by Gus Mitchell

When we hear the constant cry–that we need “better stories”–there is surprisingly little followup. How or where we are going to find them, how are they going to be told? The “how” is the thing.

Knowledge, our fetishizing of knowledge, our demand that we have an opinion on every new fact makes us utterly helpless, leaves us feeling that we don’t really “understand” any of it at all. Our most constant daily ritual is that of the scroll, the instantaneous return to the temple of information.

In our lack of knowledge and our lack of power, we can at least choose the stories we want to be told. Indeed, we have more choice than ever before. Why then, are we constantly told that our suiciding world’s crisis is “a storytelling crisis?”

Storytelling is a power relationship, a good, beneficial, and safe kind of power. The power is that the storyteller knows something which you do not, and which you want to lean forward to hear, to catch.

Nietzsche’s Last Man has no one to tell him a story. The Last Man is stuck in a world of cold realism, which paradoxically keeps seeming less and less real, less comprehensible.

Is the problem partly that the only civilization we have, which still shrilly declares itself to be the only possible arrangement of things, the last word on a realistic way of living, good or bad, is, in fact, fundamentally fantastical? (Unreal?) Read more »

by Brooks Riley

Layers of mountains above Franzensfeste, South Tyrol. It was snowing on the higher parts on this day last week. Rain in the valley.

by David Winner

 São Luís: Far Northeast of Brazil

People crowd around a samba band playing on a crumbling colonial staircase. A man in his early twenties lightly touches my shoulder as I climb upwards, whispering something in Portuguese that I don’t understand.  I don’t think he’s trying to sell me anything. I stick out, a white American in a black and brown part of Brazil, but no one has been approaching me.

Smiling vaguely at him, I keep going, sipping vacantly from the huge caipirinha that I’d purchased from a street vender earlier in the evening.

Once I reach the top of the stairs, free from the crush of the crowd, I stand listening to the music, inelegantly bumping my hips in some approximation of dancing.

Ten years ago on another riotous Saturday night, I’d visited São Luís before.  And found its denizens drinking, dancing, singing all over the Centro Histórico like in some MGM musical.  But a fundamental change has occurred. Before, everyone had been evidently heterosexual, no one announcing their queerness in a way that a bystander could detect.  But now, below the staircase and the sambistas, throughout the streets, are women coupled with women, men coupled with men, trans men, trans women, and drag queens like I’d landed in a pride parade, a queer explosion only months past Lula’s victory over the virulently homophobic Bolsonaro.

The man who’d spoken to me before appears at my side and whispers into my ears again.

I smile, perhaps I say, “sim,” the universal yes of miscomprehension.

But then he speaks to me in a language that I’ve barely heard in São Luís, English.

In recent years, I’ve taken to wearing odd polo shirts that I’ve purchased on my travels, and the young man is sweetly informing me that the one I have on now is “inside out,” that very particular idiom streaming seamlessly from his mouth. Read more »

by Anton Cebalo

In the past decade, the writer Simone Weil has grown in popularity and continues to provoke conversation some 80 years after her death. She was a writer mainly preoccupied with what she called “the needs of the soul.” One of these needs, almost prophetic in its relevance today, is the capacity for attention toward the world which she likened to prayer. Another is the need to be rooted in a community and place, discussed at length in her last book On the Need for Roots written in 1943.

The question of “rootedness” was a pressing problem, particularly for the first half of the 20th century. In the preface to The Origins of Totalitarianism, philosopher Hannah Arendt noted that the two world wars had produced “homelessness on an unprecedented scale, rootlessness to an unprecedented depth.” As empires and homelands collapsed after WWI, so many were uprooted from the only worlds they had known. And their newfound superfluous condition led many of them toward “fictitious homes” in the postwar years to disastrous results. Indeed, abstract loneliness had become “an everyday experience of the ever-growing masses of our century,” wrote Arendt, which had rendered them vulnerable to totalitarianism. Uprootedness, it seemed, was partly to blame for Europe’s destruction.

