HOPE FULFILLED = SACRIFICE MADE

Of all things I consider nowadays, the most positive I can think of is the potential (and I use the word "potential" for good reason) of Obama's presidency. Being a died-in-the-wool cynic, I no longer take anything at face value, nor do I allow myself to get caught up in euphoria or celebration over historical events (which this inauguration certainly is). It is my fervent hope that Obama will be able to do at least one-third of what he intends to do, and if he accomplishes that, I will consider his presidency to be a success. My greatest worry is that some idiot fundamentalist macho neo-Nazi will manage somehow to assassinate him.

Instead of reveling in the historical moment, we should all be thinking about what sacrifices we can make in the coming years—rather than waiting for our new president to solve all the problems put in place by the criminal, mass-murdering, incredibly corrupt and totally unrepentant Cheney Administration. And, yes, it was the Cheney Administration; Bush was of no consequence whatsoever as a president, other than responding to the jerks on his strings by The Devil Incarnate, Mr. Cheney. Kind of harsh, I guess some would say, but, well ... sorry, the truth is the truth, even if Political Correctness keeps most people from stating it clearly and without equivocation.

I wrote the words above to a friend of mine today; a woman of simple lifestyle, modest income and deep commitment to her fellow creatures and the environment in which they all must live. I was writing in response to her statement that the prospect of an Obama presidency gave her “hope.” After writing them, however, I realized I should make it clear that these admonishments were not aimed at her personally, since I had no doubt that she stood ready to make whatever sacrifices might become necessary.

I met Janet at a small church I once attended, and of all the people I met there, she was one of the most dedicated to understanding the world and it resources and the need to make personal sacrifices for the betterment of the universe (she was also the least evangelical about it). Though I probably never actually said it out loud, I always had high respect for the way she conducted her life, and her general indifference to monitory wealth or the social stature of those with whom she came in contact. Vanity, pride and ego are terms I could never in my wildest dreams think of applying to Janet, and because of that simple fact, I had greater respect for her than I did for most of the folks I met at the church. I strive to emulate her, as I do many other persons I have met, however, I always fall short.

In any case, I did add an addendum to the note explaining that I was not speaking about her, but more generally admonishing the now-mesmerized electorate to be prepared to do the things she had always done as naturally and instinctively as dressing in the morning. I also told her I shared her "hope" for the future, adding the following caveat:

‘There are no assurances, of course, though I do feel that the tone set, the concepts presented, and the power of having a positive, thoughtful, and intelligent person as president, may just help raise a dam against the roaring tide of corruption that has nearly drowned this country, and possibly lead us out of the wilderness of criminal government activities, into a new era of honesty (in so much as any politics can be honest), empathy, understanding and statesmanship in that bastion of indifferent, self-serving, money-grubbing, amoral fantasy called Washington DC.’

‘Nuff said…!

PRESCRIPTION FOR DISASTER

Though I had read about it a good bit, and even served as a volunteer probation officer once, dealing with a couple of heroin addicts, the truly devastating effects of drug addiction never really hit home until I realized that my son was an addict. Mike (not his real name) is 24 years old and has been hooked on several prescription drugs now for many years. His drug use began in late middle school with marijuana, and evolved over the years to include experimentation with several other drugs. However, none have been as destructive, both physically and emotionally, as the particularly sinister prescription drug, Oxycodone. This now-infamous pain medication has not only led to a powerful addiction, but the ramifications of its use have nearly destroyed Mike’s life, causing all manner of legal and health problems, including obesity, the loss of nearly all his teeth, the near destruction of his sinuses (due to snorting the crushed pills), and ultimately, his incarceration.

To see a kind-hearted, loving, intelligent, creative and talented kid, turn into a self-indulgent, desperate, dishonest, manipulative person, often in fear for his life from various drug dealers and sleazebags and riddled with medical and hygiene problems, is quite simply incredible to me. And, of course, Mike is not alone—far from it.

