Dr. Metablog

Wisdom -- Part 1

Now that I'm eighty (80!) years old, it's time to think about what, if anything,  I've learned. For many years now, I've been waiting for wisdom to kick in, but so far, no thunderbolts or grand illuminations. Yet I seem to have accumulated a number of maxims and cliches, which leads to the dispiriting conclusion that perhaps there's no difference between ordinary commonplaces and sophisticated wisdom. On the other hand, it is undeniably the case that I am a different person now than I was twenty or forty or sixty years ago, so perhaps all these years have produced some changes in attitude and behavior. What follows is the first installment of either "wisdom" or "commonplaces" -- take your pick.

Although it is true that there are psychopaths and sociopaths, there are very few of them. Almost all the people I've known over the years have been poor struggling mortals, like myself, trying to act decently and respectably. The difficult people with whom I've had to deal are pathetic rather than villainous. They act badly because of their own inadequacies, anxieties and fear, not because they are innately vicious. A surprising number of people have endured dreadful traumas and most of them have recovered to live satisfactory lives. There are some poor souls who compensate badly. They cause pain to us, but more to themselves. It's not true that to know everything is to excuse everything, but knowing people's stories certainly helps you to become more empathetic and understanding. My younger self was much harsher and less compassionate toward difficult people than my present self.

Genuine understanding between individuals is difficult and misunderstanding is rife. It's hard to translate what's in your head to your friend or neighbor, and just as hard to understand what's in someone else's head by words alone. If you're going to be surprised because someone misunderstood you, then you're going to spend half your entire lifetime in a state of dreadful shock. Although irony and understatement are most useful figures of speech, beware of them. There's nothing more awkward (and sometimes dangerous) than an ironic remark that is taken seriously, or a serious remark that is understood ironically. A meaningful exchange of ideas or insights can't be brief, because it takes time for a shred or glimmer of understanding to grow and ripen. If you want to have a real friend, make the time. Understanding someone else's brain is akin to Zeno's Paradox;  you get halfway there but you never get all the way.  

Everyone is engaged in "presentation of self." You meet someone new, and they tell you about themselves, but they're not really doing so in any profound way. They're not trying to. They're acting out the "presentation" that they've devised over the years. They offer you a handful of anecdotes which they think represent themselves. But the fun and the satisfaction only begins when that first mask drops away. In order to know someone, you have to ask a question that is not truly intrusive but manages to take your new friend (or old friend, for that matter), a hair's breadth apart from their usual style of presentation. Sometimes it's not worth the effort,  but there are occasions when it can precipitate a worthwhile friendship. Too many conversations are not exchanges of information.  A says something from his repertoire of self-presentations; then B, impatiently waiting his turn to talk about himself, responds with a nugget from his own store. No genuine communication takes place. This kind of exchange is disappointing and almost useless. We all generate these forms of presentation partly as a defense against revealing too much of ourselves and becoming vulnerable, and because we all have our own follies and weaknesses. So we act a role. The further the contrived role is from the true self, the more transparent and even offensive it becomes. It's hard for people to be true to themselves;  it takes work.  

More wisdom (or commonplaces) coming soon. Stay tuned.

Other People's Lives

Three times in the last few weeks I've had the opportunity to drop into other people's lives.

The most recent was a visit to the Mountain Men Rendezvous in Antonito, New Mexico.

"Rendezvous," you ask?  In the 1830s, fur trappers gathered in various places in western North America to sell their furs and purchase supplies for the coming year. According to the story, they drank themselves silly, fornicated as much as possible, and played at various games and sports to pass the time while they waited for the wagons to arrive from St. Louis. Modern re-enactors dress in 1820s costumes, and, at least in Antonito, engage in knife and "hawk" (tomahawk) throwing contests. 

It was a world taken very seriously by the mountain men and their ladies. But strange, even otherworldly to me. I learned about the proper size of a hawk and how muzzle loading rifles work and I handled an elaborately beaded pouch made out of a bull's scrotum, owned by our host, whose "mountain name" was Long Tongue. But no liquor at this gathering. Lemonade only, I'm glad to say. I wouldn't have been comfortable with all those knives and hawks whizzing around if the guys and gals had been addled with alcohol.

And also : a few weeks ago, in New Orleans, we shared lunch with the Lords of Leather. A scary, in-your-face name, but a more welcoming group of men I've rarely met. Some were costumed, but most of them looked like a bunch of accountants enjoying a weekend cookout. No doubt their fellowship engaged private matters that I don't know about and wouldn't understand. Lives very different from mine.

Also in New Orleans, we attended a "ball."  Not a ball that involves dancing -- more of a pageant, a display of elaborate costuming. It was sponsored by the Krewe of Iris, a group of women who roll their pageant wagons (floats) during Mardi Gras. We costumed ourselves for the ball -- fancy long dress and tuxedo. The members of the Krewe a) take it all very seriously, and b) know that it's silly and c) take it seriously nonetheless.

