
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Friday, August 24, 2012
Sizing-Up the Soul with a Beastly Stare
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Stones of Remembrance @ Thoreau's Cabin Site Is one of these stones Whitman's? |
Of Cages and Cures
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Replica of Thoreau's Cabin |
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Original Cabin Site on Walden Pond |
Thursday, August 23, 2012
The Apple Never Falls Too Far From the Tree...
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Welcome Sign & Front of Orchard House |
I confess to never having taken up with the novel "Little Women." I certainly read it in school, but it didn't stick with me in a way that would motivate a re-reading, although after my tour I may pick it back up. Truthfully, I feel much the same about Hawthorne's work (he was neighbor and friend of the Alcott family to the very end.) I think at the root of it is a general dislike of reading fiction, most especially "realistic" or "historical" fiction. I can deal with fiction that is fantastical or highly imaginative, but reading fiction that basically just mirrors the human condition isn't fun for me. I'd rather go straight to the sources and read non-fiction than peer through that glass darkly.
The tour through the house was packed with non-fiction and I learned a great deal about the Alcott family that I didn't know before entering - that alone was worth the price of admission. The house is very well decorated with both original artifacts of the family as well as original art work by Louise's sister May Alcott. It's an exceptional stop for anyone visiting the Boston/Concord area.
Most curious to me was learning more about Amos Bronson Alcott, Louise's father. Bronson was part of the transcendentalist movement in Concord and close friends with both Emerson and the young Henry David Thoreau. He was mostly a failed writer and educator who chased dreams and ideas which often caused financial hardship on the Alcott family. Louise would lovingly satirize her upbringing much later in life in the book, "Transcendental Wild Oats," which would depict her head-in-the-clouds father and others as being dependent on the women in their life to float off into those heady spaces.
Make no mistake, she loved her father, but Louise May recognized the impracticality of so many philosophical musings which basically failed to put bread on the table. In fact, she was more or less forced to write to help support the family as Bronson's many failures as a provider had left them dependent on the kindness of people like Emerson.
But Bronson fascinates me in two regards - first, was his failed school in Boston, called "Temple School." Bronson's educational strategies were outrageous for the day - he believed children should not be given repetitive work without first having their minds opened. Bronson Alcott would have discussions on the Gospels and ask such questions like "Are the miracles of Jesus literal, or metaphorical?" Teaching students to question at every opportunity, questioning even the most basic "truths" of the day held in Holy Writ got him into loads of hot water. The newspaper was brimming with critics and eventually parents pulled their children out of his school, due in part to all the noise being circulated.
Second, Bronson is a fascinating figure because of the children he fathered: four girls - all of which were highly educated, culturally sensitive, artistic, and productive. He clearly employed his educational strategy at home in the way he raised his kids. Louise May was obviously the most accomplished of the four daughters, but the wealth generated from her books enabled her to get her little sister May the formal art education she'd always dreamed of & truthfully, May was an accomplished artist. Her older sister Anna had both a passion and talent for acting, and while the sister right under her age died young, she was an accomplished piano player. All four girls were strong women, abolitionists, and advocates for women's rights.
I've always believed the greatest life work anyone can leave behind are healthy, productive children. In that regard, Bronson was a huge success no matter how many of his writings failed to garner attention. Bronson also built this:
The Concord School of Philosophy was a summer school that brought in leading intellectuals of the day to teach summer courses in philosophy, art, & history. Although the school only lasted a few short years until Alcott's death, it attracted the likes of Emerson and Thoreau and often utilized a Platonic teaching method of reading and reflection. Bronson was out to change culture by opening up the mind of both young and old alike. He committed his life to this end, despite many financial hardships - quite tenacious I think despite being so "flighty."
That tenacity was an apple that obviously didn't fall too far from the tree as we see so much of it Louise May's life.
I look forward to reading "Record of School" by Elizabeth Peabody which details Bronson Alcott's teaching strategies. Oh and by the way, Elizabeth Peabody? She went on to open the first kindergarten in the United States and pioneered the way for early childhood education, using in part, Bronson's teaching styles.
Author's Ridge at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery
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Emerson, wife, & daughter |
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Alcott family marker |
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Walden Pond at Dawn
This morning I rose early and was the very first person at Walden Pond. Yesterday I got there early and "did my thing..." (maybe I will tell that story, but maybe not!), but it was probably 6:00 or 6:30 when I found my way yesterday. Today, I wanted to be the FIRST. I arrived at 5:03 AM because the parking doesn't open to visitors until 5:00. Walden Pond was empty.
