And What of the Harrowing Orgasm?

What might flood a man’s thoughts as he witnessed a convivial execution? How would one’s psyche come to grips with a harrowing orgasm? What parts of the brain would shiver and convulse in response to learning of a person’s eye being gouged from its socket by the tender, calloused hands of a bloodthirsty saint? Adjectives used in unexpected ways cause momentary ruptures in our synapses, shredding expectations into tight, excruciating ribbons that squeeze the softness out of what might otherwise be gentle thoughts resting comfortably on observations.

Have I sufficiently set the stage? Have you prepared yourself for what may come next? No, I doubt you have. For you have no inkling of the schemes I am hatching other than the clues I’ve offered up; those clues may well be red herrings, false flags, smoke screens, or bait of the bait-and-switch variety. Writers, or demons claiming other another brand name or insignia, lie under the acceptable pretense of entertainment.

The stage I set is an ephemeral drape, a curtain so thin as to flail in a gentle breath exhaled ten feet from the veil. I’ve lied to  you; I’ve led you on with the objective of making you angry with me, the bastard you trusted to offer you a legitimate reason to keep reading. Instead, I lured you toward a precipice beyond which a flood of lies awaits you.  And what of the harrowing orgasm? Yes, what of it? What of it, indeed. You were manipulated. Not because an objective required it, but only because the opportunity to manipulate was so tempting and so unmistakably visible.

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Ritual

When I awaken these days, I understand more clearly than in the not-so-distant past the solace in ritual. Ritual offers comfort. Carefully practiced ritual grants predictability and uniformity in times of chaos. Ritual provides at least a temporary protective shelter from one’s sense that an angry cosmos—furious at humanity for its monstrous efforts at self-destruction—seems bent on usurping humanity’s suicidal tendencies by drowning us in disruption and savagery. Ritual calms frayed nerves and tender memories buried and bruised by ugly realities.

For instance, this morning I awoke to commence what has become my morning ritual:

  • Weigh myself;
  • Record my weight;
  • Make a cup of coffee;
  • Scan the southeastern sky, just to look and appreciate it;
  • Begin to prepare breakfast, in anticipation of my wife waking up.

Today’s ritual involved more than the usual routine, in that I made miso soup. Making a miso soup breakfast is a ritual in an of itself, at least the way I make it. First, I take a large pot from the pot-rack and put it on a burner on the stove. I carefully measure the proper amount of water (lately, two and one-half cups) into it.  I turn on the burner, then take the container of miso paste from the refrigerator and, using a soup spoon, scoop roughly two tablespoons of miso paste from the container and drop it into the water. As the water warms, I cut a large chunk of firm tofu and slice and dice it into half-inch cubes and drop them into the water. Next, I slice several mushrooms and drop them into the pot. I slice a scallion into thin rings and put them in a tiny bowl. I then cut several radishes into quarters and place them into another tiny bowl, paying careful attention to their appearance; radishes have to look just “so” in order to serve their proper, calming effect with morning miso. I pour just a bit of dry wakame into a bowl and add a tiny bit of water; almost immediately, it begins to hydrate; I drain the water off, then pour the now-hydrated wakame into the miso soup.

This morning, I deviated from my usual routine in that, in addition to the miso soup and radishes and sliced scallions, I opted to slice a hard-boiled egg in half and put both halves on the table in another tiny bowl, next to the scallions and radishes. I can imagine that, too, will become part of the miso morning ritual.

As is my custom, I have deviated from my intended topic, ritual, down the rabbit hole of breakfast procedures. Perhaps even that is my ritual. At any rate, back to ritual. These series of steps that I follow on many mornings tend to help me stay together, as in remain in one piece, without blowing apart into a million fragments of rage and disgust and molten fear. When I realize the way I use ritual to enable me to pretend there is order when, in fact, there is none, I begin to feel as if I’m uncovering a hidden (or perhaps not-so-hidden) truth about religion. Religion, ultimately, is ritual that’s codified and brewed into the social fabric of communities. I doubt religions arose out of imperialistic designs but, rather, out of the desire for comfort and predictability. But just as rituals can morph into (or form the basis of) obsessive-compulsive disorders, religion can transform from means to seek comfort to efforts to seek control.

And, so, there it is again; I am both intrigued and terrified by ritual. When does a ritualistic offering become a ritualistic sacrifice? At what point does the comfort of ritual become a cage from which there is no escape?

This is the sort of topic of conversation I would find interesting, amusing, and enlightening. But the danger is that, in conversation, it tends to take on a more serious tone than I care for, as if the raconteur believes his stories are more consequential than he has reason to think.

