https://www.online-literature.com/forums/blog.php?15476-title The largest classic literature discussion forum on the Internet. Read Write Teach Share. en Fri, 05 Jun 2026 01:05:43 GMT vBulletin 10 https://www.online-literature.com/forums/images/misc/rss.jpg https://www.online-literature.com/forums/blog.php?15476-title https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2747-earthboar-s-Blog Thu, 02 Aug 2007 11:40:04 GMT [IMG]http://www.newsketeer.com/User_Resources/Image/colorsfirst.jpg[/IMG]
Besides haunting used book stores, cafés are among my favorite places to work. By work I mean write, just like in the old days of Hemingway and Oscar Wilde.

[QUOTE]“The mass believes that it has the right to impose and to give force of law to notions born in the cafe.” - Jose Ortega y Gasset[/QUOTE]

[QUOTE]“In my painting of the 'All -Night Cafe' I've tried to express the idea that the cafe is a place where one can ruin oneself, become crazy and criminal.” - Vincent van Gogh[/QUOTE]

Playwright David Mamet captured something of the obsession in his small book, "Writing in Restaurants.

The photo above is an art installation at the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art. More importantly, it is next to a cafe at the Museum. Actually, it is in a hallway adjacent to the cafe space, so all I had to do to take the photo was stand up and walk a few paces. The Mass MoCA café is one of my favorite places to hang out. It is nothing fancy, a little bit of an Old World sensation being surrounded by vast walls of brick--it used to be an electronics factory. Also, they have wi-fi, which means I can write and submit articles while having coffee or lunch. With cell phone, digital recorder, camera, and HP iPAQ, I am a mobile news unit, with a footprint that barely fills the space of a small bistro table. It was in that cafe where my profile photo was taken for my column, "On the Marquee".

I mentioned obsessions a minute ago. Another one is collecting notebooks and journals. While those around me are obliviously engrossed in the eerie glow of their notebook computers, and I likewise conduct my work through the tiny screen of a PDA, I prefer the old fashioned paper and pen. My backpack is usually stuffed with various sizes of Moleskine notebooks, and I am forever undecided as to what type of writing should go into which notebook. I also cart around spiral bound notebooks for writing reviews, or town meetings, or novel fragments or more expressionist, creative pieces, short stories and such.

What about pens? I have more than should be legally allowed. Two fountain pens (they seemed like a good idea at the time, and I use them sometimes); a rather deluxe gel pen that I like; an assortment of cheap gel pens that I use often; a set of colored ballpoint pens that are perfect for a rather thick, "bible-sized" journal I write my spiritual and philosophical thoughts in (for diagramming and illustrating the mechanics of spiritual ascent, how to penetrate heaven, and a field and travel guide to the astral plane--you know, that kind of thing).

Yesterday, I had to take a serious look at my backpack and expunge about 10 pounds of notebooks, that I decided no reasonable person would need in the space of an afternoon. As a person who reads a lot, I have recently had to discipline myself that I should do proportionately more writing than reading, otherwise the writing part will not get done. All those books you see at your library or book store, do you think they wrote themselves?

I have a few favorite cafes, and the Mass MoCA café is certainly one of them. It is located cocooned within a huge complex, and for "work" it is really functional. I tend to "work" where I am somewhat anonymous, but not always. The Mocha Maya Cafe and the Coffee Roasters café in the town of Shelburne Falls are two of my favorite cafés, but I am positively not anonymous at either. The upside is that I run into interesting people, and it's a jumping off point for more interpersonal interviews. Mocha Mayas is also a weekend entertainment destination, with frequent second-billing openers who are really good. Not long ago I watched London's The Council at Mocha Maya's. The performers are always accessible, and seem to want my attention, as I often get emails from these small bands letting me know when they are in town and when they are available for interview. Mocha Maya's hosts a whole bunch of special events, community lectures, staged-plays, open mic readings, you name it. Chris and Bruce King are visionaries in the industry.

Coffee Roasters is low profile and basic. Their coffee is some of the best that and indie café can make, and their tables and chairs are no frills but comfortable. They are basically next door to Mocha Maya's, so I have to be careful about forming loyalties.

A few more: The Apollo Grill in the Eastworks complex in Easthampton. The dining area in Thorne's Market, downtown Northampton. Lady Killgrew Café in the Montague Bookmill Complex. Essalon Café on Rte 9 in Hadley. Cup and Saucer on Main St. in North Adams. Outside of the Whole Foods Market in a kind of corporate consumer park (mall) in Hadley. Their wi-fi is free, whereas the wi-fi inside the café at Barnes & Noble at the same mall is $2 an hour. I consider that a money grubbing scam. ]]> earthboar https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2747-earthboar-s-Blog https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2690-earthboar-s-Blog Wed, 25 Jul 2007 20:20:54 GMT [IMG]http://www.newsketeer.com/User_Resources/Image/blueberries_center.jpg[/IMG]
[COLOR="Blue"]Summer '07 is proving to be one of the better blueberry growing seasons in recent years. These were found growing high up on Florida Mountain, Massachusetts, elevation 2,250 feet.[/COLOR]

Yesterday might be described as a bad day, relatively speaking. I should have consulted an I Ching reading, or at least paid better attention to my instincts. I talked for too long to my editor while I was sitting on a bench in Amherst, and I had a nagging concern that I should check my parking meter. Sure enough, when I finally finished the call and walked back to my car, my windshield wiper was gift-wrapped in a $10 parking ticket.

