|1968: The Jimi Hendrix Experience|
public domain via Wikimedia Commons
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
Buffeted in a tsunami of a dream, I found myself back in the 1960s last week: the entirety of my experiences from those wild years coalesced into a single, jangled wave of hedonistic energy, radical exuberance, and existential angst, trying to balance the hope for the coming of the Age of Aquarius against the fear of the apocalypse.
The dream culminates in stark words blazing like neon lights in front of my eyes: pink spray and purple haze. They sound like the names of paint colors at Home Depot, but they trigger images, much deeper and darker.
Pink spray is the traumatic image, one of my former patients is still haunted by, of killing a Vietcong during a firefight in a cloud of pink spray as his bullet pierced the neck of his foe: A traumatic image, I guess, now branded in my brain, too.
Purple haze, on the other hand for me, is synonymous with Jimi Hendrix’s iconic psychedelic rock song, of the same name, with its insistent, driving guitar riffs. Purple Haze encapsulates the 1960s for me: The raw energy, the agony and the ecstasy, comrades in arms marching into the breach in both protest and war.
Like a cattle prod, these two images shocked me wide awake. Sitting up in bed I struggled to make sense of my dream, particularly how these two disparate images were connected.
I have always had a strong affinity for Purple Haze as a sixties person and a Vietnam veteran. Paola Sarappa has noted that many vets feel this way: “The rhythms, raw energy, and screaming guitars of rock music perfectly reflected the chaos and confusion of the jungle warfare and firefight battles.”1
There are other connotations; for example, because Hendrix was in the army and trained to be a paratrooper, many vets assume that purple haze refers to the purple smoke used to mark landing zones.
I also wondered if there is a common thread between the mystical aspect of the 1960s psychedelic music and death: during a mystical experience, time slows down to a hyper-focus on the here-and-now, in the same manner as when facing imminent death during battle.
My dream images of purple haze and pink spray draw me ever further downward. After more research, I discovered, Purple Haze, was based on a dream, like this essay.
When he once was asked how he wrote songs, Hendrix said,"I dream a lot and I put my dreams down as songs. I wrote one called…'The Purple Haze,' which was about a dream I had that I was walking under the sea."2
Hendrix always expressed regret that could never put into words, the feeling content of his song. “You know that song we had named “Purple Haze”? [It] had about a thousand, thousand words” if he only had the capability of writing them all down… “It was about going through, though this land. this mythical [place]”3
His songs vibrated with the liberating energy of the posters plastered all about Paris in 1968: “Be realistic – demand the impossible. It is forbidden to forbid.”4
My dream, like his, was about experiencing the Sixties as an odyssey through that mythical land. It expresses the ethos of the sixties, both the highs and lows.
And that feeling still lives inside me, as visceral now as the first time around. I feel it alive and kicking in my gut, but, like Hendrix, I have no words to articulate further.
I can’t help thinking: is this the past or the present I am summoning up?
Once again, our country is divided between the promise of a diverse, equitable, sustainable future and the specter of a rearguard minority, rooted in the past, promoting fear and hate; once again, soldiers are dying in an endless war; once again we have been highjacked by a devious and demented president.
Am I in a dream or a living nightmare.
2 2 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Purple_Haze
3 2 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Purple_Haze
Saturday, May 5, 2018
Friday, April 20, 2018
Published in the Concord Monitor, 4/1/18
Cosmopolitan Class Washes Pittsfield Downstream
photo illustration © Jean Stimmell
Robert Fried recently wrote an important piece in the Concord Monitor entitled Sympathy for Populists. His thesis was that we must learn to “care as much about the welfare of our populist-leaning fellow citizens as we do for the cosmopolitan elite.”
As a left-leaning populist in the mold of Bernie Sanders, I wholeheartedly agree. Although I must admit, I have difficulty having sympathy for the cosmopolitan class.
The optics are bad. Under the influence of Obama, Pelosi, and Hillary, the democratic party, in many people’s eyes, has morphed into the party of the privileged elite who no longer care about working class Americans.
Trump used this elite perception to effectively hammer the democrats, helping him to win the election. Unfortunately, there is more than a little truth to his claim.
Although Hillary was quoted out of context about all Trump voters being “deplorables,” her comment still smacks of elitism, along with massive tone deafness. She has a history of doing this.
