While tooling around on the internets this morning, I noticed that Dr. Giroux paid a visit to Bill Moyers (watch it here http://billmoyers.com/segment/henry-giroux-on-zombie-politics/) and it reminded me about this post I wrote around this time last year.
I had just been thinking, again, about our selfie culture and insane drive to buy moreandmoreandmore crap- as I watched the footage of the battles happening in shops on Black Friday- and ruminated on the fact that the impulse to buybuybuy- at times and places dictated to us by the marketing people and the economics ‘leaders’- has become increasingly repugnant to me. Not that I don’t love a good bargain (my Dad was a notorious bargain shopper- I guess I picked that up from him), but because I really resent the rank consumerism that is eating us alive.
We celebrated US Thanksgiving last night- Fletch and his lovely better half always host us for an amazing food-and-drink fest in their home. I’m still full. Of the food, certainly, but mainly from the friendship and fellowship and great conversations we always seem to find at their place.
I can’t imagine rushing out to fight crowds in stores where under-paid employees are forced to leave their homes and hearths to serve the state-sanctioned consumerism of the general public.
I love words. I love seeking their origins, working out where they came from and why we use them to say the things we’re trying to say.
I have a fairly developed vocabulary- owing largely to the fact that I read a lot, but also because I know a number of languages, in addition to my mother tongue. The ancient languages provide a foundation for some of the whys and wherefores, and the modern languages help explain particular usages. It’s like a big puzzle- the way words connect us. Words demonstrate the way in which we communicate- across this wide world of ours- and the way we always have done.
‘Newer’ languages borrow words from those that came before- adapting them to seek their particular linguistic needs. Language is never static- it develops with each passing day.
Literacy- in any and all languages- is something I regard as supremely important.
On November 25th, 1984, a bunch of pop stars got together and recorded a song. There was a famine happening in Ethiopia, and this guy, the lead singer and songwriter of a band out of Ireland, was more than a little staggered that very little seemed to be happening to address what was going on.
He got in touch with a mate, the lead singer and songwriter of a band out of Scotland, and the two of them threw together- not overnight, but close- a tune and some lyrics.
Were the lyrics, perhaps, a little Western-centric and culturally-condescending? Arguably, yes. Was the song catchy and well-intentioned? Definitely. In my opinion, such as it is, anyway.
The two musicians then set about gathering up the biggest names in the British music business of the day and bringing them all together to record the song. All this, like the composition of the song, happened pretty damn quickly- as said musicians set aside other commitments and headed into the studio to record a song that changed things pretty spectacularly.
Leaving egos (and who can claim bigger egos than the pop stars of the 80s? Durans, I’m looking at you, in particular) at the door, they contributed to a little ditty that arose out of one man’s driving need to do something about a situation that he felt was going ignored as the rest of the world geared up for the holiday season.
The single set in motion an entire movement that promoted awareness and participation and involvement on a worldwide scale.
That there’s a pretty hefty statement. But I stand by it. Totally.
Maybe you have to have been a young, idealistic music fan, as I was (and remain- okay, maybe not so much the ‘young’ part) at the time, to really appreciate the impact that the impulse of one guy‘s need to help had on the world, as we saw it then.
Band Aid- and the international iterations that followed- was a big deal. A really big deal. It’s hard, today, for those who take for granted the instantaneous nature of communication and our ability to speak face-to-face across continents through the wonders of the interworld age, to understand the work involved in getting humanity to come together with the technology that was available thirty years ago.
The movement became a juggernaut that over-took Geldof’s life. Admittedly, it did him some fair amount of personal good as well. I’m certainly not going to dispute that. He may well be as big a jerk as some claim with a vast fortune and an inclination to dodge taxes. Never met him. Don’t know.
But the initial act that he set in motion became the jumping-off point for the shaping of any number of similar projects in the following years.
I’m not going to cite statistics (not sure I trust them)- how much money has been raised over the years, where that money went, how many lives may or may not have been saved. What, thirty years later, still gets me, is just how many people were, maybe, shaken out of their self-centred complacency and who stopped, if even for a moment, to think about something larger than themselves.
Those people who, however temporarily, shifted focus away from what they planned to stand in lines to buy on Black Friday and came to some level of awareness that there are others sharing this here planet, and that their concerns are about things other than whether or not they’ll score the latest iPhone (or whatever the kids are clamouring for in any particular holiday season).
At best, our connectedness and access to the media is a mixed-blessing. When it is used in an attempt to shakeup- or wake up- people, to roust them out of self-indulgence- without resorting to soundbites designed to terrify- it can be a truly beautiful thing.