I had a meeting last night, which might have been the more successful outcome to my day. But first, to get there I had to drive lickety-split from Amherst to my home town. A little too fast, apparently. Something told me "take the main highway," but no, I took the shortcut. It ended up being not such a great shortcut, as I was stopped for speeding. Uggh, it was one of the towns I write about. The police officer said he reduced my ticket from a 45 in a 30 MPH zone, or a $150 ticket, to a 40 in a 30, bringing it down to $100. One look at my car, and he probably figured I needed all the help I could get. I wonder why they don't give warnings anymore.

Highway tickets are all a matter of revenue generation. These towns use safety as a catch-all to justify generating money during tough economic times. The two tickets in one day played on my mind all of yesterday, but the truth is traffic tickets aren't a moral issue like murder, burglary or rape. If there is anything immoral about the incident, it is the police's increasing reliance on electronic equipment to stranglehold the citizenry. I mean, if speeding is such an outrageous civil indignity, then how would you explain the three cars that the officer let speed passed me while he was taking his time writing the ticket? It's got nothing to do with safety.

Catching a speeder has more to do with circumstance and luck. Any motorist can tell you the police are never there when they are really needed. You've seen the bumper stickers, "Troopers are your best protection." Well, are they, really? If you're being held up, or robed, or beaten, or terrorized on the road by real problem drivers, is there a trooper or highway patrol there to protect you? 9-out-of-10 times the answer is no. The probability is actually greater than that, let's say 9.9 times out of 10.

In both cases, I had this nagging suspicion that I had better do something different, like put more money in the meter, or take a different road, or slow down. Believe it or not, I actually had this premonition about a police car being exactly where it was when I was stopped. Did I trust my instinct and take action? No. I stupidly continued, business as usual. Just goes to show you. There's a lesson in there, and I don't think driving 30 is it.

Anyway, it's something to gripe about, but the whole affair was impersonal, which is just one more indication of how normal a speeding ticket is. It's not like the cop was giving me a hard time, he hardly said more than a few words to me, and he gave me a $50 discount, if you could call it that. I guess we pay for the towns we love. I have been moving a little bit faster on the highways these days, I suppose it is because of the distances I travel. And, the [COLOR="Red"]Red-Eye [/COLOR]shot of espresso in my regular coffee probably contributed to my angst.

p.s.- I shaved my head today. Not quite bald, but I didn't use a guard on the electric razor, either. I just love rubbing it, my scalp feels like sandpaper or sharkskin. Last week a woman in the supermarket walked up to me and rubbed my scalp. I told her I hoped it would bring her good luck. ]]> earthboar https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2690-earthboar-s-Blog https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2596-earthboar-s-Blog Fri, 13 Jul 2007 14:32:10 GMT We can trace our passions to particular individuals who introduced something new to us, either deliberately or incidentally. In my case it was a... We can trace our passions to particular individuals who introduced something new to us, either deliberately or incidentally. In my case it was a girlfriend, a relationship that petered out in less than a year. Twice in my life I had been with someone who appreciated a good used-bookstore. The relationship didn’t endure, but my love for old books did. There was a decades-long lag between my first period of used-bookstore excursions and my second.

While the girl moved on, my love affair with the used-bookstore “took,” especially the second time around. It began in New York, but this disease, “archaeobibliophilia” (I just coined that psychological condition, though there’s probably a better one floating around) has moved with me wherever I go. I’m recording an atlas of used-bookstores. It’s a little loose and sloppy, but as I edit it this atlas becomes more concise, coherent. I just picked up a brochure called "Antiquarian and Used Bookstores of Upstate New York".

Not all used-bookstores are the same. Regrettably, on rare occasions a store owner will sell out, and the new owner takes it upon himself to clean up the inventory, straighten rows, pick books up off the floor. Inventory is reduced to fit the new owner’s preconceived bias, categories are precisely meted out, and the bookstore loses all charm. Hey, don’t do that fellas, that’s what we have Barnes & Noble for.

I encountered one of these recently. A perfectly disordered bookstore in Greenfield, with overflowing piles on the floor, literally, books cascading like surf on a rocky beach, around corners and down the stairs to a veritable hellhole of a cellar where entrance was impossible. The new owner neatly picked up and sanitized the space. That happened, by the way, to a favorite herb and natural food store I frequented in Vermont. The old woman became sick or died, and sold out to a young couple with visions of branding and shrink wrap packaging. I don’t go there any more.

I have a few favorites. One is Troubadour Books in Hadley, Massachusetts, on Rte 5. Its motto is “Books for scholars and holy fools.” In fact, it is my favorite store for offbeat, esoteric books on psychology, religion, mysticism, magic, kabbalah, Gnosticism and anything spiritual. The owner carries huge selections of eclectic titles. Even the reference books, like 1970s editions of the Oxford Dictionary lie on the floor in mountainous piles.

On Rte 5, there are several used-bookstores in close proximity to one another. Besides Troubadour, another is the Book Barn in Whately, a stone’s throw from Troubadour Books, and another is Meetinghouse Books in Deerfield. I recommend all of these.

