Violin

She had given up playing the violin, even though she loved the instrument's taut strings and the drunken, scratchy timbre of her childhood notes. Why, she now wondered, 40 years later, did I ever listen to him?

Her father had said, "Girls don't play the violin." He then stiffly walked out, as if departing a failed business meeting.

What did he know about 'girls'? What did he know about music?

Lost His Shirt

My car’s headlights pierce twin tunnels into the night’s remote darkness, as the rain stabs down, its bright pins glittering towards God’s paved earth. Nothing ahead, but two-lane tarmac interrupted by a white center line, and the promise of heavy weather for hours to come.

Suddenly, the beams sweep a half-naked man, shirtless, running at the side of this country road. As I approach him, I slow down, but he doesn’t look up, he doesn’t pause, he just keeps running---towards or away, it’s impossible to say.

I ease past him, and a half mile later, I glimpse a white Ford empty as an abandoned house readied for demolition, tilted on side of the road. Windows rolled down, rain pouring in, no telling how much has been lost, or just who managed to escape

Bone To Pick

Write it down. Don't worry if it's art. Write it down. Just write it down.

She left. She left again. Walked out. She was always leaving. She WAS her leaving. Her leaving is who she is.

How could he fall in love with someone who wasn't there? It was easy. People do it all the time. They fall in love with people who are absent. They fall in love with people on their way out. It happens every day.

She simply left. Said it was too much to love him. Too intense. Buried alive. Lights on in a small casket. The sound of shovels digging in earth, then the methodical thump of shovelsfull of earth on the casket. The lights on, and the sound of her own breathing. That's what she said. Until the breathing and the methodical thumps of the tossed earth were synchronized. Said she couldn't tell the difference between respiration and burial. Breathing felt like suffocation. Breathing was burial. That's why she was leaving.

Love doesn't matter. Not really. Other things matter. Hunger, honor, saving lives, creating a just world. Those things matter. Not love.

Wished she had stayed one more day, though.

Had one more bone I wanted to pick with her.

“SEND”

Yes, it’s true, she’d written the ‘poison pen’ e-mail, but she intended to obey the cardinal rule of e-mail: DON’T’ SEND death threats, confessions, flaming attacks, or love letters for complete strangers, until you WAIT for 24 HOURS and carefully consider all of the consequences, all the ramifications.

ALWAYS WAIT 24 HOURS!

She hated her boss—that arrogant mother @#^%#!, and she had the dirt that she knew would ruin his reputation--- with his employer AND with his wife.

Fuming, she sat at her keyboard and tapped out the most scathing expose a former English major could muster, filled with devastating accusations and undeniable evidence.

She knew he would squirm, he would grovel—she relished the imagined red-in-tooth-and-claw image that paraded across her mind’s eye.

Suddenly the phone rang, startled her like an electrocution, and without a thought, she hit “send.”

Never Married

Why do we see the world through our eyes only? We are composed of chemicals and water and we’re animated by electrical charges. But why do we have this particular perspective? Why is the body the ground of everything that we know?

Standing there, dressed in his sky blue pajamas, Bob looked down at this feet and slowly began to scan upwards. Legs, abdomen, chest…that’s as far as he could see. He couldn’t see his own face without a mirror.

Maybe this isn’t me after all? Maybe it is another person, and my consciousness has blossomed inside their body? Maybe those aren’t my feet or legs? Maybe that’s not my heart inside this chest?

He became hungry, but now he wasn’t trusting his, or what he thought was his, experience. Nonetheless, he opened the refrigerator and took out a small container of yogurt. Plain yogurt, the color of a white ceiling. He dipped a spoon in, and then raised it to his mouth.

I hate yogurt. But I have eaten yogurt for breakfast now, for 45 years. It’s a habit. Why do I have habits that I don’t even like? Voluntary habit that I don’t like. He paused for a moment and considered that maybe he wasn’t himself, but rather, he was someone else. Someone who liked yogurt.

His wife was gone. She had risen, and left early for a business trip. He had discovered that his bed was empty when he arose. There had been only one body in it. It was his.

I like sleeping alone. I like the way the bed is all mine. Lots of room. No other body to nudge away when I feel crowded. No one else to steal the sheets and leave me in the cold.

He walked back from the kitchen and into the bedroom and sat on the unmade bed. It seemed large, even for a king-sized bed. The sheets strewn about, looked like pale ruts embossed in an impressionable cotton road. He continued to occasionally spoon yogurt into his hungry mouth.

I hate yogurt.

He looked out the bedroom window, which itself looked out on a stand of oaks and maples. The trees were silent and waiting for a change in the weather. They were sleeping. Each tree sleeping alone. Their bark was beautiful skin. Thick and old and rough textured. It was hard to imagine that their skin was theirs, and theirs, only. Who could imagine that the trees belonged only to themselves?

