Essential Heartbeats -- Without Rhythm, Where Would I Be?

 

"When I was a child, ladies and gentlemen, I was a dreamer. I read comic books, and I was the hero of the comic book. I saw movies, and I was the hero in the movie. So every dream that I ever dreamed, has come true a hundred times. I learned very early in life that:

"Without a song, the day would never end;

 Without a song, a man ain’t got a friend;

 Without a song, the road would never bend;

Without a song...

 So I keep singing a song.”

  -- Excerpt from Elvis' acceptance speech at the ceremony for the US Jaycees 'Ten Outstanding Young Men' for 1970 

I love this quote from Elvis Presley. The sentiment is exactly what Jim Morrison and the Doors expressed in their song "When the Music's Over." Music is essential to a human being. I can't  imagine living without it. Its universality breaks all barriers to understanding while stirring the emotions.

"Well, the music is your special friend
Dance on fire as it intends
Music is your only friend
Until the end
Until the end
Until the end 

 

"So when the music's over
When the music's over, yeah
When the music's over
Turn out the lights
Turn out the lights"

 Turn out the lights

-- Excerpt from the Door's "When the Music's Over." Strange Days. Jim Morrison - lyrics. Paul A. Rothchild, Producer

Seemingly simple, rhythm is actually one of the most complex musical concepts to define and explain. Its powerful presence in our lives is often misunderstood -- we  listen to music and neglect to consider how rhythm is at its very core: it connects everything. Rhythm, like the heartbeat, is divided into repeated beats of a specific number at a certain speed. In other words, the pattern is the controlled movement of music concerning time that may be defined in pulses, meters, or beats. In all cases, rhythm is how music is divided into regular metric portions. Thus, beat and movement are also the lifeblood that systematically flows through the human body. Rhythm naturally lives in all of us -- as through the heart with automatic, involuntary reflex -- and it compensates our basic need for movement through conscious awareness. 

It’s different from the music’s tempo, which is the speed at which the music plays. Strong and weak pulse patterns combine to make rhythm essential to movement in music. These pulse patterns make us want to follow a song's rhythm, which consists of beats playing for specific time intervals.

Do we crave rhythm for its pulsating purpose? Consider dancing. Think of the typical response of teenagers to Dick Clark's popular old segments of American Bandstand's "Rate a Record." 

Clark: "Why do you like this record so much?

Teens' Reply: "It's the beat. 

We accept rhythm without understanding its long list of complexities as simply the placement of sounds in time. In its most general sense, rhythm (Greek rhythmos, derived from rhein, “to flow”) is an ordered alternation of contrasting elements. The notion of rhythm also occurs in other arts (e.g., poetry and painting) as well as in biological rhythms.

Listening to music, most of us follow a tune's rhythm, which is actually comprised of many complexities such as time signature, meter, and accents. Of course, beats are the primary measurement unit of music while the time signature of any musical piece refers to the number of beats in one full measure and how long the beats last. It’s written as a fraction, such as 4/4, 6/8, 5/4, and so on. The two numbers indicate how you should count the rhythm.

Time signatures that have the number "4" for the bottom mean that the beat corresponds with a quarter note. For example, the time signature 5/4 means that a measure takes five beats to become whole.

Meanwhile, a 4/4 signature means that four beats are needed to make a full measure. It also means that each individual beat is the length of a quarter note.

4/4 is the standard time signature, but signatures go beyond it. ¾ time signatures are meant for waltz music, and 2/4 time signatures are meant for march rhythms.

(Steve, PMH. "What Is Rhythm in Music and Why Is It So Important?" Pro Musician's Hub. https://promusicianhub.com/what-is-rhythm/. May 19, 2021.)

While both rhythm and tempo directly correlate to how fast the music is, each of them contributes individually. The tempo is the speed of the music piece, while the rhythm is how long each note takes. Both depend on time, but in different ways.

 "Rhythm is the foundation upon which music builds its cadence, inviting listeners to move, feel, and connect on a visceral level. It’s the heartbeat of music, dictating its flow and structure." 

-- Nahuel Bronzini, "Understanding the Basics of  Rhythm In Music, Native Instruments

To help us understand further, imagine a car driving down a highway. The vehicle is moving at a specific speed, which refers to the tempo. The rhythm here refers to the distance between the things along the road’s side.

Making it simple -- our bodies are prone to respond in kind to basic rhythms. Think of basic dance moves -- slow and fast rhythms elicit normal, traditional reactions to dance; however, a good rhythm section is surprisingly detailed in how its accents contribute to any solid restriction within a composition's rhythms. 

Rhythmic appeal varies. Strange rhythms do not easily allow our bodies to respond to their offbeat sounds. We normally just say it's a "fast" or "slow" tune. We are so used to 4/4 time (most commonly found in pop, rock, and many modern genres),

Irregular rhythms don't instantly relate to our body's natural tendencies -- blood flow, heartbeat, even brain connections. 

Lyrics add meaning and theme for even greater response to a song. Are the words relatable to our sea of emotions? Some are more than others, but there are no restrictions to addressing the beat with words. Think of song lyrics evoking joy, sadness, reminisce, and any other feeling we have. The beat + the lyrics = what we believe to be a great piece of music.

I could never restrict myself to liking only one genre of music. All -- from rock, pop, country, blues, instrumental, and on and on -- feed my need to live a life full of music. I need to hear music to find what I might call a "personal redemption of being" for my life. I live vicariously in the songs I hear and play. I've grown up with the old Hit Parade songs, progressed to rock, and taken in all other forms with not necessarily equal zeal, but with an intensity present in what is known as a "music lover." Please, don't restrict my ears to one form or one understanding of appeal.

Through experience and longing for music, I recognize almost immediately that which I think is a great song. The variations of form and style I love might surprise you. To me, a good song is both satisfying and timeless. Unlike my response to television or to a movie, I never tire of hearing it play -- hundreds, maybe thousands of times. My tunes are my eternal companions as both Elvis and Morrison wrote: they have unusual, great power over me. I must listen to them again and again. Without music, I have no "light." My heart feels no flow.

Music is made for sharing and for introspection -- a dichotomy I don't really understand. It is just something I respect and for which I long. Sharing great songs with good friends is the best. Add dance and other movements of expression and I am so happy ... even when listening to the saddest songs or an earful of the blues. I feel music is God's gift to us because it gives us pause to contemplate; to think; and, of course, to relate and move.

Today, people spend so much on televisions and home theaters, yet they often decline to spend as much -- or any for that matter -- on the sounds within their own existence. If I had my way, I would have all of my CDs played on the best possible sound system. I could spend all my money on a system that accurately and beautifully produces the original sound of my favorite recordings. 

With my restricted resources, I settle for "good" sound but long for "better." I am a true audiophile junky without the finances to afford systems capable of delivering the ''sweetest" of reproductions. In a perfect world, the sky would be the limit, and authenticity of recording would be paramount. In other words, I thrill to hear the best recordings played on the best systems. I love to meet people who share my passion for music -- they are becoming fewer and farther between instead of more and closer. God, how do people get by without music in their lives? Music is life; life is music. 