Another favorite, mostly because of its ambience, is The Book Mill in Montague, Mass. The Book Mill not only provides a great selection of titles, but wireless internet, too. I was there yesterday. One woman had set up her laptop on an upstairs table with this ungodly monstrously huge flatscreen, it was disgusting. Anyway, the interior resembles an old barn, with two floors. There are lots of nooks and reading/writing crannies. People actually bring moleskine notebooks and write. It is immediately next door to the Lady Kilgrew café, and overlooks a river about 30 feet down. You can traverse the books store and café through a side door. Sometimes when the café is full of patrons, they tell you to drink your coffee in the bookstore. Very laid back. The store is part of an artsy mill complex. There is an art gallery, the Fly By Night Restaurant downstairs, a used CD store, and an antiques dealer. This time of year is the best for visiting the Book Mill because of the European-style outdoor patios and tables with parasols. I can’t recommend the Montague Bookstore enough. It is hard to find, prepared to get lost.

There is another bookstore I visited in the spring, but I can’t remember the name of it, in Hoosick, NY. There are so many books in it the building is tilted, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. An old man runs it. Hoosick is a small town—the home of Grandma Moses, by the way—and there wouldn’t be too many used-bookstores there, so look for the one and you will surely find what I am referring to. The books can be a little pricey, but the selection is vast, and the ambience is authentic.

I recently revisited the very first bookstore I ever went in. It had moved out of state, however. I was probably 17 when I first went to this one, 30 years ago. I was with my first girlfriend. I bought some paperbacks by Lobsang Rampa, “The Third Eye,” etc. I also bought a very rare hardcover on the Tarot. I paid two bucks for it, but sold it a few years ago on Ebay for $30. My latest visit was unsatisfactory. Most of the aisles were cordoned off for some reason. Perhaps the owner does a lot of online sales? The selections available for perusal were not many. I left with one book that I paid one dollar for. I shrugged at the owner, “Sorry, this is all that strikes my fancy today.”

There is a used bookstore in North Adams that, while closer to my home, I think I’ve pretty much browsed everything of interest to me. A few years ago, however, I bought a book titled “Cosmic Consciousness,” by an author with the pen name Ali Nomad. This book, dated 1913, had a label on the inside saying, “This book is the property of Alexander McIvor-Tyndall – New Thought Fellowship, Chicago, Ill.” After a little research, I discovered that McIvor-Tyndall was the real name of Ali Nomad, and this book was a first edition, one of the author’s personal collection. In fact, I confirmed this through a brief correspondence with one of the author’s descendents. I paid $11 for that book, but didn’t really care for it as literature all that much. I sold it a few months ago on Ebay for $90. I had another book by the same title, from the same era, but the author was Richard Maurice Bucke, who is the better-known author of that title. I sold that book at a substantial markup, as well.

As for selling any book, I always suffer regret later. Between the two “Cosmic Consciousness” books, I would have preferred to keep the first, and am a little ambivalent about the second. I have decided there are some books that I enjoy reading so much, I shall not willingly part with. If I enjoy reading a book, I probably won’t sell it, but economy is a fickle master.

I’m willing to pay a few dollars more for a book from an independent bookstore, if it helps to sustain the store. I could pick up most titles on Amazon or another online source at a fraction of the cost. But, there is a bigger point to buying local, and small. I once heard an owner talk about a prediction that used books were going extinct. However unlikely that is in the near future, the thought of a world without used-bookstores disturbed me. A society without bookstores seems culturally deprived, like the repression of prohibition. Used-bookstores are an indicator of America's connection with a literary past. The very nature of variety transcends conservative-liberal lines, or ecumenical, sectarian denomination. Cities where the numbers of used-bookstores are on the decline seem to correspond with rigid, sterile "big box" economies. You know, you can go to a used-book store, browse, and leave without buying anything. While legally you are accorded the same rights in a Barnes & Noble, an odious commercialism is always lurking, lying in wait. And, your money doesn't stay in town, it goes to some far off corporate bank account.

When the Syracuse, NY Barnes & Noble first opened, there was plenty of lounge space and soft, cushiony sofas and chairs. Those had all but disappeared by the time I moved. Apparently, the management wised-up and decided that its patrons' comfort was not in the interest of their bottom line. That's a statement about the city, in general, where you can't just go somewhere to read, you are expected to compensate for your leisure time. Barnes & Noble is basically a Wal-Mart with more books.

Northampton, MA is a city with half-a-dozen thriving used-bookstores (I recommend Raven Books and Half-Moon). Used-bookstores do well in tolerant climates, often accompanied by charming rides in the country, or captivating neighborhoods renowned for art and cultural. Post-industrial influences probably will take their toll, and before the last used-bookstore closes shop, I would like the trophies of my years of travel and browsing to reflect something about my own personality. ]]> earthboar https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?2596-earthboar-s-Blog https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?1080-earthboar-s-Blog Tue, 03 Jul 2007 15:08:36 GMT (see [URL="http://blog.newsketeer.com"]blog.newsketeer.com[/URL] for original blog, with photos)
[SIZE="5"]Summer of...what?[/SIZE]

by Gregory G. Lewis

NORTHAMPTON - On Saturday, June 30 I won two tickets to a Northampton concert billed alternately as "The Summer of Love" or "First Aid". I believe the latter was more descriptive of its function. The concert was supposed to start rather early the following day, July 1, a Sunday.

