Creative Inheritance

Birthdays - as well as the  500th episode of a podcast - are times that generally you might want to slow down and look at the past, the present, and the future. Using that logic, I'd like to touch on the past of this podcast by calling on none other then the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe.

Ghost sound

Well hello, Mr. Poe

Greetings Mr. Bartley.  Congratulations on your 500th episode.

And I couldn't have done it without you, Mr. Poe.

Certainly Mr. Bartley - you devoted the majority of your podcast episodes to my life and works when the podcast was known as Celebrate Poe.

Mr. Poe, Yes, at first I had difficulty in finding a subject for a podcast - then I realized that I had worked at the Edgar Allan Poe Museum in Richmond, and it hit me that you might be an excellent subject.

And I do admit that I miss those days.

Mr. Poe, That doesn't mean that I can't have some more episodes regarding you and your works. You're very existence fits in with the topic of creativity.

Transcript

George Bartley - bold

Edgar Allan Poe - bold, italics

My name is George Bartley and this is Episode 500  - yes Celebrate Creativity -formally Celebrate Poe - has now had 500 episodes with downloads in 104 countries and territories for a total of almost 25,600 episodes in all.  Yes you might say that is a kind of anniversary or a kind of birthday or Celebrate Creativity, just as my 75th birthday was a few days ago on November 1.

In fact I'm calling this episode Creative Inheritance - stick with me and I think you'll see why.

Birthdays - as well as the  500th episode of a podcast - are times that generally you might want to slow down and look at the past, the present, and the future. Using that logic, I'd like to touch on the past of this podcast by calling on none other then the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe.

Ghost sound

Well hello, Mr. Poe

Greetings Mr. Bartley.  Congratulations on your 500th episode.

And I couldn't have done it without you, Mr. Poe.

Certainly Mr. Bartley - you devoted the majority of your podcast episodes to my life and works when the podcast was known as Celebrate Poe.

Mr. Poe, Yes, at first I had difficulty in finding a subject for a podcast - then I realized that I had worked at the Edgar Allan Poe Museum in Richmond, and it hit me that you might be an excellent subject.

And I do admit that I miss those days.

Mr. Poe, That doesn't mean that I can't have some more episodes regarding you and your works. You're very existence fits in with a topic of creativity.

Yes Mr. Bartley. I remember you saying that your favorite story of mine is The Tell-Tale Heart, and that you could never hear it enough. Would you like to hear it again?  The story is less than 15 minutes in length.

Go ahead Mr. Poe.

Clear his throat

True! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses — not destroyed — not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily — how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture — a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees — very gradually — I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight — with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it — oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly — very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! — would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously — oh, so cautiously — cautiously (for the hinges creaked) — I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights — every night just at midnight — but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers — of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back — but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out — “Who’s there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; — just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief — oh, no! — it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself — “It is nothing but the wind in the chimney — it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel — although he neither saw nor heard — to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little — a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it — you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily — until, at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open — wide, wide open — and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness — all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses? — now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! — do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye — not even his — could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out — no stain of any kind — no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all — ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o ‘clock — still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, — for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, — for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search — search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: — it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness — until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; — but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound — much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath — and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly — more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men — but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no! They heard! — they suspected! — they knew! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again! — hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! —

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! — it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

Mr. Poe, that story never fails to give me chills.

Mr. Bartley, May I read a poem of mine for your audience?

Just one more then we have to move along . . .

Certainly, Mr. Bartley

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
   I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
   Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
   Of those who were older than we—
   Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
   Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea—
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Well, to me that certainly represents the past of this podcast, but that doesn't mean this will be the last of Edgar Allan Poe and his works in Celebrate Creativity.

Currently, as you may know, this podcast is planning to have approximately 25 episodes regarding great musicians who lived after 1900.  I've already had episodes dealing with Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, and Leonard Bernstein - and I think you will enjoy the episodes even more when I cover individuals who are more recent. I have my list of musicians - which seems to be always changing - oh, I can't leave Michael Jackson or Madonna out - that kind of thinking - but I found out something especially interesting when I looked at the list of musicians. It did not occur to me at first, but I have personal stories to tell regarding almost 1/3 of the musicians on the list - often that I had seen them in concert in unusual situations.

Perhaps one of the most interesting happened at the Edgar Allan Poe Museum in Richmond - a place not usually associated with musicians. It happened that Bette Midler came into the museum one afternoon. The museum was apparently not far from the Richmond Coliseum, and she was appearing at the Colosseum that night. I was standing behind a desk at the entrance to the museum and when I saw her, I think I gushed and said oh you must be Bette Midler!  She smiled and nodded, and I said oh I saw you in fiddler on the roof - and she did play one of Tevye’s daughters. I wanted to say that was several years ago, but it came out that was years and years and years ago!  Her eyes got bigger as though she was going to admonish me, and she said - are you saying that I'm old!  My boss came out, and instantly said oh I am so sorry Miss Midler - I do hope we have not insulted you. Please let me apologize for this new employee and I will be glad to give you a tour of the museum myself. She smiled a mischievous smile = and said oh no that won't be necessary - she pointed at me and said  I want the little faggot to give me a tour.  My boss gave me a look that clearly said = this was something I did not know and don't you dare think about giving her a tour.  So, in this situation I can't say that I have any musical connection with Bette Midler, but I do think this is an interesting story.

