4.30.2017

Marquis Stuff, or Why Health Care Is Not Yet Universal

With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of consideration…the carriage dashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming before it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of its way.  At last..one of its wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged. But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have stopped…

‘What has gone wrong?’ said Monsieur, calmly looking out.

A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal

‘Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!' said a ragged and submissive man, ‘it is a child.’

‘Why does that man make that abominable noise?  It is his child?’

‘Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis—it is a pity—yes’…

‘Killed!’ shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at their length above his head, and staring at him. ‘Dead!’

The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis.  There was nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness and eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger.  Neither did the people say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they remained so.  The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was fat and tame in its extreme submission.  Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.

He took out his purse.

‘It is extraordinary to me,’ said he, ‘that you people cannot take care of yourselves and your children.  One or the other of you is for ever in the way.  How do I know what injury you have done my horses?  See!  Give him that.’


He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell.  The tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, ‘Dead!’






What a fitting metaphor for the Republican attitude toward health care! This excerpt from Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities was written over a century and a half ago.
Things haven’t changed that much, have they?  (Well they have, and haven’t—The French say it best, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose!)

The Marquis’s coach is rushing through the streets where the “common people” live, on his way to some villa or other, no doubt.  That’s about the only contact he has with them, not counting servants, of course.  They might as well be Martians.  French royalty at the time, like Republican in ours, did not share the belief that all members of society are a part of a whole. (“We’re all in this together,” is not a Republican maxim). The Republicans do not represent the interests of the poor and the working class, members of which might as well be Iraqis.

What were the concerns of the marquises of  the ancien régime?  Again, the French say it best.  Here is an excerpt of a wonderful song made famous by Maurice Chevalier:

Quand un marquis
Rencontre un autre marquis,
Qu’est-ce qu’ils se disent ?
Des histoires des marquises !

Free translation : When a marquis/ meets another marquis,/ what do they talk about ?/ Marquis stuff.

In the Republican case, “marquis stuff” is return on investments, buying a second vacation home, yacht maintenance, etc.  Health care for all? Certainly not.

Unlike the French aristocracy before the Revolution, Republicans have to get elected.  They go to great lengths to trick voters--some voters, enough voters--into believing that they represent their interests.  They are in favor of issues that arouse a lot of emotion, such as opposition to abortion and the requirement that trans men and trans women use bathrooms designated for the gender on their birth certificates.  This, of course, is a smokescreen to hide what they’re really after: more money for themselves.

Can pundits really discuss with a straight face the recent health care proposals of the Republicans?  Don’t they realize the obvious: the oligarchs want to rescind the taxes on the rich that help pay for Obamacare.  They want to save money; they are not interested in saving the lives of those with little or no equity.  Follow the $$$! It leads to Washington.

All politicians dance around facts that would threaten their career if they spoke the plain truth. Democrats do this as well, but an objective person must concede that Republicans are the current masters of, well, lying, so that they can divide and rule.  If you ask Paul Ryan, for instance, if he believed that health care is a right, he would obfuscate something like this, “Every American has the right to access to health care.  The first thing we must do is repeal the disaster called Obamacare. We want to be sure that the American people get the health care they need,” etc, etc.  We just don’t want to pay for it.

Let us return to Dickens.  After the Marquis throws a coin to the crowd, as payment for running over and killing a child, he orders the driver to proceed.  Suddenly, the coin is hurled back at him.  Enraged, he says,

'You dogs!' said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front, except as the spots on his nose: 'I would ride over any of you very willingly, and exterminate you from the earth.  If I knew which rascal threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he should be crushed under the wheels.'

Anger sometimes makes one forget restraint; sometimes rage makes one say what one really thinks. I will provide two Republican examples.

This happens rarely with Republicans, but it did happen recently.  Senators and congressmen in red states have been skewered at town hall meetings lately.  A good deal of their constituents have figured out that Obamacare saves lives and that many will die if Republican proposals, the goal of which is to lower taxes, are implemented.  Many have testified that they or one of their loved ones are alive today because of Obamacare. 

In one recent heated town hall meeting, Raúl Labrador, a congressman from  Idaho, was being grilled by his constituents.  After being shouted down and booed for some time, his defenses were down.  When a woman asked him, point-blank, whether he thought health care was a basic human right, he was so besieged that he actually let the Republican truth slip out: “No, I do not believe that health care is a basic human right.” The audience was furious.

(The second example occurred while members of a town hall meeting chanted: You work for us ! You work for us!  Angered, the Republican replied that he was not working for them; he stated that he was independently wealthy and therefore could do what he pleased.  Wow!  Ain’t freedom grand.)

Never mind that the United States is the only major industrialized country where health care is not provided to all citizens.  Isn't ours the richest country in the world?  The only reason why health care for all has not been realized in the United States is simple: plutocratic greed.

Ryan’s panacea for helping the poor and sick is the establishment of state-run high-risk pools funded by the government.  This has been tried with disastrous results.  The funding would have to be many times the sum Mr. Ryan has proposed.  It’s simply another version of, “Let them eat cake.”

The fact that millions of people still can’t afford health care is a national disgrace.  The Republican solution?  Increase that number by many millions more.

Once the French Revolution began, the attitude of the people toward aristocrats was, “Off with their heads!” We Americans are a compassionate people.  Let those selfish politicians keep their heads. Let us, instead, use ours and vote those latter-day marquises out of office.

