Screaming From The Pyre, Chapter V. Conspiracy Was On My Mind

Conspiracy Was On M Mind:

Conspiracy was on my mind, that afternoon in late November 1963, as I crouched down behind the grassy knoll across from Dealey Plaza in Dallas.

I was headed for the Texas Book Depository to meet a young fellow with whom I had recently made an acquaintance. I peeked over the bushes to see if I could sneak past the police barricades, all along cursing the bad luck I was having that day. I was about to make my move, when the sound of police sirens forced me to keep my head down. I looked up to the sixth floor window and thought I saw him looking for me. I was about to wave to show him that I was there, but quickly changed my mind: I didn't want to attract attention. I guess he felt the same way, because he put his head down low on the window sill.

As the sound of the sirens grew louder, I started to get a little nervous and began to recount the events that had led up to this day. After weeks of planning, only a few seconds and a few feet separated me from achieving a goal that seemed improbable just a month earlier. If my Eastern Air Lines flight from New York City, which had begun the day before as a direct flight to Dallas, hadn't developed engine problems and, consequently, forced to land in Atlanta, everything would have worked out perfectly.

The four-engine Electra turboprop had a spotty flight maintenance history. It was a temperamental aircraft and it decided early Thursday afternoon over Georgia, to have one of its fits of pique. "Relax," I remember the Eastern representative saying to me, "we'll have you on the next plane to Dallas," The next plane to Dallas, it turned out, wasn't until 08:30, the following morning. I tried, desperately, to call the book warehouse where he worked, but I had waited too long and, by that time I had decided to call, it was already late in the day and they must have been closed. I didn't try calling him in the morning because the plane started boarding at 07:30, and I figured that he wouldn't be there at that hour.

By the time I arrived in Dallas, it was a little after 10 A.M. I didn't bother to call him; at that point, I was too much in a hurry. The taxi ride to Dealey Plaza seemed interminable. Traffic was stopped all around the area and my driver had to drop me off five blocks from Dealey. When I finally got there, there was a police line blocking anyone from crossing the street. I saw the Depository right in front of me and looked around to see if I could skirt around the police. I saw the grassy knoll and figured if I could get around to the back of it, I would be just a hop, skip and a jump from my meeting with Lee.

Then, there was the sound of a siren and the approach of a motorcade. I rued my luck but reasoned that they would soon pass. I sat down, nearly collapsing on my back from exhaustion. I had my eyes closed because the sun was directly over me, but immediately reopened them when I heard a car or police motorcycle backfire two or three times: maybe it was four or five. I can't be clear about that because I was startled. Then, all hell broke lose. People were screaming, there were many more sirens wailing.

I saw what looked like a wave of police heading in my direction; I rolled over, got up, ducked down and ran for cover. I was going to wait to see what was going on so that I could finish my business but a crush of people and police carried me away from the grassy knoll. I stopped running a few blocks away and was instantly knocked down by a man who was running in back of me. At first, he didn't stop, then, when he did, he must have noticed that I was bleeding (I landed squarely on my nose) he came back and helped me stand up. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's all very exciting."
"What's so exciting, " I asked, looking at my bloody handkerchief.

"You know, you know," he repeated, excitedly.

I looked around at the throng of people still running in every direction. Everywhere police cars with sirens screaming were racing up and down the street. I nodded my head, believing that the surrounding chaos was what he meant.

"Look," he said, I feel really bad about knocking you down. Why don't you come over to my place and we can fix you up?"

I didn't like the sound of the invitation. I hesitated. He must have read my mind or seen the unease in my eyes because he immediately followed up with, "Hey it's okay. It's a public place. I own a club, the Carousel...”

He hesitated for a few seconds, then, stood back to give me some distance.

"Look," he said, "You can call me Jack; you can come to my place, clean up, have a drink and watch the news. It's on me. I feel really bad for what I did." Then, turning aside, he said, There's my ride," indicating a black Cadillac which was pulling up along side of us.The driver rolled down his window and, in a gruff Spanish accented voice, asked, "Who's he?" I could tell that he was clearly displeased to see me.

"He's all right," said Jack. I knocked him down and I'm taking him to the club to clean up."

"Aren't you supposed to go to the movies?” replied the driver.

"Yeah, I know, I know" said Jack, "But, it'll be good for him to sit and cool his heals there for a while."

"Oh, by the way, this is my colleague, Macho," said Jack pointing to the driver. We go way back to Cu…” Jack never finished his sentence, because Macho quickly interrupted him and said, "You remember what the Empress said?" Jack paused to think about what Macho had just told him and said, "Yeah, yeah you're right." Then, quickly turned to me and said, "I never got your name."

"Quelle, sir," Somehow, by the tenor of his voice, I felt compelled to say, "sir."

The Carousel was a small one story establishment with pictures of half clothed strippers, posted in front. A small awning in front did nothing to enhance its appearance. My first impression was that it was the type of tacky place that I normally avoided. Inside the lounge, the bar was crowded with patrons watching the TV. I saw Walter Cronkite and an image of the Book Depository. Walter was pointing to a window on the sixth floor. A sense of gloom suddenly overwhelmed me. I got the unmistakable feeling that, after all I had gone through and all the expectation, I was never going to see Lee or complete my business with him. I was devastated.

I was overpowered by disgust and exasperation, and lay my head down on the bar. My host came over to me putting his hand on my shoulder. "If the news is hurting you that badly, I'll turn off the TV." He asked me where I came from. I told him, New York City. At which point, he said that he was, originally from up north,”My brothers and I are originally from Chicago," he said as he offered me a beer. "It's on the house." I was about to tell him what I was doing in Dallas, when I noticed a picture above the bar. Jack was standing in the middle of a group of men. I recognized Macho. "You and Macho go back a long time?" I asked.

Jack stopped for a minute, looked up at the picture and seemed to be thinking, when I interrupted "Is the Sans Souci a hotel in Miami,?" I asked pointing to the picture. "Naw," he said, "it's in Havana. It used to belong to the guy who has his arm around me, Meyer, err, Enrique Chacon," he corrected himself. "That's Macho, the guy standing next to him is Chuck, and the guy next to him is Raoul. On the other side of Enrique is Rafael. We all go way back down there in Havana, before that bastard Castro came in and messed up our business."

I was about to ask him if they were friends or business partners when the phone rang. Jack went down to the other end of the bar and carried on a very animated conversation in a hushed voice. He came back and stood across the bar from me. "Listened kid, that was a business partner of mine, the Empress Wu, I have to go downtown. You need a lift?" I was a little relieved because I was about to confess my woes. I thanked him for the beer and decided to walk around, maybe take in a movie. I said that I had heard him mention to Macho that he was going to take in a movie and I wondered what was playing, maybe I would join him.

