Himalayan people often come to the Rockies, along with the mountain people of the Andes. So often they end up in the Rockies and vise versa.
What is it? Hemmingway mentioned something about the power of conviction. And he said this while back to the Baldy Mountain Range in Idaho, where he lived the rest of his days.
He said that he lived by “power of conviction and knowing what to leave out.” And as Hunter explained in his National Observer Piece in 1964 on Hemingway’s digs:
That Power of conviction is a hard thing for any writer to sustain, and especially so once he becomes conscious of it. Fitzgerald fell apart when the world no longer danced to his music; Faulkner’s conviction faltered when he had to confront Twentieth Century Negroes instead of the black symbols in his books; and when Dos Passos tried to change his convictions, he lost all his power.
Today we have Mailer, Jones, and Styron, three potentially great writers bogged down in what seems to be a crisis of convictions brought on, like Hemingway’s, by the mean nature of a world that will not stand still long enough for them to see it clear as a whole.
It is not just a writer’s crisis, but they are the most obvious victims because the function of art is supposedly to bring order out of chaos, a tall order even when the chaos is static, and the superhuman task in a time when chaos is multiplying.
So Hunter wrote that in 1964 and now, in 2012, it is still glaringly obvious why Hunter loved Woody Creek so much. Why I love it. Besides the brute beauty of the Rocky Mountain peaks from the porch of Owl Farm, You recognize an atavistic distinctness in the people that pique our sense of dramatic possibilities. It is a raw and peaceful little village.
From such a vantage point , a person tends to feel that it is not so difficult, after all, to se the world clear and as a whole.
Although I miss the city, and look forward to spending June in DC (Georetown U. program), nothing can replace the sense of peace that comes with the Mountains. Aint nothing that I know of. Oh, maybe the Pacific ocean. But that’s for another post. Ha.
Your friend in Woody Creek,
Anita Thompson
]]>Really? What's unclear about it? Good lord. Read ACLU report:
It is one thing for bloggers to post their every move on a personal blog -- it is quite another for police or any agency to spy on your whereabouts without a warrant. It's happening now.
Again: link to ACLU.
Anita Thompson
At certainn periods it becomes the dearest ambition of a man to keep a faithful record of his performances in a book; and h e dashes at his work with an enthusiasm that imposes on him the notion that keeping a journal is the veriest pastime in the world, and the pleasantest. But if he only life’s twenty days, he will find out that only natures that are made up of pluck, endurance devotion to duty for duty’s sake, and invincible determination, may hope to venture upon so tremendous an enterprise as the keeping of a journal and not sustain a shameful defeat.
One of our favorite youths, Jack, a splendid young fellow with a head full of good sense… used to report progress every morning in the most glowing and spirited way…
Ah, but although people promised Jack that his dozens of pages a night would be worth a handsome sum one day, he fizzled out in Paris. Despite his proud and prolific pages had a good start, and he wrote about every thing including every which way the wind blew aboard the Quaker City : By the time he reached Paris, his journal had shriveled up and died.
Oh well. The world will never know. At least that tourist Samuel Clemens kept a journal that endured the wind from every direction.
Gotta love it.
Your friend in Woody Creek,
Anita Thompson
Linda Rosenfeld, author of "I'm so Happy For You," wrote a great op-ed on the charter threat in her neighborhood.
Instead of sending taxpayer funds to another Success Academy (the in-the-works-charter school that had a salesperson handing out leaflets to little kids about the possibility of a new charter school nearby), why not use that same money to try to turn some of the less popular elementary schools into institutions that, Linda's children's school, to attract parents from across the socioeconomic spectrum? In studies, a mix of rich and poor has been shown to lift up those at the bottom of the economic rung. As for the privileged families, isn't it better for them not to spend their entire lives around people exactly like them?
if you're getting squeemish or board. Then just read a bit of Linda's op-ed. She does a better job than I do.
And I must leave the farm to a T.C. Boyle signing/talk. hmmm. Which is really an excuse to go drink a lot of green beer (well, it'll be skinny-bitch- margaritas for me today. But I'll toast with a green glass). with my folk.