4.13.2017

A Poet in Cuba

Author’s Note

A Poet in Cuba: This is the third installment of “A Poet In…” series, the first, “A Poet in China,” dates from 2011, and the second, “A Poet in India,” was written in 2015.  Both can be found by googling the title in question along with my name. In each of these instances, I kept a diary of my travel to the country in question. The result is what might be called an “outer/inner” portrait of my travel experiences, the first part dealing with encounters with people and places, the second dealing with visits to various venues inside my mind.  Being a poet, (five books and numerous publications), I am confident that those who know me will not be surprised to discover that some of the rooms of my imagination became, during the course of travel, furnished with poems.

My lovely wife, Nirmala, accompanied me on all three journeys—no surprise and certainly no complaints here, since we have been inseparable for nearly half a century.  Before traveling to Cuba, we spent a few days in Miami Beach, where this little outer/inner travelogue begins.

A Poet in Cuba

Miami Beach, March 24, 2017


Nirmala and I are spending a few days at the South Beach section of Miami Beach.  South Beach is of interest due to the many Art Deco buildings along Ocean Highway and Collins Avenue.  This was a fashionable area in the twenties and thirties, when hotels were still built on a human scale, and not on the impersonal, monumental and more profitable scale that would soon follow. When the in-crowd moved to outsized hotels along the beaches to the north, developers, being developers, planned to tear down most of the historic Art Deco Buildings and replace them with huge, multi-storied Godzillas.  A prescient artist named Leonard Horowitz founded a conservation society, oversaw and participated in the restoration of many of the Art Deco structures, mostly hotels, which were built from 1926-1946.  Eight hundred structures were among the first to be registered with the National Register of Historic Places.  This was at a time before corporations were considered to be persons; in this rare case, the fat guys didn’t win.




Hordes of people under thirty everywhere!  South Beach is a popular destination for spring break.  The young ones drink to excess, just like a subgroup of people of my age, namely those who live in tents under overpasses in cities like Baltimore.  It reminds me of the drinking habits which I witnessed at a bar in Prague.  I watched in amazement as the man next to me, a middle-aged worker, downed stein after stein of beer, after which he somehow managed not to fall off his stool.  Cool?  No.

The beach is good; it is quite wide.  I wore my bathing trunks under my pants.  Would you believe I hesitated to remove my pants on the beach?

It is 1954,  I was nine years old.  We parked our brand-new ’54 Ford, at a parking area near the boardwalk of Asbury Park, New Jersey.  Just like in Miami, I removed my pants in the car, which exposed my swimming trunks underneath. A really nasty cop came and started yelling at my father, who was the driver.  It seems that I had just done something terribly obscene, and was corrupting the morals of the town. He threatened to arrest my father, but Dad acted sufficiently contrite.  The little man obviously enjoyed shaming people; our morning low had provided him with a morning high.  The incident remains seared in my memory.

In some part of my brain, the nasty copy of 1954, long since dead, no doubt, was still hidden somewhere in my brain, ready to strike like a snake.  Insight removed his imaginary fangs, and, with a wistful smile, I moved on.

As you might have guessed, nobody noticed.  An old man dropping his pants to reveal a bathing suit underneath is about as interesting as watching a stray dog pee.

The water was too cold for swimming; we soon returned to our hotel.

On the bathroom wall of our hotel room, the following stenciled quote greeted me:

No sé cuál es mi camino, todavia estoy caminando sobre él.
                                                              --Olivia Newton-John

Well, duh.  Here’s how I modified the quote:

Sé exactamente cuál es mi camino, todavia estoy caminando sobre él, en dépit de toute.
                                                               --Thomas Dorsett

Miami Beach, March 25, 2017

In the morning, we obtained information regarding an outdoor music event on the evening of March 25, a few blocks from our hotel.  At the Frank Gehry-designed New World Center, a concert was to be broadcast onto a huge white wall of that building, while listeners sat on the lawn before it.  We got there early—then it began to pour.  What to do?  Go back to the hotel?  Buy tickets?  We eagerly chose the latter option.

The concert hall is one of those modern facilities where the seats surround the stage.  We were seated to the side of the strings. The acoustics were quite good.




The New World Orchestra consists of young musicians, nearly all of whom are under thirty.  Each of them has received  a scholarship in order to participate in the orchestra, which was founded and is still directed by the renowned Michael Tilson Thomas.  The purpose is, as one would imagine, to train talented young people for careers in music.

The program consisted of Beethoven’s Second Symphony and Shostakovitch’s Twelfth, conducted by James Conlin from the L.A. Philharmonic.  The tempi in the Beethoven work were brisk; the tensions, so characteristic of the composer's music, were expressed well by the strings. The quirkiness of the last movement, which so scandalized critics in Beethoven's day, came across well.  The lyrical elements, especially from the woodwinds, did not, however,  meet the highest professional standards.  With experience and age, improvements will follow.

Shostakovitch’s Twelfth, which I had not heard before, was great.  It hardly seemed like an uplifting example of Socialist Realism, which it nominally is, or the Soviets wouldn’t have allowed it to be performed.  Like much of the composer’s music, it is dark and ironic, an inner reaction to the surrounding inanities and oppression of the Soviet regime.  One of the French horn soloists was outstanding.

March 26, 2017, South Beach

Nirmala informed me that South Beach is a popular destination for gays.  I didn’t notice many, but that doesn’t mean much.  This morning, on the way back from a coffee break at a local Starbuck’s, I did, however,  notice several hookers.