"Naw, kid," he stuttered, "I'm just going to meet someone about some business. Anyway," he added, "You wouldn't like the movie that's playing at the Texas Theater."

"How do you know," I replied, already resigned to finding another movie but a little curious to know what film was showing. "Any how what's playing?"

Jack looked at me as if he were having difficulty remembering the name of the movie, "Our American Cousin." he finally blurted out, "it's a comedy about this guy's cousin who's American. He must have realized that I was still a little confused because he immediately followed up by offering to give me a lift downtown.

Outside, the wail of police sirens hadn't abated and they only became louder as we approached the movie house. To my absolute astonishment, the entire area was sealed off by police cars and ambulances. Jack looked upset and told me that I had to get out of the car. I thanked him, again. He made a U turn and sped off without uttering another word, not even a "Good-bye," leaving me alone on the sidewalk. I turned around and began to rue the entire experience, walking to no where in particular: in frustration, kicking an empty beer can in front of me. Several times a police cruiser passed by me slowly. I could tell that they were checking me out. Frankly, I didn't care what they thought as I continued kicking the can. No one had ever had a worse day in their lives than I had that day. At 20-years-old, I knew that I had suffered what would be the worst day of my entire life.

II.
So, you can fully understand what I had gone through. I should tell you what I was doing in Dallas on that mournful day. First, however, I should tell you a little about myself.
For several years, I had been a member of a college fraternity founded in 1754, as the "Regis Nervo Aptare Sagittas." In 1783, the name was formally changed to the "Societas Nervi," or, as it is known to the Fellows, "The Bow String Society." Unlike similar college associations, we didn't stand over a poor slave's disinterred bones muttering meaningless and arcane Latin chants or wile away our meals in elite dinning rooms. Au contraire, we had a mission, call it a "Duty" under the Law of History: to solving ancient conspiracies. To that end, we dedicated our college years -- and, often a great portion of our entire adult life, to the exclusive purpose of solving metahistoric conspiracies.

Fellows of the Bow String are nominated in secret and are asked if they would wish to be members. To my knowledge, no one has ever refused. Since our founding, we have been the very antithesis of the Free Mandelbaums, whom we believe have been around, in many incarnations, as far back as 330 BC. Our original mission, sometimes successful, other times not, has been to expose Mandelbaum conspiracies that have disrupted and derailed the normal course of human history and civilization since the death of Alexander Magnus to the present.

Each new member is assigned an unsolved conspiracy, which one is expected to devote much of their free time, to the nearly total exclusion of any form of collegiate social life, investigating. Meetings of the Bow String resemble academic seminars where members report the problems and progress they are having with their individual file. No one ever expects to solve their assigned cases within their lifetime. However, one is expected to pass on the body of their work in a timely fashion to the Society's Curia, so it can be passed on to a new generation.

My project was to investigate the conspiracy surrounding the murder of Alexander Magnus and to determine what had been the depth of involvement of his one-time tutor, Aristotle, in the plot.
That is the backdrop in which my misadventure began. I was in my room translating Cicero's "Pro M. Caelio," and had just gotten to the part where Cicero was describing, Clodia as the reigning demimonde of contemporary Roman society. I was chuckling to myself saying, "Go Tulli," when, I was distracted by the sound of laughter coming from the apartment's Common Room, dubbed the "Chaos Room."

When I asked Niebuhr, one of my roommates, what all the commotion was about, he told me that a letter addressed to one of our roommates, Vico, had arrived from New Orleans. It had come from a person that none of us knew, nor had ever heard of, inquiring about the organization, Fair Play For Cuba, of which Vico was the sole administrative entity. I remember him walking through the seven-bedroom apartment we shared on West 105th Street and Broadway, laughing and saying, "Look at this letter," speculating that it had to have come from the CIA or the FBI, "he is asking for our entire membership list for New Orleans." General laughter greeted his remarks. Vico mentioned that he was going to write back and tell him that, for five dollars, he could get a membership card for Fair Play that would entitle him to absolutely nothing but continual harassment from the authorities.

Precisely at that moment, our neighbor just below our apartment, Madam Rozali, knocked on our door. She asked us to lower our voices because she was conducting a very important séance. Rather than quell the uproar, her appearance only helped to further the contagious hilarity.

The incident was almost forgotten. Then, one day in late October, the phone rang. It was the same fellow who had written the strange letter. He was upset because he had sent his five dollars from New Orleans, but in the interim had gone to Mexico and had never received his membership card. He wanted me to give Vico his new address in Dallas. Well, one thing led to another and he told me a little about himself. I was impressed with his knowledge of the Russian language, but, I became a little troubled when he told me that he had lived in Minsk, for a few years. I mean we were right then smack dead in the middle of the Cold War.

Vico's words rushed back to me and I started thinking, "Uh, oh.... agent." I was about to hang up, when he changed the topic by saying that he worked at a book warehouse in Dallas. "Really," I thought, and just for a lark, I asked him if he had ever come across the work "Aristotle, and the Plot Against Alexander Magnus," written by Avicenna with a preface by Rhazes translated and published in Toledo, Spain, in 1456, by Alphonso Colon de Matamoros. I had been searching for it as part of my investigation, however, I was beginning to believe it, had been lost to research historians. I cautioned the voice at the other end of the line, whose name I learned was Lee, not to kill himself looking for it. "The people who told me about it," I said, "also told me that all copies of that work had probably been destroyed centuries earlier or, if they existed at all, were squirreled away in private libraries." He told me that he would look around anyway, and if I could, would I please give Vico his new address in Dallas. I assured him that I would and hung up the phone thinking that I would never hear from him again. However, I did pass on his address to Vico.

III.
So, knowing all this, you can imagine my surprise when, a few weeks later, some time in the middle of November, the phone rang and, when I picked it up, it was Lee: "Hi Quelle, this is Lee, do you remember me?" I assured him that I did.

"Did you get your membership card?" I asked, wondering for a moment if I had forgotten to tell Vico.

"Yes, I did, thanks a lot." he said, "But that's not why I'm calling you." Then, in a rather excited voice, he went on. "I found your book!" To say that I was struck dumb is to put it mildly.

"Not the original edition?" I asked, trying to conceal my own surprise and excitement.

"The original, 1456 edition," he said, nearly blurting out the words. I was struck speechless; I was in such a state of amazement, that I almost didn't hear the rest of what he was trying to tell me.

