stop trying to hug him at every opportunity (as he tried to wriggle away) - It took me 24 hours to basically accept his presence, and not try to attack him.

I pretended to eat him at one point. I tried to scoop out his brains "like an avocado". I made ridiculous "yum-yum" noises, as Cashel writhed about in hysterical laughter. Then he began to nibble on my arm, trying to make "yum-yum" noises, only he was laughing too hard.

He is obsessed with Harry Potter. His entire life is Harry Potter. And here's the amazing thing: he has read none of the books yet, and he has seen none of the movies. His parents have struck a deal with him: once he finishes all the books (he is only 6, remember) - he will be allowed to see the movies.

This has filled Cashel with anticipation and ambition.

He will inform me, "My mom and dad told me I have to finish the books first."

He accepts the rules.

His friends must have told him all about Harry Potter, however, because Cashel knows all the characters, all the events, all the bad guys, all the good guys. He knows the rules of Quidditch.

I certainly hope the books won't be a let-down when he finally reads them!

I asked him, at one point, "So, Cash-man, have you finished any of the Harry Potter books yet?"

He was busy with something else. He said seriously, "No. I haven't accomplished that yet."

"A-ha. I see."

I have put together numerous very elaborate Star Wars and Harry Potter lego set-ups. I make Cashel find the little pieces for me, so he can feel like he put the damn thing together.

I peek in at him while he's sleeping - and see his flushed face, hear his heavy sleepy breathing, his little hands - and I feel like I am going to burst into a million pieces.

We trimmed the tree on Christmas Eve (the Advent Police would be proud) - There is a box of ornaments from the attic - all of stuff that we all made when we were little kids. They are great - it is like they are members of our family.

There's a big shiny green pear - which is mine. I put that one on every year.

There are little wooden ornaments, painted by all of us when we were little.

There are little felt animals, made by my mother when we were kids.

It's kind of incredible - also paper chains (now faded into greyish tones - it used to be red and green and blue) put together by us when we were kids.

And there's the Cash-man, in his pjs, reaching his hand into the box from the attic, taking out an ornament, an ornament made by one of his aunties, or by his father, when they were his age. A continuum. The continuity of family.

We sang Christmas carols. I loved hearing Cashel's wee voice, chiming in, as he rummaged around for more ornaments.

"We three kings of orient are..."

He's a good little boy. I love to hear his chattering voice, all about the house.

Christmas Eve

Last year, my sister Jean kept badgering me to read Pearl S. Buck's short story Christmas Day in the Morning. "It'll take you five minutes, Sheila! You HAVE to read it!" In typical big-sister fashion, I kept saying, "Yeah, I'll read it... I will ..."

It wasn't until last night that I finally got around to it.

Waterworks. From almost beginning to end.

So - in the hopes that I can make all of you cry on Christmas Eve - here is Pearl S. Buck's beautiful story.

Christmas Day in the Morning

He waked suddenly and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still. Fifty years ago, and his father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he waked at four o'clock in the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning, because it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.

He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was 15 years old and still on his father's farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he overheard what his father was saying to his mother.

"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone."

"Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk. "Besides, he isn't a child anymore. It's time he took his turn."

"Yes," his father said slowly. "But I sure do hate to wake him."

When he heard these words, something in him woke: his father loved him! He had never thought of it before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children - they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on a farm.

Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no more loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling with sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes tight shut, but he got up.

And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was 15, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and in the mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something too.

He wished, that Christmas when he was 15, he had a better present for his father. As usual, he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had seemed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before Christmas, and then he wished that he had heard his father and mother talking in time for him to save for something better.

He lay on his side, his head supported by his elbow, and looked out of his attic window. The stars were bright, much brighter than he ever remembered seeing them, and one was so bright he wondered if it were really the star of Bethlehem.

"Dad," he had once asked when he was a little boy, "what is a stable?"

"It's just a barn," his father had replied, "like ours."

Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds and the Wise Men had come, bringing their Christmas gifts!

The thought stuck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift, too, out there in the barn?

He could get up early, earlier than four o'clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He'd do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking, he'd see it all done. And he would know who had done it.

At a quarter to three, he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The big star hung lower over the barn roof, a reddish gold. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised.

"So, boss," he whispered. They accepted him placidly, and he fetched some hay for each cow and then got the milking pail and big milk cans.

He had never milked alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept thinking about his father's surprise. His father would come in and call him, saying tha the would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He'd go to the barn, open the door, and then he'd go to get the two big empty milk cans. But they wouldn't be waiting or empty; they'd be standing in the milk house, filled.

The task went more easily than he had ever known it to before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch. He put the stool in its place by the door and hung up the clean milk pail. Then he went out of the barn and barred the door behind him.

Back in his room, he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.

"Rob!" his father called. "We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas."

"Aw-right," he said sleepily.

"I'll go on out," his father said. "I'll get things started."

The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.

The minutes were endless - ten, fifteen, he did not know how many - and he heard his father's footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.

"Rob!"

"Yes, Dad--"

His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of a laugh. "Thought you'd fool me, did you?" His father was standing beside his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the covers.

"It's Christmas, Dad!"

He found his father and clutche dhim in a great hug. He felt his father's arms go around him. It was dark, and they could not see each other's faces.

"Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing--"

"Oh, Dad, I want you to know -- I do want to be good!" The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.

"Well, I reckon I can go back to bed and sleep," his father said after a moment. "No, hark-- The little ones are waked up. Come to think of it, son, I've never seen you children when you first saw the Christmas tree. I was always in the barn."

He got up and pulled on his clothes again, and they went down to the Christmas tree, and soon the sun was creeping up to where the star had been.

Oh, what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.

"The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I'll remember it, son, every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live."

They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead he remembered it alone, that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.

A long insane monologue about my adventures this morning and the conclusion I came to

This post should be read in the ironic and self-mocking tone in which I wrote it. I am fully aware of how self-pitying and how pathetic I sound, and that is the point.

This morning has already been a comedy of errors, although I admit that I don't think I laughed once at my compounding predicaments.

Here are the facts:

-- Yesterday as I got onto the bus going home, the strap to my over-the-shoulder bag snapped off (no doubt because of the weight of the entire Ring trilogy within). There are two drawstrings which keep the purse closed, and so I used those, in the interim, to drape over my wrist. But I have to get a new bag.

-- I have 3 large paper bags filled with presents to bring home to the family. Some of the presents are rather large and of an awkward size.

-- My duffel bag, which I used to pack my clothes in, does not have an over-the-shoulder strap either ... It has two small straps, which can be grasped together in one hand, but the attachable long strap, to go over the shoulder for more convenience, was lost long ago.

So - needless to say - trying to get my act together this morning for my commute was a chore. I am here at work now - in the empty office - waiting for my bus, which leaves at 2.

I have not planned this well. I had to haul all of my strap-less booty from my apartment to my office ... hang out here ... and then haul it all again down the 6 blocks to Port Authority. But 6 blocks can be an eternity when you have FAR TOO MANY BAGS, TWO OF WHICH HAVE NO SHOULDER STRAPS.

Finally, I thought I had it all handled.

I would put my purse over my wrist and slide it halfway up my arm. I would put my duffel bag straps over the same wrist (which nearly ripped my arm out of its socket). Then I would carry one of my large bags of presents with my feeble stretched-out hand. The other two bags of presents (heavy, mind you) I would manage to clasp in the other hand.

Once I got myself into this configuration, I became about 6 feet wide.

But no matter.

I struggled out of the door to my apartment. I was too wide to get through with all the bags, so I had to take them all off, open the door, move all the bags out into the hallway, step outside, close the door, lock the door, and then rearrange myself (purse, duffel, one bag of presents on left-hand side, 2 paper bags of presents on right-hand side.) Then I had to struggle down the 7 steps into the mailbox area, where there is a door leading into the foyer. Again, because I had no hands free, I had to take all the bags off, open the door, slide each bag through, step through myself, and then re-arrange all the bags up and down my torso. Unfortunately, I was still only in the foyer by this point ... and there was one more door leading to the outside world. So again: off with all the bags, open the door, slide each bag out, step out, put all bags on again.

By this point, I was drenched in sweat. I had on a nice velvety top which was a mistake. It had become a sweatshirt.

Let us not even mention the HEAVINESS of the bags. I thought I was going to die.

I took 10 steps across my little concrete front yard, stepped outside the gate, and already had to put all the bags down for a little breather.

It was then that it really hit me: How the hell am I going to pull this off?

It seemed impossible.

My shoulders ached. My arms felt elongated. Like an El Greco. My nicely arranged hair was a complete mess. The day was beautiful, it was 8:30 am, but it seemed as though it would take an act of God to get me the hell across the river, to my job, and then down to Port Authority.

Taking a deep breath, I thought of Bilbo. I thought of all that he endured. I thought about how he stepped outside his comfort zone, and went through things that were very unpleasant. I will get through this. I will somehow (SOMEHOW) climb up the steps onto the bus - I had no idea how I would, though, due to my increased width. I would somehow (SOMEHOW) store all of my presents all about the bus - which, unfortunatley, I knew would be jam-packed with other people (how dare they??) - and then somehow (SOMEHOW) gather it all up again ... in the enclosed confines of the bus ... and somehow (SOMEHOW) get off the bus ... and then DAMMIT I still had a 3 block walk to get to my job ... which, under the circumstances, might as well have been 10 miles.

But Bilbo was on my mind. So I went to pick up my bags and then noticed a nice long rip along the bottom of one of them. I could see the presents within. This stumped me. I looked at one of the other paper bags and saw another rip at the corner ... one which, I was SURE, seeing how the day was already turning out, would widen as my commute went on.

Having those bags rip was not an option.

I had no other way to carry everything. I would ... I literally could not imagine what would happen to me if those bags ripped on my way into Manhattan. All I could see was me taking all of my carefully chosen presents, now strewn about the sidewalk, dumping them all into a trash can on the corner, and stalking off to work in a fury. With a lighter load but with no Christmas.

I came up with a less-than-perfect solution. What if I took a large garbage bag, and put all of the presents into it? Yes, it wouldn't have a handle - but it would be a temporary solution until I got to work - I could go buy a cheap duffel bag on the corner and then I would be all set.

Okay. So that was the plan.

I left everything on the sidewalk, raced back inside, into the kitchen, reached under the cupboard for the large box of garbage bags I knew was there. The second I touched it - I knew it was empty. There were no more bags.

I am like my own worst nightmare. You know how women complain about men who put empty cereal boxes back into the cupboard? Well ... in that moment this morning ... I was a woman complaining about myself. "DAMMIT, Sheila. DAMMIT."

Okay. So no garbage bags. I was just going to have to trust to the gods above that the bags would not rip ... and make my way down to the bus stop.

I hated every second of my life. I also hated Christmas, presents, sunshine, happy faces, and traveling to see my family. I hated all that was good on this planet.

I went back out to my hated bags, arranged myself in my lunatic fashion, and started off down the street. I was in pain. My biceps burned, my hands lost all feeling, and with every step it was like I could feel the rips opening up in the bags. Basically, I was fucked. Not to mention the fact that I still had no freakin' clue about how I was going to get all of this shit onto the teeny little shuttle busses which take us into Manhattan - busses which are cramped when I only have my bookbag. I had no idea how this would turn out. I dreaded it.

I got half a block, before I had to stop and take a rest.

There were a couple of other issues:

-- the shoelaces on EACH of my sneakers came wildly undone. I could hear them slapping themselves against the pavement as I limped along crazily

-- after about 3 steps I realized that I had a terrible wedgie, which continued to get more and more and more severe, with every step. It was a hurtful wedgie. A wedgie that cannot be ignored. I felt like eventually it would cut me into two halves, and I would then be split apart and go perambulating off onto opposite street corners.

I must have looked insane. Trying not to trip on my flipping-about shoelaces, trying to un-do the wedgie by kicking my legs out randomly to each side (you know, wedgie behavior), all the while carrying 5 bags with my own 2 hands. I was wearing my big sheepskin coat, a long white knit scarf, and a small red knit hat. My face was sweaty and flushed. You see these people in NYC who walk around carrying all their possessions (and possibly other people's as well). I looked like one of those people. I could not consolidate any further. There was nowhere else to put stuff.

Additionally: just in case you are trying to think of options for me: I live in a residential neighborhood which has no commerce - There is a deli across the street, which would have garbage bags, but it doesn't open until 10. Also, I only had 3 dollars on me. I needed 2 of that for my commute.

So during my breather, I considered my options.

I realized that this was impossible and I was not going to be able to make it. Something terrible was going to happen.

I should just call a cab and splurge on the trip into the city. But there was the 3 dollars problem and I didn't think they took credit cards.

To be honest with you all: I was BESIDE MYSELF with frustration. I felt like I was going crazy. I was DETERMINED to figure this out ... but there seemed too many obstacles. Also, my arms hurt.

Finally, reason broke in.

"This is bull shit. I cannot do this. I am going to take all of this stuff home, stash it in my apartment, then go walk to the nearest ATM, take out a bunch of cash, walk home again, and call a car service. It sucks, and it's inconvenient, but that's all there is to it. This is ridiculous. If any of these bags break open, I am completely DONE for."

So that's what I did.

By this point, I was talking out loud, my voice reverberating through the empty streets.

"This is ridiculous."

"I cannot beLIEVE this."

"I am RIPSHIT, I tell ya, RIPSHIT."

Ah ... merry Christmas.

It was a 15 minute walk to the nearest ATM, because basically I live in a neighborhood of people who are, at all times, on the fringes of legality. Lovely folks, all with Christmas wreaths and American flags and yellow ribbons and everything, but let's just say this: any time I approach any of them to ask a question, no matter how benign ("Where's the post office?") I am treated as though I am a spy for the INS. These people do not have bank cards, is the information I am trying to impart.

Finally, I get out money. I walk home. The day is beautiful, the sun is shining, the Empire State Building rises gleaming and misty above the horizon - I am blind to it all.

I am all about my bags. My DAMN BAGS.

I come home, I call a car service. They arrive in 5 minutes, and take me into the city. They take me to the door of my office. I gather together my 3,965 bags on the sidewalk, stagger towards the front door ... The doorman sees me standing there. The doorman knows me by name. He smiles at me. He likes me. But does he open the door for me? Does he aid me in my time of need?

He does not.

Therefore, he is off of my list forever.

Buh-bye.

And now for the conclusions I have drawn:

Be warned. It may be a bit out there. I will try to be clear, but frankly, I am not in the mood for clarity.

As I carefully, for the 11th time, re-arranged my strapless bag on my wrist, my duffel bag up over my wrist, my slowly-ripping bag clutched in the free hand, the other slowly-ripping bag in my other hand, with another paper bag gripped in my now-feeling-less fingers ... a frantic and angry thought occurred to me.

I need a husband. FAST.

Now guys ... let me explain. I appreciate much about men, I appreciate them for many reasons - not just for being my little man-servant. I love men's humor, I love the hands of men, I love the curiosity of men. I love the kissing, too.

My bed has a tendency to grow emptier and larger as the years go by. I started out with a full-size bed, and now I am convinced that it has become a king-size. All on its own. My dinner table is eerily quiet. I read as I eat. Before you all take out your mocking violins, I realize what this sounds like. And in calmer moods, I will say this: I love eating by myself, I love the quiet, I love stretching out sideways across my triple-king-size bed, I love not having to make conversation with someone if I don't feel like it, thank you very much.

But dammit. What I would have loved more than anything else this morning was for a man to help me carry my damn bags.

And for that you need a husband.

And that was one of the other things I shouted out into the quiet misty morning, as I staggered awkwardly back to my apartment for the 8th time, realizing that this was not gonna fly, and I was gonna have to get a car service. Along with shouting out, "This is ridiculous" I also burst out once, like an insane person, "Where the HELL is my husband??"

Whoever he is, I am sure he would be absolutely thrilled to know that not only am I excited that he can take up space in my now-20-foot-wide bed, but that I cannot wait for him to do the heavy lifting.

How romantic.

Next year - Advent calendar - definitely

My main experience of the pre-Christmas season is one of anxiety, stress, and absolute lunacy. It shouldn't be this way.

I remember the Advent calendars I had when I was a kid. The magic of opening up every little window, one each day, leading up to Christmas. And counting the days till the "advent" of Santa, and making my little goof-ball presents for my parents and my siblings ... and then gathering as a family to decorate the tree together. Same things every year. Lying awake at night with my sister Jean, pretending that we could hear hooves on the roof. We really felt like we could hear them. Perhaps we did.

Today I hauled ass around the city, doing last-minute things, picking up last-minute gifts, shoving my body through the throngs, racing to Penn Station to check train schedules, racing to Port Authority to check bus schedules, elbowing my way through the troops of National Guardsmen standing everywhere, because we are under a high terror alert.

I will wake up tomorrow, and lug my 50 pounds of presents to Penn Station, shove my way through the National Guardsmen again, and hopefully get a seat where I can sit and be quiet for 2 seconds.

It's, frankly, unpleasant.

I didn't get an Advent calendar this year ... and that was a mistake. There's something about the nightly ritual of it which keeps me on track, keeps the whole season on track.

A small moment of meditation on life's gifts ... a small moment of reflection ... It's good. You need those small quiet moments in order to face the perfume-sprayers at Macy's.

I'm going home to my parents house tomorrow. Bearing gifts.

My brother will be there. My sister and her boyfriend will be there. My other sister will be coming home tomorrow night. Cashel, my nephew, is already there. I can't wait to see him and will have to hold myself back from hugging him so tightly that he perishes immediately. I talked with my mom tonight and I could hear Cashel's little chattering voice in the background, he was blabbing to my dad as they ate hot dogs ... it just killed me.

I can't wait to lie on the living room floor with Cashel, me with my coffee, both of us in our pajamas, playing with Legos, or Star Wars action figures, and talking about stuff.

I can't wait to have nothing to do all day, except meet my friends for a beer later that night.

But Cashel!! I haven't seen him since his birthday and that is way too long.

I hope you all have safe, happy, and FUN holidays, whatever religion you celebrate. I will probably check in here periodically while I am home ... but hopefully not too much.

And maybe we'll get snow! Now wouldn't that be nice ... a long walk on the beach in the snow.

And now I know - with the writing of this post I know - I must have an Advent calendar every year.

You can hold me to it.

A Saturday in NYC with Allison and the Manson Family

Saturday was a cold day, wind biting up and down the canyons. Sheila kind of weather. My friend Kate and I have discussed at length our preference for autumn as opposed to summer. While everybody else blisses out with the onset of warm sunny weather, she and I bliss out when the we bust out the sweaters.

Kate puts it this way, "There's no irony in the summer."

I arrived Saturday morning at my friend Allison's apartment in the West Village, to find her deeply engrossed in Helter Skelter, a book I have read multiple times, and with which I have a strange and sick fascination.

Allison and I were trying to pinpoint why exactly it is that we are so engrossed by such a grisly terrible story. We discussed it at length, lolling about in her cozy pillow-y bed, flipping through the book for reference.

I am fascinated by the Manson Family for the same reasons that I am fascinated by totalitarian, autocratic, fascist, communist regimes. What is it in human beings, some human beings, that makes them susceptible to such madmen? What is it like to be in someone's thrall like that? What is it in human psychology that can crack under such magnetic pressure?

I found Allison in a state of recent and fevered conversion to the Helter Skelter madness.

We signed on, and began to search the Internet for more information.

For example: where is Clem right now? Has Clem been paroled? (Yup. He's out.)

And Bobby Beausoleil...what has he been up to? His face always terrified me. There was something so obviously missing there.

We learned that Patricia Krenwinkle has recently received a puppy, through a special prison program which allows inmates to adopt animals. How sweet...to allow a ferocious murderess a little puppy.

Squeaky Fromme still corresponds with Charlie. FREAKS.

Allison and I got sucked into the strange world of Manson Web sites...going deeper and deeper and deeper. We veered a couple of times into the world of the Zodiac Killer and Jonestown.

Allison said, "If my job ever saw the search terms on my computer, they would think I had gone crazy. 'Dead bodies'...'Sharon Tate' ... 'serial killers'..."

The last time Allison and I hung out together in her apartment, we started looking things up in the dictionary. It began simply, but the game evolved. Eventually, it became a relatively complex guessing game: one of us would call out a name from history, say...Madame Curie, or Theodore Roosevelt ... and we would guess whether or not said person had a PICTURE beside their definition in the dictionary. This may sound like a dry and academic pursuit, but we ended up in complete hysterics and it occupied our time for 2 hours.

It's actually a fun game. Try it yourself on a rainy day.

Finally, we had to shake off the pall of the Mansons and Spahn Ranch and Shorty Shea's decapitation and Susan Atkins' crazy loony smile...and how haunted we are by the children fathered by Manson....WHERE ARE THEY??

We signed off reluctantly, and rejoined the life of the West Village. We went to Chumley's and had delicious Bloody Marys, and some lunch.

Then, we accidentally set a newspaper on fire. This is in a bar run by firemen; the bartenders are firemen, the clientele are firemen. Firemen were everywhere in sight. Meanwhile, Allison and I were battling to put out the flaming New York Post in front of us, and none of the firemen around us even looked up, or glanced over, or even batted an eye. I don't think they even noticed the inferno. We were on our own. And we did okay. We dumped a glass of water on the blaze, and then ordered 2 more Bloody Marys.

We returned home and watched Moulin Rouge. Actually, I should say we LIVED it. During the "Spectacular Spectacular" extravaganza at the end of the film, when everything gets very tense, Allison screamed at the top of her lungs, "THE GUN!! THE GUN!!"

After the film, still in a Moulin Rouge kind of mood, we looked through her book of Toulouse Lautrec prints. Marvelling at them. Beautiful. We talked about what it must it have been like...

Then we crawled out onto Allison's fire escape, trying to keep our candles lit through the wind. The sugary air from the Magnolia Bakery floated up to us.

And after that? We basically killed time until "Trading Spaces" came on at 8 p.m. We are jointly addicted to that show. Especially when the participants hate the newly designed rooms.

Lifetime reading plan

How many of these have you read? I am pleased to say that I have read most ... although there are definitely some gaps. Would you add any to the list? I'll add my own thoughts in the comments.

The Lifetime Reading Plan, 3rd ed. New York: Harper & Row, 1988. (c) 1960, 1978, 1988 by Clifton Fadiman.
See also the 1997 4th Edition .

The Beginning

Homer. The Iliad.
Homer. The Odyssey.
Herodotus. The Histories.
Thucydides. The History of the Peloponnesian War.
Plato. Selected Works.
Aristotle. Ethics; Politics.
Aeschylus. The Oresteia.
Sophocles. Oedipus Rex; Oedipus at Colonus; Antigone.
Euripides. Alcestis; Medea; Hipploytus; Trojan Women; Electra; Bacchae.
Lucretius. Of the Nature of Things.
Virgil. The Aeneid.
Aurelius, Marcus. Meditations.

The Middle Ages

Augustine, Saint. Confessions.
Alighieri, Dante. The Divine Comedy.
Chaucer, Geoffrey. The Canterbury Tales.

Plays

Shakespeare, William. Complete Works.
Molière. Selected Plays.
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von. Faust.
Ibsen, Henrik. Selected Plays.
Shaw, George Bernard. Selcted Plays and Prefaces.
Chekhov, Anton. Uncle Vanya; Three Sisters; The Cherry Orchard.
O'Neill, Eugene. Mourning Becomes Electra; The Iceman Cometh; Long Day's Journey into Night.
Beckett, Samuel. Waiting for Godot; Endgame; Krapp's Last Tape.
Watson, E. Bradlee and Benfield Pressey. Contemporary Drama

Narratives

Bunyan, John. Pilgrim's Progress.
Defoe, Daniel. Robinson Crusoe.
Swift, Jonathan. Gulliver's Travels; A Modest Proposal; Meditations upon a Broomstick; Resolutions when I Come to be Old.
Sterne, Laurence. Tristram Shandy.
Fielding, Henry. Tom Jones.
Austen, Jane. Pride and Prejudice; Emma.
Brontë, Emily. Wuthering Heights.
Thackeray, William Makepeace. Vanity Fair.
Dickens, Charles. Pickwick Papers; David Copperfield; Bleak House; Great Expectations; Hard Times; Our Mutual Friend; Little Dorrit.
Eliot, George. The Mill on the Floss; Middlemarch.
Carroll, Lewis. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland; Through the Looking-Glass.
Hardy, Thomas. The Mayor of Casterbridge.
Conrad, Joseph. Nostromo.
Forster, E, M,. A Passage to India.
Joyce, James. Ulysses.
Woolf, Virginia. Mrs. Dalloway; To the Lighthouse; Orlando; The Waves.
Lawrence, D. H.. Sons and Lovers; Women in Love.
Huxley, Aldous. Brave New World; Collected Essays.
Orwell, George. Animal Farm; Nineteen Eighty-Four.
Mann, Thomas. The Magic Mountain.
Kafka, Franz. The Trial; The Castle; Selected Short Stories.
Rabelais, François. Gargantua and Pantagruel.
Voltaire. Candide and Other Works.
Stendhal. The Red and the Black.
Balzac, Honoré de. Père Goriot; Eugénie Grandet.
Flaubert, Gustave. Madame Bovary.
Proust, Marcel. Remembrance of Things Past.
Malraux, André. Man's Fate.
Camus, Albert. The Plague; The Stranger.
Poe, Edgar Allan. Short Stories and Other Works.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlet Letter; Selcted Tales.
Melville, Herman. Moby Dick; Bartleby the Scrivener.
Twain, Mark. Huckleberry Finn.
James, Henry. The Ambassadors.
Faulkner, William. The Sound and the Fury; As I Lay Dying.
Hemingway, Ernest. Short Stories.
Bellow, Saul. The Adventures of Augie March; Herzog; Humboldt's Gift.
Saavedra, Miguel de Cervantes de. Don Quixote.
Borges, Jorge Luis. Labyrinths Dreamtigers.
Márquez, Gabriel Garcia. One Hundred Years of Solitude.
Gogol, Nikolai Vasilievich. Dead Souls.
Turgenev, Ivan Sergeyevich. Fathers and Sons.
Dostoevsky, Feodor Mikhailovich. Crime and Punishment; The Brothers Karamazov.
Tolstoy, Leo Nikolayevich. War and Peace.
Nabokov, Vladimir. Lolita; Pale Fire; Speak, Memory.
Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr Isayevich. The First Circle; Cancer Ward.

Philosophy, Psychology, Politics, Essays

Hobbes, Thomas. Leviathan.
Locke, John. Second Treatise of Government.
Hume, David. An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding.
Mill, John Stuart. On Liberty.
Engels, Karl Marx and Friedrich. The Communist Manifesto.
Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm. Thus Spake Zarathustra; Selected Other Works.
Freud, Sigmund. Selected Works.
Macchiavelli, Niccolò. The Prince.
Montaigne, Michel Eyquem de. Selected Essays.
Descartes, René. Discourse on Method.
Pascal, Blaise. Thoughts (Pensées).
Tocqueville, Alexis de. Democracy in America.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Selected Works.
Thoreau, Henry David. Walden; Civil Disobedience.
James, William. The Principles of Psychology; Pragmatism and Four Essays from The Meaning of Truth; The Varieties of Religious Experience.
Dewey, John. Human Nature and Conduct.
Santayana, George. Skepticism and Animal Faith; Selected Other Works.

Poetry

Donne, John. Selected Works.
Milton, John. Paradise Lost; Lycidas; On the Morning of Christ's Nativity; Sonnets; Areopagitica.
Blake, William. Selected Works.
Wordsworth, William. The Prelude; Selected Shorter Poems; Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, 1800.
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. The Ancient Mariner; Christabel; Kubla Khan; Biographia Literaria; Writings on Shakespeare.
Yeats, William Butler. Collected Poems; Collected Plays; The Autobiography.
Eliot, T. S.. Collected Poems, Collected Plays.
Whitman, Walt. Selected Poems; Democratic Vistas; Preface to the first issue of Leaves of Grass (1855); A Backward Glance O'er Travel'd Roads.
Frost, Robert. Collected Poems.
Poets of the English Language, edited by W.H. Auden and Norman Holmes Pearson.
The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, edited by Richard Ellmann and Robert O'Clair.

History, Biography, Autobiography

Basic Documents in American History, edited by Richard B. Morris
The Federalist Papers, edited by Clinton Rossiter. Rousseau, Jean Jacques. Confessions.
Boswell, James. The Life of Samuel Johnson.
Adams, Henry. The Education of Henry Adams.
Braudel, Fernand. The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II; Civilization and Capitalism, 15th-18th Century.

Annex

McNeill, William H.. The Rise of the West
Durant, Will and Ariel. The Story of Civilization.
Morison, Samuel Eliot. The Oxford History of the American People
Smith, Page. A People's History of the United States.
Whitehead, Alfred North. Science and the Modern World.
Whitehead, Alfred North. An Introduction to Mathematics.
Gombrich. The Story of Art.
Adler, Mortimer J.. How to Read a Book (co-authored with Charles Van Doren)

(Here's an excerpt from one of Charlotte Bronte's letters - I love it. In it, she answers a friend's request for a reading list.)

Macedonia Essays

I have compiled the five short essays I wrote about Macedonia, and "the Macedonian problem" - so they are all in one place. Macedonia is one of my overriding passions - but there's always still so much to learn.

Part I - Introduction

Part II - IMRO

Part III - Competing territorial claims

Part IV - The Young Turks

Part V - 20th century wars

Words to live by

Let me never fall into the vulgar mistake of dreaming that I am persecuted whenever I am contradicted.

-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

To be a fan

I am a grown woman, I have had my share of heartache, stress, I take responsibility for my own life, I am an adult, but all of this does not stop me from behaving, at times, like a shrieking Beatle-maniac fainting and weeping at the Ed Sullivan Show.

What I mean is: if I am "into" somebody (musicians, actors, whatever) I am the best "fan" in the world. Truly. My loyalty knows no bounds. If you hook me once, then I am usually hooked forever, even if you never repeat the brilliance which hooked me in the first place.

Margaret Atwood is a prime example. Her books in the 1980s were IT for me. I read them compulsively, over and over and over again. Bodily Harm, in particular. Her books scared me, thrilled me, compelled me. Well...I am sorry, but Ms. Atwood has crashed off the rails and has not written a book which has kept my interest in almost 10 years. In longer than 10 years. Alias Grace was a BIG FAT YAWN. And The Assassin's Tale was essentially unreadable. It seems like something has actually happened to her talent itself. Her writing doesn't resonate. Perhaps it is that she is imitating herself, she is imitating what she did when she was more successful. The Assassin's Tale was terrible - the prose itself was terrible. I couldn't finish it.

But my point is: because she was once my favorite author, and I loved the experience of reading her earlier books, I continue to hold out hope. I continue to buy her crappy boring books, hoping that I will again recognize the terrifying fabulous voice of the Margaret Atwood I fell in love with in college.

The same is true in regards to Tori Amos. Oh, Tori, Tori...what has happened? Why do you bore me so?? Who, EXACTLY, do you think your audience is? What person would listen to your latest CDs and think the music was cool and fun? It would have to be a person who didn't get out much. Or someone constantly PMS-ing. Tori's first album Little Earthquakes was basically in my walkman for an entire year. I could not get enough, and my taste for her music raged on unabated like a fever. But since then, with brief moments of brilliance shining through the dreck (like the song "Waitress" on Under the Pink, and a couple of others), it seems like Tori has continuously been having some sort of New Age priestess breakdown, interspersed with Medean rage...which is all very interesting, but what I care about is that the music keeps SUCKING.

I want the rocking emotional Tori of days gone by. I want her to make the hair on my neck rise up again. ENOUGH with being creative and precious and innovative. Just do what you did back then, please.

But listen to my commitment to her!! I am not a fair-weather fan. I buy all of her CDs, hoping ... hoping ... that something will happen ... that I will hear HER again ... And that's only because of the impact that first album had on me.

Because of that, she's got me forever.

Dammit!

Quote

The utopian premise of the Genocide Convention had been that a moral imperative to prevent efforts to exterminate whole peoples should be the overriding interest animating the action of an international community of autonomous states. This is a radical notion, fundamentally at odds, as so much of the internationalist experiment has proven to be, with the principle of sovereignty. States have never acted for purely disinterested humanitarian reasons; the novel idea was that the protection of humanity was in every state's interest, and it was well understood in the aftermath of World War II that action against genocide would require a willingness to use force and to risk the lives of one's own. The belief was that the price to the world of such a risk would not be as great as the price of inaction. But whose world were the drafters of the Genocide Convention -- and the refugee conventions, which soon followed -- thinking of?

--Philip Gourevitch, We Wish to Inform You that Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Familes: Stories from Rwanda

Level Orange

Dean has a great post about the "high security" level, and the people out there who take a cynical and snark-ish view of the government keeping us informed.

Whether or no the Level Orange protects the populace (of course it doesn't!) - whether or not the government has everything under control (of course they don't!) -

What would you have them do? What is your alternative plan? Do you have one? Or do you just love to have any opportunity to bitch and moan? Dean takes the snarks to task. Maybe color-coded warnings have nothing to do with anything, and it is a bad idea, and the government shouldn't do it - but sorry, folks: that is the only plan on the table right now. If you're gonna bitch, which is your right, then at least have something else to add, at least say: why don't we do it THIS way? Otherwise, you're just whining the same old story.

I never think that the federal government is going to be perfect. What world do these people live in? Just a world where everything is seen through the cynic's filter, that's all.

I, for one, am glad to know when the security levels change, although nothing in that information alters my own personal behavior. I don't get MORE jumpy, or MORE suspicious ... Nothing like that. I live in New York City, for Christ's sake. I am always jumpy, always suspicious ... and have been so even before September 11. You won't last long in this town if you don't have a healthy level of suspicion.

The bitch-fests are boring and unproductive if they do not offer an alternative.

Macedonia - Part V - 20th Century Wars

This is my last post on Macedonia. This one is about all of the wars of the 20th century, wars where Macedonia and its position in the region played crucial parts - not just on the war-stage but in people's imaginations as well.

MACEDONIA - 2OTH CENTURY WARS

The First Balkan War: 1912. Serbia, Greece, and Bulgaria teamed up to fight the Turks and liberate Macedonia.

This war ended with Turkey's influence dissolving. Serbian troops occupied Skopje (the capital of Macedonia, which, to this day, apparently, has a very Turkish feel to it: mosques, minarets, bazaars). The Greek army occupied their precious Salonika. And suddenly, Bulgaria found itself locked out of the region and couldn't collect the spoils of war.

Bulgaria completely believed (and perhaps still believes) that "Macedonia" was a fabrication. The way Palestinians think of "Israel" and do not include it on their maps. To Bulgarians, Macedonia belongs to Bulgaria.

But Serbia and Greece ganged up on Bulgaria, and shut them out of Macedonia. In the aftermath of the First Balkan War, they attempted to wipe out all Bulgarian influence in Macedonia.

Macedonia filled up with Greek or Serb publicists, who began bombarding the population with a propaganda war. "You are REALLY Serbs..." "No, you are REALLY Greeks..."

Not only was this a war of words, but it was also coercive and violent. The Serbs gave the Macedonians 24 hours to renounce their nationality and proclaim themselves Serbian. The Greeks did the same. People were murdered who refused to choose.

The Bulgarian population in the country was terrorized. Bulgarian priests were given the choice: convert or die. Colonists from Serbia and Greece poured into the country. People in Macedonia pretty much spoke Bulgarian; however now the Serbs and the Greeks quickly started printing their own newspapers in their own languages, insisting that people bury their Bulgar tongue. Not even admitting that it could be a problem.

To Greece, also, Macedonia was made-up, a fabrication. To Greeks Macedonia was actually REALLY part of Greece, so the fact that everybody spoke Bulgarian in the country was something to be ignored and covered up.

Meanwhile, of course, Bulgaria, right next door, was enraged. They did not negotiate, they did not say "We are going to declare war on all of you", they did not give any warning. On June 13, 1913, Bulgaria invaded Macedonia. This was the start of the Second Balkan War.

The Second Balkan War: 1913.
This war did not last long. The Serbs and the Greeks helped each other out, reinforcing each other's troops against the Bulgarians. The Romanians joined the war, on the side of the Serb-Greek alliance, and invaded Bulgaria from the north. The battle was over very quickly, with Bulgaria the clear loser.

There was a peace conference a couple of months later, in which Bulgaria lost everything it had gained in the First Balkan War. It had gained an outlet to the Aegean, it had gained lands in Thrace, it had enveloped all of Macedonia. All of this was taken back. It was a humiliating defeat which would end up having global consequences.

World War I:
Bulgaria enters the war on the side of Germnay and Austria-Hungary in 1915. Its main goal was (surprise, surprise) to gain back all of Macedonia from Serbia. (Okay, Bulgaria, I think it's time to just let it go...)

Serbia had allied itself with Russia, Great Britain, and France.

The Habsburg army advanced through Serbia from the north while the Bulgarian army marched through Macedonia in the east. The Serbian army was trapped, with no backup supplies, no ammo, no vehicles. It was winter, too. The Serbs retreated into the freezing Albanian mountains.

Robert Kaplan has this to say about that retreat:

It was one of history's most harrowing winter retreats, ranking with those of Napoleon's soldiers from Russia the century before and of Xenophon's Greek troops from Mesopotamia in 401 B.C. into the mountains of Anatolia.

The remnants of the Serb army had retreated to Albania's coast on the Adriatic, where they were rescued and transported away to Corfu by French and Italian ships. We are talking about over 125,000 Serbians. This was a devastating defeat for them, humiliating, all of them fleeing for their lives from the Habsburgs and the Bulgarians.

So from then on, throughout the rest of World War I, trench warfare raged up and down Macedonia, with the French/Greek/Serb alliance, along with the British, warring against the Habsburgs and the Bulgarians. Things went on in this way for over two more years.

Then the war ended, with basically nothing changed for the Bulgarians: They lost all of Macedonia to the Serbs and the Greeks. All of these wars were like the movie "Groundhog Day" for Bulgaria. They kept starting wars to regain Macedonia, and they kept losing these wars, no better off than when they began.

World War II:
This war, of course, was a reply to World War I. Nothing had been resolved, no one was at peace with the outcome, everyone was dying to start the whole thing up again. And so they did.

Bulgaria (whaddya know) joined up with the Germans so that they could crush the Serbs and take back Macedonia. So this time, the Germans occupied Serbia from the north, and the Bulgarians occupied Macedonia from the east. And, in typical "Groundhog Day" fashion, the Serb and Greek alliance (with the help of Britain) fought the hated Bulgarians, and drove them back to the "hated borders" established at the end of the Second Balkan War.

But before the Bulgarians were driven out of Macedonia, and before the Russians swooped in, making all of this irrelevant, the Bulgarians and their occupation troops in Macedonia, began a brutal process of "Bulgarization" of the Macedonian population. Now, one more voice was added to the clamor, trying to tell the Macedonians who they are: "You are Serbs..." "You are Greeks...don't listen to them!!" "You are Bulgarians!" The Bulgarians were particularly savage in this arena. First of all, they gladly rounded up the Jewish population for the Germans and shipped them off. In all of the other wars, while all of these wackos were arguing over Macedonia, like kids playing tug-of-war on the playground, the Jews remained protected. There was no question.

With World War II, the gloves came off.

Now this is interesting: Because of how the Serbs and the Greeks had behaved during the First Balkan War, there had always been a pro-Bulgaria sway to the Macedonian population. With World War II that tide turned.

However, Macedonia did not sway back to the Serb or Greek side of the argument. They suddenly discovered their "Macedonian-ness". They began to feel like Macedonians, rather than people separated from whatever homeland they related to. Now, this is a debatable matter. Bulgarians, Greeks, and Serbs all scorn this "Macedonian-ness". It is made up, according to them. There IS no indigenous Macedonian culture or identity. It is all Bulgarian, or Serbian, or Greek. But this fierce "Macedonian-ness" continues to this day.

With the madness of World War II, the Macedonians finally had HAD it with their country being invaded, chopped up, argued over. They went on the offensive, for the glory of "Macedonia", and they demanded territory back from Bulgaria and Greece.

Skip ahead to 1989, and the disintegration of the Yugoslav Federation:
Macedonia feels cheated. Macedonia is pissed. There are huge populations of Macedonians who live outside their borders, in Bulgaria, or Greece. They want to liberate their countrymen. They want to be united with their kind. This is the dangerous powder keg sitting here in the Balkans. It is just a matter of time before it ignites. These people are used to hating. They have long long memories, and they NEVER forgive.

