Daily Image

When I take the time to do a little exploring of blogs on the web (most often via links from other blogs), I discover some pretty cool stuff...

I found [daily dose of imagery] thanks to Jillian at SlyBlog: The Snarky Cat...

I've not spent a lot of time at the site, but so far, this image is my favorite.

Veering From The Wave

With the Swift Boat Liars For Bush dominating the news of late, I thought I'd take a slightly different tack as regards swift boats...

Last fall, I saw one of the most powerful documentaries I've ever seen on PBS' Independent Lens series -- Be Good, Smile Pretty, produced by Tracy Droz Tragos, a Vietnam War era orphan.

On March 16, 2001, Tracy Droz Tragos was surfing the Internet, entering family names to see if anyone had become famous yet. What she discovered instead was a first-hand account of her father’s death on a U.S. Naval swift boat in the Mekong Delta. At that moment, Tragos decided she needed to know who that twenty-five year old stranger was – not as a statistic, tangled in the memory of a war that wounded a nation, but simply, deeply as a man who laughed a lot and had blemishes and fears and wanted more than anything to come home and be her father. Be Good Smile Pretty is Tragos’ powerfully moving, personal exploration of her grief for the father she never knew, a grief shared by the estimated 20,000 Americans whose fathers were killed in Vietnam. Weaving emotionally compelling interviews with home movies, stock footage and family photos, Tragos travels from Selma, Alabama, to the U.S. Senate in search of her father’s Naval Academy roommates and war buddies, each of whom has been silently mourning his death and remember his life in their own way. What Tragos uncovers about the violent climax of battle is almost unbearable. But ultimately, it is the truth that allows her, and her entire family, to move forward. (Susanna Ulrich, IFP/Los Angeles Film Festival)

Tracy discusses her father, Don Droz, with her mother for the first time, exploring her mother's memory, letters, photographs and audio recordings. She meets with her father's swift boat comerades and -- while visiting the Vietnam Memorial for the first time -- she and her mother and grandmother pay a visit with an emotional John Kerry, who knew her father.

Buy this film for your collection... and keep lots of tissue at hand! It is a heartbreaking story in so many ways, but it is also incredibly uplifting as Tracy's relationship with her mother rises to a whole 'nother level as they both learn about a man taken too soon from their lives.

Back At It!

The last couple of weeks have been long and exhausting (though fruitful!) and I'm just getting back to feeling like I can come out of hiding and start posting regularly again...

The 2004 Great Lakes Folk Festival has come and gone... it was a great weekend filled with great music, dance and food — all enjoyed by large crowds. The challenge for me every year, of course, is to be in as many places at one time as is humanly possible!

I can't say enough about all of the people I work with who are so key to the success of this event: my fellow staffers at the MSU Museum; all the volunteers (350 or so), the sound and tech crews, the great staff at the Marriott at University Place, the great, amazing musicians and the thousands and thousands of people in attendance for three days last weekend.

There were many highlights for me, despite having little opportunity to spend big chunks of time listening to music...

On Friday night, with rain clouds threatening, Aziz Herawi, an Afghani Dutar (lute) player, took the stage with his son and an Indian (I believe) dancer, who was absolutely stunning. In the large venue of Valley Court Stage, Herawi's ragas demand a more attentive audience than the boisterous Québécois band Le Vent du Nord or Ireland's Danú, but the dance helped to capture the attention of the growing twilight audience.

Le Vent du Nord and Danú brought the evening to a rousing ending despite shortened sets caused by delays with set-ups. Their musicianship is astounding. Watching Danú, in particular, was breathtaking as each member of the seven-piece group illustrated their skills individually and in unison. Perhaps it's just the Irish in me, but there is almost nothing better than music from Eire — particularly when it's performed by people from its shore, only feet away from me. My daughter and I spent time with the band later in one of their hotel rooms listening to music, checking out the rough mixes for an upcoming DVD and tipping a few beers (me — not my daughter!).

Another magical moment for me was to see the huge crowd gathered in the sun (and shadow of the CVS) to see Danú on Saturday afternoon. The mass of people extended from the stage back beyond the intersection of M.A.C. and Albert — the first time I'd ever seen that large an audience at the M.A.C. stage. It was a delight to share shots of Bushmills and beers with Danú's Tom Doorley later that night, talking (too much about) politics, and discussing my friend Mary Pat Doorley and her family's support for the band when they appear in Ohio.

This year, we featured several Hip-Hop artists and complemented their performances with discussion panels. One of the groups did a street performance that drew a lot of attention and much praise. Going into the weekend, we were concerned about the response this element would get from the attendees, but we were fortunate to have selected artists who have a lot to say and who understood what we were trying to do.

I wasn't privy to one of the most moving moments of the Festival, unfortunately, which I have to tell second-hand, as best as my memory might allow...