"It's not in the best condition, however, it is written on parchment but it's readable," he drawled. "It was wrapped in a portfolio containing papers that belonged to Allan Pinkerton." He paused to see if I knew who Allan Pinkerton was, but went on without waiting for me to respond, "You know, the famous cop? I found it at the bottom of a box, along with another book: Aaron Burr's, 'The Secret Military Diaries of Major (later, Col.) George Washington, 1754-1763, published in January 1805, by the Essex Junto Press, in Albany, NY. I thought that maybe you would be interested in that one, too," he said.

Then, pausing for a moment so that I understood the full weight of what he had just said to me, he continued. "Since I began working at the Depository, I have been told almost every day to be on the lookout for papers belonging to Pinkerton. Several people call regularly, inquiring about them. My boss thinks that they were lost at auction sometime back."

"So how did you get your hands on them?" I asked, feigning curiosity, in reality I didn't care how he had gotten hold of them, I was just interested in getting my hands on Avicenna's tome, myself.

"Look Lee," I began to say that I didn't have the money for them right then anticipating that he was going to give me a figure that was going to be well out of my reach, but he cut me off. "Naw, don't worry about money, I can give them to you for free. I found them under a pile of books that were covered with dust. Nobody at the Depository knows that they were ever here."

I wanted to say, "I could hug you, Lee." However, my mind was now racing ahead trying to calculate when I could come up with the round-trip airplane fare to Dallas.

'Well," he said, "You had better get up here before the 22nd, because I will have a new assignment after that."

I was a little confused, "Assignment?" I asked.

"No, I didn't mean to say assignment," he corrected himself, "I meant that I will be going on to another job. My friend Jake bought a nightclub in Buenos Aires and has asked me to run it."

He may have said something else, but I was near desperation. "Okay, Lee," making a quick calculation after checking the calendar and my checkbook, "It will take me a few days to get things together, but I can get down there by the 21st, it’s a Thursday.”

There was a short pause, "Fine," he said, "but no later."

Then my worries turned towards insuring the books, themselves, would still be available. "Can you take care of them for me until I get there?" I realized that I was nearly pleading with him.

"Don't worry Q; I'll guard them with my life. In fact, I will carry them with me at all times," he said with a flamboyant sense of self confidence. I remember asking him if he thought that they would be safe with him. "Hey Q," he responded, with that insouciance one always associates with ex Marines, "Don't worry your little head off, I'll guard them with my life."

Immediately, I canvassed my roommates for the $500 I needed for my round trip air fare and miscellaneous expenses. A few days, later, I was on my way to Dallas.

Well, who killed Alexander Magnus? The "Who" part is actually a pretty simple question to answer, although without some historical documentation, can never be really proven. The plot, as far as I can put it together, was hatched in the warrens of the Lyceum in 324 BC. The main conspirators included Aristotle, Demosthenes the Athenian orator and its most outspoken citizen and Antipater, Alexander's Regent, without whose support no plot against Alexander would have been thinkable let alone, possible.

The Why(s) are just as evident. For Aristotle, it was a long seething revenge: first, for the action taken by Philip, Alexander's father, to coerce the unwilling Aristotle to train young Alexander into becoming the "Philosopher King." Aristotle had been exposed to that Platonic concept during his years at the Academy and the theories about the way forms of government characteristically succeed each other in the state, however, he despised the concept of kings in any avatar. When Aristotle refused Philip's offer, the latter ordered the destruction of Aristotle's home village, Stagira, in Thrace and the dispersal of its population to the four corners of the Macedonian Kingdom. Aristotle got the message and agreed.

The second cause, which only added salt to the wound and increased his ire for revenge, was the execution of, Aristotle's nephew, Callisthenes, on Alexander's orders, on the charge that he was plotting to kill him. Alexander made it clear by this action that he, also, suspected Aristotle was in on it, too.

For Demosthenes, the why is historically evident: he, alone among the Athenians, publicly called for opposition against Alexander. (Diogenes, also, spoke out against Alex, but he was from Corinth.) Demosthenes saw the Macedonians as Barbarians and Macedonia's hegemony over the Greek states as a bizarre hallucination in the extreme.

Unrivaled political power was Antipater's motive. With Alexander gone, Antipater saw himself as the boss. It didn't work out that way, but hey, he tried. After Alexander's death in 323, Aristotle beat it out of town saying, that he didn't want the "Athenians to sin twice against philosophy." That was a not-too-veiled allusion to the execution of Socrates, by the Athenians, in 399. Both Aristotle and Demosthenes died, or may have been murdered, a year later, in 322.

The followers of Aristotle quickly went underground taking all his works and cult symbols with them where they stayed hidden for more than 167 year. (The eye on top of a pyramid that you can find on a dollar bill was and still is a Free Mandelbaums symbol, but was originally designed by Callisthenes.)

Since their reemergence under a variety of names, the Aristotelians have gone to great lengths to refute the allegation against Aristotle, including the destruction of evidence and documentation that implicated Aristotle with involvement in Alexander's death: even, as they continue their malefactions against the World Spirit. To understand them (call them Casuists, Scholasticists or Free Mandelbaums), you have to understand that their basic premises are founded on expediency, but especially the Lie. Aristotle was often accused of atheism and preaching evil beliefs during his own life time justifying his perversities and prevarication's by saying, "One can only come to a conclusion if an act is good or evil after having examined the cause." Here is one example of the double talk which he was fond of using in his Posterior Analytics, "We have (scientific) knowledge when we know the cause."

I'm afraid that I have to split Platonic hairs, here, and say that "Reason" and not "Cause" leads us to the Truth or Goodness in all instances. Often times, what we believe to be Knowledge has been purposely and falsely manipulated.

The Avicenna and Rhazes treatise would, I believe -- philosophy be damned -- have painted a truer picture of the demonic figure whose influence has been responsible for much of the havoc in the world over the last two thousand years.

Since November 23, 1963, I have continued my investigation; however, with the disappearance of Lee, I have not been able to add anything new to the material that I originally inherited. I have heard rumors that placed him in a Cadillac showroom in Memphis, Tenn., where he bought a Cadillac for a stranger who was merely window shopping and obviously in no financial position to buy one. I traveled to Buenos Aires in the early 70's and was told that, "Yes," he had been there, but had mysteriously disappeared after attending a political meeting. One rumor even had Lee altering his appearance with the aid of plastic surgery, becoming a rock star, and dying of a drug overdose in Paris where he was buried in the Cemetière Père Lachaise. However, when forensic specialists opened the casket, in 1984, it was empty. Recently, someone told me that they heard that he was back in Texas, and had been the leader of a religious cult somewhere around Waco, in the middle 80's; others say they had spotted him, just a few years, ago, as a hired hand on a ranch in MIdland.