And it seems, too, that the Macedonians are slipping off into fantasy-land a bit. (But then again - who am I to say - it is a bit unfair of me to judge them - when I do not know what it is like there, and where they are coming from.) But here's my opinion: they have "rediscovered" a Macedonian language, which is, basically, a version of Bulgarian, but they can't call it that, because then they would have to admit that their ethnicity is a mix. This is unacceptable. These Macedonian nationalists believe that Istanbul was once a part of Macedonia, etc. All these other fantasies about that beautiful and perfect time in the past when Macedonia was not a victim of all of these greater forces, but the victimizer.

And I'll close with a quote from Robert Kaplan's Balkan Ghosts, my primary source for all of this.

And on the walls near the Greek Consulate in Skopje [capital of Macedonia], I noticed the grafitti: 'Solun is ours!'

Solun is the Macedonian word for Salonika, Greece's second largest city. Such demonstrations of irredentism were to unleash a wave of hostility in Greece -- so much so that, even when the new Macedonian state that declared its independence from Yugoslavia officially renounced all claims to Greek territory, it still wasn't enough for the Greeks, who feared that the very word Macedonia on the lips of these Slavs was a sign of future irredentism against Greece. When Greece demanded that Macedonia change its name in order to receive official recognition from Greece, the rest of the world laughed. The heart of the Greek argument, however, was better explained in the articles written by the scholar Kofos than it ever was by the Greek government through the media. Kofos writes that Macedonianism was an invention of Tito to serve as a cultural buttress against Bulgaria, which coveted the area. According to Kofos, this part of former Yugoslavia is actually southern Serbia. True, perhaps; but rightly or wrongly, these Slavs now consider themselves Macedonians, not Serbs, and both the Greeks and the Serbs must come to terms with that fact.

The upshot of this mess is that the Balkans have, in the 1990s, reverted to the same system of alliances that existed in 1913, at the time of the Second Balkan War: Greece, Serbia, and Romania versus Bulgaria and the Slavs of Macedonia.

The boomerang of history.

Macedonia - Part IV - The Young Turks

The fascination Macedonia holds for me so far does not equal a ton of knowledge (as opposed to, say, my fascination with Uzbekistan, which has led to me owning an entire small bookshelf of material on the republic). But that's all right, I suppose. Now I know that I need to learn more about Macedonia. I can feel the gaps in my mind, questions arising, wanting to flesh out the scenario a bit more for myself.

The post below is about the Turkey-Macedonian connection.

MACEDONIA - THE YOUNG TURKS

There is a whole connection between Macedonia and Mustapha Kemal Ataturk (the creator of modern Turkey) which I was unaware of until recently.

Again, from what I have read, things that happen in Macedonia send out shock waves with global consequences. This has been true since Alexander the Great launched his ships of conquest from Salonika. Macedonia was the place from which world events sprung. So here's how I understand the connection between Ataturk (who basically equalled Turkey) and Macedonia:

In 1903, IMRO began a violent uprising against the Turks and the entire Ottoman Empire. IMRO took over some villages at the top of a mountain in Macedonia and proclaimed it an independent republic called the "Krushovo Republic". This republic lasted 10 days, and then 2000 Turkish troops marched in and completely massacred everybody. One of the stories told is that forty of the guerrillas, instead of surrendering, kissed one another goodbye, and shot themselves in the mouth. Another story is that the Turks, as they took back the area, raped 150 women and small girls. There are other horror stories. Of the Turks complete inhumanity and cruelty.

There was a worldwide protest against the Turkish Sultanate for this behavior, led by Great Britain and the West. The British prime minister, the Russian czar and the Habsburg Emperor (Franz Joseph) all put tremendous pressure on the Ottomans to call off the dogs, so to speak, and to calm the hell down about Macedonia. Just CALM DOWN.

The pressure became so great, the outrage so pronounced, that an international peacekeeping force marched into Macedonia in 1904, to keep an eye on the situation. (Of course, history has proven how useless peacekeeping forces are, in places as volatile and violent as Macedonia. I read a wonderful interview with Philip Gourevitch, the author of the amazing book about the genocide in Rwanda, and he said in the interview, "One of the things I have learned is that if you find yourself living in a UN 'safe zone', just know that your life is in danger. It is the most dangerous place on the planet to be....in a UN Safe Zone. Run for your life.")

And now for Turkey/Ataturk:

Mustapha Kemal Ataturk was born in Macedonia. (Of COURSE.) Additionally, the "Young Turk Revolution", which ended up toppling the Ottoman Empire (which had lasted for 400 years or something like that) originated in Macedonia.

The Young Turk revolution originally demanded "liberty, equality, fraternity, justice". They wanted to force the Sultan to draw up (or accept from them) a liberal constitution. They wanted to preserve the empire, but they wanted to loosen up the iron-fist a bit. (A precursor to Gorbachev....) However (as with so many revolutions), the Young Turks didn't really have a plan. They didn't know how to go about creating a government, or re-creating Turkey into your basic normal country, which also happens to be a massive empire. They also were coming from a place of ethnicity, nationalism, and racial hatred. A terrible mix. CLEARLY.

The problem, as always in the Balkans, was the confusing ethnic mix of peoples. Orthodox Christians were enraged at the thought of a Muslim-run confederation, where perhaps they had constitutional safeguards as protected minorities. Remember that Turkey had been a dreaded and brutal nation for 400 years. Nobody trusted them, nobody believed them when they said "No, we promise to take care of you." Everyone in the Balkans knew, firsthand, what horrors the Turks were capable of.

The Young Turk Revolution, just like Gorbachev's perestroika and glasnost, accelerated the shattering of the Ottoman Empire. That was not their intent at all. They wanted the empire to open up to change, to stop resisting transformation. But by introducing minor changes, by discussing modern-day ideas like constitutions, and protections of minorities, etc., all hell broke loose. The door was cracked open a teeny bit by the Young Turks, then the entire population of the Balkans, sick to death of the Ottoman tyranny, pushed open the door the rest of the way. Violently.

1908 was a big year in which Turkey clearly began losing control):

--Bulgaria declared its complete independence from Turkey.

--The island of Crete (which was part of Turkey at the time) voted for union with Greece.

--The Habsburgs annexed Bosnia-Hercegovina (which they had been administering since The Treaty of Berlin)

That last bit there, with the Habsburgs, is the cause of World War I. Puts a chill up your spine, no?

Came across the following passage about all of this mess in (where else) Robert Kaplan's Balkan Ghosts, which breaks it all down:

Put another way, Bulgarian-financed guerrillas in Macedonia had triggered a revolution among young Turkish officers stationed there, which then fanned throughout the Ottoman Empire; this development, in turn, encouraged Astria-Hungary to annex Bosnia, inflicting on its Serbian population a tyranny so great that a Bosnian Serb would later assassinate the Habsburg Archduke and ignite World War I.

But before all of this: Turkish Muslims were enraged by the Ottoman Empire's disintegration. Everyone in Turkey began revolting: army units, theological students, clerics. They began demonstrating for "sharia" (Islamic law, of course, which the Taliban perfected). As always, with Muslim fanatics, they wanted to go backwards. They wanted the Ottomans to crack down on all these uppity minorities, crack down HARD, and go back to the perfect time when the Turks ruled the world.

The Young Turks crushed this counterrevolution. They forced the Sultan into exile in, where else, Macedonia. That would be like forcing Hitler into exile in a Jewish ghetto in Warsaw. The Sultan had to hide, terrified for his life, in this land of people who hated him and wanted him to pay for what his empire had done.

Then, the Young Turks fell off the deep end. They perpetrated the century's first genocide against the Armenians in 1915. It was a mass murder of 1.5 million Armenians, orchestrated by the government. The Armenians threatened the Turks demographically and religiously. They were Christians, there were large numbers of them, and they were right in the middle of the Turkish homeland. In order for Turkey to be great and unified again, then the Armenians had to disappear.

This genocide occurred on the world stage. Nobody protested. Nobody did anything. There is a story about Hitler, planning Germany's genocide thirty years later, and answering the feeble protests ("What will people say? Won't they notice and try to stop it?") of the sycophants around him. Hitler's response to their concerns was: "Who remembers Armenia?"

Okay, so this is now becoming way too long, and I have strayed far from Macedonia....However, it is all connected.

The Young Turks becoming so terrifying and so brutal forced the Balkans to do something which had never happened before, and which has never happened since: they united. They buried the hatchet in the face of such a clear enemy, and formed an alliance. After all, none of the Great Powers out there were intervening in any of this. They realized that no great warrior from the West was going to lead a cavalry charge and save them, so Serbia, Greece, and Bulgaria joined up together, and fought for themselves. Incredible. These historic enemies...people who literally are still in a rage about what happened in 612 AD, or whatever.

In 1912, this alliance declared war on the Ottoman Empire. (A very very ballsy thing to do.) Their principal goal was to liberate poor forgotten important Macedonia.

Next: 20th century wars

Macedonia - Part III - Competing territorial claims

This essay (or, rather, excerpts from others' brilliant works) has to do with why Macedonia is such a flash-point- why people are obsessed with Macedonia. I could never describe this situation in my own words because, as I said in the Intro - I get a bit bogged down trying to get the complexity of Macedonia.

MACEDONIA - COMPETING CLAIMS

I have two passages on Macedonia (and the wider world of the Balkans) to share from Roberrt Kaplan's influential book Balkan Ghosts. As I said, my understanding of the Macedonian situation is tenuous, at best, and I have to review my materials before sitting down at my computer to explain it all, in writing. I was rifling through the Macedonian chapter in Kaplan's book, feeling the light dawning once again, understanding it again, and these two explanatory historical notes popped out at me.

Here is quote #1. This describes perfectly the essence of the Balkan chaos:

Macedonia, the inspiration for the French word for 'mixed salad' (macedoine), defines the principal illness of the Balkans: conflicting dreams of lost imperial glory. Each nation demands that its borders revert to where they were at the exact time when its own empire had reached its zenith of ancient medieval expansion. Because Philip of Macedon and his son, Alexander the Great, had established a great kingdom in Macedonia in the fourth century BC, the Greeks believed Macedonia to be theirs. Because the Bulgarians at the end of the tenth century under King Samuel and again in the thirteenth century under King Ivan Assen II had extended the frontiers of Bulgaria all the way west to the Adriatic Sea, the Bulgarians believed Macedonia to be theirs. Because King Stefan Duhan had overrun Macedonia in the fourteenth century and had made Skopje, in Dame Rebecca [West's] words, 'a great city, and there he had been crowned one Easter Sunday Emperor and Autocrat of the Serbs and Byzantines, the Bulgars and the Albanians,' the Serbs believed Macedonia to be theirs.

In the Balkans, history is not viewed as tracing a chronological progression as it is in the West. Instead, history jumps around and moves in circles; and where history is perceived in such a way, myths take root. Evangelos Kofos, Greece's preeminent scholar on Macedonia, has observed that these 'historical legacies ... sustained nations in their uphill drive toward state-building, national unification and, possibly, the reincarnation of long extinct empires.'

And here is quote #2. This reiterates what I described in the post about IMRO, only going into a bit more detail about what went down between the two World Wars.

After starting and losing two wars over Macedonia, Bulgaria's King Ferdinant abdicated in 1919. For the next twenty years, until the outbreak of World War II, his son, King Boris III, presided over a political system in Sofia that was riven by coup attempts and other violent conspiracies connected to the loss of what Bulgarians considered their historic homeland. IMRO, radicalized by the defeats of 1913 and 1918, became a terrorist state within a state, and, helped by its skull-and-crossbones insignia, became synonymous in the outside world with hate and violent nihilism. Opium profits financed the purchase of IMRO's weaponry. The standard fee for an IMRO assassination was twenty dollars, so Bulgarian politicians walked around with trains of bodyguards...

The terrorists, aided by Orthodox clergy, came from the Macedonian refugee population of Sofia's slums. By the 1930s, Macedonian terrorists were hiring themselves to radical groups throughout Europe -- in particular, to the Croatian Ustashe, whose chief paymaster was the fascist dictator of Italy, Benito Mussolini. A Bulgarian Macedonian nicknamed 'Vlado the Chauffeur' assassinated King Alexander of Yugoslavia -- the crime that initiated Dame Rebecca's passion for that country.

World War II provided another sickening reply of World War I and the Second Balkan War. Again, as in World War I, Bulgaria joined a German-led alliance against a Serb-dominated Yugoslavia in order to regain Macedonia. Again, while forces of a German-speaking power occupied Serbia from the north, Bulgarian troops invaded and occupied Macedonia from the east. And again, Serb and Greek resistance forces, aided by the British, drove the Bulgarians back to the hated borders established in August 1913 at the conclusion of the Second Balkan War. At that point, Communist totalitarianism stopped history until the century's final decade. Nothing of all this has yet been resolved.

Next: The Young Turks

Macedonia - Part II - IMRO

The second essay about Macedonia is about the formation of the terrorist group known as IMRO. My understanding of the history of this group is a wee bit shallow - As always, chime in if you know more.

MACEDONIA - IMRO

Macedonia is the birthplace of terrorism in the 20th century. After the Second Balkan War in 1913, parts of Macedonia were stolen from Bulgaria by Serbia and Greece. Very shortly following the end of the war, a group of assassins who called themselves IMRO (Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organization) emerged, and set out to undermine those "stolen" parts of Macedonia. The terrorist tactics they used (fanatical, violent, surprise attacks) are ones we are all too familiar with today. Present-day terrorists are inspired, to some degree, by IMRO.

The country is poor, ethnically divided, filled with hatred, and with historically weak government institutions. The ground was fertile for terrorism.

IMRO disappeared once Macedonia was sucked into the Yugoslav Federation post World War II. A lot of things (ethnic warfare, guerrilla tactics, raging hatred) disappeared from view under Tito, but these things did not vanish or dissolve or resolve themselves. They merely subsided into silence, underneath the water, waiting for the time when it would be right to emerge again. And "emerge" they did. More like explode. Once Yugoslavia fell apart, all of these undercurrents exploded to the surface again, as though the 40 years of silence meant nothing.

IMRO surfaced again after the collapse of Yugoslavia, only this time it took on the character of a fairly moderate political party. The extremists have been pushed to the side. Most moved to Bulgaria, where everybody is nationalistic, extremist, intense (at least when it comes to the Macedonian Problem).

There is, I am sure, more to learn about IMRO.

Next: Competing territorial claims

Macedonia - Part I - Introduction

I am riveted by Macedonia.

These essays are more from my old Country of the Week feature on my old blog - slowly I am migrating them all over here. They're interesting, if I do say so myself (although I cannot take any credit for the information therein - It's all from the great authors I have read.)

Other countries discussed here.

MACEDONIA - INTRODUCTION

To me, Macedonia reminds me of those very very difficult math problems we had to work on in high school. I would hunch over my notebook, squinting down at the confusion, working it out, feeling frustration and despair, erasing, adding, throwing the whole thing out, starting afresh ... and then, suddenly, there would be a very brief "A-ha!!" moment, light breaking in on my brain ... and in one beautiful moment, I could "see" the answer. Clear as day. When 2 seconds before, I had NO IDEA WHAT THE HELL I WAS DOING.

I have read multiple books about the Balkans. Macedonia is really the key to the whole area. Always has been, always will be. But could I explain to you WHY? Occasionally I will have a bright-white "A-ha!!" moment, in terms of getting what is going on with Macedonia, but then the cloud cover comes down again. Sometimes I get the sense, too, that Macedonia is like one of those sub-sub-sub atomic particles in the world of quantum physics, where the only way you can tell that they exist, is by the effect these teeny particles have on OTHER particles. This is not to say that Macedonia does not exist. (Although, I suppose if you spoke with a nationalistic Bulgarian that is exactly what they would say: "Macedonia?? There IS no Macedonia! It is ALL BULGARIA!") It is just that you can really only "get" Macedonia in relation to all the other countries in the Balkans.

Any context or clarifiations to the rambling discussion below would be greatly appreciated. My readers are, categorically, well-read, well-spoken, and damn smart.

Let's begin with this:

TWO TREATIES HEARD ROUND THE WORLD

1. The Treaty of San Stefano

Macedonia is the Balkans in miniature. It is an old country, with memories of glory centuries ago. Alexander the Great, after all, was a Macedonian, and set out from Macedonia to conquer the world. Macedonia is filled with a mix of races and languages and religions and cultures, and nobody mixes with each other. They never have mixed and they don't mix now.

But before I talk about generalities, let me try to describe what is known as "the Macedonian problem", because it is the key. This problem has not disappeared and will definitely appear again one day to the forefront of world events.

Historic Macedonia overlaps Bulgaria and also Greece. Claims on this soil are legion. It's like Armenia. There is a centuries-old question surrounding the issue: Is Macedonia a real country? What are its borders? It has been cut up and carved up and divided so many times that nobody seems to know, although everybody has a fierce opinion about it. And, at this point, everything is so mixed up and ethnically divided that no matter how you divided Macedonia, each state would be left with unruly pissed-off minorities.

So here's a bit of history. The whole Balkan area was part of the Ottoman Empire. In the early 19th century, the Ottoman Empire began to show the first signs of a crack-up. Greeks, Serbs, and Montenegrins won a struggle for self-rule. In 1877, Russian troops arrived to liberate Bulgaria from Turkey. The Turks were defeated, and the Russians moved into the Bulgarian capital as an occupying force.

In March, 1878, the Russians dictated the Treaty of San Stefano to the Turks. The Treaty of San Stefano has been called "the first fuse of the Balkan powder keg". It is one of those devilish things from the past which cannot be undone. It seemed like a good idea at the time to the Russians who dictated it, but here we are, over a century later, and people are still bemoaning the Treaty of San Stefano, and how it fucked them over, etc.

The Treaty awarded Macedonia to Bulgaria. The purpose of the Treaty was to recreate Bulgaria, along the lines of the medieval Bulgarian kingdom's borders. So the treaty enlarged Bulgaria, creating a "Greater Bulgaria" which encompassed present-day Bulgaria, all of Macedonia, parts of Albania, and a huge chunk of Greek land surrounding the northern city of Salonika.

So what the Russians basically did with this treaty, was create a powerful pro-Russian state in the Balkans. It swept away the needs or desires of Macedonia and Greece. All that mattered was Bulgaria, and the population of Bulgars. The other big powers at the time (Britain, Germany, the Habsburg Empire) could not accept the Treaty, as written, and demanded that it be amended. Germany and England made it clear to Russia that creating a "Greater Bulgaria" would mean war with Great Britain.

So here we are seeing the roots of World War I. Russia capitulated.

2. The Treaty of Berlin

So basically, Greater Bulgaria was dismembered before it even had a chance to exist. A second treaty was drawn up. The Treaty of Berlin. The northern half of Greater Bulgaria became free (Bulgaria), and the southern half became a Turkish province in the Ottoman Empire (Macedonia). Macedonia was completely abandoned to the brutal Turks, as though the Treaty of San Stefano had never existed. It's like what the Allies let happen to Czechloslovakia in WWII. They tossed the country to the dogs. No hope for them, nobody would invade and save them. They were on their own.

The Treaty of Berlin basically passed around Balkan chunks of land as though nobody actually lived there, it was merely territory. But it created such confusion and such anger that we are still living in the aftermath of that treaty today. Here's the puzzle pieces of the treaty:

--Bismarck gave Russia lands in Bessarabia and Northeast Anatolia, to compensate them for the loss of Macedonia

--Serbs were given full independence

--Bismarck transferred Bosnia from Ottoman rule to Habsburg rule (this is the immediate cause of WWI). Bismarck did this to compensate the Habsburgs for the loss of Macedonia.

--Great Britain received Cyprus from the Turks.

Can you see how misguided all of this is? How crazy? How it solves nothing, and just plants the seeds of insanity for generations to come?

Also: see how Macedonia is the key?

This Treaty sparked an orgy of violence in Macedonia. The Turks brutally suppressed the uprisings.

Macedonia is, historically, an Eastern Orthodox nation. So refugees (ethnic Turks, Muslim Bosnians) flooded into Macedonia to terrorize the Christian population. In 1878 there was a guerrilla uprising against the Turks. That uprising led to a century-long guerilla war. Macedonia is the birthplace of modern-day terrorism. They invented many of the tactics which we see so often now. Their rage at being tossed to the Turks and losing everything continues to this day.

The 1890s brought spreading terrorism and violence, no central government, no concept of nationhood. And the outside powers just used this country to play out their rivalries. The mountains were filled with gangs of mercenaries and murderers, waging 15 different terrorist wars.

Then (I'm skipping way ahead here), Macedonia was incorporated into the Yugoslav Federation which, although awful to some degree, also helped tamp down a lot of the ethnic hatred and violence. But the question continues: Who, actually, does Macedonia belong to? Bulgaria is convinced that there IS no Macedonia. That Macedonia is, and always has been, part of Bulgaria. Greece feels the same way about southern Macedonia, which used to be part of Greece. Greece has never ever given up their claims on that area.

In the books I have read, people lose their minds when they start to talk about Macedonia. Screaming, tearing their hair out, everybody convinced they are right. It's a mess. It's one of the most intense "flashpoints" on this planet. There are certain areas which seem destined, somehow, to make people go nuts. Jerusalem, Armenia, Poland (how many times can Poland be invaded??), the land bridge into Turkey where Istanbul/Constantinople stands ... These are places which, geographically, nobody can be neutral about. If you even just look at their placements on a map, it is obvious why.

The Macedonian Problem will rise again. I'm sure of it.

I hope I explained that okay. It's all very confusing. But interesting, no?

Next: IMRO

Bilbo

I have picked up The Hobbit again after ... it must be 25 years. I haven't read it since I was a kid. I am having the time of my life. I found that I still had the first paragraph in my head, almost word for word.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

I remember what the book looked like when I was a kid - It had a drawing on the cover, of a green hill, with a little round door stuck in the middle of it, and smoke coming up out of a teeny little chimney. It was magic. The book I have now is a bit more literal - it looks like a painting by Turner or somebody ... only there is also a drawing of Gandalf, stalking towards one particular hill, with his tall staff, and if you look closely you can see the little round door.

The book is as I remembered it. It's like candy. You want to eat it up as quickly as possible. I loved all of those funny grumpy little dwarves when I was a kid - with their different colored hats and tassels ... I remember during one particularly obsessive moment, in order to keep them all straight, I took notes.

Like this:

Dwalin: blue beard, golden belt, dark-green hood
Balin: white beard, scarlet hood
Dori: purple hood, gold and silver belt

The little obsessive in me loved the detail, loved the adjectives. LOVED IT.

And Jesus, if I thought the battle with the "s" was terrifying in ROTK - I had completely blocked out the battle between the dwarves and the entire flock of "s"s, when they left the path in Mirkwood. (What does one call a group of "s"s? A herd? God, the very thought gives me shivers.)

Bilbo Baggins kills me.

Tolkein is a genius.

Bilbo, the little home-bound gardening staid hobbit, is chosen. He is not ready to be chosen. He doesn't want to have adventures. He is unprepared to do things like climb trees, run from Wargs, and slay an entire flock of "s"s. But ... with much grumbling and moaning, with much "Oh, I wish it were YESTERDAY" - he rises to the task.

Isn't that what all great stories are truly made of?

We can see ourselves in Bilbo. We love to sit at home, by a nice crackling fire, having soup, and ale, conversing with friends, enjoying the moonlight. We don't want to race down stony hills, fleeing from angry goblins, we don't want to venture into pitch-black caves and meet creatures like Gollum who want to eat us alive ... and yet if we were called upon to do these things, if the stakes were high, if we knew that we were "chosen" - perhaps we too would step up to the task at hand.

Like Bilbo does, time and time again.

There once was a boy...

...who made me watch all the Marx Brothers movies - I barely knew who they were at the time, and this horrified him.

...who made me watch Double Indemnity when I was 17 years old.

...who loved WC Fields and Mad Magazine

...who knew me when I was a kid - we were kids together.

...who was my first male friend

...who took me out on dates, which consisted of going to movies, and then walking to get ice cream afterwards - such innocence

...who would come over to my house for our dates, and my little sisters would hover on the edges, giggling, acting crazy ... he will be the only person on earth who dated me when my siblings were still small children ...

...who called me "Squealer", just to tease me

...who did plays with me in high school - but his talent was always far and beyond anything which was appropriate to those environs ... I suppose you could say the same of me - we were both restless for the outside world at very young ages and we recognized that in one another

...who would take long walks with me, over the university campus, at night, the two of us talking, about Abbot and Costello, and Artaud, and Arthur Miller, and how much we hated high school

...who was my boyfriend. In a way, I will never have such a boyfriend again. A teenage boyfriend. A boyfriend who can't drive. A boyfriend who made a big deal out of buying me an ice cream at Baskin Robbins, hugely magnanimous with his teenage wallet, a boyfriend before adulthood. A boyfriend before life got complex. Before I knew that love could do rotten things, before I had any experience, before I had any battle scars of any kind. A boyfriend from an innocent time.

I hadn't seen that boyfriend in 18 years, since our innocent times wandering around our university town, eating ice cream and talking about film noir and Groucho Marx. I cannot imagine experiencing such innocence now. Because you can never go back. Some things are not meant to be un-learnt.

Paradise Lost.

That old boyfriend from adolescence lives here - which I have known for some time now - only I never really thought about it, or concerned myself with it. He was so much relegated to the "Past" file folder in my mind. But in the last couple of months, that changed, and recently, we reconnected. We saw each other for the first time in 18 years. We laughed at the sight of one another. We were awkward. We were on the shy side of hysteria. And within 10 minutes, we were talking about film noir again, and talking about libertarians, and talking about movies we had seen, we talked about vaudeville.

It was a strange thing - more moving than I expected. A night which unfurled a connection over the stretches of time.

Sitting there, drinking scotch, looking at his familiar face, so weird, he looks EXACTLY the same to me, I suddenly felt close to that 16 year old I once was. (Only she would never have drank scotch. She didn't drink at all. Never touched the stuff. He and I would go to pizza parlors, and have two big cokes, and a pizza, your basic high school romancing. Only our discussions were about Barbara Stanwyck and Billy Wilder's camera moves...) But now here we were in our 30s, drinking scotch together, sharing a shepherd's pie, everything is different, we are both so changed, and yet I felt completely haunted (in a good way) by the young girl I had been - the teenager, with red cheeks, freckles and glasses. I had almost forgotten all about her.

My old self. That innocent girl, who didn't know yet the damage love could do. Who freely went out for ice cream with this boy - now a grown man across the table - unafraid that she might be hurt, unconcerned that this man could do her any damage.

There she was again, sitting next to me.

Dammit, I have missed that girl!

It was a night of a time-warp, a night of long distances passed, a night which bridged space somehow. I couldn't sleep when I went home. I couldn't believe that I had seen him again, conversed with him like that - stepped over the intervening long years - years where I never thought of him at all - and picked up that friendship again. We couldn't pick up where we left off - impossible. Also - who would want to? We are adults now. We aren't teenagers. We both have long stories to tell. With not-so-happy elements. We have experienced loss, our dreams have not come to fruition with the same fullness that we had discussed in high school, as we walked over the quadrangle with ice cream at 10 pm ... We have had to make bitter compromises. Like all adults have to do.

I want to make myself clear: I wasn't in love with "this boy" in high school. It wasn't so much about that. It was an intellectual connection, a connection based on art and movies, and also based on our own ambitions for ourselves.

I thought that he could rule the world, should he so choose. And he pushed me to be better, to be brave, to take risks.

All when we were kids.

He made a huge difference in my life - and what a joy it was - to finally have the opportunity to tell him so. After so many years. Years during which he thought I despised him. Years during which I thought I despised him.

And now we will be working together again. On a project in January.

He is still pursuing his goals. Thank God. Thank God he has not given up. That, come to think of it, would have bummed me out. He can't give up!! And when we were catching up with each other, and he heard that I was still writing, still acting - his face lit up. "You're still doing it? You're still pursuing it?" "Oh yeah." He smiled at me. Didn't have to say a word. I could just tell that this made him happy.

He has asked me to be a part of a new project, something he has written - I read it, it made me laugh out loud, and I said Yes.

But what an odd thing. What a GREAT thing. What a great great thing.

Perhaps I haven't conveyed here what this has all meant for me. I am not sure. All I know is - when I think of going into rehearsal - for a project written by 'this boy" - the first boy to take an interest in me - the first male friend I ever had - my first boyfriend - and here we are now - 18 years later - in New York City - working together ... come so far from the small drama club of our public high school, where we felt reined in, hampered, suffocated... we wanted OUT. And now we ARE out.

I just have moments where I feel: Thank goodness I have lived long enough to see this come to pass.

It took only 5 minutes of awkward laughter and basically staring at each other like lunatics, trying to get to know each other's grown-up faces - it took only 5 minutes of that before we tossed the past onto a bonfire, and joined the present day. We did not sit and reminisce much. We talked about Now. We talked about the present moment.

It is a bit of a miracle.

Maybe you won't know what I am talking about. Or maybe you will.

So is there a threat or not?

US intelligence says NYC is threatened, at the moment, by an upcoming terrorist attack - perhaps a female suicide bomber.

But "New York police officials say they knew of no credible threat to the city, site of the Sept. 11, 2001 attack on the World Trade Center by hijacked airliners."

Guys, are you communicating with one another? Why such divergent versions?

Also - the feel of that sentence I posted above struck me. It sounds passive to me. "...attack on the World Trade Center by hijacked airliners" is very different from saying "airliners hijacked by terrorists."

The sentence construction makes it sound like the airliners did the attacking all on their own.

Maybe I'm just being paranoid. After all, I am living with an imminent and credible threat on my life. It does something to the brain.

I don't mean to make light. But God. Every time we New Yorkers get news that we are in danger, we just have to throw our hands up. What can we do? We can move - but you know what? WE DON'T WANT TO. This is our home. Dangerous or no.

Diary Friday

The following entries are from the two weeks of finals at the end of my Junior year in high school. It's rather long - so only die-hard Diary Friday fans will be able to weed their way through the purple prose of the 16 year old I once was.

I found I didn't want to take out any of the pieces - There is stuff about studying, stuff about the boy I was in love with, stuff about God, stuff about my friends - feelings about school - It was all a part of that insane time. I took school very seriously, and I took finals very seriously.

Reading over this this morning, I realized, again, how lucky I was in high school - even though you would never know it, from the bitch-fest in the pages!! Most of the friends I mention here are still my dear dear friends today. Many of them are active participants in this blog. We still hang out, we still correspond - we are Present-day friends - not just friends from long ago. It is an unbelievable blessing.

So I post this long entry for them.

Oh, and once again - I could not contain myself from inserting editorial comments. (Siobhan - I know you love those!) I just could not let some of my ridiculous self-dramatic TRAGIC prose slide by without making a snarky comment on it.

June, 1984

June 10 I can't believe next year we'll be seniors. The oldest - in the senior bleachers. I mean – the incoming freshmen will remember us as being the oldest. SENIORS. Has this time really come? I don't believe it. It's unreal – it's scary – I mean, even SK Pades was like: Is it really here? Our SK Pades. (Ed: SK Pades was the variety show put on every year at my high school by the junior class. It was meant to be a bonding experience for the entire class – readying them for the rigors of the senior year. I have to say: it worked!)

Next year, at this time, Andy, our class president, will be getting up in front of everyone for the parting address at graduation. And probably Peter and Erica will make their valedictorian speeches – we'll all be sitting there – girls in white, guys in blue – girls with red roses – AM I REALLY GOING TO BE in a white gown, holding a blue diploma and a rose – I can't even comprehend it

I can't picture myself in college, in a dorm, with a roommate, going to college classes, college parties. Basically just being in college. For so long my life's been relatively the same. I mean, I've changed muchly, but it seems like my whole life I have been in high school, living at home, going to the malls occasionally. My life has been sort of hard, a lot has happened to me and our family in the last couple years – but college will be a complete change. I can't believe it's NEXT YEAR.

The seniors this year must all have such mixed feelings. I know I will: enormous LOVE, relief, excitement, fear, depression, anxiety, sadness – everything. College. Wow. Everything is happening so fast.

11 pm: I love Brendan. I am so glad to have a brother like him. I always used to wish I had an older brother, but age has nothing to do with it. He is such a good kid. I mean, for about 2 years he drove me crazy, starting in Ireland. He made me cry in Dublin. But I think what has happened now is – we have both grown up so much. He is growing to be one of the funniest people I know. He makes me laugh SO HARD.

He is gonna be such a heartbreaker. He is so sensitive. Like, for English, he has to write this poetry book and they are all really good. Deep, too. One's about the Lincoln Monument, and how it gave him a feeling of awe. He did illustrations, too, and the illustration to that one is a glimpse of a fleeing black man's legs, and behind him lie broken chains. There's also this poem called "Thoughts". The picture to this one was so cute that it made me laugh. It was supposed to be serious, and it was, but also – it was such a sweet drawing. I started roaring when I saw it. It's supposed to be him, sitting at our dining room table, with his head is in his arms, down on the table – but oh – it is so cute

He is such a sensitive kid. I pray that he doesn't lose it.

I'm glad that things are going good for us now. I wish I wasn't such a bitch all the time.

June 11
I CAN'T BELIEVE WHAT A JERK I AM. I want to scream and pound the stupid walls. WHEN WILL I EVER SHAPE UP? I have a huge Math test tomorrow on 3 chapters and I brought home the wrong stupid book. My French and Math books are exactly the same size, and they are both red. I can't tell you how FURIOUS I was when I found that out. I HATE MYSELF.

June 12
Finals approaching. My entire life is studying. I have, I think, the most excruciatingly painful headache I've ever known. It buzzes through me. I can hardly walk. I can't move my head. I am in a rut bigger than the Andreas Fault. I cried today – then I did my Centering Prayer, and felt a little better.

June 13
I took the Math test. I was shaking with fear even though I really did study (I had brought my math notebook home, luckily). Kate had told me that the test was a positive nightmare. So I went in there and took it but I didn't find it horrendous. I didn't get a few problems, but I knew more than I didn't know. But still – today Kate told me she got a 55. KATE!! I don't think she's failed a test in her life.

So I was dreading Math. I've been on such a downer, starting yesterday – what a cavern I'm in – and to fail a Math test! I may never recover emotionally! (Ed: Oh God, that makes me laugh. I was dead serious.) We only had 2 tests other than that one this quarter. On one I got an 80, on the other I got a 69. My average was a 74 or something. A 55 would really boost my average. When I found out the highest grade in the class was an 85, I prepared myself. BUT – I got an 80 – AND I got a C for the quarter!! (Ed: This was good news for me, not bad. I worked my ass off for that C.)

Today has been so hot and sticky. I stayed after school with J. so we could clear out our locker (an impossible huge gross task). You should have seen it. It was all my junk too. A winter coat, sneakers, sweats, pants, a sweater, a turtleneck, 3 pairs of mittens, 1 pair of gloves – all in a bag which was totally useless and ripped down the side. I also had my silver shamrock wand from when we did "Cinderella" in Drama.

J. and I were both really tired and hot and sweaty, so together we lugged the stupid bag (which I called "mental" and J. went off into gales of laughter) down to the library. It was so hot on the 3rd floor and we were laughing so hard. We went into the library to find a box but there weren't any. We saw some in the janitor's room, and were going to steal one, but there were newspapers in all of them.

Then we went into the back room in the library and saw a cardboard box full of books. No one was around so we dumped the books out, and ran out with the box. I honestly thought I was going to wet my pants I was laughing so hard. We both were. Since we aren't allowed to take out books anymore (end of school and all), J. snuck 3 books out without signing them out. (Ah yes, to be in that kind of mood).

My box was so heavy. J. held one side, I held the other. We looked so ridiculous. The minute we picked the box up, I said, solemnly, "There seems to be a silver shamrock in this box" – and J. started laughing – when J. laughs she makes me laugh – we both got so weak from laughing, we lost our grips and the box fell. We finally thought we got it under control, so picked up the box again, took 2 steps, and then fell down roaring with laughter again.

It was a fun day. We spent all of gym looking through the yearbook and planning what we were going to write for our senior blurbs next year.

We have one day of classes left. Then finals. Then SUMMER.

I deserve it. Oh boy, do I deserve a very long break, full of independence. I am now hooked on "Guiding Light". No more boring "General Hospital". So all summer I will watch it!

I can't wait til finals are done. I am exhausted. I am really worn out and ugly.

June 15
Well, school is officially over. I have one final today – History. Then on Tuesday I have Math. I am so scared!

French and English I pretty much know I'm gonna get a good grade. But Chemistry and Math!! I have to study my EYES out this weekend. It is gonna be rotten.

I need a break. This year has got everything out of me it could. I am really drained. You should see what I look like. I am exhausted – not just from recent things, but from the whole year. LOOK at this year. In a way, it's been like "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" – it never stops – no breaths of air – one continuous roller-coaster of anxiety. I feel mentally burned out. My brains are frying. How did I live this year? How? I just found a note that I wrote to myself in Math class during those AWFUL weeks before the Toga dance when he was ignoring me, when he was indifferent.

School will be out in 4 days. Then (pray!) I'll be a senior. Thank God I only have one more year. I mean, it's been a blast (yeah, right) but I couldn't take more than one more year of high school. I can see all my new horizons. I want to go get 'em!

I am just sick of being in the mad-house that people call high school.

Diary – you have to believe me when I say: He was my life.

I mean that very literally. (Ed: Yes, Sheila, we know, and that was the problem!) No matter what I was doing, where I was, he was always on my mind. Can you comprehend the ALWAYS-NESS of ALWAYS? (Ed: Uh – yes, Sheila – we can. We can comprehend it. Move on. Also – who are you talking to?) That's what I mean: ALWAYS. (Ed: Sheila – we got it, okay? "Always" is not a rare word. Everyone knows what it means.) There was no other aspect of my junior year more important to me than him. Not even SK Pades. Besides, he was woven into SK Pades too. Isn't it amazing that just another human being gave me perfect happiness? It's sort of sick, actually, now that I think about it. (Ed: Thank God - a voice of reason!!)

Project Adventure (Ed: An Outward Bound thing required of the junior class - one of my favorite experiences in all of high school - amazing stuff) was what made us friends. Everything comes back to me in flashbacks now.

I feel like I'm 80 years old.

I see his smiling face, way back in the beginning, before I liked him – I see me walking down with April towards Old Mountain Field, and he was right behind us, walking alone, LOOKING AT ME (Ed: Oh, for God's sake, so what.). I see him on the other side of the stream, and him holding his arms out to me – for me to grab on and jump. I remember the first time I felt the little light flutter in my stomach. I remember him asking me if I hated him. I see me asking him to dance at the Homecoming – and how off-guard he was – I see SK Pades – and him hugging me after – the hug – I went home and cried in the dining room. Cried because I was happy. I see us bowling, him asking if he could bowl with me and April. He asked us. (Ed: And on the basis of this, on the basis of "him" asking if he could bowl with me and April, he "literally" became my life. Pretty scary stuff) I see us talking on Valentine's Day for half an hour in the hall – I remember me leaning back into the bubbler, with him standing right in front of me – I remember us singing harmony. That's my favorite memory. Us singing harmony. (Ed: Oh, for God's sake.)

I still love him desperately. (Ed: No comment.)

June 16
I went to school, took my History final. 100 multiple choice questions. It was a joke. I see the entire world as a multiple-choice question now. My eyes are spinning about in my head. Butler's gonna scale the tests though. I did study hard. I HAVE TO DO WELL. I got an A this quarter though!! So that final – it wasn't hard - but it was the first final, so I was really tired after it.

Mrs. Franco assigned us a paper for Thursday. I cannot believe she did that. Mine was a 9-page masterpiece though. I'm very proud of it. I wrote it on Hemingway. Farewell to Arms.

All of Thursday was exhausting, nerve-wracking review. I started despairing. I was drowning, overwhelmed. Then – oh, I don't know how late or how early I stayed up Thursday night – just studying and studying and studying. For the History final. I mean – how long could I study? An entire year of US History in one test? – How detailed could it be?? Well, it was detailed, and it was very dumb.

After my History final, I came home, and had the most wonderful time relaxing, with records. No one else was home, so I played the piano, and sang.