The epidemic of prescription drug abuse is much more far reaching than most might think. Mike once told me that, at one point in time, back in the early days of high school, when he was on the Honor Roll and was one of the most popular kids in school (the “class clown”), he didn't know anyone who did not do drugs of one sort or another. That, I said, sounded like quite an exaggeration, but he assured me it was true, and also that he knew (either casually or personally) practically everyone at the school. There were, he said, a few egghead or nerdy types that probably didn't do drugs, and maybe a few health-conscious athletes (though most of the football players did take steroids), but other than those he couldn't think of one kid who didn't at least dabble in drugs, most of which were of the prescription variety.

I have asked Mike to keep a journal while in jail, and as soon as he is able to buy some writing materials, he said he will (we cannot send such things to him, only money orders for his account, from which he then can buy things from the proverbial “company store”). He has, in the past, kept a journal, and as the years passed and he became more honest with me about his drug problems, his writings began to reveal a lot about the overall drug situation among teenagers of the 90s and early 2000s.

According to Mike, though marijuana was prevalent during his middle school and early high-school years, and other illegal drugs were also available, around the time he began high school, the drug scene changed in a way that drew in kids who might never have even considered doing illegal drugs. That change, he said, was due to the discovery by some kids that the prescription drugs they found in their parents’ medicine cabinets could also be used to get high. And the main reason they (and others they informed of this unexpected treat) were willing to try these drugs, was that they were not illegal, but were actually prescribed by doctors, and therefore “must be safe.” Once they realized what these drugs were being prescribed for, it was a simple thing to fake the necessary symptoms and have the drugs prescribed directly to them, rather than having to steal them in small quantities from parents. And in many cases, it was the parents themselves who facilitated this drug supply by believing the kids medical complaints, sending them to their insurance-paid-for doctors, and supplying them with insurance-supplemented prescriptions for drugs that would otherwise have cost hundreds of dollars.

Soon, alerted to the possibilities, there entered the clever drug dealers, many of whom were not street-drug pushers or anything like that at first; but were just kids or young adults who had access to money, and would offer to pay for clandestine doctor visits and expensive prescriptions, if the “mules” they supplemented would agree to give them a portion of the pills. And so began the era of teenage doctor shopping, and an explosion of pill-pushing doctors, who prescribed everything from muscle relaxants and anxiety meds, to the many painkillers, of which the worst offender was Oxycodone (basically synthetic heroin). These prescriptions were often prescribed with little or no testing or verification of the supposed physical problem they were intended to treat (back pain being the most prevalent imaginary ailment). And, of course, in the case of psychotropic drugs, there really was no way to verify medically that someone was suffering from anxiety or depression.

All this was enhanced and made ethically acceptable for the doctors by the fact that Oxycodone, when first placed on the market, was touted as being non-addictive, due to its synthetic nature. There are now dozens of lawsuits against Purdue Pharma and other manufacturers of pain killers like OxyContin, that contain Oxycodone, which is now known to be just as addictive as morphine or heroin.

Eventually, the underground trade in illicit prescription drugs became a large cottage industry, mostly carried out in the middle and high schools and among the created addicts who had grown into their early twenties. It starts with the idea (either original or induced by a peer or a teenage drug dealer) that a kid can go to a doctor, claim some type of ailment, receive prescription drugs, have the drug dealer pay for the doctor visit and prescription, give the drug dealer, say, half of the pills, then use the rest for recreational purposes. Of course, the newly created addict soon begins to run out of pills before his/her next doctor visit, so he/she decides to go to a different doctor with the same complaints. Meanwhile, the addict enters the world of drug trading in order to satisfy his/her needs until more pills can be acquired. This trading scenario, which is rampant among all these addicts, basically works like this: the addict, in almost desperate need of pills, goes back to the drug dealer (or a fellow addict) and begs for a supply. The drug dealer agrees, but only on the condition that the addict pays back twice (or more) the number of pills he/she has been advanced, thus reducing the addict’s “net gain” at each turn.