He phoned his wife. But there was no answer.

Funny, he thought, I wonder why I never married?

Bone to Pick

Write it down. Don't worry if it's art. Write it down. Just write it down.

She left. She left again. Walked out. She was always leaving. She WAS her leaving. Her leaving is who she is.

How could he fall in love with someone who wasn't there? It was easy. People do it all the time. They fall in love with people who are absent. They fall in love with people on their way out. It happens every day.

She simply left. Said it was too much to love him. Too intense. Buried alive. Lights on in a small casket. The sound of shovels digging in earth, then the methodical thump of shovelsfull of earth on the casket. The lights on, and the sound of her own breathing. That's what she said. Until the breathing and the methodical thumps of the tossed earth were synchronized. Said she couldn't tell the difference between respiration and burial. Breathing felt like suffocation. Breathing was burial. That's why she was leaving.

Love doesn't matter. Not really. Other things matter. Hunger, honor, saving lives, creating a just world. Those things matter. Not love.

Wished she had stayed one more day, though.

Had one more bone I wanted to pick with her.

Almost Lucky

From the 13th floor window of the Beverly Wilshire hotel, he watched as the late afternoon smog settled over LA, like clay-white concrete; air so thick it was impossible to imagine that it wouldn’t crush the hearts of everyone caught beneath its mass. Why, he wondered, do we learn the most from the things we shouldn’t do?

Turning now, from the window, and surveying the graying room, he could see that she looked so beautiful as she lie there, asleep, her breathing nearly undetectable, skin white and gleaming, delicate porcelain. That tiny scar neatly drawn across her right wrist, like a seam on a doll’s arm, should have been a clue.

How had he managed to find a woman who was as elegantly damaged as she? Throughout his entire life, he'd always been almost lucky.

Identity Earthquake In Time

I am an old guy, right? Yes. I am an old guy. Who would have ever thought that I would get to the point where I would say that I'm and old guy? Not this old old guy. At least not until recently. So, anyway, today I was trying to remember what I was like in high school. (Calvin Trillin once wrote something about we are always the same people we were in high school. What and awful thought Calvin! Cruel and awful.) So there I am today, minding my own business and cogitating, or maybe "contemplating" about who I was, or who I used to be, in high school. But then I thought, I don't have the foggiest idea of who I am now, so how am I going to remember who I was then?' (This identity thing is harder than I had hoped it would be.) Jeez, how am ever going to remember who I was? I went to high school in another century. Yes, another century. Thank God it was a contiguous century with this one, and not a century so far away in time that it isn't even part of the continent of this century. That would be like Hawaii's relationship to the U.S. mainland. If Hawaii was the nineteenth century, it would be an island, and there would be an ocean between it and now--a kind of Pacific Ocean of time. The 20th century. No, the century in which I went to high school is more like California. It's loosely configured, but at least it is attached to the mainland. Loosely attached. I went to school in California at a time that was loosely connected to this century, but only very loosely. It was a long time ago. And there was a fault line running through it.

I remember the earthquake like it was yesterday. Only it wasn't exactly yesterday. It was when I was in high school. Which, I can assure you, wasn't yesterday. The buildings shook and shimmied, and everyone said "Oh oh, this is the BIG ONE." And for all they knew at the time, it WAS the big one. Only it wasn't. It wasn't the BIG ONE. Because I am here to tell you that it wasn't the BIG ONE. But it WAS a long time ago. I went to high school in California. In another century. I wish I could remember who I was then. But I can't. I hope I was brave. I like to think I was. I like to think I wasn't afraid of earthquakes or time. I like to think I was young and fearless. And handsome. Yes, handsome. I like to think that, because it makes me fell better about being old and ummmm, a little less than handsome, now. And no longer brave. Yes, I'm sure back then, I was young and fearless and handsome. Even if it was a long time ago.

I wish I could remember who I was then.

And now.

Pig Fish

He hated fish. He hated fish ever since that day in the third grade, when he had been bitten by a fish. It had been at the aquarium. He put his hand in one of the tanks that were designed for children . Children were encouraged to touch and feel the sand dollars and the little horseshoe crabs. It was educational. At one end of the tank however, there were two piranha, but no one told the children. So he was there with his mom, and when he put his hand in the tank, of course the fish saw an opportunity to remove some fingers. Luckily only three.

When he returned from the hospital and went back to school the following week, the kids in his class had heard of his loss. Instead of kindness however, they offered only merciless taunting. They called him “Captain Hook,” and “Claw Boy”. Children can be quite cruel. One called him “Fish Hand” Another “Piranha Breath.”