Mum came home. I am always in a foul mood after finals, so she came home today, and I think this was the first time she ever told me to go watch my soap opera. "Sheila, just go watch your soap opera, please."

Ha!

Today was a beautiful day – even a little chilly. Brilliantly clear and sunny. Lush green, yellow sun, blue blue sky. Kate called me and we decided to "do something".

I just wasn't in the mood for studying tonight. I have all night, and all day tomorrow.

So Kate invited me and Beth out, and the 3 of us went down to Narragansett Beach for a walk.

It was about 6 pm I guess. Just at sunset. We all rolled up our jeans, and took a long long walk. The sky was indescribable. I felt God there. So much.

The sky changed every time we looked up at it. I think it was the most spectacular sky I have ever seen. Where the sun went down, it was like an explosion. It was gold and shimmering – huge clouds billowing out – all red and orange – and all around the sunset were big thick bright clouds, and stretching off around that, the clouds got wispier and stretched out really long, so they looked like they were zooming off into the distance – all in a blur. The sky was exploding.

So the 3 of us sat down to watch the sky. As though it were a movie.

The waves were lapping. Whenever the waves receded, it was perfectly silent.

Then 3 solitary seagulls – teeny black Vs – flew across the gold sky.

It was weird. It was like – the gulls were a mirror of the 3 of us, sitting on the sand. We were them, they were us.

That was when I felt God the most.

It was weird, but later, the 3 of us talked about it – and they had noticed the 3 black seagulls too.

The sky out over the water got darker and darker blue – sort of muted, and deep – a twilight-dusk-blue – and the water was darkly deeply blue. For a while, the sky stretching out over the ocean was glowing with this soft subtle rose-lavendar color – and the waves that lapped (it was a gentle night surf) were all shimmering with this pinky-purple from the sky. Then, again, there were those "rushing" pink clouds – almost reaching for the sunset. It was so peaceful.

The walk we took was really long. By the time we headed back, it started to get dark, so the sky had calmed the hell down. But we could look across the water to the town, all glimmering with lights.

I had this wish that someone was beside me, a boy, holding my hand. And we could sit and watch the sunset.

The beach was sparsely populated – but most were couples. One couple in rolled-up jeans, barefeet, were wading along through the water holding hands. There was one couple huddled together in a lifeguard's chair.

That sky was so bursting with beauty that I could not believe it. It was OVERFLOWING with God.

Then we all went to Newport Creamery for ice cream.

Kate kept saying, "I really feel 17 right now."

We got back into the car, put the radio on, and it was 50s night – so as we drove along, we were laughing at how much it felt like we were in "American Grafitti" or something – cruisin' along, Saturday night, Wolfman Jack, rock 'n roll, just being teenagers.

And now – I am in the right frame of mind to study for the entire day tomorrow.

June 17
I just got this flashing inspiration – revelation: I am gonna be something great someday. I feel it. I know it.

11:30 pm:
I have never studied so long in my whole entire life. All day. I have Chemistry and French tomorrow.

But I am not dreading them anymore. Hey – I have studied massively. I will go in there – and I will do my best. It is only 2 hours out of my whole life. I will survive. Life will go on, whatever happens.

Dad and I had so much fun tonight. I recited practically the entire Chemistry book to him – just for practice – it felt good to rattle it all of – but Dad was so funny – I mean, he didn't even know if what I was saying was right or not, and he so didn't care!

I'd say, "So – Dad – you want to hear about Molality, Dad?"

And he'd say, eyes in his own book, "No, not particularly, Sheila."

But I would rattle off the definition at him anyway.

I told him all the rules, all the formulas – and he would just sit there, behind his book the whole time. I'd babble on about protons and neutrons and – he would just look at me with this totally bland deadpan face.

He'd say, "You know what Avagadro's number is?………Why?"

Dad – I honestly do not have an answer for that. But I do know what Avagadro's number is, and quite frankly, I wish I didn't.

Wednesday is the Drama final, which is just going to be fun. We each have to sing a "character song" and a "love song". Then the entire class has to put on a production number. It is so incredibly fun. For "character" I'm singing "I'm Always Chasing Rainbows", I think it's a vaudeville song that Judy Garland sang a lot – when her name was Frances Gumm – and then for my "long song" I'm singing "This Can't Be Love" from The Boys from Syracuse. For the "production number" the whole class is gonna do "Summer Lovin'" from Grease. We're all gonna dress up 50s, and bop around being total stereotypes. Kris Kemp, Betsy, Joe, Beth, Kate … it's gonna be great.

June 18
It is not a pleasant feeling to look in the mirror and see an old woman. (Ed: Images of being an "old haggard woman" abound in my teenage journals. It is hysterical.)

June 19
I cannot even explain to you what the past few days have been like for me. I don't want to see my report card. EVERY final has been SO HARD. Chemistry! It's NOT that I didn't study – I DID I DID – I have gotten about 6 hours of sleep since Sunday. But all my finals have been SO HARD. Chemistry wasn't even that – it was just impossible, it was outrageous, and it was TOTALLY unfair. I am so glad I am out of there. I hate Mr. A. I hate hate hate him. I don't think even HE cares about Avagadro's number. I think he's just happy to have a paycheck. He always wanted to trick us – he would purposefully make the language of the quiz questions confusing – and then not care when everybody got confused, he wanted us to be baffled. He was a tricky teacher, and I don't like being tricked. Good riddance to protons, neutrons, and stupid Avagadro.

June 20
Oh Diary – summer is here! I survived my finals! Not without blemishes. (Ed: "Blemishes"? Sheila … what? Maybe you want to pick another image…Just a suggestion.) The finals this year - every single one (except English, which I got a 99 on) was SO HARD. I got a C for the year in Math and Chemistry. I do not understand this. I worked harder this year than any other year.

But today – officially – truly – I am a senior. A senior.

We aren't underclassmen anymore. There's a whole new mentality with being a senior.

One more year.

After school got out today (oh yeah – the Drama final was so fun! Mrs. McNeil gave out what she called "Drammy Awards" – Kate and I tied for "best love song" – we couldn't believe it!! And, of course, the whole class got one for "Best Production Number" – since, basically, we had no competition.) – Anyway, after school got out, Kate and I, again, wanted to "do something". She had her car. So we called J. from school (she had just had her Chemistry exam and was suicidal), so we went to pick her up. I was still in a school frame of mine – it still hasn't sunk in – SUMMER – wonderful summer – After this year of hell, it is like an outpouring of relief, a huge catharsis.

We drove to Kate's house – and we had such a great time. We made scrambled eggs and toast (it was only 11 am) and we ate outside on the porch with an umbrella table. The sun was warm and bright, everything was glowing, and we all just basked in this new feeling – 2 and a half months of NO SCHOOL. And also – now we only have one more year. It gives us a very strange feeling of peace. I have not been at peace one day this year. I DO NOT EXAGGERATE. (Ed: Sheila, who are you yelling at? You're just writing in your diary. Nobody said you were exaggerating.) I can't remember ONE DAY this year when I didn't feel all rumpled up, or scared about school – and now it's summer, and I can just take a long 2 and a half month deep breath.

After lunch, we went inside and talked until 3:30. From 12 to 1, we talked about finals. From 1 to 3:30 we talked about boys.

We reminisced. We talked about all the good times we had with all 3 of those boys.

I'm not sorry. I mean, there were times this year when I felt so good, perfectly good through and through. I have never felt so great. I remember it all. How happy I was. And I am glad for that. (Ed: I really do talk as though I am an old old woman, looking back over her long long life.) I am still so MAD that it didn't happen between us. I still don't know why. He did care. I know he did. (Ed: Bwahahahahaha!)

But still – we had a great time, talking about the whole year, with those 3 guys. J. and I laughed about how we had actually planned out, in our minds, our double dates. Which, of course, never occurred. We talked over everything that had happened to everyone. J. being asked to dance and how unbelievably exciting that was, DW asking me if I hated him and then J. flying out the door, trying to make herself invisible (I love that girl!!), we talked about Project Adventure (we devoted a good half-hour to that), we talked about all the dances – we talked about the whole fun and nightmarish year.

J. and Kate were telling me about when they found out that I wasn't gonna go to the prom cause he said no. I had called Kate IMMEDIATELY, and then called J. where she was babysitting. J. told me, "When you called me, I thought right away that he had said Yes, because you were out of breath – I thought you were excited – and when you told me, it was like – oh my GOD – this huge CALAMITY!" Kate said, "I know! I know! I just wandered around saying to myself, 'He said no. He said no', trying to make myself believe it, but I couldn't believe it!"

This is true for me too: when one of my friends is down, or has a calamity, I feel it with them.

And - big news: J. overheard that Nick and Eric were going to "Ghostbusters" tonight down at the Pier Cinema – so we decided to go and stalk them. And then be like: "Wow! You're here at "Ghostbusters" too?? What an unbelievable coincidence!!" Hee hee.

Today is the FIRST DAY OF SUMMER. I am young, I am healthy, and I am a SENIOR. But still – I don't want my report card. My total grades aren't bad, but my finals are awful. Okay – my grades for the year – I'm guessing:

History – B (probably – I got an A in 4th quarter)
Chemistry – C
French – B ????
Math – C (God willing)
English – A
Drama – A

This is what I hope and pray. Well, what can I do now. It's over.

So after the time at Kate's – I went home – I got into jeans – and had a wonderful time just being a vegetable. I watched "Guiding Light". I listened to records. I sighed a lot. I feel like I still have to keep studying. I can't really realize it's summer yet.

Then, at about 6:30 – I got ready to go out and stalk those boys at "Ghostbusters". I had on my dad's Oxford shirt (everyone wears their dad's clothes now – it is the latest thing) – jeans – metallic red socks – and my white plastic sunglasses.

Betsy and Mere came too. We got there late, so the lights were already off, and we had to fumble around for seats. We actually had to split up. J. and I sat together. The other 3 sat in 2 rows behind us.

That movie – was absolutely hysterical.

J. and I were losing it. we were laughing SO LOUD and SO HARD. There was a couple beside us who were so embarrassing. I mean, they may as well have had all of their clothes off. J. and I silently judged them harshly. But still – that damn Marshmellow Man as tall as a building – J. and I were out of control. Especially that moment where they all see the Stay-Puf Marshmallow Man appear for the first time, barreling down the boulevard – and they all slowly look at Dan Akroyd – who says – ashamed, "I couldn't help it – I tried to keep my mind clear – but that was the first thing that popped into my head…" J. and I LOST IT.

After the movie, the sun had just set and the sky was glowing, so we all decided to go for another walk on the beach. Nick was there, Eric wasn't – a whole crowd of kids from the sophomore (now junior) class was there, at the movie. We all went down to the beach and took off our shoes.

The sky was a soft pink and blue – gorgeous – it was getting dim – twilight – As we all ran down onto the sand – it really hit me – for the first time for real – that it is SUMMER. And I don't have to study anything for over 2 months. It was exhilarating.

We all started dancing madly down at the shore – I was tap-dancing in the waves – we all went absolutely crazy – dancing, running, singing, screaming – We shouted to each other, "1 – 2 – 3" – and would take long runs, and all kick our heels in the air at the same time. Mere could do two heel-kicks to everybody else's one.

After being a total tired ugly zombie for a week, or a month, (or, actually, the whole year) I felt so invigorated. Not pretty, though. I really look pretty awful right now. I have bags under my eyes. I look very old and tired. (Ed: There it is again.)

But still – I felt so alive, dancing on that dusky beach. It was a clear night, too, so all the stars were coming out. We walked in the waves. The surf was huge and crashing.

I felt so great – so free – like a senior in high school should.

The whole sophomore crowd had joined us. We all walked. Starry summer sky.

And then – suddenly – out of nowhere – Betsy ran into the water, with her clothes on, and dove in.

We all were screeching at the top of our lungs, watching her diving through the waves, fully clothed. She was totally soaked! And laughing her head off! We all were!

As we walked back, Betsy, Mere and I walked together, and Kate and J. were far behind.

It really was dark by that time, the sky was full of stars and it looked massive – huge – eternal. I felt like I was spinning and dizzy when I stared up at it.

It was just really nice, wading along on the beach, finals over, school over, in my dad's big comfy shirt, cold water, gorgeous sky, feeling good inside, with my friends.

June 22
At times I get very sudden inspirations – or sudden flashes of mind-boggling insight over something that seems quite commonplace. Like this: just yesterday, I was in the car with Mum, and I was thinking about everything and I suddenly realized that: I'm a person. I am alive. People don't realize how miraculous life really is. I am a full whole person (well, not yet exactly) – but I think it's exciting that someday I will be – I will become whoever I am already, deep inside. That adult Sheila is already alive in me – she's just waiting to come out.

We are all here, we all have definitive traits, we are all different. I mean, sometime I just look at Kate or J. or Betsy or Mere or Beth and I feel like I really see them for the first time. I am in awe. Look at them. Who will I be 20 years from now? Not what will I be doing – but who the HELL will I be? Will I be different? What will it be like being an adult? (Ed: Oh, God, Sheila, don't ask.)

I think about the painful beauty of the world – like the beach at sunset that day with Kate and Beth – the Cliffs of Moher at dawn – the beginning of summer – Niagara Falls – the Lincoln Monument – I think about these things and I think that the whole world is a treasure chest!!

And so am I.

Or maybe I'm a trash can. Who knows?

I wonder if I will have a generally happy life. I really wonder about my future. I mean, I also just take things as they come, but the future is something I am squinting into. There are so many things I don't get. There are so many things I will never get. Life is a mystery. Like God. Or Jesus. I mean, I am only 16 years old. This is completely ridiculous. There is so much to learn. So much that is bigger than me.

Like when Kate, Beth and I went to the beach, and the sky was awesome, and overwhelming – and I felt – something big there.

I didn't just feel the sand between my toes, the breeze on my cheeks – I didn't just perceive the beauty of the night – what was going on was bigger than that. Those 3 black seagulls against the gold. It was like seeing God.

No – it wasn't LIKE seeing God. It WAS God.

It's like caritas – Betsy's caritas to me – Betsy gave me so much. So much. Her love.

She said to me once, "You cannot sufficiently mess up your life to make God love you any less."

That is so hard for me to comprehend. But – staring at those black seagulls against the sunset, sitting with Kate and Beth – I feel like I got it. A glimpse of it.

June 23
Oh LORD! DTS just asked me out to a movie! I'm going on a date with him!!

I'm not making it a huge romantic thing, but STILL. He called me up. He asked me.

My mom answered – it was for me, so she came to get me. I picked up the phone, and he went, "Hey, Sheila Junior! I almost just asked your mom for a date!"

That made me laugh.

We're going to see "Top Secret". Please God, don't let it be obscene. Don't let there be any naked love scenes, because I think I would die of embarrassment.

He said on the phone, "I know this is really junior high-ish and everything, but –"

I loved that. His humor about himself asking me out on a date.

I called J. the second I hung up with him, and said, "DTS just called me and asked me out to the movies." She screamed, "Oh, I can't wait to go write it down in my diary!"

Read other Diary Fridays here...

The God Who Loves You

Carl Dennis won the 2002 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, and judging from the following poem, it is not hard to see why. DAMN. (Although - not sure, altogether, if it is actually "poetry". It reads a bit more like prose to me - with line breaks.) But still - love the language, and ... for some reason ... the first time I read this poem (last year sometime) - it struck a huge nerve in me. It resonated.

The God Who Loves You
Carl Dennis

It must be troubling for the god who loves you
To ponder how much happier you'd be today
Had you been able to glimpse your many futures.
It must be painful for him to watch you on Friday evenings
Driving home from the office, content with your week --
Three fine houses sold to deserving families --
Knowing as he does exactly what would have happened
Had you gone to your second choice for college,
Knowing the roommate you'd have been allotted
Whose ardent opinions on painting and music
Would have kindled in you a lifelong passion.
A life thirty points above the life you're living
On any scale of satisfaction. And every point
A thorn in the side of the god who loves you.
You don't want that, a large-souled man like you
Who tries to withhold from your wife the day's disappointments
So she can save her empathy for the children.
And would you want this god to compare your wife
With the woman you were destined to meet on the other campus?
It hurts you to think of him ranking the conversation
You'd have enjoyed over there higher in insight
Than the conversation you're used to.
And think how this loving god would feel
Knowing that the man next in line for your wife
Would have pleased her more than you ever will
Even on your best days, when you really try.
Can you sleep at night believing a god like that
Is pacing his cloudy bedroom, harassed by alternatives
You're spared by ignorance? The difference between what is
And what could have been will remain alive for him
Even after you cease existing, after you catch a chill
Running out in the snow for the morning paper,
Losing eleven years that the god who loves you
Will feel compelled to imagine scene by scene
Unless you come to the rescue by imagining him
No wiser than you are, no god at all, only a friend
No closer than the actual friend you made at college,
The one you haven't written in months. Sit down tonight
And write him about the life you can talk about
With a claim to authority, the life you've witnessed,
Which for all you know is the life you've chosen.

Quote

"Wilbur Wright said, on their way home after the 1901 gliding experiments, that he didn’t think man would fly in a thousand years. In a way, though, as Orville Wright said long afterward, it was encouraging to learn that the work of predecessors could not be relied upon. It meant that more knowledge was needed, rather than that flight was impossible."

-- Fred C. Kelly

I love that: "it was encouraging to learn that the work of predecessors could not be relied upon"

Return of the King

The film is magnificent. An awe-some accomplishment. It is really the Hobbits' movie. It is Sam's movie. He is the star of it. In my opinion. It is his journey that focuses the entire event. He goes through the most radical transformation (which is what makes a great character). You watch him become a man.

Go, Hobbits!!

And the city of Minas Tirith ...

I don't think I've ever seen anything so extraordinary. It's a miracle, what they have created.

There is a long extended scene where Gandalf gallops through the city on his white stallion - and ... you cannot tell what is digitally created, what is not. The city of Minas Tirith lives and breathes. It is REAL. A real WORLD.

The special effects are stunning, of course, but they didn't skimp on the character development (well - except for the female characters who are uniformly one-dimensional) - But all the rest: Sam and Pippin and Gandalf - and Denethor - the mad king - He is AMAZING. Who IS that actor? He created a villain worthy of the name.

Great accomplishment. Hats off, to all involved.

And I kept my eyes closed for the entire "S" sequence, which seemed to go on forever.

Ah well. I slept like a baby last night. If I had watched anything involving the giant "S", I would have been up all night, twitching, turning on the lights, moving furniture to peek behind it, all kinds of arachnophobic nonsense.

Confession

I am pre-emptively terrified of the scene in Return of the King involving a giant spider.

I read the book when I was a kid and had to skip over that part - due to the dread of shrieking nightmares. Same with Stephen King's It. I LOVE that book, but I literally found the final confrontation with "It" too terrifying to even read.

Finished 1984 last night.

The last section of the book - where Winston is being tortured - involves O'Brien, the guy running the torture, explaining, rationally, some of the principles behind state-organized torture. It's a terrible scene. It is impossible to not put yourself in Winston's shoes. It is impossible to not imagine what you would do, how YOU would handle torture.

O'Brien explains that everybody has "something" which they cannot face. Everybody has a fear which is irrational, and beyond the touch of the mind. When faced with this fear, all rationality flies out the window. It is different for everybody. For some people it is death by fire. For others it is heights. Others death by drowning. (For Billy Bob Thornton, apparently, it is antique furniture.)

I have a friend who literally gags (gags! Reflexively!) at the thought of snakes.

Snakes don't bother me. Neither do little rodents, although I certainly wouldn't want them crawling all over me. But still - the sight of them does not send a convulsion of horror shrieking thru my soul. Yes - my SOUL.

But spiders bother me so much (or - even just the thought of them) that ... I dare not even speak their name. In MY house, they are always referred to as "s", or (horrors) "s"s (plural!!). And when I refer to an "s", it is usually in this panicked context, "Okay, there's an S in my closet. Could someone please come and deal with it?"

It is irrational. It is not based on anything psychological. I didn't have a bad experience with an "s" once upon a time. And my New Age friends reassure me that "s"s mean "creativity" in Native American religions - and this does not matter to me at ALL.

It is a deep-down primal horror which I cannot explain and cannot even THINK about long enough to TRY to explain.

That's what I thought of when reading that section last night in 1984. For Winston, that "something" was rats.

When confronted with the threat of having a box of rats dumped all over his head - he betrayed his lover, he gave up his contacts, he confessed to everything. (All lies, of course!)

Anyway.

I am going to have a difficult time with that scene in the movie. I will not watch a second of it, and this is non-negotiable.

Any other primal irrational fears out there?

Don't miss...

Auden's original New York Times review of "The Return of the King".

A notable excerpt - but read the whole thing (also, check out the original reviews of every book in the trilogy):

Mr. Tolkien's world may not be the same as our own: it includes, for example, elves, beings who know good and evil but have not fallen, and, though not physically indestructible, do not suffer natural death. It is afflicted by Sauron, an incarnate of absolute evil, and creatures like Shelob, the monster spider, or the orcs who are corrupt past hope of redemption. But it is a world of intelligible law, not mere wish; the reader's sense of the credible is never violated.

Even the One Ring, the absolute physical and psychological weapon which must corrupt any who dares to use it, is a perfectly plausible hypothesis from which the political duty to destroy it which motivates Frodo's quest logically follows.

And this:

Evil, that is, has every advantage but one - it is inferior in imagination. Good can imagine the possibility of becoming evil - hence the refusal of Gandalf and Aragorn to use the Ring-but Evil, defiantly chosen, can no longer imagine anything but itself. Sauron cannot imagine any motives except lust for domination and fear so that, when he has learned that his enemies have the Ring, the thought that they might try to destroy it never enters his head, and his eye is kept toward Gondor and away from Mordor and the Mount of Doom.

Other reviews:

Auden reviews The Fellowship - October 31, 1954

Donald Barr reviews Two Towers - May 1, 1955

A Memory

My father's name is Bill.

The Hobbit, I recall, was a very big book in our household. One of the many well-thumbed children's books lying about.

My mother began to refer to my father as "Bilbo Baggins" on occasion. Sometimes she would shorten it to just plain "Bilbo." (My mother, like Tolkein, has created her own language - or maybe I should call it a dialect.)

And somehow - through the morphing of time - "Bilbo Baggins" was shortened once again to: "Bo-Bags."

Bo-Bags.

It makes no sense. Really.

She still calls him "Bo-Bags" if the whimsy hits her.

"Bo-Bags - want to take a walk on the beach?"

I think Tolkein would be pleased.

It's all downhill from 1066

This is a long excerpt from a wonderful book Lives of the Poets by Michael Schmidt.

It seems appropriate to post this today - it's finally December 17! It's an excerpt having to do with the birth of the English language (I mean - as a legitimate way to express oneself in writing - as opposed to Latin or French).

It's long, folks! But endlessly interesting.

Where do we first experience formal language? In lullaby, nursery rhyme, street rhymes, popular songs, anthems. In church, synagogue, mosque or temple, in hymn and scripture and sermon; in graveyards, on tombstones.

English poets at the start of the fourteenth century were sung to by their mothers or - orphaned by the plague - by foster mothers or relations. They were dragged to church, through churchyards full of individual and mass graves, many inscribed with scripture, others with Latin verses; inside they heard Latin intoned, and sang English, French and Latin. There were sermons in English, the priest pointed to bright paintings of religious events on the walls, or in the stained glass windows, or at statues and images - aids to make visible the truths of faith. Those images expressed a long tradition of symbolism and composition to feed the imagination. Incense clouded from the censers, spreading over upturned faces. The bright images hovered, as if removed, in another, an ideal and lavishly illuminated, sphere, above the reeking congregation.

In such polyglot churches, where shreds of paganism survived in elaborate ceremonial, the children who were to be poets learned that things could be said in quite different languages, and that the language they spoke at home or in the lanes always came last. They learned that there were parallel worlds, the stable Latin world of the paintings, windows, statues, and the world in which they lived, where plagues and huge winds and wars erased the deeds of men. Obviously the earth was a place of trial, hardship and preparation. They wrote out of this knowledge. Knowledge, not belief. Belief came later, when knowledge began to learn its limitation. Belief is an act of spiritual will, born of the possibility of disbelief, born with the spirit of the Reformation. That spirit was just beginning to stir.

Our starting point is fourteenth century England, a "colonial" culture subject to Norman rules if not rule, with a Catholic spiritual government answerable to Rome. The people accept the ephemerality of this world and an absolute promise of redemption for those who practice the faith. They know that the language of learning is Latin, that the language of power and business is Norman French, and that their English is a poor cousin. When the Normans took England they saw no merit in the tongue: an aberration to be erased, just as the English later tried to erase Irish and Welsh, Scots Gaelic and Cornish, or to impose English in the colonies. They succeeded rather better than the Normans did.

By the end of the fourteenth century, the time for English had come, with the poetry of Sir John Gower, Geoffrey Chaucer, William Langland, the Gawain poet and the balladeers with the dew still fresh upon it, with an oral tradition alive in market towns, provincial courts and manor houses. It took most of the century for this to happen, and by the end some high poetic peaks rose out of a previously almost entirely flat landscape.

The turbulent middle of the fourteenth century broke the prejudice in which English was held; it began to flex its muscles. Calamity was its patron. The Black Death first reached English shores before John Gower turned twenty, in the twenty-first year of Edward III's reign. In August of 1348 it arrived from France at Weymouth. It devastated Bristol, and in the early part of 1349 overtook London and East Anglia. It was still at large in Scotland and Ireland in 1350. Consider what it was like, to learn each day of dead or dying friends, to see bodies carted through the streets or heaped in a tangled mess at corners. It was an especially disgusting illness that started with hard lumps and tumors, then scalding fever, gray patches on the skin like leprosy. Then the cough, blood welling from the lungs. A victim had three days: terror, agony, death.

Langland describes it in a passage that the eighteenth-century critic Thomas Warton says John Milton may have stored away in his mind (in Paradise Lost, Book II, lines 475ff). Langland says:

Kynde cam aftir, with many kene soris,
As Pockes and Pestilences and moch peple shente.
So Kynde thorgh corruptions, killid ful manye:
Deeth cam dryvyng aftir, and al to dust pashed
Kings and knyghttes, Kaysours, and popis
Many a lovely lady, and lemmanys of knyghttes,
Swowed and sweltid for sorwe of Dethis dentis.

All at once there were not enough peasants to work the soil, servants to tend the house, or priests to administer unction and conduct funeral services. No one was immune. Three archbishops of Canterbury and in Norwich eight hundred diocese priests, and half the monks in Westminster, all died in one year. Eight hundred priests. The Church was big; the Black Death was bigger. Women toiled in the fields, harvests were left to rust. Parliament was suspended, courts of law were not convened. It was a time of too much loss for sorrow, too much fear for civil strife. There were more dead than graves to put them in: they were piled in plague pits and covered with lime. If the plague made feast of the poor, it was at least democratic. The powerful were not immune: the king's own daughter perished.

Another victim was a big-hearted anchorite who wrote verse, Richard Rolle of Hampole. "Full dear me think He has me bought with bloody hands and feet." He was a man of soul. A poet-martyr. Perhaps he translated the Psalms. It is hard to establish authentic "texts" by an author unless a number of similar manuscripts survive. Most medieval writers formed schools, their works were copied, added to and altered. Much has been assigned to Richard Rolle that may not belong to him. Why was he such a bad poet, with only some occasional astonishing lines?

...His verses - if they are his - express personal feeling simply. He began in the old alliterative tradition but progressed to rhyme. What is his, what did he borrow or translate, and what belongs to his follower William Nassyngton? When we think we're admiring Rolle we may be admiring Nassyngton's imitation; but then there is not much to admire in Rolle or his followers. Already poets - even holy poets - are practicing techniques of false attribution: getting their work read by borrowing the authority of a revered name. Publishers began to practice this subterfuge two hundred years later, but it's as well to remember that they learned that deception, and others, from religious poets.

Rolle especially loved the Psalms: "grete haboundance of gastly comfort and joy in God comes in the hertes of thaim at says or synges devotly the psalmes in lovynge of Jesus Crist." He wrote a Latin commentary; then another followed by English versions...

Miracles occurred at Hampole when the nuns tried to have Rolle canonized. His fame revived just before the Peasants' Revolt, when Lollard influence was increasing. (Lollard, from lollen, to loll or idle, was applied to street preachers.) His writings were exploited by reformers. Around 1378 his commentary on the Psalms was reissued with Lollardish interpolations. No one knows who revised it: some point the finger, implausibly, at John Wycliffe. Though not a poet, though his works are as confused in attribution as Rolle's, though exploited, celebrated and reviled for centuries after his death, Wycliffe is one of the tutelary spirits presiding over our history. He made it possible not only for King David to sing in English - there were English versions of the psalter before Rolle - but for Moses and Jesus and God to use our vernacular, for the Bible as a whole to land on our shores in our own language. Suddenly English is good enough for Jesus. It has become legitimate.

The Black Death returned again and again...Church corruption is attacked by Chaucer, by Langland, and (more gently) by Gower; but Wycliffe drives it home from the pulpit and in his writings, forcefully to the lay heart, and to the very heart of the Church. The Church is no more corrupt than other institutions, but its corruption is privileged, sanctioned and directed from abroad. The laity is more educated than in the times of Anselm and Thomas a Becket. The Church all the same prefers to ignore discontent and keep its monopolies and privileges intact.

...When the plague returned in 1361, it was a plague of children. That year cattle suffered a new disease as well. The fever touched souls: many thought God spoke through that fire.

Reformers found a voice. Some spoke English. Before then, nobles and merchants had taught their children French from the cradle: "And provincial men will liken themselves to gentlemen, and strive with great zeal for to speak French, so as to be more told of" - a kind of social bona fides. But under Edward III change began, accelerating under Richard II. "This manner was much used before ... and is since then somewhat changed. For John Cornwall, a master of grammer, changed the lore in grammerschool and construction of French into English ... so that now, the year of our Lord a thousand three hundred four score and five, of the second kyng Richard after the Conquest nine, in all the grammerschools of England children leaveth French and construeth and learneth in English, and haveth thereby advantage in one side, and disadvantage on another. Their advantage is that they learneth their grammer in less time than children were accustomed to do. Disadvantage is that no children of grammerschool conneth no more French than can their left heel, and that is harm for them if they should cross the sea and travel in strange lands."

The plague was a catalyst. But transformation was not easy. One version of English could be more remote from another than French was. A northern and a southern man, meeting by chance or for business, would resort to French because their dialects were mutually incomprehensible, as much in diction as in accent. English, a bastard tongue, starts to move in the other direction from Latin. Latin broke up, but English began to coalesce. Dialects started to merge into an English language when scribes and later printers got to work and London usage became the idiom for written transcriptions. Those who made language public and portable, in the form of broadsheets and books, brought it, and eventually us, together. After a hundred years a young maid of Dundee and an old man of Devizes could hold a kind of conversation, not necessarily in limericks.

Much more than half our vernacular litetrature was northern before that time. Perhaps it still is, except the north has learned to parler more conventionally. English in its youth was hungry. The Normans imposed French but English was voracious even before they came, and in the courts of Cnut and Ethelred, when the Conquest was some way off, adjustments took place, influences from the Continent resolving the knot of a congested Old English idiot. We swallowed French (digestion altered us). The Conquest meant that English in its various forms had to gobble up faster. Written texts can be more conservative than speech: there is authority in formality. It is a risk to use the language of the day for important matters because it's in flux and you never know which dialect, which bits of diction or patterns of syntax, will prevail.

Trevisa's translation of the Polychronicon reflects how "it seemeth a great wonder how English, that is the birth-tongue of Englishmen, and their own language and tongue, is so diverse of sound in this land," while Norman French, a foreign idiom, is the lingua franca of the islands. In Trevisa's own translation, which makes sense when read aloud, Higden writes: "For men of the est with men of the west, as hyt were vnder the same party of heuene, acordeth more in sounyng of speche than men of the north with men of the south. Therefore hyt ys that Mercii, that buth men of myddel Engelond, as hyt were parteners if the endes, vnderstondeth betere the syde longages, Northeron and Southeron, than Northeron and Southeron vnderstondeth eyther other." But it's the "Southeron" language that prevails. The "Northeron", Higden says, is scharp, slyttyng, and frotyng - harsh, piercing and grating. The birthplace of a prejudice.

Foreign affairs continued to be conducted during the plague as if there was no crisis at home. Skirmishes, battles and wars in France, Spain and Scotland, cruelty and piracy on every side. There was death by disease and on the field. England was certainly part of Europe. Sick at home, Englishmen went abroad to bring back wealth; they were preparing for their defeat. Edward III died in 1377 and was succeeded by Richard II, a boy who grew to a colorful, corrupt majority. Demands on poor and common people grew: demands for tax, service, subjection. The Peasants' Revolt had urgent causes, though it was too early in history for the masses to rise successfully against a king. It was high time - Richard II knew it quite as well as Gower - for the court and the masters to learn to speak and sing in the language of their people.

Fortunately there was more to build on than Richard Rolle of Hampole. There was Gawain and the Green Knight, Pearl, the English ballads and dozens of vulgar translations of French works. There are poems the scholars will never find, ballads and lyrics, elegies, poems of moral precept, religious meditations, lives of saints ... Were they lost because they weren't worth keeping, or because they were so constantly used that they were thumbed to pieces? Parchment wasted with the hungry love of reading eyes, recitation, with handing back and forth between poets and scholars and minstrels. Were they lost when, at the Reformation, great libraries were burned, or emptied out and sold to the local gentry - as the wicked and wonderful biographer and gossip John Aubrey remembers with pain - to be twisted into plugs for wine casks, sliced into spills to start fires, or cut in convenient sheets as bog parchment?

Reading English in the first half of the fourteenth century was a furtive activity, frowned on by authority. When Edward III came to the throne English was revalued; from being the underdog's tongue it became the chosen instrument of Geoffrey Chaucer.

For Iraq: There's no going back

Great piece by Christopher Hitchens in The Mirror:

"He was in our minds at all times - and that was power, of a kind." These words, from Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man, convey a faint sense of the symbolic and practical importance of the fact that, today, we enter the post-Saddam epoch.

Try to imagine seeing his face on your front page every day for three decades, and hearing that voice and seeing that face every time you turned on the radio or TV.

Try to imagine being unable to escape from it when you went to the opera, the cinema, the theatre, or the football. For millions of Iraqis under 35, this indoctrination started at infant school, where lesson one was that Big Daddy was supreme, and could do what he liked to your or your family.

Kanan Makiya's brilliant profile of Ba'ath Party rule, The Republic of Fear, had a title that was, if anything, understated. In Baghdad in the old days, I knew people who said you could smell the fear. Others said no, you could taste it. The one who came closest said you could actually eat it.

(via Michael Totten)

Turkmenistan - Part V - Cultural Identity

And for the last small piece on Turkmenistan (see the other posts below) - here's something on the cultural identity of the people there.

This comes from books I read - I've never been there myself. So I'm not an expert - just someone curious about that region of the world.

Turkmenistan - Cultural Identity

Turkmenistan is a place of collisions. Modern man colliding with ancient nomads, Turks colliding with Turks, Russians colliding with Turks, clashes with Persia, the constant struggle for survival in a terrifying desert, "democracy" butting up against ethnic rivalries and clan loyalties.

Alexander the Great (HIM AGAIN) marched across the Kara Kum desert in 329 B.C. and left behind him traces of Macedonia and Greece. The ancient ruins of Turkmenistan reveal a culture filled with a fusion of different influences. Islamic, Persian, Hellenistic, Parthian ... all sometimes showing up in the same damn building.

Now think about this mish-mash and the beautiful cultural past, something actually to be proud of and embrace, and imagine Mr. Turkmanbashi insisting that, ACTUALLY, in the past, it was all about "Turkmenness", and there was a homogenous Turkomen society back then when you could be proud of being a Turkomen, and Oh, if we could only go back to the good old days when it was JUST US TURKOMENS here...All fabrications.

There is no homogenous Turkomen identity. It doesn't exist. In actuality, it's something much more interesting, but it is too dangerous for Turkmanbashi to allow people to embrace it. He counts on people to keep the flares of ethnic suspicion and hatred alive.

I will close with an anecdote, which kind of describes what I'm talking about here.

Turkmenistan is NOT what you would think. It is a hot dry oil-filled Islamic country, but it is NOT Saudi Arabia.

This anecdote is from Colin Thubron's awesome book The Lost Heart of Asia. This encounter takes place in the ancient Turkomen city of Merv:

I saw an old man touching an elfin hammer to a little anvil. In front of him lay a miniature lathe and a box of gouging and chipping tools -- all as intricate and fragile-looking as he -- and with these he was creating miniature jewellry and the unearthly, silvery music whenever his hammer struck.

He lived here, I discovered ... As I came in, he asked me to sit by him. Tentatively I enquired after the saints buried here, and wondered if he was their guardian.

His voice came thin and musical: "They were soldiers, martyrs. When? I don't know, but in the century of the great sultans. Their history is written in Arabic and Persian. You can't find it in Russian." He added in faint reproof: "People should learn the holy languages. You can learn one in a few months if your will is strong enough, and if your heart is right." He massaged his heart with a tiny fist. "Look." He rummaged among his tools and from a carefully beribboned cloth picked out a Koran in Arabic. "People should read this!"

Yet his own eyes twinkled over it unseeing; he could no more read it than I could. It was a talisman only. In the Stalin years a whole generation of educated Turcomens, the Arabic speakers, had been despatched into oblivion.

I took it from him and turned the sacred pages. "Where did you get it?"

"From Iran. Sometimes they come here, those people, and from Afghanistan."

"You favor that system, that ..." -- the word whispered like a secret -- "fundamentalism?"

For a moment he went on chipping at the ivory in his hands. Suddenly I realized how I hung on his reply. Here, if anywhere, among the poor and pious, must be the breeding-ground for an Islamic resurgence.

But he answered simply, finally: "No. We don't need that here." He jerked his chin to the south. "That's for people over there."

It was strange, I thought. Superficially the soil for fundamentalism was perfect here: the deepening poverty and sense of historical wrong, the damaged pride. But in fact the old man's response was typical of his people. The idea of religion as a doctrinaire moulder of society seemed shallow-rooted among them, and their faith to thrive somewhere different, somewhere more sensory and pagan.

"All those laws and customs ..." The old man resettled his grimy skull-cap. "They don't matter. What matters is underneath this!" -- he plucked at his jacket -- "What matters is the heart!" ... He said, "Our country's had enough of other people's interference."

Turkmenistan - Part IV - Desert Nomads

I must give hats off to Colin Thubron - who wrote one of my favorite travelogue books: "The Lost Heart of Asia" - in which he travels through all of the former Soviet republics of Central Asia directly following the collapse of the USSR. He tries to take the pulse of the entire area, which, obviously, is very difficult.

But man, can he write. Beautiful book.

Ryzsard Kapucinski also wrote a wonderful book called Imperium - which sparked my interest originally in Central Asia.

This is a short post on the nomads of Turkestan.

Turkmenistan - Desert Nomads

Again - to talk about "Turkmenistan" is a very very new concept - new circa 1991. It doesn't mean much. "Turkestan", the larger area of Central Asia, divided up by Stalin, of which Turkmenistan is a big part, is probably more accurate. Nomads have crossed over Turkestan for millennia.

The whole nomad existence is something I would like to know more about. I mean, I've never met an actual nomad. If I did, I would be able to ask him questions about his life, what it's like, what goes on in his mind, how his experience may differ from mine.

In one of the many books I've read on the topic, I came across a description which I loved. I would cite the source, but unfortunately, I have no idea where it came from. It's coming directly off my "Turkestan" index card, (I'm autistic, I guess - and maintain 2 fat boxes of index cards with information/quotes/etc. I have compiled on most of the countries in the world - If I ever get recruited to be a spy, or a Gertrude Bell type, I will be all set) Anyway, the quote is: "Nomads mastered the art of conquering space." I love that.

Nomads created the first global system of mass communication long before anyone even knew what exactly was "out there", and what the "globe" may have looked like.

Centuries ago, it was the nomads who helped cities like Bukhara and Tashkent rise up and become famous and prosperous and cosmopolitan. They helped spread information and technology around the world. Incredible.