Writing earlier than Arendt in 1943, Weil arrived at a similar conclusion in asserting that “rootedness” was a fundamental need of the soul. In On the Need for Roots, she begins her re-rooting of humanity by outlining a few vital ingredients that are required for healthy nourishment. Yet, the key to her idea of rootedness lies in it establishing linkages to the past and future, forming an assemblage of parts that together provide one with necessary meaning. Such relational thinking often appears in Weil’s writing, as does the Greek word “metaxy” which means an “intermediary” or an “in-between place.” Of course, roots can so often be distorted, manipulated for nefarious ends, and imagined as myth. But given that we are intrinsically social beings, the need for roots as a fundamental fact of life remains sacrosanct. Read more »

by Bill Benzon

The road was generally somewhere in the Capital District of upstate New York. Think of it as a group of small cities and towns and centered on Albany, the state capital, Troy, where I lived at the time, and Schenectady, incidentally, where my grandfather had his first job in the United States, and where the band rehearsed in the basement of a photography studio in a somewhat sketchy part of town. The studio was owned by Rick Siciliano, lead vocalist and drummer for The Out of Control Rhythm and Blues Band. I played with the band from about 1985 or 86 to 1990 or so.

Not Exactly the Birth of the Blues

I am told that Siciliano started the band in the early 1980s as a means to attract women; I believe Duke Ellington was thinking the same thing when he decided to play piano. Rick got some of his buddies together to form a band. I hear he was better at attracting ladies than getting gigs. Somehow, though, he managed to gather reasonably good musicians. Chris Cernik joined on keyboards and served as den leader; he brought in his high school friend, John Eof on guitar. Then along came “Bad” Bob Maslyn on bass, Ken Drumm on alto and baritone sax to replace Rick’s buddy, Jimmy, and Rick Rourke on alto and tenor sax. There were others in and out of the band, Giles, some trumpeter whose name’s been forgotten, and then John Hines, who’d studied jazz trumpet at Berklee – that’s BerKLEE, the private music school in Boston, not BerKELEY, the flagship campus of the University of California.

They developed a repertoire organized around Blues Brothers tunes and Rick Siciliano’s taste in pop. They even had a couple of originals, “Lady DJ” (for Rick’s lust object du jour) and “Baby Tell the Truth.” Now we’re getting serious. Before you know it, Out of Control was getting gigs, but other bands were after John Hines. They put an ad in the local entertainment weekly, Metroland, looking for a substitute trumpet player.

I saw the ad, needed money, another tried and true motive for playing music. I called Ken, who acted as business manager, and set up an audition. I forget just how the audition process went, but it’s not like there were 30 trumpeters lined up to get the gig. Fact is, the time when trumpet was king was long gone by then so there weren’t many trumpeters, period. I forget just how I learned the tunes, but there were no charts. Perhaps Chris or Ken got me a set of rehearsal tapes. Whatever. I just listened and learned by ear, like all real musicians play, except for classical cats and other advanced miscreants. I soon became the one-and-only full-time trumpeter for the band. Read more »

by Tim Sommers

Suppose you have loved yo-yos since you were a child. You’ve spent countless hours hanging out with other yo-yoers, learning tricks, and reading up on the history of yo-yos (which date back to at least 500 BCE (see above detail of Greek terracotta: “Boy with Yo-Yo circa 440 BCE”)).

You have also spent the last ten years fundraising, planning, and participating in the building of the greatest yo-yo museum/yo-yo venue the world has ever seen. Now, tonight is the grand opening. You will be on stage yo-yoing with the greatest yo-yoers in the world. This is what you have always wanted. On your way to the venue, however, you suddenly realize that you don’t care about yo-yos anymore. In fact, if anything, they have begun to annoy you. You feel certain that you never want to yo-yo, or watch people yo-yo, or even see another yo-yo for the rest of your life.

