Nero’s Fire Folly

An old story has passed down from the history of the ancient Roman empire: while the ancient city of Rome went up in flames, the emperor Nero “fiddled while Rome burned.”

That may true; or it may not be. But we do know, according to the ancient Roman historian Tacitus,  it is not far from the truth.

Tacitus wrote a report on the disaster, an uncontrollable, raging fire that consumed the capital city of the Roman empire in the year 64.

Here are a few excerpts from his account:

Before the disaster started. . . 

“On the quays (wharfs) were brothels stocked with high-ranking ladies. Opposite them could be seen naked prostitutes, indecently posturing and gesturing.”

“Nero was already corrupted by every lust, natural and unnatural.  But he now refuted any further surmises that no further degradation was possible for him. . . a few days later he went through a formal wedding ceremony with one of the perverted gang called Pythagorus. The emperor, in the presence of witnesses, put on the bridal veil. Dowry, marriage bed, wedding torches, all were there. Indeed everything was public which even in a natural union is veiled by night.”

“Disaster followed. Whether it was accidental or caused by a criminal act on the part of the emperor is uncertain—both versions have supporters. Now started the most terrible and destructive fire which Rome had ever experienced. . .”

“First, the fire swept violently over the level spaces. Then it climbed the hills… when people looked back, menacing flames sprang up before them or outflanked them. . . . Nobody dared fight the flames.” . . .

 “. . . rumor had spread that, while the city was burning, Nero had gone on his private stage and, comparing modern calamities with ancient, had sung of the destruction of Troy.”

After the fire:

“Of Rome’s fourteen districts only four remained intact. Three were levelled to the ground. The other seven were reduced to a few scorched and mangled ruins.”

Such are the inflammatory destructions of a self-obsessed demagogue. Tacitus concluded his report with this statement about what the people thought:

“ People believed that Nero was ambitious to found a new city to be called after himself.”

It seems the self-aggrandizing control freak  was willing to destroy the whole city so that he could rebuild it with his own identity dominating it.

The above  selected excerpts were lifted from John Carey’s book, “Eye-witness to History.” published by Harvard University Press, 1988.

Later, much later, long after Nero and Tacitus had turned to dust,  an American observer of human history, Mark Twain, said:

“History doesn’t repeat itself, but it rhymes.”

Let us hope that there are no modern-day Nero-wannabes out there waiting to destroy our “city” for the sake of rebuilding it in their own image.

Glass half-Full

Lincoln Legacy in Danger

Something was lost, but something was found. . . in a Civil War battlefield at Gettysburg.

They walked up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

When they reached the top, Bridget was gazing, like most everyone else who ascends here, with rapt interest at the seated statue. But Marcus, holding Bridget’s hand, gently prodded her to keep moving, slowly to the left, through the myriad of ambling visitors.

They came to an inner sanctum. Carved on the white marble wall in front of them were the words of the slain President’s Gettysburg address. Marcus stopped, taking in the enormity of it, both physically and philosophically. He was looking at the speech intently. Bridget was looking at him.

After a few moments: “Isn’t that amazing?

“Yes.” She could see that he was thinking hard about something. The great chamber echoed a murmur of humankind.

“Supreme irony.” The longing of a nation’s soul reverberated through the memorial… in the soundings of children, the whisperings of passersby. Deep within Marcus’ soul, something sacred was stirring, and she could see it coming forth.

“The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but can never forget what they did here.” He was reading aloud Lincoln’s words on the white wall.

But for the echoes of a million people who had passed through this place, there was silence. After a moment, Bridget responded. “…and yet, there it is carved on the wall, for all to see: ‘the world will little note what we say here….’”

“Right, Bridget. Isn’t it amazing?”

Suddenly, amid the noise was a loud shouting.

Marcus could hear where it was coming from. He moved quickly away, toward the noise, to see what was happening. Bridget felt the sudden coolness of air on her hand, in the absence of Marcus’ gentle grip.

As soon as he emerged from behind the marble column, Marcus was puzzled by an incongruous, glistening wet flash of red upon the feet of Lincoln’s statue. What the hell? Instinctively, he ran over to it. He could still hear a constant shouting; it was a ranting. Then his attention settled on the man who was yelling. He had a bucket in his hand, dripping with red paint. The rant went on, and suddenly Marcus was comprehending it: “…you sonofabitch see if you can get that off and then rub it on your white ass, your sorry white ass that destroyed what this country could have been you’re a traitor to your race.”