Cheers to all you Irish whose ancestors saved Civilization! (a must read by Thomas Cahill).
Anita Thompson
This morning's NYT has a good op-ed by Thomas Edsall:
...after World War II, college education today is reinforcing class stratification, with a huge majority of the 24 percent of Americans aged 25 to 29 currently holding a bachelor’s degree coming from families with earnings above the median income.
74% of students going top rated colleges (mostly the Ivy League), come from families with earnings in the top income quartile, while only three percent come from families in the bottom quartile.
Anthony Carnevale, director of the Georgetown University Center on Education and the Workforce and co-author of “How Increasing College Access Is Increasing Inequality, and What to Do about It,” puts it succinctly: “The education system is an increasingly powerful mechanism for the intergenerational reproduction of privilege.”
As for me, i would fit somewhere in the middle (i was lucky, and I worked really hard): my college spanned Ft Collins Community College, UCLA then graduating from Columbia U as an adult. But the best thing about Columbia, besides great professors and the City, was HEALTH INSURANCE -- more on that later as I'm off to my current health insurance policy which is called Bikram Yoga.
College? Although Rick Santorum thinks it's a four-letter-word, but how do we get more kids to at least have the option? Start with a better K-12? Too bad kids can't vote.
more TK:
your friend in Woody Creek, who beat the roosters this morning.
I mean, I didn't literally beat them, just beat them to the morning "ro-ros."
Anita Thompson
A few weeks ago, the first rooster call of the season seemed really exciting. I texted family and friends that spring is here. Yay. But the novelty has worn off, and my two (yes two, there was a mistake at MacMurray Hatchery) are totally confused. They're supposed to ro-ro-ro-ro rooo at dawn. Not pre-dawn, right?
Just when I was about to become a meat-eater and roast a couple of roosters for breakfast, I opened the Sunday Times to see an article reminding me of why I've been a veg-head for these 20+ years. So roosters, you have Mark Bittman to thank for saving your lives this morning:
IT is pretty well established that animals are capable of suffering; we’ve come a long way since Descartes famously compared them to nonfeeling machines put on earth to serve man. (Rousseau later countered this, saying that animals shared “some measure” of human nature and should partake of “natural right.”) No matter where you stand on this spectrum, you probably agree that it’s a noble goal to reduce the level of the suffering of animals raised for meat in industrial conditions.
Great article about the new technology at the Hague that has a non-animal machine creating meat-like-protein instead of an an actual animal - and it's tasty, healthy, and not disgusting like living flesh, and perhaps soon available in the states. read here.
Enjoy the tofu, and happy Daylight Savings.
Your friend at Owl Farm,
Anita Thompson
When a Georgetown Law student testified before Congress to protest rightwing attacks to limit women's access to birth control, Rush Limbaugh called her a "slut" and a "prostitute." The advertisers on Rush Limbaugh's show financially support his attacks on women. Time to let click here
http://act.credoaction.com/campaign/limbaugh_appalling/?rc=share_email
An excellent book about the jerk is by Al Franken:
Al Franken, titled, Rush Limbaugh is a big fat idiot .
It's one of the first non-fiction political books I'd read in my life (i was early twenties), and laughed out loud it was so good. Check it out if you can.
Your friend, Back from a good weekend,
Anita Thompson
Anyway, I wanted to tell you about what happened when I got home to read more about this insanity.
I spoke too soon about this month. February took my kind words as a sign of weakness and handed me a hearty blow, or two, since my last post.
I ended up in my Doctor’s office, with a Z-pack, in bed for two days; shivering, aching, wheezing and coughing up enough phlegm for 5 Februaries. It was painful and super gross.
After no sunlight and not having showered for 4 days, wearing the same t-shirt, same grim mindset, I looked in the mirror on Sunday, while the glamour of the world walked down the red carpet for the Oscars, I realized that I should change my attitude.
