The First High-Resolution Map of America’s Food Supply Chain: How It All Really Gets from Farm to Table

The phrase “farm to table” has enjoyed vogue sta­tus in Amer­i­can din­ing long enough to be fac­ing dis­place­ment by an even trendi­er suc­ces­sor, “farm to fork.” These labels reflect a new aware­ness — or an aspi­ra­tion to aware­ness — of where, exact­ly, the food Amer­i­cans eat comes from. A vast and fer­tile land, the Unit­ed States pro­duces a great deal of its own food, but giv­en the dis­tance of most of its pop­u­la­tion cen­ters from most of its agri­cul­tur­al cen­ters, it also has to move near­ly as great a deal of food over long domes­tic dis­tances. Here we have the very first high-res­o­lu­tion map of that food sup­ply chain, cre­at­ed by researchers at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Illi­nois study­ing “food flows between coun­ties in the Unit­ed States.”

“Our map is a com­pre­hen­sive snap­shot of all food flows between coun­ties in the U.S. – grains, fruits and veg­eta­bles, ani­mal feed, and processed food items,” writes Assis­tant Pro­fes­sor of Civ­il and Envi­ron­men­tal Engi­neer­ing Megan Konar in an explana­to­ry post at The Con­ver­sa­tion. (The top ver­sion shows the total tons of food moved, and the bot­tom one is bro­ken down to the coun­ty scale.)

“All Amer­i­cans, from urban to rur­al are con­nect­ed through the food sys­tem. Con­sumers all rely on dis­tant pro­duc­ers; agri­cul­tur­al pro­cess­ing plants; food stor­age like grain silos and gro­cery stores; and food trans­porta­tion sys­tems.” The map visu­al­izes such jour­neys as that of a ship­ment of corn, which “starts at a farm in Illi­nois, trav­els to a grain ele­va­tor in Iowa before head­ing to a feed­lot in Kansas, and then trav­els in ani­mal prod­ucts being sent to gro­cery stores in Chica­go.”

Konar and her col­lab­o­ra­tors’ research arrives at a few sur­pris­ing con­clu­sions, such as that Los Ange­les coun­ty is both the largest ship­per and receiv­er of food in the U.S. Not only that, but almost all of the nine coun­ties “most cen­tral to the over­all struc­ture of the food sup­ply net­work” are in Cal­i­for­nia. This may sur­prise any­one who has laid eyes on the sub­lime­ly huge agri­cul­tur­al land­scapes of the Mid­west “Corn­belt.” But as Konar notes, “Our esti­mates are for 2012, an extreme drought year in the Corn­belt. So, in anoth­er year, the net­work may look dif­fer­ent.” And of the grain pro­duced in the Mid­west, much “is trans­port­ed to the Port of New Orleans for export. This pri­mar­i­ly occurs via the water­ways of the Ohio and Mis­sis­sip­pi Rivers.”

Konar also warns of trou­bling frail­ties: “The infra­struc­ture along these waterways—such as locks 52 and 53—are crit­i­cal, but have not been over­hauled since their con­struc­tion in 1929,” and if they were to fail, “com­mod­i­ty trans­port and sup­ply chains would be com­plete­ly dis­rupt­ed.” The ana­lyt­i­cal minds at Hack­er News have been dis­cussing the impli­ca­tions of the research shown on this map, includ­ing whether the U.S. food sup­ply chain is real­ly, as one com­menter put it, “very brit­tle and con­tains many weak points.” The Amer­i­can Soci­ety of Civ­il Engi­neers, as Konar tells Food & Wine, has giv­en the coun­try’s civ­il engi­neer­ing infra­struc­ture a grade of D+, which at least implies con­sid­er­able room for improve­ment. But against what from some angles look like long odds, food keeps get­ting from Amer­i­can farms to Amer­i­can tables — and Amer­i­can forks, Amer­i­can mouths, Amer­i­can stom­achs, and so on.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load 91,000 His­toric Maps from the Mas­sive David Rum­sey Map Col­lec­tion

