Martin Amis on turning 50: "it all works out"

T.S. Eliot may have called April the cruelest month, but those whose luck it is to celebrate a January birthday may sometimes consider this accident of birth just as cruel a fate. Cold winds blow, ice forms, and springtime zephyrs seem more distant in January than in hearth-and-warmhearted December, when civilization at least has the hope inherent in a holiday season.

Many of my friends have birthdays this month, and to them I offer the solace of the following observation by Martin Amis. His words have the bite of rye whiskey on a wind-swept evening, and I hope all my friends are able to find some reason to believe that all things, even January birthdays, do work out in the end. I raise my glass with the hope that you all find a personally warm and happy reason to celebrate another year.

As the fiftieth birthday approaches, you get the sense that your life is thinning out, and will continue to thin out, until it thins out into nothing. And you sometimes say to yourself: That went a bit quick. That went a bit quick. In certain moods, you may want to put it rather more forcefully. As in: OY!! THAT went a BIT FUCKING QUICK!!!... Then fifty comes and goes, and fifty-one, and fifty-two. And life thickens out again. Because there is now an enormous and unsuspected presence within your being, like an undiscovered continent. This is the past.

And it all works out. Your hams get skinnier--but that's all right, because your gut gets fatter. Your eyes get hotter--but that's all right, because your hands get colder (and you can soothe them with your frozen fingertips). Shrill or sudden noises are getting painfully sharper--but that's all right, because you're getting deafer. The hair on your head gets thinner--but that's all right, because the hair in your nose and in your ears gets thicker. It all works out in the end.

"Burial For A King": Atlanta, 1968

This Monday is the 25th observance of Martin Luther King Day. A new book by Rebecca Burns, Burial For A King, recalls the events in Atlanta surrounding the weekend of Reverend King's assassination in Memphis. Disturbances occurred in many cities, and in Atlanta there were concerns there might be rioting during the funeral itself. Here is an early excerpt about a lunch that Thursday, April 4, after King's departure to Tennessee, in which a friend arranges an unusual meeting for King after his scheduled return.

"Of all the weird ideas you've had for me, this is one of the weirdest," Martin Luther King Jr. told Xernona Clayton when she approached him with a request: Calvin Craig, Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan, wanted to meet him. Would he consider? King eventually agreed, and so on this Thursday, the day after she took King to the airport to catch a flight to Memphis, Clayton had lunch with Craig to finalize the details.

While they ate in the Marriott's tropical-themed dining room, Clayton realized the attention they were drawing. It was still odd in 1960s Atlanta to see a black woman and a white man sharing a meal -- especially in a hotel restaurant. On top of that, she and Craig were minor local celebrities, which contributed to the raised eyebrows, sideways glances, and outright stares.

She was the star of The Xernona Clayton Show on the local CBS affiliate -- the first television show in the South to be hosted by a black woman. Her husband, Ed Clayton, had directed public relations for Martin Luther King and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) and after Ed died she had filled in when needed. She frequently traveled with King's wife Coretta Scott King. Diminutive and feisty Clayton was recognized by her trademark hairstyle -- a tall, tightly pinned topknot anchored by a shiny headband. She had a flair for fashion and an enviably taut figure; she had met Ed when he begged her and her identical twin, Xenobia, to model bikinis for the centerfold of Jet magazine.

In contrast to the chic Clayton, Calvin Craig was a burly construction worker, mustached and with arms and a neck reddened from a lifetime of outdoor labor. Like Clayton, Calvin Craig was familiar to television viewers -- but as the subject of news stories, not a polished anchor. He notoriously appeared in full Klan regalia to lead anti-integration protests through the streets of Atlanta or on the steps of the Georgia capitol. He traveled throughout the South to attend cross burnings.

Craig and Clayton met through Model Cities, the urban component of President Lyndon Johnson's War on Poverty. Craig was named to the program as the representative from Adair Park, a neighborhood of mostly working-class whites not far from its predominantly black counterpart, Pittsburgh. Their first encounter was prickly; Clayton watched as Craig scooted from chair to chair to avoid sitting next to any black participant in the meeting. Not long after, Craig visited Clayton's office and rattled her as he revealed he had compiled a dossier on her. ...

"Access to a Legacy": JFK's papers go online

The John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum is now providing access to 250,000 documents from the Kennedy Library online. This is the first move toward making a large portion of the library's material digitally available free of charge. The 35th president himself pledged to make all of his papers publicly available more than fifty years ago. All together, this will account for approximately eight million pages of library materials, out of a total of 48 million pages of documents in the archives.

