In a recent Reuters article the post-presidential career of Bill Clinton is briefly documented and his recent earnings are tallied nicely. Apparently millions can be had for an ex-president willing to go out on the lecture circuit and there's millions more for their biography. Interesting. When I initially saw the title of the article (Bill Clinton Speaks Less,Writes More) I naively thought the article would describe how the former president was using the structural cognitive activities required and enhanced by writing and taking more time to organize his thoughts- actually taking more care in his personal expression and writing more instead of just blurting stuff out. No such luck...
When I was in graduate school my committee chair and I would spend hours discussing the cognitive differences between speaking, writing and engaging in electronic discourse . I eventually wrote my dissertation on the subject. Attempting to understand the uniqueness of the electronic type of discourse required a thorough immersion in the psycholinguistic literature, the social linguistic literature and a large dose of academic personal opinion. Once after a particularly strong dose of a professors personal opinion my chair dismissed his peer with the remark, "Oh, he writes more than he reads". This remark set a standard for me in my academic communications. I never wanted to be caught just talking about stuff - only writing would do and then, only meticulously researched writing at that...
I guess that's why I was disappointed to read the article regarding Clinton's activities- here I am thinking like some idiot that a politician was actually attempting to improve their communicative style and all that was really being addressed was their latest accomplishments in amassing cash.
Monday, June 14, 2004
Saturday, June 12, 2004
Marilyn
"Marilyn" is an older essay that I actually got to read on our local NPR affiliate. Not as short as your typical blog entry but something I thought some of you might enjoy...DRW
Marilyn lived on the inside of my father's closet door throughout my childhood years. She wasn't real of course but a stunning color photograph of a nude Marilyn Monroe reclining on a lush bright red fabric backdrop. As if this wasn't enough, the 2 x 3 photograph was framed in a marvelously ornate gilded plaster frame, the kind you see in stuffy art museums. The photo and the frame competed for your attention. I don't remember a time in my Father's house when Marilyn wasn't around. The sheer size and weight of the picture created a loud crash whenever the closet door was opened. The sound of her banging against the door was distinctive and unmistakable. My brothers and I took pains to prevent it during the rare times we dared sneak a secret look at Marilyn's glorious pink and blonde nudity. Her semi-secret place in the closet seemed totally natural to me. It was analogous to the place of my missing blonde mother who had left when I was three. Her whereabouts were known but she had little contact with us and she was generally spoken of with somewhat hushed and, you know, sinful tones. To my child's mind, Marilyn was a symbol of all the mysterious and allusive qualities of women that you desire and love-their exquisite physical difference from men and their allure and apartness. She was proof that love and acceptance from them was trapped in a gilded frame, forever unattainable.
When I was a young teenager, my father remarried and moved. Marilyn came out of the closet and moved to his cellar workshop. I of course had much more than Marilyn to think about. I had a new mother who was actually there, a new collection of stepsiblings, a new neighborhood, and a new school. That time in 1966 marked the beginning of a procession of events that turned me into an adult - relationships, college, drinking problems, my own children, divorce, remarriage, new beginnings and finally, almost 20 years later, a relatively stable existence. Marilyn remained in the workshop gathering dust and the occasional snicker
In the summer of 2000, within a few days of his 75th birthday, my father was diagnosed with melanoma. Given 6 to 9 months to live, he barely survived 2. His passing placed me in an emotional place indescribable to the inexperienced, and to the experienced, no description is necessary. During the inevitable sorting of his things, I was told "take Marilyn as soon as you have a place for her". Marilyn had come to my father from his father so it made sense for her to come to me. The only problem was my strong feeling that I didn't want her. At first, I thought that maybe my reluctance was a form of denial about my Father's death but realized it was something else. I had lost the sense of Marilyn's mystery and had become a real grown-up - she now embarrassed me. She was extremely politically incorrect and in my way of thinking very, very, sad. I knew how she had been shamelessly exploited and victimized in her life and death and how she had 13 abortions before she was thirty. She had become a picture of all that was wrong with our culture and to me, a symbol of all the sad fantasies and misperceptions a little boy, now a grown man, had entertained about his lost mother. She just didn't fit in- not in my closet, not in my life. I took her anyway. That's what my Dad would have wanted.
