Category Archives: Books

What I Did for My Summer Vacation

Jane and I went to Cedar City, Utah for a short working vacation. I wanted to see if I could buy into a vacation home away from Henderson, Nevada, a respite from the blandness of that community. I wanted a place that had seasons, rain, snow, mist, fog, as varietal as wines. I am writing this in the hotel lobby of the Crystal Inn late at night, restless, anxious, can’t sleep and the air conditioning hum in our room is driving me batty.

In the morning, on  Sunday, we will drive out to Cedar Breaks, a national park that is said to be geologically beautiful and from there out to Brian Head, a recreational area that gets an abundance of snow which makes me associate toThe Shining. We were searching for a small condo. I can’t ski, and at 73 in a few weeks who needs that lunacy; this trip perhaps is a fantasy, no, it is a fantasy, but it serves to get me away from the blandness of Nevada.  (Odd, but years ago I would be writing these night notes on foolscap and a pen but here I am composing on a monitor. Have I lived much too long?)

The late night is making me woozy, although I had two cups of coffee and I can’t sleep as well.Our first evening in Cedar City had its moments and I was introduced to what I term a Mormon Martini in the Depot Grill on Main Street. The food was good. Jane ordered her favorite, a Grey Goose martini with an olive. Here we both quickly noticed that the drink was not quite up to standards. The glass was not brimming with hooch and appeared malnourished. Asking the waitress who had the face of a fat Grace Kelly why the drink seemed to lack in force, for Jane had sampled it and found it wanting, we were informed that the booze was measured out exactly, that the alcohol was dispensed to a set amount. She further told us that here in Mormon country that was prescribed by the restaurant, at least in this one; in other words we paid the full amount for the drink although it did not measure up as a drink.

So we came to understand as we fled the North Korean mind control police that our drinks were monitored and prescribed; we later heard this night from a restaurant manager that here in Cedar City if you want beer with a shot of whiskey you must first drink one or the other before getting more from mommy. You are not allowed to serve two drinks at the same time to a customer before the customer finishes one, or you can only have desert if you finish your supper. Ah, conditions.

Besides digesting our meal we had to digest what had happened to our minds. At least I thought that the menu should have a disclaimer about all this for the tourist or newcomer to cult land. And then we searched the town for a decent cup of coffee, for this same waitress informed us that coffee was served in her restaurant in what amounted to be expresso cups. Yes, coffee was served in what amounted to an expresso cup, for it is a “stimulant.” We both assumed that this is part of Mormon doctrine as they are not allowed to drink coffee, which means that you are not allowed to drink coffee, ah, there’s the rub. Like all religions we must hear their evangelical message whether we like it or not. Curious, why do repressive regimes seem always to be in beautiful country, like Germany or Utah? Is there some kind of twisted relationship?

Like addicts searching for a fix we found coffee and pastry in our own hotel where we struck up a conversation with the restaurant manager who had left Las Vegas about eleven years ago for his own reasons, but had experienced for himself the Mormon quirks. He disabused our notion that we were being alcoholically Mormonized. He felt that they were just scrimping on booze, which also made sense as well. It depends on how you see it, for it could be a blend of both. He shared how he came to Cedar City and came across the disavowal of coffee as a stimulant in a local convenience store. When ordering a  container of joe the manager refused to serve him that. Stand back and consider. No coffee because it is part of our cult and here in cult land you must follow our belief systems. I  told the manager that substantiates my belief why Romney sucks in bed.

All through this charade Jane and I were laughing at the lunacy of it all, and I  mentioned to her that the Stepford Grace Kelly had no idea she was a conditioned slave. Then I had the chilling feeling of what it must be like to “live” in a repressive regime anywhere in the world. I would die off quickly, given my personality and high blood pressure. I don’t eat shit. However, it is compelling, is it not? to travel 187 miles from Nevada and to come upon this state of Mormon mind. All through history men have tried to tell other men how to live. Mormonism was the wet dream of the charlatan Joseph Smith and what a load of crap it is. Unfortunately if you enter crapland hold your nose while you get out as soon as possible.

Joke: what do you get if you cross a Mormon with a Scientologist? Answer: a Mengele martini.

