Category Archives: psychology

The Prolific.

October 18, 2018arts education, classical music, classical musicians, commentary, human behavior, musicians, performance, plagiarism, professional musicians, psychology, social commentary, sociology, The Art of Practicing Institute 2015, tributes, Uncategorizedart needs no justification Rookmaker, artistic expectations as misnomer, Bach's creative style, Beethoven's creative style, competing creatives, creative masterpiece, creatives, critiquing art, quality vs quantity, the prolificruth ann scanzillo

Beethoven was a loner.

Reports are his hair was often dirty. He’d wear a long top coat, pencils in the pockets, and pace the streets, muttering under his likely foul, acidic breath. His personality was neither warm nor appealing. To use contemporary vernacular, he was not well liked. Had there been a club, he would not have been invited.

Upstairs, where it all happened, he’d pore over his scores, for hours on end. The man was a driven perfectionist; his original manuscripts show so many scribbled erasures so as to have damaged the paper upon which his markings were made.

The totality of his compositions, while many, were not what one would call evidence of a prolific; rather, they were each in their own way masterpieces. They were masterpieces because, whether Beethoven himself realized it or not, he was changing the sound of music for ages to come.

And, in fact, there is hardly a civilized person who cannot place the 9 Beethoven symphonies among the pearls of creative treasure for all of history.

Bach preceded Beethoven, by a stretch.

His output was enormous.

Each Sunday, there was a new Chorale for the church. Bach wrote 600 of these. And, within the mainstream of cultured society, although they are among the most beautiful of musical creations he isn’t even known for them; most cite his volumes of two and three part inventions for keyboard instruments, his partitas, his chaconnes, his toccattas and fugues.

Two singular composers, both creative geniuses.

Is one of higher value than the other?

In matters of taste, two constituencies may form. Under Beethoven, those who prefer to be moved by chordal harmonies and driving rhythm; under Bach, those affected by the intricate complexity of voicing and counterpoint.

But, each contributed not by the collected volume of individual works, but by sheer artistic impact. Regardless the quantity, the power of their affect lay in the quality.

Let’s not ask of our artists that they fulfill our time based expectations. Let us cast aside judgment against the frequency of their contributions. Art needs neither justification, nor critique upon its merit. The next masterpiece may already be in progress. All we have to do is wait, and prepare our hearts.

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Closet Politik.

October 15, 2018Christian fundamentalism, Fundamentalism, nostalgia, political commentary, psychology, relationships, slum culture, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, the power grid, UncategorizedAmerican old school Conservatives, closet Republicans from the early 20th century, Cornwall, Cornwall England, fundamentalist Christians, Henry Thomas Sweet, Hilary Rodham Clinton, working class ethicsruth ann scanzillo

PappyAndTheGirlsAtTheBeachCirca1929 — L to R: Dora Mae; Lydia Elisabeth (“Betty”); Henry Thomas Sweet; Front row, L to R: Martha Louise; Frances Magdalene;

My grandfather was a closet Republican.

Harry Truman was his hero.

Born in Wilkes-Barre, PA, of parents who’d hailed from Cornwall, England, he’d brought his young wife, Mae, across the Commonwealth on or about 1915 to build cranes at Bucyrus-Erie. Yet, Erie, newly founded, was up and coming and this move – for a working class conservative – was, at its heart, progressive.

But, after having attended a tent meeting led by Christian evangelist Billy Sunday, this naturally gruff dogmatist had experienced a conviction of belief which would solidify his politics for life. He brought with him to Erie a Bible thumping, street preacher’s passion and, after meeting two elders of the Plymouth Brethren at the City Mission, would join their fellowship at the Gospel Assembly Hall on East Avenue.

But, Henry Thomas Sweet would not register to vote.

He and the rest of his fellow fundamentalists would populate a small, but ardent, segment of this growing town. Their teachings were the most extreme among conservatives; preaching that only those things due Caesar would be rendered, the rest would be left up to Almighty God – who would put into office whom He will.