The His­to­ry of Car­tog­ra­phy, “the Most Ambi­tious Overview of Map Mak­ing Ever Under­tak­en,” Is Free Online

View and Down­load Near­ly 60,000 Maps from the U.S. Geo­log­i­cal Sur­vey (USGS)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Pretty Much Pop #19 Discusses Race and the Target Audience w/ Rodney Ramsey

We’ve all felt at var­i­ous points (maybe at most points) that some media cre­ation has reached us by mis­take, that we are not the tar­get audi­ence. 20th cen­tu­ry Amer­i­can TV was aimed large­ly at a white major­i­ty, with a par­al­lel, under­fund­ed chan­nel of con­tent aimed at peo­ple of col­or.

So how have things changed? There still seem to be “black shows,” but how do they fit in to a land­scape where inclu­sive­ness is a tool by which shows attempt to appeal to every­one (i.e. get all the mon­ey)? Comedian/actor/writer/producer Rod­ney Ram­sey joins Mark Lin­sen­may­er, Eri­ca Spyres, and Bri­an Hirt to dis­cuss the expe­ri­ence of watch­ing out­side your demo­graph­ic, whether iden­ti­fy­ing with char­ac­ters requires phys­i­cal com­mon­al­i­ties, “black voice,” and the evolv­ing TV land­scape.

We touch on Watch­menAtlantaBlack Pan­therInse­cureSor­ry to Both­er YouBlacK­kKlans­man, Tyler Per­ry, Dear White Peo­pleBlack Jesus, and the black Her­mi­none issue.

Some of the arti­cles we con­sid­ered includ­ed:

Fol­low Rod­ney @Rodney_Ramsey.

This episode includes bonus dis­cus­sion that you can only hear by sup­port­ing the pod­cast at patreon.com/prettymuchpop. This pod­cast is part of the Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life pod­cast net­work.

Pret­ty Much Pop: A Cul­ture Pod­cast is the first pod­cast curat­ed by Open Cul­ture. Browse all Pret­ty Much Pop posts or start with the first episode.

John Cleese’s Eulogy for Monty Python’s Graham Chapman: ‘Good Riddance, the Free-Loading Bastard, I Hope He Fries’

The British come­di­an Gra­ham Chap­man delight­ed in offend­ing peo­ple. As a writer and actor with the leg­endary Mon­ty Python troupe, he pushed against the bound­aries of pro­pri­ety and good taste. When his writ­ing part­ner John Cleese pro­posed doing a sketch on a dis­grun­tled man return­ing a defec­tive toast­er to a shop, Chap­man thought: Bro­ken toast­er? Why not a dead par­rot? And in one par­tic­u­lar­ly out­ra­geous sketch writ­ten by Chap­man and Cleese in 1970,  Chap­man plays an under­tak­er and Cleese plays a cus­tomer who has just rung a bell at the front desk:

“What can I do for you, squire?” says Chap­man.

“Um, well, I won­der if you can help me,” says Cleese. “You see, my moth­er has just died.”

“Ah, well, we can ‘elp you. We deal with stiffs,” says Chap­man. “There are three things we can do with your moth­er. We can burn her, bury her, or dump her.”

“Dump her?”

“Dump her in the Thames.”

“What?”

“Oh, did you like her?”

“Yes!”

“Oh well, we won’t dump her, then,” says Chap­man. “Well, what do you think? We can bury her or burn her.”

“Which would you rec­om­mend?”

“Well, they’re both nasty.”

From there, Chap­man goes on to explain in the most graph­ic detail the unpleas­ant aspects of either choice before offer­ing anoth­er option: can­ni­bal­ism. At that point (in keep­ing with the script) out­raged mem­bers of the stu­dio audi­ence rush onto the stage and put a stop to the sketch.

