Me Too

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This post was written in early 2018, just after the Oscars, before India viralized her own MeToo movement. This post is also not about sexual harassment, victimization or witch hunts. It is not about the powerful and the disempowered. It is about truth and falsity that we own at the same time. It has sat in my drafts folder these many months since I was not sure it made sense to take readers on a roller coaster ride that brings you back where you started and charge ten bucks for it. I am publishing it now in the hope that it will be lost in the hysteria of the present moment, never to be read and never to be reflected upon. Faith like flowing water, not a raging fire.

Now, on to the post from when You and I were somebody else.

The entertainment industry, especially Hollywood, has never been free of controversy, but neither have they ever failed to stand up for what they believed was right. The recent exposure of widespread abuse of authority by men across the world, across industries, especially the entertainment industry saw women come together in solidarity like never before. It opened up the discussion for gender disparity and misogyny in almost all areas of life. Frances McDormand summed it up in her simple and direct acceptance speech, made all the more visually powerful as she asked every woman nominated to stand up, and across the auditorium, it was just a handful. She stated her demand in two words - inclusion rider.

An Inclusion Rider seems like a perfect solution, that too to a lot of problems. Many of these problems have been my problems, as I am sure at least some if not many have been yours. It is not a nowadays problem, but one that needs a solution as enduring, as hijackproof and as timeproof as the problem itself. The paradigm has to shift from our being able to survive and rejoice together in spite of our differences to being able to survive and rejoice because of our differences. Not an easy task when you take, lets say an extroverted Amish and a Jihadi cyberwarrior.

The inclusion rider and the me too movement were preceded by the March on Washington which then became the women's march all over the nation

In my upbringing, I was encouraged to question but taught to respect status quo. My Brahmo father and Hindu mother never tried to coerce or corrupt my militant atheism. It was their way of teaching me to be accepting of differences. But indirectly, it also taught me submission and self denial. This has been true of the last many generations, and there has, historically, been nothing really worrying about it till recently. That too would not have been anything more than a blip on the radar had it not been for the technology that allowed the world to be united, that promised a cyber democracy that would rid us of all ills. For the longest time, I looked down upon "self will run riot" as a problem rather than a solution - within me and without. Gangsta rap might have a place in the scheme of things, but I could not be bothered to figure it out - that was about the farthest I allowed myself to be selfish. 

My coming out was in my mid teens. Repeated attempts at getting a grip on a life hijacked by opiate use had finally thrown my into the waiting arms of twelve step self help groups, and while they used the term "a power greater than ourselves" to refer to a divine power, they followed it up with "God as we understood him." It is the most successful approach to recovery, and millions have reclaimed their lives by assiduously living this simplified form of the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius of Loyola. For me at that time, unable to come to terms with or find a way out of my brokenness, anything that offered hope was a viable option. I was ready to bend my atheism every way needed to fit the concept of a wish-granting, prayer-listening, sometimes-punishing power greater than myself in order to get my life back. It seemed to me a very minor trade-off in the face of the helplessness that addicts and alcoholics know only too well.  

As I found firmer ground and as time passed, I was confronted by the dissonance I had bought into, and while I benefited (and continue to benefit) greatly from my communion with the fellowship of recovering people, I was at odds with myself. I learned slowly to steer clear of both theists and atheists, believers and skeptics, loyalists and conspiracy theorists, and retain value from the experience of others in the light of my own understanding. I was 18 or 19 when I was faced with the agony of the admission that I had no clue about the god of my understanding with or without a capital G.

I have never actively sought out the fellowship of agnostics or dwelt deeply on the matter, though reading the existentialists, as well as Russell and Krishnamurthy did influence me a lot. What I did experience, however, was a sense of embarrassment, isolation, and doubt that verged on traumatic, toxic shame. As a young adult led to believe that he was dealing with family of origin issues in addition to his impaired inner reward mechanism, this was the straw that one had to be grateful for - the one that needed to be clutched at while it broke your back. The subsequent years that I spent training in the field of psychotherapy only worsened my dilemmas. The years of the rise of the Hindu right and the prospects of a Hindu nation are best left unmentioned.