"Tower Of Song"

Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on
I'm just paying my rent every day
Oh in the Tower of Song

I said to Hank Williams: how lonely does it get?
Hank Williams hasn't answered yet
But I hear him coughing all night long
A hundred floors above me
In the Tower of Song

I was born like this, I had no choice
I was born with the gift of a golden voice
And twenty-seven angels from the Great Beyond
They tied me to this table right here
In the Tower of Song

So you can stick your little pins in that voodoo doll
I'm very sorry, baby, doesn't look like me at all
I'm standing by the window where the light is strong
Ah they don't let a woman kill you
Not in the Tower of Song

Now you can say that I've grown bitter but of this you may be sure
The rich have got their channels in the bedrooms of the poor
And there's a mighty judgment coming, but I may be wrong
You see, you hear these funny voices
In the Tower of Song

I see you standing on the other side
I don't know how the river got so wide
I loved you baby, way back when
And all the bridges are burning that we might have crossed
But I feel so close to everything that we lost
We'll never, we'll never have to lose it again

Now I bid you farewell, I don't know when I'll be back
They're moving us tomorrow to that tower down the track
But you'll be hearing from me baby, long after I'm gone
I'll be speaking to you sweetly
From a window in the Tower of Song

Yeah my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on
I'm just paying my rent every day
Oh in the Tower of Song 

 

-- Leonard Cohen, lyrics

* “Tower of Song” is a profound and introspective composition by the legendary singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen. Released in 1988 as part of his album “I’m Your Man,” this captivating song delves into themes of self-reflection, music as a source of solace, and the complexities of the creative process. Cohen’s masterful storytelling and poetic lyricism invite listeners on a journey towards self-discovery and contemplation.

At its core, “Tower of Song” explores the deeply personal nature of artistic expression. Cohen’s lyrics paint a vivid picture of an artist confined within the metaphorical walls of a tower, tirelessly honing his craft. This tower represents the artist’s inner world, their sanctuary where they create and navigate the labyrinthine corridors of their own mind. Through his distinct baritone vocals, Cohen beautifully captures the longing and vulnerability that often accompany the creative process. 

 (Warren Barrett. "The Meaning Behind The Song: Tower of Song by Leonard Cohen." https://oldtimemusic.com/the-meaning-behind-the-song-tower-of-song-by-leonard-cohen/. September 9, 2023.)

 

Are You Calling Someone "Crazy"? You May Need Advice.

 "Mental illnesses are common in the United States. It is estimated that more than one in five U.S. adults live with a mental illness (57.8 million in 2021). Mental illnesses include many different conditions that vary in degree of severity, ranging from mild to moderate to severe."

("Mental Illness." National Institute of Mental Health. https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/mental-illness. Updated March 2023.)

Dealing with mental illness is far more painful and chronic than most people realize. I  have so many details of the "craziness" I deal with that I keep to myself because others simply don't understand or want to comprehend the crippling effects of my OCD and depression. The stigma itself is permanent, and it affects everything I do -- whether by myself, with my immediate family, or with the public. My brain has learned to accept the permanent effects and side effects; however, few individuals understand that once you were considered "normal," and when a mental illness strikes, that "normality" is forever lost. I consider the misery related to the malady every day in some way ... on a scale of 10+ some days to near 3 (average) on others.

My least distressing days are merely bothersome. I know the difference between physical pain (having had many broken bones, organ, and muscular issues in my life) and mental anguish. Both can be very debilitating, yet mental illness presents issues that often persist without warning or without relief from prior preparations. They gnaw at the gut and all other parts of the body. They can reappear, so my worst days occur and I don't even want to get out of bed. I have learned from experience to address the worst with haste.

The most difficult part of growing old with mental illness is handling -- all or some -- "special" consideration. I relate that word to what we used to call "special education" categories in school. You are in the space of weird and wacky: a place where many treat you as bizarre and much less capable than the norm. Some people whom you have known all of your life, either out of pity or ignorance about your brain afflictions, begin treating you "different" after they discover you have mental illness. You become quickly pigeonholed in the "crazy person" box, and nothing you can do allows you to become normal -- in their eyes -- ever again. 

I say this not for pity or special treatment, but, damn, I wish I could just be my old self without being constantly aware of my conditions, and very often worried, of how others handle our friendships or casual acquaintances. A analogy may be understood by considering how many people always "know" an ex-convict is distrustful and they "mark" him so for life after serving his sentence -- that person has lost the luxury of being judged as a working, proud part of the society, and often he is denied fair consideration because of a mistake he once made instead of whom he has become as a rehabilitated individual. Dealing with people who are aware of his past takes a considerable toll not only on his social status but also on his mental awareness. 

So, when I become most sick with recurrences of my mental illness, it often justifies to others that "he is just crazy" and sends warning signals to others to be careful around him; he may act out of character with strange with his weird, preposterous attitude. 

Look, I embrace my mental problems, but I positively hate when others take me out of their perspective of being right in the head and now suffering in insanity. To them, I run through the scale of life on measures ranging from implausibility to outlandishly foolish. That price I pay inhibits my best, true character and partially disables my credibility. 

How do I know this? People love to speak of other's maladies in terms of general, often misunderstood labels. Anyone who has brain problems is stereotyped as wildly "off the wall." I admit to my pitfalls when I suffer my illness the most, but I cannot explain some of these actions, and people usually react to them as fanciful acts of a fool. If I would (and do) have problems with other organs -- the heart, for example --  at least people show genuine sympathy: not so with brain illnesses. They may feel sorry for the afflicted person, but often believe either think "it's all in his head"; he has  falsely invented problems; or he is incurably insane.

How then do I believe you should treat those struggling -- often chronically -- with mental illness? I say: "Treat them as suffering from a misunderstood common malady and with all your patience for their full recovery." Treat them as normal humans suffering from little-known causes and tremendous consequences. Never believe they are "just plain way-out, wacky screwballs." Beg them to seek psychiatric help and treat them just as you would a person dealing with any debilitating illness.

Medications may falter, moods may swing, sadly uncomfortable feelings may emerge, but be hopeful that a patient -- with professional help --  will be back to his "old self" soon. Psychiatrists cure just like doctors do. Right now their best weapon is a variety of medications, often given in good faith and through trial and error. I hope someday soon that corrective surgeries may stop further progression of any mental disease. What professionals know about the complexities of the brain today is minuscule compared with their knowledge about other vital organs like the heart, lungs, or kidneys.  

For God's sake, don't make them "feel different." Talking around a mental patient (like he can't understand), making frequent excuses to others for his weird behaviors, or just simply putting him in that "isolated pigeonhole" defeats all progress. I can attest that suffering from mental illness can be unpredictable and real. 

