EISENHOWER'S NIGHTMARE: TOO BIG TOO AUDIT; TOO POWERFUL TO OPPOSE.

Image via Wikipedia

Dear You—

Do you know Chuck? Let me give you some background just in case: Chuck Spinney is a former Air force officer and highly respected retired Pentagon analyst who has been telling the truth about the excesses of the MICC (Military Industrial Congressional Complex) for decades. In fact, in the mid-Eighties, he made the front cover of Time magazine in his role of teller of the truth to Power – and survived. He is a remarkable man.

Retired or not – he lives on a sail-boat for much of the year - he continues to comment about defense matters and, in a recent e-mail, said the following.

Today we have a Pentagon that is spending more money (in inflation adjusted dollars) on defense than at any time since WWII, yet it can not pass the relatively simple audits required by the Chief Financial Officer's Act of 1990.  This law was intended to put teeth into the Accountability and Appropriations clauses of the Constitution.  The audits required by the CFO Act are "checks and balances" audits -- they merely describe whether or no any agency of the federal government spends the money Congress appropriated on the items Congress authorized for appropriations -- essentially the line between where the money comes from and where it goes.

This inability would be extraordinary enough in a company of modest size, but the fact that this situation exists here, in one of the most critical departments of the U.S. Government, year after year, is truly mind-boggling. And it is also illegal.

Recall that these people are spending over $1 trillion of our money (either from tax or borrowed) each and every year.

Farewell for the moment. Write soon. I miss your wit and your company.

Victor.

THE CRISIS OF MIDDLE-CLASS AMERICA (WHICH IS MOST OF US)

Image via Wikipedia

Dear You--

The chart shows the Inflation Adjusted Percentage Increase in Mean After -Tax Household Income Between 1979 and 2005. It is only one of many examples that demonstrates that the National Cake is being sliced to favor the few - to this Nation's great disadvantage.

It is my absolute belief that the U.S. is in serious trouble at present, but that the majority of people is still alarmingly unaware of the scale and scope of the problems, and even less well informed as to the possible solutions. I started feeling such concerns, and conducting ongoing research, in 2002, and commenced writing Titanic Nation: How To Avoid Icebergs: The Case for Fundamental Change In The American Way of Life in 2007 so I guess I’m a little disturbed – though I should know better - that the implications of our plight don’t get more coverage in the U.S. media as a whole. However, some foreign observers are certainly aware - as this extract from a lengthy piece in the U.K. Financial Times of July 30 2010 shows. It only covers one sector of concern although that is scarcely minor. The full piece The Crisis of Middle-Class America is worth reading.

“The slow economic strangulation of the Freemans and millions of other middle-class Americans started long before the Great Recession, which merely exacerbated the “personal recession” that ordinary Americans had been suffering for years. Dubbed“median wage stagnation” by economists, the annual incomes of the bottom 90 per cent of US families have been essentially flat since 1973 – having risen by only 10 per cent in real terms over the past 37 years. That means most Americans have been treading water for more than a generation. Over the same period the incomes of the top 1 per cent have tripled. In 1973, chief executives were on average paid 26 times the median income. Now the multiple is above 300.

The trend has only been getting stronger. Most economists see the Great Stagnation as a structural problem – meaning it is immune to the business cycle. In the last expansion, which started in January 2002 and ended in December 2007, the median US household income dropped by $2,000 – the first ever instance where most Americans were worse off at the end of a cycle than at the start. Worse is that the long era of stagnating incomes has been accompanied by something profoundly un-American: declining income mobility.” 

Farewell for the moment. Write soon. I miss your wit and your company.


Victor.

THE SECRET OF WRITING IS … WALKING (JUST DON'T SIT ON A SNAKE!

Image via Wikipedia

Dear You—

Today, I was asked by an as yet unpublished author if there is a secret to writing, perhaps some mental trick that can promote the necessary focus. I had to smile to myself. Would that it were that easy! In truth, I’m not sure there is any one key to writing, or even that a whole bunch would be adequate, but if there is one, walking would be a candidate – in my case, at least.

“Walking!” I hear you say in a suitably incredulous tone. “What, in heavens, are you talking about?” Bear with me; and I shall present my case.

As you well know, I’ve never been much of an athlete, but I’ve always loved walking, preferably for a few hours or a day, or longer. Firstly, it’s an immensely satisfying activity at a purely physical level; secondly, there are few better ways to work out a problem, resolve a creative issue, or just gain a new perspective; thirdly, there’s the fact that, when you are walking, you notice details that would be impossible in a car; fourthly, there is that sense of being in tune with nature; and, finally, it is truly amazing what adventures can result from something as seemingly harmless as a simple stroll. Well, maybe stroll isn’t the right word for a twenty mile cross country hike, or a walking tour through Fascist Spain with a diversion to Morocco, but my underlying point is that what starts out as a straightforward walk can lead one into some complicated and dangerous situations – ideal material for a writer if one should be fortunate enough to survive; and writing stems from experience even if significantly reinterpreted. Or such is my view. We can argue about the true nature of creativity some other time.