When Harvey Weinstein burst on the scene late 2017, I was reminded of my inner conflicts with regard to sexual politics just as strongly as my feelings of shame about my agnosticism. As the MeToo hashtag trended, it resonated uniquely with me. I remembered the millions of times that I would see the devout submit in prayer publicly, and I would say, Me Too, just in case. I was certain that if there was a power greater than my self, it had to have a sense of humor. The history of human civilization could not have turned out the way it has if it/she/he didn't.

This post is not about standing up against sexual harassment. Sexual power politics has ruled mankind (personkind in these politically ridiculous times) for centuries, and just like the Mandal commission and the backward classes, mainstream feminism and even the LGBT rights movement has achieved little in the dismantling of this sodomic edifice. This post is about how individuality is trampled upon by society if it fails to see the seed of conformity in nonconformism. You are allowed to be different as long as you acknowledge your deviance. This is done in subtle ways and it is "what predators do, and it must stop."

India is a fascinating country, and perhaps the best petri dish to test the ultimate efficacy of a MeToo kind of movement. Feudal since Adam, patriarchal since Eve, and groomed in hypocrisy by its colonial masters, Indian society embraces harassment and intolerance with what can be best called Hindu detachment. The very tag of eastern mysticism is an endorsement of this hypocrisy as it labels all thought outside the normative as not based on reason, not scientific, not true philosophy, but a mystic one. The rig veda, the foundation of agnostic and stoic thought in the eastern traditions, has historically been described by scholars (I typed western before scholars and then deleted it) as insights derived through vision and yogic communion, not reason.

Just like the fellowship of recovering people, the fellowship of trauma survivors, and the fellowship of sexual harassment victims, there is a fellowship of atheists and agnostics. None of these fellowships are taken lightly, twelve step groups report success rates several times that of all approaches put together and this is validated by the WHO, it is close to 40 years since PTSD entered DSM-III, the #MeToo hashtag has trended almost in every nation of our world, and Kierkegaard and Dawkins would still be able to agree on a few things. Why has this not-to-be-taken-lightly force, one that has had global leadership and mass support not been able to make a difference?

Only the rabidest of optimists will claim that the coming years will see an end of discrimination. The social system itself is built on a balance between cooperators and dissidents, with a clear code of conduct as far as tolerance of each other is concerned. This status quo is linked to survival - of our self image, of our many identities and roles, of social stability, of industry, trade, commerce and fiscal systems. This status quo has survived the Industrial revolution, the French revolution, the crash of 1929, the depression of the 30s, the 2008 bust, and the Occupy movement. It has survived the reformation, the holocaust, the abolition of slavery, the civil rights movement, the Arab Spring and Barrack Obama.  It has survived Simone De Beauvoir, post-structuralist definitions of sexuality and gender perspectives, and the social media fourth wave. The reason that all of these have translated to little change in ground realities is the same reason that India has a dalit President. The subaltern is acknowledged only to deny and dismiss its relevance - that of the need for change at the core, change of our belief system, our philosophical DNA. Bladerunner is a thing.

I was introduced to microtonal polychromatic music by the work of Glass and Stockhausen, but was persuaded to understand it by a friend's son about 10 years back. If you are not familiar with the concept, let me just say that it challenges musical convention that has stood the test of time for five centuries. I have not only been open to it as a genre and possibly the next step in the evolution of music, but have been frankly appreciative of the work being done in the area. I have actually experienced body-mind resonance that goes beyond the conventional seven and twelve paradigms that underlie almost all accepted scientific-philosophical constructs as I allowed microtonal polychromaticism into my belief system. It is the most unsettling of experiences, one that leaves you on the perpetual verge of a nervous breakdown. This perpetual verge is the same that is experienced by rape survivors, abuse victims, relapse-prone recovering people, and stock market speculators. This perpetual verge is what keeps the system intact, the razor edge intact. All edges dull with time, whether it be the horrors of patriarchy, the insecurity of the abused, or the familiarity of the heptatonic.

What then is a possible solution that allows this pain to subside, that allows humanity to experience healing and justice, that allows us to bequeath a safe and fair world to our children? I've been crossing midlife since I was in my teens and have battled a few demons, within and without. The one lesson I have learned is that the first steps are almost always the most difficult to take.

For discrimination to end, we have to first know where we are as a people, as individuals. Buddhism and Gestalt are examples of how we can acknowledge the multiplicity within our sense of a single cohesive self. By doing this, we will be able to see what we need to police or discipline or starve within our selves. We act out what we believe, and we learn from what we see. If each of us can make that effort to abstain from subscribing to the ideas that have brought us where we are today - discrimination, intolerance, harassment, guns, drugs, over-consumption, depression - we will have made a beginning.

