Although I am at work today, I have nevertheless had a fantastic weekend. Friday I went with Julia to the IdeoTech/Open End Art gallery opening where I saw the usual suspects, as well as some unexpected faces. The hirsute Zebulun was there, hairier by the day. Zeb did a close shave of head and face in March and does not intend to trim or cut anything for a year. I love it. A very Zebulun thing to do.

Also there was Rob Anderson. We chatted briefly about Explain (I had just been listening to Kletka Red) and he thanked me for the book I had given him (David Watkin’s MORALITY AND ARCHITECTURE REVISITED) but said he had read it was amazed at how dry it was. Alas, this is too often the case with Academics.

I was slugging from a bottle of Maker’s Mark, sipping my way to oblivion and I asked Marshall if he’d care to join me for breakfast the following morning. He said sure, but doubted that I would be in any shape to go out since I was already pretty sauced and it was only 9:30. I told him I’d call him at 10:00 (accepting his unspoken challenge to avoid a hangover).

Julia and I left the gallery and headed for the Hideout where Jim and Jennie and the Pinetops were playing. I had never heard these kids, but had heard the good word on them. Being the fan of bluegrass that I am, I planned my night accordingly to see for myself who these young upstarts were. Julia, too, has recently found herself enamored of country and bluegrass music, so she too was eager to see what they could do. Turns out we were not disappointed. The whole night was filled with good music and Jim and Jennie were indeed the tops! Quite simply some of the most exhilarating live music I’ve seen in quite some time. I continued to sip on my Maker’s (Kentucky bourbon for Kentucky bluegrass) and by the time we left (thank you Julia for driving) I was, as Marshall had predicted, quite un-sober.

Next morning, true to my word and not to be outdone by a meager dare, unspoken or otherwise, I called Marshall at 10:00. As it happened, he was sick in bed having had too much to drink the night previous. The sweet taste of vindication was soured only by the fact that my friend was sick in bed. I love Marshall, but he’s hungover more than any person I know…it’s not because he drinks a lot (i.e., he’s not a drunk), he just gets hungover a lot.

More later friends!

My God it has been a long time since I Blogged on my own damn page! I have been too busy taking advantage of Rob Sieracki’s tolerance of my “email posts” to Hollow Times. It was Hollow Times that got me reading 13 Labs which prompted me to invite John 13 to play a little email chess. Johnny, in turn, mentioned this on 13 Labs and linked to Project Reason…Kee-Reist! I haven’t blogged in over a month…how embarrassing (but a fine reminder to get of my sorry ass and back up onto my soapbox).

Sadly, Christian Ariel never took me up on my invitation to join the conversation about Elitism. I must admit, my own passion for the discussion waned a bit as I became engaged in other conversations/debates.

Went to Indiana this weekend with my girlfriend, Julia. On Saturday night we headed for the Drive-In movies to see A.I. I was so excited to see this after reading two really positive reviews (and I don’t like Spielberg’s serious side very much) saying how Kubrikesque the film was (Kubrik handed off the project to Spielberg). Anyway, we pulled into the Drive-In and I hunted down a GREAT spot towards the front. Julia said, “Gee there’s an awful lot of kids coming to see this movie.” I looked around and there were indeed a ton of tykes with Ma and Pa sitting out on blankets in front of the car, or sitting in lawn chairs in the beds of their pick-ups backed into the parking spots. “Yeah.” I said, not thinking anything of it.

We’d arrived early so as to secure a good spot (which I had done, thank you very much) and so we went for a walk to take in the glory of a summer evening at the Melody Drive-In near Bass Lake Indiana. About 5 years ago the Melody installed a second screen, so now you have two double features to choose from when you go. Julia and I walked over to the other screen and she noticed how many more spots there were: “Gee, you wouldn’t have to fight very hard to get a good spot over here.” I told Julia how since the second screen was smaller, they usually played the lesser features over here, not the main attraction. I then suggested we go to the concession stand before the movie started.

The line was long and we waited and waited. It’s always fun doing a little people watching at the Drive-In. I was incognito, wearing motorcycle boots, bluejeans, a Levi’s shirt, and a blue foam baseball cap…blending right in, except for my earrings. Redneck Chic. By the time we got to the front of the line and received out chocolate malts (yum!), the previews had stared. We returned to the car and watched a rather exciting preview of PLANET OF THE APES (the new Tim Burton movie). I must admit, I am excited. Of course, it’s time to revisit the original, too.

The previews ended and the movie began…I was giddy with anticipation…the opening shot was the Golden Gate Bridge on a sunny day and…wait…is that Norm McDonald narrating? What’s going on here? Then the credits cameup: DR. DOLITTLE 2

WHAT!!??!!??

Julia said, “I told you I thought there were an awful lot of kids over here. I didn’t think that A.I. would be the main attraction out here at a drive-in.” I shook my head in self-disgust…I had foolishly believed all of Bass Lake was as excited as I to see A.I., but of course there was a bigger market for Dolittle and Tomb Raider. It was too late to move the car so we watched Dolittle and waited for Tomb Raider which we were both kind of excited to see. I felt so foolish and begged Julia never again to spare my feelings in such a case but to simply say: “Hey, You’re at the wrong screen, dumbass.”

TOMB RAIDER did not disappoint.

I suppose it's rather presumptuous to believe that many folks are actually trying to keep up with this blog, as even I have trailed off a bit. I remain no less passionate about my discussion on Elitism, however, I have been dogged at work this past week. I hope, next week, to return with more impassioned polemics!

After a long hiatus (thanks to Blogspot) it seems that everything is back up and running...

I'm pulling a quote from Hollow Times that Christian posted a while back (still waiting for the Long Player to chime in). It was upon reading this quote from Thoreau by way of Ariel that I thought Christian would be an interesting and valuable voice to add to this conversation.

"Shams and delusions are esteemed for the soundest truths, while reality is fabulous. If men would steadily observe realities only, and not allow themselves to be deluded, life, to compare it with such things as we know, would be like a fairy tale and the Arabian Nights' Entertainments. If we respected only what is inevitable and has a right to be, music and poetry would resound along the streets. When we are unhurried and wise, we perceive that only great and worthy things have any permanent and absolute existence,--that petty fears and petty pleasures are but the shadow of the reality." --Thoreau

"Only great and worthy things have any permanent and absolute existence." Is this not the voice of an Elitist? (And I know, from e-mail exchanges, that Christian will take me task on my insistence on using the term "elitist" because of the ugly baggage it carries, but I maintain that the word is not irredeemable, even if only for the sake of this conversation. As long as we can agree that when I write about elitism, I'm writing about preference for the great and worthy over the petty shadows of reality, then we'll be OK).