Do I like the new version? Not so much. Beyond the fact that I can recognize maybe three of the contributors (the less said about Bono here the better- I have a bit of a defence of him in the works, but it’s for something completely different) and the reality that changing up the lyrics to suit the Ebola outbreak messes with my nostalgic fondness for the song (and seems more than a little forced), I haven’t paid all that much attention to any of the previous attempts to re-work the song to make it appropriate to its return.
I’m, generally, pretty aware of what goes on around me- and elsewhere in the world, and I’ve always made an effort to address crises in my own way- through the donation of time or, sometimes, money. I’m not suggesting that I’m a paragon of involvement- but I’d say I’m at least a little more engaged than a lot of people. And I’m no longer 14, so the purchase of a 45 (yes, I have the original on 45) isn’t my only option for attempting to make a difference in situations that matter.
I’ve seen a lot of nay-saying, and charges that the return of Do They Know it’s Christmas is all about Geldof, rather than Ebola relief and awareness. The Current, for example, spoke with a bunch of people who know a whole lot about programs in Africa and the things that are being done to change the course of this outbreak.
Cool. I’m glad they are getting the forum to challenge this particular approach to raising awareness. Criticisms of Bob and Midge aside, if experts and people on the ground have the opportunity to actually speak about the realities of the situation to larger audiences of people, that, in itself, marks a fairly significant sea-change for the better.
Which speaks very much for the validity of the re-release of the song, in my mind.
If we start to hear less fear-mongering from pundits on major news channels and more actual, evidence-based information about this virus and its transmission, this is all to the good.
Understanding, however it comes, has to be lauded. As does awareness. And if they raise a few million quid in the process, how is this bad?
Seriously. I’m looking for an answer, here.
No one, to my knowledge anyway, has suggested that throwing money at the problem (either now, or in 1984) is going to be the only thing that might make it go away.
Our seemingly-intrinsic and ever-nutured selfishness has led us to a state of affairs in which we need something– pop stars, reality ‘celebrities’, whatever- to massively jar us out of the constant focus on the microcosm and engage us in acknowledging that it’s not all about us.
I tend, as a matter of course and function of personality, to look for best intentions before leaping to criticize. And I can’t see that the intentions behind this whole thing are anything but positive.
Naive? Maybe. I’ve been called worse.
But people are talking- and buying the thing.
There may have been ulterior motives. I don’t know either of the dudes, personally. I love their music, so I’m somewhat biased in that respect (full disclosure- the two of them have written some of my very favourite songs, and Midge has a set of pipes on him that is incomparable, as far as I’m concerned).
But I’m also well aware of the wholefeet of clay thing, and the dangers of setting anyone on too-high a pedestal. (this Bill Cosby thing is killing me a little. Talk about a blow to my childhood idylls/idols).
I’m not doing that here. Truly.
But.
Until you can say that you have affected world-wide change on a level that Bob Geldof and Midge Ure have done, with the composition of a little song thirty years ago, I really think you need to be holding your tongue. Somewhat.
Pop stars, and the rest of us, inhabit our own little worlds of relative privilege and concerns (and relative to those who were dying of famine in Ethiopia, I’d say that privilege is pretty substantial, whether you’re a multimillionaire pop star or a 14-year-old from Toronto). 30 years ago a couple of those pop stars spurred a number more to acknowledge that privilege and contribute in the way they were best equipped to do so.
They made no claims to be experts in African politics, culture or economics. They saw something happening to their fellow humans and came together to do something, anything, about it. They make music. Some of them get paid ridiculous sums of money to play that music (and we, who buy their records and pay exorbitant prices for concert tickets, are complicit in the achievement of this wealth).
They are using the tools at their disposal, their voices and their fame, to draw attention to a situation that needs some light.
I can’t see that doing something is, in any way, worse than doing nothing. This is true in most things. And in this case, most certainly.
A number of years after the first go-round of the single and all the events that followed, Bob wrote another song. He called it The Great Song of Indifference. It was a response, a counter-point, if you will, to the criticisms being leveled, even then, against his continued involvement.
I don’t care if you live or die Couldn’t care less if you laugh or cry I don’t mind if you crash or fly I don’t mind at all
I don’t mind if you come or go I don’t mind if you say no Couldn’t care less baby let it flow ‘Cause I don’t care at all
I don’t care if you sink or swim Lock me out or let me in Where I’m going or where I’ve been I don’t mind at all
I don’t mind if the government falls Implements more futile laws I don’t care if the nation stalls And I don’t care at all
I don’t care if they tear down trees I don’t feel the hotter breeze Sink in dust in dying sees And I don’t care at all
I don’t mind if culture crumbles I don’t mind if religion stumbles I can’t hear the speakers mumble And I don’t mind at all
I don’t care if the Third World fries It’s hotter there I’m not surprised Baby I can watch whole nations die And I don’t care at all
I don’t mind I don’t mind I don’t mind I don’t mind I don’t mind I don’t mind I don’t mind at all
I don’t mind about people’s fears Authority no longer hears Send a social engineer And I don’t mind at all
Cynicism and right-minded criticism have their place. We need to be questioning motivations and strategy when we face problems that impact us humans and the planet we call home. But I have a real problem with knee-jerk disapproval without suggestions for alternative solutions.