If you want to believe he is faking, you also need to educate yourself on his conditions. I can testify that mental anguish and pain is so much more hurtful than most people believe. Also, you just can't "crawl out of your own hole" and unlike as many think -- "just do something to cheer yourself up." On first indication of leaning on the edge, encourage mental patients to find professional, qualified assistance. I have seen so psychiatrists, it would make me dizzy to count, and I know some are much better than others in treating my two disorders: obsession and depression. Encourage a person to try several doctors if need be. 

One last caution for me to others: religion cannot "cure" mental illness unless one receives a miracle from the Almighty. I believe in God; I daily walk down His path seeking his help. I still need professional medical help to improve. Prayer and meditation may help ease suffering, yet I believe they do not usually work miracles for mental patients without trained practitioners. 

Before you dismiss my claim, consider my past experience and my use of counseling and faith. Both counseling and faith lead to help; however, medical doctors offer much-needed relief that is more reliable than talk and reading. True, God is in control. Through Him all things are possible. However, he works hand-in-hand with psychiatrists and psychologists. If you begin to suffer, don't wait too long to seek out pros in this field of medicine. Your fear of being known as "another crazy person seeing a shrink" is unfounded, believe me. I have dealt with them since 1984.

To summarize, I hate the unpredictable appearance of mental illness, but I also detest those who believe it can't be treated. The long list of doctors and meds I have used (still use) to control my chronic brain problems seem never-ending, and perhaps they are. Call it addiction; I know how necessary for me they are.

Most importantly, I hope you know "I am still me," the same old person you have known although now susceptible to suffering with mental problems. I want you to know I love you even if you feel I am "off the rails." (Wow, am I using tons of cliches today.) I need you now more than ever, and maybe ... just maybe ... you need me too. Feel free to speak with me about your own mental illnesses, and we might work well together to be sounding boards of truth and solid understanding. 

Thanks for treating me as a person, not as a sick pup with incurable problems. My advice is strictly my own, not meant to represent the voice of anyone else. Yet, I can still think as a responsible member of society, and I believe strongly you are one too. Maybe we, together, can be of great assistance to ourselves and to others. I pray others do not suffer the effects of my two afflictions, and I feel at best when others understand me, not distrust or disbelieve me. Ignoring any problem is troublesome and even fatal. 

I live with and within my boundaries of any so-called expertise. I just would love to be the old, whatever I used to be, person. I apologize if I periodically fall short. I make no excuses for my own blunders. I bet we are much more alike than many would give us credit for being. My head is my best and worst enemy, and I know I will medicate my afflictions for the rest of my life. But hey, I still love pizza, beer, and baseball, so I must be "OK" for others who know me still well enough to treat me well. I'd love to send these miserable conditions that crop up in my head to hell. And, I still believe it is possible. I have been walking a long, long road already, but I never intend to stop shuffling towards better health.  

 “It's my experience that people are a lot more sympathetic if they can see you hurting, and for the millionth time in my life I wish for measles or smallpox or some other easily understood disease just to make it easier on me and also on them.”

 -- Jennifer Niven, All the Bright Places

"Frankly, My Dear, I Don' Give a Damn": It's Gone With the Wind

 

I hate to say it, but most people, sooner or later, reach a point of "I Don't Give a Damn." It may take a while to find that sweet point where you feel redemption in voicing damnation, yet it's never going to pack up and leave your soul. It's always within, slowly growing and sticking straight in your craw, aging until perfection. Then one day -- Wham! -- out of the blue with completely no set context, it spills out of your gut into your throat and you spew it out until you think your body could not possibly take even one more ounce of the torment. "You" like me, don't give a damn, do you?

When that realization attacks, it hits you with a vision clearer than the brightest blue sky.You realize you suddenly that you are experiencing the lasting symptoms of "I Don't Give a Damn." All has finally come to fruition.

You try to rationalize its presence, but invariably give in to its gush of emotional and physical power. You can't stop it, ignore it, or wish it away, no matter how hard you try. The damned thing covers you and soils everything and everybody else nearby, and you can make no excuse for its eruption ... sometimes such a violent explosion that your head feels separated from the rest of your body because of the blunt force you just experienced. You see, you acknowledged your own lack of "giving a damn" in your enormous eruption.

What age do people IDGAD? It varies with their degree of patience, understanding, and honesty ... an honesty measuring your own toleration, or more clearly, your lack of control over your virtues. You just don't give a damn anymore, do you? You can't hold back and you realize goodness because now you have entered the black hole of IDGAD, like it or not. So, now you spiral out of existence and perceive others are just as living undead as you. That is "I Don't Give a Damn" in retaliation and in mutual feelings. Relation, lovers, friends -- all enter the frame of mind out of your actions.

Take me, for instance, I was making some good progress with my IDGAD until suddenly and seemingly without warning, foundations of my existence were not only shaken but completely obliterated. I pushed too hard and caused my old self to lay in pieces all around me. Like Humpty Dumpty, no one could put me back together again. This IDGAD is your new state fashioned by your past. Only you can deal with the aftermath. I can't help anyhow. I already "don't give a damn."

You will know when it's your time for the change. It's not just a sense of carelessness or a shortcoming of the spirit. The golden rule hits rock bottom, and its suddenly the time when you look around with a dazed mind only to discover a newfound, strange confidence that suddenly shows new vision. Clear or cloudy,you just don't care anymore about what you now see, and you step squarely in the middle of that black hole of IDGAD, never to be spit out into a sensible, kind transition. Age itself prevents such a comeback.

Don't worry. None of your preparation for prevention would have worked to prevent your fall. You have had this affliction as an involuntary reflex -- a necessary movement in which you must relieve yourself  like dumping an unwelcome, huge load of waste. I don't care how you handle it. Once it begins -- and it will begin -- I guarantee it -- it will appear because you are a genuine human being enslaved in your own trappings. You already "got yours" as they say, and that is all that counts in this greedy world.

Your physical strength or your mental toughness won't stop the paroxysm either. It just happens -- hopefully in private, but most often unfortunately it occurs in public among many others. No warning, a gush of IDGAD bursts unannounced and there you have it -- a complete, utter mess. And, don't expect a friend, spouse, or caretaker to help clean it up -- without exception, your IDGAD is yours alone. Others don't give a damn because they have their own little lives to worry about.Thus, IDGAD universalizes the planet on which we survive.

And certainly don't expect me to care or help you because I have already experienced "I Don't Give a Damn." So, I don't try to make anyone better. It belongs to you in its entirety and has finally flared up in its own slow, careless making. The entity is new to you. Just deal with it. IDGAD. Period. Run up your IDGAD flag so everyone will not expect you to lift a finger (outside of your self-interests, of course).

When it happened to me, I was full of stress and dread, yet strangely aware that I had tested my own limits and that I had somehow had failed. The agony and extent of the explosion to others around me will forever remain unknown+, so don't expect anyone to ever discuss such an indifferent topic with you or expect anyone else to attempt to relieve you of any part of your suddenly newfound, hardened self. All of the shock and awe -- you own it, brother or sister. It grew and had to relieve itself most likely in an unlikely, enigmatic display of your immediate sick intentions. It now is just a hackneyed "it is what it is."

