Mer de Noms

Someone I once knew very well said that it never pays to reinvent the wheel. Thus I don't intend to gush about A perfect Circle or Keenan here, though I could and want to.

Found a great review of their first album, Mer de Noms, just now. From the heart. And finally, someone other than me has written about Orestes, one of the songs on this album that--- Geez. How else does one explain it except by saying it was on repeat for 2 weeks, and is still played every day? Its beautiful, as is Keenan.

Thank god for Maynard. He gives me a reason to stop looking for reasons.

here's that write up, full text below:

Thoughts on A Perfect Circle's
"Mer de Noms"
I know now that not all the sirens were women.

Something tells me that whoever thought up such a notion has never heard Maynard James Keenan sing. Yes, there are plenty of gorgeous voices in modern music and many of them have been compared to these mythical beings whose voices made men crazy. When Maynard James Keenan's life is over, he will be remembered as one of the best voices in hard rock music -- better than Robert Plant, better than James Hetfield (even now that he really can sing). At this point in his life, Keenan is not the kind of man that rock journalists wax lyrical about; too many of them are still intimidated by his ability to sing with such fervent honesty, to write songs that cut close to the bone -- or through the bone. His is a voice that rages and growls, but can also croon with surprising delicacy, something that has allowed songs like Tool's "Sober," "Jimmy" and so many others their heartwrenching, gutwrenching and unflinching beauty. This is no ordinary voice.

I was talking to a friend recenly while listening to the songs from A Perfect Circle's "Mer de Noms" and I said, "I swear, Maynard's voice could melt steel."

"It has," my friend replied.

To think that songwriter/guitarist Billy Howerdel originally intended to make "Mer de Noms" with a female vocalist. As beautiful as the music is, it is Keenan's voice that makes this album come alive. His is the siren's song that pulls us through the Mer de Noms -- the Sea of Names -- the songs on this album -- with such grace and sadness and purity -- with such anguish and fury and intensity. Every time I listen I am pulled ever deeper into the undertow of his voice, lost among the lyrics and tones and harmonies, maddened by how gorgeous and ecstatic it feels to be pulled in this way. I go willingly.

"Orestes" goes straight for the heart; it is the song from which the band takes its name, and its own name comes from the figure in Greek myth who is exiled after his mother, Clytemnestra, slays Agamemnon, his father. Orestes later returns, and with help from his sister Elektra, kills his mother and her lover. It is perhaps the most beautiful song Keenan (who penned the lyrics to all 12 tracks on "Mer de Noms") has ever written. It is the voice of the fetus aborted in the womb, or the grown man cutting all ties to his mother even though he recognizes they are forever entwined by the cycles of the universe, inner and outer: "Pull me into your perfect circle/One womb/One shame/One result," he sings in perfectly measured tones as his clear voice belies the horror of the situation. "I can almost hear you scream," he continues. "Give me one more medicated peaceful moment/I don't want to feel this overwhelming hostility." It speaks to Oedipus, to Freud, to Tori Amos' simultaneous acceptance and condemnation of violence in her "Waitress" and James Hetfield's struggle to let go of the memory of his mother in Metallica's "Mama Said." "Liberate this will to release us all/Gotta cut away/Clear away/Slip away and sever this/Umbilical residue/Keeping me from killing you." Its chorus is the smooth slip of the water breaking, the birthblood spilling, the body's quick descent out of the warm womb and into the cold, hardened world. Keenan's voice is just as smooth and slick, saline tongued, but its melancholy is ever-present and unfathomable. Love and hatred bundled into one tiny, pounding heart, into one perfect circle of death and rebirth, mother and son, blood and bone. I have heard this song many times now, and yet I have not lost the urge to weep uncontrollably when I listen to it.

"Magdalena" and "Judith" walk hand in hand, the two halves of religious meditation, the holy whore and the unholy martyr. "Magdalena" undulates with layers of passion and disgust, remembering the sacred prostitute and what she has become, what she makes men feel when they go to her. She dances on the pedestal, her legs wrapped around the towers of sanctity and sacrilege as men worship at her feet. "Overcome by your moving temple/Overcome by this holiest altars," Keenan sings. The guitars blare, a siren of panic in the air. "I'd sell my soul/My self esteem/One dollar at a time... for one taste of you my black Madonna." His voice becomes more distorted, unleashing a primal fury and fervor that can only exist in this place.

But "Judith" comes quickly; the other face, the other side of the coin. Here is the holy woman, the righteous woman, the self-righteous one who is ever suffering, ever denying herself the world -- and denying the truth in what she believes. "Your lord, your christ/Took all you had and left you this way/Still you prayed, never straying/Never taste of the fruit/You never thought to question why... He did it all for you." "Judith" is like falling, the descending slide of the guitar and Maynard's smooth, cut-glass crescendoes providing no place to grab hold. This is the love of the Christ figure in oneself, the love of a figurehead, the love of a man who has betrayed; all this is here. "Judith" embodies denial, self-hatred, the dichotomy of Christianity, the sacred turned inside out, the sacred become the scared, the hidden, the alone, the terrified.

"Hollow" is the dance in the ring of fire, the passion of lust outside of time; knowing what it is to be pure aflame and unashamed. But it is also the want so strong it becomes need, endless need; it could be for the love of another, the sex of another, or something more chemical. Bodily addiction. We are slaves to the flesh, inner and outer solidified in a single cry like the baby screaming for the breast. "Screaming feed me here/Fill me up again/Temporarily pacify me." The vampire in us never sleeps, and always hungers for something we think only another can give; but while we take and take again, it is temporary at best, and at worst, creates in us an ever increasing starvation of the soul. There is no give and take, only take, and take, and more take. Give me, give me.

Furthering the cause, "Thinking of You" is pure sex, the rhythm, Keenan's breath close in your ear as you listen, quick and penetrating in a way his voice has never been before. Then the breakthrough, the cascading tones of the chorus: "Sweet revelation," he sings, "sweet surrender." This is not a Sarah McLachlan tender surrender, but a complete giving of the self, and letting go, never knowing if you will see yourself again. He is the predator; you are the prey, helpless, shuddering with every drum-beat and gasp; yet you are willing, open, nevermind the consequences. There is no tomorrow; only now. With a voice like that, who wouldn't go willingly?

"Three Libras" takes us away on sheer gossamer wings of strings and subtle guitar, shimmering in the dawnlight of a new day, a magical place inside a Maxfield Parish wonderland. Keenan's voice is smooth as blood over milk; watching, wanting, waiting, wishing, wistful, bashful, resigned, hopeful and hopeless. A caress, speaking to an angel and yet to someone so ugly, so blind and hurtful as this. "I threw you the obvious to/See what occurs behind the/Eyes of a fallen angel/Eyes of a tragedy/Oh well/Apparently nothing at all." Then the guitars come, the pain, the cutting blades of reality in washes of glass, clear but slicing so deeply: "You don't see me. You don't see me at all."

