Jul 02 2009

Papa Hemingway’s unfinished business

Published by Frank DeMarco under This World, channeling

On July 2, 1961, Ernest Hemingway, old and ill, shot himself to death - “took the family exit,” to put it his way, as he was neither the first nor the last Hemingway to kill himself. My column this month for The Meta Arts concerns some unfinished business of his. Not a retrieval - he himself told me when I contacted him first that it wasn’t necessary. Something else, instead.  I wish we could find someone to finish it.

This was my monthly column for The Meta Arts, an online magazine.

Hemingway’s Unfinished Business

by Frank DeMarco

Who would have thought that the dead have unfinished business? But, if the model of our lives on the other side that the guys upstairs have provided is anything like correct, it would make sense. A chat I had with Hemingway a few months ago sheds light on the subject. Perhaps putting it on the record here will serve as the finger pointing to the moon.

During World War II, writer Ernest Hemingway, though a civilian, performed three substantial actions to assist the war effort. Those actions have been largely ignored and in any case have not been much fleshed out. The first, in 1942, was The Crook Factory, which organized his extensive contacts in Havana into a semi-official counter-espionage network. The second, at about that time, and into 1943 I think, was his use of his boat Pilar as an anti-submarine scout. The third was his leadership of French partisans to find the least-defended route into Paris for our army in the summer of 1944.

From my journal, lightly edited:

Tuesday, January 27, 2009, 11:30 AM.
Just to put the background on the record, I have been moved to reread a novel by Dan Simmons called The Crook Factory, having reread a novel by Joe Haldeman called The Hemingway Hoax last Friday. I just sent off to Michael Ventura an e-mail query as to whether he knew someone who knew how to work the Freedom Of Information act so as to provide us access to whatever reports Hemingway must have filed with his ambassador or with the Navy or anyone he was responsible to report to. Nancy Ford then asks why now, and tells me that she has had a sense of communing with Hemingway, and wondered if he wanted me to do the research myself and get that period of his life onto the record.

Papa, is that it?

I know that part of you is wondering why I on the other side should still care about this, why there should be unfinished business. But if you will consult some of the things you have read — The Secret Vaults of Time and its story about Glastonbury Cathedral, for instance — you will realize that unfinished business is not perhaps as a rare as you might commonly think. You could look at it as us having unfinished business, or you could look at it as the unfinished business in us being activated by someone’s intent who is still alive. There are other ways to look at it as well, but those two should be enough to help you to realize that what is going on is not automatically something to be dismissed. Maybe it will turn into nothing, maybe not, but in any case you can’t dismiss it out of hand as a possibility.

You may remember that in our first exchange you asked me about the stories that I had fabricated about my early life, and I told you then that it was a way of imaginatively re-creating life as it ought to have been. But in a way you could say that people have been imaginatively re-creating my life for me, after the fact, because serious portions of it have been suppressed for reasons good or bad. So, if somebody writes about Hemingway during World War II, they are inclined to say, “oh, he was only a drunkard or a play-actor anyway, romanticizing his involvement in the war and unintentionally demonstrating that he didn’t really care about it.” You have seen critical reports dismissing my work in France as playacting, with me in the center of the play. It was only later, with Carlos Baker’s book, that the truth of what I had done began to emerge.

It was a solid achievement. It saved American lives. It cost me not only a certain theoretical danger of prosecution for acting outside the Geneva Convention, but it cost me the additional bitterness of being dismissed as a playboy and having to lie about something I was deeply proud of. Had we been able to tell the truth, people might have understood better why I retained the respect of people like [Colonel, later General] Buck Lanham. Instead, they assume that I somehow blinded them with my reputation, as though a good soldier in wartime is going to have his judgment warped by factors like reputation, literary or otherwise.

If people had seen what I really did, it would have showed them some things. First, that I was practical. I really knew how to get results. Second, that I was intensely patriotic, although you would think that would have been obvious even to that stupid son of a bitch J. Edgar Hoover. Third — and this is what they would have found hard to forgive — that I was thoroughly without illusions about that war or any war. No, I wasn’t a soldier in World War I. But I was the first American to be wounded, and I spent months in the hospital surrounded by veterans who were happy to talk veteran to veteran, and like Jack London in Alaska, I learned more from talking and listening than perhaps I would have by several months experiences even in the Army. I knew war and I knew that sometimes there is no alternative but that even when there is no alternative war is not a good thing for anybody. There is a rottenness to it. Brave things are done within it. Splendid examples of manhood and you almost might call it godhood are produced out of the hell that it is. But the brave things and the splendid examples are not justifications for the hell. It’s just that if you get into a fight you have to win it, no matter who got you there or for what reasons and no matter how clearly you can see through the bullshit that is spun around it.