And that leads to a final thought this morning; serious topics need not be steeped in solemnity, nor must they omit frivolity. Ritual, in any form, must be open to fracture because, as Leonard Cohen so aptly put it, “that’s how the light gets in.”

Posted in Philosophy, Religion | 2 Comments

Ella

Ella Squilp thought the idea sounded good. Create a large built-in aquarium for the living room of her monstrous house, stock it with fish, and never worry again about running out of fresh catch for dinner. Plus, as she envisioned it, the aquarium would be an extraordinary conversation piece. It would comprise a ten-thousand-gallon main tank in the center of the “great room,” with submerged, glass-topped channels running  beneath the floorboards. The glass tops of the channels would be integrated into the floor, so guests could see the underwater wonderland as they walked to the kitchen, the guest baths, or toward the guest rooms. Need I say Ella Squilp was obscenely rich? Well, she was. She inherited an enormous fortune from her father who, in turn, had inherited it from his father, and so on for several generations. If one looked carefully at the family’s financial history, one would find it built upon the backs of literally thousands of people who, when their contributions to the family’s wealth declined to familially-determined unacceptable levels, were dispatched into the streets, utterly destitute. The Squilp family might have served as the model for a present-day dynasty.

Ella did not fully grasp the importance of the jobs performed by Clarence and Modesty Devlin, the housekeepers charged with cleaning the aquarium and feeding the fish. Clarence and Modesty had worked for the Squilps their entire adult lives, joining the household staff only a month after they married when they both were twenty-six years old. Ella, who was fifteen at the time they joined the staff, grew up with them. When Ella decided, just after her fifty-fifth birthday, to replace Clarence and Modesty with a younger, cheaper set of housekeepers, she did not realize the gravity of her mistake. Ella knew nothing of fish tank maintenance, nor of the consequences of inadequate aquarium cleanliness. So, she did not know how to train the new staff, “guppies” she called them. She assumed housekeepers, even untrained young ones, would know how to keep the tanks clean. After all, how hard could it be? Functions that could be filled by people of the “working class,” in Ella’s view, could not possibly require much knowledge; the lower classes must have some sort of innate understanding of taking care of dirt and the like, she figured.

It therefore came as quite a shock, then, when a number of her guests at a particularly lavish seafood dinner became quite ill after eating fresh salmon from Ella’s aquarium. When six of thirty deathly-ill guests died, members of the health department staff descended on Ella’s house, testing and measuring all manner of potential causes for the deadly outbreak. And they found them in the aquarium. The new staff members, not knowledgeable of proper aquarium maintenance practices and untrained in their jobs, had fed the fish with foods from the kitchen; the health department learned some of the food had been tainted. And so the food chain cycle had begun. Tainted salmon, looking and tasting absolutely delicious, wrought havoc on Ella’s guests. Fortunately for Ella, she had opted for the shrimp that evening, so she did not fall victim to the ghastly illness that killed some of her guests. But from that evening forward, she found it difficult to convince people to come to her house for dinner. For who is willing to risk one’s life by eating dinner at the home of someone with the apt nickname of “Salmon Ella?”

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Another Visit to the Theatre

My foreign flick frenzy continued unabated on Tuesday evening, when I watched The Wave, (the Norwegian title for which is Bølgen).  Unlike some of the previous flicks, this one cannot be accused of being in the same state, much less the same neighborhood, as an art-house film. No, it is most definitely of the action adventure genre. It was moderately entertaining, but it felt too much like low-creativity mass market American action adventure films for my taste. Quick synopsis: a geologist whose job involves monitoring geologic activities of the steep mountains/crevasses surrounding a fjord. He is about to leave to take a job with an oil company, but just as he is about to leave, the potential for an avalanche, which would cause a giant tsunami, becomes severe. You can imagine (I am sure you can…I know I did) what happens as the geologist tries to save the day, and his family.

Watching the film, though, sparked a recollection of watching, last year, a season of another Norwegian television series called Occupied (the Norwegian title is Okkupert). I loved Occupied and I hope the producers (including the Swedish co-production company that was behind The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo) decide to extend it. It happened again; I got sidetracked. Ane Dahl Torp is the reason watching the film ignited a memory; she is a co-star in The Wave and starred, as well, in Occupied

My wife reminded me of another series that she said I’d like (and which I started to watch a year or so ago but got sidetracked and didn’t) called Borgen. Alas, the Danish series was available on PBS, and my wife recorded it, but she watched it and deleted the recordings (or, maybe, we changed providers and lost all the recorded episodes). According to something I read last night, Stephen King said something to the effect that it was his favorite television series. So, maybe one day I’ll find it and discover I like it; or maybe I’ll discover that my taste does not mirror Stephen King’s. That would be a shame; it would rain all over my parade.