I have invited the inimitable Christian Ariel to join this conversation on Elitism, though I'm sure we'll tackle other subjects as well. Since Project Reason was intended as a one-man show, this is irregular, but I feel that Christian will add valuable perspective to my sometimes unfocused meanderings. I look forward to the conversation to come.

I had intended to make a few comments on the Bradbury quote, but by the time I'd finished retyping the whole thing, I figured I'd done enough for one day. I will say this: what I love about this passage (and the book) is that is dramatizes the danger of what lazy minds, political correctness, and the misanalysis of egalitarianism might amount to. The real heart of the passage is this:

"Not everyone born free and equal, as the constitution says, but everyone MADE equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against."

The idea of mediocrity as the great equalizer debases us all. Equality among people is important and valuable, equality of ideas is deadly.

I will try to keep this entry manageable, but I do wish to share this quote from my Notes on Elitism which speaks to mediocrity. This is from architectural historian Robert Harbison's ECCENTRIC SPACES:

"Art is troublesome not because it is not delightful, but because it is not more delightful: we accustom ourselves to the failure of gardens to make our lives as paradisal as their prospects."

Art is troublesome because of the promise of its prospects. Even when a work is great, we can see where it might have been better. We adjust ourselves, like a scale, to account for the lack, and slowly, imperceptibly, our standards slip. This is where Elitism comes in: the preference for the better over the lesser. This is where objectivity comes in: the better is not defined by an individual's subjective opinion, if it is, it is useless as a measure of greatness.

Before I continue with my post, let me advise anyone reading this to check out the Hollow Times for some first rate posts from the infamous Christian Ariel. (http://home.earthlink.net/%7Esierackir/ )

To continue my rumination on elitism, I will share with you a passage from Rad Bradbury's FARENHEIT 451. If you've not read it recently (or ever) you should remedy that with a quickness. The book is as terrifyingly apropos today as it ever was, perhaps more so.

In my collection of notes on Elitism, this passage holds a special place. Bradbury is dramatic, eloquent, incisive, and 100% on the mark in his indictment of a culture that is not so different than our own.

For those unfamiliar with the book, it takes place in the near future where books are banned. The protagonist, Montag, is a fireman, but in Bradbury's world fireman don't put out fires, they start them: it is the firemen's job to burn books (therefore the citizen's of this world have lost their sense of history…sound familiar?). The novel is the story of Montag's conversion from fireman to rebel. This is the scene where he is confronted at home by the fire chief, Beatty.
-------__________________________________________________
From FARENHEIT 451 by Ray Bradbury:

Beatty puffed his pipe. "Every fireman, sooner or later, hits this. They only need understanding to know how the wheels run. Need to know the history of our profession. They don't feed it to rookies like they used to. Damn shame." Puff. "Only fire chiefs remember it now." Puff. "I'll let you in on it."

Beatty took a full minute to settle himself and think back for what he wanted to say.

"When did it all start? You ask, this job of ours, how did it come about, where, when? Well, I'd say it really got started around a thing called the Civil War. Even though our rule book claims it was founded earlier. The fact is we didn't get along well until photography came into it's own. Then, motion pictures in the early twentieth century. Radio. Television. Things began to have MASS."

Montag sat in bed, not moving.

"And because they had mass, they became simpler," said Beatty. "Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books leveled down to a sort of paste-pudding norm, do you follow me?"

"I think so."

Beatty peered at the smoke pattern he had put out on the air. "Picture it. Nineteenth century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations. Digests, Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending….Classics cut to fit fifteen minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two minute book column, winding up at last as a ten or twelve line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of HAMLET (you know the title certainly, Montag…) Whose sole knowledge, as I say, of HAMLET was a one page digest in a book that claimed: 'NOW AT LAST YOU CAN READ ALL THE CLASSICS; KEEP UP WITH YOUR NEIGHBORS. Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there's your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more….

"Speed up the film, Montag, quick. CLICK, PIC, LOOK, EYE, NOW, FLICK, HERE, THERE, SWIFT, PALE, UP, DOWN, IN, OUT, WHY, HOW, WHO, WHAT, WHERE, EH? UH! BANG! SMANG! WALLOP! BING BONG BOON! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests. Politics? One column, two sentences, a headline! Then, in midair, all vanishes! Whirl man's mind around about so fast under the pumping hands of publishers, exploiters, broadcasters that the centrifuge flings off all unnecessary, time-wasting thought!

"School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting nuts and bolts?

"The zipper replaces the button and man lacks just that much time to think while dressing at dawn, a philosophical hour, and thus a melancholy hour….Life becomes one big pratfall, Montag, everything BANG, BOFF, and WOW!

"You like bowling, don't you Monatg?"

"Bowling, yes."

"And golf?"

"Golf is a fine game."

"Basketball?"

"A fine game."

"Billiards? Pool? Football?"

"Fine games, all of them."

"More sports for everyone, group spirit, fun and you don't have to think, eh? Organize and organize and super-organize and super-super sports. More cartoons in books. More pictures. The mind drinks less and less. Impatience. Highways full of crowds going somewhere, somewhere, nowhere. The gasoline refugee. Towns turn into motels, people in nomadic surges from place to place, following the moon tides, living tonight in the room where you slept this noon, and I the night before.

"Now let's take the minorities in our civilization, shall we? Bigger the population, the more minorities. Don't step on the toes of the dog lovers, the cat lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second-generation Chinese, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregon or Mexico. The peopl in this book, this play, this TV serial are not meant to represent any actual painters, cartographers, mechanics anywhere. The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy, remember that! All the minor minor minorities with their navels to be kept clean. Authors, full of evil thoughts, lock up your typewriters. They DID. Magazines became a nice blend of vanilla and tapioca. Books, so the damned snobbish critics said, were dishwater. No WONDER books stopped selling, the critics said. But the public, knowing what it wanted, spinning happily, let the comic books survive. And the three-dimensional sex magazines, of course. There you have it Montag. It didn't come from the government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship to start with, no! Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure carried the trick, thank God. Today, thanks to them, you can stay happy all the time, you are allowed to read comics, the good old confessions, or trade journals."