Chap­man and Cleese had been close friends since their stu­dent days at Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty, and when Chap­man died of can­cer at the age of 48 on Octo­ber 4, 1989, Cleese was at his bed­side. Out of respect for Chap­man’s fam­i­ly, the mem­bers of Mon­ty Python decid­ed to stay away from his pri­vate funer­al and avoid a media cir­cus. Instead, they gath­ered for a memo­r­i­al ser­vice on Octo­ber 6, 1989 in the Great Hall at St. Bartholomew’s Hos­pi­tal in Lon­don. When Cleese deliv­ered his eulo­gy for Chap­man, he recalled his friend’s irrev­er­ence: “Any­thing for him, but mind­less good taste.” So Cleese did his best to make his old friend proud. His off-col­or but heart­felt eulo­gy that evening has become a part of Mon­ty Python lore, and you can watch it above. To see a longer clip, with mov­ing words from Michael Palin and a sing-along of “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” led by Eric Idle, watch below:

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in Feb­ru­ary 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

John Cleese’s Advice to Young Artists: “Steal Any­thing You Think Is Real­ly Good”

John Cleese Revis­its His 20 Years as an Ivy League Pro­fes­sor in His New Book, Pro­fes­sor at Large: The Cor­nell Years

John Cleese on How “Stu­pid Peo­ple Have No Idea How Stu­pid They Are” (a.k.a. the Dun­ning-Kruger Effect)

 

A Brief History of Chess: An Animated Introduction to the 1,500-Year-Old Game

I have come to the per­son­al con­clu­sion that while all artists are not chess play­ers, all chess play­ers are artists.

 –Mar­cel Duchamp

“Over the rough­ly one and half mil­len­nia of its exis­tence, chess has been known as a tool of mil­i­tary strat­e­gy, a metaphor for human affairs, and a bench­mark of genius,” points out the TED-Ed ani­mat­ed his­to­ry of the game by Alex Gendler, above. The first records of chess date to the 7th cen­tu­ry, but it may have orig­i­nat­ed even a cen­tu­ry ear­li­er, in India, where we find men­tion of the first game to have dif­fer­ent moves for dif­fer­ent pieces, and “a sin­gle king piece, whose fate deter­mined the out­come.”

It was orig­i­nal­ly called “chat­u­ran­ga,” a word that Yoga prac­ti­tion­ers will rec­og­nize as the “four-limbed staff pose,” but which sim­ply meant “four divi­sions” in this con­text. Once it spread to Per­sia, it became “chess,” mean­ing “Shah,” or king. It took root in the Arab world, and trav­eled the Silk Road to East and South­east Asia, where it acquired dif­fer­ent char­ac­ter­is­tics but used sim­i­lar rules and strate­gies. The Euro­pean form we play today became the stan­dard, but it might have been a very dif­fer­ent game had the Japan­ese version—which allowed play­ers to put cap­tured pieces into play—dominated.

Chess found ready accep­tance every­where it went because its under­ly­ing prin­ci­ples seemed to tap into com­mon mod­els of con­test and con­quest among polit­i­cal and mil­i­tary elites. Though writ­ten over a thou­sand years before “chat­u­ran­ga” arrived in China—where the game was called xiangqi, or “ele­phant game”—Sun Tzu’s Art of War may as well have been dis­cussing the crit­i­cal impor­tance of pawns in declar­ing, “When the offi­cers are valiant and the troops inef­fec­tive the army is in dis­tress.”

Chess also speaks to the hier­ar­chies ancient civ­i­liza­tions sought to nat­u­ral­ize, and by 1000 AD, it had become a tool for teach­ing Euro­pean noble­men the neces­si­ty of social class­es per­form­ing their prop­er roles. This alle­gor­i­cal func­tion gave to the pieces the roles we know today, with the piece called “the advi­sor” being replaced by the queen in the 15th cen­tu­ry, “per­haps inspired by the recent surge of strong female lead­ers.”

Ear­ly Mod­ern chess, freed from the con­fines of the court and played in cof­fee­hous­es, also became a favorite pas­time for philoso­phers, writ­ers, and artists. Trea­tis­es were writ­ten by the hun­dreds. Chess became a tool for sum­mon­ing inspi­ra­tion, and per­form­ing the­atri­cal, often Punic games for audiences—a trend that ebbed dur­ing the Cold War, when chess­boards became proxy bat­tle­grounds between world super­pow­ers, and intense cal­cu­la­tion ruled the day.