In today's press release Caroline Kennedy states that "it is our hope that the Library’s online archive will allow a new generation to learn about this important chapter in American history. And as they discover the heroes of the civil rights movement, the pioneers of outer space, and the first Peace Corps volunteers, we hope they too are inspired to ask what they can do for their country.”

Curators have chosen to make 200 hours of audio and video available as well, often-requested material that historians and the general public use for research. This includes an initial collection marking the fiftieth anniversary of Kennedy's 1961 inauguration. From The New York Times article by Katie Zezima:

“Until now, if people wanted to see the documents they had to come to Boston, go to our research room and we’d pull out boxes,” said Thomas J. Putnam, director of the library. “Now anyone with access to a computer with an Internet connection could replicate that experience.”

This release is to be the first of many, Mr. Putnam said, and the library started with the files most used by researchers, including Kennedy’s office files, personal papers and correspondence. Also included are recorded telephone calls between Kennedy and heads of state.

“Literally these were the pieces of paper that went across his desk, that have his handwriting on it, his speech drafts, his doodles,” Mr. Putnam said.

Mr. Putnam said it was impossible to digitally archive all 48 million pages of documents the library holds, but the goal is to get about eight million pages online. He hopes the next release will include national security files, more television video and documents relating to civil rights.

The digital archives are searchable. Entering “inaugural address,” for example, brings up a draft by Theodore C. Sorensen, Kennedy’s speechwriter, and video of the event.

Telephone calls include one between Kennedy and former President Dwight D. Eisenhower discussing the Cuban missile crisis.

Caroline Kennedy said the goal of the project was to make her father’s presidency and legacy accessible to a generation raised on computers.

More information about the digital project called Access to a Legacy is available at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum website. The library's searchable interface includes photographic and audio components (the President's Office Files, the White House Central Chronological Files, and the John F. Kennedy Personal Papers); one collection of audio files (the White House Audio collection); one moving image collection (the White House Film collection); one collection of museum artifacts (the State Gifts); and a portion of the White House Photograph collection, which consists of over 35,000 photographs.

(Photo of John F. and Robert F. Kennedy in the Oval Office by Art Rickerby.)

"Chinaberry Sidewalks," Rodney Crowell: the real lovesick blues

It's not really fair to call Rodney Crowell just a singer-songwriter. His 35-year career has been part of country and rock music in a way that few can match. His credits include writing songs for performers from EmmyLou Harris to Bob Seger, producing albums for his wife Rosanne Cash, and his own performing career includes thirteen albums.

But before all that, Crowell was a Texas kid whose life was "folksy but complicated," as one reviewer of Chinaberry Sidewalks, his new autobiography, put it, and with a set of parents who provided him with much of the material for a lifetime of country songs. His funny but achingly-told tales have an edge that can't disguise a young man's confusion and hurt. Addie Cauzette and J.W. Crowell's relationship was wild and got wilder, in one of Crowell's own phrases, "from the git-go."

In an early mix of Hollywood matinee-bravery and undeniable scene-stealing at the age of five, Rodney grabbed a gun to break up one alcohol-fueled party -- New Years 1955 be damned. The young gunslinger may not have had the mechanics of marksmanship down but he knew how to make an entrance. As any musician can tell you, that counts for one hell of an impression. Here's an excerpt:

...My decision to fish the .22 from the closet wasn't made lightly. To retrieve the gun meant entering the room alone, a chilling prospect even in broad daylight. But sensing the storm gathering behind the rising levels of alcohol, I figured those dark corners were no match for what would happen if the adults out there started screwing each other.

Aside from enhancing the gravity of my announcement that it was time to go home, I had no intention of using the gun. Based loosely on the Saturday matinees I'd seen at the Navaway Theater, where the good guy got the bad guy's attention by wielding a six-shooter full of silver bullets, my plan required the gun as a prop.

Hank Williams was singing "Lovesick Blues" when I stepped into the living room armed with my father's rifle. Dorothy Lawrence was the first to notice my arrival. "My Lord, he's got a gun!" she called out, a bit less dramatically than I'd have liked but compelling nonetheless. The focus of attention shifted instantly in my direction, and having all eyes on me sent a surge of power through my nervous system that left my mind a small blank canvas. From there, the script unraveled.