I left early on Sunday morning, and had a coffee at a place called Esselon Cafe, on Rte 9 in Hadley. From there, the Three County Fairgrounds in Northampton was only a couple miles down the road. How surprised I was to be able to park right next to the gate. There were no more than half a dozen cars in the parking lot. By 10:00 am the lot had not grown at all, and the gates were still not open. I waited by the gate with the handful of other people, where I sold my extra ticket for $15.

Apparently, there was not enough security in the Fairgrounds to cover this "back" gate, which was why it had not yet been opened. A man in line pulled the chain free and we laughed that the gate was now open, and nobody was there to stop us from going through. Still, we waited, and flagged down an approaching staff member, who advanced toward the gate. After handing him my ticket, I entered. There was hardly anybody in the fairgrounds. We had our choice of seats on the grass. There were only a few vendor booths. One was selling Jefferson Starship t-shirts, another sold Central American rugs, ponchos and blankets; yet another sold crystals and minerals. A fourth vendor sold New Age feminine goddess-type trinkets.

[IMG]http://www.newsketeer.com/User_Resources/Image/newhip.jpg[/IMG]
[COLOR="RoyalBlue"]These young people seemed like the only representation of what my ideal of the Summer of Love should look like.[/COLOR]

There wasn't much in the way of food, either. A sausage, hot dog and pizza stand. A beer stand. An ice cream van. Nothing for vegetarians. And, I don't drink beer. That was weird. This could have been a NASCAR race, or a baseball game, but not a "Summer of Love" concert. The bands who were supposed to play today included Jefferson Starship and Big Brother and the Holding Company. You would think this place would be filled with more tie-dye and long hair, but in fact, the pitiful attendance was mostly and older crowd, with gray hair and pot bellies. The only tie-dyed shirt was one with the head of an eagle, and framed over it were the words, "Support our Troops." That seemed like another oddity. Nobody wore a shirt saying, "Bring our troops home."

Same fans, different age, I reasoned. I would discover that I was fooling myself into believing things would pick up.

[IMG]http://www.newsketeer.com/User_Resources/Image/hoolagirl.jpg[/IMG]

In the race track section, there was a guy whacking baseballs. "Home runs for the Troops," the sign said, or something like that. "One hit for every soldier who made the ultimate sacrifice," another sign said. Very odd thing to post for a supposed Summer of Love concert.

As the stage was being prepared, eventually two guys with guitars played some Grateful Dead and some Motown. They weren't too bad. I would discover that they were the best music I was going to hear today. Their names were Bud and Bud. They were the Kind Buds. The Kind Buds were kind enough to play for long periods between sets, which was just about the entire morning and afternoon. By 12:00, noon, the field still had not filled with people.

An aging rock band finally took the stage. They were horrible. The female singer was hoarse, and only the most imaginative could believe her duck-like quacking was music.

Another band called "Outer Space" played later. They were only marginally better. I met a man who introduced himself as Paul. We discussed this feeling of waiting and unfulfilled anticipation. I was getting sunburned, and realized I was catching a cold.

There were cameras, and a radio station had a booth briefly. I don't think they were there for an hour before they left. Some attractive young girls occupied another booth. I walked over to them, with Paul, and asked what they were selling. They said they were there to support the troops, and that I should buy a t-shirt because I would feel better about myself. I seem to remember George W. Bush applying similar logic when the Iraq invasion began. It was somehow associated with buying things like big trucks and SUVs to fight terrorism.

"I'll feel poorer," I replied. I wondered what they meant by "support the troops." Did that mean if I bought a shirt, proceeds would go to buying tanks and smart bombs? What about this $400 Billion military budget that was draining us for such things? Show me a t-shirt where the proceeds would go to ending this war, and I might buy one. Probably not, but at least I would consider it.

A cavalcade emerged, with state police cars lit up, and motorcycles. Some group called "The Blue Knights," an outfit that resembled the Hell's Angels. How macho. I thought there was going to be a raid. Instead, it was an escort for a wounded vet named Mark Ecker--Sgt. Mark Ecker Jr.--a double amputee. Indeed, he was walking on two prosthetic legs, but walking well, I thought. He was smiling. He was young, he looked like he was no older than 21, tops.

[IMG]http://www.newsketeer.com/User_Resources/Image/markecker.jpg[/IMG]
[COLOR="RoyalBlue"]Sgt. Mark Ecker at least put a face to the fundraiser. He was given a check. The concert, apparently, was a way of supporting wounded servicemen. It was not, however, a war protest.[/COLOR]

I took some photos of the poor kid who lost his legs for no good reason. I got into a discussion with this fellow Paul, explaining that it wasn't the military that was the problem, it was a mismanagement of leadership, namely G.W.B., who alternately refers to himself as "the Decider" or "the Commander in Chief". He use to refer to himself as "the Education President," but I guess we can put that to bed.

A man, the president of the First Aid fund raising organization made allusions to Northampton as a liberal, anti-military town. I thought he greatly misrepresented everything. True, Northampton is a liberal town (he said that like it was a bad thing?). But, to associate "liberal" with "anti-military" was a bit on the divisive side, I thought. These people don't seem to know better, they are lock-step into the Neo-Conservative dogma that national policy is a product of the military, not the civilian sector. The guy talked about Shay's Rebellion, and a Massachusetts tradition of militancy. He seemed proud of that militancy, and so did others around me, judging by the hoots and hollers.