In any case, I haven't given up the search, nor can I become too demoralized. Long ago, I dedicated my life to the sole purpose of uncovering the truth no matter how long it takes me--even if it takes my whole life. You see, I know that I was not the only person who lost out that day, in November. All the American people were the losers: and, in a larger sense, all of Western Civilization lost, too. Ultimately, Truth was the biggest loser of all, and, for the time being, Conspiracy, the big winner.
Szia,
From Budapest,
LP

Screaming From The Pyre, Chapter VI. Four Essays For Readers of the English Language

1. Pipe Dreams
2. Running Amok
3. Porcelain?....No, nothing quite as Vulgar
4. Dunal Musing no.637

Pipe Dreams:


Fred Friendly was as close to being a moral philosopher as anyone I
met in Journalism School. Yet, he revealed himself to having been as philosophically conflicted as the rest of us mortals in a profession that requires truth to be served fresh everyday without seasoning. Somehow, it seemed, that he was always able to get up in the morning to approach life fairly, forgetting the unevenness of the day before. He had a great sense of perception into the human soul; could criticize and accept criticism, never losing his wonderful sense of grace: he didn't need to, he was an old fox in a familiar chicken coop. Above all, he was honest; for that reason, he earned my respect.

It was he who taught me the expression, "Piping a story," or simply, "Piping," an expression from journalism's not-too-ancient past which meant writing a story based on creativity not reportage. Editors, when suspecting that a reporter had inflated his/her story with fantasy, might ask: "Have you been smoking the opium pipe?" I suspect that the editors of the NYT may have had cause, three years ago, to use that expression several times to one young reporter who, through some strange psychopathology, threw away the opportunity of a lifetime: an opportunity for which many of us would have gladly given an essential body part. During that scandal, I thought of Fred Friendly and "Piping." I could laugh; I could shake my head; I could rue the vagaries and vicissitudes of a life in which the Gods share a greater sense of humor than we.

Perhaps, that young fellow was really hitting the opium pipe. Just a thought.

Without reaching for Webster's, it's probably not too much of a stretch to assume that the term "Pipe Dreams'" has its root in the same soil. How about Popeye? What was it that he always had in his pipe that allowed him to feel like a super sailor? poppies?

The late 19th century cartoon strip, "The Yellow Kid," and the Spanish-American War gave rise to the term "Yellow Journalism." They could have just as easily called it, "Poppycock." N'est ce-pas?

In Hungary, the Poppy, rather its seed (Mák), is as integral to its culture as the Apple Pie is to America. Hungarians eat: poppy seed bread, poppy seed cake, poppy seed rolls, and a myriad of other different foods which have poppy seeds as an ingredient. You have to understand that even before the Ottomans were here, the Magyars had, for centuries, been influenced by things Turkic. Hungary was prepared not to join the EU if they were not allowed to grow and eat poppy seed. The EU relented and allowed Hungary a special dispensation to continue their poppy culture. The U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration, however, continues to cast a wary eye toward Hungary. Let me ask you this: "If you have received a package from Hungary through the mails, how long did it take? Was the package obviously opened?" Many Hungarians complain, bitterly, that packages that they mail to the States, are often returned to them with no apparent explanation.

All this, then, has been a prologue to what really set me off in this direction, namely, "Kubla Khan" (whose 54 lines I had put to memory years ago) and its author, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Most of us know the story of how the poem supposedly came to be written. Coleridge claimed, for public consumption, that he had been ill; had retired to a country house to recuperate, and, while there, was given a prescribed drug, an "anodyne" he called it, that eased his pain and allowed him to slip into a prolonged slumber in which he had the vision that led to Kubla Khan. The "anodyne" was most likely opium which was all the rave among the creative crowd in that period. In fact, Coleridge had confided with his friends, chaps by the name of Wordsworth, Lamb and Byron that he was experimenting with opium. That was probably a lot of poppycock. More likely, he was using opium as an excuse to justify a long unproductive period to his close and curious friends.

Allow me to digress. (More?) While the literati were dabbling in Great Britain and France with opium and hashish (In France, Dumas quickly comes to mind), some sources mention Charles Wilson Dodgson, a.k.a., Louie C., with eating funny looking mushrooms and liking little girls: however, at the same time, the Lumpen and the working class were juicing it up with gin and blissing out on arsenic. (Long sentence? Tough! You can do whatever you like when you don't have an editor skulking around.) That's right, arsenic. It seems that one can get pretty wasted on arsenic. The only problem, however, is that the body can't excrete it fast enough and that which can not pass, is stored in the liver. As it happens, one day the liver reaches its saturation level and the abuser dies. Often, during the 19th Century, so did his/her spouse: usually, it was the wife..

You see, forensic medicine had come far enough in the 19th century, that medical examiners or coroners -- ( from the word "Crowners" the gentlemen that King Henry VIII, used to send out to investigate suspicious deaths. If it was found that the victim died from suicide, Hank would claim all the victim's property. Cool!)-- could determine if someone had died of arsenic poisoning.

"It was in the name of Justice and Pure Science, they all said,
That they stretched out the poor women's body from her head,
A Crowner had determined that, to her husband, poison she had fed.
For, as bitter tasting as arsenic may be,
Far worse, was to be hanged on Albion's Tree.

"An innocent she had been through years of poverty and strife,
The victim, you see, had kept his addiction a secret from his wife,
But, Alas and Alack she, too, reached a bitter end to her wretched life.
For, as bitter tasting as arsenic may be,
Far worse, was to be hanged on Albion's Tree." (Perez)

Sorry about that.. Sometimes, I get carried away We were talking about Coleridge:

Coleridge was not a consistent worker like Wordsworth (Cool name for a poet), he liked to take time off... to think.(?) Have you read, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner?" He had to have had a lot of free time to come up with that. One of my life's ambitions which I am actually working on is to put it entirely-- and perfectly-- to memory. Every line is complicated and suffused with difficult and archaic language.

I used the word "Eftsoons," recently, and one listener called me up and said that he knew what the word meant, (Liar, I know he used a dictionary), "after soon/soon after." The challenge was why did I have to use such old words. "Wherefore?" I replied. Because it is English, that's wherefore! Although English is not really my mother tongue, I am working hard to get it. The corpus of the English language is full of thousands of unused and unspent words that it flies in the face of credulity the rationale for adding newer words (Dissing and Props readily come to mind) to the modern lexicon while there are words already in existence that still can do the job quite nicely.

