Rev.
Hults
&
harsh teacher, not a dictator. Attention must be paid.
In times o f crisis, it’s as tempting as it is foolish to define
ourselves and o u r lives in terms o f our fears. We must also, it
stands to reason, be wary o f those who feed them. We must
remember that people with something to sell (a giant Tonka tru c k a
boiler plate stock a corporate financed police state) will do
The best o f times, the worst o f times, times that try the
whatever it takes to make us buy i t A great revealed truth o f our
soul. W orld in upheaval, civilization in peril and, even for those not
time was delivered by Deep T h ro a t Follow the Money. The leader
living in Afghanistan, personal lifestyles rudely interfered with. An
o f our nation refers to us, not as citizens, but as consumers. We are
anxious and annoyed nation worries aloud: what then must we do?
now, not so much the lantern o f freedom as its imported plastic
In any conflict of arms o r the sp irit the best first move is to identify
flashlight that comes on when you clap your hands. The business of
the enemy.
America has become, not just part o f a well ordered society, but the
There's an anonymous bit of all weather advice hanging
order o f society itself. Attention must be paid.
on my office wall: Tell me to what you pay attention and I will tell
By some dark and subtle magic, a noble experiment
you who you are. It’s one o f those t-shirt sized maxims that can,
involving two centuries o f hard work on the part o f millions of
when matters become problematic, save a person’s bacon. Matters
mostly well meaning people has devolved into a stimulus/response
have become problematic. Actually, they’re just a click or two shy of
reflex most often associated with insects, reptiles and crack dealers:
critical.
Don’t feel good enough? I W ant to feel better?, Don’t have enough?
Crisis o f any sort distills life to its fundamentals: this is, in
I W ant more? We’re encouraged to be fearful and unsatisfied by
fact what crisis is for. Crisis is nature’s way o f telling us what we’re
people and market forces whose very existence depends upon i t
doing isn’t working; that it was either a dumb idea to start with or
The thoughtful have long suspected this is not a recipe for lasting
that the conditions in which it did work have changed. It offers
success.
proof, undeniable and immediate, that we’ve been ignoring the little
In the meantime, leading lives that are, relative to ninety
red lights flashing on the control panel. Crisis means that
percent o f humanity, burdened with staggering wealth and privilege,
someone’s dropped the ball. In terms o f society, it’s the critical
we’d become, long before September, a nation o f self-professed
mass of social change; that historic moment when events make the
victims. By a cruel quirk o f fate, not even obscene levels o f excess
sound o f a teapot coming to boil.
protected us from feeling, in one vague way o r another, unfairly put
If the events o f recent days tell us anything it’s that
upon: our nation’s inner child rebelling with laughable cayse. The
attention must be paid. The question, o f course, is to what? Much
rallying cry o f this neurotic little uprising was, in simplest terms, this:
more than we know, o r want to imagine, hangs on our answer. A
They said if we bought all the stuff we'd be happy, so we did but
hint was provided recently by an Afghani woman, naturally
we’re still n o t If, having done everything television told us to do,
nameless. Sitting in the dust and rubble o f her world, being
instead o f being happy, we feel hollow, unfulfilled and ill-used, it can
interviewed by a well nourished reporter with access to clean sheets,
only mean that something o r someone, is actively interfering with
cold beer and laundry facilities, the woman summed up her
our bliss. Bad things don’t happen to excellent people (so the
realpolitik *1 just want the world to be q u ie t’
theory goes), certainly not worry and stress, unless there’s someone
But the world, both hers and ours, isn’t quiet now. For
who can be sued. Long before September, our national mantra had
those with ears to hear, it hasn’t been quiet for some time. In the
mutated, not all that quietly, from e pluribus unum (out o f many,
sixty years since W orld W ar II, the second war to end all wars,
one)
to: it’s not my fault, I don’t have time for this and somebody
roughly one hundred and fifty wars have been waged on the planet
needs to pay.
by people who, given a choice, would have found something else to
Aside from self-righteousness, hubris and broad spectrum
do. Quiet doesn't precipitate crisis; what precipitates crisis is not
gluttony, our national character seems lately to be mostly about
listening to the whispers and moans of disorder; to the grinding
worry. Worry is, o f course, inertia; a slow motion form o f terror, our
background noise o f life out o f balance. Attention must be paid.
