To thine own self be true

was the way of words, poetry, romance, dream, and imagination. He occasionally dropped down from the clouds to visit, commune, and observe. His ways were reflective and conscious, more to do with possibilities than simple fact. He was more nightingale, skylark, or muse finally. He sang and spoke of beauty mainly and the long road from innocence to experience. He brought with him a music such that others opened themselves up to the possibilities and dreams he had always radiated and represented. Ultimately, though, he, not others, most knew himself, his nature, his meaning, and eccentricity. How can one describe a spirit or soul, certainly not one from far away and somewhere else, who transcended the particulars, people, and contexts that had tried to know, describe, or limit him? In freedom there is much that is pure essence and spirit, that can only be experienced, rarely communicated, and seldom understood or appreciated. His presence, his light then, ephemeral, but timeless beyond mere memory.

From numerous ecological and astronomical information and warnings, I have long been convinced that we/human beings/the planet have long survived by sheer luck and the skin of our teeth. Absurdly, two years ago, according to NASA (why did this take two years to come out?), a solar superstorm blast narrowly missed Earth by about one week. Now that’s close, baby. The modern age with most of its technological marvels, along with the Internet, power (the electrical grid), water, transportation systems, communications systems would have been, in 2 words, burnt toast. And it is now predicted that another event could be forthcoming, perhaps within a decade.

So what is really important to one? What provides or constitutes the most meaning and purpose in the course of one’s day? What are one’s top priorities? What unfinished business is left to do? What missing pieces are there and how might they be addressed? These are all wise, necessary questions a conscious individual has to ask him or herself more than ever before. More than ever, life on Earth and civilization as we know it have suddenly and dramatically become more tenuous, more precious, and certainly more ephemeral than ever.

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“Simplify, simplify.”–Henry David Thoreau

Visiting my 2 1/2 year-old grandson last evening to play with him and put him to bed, and seeing the latest changes. The past two weeks he has become very talkative once in his crib, sometimes taking a couple of hours to drop off to sleep. His parents have long had an intercom so that one can discreetly listen in for whatever needs and required help or attention.

Last evening his imagination reviewed events of the evening and day in many fragments and occasionally complete sentences. Examples: Go round and round (referring to his getting adults on their feet to walk with him in circles around the house). Line (he got interested in making lines with blocks after I demonstrated he could go a long ways into the hallway and other rooms). Where’s Mommy and Daddy? (then) Where’s Mommy and Daddy? Mommy go to big store. Peanut (name of his dog) Okay, Okaaaay. (part of a discussion with one of his dayhome pals or his parents?) Gwanma, Gwanpa. (Well, there you go, I thought. I guess I am now really, (un)consciously, a part of his life as far as he’s concerned.)

There is much to go over, review, and ultimately process–the information of his day. No doubt he relives key moments and files them away for memory (he has been remembering more of his short life and recalling it the past month.). It is interesting and a privilege to listen in on the development of his inner life and hear him expressing himself wildy, freely, and happily. He already has a very rich, complex, busy life. There is much to do. There is much to think about and mull over. And there is now much to say, even to himself and crib animals late into the darkness.

And so the monologue continued last evening for two hours. He instructed his cribmates–panda, giraffe, and fire truck–to “go to sleep” as he occasionally clicked the fire truck flashlight on and off. They were under orders in his dreamy world, about to become the world of sleep, which he slowly talked himself into with no intervention from any other adults. In any case, he would see them all again when he woke up nine hours or so later. All was and would be well.

“I know thee not, old man.”–Henry V to Falstaff (signalling his major character change with changing social role, and betrayal of close friendship)

A merry tale, adapted from Shakespeare’s Henry plays by director/lead actor Orson Welles, gradually turns serious and ends in sorrow. The tale of a friendship and betrayal between Sir John Falstaff and Henry V, the young Prince of Wales. But, in actuality, three stories for the price of one: Falstaff’s, Henry IV’s and Henry V’s. The former two are father figures to young Hal (ably portrayed by Keith Baxter)–Falstaff, the wish-fulfillment father of fun, play, and lies; Henry IV the guilt-ridden, serious-minded, responsible, anxiety-dream parent alienated from his son and disapproving of his distractions.

Welles is ably supported by Sir John Gielgud (Henry IV), Margaret Rutherford (in a surprising turn as Mistress Quickly), and Jeanne Moreau (as Doll). Edmond Richard’s black and white cinematography is excellent in the castle scenes (light streaming in from the cut-out windows) and stylized battle scenes (which inspired Kenneth Branagh’s in his Henry V). Alberto Lavagnino’s appropriate music moves from gaiety to high seriousness, to poignant sadness. The 1965 film’s print has been cleaned up both visually and aurally, easily making this Welles’ best/most flawless Shakespeare production. Welles himself is Falstaff; no other actor has ever done this role better.

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The theme of betrayal of friendship actually runs through several other Welles’ movies–Citizen Kane, Othello, Macbeth, The Third Man, The Lady from Shanghai, and Touch of Evil.