"Yes, but what about the firemen, then?" asked Montag.

"Ah," Beatty leaned forward in the faint mist of smoke from his pipe. "What more easily explained and natural? With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word 'intellectual,' of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always dread the unfamiliar. Surely you remember the boy in your own school class who was exceptionally 'bright,' did most of the reciting and answering while the others sat like so many leaden idols, hating him. And wasn't it this bright boy you selected for beatings and tortures after hours? Of course it was. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the constitution says, but everyone MADE equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man's mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man? Me? I won't stomach them for a minute. And so when houses were finally fireproofed completely, all over the world, there was no need of firemen for the old purposes. They were given the new job as the custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our understandable and rightful dread of being inferior: official censors, judges and executioners. That's you , Montag, and that's me."

…Beatty knocked his pipe into the palm of his pink hand, studied the ashes as if they were a symbol to be diagnosed and searched for meaning.

"You must understand that our civilization is so vast that we can't have our minorities upset and stirred. Ask yourself, what do we want in this country, above all? People want to be happy, isn't that right? Haven't you heard it all your life? I want to be happy people say. Well aren't they? Don't we keep them moving, don't we give them fun? That's all we live for, isn't it? For pleasure, for titillation? And you must admit our culture provides plenty of these."

"Yes"

"Colored people don't like LITTLE BLACK SAMBO. Burn it. White people don't feel good about UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book.. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator."
___________________________________________________________________________________

Elitism. The term has a negative connotation, especially in America where stupidity is a virtue (witness the rise of G.W. Bush). There is also some ridiculous notion that Elitism is un-American and un-Democratic. This is, of course, absurd. What is Elitism, after all, but the preference for that which is better over that which is lesser? If elitism is bad, what are we to make of the American appetite for awards (Oscars, Grammys, Tonys, People's Choice, Golden Globe, and on and on…); and what are we to make of the American educational system which rates students on a grade scale from A to F (not to mention the standardized tests that even our precious Washington Dolt, G.W., is promoting); what about the Armed Forces, specifically the Marines (i.e., the elite)? In nearly every facet of American life there is evidence of a penchant for elitism. What then is the problem? It seems that Intellectual Elitism is the problem. It's ok to be an elite Athlete and make millions of dollars, but to hone one's mind instead of one's body is apparently a sin. If a kid on a basketball court demonstrates the skills of a young Michael Jordan, he is praised by peers and elders alike, whereas someone able to outshine his peers intellectually will be the subject of ridicule (the nerd) as a child, and will likely be called elitist as an adult. This is absurd and points to a very ugly side of American life. The side that says since we can't all be brilliant, let's all be stupid, so the stupid people don't feel bad. This was evident in the Presidential Campaign of 2000. The media, ostensibly in the interest of impartiality and journalistic objectivity, time and again refused to indict Bush for his stupidity, and continually chastised Gore for seeming "elitist" because he spoke as if the national level of intelligence hadn't plummeted to an abysmal nadir.

I am proud to call myself an elitist. The elitism, of which I speak, however, should not be confused with Classism, which it too often is. One who is classist is usually in the upper class and disdainful of the lower class, perhaps because they are stupid, or lazy, or lacking in taste, or simply because they're poor. As I am not a classist, I can only speculate. As an Elitist, I am disdainful of the lazy mind, because the lazy mind is lesser than the inquisitive mind. In the eyes of many, this makes me a snob, but I ask you, what has the lazy mind given us? What great works of art or feats of science has the lazy mind contributed to the world? None. The inquisitive and active mind, however, has given us "Hamlet" and the Theory of Relativity, and countless other cultural and scientific landmarks. In calling myself an Elitist I align myself with what is best about being human, not what is average. In writing in praise of Elitism I write in praise of possibility, in the hopes of a world where our President won't hail Americans way of life a "blessed" (read elite) because of the status symbols of our gas guzzling SUVs and our ability to rape and exploit developing countries, as well as our own national forests, but rather an American way of life that is "blessed" because of a national thirst for knowledge, a national refusal to accept mediocrity in education, politicians, the arts, public policy, television (no more Springer!), a national recognition that to drop standards to the lowest common denominator is not democratic in the least, it is in fact just the opposite! To assume that standards must be low, not high, is to presume that those not currently meeting the high standards are hopeless, and we must therefore lower the bar. But is this not disgustingly condescending and patriarchal?

Tomorrow I will share with you a quote from Ray Bradbury.

"Every reiteration of the idea that 'nothing matters' debases the human spirit." --David Mamet

A few years ago I began making notes for an essay in defense of elitism. Somewhere along the way, I abandoned the essay idea and just focused on taking the notes. Then I stopped taking the notes. Saturday morning I came across a passage that belonged in my "Elitism Notes" notebook (yes, I have a separate notebook for this). Ironically, or perhaps not ironically at all, since it was on my mind, I got into a discussion with my friend and roommate, Mike, about Subjectivity versus Objectivity, and how to allow for Quality--that which Pirsig argues, and I agree, is the third metaphysical category.

We were at the California Clipper drinking $2.50 Maker's when the argument started. I made a comment about the three cats playing music-a sort of country/rockabilly band, as the Clipper is wont to book. They were wearing fancy cowboy dress shirts, but had not tucked them into their jeans. I said that their failure to tuck in their shirts lacked Quality, i.e. they were doing retro-roots music and ostensibly dressing the part, but they couldn't shake their 80s and 90s fashion sense which dictates that shirts are UN-tucked. It demonstrated a lack of attention to detail, which, not surprisingly, translated into their music as well.

Mike disagreed with me and said that they're entitled to wear their shirts as they choose. I agreed, but argued that simply because they chose to wear their shirts untucked didn't make it right or OK. From here we leapt into the old Subjectivity/Objectivity argument. Mike arguing Subjectivity and me arguing against Relativity (though I can't say I was arguing Objectivity…I was kind of floating between Objectivity and Quality as it suited my needs in the argument) (and though I recognize a distinction between Subjectivity and Relativity, I will, for the purposes of this rant, conflate the two and assume that they are similar enough for the argument to make sense…perhaps later there will be time for a discussion on the subtle differences between Subjectivity and Relativity). But the point is this (and this is where Elitism comes in, too): I cannot abide the argument of Relativity/Subjectivity precisely because what it says, in essence, is that "nothing matters."