brain chemistry’s answer to gravitational collapse. Worry debilitates
Nothing alters an organism, either biological o r social,
and paralyzes the will by turning life into a web o f immovable forces
more surely or more radically than fear. Fear constricts tissues and
against which resistance is futile. Adm itting no solution, worry
narrows perceptions into the binomial mathematics o f survival: fight
demands that the Dorothy in us surrender if possible,
o r flight Fear can be, if not a friend, at least an ally, terror, on the
unconditionally. For this reason, in the entire homemade,
other hand, is its own worst enemy. Fear calls us to necessary
impromptu pageant o f human history, researches have failed to
action; terror makes action o f any kind unlikely and appropriate
unearth a single instance in which a difficult situation, let alone a
action a matter o f blind lu ck Fear focuses the mind; terror
serious historical challenge, was made one bit better by worry. The
confuses. Left to itself, it becomes panic, which Webster defines as
only known antidote to wony is action. As an old friend, a gardener,
’ an unreasoning terror often accompanied by mass flight"
once observed while digging a hole in the rain: “It’s hard to be
When panic becomes a proper noun, an historic social
depressed when you’re doing something’ W hat then must we do?
moment trumpeted in by the sound o f millions o f boiling teapots,
The first step o f any journey is not, strictly speaking a step
the change o f state is described as “a sudden widespread fright
at all. The first step is to determine where exactly you are. We
concerning financial affairs and resulting in a depression in values
would be wise to, as Bob Dylan suggested twenty years ago, admit
caused by violent measures for protection o f securities or other
that the waters around us have grown and accept that soon we ll be
property.’ Interesting words, Values’ and securities’. The past is a
drenched to the bone. The times are changing the winds are
gusting and we need to be our own weathermen. Before we set foot
on any path, we must accept that, for you and I and the Afghani
woman, and the billions o f her fellow humans who just want the
world to be quiet, forces have been unleashed that are, for the most
part, wildly out o f our control. They are, as point o f fa ct out of the
control o f those who’ve unleashed them. A new hand has been
dealt and m ost if not all, bets are off.
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We must remember the old joke, no less funny now than
O n tn t
before: if you want to hear the universe laugh, tell it what you’re
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doing tomorrow. We must remember also that the purest act of
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what it means to be.human. Since turning back o r stopping aren’t
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options, we might just as well pull our fears out and hold them to
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what could easily become an unparalleled global depression. The
only certainty is uncertainty; the only guarantee is that there never
was one. Aside from doing ou r best w o rk not just for the pay but
for the satisfaction that’s in i t there’s nothing to be done.
Indeed I tremble for my country when I
Are we worried we’ll be in the wrong place at the right
reflect that God is just.
time and watch, frozen like a deer in headlights, as the shining
— Thomas Jefferson
wings o f random doom bank toward us in a shallow dive? It could
certainly happen. There’s also no reason in the world it couldn’t be
carrying a crude but effective nuclear device purchased with a credit
card in an open air m arket Aside from staying as far away as
possible from anything worth blowing up, there’s n o t as they say,
diddley-squat we can do about i t or, ju st as importantly, not do.
çà
Are we worried about anthrax (already responsible for as
A dditions
many deaths as an unremarkable freeway accident), small pox or
G eneral C ontracting
any o f the several unspeakably unpleasant plagues that could erupt
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tomorrow morning at a shopping mall near us? It could certainly
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happen. According to the experts (the same experts who, we
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quickly and w ithout warning, an immunological crap shoot Beyond
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moving into o u r backyard isolation bunkers, which we can be
confident will h it the market soon, there are no precautions to be
taken.
told him I would be back in December and that M r Whitman
Are we, at bottom then, merely worried about dying? We
had offered me the writers’ room for a week. He said he was
all die. Dying is part o f life. The real challenge, the only challenge
leaving in December and maybe I could help with the rare
to the thoughtful, is choosing to live well; which is to say, with
purpose, dignity, awareness and compassion.
books as well.
