Laughing Little Buddha and the Vietnam War

It was the coldest temperature recorded for the month of July in many years. Living in the Dandenong Ranges, mountains/hills over looking the city of Melbourne; the air is always 2 degrees colder than the flat lands. Our heater upstairs was looking and sounding like it would conk-out at any moment. Although the time, relatively, was early, 2100 hrs, we decided to go to bed, and rough-it downstairs in bed under heavy blankets. The problem is, I couldn't sleep. I hadn't been called by the agency in 3 weeks. Working for a teaching agency, they would call me usually the night before, if a substitute position was available. The phone rang, and my assignment was a little elementary school on the edge of south east Melbourne. That's all they could tell me: name of school and the address. Turning on the lamp, I looked the address up in the city street directory, (before google maps) and realised it would take at least 1 hour in peak hour traffic. Sleep turned out to be impossible.

After an hour of horns blasting, smog, and bad tempered drivers on a Monday morning, I skidded into the school parking lot at 0845. The principal met me at the main entrance.

“You must be Mr. Middleton?”

Mrs. Anderson had to be in her early sixties: all white hair, slightly over weight, and very kind, pale blue eyes.

“We are just beginning Monday assembly. Please follow me.”

The school had to be at least half a century old. Anyone who has walked the halls of an old school, know it has a certain odour. Most have the aroma of stale lunches, cleaning fluid, and the hint of human perspiration. This one smelled of Asian food, cleaning chemicals, and construction paper. As we entered the back section of the building, outside, all standing at attention, were about seventy little bodies in uniform singing the Australian National anthem. One could see the student body had been organised by grade, because on the right hand side stood the 6^th graders, awkward and self conscious, moving down the line to the 1st graders, munchkin-like and confident.

To my surprise, all the children were Asian, specifically, all Vietnamese.

*

In 1964/5, our little street in Northglenn, Colorado, felt its first casualty of war. Ed Adams. Every neighbourhood in mid western America had their own Ed Adams. Ed was cool, rode a motorcycle and played electric guitar. His hair was slicked back like Elvis Presley, and every girl in town wanted him. Before Ed was drafted and left us, he started a band. On those hot nights in August, all the kids around would find them playing in some backyard. I remember looking over the high wooden fence to catch a glimpse of the musicians, while below us, the little kids of the neighbourhood, danced with each other. Imagine 4 to 9 year old's dancing to live music by an old wooden fence? Soon dusk arrived, and we all had to be home before dark. This was Ed Adams. This was the Ed Adams who was forced to go to Vietnam, and died, blown up from a mine, that he stepped on while on patrol. He came home in a body bag, and the neighbourhood was never the same.

*

After the National Anthem, the students reported to their various Home Rooms. As usual, not knowing exactly what to do, Mrs. Anderson finally told me, that I would be teaching maths and language to the 2A class.

“Don't worry Mr. Middleton, they're a good group of children. By the way, how are you with Year 2 maths?”

“As long as it's not Algebra, Mrs. Anderson, I believe we will get through..”

The principal smiled in a slightly ironic way. “I'm sure you will do fine Mr. Middleton. We walked down the main hall. “This will be your classroom for the duration. If you have any questions....”

I understood all too well what, “If you have any questions” meant. Find yourself over your head, please call for help, and we will never hire you again.

For the little time remaining before the first class arrived, I found the teacher's notes, her lesson plans, and began hastily studying them, when the students arrived. Immediately, I wrote my name on the board.

“Hello, my name is Mr. Middleton.”

All 14 2^nd graders, all Vietnamese, broke into hilarious laughter.

My heart and mind, sank.

*

The Vietnam War, (now called a “conflict”) was based on lies. The Gulf of Tolkin, where allegedly the North Vietnamese shot at a US battle ship, was the falsity to justify President Johnson sending more troops to the little country. From there, death and destruction escalated.

But for what reason?

We were told that Communism would strike at the hearts of God-fearing people, that China and Russia were our dangerous enemies, that these ruthless country's were intent on taking over our inalienable freedoms, that they needed to be stopped on the border between North Vietnam and South Vietnam. The American propagandists called this threat the “Domino Effect”. One country falls to these atheistic monsters, the rest would follow, falling like chips, one after the other. Therefore, following this tainted logic, North Vietnam, now Communist under the totalitarian dictator, Hi Chi Min, must be prevented from corrupting South Vietnam, our “democratic friend”. This evil must be stopped, no matter the cost! This propaganda was certainly effective during the height of the Cold War. And it was all *false*.

*

No matter the year level, in order to teach a lesson as a substitute teacher, at the start, establishing authority is absolutely essential. As the children laughed, I merely stood there in stoic silence. After a few moments the classroom turned silent, many of the pupils faces showing a little fear.

“Now, Miss Rockwell has left a maths worksheet, and expects it to be done before she returns tomorrow. Find a partner and begin”.

The class went into motion, moving the desks around to accommodate a two partner study format. Try to imagine a group of seven year old children, organising a classroom in military precision. Because it was a 4 page exercise, the lesson lasted until lunch. Only a handful of students raised their hands for help. My teaching advice was assured, as the worksheet held only equations of addition and subtraction. Later that day, I decided to stay back and correct the worksheets. Out of 14 students collectively, only about 11 incorrect answers. I thought, 'These children need to move on to at least Year 4'. So far so good. Now I had to engage with the permanent faculty of the school. Sometimes much more confronting than facing a classroom of students.