IDGAD has no time for reflection or change. It so occupies the fibers of your present being, and it will most likely linger like a chronic disease the rest of your life. You see, IDGAD justifies itself. It doesn't need its host after its arrival. Excuses make no sense while apologies for its destruction and mayhem are seldom welcomed. Why? You guessed it. They -- those you conceived loved you -- have experienced the malady, too; it's too late for personal redemption or damage control.

Let me share how I later found some telltale symptoms of "I Don't Give a Damn" before my sudden and permanent transformation:

1. Silence and lack of communication on any level.

2. Lack of interests and social connections,

3. Complete loss of dependence,

4. Total unconcern for others with similar or worse plights,

5. Gut-wrenching loneliness sans concern for each other,

6. Deliberate noncompliance and revenge,

7. Constant disagreement about the smallest of topics, 

8. "Same old, same old" feelings about responsibilities,

9. Lack of sincerity -- lie after lie -- often with hidden expenses, and ignoring detail, and finally 

10. Discovery of hidden, hateful emotions for others disguised as simple disagreement.

These were all signs of "I Don't Give a Damn" that I later tried to blame for its eruption. At the time, many seemed trivial; however, many did permanent, lasting damage that built in intensity to a final crescendo over time. I allowed it to happen.

I felt bad about changing my ways and started seeing external excuses. What a waste of time. IDGAD is all about you, no others. It would never appear because of anything someone else said or did. You, like me, are your own worst enemy -- at least now I have learned to be silent and take responsibility whenever I can. But I know I'm still in the clutches of IDGAD. It reappears in various forms of my life ... often with inconsistencies and total ignorance.

After all, I have free will and old habits worsen as they dwell in the heart of the human beast ... with the exceptions of a few public niceties -- done for show, for appreciation of past care, for what some kind souls call "common courtesies." Sincere replies for appreciation are few and far between -- very few know even how to compose a kind expression as life-changing IDGAD has also consumed their hearts and minds. 

IDGAD must be expected from other busy, forgetful souls, yet its effects so weaken our world. I-phones, lack of truth, boring television, condoned violence and hatred, lack of care for any but one's own opinion, and placing our fast-paced lives over empathy -- I've never seen the absence of interest so low in my 73 years. 

I admit this mayhem all happened under my watch and care, so I take blame for my own IDGAD syndrome. You handle yours, and I'll run out of breath handling mine. I regret my present state, but it is reality. I am so unversed in fantasy, modern culture, and staying abreast of the new "ways" that I can assure you "I Don't Give a Damn" about 99% of what keeps the present afloat. If you will, IDGAD has damned my soul.

In closing, I'll ask, "Do you really give a damn about me ... anything?" No, that even sounds selfish to me. How about, "Do you really give a damn that, as I see it, a dark and fucked up future awaits because too many enter IDGAD too soon. I know you've already said it -- "Well, I don't give a damn" -- and I also know you experience many of the symptoms I cite to date, so be honest with yourself and with others before falling into that permanent IDGAD abyss and tumbling head over heals to your newer, more careless condition. It's not very pleasant at all. Lonely as hell.

Most of the time I blame myself for "I Don't Give a Damn" because I evidently used my imagination, hope, and charity with expectations of no return. I let my greatest opportunities go to hell and merely expected someone else to restore sanity. I take full responsibility for my own fall. No response or indifference feeds and breeds contempt. Blame immaturity, ignorance, scapegoats, stereotypes but it is I ... and I suspect a little of you ... who helped ban imagination and thus minded to our own selfish, thoughtless business. Greed? Disinterest? Lack of care? Face it -- I and you created this stinking, backwards looking mess. So hey, "I Don't Give a Damn." Do you? I thought not.

 "Once They Banned Imagine"

By Drive-By Truckers

We had our heart strings dangling ripe for the yanking
And lot of reasons grabby was good
Poor huddled masses singing boots up their asses
Giving grabby what he needed to pull
All the way back to where ghosts from the past were still
Fighting their wars from the grave
Complete with record burning and threatening and spurning
The crime of getting blood on the page

Since the big one ended we'd been mostly pretending
We'd have had the same gumption and grit
As the greatest among us when harm came upon us
We wouldn't hesitate to defend
But with or against something's been out to get us
And it looked like something finally did
No nobler cause in our lifetime for setting our sails to the wind

But once they banned Imagine it became the same old war its always been
Once they banned Imagine it became the war it was when we were kids

Are you now or have you ever been in cahoots with the notion that people can change
When history happens again if you do or you did you'll be blamed
From baseless inquiry
To no knocking entry
Becoming the law of the land
To half cocked excuses for bullet abuse regarding anything browner than tan

Cause once they banned Imagine it became the same old war its always been
Once they banned Imagine it became the war it was when we were kids

* The lyrics reflect the political climate and the challenges faced by artists in expressing their views freely. “Once They Banned Imagine” by Drive-By Truckers serves as a powerful reminder of the importance of artistic expression and the constant struggle against censorship. It highlights how power structures manipulate events to control and silence voices that dare to raise questions or offer alternative perspectives. (Imagine the fates of John and Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr, and John Lennon to get even more perspective. And, of course, now many of us don't give a damn -- the same old internal war.)

Drinking At Public Events -- True Confessions of a Confused Nuisance

I believe I am old enough to express an opinion in a mannerly fashion. I feel I have worked enough with groups and individuals I know very well that, even if they disagree with my ideas, I can offer my simple view, supported with what I consider evidence, and then discuss the idea with whomever is involved. I admit I may be wrong in my decisions, but when I talk "against the grain" and get blamed for being an ass or a troublemaker for my own personal, deep beliefs, I don't appreciate it. It hurts.

Recently, I took some considerable criticism from those who disagreed with my view about an event. I felt belittled but not extremely upset because (1) I had served the organization for many years, and (2) in my view, my work for them allowed me a dissenting voice but still a needed understanding in the group. I thought about our argument, and I soon felt somewhat caught in my own dilemma of feeling right and the group's alternate decision that I had been headstrong and wrong.

Lack of communication can often discombobulate the actual reality of such a situation; however, a lack of communication can also hinder group members' beliefs that the situation is fair or just. I believe strongly in a lot of talk and consideration before rendering a decision involving a group of people and free speech that allows all views to surface before a controversial decision is made. How can you do that with adequate approval? I don't know -- solicitation from majority membership?

With no good pro-arguments, I admit all vices are horrid. I stand on shaky ground standing up for them. However, toleration of some vices is not unusual nor is it sinful (in my book). For example, drinking and smoking are not good for health or necessarily for happiness, yet I believe in certain circumstances that toleration of such behavior ... complete with a long history of both ... deserves a voice in the planning of a group event. 