 

Comments on Orson Welles and Roger Hill: A Friendship in Three Acts

Todd Tarbox, grandson of Roger Hill, headmaster of the famous Todd School for Boys, Woodstock, Illinois, along the progressive approach of A.S. Neill’s Summerhill, and the son of Hascy Tarbox, younger classmate and perhaps rival to Orson Welles contacted me after seeing some reference to Welles by me. Over the years, hear and there, I have written about Welles and Citizen Kane. I devote one chapter in my recent book to Welles. And what is that attraction?

I am appalled by what this culture, other cultures, do to the artist. The average Joe may or may not be emotionally impoverished; however, the real artist is never poor. That is a line from Babette’s Feast. Throughout his career critics faulted Welles for his incomplete and unfinished films. I ask you: what human being is not a mess of unfinished business when he comes to die? Why this envy of Welles and the need to tear him down. The appealing aspect for me is how Welles fought this off all his life and elements of that resistance are in this book.

Of course, Tarbox’s book is the kind of book we cinephiles read while chewing Jujyfruits; it is absorbing, illuminative, informative, often provocative and with all the minutiae that fans want to know about Welles’s life, this man with an IQ of 185. So I read it straight through the night; it was not an analysis of the relationship between Roger Hill, the mentor, and Welles, the mentored; it was beyond that. What we have here is a delicious artifact, tapes that Hill-Welles kept of their conversations over the years, knowing full well that each was an important part of the other’s history. They both had a mastery of Shakespeare and often one would begin a quotation from the Bard only to have the other complete it; both their memories are astonishing.

What is salient here is the connection between a 70 year old and a 90 year old, the sustaining intellectual and emotional content of their conversations, the vigor in which they are expressed. Although the remembrance of things past is richly embroidered — that actor, that school play, that show, it really reveals how Roger Hill viewed Welles as a foster son if you will and loved him for his very being! That is Hill’s contribution, as I see it. Welles did not have to meet any expectations as the boy wonder; the world would sordidly go after him for decades on that hobbyhorse. The book is about love, the reciprocal exchange of love. Todd Tarbox should follow up with a book about his own father who is also an intriguing presence; he chose to stay close to the hearth of Hill, even marrying his daughter, while Welles flew the coop, but not entirely.  He chose to maintain a friendship over decades — how many of us can say that? or have the staying power for such a relationship? or the opportunity?

In psychoanalytic lore, if I remember the rubrics, it’s been some time since I practiced; there is the concept of the “hold.” Think of the therapist presenting the client with a giant trampoline, encouraging him to bounce and cavort all he wants, knowing full well that he is safe and secure, that no judgment will be made; to know what it is to be enjoyed as a human being unconditionally. Roger Hill gave Welles that support. Often he ends a phone conversation with words of love, of encouragement; often his words are nurturing and admiring without being a sycophant. He enjoyed Welles’s genius without extolling it; he admired the boy who grew into a great artist and man. Although his works won Hill’s admiration, the thrust of the book is that Welles as a person was his best accomplishment. That is why Welles went back and back to Hill, for he was loved.

I must say here that there is dissenting material, lots of it, about Welles as a man; genius can be insufferable and often we need to cover our eyes before it, think of Salieri and Mozart. Nevertheless, Welles is revealed here as open, greatly liberal, free of racism, and tender. I recall this man who chose not to go to college telling his daughter (Chris Welles Feder) that the world was her curriculum and go forth and taste of it; she recalls how one day he took her through Rome explaining what this building or that statue meant historically, enriching her from his own vast treasury of experiences (he is rumored to have read one or two books a day).

Roger Hill was an inner-directed stoic, whose appeal as I sense it, was his capacity to deal with life moment to moment, as we discover Welles and he periodically threading their talks with the denial of death, the breakdown of the body from ageing, of living, of dying, of what is and is not important in the world. Welles is a fountainhead of information which he shares with Hill who takes it in and often asks for more, or clarification; Hill is not threatened by Welles knowledge which may have been one of the emotional ties that Welles appreciated. Welles detested cant of any kind.

I can sum it up, for it is not hard to do: Hill, as depicted in the book, was a free and liberated human being and was not threatened by that same blessing in any other human being. Hill, in fact, encouraged that in his students, to be free, not to be disciples, for that is deadly and Welles drank deeply from that. At the same I must caution that all is not simple between human beings and not all of the complexities of both men are revealed here, or can be.

