Changing Our Stories

We would rather be ruined than changed;
We would rather die in our dread
Than climb the cross of the moment
And let our illusions die.
~W.H. Auden


Telling tales the old-timey way

This morning, while listening to NPR, I heard a reference to a Ben Macintyre article from the Times [London], “The Internet is Killing Storytelling.” Below that online headline is this lead-in:

Narratives are a staple of every culture the world over. They are disappearing in an online blizzard of tiny bytes of information.

Turmoil over new media is nothing new, of course. On the one hand, I’m guilty of a cranky resistance to what I perceive as threats to the sanctity of narrative, namely the disjointed snippets that represent much of the content of the new media. For those of us keeping score, it is one more sign of the coming apocalypse.






On the other hand, I admit that I might not grasp the roles that digital technologies can play in transmitting stories to people who experience the world differently from me.

In an earlier time, we would have bemoaned the advent of the printing press for undermining the richness and the vitality of the oral tradition, and with good reason.

Here's a bit of the Macintyre article:

Last year Hollywood veterans and scientists from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology teamed up to create a laboratory aimed at protecting the traditional tale from oblivion: the Centre for Future Storytelling. However ludicrous that may sound, they have a point. Storytelling is the bedrock of civilisation. From the moment we become aware of others, we demand to be told stories that allow us to make sense of the world, to inhabit the mind of someone else. In old age we tell stories to make small museums of memory. It matters not whether the stories are true or imaginary.

The narrative, whether oral or written, is a staple of every culture the world over. But stories demand time and concentration; the narrative does not simply transmit information, but invites the reader or listener to witness the unfolding of events.


A modern storyteller keeping narrative alive

Stories introduce us to situations, people and dilemmas beyond our experience, in a way that is contemplative and gradual: it is the oldest and best form of virtual reality.

The internet, while it communicates so much information so very effectively, does not really “do” narrative. The blog is a soap box, not a story. Facebook is a place for tell-tales perhaps, but not for telling tales. The long-form narrative still does sit easily on the screen, although the e-reader is slowly edging into the mainstream. Very few stories of more than 1,000 words achieve viral status on the internet.

Meanwhile, a generation is tuned, increasingly and sometimes exclusively, to the cacophony of interactive chatter and noise, exciting and fast moving but plethoric and ephemeral. The internet is there for snacking, grazing and tasting, not for the full, six-course feast that is nourishing narrative. The consequence is an anorexic form of culture.

The entire article is at:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/ben_macintyre/article6903537.ece

Three years ago, I started blogging simply because I was curious about the technology. I really didn’t have an agenda for stories I wanted to tell or causes I wanted to champion. Things just happened the way they happened.


Every storyteller's dream, a rapt audience

I know it is tempting to blame the Internet for the death of narrative. But is it really that simple? Any loquacious blowhard can satisfy the desire to tell stories…without the assistance of new technologies. But for a soft-spoken recluse such as myself the Internet provides an opportunity to share stories that would otherwise go untold. If it weren't for this computer screen, I'd just be talking to the walls. Some might count that reason enough to condemn the Internet. It’s not for me to say.

Like it or not, change happens.

Because things are the way they are, things will not stay the way they are.
- Bertold Brecht

Mr. Tut-Tut's Guide to Mountain Living

A popular seventeenth century Chinese book of jokes, anecdotes and proverbs was attributed to a “Mr. Tut-Tut.”

The book has been compared to Poor Richard’s Almanac, by Benjamin Franklin. Lin Yutang, who collected and translated One Hundred Proverbs by Mr. Tut-Tut, said of them:

There is often a touch of cynicism in these maxims, but that can hardly be a fault. An idealist who has outgrown his idealism is a danger to society, but a cynic who has outgrown his cynicism is one of the kindest persons on earth.

Several of Mr. Tut-Tut’s proverbs mention mountains:

There are four rules for living in the mountains: let there be no formation in trees, no arrangement of rocks, no sumptuousness in the living house, and no contrivance in the human heart.

Talk not of arbitrary opinions in your mouth, hang not sorrow on the tip of your eyebrow - this is to be a human fairy. Plant flowers and bamboos where they belong, keep fish and poultry to suit your own pleasure - this is economics of living in the mountains.



To stay up in the mountains in a fine thing, but the slightest attachment turns it into a market; the appreciation of old paintings is a refined hobby, but the slightest greed of possession turns one into a merchant; wine and poetry provide occasions of pleasure, but the slightest loss of freedom turns them into hell; generous hospitality is a magnanimous habit, but when one is surrounded by common fellows, it is again like entering a sea of distress.

