When I was a child, if my vague memory is correct, my family had at least one and maybe two sets of encyclopedias. Encyclopediæ, if you prefer the Latin-influenced plural. I assumed, I think, the contents were factual; their legitimacy was not a matter for debate. Since that time of innocence and gullibility, though, I have developed a healthy skepticism of reference books that purport to deliver reality. I tend to question the reliability of history books, in particular; historians are just as subject to bias and problematic interpretation as anyone else. Lately, in particular, fanatical right-wingers have taken to rewriting history or, at least, selectively allowing questionable “history” to be taught in schools and, more recently, universities. The infusion of religious beliefs and revisionist interpretations of historical events into historical content is especially troubling. I cannot lay all the blame on real and artificial historians for my suspicions about what the world presents as factual. My understanding of the world has been influenced by stories told by friends, friends’ parents, my own parents, teachers, and many others. Sometimes, those stories were tales based on misunderstanding. Looking back, sometimes they were intentionally misleading. And, occasionally, they were bald-faced lies. When an information resource thought to be reliable is exposed as incorrect and/or corrupt—for whatever reason—trust begins to dissolve. Eventually, trust is replaced by doubt. Or disbelief.
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Frigid temperatures and snow, sleet, and/or freezing rain. My computer weather widget claims the present outdoor conditions are as follows: temperature, 15°F; precipitation: heavy snow. I can verify neither because: 1) if there is snow, the pre-dawn darkness hides the flakes from me; and 2) I have no interest in replacing reasonable comfort with frostbite. By the time I finish thinking about what I want to write—and then write it—sunlight may have begun illuminating the day. And, if the temperature follows its usual morning routine, it will have dropped a bit by the time daylight arrives. Repetition. Ritual. Routine. The world continues to spin out of control, while we observe and shrink back from interfering.
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I could live on the outskirts of an imaginary small town, a place flush with all the most attractive features a small liberal arts college brings. My house might sit on a large piece of acreage property, hidden from sight of roads and highways by a dense forest. A river running through the forest would empty into a large, warm, body of water on the other side of the property. The town’s business district—comprising mostly restaurants, bars, art supply stores—would be adjacent to the college; only a few blocks long and wide. Surrounding the business district, all residential housing would be within easy walking distance. There’s more to it, but the townspeople would want to leave it at what I have already said; they would value their privacy and their good fortune…living in a place that does not require constant growth to prosper, only resident commitments. It is possible to live in that imaginary town. I have lived there for years, but only sporadically; when I feel the world closing in on me, I close my eyes and can see and feel and smell that imaginary place. Some moments, I consider moving there permanently. It would be an extraordinarily exciting experience. But others would not see it that way; they would look at me, sitting slumped in a comfortable chair with a whisper of a smile on my face, and label me catatonic.
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Still no daylight. The temperature has dropped one degree, to 14°F. Reports from the surrounding area suggest the widget was correct; snow fell overnight and may be falling now. Roads are slick and treacherous, early-morning observers say. Mi novia picked up Phaedra from the cat-motel yesterday afternoon, so silence in the absence of the cat has been replaced by troubling noises, suggesting the cat is breaking things, clawing where she should not, and/or dispensing guttural howls as she prepares to attack and mutilate or kill a phantom adversary.
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In an unexpected move, I stayed up past 10 last night. So I got up a bit after 4. In the two-and-a-half-plus hours since, I have grown tired of sitting in an increasingly uncomfortable desk chair. I shall, therefore, return to bed for a pre-dawn nap.