If every couple of dollars raised by this effort is representative of a person who stopped, if only for the space of time it takes to listen to the song, then that’s a sign of forward momentum, as far as I’m concerned. And if it gets us thinking and talking about what we’ve, personally, contributed to make a difference in the world… And how we might go about upping that ante…
Hallelujah. It’s about freakin time.
I know it did for me. My nostalgic reminiscences have me contemplating what I need to be doing next to manifest all this change I keep talking about here- and in the real world.
I wonder if those who are looking to condemn- based in perceived intentions or actual execution- gave that any thought as they were writing tweets or articles about the misguidance or abuse of charitable impulses in attempts to affect change. I kinda doubt it.
Buy the song, don’t buy the song.
But do something that demonstrates that indifference is not the prevailing impulse to which you’d like to cling. It’s the least you can do before taking those who do otherwise to task.
Doing some thinking about managing expectations today, and I remembered this little bit o’ something from a while ago. It touches on a number of the things that have been floating around in my cranium this week as I try to re-focus on some things that need attention.
I’m trying reallyreally hard to follow the advice I gave myself the other day (while channelling two of my mentors- Cat Stevens and Papa Kaz).
Just sit down and take it slowly.
Breathe. And let it go. All of it.
But, somehow, expectations are among the things that we seem to cling to. Sometimes these expectations can get all mixed up with something that is thrown around as a negative descriptor a lot these days (I used it myself recently)- entitlement.
‘The act or state of looking forward or anticipating… a prospect of future good’ = expectation
‘The belief that one is deserving of or entitled to certain privileges’ = entitlement
The differences are subtle: that which we think we deserve vs. that which we feel it was reasonable to anticipate.
Likewise two terms that are connected with the collapse of expectations:
‘The feeling of dissatisfaction that follows the failure…
Some words of wisdom and inspiration from my friend, Anne-Marie. It’s been a day filled with inspiration from wise and talented women. A breath of fresh air.
If you’ve been kind enough to follow along with me as I reminisce, ramble and (sometimes) rant in my little corner of the blogosphere, you likely have come to realize that I love music. I love the way it tells our stories and marks moments in time that illustrate aspects of specific cultures and of humanity in general. I love the way it can change a mood with a few chords or a well-turned lyric. I love how it connects us to the people we love AND to those we will never meet.
Music is Powerful. Capital ‘P’ full o’ Power.
I have friends that have nurtured and educated me in this love, and our sharing of music is one of the wonders of my life. From records to cassettes to CDs and then the digital MP3s/MP4s and formats I haven’t even heard of yet… each new package mattered little to me. I wanted the…
Search terms. I don’t know much about SEOs and the like. Those sorts of emails/’comments’ that thinly disguise advertisements for companies that do know all about such things end up in the spam folder and are all deleted. I have written about a few peculiarities that have popped up now and again, but I’m kinda wondering what’s up with people right now. Every day for the past week or more, the same search term keeps on showing up on the stats page.
It’s there again today. Twice.
I did write about Baphomet- in a particular context- not all that long ago. So okay. Fair enough. The search engine brings people- who happen to be looking for the guy-here. But it seems like a whole lot of people are looking for info about a 14th century construct lately.
Weird.
Perhaps that damned movie about a fictional code was on tv again.
While we were visiting Scotland I insisted that we pay a visit to that little chapel that shows up at the end of the damned movie (and the even more damned book that inspired the damned movie).
Small (okay, LARGE) aside- in case some of you might be wondering why I am so against Dan Brown and That Damned Book (TDB, from now on)…
1) he ripped off the idea from a bunch of ‘journalists’ who came up with the (fictional) story without any level of thought about actual historical veracity;
2) the writing is pretty much uniformly bad, but the ending is just plain terrible;
3) TDB is so filled with scientific and historical inaccuracies that I just can’t even…,
4) it has fed the never-ending and voracious appetites of conspiracy idiots across the globe (who certainly needed no new fodder);
and
5) his main character is a professor in an academic discipline that doesn’t exist. Semiotics is an academic discipline. Symbology is not. Semioticians study signs and symbols as elements of communication and behaviour, focusing on the relationship of the signifier and the signified, using linguistics and psychology to identify the ways in which symbols are used to construct meaning. Symbologists study nothing. Because they don’t exist.