The lunch bell rang, and my class all looked at me simultaneously, excitingly, waiting for permission to leave. I stood at the door, and told them to line up. I remember the wafting scent of garlic and ginseng in the air. After telling the group not to run, opened the door, and walked down the long hall towards the foyer. I decided to follow them.

A large crowd of parents and grandparents spilled out side the front doors of the school. I really had never seen this before. Each parent had a hot lunch for their children, waiting patiently to hand it to them. The scent of garlic and various spices that filled the room was glorious. After about ten minutes, each student received their personally cooked hot lunch After a kiss and a hug, the children dispersed outside under an old corrugated roof, wooden picnic tables below and began to dine.

A tap on the shoulder. “Mr. Middleton, how was your morning?”

The principal, Mrs. Anderson, stood there with her arms crossed, and intent for delivering a message. “The morning went surprisingly well. We began with the maths worksheet, and the students, for Year 2, are exceptionally bright.”

“Yes they are. I'm afraid I have to tell you, that you have been assigned a double yard duty over lunch. You can have your lunch during late afternoon recess. I hope this is fine with you.”

Over the school year as a substitute teacher, I learned very quickly that you would be given yard duty, automatically, giving a permanent teacher a break for the day – this was a given.

“Of course, Mrs. Anderson, not a problem.” I said.

Throughout the lunch break, watching the kids play, my mind wandered to the same conclusion: In a supportive and safe environment, children are children, no matter their ethnicity, all across the world.

Returning to my room, their were only 4 students lined up at the door. What happened to the other 10? A young woman in her early twenties, came running up the hall. “You're Mr. Middleton?”

“I'm sorry we didn't tell, but most of your class on Monday's have music for the remainder of the afternoon.” She smiled, “Looks like you will have a pleasant rest of your day.”

*

The Vietnam war began in November of 1959, and ended in the fall of Saigon in April of 1975. Many revisionist historians have written that the reason the US lost the war, is that it was a “politicians” war. Meaning the generals took orders from the WH, and the military followed these orders. From the US perspective, it was a strategy about *attrition*: the more Vietnamese we can kill the better our chances of a victory. This turned out to be a disastrous strategy, It has been estimated that 1.5 million N. Vietnamese (likely much more) died as a result of unrelenting carpet bombing, not only in N. Vietnam, but Cambodia and Laos, as well. For many of us, Vietnam appeared more to be an attempted act of genocide, because so many civilians lost their lives.

Napalm is an incendiary agent that the US first used during the fire bombing in Japan before dropping the Atom bomb on said country. The agent is gasoline based, and has a tendency to stick on the intended targets. In Vietnam's case, civilians, women and children. We, as a public were, really, first informed about Napalm from the Pulitzer prize winning photograph of Phan Thi Kim Phuc, a 9 year old S. Vietnamese girl running naked down a street, Napalm burning her back. Napalm is a chemical weapon. Let me say it again, Napalm is a chemical weapon. It is fair to deduce that more Vietnamese, Cambodian and Lao's civilians, mostly families and children, died under the bombs of the US.

*

The 4 students that entered my classroom on that cold Monday afternoon, gave me the impression of being the misfits of the school. One boy stood out apart from the other 3 students. He was quite tall for his age, and chubby, like a little, old man. At first my afternoon class of 4, seemed quite nervous, but once sitting them together at one table, passing out the language worksheets, all relaxed, and “little Buddha” could not stop smiling. Rather than stand above them, shouting directions, I sat in one of the “chairs made for children and hobbits”. Now we were all on the same level. A language lesson on English nouns, the worksheet had the Vietnamese word and English equivalent beside it, with an illustration. Rather than let them carry on their own, I decided to work through the lesson with them.

The first noun on the sheet: Pig. Pointing to the picture, I said “Pig”.

All at once, the entire group burst into hilarious laughter. I have to say, this laughter was certainly contagious, as I laughed right along with them.

Second noun, Man. I pointed to the picture, and announced, “Man”.

There was no laughter this time. “Repeat after me,”Man”.

All the group appeared confused. Using hand movements, I managed to get my request for “repeat after me” across...in unison the group uttered, “Man”.

Now it was my turn to smile, and the group grinned along with me.

Next two nouns were “Goat” and “House”. Following the same procedure, the students repeating the words out loud to me in unison. Out of the blue, the little chubby Buddha uttered:

“Pig Man in Goat House.”

This time all of us fell into laughter, that seemed to go on for some time.

The door opened and the principal, Mrs. Anderson, entered the classroom, with a concerned smile.

“ All of you have missed afternoon recess, and the last bell is about to ring.”

I looked at my watch and it read 3:25. We were so engrossed in the lesson, that we didn't hear the recess bell, and even more astonishing, the students didn't hear it, either. In my experience, this had never happened before. For one, as a teacher, I can get carried away with a lesson and lose track of time, but never have my students, )more often “watching the clock”), missed a recess bell.

“Mrs. Anderson, I apologise...”

“Don't apologise Mr. Middleton, I'm just happy you all have had such a good lesson.”