The problem, I have found, lies in the same root cause that is responsible for English speakers on both sides of the water from learning new languages. From Brixton to the Bronx to Bushville, English speakers for what ever reason, are inherently lazy when it comes to studying their own language, forget bothering to learn a completely different language. For the most part, hidden behind a veneer of arrogance, is that most English speakers, hither and yon, are actually speaking a patois of English... I'm afraid it "bees" that way.

Perhaps, English is as difficult a language as some non-English speakers have always maintained. Shazam! Maybe that's my problem? It's not that English is not my mother tongue but, simply, English is difficult. It makes one stop and think.

It is my practice not to discuss American politics from this perch, but I do want to make one very positive comment about Bill Clinton concerning something that happened while he was still the Prez.

It was during a running press conference in the midst of one of the scandals (call them puffs of smoke in the wind) which plagued his administration that a reporter shouted out to the President, as he was actively fleeing their presence, "Mr. President, could you disabuse us of.....?" I apologize for not remembering what else the reporter said. Maybe, he never finished his question, because Bill (he likes to be called "Bill"), turned on a dime in such a fury that you could tell he hadn't rehearsed his reaction and shouted back as if he were ready to punch the guy in the nose. "Disabuse?" And then went on in what I thought was a little over acting. What I was happy about was that he knew what the word meant.

Or did he? I know that he went to Yale, but that was just for law school, and it was Hillary "Her lips were red her looks were free, her locks as yellow as gold. Her skin was as white as leprosy, the Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold." (STC)and not he, that was on top of the class. Still, I would like to think that he knew, after all, English is his mother tongue.

*Atque haec qua celeritate gesta sint quamquam videtis tamen a me in dicendo praetereunda non sunt."

Unfair? Okay, literally translated: " And these things, with what swiftness they were accomplished, although you see (this), nevertheless (they) must not be passed over by me in speaking."

Better rendered in English, "And, although you are well aware of it, I would like to emphasize the swiftness in which these things were accomplished." In other words, Th-Th-Th-That's All Folks!

*From a speech by Cicero in the Roman Senate praising Pompey's military skill and recounting his many successes in suppressing piracy. Class dismissed!

From Budapest




Running Amok

Egads and Little Fishes1 Recently, I was accused of "Running Amok." Okay, perhaps I was acting a little bit odd. I was under a lot of pressure to complete something in my personal life: however, I didn't think I was running amok: "Berserk," maybe?

The Berserks were a late Viking group which was in the habit of working themselves up into a frenzy before going into battle, throwing down their weapons and ripping off their shirts ("Ber"= without, and "serk" = shirt) when they charged the enemy. That scared the hell out of their foes. So, when someone tells you that so and so went berserk, the operative question should be: "Did he rip off his shirt?").

However, to be absolutely sure, I ran over to my Websters. It defined "Running Amok," as flying about in a murderous rage. Nope, that wasn't the case at all. Satisfied that I had been socially misdiagnosed, I was ready to close the dictionary when, as is my wont, I continued to read the etymology.

Yiiiiii, it happened again.

The dictionary was absolutely, and unapologetically, wrong. It attributed the phrase to Malay: Any dummy who has read the "Travels of Marco Polo," knows that the term is from India. In fact it is a Sanskrit word with, generally, the same meaning, but, as M. Polo pointed out, with a completely different and interesting twist, which I intend to get into, later. To make this as painless as possible, let me point out that the Malays acquired the term from the Indians with whom they were, from a very early period, involved in commercial trade: and, we got it from the Portuguese who traded with both of them.

I'm accustomed to accepting from those very erudite scholarly-boards, which lend expertise to smart and sundry lexicons, sometimes misleading clues to word origins, albeit, from ignorance or arrogance. They sit back on their scholarly laurels in similarly well-appointed research rooms with comfortable chairs, long tables, antique lamps, no telephones, maybe a computer terminal in some discreet corner but best of all, they have, at their disposal, tons and tons of old MSS. and lexicons (Do I sound jealous? Well, yes I am.). So why can't they do a better job?

Something, my friends, stinks in those well-appointed reading rooms. (I can hear the ghost of the venerable, however unhygienic, Dr. Johnson, protesting the misuse of an intransitive verb by a woman with whom he was sharing a carriage and who had criticized his strong odor by saying that he "smelled.": "'Smell' Madam? I STINK! You smell.")

In the "CompleteYule-Cordier's Edition of 'The Travels of Marco Polo'" Vol. II, p. 347 and footnote #5, M. Polo and Y & C. talk about the Amuki of Malabar, India, who, "were bound not only to defend the king's life with their own, but, if he fell, to sacrifice themselves by dashing among the enemy and slaying until slain." Compare that with the Sanskrit, "Amokhya; Indissoluble" or "Amukta: not free bound." Satisfied, at least about the origins of the term?

Speaking of Running Amok, I saw my first American film the other day on video. I was so unnerved by the amount of nonsense that passes for historical accuracy that I vowed not to see another Classic for the next five years.

However, did someone say "trash?" I understand that the film "Troy," is out on tape. When I have the stomach for it, I'll hook up the VCR and take a peak. There's no hurry. The longer it sits in the Video stores, the cheaper it gets,. Anyway, I know the story and I know how it ends. Timeo Danaos et donas gerentis.

Unlike the Amuki, Alexander the Great's personal bodyguards, the Companions, were not expected to die with him. They were called the "Companions" because they were with Alex 24/7. They ate (cum + pan = 'with bread") with him, partied with him, slept (errr) with him and stayed next to him in battle, but, as I said, were not expected to follow him into Paradise

I read a review of "Troy" as I was spreading out some old newspaper to do a little bit of painting. It said that Scholars (who ever they are) were in agreement that the film fulfills the Poet's vision. I would say anything for money, too. Wherefore not? Alas and Alack, no one made me an offer like that..

"Sing Goddess the wrath of Peleus' son Achilleus and its devastation...."

Frankly, with product placement becoming increasingly more important to the movie business because of the anemic return in ticket sales, I wouldn't be surprised to see the Nike swoosh (is that how it is spelt?) on Achilleus' headband, or the Gucci label on his sandals.As far as kids are concerned (kids of all ages), Nike and Gucci may have been around in 1225 B.C. Now, wouldn't that have been nice?

I really meant "nice" in its original meaning. "Nice," of course, means "stupid" as I have noted, before. We still use it when someone drops a cup of coffee on our brand new clothes at a party: "Nice going!" I have two editions of "Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary," printed a decade apart. In the oldest Edition, it carries that meaning. In the more recent, it does not. Sigh, who makes these decisions?