Although it wasn’t widely reported by the press, she recently insulted red America again, addressing an International conference in Mumbai India.
“If you look at the map of the United States, there is all that red in the middle, places where Trump won,” she said. “What that map doesn’t show you is that I won the places that won two thirds of America’s Gross Domestic product. I won the places that are optimistic, diverse, dynamic, moving forward.”
How insulting must this be to red voters! And shaming. She’s implying that those that didn’t vote for her are hidebound, bumps on a log, without the gumption to succeed.
In a similar manner, I see a parallel scenario playing out in N.H. The cosmopolitan elite, hailing from places like Hopkinton and Bow, often sneer at those who happen to live in red places like Pittsfield or Franklin.
Sometimes the comments are quite overt: I was recently talking to a smart, well-educated, normally non-judgmental person who called Pittsfield the “armpit of N.H.”
Because I went to Pittsfield High School, I feel the need to defend her honor, and hopefully, in the process, educate those on the other side of the divide.
The rust belt states were once the manufacturing engine of our country, prosperous and forward-looking until shifts in the economy and trade policies caused big business to abandon the Midwest for places around the world with lower labor costs.
The same thing happened in N.H.
In the 19th century, Pittsfield was considered “the gem of the Suncook Valley.” In 1906 it was described in Lippincott’s New Gazetteer as a banking post-village and summer resort on the Boston and Maine railroad line, manufacturing cotton goods, boots, and shoes.
After WWII, manufacturing started to move south and then overseas, seeking lower costs. As the tax base continued to diminish, property taxes rose precipitously. For decades now, people have avoided moving into Pittsfield because of exorbitant property taxes combined with what some see as poor schools based on the fact that Pittsfield is unable to fund its school system at the same level as surrounding towns.
Tax and trade policies have pushed Pittsfield, like the Midwest, into a decades-long downward spiral. Fighting against external forces beyond their control, red state populists feel humiliated and shamed by thoughtless comments by liberals like Hillary; the implication is that they are unworthy, somehow complicit in their own decline.
But while the rust belt states have faced decades of hard times, as have N.H. towns like Pittsfield, they have not become victims or given up.
Pittsfield is a good example: her citizens have been magnificent in their resilience, school innovation, and community spirit. Right now, they are celebrating winning the State Basketball Championship in their division for the first time ever.
What they would like is recognition for the resilience they have shown during tough times, and a little some help so they can do even better in the future.
I have friends from high school, still living in Pittsfield, who voted for Trump. Often it was a protest vote: they wanted to stick their thumb in the eye of the liberal cosmopolitan who they feel scorned them, judging them as unworthy, somehow complicit in their own decline.
My friends have good hearts and I’d trust them with my life. If I ever got in a real jam, it would want them covering my back – not some yuppie cosmopolitan.
Robert Fried, in his article, praised red state populists for their sacrifices in times of war. I can attest to that.
Whether you were for or against the Vietnam war, my friends and acquaintances, who went to Pittsfield High, stepped up to serve, some of us at great personal cost: three were seriously wounded, two were killed, and one, a decorated combat veteran, committed suicide.
Thank you Robert Fried for your fine piece, Sympathy of the Populists. I will close by echoing your advice, asking each of us to reexamine our own social class prejudices, as if the fate of our democracy depends on it.
Because, in fact, it does!
|From the walkway along Exeter River|
CC Jean Stimmell: 6/23/16
Snatching the booty from beneath my feet
while I stood flat-footed, lost in thought,
Blue heron flies away with the prize
|From the walkway along Exeter River|
CC Jean Stimmell: 6/23/16
Thursday, April 19, 2018
|CC Jean Stimmell: 4/18/18|
Today walking the dog along Great Bay
I was blessed by a momentary glimpse
lit by the sudden emergence of the sun
of a scaly, prehistoric beast emerging
from 66 million years of hibernation
Sunday, April 8, 2018
Walking Coco along Great Bay at Wagon Wheel Farm,
a popular place to host special occasions,
I saw in the distance, a multitude of bright floral colors
protruding out of a trash barrel.
Flowers left over from an early Spring wedding?
Or so I thought until I got closer.
|Wagon Wheel Farm: 4/7/18|
CC Jean Stimmell