To follow the argument to its logical and absurd end (the reductio ad absurdum) is to argue that it doesn't matter that Hitler blamed the Jews for Germany's post WWI woes, and it doesn't matter that the Nazis exterminated the Jews because, relative to their time and place and belief system, they were on target. Who are we to decry the acts and beliefs of the Nazis.

Of course this is a hyperbolic example used to dramatically illustrate a point, but the point remains, whether it's genocide or untucked shirts, to argue relativity or subjectivity is to say nothing matters. What's most absurd about the relativity argument to me is that the very argument negates itself because the arguer cannot, by his own relative/subjective standards, credibly dismiss an opposing argument. Because according to the Relativist philosophical systems, like tucked and untucked shirts, are a matter of preference and whatever is right for you is OK, in other words, since all belief systems are equal, none of them matter. Perhaps a monetary analogy will help. In a relativist currency I could go buy a car with a one dollar bill. I would say to the car salesman, "To me, this one dollar bill is $16,439." And the salesman, also being a subjectivist couldn't argue. The result is that the denominations of money have no meaning, in fact, money itself would have no meaning in such a system, because I might as well shit in a bucket and say "To me, this shit in a bucket is $16,439." Who could argue?

The same patent absurdity obtains to the moral/ethical realm. In a system of Relativity, nothing matters.

This discussion will have to come in installments, as I must get to work, but rest assured I will pick this up tomorrow. Tune in then for more "Notes on Elitism."

"A modern philosopher who has never once suspected himself of being a charlatan must be such a shallow mind that his work is probably not worth reading." --Leszek Kolakowski

Recently, I was confronted with an intriguing question: How to pluralize the abbreviation of my favorite bourbon, "Maker's Mark." For example, when one says "Give me two Maker's Marks" one is tempted, especially after having had a few, to shorten the phrase and drop the "Mark."

The question is how does one pluralize a possessive adjective. Thankfully, I'm in the right place to resolve this query (i.e., The University of Chicago Press, home of THE CHICAGO MANUAL OF STYLE. After consulting my C.M.S., I discovered there is no rule of pluralizing possessive adjectives (probably because the occasion to do so is so rare). So I consulted our manuscript editing department, in particular Russell Harper, our Style guru. The Official Word is this: Because "Maker's" is grammatically acting as one half of a proper noun (i.e., the name of the brand is "Maker's Mark") to pluralize it, one need only add an "s" or an "es" as in "Maker'ses" but this of course is awkward, and not how one would speak it. In such a case, the rule the Chicago abides by is this: keep the written transcription of a colloquialism as close as possible to the verbal counterpart from which is it derived. The appropriate style for shortening "Two Maker's Marks" is "Two Maker's" (In such an abbreviation, both the "Mark" and the plural "s" are implied and understood.

Those traversing the weblog circuit of BIKES and HOLLOW TIMES already know all there is to know about the events of last night's concert at Schubas, so I won't belabor the fact that my amp died mid-set. I will say this, though: That my Fender amp died last night is the fault of the cold war. Russian Tubes, American Amp, there was never a productive dialog that could help facilitate the harmonious union of these two things. Does Kevin's Mesa/Boogie blow out? No. Why? Because it's British Technology, and allies or not in the Cold War, the Brits are simply a lot more practical than we Americans. Another factor adding to my frustration is the fact that I specifically chose this amp to go with my guitar. I chose each for the sonic options they would afford me to craft a sound for my guitar playing suitable for loud, abrasive rock, or mellow cooing. I intend to write a letter to Fender, as I fear this problem is not an isolated one.

Cheers to "…bikes will take us" for his personable set, trainwreck and all. My favorite moment was when he hit the wrong bar chord again and just kept hitting it. That's the way to go. Best piece of musical advice I ever received was this: If you hit a wrong note, hit it again, and keep hitting it until it sounds intentional. Mike finished in strong form with one of his best songs.

Rock and roll. What a funny thing it is. People wear matching t-shirts and spit beer in Chicago and people in Boston can watch it on the World Wide Web.

Was hungover most of yesterday from an evening of Jack Daniels at the California Clipper. Bartender Jill is so cute, and what a pitching arm! I will paraphrase Denis Johnson when I describe her: She pours drinks like an angel, right to the lip of the glass so you have to hover like a hummingbird over the glass for your first sip. Any hangover is worth one of Jill's drinks.

Tonight The Forty One Rivers will play Schubas. Watch it at www.dcn.com.

The weather this weekend was phenomenal! It was sunny and warm the whole weekend long. Oddly, this glorious weather depressed me just a bit because I have the spring fever longing to share such days with someone of the opposite sex, and at this point, there is no such lady in my life. This feeling of loneliness was compounded by a chance meeting with a former college classmate. Her name is Rachael and she is stunningly gorgeous (and a talented writer as well…always an attractive quality). As we caught each other up on what's been happening in our lives I noticed (from behind the safety of my dark sunglasses) that she had a HUGE rock on her finger. This beautiful former classmate on whom I had and have a crush, is married. It's really no wonder, when you think about it, that all the good ones are taken. So what does that say about me?

Perhaps the best thing about the spring and the summer is the return of the light. You leave work in the winter at 5:00 or 5:30 and it is dark. The dark makes you sleepy and mildly depressed. You don't go out because it's cold outside. The best time of the day in the winter is the morning, and you can't even fully enjoy that because you've got to get to work. Your winter days are illuminated predominantly by artificial light. But then comes the equinox and the clocks "spring forward." At first you're upset because you lose an hour and you're a bit sluggish those first few days because of it, but then, you realize that when you leave work, the sun is still above the horizon, and it gets a little higher everyday until one day you notice that it's 7:30 and still light out. What's more, it's warm! You begin to notice all the bulbs blooming in gardens, you see the trees beginning to sprout green buds, and you feel a kinship with these things. You, like the flowers, like the leaves, are cautiously emerging from your winter hibernation. This is no metaphor, this is pure fact. The light has returned and you feel illuminated.

The onset of spring has made me an incorrigible flirt--as it does each year. There is no more enjoyable game than flirting, save chess. It was with this in mind that I wrote the following poem a few years ago. Forgive me if the metaphors are weak, or the punning trite.