Lara’s Book Club Review

Review of “This Mobius Strip of Ifs” at Lara’s Book Club

Recap: In our younger years, we are lost, with the hope that as we grow older, we’ll better understand ourselves, others, and the world as a whole. That’s what Mathias B. Freese attempts to do in his collection of personal essays This Mobius Strip of Ifs. But over and over again, he explains that “knowledge is death” and the idea of full enlightenment or “de-conditioning” as he calls it is impossible to achieve.

Though it’s not one coherent tale, Mobius does share a story about its author and the difficult cards he’s been dealt in his life. The essays were written over decades, and share anecdotes about his family, childhood, years as a teacher, and his time spent working as a psychotherapist. The first section of the book is more philosophical, whereas the second section deals with specific people — famous people — and the things they have contributed to society, and the third section is far more personal.

Throughout this collection, Freese explains what his training, studies, upbringing, interests, and “random happenstances” have taught him. He preaches what he has learned in an upfront and often shocking way.

Analysis: Often times, Freese shares a negative or cynical point of view. One could argue this is just because of the terrible things he’s had to deal with — the loss of his mother at a young age, his daughter’s suicide, his wife’s sudden death. But I don’t believe that’s the case here. It becomes clear that his point of view has been molded not only by what’s happened to him but also by what he’s studied and read over the years.

Freese is blunt and fiercely logical about the world and the way it works, often distressingly so. As an eternal optimist who believes in things like “everything happens for a reason” and “God only gives you that which you can handle,” I often found myself disagreeing with the points made in Freese’s essays. That being said, his points were almost always made with the utmost logic and realism. Whether I agree or not, I could not ignore his valid, well-explained thoughts.

This book is not a memoir. Or rather, I don’t think it’s meant to be one. After all, this is a book full of essays about what his life has taught him about life in general. But ultimately, it feels like a memoir. Upon finishing the book, I felt like I got to know Mathias B. Freese. I understand his world, his inner thoughts, and his life. I may not agree with many of his beliefs, but I’d sure love to grab a coffee with him.

Review by Udita Banerjee

This Mobius Strip of Ifs …a review

POSTED ON APRIL 5, 2013 BY UDITA BANERJEE

on http://cupandchaucer.wordpress.com

I usually read fiction. So when Mathias B. Freese wrote to me asking if I would like to review his book, I agreed because of two words that he used to describe his book, ‘memoir’ and ‘psychotherapist’. What’s not be intrigued about!? I wasn’t disappointed. This book is a collection of essays, a wide variety of topics, from relationships to blogging, from Holocaust to Freud… each essay was a bit of a jolt really…

It is a harsh read. There are works like those of Freud’s, scientific and calculating, cautious even. There are works like Paulo Coelho’s, which give you deep mantras in sugar coated easy to read stories. And then there is this man, who calls a spade a spade, and gives you facts and truth to your face. He is critical of people, of habits, of the system, of the world around him. Above all, he is critical of himself. He was a therapist; therapists have issues too!

A book that begins with a quote by Hemingway can hardly go wrong in my eyes! I once read Freud, a lot of him, I liked frequent references to his work. On the other hand, I didn’t enjoy the references to other things as much, ones I did not know about… “How will I ever read so much!?” reads my note to self on the margin.

Reading a lot of the essays made me feel like I was encroaching into really personal territory. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to read on. Did I really wish to know? I don’t know how much courage and general faith it takes to bare to the world… Also, the essay on bloggers made me ask questions as to my own purpose… Why do I blog? Why about books? Am I a true critic? Am I needy? If so, aren’t we all? A book  that makes you introspect is, in my opinion, a brilliant read, challenging and scary, but worthwhile.

It’s the kind of book one can come back to. It is not a cheery happy read, but I like them that way. It is like an old friend, who was a cynic a long time ago, but now is just an old friend…

Quotes: “Like the sad genius of the schizophrenic, allow me to find a nether place, to rest in sweet shadow, to come away from what I plainly see.”

“The task of each one of us is to be free of the other and ultimately free of one’s own inner constraints. All else follows.”

“I self-publish to announce I am here, for I will soon be gone.”

 

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