“Reg Hartt is an island unto himself,” a fellow was told. The comment was not meant as a compliment. Every kick is a free boost forward. Thich Nhat Hanh has written, “When he was eighty, the Buddha knew that he was going to pass away in a few months, and he knew that his disciples were going to miss him. During the last six months, around the city of Vaisali, he used to talk to the monks and the nuns about taking refuge within yourself. The expression is atadipa. Ata means self, dipa means island. When you go back to that island, you experience peace and stability. The Buddha is there, the Dharma is there, and the Sangha is there.” Yes, Reg Hartt IS an island unto himself. The musical exhilaration and reverie of (Herman) Hesse’s early years were antipodal to what he was undergoing at school, which, until his fourteenth year, had for Hesse “the close atmosphere of a penal institution.” At twelve he was already clear in his own mind that he wanted “to become either a poet or nothing at all.” But this astonishingly early clarity of purpose was soon followed by the painful realization that, although there is a road, a school, a course of study by which one can become a teacher, a pastor, a physician, an artisan, a merchant, a postal official, and even a musician, a painter or an architect, there is no road, school, or course of study by which one becomes a poet. Out of the child’s question— whether his goal could be realized—grew criticism of the school’s authority. Leading to serious conflict, this precipitated the first real crisis in Hesse’s young life. The child had perceived lucidly the equivocal nature of pedagogy—indeed, of the adult world in general—that because of its own mediocrity and lack of existential courage, allows greatness only as a distant idea in remote historical perspective. It was the very same with the poet as with the hero and with all strong or beautiful, sanguine, and out-of-the-ordinary people and movements: If they lived in the past they were glorious and every schoolbook was full of their praises; but if they lived in the real world of the present day they were hated. Presumably the teachers were specifically trained and hired for the purpose of preventing as far as possible the growth of magnificent free men and the committing of great, splendid deeds. Thus the young Hesse soon saw nothing but abysses between him and his goal. Everything seemed devalued and uncertain. But he adhered stubbornly to his plan to become a poet. Presumably the teachers were specifically trained and hired for the purpose of preventing as far as possible the growth of magnificent free men and the committing of great, splendid deeds. At thirteen the conflict began. Hesse’s conduct at school and at home left so much to be desired that he was sent “into exile” to the Latin school in Goppingen. His stay there lasted only a year.” —Franz Baumer, HERMAN HESSE.
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John Smialek R.I.P. November 9th, 2019.
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I expect people younger than myself to hear of my death.
I do not expect, as I did just now, to hear of their deaths.
I have lost three friends recently. It began with my friend Tim Slater at whose memorial here I saw for the last time the wonderful Kai Wolfram.
This morning I saw a note attached to A video I filmed by chance. Lucky chance, more so than I realized.
jon cee
To my Long Lost beautifully eccentric and fantastic artistic Friend…you will be greatly missed for who you were as well as what you gave us …to The Leaping Men…leap highest my Friend…John Smialek R.I.P. November 9th, 2019.
John enriched my life. I hope I enriched his.
Give your friends a hug. We don’t know how suddenly they can depart us forever.
One night when I was doing my programs at THE DIAMOND CLUB (Now THE PHOENIX) in Toronto, Canada a young woman came up to me after.
“Is that all there is?” she asked.
I replied, “Yes, that’s it.”
She said, “I heard there was more. I heard there was someone who talked.”
“Sometimes he does. Sometimes he does not,” I replied.
She said, “Well, I heard he was pretty good. That’s why I am here.”
I said to myself, “I like her. She’s got spunk.”
I invited her to join me for a beer.
She told me she was living in Whitby and working in Toronto.
I said, “I have a room.”
She took it.
Her name was Sonia. She was that particular kind of Spanish beauty that made men young and old stand up straight and comb their hair.
She was a joy to live with.
Had I spoken I would not have met her.
The person who had told her what I had to say is worth hearing was John Smialek.
Had I spoken to Sonja I would not have met John.
Had I not spoken when John came to my program I would not have met either of them.
James Joyce said, “The man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are ones of conscious choice and open new doors.”
Yes, they are. Yes, they do.
John was a joy to live with. He was a joy to know.