After a rest from seeing such a frightening sight in the mirror, I vacuumed, dusted, washed the floors, put away the dishes, smiled, and took a shower. I applied the usual toenail polish that I’ve been wearing for many years. Yoga has always been more fun with painted toenails.
But this time, in honor of my vows to move into the next chapter of this life, I did something that I hadn’t done since high school, in hopes of becoming attractive to the opposite sex – I applied finger-nail polish.
Monday morning came and I had good meetings (yes, coughing, but so is everybody else in Aspen). A beautiful 3rd grader named Jenny, came over to Owl Farm with her mom and little sister. Jenny is doing a report on peacocks. Her mom saw Jesse in the grocery store and we exchanged phone numbers. I’m a sucker for 3rd grade research projects.
Afternoon appointments went very well down-valley. There was no study Hall today so I was looking forward to the Woody Creek Planning commission meeting regarding the new owners of the Gravel Mine, and new machinery that we’ll be living next to…
Came home with enough time to run Athena in the field. As usual, Jesse trotted under the shooting table to dig in the dirt. The way peacocks stay clean and perhaps stay amused, is to lie in dirt and kick with their mighty clawed feet, dirt into their wings. It’s a funny-looking ritual, but it keeps them health and happy, and, ahem, attractive to the opposite sex.
The weather has been exceedingly warm, and even the adult males are growing their trains at a disturbing rate. The ski slopes are lacking, and the warm weather melts what little snow we do have into puddles.
After Athena tired out, as usual, we walked back into the house with the cats following and Jesse to dig a few minutes longer.
While I was logging on to see this nonsense for myself about Rick Santorum, the corner of my eye registered Jesse strutting in as he does every day. But with the sunlight shining off the floor behind him, only an odd silhouette of what looked like penguin, wings and tail dragging on the floor with a proud look on his face.
Well, it turns out the February melt ended up as puddles under the shooting table. It wasn't dirt he was kicking, but serious, hearty, red-earth-of-Owl Farm mud packs into his feathers.
Not computing fast enough what Jesse was bringing in, I way-too-slowly turned around as waddled to the counter. He was too weighed down to hop up onto his assigned corner perch, so he tried to make a jump onto Hunter’s chair. But instead he splat a huge maroon mud pie onto the chair, drawers, wall etc. and landed back on the floor with more sloshing.
“Oh My God! Jesse!” I grabbed him in my arms, yes, sacrificing my sweatshirt, and put him in the sink for a rinse (something I’ve done a million times as he has comes in with dirt in his claws). he weighed a ton, and I realized this was a bathtub job.
Like a fool in February, I picked him up again, out of warn sink, as if I were the only creature in the room capable of being pissed off.
What I remember is a feeling of claws on my sweatshirt, the warm muddy water draining through as he clamored to get to my shoulder. Then, suddenly, what used to be cute baby wings 4 months ago, were now flapping pterodactyl projectiles that seemed to stretch the entire length of the kitchen.
The mighty, sloshing and pounding of wet beating in my face and shoulders, hearing somebody’s voice yelling “noooooooo!” (surely mine), happened in earthquake time -- seemed like 20 minutes, but truly about 20 seconds.
We made it to the bathroom shower spritzer. This bird had not soaked himself in a mud-pie, but more like a gritty chocolate multi-layered wedding cake.
Peacocks are not water birds, and they don’t have the gland by their tails to drag oil across their feather to waterproof them, like many other bird species. And peacocks are emotional.
So, after pissing him off by removing this wonderful clay that he had worked so hard to pack in, and never having tested his stress threshold, I didn’t want to freak him out any more. So after a quick power-wash, I put him by the heater to run back into the kitchen to get a role of paper towels that he loves – he is intimidated by towel in the hand. Not to mention that I didn’t want to burst out laughing in front of him.
Then, creaping back into the kitchen, I saw what looked like a horror scene. That famous red earth of Owl Farm splattered not just across the sink. The shrapnel reached from Hunter’s typewriter (thank god I put a cover on it years ago) to the refrigerator, both windows, ceiling and floor. Nothing was spared. Not even the cats.