But here you are in front of the venue. People are gesturing for you to come in. It feels like the person who would have wanted to go in there is a different person than the person that you are now. They are not you. You are not them. Yet, they have sacrificed so much to get here. Time, money, relationships – all gone now – in service of a love of yo-yos and a desire to be on-stage celebrating the opening of the world’s greatest yo-yo museum. A desire you don’t feel anymore.

Should you go in anyway? Do you owe it to your former self, who sacrificed so much to get here, to follow through and go in and yo and yo and yo? Can we even make sense of the idea that one could owe one’s own past self something? Read more »

—Two poems separated by 5 years have come together

by Steve Gimbel and Gwydion Suilebhan

French philosopher and sociologist Auguste Comte argued that there ought to be an atheist’s religion, the Religion of Man, with holidays, rituals, symbols, saints, and social gatherings for those who maintain a scientific worldview without belief in an all-being. If such a religion existed, 2023 would be a celebratory year: the centenary of its version of the Council of Nicea, the conference at Erlangen.

The First Council of Nicea, in 325 C.E., brought together bishops from across the Christian world. At the time, there was no single institutional structure and no coherent theology within Christianity. Bishops and theologians held a wide range of positions and endorsed quite different practices, which resulted in a splintering within the Christian community. One question about which there was disagreement: is Jesus God or the son of God? If Jesus isn’t God, then aren’t Christians violating the first commandment not to put other gods before God? If Jesus is God, then how can one be the son of the other? The ensuing debate led to the doctrine of the Trinity coming out of Nicea.

The First Council of Nicea was instigated by the Emperor Constantine, who was understandably fond of strong institutions wielding power. He brought the various players together to hash out their differences and create a unified Church, which then became the dominant power not only in religious life, but in geopolitical matters as well.

A similar impulse guided German advocates of what they termed “the scientific philosophy” in the early decades of the 20th century. Chief among them was philosopher Hans Reichenbach. Read more »

Sughra Raza. Hope.

Digital photograph, July 2020.

by Claire Chambers

I’m excited about the imminent Halloween publication date of Forgotten Foods: Memories and Recipes from Muslim South Asia, a book I edited with Siobhan Lambert-Hurley and Tarana Husain Khan. The new book is a partner volume to Desi Delicacies which I edited and wrote about for this blog in 2021.

One of the most nourishing things about venturing into cookbooks, food writing, and editing heritage recipes has been getting to know a whole new world of South Asian literature. As part of this, I was delighted to be sent Nilosree Biswas’s sumptuous book Calcutta on Your Plate, with its beautiful food photography by Irfan Nabi. Desi Delicacies had included two chapters, one a short story and the other an essay, by Bangladeshi writers. Now Forgotten Foods contains an essay entitled ‘Islam on the Table in [West] Bengal’, in which Jayanta Sengupta especially zeroes in on the Calcutta mutton biryani, complete with its distinctive inclusion of potatoes. However, I didn’t know too much about Bengali cuisine beyond what I had learnt from these pieces, as well as being familiar with British-Bangladeshi curry houses and the eastern South Asian region’s reputation for a sweet tooth. Read more »

by Brooks Riley

Just after twilight in Franzensfeste, South Tyrol.

by Nils Peterson

Love Poems, Why?

Auden says somewhere that a woman should be wary if her sweetheart starts sending her love poems because, for the duration of the writing, she wasn’t being thought of, the poem was.

Auden is being sly-spirited here, though there is truth in what he’s saying. The love poet is paying attention to his or her feelings about the beloved, what is being called up out of the inner life. These feelings are brought on by the loved one, but they are uniquely one’s own. You’ll remember that in the scene when Benedick realizes he is in love with Beatrice his last words are, “I’ll go and get her picture.” This was not to memorize the mole on her upper lip, her dimple, or pretty chin, but to be in her continual presence so that he can explore the feelings she evokes. All lovers, in their amazement ask, What is going on with me? What do I feel? What do I want?