It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to extrapolate what happens from there on out. The situation almost automatically compounds itself, turning into a vicious circle, wherein the drug addict requires more and more, allowing the drug dealer to demand more and more, and so on until the addict begins committing crimes to acquire money, or cheats his/her dealer and is assaulted or killed, or dies of an overdose, or ends up in jail or prison. Meanwhile, the dealer has no real worries about losing a particular “mule,” because there is a nearly endless supply at any local middle or high school.

I know this scenario will sound to most folks like something that would only happen in the ghettos or rougher neighborhoods of large cities, but this all took (and takes) place in the most academically and socially prominent schools in Pasco County, Florida, which now serves as an upper-middle-class bedroom community of Tampa. Unfortunately, most parents suffer under the illusion that if a child is brought up strict enough, in the right neighborhood, with enough restrictions on his/her lifestyle, and is well provided for, they need not worry about him or her getting involved with drugs. Actually, this is far from true, especially when it comes to prescription drugs. I have known many of Mike’s now-addicted friends (including those who have died from drug abuse) from early on, and they run the gamut from modestly well off to rich, strict to liberal parenting, restricted to unsupervised social interactions, deeply religious to agnostic families, and just about every other variable you can think of. Plus, they all went to the same, highly rated schools. And the idea that kids could not possibly hide their drug use from parents, even in the strictest most heavily supervised and restrictive family environments is, according to Mike and his friends, a running joke to them.

There are no-doubt some exacerbating factors in the lives of many teenagers (including Mike) such as a low self-esteem due to the growing obesity epidemic, wanting to be accepted as “one of the guys/girls,” etc. However, according to Mike, it is more a matter of proximity, desire and peer pressure than anything else. And, as any seasoned parent who is honest with him or herself will acknowledge, once a child becomes a teenager, outside influences from peers become far more important and persuasive than anything a parent says or warns against. If you add to this the fact that parents often take prescription drugs for one thing or another, the idea that there might be danger in abusing them can be nearly non-existent in the minds of their children.

I’m sure this will sound like an exaggeration, however, I am not kidding when I say that no less than seven of Mike’s “friends” from high school have died in the past four years. Including his “best friend,” and three young girls. All these deaths have been associated with drugs, both prescription and illegal, mostly in deadly combinations and quantity. Some have been suicides attributed to anxiety disorders and depression, clearly brought on by drug use and exacerbated by the over prescribing of psychotropics. And at least one was due to an auto accident caused by a driver impaired by prescription drugs and alcohol.

Of course, this epidemic of prescription drug abuse also leads to other drug use, since the “high” created by the prescription drugs lowers inhibitions and opens the way for experimentation with just about anything out there. Drugs like LSD, ecstasy, crystal meth, cocaine, heroin, and many others are still readily available, and are used by kids as well, especially when they are first introduced to getting high through prescription drugs, which they thought of as “safe” in the beginning (Mike’s “best friend” had a total of six different drugs in his system, plus a good deal of alcohol, when he died).

I have spent hours, days even, discussing this with Mike in an attempt to get him to see that he needed to break the chain and exit the vicious circle. But even though it was crystal clear to him that he was headed down a dead-end street, with physical and mental devastation at the end, if not death or prison, he was unable to stop. Not that he didn’t try. Many times while he was living with me as a young adult, he would voluntarily give me his pills and let me ration them out to him, in hopes that he could eventually cut down on his intake, but it never worked. If he couldn’t convince me to stop the rationing, he would simply steal them back, or make other arrangements to get more from his dealer(s) and “friends” through the trading scenario, or by doctor shopping.

Everyone has heard about Rush Limbaugh and his addiction to Oxycodone, an addiction that led him into doctor shopping and other illegal activities. And there have been other high-profile cases in the news that have begun to expose what is really only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to prescription drug abuse. What is not getting enough publicity as of yet, however, is the enormous and growing problem among this nation’s youth that promises a next generation of addicts entering the workplace and society with enormous handicaps that will put extreme pressure on our legal and medical systems, not to mention causing the deaths of many and leaving families devastated with grief.