I wandered back among the stacks and found an old
Some time ago, on public radio, a young man being slowly
brought down by AIDS read an essay he’d written about his
volume from the twenties It was about someone's adventures
personal adventure in mortality. He was diagnosed early on in the
in the gold and diamond mines o f South Africa at the turn o f
plague (twenty m illion dead and just beginning no news at eleven)
the century. It was a dusty little orange book with no dust
and his doctor advised him to get his affairs in order. So, as best he
jacket, jammed sideways on the shelf I had merely planned to
could, he did. He prepared his family and friends, did whatever
straighten it out, but when I opened it I saw that it was, first,
paper work that needed doing and worked hard to find a measure
not priced; second, a first edition, and third, signed by the
o f peace with his new reality. The first drugs appeared. He
author. On further investigation I found a letter from the
responded well to them and his prognosis drastically improved. ’ So
now,’ he said, “I wasn’t going to die." He prepared once more to
author tucked inside, telling o f his plans to return to the gold
live. He made plans and new acquaintances, scheduled vacations
fields and diamond mines It was dated 1927. I took it to the
and rejoined human society. When the disease came back with a
young men who were sitting at the front desk I pointed out the
vengeance, the doctor gave him new drugs, but the new drugs made
various qualities o f the book, and they allowed how that “made
him sick and weak and one day he just stopped taking them. “So
it worth something ” I took a deep breath and said “Yes, that
now," he said, “Tm dying again.’ He has, like the rest o f us, no clear
is true. H ow much is the question ”
notion when. A t the time he told his story, a year had passed.
They had no idea, so I just smiled and asked them to
Being unable to hold down a job, he has a wealth o f time on his
hands. To fill it well, he takes long walks. As he walks, he chants
put it behind the counter and said I would be back I didn't
the mantra his disease has taught him: “I am living I am dying I am
mention that it would be in December and that I would come
living I am dying...’
to w ork, not to buy
Attention must be paid.
Behind the Times
Ms.
Coyne
Michael Burgess
Editorial
Now & Then
After an eventful first month for Sally and myself,
Billy sent us a gift that he would like to share with our readers
1 traveled to Paris last year and returned with stars in my eyes
and a longing to return I had found the city o f my dreams
W ith all o f its beauty and history, my most treasured spot was
a tiny bookstore tucked in the shadows o f Notre Dame. Billy
shared my infatuation with this magical bookstore and what
follows is a story o f his first day in the City o f Lights and
finding Shakespeare & Company
Enjoy
There are few place on the planet that could be
considered living shrines, and even fewer that are living shrines
to literature The only one 1 can think o f is Shakespeare & Co.
in Paris The original Shakespeare & Co. was founded by
Sylvia Beach in the early twenties and became a legendary
hang out for writers and artists - Hemingway, Stein, Picasso,
Joyce, who haunted the place until the Second W orld W ar
came along. The latest English language bookstore in Paris to
bear the name Shakespeare & Co was started in the fifties by
George Whitman, who is the great grandson o f W alt Whitman.
M r Whitman carried on the traditions o f Sylvia Beach, housing
her library o f books which may be read but not purchased H e
also started his own traditions, perhaps the most legendary is
the Tumbleweed Hotel which is upstairs at Shakespeare & Co.
The ‘hotel’ is for the most part just a series o f beds that are
tucked away in the tiny rooms o f the library. There is a kitchen
o f sorts and there is a ‘writers room’ by M r. Whitman's
apartment which is private. Unlike most hotels it doesn’t cost
money to stay.
Having read stories o f Paris and Shakespeare & Co.
for years, I was amazed to find myself one October evening in
the C ity o f Lights. 1 had been met at the train station by
George Contos, who has lived abroad for fifty o f his seventy-
some years. H e and a very nice couple who were his dear
friends took me in hand They invited me for dinner, allowed
me to check my e-mail, and got me settled in my hotel. George
left me to freshen up and said he would meet me in an hour and
a half In ten minutes, I had showered, changed my shirt and
was on the street in front o f the hotel. I saw George waiting at
a cafe, but he didn't see me I could feel Shakespeare & Co. I
knew by the map that it was just a few blocks away, and I
could see the top o f Notre Dame, but even without those clues,
I could actually feci it. I turned right at á bakery, went past a
Jazz club, crossed a busy street and ther?«,^,little below street
level, was a shabby rag and bone shop o f the heart. I caught my
breath, and wandered up to the door.