We do not need a government policy or a Zuckerberg-Gates coalition to fund it. We have all that we need. Acknowledging this will help us take that first step, to change our lives, not preaching, not looking down upon, not staying away from, but by actively and purposefully living in accordance with what is right.

A system that survives on the complicity between the sincere and the vain cannot be changed overnight. Anarchy is a possibility, but a terrible one. SHTF and Doomsday are realities, but ones best kept at bay. We are people, people.I already see young people (teens and young adults) making choices that I would not have had the courage to make at their age - to choose to be colors not on the conventional palettes, to be at odds with what is acceptable.

Not all of it is safe or praiseworthy. A lot of it is dehumanizing at best, but the fact that there is a movement seriously and determinedly searching for alternatives is undeniable. And it is not the NGO-peacenik-antiestablishmentarianism kind of an idealism. It is a very pissed off generation on the horizon, as they realize the shitcan they have been left holding. As greater numbers choose to get off the grid, the coming generation will have viable lifestyles and worldviews to shape their own lives and beliefs on. Most of us will not be around to see what is at the end of the rainbow, but if we do not do our bit, there might not be an end of the rainbow.

Celebrating The Complete Man

Shree Ram, Jay Ram, Jay Jay Ram.  Copy paste. Copy paste. Since 1992 for me.  1946 for the more devout. Even earlier for the criminally insane. The rise of Hindu nationalism and the concurrent rise in movements highlighting oppression of minorities and backward sections of the Indian society are in sync with the assertion of identity being witnessed all over the globe at this time. Whether it is Trump and China or Rakhine and Rohingya or the Islamic State and the rest of the world, the dynamics are the same.

When we were in Punjagutta, the lane we lived in was dominated by Muslims who had come into wealth in the last couple of generations, not old money with an accent, many of the older generations being clerics, while the middle generation had embraced business and professions like law, engineering, etc. The younger folk were more in tune with the times, tech savvy, sophisticated, outgoing. The Hindu population was a minority, a large part of it in the slums, and the rest old time residents of the locality, mostly moderately educated, middle class. For both the Hindu and Muslim demographic, there was a significant percentage of uneducated, underprivileged, oppressed members. During festivals like Eid, Dussehra and Diwali, both communities celebrated together. One day of the Dussehra celebration was hosted entirely by the Muslim families, and no one really had a problem.

Image by RajTilak Naik

Around 2010-2011, we began noticing a certain call and response nature to the festivities. Eid, Ramzaan and Moharrum were celebrated with a certain aggression that was garbed in the assertion of communal identity. The processions would almost always verge on challenging both law and order and the sensitivities of those not participating in it. Young men would circle around the procession on bikes with flags and sometimes weapons in an ominous manner. When I asked about it, I was told that the police and the government were out to deny them their right to self expression and religious freedom. They used these occasions to send out a message to them to stay away. In 2010, I first saw a bike rally on Ram Navami. While the Ganesh festival and the immersion procession did see a lot of flag waving and religious rhetoric, Ram Navami, especially in the south of India has always been more of a temple and home celebration. This began to change and over the next couple of years, there was a deliberate and obvious display of muscle power in the Ram Navami processions.

Delete Facebook For The Right Reasons

#DeleteFacebook is trending, and I will not miss this one for anything. Brian Acton who got part of the $16 million that Facebook paid to acquire his baby, WhatsApp, joined the movement with his own time to #DeleteFacebook tweet. Kind of ironic, and a post on WhatsApp is a real possibility, but let me share my understanding of Facebook. Those who know me (in all worlds, the real, the virtual and the other) will agree that my views are jaundiced and rabid. I like my yellow foam. 