The arrival of IBM’s Deep Blue com­put­er, which defeat­ed reign­ing cham­pi­on Gar­ry Kas­parov in 1996, sig­naled a new evo­lu­tion for the game, a chess sin­gu­lar­i­ty, as it were, after which com­put­ers rou­tine­ly defeat­ed the best play­ers. Does this mean, accord­ing to Mar­cel Duchamp’s obser­va­tion, that chess-play­ing com­put­ers should be con­sid­ered artists? Chess’s ear­li­est adopters could nev­er have con­ceived of such a ques­tion. But the game they passed down through the cen­turies may have antic­i­pat­ed all of the pos­si­ble out­comes of human ver­sus machine.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Gar­ry Kas­parov Now Teach­ing an Online Course on Chess

A Free 700-Page Chess Man­u­al Explains 1,000 Chess Tac­tics in Plain Eng­lish

Vladimir Nabokov’s Hand-Drawn Sketch­es of Mind-Bend­ing Chess Prob­lems

Chess Grand­mas­ter Gar­ry Kas­parov Relives His Four Most Mem­o­rable Games

When John Cage & Mar­cel Duchamp Played Chess on a Chess­board That Turned Chess Moves Into Elec­tron­ic Music (1968)

Mar­cel Duchamp, Chess Enthu­si­ast, Cre­at­ed an Art Deco Chess Set That’s Now Avail­able via 3D Print­er

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Watch the Serpentine Dance, Created by the Pioneering Dancer Loie Fuller, Performed in an 1897 Film by the Lumière Brothers

What­ev­er their views on copy­right, artists and inven­tors of all kinds can agree on one thing: all dread hav­ing their ideas stolen with­out so much as a foot­note of cred­it. Such thefts have led to tanked careers, life­long resent­ments, homi­ci­dal rival­ries, and law­suits to fill libraries. They have allowed many a thief to pros­per and many an injured par­ty to sur­ren­der.

But not leg­endary mod­ern dance pio­neer Loie Fuller.

“Short, plump, and thir­ty years old,” the dancer from Illi­nois arrived in Paris in 1892, fresh off the “mid-lev­el vaude­ville” cir­cuit, writes Rhon­da K. Gare­lick at Pub­lic Domain Review, and bent on prov­ing her­self to Édouard Marc­hand, direc­tor of the Folies-Bergère. She scored an inter­view with­in days of her arrival.

Alight­ing from her car­riage in front of the the­ater, she stopped short at the sight of the large plac­ard depict­ing the Folies’ cur­rent dance attrac­tion: a young woman wav­ing enor­mous veils over her head, billed as the “ser­pen­tine dancer.” “Here was the cat­a­clysm, my utter anni­hi­la­tion,” Fuller would lat­er write, for she had come to the Folies that day pre­cise­ly to audi­tion her own, new “ser­pen­tine dance,” an art form she had invent­ed in the Unit­ed States.

The imposter, an Amer­i­can named May­belle Stew­art, had seen Fuller per­form in New York and had lift­ed her act and tak­en it to Paris. Rather than suc­cumb to rage or despair, Fuller sat through the mati­nee per­for­mance and was moved from a cold sweat to renewed con­fi­dence. “The longer she danced,” she wrote, “the calmer I became.” After Stew­art left the stage, Fuller ascend­ed in her ser­pen­tine cos­tume and audi­tioned for Marc­hand, who agreed to take her on and fire Stew­art.

The sto­ry gets stranger. The show had been pro­mot­ed with Stewart’s name, and so, to avoid bad pub­lic­i­ty, Fuller agreed to per­form the first two nights as Stew­art, “danc­ing her own imi­ta­tion of Stewart’s imi­ta­tion of the ser­pen­tine dance,” a “triple-lay­er sim­u­la­tion,” Gare­lick writes, “wor­thy of an essay by Jean Baudrillard”—and emblem­at­ic of a career in dance marked by “self-repli­ca­tion, mir­rored images, and iden­ti­ty play.”