I strolled down the paved trail to the pond, a green backpack with a towel and dry clothes tossed over one shoulder and a red folding chair tossed over the other. In my right hand was one huge cup of coffee. I made way down to the pond and chose the same place that I picked for yesterday's "expedition" (hehehe) and set up my station.
It was dark as I entered the water. I swam out to the center of the pond and rolled over onto my back. Even though the outside air was 55 degrees, the water temperature was probably in the mid-70's. It was too dark at first to see the fog lifting off the pond until the sun broke.
I parted the water quickly because it was so chilly standing there in the outside air and when I swam out to the middle turned over to float - I could see all the stars. It was simply gorgeous. Within a matter of minutes they started to disappear as the sun rose. As it grew lighter, I noticed how much fog was lifting off the water. Before long visibility dropped to about ten feet if looking straightway in front of you. That was beyond cool though - to be treading water in the center of Walden Pond and guessing which way to swim, looking up too and seeing the last visible star slowly be replaced with a wash of light.
Truthfully, I didn't want to leave. I can see why Thoreau chose to stay - but this Southerner would be gone at the first ice. :)
O Camden, My Camden!
There's just one problem. It sits in the heart of Camden - and I'm not going to mince words here - that particular part of Camden is thug city. When I pulled in for the tour, the entire block was occupied by several hundred black people (no exaggeration, my guess is 300-400 crammed in one city block) who were selling things, jamming to boom boxes, and running around with their pants halfway down their butt cracks. I thought I had stumbled into another million man march (if you never heard me tell this story, remind me to tell you how I ended up in the middle of the Washington rally - actually in the middle of the marching band driving a big white pick-up truck).
Now I believe my record on race relations is solid in this community. People that don't know me can think what they want about the above paragraph and the rest of this post, but you'd be hard pressed to find a person who's advocated for blacks, especially young black men, as hard as I have. This advocacy record stretches beyond the church walls and into the school district and surrounding neighborhoods. In fact, a HUGE portion of my journey this week is attached to paying my respects to men and women that despised racism. I was raised to hate racism by parents who grew up during racist times... they hated it too.
But let me tell you, Camden was BAD. If it wasn't so bad, there wouldn't be six cop cars parked on the city block. I recognize that many people, maybe even some of the hundreds taken to the streets like Egyptians in the middle of "Arab Spring," aren't all thuggin' out in their $300 Lebron sneakers and pants pulled down to their knees. But a bunch on the streets were "thugged" to the max. The victims, the hungry, the elderly, the children... they were probably all at home behind a locked door holding their Bibles and saying a few prayers.
Worse than any of the "pant-dropping thuggery" was the condition of the area, very run down. I can only imagine what that city block would look like if those 400 wandering individuals picked up a broom and dustpan and cleaned it one Saturday morning. Their property values would double in a single day. If they converted those $300 sneakers into paint, their property values would quadruple in a day.
I'm not unsympathetic to poverty, not in the slightest. I know education is a huge factor; and I know that it is hard if you've been raised a certain way. I'm not beyond my feelings on the problem; hence, the lament: "O Camden, My Camden." It was utterly heartbreaking to see. Doubly heartbreaking to know that wedged in between all that chaos is a historical landmark celebrating a man that would have given one of his kidneys to the most broken, run-down alcoholic on the street - no matter what his/her color.
So I probably started a flame war on this one. That's fine. I know there's a ton of good in this area of Camden. It's just was buried under a hundred sagging jeans and gold chains.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Where Did We Come From... What Are We... Where Are We Going
Sorry for not using question marks in the title, but blogging from a tablet seems to have a ton of disadvantages. One is trying to upload pictures and videos. I should have bought a laptop.
Anyway, I've been needing to blog this for a while. Make no mistake that the impetus for my journey was the Walt Whitman tomb. I've felt connected to Whitman for over 20 years in ways that are hard to describe. I know Whitman the way I know the Gospels, or the book of Genesis. Particular passages are easy to find in my mind & quickly spotted in the pages - that comes from year's of reading him. I'm going to blog more specifically on Whitman, probably when I get home. Seems necessary to do so for many reasons, not least of which is his egotism which wanders a cusp between beauty and tragedy. But most specifically as it relates the faith arena, is Whitman's fascination with the human body - no, scratch that - Whitman's celebration of the human body in all it's sinews, fluids, mysteries, beauties, and stench. This is in stark contrast with the Christian tradition, which has an unmistakable disdain for the human body... but more on this later.