One was trying to solicit a young man, who was leaning nonchalantly against a parked car.  “I’ll do anything you want for a free bottle of liquor,” she exclaimed, poor thing, but the young man refused.  As I passed by, she said to me, “Can I help you with your bags, Sir?” 

The difference between the solicitation of a young man and that of an old one was drily noted.


We soon transferred to a hotel near the Miami Airport, where we met members of our travel group, filled out forms, etc. in preparation for a flight to Havana the next day.  We traveled with Go Ahead Tours; it is now time to introduce you to our tour guide, the best one we ever had.

Lyn Quigg made sure that we all had a good time.  Her social and organizational skills are outstanding.  Not only did she keep us on schedule—and we had a very busy schedule indeed—she arranged many “surprise” events, such as a city tour of Havana in pre-revolutionary American cars from the 1950s. Americans, only recently allowed to visit Cuba, cannot simply come as tourists; they must be enrolled in an educational program.  (A bureaucratic detail regarding American visitors to Cuba demands that we keep a diary of our trip for at least five years.  I doubt if the Cuban government spotchecks U.S. tourists, in order to assure that this rule is kept, but, in my case at least, this travelogue would certainly be all the proof the government would need!) As Lyn told us, visitors from other countries get to see buildings, bridges, etc.; we saw those things as well, but were able to have many unforgettable interactions with the Cuban people, which were the best parts of the tour.  Without our exceptional tour guide, our trip would not have been as memorable as it was.  Thank you, Lyn!





March 27, 2017, Havana

After an uneventful flight, we arrived in Havana.  We had a busy schedule; we didn’t arrive at our hotel until about 4 P.M.  In Havana, we met our local tour guide, José Luis Moreno.
He was excellent as well.  He was very knowledgeable and answered all our questions.  We didn’t sense any governmental pressure on him to present official interpretations of life in Cuba.



Our first stop was the exceedingly ugly Revolutionary Square.  It is also one of the largest squares in the world, measuring over 72,000 square meters.  It is dominated by a memorial to José Martí, who helped liberate Cuba from Spanish rule in the 1890s.  The opposite side of the square is flanked by government buildings, one with a large steel outline of Che's face on its façade, another with a similar portrait of Cienfuegos, another hero of the revolution.  There is no portrait of Castro. Fidel didn’t want any statues or other monuments commemorating him; he wanted to live on through his words and deeds. (Castro, unlike his brother Raúl, was quite articulate.)  Quotes from Castro are, however, to be found here and there in public places.   They stand out, along with the famous quote of Che’s, Hasta la Victoria Siempre, (Towards Victory Always), since there are absolutely no advertisements in Cuba. No billboards proclaiming such things as, “Reach for the Stars! Smoke Monte Cristo Cigars!” or “Drink Che Cola, the Official Drink of the Revolution!” 



The Plaza de la Revolución is like the dried-out bed of a huge lake, with the difference that it is covered with concrete instead of caked mud.  Many of Fidel’s speeches and those of other dignitaries were, and still are, given here.  Those lacking zeal for communism must have been very bored indeed; at least that’s the way I imagine it.  The square has undoubtedly been filled by those who were required to attend. (The requirement of giving the appearance of enthusiasm, is, of course, not limited to Cuba.  When I was a bureaucrat at the Baltimore City Health Department, the entire staff was suddenly summoned to stop what they were doing, and line up along Pratt Street, in order to cheer Ronald Reagan as he whooshed by in a limousine. I felt like an idiot.)

After that, we took a tour of old Havana.  The picture below is of the historic San Francisco Square, located not far from where cargo ships used to unload their wares.  (I imagine slaves were sold there as well.) The church now functions as a concert hall, one of the best in Havana, we were told.




Regarding non-functional churches, there are plenty.  Not many Cubans are practicing Catholics.

A highlight of the day was a visit to a local artist, Lorenzo Lopez.  He presented a huge work of his, which dominated the main room of his impressive house.  The picture I took of it didn’t turn out well, so I will describe it instead.  It consisted of seven large circles, arranged in a steel frame; the circles formed a six-pointed star, with one circle in the middle.  The medallion at the bottom was a huge yellow smiley face.  Lorenzo informed us, in a rather manic way, that all we need to do is to smile and troubles would treacle off our tables like, well, treacle.  He certainly isn’t a great artist, but he obviously enjoyed what he was doing. A good place for his work and others like it would be the Baltimore Visionary Arts Museum, which presents quirky and sometimes quite beautiful works of untrained artists.

I asked the ebullient artist if he ever came down form his high.  Never, he told me, never, never, never.  If I had to live in a land where it was always day and the sun was a perpetual smiley face in a cloudless sky, I would very much miss the balance that night provides; I would have to create my own darkness; I would sometimes spend time in the shade.

His Pollyanna view of life got me thinking—What is the source of my happiness, albeit intermittent and measured, yet happiness nevertheless?  That night I began my first poem in Cuba; here is the final version:

I’m not tired, I’m not weary,
Soon I’ll be sleeping a lot.
In the meantime, I am happy—
What’s my secret?  Love and
Music, Wisdom’s key:
If you want to find it, lose it;
Meditate--then rock.

Notes
Some of you might know that the words "tired" and "weary" of the first line are a reference to the opening words of that wonderful gospel song by Thomas A. Dorsey, "Peace in the Valley."