Writing a poem
is like playing chess
with a woman: you

must look deep into
the game's nature if
you wish to mate her.

Taught my weekly Creative Writing Class last night. It is a three-hour paradox every week: humbling and gratifying, frustrating and inspirational, exhausting and exhilarating. Some of the students really don't give a shit and they're there for an "easy A." They get bewildered when I tell them I will be giving a mid-term exam asking them to define and give examples of trochees, iambs, spondees, pyrrics, meter, etc. There is an unfortunate assumption that the "creative" in creative writing means anything goes. But to fully realize one's creativity, one needs to become familiar with one's tools. A carpenter using the handle of a hammer to nail a screw into a piece of wood will be gratified to learn that the "hammer" end of the hammer will make the job easier…he'll be further gratified to learn of the uses of a screwdriver. Likewise, even with a "punk" approach to art, you do better with a few basics under the belt. Minor Threat would have been a major headache if they didn't learn to tune their guitars. And, for that matter, look how far Ian's music has come from the days of three-chord angst. Why? Because he learned how to use his tools. Some of the students are, of course, very passionate about writing, and some quite good to boot. It makes me yearn for the unmitigated passion of my undergrad days. I feel a bit more cynical now, though no less passionate (though my passion is tempered by a sense of realism and utility…is this maturity or jadedness?) perhaps it's the wide-eyed dreaminess of these students that's gets me. In any case, I often envy them.

After class last night went to go see Spoon. The band that opened for them, Orange (or The Oranges) were really the highlight, though. Spoon was quite good, and I like their new album, but everyone was there to see Spoon, so in a sense, nothing was at stake. Orange had to earn the audience, and they succeeded (at least with this listener). I should have picked up their CD, but I've been spending too much money recently. I wonder if their appeal would have held up. Much of what I liked was their energy…they really were working for the audience. And they were very tight. Both of these things go a long way at a live show. I will go see them again if they come around. (They're from Baltimore).

This weekend was a delight! One of the best weekend's I've had in a long time. The weather was incredible--sunny and warm, rainy and chilly, winds gusting at 40 mph--and I was out in it for much of the time. Friday evening I had a fantastic meal with Marshall Preheim. We decided to go visit the suburbs just for shits and giggles. The pre-fabricated safety and security of the suburbs makes me want to dress like a pedophile just to fuck with people's heads…they're too satisfied that their comfort is real and total in Oak Brook. (I have no idea what a pedophile dresses like, by the way.)

Saturday I spent the day reading outside as those aforementioned gusty winds threatened to blow me to OZ (I was struck by a plastic table caught in the wind, as a matter of fact, but I managed to retain consciousness). That night I met up with fellow Forty One Rivers, Adam Reach and Rob Sieracki at the California Clipper where Cash Audio was tearing it up! I left after their first set to go to a party and regretted it from the first step out the door…ROCK AND ROLL, goddammit!

Sunday I met with a student to go over a presentation on a poem she's giving, I then read and prepped for tonight's class. Spent the late afternoon and early evening with Rob making music and eating miraculously tasty Lebanese food at this dirt-cheap joint he frequents with a stunningly beautiful waitress (those EYES!). We also took a very pleasant walk around a neighborhood of Chicago I don't see often enough. On the walk I recalled a line from a Stuart Dybek story I'd read that afternoon. In the story, one of Dybek's characters takes in wounded animals and heals them. She says "I never give them names. We don't know the names of animals. Names are what we use because we've lost our sense of smell." Rob and I chewed on that for a while. "Names are what we use because we've lost our sense of small." Still chewing.

Today, I will be brief. I count myself lucky indeed to play in a band with three gents whose opinions I respect, whose company I enjoy, and whose judgment I trust.

About a year and a half ago, I came across a selection of Joe Wenderoth's "Letters to Wendy's" in American Poetry Review and I was floored. Here was a writer expanding our notion of what form is. His "Letters to Wendy's" are brief ruminations written on Wendy's Restaurant suggestion cards: Tell us about your visit! I recall that the author bio at the bottom of the page said that Wenderoth was looking for a publisher. Well, I'm happy to say he has found one, and the entire collection of "Letters to Wendy's" is now available from Verse Press. Here's what the press release says about the book (and it's helpful in understanding just what it is that Wenderoth is after with this book):

"Letters to Wendy's was written over the course of a year in the life and thoughts of an unnamed narrator obsessed not only with Biggies and Frosties, but also by consumerism, pornography, and mortality."

There is a great joy in reading these "letters" not only because they are well-written and engaging and worthy of consideration and reflection, but also because you can't help but imagine a Wendy's manager reading the comment cards and coming across these pieces by Wenderoth who takes Wendy's at their word when they ask him to "Tell us about your visit."

There's no way to convey the scope of this book without reproducing it in its entirety, but it's worth offering a taste of the goodness, and leaving it to you, gentle reader, to seek out the rest, which is worth reading! So here is one entry from "Letters to Wendy's"

July 4, 1996 (Independence Day)

I wonder what "beauty" really is. I know that the little girl, Wendy, who is pictured on your cups and bags, is beautiful, and so is the green green descent into the valley. Within this descent, I can feel the overpowering order within which I am but a temporary eccentricity. This overpowering, anticipated but absent, is beauty. I'd like to spank Wendy's white ass and fuck her hard.

Take a moment of silence today for Joey Ramone who died of cancer at 49. Better yet, take a moment of screaming and thrashing as if infected with a three-chord riff coursing through your body like a shock from an ungrounded guitar amp at full volume. Piss on a cop. Get sedated.

An Easter Haiku:

Thanks to Viagra
the old man nicknamed his cock
"Jesus" this Easter

I must apologize for yesterday's blog. Upon reflection, the tone I took was a bit harsh, and not all my arguments were as cogent as they might have been. I wrote the rant in the midst of a terribly busy workday that came at the end of an atrociously busy week. While I still find the arrogance of those decrying religion on the grounds that it is a crutch to be absurd and invalid, methinks I did protest too much.

My blog today is brief as I am writing from Columbus, Ohio, where I have come to visit my parents for the weekend. Tonight we go the symphony: Brahms is in the house. Looking forward to it. I was saddened to learn that I won't be able to attend any of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra's performances of Charlie Chaplin's CITY LIGHTS, which they are performing in concert with the film of the same name. I've heard nothing but good things about it, and who can argue with Chaplin?