Thus did the woman named Loie Fuller (born Mary-Louise Fuller), begin “what was to become an unbro­ken thir­ty-year reign as one of Europe’s most wild­ly cel­e­brat­ed dancers.” Fuller was “the only female enter­tain­er to have her own pavil­ion” at the 1900 Expo­si­tion Uni­verselle, writes Natal­ie Lemie at Art­sy. “Hen­ri de Toulouse-Lautrec fea­tured her in a num­ber of prints; Auguste Rodin com­mis­sioned a series of pho­tographs of the dancer with plans to sculpt her; and the Lumière broth­ers released a film about her in 1897.”

Fuller’s dance per­son­i­fied Art Nou­veau, express­ing its ele­gant, flow­ing lines in her bil­low­ing silk gowns, which she moved by means of bam­boo sewn into her sleeves. As she danced “col­ored lights were pro­ject­ed onto the flow­ing fab­ric, and as she twirled, she seemed to meta­mor­phose into ele­ments from the nat­ur­al world: a flower, a but­ter­fly, a tongue of flame.” Every­one came to see her. The Folies, which “typ­i­cal­ly attract­ed work­ing class patrons,” now had aris­to­crat­ic new­com­ers lin­ing up out­side.

See the ser­pen­tine dance that launched her career at the top in the Lumière Broth­ers’ 1897 film and below it in a col­orized excerpt, with the bewitch­ing music of Sig­ur Ros added for effect. Oth­er films and clips here from oth­er ear­ly cin­e­ma pio­neers show the medi­um’s embrace of Fuller’s chore­og­ra­phy. Iron­i­cal­ly, none of this footage, it seems, shows Fuller her­self, but only her imi­ta­tors. “Unfor­tu­nate­ly none of the sur­viv­ing films seem to con­tain a per­for­mance by the orig­i­nal dancer/choreographer,” notes cin­e­ma his­to­ry chan­nel Mag­i­cal Motion Muse­um, “despite some of them car­ry­ing her name in the title or oth­er­wise cred­it­ing her as the dancer.”

Her name car­ried a lot of weight. Fuller was not only a cel­e­brat­ed dancer, but also a man­ag­er, pro­duc­er, and light­ing design­er with “over a dozen patents relat­ed to her cos­tumes and inno­va­tions in stage light­ing.” (She was so inter­est­ed in the “lumi­nous prop­er­ties” of radi­um that she sought out and “befriend­ed its dis­cov­er­ers, Pierre and Marie Curie.”) By 1908, how­ev­er, she had left behind some of these elab­o­rate stage effects to focus on “nat­ur­al dancing’—dance inspired by nature, which was the fore­run­ner of mod­ern dance.”

And she had tak­en on a young dancer in her com­pa­ny named Isado­ra Dun­can, often referred to as the “Moth­er of Mod­ern Dance.” Fuller deserves cred­it, too, but she didn’t seem to care about this over­much. She was, notes Ober­lin Col­lege dance pro­fes­sor Ann Coop­er Albright, “way more inter­est­ed in mak­ing things hap­pen than cre­at­ing a name for her­self.” Fame came as a byprod­uct of her cre­ativ­i­ty rather than its sought-after reward. She was still renowned after she left the stage, and giv­en a ret­ro­spec­tive at The Lou­vre in 1924.

Fuller con­tin­ued to work behind the scenes after the Art Nou­veau move­ment gave way to new mod­ernisms and sup­port­ed and inspired younger artists until her death in 1928. Her work deserves a promi­nent place in the his­to­ry of mod­ern dance, but Fuller her­self “was—and remains—elusive,” Lemie writes, “some­thing of a phan­tom.” Oth­ers might have stolen, bor­rowed, or imi­tat­ed the ser­pen­tine dance, but Lois Fuller became it, going beyond com­pe­ti­tion and into a realm of mag­ic.

via Pub­lic Domain Review

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch an Avant-Garde Bauhaus Bal­let in Bril­liant Col­or, the Tri­adic Bal­let, First Staged by Oskar Schlem­mer in 1922