The Northampton I know is against the war, and the inarguably terrible leadership that propagated this horrible abortion of empire expansion, plain and simple. Not one person at the concert said, "this war is wrong." Nobody condemned the war. The vibes were getting uncomfortable, too sheople-like. While no one was waving little American flags, and the two Buds went on singing the Grateful Dead's "United States Blues," and "He's Gone," I decided I had had enough.

How long would I have to wait for Starship or Big Brother or any of the other has-been big bands of a bygone era when protest was fearless and just, and the Vietnam war was unjust? I had a nagging feeling of dissonance about hippie-era bands playing a benefit concert in support of the vets, and by way of that, in support of the war. After all, if they were not speaking against the war, then they were collaborators through passive acceptance. And, to tell you the truth, so was I. At the moment I came to that conclusion, I picked up my blanket and walked out, got in my car and drove home. ]]> earthboar https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?1080-earthboar-s-Blog https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?1079-earthboar-s-Blog Tue, 03 Jul 2007 15:07:27 GMT (see [URL="http://blog.newsketeer.com"]blog.newsketeer.com[/URL] for original blog, with photos)
[SIZE="5"]Summer of...what?[/SIZE]

by Gregory G. Lewis

NORTHAMPTON - On Saturday, June 30 I won two tickets to a Northampton concert billed alternately as "The Summer of Love" or "First Aid". I believe the latter was more descriptive of its function. The concert was supposed to start rather early the following day, July 1, a Sunday.

I left early on Sunday morning, and had a coffee at a place called Esselon Cafe, on Rte 9 in Hadley. From there, the Three County Fairgrounds in Northampton was only a couple miles down the road. How surprised I was to be able to park right next to the gate. There were now more than half a dozen cars in the parking lot. By 10:00 am the lot had not grown at all, and the gates were still not open. I waited by the gate with the handful of other people, where I sold my extra ticket for $15.

Apparently, there was not enough security in the Fairgrounds to cover this "back" gate, which was why it had not yet been opened. A man in line pulled the chain free and we laughed that the gate was now open, and nobody was there to stop us from going through. Still, we waited, and flagged down an approaching staff member, who advanced toward the gate. After handing him my ticket, I entered. There was hardly anybody in the fairgrounds. We had our choice of seats on the grass. There were only a few vendor booths. One was selling Jefferson Starship t-shirts, another sold Central American rugs, ponchos and blankets; yet another sold crystals and minerals. A fourth vendor sold New Age feminine goddess-type trinkets.

[IMG]http://www.newsketeer.com/User_Resources/Image/newhip.jpg[/IMG]
[COLOR="RoyalBlue"]These young people seemed like the only representation of what my ideal of the Summer of Love should look like.[/COLOR]

There wasn't much in the way of food, either. A sausage, hot dog and pizza stand. A beer stand. An ice cream van. Nothing for vegetarians. And, I don't drink beer. That was weird. This could have been a NASCAR race, or a baseball game, but not a "Summer of Love" concert. The bands who were supposed to play today included Jefferson Starship and Big Brother and the Holding Company. You would think this place would be filled with more tie-dye and long hair, but in fact, the pitiful attendance was mostly and older crowd, with gray hair and pot bellies. The only tie-dyed **** was one with the head of an eagle, and framed over it were the words, "Support our Troops." That seemed like another oddity. Nobody wore a shirt saying, "Bring our troops home."

Same fans, different age, I reasoned. I would discover that I was fooling myself into believing things would pick up.

[IMG]http://www.newsketeer.com/User_Resources/Image/hoolagirl.jpg[/IMG]

In the race track section, there was a guy whacking baseballs. "Home runs for the Troops," the sign said, or something like that. "One hit for every soldier who made the ultimate sacrifice," another sign said. Very odd thing to post for a supposed Summer of Love concert.

As the stage was being prepared, eventually two guys with guitars played some Grateful Dead and some Motown. They weren\'t too bad. I would discover that they were the best music I was going to hear today. Their names were Bud and Bud. They were the Kind Buds. The Kind Buds were kind enough to play for long periods between sets, which was just about the entire morning and afternoon. By 12:00, noon, the field still had not filled with people.

An aging rock band finally took the stage. They were horrible. The female singer was hoarse, and only the most imaginative could believe her duck-like quacking was music.

Another band called "Outer Space" played later. They were only marginally better. I met a man who introduced himself as Paul. We discussed this feeling of waiting and unfulfilled anticipation. I was getting sunburned, and realized I was catching a cold.

There were cameras, and a radio station had a booth briefly. I don't think they were there for an hour before they left. Some attractive young girls occupied another booth. I walked over to them, with Paul, and asked what they were selling. They said they were there to support the troops, and that I should buy a t-shirt because I would feel better about myself. I seem to remember George W. Bush applying similar logic when the Iraq invasion began. It was somehow associated with buying things like big trucks and SUVs to fight terrorism.

"I'll feel poorer," I replied. I wondered what they meant by "support the troops." Did that mean if I bought a shirt, proceeds would go to buying tanks and smart bombs? What about this $400 Billion military budget that was draining us for such things? Show me a t-shirt where the proceeds would go to ending this war, and I might buy one. Probably not, but at least I would consider it.

A cavalcade emerged, with state police cars lit up, and motorcycles. Some group called "The Blue Knights," an outfit that resembled the Hell's Angels. How macho. I thought there was going to be a raid. Instead, it was an escort for a wounded vet named Mark Ecker--Sgt. Mark Ecker Jr.--a double amputee. Indeed, he was walking on two prosthetic legs, but walking well, I thought. He was smiling. He was young, he looked like he was no older than 21, tops.