The craziest walk I ever went on was after a party in Dublin when I decided to walk some 24 miles through the Dublin Mountains in winter on a dare. Since I hadn’t slept, wasn’t adequately clothed, and had brought neither food nor water – and it was snowing – I was damn lucky I didn’t freeze to death (I came close) but it was also one of the most intense and uplifting experiences of my life. That part of the world is stunning under normal circumstances but in the swirling snow, with the ground still not fully covered so showing texture and color, I felt I had been transported into a world of such beauty I knew I could never to describe it. I suspect I was experiencing the onset of hypothermia, and I knew if I sat down I would never get up again, but it was an experience worth risking everything for; and I was young, and there was definitely someone watching over me.

The most dangerous walk I ever went on was in Cyprus just before the Turks invaded. At the time, the Greeks were the aggressors though both sides had official forces and armed bands of irregulars up to no good. Quite why I picked this place and time for a walking holiday is a good question but I was curious and, as you know, liked to spend time with units  so I’d know what I was doing when I started writing. In this case I underestimated just how far things had gone, and that trekking across the countryside at a time when both sides were feeling decidedly territorial was not smart. Suffice to say that I stumbled across a Greek farm where a bunch of unfriendly looking people were hauling up polythene wrapped weapons from a well. Since I was on foot, I surprised them completely and the question then was what we should do. Should I beat a hasty retreat? Should they kill me for having seen too much? I decided a pretense of ignorance was the best policy so strode ahead as if I had seen nothing even though several Sten guns had already been unwrapped and bade them all a cheery good morning without stopping. I can tell you I felt decidedly uncomfortable until I was out of sight because I thought there was a reasonable chance one of the assembled thugs would decide to put one of the weapons to terminal use. Feeling you have a target on your back is not a pleasant feeling. Later I was to experience the same feeling under sniper fire in Northern Ireland. Again I was lucky although a policeman nearby was not so fortunate and was shot dead by a 7.62mm round.

The walk that had the greatest personal consequences for me was the ramble along the cliffs in Wales which resulted in my finding a hanging body in a wood near a castle that had once been owned by William Randolf Hearst. That unpleasant business gave me the inspiration for Games of The Hangman and becoming a Best Selling author – and much else besides. The description in the book is pretty much what actually happened.

CONNECTED, (CREATIVE?) & MORE THAN A LITTLE CREEPY

Image via Wikipedia

Dear You—

Apart from the minor detail of keeping us authors alive – paradoxically, even starving artists have to eat and drink occasionally – I have recently been struck by the notion that the contribution of cafes and restaurants to the world of words has been much under-rated. True, we have been told that Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast was written in the cafes of Paris, and the estimable David Mamet wrote a book entitled Writing in Restaurants, but my general feeling is that the primary focus has tended to be on such eating houses' utility as places  in which to write – conveniently equipped with flat surfaces (an obsession of mine) - rather than their other invaluable contributions to the writing process. For instance, nothing beats a pavement café as a location for people-watching - with a little eavesdropping thrown in for good measure. 

Don’t profess to be shocked. Though staring, and listening to other people’s conversations, is generally considered to be bad manners, you have to understand that, where us authors are concerned, we have a special dispensation to behave in such a way when it is for artistic reasons. You must understand that observing the human condition – discretely, of course – is fundamental to the writing process. After all, where do you think us fiction writers get so many of our ideas – except by stealing them from reality; and, based on much of the non-fiction I have read,  I suspect the reverse is also true.

Personally, I rarely write in cafes and restaurants. Instead I read – always a good cover for people watching – and think and plot; and then scribble the odd note in my black Moleskine notebook; and then retreat to my garret to do the actual writing. That isn’t to say that I have any hang-up about writing in such locations – indeed, I have been known to – but more to stress that my preference is for watching the world go by, and letting my subconscious do the groundwork, before hitting the keyboard.

I must also confess that I’m not sure human progress is being much advanced when virtually every person in the café – as is often the case around here – is glued to a computer with never a laugh heard, a smile observed, or a witticism exchanged. True, all the café patrons could be e-mailing or Tweeting each other in a positive frenzy of computerized camaraderie, but I have my doubts about that. Instead I find all that silent, blank-faced connectivity, no matter how creative such people are being in their own private universes,  a depressing contrast to traditional café sociability – and more than a little creepy.

Farewell for the moment. Write soon. I miss your wit and your company.

Victor.