"Breña" is born of the same air, winging away to a faraway land -- inside? Or elsewhere? In our own mind, or in the mind of this being called Breña? There is a solace here, however temporary; "Heal me, heal me, my dear Breña," Keenan begs. The flipside is "Sleeping Beauty," where it is in vain to heal the wounds that cut so deep, she is asleep for eternity; no prince can come to fix her with a kiss. Everything is broken, nothing is real. "Such a fool to think that I/Could wake you from your slumber /That I could actually heal you." Like in so many of these songs, the desire for the quick fix is more potent than the fulfillment of true joy; the passion that burns from within controls everything. Nothing can fix you. Nothing can make you see what you do not want to see. It is useless to resist.

There are so many pure moments on "Mer de Noms," so many inexplicable ones. The lost sounds of "Over" and the tremulous thumb piano bouncing against Keenan's lyric; the eerie, almost wordless tones of "Renholder" and its chiming, time-ticking guitars, ever descending into the depths; the self-rousing fury in "Rose" -- a deceptive name if ever there was one on this sea of names -- and the forgiveness and piety of "Thomas," offering another way to fill the hollows of the soul -- but for real this time? At least now the guidance comes from within.

"Pull me in to your perfect circle." They have, and moreso. Some will criticise this work for not being Tool, not being of that musical quality (as if that standard was anything close to fair); others will criticise it for being too much like Tool. Keenan's voice is the buoy, the lighthouse. The siren. Calling us forth, but to what end? In the sea of names, I am drowned.
~ Beth Winegarner.

S.K on ciggarettes

It was night. The ceiling was calm. My face, pillowed in my hands were chill, as were my toes under the blanket. Unable to sleep, I did the only thing possible-- I closed my eyes.

The first thing I saw was the coffee cup in front of him.

“So”, he asked, folding his newspaper—“What d'you smoke?”

Gotta be kidding me. I raised an eyebrow at him.
Not both of them. Just one. You didn’t sass off before knowing what cards he held.

"Don’t be a schmuck, kid. How much older am I? Plus your lips used to be pinker than a pigeon's foot. Now look at them"

He reached forward sudden, his fingers in my face before I could react, grabbing my lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. His hardened fingertip grazed the fresh crack in my skin. I winced.

"Going back to your parents with those lips? Might as well drop to your knees and blow a choir boy as communion goes by". He sat back, his raspy laughter smelling of bitter coffee. I ran my tongue over my lip, tasting the salty fresh welt he had just run his finger over. Opening my bag to scrummage for the lip balm, I glanced at him, smiling at me across the iron-wrought table in the sun, riding the sounds that came out of the cafe with the grace of an acrobat. He'd always sit like this, I thought. On a commode or at the dentist’s: back straight, ankles folded under the chair, tortoise-palmed hands holding his knees.

"That fantasy the reason you started goin to church again?"

He grinned, and sitting forward, extended his arm across the little table, palm open. There are things about S.K that make me wonder if he's Peter Pan in disguise, just like this-- He wont say 'touché', or laugh: he will extend his hand for a low five.

"Nope, just the sight of Mrs. Donizetti’s ass walking up the aisle to swallow the Host”.

He also won’t relent till I slap back, like I did now, letting my hand stay in his, feeling the deep cut lines in his weathered skin-- the shiny patch on his thumb, the sign of an old burn.

When I had asked him about that, he had brandished his fork and said that some men take love's spear in the heart-- here he pushed the three prongs against his shirt front, leaving a three-pointed marinara stain-- while others get scalded, but get off free. I wanted to tell him no one gets off free, and that there are those who walk around forever with an X stenciled over their heart. But he knows this, so I don’t say it out loud.

“And don't avoid the question".

"What do I smoke?"

"Yeah"

I took out my just cracked pack of Camel Filters, eased a white stem free and fished the battered black zippo out of my pocket.

He smiled a look of approval.

“That’s the thing I always loved about you-- Your fascination with old school. Wide gauge on purpose?”

I looked down at the smoke balanced between my thumb and forefinger.

“No. CVS didn’t have the regulars”.

It paid to be honest with S.K. He knew if you were winging it. He always knew. He nodded solemnly, shaking his shaggy head even as the wind whipped the white tufts up like waves every windy November day.

“Wide gauges are the best. Aside from the fact they give you the fullest puff. Wide gauges are like sheer thigh-high stockings and sipping good whiskey neat. Wide gauges belong to men and women who know how to undo bra hooks and belt buckles while conversing about the German elections, while dancing with the lights turned low”.

He was on a roll, again.

The next bit was in mime: a look of polite enquiry at me.
I nod. He pulls one free for himself. I hand him my zippo. He lights up. I nod, replace it in my coat pocket.

He then paused. S.K had mastered the art of monumental pauses, the timing of them—like the last roof on a house of cards. Delicate.
Inhaling deep, letting it stream out of his wide nostrils. He waited for a reaction. As always.

“How?”

“Simple. Wide gauges are sensual. An aura, like cigars, but less showy. Notice how all men and women who smoke wide gauges have square large palms, strong and short fingers. They all prefer their partners’ thighs to any other part of them. They laugh while they talk; they smile and close their eyes while they smoke. And they all give good head. Something that no 100’s smoker can do”.

“Hey. I give good head”

“Am sure you do. But you also just bought a pack of wides”.

I laughed. Out loud, in spite of the phlegm, the tourists, and his suddenly intent look, watching me as he put his cigarette out against the table-edge. I lit up again. Feeling the paper pull gently at the fresh welt on my lower lip. Recognizing the extra girth of these smokes, the way they lit up so easily. His finger in my open palm, tracing lines. The well in my mouth moistening suddenly, sweet. Gooseflesh.

Cold is the month of November, here on a sidewalk by the bay.

He smiled.

“You’re growing up”.

“This is a waste of time”

“No. This is the stuff to call your own. Cigarettes you like. The drink you order. The scent you prefer on men. The way you like your ice cream, semi-melted”.

I nodded. As usual, S.K was right. But I had to know.

“Why here, though?”

“Mm?”

“Why this table, why the white hair and the bay and the waitress?”