Speaking of Troy: It was reported a few years, back, that the fabled and nearly forgotten Treasure of Troy, did not get melted down for gold during World War II as many art historians had feared, but ended up in St. Petersburg's, Hermitage, for "safekeeping." That fact doesn't surprise me one twit. Most of the art, books and historical treasures of eastern Europe ended up in Russia for the same reason, "safekeeping."

You can't tell me that history is not entertaining by itself. Think of recent history. What if Hollyweed decided to make a movie of former President Clinton, would it be more entertaining if the Pizza delivery girl, (whatshername?), was really a pizza delivery rent-boy named Mike and instead of a black dress it was a pair of torn black Levis? Would that make the movie more entertaining than the real thing?

We are used to movies running amok with the truth because, from an early age, we are fed that kind of stew. George Washington was a great man for many reasons. The Constitution, after all was his idea, not Madison's or Jefferson's. But did he really chop down his father's cherry tree and then say, "Father, I can not tell a lie, I chopped down your cherry tree"?

Well, let's investigate: how old was George when this incident took place? Cherry is hard wood. So, he didn't do it (at least not alone) when he was a toddler. Maybe, he did it when he was a teenager and was testing out his brand new birthday present, a dropped-forge ax not-made in China, on his father's cherry sapling and he was caught red-handed with the ax in his hand. That, I believe. "Yo' Dad, I'm sorry you busted me, but this new ax is so neat, I really couldn't wait to try it out and Mama has been complaining, for a long time, over dinner, how this tree would one day block her view of the Potomac and the White House which will, one day, be the home of the President of the United States when there is a United States and whose first occupant will be that sniveling corrupt neo-renaissance teenage delinquent who lives nearby. What's his name, Tommy Jefferson?"

In journalism, is "Piping," the same as running amok with the truth? Within the profession, are editors more responsible than reporters for maintaining a moral balance; that is, being truthful? Something else for me to think about.

I understand that Alexander Stone has made a new movie, "Oliver The Great." I can't wait. Really. No Really


Porcelain?... No, nothing quite so vulgar!

WARNING: The following essay contains a vulgar allusion. Anyone under 21, or emotionally conflicted should ask a parent or their religious advisor before reading. One can, also, press the delete key or, employ a word program that sniffs out gratuitous sex and violence. And, gratuitous it is. I could have easily removed the offending sentences, but I chose to include them, because I am old enough to laugh at my own stupidity and, by extension, everyone else's.


I broke a porcelain plate the other day, and I've spent the last two days reflecting and ruminating on my clumsiness and other things.

How could something, as beautiful to behold as porcelain, have so vulgar a name? Chalk it up to man's basest nature. In this case I mean "man," the specific, not the generic. By extension, why did a cowrie shell, called "Porcellana" in Italian,. and from which porcelain, through its aesthetic resemblance, received the name "little pig," or "vulva"? I guess it's the way some men (present company excluded) have-- and continue -- to associate one with the other.

Of course that sheds a new --if prurient-- light on the children's tale of the Big Bad Wolf and the Three Little Pigs. "Little pig, little pig, let me come in!" When I start pecking away, I never know where things will go. Forsooth.

I remember teaching a college class on the evolution of writing in the Middle East and I had just made the bridge between pictographs and cuneiform (wedge-shaped) and was pointing out that the Assyrians had a syllabary not an alphabet. When I realized that I had lost the class with the word "syllabary," I stopped to graph an example on the blackboard. I chose the word "tribute" (of which I have received very little-- either in monetary compensation or professional kudos), pronounced "ma-da-tu". I was only interested in the first syllable. "ma" which is written with three parallel cuneiform wedges laid horizontally, and a fourth perpendicular and vertical (orthogonal) to the others. I began to take double takes on the wedges. It was then, while I was drawing the forth character, that I had a minor epiphany, and, with my back to the class, began laughing. I wasn't worried about what the class was thinking. I could sense that they were curious, but I wasn't going to tell them.

You see, when I was a kid, the favorite epithet of the Italian kids on north side of 116th Street, our neighborhood rivals, was a four-letter word beginning with "c" and ending in "t" which I avoided ever using (much) because of the unpleasant sound that the mostly consonantal word made on my ears. For the Italians kids, it was totally different. The route word was the Latin, "cuneus" ( wedge-shaped or delta as in "Delta of Venus." N'est-ce pas?), which evolved separately in Italian than in other Romance languages.

Strange to think of it; stranger to say it, but the main reason I didn't use that word nor, as far as I can remember, did any of my friends, was that it was part of the lexicon of those other guys. That is not to say that I (we) were saints, au contraire, we had our favorite pearls, too, it was just that that word was identified with our cultural enemy. If that sounds ridiculous to you, chew on this. Weren't all American kids culturally conditioned to hate the Russians since the Bolshevik Revolution? We learned to hate all of Russian culture including the sound of the Russian language. Why not Chinese? Well, the Taiwanese were (and continue to be by law, I am constantly reminded) our allies. However, all of that may be changing as we speak.

Strange, for me, when I was a kid, was to hear children of Anglo-Saxon heritage making fun of the guttural sounds of the German language, Anglo-Saxon's mother tongue. Because of the two wars we fought with Germany in the last century, we were socially (all of us) conditioned to be repelled by res Germania. Too bad, really, since we grew up reading a pot pourri of Hobbes, Hume and Bacon and not enough Hegel, Nietzsche and Kant. That, however, brings me to a topic more germane to this essay: Philosophy.

I began by telling you about the broken plate, naturally, that led me to Plato. Soon I was in a swound, wandering (I avoided saying "meandering" to avoid the guffaws and the jeers of the cognoscenti) betwix Plato, Plotinus, and Porphyry, avoiding their logical extension, Boethius, who, because he was so conflicted between politics and philosophy, ended up on the sharp end of an Ostrogothic sword. Try as he might, he would find little "Consolation" in that. Just think. If Boethius had chosen Philosophy over Politics as a career move, the Western world would have beaten out the Arabs by 200 years in bringing back Aristotle to the world. Which means that we might have had the atom bomb as early as 1745, and have given Locke, Malthus and Mill whole new material to scribble about.

But I continue to digress.

I wanted to talk about language. By this time, you must know that I am obsessed by the subject. I have had the most difficult, call it agonizing, experience with the English language. It's not mine. It doesn't belong to me. I never know, when I rattle on for hours if anyone has understood a word I have said. Looking back a few years and recalling having to read exam blue books, I am only confirmed in this view, that no one really understands me when I speak or write in the English tongue.