The Grace­ful Move­ments of Kung Fu & Mod­ern Dance Revealed in Stun­ning Motion Visu­al­iza­tions

Expres­sion­ist Dance Cos­tumes from the 1920s, and the Trag­ic Sto­ry of Lavinia Schulz & Wal­ter Holdt

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

The Virtual Choir: Watch a Choir Conductor Digitally Unite 3500 Singers from Around the World

For decades we’ve been hear­ing promis­es about how com­mu­ni­ca­tion tech­nol­o­gy will one day elim­i­nate dis­tance itself, mak­ing every­one around the globe feel as if they might as well be in the same room. Such a future would have its down­side as well as its upside, but even now, approach­ing the third decade of the 21st cen­tu­ry, it has­n’t quite arrived yet. Nev­er­the­less, we’ve already grown so used to the idea of real-time glob­al col­lab­o­ra­tion that it takes an extra­or­di­nar­i­ly ambi­tious project to let us step back and appre­ci­ate the tech­no­log­i­cal real­i­ty that makes it pos­si­ble. Take, for exam­ple, con­duc­tor Eric Whitacre’s Vir­tu­al Choir, whose per­for­mance of Whitacre’s own piece “Lux Arumque” appears above.

“Vir­tu­al,” here, is a bit of a mis­nomer, encour­ag­ing as it does Gib­son­ian visions of the 100-per­cent dig­i­tal voic­es of syn­thet­ic singers res­onat­ing pure­ly in cyber­space. And while Whitacre’s project would­n’t have been pos­si­ble with­out stream­ing dig­i­tal audio and video tech­nol­o­gy — as well as the infra­struc­ture of what we may as well still call cyber­space — it begins with the real voic­es of 100-per­cent ana­log humans.

185 such humans, to be pre­cise, based in twelve coun­tries, and all of them vis­i­ble on their sep­a­rate screens as Whitacre plays the role of con­duc­tor on his own. The much larg­er-scale per­for­mance of “Water Night,” a piece com­posed for the poet­ry of Octavio Paz, brings togeth­er 3,746 videos from 73 coun­tries, neces­si­tat­ing a cred­its sequence longer than the piece itself.

The Vir­tu­al Choir grew, as many such immense works do, from a small seed: “It all start­ed with this one young girl who sent me this video of her­self singing one of my choral pieces,” says Whitacre in this video on the prepa­ra­tion for the Vir­tu­al Choir’s “Sleep” video. “I was struck so hard by the beau­ty, the inti­ma­cy of it, the sweet­ness of it, and I thought, ‘Boy, it would be amaz­ing if we could get 100 peo­ple to do this and cut it all togeth­er.” The expe­ri­ence of assem­bling this vir­tu­al choir, or even hear­ing it, shows that “singing togeth­er and mak­ing music togeth­er is a fun­da­men­tal human expe­ri­ence,” and on a scale hard­ly imag­in­able a gen­er­a­tion or two ago. But on the most basic lev­el, even this new way of mak­ing music is mere­ly an expan­sion of the old­est way of mak­ing music: with one human voice, then anoth­er, and anoth­er.

via Swiss Miss

Relat­ed Con­tent:

30 Fans Joy­ous­ly Sing the Entire­ty of Bob Marley’s Leg­end Album in Uni­son

25 John Lennon Fans Sing His Album Work­ing Class Hero Word for Word, and Note for Note

Pat­ti Smith Sings “Peo­ple Have the Pow­er” with a Choir of 250 Fel­low Singers

Watch David Byrne Lead a Mas­sive Choir in Singing David Bowie’s “Heroes”

Watch Choirs Around the World Sim­u­late the Rain­storm in Toto’s “Africa” Using Only Their Hands

Bri­an Eno Lists the Ben­e­fits of Singing: A Long Life, Increased Intel­li­gence, and a Sound Civ­i­liza­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or Face­book.