We could get into a long harangue about social lubricates and guarded freedoms, but that would not help to solve what I consider to be the problem in this essay. I guess I upset some people with challenging a majority. Gosh, I'm sorry ... maybe.

We could speak of safeguards and avenues for toleration for both drinking and smoking. We could consider safety in both. We could even change venues, and find one that does not prohibit theses vices altogether. Our long history of meetings in a drinking establishment offered allowances for both, and no one was ever harmed. But, the counter argument is, of course, they could and should not be tolerated in the first place. And, I admit it has irrefutable grounds.

An Event of Celebration Banning Drinking

Drinking has become a problem for many people. For some, it is a way to numb the pain of life. For others, it is a way to celebrate. But what happens when things go wrong? Drinking becomes a way to forget. And when things start going good, drinking can also become a way to excess. This is the problem with drinking: it can have negative consequences that we try to forget or avoid. It is commonplace but despised by many -- from appearing at pro ballgames to having a little wine at a wedding. 

I do not, however, belief drinking in moderation is voluntary madness and a problem for the majority. In fact, after a beer or two, I generally agree with Ernest Hemingway: “I drink to make other people more interesting.” And, in fact Hemingway also said: “Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.” Funny? Often sadly true, I'm afraid. 

I also do not belief social drinking is necessarily "an escape." I believe it is an added attraction under strict conditions. Why? I was raised to believe alcohol in moderation was perfectly acceptable.

F Scott Fitzgerald described its effect: “Here's to alcohol, the rose colored glasses of life.” Friedrich Nietzsche even said:“For art to exist, for any sort of aesthetic activity or perception to exist, a certain physiological precondition is indispensable: intoxication.”

And, humorously, Stephen King once answered the question: “Do you drink?"
His response was, "Of course,I just said I was a writer.” Yes, I am guilty of greatly enjoying a drink once and awhile.

Deciding to meet and greet old friends is often painful for me without sharing drinks. I feel uptight, guarded, and less joyful without a beer or two among friends. I don't care if my friends do not drink. It's just that I find myself opening up more, sharing antidotes, and stories, and simply being happier as I finish my second beer. Talk flows with the liquor as do associations with past good times spent together. Yet, Oscar Wilde in warning claims, “Alcohol, taken in sufficient quantities, may produce all the effects of drunkenness.” Accurately funny as hell. What effects? He did not elaborate.

I want my close friends to accept my intricacies more readily, so I enjoy drinking with them. The reduction of formal friction is something I truly enjoy -- not slowing stooping into disgusting drunkenness, but having a great time sharing and engaging each other's company. Men like me, for example, would never consider fast-dancing until they've had a couple of drinks. Free expression and thoughtless reactions to the rhythm suddenly become acceptable then ... it destroys my tendency to be embarrassed and builds my joy level even with my quirky, jerky movements. Dick Clark rates those reactions to "the beat" as the power of the rhythm.

Pulling back into the theme of this essay, I wonder if those who opposer alcohol either (1) fear drunkenness, or (2) see it as a sin. I get it. I don't agree, but I accept the concessions to the argument of allowing drink. I sin, yet we all sin in some fashion. I don't have time to judge people, let alone my friends.

One can always cheat with flasks or frequent trips to the car during "drinkless occasions," but those people will counter their integrity with such hypocritical behavior at a party "necessary" and "perfectly sly with a purpose." I'm much too old for such shit I did with regularity in high school. In simple terms, "I don't want to lie to my own beliefs and natural tendencies." I gave up being sneaky and deceitful quite a long time ago. No drinking rules must be obeyed in my mind. I won't attend, and that's just fine.

Theme? I merely want the chance to express an opposing view as "nonsense." Does this make me an alcoholic or an evildoer? I'm not advocating for mass protest or for any one other individual to follow my lead or my thinking. I just don't want to be known as the "bad guy" trying to wreck an event. I fear I am now. I politely decline to go, and I wish the best for the sober crowd. Please, laugh, talk, and make all kinds of merriment sans alcohol. I pray that the attendance is at an all-time high and that everyone leaves satisfied as a bee in a honey jar.  

I never saw this coming. I just was not willing to give up my annual night of revelry under the belief of my own accord. I'm sure I'll miss tremendously certain aspects of the gathering. I just am a little "spoiled brat" as my unloving, disagreeable spouse says. Then, of course, the coup de grâce follows: "All of this is your own fault, you old motherfucker."

"Disagreeable motherfucker" -- I believe I've found my modus operandi at last. After ten prior events like this that I have helped organized, I am finally revealed. Damn the luck. (Merle Haggard singing, "I think I'll just stay here and drink" in the background.) Better make the next one a double. 

* P.S. I was under the incorrect assumption that all alumni of school were part of the official Alumni. Now I understand I was wrong. The group has a sole purpose of scholarship. Any real affiliation with school? Good question for which I have no answer. I know of no dues for inclusion. I remain confused and mildly interested. There's a tent -- but whose structure does it fall under?

Animals in Peril Must Be Available For Adoption

 

In 2023, 690,000 dogs and cats were euthanized in shelters across the US. For many members of the public, this calls to mind healthy, adoptable animals euthanized for space in open admission (so-called “kill”) shelters – those required to accept all animals, even if there’s no room. But shelters also have to cope with owner-requested euthanasias, behavioral problems and animals who are so sick or injured that a gentle death is the most positive outcome.

The issue shelters are facing is this: after a record low of  5.5 million in 2020, animal intakes are slowly increasing, and they aren’t leaving – in 2023, 6.5 million animals entered, and only a little over 6 million left. Animals are lingering for weeks, months and sometimes years in shelters. Between 2022 and 2023, the number of animals waiting to get out of shelters increased by 177,000.

Some animal care and control agencies tell people to leave found animals alone because they don't have the capacity to handle them.Those people turn to a foster-based rescue that is similarly inundated. As closed admission shelters, They can decide to turn animals away if they lack space, even though they strive to prevent it, knowing what may happen to those they do not accept.

The list of people waiting to surrender animals is always growing. Yet getting people to understand that crisis sometimes feels impossible. Most members of the public are only interested in one thing: euthanasia.

(S.E. Smith. "America’s animal shelters are overwhelmed. Pets – and staff – are at breaking point." The Guardian. April  17, 2024.These lives do not blur together. We remember all of them

While the media popularized the idea of the “pandemic puppy”, dogs adopted by white-collar workers trapped at home only to be discarded as soon as the world reopened, the truth of what’s happening in animal welfare is more complicated. It’s gotten harder to access and afford vet care, while emergency extensions of the social safety net, including increased Snap benefits, expansions to Medicaid, childcare assistance, the student loan pause, the child tax credit, and generous unemployment insurance benefits  have come to an end, leaving people in financial likelihood that hurts pets too. Far from a world where people treat animals as disposable, we are surrounded by people who love and desperately want to keep their pets, but can’t. 

Animal care workers confront a form of moral injury, in which they may struggle with being asked to do things that go against their consciences, or circumstances expose them to feelings of helplessness or betrayal. Many are dedicated volunteers working only for the love of animals. 