This must be a dream, a very bad dream. Marcus was noticing the speaker’s bald head, goatee, his moving mouth spouting insult. Then Marcus was deciding to do something. It seemed to him that it was someone else speaking when he asked, loudly, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The stranger, startled, turned to Marcus and looked at him. Then he opened his foul mouth: “I’m gonna make things right. There’s a lotta things need to be made right. It’s gonna start now.”

A bad dream. Marcus could feel his ire rising. His voice must have quivered with “You better leave now. You’ve defaced national property. You better find a park ranger and turn yourself in. If you don’t, I’ll turn you in.” Marcus found himself yelling, as his challenge escalated through the marble edifice.

The man turned and began to walk down the steps.

Impulsively, Marcus thought, and shouted: “Who are you, anyway?”

Marcus began following the man down the steps. “They oughta bury you under this place.” Marcus was right behind him.

Suddenly the vandal turned and punched his assailant in the face.

The scene above took place in the story I wrote and published in 2007,

Glass half-Full

Boston

Boston!

Liberator for the Nation

Mind Maker, Stacker of Books

Player with Minds, our Nation’s Education Handler

Revolutionary, bold, Bruining

City of Rising Spirit

Boston!

. . .  posted with appreciation to Carl Sandburg, whose Chicago poem established the poetic framework for this tribute to a great American city.

Glass half-Full

1619 Project

I was a Republican for a few years, but now that all the insurrecting destruction has taken hold of them,  I have reverted to just being a plain old American. E Pluribus Unum.

In the last year or so, the party of Trump/Jordan had been tossing around this “woke” term, which I didn’t quite understand, although the general drift of the so-called woke term seemed to indicate that there was something wrong about the “woke” movement.

 After a while, I noticed that the “woke” term was somehow associated with something called the 1619 project. 

Then I figured out, a few days ago, that I could discover more about what this 1619 project actually is, by watching the documentary that Nicole Hannah-Jones had made. So I watched it on Hulu, and learned a lot about the experience of growing up black in a country that is—truth be told— dominated by white people.

I did learn a lot.

Having spent nine years of my 1950’s childhood in Jackson, Mississippi, I did have, from an early age, a perspective on these controversies. Now that I have watched Nicole’s historical opus, I know more than I did before, so I can attest that her labor of love does indeed present educational—and even redemptive—value.

Reflecting now on what has happened in my lifetime, and in the lifetime of this nation, I must say that, while we white folks did indeed have an obvious emphasis on 1620, we seem to have overlooked the 1619 aspect of American history.

So Nicole has covered that for us, with her 1619 Project, right from its start:

She has prepared quite the educational documentary. Giving an early nod to Alex Haley’s Roots,

 she raises some definitive historical issues with respect to the plight to of black folks and their tribulations, since their arrival here in 1619, a year before our honky brethren arrived at Plymouth in 1620.

It’s definitely something to think about. Live and learn, no matter what hurdles and obstructions may be encountered. 

I mean, for instance,  look what Berry Gordy did up there in Detroit, with Motown. 

Although, there’s a lot more to black history than Motown, or even Memphis or Atlanta or Chicago or Harlem or Birmingham or Bessemer. For instance, Nicole concludes her epic documentary with an emphasis on the plight of workers at Amazon, which is, in some ways, an extension of what those 19th-century black folk were dealing with back on the plantation.

Bottom line, I surely hope those Amazon workers are well-paid and not overworked, while they’re preparing my novels, Glass half-Full, Glass Chimera, Smoke, and King of Soul , and shipping them out to the world.

Check it out, Nicole’s 1619 Project on Hulu. It is, indeed, an education, especially if you have  yet to be woke up. Arise, all ye honky sleepers!

Glass half-Full

The Falling Fickle Sword of Damocles

Ever since ancient times, a sharp sword of catastrophic danger has hung over the human race—  a razor-sharp sabre suspended by a single thread, which, were the thread to be severed, would fall upon us, mankind, maybe killing millions of people. 