Because the Festival is designed to be educational as well as entertaining, one of my duties as music coordinator is to put together what we call "Traditions Showcases", sessions which are usually comprised of musicians from different cultural traditions who play the same or similar instruments. One such showcase featured six accordion players: Celtic, Québécois, Cajun, Conjunto (Tex-Mex), and two from the Polka tradition.

There is mention of the session in a Lansing State Journal post-fest review (a little more comprehensive look at the Festival appeared in the Lansing City Pulse), but from what I heard from people who were there, it was a more moving story than as reported. One of the Polka-playing accordionists, Staś Wisniach had been presented a Michigan Heritage Award and so came late to join the other five musicians. By the time he arrived, it was his "turn" to play something in order to demonstrate his background. He played a classical piece and from all reports had the other musicians rapt in attention, astonished, I think, at his virtuosity on the instrument.

When Staś finished, he spoke eloquently of the musicianship of the others present on stage with him, and what an honor it was to be amongst them. Of course, it was clear from the reactions on the faces of the others that they were the ones feeling honored.

Prior to the Festival, when I had talked with one of the accordionists (Frank Piotrowski of Pan Franek & Zosia's Polka Towners) about participating in the showcase, he expressed concern — that he was a bit nervous since he'd never done anything but play music; rarely (if ever) had he talked about it in such a setting. Sunday morning, when it came time for Frank to leave, he was beaming and raving about the experience he'd had with the other accordionists and with Staś in particular.

I received a similar rave from Gao Hong, who was thrilled to have had the opportunity to share a Lute Traditions Showcase with Abdel Karim Bader, an Arab-American Oud (rhymes with food) player, and the previously mentioned Aziz Herawi. I was thrilled to have recognized the opportunity to present these three outstanding lute players in this format as our audience appreciates learning about the various cultures we present, but when the artists leave the sessions excited, my thrill grows exponentially.

Sunday, after the Festival wrapped up ("rapped" up?), a few of the staff, some friends and Le Vent du Nord gathered at Lou & Harry's to share a few drinks in the cooling night air of the establishment's patio. I think that Harry stayed open past his regular hours as we kept ordering pitchers and laughing. Eventually, a couple of the Hip-Hop artists joined; later, a handful of us gathered in the hotel room of ethnomusicologist/folklorist Nancy Groce, and into the hours of morning, we continued our discussions of music and cultures.

These are the moments that make a year's worth of phone calls, meetings (and more meetings!), contract negotiations, schedule preparations, blah, blah, blah... all worthwhile. While it's great to hear how much the audiences enjoyed the variety and quality of the music that I help to program, I think the most treasured aspect for me is knowing that most of the musicians, who often come to the Festival thinking that it's just another gig, leave with such meaningful experiences.

Without a doubt, this is the best job I've ever had. Ever could have. Ever will have.

The Big Weekend

Little time will be spent blogging this weekend as my time will be spent here.

August 7th

Every year this date rolls around. Every year it kicks the memory into gear. Sometimes, I notice that the date is coming; sometimes, I notice that it just past. Today, however, as I viewed one of my recently posted blog entries, it hit me on the same day. I was married on Saturday, August 7, 1982. Divorced a little over thirteen years later. It's funny how lives change and how the events of our past continue to hang on—in this case, like the burrs from a field of weeds that stuck to my socks when I was a kid

For those of you who weren't there, it was a clear, very warm day in Laingsburg, Michigan. The corn was a good six-foot high or more in the field next to my soon-to-be-in-laws' home. The wedding would take place in the shade of the big tree in their front yard. Our friend Lynda (or Linda—however she's spelling it these days) had spilled a pan of baked beans on the living room floor as she was bringing them out the front door of the house. I had prepared several tapes of recorded music for the day (Martin Mull dominated the mix: "What say you and I get normal/It don't have to be that formal/We'll just sit and watch TV like others do"); the Reverend John Carson would preside. Tony and Ann May would stand with us as our witnesses.

It was a purposefully small event, with the bride's sister Paula taking photographs. My parents and one of my three brothers (and his family) was present; one of my college roommates, Dan Graves, was there, as was my advisor from school, Barry Piersol, and his wife Vickie.

Now, it's been almost nine years since I moved out of my house and into my apartment. The years have been kind to me, actually, as I have been blessed with many friends. I have been able to pursue life from a different tack. Music, which has always been a major part of my life, has become not only more important, it's become my life's work—for the time being, anyway. (My position is scheduled to be terminated at the end of this month.) I also spend an enormous amount of time as a volunteer with a local folk music organization.

I'm doubtful that these things would have happened had I not gone through a divorce. As Jackson Browne sings in a song that seemed to carry me through the darkest of divorce days, "I thought that it would kill me, but I'm alive."

