An institution that should always fight for progress and reform, never tolerate injustice or corrupton, always fight demagogues of all parties, never belong to any party, always oppose privileged classes and public plunderers, never lack sympathy with the poor, always remain devoted to the public welfare, never be satisfied with merely printing news, always be drastically independent, never be afraid to attack wrong, whether by predatory plutocracy or predatory poverty.
–Joseph Pulitzer, May 10, 1883, in an editorial upon becoming publisher of the New York World (reproduced on a bronze plaque on the Times Tower, New York City)
Delving into my 3rd publication about Hunter S. Thompson, I continue to find shocking similarities, but more of whom I replicate on the inside than the outburst of pure insanity. I have not the courage nor the ability to articulate transparency of thoughts, like Mr. Thompson, a brilliant rogue, observing beatniks and blasting political servants.
And if I’m ever to be worth anything I honestly think it will have to be in the realm of fiction (which is) the only way I can live with my imagination, point of view, instincts, and all those other intangilbes that make people nervous in my journalism.–HS Thompson
Elders may relate more to the death of Elvis Presley (1935 – 1977), and some, more jagged in culture, Jimmy Hendrix (1942 – 1970.) I can relate, but only because of my deep roots, in Memphis, Tennessee, do I somewhat understand Elvis. And my home, in upper Fernwood, Topanga Canyon, viewed horizontally, across the gorge, framing Jimmy Hendrix home, on the ‘hot side’ of the Santa Monica Range. From the locals, I’d listen to, peers of Elvis and Hendrix, tell stories of their brilliance, blowing my mind.
But my generation, Gen X, the icon is Kurt Donald Cobain (1967 – 1994.) He defined our generation with legendary acoustic performances, sharing what many of us felt, on the inside, but didn’t know how to get it out. Only through music, his music.
Many of us are not sure exactly why, but when Phillip Seymour Hoffman died, a part of us died with him.
Relating to a multitude of his characters, intimacy reigned supreme, both light and dark.
So many of us affected by suicide, a climatic life event that’s not only disappointing but also humbling to the point of pondering why wasn’t I enough to live for.
Charles Kochel writes. Sometimes found wandering the Ozark Mountain streams.
A novice mandolin rookie, but learning just the same. A terrible gardener continuing to try his best to grow healthy food for his family.
His moderate fly fishing skills he considers asana, but only he makes much sense of it, and this is ok.
Mindfulness is sanity.