Politics, As Seen From The Workshop
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
William Butler Yeats
An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
You’re Not Nobody If Mark Twain Was Your Best Man
Frank Millet. You’ve never heard of him.
He’s my dead neighbor, over in Mattapoisett. They thought enough of him to bronze him up and nail him on, but he’s kind of obscure, I guess.
Who’s obscure? We all are, really. Quick, who was FDR’s second vice president? Never mind who was the Secretary of War under James Knox Polk. America added the entire southwest to the US map after a war he directed. Kind of an important guy. It’ll take you a couple of minutes, even with Google helping you, to get his name.
So we all scratch our name, one way or another, on the cave wall of life, and puff out our chest if we manage to get more prominent than Hulk Hogan’s daughter. We rage against death and time.
Frank Millet has canvasses you’d walk right by hanging in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston:
You could find something interesting by him in Detroit:
Reading the Story of Oenone. I suppose I could be a wise guy and say, quick, who the hell was Oenone? But we’re down this rabbit hole far enough already. Any Oenonephiles out there? Didn’t think so. She was Paris of Troy’s first wife. Kind of a big deal.
Potentates pinned medals on his chest. John Singer Sargent was his friend, and used Millet’s daughter as a model. He was published in all sorts of prominent publications. I’ve stood under his murals in the Trinity Church in Copley Square in Boston and never knew they were his.
So we bump along and try to make our mark, or don’t try and do it anyway. If you’re of a metaphysical mind, you know even the ones born without breath in them matter somehow. When Mark Twain is the best man at your wedding, you’re someone, I guess.
It’s said that the last memory of the man is of him handing children into the lifeboats on the Titanic.
Oh, no, Mr. Millet, you’re not nobody.
If You Have To Ask, You’re Not Qualified
You can skip the “interview” after. Dave never did know what to say to any musician.
Could You Speak To These Men?
Idaho, 1872.
If you fancy yourself a history buff, perhaps you’d give it a go, but people used to be more matter-of-fact about such things. Maybe you’d start talking about the guns and the hunting, but they’d probably wonder why you’d bring up something so mundane. Might as well talk to a mermaid about water.
You’re educated if you’re reading this, but what do you know, really? These men learned the 3 Rs painstakingly for a short time, and then had to get on with life. But if they had a mind to read things, they generally were very serious things, things that make today’s best seller list look like comic books. Oops. I mean “graphic novels.”
Maybe you’d sit by the fire and they’d ask you about Dante Alighieri, or Emerson, or Pope, or Swift. Sir Walter Scott was lightweight reading then. If you got to quoting Shakespeare, are you sure you could keep up? Never mind the Bible. You’ve got no shot there. And telling a joke? They were accustomed to hearing a story, a real fleshed out anecedote, told in a humorous and compelling way. They listened to Artemus Ward. I wouldn’t try any King of Queens on them if I were you.
Mark Twain could talk to those sorts of men, and did. He was pretty smart. Could you?
Month: March 2009
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