Oh. And also because TDB was turned into TDM, and, as a result, I actually hated a movie that starred Tom Hanks. Which is terrible. Because Tom Hanks is lovely.
Admittedly, it did bring a number of people to my classrooms over the years. Either because they were looking for evidence that the RC Church hadn’t lied to them all these years, or because they thought that an examination of the non-canonical Xian writings would demonstrate that TDB was right all along. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to set minds at ease in the first group (the Church has told more than its fair share of lies) and the primary sources and historical evidence we have does not, in any way, point to anything in TDB being at all accurate. Historically speaking.
End rant.
So. You could ask, legitimately, why would I want to visit Rosslyn Chapel– just outside of Edinburgh- if I loathe TDB/M so much?
Well. Quite simply because it’s beyond lovely and the story of the Chapel and its restoration is way more interesting than anything a hack novelist could dream up.
I loved it there. At the end of a long day touring some of Scotland’s most historic sites- Bannockburn and Stirling Castle were just two of the stops- we were coping with a fair bit of history overload (yes, it can happen. Even to me) when we arrived at Rosslyn. The site, for all its historical value, overwhelms with its beauty and the intricacy of the carvings, yet is a place that lends itself to quiet reflection.
And, since I do like the actual history of groups like the Masons, the Chapel provides some interesting evidence of the traditions and symbols associated with that storied Brotherhood. I bought a matted rubbing of some of the Masonic symbols that are found in the Chapel, as a matter of fact (have yet to get it framed. Which, since I had to go looking for a stock photo of the Chapel because I haven’t started sorting through the photos we took, isn’t really all that surprising).
As we sat in the Chapel, listening to the guide talk a bit about its history, its resident cat, William, popped in to say hello to everyone. He made straight for my lap (as is generally the case with most small creatures. I tend to attract animals), and was a purring mass of black and white fur who enhanced the story we were being told immensely. Nothing like a lap full of cat and a good story. If I’d had a Scotch in hand, it would have been pretty much perfect.
The guide noted that the Chapel had fallen into disrepair after centuries of neglect, but was gradually undergoing some restoration work when TDB was released. That August, the Chapel received more visitors than they had in the entirety of any previous year. Since there was only one washroom available on the site, this proved more than a little problematic. And Dan Brown’s fans continued to descend en masse to discover the secret of the Code for themselves.
The influx of Seekers of the Holy Grail facilitated the building of a beautiful Visitors’ Centre (complete with washrooms, cafe and gift shop- where you can buy Scotch, bottled especially for Rosslyn as a means of raising funds for its on-going restoration- although they frown on you drinking it in the Chapel) with all kinds of cool interactive displays that talk about the carvings and the (family) history of its construction.
The release of TDM brought even more visitors to the site- again, a good thing from a heritage preservation perspective. The guide told us a few tales of memorable visitors- those convinced that Elvis lay in the inaccessible vault beneath the Chapel, those convinced of the existence of the Sang Real, and those who thought they might catch a glimpse of Tom Hanks.
And then there were the crazy people…
One of the things that most resonated with me as we traveled the highways and byways of Scotland, in the company of fantastic storytellers with an impressive knowledge of history, was the fact that so much of it is continually being re- and/or over-written. This was made clear as crystal by the unanimous expression of disdain for one film in particular- one that starred a too-short Australian, dressed in anachronistic belted plaid, while painted (also anachronistically) with woad. I’ll refrain from mentioning the bit about the affair with Isabella of France (who was only three at the time of the events portrayed in the film). Oops. Guess I just did.
I haven’t seen Braveheart in its entirety. Never really interested me- especially since I read about the glaring inaccuracies fairly early on. I’m not all that fond of the Aussie-in-question (although, while I’m not much into the post-apocalyptic genre, Mad Max did have its moments. And I liked the first Lethal Weapon film. Nothing after that, though), so I wasn’t in a rush to witness his particular brand of over-acting.
I was quite surprised at the vehemence with which our guides emphasized the wrongness of the film’s presentation of its hero. William Wallace is very important to the Scots- and messing with his story is problematic. To say the least. They still talk of his murder (and they consider it murder, not execution) as if it happened recently, rather than in the 13th century.
We humans revise and review and revisit history all the time. Our stories are re-written and re-presented in different forms. The best stories hold up in the face of reworking and redaction because their themes and characters speak to something that is universal.
But, all too often, we do so at our peril.
Am I being pedantic when I complain about the ridiculousness found in TDB? Probably. A lot of people like the story, and found some level of entertainment in it. And, after all, Dan Brown never claimed that the story was non-fiction. Those conspiracy fans who make such claims do so of their own accord.