“Because you always liked side-walk cafes, and I haven’t been to one before”

Liar. But even before the last word was out of his mouth, the wrought-iron table, our chairs, the sea gulls all began whirling around, faster and faster, getting bigger and darker till

It was night. The ceiling was calm. My face, pillowed in my hands were chill, as were my toes under the blanket. Unable to sleep, I did the only thing possible-- I sat up and buried my face in my hands. My fingers smelt of smoke. On my tongue was the taste of bitter coffee.

GROOKS!!

It's been a while since I've seen any. Found a whole web page full, 2 minutes ago. Figured I'd share-- Here :)

Piet Hein and Da Vinci , in my mind, belong to the same genus. Here's an example of a grook--

LILAC TIME

The lilacs are flowering, sweet and sublime,
with a perfume that goes to the head;
and lovers meander in prose and rhyme,
trying to say --
for the thousandth time --
wha's easier done than said.

P.S

Take a good look at this woman.



Pay very close attention to her eyes.

Her name is FannyAnn Eddy. She used to live in Sierra Leone with her 10 year old son. She's dead now. Been that way since Sept, 2004. She was raped repeatedly, stabbed and then they broke her neck.

She spoke at the U.N Comission on Human Rights in April of the same year. In her testimony, she spoke about the need to protect lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender(LGBT) rights in Sierra Leone.

She was found dead in on her office premises, where she was working late.

Tomorrow, I leave to join a gaggle of american college kids who will spend some time over the next four days, mimicking the U.N.O in session. Some of them have prepared papers and talk-points. Some plan to get drunk once it' over.

None, I am told, suffer under any delusions of the grandeur that comes with putting down a proposal regarding human rights and sending it in to the big wigs. I was told that such model U.N meetings are only meant to foster communication.

Eddy is already forgotten. These kids at the conference, perhaps many of them on my committee-- LGBT rights, sex trafficking and child labour-- will not know her name.

I could either weep the tears of rage Im keeping down or laugh at all the helplessness that comes with being a noisy little hamster in a very big wheel. Or I could go out and smoke and remind myself to stay silent, and listen, and do only that during the whole conference.

Yes. That.

post-its before departuring

[Which btw are some of my favourite things, ever. Post-its, that is. Brilliant little invention. Almost as cool as the safety pin.]

post-it#1: I'm off to a model UN conference at UPENN tomorrow morning at 8:30am, in order to see what I can see. All ye cynical mumblers with the molotov cocktails: I hear ya, but wait till I get back and THEN we'll trash 'em. Only coz then I'll have the inside scoop on why anyone would want to model the UN. More on monday... and ah, yes-- I'm representing the social and economic issues of Bulgaria and Benin. Sex traffiking and other sundry matters, you know... all that frippery stuff. After all, what's sex traffiking when you have CIA moles left to blink in the flashlights, aye?
Geez.

post-it#2: Autumn has set in. Leaves are turning to gold before they rot. But only in daylight. At night they are just plain yellow. Wear gloves if you're coming to visit next week.

post-it#3: Found a delightful little podcast from Dave Riley: listen to it here, believe me its worth it. He calls it "a memo re globalisation", and its funny and honest as only an Aussi can tell it.

post-it#3: Found a live recording of Dylan's 'last thoughts on woody guthrie'. For all of those who don't "do" american folk music, Guthrie was and always will be a light. It's a beautiful piece. It gives you a reason to look beyond the plastic wrapping and take a deep breath and plunge in and get busy being real.

A thing I'm trying here, so come and keep company, would ya?

Brb.

Who wants to live forever?

A question I often ask myself.

And since I was in one of my less tenacious moods today, I decided to Google my pathetic state of mind-wallowing.

[Mind wallowing is a distinct art form, btw-- Not meant for the weak of heart, or vegetarians. It involves thinking solely about your thinking. Sounds easy? Ha. Amateurs.]

Thus-- pop open firefox. Type in "self destruction".

[No caps. Heavens to Betsy, no fucking caps, please. We can all hear you.]

Voila. Page upon delicious page of possible little tools with which to shovel about in the mud even more.

First favoured link?

Narcissistic Personality Disorder: Self Love and Self Destruction.

[Expect the worst, always. As I always do. But admit it-- you love me for my honesty]

The second was a a most delicious romp through a narcissist's theme park: misanthropic site called The Self Destruction Handbook. Come see even if you're filled with cereal and Dr. Phil's tough love. The grunts and guffaws are worth it.

The third was a link on Gia. For those of you who missed it when it played on HBO, Angelina Jolie played the part of real life supermodel Gia Carangi. And for all of you who figured bulimia, designer lingerie, fake eyelashes and drinking problems were all that supermodels were made of--- Watch Gia. The woman made self destruction an art. As tragic and beautiful as it can be.

The last-- for such gets boring, even for one as self-indulgent as myself-- is a defintion:

Self-destruction (Self`-de*struc"tion) (?), n.

The destruction of one's self; self-murder; suicide. Milton.

Milton??

"they also serve who only stand and wait"...

to turn the mud over with idle toesies
tea time hopes fading like burnt rosies.
And thus they bury those who dived first
before their idling brains yawn and burst.

Give me Gia any day.

Actually, just give me my bed. Am tired. Think I'll go now.

Haiku: For Basho

The pillow now cold.
A quail hides under its wing--
his eyes wait for sleep.

Two thousand grieving.
Empty bowl on the table-
His breath drifts like clouds.

Forty summers passed
Now his Daisho buried deep,
Basho writes at dusk.

Without roof. How else?
You wander'd ronin; wing'd seed.
White foam when waves die.

The road is longing.
A hoary pine stretching up-
A worn bamboo flute.

Autumn river runs.
You watched a shiny-eyed frog;
three lines on patience.

They listened for you.
Grass bowing in cool sunlight—
You spoke with your flute:

“Won't you come and see
loneliness? Just one leaf
from the kiri tree”*

“In the cicada's cry
No sign can foretell
How soon it must die.”*

Walk to Osaka.
A sparrow sang in a tree--
your eyes ate the sky.

Hard ice shrouds the lake.
Dried leaf under worn sandals.
You left in autumn.

A cloud of glad wings.
Tancho cries over white lake:
You return with them.

______________________________

Basho- Basho, Matsuo. (1644-1694).
Basho was born into a warrior family, but after becoming a ronin he devoted himself to the development of haiku as a literary form. He began writing hokku (17-syllable opening verses for renga) as separate poems, developing a new style called shofu or "Basho style." Basho proclaimed what he called makoto no ("true") haiku, seeking the spirit of this poetic form in sincerity and truthfulness. He also introduced a new beauty to haiku by using simple words. During the years, Basho made many travels through Japan. On his last trip, he died in Osaka, and his last haiku indicates that he was still thinking of traveling and writing poetry as he lay dying:
Fallen sick on a journey,
In dreams I run wildly
Over a withered moor.