The bell rang signalling the end of the school day.

*

Living through the Vietnam war, and later studying it in college, after the millions of deaths, this “conflict” achieved absolutely nothing. What did the US have to show for all the death, war crimes and destruction? Close to 60,000 American boys dead, and 1.5 million Vietnamese, Cambodian and Laotian deaths, mostly women and children. The original propaganda reason for going to South East Asia in the first place, was to stop the spread of communism. This was a lie, as the US lost this conflict and Vietnam merely became one country again. In any war, however, it's always the innocents that take the brunt of the suffering. To my mind, this unacceptable; war is wrong, period.

*

After correcting the mornings maths worksheets, I walked to the front of the school to find the “little Buddha” and a woman, sitting in the foyer. Once spotting me, she stood up, and approached,

“Are Mr. Middleton? “ I nodded. She went on to say, “I wanted to tell you that my son, Ho, thinks you a funny/good teacher. He wanted me to tell this.”

Tell “Ho” he is a funny and smart student, too.”

She turned to him and translated my statement from English to Vietnamese. Ho smiled then laughed, a contagious laugh, as his mother and I laughed as well.

Driving home on that Monday evening, I thought of the Vietnam war, its utter waste of life, that children are the same the world over, and my special, new friend, the Laughing Buddha.

Comment: The “Yellow Vest” Protests – heading towards Revolution?

In just over 6 weeks the French middle class have been on the streets of Paris, and elsewhere in the country, protesting everything from imposed fuel taxes, road tolls, low wages and a flagrant inequality between the common person and so called 1%. President Macron, like Trump in the United States, gave excessive tax breaks for the wealthy and introduced further taxes on the middle class. Thus the “Yellow Vests” hit the streets, ensuring the French be heard, that this type of Neo-liberal behaviour will not be tolerated, asking President Macron to step down.

Macron's response to the protests, at the start, was in a word, arrogant, calling the “yellow vests” thugs, criminals, and even suggesting that the Russian government was behind the violence. This arrogance was noticed around the world, as social media lit up in support of the French protests. In fact, polls reveal that the majority of French people are supporting the “yellow vests”, as well, causing Macron's administration to twitch around in their seats, and offer bred crumbs, like freezing the fuel tax, but it was too late. More people hit the streets, erupting in higher levels of violence. And the police are certainly responding in kind, with tear gas and rubber bullets.

Admittedly of course, they're are vandals and violent instigators among the “yellow vests”, but the vast majority are middle to lower middle class workers – teachers, retail assistants, truck drivers, carpenters, and retired people in their 60's, 70's and 80's in the streets, risking injury for economic equality in their country.

But as one French woman explained, though she does not approve of the violence, it was the only thing that got them noticed....That is terrible to say, but also necessary”, she said. There are instances where the police are showing solidarity with the people, but as another protester said, “The police have families too, and need to keep their jobs.” However, observers in Paris have seen that police action, in terms of violence, is escalating, Police response is way over the top, where only last week, a fifty year old grandmother was shot with a rubber bullet, intended for her. Tear gas fills the city streets, people are being shot, but how long will the “yellow vests” hold out against such governmental aggression?

It is well known that the French people are revolutionaries. When the people see and feel an injustice, particularly, when it is the common French citizen, the people's voice begins as a whisper, ending with the guillotine.

How far will the French people go to correct the obvious Neo-Liberal agenda of the Macron Government? Well, as a good friend who lives a mere thirty minutes by train from Paris, told me,

“The violence from the police is getting worse, but we will never give up to save our so-called Republic.”

Whether President Macon is ousted or not, the policies must change; that is real policies, truly representing the common people's interests, and not the interests of the wealthy, and few.

The world should take heed from the “Yellow Vests”.

Joan Didion - Slouching Towards Bethlehem – Review

A friend asked me after seeing what I was reading, Slouching Towards Bethlehem, “Is this a “Christian book?” Not with any malice, “No”, I said. “It's the title of an essay by Joan Didion, taken from a poem by W.B. Yeats.” She smiled and commented that she loved Yeats' poetry. I nodded in agreement. Yeats' poem certainly expresses the tone of Didion's essay, describing her time in San- Francisco while living with the newly branded “hippies”, during the Haight Ashbury days of 1967.

Didion was in her early 30's, living with an array of flamboyant characters, all searching for meaning, all anti-establishment, and all experimenting with drugs from pot, peyote, speed, heroin and the common one of the day, the infamous LSD. Didion never judges with her observations and realistic dialogue, but the narrative reeks of irresponsibility. This particular crowd averaged between 14-20 years of age, along with a few old dubious men, intent on maintaining the “high”. As her readers, we get the feeling that she is telling us the unvarnished truth, without any hints or references to the 18^th and 19^th century Romantics, (something that many writers has described this period as being in the late 60's) but a realistic account of lost youth and over idealistic individuals, desiring radical change. All of Didion's essays are painfully honest, and beautifully written.

It is really difficult to review a collection of essays, because each one stands alone as a single piece of work. I must say, though, that the entire collection, separated under three titles: Life Styles in the Golden Land; Personals, and Seven Places of the Mind, (great editing from the publisher) reflects the essence of the times and her art, her political views, (though somewhat hidden), and her keen eye of people and the public domain in general.

