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Crowspeak
Friday, September 9, 2016
DepthSpeak: Letting Image Speak It's Name
Friday, September 2, 2016
Our Shadows
Garrison KeillorSpecial To The Washington Post
The
cap does not look good on you, it's a duffer's cap, and when you come
to the microphone, you look like the warm-up guy, the guy who announces
the license number of the car left in the parking lot, doors locked,
lights on, motor running. The brim shadows your face, which gives a
sinister look, as if you'd come to town to announce the closing of the
pulp factory. Your eyes look dead and your scowl does not suggest
American greatness so much as American indigestion. Your hair is the
wrong color: People don't want a president to be that shade of blond.
You know that now.
Why
doesn't someone in your entourage dare to say these things? So sad. The
fans in the arenas are wild about you, and Sean Hannity is as loyal as
they come, but Rudy and Christie and Newt are reassuring in that stilted
way of hospital visitors. And The New York Times treats you like the
village idiot. This is painful for a Queens boy trying to win respect in
Manhattan where the Times is the Supreme Liberal Jewish Anglican
Arbiter of Who Has The Smarts and What Goes Where. When you came to
Manhattan 40 years ago, you discovered that in entertainment, the press,
politics, finance, everywhere you went, you ran into Jews, and they are
not like you: Jews didn't go in for big yachts and a fleet of aircraft —
they showed off by way of philanthropy or by raising brilliant
offspring. They sympathized with the civil rights movement. In Queens,
blacks were a threat to property values — they belonged in the Bronx,
not down the street. To the Times, Queens is Cleveland. Bush league. You
are Queens. The casinos were totally Queens, the gold faucets in your
triplex, the bragging, the insults, but you wanted to be liked by Those
People. You wanted Mike Bloomberg to invite you to dinner at his
townhouse. You wanted the Times to run a three-part story about you,
that you meditate and are a passionate kayaker and collect 14th-century
Islamic mosaics. You wish you were that person but you didn't have the
time.
Running
for president is your last bid for the respect of Manhattan. If you
were to win election, they couldn't ridicule you anymore. They could be
horrified, but there is nothing ridiculous about being Leader of the
Free World. You have B-52 bombers at your command. When you go places, a
battalion of security guys comb the environs. You attract really really
good speechwriters who give you Churchillian cadences and toss in
quotes from Emerson and Aeschylus and Ecclesiastes.
Labor Day and
it is not going well. You had a very bad month. You tossed out those
wisecracks on Twitter and the Earth shook and your ratings among white
suburban women with French cookware declined. The teleprompter is not
your friend. You are in the old tradition of locker room ranting and big
honkers in the steam room, sitting naked, talking man talk, griping
about the goons and ginks and lousy workmanship and the uppity broads
and the great lays and how you vanquished your enemies at the bank.
Profanity is your natural language and vulgar words so as not to offend
the Christers but the fans can still hear it and that's something they
love about you. You are their guy. You are losing and so are they but
they love you for it.
What
the fans don't know is that it's not much fun being a billionaire. You
own a lot of big houses and you wander around in them, followed by a
waiter, a bartender, a masseuse, three housekeepers, and a concierge,
and they probably gossip about you behind your back. Just like
nine-tenths of your campaign staff. You're losing and they know it and
they're telling mean stories about you to everybody and his brother.
Meanwhile, you keep plugging away. It's the hardest work you've ever done. You walk out in the white cap and you rant for an hour about stuff that means nothing and the fans scream and wave their signs and you wish you could level with them for once and say one true thing: I love you to death and when this is over I will have nothing that I want.
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Amma The Hugging Saint
Mata
Amritanandamayi is known throughout the world as Amma, or Mother, for
her selfless love and compassion toward all beings. Her entire life
has been dedicated to alleviating the pain of the poor, and those
suffering physically and emotionally.
Throughout
her life, Mata Amritanandamayi has embraced and comforted more than
34 million people. Amma inspires, uplifts, and transforms through her
embrace, her spiritual wisdom and through her global charities, known
as Embracing the World.® When asked where she gets the energy to
help so many people, she answers: "Where there is true love,
anything is effortless."
While
Amma is widely regarded as one of India’s foremost spiritual
leaders, Amma says that her religion is love. She has never asked
anyone to change their religion but only to contemplate the essential
principles of their own faith and to try to live accordingly.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Wednesday, April 13, 2016
David Whyte
Much
has been said about the eternal and untouchable nature of love, its
tidal ungovernable forces and its emergence from beyond the ordinary,
but love may find its fullest, most imagined and most courageous form
when it leaves the abstractions and safety of the timeless, the
eternal and the untouchable to make its promises amidst the fears,
vulnerabilities and disappearances of our difficult, touchable and
time bound world. To love and to witness love in the face of possible
loss and to find the mystery of love's promise in the shadow of that
loss, in the shadow of the ordinary and in the shadow of our own
inevitable disappearance may be where the eternal source of all of
our origins stands in awe of the full consequences of everything it
has set in motion.
Night
Thoughts
©
David Whyte and Many Rivers Press 2014
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