THE RED BARON - PART 1

Image via Wikipedia

Dear You--

I saw the movie, The Red Baron, the other night and thoroughly enjoyed it although apparently it was a disaster at the box office. 

It had outstanding set direction and convincingly conveyed a sense of place and period - Northern France during WW I - even though it was actually shot in and around Prague (one European city I regret I have never visited). Though shot in English, it was a  German production, with a big budget by European standards (18-19 million Euros or about $25 million - nothing by Hollywood standards) it portrayed an entirely credible picture of an arrogant and privileged aristocrat with a special talent for air combat, and the natural leadership qualities of his class, who - as his comrades get killed one after the other - realizes that what is doing is pointless, and that his primary value is as a propaganda symbol for both a cause and a regime he no longer believes in. There is also a rather touching love story with a nurse, which purists have criticized as being historically dubious, but which I rather liked. 

The movie had special associations for me which I'll tell you about in my next letter; and no jokes about my being old enough to have fought in it!

Farewell for the moment. Write soon. I miss your wit and your company.





Victor.

THE LOUDNESS OF ANGELS

Image via Wikipedia

Dear You--

There are jets overhead and they are amazingly noisy. Either the Chinese are invading (hard to tell in Seattle) or the Blue Angels are practicing. Frankly, it sounds like both. Let me reveal a truth about my profession that will doubtless rock your socks off: Writing and noise do not co-exist with equanimity. True, one can get used to a surprising amount of routine street noise, and the elevator in this elegant, but elderly, apartment block seems to be tuned to make the whole building vibrate in harmony, but a squadron of F-16s going through its paces would cause even Shakespeare  to say “What the ….!” and head for the nearest tavern (in the unlikely event he wasn’t there already).

But Shakespeare, that fortunate bard, never had to deal with anything like this level of acoustic pollution. Only birds and arrows flew in his day; and even a flock of ducks at its quackiest (of course there is such a word) cannot generate anything close to the cacophony emanating from that bunch of gyrating jet jockies who are currently occupying the skies above me. The effect of such activity, in the finest tradition of this civilization we are so proud of, is to create a sort of artistic dead zone – the intellectual equivalent of one of those vast bodies of polluted ocean in which nothing can survive. 

Let me explain the gruesome effects of this mind control. Just when a thought deigns to float up from one’s subconscious, there is a shrieking roar in the sky rising to a head-splitting crescendo, and that brilliant phrase or insight, that bon mot of genius, or whatever it was, scuttles back into its cozy haven to cogitate in comfort; or otherwise do whatever environmentally challenged thoughts do. It may even vanish; unknown, undeveloped, un-appreciated - to be forgotten forever.

You’re shocked, of course. Clearly desperate measures are called for. I shall invoke the Seattle solution to just about every situation: I’m heading out for a latte.

Farewell for the moment. Write soon. I miss your wit and your company.

Victor.

NICE GUYS DON’T PAINT THE MONA LISA

Image via Wikipedia

Dear You—

As a writer, I have long held to the view that writing well is so demanding that it requires the majority of my waking time – or, at least, most of the hours during which my mind is creatively fresh and active. How long is the latter? It depends upon many things, from one’s mental state to one’s diet and sobriety (don’t ask) and level of physical fitness (a movable feast in my case), but essentially I would say I am at my creative optimum for no more than six or seven hours a day; though I can certainly write longer if I am in the zone, and often do. Nonetheless, I will freely admit that my creative energy is a limited resource and needs to be allocated with care if I’m to produce at an acceptable rate.

Such a position may sound selfish, particularly when one’s family responsibilities and social duties need to be factored in, but I suspect I am stating no more than the obvious where artistic endeavor is involved; and feel safe to say that a degree of selfishness is fundamental to artistic achievement. Or, putting it another way: “Nice guys don’t paint the Mona Lisa.”

One has to wonder how Leonardo would cope today. Even in his time he was distracted by visiting condottieri asking him to rustle up some new military invention (Leonardo can lay claim to thinking up both the tank and the helicopter) but how would he cope if he was told that he needed to spend at least half of his time blogging, or on Facebook, or podcasting - not to mention keeping his website up to scratch and e-mailing the Pope to secure more commissions.

I’m prompted to write about all this after reading the advice, from a member of an internet based writer’s group that a writer should spend at least half his, or her, time marketing. I’m sure it is excellent advice, in a purely commercial sense, but I’m still in a state of shock. On the other hand, it is now crystal clear to me why so many writers drink. Where did I put the absinthe?

To restore my equilibrium, let me quote from the ever reliable John Irving, he of The World According To Garp fame:

“If you are lucky enough to find a way of life you love, you have to find the courage to live it.’

The man is a pleasure and absolutely right.

Farewell for the moment. Write soon. I miss your wit and your company.

Victor.