My mentor in poetry, the renowned poet, José Garcia Villa, told 
me long ago that poets shouldn't write poems while traveling; they should give full attention to their travels instead.  I basically agree; I did not want to write any poems during the trip.  Yet when a line comes to me, as if out of nowhere, I have no choice but to try to give it a fitting home.



March 28, 2017, Havana




'

Another full day which began with a walking tour of old Havana conducted by a local architect.  Impressive.  After that we visited the National Museum of Fine Arts, which contains examples of Cuban art as selected, I imagine, by government officials.  Not impressive at all.

We had lunch at the Paladar Atelier.  A paladar is a private restaurant, a relatively new phenomenon.  The owners of paladars have to pay taxes to the state; otherwise, there isn't much taxation in Cuba.  There are, by the way, two currencies in Cuba; one, the peso, for Cuban citizens, and another, the peso convertible, which foreigners must use.  25 pesos equal one peso convertible.  Credit cards are of no use in Cuba; everything is paid in cash.

We ate at many paladars; they were spacious, clean, and comfortable places to eat.  The food was good, sometimes a little more than good, and always exceedingly bland.  I was surprised to discover that so few spices are used in contemporary Cuban cuisine.  Cuba could use a few non-Jesuit missionaries, preaching the yummy and secular gospel of spice. (Nirmala, I'm pleased to say, converted me spicefully many years ago.)

Cubans, we were told, don't eat out much.  Money is scarce; the salaries are low.  The tab at a paladar could easily amount to a month's salary.  Nirmala and I, both pescatarians, usually ordered, you guessed it, fish.


The Havana bar where Hemingway downed innumerable mojitos.

After this, we made a surprise visit to a dance studio. All the dancers obviously practice a lot; they also demonstrated their considerable acrobatic skills. The performance was superb. I asked one of the dancers how long he practiced daily--six hours, he replied.  When did he start?  At age six.  You can't perform strenuous dance like this for long--when do you retire from it?  Early 30s.  The skill, determination, and dedication of these dancers, who don't get paid much, was an inspiration. 



In the evening, we attended a "Review of the Buena Vista Social Club."  If you expected music with even a hint of the grandeur of the great artists who performed in the Wim Wenders film, you would be sorely disappointed.  The venue looks like a Bavarian beer hall filled with thirsty tourists. A Cuban with any musical sense wouldn't be caught dead here.  There were however, several half-dead Cubans present; these were the musicians.


March 29, 2017, Havana


The day began with a visit to a tobacco factory, which was very enjoyable. Although we were not permitted to take photographs inside this factory, we were allowed to take a photo through the window of another cigar factory, where the conditions were similar.

The factory we visited was a large pre-revolutionary building, similar to those that were present in every American city decades ago, some of which, long since abandoned and falling apart, have become, in the words of Trump, "rusted-out factories scattered like tombstones across the landscape of our nation."




Just as astronomers see the past when they look into space, since the light from a galaxy can take millions, or even billions of years to reach us, a look into this cigar factory is like looking into the past as well: these are how American factories used to be in the first half of the past century. No automation! Lots of workers doing repetitive work.

We were permitted to ask the workers questions.  They work two four hour shifts beginning at 8:30 a.m., with an hour off for lunch at 12:30.  At 8 a.m., they gather to read. (One of Fidel's outstanding achievements was wiping out illiteracy, which was rampant among the poor before the revolution. )  They apparently enjoyed reading the Count of Monte Cristo; there is now an eponymous cigar named  in honor of the fictional aristocrat. I bet they have to read political tracts as well, though I'm not sure.  Attendance is required; I imagine a lot of workers would prefer to skip the daily reading session.  I told one worker that if I worked here I would organize poetry readings--every worker could bring a favorite poem for discussion.  "What country are you from?" she asked.  "I come from country even redder than yours," I replied.  "I am a poet. I come from Mars!"

The workers get paid according to the number of cigars they make.  One older worker--she said I could ask her anything except her age--makes 170 a day.  Most younger workers make a good deal fewer.  The quality of the cigars made here, all destined to be exported, is undoubtedly very high.

That night, the doctor in me came to the fore: how sad it is that two of the three main Cuban industries--there are not many--namely, sugar and cigars, are both injurious to health.  (The third industry is tourism.)  While trying to fall asleep, I wrote the following little poem in my head:

Fish and Tobacco

What improves health? Poisson
What is tobacco? Poison
Which one are you on?  If you're eighty
or ninety, no need to respond.

Notes
This is a little study on the syllable, "on" which occurs in every line in various ways, along with an assonant "one" in line three.  The French refers to a lesson everyone who has  studied French knows: what a difference one consonant can make!  Poisson=fish. Poison= poison.  "Which one are you on?" that is, "Are you addicted to healthy or unhealthy things?"  If you're very old, there is no need to answer, either because your genes have protected you or you have led a healthy life-style and don't need anyone to tell you, among other things, not to smoke.

After our visit to the cigar factory, we had  a salsa lesson at a local dance studio.  Nirmala and I don't usually do the salsa; when one is being played, we take a break.  These lessons were very good.  The two instructors, one male and one female, taught us six different moves, each lasting two measures.  From now on, we won't be caught sitting down when a salsa is played

After lunch, we visited Finca Vigia, ("Lookout Farm"), Ernest Hemingway's estate near Havana.  As one might expect, there were a lot of books on shelves and a lot of animal trophies on the walls.  He bought the impressive estate with his prize money for $12,500 in 1940.  It seems that Susan Hayward liked to swim naked in the pool.  Hemingway's wife got jealous one day and took all of Hayward's clothes into the house, forcing the actress to return there without a stitch.  Celos, tu nombre es mujer.