Daisho- pair of swords a samurai would carry everywhere he went. Banned in 1876.

Tancho- Japanese word for the rare red crane.

*Original Basho haiku in translation. Others available here

More on Basho and zen haiku here

David being the wonderful soul he is, responded to the above haiku with this.

Pete Who???

So it's happened.

The man with the nose, one of the boys who slept under the flag, Pete Townsend himself-- he blogs. Here, in fact.

My first reaction was a jaw-dropped "eek!". The second reaction was to ask myself, Christ why??

My third reaction was to ask myself why I asked, at all. I realized its because part of me wondered why a famous, balding ex-rockstar would want to be part of the blogosphere. No more just ordinary people typing their weekend laundry plans. A paradigm shift, to boot!

But this made me curiouser and curiouser, because to claim there is a paradigm shift, one must assume there is a working paradigm in place.

Sure, blogs began with the unnamed mole people-- those whose names were only remembered by their mothers and their social security file. Those who communicated in C++ about gene therapy, a sovereign Iraqi state, hybrid SUV's and broadband: all things we thought would never happen.

But now-- Now everybody and their aunt blogs. Fathers recount nostalgic horror stories of initiation at hostel. 15 year olds enthusiastically type their Counter Strike captain's log. Mother's put up recipes. Goths in pink underwear describe the latest OD trip. Educators blog lesson plans. Principals post their after-hour fantasies, under sparkling nom de plumes-- things like DaRk $oR©ÉRer and Fallen_Angel.

Ahem.

And yes, there are even those old-school fogeys who honestly believe that their ideas, reflections, reactions, lyric choices [yes, we all love Led Zeppelin] and other such paltry scribblage are read-worthy, ergo blog worthy. Yes, I am one of them. The mob. The crowd. The mass.

A gentle mass, with some underlying system intricately woven: A & B will visit C's blog every wednesday. C returns the favour. Word verification jokes are exchanged [wtfru?? Really?? Tee hee] and then A,B & C will visit D's blog. D being something of a Blogga Daddy, F,G,H,I and P have already made it over. The alphabets in the middle haven't made it over yet, as they are all part of a group blog that's busy covering something important:
relief measures in Sudan, or the next American Idol.

Yes there are millions and gazillions and frupter-bupter-zadrillion blogs out there.
A blogger's born every 2 seconds.

But the one underlying feature of this entire burgeoning ant-hill has been the paring down of the blogger's identity to-- No, not anonymity. Unless self-chosen. Not anonymity, but a certain equality: parole officer and convict, judge and pimp, unheard priest and unpublished poet, we are all together subject to this system of online writing, this responding to comments. We are all bloggers. Together.

Enter rockstar bloggers. Royalty, Nobel Laureates, the Pope and Noam Chomsky. Larger than life already, in the blogosphere they are Gods. We tremble. We ring up their comments counter to 341 per post. And that's just the little leaguers, the station chai-wallahs.

The all stars, the cricket commentators, the Divine Cow Syndicate (DCS)-- we bow. We do not lift our eyes. And we cannot begin to scroll down the comments section. Our puny mortal pentiums pass out with the strain of it.

But why this need for thumbprintless one-with-the-worldness? Why blog, when you have the limo and the website and the book and the jet and the E! news interview waiting?

With all these thoughts buzzing through my brain, thus-- I consulted d.i about the matter. Threw it at his head, in fact, considering it was his ill-starred luck to be online at the precise moment I came across Townsend's blog.

Now, back story: I must explain that d.i is an ebullient Yoda, one who is perfect suited company for the above discussion. Balanced calmly between MSN and labelling post-production dvds, he stated the following [paraphrased below]:

1. Rockstars are people too.

2. Blogging is the celebration of individuality and the freedom of making that individuality apparent to the world.

[Ok so the ending on the last line was an embellishment. Mea Culpa.]

And he has a point. The core truth of the blogging paradigm is that there is no paradigm. There is no system of entry or exit: one either chooses to blog or doesn't. There is no hierarchy. Really. There are popular blogs, like there are only 2 favourite ways the world over to order your coffee.

All is Om. Prince William should start up a blog-- tales from the polo field, and rants against the paparazzi. Oh, and Pete aint the only one out there: the celebs are doing it for themselves. Moby, for one. Dave Barry for another.

Okay OKAY alright, so Pete is waaaaaayy cooler. Geez.

For the record: He blogs the chapters of the book he's working on. At least it aint a memoir. Here's chapter one. And he's making it all available for free.

Go, Pete. You'll always be my pinball wizard.

Of Looting and quibbles

loot (lūt)

v., loot·ed, loot·ing, loots.

v.tr.
1. To pillage; spoil.
2. To take as spoils; steal.

v.intr.
To engage in pillaging.

[Hindi lūṭ, from Sanskrit loptram, lotram, plunder.]

--From Answers.com

I didn't know that it came from sanskrit. One of the many things I seem to be learning these days.

The other thing Im learning has to do with the media and disaster management.

I have an issue. Its possibly a quibble, a technicality which in this world of live and let die, and struggling evolution means nothing. But nonetheless:

Its about painting the picture. I have no issue with the projected numbers: the death toll is how the rest of the world understands the gravity of the situation. I have no issue with depicting slow aid or angst at the government: that's how people and authorities realize how much there is to be done. Like what a bed of nails does for a sadhu, new reports keeps us from being complacent.

I do have an issue with the usage of the term "looting". As a verb the word is used as an alternative to "pillaging", "taking spoils" and "stealing".

There has been a lot of "looting" in the news recently. Photos of many Americans with arms full of stuff they didn't swipe a card for. And much horror and clicking of tongues.

Yesterday, while reading AP and Reuter news reports that described looting in Muzzafarbad, I wanted to know about the authenticity of the usage of that word. How did those news agencies use it with such sniffy, professional ease?
So I read a few of the reports, here, here, here and here.

These news reports were culled from online editions of TOI & Ontario's Chronicle Journal, as well as Sify and arabnews.com, two online news portals.

The headlines read as follows:

"Looting breaks out in quake-struck region" *chronicle Journal)

"Looting Erupts as Quake Victims Get Frustrated Waiting for Relief" (Arab News)

"After quake, looting strikes Muzaffarabad" (Sify)

"Looting begins in quake zone" (TOI)

If you read the articles, you will see that every declaration of looting is followed by its description, which ultimately breaks down to this: starving villagers steal biscuits and bread from a tea shop, fuel from a petrol bunk as the nights are turning cold.

Stealing. Pillaging. Taking spoils, even.