It didn't take too long for me to figure out what to do with her. I called my friend Daniel who happens to own the Dreamaway Lodge. The lodge is a mythic Berkshire roadhouse tucked away in a remote section of our remote town that happens to be just minutes from my home. The Dreamaway would be perfect for Marilyn and Daniel, when he saw her, agreed. For years the Dreamaway has provided sustenance, more than a few stiff drinks, and a few nights worth of home for the occasional famous folk singer, beat poets, in-laws, outlaws, artists, dancers, and just plain working people. Long before it was fashionable, the Dreamaway welcomed rich and poor, old and young, black and white, gay and straight, the afflicted and the comforted, - you name it. The Lodge has always been a very hip destination. And like Marilyn hanging in my father's closet, the Lodge, tucked well out of the way of the casual observer, is filled with inviting secrets.
I understand that there is great controversy at the Dreamaway as to where Marilyn should be placed. There are advocates for a place of honor in the main dining room or the bar. Others would have her in a guestroom or one of the many funky hallways, nooks or crannies that fill the buildings. Any place should be fine as long as she can see the light of day and the neon glow of the evening.
I know my father would be pleased that she is finally getting the appreciation she deserves. And I, well, I am just as happy to let her and all my associated fantasies reside comfortably down the road. Far enough away for consolation yet close enough to measure just how far we all have come.
Marilyn lived on the inside of my father's closet door throughout my childhood years. She wasn't real of course but a stunning color photograph of a nude Marilyn Monroe reclining on a lush bright red fabric backdrop. As if this wasn't enough, the 2 x 3 photograph was framed in a marvelously ornate gilded plaster frame, the kind you see in stuffy art museums. The photo and the frame competed for your attention. I don't remember a time in my Father's house when Marilyn wasn't around. The sheer size and weight of the picture created a loud crash whenever the closet door was opened. The sound of her banging against the door was distinctive and unmistakable. My brothers and I took pains to prevent it during the rare times we dared sneak a secret look at Marilyn's glorious pink and blonde nudity. Her semi-secret place in the closet seemed totally natural to me. It was analogous to the place of my missing blonde mother who had left when I was three. Her whereabouts were known but she had little contact with us and she was generally spoken of with somewhat hushed and, you know, sinful tones. To my child's mind, Marilyn was a symbol of all the mysterious and allusive qualities of women that you desire and love-their exquisite physical difference from men and their allure and apartness. She was proof that love and acceptance from them was trapped in a gilded frame, forever unattainable.
When I was a young teenager, my father remarried and moved. Marilyn came out of the closet and moved to his cellar workshop. I of course had much more than Marilyn to think about. I had a new mother who was actually there, a new collection of stepsiblings, a new neighborhood, and a new school. That time in 1966 marked the beginning of a procession of events that turned me into an adult - relationships, college, drinking problems, my own children, divorce, remarriage, new beginnings and finally, almost 20 years later, a relatively stable existence. Marilyn remained in the workshop gathering dust and the occasional snicker
In the summer of 2000, within a few days of his 75th birthday, my father was diagnosed with melanoma. Given 6 to 9 months to live, he barely survived 2. His passing placed me in an emotional place indescribable to the inexperienced, and to the experienced, no description is necessary. During the inevitable sorting of his things, I was told "take Marilyn as soon as you have a place for her". Marilyn had come to my father from his father so it made sense for her to come to me. The only problem was my strong feeling that I didn't want her. At first, I thought that maybe my reluctance was a form of denial about my Father's death but realized it was something else. I had lost the sense of Marilyn's mystery and had become a real grown-up - she now embarrassed me. She was extremely politically incorrect and in my way of thinking very, very, sad. I knew how she had been shamelessly exploited and victimized in her life and death and how she had 13 abortions before she was thirty. She had become a picture of all that was wrong with our culture and to me, a symbol of all the sad fantasies and misperceptions a little boy, now a grown man, had entertained about his lost mother. She just didn't fit in- not in my closet, not in my life. I took her anyway. That's what my Dad would have wanted.