Whitman drew me out on my journey, but I never expected to see my favorite Paul Gauguin painting on display in the Philly art museum. Truthfully, this is my second favorite painting of all time - the first belonging to Salvador Dali entitled, "The Metamorphosis of Narcissus." But this particular painting and I also have a 20-year history with each other. I remember the first time I saw a Gauguin painting - it was "The Yellow Christ." I thought it was brilliant - he was able to communicate more with less in ways that other artists I'd see could not.
A few years after that, I read Sommerset Maughm's "Moon and Sixpence." I apologize for misspellings and failure to use italics, etc. This tablet can only do so much... Anyway, I read this novel and to be honest with you, suffered through it on my first read. It did pick up, but I left the book with a sense of revulsion for the primary character, who I later learned was solely based on Gauguin. My revulsion for the character became a pre-occupation of sorts and I could not help but eventually re-read it. On the second reading, I started to pity him. Little windows into his soul started to crack open. So, of course I had to read it again. By the third reading, I was hooked.
The tragedy of Paul Gauguin is probably what made him great - and it's something I think I've discovered runs in the veins of all artists. More on that later. But Gauguin was not in the pursuit of the perfect painting - I think it is much more accurate to say that the perfect painting was constantly in pursuit of Gauguin. He knew it too, that's why he ran - abandoned everything - fled to Tahiti - buried himself in all the wrong things - and kept running until the very end. That perfect painting was "Where Did We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?" There's a calm acceptance of the tragedy of not knowing in this painting, but more than that - a picture into the places that Gauguin finally had to settle.
I never dreamed I would see this painting my lifetime. I suppose at one time I knew it was housed in Boston - but this is the kind of painting that doesn't stay in one place too long. It travels, you get used to it - you know it's out there and that if you really wanted to schedule your life around it, you might catch a glimpse of it sometime. What you don't expect is to turn a corner and see it. At first, I thought it was a replica but then it hit me that it was here... the painting that has haunted my nights, the man who had preoccupied my mind for years, the subject of late nights - questions - agitations - rhapsodies --- that work was sitting right in front of me.
I had no choice but to cry. Fifteen minutes later I was finally able to raise my camera and snap a picture -- just as the security guard walked over to wag a finger. I don't care. It was 15 minutes of overwhelming joy in the presence of one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
A Slice of Heaven - from a campers perspective...
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Tomb of the Unknown Revolutionary War Soldier
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Light...
Watch "See Longwood Gardens in a Whole New Light" on YouTube
I am walking in fields of light right now. It is astounding.
Walt Whitman's Tomb
Well it was amazing. Modest by most any standard. Plain, nothing spectacular. Grave keepers digging nearby. Cars and sirens just over the fence in a Camden that's been rundown with poverty. But it was incredible to me. I have a video of some readings there that I can't upload it seems.
As good as this was though, nothing prepared me for what I would see at the Philly art museum... I had no idea this piece was on loan. I saw it and cried for 15 minutes. I never thought I would live to see it....
More later. :-)
Abandon Tent!
First night and it rained like mad. About 3/4 of an inch of water was pooled up in my tent. Everything got soaked and I mean everything. I have pictures but having a hard time getting them updated on the blog using this campsite wireless connection. Will look for a beter hotspot today -- meanwhile off to pull stuff out of the dryer!
For Whom The Road Tolls
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Fugue State Prevention 101
This "disease," oh so mysterious, appeared in the late 1800's around the birth of psychoanalytic practice reached a peak of several thousand 'reported' cases (mostly in Europe)... then for some reason, it suddenly disappeared within about thirty short years (think about the motor engine being created). In fact, by the 1930's it was non-existent and for all extents and purposes the last fuguer wandered about the countryside around 1910.
Interestingly enough, the "disease" was almost predominately suffered by men.