Forgive me if I have a problem with the headlines. They are needlessly sensational. They portend anarchy, instead of telling the tales of little people trying to keep what remains of themselves and their families alive.

No cars, Nikes,toilet paper or exercise bikes.
Food. Firewood.

My only question: I keep hearing tales of angry people raiding relief trucks, blankets being air-dropped, dead bodies lining the streets, clashes with sticks and stones between the hungry and the shop-keepers.

Where are the tales of those who are keeping each other safe, caring for the children, guarding their relative's houses now empty of life, but still filled with belongings? Surely these are happening?

And why this black-bad luck-crow telling of looting tales?

[And btw, anyone who believes its only poor, homeless victims of natural disaster who indulge in a little pilfering, Time begs to differ: It carried a story In May 2003, of "U.N. employees scrounging for lunch" when the food workers at the U.N headquarters went on strike — "eventually, the masses stripped the cafeterias of everything, including the silverware". Ahem. Stewart Stogel has the story, here.]

Here's a look at our past experience of quakes:

In January 1999, a quake measuring 6.0 rocked Columbia. The death toll was no where near the toll today in the north-west frontier. There were reports of "looting" however. And this wasn't the only instance. There were reports of "looting" [yes, I will continue to use those quote marks, deal with it] in Aceh, in the aftermath of the tsunami.

Lets do a little exercise. Read the three following quotes:

"One looter said: "It isn't stealing. The store's totally destroyed, and nobody has a house, nobody has food. All this is to share with the people."

Several officials said they were reluctant to crack down on people who had spent more than 48 hours without food or drink.

"What can I do if people are dying of hunger?" asked one policeman"- BBC news report on the Columbia quake, Thursday, January 28, 1999.

'One group broke into a petrol station to get fuel to burn wood for cooking and warmth, while others snatched government cars and jeeps. “People are starving. They have lost all their family members, their belongings,” local resident Akram Shah told AFP. “Everything is gone, people are buried alive. Nobody is helping us to find them.” '- Azhar Masood & Huma Aamir Malik, Arab News.

'But help wasn't arriving fast enough for Indonesia's Sumatra island, where residents turned to looting to find food. "There is no help, it is each person for themselves here,'' district official Tengku Zulkarnain told el-Shinta radio from the island's devastated western coast... Red Cross official Irman Rachmat, also in Banda Aceh, said people on the island were in despair. "People are looting, but not because they are evil, but they are hungry,'' he said.'- Andi Djatmiko,Associated Press.

Circle the words and ideas common to all three quotes.

I came up with starvation, hunger, loss, despair. You?

Looting according to what I was taught in school, was what vikings did when they sailed in their longships to the British coast. Looting consisted of stealing gold from the church, horses from the stable and women from the men.

In the aftermath of Katrina, there were reports of people carrying household goods away from department stores. What made those stories incongruous and worthy of comment was that it wasn't just a pair of shoes, it was pairs of shoes.

So maybe its only because there is no Wal-Mart, Costco or Target in Muzzafarbad and Kashmir that people aren't walking away with blenders, bean bags and pillows. Maybe if there had been a damaged department store, people would've walked in and "looted".

But the fact is, there is no such store, and most people were taking food. Not treasury notes or government bonds. I say most, because Yahoo! carries a story here, in which the last lines talk about the main market area in the city of Muzzafarbad:
"Traders at the market complained that their shops had been looted by "outsiders" -- non-Kashmiris. "I ran a communications shop," said Shaheen Iqbal. "All the mobiles that were not damaged were stolen. I am left with nothing."

This was in the city of Muzzafarbad. One city. The worst-hit areas are those hilly and remote villages that even the army reaches only by air. Throwing around the word "looting" as a general descriptive makes the entire population of the north-western frontier appear given into anarchy completely. An aberration.

It is established that absolute despair and loss pushes the survival button within most people. In fact, the only record of any group of humans behaving differently when faced with a disaster of this magnitude, is a study of the Japanese who survived the earthquake in Kobe, 1995 (available here)-- I quote: "... There were no reports of looting. Many shared what little food they had. And even though many were very upset with how the Japanese government handled (or mishandled) their situation, they accepted what had taken place and resolved to begin anew". Is it because the Japanese (refer the Ronin legend) have had an ancient history of dignity and honor in the face of disaster? Is it because after being levelled at the end of WWII, they are prepared to face anything?

Perhaps. Good for the Japanese. I still have an issue with the wording of those headlines, though.

Maybe newspeople will tell me-- Hey. Its reporting. Our job is to get the news out and fast; its not worrying about being politically correct.

Get this, bub.

What you write, is what people who aren't present at the site take to be the truth. What you write defines thousands of victims of a great tragedy, who do not have the chance or immediate inclination to challenge or qualify your statement.

News reporting is about telling the truth, not selling a paper, or gaining hits on your website. You think its impossible to avoid sensationalizing the aftermath of a tragedy?

Here's the headline of a story covering the same details as the above four news reports. No derivative shmaltz. Just fact. Of all places, that article came off the Yahoo! news website, available here. It reads:

"Rain, scuffles adds to the misery in quake-hit Pakistani city "

This was the story that carried that incident of the cell-phone shop I had quoted earlier. It was the only one who carried this detail. It was the only one, inspite of that detail, which didnt use the word-- you know which one.

Words are connotative tools. One would think its important to be sure what image we're chiselling out, especially when we're telling people about neighbours they haven't met.

This is possibly a quibble, a technicality which in this world of live and let die, and struggling evolution means nothing. Or not.

You tell me.

Will someone please tell me..

...If this aid worker realizes what he's doing?

Why this burden of rock and then man? Though Im sure the one who lies underneath doesn't feel it. But why this forced oneness of dust to dust?

All around us, death-
you balance on broken heart.
I help, lying still.

My first haiku. De profundis, domine.

"The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become"- Milan Kundera.

Tell the fat white man to move, please. He's stepping on my heart, and its already been glued back many times, glue chipping away.

Please

Pray.
Now.

About blood and religion

HILLAH, Iraq -

A bomb exploded at the entrance of a Shiite Muslim mosque south of Baghdad as hundreds of worshippers gathered for prayers on the first day of Ramadan and for the funeral of a man killed in an earlier bombing. At least 25 people were killed and 87 wounded.(ALI AL-FATLAWI, Associated Press Writer )

___________________________________________

irish, both popish and ulster, didnt wait for lent
for buddhists and eelams, poya came and went
Sleeping bodies tried protecting Al aqsa
VHP want to worship a lonely ganesha
(stoned, just outside the qutb minar)

over a new drafted constitution
sunni will cause shi'ite destruction
In no religion did any god
make worship and politics 2 peas of a pod.