He was a forgiving child, though. When he grew up, he refused to eat fish. Of any kind. But he did enjoy occasionally dining on pigs’ knuckles.

On Democracy

I’m currently reading a book called First Democracy: the Challenge of an Ancient Idea, by a guy named Paul Woodruff, about Athenian democracy. This is a popular little book, very accessible, and it discusses the components of Athens’ democracy. I have learned about the features that are often paraded as democracy in our contemporary world, but which, in and of themselves, do not constitute democracy. Each alone, would not have made Athenian democrats very satisfied. Woodruff points out that democracy is not just majority rule (what about the rights of minorities?) and it is not just voting (some tyrants require voting in elections in which there are no opposition candidates.)
Democracy requires a number of features, including the rule of law, a belief in the natural equality of citizens, the ability of the citizens to reason without having certain knowledge, and a harmony among equals. Athenian democracy, was a big experiment that was never completed and perpetually struggled with. It seems that it was made possible, in part, because of the scale of the society, (about 30-40,000 citizens which excluded of course, slaves and women.) It was an extremely active phenomenon. It happened, in part, because Athens was very prosperous, financed by a slave economy and an expanding empire. And it gave, via a series of reforms and class compromises over a period of about 200 years, unprecedented political power to the poor (farmers and “peasants’). It was an unusual thing—far from perfect, but an incredible, if blemished, achievement.

Perhaps one of the most notable things about Athenian democracy was the composition of representative institutions through lotteries (vs. elections). Legislative bodies and courts were selected by lot. Even the Assembly, the major governing body, was composed in a rather haphazard way; the first 6000 men to arrive at the Pnyx, a hillside near the Acropolis, became the legislature for the day. If 6000 failed to show up, the Athenians did a sweep of the local public spaces with a red rope, and literally rounded up more citizens to participate in the Assembly.

What would happen if membership in most of American institutions were to be chosen by lot from the general population? (One can easily see how education must be an essential part of democracy.) If this were the case, I suspect that we would quickly become interested in the human development and well being of our neighbors, who might at any time become our judges, legislators, and constables. And I suspect that we would be more interested in equality among citizens. Even Plato, who was certainly no democrat recognized the liabilities of inequality “Any city, however small, is in fact divided into two, one the city of the poor, the other of the rich; these are at war with one another." (The Republic)

Although it is good book, and I recommend it, I don’t think that the Wooddruff book is as good as one I read a while ago, and which I may have previously written to you about, called Class Ideology and Ancient Political Theory: Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle in Social Context by Ellen Meiksins- Wood and Neal Wood. (Sadly, this book may be out of print.) The goal of Class Ideology… is to show that ‘the greats’ in Western Philosophy, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, were not just ethereal abstract truth-seekers exclusively interested in the good, the true, and the beautiful, but were historically embed individuals writing under the political conditions and concerns of their day. The authors argue that a common ideology inspires these guys, and that although their writings cannot be reduced to a crude apologetics for their class (there are trans-historical insights to be gleaned from their writings) these philosophers were, nonetheless, united by a loyalty to the values, attitudes, and way of life of a an increasingly besieged (by democratic forces and reforms) landed aristocracy. “In a significant way, the political thought of the Socratics can be conceived as a supreme expression of the increasing class consciousness of the aristocracy during the fourth century (BC), a consciousness that seemed to become more pronounced as the class was progressively threatened with extinction.”

I find interesting about Class Ideology and Ancient Political Theory, not just the analysis of the way that the philosophical idealism of Socrates and his inheritors (Plato and Aristotle) offered transcendence, justification, and solace to the anti-democratic, agrarian, Athenian landed aristocracy of the 4th and 5th century BC, but that the authors also show that the historical struggle for Athenian democracy was a struggle against the power of aristocratic elites whose rule was grounded in ties of kinship (blood lineage) and hereditary property. In short, the progress of democratization in Athens, in which the middling classes (artisans, traders, peasants, and propertyless workers) began to wrest some power vis a vis the ruling aristocrats (in a struggle that in fact, created the very institution of “politics” with its corresponding notion of “citizenship”) was a prolonged historical struggle, spanning a couple of centuries, requiring the erosion of the traditional power and customary rule of strong men, wealthy families, and inherited power.—all of which dominated “Homeric society.” Moreover, the rule of powerful families and inherited wealth had been rooted in the “okios,” the household, while the power of the people, in democracy, required the invention of public, commonly held, institutions that transcended the household, the clan, and the tribe. It is not just that democracy is a kind of politics, but democracy is the force that creates politics, and the political sphere. Before democratization there were no ‘politics,’ per se. There were only private courts run by the wealthy and the priestly. Tribal law prevailed. It was an eye-for-and-eye-society. But with democratic reforms, (and the concomitant growth of differentiation and conflict) Athens begins to create a political society, in which there is a world beyond that of the private lordly household, a world where justice is meted out by civic institutions, rather than appeals to wealthy ‘protectors.’ The polis is that place where public power and the possibility of civic justice is born.