At dinner, we were entertained by a trio of fine musicians.  Nirmala and I got up and danced.  The singer later told us that in the ten years she has been performing here, we were the first ones to dance.  She was quite pleased.




We ended our stay in Havana with one of the many surprises Lyn had for us: a tour of the city via well-maintained classic cars from the 1950s, abandoned by wealthy Cubans who were displaced by the revolution. (Since 2014, Cubans can buy used and even new cars, but it's very expensive to do so. The traffic is still like the traffic on Charles Street, a local street near our house--at 4 a.m. Very few cars in Cuba--not a bad thing.



March 30, 2017, en route to Cayo Santa Maria

This was a long travel day. On the bus, I wrote the shortest poem of the journey, three lines, a poem entitled "Sound Advice":

Sound our nature, humans, be
otiose as grass--Poetry;
one could do worse and you do.

Notes:
"Sound" refers to making music, and to delving into the depth's of human nature.  When one makes this journey, life becomes more objective, thus "my" changes to "our." (By the way, this is the first and probably the last time I will ever use the word "otiose" in a poem; it is rarely used and means "of no practical purpose." But on the spiritual level grass isn't worthless at all--every blade is priceless.  If you don't believe me, read Walt Whitman). Poetry here has two meanings as well: the first being generosity and loving-kindness and the second having to do with actual poems. We all fall short of the goals of love and wisdom,  as the last line indicates.



We made our first stop at Cienfuegos, a quaint town.  There Lyn gave us another treat: an a capella group, Fusion, performed for us. They covered a lot of centuries and cultures, beginning with a medieval Spanish piece, "O Magnum Mysterium," and ending with "Honeypot," which evoked Roaring Twenties America.  They sang a few Cuban songs and a gospel standard as well.  They were very good indeed.

My favorite singer of the group, a bass, is hidden by the third alto on the left.  All sang well, however.

We visited the Bay of Pigs, the site of the invasion by about 1,500 Cuban exiles in 1961.  They expected that the locals would join them, but they didn't.  They also picked a strategically poor site to land; the invasion was over almost as quickly as it started.  Plans for the attack started under Eisenhower; Kennedy, however, decided not to intervene. (The Bay of Pigs beach is currently occupied by Canadian and European tourists.)


"When Imperialism wanted in vain to dig a trench, the Revolution erected an impenetrable bulwark."

If Imperialism had really wanted to dig trenches, they could have dug many indeed.  The defeat of the unsupported, ill-planned incursion became a major source of propaganda for Fidel.

March 30th is Nirmala's birthday.  I asked Lyn whether I could give a toast to Nirmala at dinner, but, Lyn, as usual, who had found out it was my wife's birthday from her passport, had everything covered:




The cake tasted a good deal better than it looks--a pleasant surprise!

We finally reached the Cayo Santa Maria resort.  It is a lovely resort, pools, spacious rooms and a beautiful private beach.  No Cubans here; everything is booked with pesos convertibles, the currency foreigners must use.  Cuba needs hard money, and this is one of the places they get it.  Drinks and meals were included; several tourists--not from our group, of course--had a good deal more than one mojito too many.  One zigzagging drunk became the source, perhaps, of "Me like rum," the first line of my last poem written in Cuba.



The service at the resort was not good.  Many Cubans who work in the service industry have a lot to learn.

March 31, 2017

This day included a visit to an old sugar mill, no longer in use. We also visited the town of Remedios which has an annual competition every December 24th, called Parrandas.  Not much to see when the competition isn't taking place; a video would have helped.


We had several opportunities to see and to listen to fine street musicians such as these.

The rest of the day we had free time at the resort.  I spent some time reading at the pool.  I especially enjoyed an article from a recent edition of The New York Review of Books, a copy of which I had brought along: the subject of the review is a book by Ben Lerner, "The Hatred of Poetry"; the article was written by Charles Simic, one of the finest contemporary American poets.  It seems that poetry, in contrast to prose, aims higher; it seeks to reach a transcendent realm and thus necessarily fails.  (Hasn't Mr. Lerner ever heard of dukka, the Buddhist term for the insufficiency of all experience?)  Simic informs us that a professor contends that nobody reads poetry today because much of it lacks political content.  Then, Wallace Stevens, is quoted, who believed that poetry should not be political at all.  All of this, combined with my impressions of Cuba, resulted in the following poem:

When they sound right, the best poems'
images lead us to Zion.
Suits pass by, rags beg from tents;
is prose the rose of sentience?

Verse? What good is a buried pearl?
Must our music always fail?
No.  If we wrought in-side and out,
what we write would sell.  Yeah, right.

Around this time, I wrote another poem, this time dealing with a very different subject: the contrast between Cuba and the United States:

Cuba, No--Yanqui Tampoco

We make, that is made, Castro
Convertibles.  They transform dollars into pesos
convertibles. The contrast between us
is incontrovertible: things and more things
in my country assail; in their country,
conscience is jailed--Can good neighbors thrive without
freedom that's fair?  God's here nor there;
injustice is justice unshared.

Does anyone remember the Castro Convertible commercial from the 1950s?  It depicted a little girl opening the couch into a bed.  It is so easy, dear consumer, even you can do it!