Didion's essays under the title Personals, gives the reader an insight into the author, and her writing sensibilities. Since the age of 5, when her mother gave her a small notebook, she describes always writing life down on paper. This is not the similar diary entries of a child or teenager, describing the day to day activities and the occasional love interest. This is a soul recording something entirely different. She writes:

In fact I have abandoned altogether that kind of pointless entry: instead I tell what some would call lies. That's simply not true,”“ the members of my family frequently tell me when they come up against my memory of a shared event. “The party was not for you, and the spider was not a black widow, it wasn't that way at all.” Very likely they are right, for not only have I always had trouble distinguishing between what happened and what merely might have happened, but I remain unconvinced that the distinction, for my purposes, matter.” (P. 134)

For me, this statement tells us that this writer cares not for time, place, form and event, but the feelings that these events or any experience felt by the experiencer, for her the writer - that this is the most important aspect of the story telling, and the impressions (and events) of her life overall.

As I had lived in California for a decade, and as Didion is a native Californian, her essays under, Seven Places of the Mind, are relative and quite moving. Anyone who has lived in Southern California are all too aware of the Santa Ana winds. Close to a curse from the gods' of weather, people change during this time: sickness, migraines, a dramatic upsurge in crime, domestic violence and murder. Didion writes:

I have neither heard nor read that a Santa Ana is due, but I know it, and almost everyone I have seen today knows it too. We know it because we feel it. The baby frets: The maid sulks: I rekindle a waning argument with the telephone company, then cut my losses and lie down, given over to whatever it is in the air. To live with the Santa Ana is to accept, consciously or unconsciously, a deeply mechanistic view of human behaviour.” (P. 217)

The understanding and first hand experience I have had with Santa Ana, really, is beside the point. It is Didion's prose and gut-honesty that connects me, as the reader, to this strange manifestation. The woman writes her personal feelings about a known event, and through her particular experience, we all can relate on a visceral level...in our hearts. This is the mark of an incredible writer – a writer in-tune to her own personal feelings, and as such, can write down these feelings, and we all can relate on a much deeper level than ever before.

A life time of reading, it is a shame that I had never run across Joan Didion over all these years. After second thought, it could well be a great thing, because now I have some little knowledge and a lifetime of experience to appreciate her genius.

A wonderful collection of essays.

Stieg Larson, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo – Review

The director of the film of the same name, (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) David Fincher, while on location in Stockholm, shot the character, Lisbeth Salander, walking down wide and long steps outside in the city centre. True to form for Fincher, there were several takes. During the shoot, many people gathered to watch the making of the short scene. Fincher had a few concerns: the film had already been made in the story's native Sweden, and the protagonist has really become an important icon in the Swedish cultural landscape. After the shoot, the assistant director reported to Fincher, that, the crowd were all smiling. Fincher was relieved: the local Swede's approved.

Stieg Larsson has also become a cultural legend in Sweden. He is the author of the “Millennium Trilogy”, but for some, he was more importantly a “crusading journalist”, engaged in exposing corporate and political corruption. The man's focus of attack was the right-wing extremism in Sweden, revealing their power to just about get away with anything. These crimes include drugs, political subterfuge and the massive slave trade of women and children. Larsson's untimely death in November of 2004, was certainly not without controversy. (He died of a heart attack running up ten flights of stairs to his office) The Trilogy sold millions, and he was the best second selling author in the world in 2008, behind Khaled Hosseini. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo kicked started the entire phenomenon that continues to this day.

Larsson created a well-crafted crime thriller, however, the character of Lisbeth Salander, turns this crime novel into something special. Salander is an enigma. A young woman in her twenties, whose appearance would make Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols proud: piercings, several tattoos, slick and spiky hair and the attitude of a born Punk. She is a social outcast, has trouble relating to people in general; but this girl has a secret, Salander is a genius.

Co- Protagonist in the novel is Mikael Blomkvist, an investigative journalist working for the magazine Millennium, hired by one of Sweden's leading Industrialist families to solve a 40 year old mystery. Salander and Blomkvist respective destiny’s bring them together – an unlikely mystery solving duo, which makes this novel so unique and so good.
 

Dragon” is an excellent novel and those criticising its occasional literary cliches', are simply knit-picking, as this novel and the following two instalments, sold more copies than the entire population of Australia. As the aphorism goes, “By their fruits you shall know them.” And this novel is certainly a bountiful and wonderful fruit in story telling.

Trump's America – The Great Divide

Over the last weekend, the president of the United States went on a twitter tirade, as he he does most weekends when he is stressed about some news or a looming scandal, and attacked four left-wing democrats, all of whom, are women of colour, writing blatant racist comments. These particular tweets are not up for debate or interpretation, these were street-level, racist attacks, telling these women to go back to their broken countries, and more such nonsense.

Theses childish tweets made international news, confirming to the world that President Trump is a bold-faced racist. To be fair to many, a lot of us already knew this fact, when in 2017, after the Nazi march in Charlottsville, ending in the murder of a young woman by one of these creeps, Trump called the protesters, “good people on both sides.” We know the man is racist.