I read one essay about "The Death of the Uzboj", which was a river in the Kara Kum Desert. The Uzboj dried up and disappeared over 400 years ago, and the writer of the essay surmised that this was the beginning of the end for the Turkomens. Fascinating. Here is the theory. And it sort of fits in with the whole "what the hell is a nomad and what is his life like?" thing I was talking about a moment ago.

The Kara Kum Desert is huge. It is 800 miles long. The temperatures regularly reach levels like 172 degrees Farenheit.

The Turkmens lived here in scattered huts. The desert is endless. A complete wasteland.

The Kara Kum is the largest desert not just in Turkmenistan but in all of Central Asia, which is, obviously, a region of deserts.

Turkestan was receptive to Islam, when it arrived. Islam seems to be the religion of desert people, of people who live in hot unforgiving climates. I wonder about that sometimes and if some theologian could explain why that might be, or even if I'm way off the mark here. The descriptions in the Koran of paradise are all about: running water, green fields, moist lush lands (not to mention 72 virgins...or was that 72 raisins? Well, either way...72 yummy somethings-or-other). Paradise filled with things in direct contrast to the harsh bleakness of the desert landscapes.

The Uzboj was a river which flowed through the Kara Kum monotony. Needless to say, oases sprang up along its banks. This is how civilization grows.

400 years ago, the Uzboj dried up and disappeared. And the dying river took the equilibrium of the Turkmens with it.

Tribes were sent into exile, whole oases had to find other places to live, so people were suddenly on the move.

An oasis is a very fragile entity. It can only hold so many people before things get out of whack. So this is what happened to the Turkomens. Wandering desperate people tried to squeeze their way in to other oases, and were turned away. Sometimes violently.

And this is how the wars of the Turkomens began. Over water.

They never knew unity, as a people. Their first contact with one another, with the Turkomens outside their own oasis, was violent. This is life and death stuff: fighting over water in a deadly desert. This is not a silly reason or a trivial reason to go to war. LET ME IN to this oasis...I have a wife (or maybe 2 or 3), and 15 children, and we are DYING. There is NO WATER. We live in a DESERT, remember?? Let me IN.

When the Russians arrived two and a half centuries later, it was a piece of cake to subdue the Turkomens. It is easy to conquer a divided people. (Now, I know you all know that I did not make that concept up myself!) Well, the Russians didn't even need to worry about the first part of the theory. They came across this desert, and found an already divided scattered people. No big deal to completely conquer them.

For those of you with the time, who want to read on, here's a passage from Ryszard Kapuscinski's book Imperium.

I'm going to quote specifically from his passage on The Death of the Uzboj. Anyone who has been reading this blog will probably think that I only read one book. And that is Kapuscinski's Imperium. I understand how I might give that impression. To me, that book holds it all. It was also the beginning of it all, for me. I read that book, on a whim, years ago, because I was fascinated by the COVER of all embarrassing things. But the book opened up my world, my mind...I had no idea what the hell the man was talking about but I knew I wanted to know more. Now I look at my book shelves and I have more books on Central Asia than I do poetry, or fiction. A strange transformation.

Anyway, here is a bit more on the Death of the Uzboj:

Everyone tried to live as close to the Uzboj as possible. The river carried water; it carried life. Along its banks ran the trails of caravans. In the currents of the Uzboj the army of Genghis Khan watered its horses. To its shores journeyed the merchants of Samarkand and the Yomud -- slave traders.

The river's agony, said Rashyd, began four hundred years ago. Having appeared suddenly on the desert, the river now just as suddenly began to vanish.

The Uzboj had created a civilization in the very heart of the desert, had sustained three tribes, linked the west with the east; on the banks of the Uzboj stood dozens of cities and settlements, which Yusupov would excavate. Now the sands were swallowing up the river. Its energy began to weaken, its current to wane.

It is not known who first noticed this.

The Ali-Ali, Chyzr, and Tivedzij gathered on the banks to watch the river, the source of life, departing; they sat and they watched, because people like to observe their own misfortune. The water level fell from one day to the next; an abyss was yawning before them ... People ran to the mullahs, ran to the ishans ... Nothing helped. The fields were drying up and the trees withering. For a skin of water one would buy a Karakul sheep. Caravans, which before stopped here and there, now passed by in a hurry, as if an epidemic had befallen this land. The bazaars grew deserted; merchants closed their shops.

Yusupov, who excavated the former oases of the Uzboj, claims that there is a great disorder among the objects found there. People just abandoned everything they had. Children abandoned their toys; women abandoned their pots. They must have been seized with panic, hysteria, fear. No doubt the most fantastic rumors circulated. Perhaps prophets and fortune-tellers appeared. People felt the band of the desert tightening around them; the sand was whistling at their door.

Turkmenistan - Part III - Niyazov

This post is about Niyazov, the "president" of Turkmenistan. Actually, he has renamed himself Turkmanbashi, which means "Chief of the Turkmens".

The guy is nuts.

Turkmenistan - Niyazov

Saparmurat Niyazov is the president of Turkmenistan. One of his primary goals (well, besides creating a ridiculous personality cult around himself and making himself the center of the Universe) was to invent a glorious national past for Turkmenistan.

Turkmenistan, throughout the millennia, was not a unified place. It still is not. 55 nationalities alone live in the capital city. It is a place of nomads, and wanderers. Desert people.

But Niyazov wanted to inflame in the Turkomens a sense of ethnicity and unification. He set out to re-invent the past.

The truth of the matter, the FACTS of the past, did not suit his purposes, so he made stuff up, to make the Turkomens feel better about themselves.

The local scholars, the intelligent people left in the country, know the truth: that the Turkomens are not the source of everything wonderful and innovative on the planet, the Turkomens did not discover America, etc...but they must parrot the regime's version of the truth.

Niyazov's father was killed in World War I, and his mother died in the 1948 earthquake in Ashgabat which basically swallowed up the entire city. 110,000 people died. The entire medieval city disappeared off the face of the earth.

Niyazov was then raised in an orphanage. Some scholars surmise that being abandoned (twice) like this in his childhood is the primary source of his personality cult. He has turned himself into the golden child of the country. He has put himself on all the currency. He has named months after himself.

Ashgabad is clogged with golden statues of himself. Also, Times-Square-size billboards of his face fill the entire country. I read one travelogue where the writer describes riding through the devastatingly bleak Kara Kum Desert which makes up most of Turkmenistan, and seeing Niyazov billboards looming up out of the empty distance. Even in the middle of nowhere, Niyazov wants to make sure his presence is omniscent.

Niyazov was a member of the Communist Party since 1962. He rose through the ranks to the highest level. In 1990 (just before all hell broke loose across the Soviet Union...or, actually, during the hellfire) he became Chairman of the Supreme Soviet, the top dog. Then the Soviet Union shattered, ethnic warfare broke out, the economy collapsed - It was a time of utter confusion, especially in these nomadic Central Asian Islamic republics...republics with no prior history of centralized government or democracy.

In 1991, Turkmenistan declared itself independent. A new constitution was drawn up, a democratic constitution, which set in motion a presidential election. The first in Turkmenistan's history.

And hey, whaddya know, Niyazov was elected president.

There is a ludicrous aspect to his regime, which actually is rather dangerous. I say that because it seems rather easy for us to make fun of it all, how stupid it is, how ridiculous he obviously is. Niyazov has come out with a line of cologne, for example. Turkomen cologne. He has published his own poetry which is always #1 on Turkmenistan's best-seller list. He also, a la Qaddafi, has published books of his own philosophical musings. Musings on "Turkmenness", and ethnicity, and how to create a government, etc. etc.

The reason I say "dangerous" is that I have read articles which treat this regime humorously. The tone of the articles is: Ho ho, look at this crazy man!! Ha ha, isn't it funny...blah blah blah. When, actually, what he has created is a society with no freedom of speech. A completely un-free society in every way. Not only is there no freedom of speech, but there is no freedom of thought. Niyazov hijacked the entire country. The people are trapped by their own leader.

Every building built is built to glorify Niyazov and humble the population. This was Stalin's tactic as well. Stalin's architecture was inhumanly sized massive buildings, and impossibly wide streets. The urban landscape was built specifically to make people feel miniscule and helpless. Dwarfed. Niyazov does the same. He is a complete and utter megalomaniac who never ever ever hears someone say "No", or "You know what, Saparmurat? I don't think that is such a good idea." Or "Well, we have a lot of problems in this country...unemployment, anger, poverty...maybe focusing on a line of cologne is not the best use of your energy??"

Nomads, historically, are very suspicious people. Suspicious of outsiders. It is not hard to imagine why.

Typically, an outsider who shows up in the nomad world, is a thief, a Genghis Khan-type, a raider, a pillager. Your life, and your trust, is placed with your CLAN. The outside world is not to be trusted. Only the clan matters. Two generations ago, Turkmenistan was a nation of nomads. This suspicion of outsiders, in their nomadic blood, has now been transferred into their government.

Niyazov's regime is xenophobic. Suspicious. Defensive. The populace finds tremendous obstacles in their way if they want to travel. A vast bureaucracy has been created to make Visa applications nearly impossible. Niyazov wants no outside influence, he doesn't want the citizenry to get any funny ideas.

However he has NO problem with "hiring out". Turkmenistan is a land with vast oil wealth and they have no idea how to capitalize on this wealth. They don't know the technology, they don't have any experts in the country. So Niyazov hires armies of experts from other countries (many of them Israelis) to come and build the infrastructure of the country FOR him.

Niyazov has a massive secret police force. Which he learned how to utilize during his days in the Communist Party.

Journalists who come to the country to find out what is going on will often be followed, trailed, watched like a hawk. They will be assigned a "guide" who is really a government spy. All typical despotic tyrannical stuff.

Who knows how it all will end. It cannot go on like this indefinitely. This nation of people have had no chance to figure out their own way. They are crushed under an iron fist, once again. From Communism to Niyazov-ism.

But then again: perhaps - coming from a xenophobic nomadic clan-based culture themselves - they see nothing wrong with the government.

Niyazov is definitely one of those evil leaders out there.

The regime is "stable", but only because no dissent is allowed. Political parties are outlawed. Nobody can make a move. The entire country is paralyzed. Something's gotta give, and Niyazov will not give up easily. He's a psychological case study, which is kind of terrifying to have in a tyrant. Someone who is working out his childhood abandonment issues ON the country he is leading. A terrible mix.

Turkemenistan - Part II - Ancient History

In the following post - I talk about the ancient history of Turkmenistan. History is an odd concept for the lands of Central Asia - The land has been inhabited forever, crossed over by marauders on horseback, by nomads, by the Silk Road ... but "history" as in - written-down-history of a nation doesn't exist here.

Turkmenistan - Ancient History

The 5 former Soviet republics in Central Asia (Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikstan and Kyrgyzstan) are what make up the area known as Turkestan, and if you go even farther east, over the Tien Shan mountains into China, you come to the "wild west" of China, the Xinjiang Province which is also called "Chinese Turkestan". Turkestan comprises (historically) parts of Pakistan and India as well.

All of these "stans" were not known as nations during their heyday in the Middle Ages.

People were identified with the oasis they lived in: Samarkand, Bukhara, Tashkent, whatever. The area was inhabited by Turkic people (which comprises many many sub-divisions: Turkomans, Uzbeks, Kyrgyz, Kazakhs, Uighurs), and Persian people, and Caucasian tribes and Tibetans and mongoloid races, and other forgotten subgroupings. We are talking about a mecca of multiculturalism. They were always at war with one another, as well.

Turkestan was a very complicated collision zone of identities and races.

The famous medieval "Silk Road" traveled through Turkestan, making the cities along the way internationally known, in an age before mass media.

As a matter of fact, for centuries, Turkestan was essential. Over this vast steppe and desert-land, the caravans would come, bringing goods, and information, and technology from China.

If Turkestan had been made up of Himalayan-tall mountain ranges, the Silk Road could not have evolved. It is impossible to over-estimate the impact the Silk Road had on the human race and Turkestan's string of city-states was one of the reasons why this occurred.

If I had a time machine, one of the places/times I would KILL to visit would be an oasis along the Silk Road. Samarkand, Tashkent. They were Islamic cities, when Islam was at its height. Islam, at that time as opposed to now, was an incredibly assimilative religion. The Islamic warriors would conquer a land, and immediately begin to assimilate all the best from that conquered culture: literature, scientific discoveries, inventions, philosophies. People came from all over Turkestan and beyond to study in the theological centers set up in the cities. Turkic and Persian cultures fused together, which still is reflected in the architecture in these cities today. (Wherever the Russians didn't destroy the buildings.)

Then came 1498.

And an incredible discovery was made. Wonderful for the human race in a "macro" sense, but a disaster for Turkestan. The sea route to India was discovered. And basically, with that discovery, Turkestan slipped out of history and disappeared completely. The Silk Road withered up and died, and the famous city-states fell into decay. Turkestan lost its reason for being.

Four centuries later, the Russians "discovered" Turkestan.

The Turkomans, who had been completely left in history's dustbin suddenly, once again, were sitting on the most valuable piece of land on earth.

Russia and Great Britain began their "Great Game": the struggle for control of Central Asia. The two superpowers of the 19th century battled it out with one another on the deserts and steppes.

I am just so curious what that must have been like for them. For the Turkomans who, for centuries, had lived in their desert oases, ignored by the rest of the world, ignoring the rest of the world, completely self-contained, silent, absolutely unknown.

And then ... boom. Here come two massive superpowers wielding weaponry such as they have never seen, fighting wars over the land on which they lived. Who were these people?

The Turkomans are ancient people of pretty much unknown origins anyway - Through their oral history and epics, they knew that long long long ago, their land was talked about in books, was revered, mythologized, dreamt of. And they knew that they, once upon a time, were the greatest warriors on the planet. But they were not cut out to be a modern people. Their glory days occurred seven centuries ago.

I am very curious about people with such long memories. What could they tell us? Who knows, maybe I'm romanticizing. I probably am.

Turkmenistan - Part I - Introduction

I will now move onward with my "Countries" feature - and post my old essays about Turkmenistan. For those of you are interested in this kind of thing.

You can see the other Countries featured here.

Turkmenistan holds me in thrall. I don't know why. It just does.

Turkmenistan - Intro

Turkemenistan, through the ages, has been known by many different names. The Persians, in the 3rd century, called it Turkestan. This name is still used in some of the books I have read. To describe the entire area. The Elizabethans called it "Tartary". Which also is still used, on occasion. The notion of Turkmenistan, as a modern nation, is very very recent (say, 1991-recent).

Turkmenistan is 90% desert with vast quantities of oil beneath.

In the 10th and 11th centuries, the Turkmens (or Turcomans...it's spelled differently in every book I read) started to migrate here from Mongolia. Nobody is sure why. Not even the Turkmens of today know why. These ancient people were nomadic raider types of the Genghis Khan variety. Very good raiders. Not so good nation-builders. Also, the landscape of Turkmenistan does not at all lend itself to any kind of centralized government. It's just one big huge desert, with most of the population living in 5 oases, spread out, and disconnected.

In the mid 1700s, the Persians subdued the Turkmens (who had been continuously raiding Persia for centuries).

In the early 1800s, the Russians arrived. A portentous event. They started erecting forts throughout the desert. The Russians wanted to break Persia's hold on Central Asia, and they did just that. The Russians began warring with the Turkmens who, understandably, wanted them to pack up their damn forts and trot on back to Moscow.

In 1916 a Turkmen leader came along, the first one to unite this land, which was little more than a massive desert, scattered with tribes and clans who had nothing to do with each other. But along comes Mohammed Qurban Junaid Khan, who instilled in the Turkmens a sense of nationhood, a sense of pride...and they ejected the czarist forces and began a war with the Red Army. Quite a ballsy move, and doomed to failure.

The Turkmens were nomadic farmers and wanderers. They were no match for the Russians.

The Soviets won, naturally. They immediately changed the Turkmen alphabet from Arabic to Cyrillic. They sealed the borders with Iran and Afghanistan. Stalin came along, and there were tons of purges and executions. The Russians began to "resettle" in Turkmenistan. The Soviet leadership needed there to be more Russians in these wild backwards Central Asian places, so tons of Russians were sent to Turkmenistan to settle in. The few educated Turkmen that existed were completely annihilated.

Turkmenistan became independent in 1991. But this basically happened against their will. They were forced to become a nation. Turkmenistan was the LEAST prepared of all the Central Asian republics to become a state. Statehood has always been an indistinct and abstract concept in this area. So the Turkmen people inherited a complete void. Which is a perfect situation for a power-crazed dictator to rush in and take over. This is exactly what has happened. A madman is now in charge of Turkmenistan, but that's a story for another post.

Betsy...

I post this photo, in honor of your "Little House on the Prairie" observations.

Was it actually Saddam they captured? Or ... was it Mr. Edwards?

Battle of the "Rings"

An extensive essay by Alex Ross in The New Yorker, comparing and contrasting the two "rings" - Wagner's "Ring of the Nibelung" and Tolkein's Ring triology.

The essay is rather dense - and I am not as familiar with Wagner's work as I am with Tolkein's - but nevertheless, it is quite an interesting read. I highly recommend it.

It starts thus:

Early in “The Fellowship of the Ring,” the first film in Peter Jackson’s monumental “Lord of the Rings” trilogy, the wizard Gandalf finds himself alone in a room with the trinket that could end the world. It lies gleaming on the floor, and Gandalf regards it with an attitude of fascinated fear. The audience feels a chill that neither Jackson’s vertiginous camera angles nor Ian McKellen’s arching eyebrows can fully explain. The Ring of Power extends its grip through the medium of music, which is the work of the gifted film composer Howard Shore. In the preceding scenes, an overview of the habits of hobbits, Shore’s music had an English-pastoral, dance-around-the-Maypole air, but when the ring begins to do its work a Wagnerian tinge creeps in—fittingly, since “The Lord of the Rings” dwells in the shadow of Wagner’s even more monumental “Ring of the Nibelung.” J. R. R. Tolkien’s fans have long maintained a certain conspiracy of silence concerning Wagner, but there is no point in denying his influence, not when characters deliver lines like “Ride to ruin and the world’s ending!”—Brünnhilde condensed to seven words.

Shore manages the admirable feat of summoning up a Wagnerian atmosphere without copying the original. He knows the science of harmonic dread. First, he lets loose an army of minor triads, or three-note chords in the minor mode. They immediately cast a shadow over the major-key music of the happy hobbits.

I found especially riveting Ross' discussion of why chords in a "major" key make us feel happy, hopeful, and what it is in "minor" formations that makes us feel uneasy.

Why does the minor chord make the heart hang heavy? First, you have to understand why the major triad, its fair-haired companion, sounds “bright.” It is based on the spectrum of notes that arise naturally from a vibrating string. If you pluck a C and then divide the string in half, in thirds, in fourths, and so on, you will hear one by one the clean notes that spell C major. Wagner’s “Ring” begins with a demonstration: from one deep note, wave upon wave of majestic harmony flows. The C-minor triad, however, has a more obscure connection to “natural” sound. The middle note comes from much higher in the overtone series. It sets up grim vibrations in the mind.

Wow - that's all I can say.

Any musicologists out there care to comment? I would love to hear more.

Demons, Angels

I know many people who make it a point not to watch the news.

They state, almost proudly, "I don't watch the news." "I can't watch the news." "It's too upsetting. I can't watch the news." It freaks them out. They cannot stand it. They cannot separate themselves from what they see. Which is understandable. I don't sit and stare at the famine in Malawi and feel unmoved. Far from it! But I can't not watch. I can't not at least TRY to know what is going on. It's not just a need I have, or a desire. It feels like a responsibility. I have a responsibility to participate. To watch.

What I really want to say is, yes. The news can be horrific. Tragic. Stressful.

It seems like all the stories are bad - horrible - violent.

However, it seems important to remember that:

If you block out the bad, you inevitably block out the good as well. There's a famous quote (from Kafka, I think) - which I paraphrase here: Be careful about driving out ALL of your demons. Because in doing so, you may drive out some angels as well.

This is so true.

People who do not watch the news, to avoid the horror and the violence, miss out, then, on participating in the glorious joy of news like:

- the 9 rescued miners

- the return of Elizabeth Smart

- April 9, 2003

- the capture of Saddam Hussein this past weekend

(just a couple of examples)

Regardless of all the anxiety one experiences when one watches the parade of misery which is usually the nightly news, occasionally something will come along where the entire world can rejoice. I feel sorry for the people I know who refuse to watch any news at all, ever, because they miss out. They miss out on the overwhelming joy of certain events coming along, which touch humanity, as a whole. They deny themselves that.

In shutting out the stress of the news, they also shut out the enlightenment.

And with enlightenment comes something which is so damn important: context. Without context, events cannot be understood.

I am not talking about moral relativism, or equivalence.

I am not talking about making excuses for horrible acts due to some root cause or anything like that.

I am talking about knowing that France and Germany are behaving in such and such a way, because of this event in the past, or that event in the past, and that means THIS, and so that means that then we will do THIS ... so that the news you see makes SENSE.

I am talking about being semi-up to date with what is going on, so that when something catastrophic (the Bali nightclub bombing, etc.) or something wonderful (April 9, or the capture of Saddam) occurs, we know where to put it. We understand the context of the event. We can handle it.

I field phone calls from friends after big world events. For the most part the calls consist of: "Okay, so what does this mean?" But you know what they are really asking? They are really asking: "How should I feel about this? What is your take on how I should feel about this?"

I'm just another jackass like everybody else - but I watch the news and I read multiple newspapers every day - and I consciously commit to trying to figure stuff out. I have made a conscious commitment to stay in the game, to remain in the conversation.

Knowledge is power.

I have never felt that in such a strong way than in the past couple of years, since September 11. The people I know who have not gone out in search of context ... are baffled, upset, freaked-out, and pretty much uninformed. So they make up their minds about things based on emotion and impulse, EVERYTHING is subjective, they are blown about by every influence, every comment ... They literally don't know what to think. And so they feel victimized by the news. Victimized by what they do not know.

I know intimately what it feels like to be intimidated by what I do not know. To feel ... out of touch with the real sources of power and information. Often, I feel weak, powerless to DO anything ...

There are those who become intimidated by their lack of context, and respond by shutting the whole thing out. After all, who LIKES to be intimidated or to feel that one is in over one's head? So these people continue to live their lives narrowly, focused on only their personal experiences, the day to day, as though a major world cataclysm was not taking place. That's fine. That's their right. I don't understand it - but it is their right to tune everything out. (And then call me, when something big goes down.)

I am merely saying that the people who tune stuff out because it is all BAD, miss out on a whole lot of GOOD. That's all.

By driving out the demons, they have driven out the angels as well.

And that's a damn shame.

They miss the chance to jump up and down for joy, because of the good fortune of people they DO NOT KNOW, people they have NEVER MET. What an incredible and life-affirming thing. Whatever your political beliefs, it doesn't matter. Humanity is humanity.

I remember when those 9 miners were saved. I prayed for them. I wept when they came out of the earth alive. Total strangers in New York City exchanged smiles in the elevator, because those 9 miners had been rescued, men we would never meet. It was a beautiful thing to participate in.

Life is good. Life is something to be cherished. We are more than the sum of our little lives. I certainly care about my own existence, my plans, my family, my friends, my acting class - but there is a larger perspective, and for that I am INTENSELY grateful.

Elizabeth Smart returns home, and people everywhere felt relief, happiness ... joy. We all were in the shoes of the Smart parents, trying to imagine their happiness. Saddam Hussein is captured - and the laughing whooping-it-up pictures of Iraqi people touch us - we get to participate in their joy. We have high hopes for them. We LOVE them, dammit.

Empathy grows in an experience like that, compassion. This is good for the human race.

If you keep your eyes to the ground, refusing to get involved, you miss out on that opportunity for growth, and that blessed opportunity for communion with others - communion with people you do not know, and will never meet.

You've shut out the angels.

Apparently, I am just plain stupid

So Joe Katzman over at Winds of Change kindly linked to my rant on what I see as the conservative "obsession with moral compasses". Katzman called it "kick-ass." Thank you, Joe.

One of the comments to his post is very indicative of exactly my criticism with toe-the-line conservatives.

Some comments are well thought out, some are reasoned. One commenter, showing his wit and erudition, came to this conclusion: "Sheila is just plain stupid."

Okay, folks, here we go: Any time I post anything that criticizes elements of conservatism, people freak out. They cannot bear it. They cannot bear it. It somehow affects them personally.

I will not toe a party line if I don't think it's right.

Conservatives have got to grow up. Is your belief system so fragile that one person criticizing something causes you to fall into a tailspin? Causes you to resort to name-calling as your best defense? It's so transparent.

Get a grip. Why do you need absolute agreement?

And lastly - this one kills me ...

Thank you. Thank you, all - for being over there, for fighting this fight in our name. And in the name of the Iraqis.

More happy images

Yes, there is much work ahead. There must be a trial. I am glad that Saddam Hussein is not dead - no chance for him to be sainted, martyred, whatever. He must face the music.

Time enough for all of that tomorrow.

But for now - at least just for today - I want to look at the happy faces.

Triumph

Look at this picture and don't forget the mantra: The Iraqis hate us, the Iraqis want us to leave, the Iraqis hate America ... Looks like they hated Saddam more, huh...

What an amazing day.

(via Tim Blair - who links to more celebratory photos)

I Will Not Repeat the Mistakes of Jackie Paper

When I was a kid, the song "Puff, the Magic Dragon" had an enormous impact on me.

"Puff", without exaggeration, provided me with one of my first experiences with actual heart ache. (Little did I know, how much was to follow!) When you're that sad, and that hurt, the pain you have really does seem like it is coming out of your heart. The actual ORGAN.

I was not ready to grow up yet, of course, when I heard the song first. I was 8 years old or whatever ... but my little 8 year old self WEPT for poor little Puff, creeping back into his cave, rejected by Jackie Paper. I would literally put my hand over where my heart was, and press in, hard, trying to soothe the pain.

I made the promise to myself (how many such promises are made! and how many are kept?) that I would never ever ever EVER turn my back on Puff the Magic Dragon ... I would NEVER do what Jackie Paper did!

It's interesting ... haven't thought of that in years. My feelings, whenever I heard the song, were so melancholy, and so deep, and so cutting that they qualify as "soul-growth".

Along those same lines: I saw the movie "Bless the Beasts and the Children" when I was 10 years old. Has anyone else seen that film?

I was probably too young to see it, but hell, it was running as an after-school special, so I had no idea what I was getting into.

It's about this group of misfit boys who are all sent to a reform school, a kind of "Boy's Town", out in the desert. Each one has a specific problem - violence, babyish behavior (one kid still has a security blanket and he's 14), illiteracy, whatever. They have to work on a ranch at the reform school - and there is a pen filled with buffalo at the ranch. Or maybe it's wild cattle. Not sure.

And this group of boys get the idea: "Those buffalo should be free- they should be roaming the plains - Let's set them free!"

Elaborate semi-illegal planning follows. The boys bond as a group. They are going to make this grand gesture - they are going to rebel - but in a way that does some GOOD. They aren't gonna be losers anymore. They are going to be heroes. They are going to free the "beasts".

Finally - after much tribulation - the boys open the gate.

And the beasts - so tamed, so UN-wild - do not know what to do. They do not run out of the gate, they do not make a move. The beasts choose to stay in the pen.

The boys all are screaming at the beasts - crying - pushing at them - "RUN! RUN! YOU'RE FREE! WHY WON'T YOU RUN??"

Anyway - this film remains so vivid in my mind that, to this day, I can remember certain lines from the film, certain camera shots.

That movie made me so sad, it devastated me so deeply, that I would say I probably have never fully recovered. By that I mean: before I saw that movie, I was ONE way. After I saw that movie, there was a shift. I wasn't quite the same afterwards.

I haven't seen that movie since. I have no idea if it was good, bad, cheesy, stupid. All I know is, it opened something up in me. An enormous abyss. I was a child, a young girl, but the abyss yawned wide, and I was suddenly, for the first time, able to see the sadness of so many people, the grief waiting for me out in the world, how sad things can be, how things sometimes do not work out.

It was a moment where the child died a little bit - making way for the adult.

My soul grew up after seeing that movie.

Thoughts on all of this:

An early encounter with the sadness of the world, of what I would call the human condition, can expand the soul.

However: too many encounters with the sadness of the world before you are "ready", or - too many encounters in general, shrivels the soul up, embitters life, hardens the edges.

Some damage to the soul is irrevocable.

Diary Friday

This is an entry from my freshman year in college - the end of my first semester, right before Christmas break. I am still dear friends with all of these people - who were brand-new friends to me at the time of this writing.

Continuity. I love continuity.

December 1985

We were all going roller-skating that night. Brett and Liz came to pick me up, came inside to say hello to my family. Sugar cookies, exchanging gifts. I gave Brett a Christmas ornament that I stole (an old joke).

Liz gave me a present from Brooke to me - she had made a tape of "The Nylons" for me. I had asked her to.

Then we left. It's snowed a little. We got in the car. We didn't go to Ocean Skate but to a better place near Chuck E. Cheese. Ocean Skate is vicious, slick, slippery, with sharp chromium corners. This place is old, battered, with an organ, a counter like a trolley-car - paintings of old 30s movie stars - all wood.

We met Marilyn and Jim and Brooke there.

We all roller-skated. I love the feeling I get when skating - I feel light as air, the air lifting my hair off my face. Watching Liz bounce by - Brett stiff as a board - Jim easy - Brooke unsure -

Marvin came! I love Marvin!

"Sheila!! Hey - I like those new glasses!!"
"Marvin! Hello!!"

Brian and Susan came - Brian is as graceful a skater as a dancer, so lithe. We went round and round, we made trains. I skated hand in hand with Brett and Jim, they whipped me around the corners. Marilyn and I skated on the "couples skate". I had some chips and gingerale. It was such a cool place. Brett chased me.

He glided up to me and said, "Let's get out of here. Let's go to Chuck E. Cheese."

I laughed. "I love Chuck E. Cheese!!"

We skated together for a while, and then I said, "Member the first time you took me there?"

"When - my birthday?"

"No - the 2010 night." (That's what we call it - the "2010 night").

"Oh yeah! The 2010 night! That was so much fun!"

I had bought cards and presents for everyone, a little key chain for Brooke with a poem on it. The poem reminded me of her. We are so alike. So we skated together and I said to her, "I got you a very dumb present. I'll give it to you later."

"Sheila!! You got me a present?? Why??"

"......"

"Oh, I'm so embarrassed! I didn't get you anything!"

"You gave me the tape--"

"You asked me to do that. Oh, I'm so embarrassed..."

I love these new friends. New terrific friends. They welcome me. It is not hard to feel like you belong. All you have to do is be yourself. I am just me with them. I swear - I'm me. And this me feels rich and wonderful and giving and special. With them. With others sometimes I feel inadequate and very very upset. But with them I am comfortable. (Or as comfortable as a very paranoid person can feel.)

The rink closed at 10:30 and then we all went to Providence to Brian's apartment.

Won't be able to describe it.

It is an old abandoned brick factory right on the hightway. Dim lights, brick walls. The place is huge - an incredible stereo - many many records and 45s - knick knacks - a shadowy studio with racks of vintage clothing - dummies - a table with a lace tablecloth - There is a SWING in the main room. Dangling from ropes in the ceiling. I took a nice long swing, as the water boiled for the pasta - my feet almost touching the ceiling. Mozart playing.

Then you go up two steps around a little corner and you are in a different world - the living room. It is like entering another time, like going back to Victorian times. The rest of the space has a flat green floor, very factory-ish, perfect for dancing - But the little living room has overlapping Oriental rugs, fat couches, a wood stove. It is like this room has been transported, as is, into the factory.

The 9 of us (Brian, Susan, Brett, Liz, Brooke, Jim, Marilyn, me, and Chris - a guy who is staying with Brian at the moment - very cute and indescribably hilarious - he is a fireman and also a professional juggler - WHAT?) all helped set the table. Pulled up chairs. Jim lit the candles. There were pink shiny napkins. And wine glasses. We had spaghetti, and bread, and salad that Chris made - and wine. The only light was from all the candles. It all looked so cool.

How bizarre that I was actually there.

Everything tasted so delectable. I savored every single bite of that garlic bread. I couldn't taste it enough, it seemed.

Music played the whole time.

Brian and Marilyn and Jim and Susan danced - so fun to watch. Then Brian and Susan danced for us - total improvisation - but it looked choreographed. They both dance with such grace, they make it look so easy.

Then we all gorged on chocolate and vanilla bon bons.

Somehow, we all started trying on hats. Brian has boxes of everything for his shows - shoes, gowns, bags - He has two enormous cardboard boxes of hats. He plopped one down saying, "This is for the girls" - so we all dug in. We tried on hats. Switching, trading, running to peek in the fuzzy mirror over the sink. Fedoras, straw boaters, close velvet hats, straw hats with flowers, chic velvet hats - so many hats! We all had to decide on one. I finally picked a small green felt hat, with a curved brown bird feather on the front.

Liz had on this HYSTERICAL grey swooping hat with blue trim. We called it her "Flying Nun" hat.

Brett had on an ENORMOUS black top hat.

Susan had on a fedora and looked like a detective.

Brooke had on a blue straw thing with white flowers and a blue lace veil.

Brian, Jim and Chris all had on variations of the same fedora.

Oh yeah, before - when all of us were poring through the boxes, I happened to look over at the guys. Chris was sitting down, discussing something with Jim, in a very normal way. A normal conversation between two guys. His face was expressionless, he was nodding at what Jim was saying - but he was wearing this hat - that was ... HUGE. It wrapped around his head - and it looked like his head was sprouting enormous curly stuffed brown felt branches, with felt leaves fluttering off the end. The branches shot up and out and around -

I took one look at him and completely lost it.

From the expression on his face, you would never know that he was wearing that Medusa-like monstrosity.

I clutched at Liz - "Liz! Look!!"

We were crying with laughter.

Chris is one of the guys, out West, who is dropped out of helicopters into the middle of forest fires, behind the fire lines. He is brave and strong. He met his current girlfriend that way - she also is a firefighter who is tossed out of helicopters. We made jokes about Chris holding this massive fire hose, spraying it at the wall of flames, screaming at the female firefighter next to him, hollering above the roar, "HEY - HOW 'BOUT DINNER AND A MOVIE TONIGHT??"

Chris eventually traded in that thing for a fedora which promptly made him look like Desi Arnez Jr.

We all sat in the living room, in our hats, talking as though we were normal.

I would forget myself, and then just look at everyone - and lose it! We coined names for everyone that went with the hats. I was Beatrice.

We sat around, getting into the Christmas spirit - we sang "Deck the Halls", all with our hats on - and somehow it was - so moving - but then so hilarious, too. "Fa la la la la la la" - After we sang that song very softly, very prettily, I could hear Liz start to giggle softly to herself, and then I looked around at everyone too - and it was just too damn funny. The fedoras, the Flying Nuns ...

More wine. More laughter.

Brian brought up this "script" from an old radio show that he had on a 45 - it went like this:

"Hello, Elsie." "Hello, Jack." "Feeling pretty good?" "Mmmm ... Fine, thanks."

We re-enacted this conversation over and over and over - giving each other direction - We went around the circle doing it. Then we had guys lip sync girls, girls lip sync guys. It was so much fun.

We also looked at Brian's collection of old comic books.

Brian told us of one sentence from one of the comics which he thought was so brilliant:

"For you are a lump of wax that came to life - only to discover that death was better than loneliness and hatred."

Brian kept bursting out spontaneously with that sentence, as he was cooking the pasta, as he went to change the 45s - or someone would make a comment, Brian would glance at that person, and then burst out, with incredible feeling:

"For you are a lump of wax that came to life - only to discover that death was better than loneliness and hatred."

By the end of the evening, the rest of us had it down pat, too.

We played musical hats. Passing the hats round the circle.

We KEPT laughing because no matter what hat Chris wore - he always looked like Desi Arnez Jr, even in little old lady hats.

Everything was wonderful, everything was hysterical. The room was so comfortable, with so much character - soft lamplight, velvety couches, a random lava lamp - and fantastically funny people - all with bizarre hats on. All spouting out different nonsensical statements:

"Hello, Jack..." "Hello, Elsie..."
"For you are a lump of wax..."

The big top hat, when on Brian, was so huge that it came down to his chin. His whole head became a top hat.

We then went around the circle and told our most memorable Christmas stories.

Brian, as a kid, wanted something called "The Great Garloo" - a monster that picked up things in its way.

Brett wanted a 10 speed bike more than anything. He ran downstairs with his flashlight, like he always did - No bike. He was very bummed but he tried to cheer up for his parents, since it was Christmas. Then his father took him down into the cellar, and there was a 10-speed bike. I got teary-eyed when he told it.

Brooke wanted Legos once. She thought they would be in her stocking, but no. No Legos in her stocking. Then her parents took her outside, and there on the front lawn - in the snow - was a Lego setup - already assembled - sitting there covered with snow - as though Santa had dropped it, pre-set-up, on the lawn from his sleigh. Brooke, as a kid, totally believed that that was what had happened.

We all roared about the "Twilight Zone Christmas Story" which we all had seen. The one about the old drunken corner Santa Claus - who finds himself with a magic bag that gives people what they ask for.

And there is the awful and FUNNY moment when he is summoned by the authorities in the department store:

"San - TA!"
Santa gets startled, and then crashes into the tree - The tree goes down, with Santa entangled in the branches.

Brooke kept doing that and laughing. "San-TA!"

Brett does "an imitation of the Devil" which appeared a couple of times over the night. When he does it - the entire room erupts into hysterical laughter - and we laugh non-stop - until it HURTS - until we beg him to stop. It is horrible. His "Devil" is a leering googly-eyed hissing sex maniac. I was laughing so hard that it hurt. I couldn't stop.

Brett also claims that he suffers from something that he calls "the Macy's Day Parade Float Disease". Brett, while in the middle of a conversation, in the middle of a sentence, suddenly "inflates" - and then he bobs in the air - like an enormous Macy's Day Float. Brett coined this medical term. We would all be sitting there talking, when suddenly, Brett would make this hissssss noise, and rise up - it looked so real - his limbs bobbing out to the sides - I could almost see him fill up with helium - HE LOOKED LIKE A DAMN FLOAT - he would float there - immobile - "Hissssss" - and there he was, arms limp, but inflated somehow, face in a steady expression - body bobbing about -

We all DIED with laughter every time he became a Float.

The hats came off, and lay strewn around us.

As time went on, I looked around me and realized that no one had a hat on anymore, but Chris. He was wearing this little green velvet thing - the one I had on originally. I do not feel like explaining - there is just something about his face - even when it is serious - that makes me want to roar with laughter. Especially as he sat there casually, as though he didn't even know or care that this absurd little-old-lady hat was on his head. He did not take it off. He didn't even know it was on anymore. This large muscular FIREMAN in this teeny girlie hat.

In the center of our circle of courches was a very small round table. On it was a lit candle dripping wax, and a wine bottle (green glass).

Someone noticed this suddenly and commented on how artistic it looked, how it was a little tableau.

Then we all went a little crazy, adding things to the tableau.

-We put a wooden chair behind the table.
-Liz's Flying Nun hat hung on the back of the chair
-We put the black felt fedora on the seat of the chair
-A book of matches on the table
-A few dollars crushed under the wine bottle
-Black-framed sunglasses with purple lenses lying near the candle
-A wine goblet half full of wine
-The phone (off the hook) in the background
-The clock at 2:45 am on the wall
-Liz threw her sweater on the floor for a seductive touch
-Brett found a red velvet stuffed heart, and he tossed it under the table - (even though if our tableau were a painting, the heart would not be seen). Brett said, "It's okay - the heart is subliminal. It's subliminal."

HE KEPT SAYING THAT.

"You don't see the heart but you know it's there. It's subliminal."

After the tableau - we started pulling out all of Brian's old 45s. By "old" I mean, pre-1940.

Brian found what he calls "the hyena record" - which is: background music with a guy roaring with laughter the entire time. We put it on. Brett lip synced to the guy's laughter.

I must just leave the image of that to the imagination. It was one of the funniest things I have ever seen in my life. We made Brett do it 5 times.

The evening had this magical quality to it. With catch-phrases and catch-images.

"Hello, Jack."
"For you are a lump of wax..."
"It's subliminal. It's subliminal."
"San - TA!"
"Mmmm ... fine, thanks."