Just now, we are frightfully aware of that “sword”, as another madmen tramples across borders, brandishing the dreaded  threat of nuclear disaster. 

The presence of that legendary, cataclysmic sword is, however, nothing new.

It has hung above us for two millennia of time, although never—until 1945—with the disastrous destruction of nuclear warfare.

The metaphor of a so-called “Sword of Damocles” was made known in a theatre of ancient Sicily or Greece, many many moons ago. Centuries later, poets. . . Chaucer, Shakespeare and others  took up the imagery of the Sword of Damocles for dramatic or literary effect.

In 1914, a profound dramatization of of this Peril was acted out in actual history.

 The disaster began in June of 1914. Here’s how the dreaded “Sword of Damocles” fell upon Europe in a fatefully tragic chain of events.

The first thing that happened: a Prince/Heir to the Austrian throne, Franz Ferdinand, was assassinated in June,1914, by a Serbian rebel, down in Sarajevo, Bosnia, an area in the Balkan region of southeastern Europe.

It was a fatal treaty  that dragged the Russians—and, as it later turned out— damn-near the whole world— into the confrontation that escalated into World War I.

Here’s what’s so sad about how this royal f*k-up began:

In the early 20th-century, the Russian Czar Nicholas and the German Kaiser Wilhelm were cousins. They were both grandsons of the British Queen, Victoria! Before this time, they had a familial, cordial relationship. They could have ended this thing before it even started, were it not for the Sword of Damocles, also known as the Flying Fickle Finger of Fate.

In this particular  finger of fate disaster, the “thread” by which the “Sword” hung was a treaty, or two.

The Austrians had a treaty with the Germans, while the Serbs had a treaty with the Russians.

Wilhelm’s cousin, Czar Nicholas of Russia, felt duty bound—by a treaty with the Bosnian Serbs— to go down to Serbia  and rescue the contentious Serbs from their  bully Austrian wannabee overlords.

When the Austrians attacked the Serbians, the Russians were treaty-bound to attack the Austrians, which meant that the Russians were also at war with the Germans.

Cousin Nikky and Cousin Willy were suddenly at war with each other.  

The actual “Sword” of Damocles was the German head honcho, Kaiser Wilhelm. Even though he was Nicholas’ cousin, he was a bellicose bastard, not unlike his later successor of 20 years later, Hitler.

On 26 July, 1914, Britain—God bless ‘em— called for a peace conference. Good luck with that. God save the Peace.

But on 28 July, Austrian Emperor Franz Josef did indeed declare war on Serbia. Damn! But—long story short—he chose to attack France!

Don’t ask. Long Story.

Now as if that weren’t bad enough . . . way up north, the Czar was already amping up his legions of millions. The hell if I know why. A whole slue of Russian trains were being set loose to transport millions of  soldiers  and armaments southward to the conflagration.

 Now—after one thing leads to another— there are ten million soldiers suddenly rolling along those shiny new rails, rushing head-long into  world war.

What’s really tragic was: as the War juggernaut was cranking up full throttle, Cousin Willie telegraphed Cousin Nicky to say that he would back down if Nicky would just not get involved.

So the thought occurs to Cousin Nicky balks: Wait a damn minute? is there a way out of this sudden madness?

Alas! The Sword of Damocles severed that olive branch.

It seems those European Royals were so excited about their new-fangled military hardware and their new toy railroads!

But it was too much trouble, at that point in time, to turn back the tide of war. So the Sword of Damocles fell and it was not lifted until 1918, after millions of people had died.

Let us hope and pray that the dreaded Sword of Nuclear Damocles does not fall on Ukraine as Vlad the Mad creeps toward Donbas!

Smoke

Trouble on the Mount

In the middle of time, as we know it . . . on the cusp of B.C. and A.D., along came a prophetess, Anna. She spoke profoundly, in a prophetic way, to all people who were looking for:  the redemption of Jerusalem. Whatever that is. . .

The Western world has been wondering, for over 2000 years now, what is meant by the “redemption of Jerusalem.” This concept is yet to be clearly manifested.

  But we do notice that now, in 2023, the opposite is happening, again.  The furies start to fly, maybe because Pandora has opened her box? but that’s just an old Greek wives’ tale.

