Richard Blakely's Blog
February 7, 2015
Btw: Je suis Charlie !
This is something I posted on my FB page, at the time of the attacks in Paris:
To see or not to see
While marching in the massive demonstrations last Sunday, I couldn’t help thinking of the first time I found myself participating in a demonstration in the streets of Paris. It was in May of 1968. I had just come back from three months at an ashram in India, where I thought I’d learned all I needed to know to convert the French to Transcendental Meditation. Instead, I should have learned how to breathe tear gas, or to make myself invisible in front of a bunch of riot police, or to quickly levitate when things started getting violent.
One remarkable difference between then and now is that last Sunday things never got violent. Another even more amazing difference (which in 1968 was simply unthinkable, especially in France) was that this time the cops were on our side, and we were on theirs. They were the good guys! But the greatest difference of all was in the numbers. Sunday afternoon a million and a half people marched from République to Nation to say no to hatred, yes to love and humor (amour et humour). The last time so many people turned out in the streets of Paris was in August 1944, to accompany the troops and tanks that had liberated the city from the Nazis.
When our son Benjamin was 4 or 5 he thought that Nazi men were men who couldn’t see. And he was right, of course. And there’s no big difference between the Nazis of 1944 and the Not See Men of 2015, except that the Nazis believed they belonged to a superior race and the Not Sees, hiding behind their black masks, believe they belong to a superior religion.
In the demonstration we marched with two friends and their three children, 9, 8, and 5. The kids were excited and happy to be a part of this event and in the middle of this endless stream of people. “We’re winning! We’re winning!” the 5-year-old kept shouting.
Let’s hope he’s right. Let’s hope it’s not too long before these latest true believers see the light.
And, as John Lennon dreamed, the world will live as one.
To see or not to see
While marching in the massive demonstrations last Sunday, I couldn’t help thinking of the first time I found myself participating in a demonstration in the streets of Paris. It was in May of 1968. I had just come back from three months at an ashram in India, where I thought I’d learned all I needed to know to convert the French to Transcendental Meditation. Instead, I should have learned how to breathe tear gas, or to make myself invisible in front of a bunch of riot police, or to quickly levitate when things started getting violent.
One remarkable difference between then and now is that last Sunday things never got violent. Another even more amazing difference (which in 1968 was simply unthinkable, especially in France) was that this time the cops were on our side, and we were on theirs. They were the good guys! But the greatest difference of all was in the numbers. Sunday afternoon a million and a half people marched from République to Nation to say no to hatred, yes to love and humor (amour et humour). The last time so many people turned out in the streets of Paris was in August 1944, to accompany the troops and tanks that had liberated the city from the Nazis.
When our son Benjamin was 4 or 5 he thought that Nazi men were men who couldn’t see. And he was right, of course. And there’s no big difference between the Nazis of 1944 and the Not See Men of 2015, except that the Nazis believed they belonged to a superior race and the Not Sees, hiding behind their black masks, believe they belong to a superior religion.
In the demonstration we marched with two friends and their three children, 9, 8, and 5. The kids were excited and happy to be a part of this event and in the middle of this endless stream of people. “We’re winning! We’re winning!” the 5-year-old kept shouting.
Let’s hope he’s right. Let’s hope it’s not too long before these latest true believers see the light.
And, as John Lennon dreamed, the world will live as one.
Snails on Saturday morning
Okay, well, here I am, starting a bleeping blog.
It's Saturday morning here in Paris. I'm waiting for my wife to wake up, to take her a cup of coffee and see if she wants me to go to our local marché and buy some snails. The marché we go to (or sometimes I go to alone) is on the Rue de Rivoli, right in front of the Mairie du 4e (City Hall of the 4th arrondissement). There's a good fish stand there, and for some reason the only place you can buy snails in France is at fish stores or stands. (Well okay, not the only place. You can also buy them chez Picard, the frozen food chain, but they're not as good.) Which gives me an idea for a story about a snail who was tired of being treated like a fish. Or frozen, for that matter. Should the snail be a he or a she? I think he. Or maybe a couple, who've made it past middle age and are spending the year in Paris and the she of whom just woke up and is asking for her first cup of coffee.
It's Saturday morning here in Paris. I'm waiting for my wife to wake up, to take her a cup of coffee and see if she wants me to go to our local marché and buy some snails. The marché we go to (or sometimes I go to alone) is on the Rue de Rivoli, right in front of the Mairie du 4e (City Hall of the 4th arrondissement). There's a good fish stand there, and for some reason the only place you can buy snails in France is at fish stores or stands. (Well okay, not the only place. You can also buy them chez Picard, the frozen food chain, but they're not as good.) Which gives me an idea for a story about a snail who was tired of being treated like a fish. Or frozen, for that matter. Should the snail be a he or a she? I think he. Or maybe a couple, who've made it past middle age and are spending the year in Paris and the she of whom just woke up and is asking for her first cup of coffee.