Perhaps, that's why the NY Times turned me down when I applied for work there after graduation. It is obvious to me that someone there knew. I can still hear it in my imaginings of the editorial perusal of my application cum CV: "This guy just doesn't have it. He doesn't understand the English tongue." To which, I reply, "You must be right. After all you are the ruling gods of the English language in America." In short order, I began to believe that no national daily or weekly of any repute would hire me because they would all learn, very quickly, that I could never master their tongue: so, I quit trying. Which brings me right back to my subject.

In those depressing days of the early 1980's, I was walking to the Eastside through Central Park, you know, in the kicking-a-can-before-me mode, when I came across a homeless man who, in those days was still called a bum. What's in a word? Take the word " Jungle," no one was willing to help it until someone thought of changing its name to Rain Forest.: then, the world came tumbling to its door. Okay, back to the man: he was holding a copy of I.K.'s "Transcendental Meditations" in German and upside down, pretending to read it. (You see how neatly I can tie things up?) Well, feeling absolutely superior to no one at the moment, and feeling that I had stumbled upon one of the most preposterous situations I had ever encountered, I jumped in feet first. My ego, so recently deflated beyond any measurable proportion, suddenly exploded, and I said to the man, "You can't read philosophy upside down, avoiding, for the moment, that it looked to be in German..

He took note of me, and let the book slide down in his hands a little, smiled and said, "No?" I wanted to write him off as schizoid or a hopeless drunk. My comment was really meant for me: to make Me feel superior to someone. A voice (speaking of voices) inside of me was telling me to get the hell out of there, but, it was already too late, I had been snared: I had jumped into a very carefully laid trap. I knew it by the way he talked and smiled, but especially by the glint in his eyes which immediately sent a shower of arrows, bursting my over inflated balloon.

"Would it matter to you," he said in an inflected voice, that graduate students are used to hearing from their mentors, "if I read Kant backwards?" The way he said Kant told me that I should have been on Fifth Avenue by then. I was transfixed by what I suspected was coming and by the self-loathing I felt for allowing myself to fall into such a snare. I knew that I richly deserved it. "Would it matter to you if I read Him in German?" he asked, now more cynically than he had spoken before. And, without waiting for a further queue, began reading the tome backwards and in perfect German.

I gave him a dollar and spiraled downward into the Hell for Idiots until I came to Fifth Avenue.

My German was quite strong once. Even now, I can understand it and speak a little, but because of the combination of speaking Hungarian and not practicing German, it's fallen, shamefully, into disuse. I tell myself, that a month or so of living in Germany would bring it back. However, I don't think that there is any practical chance of that happening any time soon. That's how some things become lost.

To avoid losing my tenuous hold on English, I tutor private students ("I pity the Fools"). I've learned by teaching, I not only re-enforce my language, but I also end up learning more than the students. I may always lack the self-confidence and insouciance of say, a NYTimes writer/essayist, but I have no trouble, on a day-to-day basis, correcting the English or their misuse of the English language on their on-line rantings. Then, there are those poor souls from the British Isles that have been thrown up on the shores and hills of Eastern Europe. They still ride haughtily on worn out imperial steeds and think that, since English is their mother tongue, they know it- through osmosis- better than anyone else. I have a lot of fun with them. And, when I detect that I have come across an individual that actually knows an adverb from an adjective, I pounce.

"Which poems have you memorized," I ask playfully, wiggling the worm on the hook. I don't take away too many points if they can't recall any from Shakespeare to Shelly, where most of my repertoire is stashed, but when they can't come up with any modern poets, i.e., John Cooper Clarke, the Manchester poet, and likely the greatest English poet of our time, I can't help but slice them up into small pieces fit for curry -- now the main staple and fast food of England, having pushed newspaper-wrapped fish 'n chips right off the table.

Ah, I'm beginning to feel better. This writing thing can be so therapeutic that they ought to reintroduce it into the curriculum of high schools in America. While they are at it, maybe they should close down all the elementary and intermediate schools and reinvent Grammar Schools.

Learning how to read wouldn't be a bad idea, either. However, before you can get little Johnny or Jane to read, you have to get rid of the TV (at least the cable), open a book and read in front of them yourself. I know it sounds painful, especially on Sunday afternoons. But, think of it this way: there are all these newspapers and reporters who, presumably, know how to turn a phrase or two, and are employed specifically to bring you today's sports and other news, tomorrow. However, Homer (not the classic long-running Fox cartoon), needs your children's immediate attention. If they don't like all that Greek stuff, then try Virgil, he didn't like Greeks, either: "Timeo Danaos et donas gerentis!"
Szia,
From Budapest



Dunal Musing no.637: Where has all the Amber gone?

Silly question? Not at all: there used to be mountains of amber littering the beaches of those northern European countries lining the North Sea. So, where did the amber go. The people living there over the millennia burned it for kindling and fuel. The problem for those folks was that the winds blowing off the North Sea were (are) so strong and continuous that trees (which might have been used for fuel) could not root. In the same area, today, the Germans are generating a substantial part of their electrical energy needs through windmill power. The same geographical phenomenon exists in the northwest region of Upstate New York where the winds coming off Lake Erie forbid anything but clover grass from growing. It's no surprise that the best clover honey in the world comes from there.

What got me thinking about amber was a recent headline in the on-line edition of the NYT, that indicated that friends and foes of nuclear energy were coming together, implying that going back to nuclear generated power was a friendly, if not cogent, option. Actually, I didn't read that article or any other in yesterday's NYT, because someone, as part of a story about the unburied dead left to bloat in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, had placed a large picture of a cadaver on the front page of the paper where it remained until late in the day. Ever time I looked at it, I became nauseated. I think the article was supposed to be about class but it was more crass. That poor woman, who ever she was, should have been buried and left alone. Proof, once again, that the Times doesn't always get it right..

A short digression: Hey it's early and I have a lot to get off my chest.

Speaking of "nauseated," my first job in Hungary involved my working for the British. Things were going pretty well for the first six months or so. I tried not to correct their grammatical errors and I learned to insert those ubiquitous "U"s in words like labour, favour and flavour. I forced myself to replace "Z"s with "S"s. I even taught myself to spell "tire" with a "y" instead of an "i". The trouble started when I began to point out egregious errors in speech such as: "Between you and I," or "It wasn't me." (Okay, so that was from an American song. Still, the singers weren't university graduates). Another problem was the mixing of adjectives with adverbs as in the case when the adjective "good," was used in place of the adverb, "well," "You did that very good kid." -- (I taught my own children never to use the word "very" because it has the paradoxical effect of implying a weak or ambiguous statement),-- while common in the States, I found it unacceptable from the university educated Brits.