It was lack of preparation for this pivotal moment that provoked two serious blunders: one, inadvertently disengaging the thumb-activated safety on the rifle; two, pointing it at my father and pulling the trigger. The bullet exploded into the linoleum floor less than a foot from where Dorothy stood. "Lovesick Blues" came to a screeching halt, and my father pounced on me like he was Batman on pep pills. Sensing his first impulse was to beat me with the butt of the rifle, I braced myself for the worst. Instead, he hugged me so close to his heart that even through the ringing in my ears I could hear it pounding. Being squeezed so hard that I could barely breathe gave me a feeling of comfort. My peacekeeping mission was complete. There would be no fighting that night.

Shocking people sober and sending them home thankful to be alive is one way to break up a party. Although visibly shaken, my parents' friends showed no ill feelings. Cookie Chastain said she knew I was "a good boy and wouldn't hurt a flea." Pete Conn reckoned I "knew not to play with no more loaded guns." Doc Lawrence went as far as making a joke about my aim being so bad that I was "lucky not to have shot [my] dang pecker off." Hushed exits, however, told the story of how they really felt. ...

(Chinaberry Sidewalks will be published January 18 by Alfred A. Knopf.)

"One Word," edited by Molly McQuade (2010): 66 writers choose the right word

The south remains under weather siege by ice and snow, two formidable foes few here have the fortitude or desire to confront. Humorist Roy Blount Jr. has noted that, unlike the Eskimo, people in the south have just one word for snow. I would add that our descriptive enhancements for that one simple word, however, extend to a multitude of expletive adjectives which are many, regional, and colorful. Most of them are also deleted in professional weather reports but we all know those adjectives are there.

I've heard most of these adjectives over the past two days. The least offensive word I have heard describing the snow has been "interesting." This was used by a Northern friend, who didn't want to offend any delicate sensibilities among those of us he imagined were unexpectedly missing our mint-julep-on-the-porch routine.

The blog at Dog Ear's Visual Thesaurus have been running excerpts from the new anthology entitled One Word: Contemporary Writers on the Words They Love or Loathe, edited by Molly McQuade (Sarabande Books). She had the simple idea: ask writers the question, "What one word means the most to you, and why?" Here's part of a reply by Jayson Iwen. Professor Iwen teaches at Central State University in Wilberforce, Ohio; the word he chose is "interesting."

I've been keeping an eye on this word for years now, conducting a stake-out in a van across the street from where it lives. I hate the word in writing, yet savor it in speech. In writing it's merely a placeholder for better words, while in speech it's damning praise of a sublime order. Interesting is its own antonym, its own shadowy other.

But that's not exactly why I'm watching it. That's not why I'm wary of uttering the word. I'm suspicious of the root that feeds it. "Interesting" entered common usage in the century that birthed modern capitalism. In its first appearance in print the word was explicitly linked to that economic context: "... that Passion which is esteem'd peculiarly interesting; as having for its Aim the Possession of Wealth" (Shaftesbury, 1711). Not surprisingly, viewed from this new old angle, contemporary definitions of the word leap to attention and assume the stance of marketing terminology: "adapted to excite interest; having the qualities which rouse curiosity, engage attention, or appeal to the emotions" (OED).

In short, since detecting capitalist ideology in this most unassuming and pervasive of words, I've begun to worry it's inside every word, though its outline may only be visible in those that poorly conceal it, like sheets draped over ill intents. ... This is the kind of unconscious logic I'm afraid might be firing through dark channels of my brain whenever I speak.

I fear this because many days I feel finite. I feel spendable. I see my window into existence shrinking and the objects of my attention looming in that diminishing frame. They're either becoming my world or they're blocking my view of it. They add value to my life or they rub my face in my own inevitable end. I realize, however, that this is not a truth. It's belief. And, though belief is both stronger and more dangerous than truth, it is, thankfully, alterable. ...

When I say "interesting" now, I ask myself, "Exactly what is it you think will repay you with interest?" And the answer is usually as inevitable as it is startling. So I sit here, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for it to appear. Because it would feel so good to put it away forever. Go ahead, I say to myself. Say it.

Jayson Iwen has published Six Trips in Two Directions (Emergency Press, 2006) and A Momentary Jokebook (Cleveland State University, 2008). A third, Gnarly Wounds, is under consideration.

Closed due to snow: still on the grid

(Athens, GA, January 10 2011)

Here in the south people don't take to snow particularly well. That's why we live where we do, even northern transplants like myself (I've lived in Georgia since 1976). When the friends from Oxford Mississippi report a foot of snow and ice in Faulkner country, that's real weather news.