But. The subject matter at the source of his fiction, for all that it is, itself, fictional, has loomed fairly largely in my life. I’ve spent alot of time with the texts- primary, secondary and tertiary, in my adult life. So the fact that people are willing to accept the further fictionalization of the myths, and reinterpretation of the symbols and metaphors they were meant to illustrate, as TRUE just bugs me. For the same reasons that any sort of unexamined credulity makes me crazy.
And now I’m ranting again.
What does any of this have to do with a search engine term that keeps bringing people here to visit? Some of you (assuming you’ve stuck around this long) are probably thinking (not without cause) that I’ve gotten totally lost in a complete derailment of my train of thought, but there is a connection. I swear.
You see, poor old Baphomet is the exemplar of this sort of thing. He is a construct that originated out of torture designed to garner confessions from a group of monks that had become a bit too rich and too powerful for the comfort of the King. And the Pope (although the Vatican now says that the persecution was ‘unjust’, and that Clement V was ‘forced into it’ by King Philip IV).
As they were tortured, some of the falsely arrested Knights confessed to the worship of some sort of heathen idol- variously described as a severed head, a head with three faces, and a cat. Until the persecution of the Templars, no one had heard of Baphomet. He arose out of the stories that were told about the perceived crimes of the Knights of the Temple.
Created. Whole cloth. As an instrument of condemnation of a group that was causing the powers-that-be some difficulties. Various theories as to the origins of his name- and of the demon/idol himself- proliferated as the centuries passed. His existence was back-dated for veracity.
With the 18th century rise of Freemasonry, Masonic leaders sought connections to heroes of the past, as they sought to create their own mythologized history. They connected the Masons to the Templars and then, going back even further, to some of my beloved Gnostic-types.
It’s all pseudo-history of the worst possible kind.
Dan Brown is far from the first person to cash in on the credulity that such unexamined claims can foster, if not cause outright. Eliphas Lévi drew a picture (literally) of Baphomet that served to secure a place for his image in Western minds for subsequent generations.
This is him. According to an occultist with a really good imagination.
Aleister Crowley liked Baphomet (and Eliphas Lévi) a fair bit. He is generally considered to be one of the minions of Hell (Baphomet, not Eliphas)- if not the Devil Dude himself. Some Xian evangelist-types suggest that Masons, today, still worship that particular demon.
All this notoriety. From a singular mention in the writings of a chronicler of the First Crusade- suggesting that those they fought against called upon him as they attempted to hold the city against the Crusading Xians.
Baphomet is demonstrative of what can, and does, happen when myths (and mythological characters) are cited outside of their originating context. The stories go through a process akin to Broken Telephone- with the elements of the narrative losing all connection to their original, metaphorical or symbolic purposes.
As we add details and creatively expand upon sparse references, the innocuous can become monstrous. Such is the power of story– in the hands of people who have a way with words and the construction of lasting images.
When taken as entertainment- or as a potential source of universal truths/common sense- such stories serve to unite us as human beings. We all love a good story.
Stories become dangerous their authors purport to tell truths to which they cannot, legitimately, lay claim. Or when the credulous among us (an ever-growing crowd) decide to infer truths underlying the fiction.
Baphoment is a poster-child for this phenomenon. I’d like to think that that’s the reason so many people seem to be looking for information about him here in the interworld.
Given the stuff that I see in the media on a daily basis, I’m not naive enough to really subscribe to that particular conceit.
People are searching for information about him because they believe, however foolishly, in his existence as a manifestation/personification of evil that exists in the real world.
‘Don’t believe what you hear Don’t believe what you see If you just close your eyes You can feel the enemy…
And I’d join the movement If there was one I could believe in Yeah I’d break bread and wine If there was a church I could receive in ’cause I need it now…
And I know that the tide is turning ’round So don’t let the bastards grind you down’
Bono has said that the song is largely about examining his own hypocrisy. It’s about having high standards for other people, and yet not living according to those standards. Wrapped up in the clearly-communicated anger and contempt is a message to continue onward in the face of overwhelming opposition.
So, despite the constant stream of evidence that supports the supposition that we are increasingly swayed by ancient superstition and reactionary rhetoric as we are subsumed by state-sanctioned credulity, I, like Bono- and Baphomet- shall persist. In living life at the standard which I expect from others, while attempting to spread my message regarding required examination and understanding of our history- literary and otherwise. With all its revisions and redactions.
No, not the words in the nursery poem, the words in the title.
I know. It’s Wednesday, but I was thinking about that song, and the guy who wrote it, a lot today .
I’ve talked about him before– in the context of another song. A song that helped to set the story of my life, thus far. Truly. It helped to put me on my own particular Road to Find Out in ways both conscious and un-.
And given the crap that’s been going on around herethe past while, and the results of yesterday’s election in the States, I really feel like I need an interlude of Cat.