What I am hoping to do with this entry is to motivate parents who are either in denial about the growing epidemic or are simply ignoring the facts, to open their eyes and work hard to curb prescription drug abuse before it traps their children in the vicious cycle that has captured Mike and millions of others. Mike hopes to use his journal entries and experiences over the years to put together a book, or perhaps a series of articles on the subject, in order to help raise consciousness among parents and others and alert the public to the growing storm that approaches. Perhaps such personal reporting, written in first person with true stories, insights and observations, will have more impact than cold, factual, news reports buried on Page 14 of the newspaper. In any case, it is something to hope for and something that may help give Mike some purpose in his life; a life that has been adrift like bottle with no message bobbing on a sea of chemically induced apathy now for several years.

In the end, though, it will be up to parents and, to a lesser degree, the schools and the media, to educate and alert the next generation of kids to the truly devastating effects of prescription drug abuse. The time to do this is in grade school, not when kids become teenagers, which will often be far too late. As much as parents fear discussing such things with younger kids, and as hard as it may be to do so, believe me it is far easier than seeing one’s child lost to the prison system; or to the psychiatric ward; or, ultimately, to the morgue.

Crazy John

His name was “Crazy John,” and he lived, it seemed, on the streets of downtown St. Petersburg. Most folks remember a “Crazy John” from their youth; that oddball who wore strange clothes, or babbled incoherent phrases over and over, or maybe just sat on a bench and stared into space all day. Always the butt of teenage jokes; sometimes baited to perform his or her standard “act,” but mostly scorned and feared, as if a leper.

John was a weight lifter; a huge man, with bulging muscles and rippling veins that stood out on his head like trapped snakes trying to break free. As a boy of only nine years, my fear of John was great, but as I grew older and realized that he never really hurt anyone or did any harm, that fear began to subside. Back then (in the early 1950s), we kids spent a lot of time wandering around downtown, checking out the dime stores and other businesses, and hanging out at the drugstore soda counters. I noticed that John sort of made “rounds” downtown, stopping in at various businesses where he would be greeted by the owners and employees like an old friend. And I began to wonder why these people put up with him.

You see, John’s “act” was a strange and scary one. One minute he would be conversing in a fairly normal way, and the next he would be shouting a string of almost unintelligible curse words, sometimes pounding his fist on the nearest wall or counter. Then, just as suddenly as he had begun, he would stop, look down at the ground, and move slowly away, mumbling quietly. John’s presence and these episodes became so commonplace that, by the time I was sixteen and had acquired a driver’s license, I used to pick him up as he hitchhiked down Central Avenue, and was even tolerant when he occasionally threatened to bash in my dashboard during one of his fits.

Many years later, I learned that what we thought of as John’s craziness actually had a name. It is one manifestation of a disease called Tourette’s Syndrome, whose symptoms range from involuntary movements, such as facial tics, to obsessive-compulsive behaviors, to violent mood swings. In John’s case, the disease manifested itself as "coprolalia" or what is called the “cursing syndrome.”

It seemed that, even in those years, some people had learned a tolerance for the mentally ill, as long as they were deemed harmless and did not cause undue problems. But the stigma remained and the fear was widespread among those less tolerant or understanding. And, unfortunately, that fear and stigma remain today. Today, also, there is the added problem of pervasive street drugs available to those mentally challenged folks who have been more or less abandoned by society to live on the streets.

My impetus for writing about Crazy John came from a poem recently passed along to me in an e-mail. The poem, by a mentally ill fellow named Moe Armstrong, struck a chord and brought back memories of John. It appears below, and if you would like to read more about Moe, you can go to the website at the bottom of this page, where you will find his story told in his own words.