When wild geese cry in the sky, the mountain clouds touch your tower, and a thousand peaks bid the rain proceed, you approach a couch for an afternoon nap, and even your dreams will partake of poetry.

It would indeed be an ideal world if warriors did not have the air of the army, scholars did not have the air of bookish dogmatism, mountain recluses did not have the smell of mists and clouds and monks did not smell of incense and the altar.



Pass famous mountains as you read rare books, a few steps at a time if you are tired, or going a hundred miles when you are feeling fit. One does not go by a schedule, but only stops at what pleases the eye and delights the mind.

Living in the mountains has eight advantages over living in the city: no strict conventions, no strange visitors, no mulling over wine and meat, no fights over property, no concerns over the treacherous human heart, no quarrels over right and wrong, no pressing for literary articles, no gossip about officials.

[Photographs - early morning on the Blue Ridge Parkway, October 2009]

I Hear America Singing

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear...
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day - at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
- Walt Whitman, "I Hear America Singing"



I have to say I’m sorry.

I recognize, and appreciate, Walt Whitman’s greatness as a poet. But I can’t read his stuff without laughing, despite these sobering words in the introduction to my volume of Whitman’s collected poems:

As Americans trying to understand our past, and even our present and future, we need to understand Walt Whitman.

Maybe this mug shot was the result of a misunderstanding:



Maybe Walt didn’t understand that he was reciting poetry to an undercover officer from the vice squad:

BE composed—be at ease with me—I am Walt Whitman, liberal and lusty as Nature;
Not till the sun excludes you, do I exclude you;

Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you, and the leaves to rustle for you, do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you.

My girl, I appoint with you an appointment—and I charge you that you make preparation to be worthy to meet me,

And I charge you that you be patient and perfect till I come. Till then, I salute you with a significant look, that you do not forget me.

("To a Common Prostitute")

Perhaps Walt Whitman WAS the American Bard, but I’m not sure the America of which he wrote ever existed. If it did, I’d like to know where it went. Did Mr. Whitman envision the pinnacle of 21st century American culture, Walmart? Judging from his homage to the common man…

…I think not:


One's-self I sing, a simple separate person,



Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.



Of physiology from top to toe I sing,



Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say



the Form complete is worthier far,



The Female equally with the Male I sing.



Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,



Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine,



The Modern Man I sing.



("One's-Self I Sing")

Yes, I would like to read Walt Whitman without cracking up.

But I can’t.

Sorry.


I see male and female everywhere,
I see the serene brotherhood of philosophs,
I see the constructiveness of my race,
I see the results of the perseverance and industry of my race,
I see ranks, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, I go among them, I
mix indiscriminately,
And I salute all the inhabitants of the earth.



("Salut au Monde!")

Trouble in Cowee

Another luxury development in the mountains is making headlines.

In the November 4, 2009 issue of the Franklin Press, Quintin Ellison and Barbara McRae report that Macon Bank has filed lawsuits alleging it was “duped into making questionable loans in excess of $3.5 million” to buyers of lots in the 2200 acre Wildflower development north of Franklin.

One lawsuit charges that Beverly-Hanks Mortgage Services of Asheville defied the bank’s instructions by setting up interest cash-back deals for borrowers. Macon Bank is suing Beverly-Hanks for breach of contract, fraud, constructive fraud/breach of fiduciary duties, negligent misrepresentation, unfair and deceptive trade practices and participation in racketeer influenced and corrupt organizations.

The bank is also suing its own closing attorney, Steve Philo of Franklin, for professional malpractice and breach of contract.

In 2005, Ultima Carolina announced plans for the Wildflower development in the Cowee Mountain area, to feature 400 home sites and amenities aimed at upscale buyers. So far, only one house has been built in the development.

Of the 151 property owners who’ve bought lots at Wildflower, 31 have defaulted on their mortgage payments so far. In the suit, Macon Bank states that a “wave of defaults” is anticipated.

While seven of the lot owners list North Carolina addresses, 33 list California addresses.

From the Franklin Press article:

Macon Bank alleges that after it discovered the cash-back agreement, officials learned that the real estate investment promoters were conducting seminars to encourage investors to buy Wildflower lots, “pay the interest with cash-back from the developer, and then ‘flip’ the property at a profit when the money from the interest cash-back ran out.”

Beverly-Hanks, the bank alleged, knew or should have known that some or all of the borrowers were investors who did not plan to build their primary or secondary residence in Wildflower, a stipulation required in the bank’s lot loan program.

The Ultima Carolina website:
http://www.ultima-carolina.com/

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John C. Calhoun in Cashiers

As reported here several days ago, John C. Calhoun examined the Tuckasegee Valley in 1836 as a possible route for a rail line from Charleston to Cincinnati. That trip is mentioned in an 1891 book by a Calhoun family friend, Dave U. Sloan.