Seriously, neighbours? What’s going on down there?
Not being an American, you’d think that the results shouldn’t be bugging me so much. To be honest, I didn’t pay the midterm election all that much mind. We have had a fair bit going on north of the border, and, honestly, I’m sort of out of sorts about the whole reactionary-engagement-with-politics-thing that seems to be epidemic (and more problematic, on this side of the Atlantic anyway, than a particular virus I could name) lately.
But I just. Don’t. Get. It.
So. Let’s intermezzo, shall we? (yes, I used intermezzo as a verb).
Yusuf Islam is out and about on his Peace Train… Late Again tour (forever the most dexterous of wordsmiths. How GREAT a name is that for Cat/Yusuf tour?). I wanted ever-so-much to go and see him when he comes to town- he’s playing Massey Hall, which is certainly one of my very fave venues for live-and-intimate shows in my hometown.
But… tickets went on sale just as I was boarding a train headed for his hometown, so I wasn’t really in a place or position to be online and looking to buy. The show sold out in a matter of minutes.
This is partly because, other than brief television or special appearances, he hasn’t toured North America since 1976. Yes, I said 1976. So I’d imagine that there are a whole lot of people like me desperate to see him and say hello. Since I was six the last time he hopped the pond to play shows, it kind of goes without saying that I’ve never had the pleasure of his company.
And I’ll be missing him again. He has, rightfully and rather impressively, made sure that scalpers and those crummy and criminal ticket resale companies won’t be able to (easily) get their hands on tickets and fleece his fans, so there aren’t even any tickets floating around on Craig’s List or the like.
I admit that I’ve been creeping his fb page and checking out the set lists as he plays to his first North American audiences in almost four decades, and living a little vicariously through those who will have the privilege of hanging with him for an evening.
The Road to Find Out and Tuesday’s Dead aren’t (so far) in the rotation.
It’s understandable- he has such an incredible and extensive body of work that includes bigger hits and better-known songs from the eleven albums that he recorded as Cat, back in the day, and he is also playing selections from his 2006 and 2008 albums, An Other Cup and Roadsinger, and his brand new offering, Tell ‘Em I’m Gone.
But. Those songs.
One of the many beautiful things about music is its accessibility. I can go back and listen to the songs any time I want- or, for that matter, sing them to myself when tuning in (and tuning out) with the Shuffle Daemon isn’t appropriate.
The lyrics have been written on my heart- and they are in my head when I need to call them up for a listen.
Two of his albums, Tea for the Tillerman (1970) and Teaser and the Firecat (1971) are among my all-time favourite records. Of his, certainly, but by anyone, really. I grew up with them- and still know the lyrics to all the songs.
I have a bit of an uncanny (for lack of a better word) knack for remembering lyrics (and the accompanying tunes, of course- but the words are paramount, for me). Some of my old friends still bug me about this ability for recall- but I don’t see anything all that peculiar about it, myself.
It’s part and parcel of my way of engaging with the world- concentrating on those things I find important, or beautiful, or educational, or fun. Or any combination of any and all of those things. It is the primary way that I attempt to be mindful of my context and present in my life. There are distractions aplenty, but focusing on something and really appreciating it? It leads me toward gratitude and appreciation of the relevance and reliability of my fellow human beings, usually when I most need to be reminded of these things.
Great words deserve remembrance. Whether they are shaped like stories or speeches or songs (or poem- which are songs without music), they carry power and retain import that speaks to both their specific contexts and, in the case of the best of them, to their timelessness. The ones that hold the most wisdom transcend temporal settings and retain the ability to impart vital imagery.
If I make a mark in time, I can’t say the mark is mine. I’m only the underline of the word. Yes, I’m like him, just like you, I can’t tell you what to do. Like everybody else I’m searching thru what I’ve heard.
Whoa, Where do you go? When you don’t want no one to know? Who told tomorrow Tuesday’s dead
Oh preacher won’t you paint my dream, won’t you show me where you’ve been Show me what I haven’t seen to ease my mind. Cause I will learn to understand, if I have a helping hand. I wouldn’t make another demand all my life.
What’s my sex, what’s my name, all in all it’s all the same. Everybody plays a different game, that is all. Now, man may live, man may die searching for the question why. But if he tries to rule the sky he must fall.
Now every second on the nose, the humdrum of the city grows. Reaching out beyond the throes of our time. We must try to shake it down. Do our best to break the ground. Try to turn the world around one more time.
Tuesday’s Dead is something of a thematic follow-up to, or continuation of, the examination of his quest for meaning and understanding of the world he sang about in On the Road to Find Out. Crazy love for both these tunes.