“With sixty staring me in the face, I have developed inflammation of the sentence structure and a definite hardening of the paragraphs.”
-James Thurber

(1st quoted here June 25, 2013)

He used love like most men use money.

No, they don’t make ’em like they used to–there’s nothing quite like a good Tennessee Williams’ play or his Sweet Bird of Youth. Naturally, the original play is strange in plot , conflicts, scenes, style and atmosphere; hashish, castration, and venereal disease being three of the sensational elements which got somewhat sanitized in this popular 1962 movie starring Paul Newman as an aging ‘beach bum’/Hollywood gigolo, and Geraldine Page as a washed-up movie star who has sunken into promiscuity, alcoholism, and drug-taking (the latter which ‘daringly’ included pot as well as Benzedrine).

The movie has ample instances of the power and control theme in addition to the usual honesty vs. hypocrisy Williams’ motif. The movie is a typically over-emotional, somewhat over-the-top melodrama reminiscent of other Williams’ plays. Ed Begley deservedly won a Best Supporting award for his mean, nasty, evil governor who bullies all the other characters. Newman, Page, Rip Torn (Page’s actor-husband) and Madeleine Sherwood were all strong holdovers from the Broadway show. Like Begley, Shirley Knight makes her film debut playing the governor’s pretty daughter, who is in love with bad boy Chance (Newman).

Well-worth seeing if you have never seen a Williams’ play or movie. Very fast-paced dramatic direction by Richard Brooks who also directed another Williams’ hit Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

One of Woody’s best from 1993–a very funny, entertaining crime story. Also one of his and Keaton’s best films–they are/were the funniest male-female comedy team of all time with Love and Death, Sleeper, Annie Hall, Play It Again Sam, and Manhattan and this one under their belts. Their scenes are truly memorable and wonderfully paced.
There is much to like about this film–the chemistry between the stars, the supporting cast of Alda, Anjelica Huston, the older couple down the hall (variations of the ‘nice’ old couple in Rosemary’s Baby), and the lame assistant theatre manager ( a ‘set-up’ character for the resolution and climax). Also the use of classic music from the ’40s and ’50s, Carlo di Palma’s (he worked with Antonioni too) use of colour and the fidgety cinematography in the suspenseful scenes, the funny improvised dialogue and jokes (Woody always leaves room for his actors to improvise whatever is in the script), and, of course, the hilarious bizarre climax which is a clever takeoff of Orson Welles’ similar weird mystery The Lady from Shanghai, yet another of Allen’s homages to the old, truly great movies. Significantly, like Annie Hall, this delightful critical hit was co-written with Allen’s friend Marshall Brickman. No wonder it worked so well. 4 out of 4 stars overall easily, as movie entertainment and comedy.

(signed photo of one of my musical heroes and influences–the late, great Dave Brubeck)

No less than the great Woody Allen well understands the power of music and its role in contextualizing and underscoring the scenes and movies of our lives. Going totally against the prevailing mindless grain of pop movie soundtracks, The Woodman has done much to preserve many great jazz tunes by using them frequently in his movies. The most recent song he has ever used effectively appears in Mighty Aphrodite and Manhattan Murder Mystery–the 1961 top ten hit “Take Five” (the highest chart-ranking and most widely popular-ever instrumental jazz piece).

As I was starting to say, Woody understood that music is a powerful art form in communication and underscores the rhythms of our lives, scenes, and moments. Brubeck’s inventive, unconventional 5/4 masterpiece features 2 melodies which mellow saxophonist Paul Desmond suggested for the beat Brubeck wanted to use on piano. Bassist Eugene Wright was the firm unwavering anchor for all that happens elsewhere in this piece. Drummer Joe Morello is the freest featured player offering a most unconventional drum solo in the middle that shows how far the simple repetitive rhythm could be extended and extrapolated–into another, related percussive ‘melody’. Pure genius.

I often hear music–inner music you could call it–in just about everything I do. Snatches of pop song melodies, percussive rhythms, and even harmonies. For me, music remains the art form that most affects the human individual, especially those with the sensibilities and non-deaf ears to hear, play, and freely mingle with all three of the above. If I was to identify a subtle signature song of my own, my heart and soul, it would simply be Brubeck’s “Take Five” which built its melody and harmonics on top of a different unconventional, deliberately-chosen beat (much like Thoreau’s drummer). I have always moved and ad-libbed to an underlying music which sounds very much like this tune: da-da, da-da/da-da, da-da over and over. It is my signature rhythm which impels me forward and has done so, largely, improvisationally, and sometimes beautifully through time.

Brubeck’s insistent piano is like the core of Me which has confidently moved forward in many situations, through many changes. Paul Desmond’s pure sax represents the purest poetry of my life. Eugene Wright’s bass playing represents the steadiness of vision holding all together. And Joe Morello’s so-inventive drumming symbolizes whatever best and original moments that have marked my life. In a real sense, to know me is to know “Take Five” and vice-versa. It is everything I am, have been, or ever wanted to be or become in my life. Musically and otherwise. My objective correlative in musical form.