Watch the Buddhism-Inspired Video for Leonard Cohen’s Newly-Released Song, “Happens to the Heart”

Leonard Cohen had an inti­mate rela­tion­ship with despair. “I’ve seen the future,” he dead­panned, “Broth­er, it is mur­der.” But for many peo­ple, there is no one from whom we’d rather hear the news. In her har­row­ing essay “Fac­ing Extinc­tion,” med­i­ta­tion teacher and for­mer cli­mate jour­nal­ist Cather­ine Ingram frames the cat­a­stro­phe of cli­mate change with Cohen’s lyrics and the many con­ver­sa­tions she had with him before his death in 2016.

Cohen “under­stood human nature and assumed we would do our­selves in,” Ingram writes. Yet, with his razor-sharp gal­lows wit, he deliv­ered his grim prophe­cies with deep love and con­cern. Con­fronting her own despair, Ingram asked the ail­ing poet for advice on how to wake up peo­ple who’d rather tune it all out. “There are things,” he said, “we don’t tell the chil­dren.”

Com­ing from some­one else, this might sound supreme­ly patron­iz­ing. From Cohen, it reminds me of what Japan­ese Zen mas­ter Dogen called “grand­moth­er mind”—pro­tec­tive, uncon­di­tion­al com­pas­sion for oth­ers who may not, and may nev­er, be ready to take in the facts. It also speaks of some­one liv­ing with clin­i­cal depres­sion, car­ry­ing the weight of the world. Cohen once called the con­di­tion a life­long “back­ground of anguish and anx­i­ety.”

He met his suf­fer­ing with med­i­ta­tion, prac­tic­ing Rin­zai Zen for decades and liv­ing as a monk for five years at the Mount Baldy monastery in Los Ange­les. This peri­od pro­vides the inspi­ra­tion for the new video above, direct­ed by Daniel Askill, that dra­ma­tizes Cohen’s trans­for­ma­tion from grief to “ordi­nary silence,” the mean­ing of his Japan­ese ordi­na­tion name, Jikan.

Askill calls the video a “qui­et, sym­bol­ic nar­ra­tive that charts the let­ting go of ego and the trap­pings of fame.” The inter­pre­ta­tion is “straightforward—almost pious,” says Matthew Gindin at Tri­cy­cle, and also “an intel­li­gent update and homage” to imagery from Cohen’s first album.

The song, “Hap­pens to the Heart” is the first on “an unex­pect­ed har­vest of new songs” released on the posthu­mous album Thanks for the Dance, com­ing Novem­ber 22. “Hap­pens to the Heart,” is a dis­til­la­tion of clas­sic Cohen themes: the weari­ness of plea­sure, cos­mic absur­di­ty, com­pas­sion, and despair.

I had no trou­ble bet­ting
On the flood against the ark
You see I knew about the end­ing
What hap­pens to the heart

Its title refrain turns each stan­za into a case for how and why to care, inves­ti­gat­ing the mind’s life­time of turn­ings from “the heart”—the con­stant split­ting in two that Zen sees as the source of suf­fer­ing. “I fought for some­thing final,” Cohen intones at the song’s end, “not the right to dis­agree.”

Cohen talks about his jour­ney into the monastery in the inter­view fur­ther up. “Maybe this whole activ­i­ty,” the for­mal prac­tice of Zen, “is a response to a sense of despair that I’ve always had.… By and large, I didn’t have what it took to real­ly enjoy my suc­cess, or my celebri­ty. I was nev­er able to locate it. I was nev­er able to use it.” He learned how to dis­as­so­ci­ate and quar­an­tine him­self.

In the prison of the gift­ed
I was friend­ly with the guards
So I nev­er had to wit­ness
What hap­pens to the heart

In the aus­ter­i­ties of the monastery, Cohen dis­cov­ered “a volup­tuous sense of econ­o­my that you can’t find any­where else,” a dai­ly prac­tice “nec­es­sary to open the heart to the fact that you’re not alone,” even if, as he says wry­ly in “The Goal,” above—the first release from Thanks for the Dance—you “can’t stop the rain, can’t stop the snow.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Leonard Cohen’s Final Inter­view: Record­ed by David Rem­nick of The New York­er