The kitchen is difficult to DUST: Hundreds of little pieces of paper, photographs, plaques, pins, gadgets, etc. everywhere… Me? My skin and hair will surely shine after this involuntary mud treatment.
Good thing I painted my fingernails for this event. Right?
Jesse began his splattering at Hunter’s chair, so do I assume this is a kick from February or a kiss from Hunter?
Anyway, Jesse is now dry and sleeping, the cats are clean, I’m clean, and the kitchen is drying and I might not get out of bed until march 1.
Goodnight from your oh-so-attractive, earthy, painted friend, who, to Rick Santorum’s chagrin, finally finished college,
Anita Thompson
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You do?
Good memory.
I don't remember mine. But obviously they happened because I can walk. In fact I usually walk really well. I even started jogging in high-school, which happened to be a boarding school in the Swiss Alps -- a stunningly beautiful place to jog. So, I'm really glad that I as a baby, I wasn't too inhibited to take the first step.
I bet a lot of us started and succeeded at more things as children than as adults. I don't know how to quantify this, but it's worth looking into.
My old beloved, go-to-for-good-wisdom, Deepak Chopra, says in Sectrets:
Imagine a baby who wants to walk, doesn't because she thinks to herself:
1. I don't want to look bad.
2. I don't want to fall down.
3. I don't want to live with the burden of failure.
4. I don't want to expend all my energy.
5. I don't want any pain.
Yep. Have you ever seen a baby learn to walk? Human or otherwise? it is so exciting. Falling down? no problem.
It's obvious where I'm going with this.
If I'm trying something new, making new friends, trying new approaches, learning to paint again. Remember the kids.
And remember the biggest kid of all, Hunter once wrote to me that "we have no fear, only moments of confusion."
Yes! true.
With love,
Anita Thompson
p.s. Last night I didn't host the annual bon-fire here at home. I left Owl Farm to have a nice dinner with a good friend, Hal. Hunter also loved Hal, for good reason. Hal gets nostalgic about the days when you could put a fake mouse into the bread basket at Poppy's restaurant in Aspen without homeland security or Department of Justice being called. And he loves art. And birds. And a grey goose martini with a bit of vermouth.
And holy smokes Jim, thank you so much for the sweet blog post! thank you...
And speaking of martinis and DOJ, here's a link to our friend Richard Beckler's WSJ letter: Love it.
And speaking of people who love the truth, here is a link our Jerri Merritt of talk left, who has been following (like a hawk) the Dominique-strauss-Kahn case.
And speaking of friends and truth, here's a link to our Doug Brinkley's review in the NYTimes which is still catching heat all over the internet for using the term "chick non-fiction" to dismiss "The Obamas." Tee hee he.
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I thought this would be the worst February ever. But no, maybe because I braced myself so fiercely, it has been filled with love and friendship and really great memories. We all miss Hunter more than a blog post can describe. And I can't thank you enough, my old friends, and the new friends in my life, as Christopher Hitchens would say, for your continued existence.
There is no substitute for friends and family (four-legged, winged and human). We love you. And the pre-dawn yoga and time with kids have sure been a bonus. I just love you.
I think that Love is as big and inclusive as we want it to be. Why not.
Here's to a beautiful new chapter, with Hunter in our hearts, with a future bright and right ahead of us.
Feb 19, evening, 2011, Owl Farm...
Anita Thompson
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A new federal law, signed by the president on Tuesday, compels the Federal Aviation Administration to allow drones to be used for all sorts of commercial endeavors — from selling real estate and dusting crops, to monitoring oil spills and wildlife, even shooting Hollywood films. Local police and emergency services will also be freer to send up their own drones.
That sucks. Read more here: http://topics.nytimes.com/top/reference/timestopics/organizations/f/federal_aviation_administration/index.html?inline=nyt-org
Your friend in Woody Creek,
Anita Thompson
check it out:
http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2012/02/12/us/entitlement-map.html?hp
Anita Thompson