Trump's presidency has been plagued by one scandal after another. Since January 2017, more people in his administration has been sacked or have left their positions because of alleged criminal activity or echoes of one's to come. Trump's presidency was supposed to be, according to him, an exercise in “draining the swamp”. Not even close to being ironic, it has been about reinforcing the D.C. Elite: giving outrages tax cuts for the rich, (Trump's donors) but even more despicably, continuing Obama and Clinton's reign of terror in the middle east.

Trump has lied on just about everything he claimed to do during the 2016 campaign. Though what is truly ironic, the man's base of supporters, do not give a rats ass whether Trump lies or even fibs occasionally. These facts we know: he had carnal knowledge with a porn star and covered it up. He had an affair with a playboy bunny while his wife, Melania, was pregnant with his son. We know he promised to remove American troops from Afghanistan, only to send more boy's over there. Trump is making millions by being president, that goes against the emoluments clause in the Constitution. He obstructed justice not once but 8 times in the farcical Mueller investigation.

Let's face it, Trump lies all the time. He screws porn stars and has unsuccessfully covered it up. He is on the record for saying he can grab a woman's genitals, because he is famous and get away with it. The real scary thing about this whole mess, is his cultist supporters. We have the most powerful Evangelists in America supporting him, despite his UN-Christian behaviour. (That is not the subject of this piece) However, this is the point, Trump appears to, apart from being racist and a glaring ignoramus, has not only divided America, but in many cases, the world.

From my reading and personal conversations, Trump's election victory at once, divided the nation. The left went absolutely insane with the Russia-gate rubbish. This all proved to be propaganda, fuelled by the MSM, to create a new cold war. I remember calling the Russia thing all BS, and called a Russia bot on twitter. For certain, twitter was alive with this Russia nonsense, and now, it is all suddenly quiet. That said, Trump continues to distract us from the real violence and evil in the world.

So is the world divided between Trump, his followers, and the rest if us? Life is not so binary or black and white as we would like it to be. I believe it is a bit of a mixed bag. Trump loves extremes and creating chaos. He loves to be the centre of the party. The man is a textbook narcissist. So what is there to be done?

Well, like the stoics of the past, I'm more inclined to pay attention, and wait it out. “This too will pass” And, well, 100 years from now, will we really care?

Julian- Gore Vidal- A Review

Vidal's Julian is an epic historical novel, capturing the short reign of this popular Roman emperor, who, with good intentions in the 2^nd century, attempted to bring back Hellenism, in the face of the new, violent and pervasive religion, Christianity. It was his uncle, Constantine I, that established Christianity as a State religion. A highly educated man of philosophy, Christianity, and the ancient Mystery Schools, Julian did not desire to destroy the new religious movement, but to bring back the old “pagan” beliefs, to restore Rome back to its former glory. If he would have survived his invasion of Persia, many scholars believe that Christianity might not have attained the success it did under Roman sponsorship and rule.

The historical novel has never been my “go to” source for understanding the past. Vidal made it a cottage industry, however, for his narratives of the American Empire began with the novel. Burr, followed by his most popular, Lincoln. In all, he published six of the empire narratives, ending with my personal favourite, Washington D.C..

Julian was researched and written entirely in Rome, taking just under five years to complete the project. In my readings of Vidal, he never clarified why, as a novelist, he chose this particular subject matter. Julian is a popular Roman emperor for classical historians, and perhaps known and respected in very small circles, but he is not the “stuff of popular culture”. That said, Julian was on The New York Best Seller list for months, gaining the acclaim of mainstream critics, as well as many academics. This is a highly educational and entertaining read.

Over the past 3-4 years, I have been researching and writing about the rise of Christianity, with the idea in the back of my mind, that the early movement went astray. More to the point, my thesis is, that, the Catholic Church, through the teachings of Saint Paul, as many theologians regard as the First Heretic, moved against the original teaching of the Nazarene, creating a whole new religion. Vidal's novel covers, more or less, a similar path of research. Julian fought against the hypocrisy of the first Church Fathers, arguing that their borrowing from the Mystery Schools, which include history and ritual, has nothing to do with the original teachings. Because Saint Paul needed to”sell” this new religion to the masses, cut and pasted from the popular Roman religions, including a strong hate for Judaism. The novel never mentions this ideological siege against the Jews in the later development of the religion. At the end of the novel, one of the famous Church Fathers makes an appearance: John Chrysostom. An influential Christian zeolite, who was infamously antisemitic.

The novel is structured as if the reader is a researcher of the time. We read the letters between two philosophy teachers, Priscus and Libanius. Both men are now quite old, worrying that Christian spies are in ever corner, ready to turn them in for writing or speaking against the Church. Both men taught Julian, while in his youth, during his short time in Athens. Priscus was a close friend during Julian's time of the Persia campaign; the campaign where the emperor met his suspicious death.

When one reads academic history about Julian, his death is most often referred to as “suspicious”. Vidal makes a call, and reveals the mystery of the man's death. From my readings, his conclusion is logical and, as it is a novel, quite dramatic, and in a way, desperately sad.

To gain some insight into the time period, a time where Christianity became a social force; understanding the arguments and views of the period; arriving at a new comprehension of a compassionate, sensitive, and intelligent Roman emperor, there is no better historical novel than Julian.