In open admission shelters, some employees are coping with the caring-killing paradox, described in 2005  in a study exploring the heavy impact of euthanasia on shelter workers, who may play with a dog in the morning and euthanize it in the afternoon. Both phenomena are associated with issues such as anxiety, suicidal ideation and substance use disorder as people struggle to process traumatic events.

Addressing the Issue

Animal control shelters and their workers are facing increasingly dire consequences. Consider how the population of unwanted animals increases -- especially detrimental to bigger, adult dogs. No one wants to adopt them. They are left to languish and to eventual being euthanized. Pounds and shelters make possible adoption or sponsorship as best they can. However, rising prices for these adoptions -- often astronomical for the more popular and smaller breeds is hitting a serious high. Many poorer people just can't afford the price required. Cost factors must be reconsidered because paying hundreds, thousands, for such animals is impossible in so many cases.

I blame careless breeders, lack of spaying and neutering, and just plain indifference for much of the crisis. Owning and raising a pet is serious business, and the public must realize taking severe actions against puppy mills and while neglectful pet owners must face stiff, swift, and fair prosecution and costs themselves. How can one measure the life of a domesticated animal? Leaving them living in squalid unhealthy conditions is criminal. I say make such breeders must pay stiffly for their neglect of these beautiful animals.

One last gripe -- due to crooks who want to profit from adoption -- sales to the public suffer. I get it. I understand the need to stop unlawful treatment of animals; however, adoption is often very complicated, slowing down the process of saving pets' lives while the real perpetrators of the crimes often get off scot free. Both potential owners and shelters find this reduction in turnover impossible to comprehend. In the meantime, dogs and cats die due to lack of funds and full shelters. How "cruel and unusual" can you get? Officials must help end this slaughter immediately with more money and time given to the proper agencies of enforcement to end the abuse.

Let's face it -- pet shelters are also poor places for pets. Lacking enough room and proper attention, workers are pitiful stand-ins for responsible owners. I feel most animals spend the majority of their days in cages with lack of needful attention. The workers do the best they can, but the pets need families to recover from trauma and to thrive. Saving a pet is gratifying: the love offered by the adopter does not match the rewards these animals offer. Devoted adoption is so more rewarding and healthful than anything these animals have ever experiences. They are forever thankful for their adoption Make them cheaper and even  more available, please. Lives are in the balance. Most of us can't afford the large amounts of money asked for their sweet lives.

Pet users; abusers; uninformed, spiteful owners; and profit mongers, stay away! Prosecute the guilty abusers and make them pay dearly for each day they must be kenneled. The loving, general public does take on these financial responsibilities when traveling or needing serious pet attention. Now, make the original human birth parents responsible too. I very much want them to hurt -- in their pocketbooks and behind bars.  

Make local dogs more affordable! Prices required for adoption are soaring. I understand the tremendous costs incurred by shelters, but hundreds (thousands?) of dollars for adoption is just too much. Save the life of the pet! No one can put an adequate dollar amount on this chance for survival anyhow. 

 

 

 

 

 

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Write -- Little or No Meaning Required, Just Desired B.S.

My wife says "I write bullshit." She sees any quest for meaning as foolish, be it putting words on paper to discover something or even going on a paper trail for our ancestors as foolish activity for any old man. Me? I "think" with the keyboard. I discover, qualify, and even, at times, justify my written searches for meaning. I guess you can say its therapeutic bullshit, but it qualifies as my thoughts are, at that point, forever preserved on paper, and, sometimes, that is just enough to give me some pleasure ... to realize I have worked things out in my view, to reach new destinations, or just to sail in circles while enjoying the meaningless view of the print. It's habit forming and often times self-justifying.

I also write when the spirit hits me squarely between the eyes. The spirit -- anger, praise, or working through mixed feelings -- most often qualifies as editorial revenge or just discovering more about myself. Finding my talents (or my lack of) and refining  my feelings about issues and related subjects is like working a puzzle to me. Cormac McCarthy, one of the great novelists of American literature says, “I don’t know why I started writing." I don’t know why anybody does it. Maybe they’re bored, or failures at something else."

I believe there is a lot of truth in that statement -- writing and thinking can cure boredom, and reignite worn hearts and minds. Plus, I find plenty of failed expressions along the search for meaning. However, I never find writing words boring. It is the art of stringing words and sentences together in a modicum of meaning that frustrates me so: I know what I want to relate but I am often unskilled enough to be profound or even close to finding the big truths that I and others seek. 

Without practice, writing with purpose is very difficult: it often stalls our brain motor activities into a drifting mode, desperately seeking verbiage to justify the purpose of the print. When I stumble upon a "hit" I believe suitable for an audience, I feel elated and strangely connected in both time and purpose! I sprint towards the keyboard, unfurl the sails, and set course featuring strong winds of change. My mind delights in sharing even if the audience is minute. I only wish I could elicit more response to my words.

All of this brings me to writing for discovery. This exercise scares the shit out of most, so they never warm up with free-writing or just capturing preliminary thoughts on paper. I free-write all of the time to develop fluency of thought and pen. It can be tossed away later or saved for future exploration, but some of my best free-writing leads to purpose and qualifies meaning. I find it indispensable as a tool -- a first step for any written project. Just write your own strong thoughts down and let the conscious and subconscious blend them into some very sound point. This approach can make words and sentences  take strange, surprising turns, which can surprise both the readers and the author. 

The three basic elements of paper writing you seek are presented in sequence here for clarity. However, incorporating new ideas as they come up in the writing process often requires moving back and forth between your argument and your evidence.

• Stage One: Close Reading for accurate response
  
• Stage Two: You Need an Argument
• Stage Three: Selecting and Analyzing Evidence
• Introductions, Transitions, and Conclusions

Slipping to Stag Two: The first draft of an argument is usually only a rough approximation of what you'll ultimately discover as you proceed with analysis of an idea or text/ The most important elements of your thought will be obscure to your reader if your argument doesn't ultimately transmit the full content or potential of that thought. "Genius," says Aristotle, "is the ability to state the obvious: to express a complex thought so clearly that it will suddenly appear simple and noncontroversial." E = mc2, for example.

No matter how simple you believe your thesis to be -- always write with a mind for possible strong rebuttal (rebuttal that must be countered) while considering how to destroy such a decent argument against your thesis. Many an essay writer correctly chooses "changing horses" to his opposite defense when he finds little support other than emotional, weak support on his sides. What else can he do? Change his evidently weak position on the topic ... and learn in the process emotion is useless in argumentation.

His mistake of not switching sides? In his zeal, he is determined to convinces others to his views by delivering hasty thoughts in a dictatorial tone with little or no logical argument for bedrock, which is as dangerous as a defense attorney posing a weak question open for a good answer in a court of law. "Never ask a question you cannot logically answer -- a bumbling reply reeks of defeat.

