The 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

Smoke

Fall, 1969

 

       It was a revolutionary time. Throughout the land, the King of Soul was widely at work, but so was the jester, in a coat he borrowed from James Dean, or so it has been reported.

       News at 11:00.

~~~

Speak out, 

you got to speak out against the madness

you got to speak your mind

if you dare.

But don’t, no don’t, try to get yourself elected.

If you do you had better cut your hair.

       David Crosby’s words vibrated out from the stereo.  Stills and Nash chimed in with the refrain:

And it appears to be a long,

appears to be a long,

appears to be a long,

appears to be a long,

such a long, long, long, long time before the dawn.

        Donnie handed the joint to Maureen. She took a hit and said, “I heard them do this song at Altamont a few months ago.” Holding the smoke in, her voice sounded like the stretched tip of an aired balloon. 

        “Oh yeah? What was that like?

       “She let the smoke out. ”Crazy. It was a zoo.”

        Maureen, a New Jersey girl, rough around the edges and just like one of the guys, slightly heavy-set in jeans and the work shirt, laughed. “Crosby was trying to sing this song. I felt sorry for him. There was this weird vibe all around. It wasn’t anything like Woodstock. The stage was down low.  It was more like a barroom blast than a rock concert. People were just sort of milling around, all around the stage, while the groups were trying to do their thing, get everybody cranked up with the rock blasting out of those big speakers. I mainly wanted to hear Crosby, Stills and Nash. When they went on, I could hardly see them. We managed to worm our way in and sat down on a blanket about forty yards out from the stage When they did this song, they wound it way out, with these long guitar leads, trying to draw the song out, jazz it up, not like the album version. I guess that’s kind of like the Dead do with their stuff. I felt like, when Crosby was singing this song he was trying too hard, like over-dramatizing it, striving to project the song’s message out and over the heads of all those jokers who were standing around, like they had some important reason to be there. But those people were definitely cutting off the energy of the musicians. I felt like it was kind of putting a bummer on the whole thing.”

. . . and a few minutes later. . .

. . .and they got more obnoxious as the day went on. The worst thing that happened was at the end. After dark, all the vibes got even more weird. The Stones were playing, and there was, like, a constant scuffle going on around the stage. Some people were really tripped-out, freakin out, right next to the band, and Mick Jagger kept yelling at the people right around the stage, telling them to cool it, and calling for ‘those cats to stop beating people up.’ I mean, he even threatened to shut down the whole concert, like, ‘if you people don’t quit punching each other out we’re gonna split.’ He kept saying that over and over. It was like, whiny, ‘we’re gonna split, we’re gonna split, man.’  He was sounding like my little brother whining, when my big brother would pick on him. “We’re gonna split, we’re gonna split. Na nana booboo!”

All of the above is excerpt from  chapter 17 of my 2017 novel, King of Soul.

King of Soul

Dr. King on the Mountain

There is an intimate, prophetic link between the ancient Hebrew liberator, Moses. . . and the 2oth-century liberator, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.:

They both had a mountaintop inspiration from the Lord. . . an experience in which a prophetic vision was imparted to the prophet: a vision which opened the way for deliverance of God's people from enslavement, or deliverance from a slave mentality.

Many years ago, I wrote and recorded a song about these two prophets, and a mountain-climbing experience that I had related to their respective visionary treks up the rocky path of divine inspiration.

"Mountaintop" words are shown below.

If you care to hear the sung version, you can listen to it at Josh's YouTube site: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K3hQNMr0A48    

Or you can hear the song from my website, linked here at the bottom, below these words:

Well I walked out; I walked out to Pisgah mountain

Well ole Martin Luther King; he’d been up to the mountaintop

and I wanted to see what he had seen.

And ole Moses—he’d been up to the mountaintop

and I wanted to see what he had seen.

When I reached the top of Pisgah mountain

what did I see? I saw a promised land

just waitin’ for me, and waitin’ for all of ye.

Well I walked down from the mountain and into the town

Well ole Martin Luther King—he’d been to see the big man

and I wanted to see what he had seen.

And ole Moses—he’d been to see the Pharoah.

Yeah, he’d been up there and I wanted to see what he had seen.

The promised land is what you make it to be.

Struggle to unwind your unconstant state of mind.

Just take a walk up the mountain, my friend

and you will see.

What goes on down in that dirty old town

is bound to be.

You can make up your mind, my friend

and you can make it up good.

Are you looking for the promised land