Possession, witchcraft
My name is Moe Armstrong
I am mentally ill
I need to believe
I can make changes
I can become a better person

Being a broken person, gives me the chance
To rebuild myself
To a position of stronger unity
Unity with my hopes, and realities for, peace of mind
Unity with others, for their opportunity, to get to know me
Unity so that I can love, and be loved again

I have a chance in life
To gain happiness
I got this chance, because of my mental illness
My name is Moe Armstrong
I am mentally ill
I need help and assistance in life

I am asking for help
I have been mentally ill a long time,
I have suffered a lot
I have caused other people suffering
I have a chance to feel better
I have a chance to become happy

I've had this psychiatric condition a longtime
I will have this psychiatric condition a long time
I want to keep learning and improving
Mental illness devastated my life
I now have the chance to learn, social acceptance
I have the chance to discover, personal happiness

This chance
This opportunity
I might never have gained, without my mental illness
Losing myself to the despair, of mental illness
I now have the chance, to be a happier person
More secure in my happiness
More secure in my peace of mind
Than, ever before in my life

My name is Moe Armstrong
I am mentally ill

At times,
I do need help
I have learned to continue on

Virginia Beach, Virginia
May 25, 2001

http://www.moearmstrong.com/

The Poetry of Rock ‘n’ Roll

No offense to traditional poets, but to me, the real poets of my generation were and are the songwriters, mainly because they write or wrote what I like to call "accessible" poetry. In fact, some of the best poetry and social commentary of the past 50 years can be found hidden on music albums, never having been played on the radio because it lacked the prime ingredients of "hit" songs, such as repetition, hook lines, excessive pathos, etc.

Among these musical poets are artists like Don McLean, who is known mainly for his anthological anthem, American Pie, but who also wrote some incredibly sophisticated and deeply philosophical lyrics for songs many may never have heard. Or Don Henley, whose song, The End of the Innocence used the clever metaphor of deflowering a virgin to comment on our emergence from the blindly innocent ‘60s and ‘70s into an era of deceit and control by the military-industrial complex, corporate domination of our ethics and morals, and the Reagan era ("This tired old man that we elected king").

Another artist whose social commentary and political observations have gone largely unnoticed by many, is Jackson Browne. Though Jackson may be better known for his emotional lyrics concerning relationships, he has written numerous politically powerful songs with sophisticated, yet accessibly listenable lyrics, such as The Pretender, Lives in the Balance, and Before the Deluge.

When I say “accessible” poetry; I mean poetry that explains realities most Americans are unaware of (or at least numb to), in terms that can be understood by common folks. Such lyrical poetry is more powerful in many ways than any stump speech or complex political commentary by a sociologist or think tank. And the great thing about these musical poets is that, for the most part, those still living continue to work hard to get the truth out through their music, just as they did back in the ‘60s and ‘70s when Folk and Rock began to merge and build on the poetic commentary of artists like Dylan, PP&M, Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, John Denver and others.

I have always seen Rock ‘n’ Roll as the classic American Folk Music, as opposed to most of what is actually tagged as "Folk Music" or "Country" or "Jazz" or "Blues." Of these, the most truly "American" is Jazz, which evolved in the mid to late generations of our culture, after much of the unique ethnicity of the populace had already been diluted by the "Melting Pot" factor. “Traditional” American Folk Music, Blues and Country, on the other hand, mostly had their origins in Europe and Africa, and carry these early influences of phrasing and style and story telling to this day. Only Rock ‘n’ Roll, which is basically an amalgam of all these genres, styles and influences, can really be said to be true American Folk Music ("United States Folk Music" might be a better name for it).