People were spontaneously turning into Macy's Parade floats.

Brett played the Devil taking over Brett so that he was half-Brett and half-the devil - and it was a war for the soul of Brett. He was a complete schizophrenic.

We did the "Hello Jack" thing over and over - we chose different ways to do it - seductive, friendly, menacing - every single emotion covered in those 4 lines.

Jim did one. He was wearing his goofy straw hat with a plaid ribbon so that he looked like a traveling salesman.

Brian started it. He played Elsie. (Sex made no difference when we did these improvisations.)

"Hello, Jack." Brian said.

Jim sat all hunched over, and tired, his face low - He mumbed in an exhausted rundown voice, "Hello, Elsie."

Long silence. No one spoke for a while.

Brian then said sincerely, "Feeling pretty good?"

Jim sighed deeply, and let out a long "Mmmmm" - that was more of a sigh than a sound - then he mumbled, "Fine ..." - Then an emotional change - Jim looked up for the first time - right at Brian - his face full of real gratitude - and he said, putting all of that into one word, "Thanks."

We all went "Ohhhhh" and then burst out laughing.

At one point, when we were all mellow, and lying around talking about I don't remember what - I looked over at Brett. He was in this sprawled pose on the couch arm, and he looked enormously pensive. He had taken, by that point, to speaking almost constantly in this very lofty sing-song semi-English accent. He did it practically the whole night.

(I realize that, more and more, Brett sounds like a schizophrenic. He is the Devil. He is a float. He is an odd English gentleman. He is a hyena.)

So anyway, he was in this pensive pose, and I heard him say, to no one in particular, "I ponder the universe. I think of its fruits."

I just think that is so funny. Nobody heard it but me. He said that OUT OF THE BLUE. TO HIMSELF.

On the drive home, it was freezing. I got Brett's furry leopard-skin lap robe, wrapped myself up and curled up in the back seat. Everything felt so soft and comfy. I wasn't cold at all. It was really cozy in the robe. None of us (me, Brett or Liz) really felt like talking. We rode in silence.

But then suddenly I remembered, "I ponder the universe, I think of its fruits" and I BURST out laughing, randomly, from the backseat.

"What?" Brett demanded from the wheel.

I giggled, "I ponder the Universe. I think of its fruits."

Brett started giggling too - then he said it again - in that English accent:

"I ponder the Universe ...
I think of its fruits..."

Then, of course, he started getting out of control. And since, of course, I kept laughing - Brett KEPT getting out of control. He loves to make me laugh. Brett kept going:

"I ponder the Universe.
I think of its fruits.
I think of the plants.
I think of the roots.
I think of the shoes.
I think of the boots.
I think of the ladders.
I think of the chutes...."

And it was the "ladders chutes" rhyme that ended the game because we both were laughing too hard. Brett had held on as long as he could - but he just could not stop from breaking down at that one.

We were careening through the night, roaring.

Then I fell asleep on the ride home.

Last thing I knew I was curled up, totally content and warm - and then the next thing I knew - the car light was on and I heard Brett and Liz's soft very gentle voice, "Sheila? Wake up ..."

Slowly, I woke up ...

"Good Lord, do you snore like a maniac." Brett exclaimed.

Groggily, I disentangled myself from the rug and leaned over to say "Merry Christmas" to my two dear friends - Hugs, kisses.

Then I climbed out of the car, my shoes crunching in the snow on the driveway - it was shockingly cold - I was sleepy.

I leaned back in the car and stated, "For you are a lump of wax..."

Brett and Liz finished the phrase for me, in triumphant unison.

Then I went inside, after calling goodbye, and went promptly to sleep. Blissful sleep.

Really good night.

So many little wonderful hysterical rich things happened. Those hats. And Chris in those hats ... Chris was smoking a cigar wearing this little going-to-church hat.

Dammit, that is funny.

The Shortest Movie Reviews Ever

These are hilarious. Please send on any additions you may think of.

I have a small collection of the shortest movie reviews ever. There are, I am sure, many many more out there, but these are the ones I have compiled. Needless to say, they are all bad reviews.

Short Funny Movie Reviews:

1. James Agee (one of the best film critics of all time) wrote as his review for the film You Were Meant for Me: "That's what you think".

2. I Am a Camera: there was a review attributed to various people (Kenneth Tynan was one of them) which said, bluntly: "Me no Leica".

3. Ernest Scared Stupid: an unknown reviewer wrote: "Ernest doesn't need to be scared to be stupid."

4. Isn't it Romantic, Leonard Maltin's entire review said: "No."

5. Rabbit, Run, Gene Siskel purposefully left a blank space where the review should have been.

6. From a review for Gladiator: "Ben hur, done that."

7. Jon Stewart's review for Battlefield Earth: "The movie is a cross between Star Wars and the smell of ass."

The Obsession with the Lack of Moral Compasses

Andrew Sullivan wrote a great piece on moral scolds some years back and articulates exactly my problem with the "Nobody has any moral compass these days" brand of conservatives. (Oh, Jesus, here we go again.)

To all of you out there who are already beginning to write me emails at this very moment, let me just say: I realize not all conservatives are moral scolds. I accept that. But I think it important to talk about the other "brand", the puritan brand. And so that's what I'm gonna do. Or - let me start with Andrew Sullivan's words:

This moral obsessiveness was the creation of Kenneth Starr and something far larger than Kenneth Starr. It was the creation of a conservatism become puritanism, a conservatism that has long lost sight of the principles of privacy and restraint, modesty and constitutionalism, which used to be its hallmarks.

The scolding, moralizing conservatism I'm talking about here is one with a lineage; it is the construction of a cadre of influential intellectuals who bear as much responsibility as anybody for the constitutional and cultural damage this moment may have already wrought. And they will bear an even greater responsibility if the ultimate victim of this spectacle is the reputation and future of conservatism itself.

I read William Bennett's book The Death of Outrage (sorry Dad) when it first came out. I bought it because I was so embarrassed by Clinton at that time, I was so embarrassed by the squirming human I perceived beneath the Presidency, and it was horrifying ...

If the man bit his lip in "regret" one more time, I thought my head might spontaneously combust.

So I thought Bennett's book might provide some "you are not alone" solace. Instead, I was treated to a diatribe about how our society has no more values anymore, how everything is going to hell, how nobody cares about the right things anymore. Bill, when you say "the death of outrage", you just mean that you don't feel that people are outraged by the things that outrage you anymore. And this BAFFLES you. But let me tell you: PLENTY of people still are outraged about stuff ... but you disagree with what outrages them, and so they all must be idiots, and you are a wise sage on the mountaintop.

Clinton wagged his finger at us because he was just trying to save his ass (I still cringe at the image)...but Bill Bennett wags his finger to admonish us. He wants to REFORM me. Reform all of us. It's obnoxious.

I'm just one woman, but I know that the people I know, my friends, my family, all care about living a good life. A life of integrity. They want their kids to grow up to be productive, happy. Some of us even go to church regularly! So ... who the hell is Bennett talking about with such a blanket generalization?

I've never been a prissy girl. Or a prude. I have a free and independent lifestyle, I'm single, I have friends from all different walks of life. I'm an artist. I see no difference between gay and straight. Or: I can see the difference, obviously, but it doesn't mean anything to me. You're gay, I'm straight, let's go have some Guinness and talk about politics, movies, and Thomas Mann, shall we?

It's the "content of the character" that matters to me. (Hm. Sounds familiar)

So Bill Bennett is way too sanctimonious for me, he thinks he's right about stuff, he makes way too many assumptions about the right way, the moral way, the right values to have, blah blah.

I do believe that there is such a thing as morality, I do believe in a morality that is not subjective and not relative. There is such a thing as Good, and there is such a thing as Bad.

But yearning after the legendary good old days when children respected their parents and families ate dinner together and people went to church and had the "right" values seems foolhardy, ahistorical, and downright simple-minded. People in the 1940s had tormented family lives. You just never heard about it! Parents beat their kids. Girls got pregnant in high school. But nobody talked about it. There was a muzzle over the mess of life. Staring at the past thru rosy "those were the days" goggles seems like a waste of time.

Read Catcher in the Rye. Hell, let's go further back. Read Tess of the D'Urbervilles. Read Wuthering Heights. Read Anna Karenina. Read Oliver Twist. Read The Bible, for God's sake! People behave HEINOUSLY in the Bible, on occasion. There is no utopian past. It does not exist.

A quote comes to mind, can't remember where it came from: "She had a nostalgia for a life she had never led."

The "What has happened to the youth of today" crowd are unwilling to admit that they just don't GET why everybody listens to Eminem and Britney Spears, that they themselves are no longer cool, that they will never be cool again, and because they don't GET it, then they must criticize it, because they do not understand it.

There's no big mystery why "kids today" love Eminem and Britney Spears. Because they f***ing rock, okay? Kids like loud music that makes them want to dance. DUH. That's why they love stars who do that.

There are a couple of Britney Spears songs which, if you have any musical sense at all, will FORCE you to tap your feet, and if you're feeling really free, perhaps dance around the living room. I'm not admitting to doing this myself, EVER, I'm just saying that it's true. Theoretically.

We, as adults, can be all cynical and above it all, but to a 15 or 16 year old girl, Britney Spears seems very cool.

And Eminem: fuggedaboutit!!

If you hear his "Till I Collapse", and you still can't get why teenagers listen to him, and lose their minds, and cry when they go to his concerts, then you have never ever been young. Or, if you have been young, then you have completely forgotten what it is like to be a lonely teenager, with an aching heart, trying to find your way in the world. Because THAT is who Eminem is talking to.

So I get very impatient with people who scold me. Who take it upon themselves to scold the entire world. Whose reason for living is to scream at other people, "This world is going to hell in a handbasket!"

Dude, if you'd just stop screaming about that handbasket, then maybe your schedule would clear up a little bit, so that you could actually have some FUN. Why do you care so much about how other people live their lives?

I basically care if people murder people, if people run a crackhouse on my block, I care if people break the law, I care if children are abandoned or abused. But I do not care what music they listen to. I do not care who they have sex with. I do not care if they are married or unmarried. I do not think that it's my business to teach the rest of the world the proper way to live. Plenty of people probably disapprove of MY lifestyle, but I can't obsess about them, worry about them. They don't know me.

So who knows what is to become of Bennett, now that it appears he's just another moral-scold who is also a raging hypocrite. There's something fascinating, on a psychological level, about it all. I guess I would like to know what was going on in his head, all this time. Out of pure curiosity.

Also - as a coda:

Little red flags go up in my mind when I hear people say stuff about "these days", or "what'sa mattah with kids today" or "whatever happened to concepts like honor or family"?

Enforced nostalgia. Willful romanticization of the past.

No thanks. I'm not interested.

A Rambling Discourse on Stereotypes: Jayson Blair, "The Bachelor", OJ, Bitches, Male Bashing

This post should be subtitled: All Over the Map. Follow me. If you dare:

There should be no need for every black person to hang his head in shame because of Jayson Blair's behavior. If you see everything through the filter of race, then you cannot see anything clearly.

I remember the pictures of black people jumping up and down for joy when OJ was declared "not guilty"... It seemed to me that the revelers were not gleeful because OJ was acquitted. Not really. They jumped up and down because they themselves had probably received unfair treatment from the LAPD (or wherever they lived) and felt vindicated. A wrong had been righted. That logic seems completely insane to me, but whatever: that was what was operating, because everything had been turned into a racial issue, as opposed to a criminal question: "did he or did he not" kill his wife?

Yes, the LAPD cops have a racist reputation. Black people can be unfairly targeted by racist ignorant cops. However: REALITY CHECK: I am guessing that none of the blacks complaining about racial profiling had ever experienced a white cop planting a bloody glove in their backyard.

Vincent Bugliosi, famous prosecutor of the Manson murders, commented on the miscarriage of justice that occurred in the OJ case (he actually wrote a book about it called, appropriately, Outrage), and wrote (and I'm paraphrasing): "I've spoken to all of my black friends and colleagues about this, and asked them what they thought. They have all spoken about being pulled over unnecessarily by the LAPD. I always reply: 'Yes. Perhaps you have been harassed and pulled over unfairly. But FRAMED? Have any of you been FRAMED by the cops?' Of course, the answer to THAT question has always been No." )

Many blacks (not all, but many) saw the OJ trial through a filter of race, their own filter of bad experiences from their lives, and felt that OJ's acquittal was their vindication for the pain and humiliation they themselves had suffered at the hands of the cops.

As in: "OJ could not be allowed to pay for that murder, because if he was found to be guilty... then our entire house of cards would come crumbling down. We cannot bear to have a member of our race pilloried, because it reflects on all of us."

The closer I look at that, the less sense it makes.

All black people are not OJ. OJ is not indicative of all black people. I do not look at OJ's behavior and have any opinion about black people as a whole.

Don't hang your head in shame because Jayson Blair is a bad egg!!!

It's a bit like moments I have had when I've caved and watched "The Bachelor". In the season with Andrew Firestone as The Bachelor, there was a scene at the end of the season where the absolute worst side of women (in general) was on display. They all looked like catty back-stabbing passive-aggressive bitches. Some of them would be bitchy when on camera privately - cutting each other down, mean mean mean, and then be simperingly sweet to each other in person.

The final scene was like an anthropological study. "Watch the female of the species. Notice how her bitchiness grows as each day goes on. Interesting, too: the oldest girl in this flock of females, Christina, who is 30, appears to be the least mature, and most bitchy of them all. Must make a note of that, and look into it further."

I am many things I am not proud of: I can be arrogant, and righteous, I can be way-moody, I can be scared of stupid things, I have a pretty hot temper, I have a tendency towards pessimism, but I am not a back-stabber. And I am not petty. I am also not passive-aggressive. If I have a problem with you, you will hear about it. And not 5 months later. I do not give someone the silent treatment. It is not in my nature.

I also have many great women friends. There are women who don't like other women, women who secretly do not want other women to do well, women who say "You look gorgeous, Susie" one moment and then hiss "Doesn't Susie look awful?" the second poor Susie leaves the room.

I watched that scene in "The Bachelor", cringing at times, taking it personally, feeling like the worst of my sex was on display. Bitchy catty women make us ALL look bad.

However: just because they're a bunch of back-stabbing straight-haired tank-top-and-tight-jeans-and-highheeled-boots-wearing bitches ... doesn't mean anything about ME, personally. They all look TERRIBLE in terms of their personalities, and also the general lack of self-awareness (well, except for Tina Fabulous who came out of the whole debacle smelling like a rose.)

I am sure many men watch episodes such as that one and have their worst thoughts about women confirmed. "Yup. Look at that. All women are back-stabbing money-hungry bitches." I've met guys like that, I've been on a couple of dates with guys like that: men who have terrible opinions of women, for whatever reason. Men who listen to every single thing you say, listening for cliches, listening for irrationality, waiting to be confirmed in his belief that women are irrational, and a little bit stupid. Mommy didn't love them enough, whatever. I have no interest in playing psychologist.

What I am trying to say is that black journalists and black professionals do not need to hang their heads in shame because Jayson Blair is BLACK. They should hang their heads in shame because he is a dirty JOURNALIST. Or: don't even hang the head in shame! Please, let's stop it with the shame-filled confessional stuff. Just 'fess up that he sucks, that he should never have been allowed to advance, and make sure that your own work is beyond reproach. Do what you can, in your small corner of the profession, to insure that it doesn't happen again. His race is inconsequential. Do not over-identify yourself with your race, or with your gender. It's a stupid thing to do. There are way too many exceptions to every single stereotype to take any of it seriously.

Men who grumble, "Women only care about money" don't know women like me. Men who grumble about women who spend hours shopping, have not met me. I race into a store, try on a pair of pants, fall in love with them, race out, in half an hour's time. The stereotype does not fit. I also am the opposite of cling-y or need-y. I'm too fierce about my own independence to ever try to put boundaries on somebody else. I don't need to be with somebody at all times. I could give a rat's ass if the man I'm interested in needs a couple nights to go out with the boys and whoop it up and revel in testosterone. I don't care if he looks at other women while he is out with his guy friends. Or actually, even if he is with me. If I ever couple up with someone, I am not suddenly NOT going to find other men attractive. I am not going to SUDDENLY not have a huge crush on Jeff Bridges. Whatever.

So yes, women can be small-minded, petty, and jealous ... but not all women are this way. So you cannot make blanket statements about them as a group.

At least if you're interested in the truth.

I was very glad that journalists went through soul-searching in the wake of the Jayson Blair debacle, and that the issue of race is being brought up, left and right, in an honest way. It's about time.

I do not make any assumptions about black people, in general, because of Jayson Blair. Jayson Blair was a smarmy conniving liar. And that's IT.

We need more common-sense applied to affirmative action.

Two possible conversations involving a hypothetical reporter:
1. Is [hypothetical reporter] good at what he does?
Yes.
Good enough to deserve promotion?
Yes.
Well, all righty- then.

2. Is [hypothetical reporter] good at what he does?
Well ... he's had some problems with accuracy ...
Really? Let me see some documentation of that ...
Here it is ...
Huh. Well, we probably shouldn't put him on the big national case, and we should keep a sharp eye on him.

The fact that the man is black doesn't matter at all. And neither should it matter to anybody. Black or white.

One other thing on stereotypes: Male-bashing in particular.

It's not just in the media. It is all around me.

10 minutes ago I received an email from a friend of mine, one of those joke emails, called "Men are like..."

Here are some of the "jokes":

Men are like ... Laxatives ....They irritate the shit out of you.
Men are like .... Blenders .... You need One, but you're not quite sure why.
Men are like ... Commercials ... You can't believe a word they say.
Men are like ... Lava Lamps ..... Fun to look at, but not very bright.

Who finds this funny? Who would find this funny?

"Fun to look at, BUT NOT VERY BRIGHT"...

I know men who are brilliant! I know men who are good-looking, sexy, AND brilliant! HOW DARE THEY??

I hate it when women are all lumped together under the "money-grubbing back-stabbing controlling" umbrella, and I hate it when men are lumped together under the "stupid doofus" umbrella.

The smugness of women sometimes is insufferable. I don't see men in that way. I just don't. I listen to the litany of complaints from women with husbands, how they treat him like a child, like a buffoon, an idiot, etc. It's incessant. I think: "Jesus, why did you want to hook up with him if you have such contempt for him, and for men in general?"

I can't participate in male-bashing, although I will not hesitate to call a spade a spade. If a guy treats me with contempt, or if I smell misogyny on him (yes, it has a scent) - I will not hesitate to call it by its name. But I will NOT participate in generalized male-bashing. I won't. I refuse. I know too many brilliant men. Brilliant sensitive stand-up guys. Who have their acts together.

I think of my nephew Cashel. I don't want him to grow up feeling shame-faced about his gender. I want him to be proud of being a man. I do not want him to be ashamed of who he is.

Doug Moston - RIP

More sad news from the mentor-front. In October, I learned that Jack Temchin, the man who mentored my thesis project through its ups and downs, died. And Doug Moston, one of my truly inspired teachers, died early this week. He had been very ill for a long while, I guess - and then he slipped into a coma, and died on Tuesday night.

Doug Moston was a young man. In his 50s. Here's a bit of his background.

He taught "classics, period, and style" at my Master's program. An indispensable class - especially for American actors, who don't have the same kind of training in all of that as British actors do, and it is very difficult for us to compete - because we do not have the same context.

Doug Moston was a tough kid, growing up in New York City. He and Harvey Keitel were very close, good buds. When Keitel didn't have a place to stay, he would stay at the Moston's. An open and welcoming house. Moston did not go to college. He was a self-educated man. His intelligence was of the curious and wide-open kind. And yet - he was an expert in his field as well. But he never lost that curiosity.

And oh, did he love actors.

Doug Moston is responsible for publishing the first ever edition of the complete Shakespeare "folio" in facsimile.

What this really means is:

In most versions of Shakespeare, even the revered "Riverside Shakespeare", which I have as well - Shakespeare's irregular spelling and punctuation have been regularized. Semi-colons are added. There are even exclamation points added, where Shakespeare had written none.

As an actor, I know that punctuation is EXTREMELY suggestive.

If, as an actor, you read a script, and you see a line that is written like this:

"I have always been in love with you!"

-- the exclamation point at the end suggests (for better or for worse) a WAY to say that line.

If the line was written like this:

"I have always been in love with you..."

-- that suggests another meaning. That perhaps, instead of being emphatic, or passionate ... you are less certain, and the ellipses perhaps mean that you should let your voice trail off.

Now - obviously - the playwright may be unaware that such specific punctuation seeps into the actor's sponge-like brain. But other playwrights KNOW that actors will suck up any information from the text they can get ... and are VERY specific about their punctuation.

But Shakespeare, in the original folio, has very little of that.

He has commas (sometimes), and he has periods, telling you that the end of the sentence (the end of the thought) is THERE.

He does not embellish. The only stage directions are "exit" and "enter".

Everything you need to know is in the text.

If it's dark, Shakespeare has a character say, "Please, sir, light that torch so we can see where we are going." (Or whatever.) Shakespeare doesn't set up the scene: "The forest of Arden. It is nighttime. It is dark."

EVERYTHING is in the text.

Doug Moston, as an actor, understood acting. He understood how - if left ALONE - actors can be the most miraculous shape-shifters on the planet. Actors can make an audience believe it is pitch-black, even if flourescent lights are beaming down on everybody.

Moston went back to Shakespeare's original facsimiles, and found all KINDS of stuff that has been ironed out of the plays - stuff which has been added - spelling errors which have been corrected - and in so doing, perhaps has changed the meaning or the tone of the sentence. Or mistakes made in transcribing the text, words being switched or whatever - mistakes which have been passed down from version to version to version. Like a game of Telephone.

Shakespeare's language was, in some sense, a big mess - chaotic, inventive, crazy, irregular - and much care has been taken, by editors, to neatening up Shakespeare.

Moston was on a mission when he published that Folio.

I bought the Folio and it is one of my treasured possessions. Whenever I have worked on Shakespeare - yes, I buy a regularized copy of the play, because it is easier to work with, and easier to hold (the Folio is huge) - but when I learn my actual LINES - I learn them from the Folio.

I do not want to have some editor, sitting in his dusty office in Oxford or whatever, telling me: "Rosalind is obviously excited here - so we are going to add an exclamation point - because that is CLEARLY what Shakespeare intended."

I want to look at the text purely.

Moston has made that possible, for actors everywhere.

He was a lovely man. A childlike soul. A wonderful teacher. But he was tough, too. He could be brutal.

He took no bullshit.

This man grew up on the rough streets of Manhattan. This man could very easily have gone down a bad path in his life. But he did not.

But that background of New York tough-guy - made him extremely intolerant of bullshit, people who lie - especially people who lie to themselves.

I loved him.

He understood craft.

And yet - one of the beautiful things about him was that he never lost his capacity to just be an audience member. A lot of acting teachers (and actors) lose that. They are always looking for what is missing, what is not right, what is bad, what is false. They are incapable of getting swept away.

Moston was able to get swept away by his own students.

Not all the time - it happened very rarely - but when it DID happen - you never forgot it.

For example:

I was working on "Taming of the Shrew", I believe. We were doing a scene. I was having a fight with my father in the play ... and suddenly - out of nowhere (this happens sometimes in acting, if you're open) - I felt this huge lump come up in my throat - I felt how UNFAIR life was - and I felt that my father had broken my heart. I felt SO SAD.

But I couldn't let it go completely - because I had to get all this text out.

So I kept talking, through and over my tears, telling my father how unfair I thought he was being, etc.

I felt a bit out of control.

We finished the scene and turned to Doug, for his verdict.

You never ever knew what he was going to say.

Doug was looking at me. Staring at me. The brief upsurge of emotion and tears was gone - and I wanted to know what he thought.

Like I said, he could say the most brutally truthful things. Where you wanted to crawl into a hole and apologize for even DARING to dream about being an actor.

All Doug said was, in a tone of proclamation, "Well. You broke my heart."

I wasn't sure what he was getting at.

He said, "I could sit here and talk to you about - where you missed the pentameter, where you were off in your phrasing - where you broke up the text too much - but you know what? None of that ends up mattering if you come alive - and you did. And you just broke my heart."

He was a meat and potatoes kind of guy.

A guy who KNEW stuff - who knew A LOT of stuff - but who never made a big deal out of it.

And WOE to the actors who tried to snow him. Who tried to insist that they HAD done all their work - when they obviously hadn't - and had thrown together the scene in the hour before class, or whatever.

Doug Moston had that streetwise nose - I loved that about him.

Because, as anyone who has gone to grad school can tell you, no matter what your degree - grad school is FULL OF BULL SHITTERS.

Here is one of the things Doug Moston said to our class - something which has stayed with me always:

He said that he was a big fan of "sublimation", particularly for actors.

This, to me, was a confusing statement. Sublimate? Shouldn't we strive to bring everything that is within us OUT? Sublimation, to me, has connotations of repression, submersion, whatever.

Doug said, "Here's what I mean by sublimation. You take your pain - and you make it sublime."

I have tears in my eyes.

That simple sentence has been a great gift to me. A great blessing over the past couple of years which have been, to say the least, rather painful with a lot of disappointments.

But - with all of that - I have ALWAYS had my work.

And dammit, I am fascistic about my work. Lovers come and go, a husband would be great, blah blah blah - but NONE of that will matter to me, will mean anything to me, without my work. My art.

I MUST have my work.

And so. His words about sublimation have echoed through my head over the last couple of years - with its heartache, and the disappointments over the various men who have let me down, or broke my heart.

Okay, Sheila, okay, Sheila. So you loved him. It ain't gonna work. TAKE THIS PAIN, AND MAKE IT SUBLIME.

Put it in the work.

Put it in the work.

Put EVERYTHING in the work. Put your joy, your grief, your rage, your sexual desire, your angst, your hopes - put it all into the work.

Doug Moston taught me that.

He shouldn't have died so young. He was a prince among men, a prince among teachers.

I can see his little baby-face in my mind right now.

God bless you, Doug Moston. You were a born teacher. You taught me much. You will be so missed.

And thank you thank you thank you for Shakespeare's Folio. It is a major accomplishment. Something I treasure.

It is a legacy to be proud of.

Doug Moston - Rest in Peace.

Confession

My anticipation for next week (guess why?) is so intense that I am barely enjoying the wait.

7 more days ...

I want it NOW.

Quote

From George Orwell's 1984, which I am now rereading:

He could not remember what had happened, but he knew in his dream that in some way the lives of his mother and his sister had been sacrificed to his own. It was one of those dreams which, while retaining the characteristic dream scenery, are a continuation of one's intellectual life, and in which one becomes aware of facts and ideas which still seem new and valuable after one is awake. The thing that now suddenly struck Winston was that his mother's death, nearly thirty years ago, had been tragic and sorrowful in a way that was no longer possible. Tragedy, he perceived, belonged to the ancient time, to a time when there were still privacy, love, and friendship, and when the members of a family stood by one another without needing to know the reason. His mother's memory tore at his heart because she had died loving him, when he was too young and selfish to love her in return, and because somehow, he did not remember how, she had sacrificed herself to a conception of loyalty that was private and unalterable. Such things, he saw, could not happen today. Today there were fear, hatred, and pain, but no dignity of emotion or deep or complex sorrows. All this he seemed to see in the large eyes of his mother and his sister, looking up at him through the green water, hundreds of fathoms down and still sinking.

Suddenly he was standing on short springy turf, on a summer evening when the slanting rays of the sun gilded the ground. The landscape that he was looking at recurred so often in his dreams that he was never fully certain whether or not he had seen it in the real world. In his waking thoughts he called it the Golden Country. It was an old, rabbit-bitten pasture, with a foot track wandering across it and a molehole here and there. In the ragged hedge on the opposite side of the field the boughs of the elm trees were swaying very faintly in the breeze, their leaves just stirring in dense masses like women's hair. Somewhere near at hand, though out of sight, there was a clear, slow-moving stream where dace were swimming in the pools under the willow trees.

The girl with dark hair was coming toward him across the field. With what seemed a single movement she tore off her clothes and flung them disdainfully aside. Her body was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire in him; indeed, he barely looked at it. What overwhelmed him in that instant was admiration for the gesture with which she had thrown her clothes aside. With its grace and carelessness it seemed to annihilate a whole culture, a whole system of thought, as though Big Brother and the Party and the Thought Police could all be swept into nothingness by a single splendid movement of the arm. That too was a gesture belonging to the ancient time. Winston woke up with the word "Shakespeare" on his lips.

Jesus, that is good stuff.

Norman Rush

I was thinking the other day about Norman Rush - a man who wrote one of my favorite books of all time - Mating - a highly celebrated and award-winning first novel published in the 1980s. Rush's story is one of those dream-come-true stories for would-be writers. He publishes a couple short stories here and there - nothing major, no attention given them - and then - with his first novel hits a major jackpot.

I have read Mating probably 5 or 6 complete times over the years.

And earlier this year - suddenly - after never publishing ANYTHING after Mating - suddenly Rush came out with a second novel.

I have written quite a bit about Norman Rush in the past. Mating is a book which has engaged my imagination and intellect to a degree that few other books have ever reached. I cannot give you an easy explanation why - and I believe that that is one of the major strengths of the book.

It is a book I can keep re-visiting. It never appears to be the same book twice. I see different things in it each time I read it. Only great books can follow you through your life like that.

Here are some of my experiences with Rush and his writing. The first piece below tries to describe what it is about Mating that means so much to me - and how I felt when I realized Rush had published something else. The second piece describes my response to that long-awaited second novel called Mortals.

Norman Rush's MATING

Me being me, I have to back up a couple of days to tell the story fully. Actually, this is already inaccurate. I have to back up many years. The journey begins in 1992 when I first read the novel Mating, by Norman Rush. It is one of the most pivotal books I have ever read. It's become a part of my mental landscape, a part of how I interpret events.

Today, that book is dog-eared from use. The cover is taped on. The pages are filled with underlinings. And in the back, on the couple of blank pages, I have crammed up that blank space with as many dictionary definitions of words found in this book as I could. The vocabulary in the book is, as my friend Allison called it, "daunting". I agree, and I have a pretty good vocabulary.

ressentiment: rancor expressed covertly against benefactors
proleptic: the anticipating/answering of objective/argument before it's put forward
omphalog: the naval/a center
copula: a verb that identifies the predicate of sentence with subject -- usually a form of 'to be'. "The girls are beautiful"
syncretist: attempt/tendency to combine or reconcile differing beliefs (philosophy or religion)
bolus: a small round mass. Greek: lump/clod

WHAT? Expanding my vocabulary was part of the fascination of the book.

But the hold Mating had, and still has on me, goes way deeper than that.

The characters in the book (mainly the two leads: Nelson Denoon and the unnamed female narrator) live on in my mind, the way characters like Holden Caulfield do. Or Captain Ahab. Or Anna Karenina. Their life, their potential life, does not stop with the words "The End". You cannot tell me that Holden does not live. It seems an insult to Salinger's creation.

There must be an alternate plane out in the ether, with fictional characters wandering about. Not every fictional character, because not every author manages to create a living, breathing, human personality. Actually, "human" is too limiting as well. Because, to my mind, Charlotte the spider (from EB White's Charlotte's Web) lives on. She exists on that alternate plane. As does Wilbur the pig. It's sort of like the plot of The Velveteen Rabbit. Once the rabbit is loved, and loved deeply, it becomes real.

I love all of these fictional characters in that way.

Mating is, on the surface, the story of a love affair. Other themes are: what to do about Africa, the problems with "development projects" and do-gooders in Africa, socialism in Africa, differences between men and women, competition between females for males (hence, the title) - and then, more specifically, an in-depth description of the world of Botswana: the diplomatic community in Gaborone, the issues with "villagization", the issues with development, how the development community lives high on the hog in Africa - etc. It's a BIG book, with BIG themes.

The main theme is something the author/narrator calls "intellectual love". Rush describes a very specific kind of love, and because he did so, and took such care with it, the concept became real to me. He articulated one of my deepest longings in a way I had never before encountered. It was like his words illuminated my own needs. Very interesting. Some quotes from the book in this vein:

My utopia is equal love, equal love between people of equal value, although value is an approximation for the word I want. Why is it so difficult? Assortative mating shows there has to be some drive in nature to bring equals together in the toils of love, so why even in the most enlightened and beautifully launched unions are we afraid we hear the master-slave relationship moving its slow thighs somewhere in the vicinity? It has to be cultural. In fact the closest thing to a religion I have is that this has to be cultural. I could do practically anything while he was asleep and not bother him. I wrote in my journal, washed dishes in slow motion if we hadn't gotten around to them. I was emotional a lot, privately. I wanted to incorporate everything, understand everything, because time is cruel and nothing stays the same.

More:

He was appropriate for me and the reverse. I felt it and hated it because it was true despite his being around fifteen years older than me. What did that mean about me? I also hated it because I hate assortative mating, the idea of it. One of my most imperishable objections to the world is the existence of assortative mating, how everyone at some level ends up physically with just who they deserve, at least to the eye of some ideal observer, unless money or power deforms the process. This is equivalent to being irritated at photosynthesis or at inhabiting a body that has to defecate periodically, I am well aware. Mostly it comes down to the matching of faces. When I first encountered the literature, I even referred to it privately as faceism. I will never adapt to it, probably. Why can't every mating in the world be on the basis of souls instead of inevitably and fundamentally on the match between physical envelopes? Of course we all know the answer, which is that otherwise we would be throwing evolution into disarray. Still it distresses me. We know what we are.

A couple of people I recommended this book to were extremely annoyed by the writing-voice, as evidenced in the passage above. I, however, LOVE the voice: cerebral, obsessively psychological, yearning, illogical -- It comes from right out of me. I relate. Here's more. The book is encyclopedic on love.

If I overdwell on this it can't be helped: love is important and the reasons you get it or fail are important. The number of women in my generation who in retrospect anyone will apply the term "great love" to, in any connection, is going to be minute. I needed to know if I had a chance here. Love is strenuous. Pursuing someone is strenuous. What I say is if you find yourself condemned to wanting love, you have to play while you can play. Of course it would be so much easier to play from the male side. They never go after love qua love, ever. They go after women. And for men love is the distillate or description of whatever happened with each woman that as not actually painful in feeling-tone. there is some contradiction here which I can't expel. What was moving me was the feeling of being worth someone's absolute love, great love, even. And to me this means male love whether I like it or not. C'est ca. Here I am, there I was. I don't know if getting love out of a man is more of a feat of strength now than it used to be or not, except that I do: it is. It's hideous. It's an ordeal beyond speech. When I'm depressed I feel like what was meant by one of his favorite quotations: A bitter feast was steaming hot and a mouth must be found to eat it. Men are like armored things, mountainous assemblages of armor and leather, masonry even, which you are told will self-dismantle if you touch the right spot, and out will flow passionate attention. And we know that this sometimes does happen for one of our sisters, or has happened. This comes full circle back to my attitude about kissing, which he never adjusted to. You want kisses, obviously. But you want kisses from a source, a person, who is in a state. This is why the plague of little moth kisses from men just planting their seniority on you is so intolerable. Of course even as I was machinating I was well aware I was in the outskirts of the suburb of the thing you want or suspect is there. But at this moment in my life I was at the point where even the briefest experience of unmistakable love would be something I could clutch to myself as proof that my theory of myself was not incorrect. Theories can be reactionary and still applicable.

And now, here is Rush's (or his nameless female narrator's) treatise on intellectual love. Obviously, this page in my book is covered in notes, and underlines. Oh, and I don't agree with every sentiment here, but that doesn't matter. I don't read books to meet people just like me. But it is the concept articulated here, the concept of 'intellectual love' which, for me, when I first read it, was like a lightbulb going on, or a door opening. I saw something new. I recognized the longings of my own heart when I read the following passage:

Intellectual love is not the same animal as landing a mentor, although women I've raised the construct with want to reduce it to that. I distrust and shun the whole mentor concept, which is just as well since I seem not to attract them. Nelson was not my mentor, ever. I gave as well as I got, with him. But there was intellectual love on my part, commencing circa that night.

Intellectual love is a particular hazard for educated women, I think. Certain conditions have to obtain. You meet someone -- I would specify of the opposite sex, but this is obviously me being hyperparochial -- who strikes you as having persuasive and wellfounded answers to questions on the order of Where is the world going? These are distinctly not meaning-of-life questions. One thing Denoon did convince me of is that all answers so far to the question What is the meaning of life? dissolve into ascertaining what some hypostatized superior entity wants you to be doing, id est ascertaining how, and to whom or what, you should be in an obedience relationship. The proof of this is that no one would ever say, if he or she had been convinced that life was totally random and accidental in origin and evolution, that he or she had found the meaning of life. So, fundamentally, intellectual love is for a secular mind, because if you discover someone, however smart, is -- he has neglected to mention -- a Thomist or in Baha'i, you think of him as a slave to something uninteresting.

What beguiles you toward intellectual love is the feeling of observing a mental searchlight lazily turning here and there and lighting up certain parts of the landscape you thought might be dubious or fraudulent but lacked the time or energy to investigate or the inner authority to dismiss tout court. The searchlight confirms you.

Mating was the context in which I went through the major "love affair" in my past, with a man who shall remain nameless. My friend Mitchell, who also read and loved the book Mating , referred to this man as "your Nelson Denoon". The similarities were arresting. And when everything fell apart with "my Nelson Denoon", leaving a nightmare in its wake, that book became even more of an anchor.

In the past couple of weeks, I took Mating out to read again.

It is a first novel, and what a first novel. He has not published anything since. There was a book of short stories called Whites which came out years ago, but besides his magnum opus, Norman Rush has been silent.

Mating was a huge hit, financially and critically, it won the National Book Award in 1991. Rush clearly put everything he knows about everything into that book. It's about love, obviously, but it's also about Africa, and politics, and socialism, and the position of women in Africa, and religion. It's a book dedicated to taking a large view of the issues in Africa - and yet it is still an extremely personal story.

And the ending. The last section, a kind of epilogue, is called "About the Foregoing". It is very mysterious. It ends on a very ambiguous note.

She has left Africa, and has left Denoon, her great love. Things have fallen apart. She is now trying to get her life together when suddenly she gets a mysterious message, telling her to come back to Africa. It is not Denoon who calls her. It is a woman. She does not know who this woman could be. Or why she has been summoned. She obsesses about it, wondering what to do. Should she return? What would be waiting for her in Africa? If Denoon did not summon her, then perhaps she would not be welcome anymore? The book ends with these two lines:

Je viens. Why not?

So, the book leaves you knowing she is going to return, but you do not know the outcome.

I have been haunted by this. Then what? Then what? It has been so long since Mating came out. I have tried to reconcile myself to the fact that I need to, a la Rilke, "live the questions".

The fact that the book ends mysteriously, that it could go either way, confirms for me one of the essential tenets of my life:

You just never know what will happen. Things can always go either way. Also: Things never really end. Not really. They transform, they morph. Love never dies. Ever. I'm not an "I love you I love you - oh you don't love me back anymore? Then I hate you I hate you" kind of girl. Sometimes I wish I were. It might be easier if love turned readily to hate, but for me, it does not.

So alongside my relatively quiet life now are the vibrant exciting love affairs of my past. They make me who I am today. They do not go away, or submerge into the past for good. They are still very much with me, late and soon.

Literally last week, I became obsessed again by the up-in-the-air ending of Mating. What does it signify? What is the message?

And more than that, on a more literal level, on a more literary level: What happened when she returned to Africa? Are they together now? Out on that alternate plane for fictional characters? I always liked to imagine that they were. It made me happy to imagine so. It made me happy to fantasize that on that alternate plane, all turned out well. Eventually.

It's a sort of "Somewhere over the rainbow" sentiment. Things may be lonely here on this plane, but somewhere -- even if it's just for characters in a book -- things might work out. And this alone gives me reason to hope. Things just might work out -- because the ending of Mating doesn't make it clear whether they do or no. This is the degree to which this book affected me, and the degree to which these characters LIVE on in my imagination.

On a personal note: I used to have these old crazy fantasies about "my Nelson Denoon", fantasies which felt more like getting a glimpse of a never-before-seen alternate path. I comforted myself, after it was all over, by imagining that on that other plane, down that other path, things might have worked out. Or in another lifetime, although reincarnation and alternate lifetimes are not quite in my belief system.