So I am going to be doing episodes for the majority of the month regarding the top modern day musicians.

And starting in the holiday season. I want to do a series of podcast episodes that I am really excited about. I am doing an incredible amount of research regarding writing an interesting story to have all the episodes of December become part of the same narrative.  I would play the role of Mr. George Bartley who has just taken a job as a night watchmen responsible for the toys at a store or something like that.  Each episode, a specific toy would talk to me about their history, their origin, and their concerns.  This premise really allows for a person to delve into their imagination and create engaging stories - or at least that's my hope.  And I would use special effects in GarageBand on the Macintosh Computer to come up with the various voices of the toys - of course that really involves me dealing into GarageBand and it's special effects.

All this reminds me of a mobile stage - yes- a mobile stage -  that my father George Bartley Senior built in Staunton, several years ago. And there's a point to all this. Now by mobile stage, I mean that my father single-handedly built a complex stage with restrooms and sitting rooms at each end, a sophisticated Altec Lansing sound system, and enough space for a large band to play for large picnics and county fairs.  I have come to realize that I probably have a similar form of longing for creativity - though it is with computers rather than a mobile stage.

But getting back to that mobile stage – The same rolling, folding, road-ready stage that my father built right there in the Shenandoah Valley wasn’t some little plywood riser for a school picnic — it was a serious, professional, show-can-start-now stage that could handle country stars, PA systems, and the biggest hometown crowd you ever saw. Those Staunton shows became legendary — they’re still talked about. The Statler Brothers started a big July 4 happy birthday USA celebration that pulled in thousands and thousands of people = in fact one year, Johnny Cash appeared with the Statler Brothers and pulled in over 100,000 people - quite a crowd for a small city park. 

And here’s what hit me — on my 75th birthday. I didn’t build a wooden stage on wheels. I built a digital one.

My father’s stage:
Rolled into a park.
Opened up.
Gave people in lawn chairs a show.

My stage — Celebrate Creativity:
Rolls onto the internet.
Opens up in a podcast app.
Gives people sitting in kitchens, cars, and retirement homes a show.

He solved a 1960s–1970s problem: “How do we bring good entertainment to people who don’t have a stage?”

I’m solving the 2020s version: “How do we bring good stories, music history, and imagination to people who don’t have time… or can’t travel… or just need company?”

We were chasing the same thing: to make creativity portable.

Dad used 2x4s, steel, wheels, paint, and a pickup.

I use a Mac, a mic, and a feed.

Dad had to park in the right spot so everyone could see.

I have to tag the episode right so everyone can find it.

Dad measured his success in how many people showed up in the park.

I measure mine in how many countries tune in.

Take the show to the people, don’t make the people come to the show.

And I like to think — and this is personal — that every time I upload an episode, I’m kind of rolling that old Staunton stage back into Gypsy Hill Park and saying,

‘Okay folks… we’re set… let’s put on something worth hearing.’”

I’ve heard people say that as you get older, the goal is to simplify — do less, narrow things down, slow the pace. I understand that. But I’ve found the opposite is true for me. At 75, the thing that keeps me awake, alert, and actually looking forward to tomorrow is making something. Not scrolling, not watching, not even just reading — making.

Doing this podcast has become the best kind of mental workout. Every episode asks me to remember dates, pronounce names, trace influences, tell stories, and, most of all, connect the past to the present. Medical folks will tell you: keep your mind active. Well, nothing keeps your mind active like saying, “I need a 10-page script by tonight.”

And I don’t do it in a vacuum. I do it while I’m mostly at home, caring for someone else, with a smaller physical world than I used to have — but with a bigger creative world than I’ve ever had. That’s the surprise of this season of life: the body may have limits, the schedule may have limits, but the imagination doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo.

I also know I’m not inventing this out of nowhere. My late father was an extremely creative man. He had that quiet habit of turning ideas into realities. I didn’t copy every talent he had, but I did inherit that impulse: “Let’s see what we can make.” Celebrate Creativity is, in a way, me carrying his line forward — saying to the world, “Here’s something beautiful, strange, unexpected… let’s enjoy it together.”

So if you’re wondering why a 75-year-old man is still talking to ghosts of composers, writers, toys, and occasionally printers — it’s because creating things keeps me alive. It gives me a purpose, and it reminds me that curiosity is not a young person’s game. It’s a human game. And as long as I can keep asking, “What’s the next episode?” I know I’m still in it.

If you listened to my dad’s stage in Staunton, thank you. If you’re listening to Celebrate Creativity now, thank you. It means the show got from his hands to my voice. And that’s a great birthday present.” 

Join Celebrate Poe for Episode 501 and a look at Chuck Berry - a great musician that I saw in my early teens and one of the pioneers of rock 'n' roll.

Sources include: the telltale heart and Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe and ChatGPT four 

Thank you for listening to celebrate creativity.