or are you dying, are you dying in a wasteland.

‘cause I may be asking you now; I may be asking you:

Are you looking for the promised land?

And what you gonna say

when my Lord comes on that day.

‘cause I may be asking you now; I may be asking you.

But someday, Lord, yeah, He’s gonna ask you too

And what you gonna say when my Lord

comes on that day?

Glass half-Full 

Alexei Navalny

Last night I watched, for the second time, a documentary flick on HBO that I am now recommending to anyone in the world.

Alexei Navalny is a Russian dissident leader who has striven, through his entire life, to obtain justice, mercy and freedom for his fellow-citizens in Russia.

And he has paid a dear price—not in money, but in his own personal freedom—for his bold advocacy of democracy in the midst of the Russian beast state. 

He is in prison now. During a period of relative freedom, between two imprisonments, he managed to make a the documentary video that you can see on HBO. Alexei has received continuously faithful help from his wife, children and other friends. Their loyal presence and support throughout their struggle is front-and-center visible in the incredible documentary that they made.

Navalny’s message of freedom is especially poignant now, as Putin strains his Russian State and People in his attempt to enslave the Ukrainians. 

I was born in 1951. My appreciation for Freedom has  continuously boosted throughout my 71 years of life. However, there are three memories that I will share with you that are especially poignant.

In 1961, our President John F. Kennedy visited the people of Berlin, Germany. At that time, the Russians, having occupied Germany since the end of World War II, were building a wall to separate the captive people of East Germany from the free people of West Germany.

President Kennedy spoke boldly to those Berliners, and to the world at large. He challenged the people of the world: “Let them come to Berlin” . . . to see the plain and obvious difference between political bondage—as seen on the Russian side of the wall— and, as seen on the Western side of the wall. Our President intensified his identity with the free people of West Germany when he announced: “Ich bin ein Berliner!” 

Now, in the 21st century, Alexei Navalny would qualify as one of those rare brave souls to whom Kennedy dedicated his "Profiles in Courage."

A couple of decades later, President Reagan took the protest to another level, very plain and simple: “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”

One more memory I’ll share with you. When I was still a young man, early 1970’s, I heard a haunting melody sung, a capella, by Crosby, Stills and Nash:

“Find the cost of freedom, buried in the ground.”

The dearest cost of our collective freedom is that ultimate price of sacrifice, offered by brave men and women who have, throughout history, paid that ultimate price of death, in their rugged slog through oppression and tyranny.

Alexei Navalny is one Russian patriot who has found himself close—very close—to that ultimate price of being laid in the cold, cold ground. 

And yet, and yet, he’s still alive and cooking.  

Check our the video on HBO. The name of the movie is “Navalny.”

For more information about this modern-day Patrick Henry, I recommend Wikipedia:  

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexei_Navalny

Glass half-Full 

Rebel Republicans Rumble

Rumble, rumble, toil and tumble

Republican rebel reps: they rumble.

They rumble through the Gaetz of hell

so lately cast by Trumpian spell

Alas! poor McCarthy, they knew him well.

Republican Rogers tries to tell

his fellow Repubs to cease their rumble. 

But Richard muzzles Rogers’ remark to a mumble!

In this very first Repub majority

they fall into a ripped authority

as the rapier of rabid rebuttal

Reverts them to a Rebel scuffle,

Reminding us of that Rebel Insurrection

that happened by RebelRepub direction,

that happened exactly two years ago

as Rebel Repubs stooped so dam low.

"Friends, Rebels, MAGA peers,

Lend me your Trumpy ears!"

They said

while a few folks were lying dead!

"Take our Rule of Law and shove it.

We know we Rebels are far above it." 

Doesn’t matter that Rebels stormed the Dome two year ago.

"Now We RebelRepubReps are running the show!

Just so you know.  

You ain’t seen nothing yets!

Here come that  Rebel Gaetz!

We'll blow the wad on Hunter's laptop!

This is our version RebRepRap hiphop!

We’ll teach Kevin how to run the HouseRep Rubble

with Rebel Republican toil and trouble!"

Glass half-Full 

The Red Dragon Problem

 A long, long, time ago, in a kingdom far away. . .

Magi men from the east arrived in Jerusalem, saying, “Where is He?”

When Herod the king heard this, he got really upset, something terrible.

Later, when he figured out that the Magi had tricked him, he got even more bent out of shape. So he sent his thugs to execute all the male babies in Bethlehem and its vicinity. 

Overkill, literally.

But that mini-holocaust didn’t pan out the way he hoped it would: No king of the Jews was slain. They didn't even find one, at least not yet. 