When I see you
even for a moment
I cannot speak
my tongue is broken
fire rides under my skin
I am blind, my ears ring,
and I sweat and tremble
with my whole body (Sappho, trans. Peterson)

Wild Nights – Wild Nights
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
our luxury! (Emily Dickinson)

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you…. (Margaret Atwood, “Variations on the Word, Sleep”)

Why am I different? What has happened to me? What am I hearing when I hear her speak my formerly ordinary name? Read more »

by Paul Braterman

By now you will know that the new Speaker of the US House of Representatives, Mike Johnson (Louisiana 4^th District) was among those who voted against accepting the results of the 2020 Presidential election. You may also know that he is opposed to the concept of same sex marriage, which in some way he regards as undermining individual religious freedom, and wants to pass a law making abortion illegal throughout the US. You probably also know that he has denied that human activity is a cause of global warming, and has accepted more campaign funds from the fossil fuel industry than from any other source. There is a high chance that you have heard him share Marjorie Taylor Greene’s view that the problem in mass shootings isn’t guns, it’s the human heart (Guns don’t kill people. Human hearts kill people.) What you may not know are his views on the causes of the moral decline that, like authoritarian pulpiteers throughout the ages, he sees happening all around him. He has, however, stated those views very plainly, at a presentation he gave in Louisiana in 2016, available here. I have read the transcript of this, suffering so that you don’t have to, and despite many decades of following the utterances of people who share his views I was surprised by what I found.

Here he is, speaking at a less than overcrowded Shreveport Christian Centre, which describes itself as mandated “to participate with the Lord in establishing His kingdom in all areas of our culture. We desire to use the authority given to us to promote and participate in seeing the Lord’s purposes rule in the church, business, media, arts, education, government and family arenas.” The authority, of course, is given by God. He is standing at the front of a platform, and behind him are musical instruments and two flags. The flag of the United States, and the flag of Israel. The Israeli Right has been wooing the American Religious Right for decades, and the unquestioning support of the American Religious Right has done much to make Israel what it is today.

Here’s part of what he said; you can find the full text on the link. My account is rather rambling, although nowhere near as rambling as the original material, and I will quite understand if you just want to skip to the key points at the end. Read more »

by Richard Farr

We called my English teacher Scab for no particular reason except that it took the edge off our terror. A big man in a double breasted jacket, he wore tinted glasses that hid his expression. His head looked as if it had been carved rather carelessly from a boiled ham. “You are not going to like me,” he said to us in our first class, when I was 13. “I am the iron fist inside this institution’s velvet glove.” 

It was a front, mainly. He did not suffer fools, including his pupils and most of his colleagues, at all gladly. He probably dreamed of teaching at a university, where he could have discussed Chaucer’s prosody without first getting people to stop making farting noises.

By the time I turned 17 he had softened a little, as if he could see that some of us might one day turn into bona fide human beings. And that year the national syllabus gods gifted us what was (as I gradually came to see) an absolute corker. Among other succulent morsels there were chunks of The Canterbury Tales, all of both Othello and Lear, Gulliver’s Travels, Larkin’s The Whitsun Weddings, Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, Harold Pinter’s The Birthday Party. 

The most intimidating item by far was Paradise Lost Books IX and X — a hundred-score lines of theology that we found impenetrable, as if we were trying to hack our way back into an overgrown Eden long after its attendants’ banishment. Our feet tangled in the archaic vocabulary. Classical allusions stung our ignorant faces at every turn. (“Of Turnus for Lavinia disespous’d”? “Not sedulous to indite”? Both of these gems were on the first page of Book IX.) Scab spent a couple of weeks trying to make sense of it all for us but we were illiterate adolescents, lost and flailing inside an erudite adult’s poem. One day he sighed melodramatically and changed tactics. “I’ll read it to you,” he said. “Don’t think. Don’t even try to think. Just listen.” 

What happened next I can’t articulate with any clarity, except to say that the words melted onto his tongue like expensive chocolates, rendering his voice thick and smooth, and it was as if he had become Milton; it was as if I was present at the creation and was witnessing the poem erupt for the first time from the dark materials of the blind freedom-fighter’s imagination. 

“Don’t think. Just listen.”  Read more »