Mad love to my peeps in the hoods of Chitown.

Perhaps it's the coming of Easter that has prompted a bit of religious discussion on some of the Blogs I visit. In any case, the discussion is on. Religion, like Politics, is one of those things one is not supposed to discuss with one's friends because they are the two subjects about which, in one's mind, one can never be wrong. So unless two people agree on their religion and politics, it's a recipe for disaster. Having said that, I will now jump into the fray. I came across this Heinlein quote on Rob Sieracki's Hollow Times. Rob posted it, but I don't detect any sort of editorializing, so I really don't know where he stands…and I guess I'm not asking. What I'm doing is responding to Heinlein. Here's the quote:

"History does not record anywhere at anytime a religion that has any rational basis. Religion is a crutch for people not strong enough to face the unknown without help. But, like dandruff, most people do have religion and spend time and money and seem to derive considerable pleasure from fiddling with it."

There are few things that irritate me more than those who claim Religion is a crutch. Of course it is a crutch, just like just about everything else in the world (poetry, music, drugs, television, blogs, the list goes on and on…). The problem with folks like Heinlein who say that religion is a crutch is not that they are wrong, but that they are so pompous and self-assured that they assume that they are "strong enough to face the unknown without help." They assume that their belief system, whatever it may be, is NOT a crutch.

Heinlein says that "History does not record anywhere at anytime a religion that has a rational basis." Again, this is a no-brainer. Religion is non-rational. What is rationality, after all, but a crutch? An invention of the human mind to help face the unknown by attempting to delineate between that which makes sense (rational) and that which doesn't make sense (irrational). The irrational is by implication, untrue, or bad, or unworthy. But this cleavage doesn't take into account the NON-rational: that for which rationality doesn't apply. Perhaps you've heard of a thing called "faith." Faith is non-rational. Love is non-rational. Anyone who attempts to rationalize their love for someone or something is a shallow and sorry person who, if they succeed in finding a rational explanation for their love, has, at least in my mind, proven that said love does not, in fact, exist. (Having said this, I should say that I am not attempting to "rationalize" faith, as it is non-rational and needs no rationalization. What I'm doing is discussing the Heinlein quote on it's own "rational" terms.)

Faith operates in our daily lives. We have faith that our cars will start, that the sun will rise, that a bunch of 1s and 0s will come together at just the right time to allow an ATM to dispense our cash. No one questions these kinds of faith, though, on many levels, it is as absurd to believe in any of these things as it is to believe in a religion. And this is another important point: to believe in and partake of a religious tradition is to believe in and partake of something that IS real. Whether or not one believes in the existence of a Supreme Being is pretty much moot. There is an important distiction between the religious tradition and the Godhead.

Now, there is another question entangled with religion: that of the institutions of religion. This question, however, does not deal with religion, it deals with people, and this is an essential distinction. I know many people who decry religion because of the practices of the institution of the Catholic Church, for example. But the Catholic Church is NOT Catholicism, just as any other religious INSTITUTION is NOT religion itself. People seem to conflate these two things erroneously.

Certainly there is much to find fault with in the institutions of religion, just as there is much to find fault with in the institutions of rationality--it was a calculated and rational decision to bomb Hiroshima and Nagasaki and Dresden, was it not? It's safe to say that the Nazi extermination of the Jews was based on a rational decision, no? That something is explicable in rational terms doesn't necessarily make it a good thing. Nietzsche's THE ANTI-CHRIST is a cogent and brilliant discussion of the problems of the institution of religion, as is Dostoyevsky's "Grand Inquisitor" section of the BROTHERS KARAMAZOV. I encourage you to seek out these texts.

This discussion is far too long to ever finish. I do wish to leave you with a poem by Rumi, the 13th Century Sufi mystic (who appears earlier in this blog). The poem address the differences between religions, i.e. which is the TRUE PATH. I should say here, too, that the very notion that there is a true path, be it Christianity, Buddhism, Rationality, Fill-In-The-Blank, is patently absurd, and is based on erroneous assumptions. The very question, "What is the True Path" deserves only one response: "Mu." ("Mu" is a Japanese Zen term for "Unask the question.") In any case, the poem goes like this:

I. You. He. She. We.
In the garden of mystic lovers
These are not true distinctions.

It's 8:45 and I've been at work for 12 hours. Something is terribly wrong with this picture. I wish I could say more about this sorry situation, but I fear I am likely the only person who really gives a shit. Could that be the case with this entire Blogging enterprise? It occured to me that Blogging is the diaristic or journalistic equivalent of Bentham's Panopticon: I write under the assumption that anyone in the world can read this (which, if they have a computer with internet access, they can), but I also write under the assumption that no one reads these little snapshots of my consciousness. As I wrote on a friends blog: Assume no one is watching, but assume anyone can. I censor myself because there are secrets that need be kept. In other words, I monitor my own behavior. That's the secret of Blogging. Jeremy Benthem, eat you're fuckin heart out.

"I believe you are sincere and good at heart. If you do not attain happiness, always remember that you are on the right road. Try not to leave it. Above all, avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially falseness to yourself. Watch over your own deceitfulness, look into it at every hour, every minute. Avoid being scornful, both to others and to yourself. What seems bad to you within yourself will grow pure by the very fact of you observing it. Avoid fear--though fear is only the consequence of every sort of falsehood. Never be frightened at your own faint-heartedness in attaining love. And don't be frightened overmuch at your own evil actions. I am sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you, for love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams: love in dreams is greedy for immediate action, rapidly performed and so everyone can see. Men will even give their lives if only the ordeal does not last too long, but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding, as if on a stage. But active love, active love, is labor and fortitude."
--Fyodor Dostoyevsky
from THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV

"Art makes nothing happen."
--W.H. Auden

Last night, after a very long day, I came home, washed the dishes, and went to bed to read a bit before sleep. As everyone knows, I'm reading ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE, which I've read twice before. When I read, I write in the book: underline passages, write notes in the margin, argue with the author, note a related text, ask a question…this kind of thing. Strangely--and I didn't notice it until last night--in my previous readings of this book, I made only a two such markings. The first, in my 17 year old chicken scrawl, scratched across the title page reads: "Physics = conservation of mass; metaphysics = conservation of soul." The second, which I came across last night, is an underlined passage:

"You are never dedicated to something you have complete confidence in. No one is fanatically shouting that the sun is going to rise tomorrow. They KNOW it's going to rise tomorrow. When people are fanatically dedicated to political or religious faiths or any other kinds of dogmas or goals, it's always because these dogmas or goals are in doubt."

