And I really enjoyed seeing this side of you, Doc (-: I also liked that phrase about sunroof and stars.
________________________________ From: "doctordumb...@rocketmail.com" <doctordumb...@rocketmail.com> To: FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com Sent: Thursday, August 29, 2013 10:41 AM Subject: [FairfieldLife] Re: Diamonds and Rust I really enjoyed this, Barry. Both experiences you shared, getting high with "the Madonna" in Big Sur, and your conversation last night. I like your phrase, "driving with the sunroof...open, to feel closer to the stars". I am often in awe of those I meet. Once you get beyond the social interface, everyone is pretty fucking amazing. These days, everyone is really peaking their potential. Some of these athletes, artists and scientists are so gifted, I look at what they do, with my jaw on the floor, thinking how could I accomplish that in *ten* lifetimes. Great to see another side of you, and enjoy the south of France - looks like it agrees with you. --- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, turquoiseb <no_reply@...> wrote: > > I arrived back at our vacation house late last night, after driving with > the sunroof of the car open so I could feel closer to the stars that are > so present here in the south of France and that are so missing in Paris. > I was feeling high and nostalgic and happy, so didn't feel like spoiling > that by reading FFL in depth, but a quick scan of Message View revealed > the phrase in the Subject line above, so because that's one of my > favorite nostalgia songs, I clicked on the post and listened to it. It > provided a marvelous "final touch" to an already marvelous evening, so I > thank whoever posted it. If you like the song, too, check out this > version. which contains a few clips from that rarest of rarities, the > long-lost Bob Dylan/Sam Shepard film " > <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Renaldo_And_Clara> > <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Renaldo_And_Clara> Renaldo & Clara > <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Renaldo_And_Clara> ." > > <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09wI0j9nkkE> > <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09wI0j9nkkE> > http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09wI0j9nkkE > <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=09wI0j9nkkE> > > My feelings of nostalgia were heightened by the song, because I was on > my way home from a Great Conversation, and singer reminded me of one of > my first such conversations in this lifetime. That one took place on a > cliff in Big Sur, on the lawn of what is now the Esalen Institute, and > was at the time the Big Sur Hot Springs Inn. I had arrived there a day > early for a small folk festival, and like the other early-arrivers found > my way to the cliff edge to watch the sun set over the Pacific. > > I wound up sitting among a small group of people, not really noticing > who they were when I first sat down. I *did* notice that they were > passing a joint, and because I'd never smoked grass before, that > intrigued me. Then one of them noticed me and passed me the doobie, from > which I gratefully took my first puff. It was only then that I noticed > that one of the people passing it to me was Joan Baez, and that I was > sitting among a small group of the festival performers, which also > included her sister Mimi (wife of my hero at that time, the late Richard > Farina) and Al Kooper, whose work I knew from a couple of Dylan albums. > But I figured my best bet was to treat them as if I didn't recognize who > they were, and interact with them like I would anyone else. That turned > out to be the best approach I could have possibly taken, because we > wound up enjoying each others' company and having the most marvelous > stoned, soaring conversation I'd ever experienced in my life. > > The song also captured a similar here-and-now sense of nostalgia and joy > last night, because I'd just come from another such Great Conversation. > My best friend Laurel and I drove over to Sauve to have dinner with our > former next-door-neighbor, good friend, and landlord during the years we > lived there, Robert. Joining us was another friend from Sauve, a jazz > pianist of some repute named Tony. We met at Robert's house and then > walked over to a new restaurant in town, created inside what had until > recently been a defunct train station, and had dinner. The cuisine was > excellent, as was their house wine (Laurel, Tony and I sharing it, > because Robert hasn't imbibed alcohol, drugs, or anything else of that > ilk for over 40 years), but it was really the conversation that made the > evening so spectacular. > > Robert's an artist of some note. He's also painfully shy, so we were the > perfect company for him -- good friends who treated him as a good > friend, and nothing more. After all, he'd moved to this small town 22 > years earlier to *avoid* being recognized everywhere he went, in a > country that rightly considered him pretty much a god, one of the > primary inventors of an artform (BD - Bande Dessiné - the graphic > novel) that they held in high esteem. It was pretty much the same > dynamic in place as during that earlier conversation in Big Sur, with me > ignoring that I was sitting with a few of the gods of the folk music > revolution, and it spun a similar magic. > > This time without the drug high, our conversation just fuckin' SOARED. > It lifted my heart and my spirits, and made me realize how much I'd > missed such conversations, especially recently. We discussed meditation > (Robert has meditated -- not TM -- every day for over 40 years), life > after death, reincarnation, siddhis (Robert has read my book about > Rama), politics, TV (he surprised me by being aware of "Breaking Bad"), > life in general, and exchanged stories of our own lives in the time > since we had last enjoyed a dinner such as this and had gotten to share > such good conversation with such good friends. > > In retrospect, what made it such a Great Conversation is that -- as far > as I can tell -- there were no egos at the table. Everyone managed to > leave them at home, so there was only discussion. Yes, we disagreed > about things. At one point we got into a discussion about atheism vs. > theism, with Tony being the agnostic, Laurel being the hard-core > atheist, me being more of a Buddhist/Taoist/Occam's > Razor/no-need-for-a-god non-theist, and Robert (again, surprisingly) > taking the theism side of things. But there was no need to argue, there > was no need for anyone to assert that their point of view was "right" or > inassailable, none of that petty egocrap. It was just friends exchanging > points of view, all of us completely comfortable with our opinions being > what they were -- opinions. > > Man, how I wish Curtis had been there. Robert is a total music nut, and > has one of the best collection of old 78s on the planet, many of them > from the Blues genre. Knowing this, I once gave him a copy of one of > Curtis' CDs, and he loved it. But Curtis would also have appreciated the > tone of the conversation, and would have dropped right into it > seamlessly. > > One of Robert's great stories that I'd never heard before even reminded > me of Curtis. It seems that once, long before he'd become > internationally famous as an artist, he'd once worked as a "street > artist" on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City. He drew portraits of passing > tourists, for whatever they chose to pay him. That just charmed my socks > off, and led to much speculation about how long it would be until > someone discovered one of these portraits in their attics, drawn and > signed in pencil by a now-famous artist, and offered it up for sale on > Ebay. > > I know I'm rambling, but that was the nature of the evening and of the > Great Conversation itself. No plan, no intent, no egos, no "I'm right > and you're wrong," no barbs, no insults, no one trying to "lead" the > conversation and take it in any particular direction. Just people who > were comfortable with each other *being* comfortable with each other, > and enjoying where *that* might lead the conversation. It made me a > little nostalgic for those rare times when such conversations have > broken out on Fairfield Life, and for the even rarer egolessness and > sense of comfort that made them possible. > > I'm writing this in the hope that they're still possible, and that they > might happen here again someday. If they can't, I honestly don't see > much point in sticking around. >