Atheist, buddhist, or proctologist
when it comes to bombs, its a simple q-
who was hit, and who was missed.

Kilgore Trout's 2BR0TB

Trout's favorite formula was to describe a perfectly hideous society, not unlike his own, and then, toward the end, to suggest ways in which it could be improved. In 2BR0TB he hypothecated an America in which almost all of the work was done by machines, and the only people who could get work had three or more Ph.D's. There was a serious overpopulation problem, too.
All serious diseases had been conquered. So death was voluntary, and the government, to encourage volunteers for death, set up a purple-roofed Ethical Suicide Parlor at every major intersection, right next door to an orange-roofed Howard Johnson's. There were pretty hostesses in the parlor, and Barca-Loungers, and Muzak, and a choice of fourteen painless ways to die. The suicide parlors were busy places, because so many people felt silly and pointless, and because it was supposed to be an unselfish, patriotic thing to do, to die. The suicides also got free last meals next door.
And so on. Trout had a wonderful imagination.
One of the characters asked a death stewardess if he would go to Heaven, and she told him that of course he would. He asked if he would see God, and she said, "Certainly, honey."
And he said, "I sure hope so. I want to ask Him something I never was able to find out down here."
"What's that?" she said, strapping him in.
"What the hell are people for?"
______________________________________________________________________________
Vonnegut, Kurt. God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater(pages 20-21)
New York: November 1978; Dell Publishing Co.

سورة الزلزلة

It was the night when everything is so grey that there is no different between sleeping and day.

I was awake. The howling winds coming off the bay rushed up the slope towards my dorm, cursed and yelled outside my window and then rolled on over the little pond, through the trees brittle with dead leaves.

A friend told me his brother has smsed about a tremor, just then. O Fearful Connectedness of Googletalk. We both cursed. And waited. He got to the news link first.

And even as it unfolded, the next few hours, deja vu started rolling film. The same emotions: the same checking to see if loved ones were ok. The same reading of cautious local news websites, letting the numbers flow through their fingers slow at first. Checking BBC-- updates, eyewitness reports, pictures.

Geological discussion: young fold mountains this time.

Group mails, receiving replies: some light-hearted, some in fear, some waiting, like me, for news from the places that were still ominously silent.

Receiving an IM: yes, a help blog has been started.

I have seen all this before. This has happened all before.

The Eurasian fault line runs through the area. Tremors happen here all the time. New Zealand quivered too, measuring a 3.9. Bangladesh recorded tremors at 5.4, causing high waves in the bay.

But this one was a 7.6. And the death toll projected by international news agencies is at 2000. According to the the Director of the Weather Office, its the biggest quake in 120 years. International agencies are claiming that the Pakistani Govt are remaining "eerily silent" on revealing a realistic death toll: I quote--

"But oddly enough, no one was talking about the human toll.

It was almost as if no one wanted to talk of the death and destruction that the quake could have caused

A reporter working for the state-controlled PTV said he had seen "30 to 40" dead bodies himself in the Frontier town of Mardan.

But it was never repeated".

PM Shaukat Aziz said it was too early to talk about the death toll, rescue operations were still on to pull the living from the rubble.
An appartment complex fell down. School children were crushed. Landslides have taken whole villages made of straw and mud down into ravines and a river.

The worst hit are those living in the heavily militarized zones of PoK and along the border of Kashmir. Thank god, that unlike what happened in Aceh, the military and aid workers are going in together immediately to carry out relief measures.

The relief measures in inhabited areas began immediately. One must be glad.
The actual death toll in the northern interior regions cannot be known immediately. God be with those alone and cold and scared, and with those who are trying to bring them to safety.

The red cross and red crescent groups are out in their ambulances, tending to trauma cases. Every hospital in the affected areas has patients being treated outside, for fear of another after shock.

Information rolling. Deja vu.

No tears came during the tsunami's aftermath, midst all the reading writing talking and running around that accompanied it.

In front of this lap-top, watching grainy BBC reports, I havent been able to stop. Misery because its the end of the world? PMS? nope.

Just--

people on cellphones from under the rubble, calling to say they're alright. Policemen digging with their bare hands, not bothering to wait for equipment. Children wide-eyed in terror. A group of dusty men and boys yelling and heaving a part of a concrete wall, one two three together. British citizens of Pakistani descent praying together, getting visas together, blocking phone lines together, collecting aid together, and jack straw adding a chorus to them all:

"But in this particular case, because so many people in this country - so many of my own constituents - hail from Pakistan, or their families do, of course the anxiety and the shock is even greater," he said.

"My message to them is that we're going to do - and we are doing - everything we can for British people of Pakistani heritage, number one, and two, for Pakistanis of whatever connections."

The london blasts saw tremors of a different kind run through UK's ethnically diverse population. From the pain of those accusations, from the threat of racist violence against pakistani/bangladeshi/indian citizens, to this coming together.

There hasn't been a single report, local or international, of crimes being committed in the aftermath of the quake. No looting, no murders. My friend tells me of houses lying open, all their valubles exposed, and passers by standing guard at the entrances, to keep safe the belongings of the dead and dying.

The apocalypse haven't won yet.

Midst all this loss and terror at shifting continental plates, with the many who broke their fast around the world, I give thanks. We give thanks.

Chapter 99 of the Qu'ran is named سورة الزلزلة(Az-Zalzala) which means 'The Earthquake':

When the earth is shaken with her (violent) shaking,
And the earth brings forth her burdeens,
And man says: What has befallen her?
On that day she shall tell her news,
Because your Lord had inspired her.
On that day men shall come forth in sundry bodies that they may be shown in their works.
So he who has done an atom's weight of good shall see it.
And he who has done an atom's weight of evil shall see it.

This is my version of dhikr for today: thanks be for the fact that even while in the mud, we are haunted by the stars.

In order to contribute to the Red Cross and Crescent networks active in the affected areas, please contact the following:

· In Islamabad: Khalid Kibriya, Secretary-General, Pakistan Red Crescent; Phone: +92.51.925.7404;

· In Islamabad: Asar ul-Haq, Disaster Management Officer, Pakistan Delegation; email: ifrcpk01@ifrc.org;
Phone: +92.51.925.0416; Mobile: +92.300.856.8136;

· In Delhi: Uzmat Ulla, Head of Delegation, India Delegation; email: ifrcin65@ifrc.org; Phone: +91.11.2332.4203

· In Delhi: Nina Nobel, Programme Coordinator, South Asia Regional Delegation; email: ifrcin134@ifrc.org;
Phone: +91.11.2685.8671

· In Kabul: Fatima Gailani, President, Afghanistan Red Crescent; Phone: +93.79.38.5533

· In Kabul: Vincent Toutain, Programme Coordinator, Afghanistan Delegation; email: vincent.toutain@ifrc.org;
Phone: +93.7001.8727

· In Geneva: Charles Evans, acting Head of Asia Pacific Department; email: charles.evans@ifrc.org;
Phone: +41.22.730.4455

Visit here for more details.