A Karl Marx Vacation

Only two weeks before we were booked to depart on our holiday, I was diagnosed with a type of skin cancer. Fortunately, the cancer was not the brand that spreads, entering your blood stream, and ending your life. It was a ever-growing blemish on my right cheekbone, and a strange, reddish purple in colour. Although not fatal, the doctor recommended surgically removing it immediately and without delay. The surgery was done, and was ordered to keep the bandage on the wound for at least a week. The problem for me, however, was we were scheduled to fly out of Melbourne to the island of Vanuatu the next day.

Holidays on a island and resort, vanquishing on a hot beach, has never been my scene. I much prefer visiting historic cities, visiting museums, and immersing myself in a new culture. My wife, at the time, preferred the ocean, drinking extravagant cocktails, and tanning her body. My young son wanted the same: swimming pools and cable television. We were a democratic household, thus I was always out voted when it came to vacation destinations. “Dad, looking at old building all day is not a “real” vacation.” He was right, I liked looking at old buildings and ancient ruins, but I was alone, so the island it was...

Considering my wound from the surgery, laying in the sun was never an option. Would I be marooned to the air conditioned hotel room for the entire week? If that was the case, I needed a good book. I finally settled on a biography of Karl Marx. During my university years, I was required to read Marx, and had found him fascinating, particularly his views on capitalism, and the vast separation of the rich and poor, as a result of this system.

We arrived on Vanuatu at around six o'clock in the evening. A group of us were relegated to a bus that appeared to have been manufactured in 1965. The driver drove the rattler like a NASCAR, leaning dangerously close to the side of the road, a cliff below. Suddenly a native Vanuatu-en, stood up at the front of the bus, speaking in a distinctive French accent, and began orating on the short history of the island's colonial past. He told us that half the island had been invaded by the British, and the other by the French. To present time the native people preferred the French over the British, because, he said, the English were cruel. I didn't know this, but he appeared to be a genuine historian about his home. We finally arrived at our resort under darkness, and so never had the opportunity to see the countryside. And as we soon discovered, Vanuatu is a deeply beautiful place in the world.

The entire resort staff are native to the country. All except for the bartender, who turned out to be a bad tempered middle aged British woman, per-maturely wrinkled, with a hook nose. As I remember, I attempted to engage in a few conversations with the woman, to merely grunts and snarls. In the end, I didn't spend much time in the bar, which I guess was a good thing.

Karl Marx was born into a well-to-do Jewish family in Prussia. A successful lawyer, he wanted his son, Karl, to follow in his footsteps, and study Law. While at university, Marx quickly gained the reputation as a rabblerouser, and a big drinker with his fellow wannabe revolutionaries, protesting the militarism of the Prussian hierarchy. He turned to journalism, a gifted writer, founding a newspaper devoted to politics, criticising the oppression and unfair economic practices of the government, and the wealthy...

The heat on the island was searing. I bought a big straw hat, similar to a sombrero, and sat next to my wife by the pool reading, and watching my 9 year old son play with a Japanese girl about the same age. Despite not knowing each other's language, both got along extremely well. I thought at the moment, that we should follow the example of our children, when it comes to our attitudes and relationships with the other. Admittedly, I much more love the cold rather than the hot. I grew up in Denver, Colorado, which might have something to do with this preference. Only after about an hour, I'd scurry back to our room, and sit under the air conditioner, reading Marx.

Because Marx was on constant surveillance by the Prussian government, he had to pull up stakes and move often. The secret service would invent crimes to the authorities in the country he lived, like Paris, for example, and he would be exiled. He finally settled down in London, where began this intense friendship, collaboration, sponsorship, with Fredrick Engels. Remember, that during this time, the industrial revolution was in full swing. If you ever have read Dickens, you will understand the ruthless exploitation of the worker in general, but also child labour, that, for any reader with a conscience, is deplorable and cruel. It is here in London, that Marx began r esearching and writing his magnum Opus, Das Capital.

After a few days, my wife got bored with swimming pool and sun, and suggested we hire a car and explore the island. To be fair, I do not have the appropriate words to describe the beauty of Vanuatu: lush, green, fresh; symmetrically prefect. We ended up at a small cafe. We drank wine and ate fruit and bread. On the walls around the room, were colourful, original paintings. My wife fell in love with one, that hung on the wall right above our table. I looked at the price: $800 Australian. She was insistent on purchasing the piece, but much too high a price on this particular holiday. Relenting, I asked the patron to ring the artist, so to haggle the cost down for the work. We spoke, and his voice was low, calm, steady, with a hint of a French lilt.. He would not lower the price. I thanked him and hung up the phone. My wife was disappointed, and even attempted to copy the painting once we returned home. In retrospect, her try at a copy of the work, was hilariously amateur. Once finished, she showed me her work, and we both, simultaneously, laughed. That's how much she loved it.

Das Capital is a dense work to read. Marx viewed capitalism as a economic system that would soon, miserably fail. He believed that revolution was afoot, and finally, the common worker would own the means of production, thus the world would be a fair, and better place. I finished the biography with a hint of sadness. The masses have misunderstood Marx. Certainly Lenin and Mao absolutely did: only to put their own ideas into the work. The Russian and Chinese revolutions were revolts from the top down. This was not communism or even socialism, but oligarchical totalitarianism. The world is not ready for true communism...we are only human, and greed, avarice and exploitation of the weak, will only continue.