[IMG]http://www.newsketeer.com/User_Resources/Image/markecker.jpg[/IMG]
[COLOR="RoyalBlue"]Sgt. Mark Ecker at least put a face to the fundraiser. He was given a check. The concert, apparently, was a way of supporting wounded servicemen. It was not, however, a war protest. Sgt. Mark Ecker at least put a face to the fund raiser. He was given a check. The concert, apparently, was a way of supporting wounded servicemen. It was not, however, a war protest.[/COLOR]

I took some photos of the poor kid who lost his legs for no good reason. I got into a discussion with this fellow Paul, explaining that it wasn't the military that was the problem, it was a mismanagement of leadership, namely G.W.B., who alternately refers to himself as "the Decider" or "the Commander in Chief". He use to refer to himself as "the Education President," but I guess we can put that to bed.

A man, the president of the First Aid fund raising organization made allusions to Northampton as a liberal, anti-military town. I thought he greatly misrepresented everything. True, Northampton is a liberal town (he said that like it was a bad thing?). But, to associate "liberal" with "anti-military" was a bit on the divisive side, I thought. These people don't seem to know better, they are lock-step into the Neo-Conservative dogma that national policy is a product of the military, not the civilian sector. The guy talked about Shay's Rebellion, and a Massachusetts tradition of militancy. He seemed proud of that militancy, and so did others around me, judging by the hoots and hollers.

The Northampton I know is against the war, and the inarguably terrible leadership that propagated this horrible abortion of empire expansion, plain and simple. Not one person at the concert said, "this war is wrong." Nobody condemned the war. The vibes were getting uncomfortable, too sheople-like. While no one was waving little American flags, and the two Buds went on singing the Grateful Dead's "United States Blues," and "He's Gone," I decided I had had enough.

How long would I have to wait for Starship or Big Brother or any of the other has-been big bands of a bygone era when protest was fearless and just, and the Vietnam war was unjust? I had a nagging feeling of dissonance about hippie-era bands playing a benefit concert in support of the vets, and by way of that, in support of the war. After all, if they were not speaking against the war, then they were collaborators through passive acceptance. And, to tell you the truth, so was I. At the moment I came to that conclusion, I picked up my blanket and walked out, got in my car and drove home. ]]> earthboar https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?1079-earthboar-s-Blog https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?986-earthboar-s-Blog Sun, 24 Jun 2007 12:31:25 GMT My life is sometimes like a fast moving train, which makes infrequent stops for rest and maintenance. I would love to blog more entries, but time is... My life is sometimes like a fast moving train, which makes infrequent stops for rest and maintenance. I would love to blog more entries, but time is lacking. If you were to judge the content of my life by my diary or blogs, it would read like an ancient papyrus scripture, full of missing text and segments. You might conclude, "this guy sits on his behind all day writing. Why doesn't he move about and get some fresh air?" Many call me lazy, which in reality, I am. But, laziness and inactivity are not quite the same thing. I'm going to try and change the misconception about my supposed inactivity with these accounts of life--though I won't refute charges of laziness.

Yesterday was another whirlwind day. At 9:00 am I covered yet another Town Meeting. I asked my editor, "What's wrong with these people? Don't they have a social life, or are their town meetings their social life?" He told me they would have a great breakfast, anyway, and I could add some levity to an otherwise boring story by writing about that.

There was quiche, chocolate covered strawberries and deviled eggs. I refrained from eating, especially after dropping a piece of quiche on the floor. I was so disgusted with myself; I did not try to eat another thing, but not before developing a craving for deviled eggs.

The summer day was spectacular. The emerald hills, the solid blue sky with puffy white clouds here and there made it a photographer's dream. After the meeting, which I could not leave quick enough, I went to a white water demo. The area where I live has become something of a river recreation Mecca, and people with kayaks, inner tubes, rafts and canoes drive into these hills by the thousands. The dams have a water release schedule, and the enthusiasts take advantage of the water release to ride the rushing water down river.

This weekend, there is a kayak and canoe festival, and I photographed and talked to paddlers and instructors. Took some great photos of paddlers shooting through the rapids! I had to sit uncomfortably on a rock, with my feet dangling dangerously in some rapids to get an eye-level photo of guys in canoes shooting through the white water. It was fantastic. Some of them flipped over and needed to be rescued.

As I was walking back to my car, one young man said, "Isn't this a beautiful day?"

"It's a day to smile stupidly," I replied.

But, my day was not done. I had an invitation to attend a graduation for a most unusual school, a small school of landscape design. The keynote speaker was extremely long-winded, and people were nodding off, babies began to cry, the seats began to empty. I met the caterer at the buffet.

"I'll be back for you later," I winked at her. She had a plate full of deviled eggs, among other kinds of food.

In fact, I took some photos, but left after the graduation ceremony. I figured these students had seen enough of me, and I wanted them to enjoy the rest of their big day with their parents and friends. I did think about the deviled eggs, though, and determined to make my own when I got home. So, I drove down to the city to buy some eggs, and bread and cheese. I was not yet ready for dinner; I had one more event to attend.