Outside the metro areas of Atlanta, five-to-eight inches of snow topped with ice is reason enough for days of Atlanta TV-station instilled panic (with advertising breaks) and laying in supplies of milk and bread and beer. When the power goes out eventually due to the weight of accumulated ice on the power lines, apparently southerners like to be intoxicated and well-fed for a long, long spell under the covers. And that's just the first day.

And what about day two, when reality sets in? On the second day the snow is dirtier and crusted with ice in mushy frozen tire tracks from day one underfoot and there still will be no electricity for many. The intrepid will fire up the 4WD and slide to the store for more beer hoping there's enough gas in the tank to get them back home safely to get smashed again in the gathering dark.

In cold and snowy reality, the southern folk who like to picture themselves as hardy and self-sufficient Dan'l Boones prepare and prepare for the eventuality .... of no electric power.

Without power, snowstorms (to differentiate, this one is being dubbed "snowpocalypse") soon become a marathon of prepackaged food without microwaves or electric stoves, and families contemplate hours of each others' company wrapped in blankets or camo jackets around heaters that fill the house with propane fumes. Fireplaces are lovely architectural details in southern homes these days, pretty to look at but ... many of them are messy and smoky beasts in real need. Most are too small a size for any wood one might actually be able to drag in from outside.

Most southern fireplaces I have seen are merely repositories of poinsettias in winter. They are but a memory-commodity of a past when people actually lived "off the grid" many hardy individuals here romantically think they can live off of these days, too. Life in the south without electricity in the winter is even more crippling than a day without air-conditioning in the summer. City or country, house or apartment, life simply grinds to a halt in candle-lit dark until the power company can flip the big switch. And it's ... cold.

Until the lights go out in Georgia, I'm sucking on the power grid with no pretense of hardihood or self-sufficiency except the ability to read a book until the light fails, and tuna-fish sandwiches to sustain me. After that, there's a leftover long winter's nap from the holiday season around here somewhere. There's beer in the fridge for later. I think I'll put "A Charlie Brown Christmas" back on the box for a spin and enjoy warm thoughts until the power goes out.

Paul Soldner (1921-2011): "the discovery of things not sought"

"... To work in the future, we must let go of the past. Don't value too much what was so painstakingly learned. The wisdom of this was made clear to me many years ago by a drawing teacher. It happened in the last week of the semester. After complimenting me on having achieved a high level of proficiency and mastery of the drawn figure, he added, "Now let's see what you can do with your other hand"; keep searching for every question; don't trap yourself with mere facility! Walk that delicate line between knowing what one is doing and going beyond to explore the unknown.

In this connection, it is helpful to understand the Zen-like state of emptiness. Or, putting it differently, clear your mind of preconception, which can be likened to erasing a chalkboard before new information can be written on it. In the field of science, the ability to leap from a known concept to an unknown idea is called invention. In the field of art, when the same leap takes place, we call it creativity. ..."

("On Art," Paul Soldner)

(Pink Vessel, 1979)

Paul Soldner has died at the age of 89. Here is an excerpt from his January 8 obituary in the New York Times by William Grimes.

...In 1960 he began experimenting with the 16th-century Japanese technique called raku, which is used to fire the vessels for the tea ceremony. It was little known in the United States, but Mr. Soldner’s curiosity was aroused by descriptions in “The Book of Tea,” by Okakura Kakuzo, and “A Potter’s Book,” by Bernard Leach.

He constructed a makeshift kiln from a 50-gallon oil drum lined with concrete, fired a small bowl and ran to a nearby pond to cool it. “It was the ugliest piece of ceramics that you ever saw,” said David Armstrong, one of his students and the founder of the American Museum of Ceramic Art in Pomona, Calif.

(Pedestal Piece, 1989)

Undeterred, Mr. Soldner fired another bowl, but this time he accidentally dropped it in a pile of pepper-tree leaves, which burst into flame. The resulting smoke imparted a gray-black, crackled finish to the glaze.

Exposing raku ware to combustible material in an oxygen-deprived chamber, rather than letting it cool in the air or water, opened new possibilities that Mr. Soldner explored relentlessly, developing new textures and color effects in pieces that placed a premium on spontaneity. His technique became known as American raku, which he described as “pottery made within a mental framework of expectation, the discovery of things not sought.”

(Photos of Soldner ceramics from American Craft magazine, October/November 2009.)