[which hasn't been long]
Are Open Salon members 'close'?
Not too close, generally speaking, yet I am also aware that some members are, indeed, very, very close; which reminds me of an old joke:
Question: What's the difference between a brown nose and a shithead?
Answer: Depth perception. [ah haha ha; a joke; ;]]
Does Open Salon 'lean' in any particular direction?
Although Big Salon 'leans' Left, Open Salon seems to have always 'leaned' the way I do after twenty beers, which is, Left, Right, Backwards, Forwards, and Stumbleupon.
Is Open Salon a newspaper?
Not as far as I can tell. Some of us might be reporters here, but it is strictly on a volunteer basis, and if some wish to write in the 'anonymous' style, that their right; Personally, I like to 'see' the person behind the words. As a matter of fact, it is my belief that it is in the best interest of everyone here to let the reader 'see' as much of the writer as possible; 'seeing' the writer is what sets Open Salon apart.
We will never 'see' James Patterson in any of his books, nor do we ever get to 'see' much of the reporter behind the report. But here at OS, when you can 'see' the writer, you have a chance to get to know the writer, flaws and all...
If Open Salon is an organic, dynamic, thriving, living thing, how do we keep it healthy?
Like any living thing, it must be fed, and given air and light. Some say Open Salon should be kept in a smoke-free environment, well away from loud noises and free thinkers, and that it should get plenty of rest and daily exercise, as well as be fed a strict diet of low-sodium, fat-free foods, and no sugar. I suppose that would be, that is, the ideal for some here. But that is not the reality here. The reality is that Open Salon is fed from all the foods groups: dairy, fish, poultry, meat, fruit and vegetables, nuts and grains and ferns.
But that's not all it's fed.
It also recieves healthy doses of junk food, whiskey, beer and wine, nails and rust, cigarette smoke and medical marijuana, salt and pepper, prescription meds and aspirin, coffee, tea and insomnia; sugar, spices and rubs... along with generous amounts of honesty and pain, tears and laughter, outrage and good ideas, bad ideas and ghosts, joys and sorrows, hopes and dreams; all, given with a little spirit...
[Dickens would've fit right in here, I think]...
Should we write with reservations?
As far as I can see, there are no reasons to be guarded here; no reasons to not speak your mind. The last time I checked, Open Salon is not a Failed Salon; We treat people with a certain amount of respect here, or at least, we try.
Open Salon is not a Third World Failed State: We try to maintain civility here; We don't hang people off Interstate overpasses here, no one has to ride on the tops of freight trains to get in here; no one gets carded at the door; no photo identification needed. No one gets deported here, No family gets separated. We do insist that English be spoken, although anyone can speak any language they like here. We might get angry sometimes, but we try not to stay angry; we try to arrive sober, but sometimes end up leaving drunk [like me]. Some of us [like me] don't like Republicans; some Rupublicans here don't like us. Some women here don't like men here; some women here don't like men there, either, for that matter. Some men here don't like some women, and I don't care much for a few of my exes [but I digress].
As far as I can see, Open Salon is America, and America can be found here at Open Salon. Here, we agree to agree, or agree to disagree, but either way, and in so doing so, we affirm that Open Salon is a True Democracy, where all voices can be and will be heard equally, and given some respect. Here, we have modified the famous words of Pericles from "We regard him who holds aloof of public affairs useless" [the ancient Greek word for useless, 'idiote',from which we get the modern 'idiot'], to read: "We regard all those who contribute here as useful in some way, whether we agree with them or not",and leave it at that.
Finally, I leave you with the words of the far-seeing Edith Hamilton, whom, describing the ideals of the ancient Greeks, once wrote:
"...no one was ashamed of being poor if he was useful. They were free because of their willing obedience to law, not only written, but still more, the unwritten, kindness and compassion and unselfishness, and the many qualities which cannot be enforced, which depends on a man's free choice, but without which men cannot live together.
-
-Sunday Morning Coming Down-
Sunday morning came down to us with no promises.
At signs of first daylight the sky dropped and the rain and thunder tumbled out, wrapped in gray, and with the wind, swept over the empty yards before us before coming to rest, exhausted, to seep, slow and alive, under the many rotting fences of this empty neighborhood.
We looked out the window in silence, and after a while, my eyes wandered from the scene outside to the old man, sitting in the old two-dollar thrift store armchair that was his favorite. He stared quietly out the window, as if he could see. The old man was, in fact, blind, and whenever I ventured a look at his eyes, I knew what would happen; I would become captured by his inner life, his inner thoughts, and in his imaginative wanderings I would find myself traveling, in wild wonder, and could feel my mind's orbit being pulled, ever closer to his thoughts, his way of seeing.
We knew that all the roads most traveled were filled with barely clinging people, but that those roads held no promises either, and that, although they could all see, plainly, many roads less traveled, the people mostly stayed away from them, because they looked difficult, dark and dangerous, intimidating, overgrown and cave-like.
Why can't they see? I asked.
Because they can't; they won't. It's too difficult. They would rather wish. I call it blind happiness.
What are they wishing for? I asked.
They are wishing for everything they ever want to turn out, and believe it will, exactly the way no one ever promised them it would ever turn out. They are wishing for happiness without effort.
And at the core of his perspective, I always find only love and humility, which informs me, and gives me the heartbreaking truth, which is sadder than the gray day we face.
We have lost our humility. I can see this especially clearly when I compare our time with that of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, Eisenhower, Roosevelt...
The wish is to the dream what the fantasy is to the fact, and, convinced of this without ever considering what this actually means, they hold on, to nothing but a fantasy based on a suggestion, as if it were fact, while in reality, it is a suggestion given by no one, who made no promises.
Wishing is easy and cheap, and yields happiness without effort. Wishing is good for a laugh, a smile, and a soundbite, and can be heard on all the mindless radios on the roads most traveled, but satisfaction, which requires some effort, can only be found by taking the road less traveled...
--
Sunday morning came down to us with no promises. At signs of first daylight, the sky dropped, and the rain and thunder tumbled out, wrapped in gray, with the wind, and swept over the empty yards before us, before coming to rest, exhausted, to seep, low and alive, under the many rotting fences of this empty neighborhood.
Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An' I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An' stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
I'd smoked my brain the night before,
On cigarettes and songs I'd been pickin'.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid,
Cussin' at a can that he was kicking.
Then I crossed the empty street,
'n caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken.
And it took me
back to somethin',
That I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way.
On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.
In the park I saw a daddy,
With a laughin' little girl who he was swingin'.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school,
And listened to the song they were singin'.
Then I headed back for home,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin'.
And it echoed through the canyons,
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.
"Sunday Morning Coming Down"
Kris Kristofferson
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-Lifespan Of A Royalty Check-
Okay. First, you need to know the facts. The first fact you need to know is that a kid, a real person, killed himself a few years ago by jumping off a tower. The second fact you need to know is that a writer, later on, decided to write an essay about this kid's suicide. These are the facts. You should also keep in mind that there were many undisputed facts surrounding this kid's last act of self-determination, such as, how old he was, what he hit when he landed, and how