I stepped out of Facebook nearly two years ago. Before that, I had spent six years as a social marketing consultant, advising clients on how best to build strategies that would get their message across to social media users who were most likely to respond to those messages with an expression of interest, if not a transaction itself. In the process, I gained a fair amount of insight into what Facebook does and how it does it. Given the nature of today's world, a free market, and no holds barred marketing environment, I cannot find fault with the way it works. Users give the permission to host their personal interactions on Facebook servers, and anonymized manipulation of those interactions, or data derived from those interactions is used to build a price model for advertisers. Of course, when that anonymity is violated, there is a problem. Similarly, content that is intended to extract user information needs to be regulated much more stringently. All of this is for Mr. Zuckerberg, the guy who boasted of 4000 Harvard names, emails and photos that he could get you, to figure out. The guy whose 2018 resolution is to fix Facebook. Yes, the same guy who paid $16 million to anonymously listen in on your conversations with your friends and family.

My reasons for stepping out of Facebook are quite different. I will summarize them briefly, since this is not worth dwelling on more than we have all (one sixth of the world's population is on Facebook) dwelt on already.

1. Facebook robs you of your present. Have you kept track of how much time you spend versus how much time you intended to spend on Facebook? You will be surprised at how violable your own commitment to yourself is. Facebook is designed that way. The dopamine high you get from knowing about your best friend's new dress is rivaled only by the thrill of scrolling on. You spend your time commenting and liking and sharing things that do not in any way add value to your real life. You do it because you feel you are contributing to a conversation. Life is what happens when you are busy scrolling down your newsfeed. This time could have been spent in real conversations with your loved ones, time spent with your parents and kids, time spent in self-care, or time spent learning something new.

The Six Tastes of Life

Ugadi greetings to all who frequent this madhouse. Ugadi greetings to those who have chanced upon it now. Gets me thinking why we attach so much significance to beginnings and ends. Hindu festivals, like all other religious or cultural festivals, usually commemorate the passage of time, the seasons, linking it to mythology, the cycles of life, and the movement of the planets. Ugadi is derived from Yuga (age) and Adi (beginning) and is observed on the first day of the waxing moon fortnight that falls in the month of Chaitra. For Bengalis, Chaitra is the end of the calendar year. For Telugus, it is the beginning of the year. For the missus and me, it is double the celebration.

Over the years, she has learned how to have a happy festive day, and leaves me out of pretty much everything but the partying and the homme a tout faire treatment, more a massaging of  my ego than true need. So there are mango leaves strung up on the doorway, rangolis at the entrance to the home outing the closet artist. The food prep, like the house cleaning, start days ahead and Ugadi day itself is a frenzy, everybody is bathed at unearthly hours (I work the night shift, so that makes it even more unearthly for me), the recently deep cleaned house is deep cleaned again in the span of the morning and the gods are remembered. The village takes over the kitchen, containers running out and ziplocs taking over. Junior and I get to dress up for apparently no reason, and usually with clothes just bought, sometimes with the price tags still on. Once lunch is over, and you get to think you just might be able to catch forty winks, it is time to socialize, I guess since nobody wants to dress down and then up all over again. Some do though, sometimes just to ensure that all the apparel received for the occasion get broken in. 

This Ugadi, however, is more special than others. It marks the end and beginning of a particularly strange period of our lives. Chandrababu Naidu's withdrawal from the NDA will probably go down as the moment that Indian politics changed. Given the crowded and corrupt fundamentals of Indian politics, it is hard to say with any confidence that great tidings await us, but still. It is a declaration of righteous indignation that should send a message to the unprincipled, and encourage those who choose to live by their conscience. At home, we are going to be looking back at this time with the deepest of gratitude and respect for life, and for the people in our lives.

Three Books Outside Begumpet, Hyd

Now that the Oscar fever had subsided, the delirious movie binges are easing out as well. We are done with most, and the rest are in a tomorrow box that never gets opened, one that the missus and I never forget even when we fight about something else altogether. It also provides for a little more time for reading. It is this way for me, and if you are like me, I thought you would benefit from knowing about three books I read recently that really made an impact on me.

It is a fairly wide range of things that I have got to do with my life. I read a little, but I have never done and do not intend to start doing book reccos, and these are definitely not my desert island books, but these three books were breathtakingly fascinating, contributing to my worldview in ways that compel me to share them with you. I am a firm believer in the purposefulness of all that occurs and in the epiphanic nature of each moment. These books brought me what I needed at this point in time, mystically.  I had lived with what can best be called philosophical shame for a good part of my life, embarrassed to share what I believed.