Leonard Cohen’s Last Work, The Flame Gets Pub­lished: Dis­cov­er His Final Poems, Draw­ings, Lyrics & More

How Leonard Cohen & David Bowie Faced Death Through Their Art: A Look at Their Final Albums

Hal­lelu­jah!: You Can Stream Every Leonard Cohen Album in a 22-Hour Chrono­log­i­cal Playlist (1967–2016)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

A Schoolhouse Rock-Inspired Guide to Impeachment

How does a bill become a law? You can’t hear the ques­tion and not hum a few bars from School­house Rock’s “I’m Just a Bill.” The groovy car­toon civics les­son was for mil­lions the first they learned about the leg­isla­tive process. Ask anoth­er ques­tion, how­ev­er, like “how does impeach­ment work,” and you may hear more crick­ets than 70’s edu­ca­tion­al TV jin­gles.

Sure­ly we took some­thing from Bill Clinton’s impeach­ment tri­al besides cig­ars, stained blue dress­es, and the spec­ta­cle of moral­ly com­pro­mised politi­cians wag­ging their fin­gers at a moral­ly com­pro­mised politi­cian? Sure­ly we’ve all read the Water­gate tran­scripts, and can quote more from that his­to­ry than Richard Nixon’s “I am not a crook” (mut­tered before he resigned instead of fac­ing the charges)?

Maybe not. Despite the talk of closed-door hear­ings and con­flict­ed jurors, many of us have not paid close atten­tion to the par­tic­u­lars of the process, giv­en that impeach­ment tri­als can make for such com­pelling­ly broad polit­i­cal the­ater. And we nev­er got our School­house Rock impeach­ment episode. Until now.

See­ing as how the pres­i­dent faces pub­lic, tele­vised impeach­ment hear­ings next week, there may be no more oppor­tune time to get caught up on some details with Jonathan Coulton’s School­house Rock-inspired “The Good Fight.” Its ani­ma­tion style and catchy tune recalls the 70s edu­ca­tion­al series, but Coul­ton doesn’t address the kids at home as his pri­ma­ry audi­ence.

“Your tiny hands may scratch and claw,” sings Coul­ton, “but nobody’s above the law.” You won’t win any prizes for guess­ing who this means—a per­son in need of a child­like explain­er on basic gov­ern­ment, it seems. More ver­bal jabs are thrown, and the alleged crimes enu­mer­at­ed, end­ing with trea­son (and a mis­placed, anachro­nis­tic ham­mer and sick­le by ani­ma­tors Head Gear Ani­ma­tion). The video final­ly gets into the impeach­ment process over a minute in, past the halfway mark.

View­ers might find the first half emo­tion­al­ly sat­is­fy­ing, with its char­ac­ter­i­za­tion of impeached pres­i­dents as way­ward chil­dren in need of cor­rec­tion by a swag­ger­ing Con­sti­tu­tion and a sassy band of founders. It’s cute but leaves pre­cious lit­tle time for learn­ing how this account­abil­i­ty process is sup­posed to work. Coul­ton rush­es through the expla­na­tion, and you may find your­self skip­ping back to hear it sev­er­al times.

Nev­er fear: Google—or the search engine of your choice—is here to fer­ry you to thou­sands of guides to the impeach­ment process. “The Good Fight” isn’t, after all, actu­al­ly a School­house Rock ad, but a fun civic-mind­ed reminder to every­one that the pres­i­dent is not above the law, and that Con­gress is enti­tled by the Con­sti­tu­tion to hold the hold­er of that office, whomev­er they may be, account­able. An explain­er by Vox appears below:

via Boing­Bo­ing

Relat­ed Con­tent:

School­house Rock: Revis­it a Col­lec­tion of Nos­tal­gia-Induc­ing Edu­ca­tion­al Videos

I’m Just a Pill: A School­house Rock Clas­sic Gets Reimag­ined to Defend Repro­duc­tive Rights in 2017

Con­spir­a­cy The­o­ry Rock: The School­house Rock Par­o­dy Sat­ur­day Night Live May Have Cen­sored

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

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