Herod  the Anti (first of many) and his diabolical minions shape-shifted their way through history, never giving up the search for that kid on whom they would inflict the final solution.

Later, after the had child grown, administered miraculous grace and healing to hundreds, if not thousands, of the locals—Jews and others who happened to be in the vicinity—Herod and his well-connected allies were able to find Him. They convinced Governor Pilate to do their dirty work and so he did and they hung the troublemaker up, Roman style, on a cross and they thought they had solved the problem of the upstart Galilean. But that bloody execution put Him out of commission for only three days.

The Executed One bounced back. 

Later, we got a fuller report from Patmos, a little more back-story: 

When the dragon realized that he had been thrown down to the earth, he got really pissed off and, as things went down,  he persecuted the woman who had given birth to the male child.

That old red dragon would pop up every now and then in history to do his dirty work and take another shot at eliminating the problem. 

Eventually, he came up with a plan that would surely be a final solution.

But persecuted Yids got by with a little help from their friends, the Brits, the Yanks,  and a few airborne others. . .

"The two wings of the great Eagle were given to the woman, so that she could fly into the wilderness, to her place, where she could be nourished for a time, times and half a time"

(as the Times reported from Patmos)

Sometimes destiny takes a long, long time to work itself out.

Glass half-Full

Trouble on the Mountain

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  

Big Muddy Music

As an aorta is the primary channel for pumping blood.

So is the Mississippi River. 

That Big Muddy was the primordial channel for pumping American music up from its muddy roots in Louisiana and Miss'ippi. . . to the heartland of America and beyond.

Although water flows downhill, American culture paddled upstream from New Orleans. It trubutaried outward, like the River at St. Louis, to enrich the deep dirt of American potential.

This is a saga of Deep South and Heartland America. The East Coast and West Coast have their sagas, but that’s another story.

 As there had been a shot heard ‘round the world up in Concord in 1775. . . that ultimate battle call summoned forth a new nation of citizens to demand freedom, justice and the American way.

Just as that shot was heard, way up North, then 'round the world. . . there was another call that came later. . . this time, from down South. . .  and prob'ly made Beethoven roll over and  Tchaikovsky hear the news!

Unheralded at first, the deep heart-cry of enslaved Soul was crying out, all along! for freedom and justice . . . as black man who sho'nuff  did matter stood in chains at a slave auction in New Orleans.

What’s fascinating about our history is that, while white folks certainly unleashed some impressive technical and cultural forces and institutions, it was those formerly enslaved black folk who set the course for the heart and soul of popular American music. With blood, sweat and tears, they launched a blues note heard ‘round the world. Not far from my  Mississippi childhood home, a shakity white boy named Elvis heard the call and he couldn’t shake it off.

Out of enslavement and tribulation a new culture was being born.

“He not busy born is busy dyin” our Bard of the 1960's had declared.

As Moses had launched, unbeknownst to himself, a seminal vision of Western morality and culture, Louie Armstrong blew the trumpet call, many moons ago, that summoned a grieving heart of oppressed people to rise up from Mississippi mud and sing a song of hard-won, blood-bought jazz.

We shall overcome! Yeah, that’s right. That's alright, mama, any way you do.

Any way we can do, they did it!

Ultimately, that deep cry was heard throughout this continent and around the world. From Memphis, St. Louis and Chicago it resounded. . . the cry heard 'round the world.

That Soul cry is heard all around, north and south, east, west . . . ultimately all ‘round the world. It shakes out a rhythm that rattles any brain, and has a way of rolling into blue-hearted souls anywhere in the world that hearts cry out for freedom and for love.

Once upon a time, a ship docked in Liverpool, long about 1948 or so.  Some music-toting mariner carried a black disk or two, with a hole in the middle, o’er the ganglplank. The vinyl platter found its way into the hands of a young John, a curious Paul, a sensitive George and a rockin’ Ringo.

The rest is history. That's Fats Domino in the pic, having a good time with the Beatles. They had a lot thank him for.  But along with N'Awlins Fats on that hard-beaten path had come Little Richard, BB King, Chuck Berry. . . and before them Robert Johnson, Lightnin' Hopkins, Blind Willie, Muddy Waters, Mississippi John Hurt, Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, Ella Fitzgerald, Louie Armstrong and many others. Together, they toted the bale of rhythm and a load of blues up onto a platform of American enterprise and somehow managed to get that barge toted all the way 'round the whole world!

King of Soul 

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