Thinking on paper is not for the weak of heart. Gloria E. Anzaldua. most famous as an American scholar of Chicana feminism, cultural theory, and queer theory loosely based her best-known book, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza  (1987), on her life growing up on the Meivo-Texas border and incorporated her lifelong experiences of social and cultural marginalization  into her work says:

“Why am I compelled to write? . . . Because the world I create in the writing compensates for what the real world does not give me. By writing I put order in the world, give it a handle so I can grasp it. I write because life does not appease my appetites and anger . . . To become more intimate with myself and you. To discover myself, to preserve myself, to make myself, to achieve self-autonomy. To dispel the myths that I am a mad prophet or a poor suffering soul. To convince myself that I am worthy and that what I have to say is not a pile of shit . . . Finally I write because I’m scared of writing, but I’m more scared of not writing.” 

– Gloria E. Anzaldúa

Such fear of writing is justified but as Anzaidua puts it, she writes to dispel the myths that she is a mad profit ... but because she is scared of not writing, more than writing about her unique views. Loneliness becomes a writer's very good friend, one he may draw upon for inspiration and continuous argument. Why? It feels "right" to a person's self, no matter the subject. Some may call that vindication.

It makes me recall a verse in the Battle Hymn of the Republic" by American patriotic song writer and abolitionist writer Julia Ward Howe during the American Civil War. Howe adapted her song from the soldiers' song "John Brown's Body" in November 1861, and first published it in The Atlantic Monthly in February 1862.

"Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His truth is marching on.

"He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on."

Now I'm not sure of being on the right side of the judgment; however I am certain of the stirring,uplifting feelings of righteousness in the Union the song created as it resounded in the campfires of troops at night. "His truth is marching on!" Such purpose of Holy lyrics stirs patriotic crowds yet today.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.

 Justifying the death of your own countrymen must have taken a tremendous toll on Union soldiers. Yet slavery and succession are evil products of the devil.

What if the Union sentiment was not widely expressed, just weakly felt. It would have definitely resulted in embarrassing defeat. God knows slavery is wrong, and his servants cannot risk stubborn succession, even though based on monetary riches. Cut the nonsensical romantic crap of pride, tradition, and a tolerable way of life for whom they considered subhumans, and you can appreciate the great sacrifice of the Godly-supported Union -- a group supporting a true cause of justice.

Writing takes guts and stamina because the opposition is always seeking a way to destroy democracy and bring more violent vision into focus. As I consider the division in this country, I finally have reached a stalemate of advocating right -- people want revenge without sacrifice, and it is a desire based upon solely on personal acquisition of money and defense for violence. Politicians shooting assault rifles and bragging about "stopping people at the border" by any means relates to me a horrible change of heart for the downtrodden and innocent patriots we adore.

One party now wants power and retribution. They are bent on revenge they cannot even conceive. Why? They fear greatly any loss of White privilege and minority acceptance. Their static and defensive ways do not support needed change and indefensible growth. They chant "Make America Great Again!" while ignoring fantastic advances in the rights of black and brown and yellow human beings. God protects and defends all -- not just those of Pilgrim ancestry and Eastern European roots. Immigrants are vilified as drug dealers, rapists, and murderers who must be walled in another country for little or no reason. I say fix the system, do not erect artificial hindrances to problems we too long neglected ourselves. Benefits would abound in compromise and stricter, larger enforcement of what we already possess.

I see dark days ahead for America as division and hatred are more routinely substituted for unity and compromise. Many people in the U.S. now look for a scapegoat -- they blame the opposite party for all the woes of incomplete, hard work requiring negotiation and hands-on action. They force power through hatred.

Why do I write about such topics? Maybe my wife is right in that 99% of my words are editorial bullshit. Still, it takes one spark to ignite a fire, and I reserve the right to express my written opinion. One match in the darkness can offer exceedingly great vision. Consider Gandhi, King, or Kennedy and their fearless contributions. Please, try writing to offer more light to cut through the blackness. We need pens and keyboards bent on action now more than ever before.

"Gertrude Stein, when asked why she wrote, replied, “For praise.” Lorca said he wrote to be loved. Faulkner said a writer wrote for glory. I may at times have written for those reasons, it’s hard to know. Overall I write because I see the world in a certain way that no dialogue or series of them can begin to describe, that no book can fully render, though the greatest books thrill in their attempt.

A great book may be an accident, but a good one is a possibility, and it is thinking of that that one writes. In short, to achieve. The rest takes care of itself, and so much praise is given to insignificant things that there is hardly any sense in striving for it.

In the end, writing is like a prison, an island from which you will never be released but which is a kind of paradise: the solitude, the thoughts, the incredible joy of putting into words the essence of what you for the moment understand and with your whole heart want to believe.

James Salter: Why I Write

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November 29, 2017

“To write! What a marvelous thing!” When he was old and forgotten, living in a rundown house in the dreary suburbs of Paris, Léautaud wrote these lines. He was unmarried, childless, alone. The world of the theater in which he had worked as a critic for years was now dark for him, but from the ruins of his life these words rose. To write!

One thinks of many writers who might have said this, Anne Sexton, even though she committed suicide, or Hemingway or Virginia Woolf, who both did also, or Faulkner, scorned in his rural town, or the wreckage that was Fitzgerald in the end. The thing that is marvelous is literature, which is like the sea, and the exaltation of being near it, whether you are a powerful swimmer or wading by the shore. The act of writing, though often tedious, can still provide extraordinary pleasure. For me that comes line by line at the tip of a pen, which is what I like to write with, and the page on which the lines are written, the pages, can be the most valuable thing I will ever own.

The cynics say that if you do not write for money you are a dabbler or a fool, but this is not true. To see one’s work in print is the real desire, to have it read. The remuneration is of less importance; no one was paid for the samizdats. Money is but one form of approval.

It is such a long time that I have been writing that I don’t remember the beginning. It was not a matter of doing what my father knew how to do. He had gone to Rutgers, West Point, and then MIT, and I don’t think in my lifetime I ever saw him reading a novel. He read newspapers, the Sun, the World-Telegram, there were at least a dozen in New York in those days. His task was laid out for him: to rise in the world.

Nor was my mother an avid reader. She read to me as a child, of course, and in time I read the books that were published in popular series, The Hardy Boys and Bomba, the Jungle Boy. I recall little about them. I did not read Ivanhoe, Treasure Island, Kim, or The Scottish Chiefs, though two or three of them were given to me. I had six volumes of a collection called My Bookhouse, edited by Olive Beaupré Miller, whose name is not to be found among the various Millers—Mrs. Alice, Henry, Joaquin, Joe—in The Reader’s Encyclopedia, but who was responsible for what knowledge I had of Cervantes, Dickens, Tolstoy, Homer, and the others whose work was excerpted. The contents also included folktales, fairy tales, parts of the Bible, and more. When I read of writers who when young were given the freedom of their fathers’ or friends’ libraries, I think of Bookhouse, which was that for me. It was not an education but the introduction to one. There were also poems, and in grammar school we had to memorize and then stand up and recite well-known poems. Many of these I still know, including Kipling’s “If,” which my father paid me a dollar to learn. Language is acquired, like other things, through the act of imitating, and rhythm and elegance may come in part from poems.