10 ways of looking at fog

I.
The world sleeps senselessly
Fog yawns
Stretching its amber fur ‘cross the night sky.

II
The bridge shrouded by purring claws
Is but 2 pyramids of blinking white dots.
Fur glistens in wet light.

III
Orion curls his feet under his shivering bitch.
The stars are hidden; fog smiles toothily
Ships and men must sail alone.

IV
Everything’s a fairytale
When amber globes glow in mist:
When fog sleeps at your feet.

V
12:05am. Flag strung from silent crane.
Fog for president!

V1
The toes of the cottages across the bay
Snug in the murmuring dark.
Fog stalks them
And springs upon an empty house
As if upon a hapless mouse.

VII
The poet awakes, abandoned.
Wandered lonely as an adverb.
Fog rolled in, hiding his ink-stand.
He shivered.

VIII
Happy is the smoke from your lips.
Frail fingers curl into fog’s fur
Faceless exhale, rushing to merge
With the smokish milling crowd.

IX
Lonely skunk fumbles to lonely tree.
Old bums' frowns softened by
Heat of burning newspapers.
Trees bend closer to lamps
Each an old man, grumbling.
Fog laughing, swishes its orange tail.


X
Orange tabby will come in,
If you leave the door open.
But it will not be
Put out for the night.




My professor feels that the only way to appreciate wallace stevens is to attempt writing like him.

We read 13 ways of looking at a blackbird.

and had to respond to it with 9 ways of looking at... something.

The weather here being... questionable, this is what showed up. In 10 ways. And yup-- I do love eliot. Like a dear old distant friend.

scribbled on a napkin

I cannot ask and yet I must.
I will ask, for instance--
have you seen 'like water for chocolate'
& have you cried over a foggy night doused in firecracker light?

I cannot kiss you and yet I must.
I will kiss, for instance--
the leaf before it falls underfoot;
the captured dragonfly in its muted terror.

I cannot weep, and yet I must.
I will weep, for instance--
so the muddy rain running meets
the thirsty crow, the child with wet socks, smiling.

I cannot give you my heart, and yet I must.
I will give, for instance--
the last sip from a still cold can
the bead that around my neck for you, has stayed warm.

I cannot bring you back, and yet I must.
I will bring, for instance--
Google up, & seek images and blue linkams
that pay homage to your name.

I cannot break the cycle and yet I must.
I will break, for instance--
my silence. But only the bored sea
will receive my howls, coz the moon has her head-phones on, again.

Sitting on a fence with Coleridge and Wilde at 12:05am

I know why the mariner shot the albatross.

Not sure whether Coleridge does.

The ship sailed for many a cold night, some colder than the one I stand under now. North sky and wind wheeling overhead- I have walked with ghosts and have felt comforted by invisible hands on my shoulders, invisible breaths taken by those who stand silent, watching the moon, the soft night. Harvest has come, and as we sow... shall we reap?

We do not knowingly kill the things we love-- It is out of disbelief that all hope and happiness can rest in another mortal being. We seek forever. We seek it. At last, hovering above the words we say-- our fists clenching around the blade's haft-- we find it. It smiles, watching our face change.

As with Dorian, truth comes past the knife. The brave kill with a sword. A kiss is fruit of fallen resistance. Cowards and traitors, we who refuse to turn our backs once and for all, because we cannot.

I have been coward and king and traitor.

Day after day, day after day, they stuck, no breath or motion.
As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.

He stood apart, watched by shipmates. Condemned.

It takes mortality, not übermensch-ness, to stand beside contempt and look for the moon midst clouds.

I know why the mariner shot the albatross. To prove survival beyond trinkets, totems and lovers.

Free will is a killer.

The Bali Bombings

"The police found a total of six legs and three heads but no middle bodies, and that's the strong sign of suicide bombers"*
___________________________________________________________


lets do it.

The others nodded.

Arms adjusted slowly into velcro black vests strung with explosives. A penis, one of the younger ones, suddenly needed to go, and was let out into the garden. With a sad cold nose, it was let back in 15 seconds later. Toes gripped in dank cotton socks. Hands carefully pulled the big roomy winter jackets over the vests.

Noses sniffed. One mouth shaped words of a song in silence.

A finger was bit, a little too hard, taking away the hard skin, and opening out a tiny red well underneath. Proof of life. Bleeding, and stuffed into a pocket. Uncomplaining.

In the absence of hugs, faces were laid against faces-- In the dark, two mouths met, quick and dry, old greek priests after mass.

Heads nodded. Feet shuffled nervously, and were pushed forward by knees eager to end the waiting.

Lights passed by, cold air, cars as flashes of sound. Sounds of the dancing multitudes. Muffled bass, and more lights.

In three different streets, three different hands reached into three different pockets, and pressed down.

The heads looked around at each other, smiling and nodding over the screaming flying air and sparks that traced their arc.

Squinting, the eyes made out the waving legs below, who tangoed for three seconds before falling to the ground, exhausted.

Thump THump THUMP. They landed like potatoes in a field of cobbled stone.

I'd give it an 8.5, a mouth said.

The others nodded, rolled over, and then fell asleep.

_______________________________________________________

*Raymond Bonner & June Perlez, quoting presidential spokesman Dino Djalal, Jakarta 2 Oct, 2005. For the NYTimes.

On the turning away: 15 July, 2005

Only one spotlight is on. And when the Great Hairy Hand pushes you out underneath it, onto the stage, whatever you do, don't blink.

Don't look into the waiting silent darkness. They know you can't see them. Stare at your feet instead, the space between them, where your nose hairs cast delicate shadows. This will make you look restrained. They will put down their spritzers and wait to see what will happen.

It takes them 3 seconds to do that. Those 3 seconds are all you have to think about what you will do, for someone changed the script. Again.

The 3 seconds end when you know you are being watched, even by the cabbies, the drunks, the preachers, and knitting mothers. You can feel their eyes. They do not know your name, nor do they want to.

They are there to see what will happen.

And it is this moment when your gut cries out and jumps off a cliff. The fear finds your vein and jabs you full of the cold creeping awknowledgement of how wrong this could go, and how many times it has already.

In that 2.765745 and counting moment, it must happen, or never will.

And it does. All that is and has been been comes arm in arm through the door, some peeping through the roof. Everything comes back.