It didn't take too long for me to figure out what to do with her. I called my friend Daniel who happens to own the Dreamaway Lodge. The lodge is a mythic Berkshire roadhouse tucked away in a remote section of our remote town that happens to be just minutes from my home. The Dreamaway would be perfect for Marilyn and Daniel, when he saw her, agreed. For years the Dreamaway has provided sustenance, more than a few stiff drinks, and a few nights worth of home for the occasional famous folk singer, beat poets, in-laws, outlaws, artists, dancers, and just plain working people. Long before it was fashionable, the Dreamaway welcomed rich and poor, old and young, black and white, gay and straight, the afflicted and the comforted, - you name it. The Lodge has always been a very hip destination. And like Marilyn hanging in my father's closet, the Lodge, tucked well out of the way of the casual observer, is filled with inviting secrets.
I understand that there is great controversy at the Dreamaway as to where Marilyn should be placed. There are advocates for a place of honor in the main dining room or the bar. Others would have her in a guestroom or one of the many funky hallways, nooks or crannies that fill the buildings. Any place should be fine as long as she can see the light of day and the neon glow of the evening.
I know my father would be pleased that she is finally getting the appreciation she deserves. And I, well, I am just as happy to let her and all my associated fantasies reside comfortably down the road. Far enough away for consolation yet close enough to measure just how far we all have come.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
The Great Communicator
There is a lot I just don't understand about Ronald Reagan. Like how did the son of a Democratic ward organizer wind up leading the troops of the new Right? And how did a divorced B-movie actor eventually become President and literally end the cold war by outspending the Russians ( who would've ever thought that the problem with Socialism was that there was no money in it...)?? We all know that the American political scene is filled with strange twists and turns but the story of "The Great Communicator" has got to take the cake... Ronald Ray-Gun, the man who despite mounds of credible scientific evidence indicating that it could never work, successfully sold the idea of a Star Wars type missile shield to the American public to the point where people today still believe it to be a viable option. This is the same man who sold the country on "trickle-down economics", the notion that if you give breaks to the rich their excess money will somehow drip down into the hands of the middle class who will be so overwhelmed or something that they will let their excess monies further trickle into the hands of the poor. The man became a national hero!! How this happened is truly beyond me...
Regardless of my generally negative view of his performance as President there are a couple of things I do admire about him. First, unlike our current president, Ronald Reagan actually held a job in his life prior to becoming a politician. This indicates he had some relationship, however distant, with reality. And remember when he "accidentally" slipped at the microphones after calling the USSR the evil empire and humorously said "the bombing will begin in five minutes" ? What a joker...
The biggest mystery to me is the presence of his fan club. The major newspapers are reporting that they expect "tens of thousands" (a big number) of persons to view his coffin while it lies in state and that many more will observe other funeral activities. Who are these people?? Has the Reagan fan club been meeting in secret all these years?? What were they planning on doing in the event that President Reagan hadn't died?? These unanswerable questions are but another small piece of the strange and twisted American puzzle. Ronald Reagan, the great communicator, another American original...
Regardless of my generally negative view of his performance as President there are a couple of things I do admire about him. First, unlike our current president, Ronald Reagan actually held a job in his life prior to becoming a politician. This indicates he had some relationship, however distant, with reality. And remember when he "accidentally" slipped at the microphones after calling the USSR the evil empire and humorously said "the bombing will begin in five minutes" ? What a joker...
The biggest mystery to me is the presence of his fan club. The major newspapers are reporting that they expect "tens of thousands" (a big number) of persons to view his coffin while it lies in state and that many more will observe other funeral activities. Who are these people?? Has the Reagan fan club been meeting in secret all these years?? What were they planning on doing in the event that President Reagan hadn't died?? These unanswerable questions are but another small piece of the strange and twisted American puzzle. Ronald Reagan, the great communicator, another American original...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