While it is easy to hold onto the bitterness that comes with being the jettisoned half of the household, every day that passes lessens the desire to do so. Slowly, but surely, the focus has shifted away from the pain of loss to the thrill of living; the love and kindness of friends—old and new—has supplanted the hurt and ill-will. Loudon Wainwright III always has seemed to have the perfect song for every occasion. Interestingly, he always seems to write them at about the time I happen to be living the same experiences. "Our Own War" came out a little after the divorce became final.

Our Own War
© Loudon Wainwright III, 1997 Snowden Music, Inc.

Hostilities ended, nobody cared
Anymore for the war, so a truce was declared.
So it ends in surrender, then there's peace at least;
Arms are withdrawn and fire is ceased.

To stay in a skirmish one needs appetite;
Two need desire to keep up a fight;
But when appetite's off and desire is gone,
Then the fire is held and arms are withdrawn.

When losses and wounds are grievous and gory,
When the battle is pitched, in the field there is glory,
When hearts just aren't in it, retreat leads to rout
And arms are laid down and the fire goes out.

We remember the ones who run out of dumb luck;
Monuments are erected and statues are struck;
But we tend to forget if and when we forgive,
And the survivors survive but they never quite live.

As for our own war, yes, I recall it well,
Just what it was like our own personal hell.
I've forgotten the good times—heaven's so vague—
But I remember the battles. Oh, how they raged!

When losses and wounds are grievous and gory,
When the battle is pitched, in the field there is glory,
When hearts just aren't in it, retreat leads to rout
And arms are laid down and the fire goes out.

 

Mary Kay Letourneau

There is something about this case that is -- quite simply -- very, very sad.

Ex-Student Seeks Reunion With Letourneau
By Rebecca Cook (AP)

GIG HARBOR, Wash. - Mary Kay Letourneau, the teacher convicted for having sex with a sixth-grade student, was released from prison Wednesday, and her 21-year-old victim quickly sought to get back together with her.

Vili Fualaau is challenging a court order that bars Letourneau from contacting him as part of her child rape sentence. He says he is an adult and can pick his own friends, especially the mother of his two children.

"He is now an adult and, as an adult, is requesting that the court allow him to associate with other adults of his own choosing, specifically Mary K. Letourneau," his court motion says.

Letourneau, 42, slipped out of prison quietly after midnight and was met by a crowd that included dozens of media outlets and a group of rowdy teenage boys waving signs that said "I'm 18, Baby!" and "Take Me Home."

Letourneau was a 34-year-old elementary school teacher in suburban Des Moines and an unhappily married mother of four in 1996, when she began having sex with the sixth-grader.

more >>

How does a 34-year-old woman (or man, for that matter) develop such intense affection for a 13-year-old? I can almost understand her sexual attraction for him if he looked older than his years, but what was so lacking in her life that she could have fallen in love with someone so emotionally immature? (Interestingly enough, Fualaau's mother considered her son old beyond his years.)

That question was posed to her during an online chat with Court TV in 1991 and she responded:

How did you manage to fall in love with a child?

I think it's more appropriate to say a teenager. How did he manage falling in love with me? How did I manage falling in love with him? You know it's not as simple as to say "it just happened." But we both did find ourselves in love. And it was a mutual love. Love is something that evolves. And it was very intense, too. I don't really think that falling in love can be explained.

What were you feeling about life when you began to feel attracted to Vili?

That's something I haven't really thought about...Well, I think many people have theorized or speculated that I must have been very lonely at the time. But I wasn't. At the time I considered myself a very independent person, and very confident. I was, at the time, looking to my future, knowing I was going to get a divorce, and was actually looking forward to being happy alone in life with my children. In other words I don't have the type of personality that is dependent on having a man in my life, or a partner. I feel very fulfilled just with myself, my family, my friends, my children.

Now that she's served her sentence, what does she have to look forward to? She has been added to the state of Washington's sexual offenders list; she is going to continue to be the butt of late night jokes every time her name makes the news wires; as the above story notes, at her release from prison she was greeted by "a group of rowdy teenage boys waving signs that said 'I'm 18, Baby!' and 'Take Me Home.'" How can she possibly go anywhere without meeting with this kind of abuse? Could this all have been worth it?

A Decisive Moment 

Henri Cartier-Bresson (Jane Brown 1957)

One of the world's greatest photographers, Henri Cartier-Bresson died today at 95. Cartier-Bresson was an inspiration for me and probably any photographer with notions of being good or respectable. 

Behind The Gare St. Lazare (Henri Cartier-Bresson 1932)

He has said that a sense of human dignity is an essential quality for any photojournalist, and feels that no picture, regardless of how brilliant from a visual or technical standpoint, can be successful unless it grows from love and comprehension of people and an awareness of "man facing his fate." [...] "In photography, the smallest thing can be a great subject," he wrote in The Decisive Moment. "The little human detail can become a leitmotif."

More Cartier-Bresson photographs