April 1, 2017

After we left the resort, our first stop was the town of Santa Clara. This is an important site of revolutionary history; it was the first city that fell under the impressive leadership of Che Guevara.  (He famously derailed a train carrying "fascist"--is that the right word?--soldiers, who surrendered without resistance.)




Che left Cuba to start revolutions elsewhere,  He was murdered, with CIA collusion, in Bolivia.  His grave remained there for twenty years; his remains were then  exhumed and sent to Cuba. The granite mausoleum in Santa Clara has an eternal flame before Che's tomb.  The vault contains the ashes of several famous--to them, at least--Party members. Faux religiosity reigned.  You weren't allowed to talk, take pictures, etc.  Two female guards were present to assure that regulations were not abrogated.  One of the members of our group said something, almost in a whisper; for this one of the guards yelled at our tour guide.  He obeyed them, told the offending tourist to keep quiet, and left.  Later, he expressed his frustration with the nasty guard, who was annoyed by a whisper, yet tolerated the sounds of salsa outside.  "That's Cuba!" he grumbled.

If this had occurred in the United States, I imagine the following dialogue might have taken place:

Guard: Please stop talking!  No talking allowed here.
Visitor: This is a free country and you have no right to speak to me in that tone.  Besides, I'm only talking in a whisper--which I will continue to do.  I know my rights.  Where's the sign, by the way, that requires us to be silent?
Guard: If you don't stop talking, you will have to leave this room immediately.
Visitor: It is time to move on to the next room anyway.  (Spoken sarcastically) Have  a  nice  day!

If our tour guide had said half as much as the imaginary visitor above, I think he would be in serious trouble. The cult of revolutionary figures is important for the regime, since without it, people might complain more about the hardships they have had to endure. I don't have a good idea of how the average Cuban views the current regime.  Our guide says the campesinos adore Fidel--he really did a lot for them--but not every Cuban is a campesino.

Immediately after our visit to the Che shrine, we attended a concert, just for us, of Trovar music; a very talented and apparently well-known musician, Juan Carlos Campos, sang traditional Cuban standards, such as the famous bolero, "Quizás, Quizás, Quizás," by Osvaldo Ferrés.  He accompanied himself splendidly on the guitar. 



I was even more impressed by his son, who accompanied his father on the violin.  His son was smaller and more introverted, in contrast to his extroverted father.  The former is a superb violinist and accompanist--He always knew that he was there to supplement his father's performance; he never showed off.  The inner-outer combination of the two was a delight to see and to hear.
Being rather "inner" myself, I rarely request to be photographed with performers after a concert.  This time I couldn't resist.





After the concert, we traveled to the charming town of Sancti Spiritus, where we stayed for the final two nights of the trip.
After dinner, some of us danced at a local club next to the hotel, along with many Cubans of all ages. The musicians played nothing but salsas--no complaints.  We had a lot of fun.

April 2, 2017, Sancti Spiritus

Much of the day was spent visiting the town of Trinidad, a Unesco World Heritage site.  The town is well-maintained and lovely.  We had time to shop a bit as well.





April 3, 2017 Sancti Spiritus

We had a delightful tour of a local music and dance elementary school.  About eight students, from the ages of about 10 to 12, dazzled us with solos on their chosen instrument--piano, guitar, flute, trumpet, violin, etc.  They were all good, but the flute soloist, Alejandro, was especially impressive; he played just about at a professional level.  We were told that he soon would audition for further studies.  If he doesn't pass the audition with flying colorful notes, justice, in my opinion, should demand another revolution. 

We also saw a dance performance.  The smallest dancer, a small, delicately built prepubertal boy, especially impressed.  When he twirled his partner around, a girl who towered over him, he had a full smile on his face, a professional smile.  He was already a pro; I hope he will have a significant growth spurt.

Our last stop was a visit to the workshop of Lazaro Nieblas. He makes portraits of local inhabitants out of wood.  There is a shortage of material in Cuba; he told me that he sometimes uses the wood from old doors.  I was very impressed by his work.  He makes very subtle portraits; when you look into the eyes of his subjects, you feel as if you're looking into their souls.  He is a very good artist indeed. 
  


After, that, we traveled back to Santa Clara for our flight to Fort Lauderdale.  Our subsequent flight from Miami to Baltimore was uneventful.



Lyn told as at the beginning that there is no other country like Cuba in the world, and she was right.  I was astounded to see a country without strip malls, billboards, Walmarts, ATMs, McDonalds, etc.  This is the only country I know where the poor have come out on top. But the top is no bigger than a molehill; the poor remain poor and the more educated are not much better off--and have become restless. Widespread use of the internet is coming, along with many other changes.  The economy is already changing with the advent of the tourist industry.  Workers in this field are paid in the tourist currency, pesos convertibles, which significantly increases one's purchasing power. I am not idealizing Cuba, I am aware of the governmental abuses, regimentation, lack of opportunities, etc.    Despite everything, however, I think all of us were impressed by the many positive aspects of Cuba, the most important of which is the Cuban people.  An unforgettable experience!

And, last not least, all the members of our group were friendly and kind; we "clicked" with several of them.  This added to the enjoyment of our educational visit to Cuba.  I end this travelogue by thanking, once again, our fantastic tour guide, Lyn, and our excellent local tour guide. José.  