But you see, if people took into account the fact that I had spent months among the wounded in World War I and that I had spent months first as an unofficial sub-hunter and coordinator of The Crook Factory and then, after Hoover shut that down, as informal leader of the temporary band of partisans who cleared the way for our army to get to Paris — or rather, found which ways were clearest and cheapest — they would have to reevaluate their opinion of me. But because I was not a phony, I couldn’t explain why I was not a phony. So, they took me as a poseur.

It hurt. Of course it hurt. If I had been a private figure, probably the respect of the people whom I respected would have been enough. But I was a public figure and had been for years, and so I never had the luxury of the anonymity that would have left public opinion indifferent to me. I’m not complaining, I’m just saying that I as a public figure was liable to misinterpretation. Liable to libel, in fact. It was the very kinds of people who theoretically opposed war and in practice did nothing to get the war finished who were delighted to be able to attack me as inauthentic, as playing at war, as self glorifying and lying.

A lot of time has gone by, where time goes by. I don’t want you to get the idea that time passes in the same way over here, and we spend it drinking and reminiscing and reading old press clippings, and brooding over bad reviews. But, as I say, active interest from a living person sort of activates any given unfinished business. So, you get incensed at Marty’s [his ex-wife Martha Gellhorn's] treatment of me as portrayed, or at Marty as an individual whose traits annoy you, when you aren’t even thinking of her particularly at all. Your interest is focused on me. Yet she hears your opinion, and therefore that portion of her life is somewhat activated. It is a price of fame that has been very little understood in the days since we left off praying to saints and cursing demons.

You think I have an agenda for you. That isn’t exactly wrong, but it isn’t like anybody can make you do anything either. You will find that it is easier to perceive on this side than to act, and easier to contact those in the body than to come up with a clear contact and develop clear communication. Go get something to eat and read some more if you want, and we can always continue when and if you want to.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009, 11 AM.
All right, Papa. I have never faced stronger resistances than I am now. I have a feeling this is the deepest water I’ve ever swum in — or rather hesitated to swim in.

Well, I understand. That’s just part of the price of doing something new. Isn’t that much different from starting a new project. A book, a painting. But you can’t create anything new without facing it, so in the end that’s the choice you have to make one way or the other.

I know and in a way it has surprised me, how strong this resistance is, because after all I did perform without a net in public not only in conveying the Chasing Smallwood material but years before that in transcribing and putting out the sessions, both the sessions with Rita and the black-box sessions before and after. But I had a smaller audience then too.

You still have the option of doing this in private and never making it public, you know.

Theoretically. But I know myself. I guess, let’s go.

You are wondering what the agenda is. You’re right that it is not strictly about my wartime service from Cuba. It’s true, it would be nice to have that story told sympathetically and accurately, but that doesn’t mean you’re the person to do it and that doesn’t mean that it would be the best use of your time and energy. Your function could be as simple as being the finger pointing to the moon. If someone could just get it across, the deceptive blank spot in the Hemingway biography, someone else with nothing better to do and with the requisite skills could come in and do a better job than you could. This would have the advantage of freeing you from a task you don’t particularly feel qualified to do and at the same time having that task performed by a professional which means it would find easier acceptance not only among academics but among the general public. Those are two good reasons to have a professional historian do the research and writing.

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Jun 30 2009

Re-reading — what really goes on

Published by Frank DeMarco under This World

Going through old journals I found this enlightening little chat. Food for thought.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

 All right, nearly 7 a.m.. Joseph, I posted your communication about the night you and I connected, when you were injured at Gettysburg. I can see that there was much you wanted to say as recently as last year that I was not yet in a position to understand, or maybe you just didn’t want to break the flow.

 That’s right. Both of those things. Think how much better you understand the process since you went through the “perception versus story” theme. It unexpectedly answered a whole lot of things you never expected to get an answer to!

 It did that. Writing the date at the top of the page here, I realize it has been a year since I went up to Gettysburg for the first time.

 A lot happens in a short time in your life, notice — and then you go back to other things and chew your cud on them until you’ve become something different.

 Interesting way to see my life. That’s what Henry [Thoreau] did on another scale, isn’t it?

 Different terrain inner and outer, a very different life, but sure. Some people call that reflection and it is what is chiefly getting more and more missing in your time. That’s one thing that happens when you reread books you’ve already read many times, like the Lanny Budd books you started on again — you are sort of comparing who you are now with who you were the last time you read them.

 That’s not quite clear to me.

 Suppose you take any one well loved book. Take Lost Horizon, for instance. But it could be anything. The first time, you read it as a speculation. You’re prospecting, taking a chance on it.

 The second time, you are maybe going over the ground again to pick up what you’ve missed or didn’t understand the first time through. But any time you reread it after that — or re-watch it, like “Casablanca,” say — you are obviously doing it to live there again. And every time you live there again, it’s a different you even if you start right in the minute you finish it!

 So, you reread it in 1990 and in 1996 and in 2000 and in 2010 or whatever — you are not entirely the same person reading it. You might say that various versions of you meet in that same activity. It is as if the book, or the movie, or whatever you’re doing again — it could be visiting a place — are holding the place for various versions of you to meet.