From its earliest stages as a simple blend of "Negro" (Gospel) and "Hillbilly" (rural Appalachian music brought over mainly from Scotland, Ireland, Bavaria and other agrarian cultures), through a complex evolution that gave us extremes such as Grunge on the one end and highly sophisticated symphonic and orchestral compositions on the other, Rock ‘n’ Roll, in its many guises, has come to dominate the music world as the single most popular music form of all time. Though many would say that Europe contributed greatly to Rock ‘n’ Roll’s evolution, it is the influence of American Rock ‘n’ Roll that is at the base of all such music, no matter the country from which it eventually emerges. The Beatles, for example, was originally a cover band that started out doing renditions of songs by early American Rock ‘n’ Roll artists like Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly).

Even today, it is the poetry of Rock & Roll that dominates popular music in the genres of rap and hip-hop, which put far more emphasis on poetry and story telling than on the music itself. It is this aspect that continues to make Rock ‘n’ Roll definable as actual “Folk Music,” which is described in the dictionary as “Traditional music that is an expression of the life of people in a community.”

In many cases, only the beat remains as the music portion of today’s most popular genres, while the poetry has taken center stage. Still, it is the authentic reflection of the daily lives and environments of the authors that separates current-day Rock ‘n’ Roll from other forms of music, and that continues to distinguish it as the true American Folk Music.

Unfortunately, though I spent much of my youth as a Rock musician, literally surrounded by the cacophony of “noise” (as many adults described it), the older I get, the harder it is for me to handle the assault on my ears presented by today’s most popular Rock genres. I do, however, appreciate and understand this generation’s poetic contributions. I only hope historians and future music teachers will not shun today’s artists simply because of the language they use, and will acknowledge their valuable anthological depictions of the daily lives and cultural uniqueness of today’s younger generations.

Of course, we are all subservient to our own cultural biases, but I have always admired the best in all genres of music. Having been trained as a classical vocalist, then graduating to Folk and Rock, and eventually to writing as a profession, I am able to appreciate excellence in musical quality and/or lyrical poetry, no matter the genre.

As they say, there’s no accounting for taste, and none of us has to apologize for our particular tastes in music. But like the would-be prospector who never leaves his own backyard, if we remain within the strict confines of our own personal tastes, we are unlikely to ever uncover that occasional rare poetic gem that flashes its unique beauty from the mud and muck in the pan, bringing with it not only its own intrinsic worth, but the joy of surprise and discovery as well.

Arts, Crafts And Critics

During a recent debate over a bit of poetry passed along to each of us in an e-mail, a dear friend and professional poet made a statement about the difference between craft and art, which I will paraphrase here:

This is the kind of work I classify as folk-type, artless, sincere...of heart not art. It doesn’t have breathtaking imagery, metaphor that opens new doors of perception, language that sings in harmony....none of the elements that characterize original poetry, poetry of power. It’s like the difference between what I see at hobby craft fairs vs. what I see in a good art gallery. I notice immediately if the hobby crafter doesn’t have corners neat, seams straight, edges smooth, colors harmonious, etc, and I want to say “master your craft, kid!” With “art” (whether painting, sculpture, etc) I react primarily to the emotional impact of the piece, and only secondarily to the craft elements. If the artist has sent me a powerful message, and I realize she/he has broken (or bent) the rules of craft, I am even more impressed at her/his artistry....

Come to think of it, I use the same criteria in looking at writing; particularly fiction & poetry, but also some non-fiction. If it informs me efficiently, it’s evidence of good craft; if it moves me in a unique way, it’s art.

My response to these opinions was as follows:

When it comes to types of poetry and definitions of them, I must say that I find it a little elitist to be placing such things in a class “lower” than “art,” or at least insinuating they have less overall value.

Being a craftsman myself (in wood, words and other media), I have always been angered by those who criticize anyone’s effort at artistic expression, whether that expression be accomplished with a hammer, a brush, a pencil, a loom, or plant dye on rock faces. Perhaps the best spoof of critical hypocrisy can be found in the movie LA Story, when Steve Martin is in an art museum describing the emotional impact of a large painting, telling his friends about all the artistic details to be seen. When the camera finally turns to the picture it is essentially blank. That satirical skit depicts the way I think of art critics in general, no matter the genre they are criticizing. They become so enamored with their own scholarship and purported depth of knowledge, they cannot help but fill up page after page with interpretations based on their own opinions rather than any kind of prima-facie evidence or factual knowledge.