Addendum, the Last Poem

This poem really doesn't fit in with the others; I'm including it in an addendum, for the sake of completeness.  The first line came to me, as I mentioned earlier, after witnessing a drunk adult at the resort, who was acting like a child.  My mind immediately rhymed "rum" with "gun"--the third and fourth lines were originally and logically, "Me Cuban-/Amerikun," but I ditched that, since it could be interpreted as an ethnic slur, which was certainly not intended.  It became a poem about the overuse of fuel, a significant factor behind  the looming global warming crisis, which continues, degree by degree, to affect us all.  Americans have five per cent of the world's population, yet consume 20% of the world's energy.  In this poem, the consumption of meat symbolizes this excess use of energy, since it takes four times the amount of it to produce meat rather than vegetables.


A CEO’s Inner Child

Me like rum
Me like gun
Me Me Me 
Amerikun
Fuel me waste
Because Me First
Chicken, pork,
Lobster, Steak,
Me want some
Me no
Veg
it
tar
iun
Not pan sit,
Beef tongues, pigs’ feet,
Me eat meat
Well done, well done,
Terre brûlée
Me eat someday
Sun-baked Earth,
Me just dessert,
Mother Nature screwed.

4.05.2017

Rezension: F, ein Roman von Daniel Kehlmann

F
Daniel Kehlmann
Rowohlt Taschenbuch Verlag
Hamburg, 2014
380 Seiten




Daniel Kehlmann wird immer besser mit der Zeit. "F" ist ein psychologisch raffinierter, sorgfältig aufgebauter Roman.  Das Thema des Romans ist Identität. Was heisst das,  eine Person zu sein? Was geschieht, wenn  das Ich bei Jungen nicht enfalten kann, weil kein Vater vorhanden ist?  Nichts Gutes.  “F” handelt sich um drei Jungen, einen  Halbruder und ein Zwillingspaar. Jeder ist auf seiner Weise psychologisch belastet, weil der Vater meistens abwesend war, und, selbst wenn er nach langen Jahren  wie aus der Luft erscheint, kommt er wie ein egozentrischer, liebloser, in Gedanken vorlorener Fremder vor, der schnell wieder verschwindet.

Ein ernstes Buch, aber mit leichter Hand geschrieben.  Keine Blindwurmsätze hier--Wie Kafka, schreibt Kehlmann klar und direkt; keine langen philosophischen Abzweigungen kommen vor.   Der Roman ist mit Szenen aufgebaut; “F” wäre eine gute Wahl fur einen Film.  Die Handlung ist so schlicht und plastisch, dass man sich nicht viel Mühe geben müsste, um daraus ein Drehbuch zu machen.

Der Halbruder Martin, der von Geburt an vaterlos aufwuchs, ist schüchtern und passiv.  Er ist in eine Lebenssackgasse geraten: er ist ein glaubensloser Priester.  Sein Trost ist Essen.  Eine komishce Stelle kommt vor, als ein Mann ihm eine Beichte ablegt, und plötzlich entdeckt, dass der Priester nicht zuhört, sondern isst.  Es handelt sich um einen Mann, der sich schuldig fühlt, weil er zuviel trinkt:

Sie essen!
“Kommen Sie in zwei Tagen wieder.”
“Hören Sie auf zu essen!"
"Ich esse nicht."
"Im Beichtstuhl!" 
"In zwei Tagen.  Wenn Sie nicht getrunken haben. Dann kommen Sie wieder!"
Das Holz knarrt, er geht.  Ich zerknülle die leere Metallfolie und denke an den zweiten Riegel.  Er ist noch in meiner Tasche, und dort wird er auch bleiben.
Ich ziehe ihn aus der Tasche.
                                                     
                                                             --S. 99-100

Humor, der hinter Unglück und Sinnlosigkeit steckt, ist ein Kennzeichen von Kehlmanns Prosa in diesem Roman. Zu manchen, die ihren Glauben verloren haben, kommt Trost, wenn sie ernst versuchen, den Nachbarn  wie sich selbst zu lieben.   Hier kommen Humor und Entwicklung der Handlung zusammen: Martin denkt nur an sich selbst. Sein Egoismus ist hier klar und komisch geschildert.

Der erste Bruder, Martin, scheitert an Narzissmus und Zwecklosigkeit.  Der zweite, Erik, wird ein sehr erfolgreicher Geschäftsmann.  Aber er ist leider  wahnsinnig: besessen, von Visionen verfolgt, huscht er gehetzt und angstvoll durch das Leben.  Unehrlich ist er auch: als Finanzberater,  betrügt er seine Kunden.  Glück hat er: gerade als seine List und Diebstähle zum Licht kommen, erettet ihn die Wirtschaftskrise von 2009, weil dann Geldverlieren normal geworden ist. 

Der andere Zwilling ist weniger seelisch belastet.  Obwohl er, verwundet wie seine Brüder, sich vor die Öffentlichkeit schützt, hat er Tatent.  Er nimmt den Namen eines eben gestorbenen Malers an, malt Gemälde in seinem Stil, und wird dadurch berühmt.  Seine Gemälde hält man für neuentdeckte Werke des Verstorbenen. Da hat Iwan zwei Vorteile: er kann arbeiten, ohne vor das Publikum kommen zu müssen.

Iwan ist der Einzige von den drei Brüdern, der gewissermassen glücklich ist, weil er das tut, was er liebt.  Martin wird Priester, um sich vor das Leben zu verbergen.  Erik wird ein verrückter sogenannt Erfolgreicher, weil er von Kindheit an Macht will, vermutlich weil er als ein machtloses, verlassenes Kind aufwuchs.