However, I became convinced that this was not the first time around for me and "my Nelson Denoon". I would obsess about it. "Were we married in another life? Or ... with each successive lifetime, are we coming closer to one another? It just so happens that I am stuck in the lifetime where it doesn't work out..." I was blithering like that to my patient friend Kate. She listened. And then she said, "Actually, I bet that your Celtic tribe probably slaughtered his Celtic tribe." We roared.

So I digress. All of these crazy thoughts are very tied up, for me, in Norman Rush's book.

All of this came up to the foreground again, in the last week, (it all began dovetailing), and I thought, impulsively: "I should just write to Norman Rush and ask him what he's up to ... if he's working on anything ..." He hasn't published anything else since Mating, so -- I wondered --- is he chugging away at a sequel? Is he dead? I needed to know desperately.

"Mr. Rush -- are you just going to leave me hanging with the end of Mating? Do you know how important it is, how essential it is in terms of my understanding of how the world works, that I know what happened with the two of them? Will I ever know the outcome?"

Wanting to write to Norman Rush was a random fleeting thought. I have written to authors before, so it wasn't too far-fetched.

Then, a couple of days ago, I stopped off at a computer place to check my email. While there, I visited my SiteMeter for this blog, to check in on my traffic. I saw that someone had gotten to me by typing "Norman Rush" into Google. It led this person to that excerpt. And this piqued my interest. Somebody else is looking for Norman Rush right now? Why? Is something going on?

So I blatantly Googled the man.

The first thing that came up was a Village Voice article dated May, 2003. I opened it, and lo and freakin' behold, it was a review of his new book. The man has a new book out. Mortals.

I hope I have conveyed how important this is to me. But I am having a hard time finding the words.

It would be like hearing that JD Salinger had suddenly come out of hiding and published a new novel. While Salinger is still alive, there is still hope that he may write again. He just might. And the book might be crap, but that wouldn't matter. At least not at first. It would be a miracle. To hear from that writer again.

So Rush has a new huge novel out. And again, it takes place in Botswana, Africa. Botswana! The country that Rush made live for me.

Mortals (and I just skimmed the article feverishly ... I didn't want to read any spoilers, no give-aways, nothing that would ruin the experience) is NOT about Nelson Denoon and our beloved unnamed narrator. It is another couple altogether, although Rush again tackles man/woman relationships, only time in the context of marriage. It doesn't seem to be so much about finding the right mate, and how arduous that process is, how it can break your heart. Rush now goes into the realm of established intimacy, and ... what happens then?

And here's the thing: (WARNING: SPOILER ALERT)

I raced through the book review excitedly and could not believe my eyes: Nelson and "she" DO show up in this new book, peripherally. They ARE characters on the outskirts. And, oh so casually, Village Voice reviewer states: "We learn that they have married."

What? They married?? I almost shouted out loud for joy.

I didn't read the rest of the review, I signed out immediately, paid my bill, and hustled my ass down to Barnes & Noble to find the book, which had been published THAT WEEK.

(Okay, let's just take a moment to reflect on how weird that is. I contemplate writing to Norman Rush, pestering him to write a sequel, and dammitall if he doesn't have a new book published on almost that same exact day.)

And there it was. A huge book. Hardcover. With a map of Botswana inside. I got a chill of excitement. I felt voracious. Almost sick to my stomach, actually. I wanted to download the entire book into my brain immediately. I glanced through and saw that there was a chapter called "The Denoons", and I had to restrain myself. Prolong the anticipation, more pleasure that way.

And as I was walking down the street, with my booty in my bag, I suddenly got weirdly emotional.

It was as though I had heard that real friends of mine had finally gotten married after much strife.

It would be like if me and "my Nelson Denoon" ever got hitched (not a possibility anymore). But let's just say he and I got hitched - my friends, who went through the whole thing with me, would probably jump up and down for joy, yelling, "At last!" Okay? This is the power this book has for me. I felt -- well, it's a bit embarrassing to admit, but I was almost in tears, truth be told.

There have been times in the past couple of years when life has been the cliched howling wilderness. "My Nelson Denoon" remains a kind of monument, a sort of goal. I have tried to knock him off that pedestal, but I have finally accepted the fact that he actually deserves to be up there. Whether I am with him or not. This is a bit more personal than I normally write, but this is my blog, and this is what is going on with me right now.

When things did not come to fruition between us, my baffled thought was: If that didn't work out, that which seemed so damn right, then what the hell will work out? For quite a long time, my answer to that question was: Nothing. Nothing.

But then ... here ... years later ... walking down the street, knowing that she and Nelson got married -- after all that --

I suddenly felt an upsurge of hope. Not for me and "my Nelson Denoon", because like I said earlier: that is no longer possible. But what I mean is: hope in general.

A word on hope:

Hope for me, now, always goes hand in hand with a bittersweet and rather vague pain. Hope never ever comes by itself anymore. The way it used to when I was a little kid, or a teenager. I suppose that's indicative of age and experience. It seems so to me anyway. That's life. I am not saying this exactly as I wanted to. Basically: Hope no longer comes alone.

The sadness and hope I felt, walking down the street, wasn't about Nelson and the narrator of Mating being married... at least, not only about them. The sadness and hope was also from how I see life now. In terms of mating. I feel like I had my run. It was a good run. I had a lot of fun, a lot of laughs. But that all has stopped now. And that's why hope never comes alone anymore.

I still feel hope, occasionally, but never ever by itself.

So I got overwhelmed by this weird sense of sad hope --- a feeling that STILL, after all THAT, "things" might "work out". For me, in my life. It's awful when one becomes afraid to feel hope anymore, protecting oneself against the inevitable disappointment. This is a constant balancing act.

I am not a young girl of 22, with a couple of disappointments in my past (like David W. saying no to being my date at the junior prom, etc.) ... I am in my 30s, and I've been through a lot. Not all bad. Of course not all bad. Like I said: a lot of laughs. Much fun. But now, I just find it easier not to hope ... at least in that arena ... and focus on other things. My work. My ambition, my plans.

But ... but ....

They got married. They got married. What does that mean? For me?

(This is the level to which literature can affect me - if I let it! The Shipping News had a similar impact.)

I am so used to the state of affairs I live in now, since I have lived there now for about a decade. I mean, I have changed and grown, of course, I have moved from city to city, I got my Master's, I've made new friends, it has been a very full existence. But I have been alone the entire time. THAT has not changed. Not even close.

Perhaps a breakthrough is approaching. A breakthrough in how I see all of this. And the appearance of Norman Rush's Mortals is the harbinger of something good. Or, something different. Something exciting, unforeseen, challenging. That's what I was feeling as I walked down the street, too. I'm scared of it ... and yet. Perhaps it is time. I don't know. Even as I write that, the logical side of my brain, the side that has all the experience, that knows the let-downs, etc., says: "Yes, but you have felt this before. You have felt this so strongly before. And you were never right."

But maybe ... maybe ... Maybe this is it.

There is SOMETHING weird about how all of this has come about:

Mating
The book being wrapped up with "my Nelson Denoon"
Wishing the main characters well -- hoping they are happy in another reality
Holding onto a weird strange hope that things worked out well, at least for them
Wondering if a sequel was coming
Studying the book over the last couple of weeks
That book, for me, is the monument, the goal
Wanting to write to Norman Rush
Someone coming to MY blog, through Googling Norman Rush ...during the very week I was obsessing about Rush, and where he was, and whether or not he was writing
Finding out that Rush has written a new book ... published last week ... in which we discover the Denoons have married

And so:
Things are not what they seem.

Back to the old painful belief: You never ever know what will happen. You can never tell what the future will hold. Your predictions will all be wrong.

I have tentatively and slowly begun Mortals, forcing myself not to browse ahead, looking for references to the Denoons. I want to savor every word.

I have waited for this day for so long.

Norman Rush's MORTALS - a sequel to the above

I'm now reading Mortals, the long-awaited second book by Norman Rush, author of one of my favorite books, Mating.

I am having a very hard time getting through it. As a matter of fact, I have stopped reading it completely.

Mating is a special book. Mortals is not. By page 100 I was sick of the two main characters. Norman Rush obviously finds them both very fascinating, and endearing. So every single tangent in the minds of the characters needs to be drawn out for sometimes THIRTY PAGES ...

If I had a marriage like those two do, I might have to slit my wrists. Just to escape and get some peace and quiet, for God's sake.

It is so self-conscious. So pleased with itself. So obsessively analytical. Do these two people ever just sit on the damn couch and NOT talk to each other?? That is my ideal relationship. One that is filled with an inordinate amount of comfortable shared silence.

Another thing Rush does is continuously assure us of how funny Iris (one of the boring main characters) is. He fetishizes her humor. He gives us glimpses of it (or tries to). But mostly he just repeatedly states it, as though it is an indisputable fact. "She was such a funny woman." "He loved her humor." "He was going to be losing a funny woman."

The problem with this goes back to one of the first rules of writing: SHOW. Don't TELL.

I don't think Iris is funny. She never made me laugh. And you can't keep just re-assuring me: "No no no, wait, she is a DAMN funny woman! You have to see her when she's had a couple of glasses of wine! She is a riot!" That doesn't work in a book. It doesn't work in life either. Either something IS, and you know that it IS because it can be SEEN and ACKNOWLEDGED by more than one person, or it ISN'T. Iris ISN'T funny, in my book.

Just saying it is so, Mr. Rush, does not make it so.

He gives us examples of her humor, but ... to my mind, it's all coy stupid little puns. Now I know some truly funny people, people who you describe as "Oh my God, he is so funny" if you are asked "What is that person like?" Humor is undeniable. It's not like being sensitive, or being kind, or intelligent. You cannot fake humor. Some people THINK they are hilarious, but no one is laughing.

I think I have made my point here.

The good parts of the book are when it goes into the life of a CIA agent ... how they live, their relationship to "the agency" -- what it meant for the CIA when communism fell apart. What that event did to the psychology of the agency, etc. What it is like to have a job which is, for the most part, invisible. You will never be acknowledged publicly for your work. You cannot talk about it with your wife. All of that, so far, has been very interesting.

There's also a long sequence where Ray, the main character, is being held prisoner in this warehouse in northwest Botswana. The Boers are involved. He is being held hostage with this other man, an African, who is a psychiatrist, and very anti-Christian. His name is Morel. Morel has lived in England for years and has returned to Botswana on a mission to rescue Africa from the yoke of Christianity. He thinks organized religion is designed to keep people passive, to keep people in a state of waiting, etc. Morel is an African. Morel believes that what Africa needs is common sense, industry, and people willing to invest in THIS life. It's an interesting question - which is also brought out to interminable degrees in Mortals, but I actually have learned a lot, and it made me think.

Ray is obsessed with the poet Milton. Which is understandable - fine. I am relatively obsessed with Milton myself.

But what I am picking up on, somehow, in the writing of this book, is that it is RUSH who is obsessed with Milton, and has tried to wrestle Milton into this story, in order to express how he, Rush, feels about Milton. And because of that, it doesn't really work. It reads as very self-indulgent.

An interesting contrast: June 16 is Bloomsday (the day to celebrate James Joyce and Ulysses - which all takes place on June 16).

The entire summer of 2002, for me, was taken up by James Joyce. Joyce Joyce Joyce.

Now you kind of cannot find a more subjective writer, a person more fascinated with his own obsessions, a person who can go off on a tangent for thirty pages just because the subject matter interests him.

June 16 came smack in the middle of my struggling with Mortals, and there are some vague similarities between the books. And yet Ulysses captivated me, challenged me. One author (Joyce) goes off on tangents, and I suddenly find myself looking stuff up on the Internet, calling my dad for information, trying to understand what exactly he is getting at ... what is REALLY going on in the book. The other author (Rush) goes off on tangents, obsessed with his own obsessions, and I get increasingly annoyed, thinking to myself: "Shut UP! You're not the first freakin' person to discover Milton ... Get OVER it...Shut UP! Get to the friggin' point, man."

So here's the difference, the undeniable difference:

James Joyce is a genius.

You should not attempt such a book unless you are CERTAIN that you yourself are a genius.

Here's where I stopped reading Mortals, and I will eventually finish it, because I still feel a certain amount of obligation toward the writer who brought Mating into my life.

Okay: So Ray (the CIA agent) and Morel (the African crusader) are being held in this warehouse, and are pulled out separately by these Boer thugs to be tortured, on occasion. It is a bad situation. The two of them are enemies, for a very boring reason. It is a plot device, rather than a reality. So they are forced to deal with each other. There is a bucket in the room for them to use as a toilet, and there are two pages, two pages which took two years off my life, years I can never get back, where Morel goes to the bathroom, and he is constipated, so it is difficult for him, and Ray, to relax Morel and also to distract himself from the shitting going on across the room, recites Milton outloud.

I read those two pages. And then I put the damn book down and have not picked it up since.

When I pick the book up again, I am going to have to skip the Milton-recital-during-Morel's-"evacuation" (a word Rush actually used, and which, quite frankly, grossed me OUT.) and pick up from after that episode. Evacuation? I'm sorry, but that is NASTY.

Now, when we first meet Leopold Bloom in Ulysses, he is eating breakfast with his wife Molly before leaving for the day. He is inwardly anxiously, thinking she has cuckolded him. But before he leaves, he goes into the bathroom and shits. It was hugely shocking at the time ... you don't usually follow characters into the bathroom like that, but Joyce did.

I read the whole sequence, and laughed out loud at the audacity of it ... the reality of it ... and the thing is about it: there was a POINT. He is bringing us all down to the human level. It may be pedantic to say to ourselves, as a way of reassurance, "Everybody has a crack in their ass." Or: "Yes, he may be Secretary of State, but he goes to the bathroom like everybody else." But it is the human condition. It's the truth.

That's what I got when Joyce followed Bloom into the bathroom like that. I became overwhelmed by humanity. The tragi-comic nature of our existence.

There was a higher point to the scene. Not to mention Joyce's desire to really stick it to the priggish censors, and to really tell the truth about Ireland. There is a POINT.

In Mortals, there is no point. And the scene goes on FOREVER.

In Mortals I just got grossed out and now I cannot get the image of Morel squatting over the bucket out of my mind. I wish I could. I need that brain space for other things.

I need to take a break from boring old Ray the CIA agent and his un-funny wife Iris, and the African Morel going to the bathroom in the corner, while Areopagitica is being recited. Jesus. Spare me.

What a disappointment.

My love for the book Mating is untouched, however. Perhaps that was Norman Rush's one story. Some writers only have one tale in them. They may try to do more, tell other stories - but they fail.

Perhaps Rush is one of those writers.

The Last Samurai

Went to go see it yesterday with Bill. Here's his review ... I completely agree about Ken Watanabe who plays samurai warrior Katsumoto - it is an amazing performance. I would even venture to say that it is "his" movie, although Tom Cruise is the major star.

The battle scenes are unbelievable. Tom Cruise is obviously doing most of his own stunts - and that adds such an authenticity to the action. It is him, galloping on that horse, sword held high.

One of the strengths of the film, I think, is that it creates characters - characters you can care about. Maybe that's a girlie response - but action movies without well-developed characters leave me cold.

It's why "Braveheart" is so effective, for example. They seem like real people, albeit a bit widely-drawn.

The samurai fights are breathtaking. The first shot of them appearing through the mist in the forest - on horseback - wearing horned masks - I mean, you could totally understand why the regular Japanese army all turned around and fled. It was terrifying.

Three things I could have done without:

1. All of the Japanese soldiers (not the samurai, but the Western-trained soldiers) bowing down to Tom Cruise in the second to last shot of the film. I cringed at the sight of the Western man being deified so openly - especially when Katsumoto was the brains behind the operation, the teacher ... The rest of the movie doesn't fall into that trap. Tom Cruise's character has just as much to learn from the samurai culture as they have to learn from him. It's not an imbalance - but that moment of everyone bowing at him was ... a bit ikky.

2. The "love story" should have ended up on the cutting room floor entirely. But it was good, in a way, because the woman in the movie had a couple of kids - little boys - who were so dear - so cute - and good little 5 year old samurais too - that (again with the wanting to eat up small children phenomenon we discussed earlier) I just wanted to eat them up. These kids were GREAT. But the love story was a big fat YAWN.

3. Tom Cruise has a very affecting scene with the emperor at the end of the film. Throughout the scene, tears are slowly rolling down Cruise's face. This reiterates what I said in my post about Emotion in Performance. I somehow DIDN'T have a catharsis - because Tom Cruise was too busy having HIS. I felt left out. If he had been tearless, and yet, obviously, very deeply moved - it might have been more effective.

But the battle scenes - the sword fighting - the conversations between the samurai and the American - amazing stuff. Amazing.

Azerbaijan - Part VI - Azeri Culture

And lastly (after the Intro, after war with Armenia, after oil, after government, after ethnic hatred) ... a post on the hodge-podge culture of this country.

The Culture of Azerbaijan

Azerbaijan has been marched over by different empires over the millennia, absorbing, assimilating, intermingling, intermarrying. This has created a rich culture, a fusion of different elements. It has also led to a confusion (wow. Just noticed that "fusion" is part of the word "confusion"...must look into that) in the populace: Who are we? Are we Shiites? And therefore close to Iran? To ancient Persia? Are we Turks? What does it mean to be "Azeri"? Is there such a thing? The majority of Azeris live in Iran. That's something like 4 million people. Azerbaijan lost almost 20% of its territory in its war with Armenia. It is a scrap of land now. What is it? Who are they? How do they define themselves?

A couple of quotes on this issue:

"In the past Azerbaijan was more of a geographic and cultural concept than a political one. There never really was a centralized state of Azerbaijan, and in this its history differs from that of Georgia and Armenia. It differs in other respects as well. By way of the Black Sea and Anatolia, Georgia and Armenia maintained contact with ancient Europe, and later with Byzantium. They received Christianity from there, which created within their territories a resistance to the spread of Islam. In Azerbaijan the influence of Europe was weak from the onset, at best secondary. Between Europe and Azerbaijan rise the barriers of the Caucasus and the Armenian Highland, whereas in the east Azerbaijan turns into lowlands, is easily accessible open. Azerbaijan is the threshold of Central Asia." -- Ryzsard Kapuscinsky, Imperium

"This culture was deepening, even if nationhood was indistinct. Outwardly, it was becoming as if the Russians had never been here ... Turkish kebab stands were appearing ... Ramiz, Reza's friend, declared a fourth vodka toast to Azerbaijan, the hearthplace of Turkish literature ... But Azeri culture wasn't simply Turkish. Ramiz's very manner, the tender, cloistered expression in his searching eyes, and the fetid dining room full of vodka, rotting cheeses, old photos, and perspiring, very lightly drunken men and women -- as if they were in one evening-long communal hug -- proclaimed an atmosphere similar to what I had experienced in Eastern Europe during communist rule -- places where political life had been so sterile that the vacuum, perforce, had been filled by a personal life, making the latter far richer than people in Western Europe and North America could imagine...There was also much Persian influence." -- Robert Kaplan, The Ends of the Earth

And one last thing to cap it all off:

"Azerbaijan was not merely an eastern extension of Turkey, but a grey, shaded area where the Turkish, Russian, and Iranian worlds overlapped. Because of seven decades of totalitarianism, which buried this rich legacy, this cultural eclecticism had become a confusing void." -- Robert Kaplan, The Ends of the Earth

Azerbaijan is one of the first countries I ever became curious about in that region. Azerbaijan ushered me into a new world - my curiosity about Azerbaijan led me to Turkmenistan, to Georgia, to Armenia, to Kurdistan ....

So I have a soft spot in my heart for Azerbaijan.

Not that anybody cares, but I thought I would share that.

Azerbaijan - Part V - Hatred and Suspicion

This post focuses on the ethnic hatred between Azeris and Armenians.

Hatred and Suspicion

The following passage is from the book I keep mentioning: Imperium, by Ryszard Kapuscinski. Briefly, it has to do with the hatred and suspicion that exists between Armenia and Azerbaijan.

With a couple of choice observations, Kapuscinski shows how hopeless such situations can be, especially when the enemies live in such close cramped quarters. Right on top of each other, basically. Sound familiar??

Imperium, by the way, was published in 1994. In the Azerbaijan chapters, he describes not only his trip through the Caucasus in the 1950s, but he also tells of his visit to Azerbaijan and Armenia during the years of 1989 through 1991. So this is just as the situation was exploding between the two peoples, simultaneous with the collapse of the entire edifice of Communism, which had, to some degree, muted the ethnic violence in all of the republics. Once that edifice no longer existed, all bets were off. People were free to hate each other all on their own, and on their own terms. My point, too, is that the following excerpt is from before the ceasefire in 1994:

Azerbaijanis, like Armenians, divide mankind into two opposing camps.

For Armenians, an ally is one who believes that Nagorno-Karabakh is a problem. The rest are enemies.

For Azerbaijanis, an ally is one who believes that Nagorno-Karabakh is not a problem. The rest are enemies.

The extremity and finality of these positions is remarkable. It isn't merely that among Armenians one cannot say, "I believe that the Azerbaijanis are right," or that among Azerbaijanis one cannot maintain, "I believe that the Armenians are right." No such stance even enters the realm of possibility -- either group would instantly hate you and then kill you! In the wrong place or among the wrong people even to say, "There is a problem," (or, "There is no problem") is enough to put oneself at risk of being strangled, hanged, stoned, burned.

It is also unimaginable to make the following speech in either Baku or Yerevan: Listen. Decades ago (who living among us can even remember those times?), some Turkish pasha and the savage Stalin threw our Caucasian nest this terrible cuckoo's egg, and from that time on, for the entire century, we have been tormenting and killing one another, while they, in their musty graves, are cackling so loudly one can hear them. And we are living in so much poverty, after all, there is so much backwardness and dirt all around, that we should really reconcile our differences and finally set about doing some work!

This person would never make it to the end of his speech, for the moment either side realized what he was driving at, the unfortunate moralist and negotiator would be deprived of his life.

Three plagues, three contagions, threaten the world.

The first is the plague of nationalism.

The second is the plague of racism.

The third is the plague of religious fundamentalism.

All three share one trait, a common denominator -- an aggressive, all-powerful, total irrationality. Anyone stricken with one of these plagues is beyond reason. In his head burns a sacred pyre that awaits only its sacrificial victims. Every attempt at calm conversation will fail. He doesn't want a conversation, but a declaration that you agree with him, admit that he is right, join the cause. Otherwise you have no significance in his eyes, you do not exist, for you count only if you are a tool, an instrument, a weapon. There are no people -- there is only the cause.

A mind touched by such a contagion is a closed mind, one-dimensional, monothematic, spinning round one subject only -- its enemy. Thinking about our enemy sustains us, allows us to exist. That is why the enemy is always present, is always with us. When near Yerevan a local guide shows me one of the old Armenian basilicas, he finishes his commentary with a contemptuous rhetorical question: "Could those Azerbaijanis build such a basilica?" When later, in Baku, a local guide draws my attention to a row of ornamental, art nouveau houses, he concludes his explanations with this scornful remark: "Could Armenians construct such apartment buildings?"

Azerbaijan - Part IV - Government

This post talks about the Azeri government.

Government

In the early 1990s, Azerbaijan was falling apart. It was conducting a war with Armenia, it was newly independent after decades of Moscow rule, the old communist system was cracking up, they had two official currencies, and they were trying to become a democracy. The country had devolved into a criminal enterprise. Chaos, murder, "military" roadblocks on every corner (roadblocks basically set up to extort money and bribes out of the passersby)...all hell breaking loose.

It very quickly became clear that the only people in the country who knew how to do anything (and by that I mean, anything having to do with creating or maintaining a government) were the old Communists. People so long subjected to overbearing rule like the Azeris can't just bounce back into a multiparty democracy in a year's time, although this was basically the expectation all across the former Soviet Union.

Actually, "bounce back" is completely the wrong term since Azerbaijan wasn't exactly known for being a flourishing democracy before Communism. This is even more of a struggle, since the Azeri's memory did not encompass any memory of democracy. They had no idea what to do.

The Azeris attempted to create a democratic government (and in light of the events of the early 21st century, I say "GOOD FOR THEM"), but the new state did not work at all. Criminals and gangsters had the run of the country. The democratically elected president was Ebulfez Elcibey. Poor man, he didn't stand a chance. He eventually fled Baku when militia leaders marched on the capital, demanding change.

Elcibey disappearing left a power vacuum which needed to be filled immediately. And, amazingly, after seven decades of crushing communist rule, the Azeris welcomed back to power the former Soviet party chief Geidar Aliyev. Aliyev was also an ex-KGB man. This all occurred in 1993.

It's an incredible story (and it didn't just happen in Azerbaijan). In many of the countries freed so suddenly from the yoke of the Soviet Union, the first tentative attempts at democracy were disasters. People weren't ready yet. Militias and gangsters and criminals easily ignored the rules, and ran these countries like their own personal fiefdoms. So eventually, people cried out for the return of the Communist leaders. To come and at least help them keep things orderly. They did not want a return of Communism, but they wanted a strong leader. They needed a strong leader. So these ex-Communist guys, ex-Communist Party chiefs, returned to the countries where they had ruled during Communism, and became "democratically" elected Presidents.

Aliyev returned to power in Azerbaijan. He very quickly started ACTING. He was able to get a ton of things done. He arranged a cease fire with Armenia. He dismantled all of the unofficial roadblocks which were terrorizing the populace, and also adding to the criminal atmosphere of the country. He established (of course) a nice personality cult around himself. You kind of cannot stop a diehard communist leader from creating a personality cult. They cannot help themselves.

So he basically snapped everybody into shape, but he didn't create any institutions. He didn't focus on the micro-management level of government. He didn't try to figure out ways to get people back to work, to heat up the economy, to fix all the damn potholes. I suppose he had other more pressing concerns immediately: like all of the homeless wandering war refugees, and the warlords and militia leaders trying to run the country themselves.

Aliyev is still the President of Azerbaijan today.

Azerbaijan - Part III - Oil

This post talks about the unresolved issue of oil in Azerbaijan.

Oil

Oil is nothing new to this region.

Alexander the Great, as he waltzed his way through the region way back in those B.C. years, noticed methane gas, as well as Zoroastrian temples. Zoroastrians were fire worshippers from Persia, mostly.

In the 10th century, Arab writers were referring to Baku as the place where oil comes from. Oil would be shipped from this area out to the rest of the known world, using the Silk Route across Asia.

In the 17th century, Turks describe the area around Baku as having "burning ground". One of my favorite images is from a Turkish writer who says the ground is so hot from the burning fuel beneath it, that you could put a cauldron of water down directly onto the ground, and it would start to boil within minutes.

In the 1860s, the first oil derricks go up. In 1873, the derricks strike oil big time. Azerbaijan quickly became a Kuwait or a Saudi Arabia of this earlier time. Baku grew into a cosmopolitan city, as opposed to a Turkic backwater, perched on the edge of the Caspian Sea, tipping off into Central Asia. People made massive fortunes in Azerbaijan. In the 1870s and 1880s Baku was one of the world's richest and most populous cities.

In 1920, the city of Baku was overrun by Bolshevik soldiers and history pretty much stopped. They endured seven decades of collectivisation and poverty under Communist rule. Additionally, during this time, Azerbaijan has been completely destroyed by pollution from the careless oil drilling. Oil lies pooled up in the streets. The beach on the Caspian Sea apparently looks like a post-apocalyptic disaster zone.

In 1997, Azerbaijan had another oil boom. There was talk, as well, of building an oil pipeline below the Caspian Sea, in order to transport all the oil from all the "stans" (Kazakhstan, especially) to Baku, and then to be shipped out from Azerbaijan. If this plan was completed, Baku could potentially become one of the most important places on the planet. Azeris were exhilarated, thrilled. (And so begins the devastation of societies brought about by big oil.) Foreign businessmen started coming to their country. They had to install credit card machines in the run down Stalinist hotels in Baku. Nightclubs were built. Baku was trying to modernize itself and clean itself up in a year, where other cities go through such transformations over generations.

The oil boom went bust in 1998, with a drop in oil prices. The hopes for the massive oil fields in the Caspian Sea (the estimates of what people hoped to find were mind-boggling) were dashed. Russia collapsed financially, an event which had worldwide implications.

And by 1999, Azerbaijan was back to a Caucausus backwater, with no hopes for the future. Oil would not "save" them from having to develop a working society. This is the insidiousness of oil societies. The populations make a deal with the Devil. Okay, okay, the regime can do whatever it wants, as long as that oil keeps flowing, and keeps the money coming in, and we don't have to look at what needs to be fixed, what isn't working.

Azerbaijan had hoped (of course, subconsciously) to skip the necessary stages of nation-building: forming a government, setting up a banking system, helping a middle class to flourish...all that stuff...by having oil spurting out of the Caspian and into their pockets. So far, this has not happened.

Azerbaijan - Part II - War with Armenia

The first post is your basic introduction to Azerbaijan.

This next one is an overview of the war between Azerbaijan and Armenia.

The whole Nagorno-Karabakh thing is a continuing story - everything has changed - but this post talks about the events of the early to mid 1990s.

War with Armenia, 1991

The war Azerbaijan had with Armenia (officially over in 1994, but the tension continues) is one of the many legacies of "Stalin's chessboard". Stalin moved entire populations all over the map, in order to uproot and disorient them, as well as punish them. He created illogical borders. He surrounded certain populations he hated with their sworn enemies. Stalin made sure that he would never die, that his memory would live on. Not just in the history books, but in the confusion and hatred and warfare breaking out all over the Caucausus and Central Asia at almost all times. This is mostly his doing. The thought would have pleased him.

This war between the two countries is over a place called Nagorno-Karabakh. It is officially part of Azerbaijan, yet it is basically an ethnic Armenian enclave. Completely cut off from any access to Armenia proper. The ethnic dispute over this small bit of land hastened the breakup of the Soviet Union.

In the early 1920s, the Bolsheviks conquered the Caucasus, and made Nagorno-Karabakh an autonomous region within Turkic Azerbaijan. The population was something like 95% Armenian, so these kinds of "autonomous region" solutions never make any sense, but this is what the Bolsheviks did. Stalin knew damn well that Nagorno was ALWAYS going to be an issue between Turks and Armenians. He wanted to insure that chaos and hatred and darkness would not just exist in the present, but would stretch out into the future. So he did not unite Nagorno with Armenia (which would have made sense ethnically), but left it in the middle of Azerbaijan, under Baku (the capital of Azerbaijan) control.

So Nagorno became this teeny island of frightened Christianity surrounded by Turks. Don't forget, either, that just in 1915, the 20th century welcomed its first ethnic genocide. The Turks slaughtered over a million Armenians to "cleanse" the area so Armenians had good reason to fear the Turks. This entire area of Nagorno was surrounded by Azeri militia and Red Army troops, with no way in or out. This situation existed for seven decades. A complete DISASTER created by Stalin.

Then along comes Gorbachev, and glasnost and perestroika. By this time, the Armenian population in Nagorno had shrunk a bit and they were afraid that one day they would be minorities in this enclave. In 1988, Armenians started demonstrating in Yerevan for unification, at the very same time that Azeri authorities began a crackdown on Armenians. Armenians are always being "cracked down" upon. So the Soviet troops are sent to crack down on everybody, but ethnic violence kept breaking out...Azerbaijan blockaded all the Armenian communities in Nagorno, and Armenia is shouting about how Nagorno is and always has been a part of Armenia.

1991 comes. The Soviet Union collapses. Full scale war erupts between Armenia and Azerbaijan. In 1994 the war ends, with Armenia the clear victor. They drove out all the Azeri forces and annexed other areas, so that Armenia and Karabakh could be joined by a thin corridor. The outside world "recognized" none of this. And by that I mean, if you looked on a map, you would see no evidence of "Nagorno Karabakh" as being anything other than part of Azerbaijan.

Azerbaijan - Part I - Introduction

Last week, I imported all my "Georgia" essays from my old blog ... It's kind of a good archive, although it is (as I fully admit) mostly regurgitated information from actual experts.

I'm pressed for time today, in terms of writing, so I am going to import the various posts I did on Azerbaijan, at my old blog.

It was Ryzsard Kapucsinski's astonishing book Imperium which opened me to the world of the Caucasus for the first time. It's a great book - one of my favorites of his. He evokes these ancient mountainous countries in such a way that you feel you are there yourself.

So ... here we go ... 6 short essays on Azerbaijan.

Azerbaijan - Introduction

Azerbaijan is a poor Turkic country, sitting on the Caspian Sea. It has borders with Russia, Georgia, Armenia (with which it has been at war), Turkey and Iran. This country (or the land, actually…since the Azeri Turks have never really known unity…They identify with Turkish and Muslim identities rather than any sort of national identity) was conquered by Alexander the Great (but then again, who the hell wasn't?), and has been fought over by Turkey and Persia for centuries. The battle for influence within Azerbaijan between Turkey and Iran goes on until this day.

The Azeris are Shi'ite Muslims. For those of you who do not know, there are 2 main sects of Islam: Sunni Muslim (think Saudi Arabia), and Shi'ite Muslim (think Iran). This is an incredible oversimplification, but suffice it to say that there is an enormous painful split between these two "brands" of Muslims.

However, the Azeris are a mish-mash. They are Turkic (which is, traditionally, Sunni), and yet their religion is Shiite. They also are relatively secular (which is a no-no in both sects). Liquor overflows in Azerbaijan, as does pornography and prostitution.

One other fact, which I find completely fascinating: They have changed their alphabet three times in the 20th century. (This is evidence of the confusion in the country, as they try to congeal into some sort of cohesive nation.) Alphabets and languages have been imposed on these people for centuries. This country has been conquered and reconquered and conquered again countless times.

In the 1920s, Azerbaijan changed its alphabet from Arabic to Latin. In the 1930s they changed from Latin to Cyrillic. And in the 1990s they changed back to Latin from Cyrillic. I read a great article about what massive confusion this has caused. Street signs, newspapers, schoolbooks…all in different languages.

So you can imagine how confused the populace is, with all this shifting about. This is one of the reasons why Armenia was so able to kick their butt in the war over Nagorno Karabakh, in the 1990s, because Armenia has a strong (iron-strong) sense of national identity, and national personality, and the Azeris are still searching for theirs.

Lucia Joyce

I rolled my eyes when I heard a book was coming out about Lucia Joyce. I admit it. I rolled my eyes AGAIN when I read some of the excerpts from that book in this review The New Yorker.

Who exactly would read this book?

I am not sure. Lucia was mad. Her father was James Joyce. As far as I can tell - that is all that is interesting about her.

(Speaking of psychiatry and the Irish - Lucia was analyzed by Jung.)

The Ellmann biography of James Joyce has it all in there. Joyce was convinced that the madness of his daughter, the schizophrenia, was actually genius - As a genius himself - he couldn't tell the difference at first between his daughter and himself - her erratic behavior and "artistic" personality seemed like divine inspiration to him. He thought her madness was the 'art' in her - and he did not want to squelch her expression of herself in any way - He did not want to repeat what he had gone through in his childhood. So her illness progressed undiagnosed for quite some time. He had a hard time admitting how sick she was. It broke his heart.

Here's why I rolled my eyes. Of COURSE Carol Shloss (the author of the new book on Lucia) has a whole theory about what was up with Lucia. She HAS to have a theory because there isn't really any evidence - no proof - It's all just guesswork. Also: again, what is all that interesting about a young woman who went mad? She's only interesting because of who her father is.

You don't need to have a theory about James Joyce to write about him. The facts are enough, his writing is enough.

But here we have, yet again, another muse-to-the-artist biography - which, sorry, sounds like sheer invention.

Joyce's wife? He admitted that she was his muse. The entirety of the book Ulysses took place on June 16, the day he and Nora "first went out walking" together. Molly Bloom's monologue at the end of the book is obviously taken from Nora's Galway-girl speech.

But to ... raise Lucia up to the level of a collaborator? An inspiration for Finnegans Wake? Joyce used his whole life in his writing. He was inspired by everything. He created a whole new language, for God's sake. So knowing that - obviously Lucia was in there. Included.

But enough to warrant an entire book? It seems a stretch.

Listen to this excerpt from the book (I cringed as I read it):

There are two artists in this room, and both of them are working. Joyce is watching and learning. The two communicate with a secret, unarticulated voice. The writing of the pen, the writing of the body become a dialogue of artists, performing and counterperforming, the pen, the limbs writing away. The father notices the dance’s autonomous eloquence. He understands the body to be the hieroglyphic of a mysterious writing, the dancer’s steps to be an alphabet of the inexpressible. . . . The place where she meets her father is not in consciousness but in some more primitive place before consciousness. They understand each other, for they speak the same language, a language not yet arrived into words and concepts but a language nevertheless, founded on the communicative body. In the room are flows, intensities.

Uh ... were you there? How do you know?

And lastly: EUUUU.

What is your evidence for this scene? Are you quoting a letter? James Joyce's diary? Lucia's diary? Something firsthand at least?

Turns out, this entire "imaginative" scene comes from one comment in an interview with one of Lucia's cousins 50 years later. This cousin described how she would come to visit the Joyce's, and Joyce (who was able to work calmly in the midst of loud chaos) would sit and write and "Lucia danced silently in the background."

That's the quote. That's it. Joyce worked while "Lucia danced silently in the background."

And from that one comment - said 50 years in retrospect - we get a monologue from Shloss about the father "noticing the dancer's autonomous elegance".

How do you know that?? He did? Where the hell do you get what you just wrote from THAT?

Joan Acocella, the reviewer, calls Schloss on all of this stuff. She's merciless, thankfully. It's a very well-written review.

My favorite comment from Acocella follows this excerpt from the book:

Lucia’s mind was filled with the grammar of vitality, prizing the dynamic over the static order. She imagined herself in terms of tension and its release; she felt the anxieties of opposing muscle to muscle and the heady mastery of resistances, knew the peace of working with gravity and not against it. To drop, to rebound, to lift, to suspend oneself. To fall and recover, to know the experience of grounding oneself and then arising to circle to the edge of ecstasy. Priests danced, children danced, philosophers’ thoughts rose and fell in rhythmic sequence; lovers danced, and so did Lucia.

Acocella writes: "This is what you get when you tear up letters on a biographer."

That made me laugh out loud.

Lucia left no evidence behind - the Joyce family supposedly destroyed a lot of her letters - and so now - because there is no evidence, no letters, no diaries, we get a fantasy-scene like that.

However - one interesting thing:

Zelda Fitzgerald had her first breakdown (or at least, first recorded breakdown) in Paris - after she became convinced that she could re-make herself into a ballerina. She became obsessed. She danced 6 hours a day. Apparently, she was a laughably bad dancer. Her life was the ballet. And she went mad.

Lucia's first recorded crack-up was also after she decided that she had to become a prima ballerina, and devoted her life to the dance.

A strange confluence. The same doctor treated them both as well ... in some sanitarium in Europe ... not sure where.

Acocella talks about the "biography-of-the-artist’s-woman" - the purpose of such biographies, etc.

But here is where she really makes her point - a point which Nancy Milford (who wrote the biography of Zelda Fitzgerald I talked about a while back) makes time and time again in the book she wrote about Zelda. (Who actually WAS as interesting as Scott).

There is a difference between being a genius who can work and a genius who cannot work. Zelda may have had some kind of genius for SOMEthing (her letters to Scott are unbelievable) - but it was Scott who sat down every day, and wrote, and worked, and sent stuff out, and corrected stuff, and re-edited stuff - THAT is an artist. The mixture of inspiration and discipline. Zelda, paralyzed by her own needs, her own desire to be an artist, did nothing. Wrote one novel, which failed miserably. And that was that.

Acocella writes:

All these biographies, subtle or not, are valuable, and not only for the sake of justice (when that is what they achieve) but because they tell an important truth about how artists get their work done. Many people are brilliant, and from that you may get one novel, as Zelda Fitzgerald did. But to write five novels (Scott) or seventeen (Nabokov)—to make a career—you must have, with brilliance, a number of less glamorous virtues, for example, patience, resilience, and courage. Lucia Joyce encountered obstacles and threw up her hands; James Joyce faced worse obstacles—for most of his writing life, publishers ran from him in droves—but he persisted. When the critics made fun of Zelda’s novel, she stopped publishing; when Scott had setbacks—indeed, when he was a falling-down drunk—he went on hoping, and working.

Amazing.

Whiteout

Now I can't see across the alley at all.