Watching these foreign films and series, especially the Norwegian offerings, has adjusted my mental landscape. I am ready to move to Norway, where I will become moderately proficient in the language and will write compelling books and stories about the country’s foods, its ragged coastline, and the characters who inhabit the inlets and fjords.  Speaking of language, my interest spiked when I learned (while exploring why she seemed so familiar to me) Ane Dahl Torp is the daughter of Norwegian linguistics professor Arne Torp. Aha! Another incidence in which the subtleties of the universe always seem to make their way round to language.

The news this morning says Trump will order, today, the building of “the wall.” Perhaps he not remember the ultimate outcome of Regan’s entreaty, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” The Soviet Union came tumbling down not long after; the wall was breached only two and one-half years after the speech. History has a way of repeating itself, searing its lessons into our minds like angry acid, bent on teaching us lessons we refused to learn when given easier opportunities. I can see the headstone now: “Donald J. Trump: American strongman, murderer of democracy, died under the crushing weight of the U.S./Mexico border wall, after it collapsed on him, his family, and his entire administration.” (See, I couldn’t help myself. Even foreign cinema brings out my loathing for would-be dictators.)

 

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A Roundabout Tribute to Maggie Roche

I’m a fervent admirer of a handful of musicians. People who know me may understand the depth of my admiration for Leonard Cohen, whose deeply meaningful poetry set to music moves me beyond anyone else’s art. Yet, even in the midst of my near-worship of his music, my attachment to his lyrics never translated to a reverence for every aspect of his life. That is to say I never wanted nor permitted my relationship with even the most esteemed musicians to move into the realm of “groupie-hood.”  And it’s been the rare musician whose music has moved me to the extent Leonard Cohen’s music and performances did, and do. But the death of Maggie Roche, of The Roches, on Saturday, January 21, 2017 reminded me that I’ve had fierce attachments to the work of a few other musicians. Like Leonard Cohen, most of what I knew about Maggie Roche and The Roches revolved around their music; the lyrics and the tunes. I did not pay close attention to their lives outside their music; I did not even spend much energy following their music, though I enjoyed it immensely. When I heard a new song, or even an old one from years ago that moved me, it gave me new energy to listen intently to them for awhile before I moved on to whatever else was important in the moment. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that one of the Roche sisters had a daughter, Lucy, with Loudon Wainwright, but I did not know the particulars until this morning, when I did some research to learn who was what and what was who. During that research, I came across the video immediately below (if, over time, it is removed from its embedded spot in this post, I hope to find it on YouTube at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGRxR1MVNk0), in which Suzzy Roche and Lucy Wainwright Roche sing. The song and video are companions to a book Suzzy Roche’s novel, Wayward Saints. I haven’t read it; I may read it one day.

This post was intended, from its inception this morning, to be about Maggie Roche. And it is; it’s just taking a while to get there. Because Maggie Roche, in my experience, was defined by her involvement with her sisters (Suzzy and Terre) in The Roches. As I was reading more about them this morning, I came across another video (below), this one on the part of The Roches‘ website devoted to Terre, that I found moving and uplifting:

Maggie Roche, at 65, was the oldest of the Roche sisters. Perhaps the best way for me to express who she was—the way she lit up the world with her music and herself—is to end this roundabout tribute to her with a video Suzzy posted on The Roches‘ Facebook page (Maggie is the one in the middle):

 

 

Posted in Language, Memories, Music, Philosophy | Leave a comment

Foreign Cinema and Series

I did not intentionally seek out foreign films and television series. It was as if the Netflix series sought me out. First, I stumbled upon Fauda (which means “chaos” in Arabic), an Israeli television series political thriller that captured my interest and then drew me in like a sponge. I binge-watched season one, the only one yet available on Netflix. The fact that its languages were, primarily, Hebrew and Arabic did not bother me; the subtitles were well-done and, after a short while, it didn’t even occur to me that I was reading the subtitles instead of understanding the spoken dialogue.