My disagreements with organized mysticism and psychologists have landed me in more trouble than I had bargained for, inside and out. I grew averse to the entire philosophy-psychology-productivity-self help continuum after overdosing on it in the '90s. Similarly, I have been outgrowing my understanding of music and musical expression, straying uncomfortably close to noise, yet enjoying the precariousness of it. Over the last decade or so, I have been actively pursuing a line of thinking that all we know and believe about the science of music, the conventional theory that all students of music are subjected to, is possibly a very limited, censored, "state sponsored" view of things, and that the truth lies in the voices of the voiceless. This conspiracy theory was further strengthened as I watched Junior explore rhythm, melody and language. What was going on there was not what any convention could explain, and this is evident in the development of this faculty in any child, and it doesn't have anything to do with what you learn when studying music or language.

Two of these books are from the pop psychology genre. The third is a book I was advised against by a fellow music lover who had much greater engagement with the theory and history of music than I ever did and whose opinion I revered.  The likelihood of my reading these three books was close to zero. As my best friend always course corrects me, we don't know why anything turns out the way it does. Our intent is never lost on the universe, it is just that needs have to be met first. These books met a need that I was not entirely conscious of, resolving conflicts that I could not acknowledge.   

Three Bluesmen Who Shaped Rock and Rhythm N Blues

This blog has way many more followers that any of my other blogs, perhaps because most of them lie untended. It makes it a good platform to promote posts that would otherwise not get read. 

For those of you who enjoy rock and R&B or just music in any of its myriad forms, and those who do not follow my blog on music, The Operative Note, here is a close look at three blues guitarists who shaped much of modern music - The Unholy Trinity of Robert Johnson, Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton. It is not an introduction to these musicians or their work, but more of a critique of their contribution, both positive and negative, and a questioning of the mysticity of their lives.

I would love to know what you think of it. I know, the pictures have dates.

Salutations to the Sun

My life,
My seasoning, my reason,
My reasoning, my seasons,
My riches, my Eden,
My bearing, my North,
My courage, my learning,
My yen, my diet,
My redeemer, my comfort,
My mystery, my lotus,
My document, my script,
My morning, my noon,
My being, my bravery,
My light, my air,
My sex toy, my sanctum sanctorum,
My spring, my fall,
My melody, my counterpoint,
My hemlock, my truth,
My pulse, my heartbeat,
My onion, my universe,
My raised letter,
My inclination, my Eiger,
My beginning, my end,
My hopium, my aadhar,
And then just numbers, values, dates.
My! My!My! My!

February 14, 2018

Music For Those Who Listen

Most writers write with the purpose of being read. Therefore, nothing such writers write is personal. Pitches to publications, revisions suggested by editors, all of it serves to remove all that is personal to be replaced with market politics or universal marketability. My journey of trying to be a writer, one who considers writing his primary occupation, has thus far indicated otherwise. I am not talking about one trick pony theories that suggest that everyone has a novel in him or a story in him, his own, and after that, zilch. My limited reading of the masters, classic and contemporary, seems to indicate that what one writes about has to be personal to possess enduring value. And I feel that is true of all arts, visual, music or words.

The trouble with the personal lies in the conflicts it triggers in living. I see my life as a classic example, since no one is really qualified to comment on the life of another. If I were to make my innermost thoughts public, it would land me into a fair deal of trouble, with my friends, my neighbors, my insurance, my parents, my siblings, my spouse, and my children. Oh my, my!

Having Dad around hasn't helped much with resolving this dilemma, since he turns into a duck's back whenever I bring up the question of an artist's priorities and commitment to the truth. But this question haunts me more than ever as I grow older, move into newer territories of relationships with self, society and state, new worlds of the mind and the spirit, . I am not Prince Rama, nor was meant to be, but heck, I wouldn't mind putting a few of my conflicts to rest.

Millennial Lessons from Sanjay Leela Bhansali's Padmaavat

How could I not have a Padmaavat post on this blog? Even if it is the 3000-word rant that you have come to expect on this blog, even if it is a commercial Bollywood, pseudo-historical film with its standard share of songs and violence, even it is a subtle nudge towards reigniting the fire that consumed women of honor in the 13th century, a post was in order.

The run up to Padmaavat and the content of the film itself has a lot of lessons for those who are going to run the world the next few decades. This run up did not start a few years back, but can be traced back to the early days of Independence. It is one that validates and justifies intolerance and hatred in the name of identity. It is one that drowns out the equality, of nations, ideologies, classes and gender that should be the beacon of our times. The recent years have only seen a growing acceptance and institutionalization of this rabid movement. Everybody who is anybody now has an identity that needs to be defended. The parallels of the religious and gender levels of this oppression is frightening when not sickening.