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“The world should listen then–as I am listening now.”–Percy Bysshe Shelley, “To a Skylark”

For more of Dave Brubeck, c.f. his letter in the Dec. 6, 2012 blog entry, “Advice to a Young Musician”.

I can’t imagine anything that’s better
The world is ours whenever we’re together…
Life would be ecstasy, you and me endlessly…

–from “Groovin'” by The Rascals (Felix Cavaliere & Eddie Brigati)

For a long time in the mid-’50s, pop culture had its way with me and I would occasionally have a children’s book or comic given to me. I read the more cartoon-based ones such as Mickey Mouse ‘Giants’–memorably there was one which featured various Disney characters for each month of the year which was sold around Christmas. Westerns were popular on tv so I read some of those, too. But I became aware of Classics Illustrated in grade 3; they were based on literary classics and cost 15 cents rather than 10 for the rest of single comics. The appeal of these was romance and they definitely anchored and nurtured my sensibility relative to books, reading, and life for years to come.

Before that, there were single books such as Wonder Books’ Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales with its evocative illustrations which ignited my imagination, again along romantic storylines. In school–grade 1–the first story I vividly remember was “Dark Pony” which appeared in The New Our Friends basic reader. The story of the mysterious pony who carries two children and a dog to Sleepy Town was the ultimate wish fulfillment and magical story for six-year-olds.

The Thornton Burgess series of animal stories were read to us in the early grades as were Bible stories one year. But by and large, comics became the way in to reading. Hugh, my first significant childhood friend (visiting me this September from Winnnipeg), also introduced me to MAD magazine around grade 7, which was starting up. Its illustrations and gags were like nothing I had ever seen before in the way of pop culture reading.

In grade 6 thereabouts, one frosty, dry fall evening, my Dad’s younger brother who had just gone into the navy was staying at my grandmother’s and I went to see him for the first time. ‘Pudge’ was a live-wire at 17 and took an interest immediately in his brother’s son. He drove us home in a car he had, and then my parents went out, so he spent the evening with me, getting to know me better. We listened to music for a while and then out of the blue, he mentioned he had some library books to return. I had never been to the library downtown (my parents never took me) and he was shocked that I did not have a card. He said he’d fix that and we clambered into his automobile (best word to describe what might have been an old Hudson) and we went to the old William Avenue library which had been generously financed by Andrew Carnegie in Winnipeg, much like the many others he initiated in hundreds of North American cities (including Edmo)–he was a remarkable philanthropist really who did much to start millions on the road to reading, learning, and self-education on this continent early in the 1900s.

So Pudge ‘got me in’–reading had affected his life and he had wanted to do something memorable for me–give me a gift of self and the invitation to read (more) in one shot.
Because of the distance from St. James to the library (on the southern tip of the rougher North End) and my unfamiliarity of how to get there by bus, that invitation would not be revisited till grade 12 when I ventured out on my own to do research toward my final English exam. The reading and book bug hit instantly then, and that summer when I worked at Winnipeg General Hospital, I came back for books by T. S. Eliot and many other famous writers I was just beginning to hear about via Bob Dylan’s songs.

Back to school–in junior high, we read a Bowdlerized school edition of Hugh MacLennan’s Barometer Rising–my first Canadian book. In grade 5, we had been read Earle Birney’s long poem “David” which itself is a memorable narrative. I memorized poems such as Wordsworth’s ode to the daffodils and Walter de la Mare’s “Someone came knocking at my wee small door” which came in handy in grade 6 when I went out Halloweening for the last time and was commanded by a ‘power-hungry’ man to recite something on his front steps before I got my apple.

And so it went–Macbeth and Robert Frost’s poems in grade 11, Hamlet, Pride and Prejudice, and Hardy’s Return of the Native in grade 12. I took out a book from the school library–Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray–and presented on Keats’ “On First looking into Chapman’s Homer” and the world of literature spread out suddenly and powerfully before me at age 17. (My university major beginning the next year was easy–English.)

In grade 12, on the side, I also read the racy Catcher in the Rye and Lady Chatterly’s Lover (the latter which had just appeared in paperback); those two classics confirmed a lot of attitudes toward the adult world, conventionality, and truly wild and free living through passion and sex, in Lawrence’s case. They provided guidelines for possibilities and the beginnings of my own ‘young man’ years.
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It’s hard not to mention writing in passing…

The poem which was in the grade 9 yearbook, the writings for the school newspaper S.H.C.I.’s The Huskian from grades 10-12. The first songs and poems written in university.                                                                                                                          

I was later published by my old professor-friend Glenn Martin in Alberta English. And my poems went on to win magazine contests subsequently on the way to writing and editing over 60 school textbooks which have sold over one million thereof.

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visual artwork credits:

cover, 1st book–James Caraway, 1952

1st page of story: Evelyn Copelman, 1955ish

2nd ed. comic cover: unattributed, 1957 (1969 price went up to 25 cents)

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