I think I marked this at 17, but I can't be sure. When I read it, I was reminded of a Hal Hartley film, SURVIVING DESIRE in which the main character, a young professor in the midst of a crisis of faith, says to his drunk seminarian friend: "People who bomb buildings do so because they believe in things. I'd rather not believe in things." This is, I'm afraid, a bad paraphrasing, but the idea, I hope, is clear. The irony of Harltley's character is that he does believe in things. He believes in Dostoyevsky so passionately that he spends an entire semester teaching a single paragraph of the BROTHERS KARAMAZOV to his class. I will find the paragraph and post it here. It is worth believing in. It begins: "Never be frightened at your own faint-heartedness in attaining love."

Anyone not familiar with the films of Hal Hartley needs to stop everything and go find copies of "Trust" "Simple Men" "Surviving Desire" "Flirt" "Amateur" "The Unbelievable Truth" "Book of Days" "Henry Fool" "Ambition" and "Theory of Achievement." Quite simply some of the best films of the 90s.

I used to have a point, but I've lost it. Oh well, sometimes it's better to travel than it is to arrive. Another quote from a Hartley movie which I love (and is an adaptation of the Samurai's code) is this:

"Dwell in uncomplicated beauty. Keep the image of your death cheerfully before you at all times."

Hello All,

The following from Christian Ariel:

"Regarding Pirsig quotes: Why display an edible egg under a stack of onion skins?"

Indeed. Sometimes the non-rational mode of communication is most efficacious when dealing with Zen.

In other news, 41 Rivers will be playing tonight at the Empty Bottle (1st of 3) @10:00pm. This is a last minute gig (we were asked this morning if we could play) and we are doing our best to drum up an audience...won't you come and rock with us?

On 3 April 2001, my site was visited by the esteemed Christian Ariel --a man whom I have never met, except virtually via Rob Sieracki's blog, "The Hollow Times" (have you visited yet?).

http://home.earthlink.net/%7Esierackir/ (I am still HTML illiterate, ok. No links, so deal with it)

On "Hollow Times," Christian posted a response to my Project Reason blog on ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE, which you may now read here in it's entirety:

--_________________
Christian Ariel wrote:
Tell Anthony Burton there's nothing zen about "Zen Und Ze Art of Motoguzzi Maintenance." [That
Pirsig posuer ain't gettin' any publicity here.] After about thirty recommendations by friends and
acquaintences, I was prepared to receive the fruits of this wonderful book. But them grapes wuz
raisins. Same goes for "Tao o' Pooh." Popular occidental interpolations of misperceived notions.
Cuddly and cute and inspiring and feel good versions ready for made-for-tv movies.

Experience is zen. Books only hint. Things advertising zen are nothing of the sort. [ex. Bush's
"Everything Zen."]

Basho. Tao Te Ching. Zen Flesh, Zen Bones. Shambala published a pocket library of Eastern
classics a while ago. About half of them were great.
_________________

As an avid reader of "The Hollow Times," I read this post and quickly responded to Rob Sieracki (have you visited his site yet?) via email and asked him to post my "rebuttal" to Christian. Rob was kind enough to do so:

________________________
Dear Christian,

Nothing Zen about Zen & The Art? I disagree. Without a doubt, Pirsig's is a VERY
western mind grappling with many ideas and issues--some of them from the Zen
tradition, some of them from the Greeks, some from repair manuals. Even if I were to
concede that there is nothing Zen about this book, the question remains: does this make
it a bad book? Does a Red Delicious apple become any less sweet if we call it Granny
Smith? Of course not. You mention Basho in your post. Did you not hear echoes of
"Narrow Road to the Deep North" in Pirsig's road chronicle? This book is Pirsig's
account of his struggle with the Koan of all Koans: how to be human, and how to relate to
the world. For my money there is nothing touch-feely about this book; nothing
sentimental in the slightest. Pirsig earns every moment of poignancy.

Perhaps after so many recommendations to read the book, you had preconceived
notions of what the book should be, and what it should tell you and teach you. Were you
reading Pirsig's book, or were you reading a
necessarily disappointing incarnation of the Platonic Form of the book you imagined?

You write: "Experience is zen." I say "Zen is zen."

I appreciate you're visiting my site, and hope this doesn't seem to antagonistic. It's a
worthwhile conversation, and your comments have given me much to consider, for which
I thank you.

I will leave you with one final admonition from Buddha: "When you meet the Buddha, kill
the Buddha."

All the best,
Anthony
______________________

Of course, as soon as I'd asked Rob to post this, I remembered that Christian and I had had a brief correspondence a few months back about a 30 second play I wrote (which Rob mentioned on Hollow Times) called "Dr. Ass Meets Mr. Foot." I scanned through my emails and found Christian's email address and we continued our "conversation" in a string of emails:

______________________

At 10:52 AM 4/4/01 -0700, you wrote:
It makes little sense to argue over Buddhism, so I won't. A book is a book. And yes, zen is zen. In
my mind, a book with a long shelf life contains few if any pages.

"Simplify, simplify, simplify!"

--The Old Man and the Sea

Anthony Burton wrote:
Indeed. Little sense to argue. Fun though.

Writing is like a jewel. The more it's cut, the more it sparkles. Even Hemingway could have used an
editor:

"Simplify."

Thanks for responding.

At 12:43 PM 4/4/01 -0700, you wrote:
>Hemingway could have used an editor:

> "Simplify."

You mean Thoreau.

A series often emphasizes the importance of the whole. "To cut or not to cut?" might be the
question. However, quantity isn't the only criteria. Wise cuts improve an entire system.

Tell that one to the guy who promised "a thousand points of light," then created a Gulf War.

A hack can ruin a nice rock. Ever been to Mount Rushmore? How 'bout an open pit mine?

Are diamonds a girl's best friend?

--Rusty Band

Anthony Burton wrote:
Ah yes, Henry David it is...I mistook your sign-off "The Old Man and the Sea" as an attribution. The
quip about reducing "Simplify x3" to "Simplify" was offered in jest. Of course quantity is not the only
criteria, there is, among other things, "quality" which leads us back to Mr. Pirsig's discussion.