Yesterday, all those troubles seemed so far away; now it looks as though they’re suddenly here to stay.  Newly-appointed Israeli Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir visited the mosque, with Israeli Security guards surrounding him. 

His visit has stirred up a hornet’s nest of Muslim rage.

According to Jean Shaoul, writing yesterday for the World Socialist, Itamar had posted pictures of himself last May while he and his family were visiting the mosque. At that time he had  “called for its destruction to ‘establish a synagogue on the mountain.’”

That’s pretty serious stuff, and the fact that Itamar is now an official of the Netanyahu administration has upped the ante in this notorious poker game of the Temple Mount/Haram al Sharif.

Yesterday, January 5, Ben-Gvir stirred up a hornet’s nest of Muslim rage when he visited Al Aqsa again, this time in his official capacity with a group of Israeli security guys surrounding him. 

The problem here goes back to the seventh century BC, when Muhammed, the Most Holy Prophet of Islam, was transported in a nocturnal vision, to the mountain and had a visitation with Allah. 

According to Abu Abd al-Rahman and his translator, Frederick S. Colby, in The Subtleties of the Ascension, 2006: 

“The narrative describes how the Prophet was led by the angel Gabriel in the middle of the night from a location in Mecca to a remote location, which came to be identified with Jerusalem.”

The location at issue is the historic mountaintop in Jerusalem, called Haram al-Sharif  by the Muslims, called the Temple Mount by Jews and Christians. 

The mountain had originated as a holy spot because, in ancient times, Abraham had sacrificed a ram there instead of his son Isaac. Centuries later, the Jews established their tabernacle there. 

Later, under King Solomon, they built their Temple. The Israelis have hopes of building a new temple there. If they are ever able to erect one, it might look something like this:

 Their original Temple was destroyed in 70 AD by the Roman general Titus, as Jesus had vaguely predicted.  Centuries later, the Dome of the Rock, Muslim holy site, was  built there, which still stands.  

A dozen years ago, I wrote a novel, Glass half-Full, in which a news reporter strolled across the spacious plaza pictured above, and wondered why the Jews could not build their new temple there, and everybody would be happy with both Jews and Israelis attending their sacred place on the mountain.

During the 1967 war between Israelis and Muslims, General Moshe Dayan took military possession of the sacred mountintop. He (wisely) forbade his men to wreck the place. 

History reveals that this mountaintop is the hottest spot in the world for contention and enmity. Someday the words of the prophetess Anna will be fulfilled, when the “redemption of Jerusalem” is achieved, however that plays out. Notice that the western gate is currently closed. Someday, it will be opened.

Glass half-Full 

Music and Memory

A long, long time ago, Bob Dylan sang: “He not busy being born is busy dying.”

Recently, while contemplating that profound thought, my mind took me back to remembering the times that I grew up in. It wasn’t very long after the last Big War.

I guess this is what old folks do. We start slip-sliding away from this real world into a nostalgia of days gone by. . . not entirely, mind you, but enough to render the present into a more understandable context.

My parents’ generation, of course, had a different set of memories. Their dreamy memories were perhaps summoned in Archie Bunker’s theme song:

“Boy, the way Glenn Miller played. . . songs that made the hit parade. . . gee! I oughta celebrate; those were the days.” 

Those were the days of Louis Armstrong’s jazz morphing into Swing and beyond.

While Duke Ellington and his big band were swayin’ and swingin up in Harlem, along came Count Basie, Cab Calloway, Benny Goodman, Dizzy Gillespie and a host of others in those ’30’s big band venues of the Big Apple, Chicago, and beyond. 

The Western world was swinging and swaying into some new/old musical grooves. This beboppin’ modulation would ultimately help to soothe those war wounds of our Greatest Generation. 

 You see. . . the greatest collective historical life-sacrifice  known to man— running the dam nazis and the fascists and hiro-heads back into their holes— had been accomplished, by the grace of God, by 1945.

Meanwhile, back at the big River, black blues and bebop was being reborn into jazz and ultimately branching off into rock ’n roll, to sooth the tortured soul of our Greatest generation. 