Hmmm. I have a friend who is coming to stay with me for the next week - and she is scheduled to land here in New York at 4:30.

Last year, when she and her husband came to stay with me, we had the massive blizzard which shut down New York. People literally climbing over mountains at every corner.

She brings the weather.

But I am wondering about flights in and out. I can't see a damn thing out my window.

THIS JUST IN: All flights into Newark have been canceled.

Emotion in Performance

A riveting article in The Guardian about musicians, and emotion - Does emotion get in the way of performance? Is it inappropriate for musicians (singers, conductors, violinists, whatever) to try to experience emotion - or should they just step back - and let the music do all the work?

There is no right answer to this.

Mainly because there are exceptions to every rule.

The exceptions are the geniuses. Geniuses always screw it up for everybody else, don't they?

The article opens with the following paragraph:

Last week a friend told me she was going to sing at a relative's funeral and couldn't imagine how she would do so without crying. She wondered if it is hard for professional musicians to play sad music in public. Do they have to feel sad too? Or do they have to shut themselves off from the emotion of the music in order to be able to perform?

I have heard it said, from my voice teachers, that you can't cry and sing at the same time. You must maintain low and steady breathing - you can give the illusion of tears - through the sounds you make - but the second you get choked up - Well, even just saying "choked up" is a perfect description of what happens to the throat when one starts to cry.

All very good advice.

Unless you consider Judy Garland. I have seen Judy Garland cry and sing at the same time.

The week after JFK was assassinated (of course, I wasn't born yet) - she (who was a good friend of Kennedy's - and was doing her live television show at the time) sang "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" as her tribute to this fallen man. My friend Mitchell has a tape of her doing this.

I can honestly say I have never seen anything so powerful and so wrenching in my life. It's almost unwatchable.

The woman sang her guts out - she was on the edge of emotional collapse - and the sound was not cut off, she was not choked up.

Judy Garland was a genius. When emotion came up in her, her response was the opposite of what happens to the rest of us: The channel opened even WIDER. The throat opened even WIDER.

It is an astonishing display of emotion meeting the discipline of art.

Susan Tomes, author of the piece in The Guardian, discusses this issue.

I particularly loved the Andre Previn anecdote she relates:

Years ago I was struck by Andr� Previn's description of a concert in which he conducted a romantic symphony immediately after hearing that a close friend had died. Distraught, he resolved to dedicate the performance to his friend's memory. Throughout the piece he felt convinced that a sense of tragic power had elevated the whole performance.

However, when he watched a video of the concert afterwards, he was horrified to find that far from raising the level, his misery had got in the way. The way he directed the orchestra seemed haphazard and melodramatic, and his facial expressions distracting. His emotional identification with the music had actually prevented him from controlling it.

Actors are, pretty much universally, obsessed with "tears". Can you cry? Can you produce real tears? The actors in grad school who could produce actual tears down their face were envied. (Their acting might have been shit, but dammit: they had real tears!!)

It has taken me a while to realize: Tears can be cheap. Not always. But sometimes. An actor who produces tears in too facile a way may be letting you know that their feelings are not all that deep. I don't worry about "tears" anymore. It seems to be completely the wrong place to put my energy when I get down to work.

My favorite actress in the world, Gena Rowlands, has said point-blank, "I just don't cry. It's not one of the things I am able to do easily."

It completely doesn't matter.

One of the biggest lessons I have learned in acting - and it really has come about in the past year - as I have performed the piece I wrote in various venues:

My goal for the piece, which is meant to be quite funny, but which then ends on a tragic note, is that I, the performer, remain completely calm. Almost blank. Void of emotion. My role in the piece, which is called "74 Facts and One Lie" is that - I am stating the facts. Like a dispatch. Like a lecture. I am not trying to show you how I feel. I am not trying to display the depth of my pain. On the contrary. I am telling you: I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine.

But what is extraordinary about this approach (and here's the lesson) - is that, by remaining void of emotion - by remaining dry-eyed - Somehow what ends up happening is: The AUDIENCE gets to feel the emotion. The AUDIENCE gets the catharsis. It's not about ME having a catharsis.

I don't shed a tear. But afterwards - I am bombarded by teary-eyed audience members. THEY get to feel MY pain.

To me - it has been a whole new level of my art.

It's not selfish anymore. It's moved into a more storytelling mode - one of the most ancient forms of theatre.

Tomes says:

We have all seen famous performers who emote violently when they play, performing the emotions of the music as well as the music itself. We hear a lot these days about "ownership of the material", but with artists like Jacqueline du Pr� or Leonard Bernstein it almost seemed the other way round: they appeared possessed by the music. Undoubtedly they felt it deeply, and fans loved their involvement, but for me this type of performance is counterproductive. I feel I'm being invited to witness them having an emotional experience, and this prevents me from having one myself.

True. True.

I saw Philip Seymour Hoffman do The Seagull in Central Park, with Meryl Streep and Kevin Kline. He played Konstantin - the son - who ends up killing himself in the last moment of the play.

But the way Chekhov has written it is:

Konstantin doesn't walk around knowing he is going to kill himself. Yes, he is melancholy, yes, he is in love, yes, he wants to be a great artist - but he is filled with hope. Tragic yearning. He believes in art, he believes in what he is doing.

And then - at the end - he snaps.

Philip Seymour Hoffman (as much as I LOVE his film work) walked around from Minute One in a state of suicidal despair. He cried a RIVER of tears. He was in tears from beginning to end. (Obviously, he is one of those people who 'can cry'.) I basically was EAGER for him to commit suicide, just so he would stop his whining. I watched him mope around, and thought, 2 hours into the show, "Jesus Christ, please just kill yourself and put yourself out of your misery. Put me out of my misery, please." And this is SO not Chekhov's intent with this character!

Emotion on stage is a tricky thing. You don't want to fall into the trap of behaving like an ACTOR (who is, in general, eager to experience all kinds of negative emotions - we love to feel rage and embarrassment and grief - it's part of being an actor to want to call those feelings up) - as opposed to behaving like a PERSON (who, usually, does whatever they can do to NOT feel negative emotions - who NEVER wants to telegraph to the world: "LOOK AT MY PAIN. LOOK AT MY PAIN.")

You don't want to look like an actor on stage. You want to look like a person. This, again, is where emotion meets discipline. Structure is freeing. The limitations of the stage are, actually, quite freeing.

I have fallen into the trap of wanting to SHOW all the emotion I've got going on - mainly because I have worked so hard to get it ... and that is very bad acting.

My new goal is: I remain dry-eyed and the audience cries.

That is a much more powerful and satisfying exchange.

Tomes ends up with:

Students often ask whether it's important to "put yourself into the music". My answer is that it isn't something you have to strive consciously to do. Other people can't help noticing how you look and move, and your presence - physical and spiritual - is an integral part of your performance.

There may be value in learning to control distracting gestures and superfluous movement, but no player needs to strive to put themselves in to the music, because they are there anyway as the vessel through which the music passes.

The player will certainly make an impact on the audience. Much less sure is whether the music will come across. In every field of music, fans have a special love for those performers who give us the music as the primary experience, and themselves as the secondary. Audiences sense where the performer's priorities lie, and for whose sake they are in the business of performance.

Audiences sense where the performer's priorities lie, and for whose sake they are in the business of performance...

Truer words....

Snow

And so here is the snow. Looking out the window at the grey building across the alley - the air in between swirling with snow.

Love it.

DIARY FRIDAY

This entry is looooong.

One summer - many moons ago - I performed with Pat McCurdy at the Milwaukee Summer Fest. He hired me, and 3 friends (Ann Marie, Kenny, and Phil) to be his back-up people for his songs. We made up goofy dances and the like. We spent 4 days in Milwaukee, having various adventures.

It is, to date, maybe the most fun I have ever had in my entire life.

One of the things which strikes me as amusing, reading through this one long entry which covers those 4 days - is how OBSESSED I was with air-conditioning. It is as though air-conditioning is some kind of novelty to me. It is as though I have never before been in A/C. I didn't count how many times I reference air-conditioning - but it certainly is a lot. Like: Sheila - get over it. Hotels have air-conditioning. Why are you mentioning it 5000 times?

SUMMER Milwaukee Summer Fest

The inside of my head is a kaleidoscope. It feels like I have been gone for weeks. This has been an "epoch" in my life, as Anne of Green Gables would say. The shows were unbelievable. A fantasy. A dream come true. Literally thousands of people cheering. All of us bursting through the green curtains, the music pounding, the lights hot and bright, the screaming throngs, yes, throngs ? what a RUSH. As Phil said after the first show, "This was huge. This was huge." That's the perfect word. The whole thing was huge.

Monday in Milwaukee:
The first night the show ended up being canceled. It had begun to rain. The sky was apocalyptic. Black and swirling and ominous with lightning forks. The sky was greenish as well. It was gorgeous, in a way, but we all resented it. Phil said, in regards to the sky being green, "That's not right. That's never right." He's such a sailor.

The images of our time swirl by me.

The 4 of us in the back of the van, wearing our freshly ironed Pat T-shirts (Ann did that at the hotel) and shorts (girls in black, boys in green) and as Pat was taking corners we were all falling into each other and propping each other up.

I announced, "We have no boundaries anymore."

Pipe picked us up.

The 4 of us were insane, waiting for him down in the lobby. Pipe laughed at us. "You guys didn't have to wait down here!"

I was jittery and nervous.

Every time Pipe would break suddenly or make a fast turn, Phil would yell out, "Hey! There's dancers back here!"

We all had secret moments of bonding and excitement, through touching and eye contact. I love my fellow dancers. By the second show, we had leapfrogged to the point where we were all like brothers and sisters. It was great.

We went and picked up Mike. He was standing on the sidewalk outside of his apartment, holding his guitar, with 2 cowboy hats piled on his head ? to give to me and Ann Marie for our line-dancing during "Imagine a Picture". He remembered!

We then went to go get Pat. The rain hadn't really started yet when we pulled up in front of Pat's house ? we were all feeling a little bit claustrophobic in the un-airconditioned van. We all got out. The sky was spectacular. The 4 of us hooked our feet up on this iron fence, holding onto the bars, and watched the sky as though it were a movie. The wind was enormous. The trees were all freaked out with the leaves turned upside down and grey. The air was thick and grey. The sky was angry and filled with incredible lightning. Everything was greenish. It was all so beautiful, but I couldn't really succumb to the beauty because I wanted us to perform so badly. My insides were a total circus.

There were so many moments when I would step outside myself and the experience for a second, and look around at my beautiful fellow cast members, all of us in crisp white Pat T-shirts, and I would have to burst into laughter. Ann and I had our cowgirl hats on, and we went to a parked car to check out our reflections. We practiced our line dance on the sidewalk.

Then Pat came out of his house ? we all piled into the van. Pat drove and Pipe climbed into the back with us dancers and we were off.

We sat in Parking Lot E for an hour. We were waiting for the word: show or no show. It poured tropically for that whole time. No A/C. No windows, except for the 2 in front and those had to be open only a crack because the rain was being blown in horizontal lines by the frigging funnel clouds all around us. The stuffiness was nearly unbearable. I kept thinking someone would call the ASPCA like they do with dogs trapped in cars at the beach.

"My tongue is swelling." I said.

"I think it's lightening up," said Kenny, when the downpour reached its heaviest moment. He literally had to yell to be heard. We roared with laughter.

We could hear the crowd screaming for the BoDeans ? they weren't performing outside ? so their show was on.

Ann finally declared, "I don't care anymore!" and went outside. Now, it was only drizzling ? the downpour had stopped. We all got out to breathe the cooler air.

Eventually, the show was canceled.

Meanwhile, Bob, Ann's new boyfriend, way on the other side of the midway, was trying to scam his way over to the Miller Oasis by saying to various Summer Fest employees, "My girlfriend is performing tonight!" Is that the funniest thing?

Pipe dropped us all off at the hotel. Once we dancers were all alone with each other, we felt more comfortable expressing our open disappointment. We had all kept instinctively quiet in the van. We're grateful to be involved at all, but once we were alone, we all were like: SHIT. And of course, by this point, it had cleared up and was now a beautiful cool night.

The boys drove back up to the farmhouse where they were staying. We all were slightly disheartened. We had reached such a fevered pitch getting ready beforehand in the motel room, all for naught.

Ann and I crashed in the lovely air-conditioning. We had basically moved in. Clothes hanging, hot rollers everywhere, makeup scattered. When Pat walked in on Wednesday, he glanced around and said, "You live here now." The nesting instinct.

Oh, this is funny:

It is scary how in sync Ann and I are. More and more, we shriek things out in unison. Weird things, obscure things, out-of-nowhere things. She and I were meant to be friends. It had to happen. At one point in the van, we said an entire sentence in unison. There was a pause. Everyone is so used to this by now, but Phil couldn't help but say, "You guys really do speak in unison more than anyone else I know."

Tuesday in Milwaukee
Ann and I awoke. In unison. Of course.

It was early and we needed coffee so we went out in search of a Dunkin Donuts. It was already very hot. There was a whitish haze in the air. We ate at the D&D we finally found, and then drove back to the hotel room (our home).

Kenny had had this idea of getting T-shirts made up for all of us, Summer Fest/Pat McCurdy shirts. None of us could stop saying the words "I'm with Pat" the entire time. So we wanted the shirts to say "I'm with Pat" across the front. Ann and I decided to do a little research on our own so we got out our Milwaukee yellow pages and started making calls. We alternated. Comparison shopped. Asked a million questions. Ann took notes. We were all spread out on her bed, phone books, phone in between us, pad of paper, we were very business-like. We were also very into instant gratification, and it didn't look like it was gonna happen.

"I want this now," said Ann.

During all of this, Ann decided that she wanted to get a massage, so she started making calls regarding that and she found one right down the street. As she was discussing prices with this woman, I decided that I wanted to get one too. Ann basically told this woman our whole life story in order for us to get appointments that day. "You see, we're only in town for a couple of days because we're performing at Milwaukee Summer Fest-" (Ann rolled her eyes at me, and I burst into laughter.) So Edel, the masseuse, rearranged her schedule for us.

Ann said, "I am totally unembattled about this. I want a massage today." Ann Marie makes things happen. Our appointments were later in the day so we decided to go have lunch at a Mexican restaurant that Ted recommended to me. I called the restaurant (Ann and I were all about the yellow pages this morning), got directions (which Ann and I later chose to ignore, somehow feeling that we knew the city better than the native who gave us the directions), and we set off.

It was a hot hazy day.

We shrieked along the freeway. It was so fun to be on a kind of vacation together. Summer! A whole day of nothingness! In Milwaukee! With this enormously exciting event in the evening.

We had the windows rolled down. Ann was driving fast, it was windy and loud ? glorious! Then, suddenly, Ann rolled up my window and my fingers got crushed. Then followed a white-hot three seconds of total chaos. Poor Ann. Suddenly I started screaming at the top of my lungs in total panic, "OPEN THE WINDOW! OPEN THE WINDOW!" At first Ann thought I was joking since my screaming was so hyperbolic. For the one second that she thought I was joking, and the window didn't go down, I then thought that the window was stuck, so then I really lost my mind. "OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!" Then she rolled down the window ? oh, I just BURST into laughter just now remembering this whole thing, the 2 of us screaming and crying ? I was clutching my clawed hand, and then I burst into stormy primal tears. It was a physiologically-based cry, like sneezing or sleeping. It was a literal bursting into tears. I cried for 20 minutes.

Poor Ann felt so bad, and so she started crying, and there we were. Cruising down the freeway, both of us in tears.

She kept imploring, "Bend your fingers! Can you bend them?"

Just writing this down is making me laugh.

Once I began crying, I started crying about my whole life, and how clumsy I am (even though this was not a case of clumsiness). I could not stop crying once I started. Ann kept saying, with tears streaming down her face, "This wasn't your fault!"

Well, my fingers are fine. They were a little bruised the next day but that was it.

Somehow, though, the crying released many of the stress toxins I had coursing through my veins. Out they came with my tears. It was a great stress-reducer. Also, once all the toxins were out, the crying stopped immediately.

It was like a huge clap of thunder. The pressure released, the sky was clear again, the air cool and fresh.

We had a lingering Mexican lunch that was very yummy and we both had 2 margaritas. We had a surly rude waitress. I sucked down my 2 drinks, limp as a dishrag from the crying, and then had a nice tequila buzz, and then Ann and I had a fascinating terrific discussion about religion. It was a GREAT talk.

We left the restaurant, emerged into the hot air, and drove off, singing along to "Close Every Door" from Joseph, at the tops of our lungs. Windows wide open. The weather was a sauna.

We went and had incredible massages.

The whole day was about toxin expulsion. Crying, tequila, huge conversation about religion, massage. We left Edel's with oil on our skin, in these uplifted spacy states, like we had been roaming the Milky Way and were trying to relearn our bodies again.

We went back to A/C land. There was a busted soda machine in the lobby. Ann pressed the Coke button, she didn't even put any money in, and it was like winning a slot machine. Cokes kept pouring out. We were laughing hysterically. We loaded ourselves down with so many cans that we could not open our door. Girls, take a step back. We got a bucket of ice and filled it with our free sodas.

Just as funny was the boys showing up at our door later on, we opened up the door to admit them, and there they were, beaming with glee and greed, each holding about 7 cans of soda. They thought they would surprise us. I swung open the door so that they could see the bucket overflowing with our soda cans.

The 4 of us were out of control. We really did have the comfort level of siblings with each other. We ruled the hotel from Room 230. We were filming a "backstage video" of our experience ? so we moved furniture, we filmed in the lobby. We stole sodas.

We then had a quick run-through in the room. We definitely weren't as insanely excited as we had been the night before. We were a tiny bit jaded because of the cancellation.

Pipe came to get us and called up from the parking lot. He could hear our raucous behavior from down below.

We all bustled about. We each had a bag filled with stuff for the show. Phil continuously lost track of his bag. "Where's my bag? Where's my bag?" "Have you seen my bag?" "No, I'm fine ? just having my daily bag stress." It got to the point where every time I heard the word "bag" come out of Phil's mouth, I'd start to laugh.

Ann was in charge of all the hats in the show. She said, "Do you want me to own the hats?" "Own" the hats. She meant "own" in an emotional sense, as in "taking responsibility" ? which is so damn funny.

We climbed into the van with a very different energy from the night before.

It was hazy and extraordinarily hot, but we were at least confident that a show would happen. Pipe was so cute, pointing out Milwaukee landmarks to us (we, who were blind in the back), telling us stories about buildings.

We arrived at the Fest and went to Lot E again. We all piled out again.

I was amazed by the overpass. It fascinated me so much that Pat eventually started to referring to it as "Sheila's bridge". Pat had tickets for all of us, and we clustered around him like children waiting for dad to dole out allowance. All of us in our matching outfits. GOOFY. We were little Pat McCurdy chicklets. Then we were off, walking briskly through the throngs, holding bags, guitars, hats. Excitement mounting. Every third person we passed hailed Pat. "Pat!" "Hey, there's Pat!" "Pat, where you playing?" "Pat! Hi!"

Crowds and crowds of people. Hazy pink night. Neon beer signs everywhere. Sounds of music, sounds of screams from where Janet Jackson was performing. Everything was shimmery. And above it all was that magical prehistoric-looking overpass. Everything was so vital, so incredible. I'm ALIVE. It was one of those nights when I love everyone I see. It was so much fun, walking briskly through the Fest and its throngs with Pat.

We got to the Miller Oasis with its monolithic stage. Pat took us around to the back where there was a ramp going up into the backstage area, which was teeming with activity, security people on the edge, another band setting up, their entourage milling about.

This was funny: the name of the band preceding us was something along the lines of "Malatini". As were were driving over, someone asked, "Who's going before us?" and I said, "Mahi Mahi." This was a big hit, and within about 10 minutes, it was assimilated into everyone's vocabulary. Later, at the Fest, I overheard Pipe Jim say to someone, totally seriously, "Okay, so once Mahi Mahi finishes?"

None of us felt like exploring the Fest. We all felt the need to be in the immediate backstage area. There was so much to soak up! So many sensations! This was so big-time for us. In our own chaotic way, the 4 of us needed to focus. We needed to be all about the show. We had to wear Miller Oasis stickers. I loved having mine. We were all very into our stickers. Every moment was memorable, it was that kind of evening. Every image was a keeper. It was one of those rare times in life where I could totally observe my own life and think, "How cool! Look at how COOL my life is!" And yet I was still present in every moment. Vivid vivid VIVID. Technicolor. My eyes saw everything with microscopic clarity.

There were kegs of free beer backstage. There were 3 dressing rooms and the bands rotated. They were air conditioned and they had a terrible smell. The carpet was red and stained. Pat looked at the stain, glanced at me and said, "Musicians", shaking his head.

I immediately began to set up all my stuff, hanging up my change of costume, laying out all the shit I'd need during the show. It was so funny because during our "backstage video" ? we faked a fight between the 4 of us in the hotel room, we all began bickering and bitching at each other, and the entire time I kept packing up my bag, arranging my stuff on the bed, and Phil yelled at me, "Oh, the whole WORLD belongs to Sheila, right??" Hysterical. It became this big joke, and then there I was ? totally taking over one corner of the dressing room with all my stuff.

Kenny gathered all of us players together and we went into the backstage area to discuss logistics. We talked through stuff, got familiar. I just love the images so much of the 4 of us in shorts and Pat McCurdy T-shirts and sneakers and red stickers, walking around, having quick little summit meetings.

"Okay, so during Drive in Reverse?"
"All right, then, so we'll come on from this side for Groovy Thing?"
"Should I set up the cowboy hats here or?"
"Kenny, will you come on from this side for Mick, because?"

We wrote out the song list twice and taped them up where we could refer to them if we needed to during the frenzy of the show. There were all kinds of long-haired roadie types walking around and I was consummately in the way. I said, "Excuse me" 10 times. Ann and I loved to stand in the huge open "door" and watch the Summer Festers walk by, eating, drinking beer, looking up at us. With our Miller Oasis stickers. It gave us a nice important feeling.

We were all totally stressed, waiting for the show to begin. Pipe later called us all "jungle animals", because we were all 4 of us pacing back and forth. Separately. In our own worlds.

The 4 of us and Pat stood in a circle before the show (like Madonna did with her dancers in "Truth or Dare") to bond, and get psyched, and offer up wishes, one by one, to God. In the middle of my turn, in the middle of one of my sentences, Pat, who had been looking at me, totally interrupted my prayer and said, "Sheila, you are stacked."

I am still laughing about that.

The show of course was magic. Dreams come true. Thousands of screaming people.

After the show, the 4 dancers stood in the dressing room, soaking wet with sweat, speaking all at the same time, drinking free beer, talking nonstop. It was a raging success for all of us. I think Pat was very relieved. We were all blithering and chattering, twitching with adrenaline.

The 4 of us went out with Pipe and Mike afterwards to a bar, where a bunch of their friends were. Phil and Kenny were really into partying, but I was not due to my increasing recording anxiety. The bar was very smoky so I started having a mild panic attack that I would wake up the next day with no voice.

Connie was at the bar. Basically, Ann Marie is deathly afraid of Connie. She confessed this to me. "Don't ever leave me alone with Connie." I promised.

Pipe came over to me and Ann and was so sweet, talking to us, being mellow, telling us stories, taking care of us. He'd make you soup at a low moment. He'd rub your feet. He's a caretaker.

Kenny and Phil stayed on at the bar, and the rest of us left.

The night was unbelievably hot, and the air actually felt thick. We were all laughing about how Ann's mom used to say to her kids, "Don't hang" on nights such as this.

There we were, 1:30 in the morning, drowsing off to sleep in the back of the van as Pipe drove us through the deserted streets of Milwaukee.

The guys were going to crash in our room, and they promised us that they would be quiet.

And they were SO NOT QUIET when they came in. they were giggling like, literally, 8-year-old brothers. Ann and I had crawled into the same bed, and we fell fast asleep.

Wednesday in Milwaukee
Ann and I woke up, in unison, and LOVED the image of bare-chested straight-guys Kenny and Phil in bed together. The mood of hilarity began.

Kenny woke up and introduced a sleepy Phil as "Joe" and said that he had met "Joe" at "the Pabst stage." We did some more filming of our backstage video, and then the boys drove up to spend the day at the farmhouse. Kenny's sister from France was coming in that day with her husband and daughter. It was a very funny ruffled sleepy morning with the boys.

I was tightly coiled up ? knowing that I was recording the duet with Pat later that day.

Mike and Ann made plans for the morning. He was in a tour guide mode. They went to go take a tour of a brewery, and then Pat came to pick me up, and we drove to the studio. I took one look at the recording booth and had a brief flash, "I can't do this. I don't want to do this." But I instantly repressed the freak-out.

All I can say about the recording experience is that it was just perfect. I loved it so much. Once we were both in the booth, headphones on, I felt ready. No more fear. Before, I had clearly been showing some tension because Pat had taken me by the shoulders and shook me. Hard.

And then ? we did the duet in one take. Live. So what will end up being on the CD will be us actually singing to each other ? rather than him recording his part, and then me recording my part separately. We went through it once, together, just to get the feel for it ? and then it ended up coming out perfectly.

We sat and listened to it afterwards for about 3 times. It was so weird. Hearing my voice floating through the recording studio.

By the time we left, for Pat to drive me back to the hotel, the sun rays were long and lazy. It was still really hot. We were tired, relieved, happy. When I walked back into Room 230, Ann was asleep in the room. The silence of the air-conditioned space surrounded me. It's a strange thing, living in a motel. It's hard to settle. Ann and I did as much as we could, filled the drawers with clothes, made our beds, but I guess it's harder to settle down emotionally.

Stasis in darkness. Surreal. Time outside of time.

Then the insanity for that night's show started up again.

Ann was having some kind of allergy attack which she fought as best she could.

We began our preparations again, waiting for the boys to arrive. It was a tiny bit rainy again. When the boys showed up ? Kenny said something wonderful. He said to us, "You guys, let's try to remember ? even if tonight is canceled ? let's try to hold onto the fact that we at least got to do it once. And last night was so incredible. Let's not forget that, no matter what." He was right.

We had a mini-rehearsal in the room again. There was something so heartwarming about every moment. Phil doing "jazz hands", and reminding all of us not to forget our "jazz hands", is enough to carry me through many a darkened hour.

We all were high on each other, cracking each other up. Our windows were open for air circulation. We feared that Ann Marie was having a reaction to too much air-conditioning in her life. Pipe pulled into the parking lot. Room 230 faced front, right over the lot ? we had just run through one of the big "dance numbers". We had to laugh as we did it. We were just so ridiculous. And when we finished it, we all started clapping and screaming and cavorting, and this is when Pipe got out of the van. We heard a voice call up to us.

He said, "I heard the commotion and thought: 'Gee, who could that be?'"

We are children. And off we went again, carrying bags and hats and various hair products.

The rain stopped.

There was the excitement, again, of getting our tickets and walking through the crowd, and gaping up at "Sheila's bridge". Jackie and Ken were coming!

We were all, by this point, so "over" the Miller Oasis thing. We put on our stickers, totally blas鬠stashed our stuff, and then scattered to the 4 winds to explore. Ann and I walked around, in our Pat T-shirts and stickers. We saw a lot of drunken scenes. The ground underfoot was slick and sticky with spilled beer. We saw a girl fall off a picnic table into a puddle of beer and then get dragged off by her 2 friends. We saw girls dancing on picnic tables wearing white bikini tops and shorts.

It was a gorgeous night, hazy but cool. The pressure of the day released.

Ann and I passed by one of those little fake recording studios. By this point, we had only 10 minutes til we were supposed to be back at the Oasis, so we totally pulled rank on the other people in line, flashing our stickers at the people working: "We're performing in 20 minutes- can you squeeze us in fast?" They did. We put on headphones and literally shrieked our way through "Like a Virgin". God. It really sounds AWFUL. Total impulse thing. Ann is such a great friend for adventures like that.

We all converged on the Mecca that was the Miller Oasis. Ann and I stood on the little cement stairwell balcony, sipping free beer, and watching the parade go by. We soaked up the attention we got just for being backstage.

The show, again, was ? beyond belief. Over 3000 people cheering for us. The sound they made was a literal ROAR.

After the show, Pat had to go do another show at one of the local clubs ? so we all tagged along. We rode in the back of the equipment van. So fun. All of us drinking beer out of paper cups, holding Pat masks, laughing at all the groups we saw out of the back of the van, wearing Pat masks, strolling through the streets. It was as though a strange cult had come to town.

At the club, it was like we were stars. People flocked around us, bought us drinks. The 4 of us all sat at one table at the club, wearing our "I'm With Pat" T-shirts that Kenny had pro-actively gotten done. Kenny's sister and her husband were there with us. We were this little enclave. I had on my black shorts, my fishnet stockings, my combat boots, my derby. Like Madonna's girlie show or something.

Shots of liquor that tasted like Dentyne were bought for all of us. We were totally carousing.

Ann Marie ran into people who were clients of hers from her actual job ? so WEIRD. So who knows that they think of her life now. People had this impression that this was what we did for a living, traveled around with Pat, wearing "Pat" uniforms.

Pat played Drive in Reverse during his show at the club, and the 4 of us stormed the stage to do our GOOFY dance. I was laughing so hard. We were the biggest geeks in the world. We had so much attention paid to us. We sat at our VIP table, pounding back beers, bouncing off the walls, reliving the shows, dancing with each other, giving each other love and affirmation about the amazing-ness of this entire experience.

Phil was taking pictures and burning all of our corneas.

Quote

"This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever."

- Sigmund Freud on the Irish

I find this quote strangely vindicating.

Live Out Loud

I rented the film "Living Out Loud" last night - with Holly Hunter, Danny Devito, and Queen Latifah.

I can't recommend it highly enough - but I'm not sure why.

Nothing really happens. It's almost completely an interior drama. It's almost completely character-driven, as opposed to plot-driven. I love character-driven stuff. This film somehow resisted the impulse to "go to the plot". They probably just figured: This movie's not gonna be a blockbuster anyway - Let's not try to make it one. Let's stay with the characters - see where they go.

By the end of the film, each of these three people are a little bit changed by their encounters with one another.

To me, the film feels like real life.

I have never seen Danny Devito in such a deeply connected part. It's hard to describe what he actually does, and why he is so moving. We all know he can be hilarious - but there are moments, brief flashes in this film, when an expression will flicker in and out of his eyes - that is so painful, so filled with loss, that I almost wanted to turn away. But he doesn't make a big deal out of it, like a lot of actors do (when they're behaving like ACTORS and not like PEOPLE). Danny Devito does not want us to be impressed with how much pain his character is in. He spends most of the movie trying to AVOID that pain, trying to de-focus, trying to fill up the hole - like we all do in life.

It is a wonderful wonderful performance. I felt like writing him a letter.

And Holly Hunter is stunning. She plays this perfectly coiffed Upper East Side divorce - a kind of role I have never seen her in. Totally repressed, hair in a perfect upsweep at all times ... yet underneath the surface ... there is all this - I don't even want to call it just pain, because there's more going on.

The title of the movie is the giveaway.

She does not lead a life where she lives out loud.

Whatever she might feel - ecstasy, grief, rage, sexual desire - everything is submerged under the cool exterior. Nothing is lived out loud.

The movie is her journey towards living a life - not a perfect life, not a happily ever after life - but a life where she is able to live out loud.

And Queen Latifah rocks.

An essay I wish I had written

... on the whole South Park Republican phenomenon - and the problem that many people have with "conservatism" - as it sometimes manifests itself. Bravo.

It's called "Republican Not Conservative". (via Instapundit) The word "conservative" comes with all kinds of baggage, and you know what? A lot of it is justified. Not ALL of it, but a lot of it.

The problems described in the article are exactly my problems with "conservatism" and some conservatives. The anti-art conservatives. The "let's halt change" conservatives. The conservatives who ... claim to hate big government ... and yet LOVE big government when it is serving their needs ... the government in your bedroom, the government censoring music lyrics, the government everywhere.

I hate that. I am not for it.

I do not think there is a past which is so glorious that we should "go back to it". The very concept of "going back" is so ... anti-reality ... that I cannot get behind it, and I cannot countenance it.

If you're a human being, if you are connected to yourself as a part of the human race, then you know, in your heart, that you can never "go back". There is no "back there". You cannot halt change. And wanting to halt change - on a political level, or on a human level - is a sign of dysfunction. Sorry, but it is. It's like an 80 year old woman, wearing deep purple lipstick, dressing in skintight clothes, trying to pick up 24 year old boys. I mean, God bless her for trying! But she has not halted the clock - she cannot halt the clock no matter what she does - she is still 80 years old. You cannot go back in time.

I have a friend who constantly romanticizes what it was to be a child, or a teenager ... "Wouldn't it be great to go back to such a simpler time?"

To my view, she is ignoring huge chunks of reality in order to say that. I say to her, "I don't know ... In retrospect I may be able to laugh at what I thought was tragic when I was 7 years old, or 14 years old ... but at the time, while I was in it, I remember feeling all KINDS of emotions, not just happy ones. I remember feeling insecure, unhappy, scared, intimidated ... I don't want to 'go back' to that time ... because it wasn't all good."

Here's a quote from the article I link to above:

Conservatives once defined themselves as “standing athwart history yelling ‘Stop!’” This antiquated thinking doesn’t suit (if it ever did) young generations who see the future as promising more freedom, more prosperity, and more potential. We don’t want to freeze progress; we want to unbridle it. From time to time, conservatives have proffered new explications of “conservatism” – social conservatism, political conservatism, fiscal conservatism, et cetera -- but we all know what a conservative is.

Damn straight we do. And that's why I want nothing to do with the kind of mentality which thinks change is bad, and which fears progress.

That's why people like me, people not so easily classified, people who think artists should have the freedom to express themselves however the hell they want to, and then let the PUBLIC decide whether or not they like it, people who love art, and culture, and who live on the fringes of normal society, want absolutely NOTHING to do with the social conservatives who try to push this conservative agenda.

My friends are writers, dancers, theatre directors, performance artists, drag queens, poets ... I have friends who are teachers, computer consultants, photographers, stay-at-home moms, entrepreneurs, corporate lawyers, publicists ... It runs the gamut.

I want nothing to do with the anti-gay hysteria of National Review. I want nothing to do with the conservatives who want to shut up Eminem, or who want to shut down the Reagan movie on CBS.

You got a problem with the depiction of Reagan in that film? Then MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN MOVIE, where he is revered, lionized. Fight back with your own free speech.

But here's another thing - another thing I find distasteful and boring about the sort of conservatives we're discussing here:

Don't confuse propaganda (in the service of a cause you happen to agree with) with good art.

I may not "agree" with how the people behave in Requiem for a Dream - but who gives a crap? The acting is unbelievable. The film is arrestingly good. I do not look to art to mirror my political beliefs, or my "moral" beliefs.

Mark Rydell, film director of "On Golden Pond", came to my school and gave a seminar, and he talked about what it was like when he directed John Wayne, a man whose political beliefs were completely opposite from his own. "I thought of him as right-wing, completely against everything that I am for." Rydell described the surprise of Wayne's gentle and gentlemanly personality. And then he said something which I thought was so awesome. Rydell said, looking right out at us, "You know ... a lot of people who agree with me on certain issues ... are total jerks."

"Agreement" is not what I look for, when I respond to art. I don't look to art to ... reflect the world as I wish it was. I don't look to art to do anything political at all. I look for it to entertain me, to move me, to transport me, whatever.

Art should be unleashed. The public, inevitably, will decide "yes" or "no".

The people trying to push the conservative agenda - the ones who are NOT the "South Park Republicans" are against a lot of the things I hold dear.

Books like Catcher in the Rye or A Wrinkle in Time. Eminem. Gay equality. A clean environment. Art for art's sake.

Am I really on the same "side" as people who want to keep books like Catcher in the Rye off the shelves? No. I am not.

I'm not a party-line kind of girl, anyway. I suppose I should say I am a "party girl" - not a "party-line" girl. My beliefs are not monolithic. I do not buy agendas hook, line, and sinker.

PJ O'Rourke is quoted in the article I link to - I love it - he expresses this perfectly:

So, what I’d really like is a new label. And I’m sure there are a lot of people who feel the same way. We are the Republican Party Reptiles. We look like Republicans, and think like conservatives, but we drive a lot faster and keep vibrators and baby oil and a video camera behind the stack of sweaters on the bedroom closet shelf. I think our agenda is clear. We are opposed to: government spending, Kennedy kids, seat-belt laws, being a pussy about nuclear power, busing our children anywhere other than Yale, trailer courts near our vacation homes, Gary Hart, all tiny Third World countries that don’t have banking secrecy laws, aerobics, the U.N. taxation without tax loopholes, and jewelry on men. We are in favor of: guns, drugs, fast cars, free love (if our wives don’t find out), a sound dollar, cleaner environment (poor people should cut it out with the graffiti), a strong military with spiffy uniforms, Natassia Kinski, Star Wars (and anything else that scares the Russkies)…

The fact that he includes Nastassia Kinski as something he's "for"... I think that's hysterical.

So yes, obviously, I agree with the warning to "conservatives" in this article. You're gonna lose people. You cannot hold onto the past with fists. It is not possible. Look to history and you will see a million examples.

The more conservatives favor expanding government to “protect” marriage, outlaw abortion, ban assisted suicide, harass pot smokers, et cetera, the quicker they will drive their new friends away. Glenn Reynolds has called these conservative expansions of government evidence of “fair-weather federalism.” Whether or not the young reptiles care to dally on the constitutionality of these actions is a question still open. What has been decided is that decades of politician-suggested conservatism from both sides of the aisle – the PMRC; the Clipper Chip; smoking bans; congressional hearings on video game violence, rap music and college drinking – have definitely rubbed young people the wrong way.

Yup. That's all I have to say. Yup. I am "for" all of the things PJ O'Rourke is "for" - even Nastassia Kinski - but I can't, in all good conscience, call myself a "conservative" - although I am so anti-political-correctness that my anti-stance borders on fanaticism.

But I'm a freer spirit than what I come across in much of the rhetoric in conservative rags. They say too much which sends off flags of alarm and offense in my brain. So no. Conservative is not the right word for me.

I like "South Park Republican" instead. Let's let all hell break loose, let's let the change and progress come.

Georgia - Part V - Georgia's Breakaway Regions

I am posting these in chronological order, which, unfortunately, means that you all will see them backwards. I credit the authors who have written about Georgia and from whom I got this information.

1. So the first thing I posted was in regards to Georgia's long long history.

2. My second post was about the collapse of the Soviet Union.

3. The third post is about Shevardnadze - the return of Shevardnadze to save the former Soviet republic from civil war. (The reason I have unearthed these posts is because of the recent chaos in Georgia ... I had gone back to read through them myself and thought I would bring them over from my old blog to share.)

4. This post is about the Georgians themselves.

And my last post on Georgia (printed below) is about all of the "breakaway regions" in the country. A lot of this information may be a bit out of date - things change so fast over there - but again: it is great context.

GEORGIA'S BREAKAWAY REGIONS

Now if you look on a map, (scroll down a bit when page opens to see the map of the area) Georgia is a relatively small country. It is the size of West Virginia with 5 million people. But size does not matter (for once). The place is as complicated and as intricate and as messed-up as the entire former Russian Imperium altogether. Its location is one reason for this. It sits on the crucial land-bridge joining the Russian north with the Persian and Turkish south. Historically, this land-bridge has been marched over in countless wars, struggles, invasions, whatever. And every invasion, every war, every conqueror left its mark on the look and feel of Georgia.

There are those stories (which have nothing to do with Georgia, but bear with me) about ancient ruins in Afghanistan which, due to the almost constant state of war in that country for the last thirty years, have never been fully excavated, but amazing initial discoveries were made. For example: ancient Hellenistic coins and artifacts were found in ancient ruins all over Afghanistan, which meant that Alexander the Great actually had moved farther east than anyone had ever realized. There are also, in the ancient ruins, buildings with Hellenistic features, columns and porticoes, etc. The ancient war leaving its mark.

Georgia is filled with such conqueror's legacies. Evidence of that history in the architecture, the street names, the ancient churches. Georgia has a long and complicated history with Turkey, with Persia. Both countries have left indelible marks on what Georgia looks like. "Georgia for Georgians" is all well and good, but one cannot deny that the history here is extremely multicultural. And always has been.