My Saturday was being used for someone else's pleasure. I decided to do something for myself Saturday night. A Howard Zinn film was playing in town, and it had been on my schedule for over a month. Tonight would belong to [I]me[/I].

There were two hours to kill before showtime. I walked across the Bridge of Flowers, took some pictures. I bought a small coffee at the cafe, and drank it on the sidewalk, while reading a book. A woman walked by, recognized me and asked if I was going to the movie. I was amazed, how did she know? I had met this woman only a week before, on a daylong sight-seeing tour. She said she was going to Cuba on a peace mission in the near future. She asked me to give her a hand setting up the hall for the audience.

After the cafe closed, and the girl put her tables and chairs inside for the night, I hung out on the steps of Memorial Hall, where a crowd was gathering in anticipation of the film. I took out my notebook and wrote for a while, when yet another woman stopped in front of me and asked, "Excuse me, is this where the Howard Zinn film is playing?"

As my eyes focused on her, I scanned my mental Rolodex to place the face. I was astounded; it was the woman who let me stay with her family in Washington, D.C. last November. She was as amazed as I was. We were doubly amazed!

"What are you doing here?" It turned out she was on vacation with her husband. The two of them were staying at a friend's house, a man who just happened to be producing tonight's film. He was also the man who took me to Washington. Her husband was a revolutionary in El Salvador, but they had moved to Maryland to be close to DC, where he was a spokesperson for a leftist group. I accidentally carried this woman's gym bag all the way to Massachusetts on an airplane! We had a great laugh about that. She and her husband and a daughter live in a Maryland suburb, they drive a new car, and don't seem to resemble the popular conception of Central American revolutionary anymore.

I introduced her and her husband to a retired English professor, who recently wrote a play about the Nicaraguan Revolution in the Reagan era. You know, the Contras and Sandanistas; the CIA and weapons for cocaine; Oliver North and pistachios--IranGate. I could see the professor and the revolutionaries hit it off when the old professor greeted them in Spanish. So, having accomplished a bit of the interpersonal alchemy for which Geminis are well known, I slipped away for the evening. I went home and made myself some deviled eggs.

The film, "You Can't Be Neutral on a Moving Train" was quintessential Howard Zinn. Very inspiring, controversial and thought provoking, Howard Zinn is an uncompromising activist. He is the original "Question Authority" spokesman of the modern era. A soldier turned peace activist, a tenured professor at Boston University. On this very stage at Memorial Hall, I watched another professor from another college perform as Karl Marx in "Marx in Soho." One of the film's directors/producers, Deb Ellis from Boston, appeared for a Q&A afterward. Matt Damon narrated the film. I bought a Howard Zinn signed book, "People's History of the United States" as a gift for my college student niece, the activist . ]]> earthboar https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?986-earthboar-s-Blog https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?979-earthboar-s-Blog Fri, 22 Jun 2007 22:37:33 GMT Tonight is Annual Town Meeting. It is an old New England tradition, the purest form of democracy anywhere, even more democratic than other states.... Tonight is Annual Town Meeting. It is an old New England tradition, the purest form of democracy anywhere, even more democratic than other states. Every voter gets to say "yeah" or "nay" to the Warrant articles. Some of them are budgets, like the school budget, or the highway budget, or how much officials get paid. Some articles ask questions, like "Should we leave the school district and start our own?"

I have been to six town meetings this year, all in other towns, of course. People get very emotional about some of the questions. This year's top pick question? In every town I have been to, an article appeared that asked, "Should our town send notice to our state legislators to begin impeachment proceedings against George W. Bush and Richard B. Cheney for war crimes, sanctioning torture and domestic spying?"

Believe it or not, in every town in rural New England, the answer was overwhelmingly, "YES". I'm not making this up. I don't bring this up as a point of contention, I write this as a matter of interest. Aren't you the least bit curious about how a majority of rural New Englanders would vote on this subject? Now you know.

Most of the issues are tedious and boring, as far as I'm concerned. As a reporter and non-voting audience, I have to sit on the sidelines and listen. But, tonight I will have a chance to sit with the voters. Town Meetings can be excruciatingly long. As far as I am aware, my own town does not have an impeachment article on the Warrant. It is always easier to write about other towns. It is much more difficult to take a stand in one's own town.

There are some very rednecked and backward people who live in these towns. Old codgers who bully people into voting their way, or else. Farmers and land owners who believe a property owner should be able to do whatever he wants on his own land. I once told a man, "Great! I want to build a chemical weapons factory next to your house. After all, Atom Bombs don't kill people, people kill people!" He glowered at me. Grudges are long lived here. They last for generations.

Generations and generations can go by. A certain descendent of a certain family hates a certain descendent of another family, and they don't even know why any more. All they know is there must be a reason why you live at the bottom of the mountain, and I live at the top.

Can you believe I live in the house with the highest elevation in my state? t's true! How many people can make that claim? ]]> earthboar https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?979-earthboar-s-Blog https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?948-earthboar-s-Blog Sun, 17 Jun 2007 13:13:08 GMT The Wilmington Flea Market is very active this weekend. I feel like I am missing out by not being there, strolling the rows of junk vendors. What one... The Wilmington Flea Market is very active this weekend. I feel like I am missing out by not being there, strolling the rows of junk vendors. What one buys is not important, it is the act of mingling with the common people that heals boredom. White trash, tattooed biker has-beens with their tattooed, saggy breasted smoking women, who, when they speak, make raspy-voiced quacking sounds, like Donald Duck. They walk their pitbulls or Jack Russell terriers alongside ShiZus on diamond-studded leashes held by prim old money women from New York City. Eyes are drawn down to the locus where the two dogs meet, like a black hole attracting all light, as people place mental bets on whether a dog fight will erupt, and if so, which dog will win. The pitbull tries to mount the diamond-collared ShiZu, and the ShiZu doesn't seem to mind.