The new music had come slip-slidin’ out of ole Mississippi delta mud, where, Lead Belly, Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Light’nin’ Hopkins, Ma Rainey and Bessie Smith had slogged a muddy way out of no way. Up in Chicago, them delta-born blues was bein’ modulated into some sho-nuff high-falootin’ big city tracks. And these musicians mentioned here are just the pioneering ones  that I’ve heard of! 

While all that was going on, back  down in the Mississippi delta, BB King was busy bein’ born in 1928. Along came Bo Diddley in Greenwood  in 1928  and Little Richard in 1932. By ‘n by, along came BB King and Chuck Berry. And we can’t forget a godfather of Soul, James Brown!

While this writing fool— this baby boomer— I,  was being born in Louisiana in 1951, there was an earth-shaking birth-pangs sisboombah happening all around my mama’s delivery. In the muddy belly of the the deep South, rock ’n roll was being born upriver in Memphis.

Shake, rattle and roll! and I helped. Haha!

Up on the Great Lake Erie, in Cleveland,  disc jockey Alan Freed gave the new music a name: rock ’n roll! Up the road, in Detroit, the vibes were busy bein’ born to bring something very special to America. . . ‘mo’ about that town in the next blog.

Up and down and all a-round-round!

Down in Tupelo, Mississippi, about 150 miles from where I was a clueless suburban kid being raised in Jackson, a white boy with a black feelin’ was crooning a different kind of rhythm than any other white boy had ever felt before.

Why! even over in the Lone Star,  in Texas, Buddy Holly and his buds were pickin’ up on the new beat.

Starting in Memphis, BB King was big in bringin’  a rockin’ blues to the wider world; then along came Chuck Berry thumpin’ out, in a powerful way,  the news of the day:

“I got a rockin’ pneumonia; I need a shot of  rhythm n’ blues; hey diddle diddle gonna play my fiddle, got nothing to lose. Roll over Beethoven and tell Tchaikovsky the News!”

The revolution into Rock was so huge and so loud that even Ludwig and Tchai probably were feeling that Beat, because they had already been picking up those  revolution vibes back in 1812!

It wasn’t too long, thereafter . . . mid-’50’s . . . across the waters, Brit kids in Liverpool heard that News, while dancing to a new, never-heard-before-in-England backbeat that had drifted upriver from the muddy waters of Mississippi up to the Great Lakes. . . and downriver to N’Awlins and across the Great Waters to England and beyond. 

Stay tuned for  more about the next phase of rock ‘n roll.

King of Soul 

Charles the Last?

A tizzy of speculation has been spun up about the state of the British Monarchy, now that Queen Elizabeth, whom everyone loved, is gone and Charles steps into the role of King.

The big buzz is whether Monarchy is even relevant and/or useful in this 21st century. 

Recently, while reading blogs and comments on UnHerd, I saw one comment referring to the new monarch as “Charles the Last.”

’T’was just over a century ago—1914— that the entire continent of Europe was cast into War, as a consequence of the assassination of one Royal, Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria.

When at last the dust settled in 1918 as war yielded to Armistice and Peace, the question of Royal relevance was a hot issue, and has been on the back burner ever since.

Several years ago, we visited the Schonbrunn palace in Austria, palace of the Hapsburgs. While there, I snapped this picture; it is the room in which Emperor Karl the Last, in 1918, signed away the Hapsburg empire, although he “would not abdicate,” whatever that means.

 Are Kings and Queens even useful for anything any more?

Now the Brits have Charles III and speculation arises about just how relevant his role will be. 

My curiosity about the issue was kindled ten years ago when I acquired an original edition of the Times of London Coronation Issue, commemorating the Coronation of Charles’ grandfather, George VI, on May 12, 1937.

Looking back into European history, there are Charleses all over the place.

The original monarch was Charles the Great, which is an anglicized way of pronouncing the French nomen, Charlemagne. His notable accomplishment was an 8th-century AD manifestation of reviving the Roman empire, after its long, 400+ years of slumber after the Huns had plundered ancient Rome during earlier centuries.

 Prior to acceding to that expansive title, Charlemagne had reigned over the Carolingian dynasty, an 8th-century royal development that arose among the Franks, or early French people.

During the next thousand years there were several European Charleses.