It was the last day of our vacation. My son wanted to see his new friend again. I observed that the little girl's father awoke early and hit the resorts golf course, most mornings. We arrived at the golf course and the little girl and her father were no where to be found. “Don't worry, Sam. Maybe you will see her again.” Really, a stupid thing to say to a smart kid. I asked, “How bout we hit a few golf balls towards the first green ahead.?” The boy nodded, and we proceeded to swing these sticks, smacking a tiny ball toward a waving flag in the distance. Only half way on the fare-way, Sam ran to the edge against a chain link fence with bob wire on the top, like a prison. He didn't find the ball, and came up to me with a pale face, and a look of shock. “What's wrong?” I asked. He grabbed my hand a led me to the fence. On the other side, right next to the boundary, were decrepit, makeshift houses. Inside were families, two adults and several children, all in the one space. It reminded me of the townships in South Africa...and one could smell the air of cooking. We realised that the people that served us at dinner, were the same people living in utter squalor. Even my 9 year old son, saw the exploitation, the insane separation between the privileged, the rich, and the poor.

On our flight back to Melbourne, Sam didn't speak. The boy had a far away gaze, thinking about something. I believe, he was thinking about the world.

Lunar Park: Bret Easton Ellis - Review..

There has not been a time in recent memory that a modern novel has held me captivated to such an extent as Ellis' Lunar Park. Ellis has taken the first person narrative in the novel to a new level, cleverly mixing realism and the supernatural, confessional writing with celebrity gossip and urbane, suburban humour with the utterly macabre. The author's talent for writing terror is without question, i.e., American Psycho and particularly some of the short stories in The Informers, however, Ellis' true talent is his ability to satirize modern western culture, pointing out its inconsistencies, hypocrisies and insanities, revealing the irony in our values and making his observations seem very funny, uncomfortably funny. Lunar Park is horror in the suburbs with a humorous twist, yet at the same time, it is a serious and moving portrayal of drug use, personal loneliness and the dysfunctional modern family.

Ellis begins the tale in a confessional style, giving the reader an inside look at his instant success with the novel Less than Zero, and his rocket ride into celebrity, including all the debasement - cocaine, orgies, literary groupies, twenty-thousand a week condos in the Hampton's - that one associates with major rock stars. Ellis did become a literary sensation, the alleged spokesperson for the young debauched 80's generation. The story of his last book tour is particularly painful as he was stoned and plastered most of the time. His father dies in 1992, and his world really crashes, when his ex-girlfriend, movie star, informs him that she's pregnant with his child. Of course he denies responsibility, blaming another man, but the tests proof he's the father, and eventually he marries her as she whisks him off to the suburbs to save him from himself, with promises of sobriety.

Everything seems to going fine, writing a new book, a teaching job at the local Arts college, except he doesn't get along with his 11 year old son, he and his wife are in marriage counselling, (he sleeps in the spare room) and he is trying to have an affair with one of his students. At a Halloween party at their home, he packs his nose with a drug store, slugs down the vodka and attempts to seduce his student in the bathroom, and suddenly strange things start to occur. His stepdaughter's robotic toy bird becomes nasty, a man shows up to the party looking exactly like Patrick Bateman, the famous serial killer in his novel, American Psycho, and the lights in his home begin to do strange things. Is it the drugs and alcohol making him paranoid or something more sinister? In fact the novel just gets stranger and stranger until poor Ellis free falls almost into oblivion.

What I found most enjoyable about this novel was the fine line Ellis walked between the incredible and so-called reality (are these events really happening) and his caustic observations on suburban middle-class values. These observations are curiously disturbing and hilarious at the same time - he knows how to write black comedy.

I believe this is Bret Easton Ellis' best work to date.

Marc Chagall- Icon of Modernism - Review

The reader turns the first page of this little book to see the 1929 oil on canvas painting, "Lovers" by Marc Chagall. The painting depicts a man and woman seated and embracing; the woman's head turned inward on the man's breast, while the man, an expression of calm and contentment, peers upward, watching a winged angel flying overhead, across a deep purple sky. The painting has the deep and rich signature colour of all Chagall's work, though lacks the intense emotional suffering and ambivalence that makes up so much of his oeuvre, however this painting evokes a mystical love, a true love which, in my opinion, expresses the relationship between the artist and his beautiful wife, Bella.

As part of the Jewish Encounter project, Marc Chagall by Jonathan Wilson is one contribution devoted to the promotion of Jewish literature, culture, and ideas. (One can find all these contributions here on Amazon.)

It can be observed that most of Chagall's work, according to the author, is an expression of his philosophy, his religious sensibility if you will, in the form of the "literalization of metaphors", deeply grounded in the mystical and symbolic Hasidic world and Yiddish folktales, which include in their writings the "repository of flying animals and miraculous events." (P. 13)

It is impossible to label Chagall's work as "Expressionism", but the representation of an acute imagination, coloured in fantasy, depicting highly charged religious symbols, including in several works, Christs Crucifixion in a variety of contexts. What I love about Chagall is the viewer is drawn into the work by its striking colour and busy subject matter and is compelled to study it, because the meaning of the painting must be discovered as it is not apparent on a superficial viewing.