My downfall came, however, when my boss, a very learned woman, I was told, used the "valley talk" word "nauseus,' in a talk she was having with the staff. That was the end for me. As politely as I could possibly say it, I pointed out to her that there was no such word in the English language and that the correct word was "nauseated." She flipped. At first she ridiculed me. Then, when I stood fast, she reached for a dictionary. When she couldn't find what she wanted in one dictionary she tried to find the offending word in two others. At first, she looked at me in disbelief. From then on, however, she looked at me with pure hate. I could imagine what she was thinking. The word 'upstart' comes to mind. I'm afraid, however, that nothing that mild was emanating from those eyes.

Okay, back to the lede. The reason amber came to mind is that after seeing the headline on rethinking nuclear energy, I recalled that at one time amber was an important energy resource. The problem-- if it is a problem-- is that amber is a non reusable resource now elevated to the status of expensive gem stone, the way a piece of coal might be come a precious object for some future generation: secondly, the Greek word for amber is "Elektron."
.
(So, what colour was Elektra's hair?)

My youngest son, Attila, is presently sitting in front of the tube watching the Berenstain Bears (at least he is listening to American English, such as it is), so Daddy can expound at length on whatever is causing him grief at the moment. By the way, Berenstain like Bernstein means "burning stone" i.e., amber.

The Greeks had learned that if they rubbed amber with fur, they could initiate a static spark. Over time, in Europe it became part of a magician's routine. Sometime in the late 17th or early 18th century, a British scientist-taxonomist (I can't remember his name right now and I'm not inclined to look it up) ascribed all those qualities that produced amber-like sparks under one word "Electric." Which is bringing us closer to the point of this essay.

But first another quick digression: The reason that all of a sudden I have been seeding the world with my thoughts (notice that I avoided saying broadcasting) is that I found out that I am dying.
Oh, don't begin to fret. It's not going to happen any time soon (I hope). I'm 60-something, my blood pressure is a little high, I'm not really overweight and, like I mentioned to a colleague off line, all the machinery seems still to be functioning. So, what did I mean by "dying?" Well, even in my family where folks tend to live with malignant high blood pressure, become obese and sit around not doing much of anything, they tend to approach 100. At least, I get up and walk to the store to buy my two bottles of beer everyday without fail (Not today, however, I had my wife do it?!?!?!).

So, I'm at least 60% into my game. I woke one morning, recently, and realized that I am on the down slope. What have I been doing all these years: raising kids, teaching (I guess that comes under the rubric "raising kids"), writing books no one will ever read. I was a political and social activist in my 20's, but that got me into a lot of trouble with the authorities. In the end, I put no money in the bank during that period and fell behind my peer group. Now, I only have 40 years to catch up. I've strapped on my running shoes.

The aforementioned "nuclear" article struck me on how "the times are a changin' "... again. But, "I am much wiser, now" (some of you can tell that I am having a lot of fun here), and I am for everything that America wants and needs. If America has turned its collective back on environmentally safe forms of energy production like wind and solar power and think that conservation is foolish and unnecessary. Well, I'm with them 100% If America wants nuclear powered cars and nuclear refueling stations on highways and on city streets: they got my vote.

I only have one small suggestion. If they are going to build more nuclear plants in America, I would think that a perfect place to put them would be spaced along the beltway around Washington: like pearls on an imperial necklace. After all, think about it for a moment, most of the power in the world already emanates from there anyway.

The sun seems to have risen, once again. I should probably plan for these events, but in today's world 'certainty' has become as uncertain as the polar ice caps. It's hard to plan: Do I build a house upon the beach, or on high beyond the ocean's reach? Enough, this expiation is over, my four-year-old is awake and demanding his morning coffee.

Szia

Dunal Musing no.637: Where has all the Amber gone?

Dunal Musing no.637: Where has all the Amber gone?

Dunal Musing no.637:
Where has all the Amber gone?

Silly question? Not at all: there used to be mountains of amber littering the beaches of those northern European countries lining the North Sea. So, where did the amber go? The answer: people living there over the millennia burned it for kindling and fuel. The problem for those folks was that the winds blowing off the North Sea were (are) so strong and continuous that trees, which would have been used for fuel, could not root. In the same area, today, the Germans and the Danes are generating a substantial part of their electrical energy needs through wind power. The same geographical phenomenon exists in the northwest region of Upstate New York where the winds coming off Lake Erie forbid anything but clover grass from growing. It's no surprise that the best clover honey in the world comes from there.

What got me thinking about amber was a recent news headline that indicated that friends and foes of nuclear energy were coming together, implying that going back to nuclear generated power was a friendly, if not a cogent option. Reflecting on the headline, “Rethinking Nuclear Energy,” I recalled that at one time amber was an important energy resource. The problem is that amber is a non-sustainable resource; elevated to the status of expensive gem stone, the way a piece of coal might become a precious object for some future generation.

Another thought occurred to me: the word for amber in classical Greece, was “Elektron," the Latin electrum. (So, what color was Elektra's hair?). Today, few non-Greeks are so named, however, the northern European name, Bernstein (burning stone i.e., amber), is in common usage

The Greeks had learned that if they rubbed amber with fur, they could initiate a static spark. Over time, in Europe it became part of a magician's routine. William Gilbert, in 1600, used the word electricus to refer to these magnetic properties. Later, Francis Bacon and Sir Thomas Browne formally introduced the word in the middle of the 17th century to the English-speaking world. It defined any property that produced the same spark as amber as electricity, which is bringing us closer to the point of this essay.

The aforementioned "nuclear" article struck me on how "the times are a changin"... again. As I advance in age, I have experienced a concomitant change in my weltanscauung. I’m certainly a lot more conservative than I was few years ago. Today, I am for everything that America wants and needs. If America has turned its collective back on environmentally safe forms of energy production such as wind and solar power and think that conservation is foolish and unnecessary, well, I'm with them 100%. If America wants nuclear powered cars and nuclear refueling stations on highways and on city streets: they have my vote.

I only have one small suggestion. If they are going to build more nuclear plants in America, I would think that a perfect place to put them would be spaced along the beltway around Washington: like pearls on an imperial necklace. After all, think about it for a moment, most of the power in the world already emanates from there anyway.

The sun seems to have risen, once again. I should probably plan for these events, but in today's world 'certainty' has become as uncertain as the polar ice caps. It's hard to plan. Do I build a house upon a beach, or on high beyond the ocean's reach? Enough, this expiation is over, my four-year-old is awake and demanding his morning coffee.

Szia