One of the most complicated things about Georgia is all of the "breakaway regions" and "autonomous regions" it has. There are people basically who live in one specific TOWN who say, "We do not like Georgia. Our ancestors were originally from blankity-blank so we now call our town BlankityBlank."

Shevardnadze certainly has his work cut out for him. (Note: I wrote these when he was still there.)

There's the region called Abkhazia, in Northwestern Georgia, which has declared itself autonomous from Georgia. Again, it really doesn't matter if Abkhazia announces to the whole world: "Hi, there. We are our OWN THING now." If this autonomy is not recognized by the world at large, then nothing will change, and maps will stay the same. There are many countries out there right now who have declared themselves to the world, and the world turns away. "Nope. You are not legitimate. We won't give you the time of day." Afghanistan under the Taliban was one example. Burma (or is it Myanmar??) is another.

So Abkhazia. Abkhazia is supposedly very beautiful and the people who live there have dreams of turning the place into a resort. It is on the Black Sea so the place has a very Mediterranean feel, with a lovely climate. But as long as they are attached to Georgia, and are somehow beholden to a government (a government which has not yet completely gained control of the country), they will be stuck. Trapped. Their dream is to liberate themselves from Georgia and go on and become the "Riviera of the Caucasus".

Georgia of course recognizes the potential tourist gold mine that is Abkhazia. It could be a cash cow for the country if they ever got their act together. Right now, it is still too dangerous and chaotic, but once the problems are resolved, then Georgia can build up Abkhazia, and let the tourist dollars start rolling in.

But Abkhazia wants none of this. They want to do their OWN THING.

In 1990, 100,000 Abkhazians declared their intention to separate from Georgia and form their own state. Georgia basically said, in the midst of the civil war, "In your DREAMS. You ain't goin' NOWHERE." Russia got involved, on the side of the separatists, which made things worse. Russia backed the rebellion, supplying arms and support. Full-out war ensued, leading to 10,000 deaths.

Additionally, the Abkhazians set out to "cleanse" their region of ethnic Georgians. I hate that word in this context. Cleanse. 200,000 Georgians were killed or displaced. The country was suddenly filled with internal refugees wandering around. Gamsakhurdia was president at the time. The refugees were kept from leaving Abkhazia by the main road due to Gamsakhurdia's road blocks. He had cordoned off "Abkhazia". The thousands of people, fleeing for their lives, had to detour through the Caucasus mountains, which are not gentle rolling hills. It is a daunting mountain range. Thousands of Georgians died in this attempt.

The ethnicity of the Abkhazians is Caucasian, but their tribe is older and stronger than most. They were the last people to be conquered by the Russians. There had actually been plans before Stalin's death to exile the entire Abkhazian population to Siberia because they were such troublemakers, so hard to govern and subdue.

Then there's another small breakaway region which is known by two different names, but the official one is Ajaria. The population here is mainly Muslim, but they speak a Georgian dialect. They feel very connected to Turkey, right over the border. Lenin created Ajaria in 1921, using the whole different religion thing as the perfect opportunity to divide and conquer. The people who live here, as Muslims, do not want to be part of Orthodox Christian Georgia. They want autonomy. Turkey, right next door, with a long hostile relationship with Georgia, supports Ajaria, and undermines Georgia's conciliatory attempts.

Ajaria consists of one town and the area surrounding the town: Batumi.

Batumi has an interesting history. It sits at the point where the Anatolian (Turkish) plateau meets the Caucasus mountains. Amazing how geography determines history. In ancient times, Batumi was a port on the Black Sea. It was either a Roman, a Byzantine, or a Persian port, depending on the year. Batumi was a jewel to be captured. Whoever controlled Batumi controlled the traffic on the Black Sea. So it kept changing hands throughout history, until it fell under the Ottoman Empire, which was like night falling. A perpetual night. Batumi then goes through centuries of Ottoman rule. In 1877 the Russians captured Batumi. In 1918, the Turks retook Batumi. After the armistice, 15,000 British troops replaced the Turks. Within two years, the Bolsheviks grabbed control again, and the British left.

Batumi's border was snapped shut for decades. Incomprehensible. This once cosmopolitan seaport, host to every culture, open to the Black Sea, in the land of the Golden Fleece, closed down. Like Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory: nobody every goes in, and nobody ever comes out. Batumi, a small city, was trapped between two massive regional superpowers: NATO-member Turkey on one side, and Communist Soviet Union on the other.

But in recent years, Ajaria is no longer called Ajaria, it is now called Aslanistan. Here's why (it's kind of like The Sopranos, Georgia-style). The region is now run by a warlord (a kind of cuddly benign warlord, but a warlord nonetheless) named Aslan Abashidze. Hence, "Aslanistan". This would be like Rudy Guiliani saying, "Manhattan is no longer Manhattan. It is now GuilianiLand. " Or "New York City, from this day forth, will be called RudyStan." Abashidze is a criminal. An extortionist, a bully. He has set up "customs" offices all along the border with Turkey, which bribes everybody coming in or going out. It is an openly criminal enterprise and it's how Abashidze subsidizes his power over the region.

Also, and here's where it gets dangerous and ominous: Aslan is a Muslim. He has packed his bureaucracy with Muslim officials. Batumi has a mosque on every corner, the construction of which was financed by Aslan, who wants to institutionalize the difference between Ajaria and Georgia. Georgia is a country of infidels. Aslan wants nothing to do with them.

Robert Kaplan, in his book, Eastward to Tartary says the following about Abashidze's obsession with having more mosques than churches:

In the ex-Soviet Caucasus, where religion was less a factor in ethnic identity than in the Balkans, this was a clear case of a modern politician inventing hatreds retrospectively.

Abashidze was a small man with a large ego and a noble surname: his grandfather Mehmet had played a key role in brokering the agreement between Lenin and Ataturk that settled the border here. Aslan, as he was called, liked to receive visiting dignitaries in the new tennis courts he had built, which were the pride of his warlord fiefdom ... His offices were generic Communist style: massive white-marble hallways and dark red carpets that dwarfed a metal detector and a small cheap table. Around the latter stood a group of tough-looking young Georgians, who carried cell phones and sidearms and rubbed their unshaven cheeks as they inspected my Atlantic Monthly business card. Outside the office was a militiaman, also unshaven. His shoes were worn down to the soles, his uniform was missing buttons, and he was wearing one of those grandiose visored caps favored by the Soviet military. His breath stank, and he asked me for a cigarette.

The official face of government here was uncivil, untamed.

And last but not least we have Ossetia. Ossetia is a region of north-central Georgia. Ossetes are both Muslims and Orthodox Christians. They speak a language akin to Persian. Their religious diversity helped keep them neutral in czarist Russia's campaigns and pogroms against purely Muslim people: the Chechens, the Ingush, the Dagestanis.

Ossetia is also in a very important strategic position. It straddles the north and south slopes of the High Caucasus, halfway in between the Black and the Caspian seas.

Muslim/Christian Ossetia emerged as an ally (it's amazing how these things work) to the atheistic Soviet Union.

Both Lenin and Stalin adopted the Ossetes as favored people, not to be messed with or deported or slaughtered. Good of them, huh? So kind, so generous. They were given an autonomous republic on the northern slopes of the mountains, and also an autonomous region within Georgia.

The Ingush, on the other hand, were deported, en masse, in 1944. The entire population of Ingush was killed, imprisoned, shot, etc. In 1950, the Ingush who had survived all of that came back to Ossetia, their former home, to find all of the land taken up by the Ossetes. This (as I am sure you can imagine) ended up causing enormous problems. It causes problems to this day.

Then the Soviet Union collapsed. Civil war promptly broke out in Ossetia. In North Ossetia, ethnic war exploded between Ossetes and Ingush, now bitter enemies. In 1992, the Northern Ossetes expelled thousands of Ingush, adding to the number of war refugees staggering through the country. In 1993, South Ossetia declared its intention to leave Georgia and join North Ossetia in a new "Greater Ossetia."

Any time any country wants to call itself "Greater" anything, you can be sure that ethnic cleansing will follow.

Which is just what happened. War broke out. 30,000 ethnic Georgians were expelled forcibly from Ossetia. None of this has been resolved or cleaned up, but Ossetia does declare itself independent from Georgia and to get in and out you have to pay a fee. (Which is a complete racket. Picture drunken homeless soldiers, hailing cars to stop, and then forcing the people in the cars to hand over their wallets.)

There is no economy. There is no government, there is no infrastructure.

A highly volatile situation. To be watched closely.

Georgia Part IV - The Georgians

In one of the posts below I describe my old "Country of the Week" thing I used to do on my old blog. Go read it for an introduction to what I am doing here right now. Then scroll up - I am posting these in chronological order, which, unfortunately, means that you all will see them backwards. I also credit the authors who have written about Georgia and from whom I got this information. (I have never been to Georgia - so after all, what the hell do I know?)

1. So the first thing I posted was in regards to Georgia's long long history.

2. My second post was about the collapse of the Soviet Union.

3. The third post is about Shevardnadze - the return of Shevardnadze to rescue the former Soviet republic from civil war. (The reason I have unearthed these posts is because of the recent chaos in Georgia ... I had gone back to read through them myself and thought I would bring them over from my old blog to share.)

4. And the following post is a compilation of quotes, basically, from various books, about the Georgians themselves.

GEORGIANS

I marked a bunch of passages in a couple of books and articles as I was preparing for this morning, and then thought that I would compile them and list them out, index-style. It's an interesting thing, to scan over these "snippets", and see what you might pick up about the Georgians: who they are, what drives them. It may be a bit disjointed. However, taken as a whole, a picture begins to emerge.

From The Making of the Georgian Nation by Ronald Grigor Suny:

"Georgian society has its own networks and codes. It is a society dominated by men."

From Eastward to Tartary by Robert Kaplan:

"Corruption here was less a moral shortcoming than a survival mechanism by a people living in poverty and dominated for centuries by outsiders."

Quote from Lawrence Sheets, Reuters bureau chief who lived in Tbilisi throughout the civil war:

"Every night downtown, macho men with grenade launchers fired into the air at nothing in particular. The road between Batumi and Tbilisi was blocked for months at a time by battles that had no military or political purpose. Mini-rebellions broke out based on nothing really except male testosterone."

From Qu'est-ce qu'une nation? Scholarly Debate and the Realities of Eastern Europe in "The National Interest", Fall 1997, by Anatol Leven:

"The Georgians, with strong cultural traditions of individualism, machismo, and the cult of weapons, differ a great deal from the peaceable, gloomy, and obedient inhabitants of the cities of eastern and southern Ukraine. National character is not a concept much liked by contemporary political scientists, but it is necessary to explain why, all other things being equal, an ethnic dispute in Azerbaijan or Georgia would be much more likely to turn extreme and violent than would be one in Estonia or Ukraine."

From Eastward to Tartary by Robert Kaplan: Kaplan interviews Professor Alexidze, a former adviser to the nationalist wacko Gamsakhurdia.

" 'Georgians were passionate against the Soviets and passionate against each other,' said Professor Alexidze. 'Gamsakhurdia destroyed the Soviet spirit more than anyone, but in Georgia, a civil war was necessary because of the kind of people we are. The real cause of the war is our medievalness: our knights of the round table simply quarreled and fought each other.' "

From Among the Russians by Colin Thubron:

"I was in Georgia. The name defines a land whose inhabitants are ancient to it, a people of the black-eyed Armenoid kind, the self-styled offspring of biblical giants. For at least three thousand years they have held their mountain kingdom through disunion, invasion and prodigious bursts of independence, becoming Christian early in the fourth century and surviving conquest with a native glitter and resource ..."

From Eastward to Tartary by Robert Kaplan:

"Another Georgian intellectual described the Russians to me 'as Scythians, still unformed, unsettled, who in the 20th century rediscovered the art of laying waste whole tracts of territory.' Along with the hatred of communism that often spilled over into hatred of Russians went a dislike of Armenians, 'usurers who ruined Georgian families, who are now allied with Russia against Georgia and Azerbaijan.' 'The Armenians are always claiming that they are the best, that they are fighting with nothing, even while Russia supports them.' 'I don't like Armenians. The Azeris are nicer people.' 'The only good-looking Armenian is Cher.' Listening to Georgians talk about Armenians gave me the chilling sensation of what Old World anti-Semitism must have been like."

Again from Among the Russians by Colin Thubron:

"The high places of its pagan idols -- moon-god and fertility goddess -- were exorcised by Christian churches on the encircling hills and the foundation of its great cathedral is suffused with fables. Clenched in battlement walls, the building is typically Georgian ... It is strong, handsome. It belongs to a tradition grown from the far marches of the ancient Christian world, like the churches of Armenia. Its people show a peasant attachment to it and circumambulate its walls piously in the drenching sun, fondling its blond masonry and leaving flowers at its doors. For the Georgians the Church is the expression of the nation ... Everybody seems at home with God.

From Imperium, by my main man: Ryszard Kapuscinski:

"The splendour and excellence of Georgia's ancient art are overwhelming ... The most glorious period of this work spans the eighth to the thirteenth centuries. The faces of the saints, dark, but radiant in the light, dwell immobile in extremely rich gold frames studded with precious stones. There are icons that open, like the altar of Vit Stoss. Their dimensions are immense, almost monumental. There is an icon here on which several generations of masters worked for three centuries ... Then there are the frescoes in the Georgian churches. Such marvels, and yet so little is known about them outside of Georgia. Virtually nothing. The best frescoes, unfortunately, were destroyed. They covered the interior of the largest church in Georgia -- Sven Tschoveli, built in 1010 in Georgia's former capital, Meht ... They were a marvel of the Middle Ages on a par with the stained glass at Chartres. They were painted over on the order of the czar's governor, who wanted the church whitewashed 'like our peasant women whitewash stones.' No restoration efforts can return these frescoes to the world. Their brilliance is extinguished forever."

Again, from Robert Kaplan's interview with the Professor:

"Professor Alexidze told me: 'Our society is rotten, the mafiosi are strong, and while the West worships laws, we worship power. We leapt from the darkness in the late 1980s. We did not have the kind of social and economic development as in Central Europe. So our dissidents were never enlightened.' "

Robert Kaplan interviews a group of intellectuals in Tbilisi (this is in the late 1990s). Here are some of the quotes:

Kikodze: "The Russians built up Tbilisi in the nineteenth century as the capital of Transcaucasia. On this street, where I have lived since 1958, there used to be Kurds, Armenians, Jews, Russians, and others. It was a golden age. We thought nationalism did not exist. Then it destroyed us. The Jews left for Israel; the Armenians, for Armenia; the Russians for Russia; and so on. And now we are losing the Russian language which is a disaster for us. English is still only for a rarefied elite, while the loss of Russian cuts the average Georgian off from the outside world. All our books of learning, our encyclopedias on art, literature, history, science, are in Russian. Young Georgians can no longer communicate with Armenians and Ossetians. There is a new illiteracy promoting ethnic separation."

Rondeli: "Georgians are a very old tribal entity, but we have no identity as a modern state. We are a quasi-state. All nations get what they deserve, so to see what kind of government Georgia will have in the future, it is merely a matter of dissecting our national character. We are nominally Christian, but really we are superstitious atheists. We know how to survive but not how to improve. Our church is pagan, politicized, part of the national resistance, and thus unable to move forward."

Again from Rondeli: "Remember, we had seventy-four years of political-cultural-economic emasculation under the Soviet Union; three generations of Georgians were destroyed. The West concentrates on the crimes of Hitler, but the Nazis ruled for only twelve years."

Saakashvili: "Sometimes very little is needed to survive. We don't need thirty thousand NATO troops or weeks of bombing -- just small, highly specialized security forces from the West to protect our president from assassination, to monitor our borders, to protect the new oil pipeline. If Washington pays attention and gives us advance warning and technical help, we may manage. Unemployment and other statistics are meaningless, because a huge black market helps Georgia survive ... because Georgians have always been corrupt and cynical, with mafias an old tradition, there is not a strong Communist opposition in parliament as in Russia."

From Eastward to Tartary by Robert Kaplan:

"NATO's air war against the Serbs in Kosovo coincided with my journey through the Caucasus. People here seemed to have two related reactions to it. They were much too impressed with the bold, naked display of Western power to be concerned over the Clinton administration's clumsy diplomacy and planning for the operation. But they also felt that the ten weeks of NATO bombing would never be replicated in the Caucasus, no matter what atrocities the Russians or anyone else perpetrated here."

Robert Kaplan approaches Zaal Kikodze, an archaeologist, living in Tbilisi, to see if he can get some answers about Georgia. Here is how the exchange went:

Kaplan: I was wondering if you could tell me what Georgian history says about Georgia's future.

Kikodze: Such questions are best discussed over cheese and wine.

Kind of says it all, don't it?

Georgia: Part III - Shevardnadze

In one of the posts below I describe my old "Country of the Week" thing I used to do on my old blog. Go read it for an introduction to what I am doing here right now. Then scroll up - I am posting these in chronological order, which, unfortunately, means that you all will see them backwards. I also credit the authors who have written about Georgia and from whom I got this information. (I have never been to Georgia - so after all, what the hell do I know?)

So the first thing I posted was in regards to Georgia's long long history.

My second post was about the collapse of the Soviet Union.

And the following post is about Shevardnadze - the return of Shevardnadze to rescue the former Soviet republic from civil war.

SHEVARDNADZE

By late 1991, Georgia was engulfed in a terrible civil war, spurred on by the power-hungry Georgian leader Gamsakhurdia, who has since been compared to Macbeth: driven by his own personal demons of ethnic hatred, holed up in his castle, surrounded by bodyguards and vicious dogs, driven mad by his own dreams of power. Georgia was destroyed by the civil war. The cities were ruined, the roads were ruined, internal travel became impossible. The economy (what existed of it) was also destroyed.

A military council ousted Gamsakhurdia in early 1992. He fled to Chechnya. The civil war continued. Gamsakhurdia still had troops of crazed supporters, more like followers of some personality cult than an actual army, and these troops were still battling it out with the new military council, and all of the rival mafias which had suddenly exploded throughout the country.

Eduard Shevardnadze was the Communist Party boss in Georgia, as well as the ex-secret police chief. He was also Gorbachev's foreign minister. The two of them would talk about Communism, and Leninism, and how to make it work, and what else could be done to bring about the glorious Communist society. They were both committed Communists.

However, in 1979, right before the Soviets invaded Afghanistan, Shevardnadze, in a moment of truth, blurted out to Gorbachev: "This entire country is rotten. We have got to see if we can salvage something out of this entire mess." Gorbachev continued to believe, almost until the very end, that Communism could still work, and that the Soviet Union could manage to stay together. Even with a new economy, and more freedom. Of course, he was proved tremendously wrong, but that was the level of belief he had in the right-ness of Communism.

Shevardnadze headed up the Communist apparatus in Georgia for many years. He represented the strong-hand of Moscow. As Mr. Secret Police Chief, he also was in charge of one of the most feared and despised institutions in all of Communist Russia.

But...amazingly, once Gamsakhurdia, the dissident, the idealist, took the country by the hand and led them into civil war, Shevardnadze (one of the truly great unsung heroes of the break-down of the "evil empire") was called back from Moscow to clean up the mess.

It is truly an extraordinary story, one which I can't really describe in too much detail.

But here is this man, this person who was once at the TOP of the Communist Party. He had all the perks of his position. And then, in a matter of 2 years, the entire edifice through which he has created his entire life, his entire philosophy, disappears off the face of the planet. Unbelievable. Many apparatchiks in the Communist Party could not handle the transition, and committed suicide. Others were completely lost when faced with the prospect of actually having to COMPETE in an open society for jobs, for raises, etc. Others leapt almost immediately into entrepreneurial pursuits, and others veered off into more criminal pursuits.

Shevardnadze kept his head. He let it go. He let the dream go, and immediately set about doing what needed to be done in Georgia.

So many of these ex-CP guys were called back to help run the countries who were now independent and floundering, and so many of them did so because they enjoyed the power so much. The ex-CP guys kept all of the facets of the Communist Party intact (one-party systems, personality cults surrounding the leader, no free press, secret police), and just called it by another name.

But Shevardnadze let go of Communism. Truly. And came back to Georgia, with the aim to rebuild the country, restore the economy, and get Georgia ready to join the modern world. He brought reformers into the government. He also kept many of the gangster-mafia types in high-level positions, so that they wouldn't be able to form a strong opposition. He included them in the process. He was very canny, very smart. He also survived countless assassination attempts during all of this.

Shevardnadze worked a mini-miracle in Georgia. It is quite a success story, albeit one in progress.

There is still a huge mafia problem in the country. There is still a huge criminal element. But throughout the 1990s, the economy has been growing by double digits. One of the best signs of how well things are going is the ubiquitousness of traffic jams in every major city. This may sound incredibly annoying, but add this to the picture: In 1991, there were NO drive-able roads in the entire country. Cars couldn't get anywhere. You could not leave your village, you could not get from here to there. Shevardnadze has created an infrastructure in the country which has raised the quality of life tremendously. Traffic jams!! How wonderful!

Shevardnadze is still the leader of Georgia today (I wrote this piece in November of 2002). Still battling off assassination attempts, still trying to rebuild the country, still putting down separatist movements all over the place, still trying to help foster a middle-class. A Communist man!! Committed to nurturing the bourgeoisie. I admire him very much.

Robert Kaplan, as always, has some very insightful things to say about Shevardnadze, in his book Eastward to Tartary. Check it out:

Shevardnadze, 71, was a burly man with white curly hair and, normally, a ruddy complexion. But now he was haggard and exhausted, and it was clear that helping to run the world as Soviet foreign minister had been a lot easier for him than running Grgia. His voice was deep and gruff, but he was patient, as though he were conducting a fireside chat with us -- 20 local reporters and myself ... One reporter asked the President why he was blaming the Russians [for the most recent assassination attempt] when the CIA was known to have ordered assassination attempts on Castro. This former Politburo member, used to limousines with the curtains drawn, symbolizing the power he had wielded in a vast tyrannical state, did not lose his temper at this. He smiled and enjoyed the exchange. In his own way, Shevardnadze had become a democrat ... Shevardnadze had a simple strategy: personal physical survival. If he survived a few more years without dying or being killed -- enough time, perhaps, for more political stabilization, more reforms, more institution-building -- then his personal survival, or that of his successor, might no longer be synonymous with the survival of the state itself.

If you have spent any time at all learning about Communism, and how the whole thing went down once it ended, you will know how unbelievable this is. To let the power go, and know that in order for Georgia to survive, it had to survive whether he was the leader of the country or not. All we have to do is look at Iraq, or Libya, or Syria to to see the sickness of societies completely bound to the personality of one specific leader. The entire country (like Turkmenistan) becomes an expression of the leader's ego. It's sick. Shevardnadze could easily go that way, like many of his colleagues did. He did not. He is a man of character.

One more quote (note: I am not sure where this quote came from ... forgive ...), and then I'll finish up:

Eduard Amvrosiyevich Shevardnadze was one of three famous Georgians in 20th century world history. The other two were Stalin and Stalin's feared secret police chief, Laventi Beria, a bespectacled man who combined the roles of Himmler and Eichmann in Stalin's death machine. There are many similarities between Shevardnadze and these two great criminals. They too were manipulators, able to take advantage of any situation; they both betrayed their best friends as they rose to power. None of the three was truly educated, but all were talented: Each man had the strong intuition of a good hunting dog, who could sniff the essence of every idea and situation and adapt it to his needs ...

For example, after one assassination attempt, everyone expected Shevardnadze to fire his interior minister. But he didn't. What couldbe more useful than an interior minister who has been politically discredited, so that he cannot plot against you, because he is now dependent on your goodwill! Shevardnadze now runs the police directly through this man.

Morality is a funny thing. In the 1970s and early 1980s, it seemed that Gamsakhurdia -- the intellectual who had translated Shakespeare -- had been a moral man while Shevardnadze, the Communist hack, was an immoral one. But Shevardnadze, the Machiavellian hunting dog, had sniffed out the rot in the system he was a part of, and, along with his allies Mikhail Gorbachev and Alexander Yakovlev, tried to reform it for the sake of their own survivial. They failed and the Soviet Union collapsed. The peaceful dissolution of the Soviet Union, perhaps the single most significant event of the 20th century, owes almost as much to Shevardnadze as to Gorbachev.

Meanwhile, Shevardnadze's survival game continued in Georgia, where the lessons of The Prince were the surest path to democratization.

It's certainly not a warm and fuzzy world and Shevardnadze is not a warm and fuzzy Jimmy Carter kind of guy.

Georgia: Part II - The collapse of the USSR

In the post below I describe my old "Country of the Week" thing I used to do on my old blog. Go read it for an introduction to what I am doing here right now.

So the first thing I posted on Georgia was in regards to its long long history.

This is my second post about Georgia, and it is on the collapse of the Soviet Union.

THE COLLAPSE OF THE USSR

Georgia is a country dominated by outsiders, surrounded by enemies. They have no identity as a modern state. They were emasculated on every level by 74 years of Soviet tyranny. As a friend of mine says, "The mind boggles..." 74 years ...

Now the Soviets are gone (sort of), but the Georgians remain fixated on Russia.

They have a longing for the order the Soviets once provided, and yet they resent having been so dominated. As I said yesterday, their national character is intractable. They are intelligent, they are rebellious, they are schemers and wheeler-dealers (Georgians have taken the concept of a black market to a whole different level), they are deeply religious, and they also refuse to give up who they are. They speak their own language, etc.

However, once the Russians retreated, taking the Russian language with them, the Georgians were left hugely isolated in their mountainous country. They have no experience with needing to speak to the rest of the world. Someone else was always speaking for them. Now they have no way to communicate, no way to participate. They have never had the opportunity to join world events, the world economy, and they are completely unprepared. Russian was the only language that connected them to the world, so the collapse of the Soviet Union, although positive in some respects, left a massive void in Georgia which has yet to be filled.

In the late 1980s, the Soviet Union (of course) began to crack up and began to grant all of the various republics more autonomy. They were allowed to choose their own destinies, make their own way, tear down the Berlin Wall if they wanted to. Georgia, like all the other breakaway republics, immediately set about to become a modern democracy. Change was fast, furious, chaotic. Even reporters at the The New York Times seemed unable to keep up with everything that was happening.

Georgia raced to have elections. Of course, elections are just a symbol. We know that NOW, looking in. Elections mean diddly-squat if the country itself does not have the institutions to support democracy. America hashed stuff out, concepts, desires, ideals...creating the system of checks and balances which was necessary to the development of a democratic society. Georgia had none of this. So their first experiment with democracy was (just like it was elsewhere, all over the former Soviet Union) a complete and utter disaster.

The first democratically elected president in Georgia was Zviad Gamsakhurdia. He was the leading dissident during the Communist-era period. A very idealistic man. (I hate to say it, but being "very idealistic" is a terrible quality to have if you are going to be a President of anything. You need to have your feet on the ground and know how to get shit DONE.) Anyway, I know it's so easy to judge standing on the outside. Georgia needed to make its mistakes, and learn, and grow, in order to transform itself. This process is still going on.

But regardless: Gamsakhurdia completely friggin' destroyed Georgia. He walked Georgia right into civil war.

There are, actually, a lot of similarities between Gamsakhurdia and Slobodan Milosevic. Gamsakhurdia came along and fanned the flames of ethnic hatred, racism, xenophobia, and historical grievance. His entire "platform" had to do with needing revenge against what the Communists had done.

However: Georgia is a country overflowing with minority groups: Armenians, Ossetians, Abhazians, and many many others. Gamsakhurdia saw them as second-class citizens, and began a program of oppression and discrimination against them. His motto was "Georgia for Georgians". All this did was fill people with hate. You can't run a government efficiently on hate.

Here's a quote about Gamsakhurdia from Michael Dobbs' great book Down with Big Brother:

"Georgia is a unitary independent state, and therefore there can be no concessions to the separatists in Abhazia or southern Ossetia," [Gamsakhurdia] told the meeting outside the parliament building. "The representatives of all other nations are merely guests on Georgian land, who can be shown the door at any time by their hosts."

In many ways, Gamsakhurdia's brand of xenophobic nationalism was as authoritarian and myopic as the Communist ideology it sought to replace. He convinced his followers that independence would lead automatically to prosperity, as the Kremlin would no longer have the opportunity to "exploit" Georgia economically. In his patriotic zeal he ignored the fact that Georgia relied on other Soviet republics for practically all its oil and gas, 94 percent of its grain, 93 percent of its steel, and 82 percent of its timber. His assumption that ethnic minorities would meekly accept the will of the Georgian majority turned out to be another fatal miscalculation, which laid the basis for a prolonged civil war.

In the emotional aftermath of the Tblisi massacre (in April 1989, when Soviet soldiers gunned down a peaceful protest in Tbilisi's main square, a la Tienamen) reason and common sense were in short supply. Revolted by the shedding of innocent blood, Georgians rallied around the leaders who denounced the Soviet "imperialists" the loudest. At this point the Communist authorities made a series of blunders that played right into the hands of the nationalists. They arrested Gamsakhurdia and other opposition leaders, endowing them with the halos of martyrs. Then, for almost two weeks, the army denied using toxic gas against the demonstrators. Panic swept the city as hundreds of people were admitted to local hospitals with symptoms of poisoning. Anti-Soviet sentiment reached a fever pitch. By the time Gamsakhurdia was released from prison several weeks later, the role of one of his father's heroes seemed ready-made for him. A year and a half after "Bloody Sunday", he was to win the first free election in Georgia's history, by a two-to-one margin.

Ah, what a mess, what a mess. It's obvious that all of this is going to go badly, but what happens next is quite surprising. Gamsakhurdia is, of course, ousted. Run out of Georgia on a rail.

And somebody appears to save the day from a most unexpected place.

Georgia's on my mind

On my old blog I used to have this "feature" that I called "Country of the Week".

I took countries I knew a bit about, or at least had 5,000 reference books on, and wrote an entry a day about each country.

Ah, I had a lot of energy those days in my blog-infancy. A long essay a DAY??

I have done so much reading and kept so many notes that I figured: Let's put this vague form of autism to use.

During the life of my old blog, the Countries of the Week were: Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, Macedonia, Hungary, The Ukraine, Croatia, The Czech Republic, Uzbekistan, and Georgia. A lot of the entries were made up of book excerpts - and a lot of it I just rambled out myself.

"Okay, so here is what happened with the first Balkan War, as far as I understand..."

That kind of thing.

Anyway. Because of recent upheavals in Georgia, and Shevardnadze stepping down, I went back and looked at my 5 entries for Georgia. And I'm gonna post them here, for whoever is interested.

The tone of these posts rather amuses me, because I do sound like I think I am an expert. Please ignore how obnoxious that is - I am NOT an expert. But I do have a passion for the history of the Caucasus - (as well as the countries in Central Asia) - so while I am not an expert, and could not teach a class on the History of Georgia - there is definitely some good regurgitated information in these posts.

I must give a nod to Robert Kaplan, Colin Thubron, and Ryzsard Kapucinski - all of whom have covered Georgia in great depth, with tremendously beautiful writing. I quote from their books extensively.

So here we go.

The first post is entitled "HISTORY".

HISTORY OF GEORGIA

This week I am going to talk about Georgia. The enclave country in the Caucasus Mountains. It's another one of those countries which may be in complete and utter chaos right now, but they have memories of being an empire. And I mean memory as in cultural memory. Once upon a time, Georgia was a great kingdom. This was in the Middle Ages, but Georgians do not forget. Their country may be run like a criminal enterprise at the moment, but there is a consciousness within of being once-great. Georgians have a strong sense of cultural identity, of "Georgian-ness". This has aided them tremendously in the wrenching and violent changes since the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Georgia is an ancient country, with a largely Orthodox Christian population. The country also has a tremendous mix of ethnicities which has led to a very complex and bloody history. I'll start with the ancient history, and then move on to recent events. It's always good to put a country into context.

Georgia is a beautiful and fertile place, nestled in the Caucasus mountains, and also stretching along the east coast of the Black Sea. Russia fought very hard to keep Georgia under its control, and it is easy to see why. Georgia is a rich breadbasket of a country. The mountain range has allowed Georgia, over the millennia, to remain linguistically homogenous and intact. Which is phenomenal in an area of the world where the minimum amount of ethnicities/languages in any given city is 50. Georgians have been described as "a pocket people preserved in a dusty museum case."

4th century
In 330 A.D., Christianity was brought to Georgia by Assyrian monks. Georgian Christianity is its OWN THING; it has the passion of Orthodox rituals mixed in with flavoring from ancient pagan rites. Georgian Christianity is among the world's oldest form of the religion (along with Armenia, right next door). It mixes in rituals from the Greek pantheon, Zoroastrianism, Anatolian cults. The church holds the country together.

5th century
In the 5th century, A.D., the Georgians created one of the world's 14 alphabets. Incredible.

Georgia's positioning, on the Black Sea, has made it a prize to be captured over the millennia. It is another country (like Armenia, like Poland) which has a long history of being coveted. Empires marched over this land, retreated over it, marched back again, chopping it up, devouring it, ruling it, occupying it. From what I have read, though, there is something in the Georgian character which cannot be subdued. (I'm Irish, so this sounds a bit familiar to me!) Perhaps it is their passionate community-building brand of Christianity. But there is something intractable in Georgians which does not allow them to be psychologically conquered, even when their country is being ruled by an occupying force. They do not take their occupiers very seriously. The land has been ravaged by Arab, Byzantine, Turk, Mongol and Persian armies, and still: these people are Georgian.

Georgia was an ancient monarchy. As long as there was no threat from the outside, all went well. The population was so diverse, and so individualistic that it made things difficult. Diversity is a lovely ideal, but it can be extremely unwieldy when trying to fight off a foe. How do you come to agreement? How do you decide on goals? How do you identify yourself?

10th century
In the 10th century, A.D., that foe arrived in the form of the Byzantine army. The Georgian monarch was unable to unite all the different principalities and populations and ethnicities hiding in the mountains of his country, so the Byzantines easily took over.

11th/12th centuries
Then came the heyday of Georgian history which peaked in the 11th and 12th centuries. The Georgians easily adapted to Byzantine rule, and flourished. The culture thrived, the empire spread from the Black Sea to the Caspian Sea, and also down into Persia. Georgia was a cosmopolitan mix of Byzantium, Seljuk Turkey, and Persia. The leader of Georgia at the time was David the Builder, who is one of Georgia's many folk-heroes. Georgians love heroes (which is a very important thing to remember....it is one of the keys to this country...their addiction to hero-worship). David the Builder spearheaded the expansion of Georgia. The Turks had conquered and occupied Tbilisi for 400 years, and David basically marched in and took it back.

13th century
The 13th century brought the Mongol invasions. Which were savage and divisive. The Georgian monarchy fell apart. The Mongols supported and promoted the provincial noblemen, in order to shut out the King's influence.

14th century
The 14th century brought the Black Death, which decimated Georgia. This was also the century when the feared Tamerlane conquered Georgia.

Meanwhile, during all of this, the Georgian people are hiding out in the mountains, resisting the outside influence of their conquerors. Yes, they assimilated some of the Persian or Turkic influences, but their alphabet stayed strong, their language stayed strong, their personalities stayed strong. Georgians can thank the barriers of the Caucasus mountains for that.

Georgia eventually was divided up, brutally, between the Turks and the Persians. It was a classic East-West division. (Which, basically, exists in this country until this day). Although Georgia yearns to join the West, yearns to be modern, looks to the West for its inspiration ... the East dictates the tenor of the politics here. It continues to be an internally divided nation. So the Ottoman Turks conquered Georgia from the West, and the Safavid Iranian empire conquered Georgia from the East. The oppression was extreme, from both sides of the coin.

17th century
In the 17th century, we have to add Russia's expansion into this mix. Russia began to creep its way south, keeping its eye firmly set on the jewel of Georgia.

18th century
By the time the 18th century rolled around, Russia and Persia were basically at war over Georgia. This small mountainous chunk of land on the shores of the Black Sea. But again, if you look at a map, you can see how crucial Georgia is to any empire looking to expand in that area. You must have Georgia if you want to have an outlet on the Black Sea. The Black Sea is what connects East to West. It is essential.

19th century
In 1801, Czar Alexander I forcibly incorporated Georgia into the Russian empire. Throughout the 19th century, the Russians hastened the pace in Georgia, forcing them to modernize, to catch up with the rest of the world. This was a jarring transition for the people of Georgia.

However, the Georgian Church continued to bond the people together, in a secret and passionate way. One of the goals of the Russians was to subordinate the Georgian Church to Russian institutions. They were never able to succeed with this. Apparently, some of the most gorgeous painted religious icons came from Georgia. The oppression of the Church catapulted religous art into greatness. I've seen some of those icons, and they bring tears to my eyes. It is faith, burning with a strong and steady flame. It is faith which digs its heels in, sets its jaw squarely. It is faith which does not need a BUILDING to contain it. It is faith which exists whether it is given permission to or not. It is faith which never has to scream about itself, or justify itself, or explain itself. Quite extraordinary. It is indestructible.

20th century
Then along comes the 20th century and slowly, Marxism starts to become very attractive to Georgians. Marxism, in its pure sense, in its naive beginning, was opposed to czarism, opposed to the "officialdom" of Russian society, opposed to the bourgeoisie. All of these elements were extremely appealing to the beleaguered poverty-struck Georgians. Georgia is the real historical birthplace of mass-movement socialism.

It is not surprising at all that such a country would be the birthplace of Josef Stalin. A country filled with peasants, a country bound together by faith (Stalin had studied to be a priest), a country obsessed with heroes, a country obsessed with its own past. This is the ground from which one of the greatest monsters of the 20th century sprung.

Cashel-isms

Had a long phone conversation with my now-6-year-old nephew Cashel, on Thanksgiving day. He's not really a phone person, so I clearly caught him in a good place ... and bombarded him with questions.

With Cashel, everything must be content-oriented. And by that I mean, if you ask him a question, "How are you?" you're gonna get NOTHING in response. But if you say, "So tell me your response to 'Finding Nemo'" - you will get a 10-minute-long in-depth monologue about the pros and cons of the film, and a little compare-and-contrast with other Pixel classics ...

It's hilarious. So I always ask him about what movies he's seen.

He and Brendan had gone to Lego-Land. He raved about it to me.

"So, Cashel, what was the best part for you about Lego-Land?"

He contemplated this important question. I could FEEL him pondering it, through the phone lines.

Unsurprisingly, Cashel said flatly, "The life-size Darth Vader. Made all out of Legos."

"Of course. Tell me all about it, please."

And so Cashel did.

It's so funny - Cashel's personality, to my eyes, is so HUGE, in person. He is unavoidable. He has this white head of hair, he is very articulate, he has hand gestures, he is very emphatic and specific ... his personality is huge. So it is so funny to me, so jarring, to hear how LITTLE his voice is over the phone. It's a teeny mouse-voice. I want to squeeze him so tight that he cries out for mercy.

He and Brendan also went to Sea World.

"I got to feed some dolphins." Then, to make sure that he didn't exaggerate his role in this activity, Cashel clarified, "Well, Auntie Sheila, what I did was - I put the food on top of the water ... and the dolphins could see it from underneath ... and then they would come up and get it."

At one point, Cashel dissolved into hysterical laughter, and said to me, "Isn't the word 'INSANE' so funny, Auntie Sheila? Isn't it so funny to call someone 'insane'? 'You're INSANE.'" Cashel broke up into hilarious guffaws.

I had to agree. "Insane" is a very funny word. Especially when said in this surprisingly little mouse-voice across 3000 miles.

Cashel was ... beyond shocked that it was my birthday. A whole new world opened up for him. A world of unimagined discoveries. Grownups have birthdays too. Auntie Sheila has a birthday. At first, when he heard the news, I was greeted with absolute dead silence from the other end. I could, again, feel him processing the news. Trying to fit it into his world-view.

Then, thrilled, excited, he turned around and shrieked at Brendan, "It's Auntie Sheila's birthday today!!!!" (Yes, he actually spoke with exclamation points. I could hear them.)

I heard Brendan say in the background, "I know!"

Immediately, Cashel launched into song. Singing "Happy Birthday" to me, over the phone.

The sound of his voice singing was so adorable, and so excited, and so vulnerable ... that I thought my heart would crack. Perhaps it did.

Quote

"I find that the harder I work, the more luck I have."

-- Thomas Jefferson