This is not a review of the film. With everybody posting reviews, I have little new to add. I believe films, like all art, has the ability to profoundly influence our worldviews and the beliefs based on which we make choices. Very often, especially with popular cinema, this messaging and learning is unconscious.  The unquestioned objectification of women ties in with the gender violence we are seeing today. The nationalist films of the 70s and 80s have shaped our collective understanding of Hindu-Muslim dynamics and the attitude towards a land that was once a part of India, Pakistan. Along with this, there has been the rise of voices that object to art that opines on matters in a way that is not comfortable. Whether it be Hussain with his Hindu deities, Rushdie with his Satanic Verses, or lesser known painter who get their exhibitions vandalized because of nude subjects, freedom of expression is limited to the convenient and the universally acceptable. Step out of line and the baton comes down.

Sanjay Leela Bhansali (the guy who gave us Black) has been in this kind of trouble before, and there has been speculation that the protests might have been engineered to boost publicity for the film. The last time, he offended Ram-worshippers by naming his film Ram-Leela. The workaround seemed just as absurd as the dropping of the letter i in the case of Padmavati. I like his work (not that the guy who gave us Hum Dil De Chuke and Sawariya) and after Ram-Leela and Bajirao-Mastani, I was looking forward to Padmavati. The controversy and the hype took away a lot of the fun of waiting, but there we were on its first weekend, catching a late, late show on a large, large screen, 3D glasses and popcorn in hand.

A Moving North

Having lived in Hyderabad for nearly two decades now, the one time of the year that I look forward to the most is the Sankranthi weekend. It is one in the morning of Saturday, and from my office at Ameerpet, I can hear the frenzied collective hooting of fleets of buses ferrying the better part of the city's population back to their homes. Hyderabad, the capital of Telangana, is still largely an immigrant city, with most businesses and workforces tracing their roots back to coastal Andhra. This demographic quirk is also what led to the creation of a separate state for the people of Telangana. When I leave for home before Suryadev visits us, the streets which are otherwise deserted except for manic cabbies dropping sleepy IT workers off, are bristling with last minute travelers and hordes of trucks, minivans, buses, haggling over fares and seats, frantically calling friends and relatives, much like Ramzan nights in the old city. Except that the rush here is to get out of the city.

The next morning and till the weekend gets over, the city quietens down, the air and noise clears up, and moving around the city becomes a pleasure. Hyderabad grew rapidly in the 90s and the Telugu Desam government under the leadership of Chandrababu Naidu gave shape to a vision of a truly global city, with wide avenues, industry specific zoning, elevated mass transit, and a vibrant cultural identity. Subsequent governments fed off that vision but did little to accommodate the boom that followed.

New is New, Happy Happy

Stories, like poems or songs, have to have a beginning, a middle and an end. That is how stories have to be. Life, on the other hand, doesn't. Between McTaggart and Wittgenstein, between Einstein and Russell, linearity of being has been demolished quite thoroughly. The start of the new year is always a good time to look at the validity of beginnings, middles and ends.

With Junior creeping past school going age, and his parents not entirely sure what they want to do, the question of what learning and education are, and where they can be found is one that has been central to our daily grind. We have come a long way from Socrates and Seneca, but we stand at a peculiar juncture, with fake news, and ideological spins on everything including science. Our best myths are Hogwarts, the Cullens, and reluctant Jedis. We are also close to the tipping point of artificial intelligence where machine logic matches human wisdom.  The greatest nations of the world are being led and governed by men and women who are bound to a dehumanizing vision of the future, and technology is matching them gaffe for gaffe. Terror and cryptocurrencies are both equally safe investments, and war is what children play on their mobile devices.

Then there is the Nobel Prize. While the prize for the sciences are relatively apolitical, those for the humanities are no longer benchmarks of what is great about the arts or peacemakers. They never were, but what better North do we have any more? Two laureates of recent times are close to the North though it did not seem so then and it perhaps does not seem so now. Time will tell if Obama truly strengthened international diplomacy and cooperation among peoples or if the life and work of Bob Dylan was literature at all. Maybe Alexa will have an opinion.

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