A hack can ruin a nice rock. Just look at Sammy Hagar.

I think thousand points of light was a prescient reference to the oil field fires in Kuwait.

Friends are a girl's best diamonds.

--Love in the Time of Cholera

At 01:25 PM 4/4/01 -0700, you wrote:
Sammy Hagar eat your heart out:

http://www.redmeat.com/redmeat/1999-09-27/index.html

>Friends are a girl's best diamonds.

The Family Jewels are a girl's best friends.

Sunny disposition despite the general condition,

--Gabriella Garcia Marquesadilla

Anthony Burton wrote:
Eat your best friend's family jewels.

Girl's disposition sunny despite the Sammy Hagar family.

A Heart condition.

The General.

(the are)

--Gabby Cheese
_________________

If you've read this much so far, I applaud your stamina. Thanks for hanging in there. The degeneration of the conversation into wordplay was an effect of being tired and overworked, but Christian had given me much to think about, and I continued to think about his comments. As I was reading a dose of ZEN AND THE ART last night, it occurred to me that I should have quoted Pirsig somewhere in our debate, after all, who better to defend the book than the author:

"Author's Note: What follows is based on actual occurrences. Although much has been changed for rhetorical purposes, it must be regarded in its essence as fact. However, it should in no way be associated with that great body of factual information relating to orthodox Zen Buddhist practice. It's not very factual on motorcycles, either."

There is another quote from the book that I think is particularly apt in regards to the discussion. Christian, it seemed, was reacting to the distinctly un-Zen-ness of Pirsig's book-he found it to be inauthentic, not in keeping with the Zen literature with which he was familiar. He's right, of course, but Pirsig addresses this in a particularly cogent passage:

"There is a perennial classical question that asks which part of the motorcycle, which grain of sand in which pile, is the Buddha. Obviously to ask that question is to look in the wrong direction, for the Buddha is everywhere. But just as obviously to ask that question is to look in the RIGHT direction, for the Buddha is everywhere. About the Buddha that exists independently of any analytic thought much has been said-some would say too much, and would question any attempt to add to it. But about the Buddha that exists within analytic thought, and gives that analytic thought its direction, virtually nothing has been said, and there are historic reasons for this. But history keeps happening, and it seems no harm and maybe some positive good to add to our historical heritage with some talk in this area of discourse."

I'll leave it at that. That's plenty to think about for a while.

This morning I woke to sun, glorious sun, streaming through my window. Outside I could hear the chitter-chirps of birds, and I forced myself to sit up in bed (an important first step in waking) and I looked out to see that the sky was a pale blue and cloudless. It was a spring morning, and the recognition of this was enough to keep me moving.

Although the first official day of spring was back in March, I think today (in Chicago, at least) might be the first authentically "Spring" day. All morning I've been thinking of Robert Frost's poem, "A Prayer in Spring." I love this poem for the elation in conveys, for the almost mythic pastoral vision of spring it paints, and I love it for it's praising. Who among us can bear witness to the beauty of spring--the new buds nudging up from the ground, or the small green buttons on tree branches, birdsong and bees--and not give thanks for winter's end, not praise the miracle of spring. Even the air we breathe is different--fragrant with the fecund aroma of moist earth, and new green--there is more oxygen it seems. Frost eloquently gives voice to our wonder and thanks:

A Prayer in Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchid white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid-air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.

--Robert Frost


Of course, we're all familiar with Frost's "Nothing Gold Can Stay," another brilliant spring poem, but I'll not quote that here…not yet.

This morning, driving to work, I listened to Willie Nelson, and he, too, stuck a chord of praise in my heart. His song "Unclouded Day" (or is it Uncloudy Day?) is brilliant! It occurred to me that, even when he's singing sad songs, Willie makes you feel good. There's something in his voice--the tinny timbre and the angular phrasing--that will always make me smile.

Happy spring everyone. Go read some Frost and listen to some Willie.

Sunday, after walking around for hours and hours, I came home and decided I wasn't reading enough prose (which meant I was reading to many cons…that's for you Sieracki). So I picked up what is truly on of my favorite books of all time: Robert Pirsig's perennially popular, and always important ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE.

I first read this book when I was 17 (and listening to Billy Bragg). I read it for the wrong reasons. I read it because it was one of those books that I thought I should read. I loved it when I read it, but at 17, there was plenty I didn't understand. Still, it changed the way I though about things in a profound way…it's fair to say it changed my life (the sign of a good book)

The next time I picked it up I was 22 and wading through a quagmire of depression and uncertainty. It was my first quarter in my last year of the Masters Program I was doing and I was beginning to fear life after the University Womb I'd been in for six years. I was also frustrated by my classmates, none of whom seemed to have the slightest interest in beauty, none of whom seemed to have any desire to learn or explore ideas. I felt surrounded by high school students, biding their time until the bell rang and set them free. Depression and disgust dominated my emotions. It was then I picked up ZEN AND THE ART out of an unidentified, unnamed need. And the book again changed my life.

That quarter I was studying Classical Rhetoric, reading Plato and Aristotle, Cicero, and the rest. At 17 I had no idea who Pirsig was referring to when he introduced his alter-ego, Phaedrus. At 22, and in a class in which I was studying Plato's PHAEDRUS, as well as the ideas to which it was responding and the texts which respond to it, I had a much deeper understanding of ZEN AND THE ART. Suddenly my thinking about the book changed, and my thinking about my class changed, and my thinking about life changed (again!). The book was instrumental in my emerging from the doldrums.

(My thinking about my classmates having no interest in beauty did not change. It's a sad thing to see people oblivious to miracles.)

I take the attitude that you can't step in the same river twice (though you can use the same cliché twice!)
I take the attitude that you can't step in the same river twice, and the same goes for books. Books, poems, movies, paintings--anything worth examining is worth examining more than once. And further, as you change, so too does the book, poem, movie, painting. So I return to Pirsig at 26 to see what he has to say to me now.

This time I read the book not as a 17 year old who thinks he should, nor as a 22 year old who knows he must, but as a 26 year old who's ready to think some more about Quality. I've been reading the book slowly, no more than two chapters a day. I'm heeding Pirsig's admonition to take things slowly. Early in the book he writes that when he's on the road, riding his machine to Montana, or wherever he may be destined, he's interested in making good time…but he's clear that the emphasis is on Good, not on Time. I intend to read this book in good time.