Still, Henry Sweet taught his family all the values upheld by the Republican party. Hard work having yielded sufficient income, all resources would be put toward the sustenance of family and a tenth toward “the Lord’s work”, all capital kept close to the vest for just such purposes. The downtrodden were to be regarded as slacking, irresponsible, vagrant, and were admonished – from the street corner pulpit – to “Get up out of the gutter, repent, and get a j.o.b.”

What Henry and Mae did was work. Raising four daughters, they used their hands – baking bread, and delivering it door to door; hooking and braiding rugs, from old, discarded wool coats rescued from the Salvation Army; planting vegetable gardens, and fruit trees, gathering their harvest (had poultry been permitted inside the city limits, they’d likely have had hens and chickens); “slaving” over the stove, preparing meals for the entire, extended family for every holiday and birthday celebration. Mae also sewed, repairing and altering all manner of clothing, and creating from remnants everything from pajamas to suits and spring coats, draperies, and furniture slip covers. Henry, after a long day at the crane factory, maintained every inch of their humble property on East 29th Street, as well as their royal blue Chrysler.

In his final decade, disaffected and excommunicated from the Brethren for “railing”, sunken into his harvest gold La-Z-Boy recliner in the northeast corner of the livingroom reading his National “Geographs” and his Bible, listening to talk radio (and, calling in daily), he would brood.

Sympathy was not part of his lexicon. Compassion was merely a concept, to be contemplated while meditating upon the person of the Christ. Weakness was not to be indulged; one was given a life, and one must take up the reins of it and serve the Lord with all one’s might. Paying income tax was the bane of existence.

Three of the four daughters carried on the traditions of his closet politics. All honorable citizens they, nevertheless, also never registered to vote – raising their children to accept having come out from among them, being separate, avowing to touch not the unclean thing. There were us, the elect bride of Christ, and there were them, the reprobate, damned to hellfire lest they repent and believe the Gospel.

I don’t know what happened, but something did. Time, and its inevitable evolution. Being Republican of mentality used to mean such noble (if self centered) intent, even if it appealed to the most narrow minded among them. One wonders if the GOP was forever affected by those who would only vote for he or she whom their God had ordained. Being a Democrat came to defy such selfish, belief driven ideals. In between, I now find myself – a registered Independent, caught, without a closet in which to hide. We are all part of America, a nation of so many countries, fighting to stay socially intact, more exposed than ever before, members of a globe of earthly peoples pushing and pulling and hanging on.

And, the world’s eyes are still on our family.

littlebarefeetblog.com

July 1, 1982.

October 10, 2018commentary, contemplative essays, Deep Thoughts, human behavior, interviews, political commentary, psychology, Questions, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, Uncategorized"college girls" of the 1980s, "proved innocent", calendars as record, diaries, Disneyworld, double standard men vs women, Dr Christine Blasey-Ford, Erie PA, GOP agenda, Greek breakfasts, Greek restaurants in Erie PA, July 1 1982, Justice Kavanaugh, Letterman, memory, Pacman, Panos Dinor, personal email storage, President Trump, Renee and Tony, Rich Christoff, sexual harassment, square dancers, SUNY@Fredonia, Supreme Court nomination process, teenage diaries, the summer of 1982, transvestitesruth ann scanzillo

I remember 1982.

Graduating the previous December from SUNY@Fredonia, earning a B.M. in Music Education, I would spend January and February in a reactive depression – sleeping all day, and watching Letterman at night. In March, I would travel to Orlando, FLA to visit Disneyworld with my aunt, uncle and cousin. Soon after my return, I would be hired in April to wait tables at Panos’ Greek Dinor on Pine Avenue in Erie, PA. Working there, I would learn about a walk of life which smoked in the break room and dropped the “g”s at the ends of all verbs with the suffix “-ing.” The day manager would revile me, calling me “College Girl” whenever I struggled to make change at the register. I would move to the 3rd shift and, as the bar across the street emptied its contents into the booths and tables for their enormous “breakfasts”, serve some of the most indulgent and pathetic people I’d never before seen in my life.