Long Live Antonioni

Nice Cape

Cold and Boring--Thank You Mr.T.S. Eliot for the Weather Report

It's funny how life can become so filled-up and busy, and yet, in the eye of the hurricane, it's so damn boring. What, after all, is boredom. Is it under-stimulation or too much stimulation and overload? (No I think that's being "punch drunk"). I don't really know. I think the existentialists wrote about it, but I cut class when they were being taught.

I have no right to be bored. But what can you do? It just happens.

It is also so cold and icy here. Its about 2 degrees. The weather is the "objective correlative."

Here's what TS Eliot said about the uses of an objective correlative:

"The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an "objective correlative"; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked.''

It's cold and boring here.

Yawn

Prototype Moo Moo Mobile

Who said the Edsel was not a good Idea? Pictured here is the prototype Moo Moo Mobile. This is the 1934 model, which was designed by one Mr. Geddes. Note that the designer held much stock in tire manufacturing companies. Very Smooth, Mr. Geddes!

Everything is Fine

Shame on you! You know who you are! You have been leading your life without a thought of Moo Moo Camus. Yes, I know. (Not much escapes us here at MMC.) You've been going about your daily business, probably making money, driving your car to and from the grocery store, humming to yourself, and when no one is looking, even snatching a quick glance in the mirror to see if you've gotten, miraculously, any younger. I can assure you these are all understandable, even worthy, pursuits (except for the last, which is, of course, entirely futile.) But don't you think you should check in on Moo Moo Camus once in a while, just to see how everything is going?

OK now that you are here. Here's the 'down low': Everything is going unbelievably well. So you can go home now, back to your everyday life, happy in the knowledge that MOO MOO CAMUS is thriving. Thank you very much for visiting. And check back soon, for more good news.

The Asymmetrical-Distribution-of-Fun-Over-a-Lifetime Theory

So, I figure that I spend about a quarter of my waking time either doing the laundry or folding the laundry. This, and walking the dog, or letting the dog out so he can write his “autograph” on nature. Life is largely composed of some pretty mundane events. Picking up the kid from school. Taking the Kid to guitar lessons. Taking the Kid to Dance lessons. Walking the dog. Moving items from point A to point B around the house, so that the forces of chaos and darkness do not completely overwhelm home and hearth. We only get so many years on this astonishing planet, and what do we do with ¾ of them? Laundry and chauffeuring! Which leaves much too little time for drinking and appreciating art. I have a theory of this sorry state of affairs. I call it the “Asymmetrical-Distribution-of-Fun-Over-a-Lifetime” theory. Viz. Fun is not evenly distributed throughout our lives. Au contraire, it's unequally distributed, over time. We do not get to have, for example, the same amount of fun each year. Oh no, fun is unevenly distributed, a little bit like WEALTH in the US. (One percent of the population owns 37% of the total wealth. The next 5% own 25% of all wealth. Etc. Etc.) Fun is just like wealth. Most of the fun I was slated to have, occurred in 1974 and 1983, (Oh and that time in high schools in 1968.) Those were huge fun years. The other years are just deficit fun years. Whopee!

Go Forth and Multiply (and Divide)

Ok. It's been a long time since my last post. Dear readers, lest you become demoralized without the guidance and observations offered by Moomoocamus, let's review some important lessons and insights, as these have been recenlty approved by the editorial board. To wit:

1: Should we humanize the economy, or economize the humans? You be the judge.
2: The shortest distance between two points is a crooked line. As the COW flys, anyway.
3. What profitith a man if he wins the world and looses this his shoehorn?
4. Remember, the squeaky wheel gets the shaft.
5. All is fair in love and capitalism.
6 The source of all wealth is labor.
7. "The rich man can afford the luxury of accepting a fair gamble." Brian Berry, Theories of Justice 1989 p.14
And last, but far from least,
8. Most of life is just "cutting and pasting."

Well, that's it for now. Don't say we here at Moomoocamus didn't warn you.

Go forth and divide.

Wannabe Former Has-Been

Great Word!

ostrobogulous

1. (humorous) Slightly risqué or indecent; bizarre, interesting, or unusual.

Oh those crazy scientists! What will they think of Next?

"Libido Meter" May Be First True Sexual-Arousal Gauge”

Click on the Link Button Below, to Read all About it.