An old Russian man in his stall allows a young antiques "expert" to poke a heated needle into the bottom of a faux-ivory Quan Yin statuette, finding out what the rest of us seem to already know, that the material is not ivory but ivory-colored plastic. The young man's formal braggadoccio belies that he is doing this to impress the two girls who accompany him. The rest of us recognize the young man's mating instinct in his actions, and I wonder if he is oblivious to his motives. A whisp of smoke rises from his needle tip.

"What is real?" asks the Russian hawker philosophically. I turn to my daughter, we smile at one another.

"Ivory is real," I say under my breath, "but plastic is not really ivory. I think you know that." I give my daughter five bucks, she buys a tiny rose quartz pendant from the Russian man. The quartz is real, but its silvery cage turns out to be plastic. We laugh, it cost her one dollar. "Unimportant," I say to her, laughing.

The book seller is a delightful stop. His books are not junk, they are not plastic. They are real, they are paper, and paper was once wood from a real tree. The writing is diverse enough to satisfy everyone. Not everybody is interested in antiques. Not everybody is interested in lawn ornaments, or cheap Chinese batteries that are already dead in their unopened packaging, or cheap Chinese razor blades that couldn't cut through jell-o. But, no matter what differences divide the flea market walkers, they all stop at the book seller's stall. I flip through an 1848 edition of Josephus' "JEWISH WARS". It is $25, and I already own a better copy, two in fact, that are older. Still, I have bought books here before.

The book seller is the reason I go to the Wilmington Flea Market. Everything else is ancillary. I also like the incense salesman, and sometimes obscure videos are sold here. I bought a painting once, acrylic on a thin birch bark parchment. I love it, it's a modern folk art style resembling Pennsylvania Dutch Hexes. Four roosters and swirling foliage, something like the Kabbalist's Tree of Life, and it flouresces under blacklight.

The Flea Market isn't a place to buy what is necessary for living, it is a place to feed what is necessary to the soul, a mingling with common people under the blue sky and green hills of summer. I think I will leave shortly. ]]> earthboar https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?948-earthboar-s-Blog https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?721-earthboar-s-Blog Mon, 07 May 2007 17:10:04 GMT What does an earthboar do, when not reading? Believe it or not, I'm "out there," as they say. This past Friday (May 4th) I spent an afternoon in a brand new "Net Zero" house, full of photovoltaic and solar-thermal panels, computers, krypton filled windows, and, oh yeah, a Congressman and a Department of Energy officer. That evening I watched the 1963 film Lord of the Flies with director of photography Gerry Feil, who answered questions about the film afterwards.

On Wednesday I saw the most amazing band, the hottest band in London today, called The Council. I had my picture taken with them. They were loud!

Last week I reviewed a jazz-film project called "How Much Land Does A Man Need," based on the Tolstoy short story, by Vermont musicians Jamie Masefield and the Jazz Mandolin Project. The showing was in one of my favorite towns, Northampton.

I've interviewed biblical scholar and author James Carse, Scottish folk singer Dougie MacLean; interviewed Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick several times, both on the campaign trail and after election, covered the 2006 Massachusetts Democratic Convention at the Worcester Centrum; went to Washington DC to watch the inauguration of the 110th Congress in November; watched the Tibetan monks known as the Gyuto Monks perform a prayer ceremony honoring Mahakala; and have been front and center in many more interviews and interesting events in the past two years than I am really inclined to force myself to remember at this moment.

The life of a journalist! Tough, dirty and dangerous, but somebody has to do it ;) ]]> earthboar https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?721-earthboar-s-Blog https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?720-earthboar-s-Blog Mon, 07 May 2007 16:57:21 GMT "9½ Mystics: The Kabbalah Today" by Herbert Weiner. In a traditional reminiscent of Carlos Castaneda's documentary style, Weiner goes beyond a step-by-step Tree of Life tutorial to put us in touch with the authentic Judaic Kabbalists of his day. More than just a book "about" the Kabbalah, the insights Weiner records have a real impact on personal approaches to Kabbalah, making it useful as well as mystical.

"Memories, Dreams, Reflections" C.G. Jung's autobiography, as recorded by Aniela Jaffé. This 1961 self-accounting of Jung's gestalt takes us deeper than the academic, and by now classical psychological model of cultural analysis to give us the reasons [I]why [/I]such a model came into being at all. It is not only pleasant and interesting reading, but we come to question whether art can be separated from artist.

"The Gnostic Gospels" by Elaine Pagels. Prof. Pagels is one of my favorite authors on the subject of Gnosticism, not just in Nag Hammadi exegesis, but also her bold tackling of Gnostic patterns in the Pauline letters, the ontogeny of Satan, and the Gospel of Thomas. In this book, though, Pagels accounts for the earliest church, the proto-Church, and how Gnosticism came to be regarded as heresies by the church fathers Irenaeus, Tertullian and their modern descendants. ]]> earthboar https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?720-earthboar-s-Blog