The next accidental involvement in a foreign series was yet another first-season Netflix find, a fascinating dark police drama-psychological thriller called The Break (La trêve is the original French title), set in a small town in the Belgian Ardennes. Again, I binge-watched the season and I’m desperately awaiting season two. Like the first series, I easily and quickly fell comfortably at ease with the subtitles. The program follows a recently-relocated police inspector, who returns to the town of his youth after a personal tragedy. His first and only “big” case involves the death of an African immigrant footballer and a cadre of people whose flaws may or may not include murdering the young man. For a variety of reasons, The Break reminded me of another foreign crime drama program, this one a British television series called Broadchurch. I understand the third season of Broadchurch will air beginning next month on ITV; I don’t think I will be able to see it until it finds its way to Netflix. A French version of the series Malaterra, may one day find its way to Netflix. An American version of the first season, Gracepoint, wasn’t nearly as satisfying as Broadchurch. As I was exploring the related pieces and discovering which series reminded me of The Break, Netflix suggested to me that I might enjoy watching Deep, another French television series (one season only). I rather like that Netflix has the uncanny ability to read my mind, offering up suggestions of programs that might interest me. But I also find it a bit scary. Let me return to the track from which I ran off.

After realizing I could not longer satisfy my thirst for more of either of the two series (each of which I hope will return with the availability of the second season later this year), I wandered Netflix again and came upon a black comedy gangster flick called In Order of Disappearance (title, in original Norwegian, is Kraftidioten). A mild-mannered snow-plow operator, an immigrant (who migrated from Sweden, I think, but I’m not sure) named Nils, seeks revenge and justice for the murder of his son, who was murdered for a drug “crime” in which he was an unwitting participant. Nils’ attempts at justice ignites a gang war between rival drug bosses, one a locally grown Norwegian pretty boy and the other a Serbian mafia boss. The film is mostly in Norwegian, I think, but there’s Swedish, Danish, English, Serbian, and German thrown in, according to IMDb. It’s funny and violent and bloody; regardless of the gore, it’s an enormously entertaining film, running just shy of two hours.

Though I was not seeking foreign television and films, I am absolutely delighted I came across these gems. My sister-in-law, when she learned that I enjoyed the series, suggested I try to get my hands on A Village in France.  Alas, Netflix offers suggestions of entertainment that might be similar to it, but they do not offer it. Damn! I think I need to keep track of the foreign films and series I watch. These three are by no means the only ones I’ve watched; only the most recent. As I try to remember earlier programs, the ones that come to mind are: Hyena Road (the most recent), a Canadian film about the experiences of Canadian troops in Kandahar Province in Afghanistan that does not rate terribly high on my list and The White Helmets, a British documentary about the horrific experiences of the ongoing Syrian conflict.

Maybe I’m just tired of American television and film or, rather, the silliness of most of it. That’s of course too much of a generalization; there’s plenty on American television and enough coming out of Hollywood to keep me both entertained and intellectually stimulated. But there’s just so damn MUCH coming out; I guess I don’t want to wade through it looking for decent material. It’s easier stumbling across something on Netflix, something that’s been curated for a discerning audience. Does anyone else hate the overuse of that word—curated—of late? It’s as if an entire generation of media writers has come across the word and fallen in love with it. Arghh!

Enough energy devoted to documenting my affection for foreign film; maybe I’ll go look for more.

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An Elegant Endeavor

An elegant breakfast, you see, can spell the difference between joy and disillusionment. Even after consuming every morsel of goodness, every shred of the morning meal that promises sustenance and sovereignty over one’s personal dominion, the elegance remains.

This is how it started.

Even in the aftermath of an elegant breakfast, the carcass stands proud on the plate, daring dishonor—as it turns to run—to show it cowardly tail.

This is how it ended.

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Something Else Entirely

My day began, as it typically does of late, with my morning weigh-in. My weight was the same this morning as it was yesterday, which is modestly disappointing but not unexpected. The pounds do not slide off like a freshly-waxed car exuviates water. (I must acknowledge that I have never before used ‘exuviate’ and, until just now, did not know what it meant; I learned something new today, which, among other experiences, made waking up worthwhile.) To date, twenty-one days into my lifestyle change, I’ve shed 13.8 pounds. As a result, I fit far better into my jeans and my sports jacket than I did three weeks ago. But I’m not writing about my lifestyle change resulting in weight loss, am I? (Well, perhaps I am, but it was not my intent when I started.) No, I am writing to recount what I learned during my visit with a healthcare provider this morning.