A number of interpretations point to Xian imagery contained in the song (as is the case with Road, as well), but, like my readings of pretty much everything else, I see the themes as being without specificity of creed, denomination or over-arching system of belief. They are human lyrics- that acknowledge the wisdom of the past, the movement toward the future and our ability to work toward change.
There are those who have suggested that the whole thing about ‘Tuesday being dead’ has to do with that old fortune-telling nursery rhyme up there ^^^^^
If Tuesday=Grace, a possible exegesis of the line thus follows that the biblical concept of Grace is that thing that isn’t dead.
I get that interpretation. I don’t agree with it, but I get it. We all make connections that resonate and make sense and create meaning for us. If Xian exegetes want to appropriate the song, it’s all good. My interpretation is far more humanistic (go figure).
The rhyme, recorded as early as 1838, but with traditional versions going back far longer, had a dual- to describe the personalities and help to set the destiny of children born on each particular day of the week. Its later iterations have changed up the characteristics, moving them about in accordance with specificity of interpretation and association.
One version switches up Wednesday and Friday’s characteristics- based in the Xian superstitions regarding bad luck and Fridays (originating with a story about a crucifixion). Being a Wednesday myself, and not especially woe-full, I tend to prefer that one…
Yusuf has said that he’s not entirely sure exactly where he was going (coming from?) having some unknown individual telling ‘tomorrow’ about the death of Tuesday. It’s one of those random lyrics that just fit. Which makes it all the better, as far as I’m concerned.
We don’t always know what we’re talking about. And that’s okay. It’s part of the whole human-thing. We hash it out as best we can- and, in so doing, often come up with the wildly wonderful in the process.
So.
One more time.
Let’s keep trying to turn the world around. In spite of those who attempt to rule- the sky, the earth, the people- based in fear and misinformation and polarizing politics.
I’m not saying anything new here. But allow me to underline his underline, and the underlines of all those who came before him. And continue to echo the mark of his voice- 43 years- and counting- after the fact.
Safe, and peaceful, travels, Cat/Yusuf. Better late than never. Please come back and visit again soon.
Bonus (not-at-all-woeful) Wednesday feel-good tune? THIS one, by my beloved Monkees (written by David Gates- of Bread). It mixes up the days even further- and I’m not sure I like the ‘you’ll live your life apart, now’ as Wednesday’s foretold fortune found here- but hey. It’s all in the interpretation…
As sometimes happens, when a story attracts the attention of a nation (believe me, I’m not delusional enough to think that our little ‘local’ problem with a national radio host is making much of a ripple elsewhere in the world- that would involve far more Cansplainingthan is warranted), it serves as the catalyst for a whole lot of discussion about things outside of the primary issue.
That has certainly been the case this week. There is just so much about this thing in the press. There are reasons for this- he IS a well-known figure in our particular cultural microcosm, and an accomplished broadcaster to boot. But setting him aside completely, a dialogue has been started that shines light on the fact that the greater, by far, percentage of women who are sexually assaulted never report the crimes.
In Canada.
Where we have freedoms and opportunities and equality that can’t even be imagined too many places elsewhere in the world.
I’ve read a fair number of the articles and opinions being published about the situation- and they are myriad (journos have been staggered by these accusations leveled at ‘one of their own’)- because they are contributing to necessary dialogue about such issues. And, when well-presented, they are educating us about the reality that this imbalance of power yet exists and permeates our culture.
So it’s a personal issue for me. It speaks to my own experience and the experience of others I know and love.
There have also been a number of discussions about the narcissism that also permeates out culture (something that I find deeply disturbing and have written about before)- and projections that pathological Narcissistic Personality Disorder is at the heart of this situation. Impossible to tell- from a distance, and without legitimate professional assessment- but, once again, it is bringing discussions of mental illness into the forefront of our awareness.
There’s another personal element at play here too- my deep and abiding love of the CBC and the continuing assertion that it is an important institution. Anything that shakes that place to its core is going to get me talking.
The best thing I read this week on that topic (one of the best things I read all week, full stop) came from Michael Enright, another old favourite of mine. He addresses both of the issues with which I have a personal investment- violence against women and the integrity- moral and journalistic- of the CBC. Voices like his are the reason we need to fight to maintain our national broadcaster.
But I’m also interested for purely academic reasons. I talk a whole lot here about my issues with the separation into black and white- sourced in outdated Bronze Age concepts of ‘good’ and ‘evil’- as defined by social codes for behaviour that are, often, not remotely culturally or morally relevant in the 21st century.
(There are exceptions, of course. The one about not murdering other people? THAT one should certainly be upheld. The ones based in common sense and true morality? Those I don’t have a problem with. It’s the ones that were designed solely for the purpose of keeping a particular tribal organization of people specifically tribally organized… a lot of those need to be left in the annals of history, where they belong).