Kehlmann ist sicher kein Optimist; zum Happy End lässt er es nicht kommen. Weil Freude an seiner Arbeit ihn menschlicher und hilfsbereiter macht, greift Iwan automatisch bei einem Strassenstreit ein, um einem Geprügelten Beistand zu leisten, und wird sofort erstochen.  Sehr ironisch ist das--Es ist das erste Mal in seinem Leben, als er sich selbtbewusst genug fühlte, um seinen Mitmenschen zu helfen. Seine erste gute Tat bringt ihn aber um das Leben.  

Dagegen kümmern sich Erik und Martin um niemanden; wenn Gelegenheiten für Martin vorkommen, Gutes zu tun, hilft er anderen nur in seinen Gedanken.  Und er ist Geistlicher!

Wichtig für die Auslegung des Werkes ist ein Roman im Roman, “Mein Name sei Niemand," den der Vater verfasste, nachdem er beide Familien verlassen hatte.  Hier beschreibt Kehlmann den zweiten Teil jener Schrift:

Im zweiten Teil geht es um etwas anderes.  Darum nämlich, so versichert der Autor, dass du, jawohl du, und das ist keine rhetorische Wendung, dass also du nicht existierst.  Du meinst, du liest das hier?  Selbtverständlich meinst du das  Aber hier liest keiner…Es gibt keine Farben, sondern Wellenlangen, es gibt keine Töne, sondern schwingende Luft...
                                                                                                                                                                       S 87

Die Wahrheit will dich Brei machen, eine Suppe von Materie.  Es gibt keine Seele, nur ein Wizard of Oz, der im Gehirn an die Hebel geht, um sich täuschene Bilder und Gedanken vorbringen zu lassen, welche wähnen, dass solches eine Person ausmacht.

Ist das aber so traurig?  Viele Wissenschaftler sind damit einverstanden, ohne das Leben sinnlos zu betrachten.  Es ist auch ein Kernbegriff des Buddhismus: anatta, “nicht atman”, d.h. es gibt kein dauerhaftes Ich hinter Gedanken und Erfahrungen.  Die Einsicht macht Buddhisten eher heiter und selbst(los)zufrieden als verstimmt. Ich bin auch dieser Meinung, und leide nicht darunter.

Aber für Westlichen, (und auch für die meisen Östlichen), ist ein an Existenz bedrohtes Ich Grund zur Panik.

Kehlmann schreibt im Roman, dass nach dem Lesen von "Mein Name sei Niemand",  wie beim Lesen von "Die Leiden des Jungen Werther" im 18. Jahrhundert, Selbstmordfälle vorkommen.  Ein Film könnte vieleicht ein paar Zuschauer dazu verleiten, sich das Leben zu nehmen. aber ein Roman in dieser Zeit? Ich finde das höchst unwahrscheinlich. Es ist nicht so schlimm, Herr Kehlmann, dass das Ich  nicht im absoluten Sinn vorhanden ist: wir leben unter Relativitäten—Wir sind eine sogar.  Das Ich ist im tiefsten Sinn zwar eine Illusion, aber wir sind, sagen wir, 99% Illusion, sonst hätte unsere Gattung nicht überleben können.  Dass man wähnen kann, dass man apart von der Natur lebt, ist ein schöner und notwendiger Trick der Evolution.  Ohne diesen Trick hätte man keine Werkzeuge, keine Musik, keine Schriftsteller. 

Der ichlose Mensch, der immer die andere Wange hinhält, wird sehr schnell "sein" ichloses Grab finden.  ("Wer lebt durch das Schwert, stirbt durch das Schwert--Aber wer gibt das Schwert auf, stirbt am Kreuze."--Simone Weil).

Einige Elemente der Handlung sind übertrieben. z. B.: Der Junge, der Iwan das Leben nahm, beichtet vor Martin, und wird sogar, aus Schuldgefühl, und auch weil Martin keine bessere Weise weiss, um von ihm loszukommen, sein Assistent.  Unwahrscheinlich! Aber das ist eine Nebensache.

Kehlmanns Buch ist eine grosse Leistung. Im Grunde ist Kehlmann, wie Kafka,  ein Schwarzseher--ein Eyore mit Humor, eine erfrischende Verknüpfung.   Ich habe den sicheren Eindruck, dass die Ichlosingkeit des Lebens für Kehlman eine trauige Sache sei. Aber für mich, der mehr oder weniger (mehr weniger) Buddhist ist--ich weiss, dass ich zwar im Grunde ichlos bin, aber trotzdem "ichig" handeln kann und muss--leben wir doch auf dem Boden, auf der Oberfläche der Erde--unterhält dieser Roman von der ersten bis zur letzten Seite.



Anmerkungen

Mein besonderer Dank gilt Mary Upman vom Deutschen Literaturkreis in Baltimore.  Sie hat diese Rezension vorsichtig korrigiert and verbessert  Vielen Dank, Mary!

Weitere Artikel auf deutsch von Thomas Dorsett (Googeln Sie den Titel und dem Namen, Thomas Dorsett)

1. Jakob der Lügner, von Jurek Becker
2. Die Weisheit und das Alter

3. Ruhm von Daniel Kehlmann
4. Die letzte Welt von Christoph Ransmeyer
5. Die Herrlichkeit des Lebens von Michael Kumpfmüller
6. Nacht ist der Tag von Peter Stamm
7. Amon von Jennifer Teege und Nikola Sellmair

6. Aller Tage Abend von Jenny Erpenbeck

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