Many of those who frequented our establishment remain vividly in my recall, both by name and face. The costumed square dancers, led by Mr. and Mrs. Babo; the transvestites, in black lace and lavender, from Buffalo; the young rock band, led by Brian and Steve. Later, dark Renee and svelte Tony, always arriving about 4:30 am; Rich and his young girlfriend, playing PacMan along the back wall, she in her bare feet; the “counter culture” of lone men, mostly silent; the disturbed, muttering quietly over fries and tartar sauce; the police officers – Ed, who was tall; Chris, with the twinkling eyes; and, Dennis, who chuckled. The early morning businessmen, led by happy Harvey, at their table round. No; the summer of 1982 will never be forgotten. Not by me.

Memory.

Scientific research tells us, every new day, something more about our magnificent brain’s ability to record and save both all that we do and everything which happens to us.

But sometimes we create our own, hand made testaments.

In my case, as an early teen I took to the daily, floral pink bound diary, with its tiny lock and key, and that with fervor. Less focused on events, however, I was wont to write of what (and, whom) I’d thought about, and exchanges I’d had with others from within my small realm. I used a pen with red ink, too. My handwriting back then had a marked right slant, and long, slender lower loops. I remember writing “Timmy”, repeatedly.

Being an artist, by the time I’d reached high school these daily journals were replaced by poetry. I’d come to prefer rendering encapsulations of momentous emotional events, rather than the sundry and social acts common to the larger society. Many of those poems survived, a couple even making it to my blog.

Now, in adult life, essays have provided the broader template for both observation and rumination. And, email is the perfect place to create, label and contain all correspondence worth saving for later reference in a folder. Personal email, on my own laptop, that is. Wink; smile.

But, my memory, like everyone’s, is fed by all the senses; from somewhere within the nervous system – what I recall hearing, seeing, tasting, smelling, and touching.

Perhaps Dr. Christine Blasey-Ford can relate.

Possibly the most fascinating aspect of Justice Brett Kavanaugh’s testimony before the Senate Judiciary Committee was the presentation of his monthly calendars, a virtually lifelong record of his nearly every day activity.

Of particular note, to me, on those calendars was this date: July 1, 1982.

In spite of Kavanaugh’s insistence before the committee that “weekends” were when any gatherings and parties occurred, I could not ignore that singular reference in July on his calendar. And so, I Googled the day of the week; sure enough, July 1, 1982 was a Thursday.

Though I cannot speak for anyone else, it seems to me that a Thursday in any July would feel, look, sound, and even smell like an ordinary summer weekend — especially to high school and college students. Furthermore, Thursday being right on the cusp of Friday one could easily imagine that those intent on partying through Sunday evening would be getting an early start.

Of most curious note was that Justice Kavanaugh had written on his calendar the identities of several friends who’d attended a gathering on that Thursday. Among those listed were at least two young men who, by name, had been cited by Dr. Ford in her testimony as she referenced the evening wherein she alleged Kavanaugh had physically assaulted her while one of them looked on.

Dr. Ford, and Judge Kavanaugh. Separated by 36 years, and brought together by the memory of the presence of two, mutually identified men attending a gathering at which she claimed her encounter with him took place.

Many of us had hoped to hear in more detail from the so named two who had attended that gathering, when the FBI agreed to do their final investigation.

Instead, President Trump stood before the nation, and apologized to Justice Kavanaugh. The media headline beneath read: “Proved Innocent.”

Most of us know this much: until Justice Kavanaugh is brought before his own Judge, after all the evidence has been both sought out, obtained, recorded, and presented, none of us will ever know if he is innocent.

Until that day, I will always wonder what really happened – at that gathering, in that house – on July 1, 1982.

Maybe you will, too.

littlebarefeetblog.com