There must be thousands of these cultures and sub-cultures in our rich and various nation. I'm happy to have participated, a bit, in these worlds.

And I wonder, of course, how strange and exotic my life and culture, bland and ordinary to me, might seem to some of the mountain men and leather-lords and Iris ladies.

A Sunday Morning Conversation

He:  "These allergies are getting me down.  Every morning I seem to wake up with a liter of mucus in my nose. There's so much I should probably save it and put in the garden. It would be good for the soil."

She:  "Yes, we could save it one of those nice plastic jars that the Talenti ice cream comes in."

He:  "It might be a problem on the plane. 'What's that in the jar, sir.'  "It's a pint of my snot. I'm taking it to Vermont to put in the garden.'  ' Er, do you want to step over here, sir.'

She:  "Perhaps we should re-think this."

He:  "It's a good thing that we know each other pretty well. If I had said to you, five years ago when we first met, 'Hi, my name is...  I'm thinking of saving my snot and taking it to Vermont,' it would have ended the relationship right there."

She:  "Yes, you were very wise to have waited five years to mention it. Very tactful."

Little Jimmy Hurt his Arm, by Ralph Ganesha Jefferson

Today's contribution, Little Jimmy Hurt his Arm, was written by Ralph Ganesha Jefferson, the author of the best-selling children's book Leonardo, the Enlightened Lion (2017).

"Little Jimmy hurt his arm.

He said to his mother, my arm hurts. His mother said, let us pray over it. So they prayed.

But it still hurt.

So his mother took him to the wise women at the end of the street. She prescribed CBD oil. Jimmy's mother rubbed CBD oil on his arm.

But it still hurt.

So his mother took him to a psychotherapist. He gave Jimmy some anti-anxiety pills. Jimmy took them.

But his arm still hurt.

So his mother took him to a reflexologist, then to a Kirlian analyst, then to an aromatherapist. Jimmy did what they advised.

But his arm still hurt.

Then Jimmy said, 'why don't we go to a doctor.'  

So they went to a doctor. And the doctor said to Jimmy, "Your arm is broken."  The doctor set the bone and put it in a cast.  

Jimmy's arm stopped hurting.

And then the doctor said, "While you're here, why don't I give you a measles shot?"  And he did.

The Comancheros (1961)

This reprehensible film aspires to be an "inconsequential romp," as one reviewer suggests, but fails to meet even that exceedingly low bar.

If a viewer could swallow the buddy-movie plot (Stuart Whitman as a New Orleans card shark and John Wayne as John Wayne), he'd still have to deal with Nehemiah Persoff as a brutal Mexican gang-and-cult leader and Ina Balin (the worst actress Brooklyn has ever produced) as his spitfire daughter. And also embrace the dubious proposition that the road from New Orleans to Galveston goes through picturesque southern Utah. And many other improbabilities.

Ok, so the film is one big joke, a comedy masquerading as a western, or vice versa.

But if the film is a "romp," then how in the world can we justify its treatment of Indians?

In The Comancheros, Indians have three functions. The first is to be constantly drunk and constantly in search of whiskey. It offers a truly horrible, inexcusable scene in which a renowned chief falls drunkenly into his soup. Amusing? Not to any person with a modicum of fellow feeling. The second purpose that Indians serve is to be cruel: they torture and scalp. Their third purpose is to be cannon-fodder. Scores, perhaps a hundred are remorselessly cut down by our white friends. Not a one of them is awarded a trace of individuality -- though, as is the custom in such films, they get to fall picturesquely from rocky overlooks or be dragged by the foot in the stirrup when they are shot off their horses.

Even worse than these atrocities is a scene in which a bedraggled, impoverished line of hollow-eyed Indians, this time including women and children, trudge dejectedly across the landscape. A mini Trail of Tears. Not to worry, says John Wayne, they're "tame Indians." "Tame" means defeated, reduced to poverty, neglected, dehumanized. Tame as cows or dogs. It's a painful image, hard to ignore or to forget. 

I imagine that we're supposed to say, Oh, this was 1961, we know better now. But by 1961, John Ford had made a few movies in which Indians were depicted with not a lot, but a bit of humanity. The Comancheros was reactionary and unenlightened even it its day, we have to admit, and embodied a transparently racist ideology. It's treatment of our fellow but slightly different humans is grotesque and unforgivable.

Criminal, in fact. It is nothing less than a excuse and justification for genocide. Not inconsequential at all. 

According to the story, Michael Curtiz set out to direct the film, but fell ill and withdrew. The actual direction was under the control of John Wayne himself, so it is at his feet that this appalling monster must lie.