 Now, although this is an unfamiliar point of view, it isn’t describing anything unusual. It isn’t something special, it happens to anybody who goes back over old ground. It is what can happen at high school or college reunions, though there’s other factors involved there because there are so many people interacting, and the essence of it is activity not reflection.

 But you see, this is one reason for your aversion to television, one you’ve never much noticed. There’s no reflective quality to something that isn’t repeated.

 What about reruns?

 You are joking, but not entirely. Did you feel bored, watching reruns of your favorite programs, or did you feel comforted, or rather, comfortable?

 Hmm. I’d have to think. It was a long time ago. I don’t remember if I used to watch TV just because it was a favorite show — and was a habit — or if I would turn it off if it didn’t interest me. For one thing there were a lot of us, and only one TV. But I see the point. If I didn’t care about the reruns there wouldn’t be any point in watching it.

 What happened with books was that you were living and reliving in that world. Television made it harder to do that because of commercials — that is, interruptions not when you wanted to stop but when it stopped. Reading a book could get interrupted, but mostly you could choose when to pick it up or put it down. And this is the secret of it. You, in a certain mood, would “feel like” picking up that book. It might be as simple as your being bored. For whatever reason, you’d pick up a given book. You would then live with it for awhile. While you were living with it, your surface attention would be devoted to reading the words, drinking in (constructing) the pictures. Often you would be reading halfheartedly, almost as routine, almost absentmindedly, and this is when other things were going on.

 You describe that much like an altered state.

 It is an altered state. Reading, watching TV or a movie, you are partly in the sensory world, partly in the intuitive world, so to speak. What else is that but an altered state? And in such altered states the other side can sneak in, or tiptoe in, or be seen out of the corner of your eye — choose your analogy. But the same thing is different — the process is different — if the material is new and has to be absorbed for the first time, and thus requires more of your attention, so you can’t daydream behind the scenes, so to speak.

Re reading, watching the same thing again, is a way of various of your selves, “separated by time and space,” getting together and sort of adjusting to each other.

A very different way of seeing something that looks pretty simple. I have wondered sometimes why — having so many books yet to read — I spend so much time rereading, usually novels but not always.

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Jun 25 2009

Prehistoric flute shows how little we know about our ancestors

I found this article among those offered by the Schwartzreport sent out by email daily, free, by Stephan Schwartz (see www.schwartzreport.net). Stephan’s introductory comments follow, and are right on the money. Continue Reading »

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Jun 21 2009

Upton Sinclair on how (and why) he worked with spiritualists

In going through old journals, working on another book of conversations with people on the other side, I came across this with author Upton Sinclair that may be of interest.

May 16, 2007

7:40 AM. Somebody described yesterday’s exchange as “author to author” which is a different way to think of it! Not one that had occurred to me, or would have occurred to me. I suppose it is true enough from one point of view.

All right, Mr. Sinclair, shall we talk about Spiritualism and where we (our society, and the human race in fact) go from here?

 

The prime difficulty today will be your usual nervousness around facts, regardless of whether you really know the fact or are painfully aware that you don’t know, or are firmly convinced of something that didn’t happen, or in some way isn’t true. It is so easy to tie yourself into knots over all this - easy enough at best, without having difficulties. So if you will just let it come, good bad and indifferent and will let each person sort out for himself or herself what is believable, and useful, you will get along easier. This is what they will do anyway, of course!

Well, how about if we do this as a sort of Q. and A.? That might make it easier for me.

Certainly. You will have bite sized information that way, and will retain control, and it will contain your anxiety.

All right. First question. [Blank pause.]

I am smiling over here. You could see that your first question involves an essay on your part - which would require so much work that you wouldn’t be able to do this as well. If I may make a suggestion - do the fast Q. and A. and fill in later, with extensive interpolations if needed. The bracketed material will stitch it all together, but can be done at a less keyed up state.

Now I’m smiling. You’ve done this before. “Once or twice,” as we say.

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Jun 11 2009

Learning the joy of living with less

Published by Frank DeMarco under Stray Thoughts

From the New York Times, http://happydays.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/06/07/the-joy-of-less/?emc=eta1, this article about how little our lives’ happiness depends on ready cash.

The Joy of Less

By PICO IYER

“The beat of my heart has grown deeper, more active, and yet more peaceful, and it is as if I were all the time storing up inner riches…My [life] is one long sequence of inner miracles.” The young Dutchwoman Etty Hillesum wrote that in a Nazi transit camp in 1943, on her way to her death at Auschwitz two months later. Towards the end of his life, Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “All I have seen teaches me to trust the creator for all I have not seen,” though by then he had already lost his father when he was 7, his first wife when she was 20 and his first son, aged 5. In Japan, the late 18th-century poet Issa is celebrated for his delighted, almost child-like celebrations of the natural world. Issa saw four children die in infancy, his wife die in childbirth, and his own body partially paralyzed.

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