As for craft being a mode of informing the observer efficiently, and only art being able to move one in a unique way, I also disagree with that. In fact, it really depends upon the observer or user (“Art is in the eye of the beholder”). I have been moved in unique ways many times by observing the intricate perfection of the woodwork in a classical guitar, the curve of a piece of handmade furniture, or the perfectly efficient design of a tool, all of which would only be considered examples of fine craftsmanship. On the other hand, I would not hang the Mona Lisa in my house on a bet, nor would I pay more than flea-market prices for a Faberge Egg.

The critics’ answer to this, of course, is that I have not experienced enough, or studied enough, or taken enough art appreciation classes; essentially that I don’t have the knowledge and “breeding” to understand and appreciate fine art. Pardon me, but that’s a bunch of cow shit. It is only those whose confidence in their own opinions is so weak, who must justify them with long lists of academic accomplishments and/or life experience.

Critics serve a valuable purpose in the sense that if one learns their likes and dislikes, one can make a fair evaluation of how one might personally react to what is being critiqued. As for being the standard-bearers of true artistic “value,” they are about as useless as male nipples.

Perhaps the worst offenders (to me) are those who teach literature and art appreciation in our schools and colleges. To take a long-dead author’s or artist’s work and interpret it using some kind of academic standards (there is a great example in the film Dead Poet’s Society) may be a fun and interesting exercise. But to then claim that their opinion of what the author or artist was actually saying, of what the symbolism actually means (when often it is not symbolism at all, but straight craft at work), is as ludicrous as any fundamentalist claiming they know exactly what was meant by a phrase in the Bible.

Another question arises in the debate over what is and what is not art, and that is: Is there art in nature? After all, we humanistic types tend to think of nature and evolution as being a set of scientific happenstances, neither craft nor art, but simply fundamental laws and chance at work. Of course, some of the most beautiful painting, writing, sculpture, etc., comes from trying to faithfully copy or depict the randomness found in nature; and no such copy or literary depiction can ever be as good as the original. To say there is art in nature, one must assume there was an artist, and therefore a God or something of the like. But to say there is not, we condemn the work of all those who have tried to depict nature in their art—if there is no art in the original, there is little hope of art magically appearing in a copy. In that case, only the abstractionists and impressionists could be considered real artists.

So what is art and what is craft? Is there some magical artistic line across which a craftsperson may eventually move, even though they have never attempted to do anything but perfect their craft? Or is that territory forbidden to those who refuse to study and learn the opinions of critics and the history of “true” art. Is there “accidental” art? Can a craftsperson occasionally cross over that line without knowing it, simply by chance? Perhaps a backwoods mechanic with a third-grade education and a blowtorch could unknowingly create a piece of metal sculpture that would rival in its ability to move the soul like the works of Michelangelo or Van Gogh or DaVinci. But would it ever be recognized as anything more than craftsmanship or “folk art?” All the while “real” artists are shooting paint-filled balloons with guns, swinging on ropes to spread random colors on huge canvases, or painting depictions of Campbell’s Soup cans.

I believe it is precisely because of the elitists and critics that many people abandon their quests to become “artists.” I, for example, long ago resigned myself to being a simple craftsman, with little hope of ever becoming a true “artist” in my writing and woodworking careers. After all, what I do is so influenced by craft, so “unschooled,” there is no realistic hope of my ever achieving what critics would describe as “art.” Part of that comes from the commercial aspect of my endeavors; that almost everything I do is (of necessity) aimed at making a buck. In my mind, the true artist, no matter what the critics say, is the one who does what he or she does because they cannot help it, because they simply must, and not because they ever intend to sell or market their work. If I am correct in this assumption, that would mean the real artists of the world would be found mostly in developing countries, or in the back roads and slums of the more “advanced” societies.