There were books in boxes and on shelves outside;
there was a small table on the sidewalk where a family o f three
were having their dinner A tall red-haired man, a beautiful
Asian woman and a small girl o f beautiful mixed heritage. A fter
J
a few minutes in the shop where I boldly walked up the stairs
to the Tumbleweed Hotel as though I belonged there, I went
back to the sidewalk. I had brought copies o f the books I had
S
published, and a few copies o f the paper. I stood o ff to the side
watching the family have dinner on the sidewalk, oblivious to
the chaos o f Paris around them. Finally I caught the woman's
°o
Zero, the magazine that comes from the Shakespeare & Co.
family I showed him the paper and the books and asked i f M r.
o
Whitman was around The little girl jumped up and said, “D o
you want to meet George? H e w ill be down in a minute!”
I was about to reply when the door to the upper
apartments opened and there was George Whitman, himself.
Thin, scruffy, but with eyes that sparkled when the child
had he done this? H o w many wide eyed writer wannabes, hero
worshippers, giggling school girls, had stood on this sidewalk,
and stammered and stuttered as he tried to be polite and
understand I handed him the books and he the red-haired man
told him that I published them M r. Whitman started to explain
that Shakespeare & Co. only sells used books, but I said, no,
they were a gift H e slammed the books down on a bench and 1
felt like he was about to give me a lecture about how many
lousy books people drop o ff everyday, and on and on.. he does
have a frightful temper according to legend But instead, he
reached into his pocket and bringing out a large ring o f very
unusual keys, handed them to me
“Then I w ill give you a gift,” he said, indicating one
particular key “This is the key to the writers’ room, you may
stay for a week i f you like.” Until the day I die I w ill never
know why I didn't just say thank you and go upstairs. I know I
had a room and a dinner date, and all that, but at that moment I
was invited to be a part o f a long history o f a holy place.
Something like Jesus beckoning to Peter saying, “Come with
me and I will make you a fisher o f men,” and Peter saying,
“W ell, okay, but I I I be along after steelhead season.”
Actually that is a bit pretentious It is a well known
fact that that key has been offered and accepted by knaves and
fools as well as lovers o f words and legends o f literature. H e
M o re later
love, Billy
In iP P E R L E F T E P o Z Z l
o f the books I had produced, he just offered shelter It is what
he has always done It is what he w ill always do It is not about
me.
I returned the next day to watch the shop open and
the tourists get their pictures taken in front o f it I met Simon,
who kind o f runs the rare book room He's English and we hit
it o ff W e got to talking about books and the war, and when a
couple o f guys in suits came up to the glass door and started to
come in, he shut it in their faces, and locked it “We're closed”
he shouted at them, and calmly continued our conversation I
I
o
O
¡X
greeted him. The red-haired man explained that I was there to
meet him A tired look came over his face. H o w many times
2
1
bsher
OOHs/y.
eye, and she said something to the redheaded man, and he
turned and gave me his attention. I introduced myself and
explained that I had been in contact with Quinn at Kilometer
will offer shelter to anyone Period N o, he didn't see some
spark o f genius in these bloodshot eyes, or note the fine quality
A
am
ierrezxse dcccmbcr zoo J
I to MOO copies are printed and
distributed monthly In Oregon and to
points around the world.
the Beloved Reverend Billy Lloyd Hults
/Editor on the Home
Front, Llama Spiti Ansels Coyne
Graphic* Editor, Proofreader,
Lnyovrt: Sally Lackaff
Behind the Tbaea, Undo Mfee,
Z o d ia e t Michael Burgess
P ro fe s s o r L ia d e e yi Peter I jndsey
Lessor L e f t B o a ti Victoria StoppieDo
June Kroft
Dr Karkeys
' Ambling Bear
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on the State of the Union