The lost sand dollar, the sea-salted bbq on a windy beach on a dark night across which crabs scuttled over the styx-- The sea that rose to greet you, its stinging lashes in your eyes as you sat a curled ball in a cliff's hole--The children who threw stones at you-- The teacher's whose faith you broke-- The book you didn't return-- the grandmother you didn't speak to... the plane ride that brought you here... the girl you left there. The dog who put his nose in your bath tub. The love that opened your life up into the light. The love that closed it back down--

The tragedy you were too late to prevent. The wall you wrote on. Axl Rose over bad speakers in the rain. The people who came too close. Those who never took the hint. The ones you had to kill.

Your fingers remember the feel of old leathery dying palms, the harsh splinters off cabinets where your parents' old photos are kept.

And picking up the ridicule and the need to be the best juggler everyday, you go beyond the dimension at the bottom of the glass.

At this point, the chairs are moved to face the stage.

This is the point when the men and women who have gone before you have painted the sweat of their souls into pictures that lived because of what they gave up.

This is the point when they have danced in spite of bleeding feet and missing toes.

This is when they have embraced mother-in-laws, walked off battlefields, conducted symphonies they couldn't hear, and wept as they made the court roll over laughing.

And you dance, you leap with the power of having failed, and the awareness of still being alive. You whirl and scream and point and argue and sing and howl.

And when you exit, stage left out into cold rain and the street of no taxis and lone walking...

You cannot hear the applause behind you. Or see the bloody ears, money, maiden heads and tomorrow's newspapers thrown into the hat you left behind.

And this is the way it will be. Forever. Blessed be.

No one’s afraid of Tobias Wolff.

Nirschel [a.k.a *censored*, the president of this prestigious college] introduced the visiting writer this evening: A man named Tobias Wolff, known to all freshmen only because his book was prescribed as “common reading”, which is an endeavor to give yank kiddies a Higher Idea or Theme to think about [yes, its Bush’s idea. I checked].

He told us how Wolff had now joined a galaxy of famous writers who had visited RWU. He then named Salmon Rushdie. Name familiar yes? I thought so too. In fact, so sure was I of a resemblance, that I drew a possible portrait [like when policemen ask you to identify the bank robber from memory]. Here it is:



Right. Then Nirschel went on to describe Wolff, the man: his life, his jack-of-all-trades existence, which apparently included him being a parrot-trooper. I wondered at this new animal-- what could it possibly look like? Since the same notepad was in front of me, the fingers came up with the following:


Of course, Nirschel may have meant what he said in all good faith. I however, have my suspicions. Parrots tell fortunes. They dont jump off planes, yes? But then Nirschel is from New England. And everyone speaks...erm.. different.

The good thing is that with no further ado, the Wolff was brought on stage. What I love about living writers is that they look exactly like their pictures-- Ol' Bill Shakespeare for instance, probably in all good faith, wore a blonde toupeé. But how can he argue against a hundred paintings and postcards?

Yup. So Wolff looks exactly like this:



I was all prepared to sniff at this shining-pate-in-black-polo person. I had read his book, and though I recognized a pleasant read, I was unimpressed at the fact he called it a work of fiction and yet it sounded more like "creative non-fiction"-- a term broadly used to describe those stories where plot and characters are entirely non fictional, and where names are changed to protect privacy.

[And where there is more sex, and nods of recognition in the local grocery store than actually happened. Thats the creative part. But I digress]

In spite of all my mumbling, I sat there with pen and pad-- as you can tell-- waiting to hear what this man had to say.

He first said he applauded the common reading program, as it gave students a common language with which to communicate with during the first couple of days as freshmen.

Ahem.

The common words of communication thanks to the book were-- "Dude, did you get through that book?" "whacked, man. See ya at lunch".

Sure he was happy about common reading. His book was chosen, sales boosted, et al... but someone shut the cynic up. There were more important things he said.

Like how he wouldn't read from his novel.

Ave, Wolff.

He did however, go on to talk about the how and why of writing his book.
He opened by mentioned Frost's Road not Taken. He calmly went on to disclaim the theory that the poem is a celebration of individual choice, the riding of the rough path towards hard-worn success. He said, no-- see how Frost says 'the passing there/ had worn them really about the same'? He's saying both paths were similar. I quote Wolff: the famous last lines [I took the one less travelled by/and that has made all the difference] are "...about the lies he's going to be telling later on".

Go Wolffy.

Wolff's point was that when we--especially writers-- look back on our lives, we tend to dignify it, give it meaning beyond what it had at the time. And that's the danger in writing from one's own memory.

Wolff laid great emphasis on what he read as a child. Which consisted of books about Collies by a man named Albert Payson Terhune. Wolff told of a storyline that included a dog finding his way from Jersey to France to save his wounded master in WWII...

Ahem. No, the fingers froze in shock, nothing was doodled.

Certifiable, Wolff jokingly said. The audience half-laughed along with him, gazing at him in disbelief. He quickly brought them back by saying:

"The one great influence is the book that kept you up as a kid-- Sticking a towel underneath the door to hide the fact you were awake from your parents".

He had them back in his pocket with that one.

Wolff used to write vast amounts of stories-- Whenever his classmates needed to turn in a story, he would give them one of his. Yes, the teacher noticed once. Gave a classmate a C for one such story, a thing Wolff was told 30 years later. He said he still felt hurt because of that. When he asked why the C, his classmate told him that the teacher has said yes the story deserves an A: but it's Jack Wolff's story, not yours.

Wolff then smiled, crossed his arms and said he felt pride hearing that, even after all these years. Human, this bald pink trim man in a black polo.

He then made two interesting points about the craft:

1. Imitation is usually spoken of derogatorily. However, it is through imitation that we learn our basic skills; in the same way do we sharpen our writing skills.
He mentioned how Louis Armstrong was brilliant because of endless rehearsal and study [he pronounces it it looiss, not louie as in jungle book, which made me grin. Damn yankees]. He claimed Tolstoy, Hemingway and the collie dog man as influences.

2. He claims to infuse real life into fiction, to give it "spiritual geography"; he feels it fills out the story. Which is as good an argument as I've ever heard for the case of drawing on personal experience to write a story. He called it the melding of the personal with the imagination. He said, "scrutiny of one's life can take you to strange places". And then he quoted Eliot saying-

And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

~T. S. Eliot
[Four Quarters, Little Gidding, pt. 5.]

The audience filed out, waiting for the shining head to appear in the conference room and autograph books for 30mins. I walked away, the Who bashing it out on my ear drums.

Aye, Eliot. Aye, Wolff. You go your way, and I will go mine. As we all will.