I hate this dichotomization. Good/Evil. Us/Them. It’s all about division when we NEED to be talking about union.
One of the week’s articlesreferenced this, in passing. But it’s a point that I think needs a little more emphasis.
Although I approached the topic differently and named it with other names, yesterday’s post was, in part, about the ‘Halo Effect’ that Dan Gardner talks about. We love the guy, he’s great at his job, and, as such, he can’t possibly be guilty.
Likewise, when we label people with the ‘Devil Effect’, we see nothing but evil. By removing the humanity– that admixture of nature and nurture that makes up each and every one of our personalities- we are saying that we are statically categorized. Once placed in a box there is no possibility of movement.
Which is ludicrous.
And worse, it feeds the sort of power-driven insanity that leads people in power to state that we needn’t be looking for the societal origins of anomie (or discontent and disconnection) that leads to us branding people as belonging on one-or-the-other side of a coin of extremes.
We need to change our language. I keep harping on this, I know. We have to remove apocalyptic thinking from our shared worldview (which is a discussion for another day) and we need to stop the dichotomizing. To do so, we need to examine the myths that created the language, and exorcize those that have no place in our current temporal, moral and communal reality.
I’ve never considered myself a vehement atheist (although I am a vehement humanist). I certainly don’t count myself among the screaming crowd of the New Atheists who deride and castigate those who are believers at every possible turn. I’m all about the ‘live and let live’. And I know- because I have spent my adult life studying the phenomenon- the importance of religion in human life and the reasons why we create and cling to gods.
But. I’m tired. Very tired.
Of playing devil’s advocate (although I will continue to Advocate for the Devil- that guy needs some serious PR) for those who hold to belief- especially (although not exclusively) unexamined belief- as a way to justify the unjustifiable and to maintain a status quo that should have been eradicated generations ago.
I am finding it harder and harder to comprehend educated, reasoning human beings who cling to myths that originated in such a different time and place that there can be no social comparison in the face of evidence that proves- unequivocally- that they are not history. That they are human-created stories that answered the questions that plagued the human experience. Even though we have, now, answered those questions in other, demonstrable and evidence-based, ways.
The events of the past two weeks- both the tragic and the (melo)dramatic- in my Home and Native Land can have extremely positive repercussions- if we choose to address them in the ways they should be addressed. With critical, in-credulous focus on the hearts of the matters at hand.
Without divisive rhetoric that polarizes the issue and hearkens back to an era of superstition and suspicion.
My Canadian-ness is an ever-present facet of my personality- both the nature and the nurture of it. I love Canada (although Scotland was pretty cool, too). My cultural identity is solidly Canadian (except the liking hockey part). We have had a lot with which to contend, over the past few weeks, and, for the most part, we have done so admirably and with the dignity and thoughtfulness with which we generally view the world.
This song has been running through my head today.
Although I speak in tongues of men and angels I’m just soundin’ brass and tinklin’ cymbals Without love
Love suffers long, love is kind Enduring all things, hopin’ all things Love has no evil in mind
As a child, I spoke as a child I thought and I understood as a child But when I became a woman I put away childish things And began to see through a glass darkly
Joni is another of our National Treasures. Interestingly, Jian’s interview with her was one of the best things I’ve ever seen on Q.
But it’s time to put away childish things- and childish ways of seeing the world as either this or that. ‘Halo Effect’ and ‘Devil Effect’. Angels and Demons. More than just a poorly-written (if bestselling) thriller. It’s a dangerous metaphor that keeps us locked in archaic mythological ways of viewing the world.
Please. Stop. Just stop.
Let something positive come out of all the events of the last weeks. We are talking- let’s keep those discussions from devolving and referencing outdated ideals of polarization sourced in stories- and values- of old.
P.S. I realized- after some additional reflection- that this post may make it seem as if I find no value at all in these myths of ours. This is, of course, not the case. I love our stories- I started this blog as a means of communicating my belief in the power of our myths. If you have spent any time here, you have to acknowledge the truth of that.
What has to cease is our insistence on clinging to them as anything other than metaphor and attempts to make sense of the world with the wisdom we had at the time they were created. There is wisdom to be found- but there is also much that is dangerous- in light of the strides we have made in understanding our universe with the tools we continue to develop. I’m terrified that we are slipping back into believing the ‘truth’ behind the tales and missing the underlying messages of humanity as we fight about the existence of one or another god- and the varied interpretations of what those gods allegedly had to tell us.
It might be a fine line- but it’s one that is clear in my understanding of the world.
... au gré des trouvailles, au fil de l'inspiration. Ma devise : rester humble, devant l'infiniment petit, tout comme face au très grand... angle :) Merci à toi visiteur furtif ou ami de longue date...
colemining 