Here’s a passage from Sloan's Fogy Days, and Now: Or, The World Has Changed:

Traveling through the Blue Ridge Mountains in North Carolina, Mr. Calhoun, Col. Gadsden and my father stopped over night at a mountain cabin home. There was but one spare room, and in it a bed and a pallet. My father arranged for himself and Col. Gadsden to take the pallet and Mr. Calhoun to take the bed. About midnight the mail-rider stopped in, and seeing but one person in the bed, said: "Git furder thar, old horse, and spoon," and familiarly piled in with the Senator. In the morning the hostess came in the room and finding Mr. Calhoun there alone requested him to climb up a ladder into the loft, and hand her down a shoulder of bacon, which the Senator complied with, as gracefully as circumstances would permit.

Our party spent several days on this trip in Cashier's Valley at the home of the old man, James McKinney. Mrs. McKinney was quite a stout, red-faced, middle-aged lady, celebrated far and wide for her curiosity as well as her loquacity, as also her unsophisticated manner; entering the room where the gentlemen were talking, with her sleeves rolled up above her elbows, her arms akimbo, addressing my father, with whom she was acquainted, said: " Colonel Sloan, is this the great John C. Cal-houn that I have hearn so much talk about."

My father answered in the affirmative, saying: " Mr. Calhoun, allow me to present to you our hostess, Mrs McKinney."

Mrs. McKinney grasped the proffered hand, saying: "Do tell; why, you look jist like other folks. I reckon you've got a mighty purty wife to home haint ye?"

Mr. Calhoun answered, that he intended bringing Mrs. Calhoun on a visit to the mountains, and she would have an opportunity to judge for herself, when Mrs. McKinney broke in again," Well, I low she's got lots of purty bed quilts down thar," when old man McKinney spoke out, "Thar now, Sally, you've played h—l agin," and for one time in his life our great Statesman seemed at a loss for a reply.

Mr. Calhoun made frequent visits to these mountains with my father, examining the topography of the country in view of a railroad crossing the Blue Ridge, and could often be seen cracking rocks in search of minerals. He was first to discover the indications of gold in that section, and afterward, my father and others, worked expensive gold mines there.

Mr. Calhoun was noted for his wonderful forecast of coming events. Many are still living who remember his predictions about Marthasville, now Atlanta, the coming city of the South. Nearly fifty years ago he said it would become a great railroad distributing point and a great city. He greatly desired about that time a railroad connection between Charleston, S. C., and Knoxville, Tenn., which enterprise was finally undertaken before the war, and after an expenditure of several millions of dollars, under bad management, was abandoned for want of further means, the failure proving a great misfortune to South Carolina.

Valley of Fog

From the Pisgah Ledge, Blue Ridge Parkway, October 2009.

In the Fog
by Giovanni Pascoli

I stared into the valley: it was gone—
wholly submerged! A vast flat sea remained,
gray, with no waves, no beaches; all was one.


And here and there I noticed, when I strained,
the alien clamoring of small, wild voices:
birds that had lost their way in that vain land.


And high above, the skeletons of beeches,
as if suspended, and the reveries
of ruins and of the hermit’s hidden reaches.


And a dog yelped and yelped, as if in fear,
I knew not where nor why. Perhaps he heard
strange footsteps, neither far away nor near—


echoing footsteps, neither slow nor quick,
alternating, eternal. Down I stared,
but I saw nothing, no one, looking back.


The reveries of ruins asked: “Will no
one come?” The skeletons of trees inquired:
“And who are you, forever on the go?”


I may have seen a shadow then, an errant
shadow, bearing a bundle on its head.
I saw—and no more saw, in the same instant.


All I could hear were the uneasy screeches
of the lost birds, the yelping of the stray,
and, on that sea that lacked both waves and beaches,


the footsteps, neither near nor far away.


Translated by Geoffrey Brock

Giovanni Pascoli (1855-1912) published his first book of poems, Myricae, in 1891. In his best work, scattered through editions of Myricae, Poemetti, and Canti di Castelvecchio, his plainer style offers an antidote of sorts to the rhetoric and grandeur of Carducci and D’Annunzio, the other two members of the poetic triad that stands at the threshold of twentieth-century Italian poetry. His youth was a gauntlet of family tragedies (as well known in Italy as his poems) that shadowed his life and his work. He was a major influence on the Crepuscolari (twilight poets) and on Saba, Pasolini, and others.

Massage in Glenville

It would appear that Glenville is the place to go if you want a good massage.