Wilson does a wonderful job of narrating Chagall's life in terms of the major events that the artist experienced, spanning through the Russian revolution, two world wars, the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel. Wilson suggests that in viewing Chagall's paintings against the backdrop of these major historical events will see the artist's work as a response to them, and his personal inner conflict between his "Jewishness" and his focus on Christ's Crucifixion, and also his attempt at secularism in many of his paintings.

My favourite paintings by the artist are his various representations of love that display an ethereal, mystical quality, a sublimeness that to me captures love in their most revealing forms, as Wilson comments,

"Chagall's vision of love, so appealing to the human soul, frequently involves a merging of two faces, or bodies, into one. In this regard he is Platonic, as his figures pursue their other halves in an apparent longing to become whole again. Over and again he paints the myth that Aristophanes recounts in The Symposium." (P.174)

Chagall's life Wilson suggests was an attempt through his art at the reconciliation between two worlds, a genuine effort universalizing or merging opposites, he writes,

"In his paintings, past and present, dream and reality, rabbi and clown, secular and observant, revolutionary and Jew, Jesus and Elijah...all commingle and merge in a world where history and geography but also the laws of physics and nature have been suspended." (P. 210)

Wilson's Marc Chagall is an erudite biography and insightful critical work. Although relatively short in length, manages to capture the artist who is considered along with Picasso and Matisse, one of the icons of Modernism.

'White'. Bret Easton Ellis – A Review

Perhaps I should be honest from the beginning, a true confession of a type: I've been a reader of Bret Easton Ellis since around 1986. Again, maybe sounding like a geek, I have read every novel, and only a small selection of magazine pieces over the last 30 years. It was in the Sydney airport, after escaping from LA, that I came across Less Than Zero on a corner newsstand, waiting for customs, to let me enter the country. What brought me to this first published book, (Ellis was only 21 years of age) had to be the title, mirroring my general self worth, in 1986. From that point, never missed one of his texts. One could well call me a 'completest'; this label applies to me when it comes to this author.

When passing a bookstore window, and seeing White displayed at the front, walked right into the store and bought it. I was surprised, expecting another novel, to find a memoir, an auto-biography..,this only made me curious. The man's only in his 50's, a memoir? I thought grimly, is he leaving us?

'White' is not necessarily a memoir in the modernist vain of Nabokov's “Speak Memory” or Vidal's “Palimpsest”. It is more a structured stream of consciousness; a light, humorous and honest commentary on a writer's life so far; thoughts about art, aesthetics vs. politics, and the ever growing moral authority of the corporate system, including President Trump.

As a Gen X'r, ( a term I despise) Ellis' Less than Zero, came to be representative of a spoiled, educated, and the nihilistic youth of the 80's. When you have everything, what do you have left but relationships, and even they become toxic. The film adaptation staring Robert Downey Jr., did capture the drug invested entitlement, but left the audience with a little hope. The book does no such thing. Ellis' memories of the time period in White, is different. Anyone growing up in the 60's, 70's and 80's will relate to that time he calls Empire.

Personally, I was much more curious about his time in New York, when writing American Psycho, the context of his life, and how Patrick Bateman came into being. Ellis does go into some depth about this period, and the roller coaster of praise and death threats this work spawned. He touches on Bateman many times throughout the writing, and we come to realise, as a writer, this character was an exploration of self. Rather than take this work literally, with 20/20 hindsight, American Psycho was simply a metaphor of the times. Greed, materialism and pathological narcissism at its worse. I believe Bret called it a “selfie on steroids”

Rather than giving a blow by blow account of the entire book, Ellis' many insightful commentaries on American society in present time, I must make a few observations on his views on Twitter and the 2016 election, and Hollywood's neurotic, and, at times, fascistic response to Donald Trump's win.

During 2017 and particularly 2018, people on the Left and the Right went totally insane in the wake of Trump's win of the US presidency. Ellis describes himself, as not so much apolitical, but refreshingly “neutral” before, during and after the 2016 election. His long time boyfriend is an avowed “socialist”, and like most of the Hollywood establishment, the boy went into several mental breakdowns. Many people lost friends. Are you pro-Trump or pro-democrat? The divide became a dismal, echoing chasm, where friends were lost, marriages failed, and MSM, who turned full-on conspiracy theorists. Ellis gives many personal examples of the Hollywood crowd, losing it. This is a time in history, for many that pay attention, who most would rather forget.

Bret's discussions on Aesthetics vs. moral authority in art generally, I found the most interesting. What is style over substance? Have we relented to moralism in art, teaching our audiences what it mean to live a happy life? Is this a corporate effort to get everyone to think the same, destroying all individual and dissenting voices? In our time, is any dissenting voice simply wrong because it goes against the prevailing narrative, posing as Truth? I loved these discussions and his many examples in film.

Ellis' discussions about Empire vs. post Empire, bordered on sentimentalism. Illustrating Charlie Sheen's on-line fall from grace, and his hedonistic revolt against the system, left me empty. However, his discussion of Frank Sinatra as the last of the Empire's icons, hit the mark.

I believe the major question he poses in this text: Because of social media, the divide in ridiculous political views, has discourse on art and life being suppressed, in the realm of corporate/social media? Are we being forced to have the same views on just about everything?

These are excellent questions, and worth exploring in this Post-Empire milieu.