Most notably, in the 1500’s, along came Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, which royal role included multiple honors such as Archduke of Austria, King of Spain, Lord of the Netherlands, Duke of Burgundy and first head of the House of Hapsburg, in Austria.

Much later, in 1918, came Karl (German for Charles), the last emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, last emperor of the Hapsburg dynasty, which reigned over Austria, Hungary and several other nations of the Hapsburg dynasty. More about Karl, later.

As for England, Henry VIII’s disputes in 1500’s with continental Europe and the Catholics had forced a permanent separation. By the 1600’s, the independently-minded Brits had their own homegrown royals and priests. But their contentious habits precipitated a Civil War (1642-51), during which King Charles I was beheaded, in 1649, by the Parliament and the rebellious Protestants therein. 

But, not to worry, the monarchy of the Brits was restored when his son, Charles II was crowned in 1660, after the Brits had figured out a way to get along with each other. 

All was well until the Americans stirred up a hornets nest of rebellion in 1776.

But we Yanks made up for our rebellious ways when we helped the Brits and Allies during World Wars I and II. But I digress.

So now, in 2022, along comes Charles III, son of the longest-reigning monarch of all time, Elizabeth II. 

And the big question in British minds is just how relevant and/or useful can a King be in this 21st century.

Time will tell . . . what Charles III will be able to contribute to the welfare and strength of the British people, and how his choices will set the course for his progeny. 

Meanwhile, while watching a movie. . .

 about Karl, last Emperor of the Hapsburgs, I saw this:  

The face in this frame is an actor’s. Here’s a pic of the real Karl the Last of Austria-Hungary.

As for Charles III of Britain and his acceptance by the British people, Will he be Charles the Last (monarch)? Time will tell.

All we can say is: God save the King!

Smoke

Indigenous Peoples in America

Recalling the long, historical struggle of native Americans to find their place in American life, I commemorate their struggle in a song I composed and sang, many years ago, about the battle at Little Big Horn, Montana : 

As the stars began to fall,  the sun began to rise, bringing light to a newer day, and bringing light to their eyes. Hovering like a spectre, the Little Big Horn sat, and little did Custer know . . .

      Sitting Bull’s Eyes

Glass half-Full

Mississippi Madness: 1950’s

In 2016-17, I was writing a fourth novel, King of Soul; the story included some memory elements from my childhood in Jackson, Mississippi.

In my historical research, I made use of Anne Moody’s biography, Coming of Age in Mississippi. Anne was a Mississippian, like me, but she was a few years ahead of me. In the following excerpt from my King of Soul, I describe a lunch-counter encounter that happened in Jackson. In my novel scene, the character Aerlie is based on the very real experience, as described in her biography, of Anne Moody.

From chapter 4, Miss’ippi  Madness,  of King of Soul:

 Back in February, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People had held its annual convention in Jackson.  Jackie Robinson, the great baseball player, had moderated the convention. His relaxed, good-natured emcee style inspired all delegates and attendees to assume a new confidence about where their Movement was taking them. In the days and years ahead, they would sho’nuff need buckets of confidence.

       Aerlie Mufroe, an energetic senior at nearby Tougaloo College,  rode the seven miles down Highway 51 to Jackson to attend the convention, and her life was changed forever. Between Jackie Robinson’s relaxed Master of Ceremonies agility, Floyd Patterson’s Heavyweight champion-of-the-world clout, and a diverse assembly of dedicated civil rights activists from all over the USA, Aerlie found herself opening a new chapter of her life.

       With steady encouragement and direction from a dedicated professor at Tougaloo, Aerlie had managed to fill much of her free time during that last college semester with organizing black folks. They were planning rallies and boycotts to force the issue of new federally mandated   desegregation, right in the middle of Jackson’s stodgy ole honky business district. During her last week in school, Aerlie accompanied a small group of intrepid Negroes to order lunch at a downtown dime-store lunch counter.

         ‘T’was then the sparks began to fly in Jackson. Not that they hadn’t already been up in the air surrounding these desegregation issues. When Aerlie and her friends attempted to get some food at the honky lunch counter, the waitress got flustered. After a few minutes, she just threw her hands up, shut the lunch service down and closed the counter, rather than serve Aerlie and her friends.

Glass half-Full