Its the Wind

Have you ever noticed that people behave differently when the wind blows? It seems that some become moody, unpredictable, bizarre, wacky or downright insane. After days and weeks of incessant wind--like the desert winds we are enjoying lately--I have even noticed a little madness creeping into my own psyche. While researching this disturbing phenomenon, I discovered a particularly revealing bit of evidence in the Irving Stone novel, Lust for Life. This is the story of the art world’s most celebrated nut case, Vincent Van Gogh. Here is the setup:
Vincent has been frustrated because all the other impressionist painters have their “own” town in which to become famous, sell paintings and rot their brains with the consumption of absinthe. Finally, Vincent discovers a wonderful, sunny little village called Arles in the Provence region of southern France with no painter of its “own.” The light is perfect, the scenery beautiful and Vincent is thrilled with the prospect of spending his days throwing paint on canvas in the pursuit of his art. On his first day in Arles, Vincent is approached, in the bar naturally, by a journalist who is studying the local dialect for a book. His advice to Vincent is to flee Arles as it is, “the most violently insane spot on the globe!” Here’s an excerpt:

“What makes you think that?” Vincent asks.
“I don’t think it I know it. I’ve been watching these people for three months and they are all cracked! Just look at them. Watch their eyes. There’s not a normal, rational person in this whole vicinity!”
“That’s a curious thing to say,” observed Vincent.
“Within a week you’ll be agreeing with me. The country around Arles is the most torn, desperately lashed section in Provence. You’ve been out in that sun...It burns the brains out of their heads. And the mistral. You haven’t felt the mistral yet? It whips this town into a frenzy two hundred days out of every year. If you try to walk the streets it smashes you against the buildings. If you are in the fields it knocks you down and grinds you into the dirt. It twists your insides until you cannot bear it another minute. I’ve seen that infernal wind tear out windows, pull up trees, knock down fences, lash the men and animals in the fields until I thought they would fly in pieces. I’ve only been here 3 months and I’m getting a little nuts myself.”

Well, you get the idea. Vincent stayed in Arles, went mad from the mistral (and the absinthe), painted many masterpieces that he never sold while he lived, and during an hallucinatory fit, cut off his ear to reward a prostitute. So, when the wind is blowing like we know it can, give those other people a little extra space, give a thought to your own condition. . .and keep the sand out of your paint box.

An epitaph for the news

Newspapers are failing because they persist in a 19th century business model. The news has to be supported by an equivalent number of inches of advertising sales (more is better). The paper also must grow or shrink by 4 pages at a time. When I was a reporter I dreaded the editorial meetings where the editor would decide who's story got cut because the sales department couldn't get enough ad sales.
Paper and ink are expensive to produce and end up mostly used for fish wrapping, bird cages and fireplace starter. Bits and bytes are cheap. The problem is that when you aren't making enough money as a writer your opinion becomes more of a priority in your content.
When newspaper publishers are more concerned with driving an agenda than telling the truth, then the rags deserve to die. The truth will find other ways to reach the light of day.