I use the word 'disease' in quotations because debating whether fugue was real is still happens in some circles. The history of men traveling and questing is quite rich, starting with something as basic as Heroditus' writings and easily recognized throughout the Middle Ages in the "questing" motif often exemplified by knights and their squires. The difference of course being the lack of amnesia, but in all other matters Albert Dadas was in many ways a parody of Odysseus, or perhaps Oedipus.
Fugue reached it's height around 1890 or so when names like Charcot and William James were busy writing theses about what the 'disease' truly was. Hacking and others believe the illness was removed from society when popular tourism began and when the fantasy of quests and travels had been more fully explored and distributed to the public in writings by authors like Jules Verne. I think he's probably right.
But that doesn't really address the underlying principles at work in men that have been clearly documented throughout history, even in our earliest recorded works. Nor has it changed the nature of the "pilgrimage," which is to this day is still ensconced at the heart of many religions, such as Islam, Hinduism, and Buddhism.
A man on a traveling quest is in fact a deep-seated, psychological need that is constantly searching for expression. Whether it is a cyclops, a dragon, or a windmill, there is also an adversary in each man's quest - or at the very least - something to overcome.
My journey begins in a few short hours. I trust it will contain no amnesiac quality; and yet, I also trust that it will serve as a reflection to my own subconscious.
Still, I do see this as a spiritual quest. And if history is any indication this is also serving as Fugue State Prevention 101.
A funny thought, indeed, but I feel like I'm probably the only one laughing. :)
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)"
Collapsing Light Into Earth
On the last leg of my trip, I hopefully reach out and touch the memorial to one of America’s greatest unsung heroes. Robert Gould Shaw was born to a wealthy family in Boston, but enlisted in the Civil War when he was only 23 years old. He went on to command the 1st all black regiment of soldiers in American history. Gould was killed in the assault on Ft. Sumter along with most of his division. The Confederates buried him in the sand there alongside his men as an act of insult. After the war, many bodies were exhumed and taken home, but his father chose to leave Robert at Sumter, buried among his men. For the Shaw family, being buried alongside the black soldiers wasn’t an insult at all. It was the highest honor imaginable.
Is Ignorance Bliss?
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition;
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins;
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God;
Not one is dissatisfied-not one is demented with the mania of owning things;
Not one kneels to another, nor his kind that lived thousands of years ago….”
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Rough New Prizes
Monday, August 13, 2012
The Mystery Whitman Medallion
Regardless of where or how I got it, this medal has been sitting on my desk for years along with a pocket copy of Leaves of Grass. I find the image to be soothing for me during times of intellectual or emotional upheaval.
Needless to say, my curiosity led me to research it's origins. If it is authentic - and it very well may be a reproduction - then I suppose I shouldn't hoard it all to myself. The only one I could find using Internet search engines is on display at the Yale University Art Gallery. (Click to see it and note it's exactly the same medal.)
Along the left side of the medallion at about the nine o'clock position are the artists initials. Robert Tait McKenzie is the sculptor. It was commissioned for the Franklin Inn Club in Philadelphia in 1919 on the centennial of Whitman's birth.
My journey will actually take me to the Franklin Inn Club in Philly where I hope to learn more about the medallion's origin and authenticity. Could be that McKenzie made hundreds of them and there are dozens in circulation all around the Northeast; I just don't know.
If it proves to be valuable and rare, it certainly doesn't belong on my desk for me alone to enjoy, so I suppose I will find the appropriate place to donate it. Either back to the Franklin Inn Club, the Walt Whitman house in Camden, or maybe a local art museum.
No matter what happens, at least there is a chance for the mystery of the medallion to be solved.... wish me luck!
"I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured
and never will be measured.
I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!)
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods,
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange,
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road.
Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself."
~ Walt Whitman
The Dead Poet Journey
Munro isn't dead as far as I know. Still, this is going to be the trip of a lifetime for me... I'll be crawling out from under the disguise of an under-acheiving fisherman who grew up wading the back country streams of Roane County, TN and taking a seat at the gravesides of great men whom I've long admired and spent a lifetime reading.
Along the way, I will document my stops - share with you the people I meet - photos of the places I visit - and sound my "barbaric yawp" over the rooftops of the world.
Thanks to High Places Church for this great opportunity to practice "self-care" as they call it in "The Industry." Lolz. Really not big on the vocabulary of such things, just in the many layers of humanity that we all share, each of which need their own degree of TLC.
"Trippers and askers surround me....
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait."
~ Walt Whitman