I could draw quite well as a boy and even, though uninstructed, paint. What impulse made me do this, and where the ability came from—although my father could draw a little—I cannot say. My desire to write, apparent at the age of seven or eight, likely came from the same source. I made crude books, as many children do, with awkward printing and drawings, from small sheets of paper, folded and sewn together.

In prep school we were poets, at least many of my friends and I were, ardent and profound. There were elegies but no love poems—those came later. I had some early success. In a national poetry contest I won honorable mention, and sold two poems to Poetry magazine.

All this was a phase, in nearly every case to be soon outgrown. In 1939 the war had broken out, and by 1941 we were in it. I ended up at West Point. The old life vanished; the new one had little use for poetry. I did read, and as an upperclassman wrote a few short stories. I had seen some in the Academy magazine and felt I could do better, and after the first one, the editor asked for more. When I became an officer there was, at first, no time for writing, nor was there the privacy. Beyond that was a greater inhibition: it was alien to the life. I had been commissioned in the Army Air Force and in the early days was a transport pilot, later switching into fighters. With that I felt I had found my role.

Stationed in Florida in about 1950, I happened to see in a bookshop window in Pensacola a boldly displayed novel called The Town and The City by John Kerouac. The name. There had been a Jack Kerouac at prep school, and he had written some stories. On the back of the jacket was a photograph, a gentle, almost yearning face with eyes cast downward. I recognized it instantly. I remember a feeling of envy. Kerouac was only a few years older than I was. Somehow he had written this impressive-looking novel. I bought the book and eagerly read it. It owed a lot to Thomas Wolfe—Look Homeward, Angel and others—who was a major figure then, but still it was an achievement. I took it as a mark of what might be done.

I had gotten married, and in the embrace of a more orderly life, on occasional weekends or in the evenings, I began to write again. The Korean War broke out. When I was sent over I took a small typewriter with me, thinking that if I was killed, the pages I had been writing would be a memorial. They were immature pages, to say the least. A few years later, the novel they were part of was rejected by the publishers, but one of them suggested that if I were to write another novel they would be interested in seeing it. Another novel. That might be years.

I had a journal I had kept while flying combat missions. It contained some description, but there was little shape to it. The war had the central role. One afternoon, in Florida again—I was there on temporary duty—I came back from the flight line, sat down on my cot, and began to hurriedly write out a page or so of outline that had suddenly occurred to me. It would be a novel about idealism, the true and the untrue, spare and in authentic prose. What had been missing but was missing no longer was the plot.

“Latent in me, I suppose, there was always the belief that writing was greater than other things, or at least would prove to be greater in the end.”

Why was I writing? It was not for glory; I had seen what I took to be real glory. It was not for acclaim. I knew that if the book was published, it would have to be under a pseudonym; I did not want to jeopardize a career by becoming known as a writer. I had heard the derisive references to “God-Is-My-Copilot” Scott. The ethic of fighter squadrons was drink and daring; anything else was suspect. Still, I thought of myself as more than just a pilot and imagined a book that would be in every way admirable. It would be evident that someone among the ranks of pilots had written it, an exceptional figure, unknown, but I would have the satisfaction of knowing who it was.

I wrote when I could find time. Some of the book was written at a fighter base on Long Island, the rest of it in Europe, when I was stationed in Germany. A lieutenant in my squadron who lived in the apartment adjoining ours could hear the typewriter late at night through the bedroom wall. “What are you doing,” he asked one day, “writing a book?” It was meant as a joke. Nothing could be more unlikely. I was the experienced operations officer. Next step was squadron commander.

The Hunters was published by Harper and Brothers in late 1956. A section of the book appeared first in Collier’s. Word of it spread immediately. With the rest I sat speculating as to who the writer might be, someone who had served in Korea, with the Fourth Group, probably.

The reviews were good. I was 32 years old, the father of a child, with my wife expecting another. I had been flying fighters for seven years. I decided I had had enough. The childhood urge to write had never died, in fact, it had proven itself. I discussed it with my wife, who, with only a partial understanding of what was involved, did not attempt to change my mind. Upon leaving Europe, I resigned my commission with the aim of becoming a writer.

It was the most difficult act of my life. Latent in me, I suppose, there was always the belief that writing was greater than other things, or at least would prove to be greater in the end. Call it a delusion if you like, but within me was an insistence that whatever we did, the things that were said, the dawns, the cities, the lives, all of it had to be drawn together, made into pages, or it was in danger of not existing, of never having been. There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real.

Of the actual hard business of writing I knew very little. The first book had been a gift. I missed the active life terribly, and after a long struggle a second book was completed. It was a failure. Jean Stafford, one of the judges for a prize for which it had been routinely submitted, left the manuscript on an airplane. The book made no sense to her, she said. But there was no turning back.

A Sport and a Pastime was published six years later. It, too, did not sell. A few thousand copies, that was all. It stayed in print, however, and one by one, slowly, foreign publishers bought it. Finally, Modern Library.

The use of literature, Emerson wrote, is to afford us a platform whence we may command a view of our present life, a purchase by which we may move it. Perhaps this is true, but I would claim something broader. Literature is the river of civilization, its Tigris and Nile. Those who follow it, and I am inclined to say those only, pass by the glories.

"Over the years I have been a writer for a succession of reasons. In the beginning, as I have said, I wrote to be admired, even if not known. Once I had decided to be a writer, I wrote hoping for acceptance, approval.

"Gertrude Stein, when asked why she wrote, replied, “For praise.” Lorca said he wrote to be loved. Faulkner said a writer wrote for glory. I may at times have written for those reasons, it’s hard to know. Overall I write because I see the world in a certain way that no dialogue or series of them can begin to describe, that no book can fully render, though the greatest books thrill in their attempt.

"A great book may be an accident, but a good one is a possibility, and it is thinking of that that one writes. In short, to achieve. The rest takes care of itself, and so much praise is given to insignificant things that there is hardly any sense in striving for it.

"In the end, writing is like a prison, an island from which you will never be released but which is a kind of paradise: the solitude, the thoughts, the incredible joy of putting into words the essence of what you for the moment understand and with your whole heart want to believe."

(From "Don’t Save Anything: The Uncollected Essays, Articles, and Profiles of James Salter," by James Salter, courtesy of Counterpoint Press. Literary Hub.November 29, 1917.)

* Note: James Salter was a novelist, short story writer, screenwriter, essayist, and journalist. The New York Times called his novel A Sport and a Pastime “as nearly perfect as any American fiction,” and it became part of the prestigious Modern Library Collection. He won the PEN/Faulkner Award for his collection Dusk and Other Stories and was also the winner of the Windham Campbell Prize, the PEN/Malamud Award, and others. He died on June 19, 2015, at age ninety.