An Interview With Larry Miller
Larry Miller calls the Bach Flower remedies “the most remarkable healing system I know.” Which counts for something, since this 34-year-old herbalist, who lives alone in Cedar Grove, North Carolina, knows a good deal about healing. A quiet man, with warm, lively eyes, Larry has studied herbs, on his own, for seven years. He manages Harmony, a Chapel Hill natural foods store. And, with some friends, he’s about to start marketing a new natural food candy bar called Power Pak.
An Interview With Tony Waldrop
Tony Waldrop set a world record for the indoor mile (3:55) in 1974 as an undergraduate at the University of North Carolina. He surprised the running world by deciding not to try for the 1976 Olympic Games. He was widely considered to be the only American capable of making a serious challenge in the mile to gold medal winner and world record holder John Walker of New Zealand( 3:49). Waldrop is no longer running competitively. He is in graduate school in physiology at UNC.
The WDBS Story
I’ll say it right away: I Love WDBS.
Some Hard Facts About A Hard-To-Get Radio Station
There’s one thing about DBS that everyone hates: The signal.
An Alternative View Of Alternative Radio: Some Words From The Man Who Started It All
More than any other person, Robert Chapman is responsible for the creation of WDBS. If it weren’t for Chapman, DBS would probably still be a campus AM station at Duke, and 107.1 FM would be the FM soul voice of WSRC, the black-format daytime AM station in Durham.
Dr. Edward Bach (1886-1936) was a British pathologist, bacteriologist, and practicing physician turned herbalist. He is most known in conventional medical history for his discovery of a new system of vaccination, less so for the herbal remedies he found to replace it. Early in his career, while working at the University College Hospital, and in private practice, he observed that the same treatment did not always cure the same disease in all his patients and that those with a similar personality would often respond to the same remedy. Conversely, those of a different temperament, though diagnosed as having the same disease, seemed to need a different remedy. He saw that many people were not cured; their pain was merely alleviated and their symptoms suppressed. He wished to find a simple method of healing the whole person, even those with diseases thought chronic and incurable. Bach realized that the majority of the medical profession was so concerned with the particular disease that they ignored anything other than the patient’s bodily symptoms. The notion of psychosomatic medicine, that many bodily illnesses are mental in origin, had not yet become accepted. Dissatisfied, Bach began to look for other methods of healing and thus became interested in a branch of medicine called the Immunity School.
Dissatisfied with the surface observation (“they’re like parachutes,” “first cousins to the umbrella,” “dwarf children of nuclear explosions”), the experienced observer pops off the cap and, with his spectacles, carefully examines the under-portion of the mushroom crown. Although there are many varieties (ranging from the psychotrophic psilocybin mushrooms that sprout after rain from cow dung near Palenque, to the delectable bottled version at Safeway), under each crown we can find the likeness of a 35mm slide carrousel — a sort of supple file cabinet, a community of papers bound in fungus, the collected manuscripts of unknown scholars, hermit poets, classics preserved in these ancient gills, in files with the breath of these cavefish.
We took it as just so much more enemy venom when Nikita Kruschev said the Russians didn’t have to fight the United States because we would spend ourselves out of the ‘race.’ Enemies are always wrong; who would believe a character like that?
The statistics are clear — nearly 85% of all divorces are related to unsafe housekeeping practices and the neglect of personal appearance by American housewives. These are but a few of the startling facts revealed in a study by Dr. Axel Romany and Ms. Phyllis Lustrum, whose interviews with divorced couples has led to a heated controversy among professional marriage counselors. The report claims that ex-wives commonly believed that their husbands were “lazy, “unsafe,” or “dangerous” around the house, and that these feelings of insecurity contributed significantly to their eventual divorce.
I have no doubt that we are partisan when we look at art, its meaning and worth, just as I have no doubt that all art is partisan, too. College professors would have us believe that a science of criticism exists which would enable us to make judgements we can be sure of — and it does — but, unfortunately, such a science doesn’t cover enough of the elements which constitute a work of art or our ways of judging it. After teaching English in the universities for six years, I decided that criticism provides us mostly with an excuse to enjoy what we are already predisposed to like, and, given the emotional limitations of the university world, what we are capable of teaching. (After mortgage and children and insurance and tenure what we like in art is frequently what we are.) The eighteenth-century man likes the eighteenth-century, its Popes and Johnsons, its values, its classical measure— and even in its failures he is inclined to find the shape of good intention.
It was with some misgivings that I approached this month yet another memoir of rural Southern Life. The subject has been exhausted by a swarm of admittedly excellent Southern writers, and I am past the point, anyway, of thinking that going barefoot in the summer, fetching water from a well, cooking vegetables with sidemeat, and shitting in an outhouse produce a particularly more virtuous, poetic, or tragic character than any other upbringing. I have also somewhat lost interest in those details in themselves, as striking as they once may have been for a man from my urban background. I am ready, in fact, for the new wave of Southern writers, those who were brought up in mobile home parks and spent their youths exploring shopping malls.
Chances are this story makes no sense, except in the overheated vestibule of my own imagination. So proceed at your own risk. Maybe you’ll find it scary. Maybe merely laughable. I’d laugh, too — except it hurts. In my heart, America is still democracy’s sweet maiden, youngest and fairest of the great nations. In my foolish heart. To see her with matted hair and breath fouler than the cities, a crooked old witch with blood in her eye, is no joke. I happen to live here.