It is, I suppose, an inbred trait of the human animal, to criticize, to look down on others and their work. Else how could we ever feel superior, feed our enormous egos? Just as God needs the Devil to justify his/her existence, so do we need our inferiors to make us feel important.

I am reminded here of a conversation I once had with my best friend’s new wife. In fact, it was the conversation that first began my gradual loss of respect for her. A conversation that eventually spiraled down into a well of animosity between us that has separated my friend and me for many years.

Alice [not her real name] had studied anthropology and was an exceptionally intelligent person, with a quick wit and a tongue to match. Since I have an interest in the subject myself, I decided to ask a few questions, thinking I could tap some of her knowledge and wisdom without having to pay for it. I first asked her what was the most interesting society she had ever studied. Her answer was immediate: American society. Since our society is, by all accounts, one of the most complex we know of, I could not really argue with this, though I did bring up some points, like the clicking tongues of the Aborigines, or the architectural marvels of the Maya, the Greeks and the Egyptians. I next asked her what was the most intelligent species on Earth. Again, the answer was immediate. It needed no thought or reflection, and was completely unequivocal: the human species.

The point I am trying to make here goes back to the critics, the academic evaluators, those who consider themselves and their opinions so infallible as to leave no room for discussion. Those for whom debate is only an opportunity to prove their points, not a quest for truth.

How, I asked Alice, could she be so sure that intelligence of a higher degree did not exist somewhere else on the planet? If it did, she responded, we would have heard from it; we would have seen its works; there would be great achievements to document its advancements, etc. Our superiority was evident in the way we had “conquered” nature, turned it to our use, used science to provide us with all manner of sustenance and pleasure. If there was a higher intelligence, where was it? Why do we not know about it? Why has it not conquered us?

I was, to say the least, flabbergasted that one so intelligent, so learned, so seemingly liberal, could be such a fundamental elitist. Perhaps it is my extensive background in science fiction that allows me to step outside the “box” of human experience and imagine a species intelligent enough not to need all those things; not to need to prove anything to us or to any other entity. Or perhaps there is a species that long ago established an equilibrium with nature, after eons of fighting it only to lose again and again. One that has evolved, both accidentally and purposely, both physically and mentally, into a form so compatible with nature and so understanding of the negative consequences of assuming superiority, that it would no more make its superiority known to us than it would commit racial suicide. Indeed, a species that did not even consider itself superior, but only wanted to continue reaping the rewards of eons of trial and error, of learned adjustment combined with natural evolution.

I then asked Alice if she had considered that only a tiny fraction of the inhabitable volume of the Earth was actually ours to see. That of the two basic categories of higher life (water reliant and air reliant), ours was by far the smallest. I asked her if she realized that the age of the Earth was such that numerous entire species, societies, even world-dominant life forms, could have come and gone without leaving so much as a trace of their “achievements,” and that the descendants of those entities may have learned something along the way about how to enjoy life and carry on longer than their poor, stupid predecessors. She scoffed at this idea and continued to cling to her opinion that visible or documentable works were the only criteria by which we should judge species superiority.

I wanted to go on, to carry the argument to its logical end, but I saw there was no chance; that her elitist racial superiority could not be shaken. She (meaning the human race) was it! No ifs ands or buts about it.

In the end, I took the rest of my argument home with me, not wanting to cause a more vehement confrontation. Fact is, I could be entirely wrong and she entirely right, but that’s not the point. The point is, that kind of egotistical racial superiority belies any claim to truth, simply because the truth cannot be found through bias, but only through a clear evaluation of the facts as they are understood. Even at that, truth is more akin to approached infinity than to any evaluation of facts at any given time. Still, allowing that my conjecture may carry some level of truth, I would say that one integral part of the success of the society of dolphins and whales has to have been that they long ago gave up on their egos, killed off their critics, and learned that there really is no difference between craft and art.

I invite your comments and opinions.

R. LeBeaux