My healthcare provider drinks coffee with sugar-free flavoring; sugar-free because she is diabetic. Her husband considers his wife and their two sons (one in college and the other a high school student) “wussies” because they flavor their coffee; he drinks his strong and black. My healthcare provider’s cousin, who is the same age she is (48) is about to retire from the armed forces (Air Force, I think). He wants to move to Australia and work in a surf shop; his dream is to become a beach bum. He and his wife (who is Vietnamese) and daughter live in Hawaii at the moment; his daughter (and a son, I believe) would stay in the States if he moves to Australia.  My healthcare provider knows when her high-school-aged son arrives at school because an app on her phone signals her when he arrives (the app is based on GPS). I learned, too, that my healthcare provider would happily retire early and instantly if she came into a large financial windfall. That notwithstanding, she seems to enjoy a collegial relationship with her co-workers, at least one of whom periodically tries new flavored coffees and, when she comes across one that does not appeal to her, gives the unused portion to my healthcare provider to share with her sons.

Now, why am I exposing all of this information about my healthcare provider? I relay this information only to demonstrate that, if one pays attention, one can gather enormous volumes of information that can prove useful to one’s writing. With just the smattering of information I gathered this morning (I did not really gather it; I simply absorbed what was being shared), I could easily create a compelling character for a story.  And, I suspect, one day I will. I will incorporate her red hair, her attractive smile, and her blue-green eyes into a character. I will paint a character study of this woman, using my memories of this morning’s rather one-sided conversation, revealing a believable character. And then I will adapt her attributes and experiences in such a way as to make her into a more intimate, complex, enormously attractive character with stunning but believable flaws, flaws that make her at once compelling and offensive.

Perhaps I will challenge this character’s better judgment by presenting her with an opportunity for a torrid affair with a patient; she will face a choice between comfortable boredom and uneasy, dangerous excitement. Or, maybe I will have her discover that her husband is having an affair with her best friend; she could be forced to decide between the hard work of salvaging their relationship or breaking free of an emotional connection that has, for too many years, been kept afloat with baling wire and acidic perseverance.  But, instead, maybe the challenges won’t rely on the old standby of romantic fire or dead ember; maybe the challenges will revolve around the simultaneous collapse of both her and her husband’s jobs, putting them face-to-face with the potential of losing everything because they’ve never saved their money and, instead, spent it on their kids. There are so many options!

Oh, wait! I just had another idea! She could go home from work one day to find the sinks and tubs stopped up. After her husband tries and fails to find the cause, they hire a plumber, who discovers a blockage in their main sewer line. The blockage is the body of a child, only a few weeks old; the blockage is between the house and the city sewer line, so it must have come from the house. How could someone have put the child’s body in the sewer line and who would have done it?  Nah! I don’t like that idea after all. No, perhaps the way to introduce tension into the story is to have the family sitting around the dinner table one night, reviewing their days with one another, when suddenly they hear the news that Russian forces have crossed into Alaska and have captured Fairbanks. Or, maybe astronomers have revealed stunning news about the sun; its fuel sources will be depleted in a matter of ten to thirteen years, so the human race has more serious problems to content with than religious wars.

Or maybe something else entirely.

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Reflecting on What’s to Come

Let me preface my comments with these words: I absolutely despise Donald Trump; I believe he is a despicable human being whose rise to the Presidency cannot be explained entirely with logic. How a madman with the capacity to undermine all the good progressive work that has been done since our country’s founding became President is beyond me. If the United States survives his time in office, I will inch just a bit little closer to believing in miracles.  Given the man’s utter absence of morality and the lies spewing forth from his mouth and his fingers, I absolutely understand the outrage well over half the citizenry feel toward his every word. There, that’s out-of-the-way. Now, let me get to the heart of my message.

The strategies employed by the Democratic Party and its adherents (and I include myself in the latter group, but not the former) in the attempt to retain the White House badly miscalculated the public’s mood and, worse, ignored some very real fear and pain. “We” Democrats overlooked the fact that, in spite of all the good done by President Obama during his tenure, our priorities did not run parallel with the priorities of an enormous swath of the populace. What we believe is the good-spirited humanitarianism that drove our policy platforms is viewed differently through a different lens; if we remove our rose-tinted glasses, we might get a glimpse at the rage that led to a lunatic getting his hands on the nuclear codes. Almost as important, though, we might get a glimpse at how our own behaviors, and not just the policies we espouse, contributed to a backlash that—unless we take corrective action—will continue to erode our ability to make progress toward our objectives. Let’s remember that phrase: “our objectives.” We will need to revisit that in this discussion.

Republicans in general, and a number of independents—and a great many Democrats— view our liberal attitudes with deep skepticism and, indeed, loathing. They view our empathy for immigrants, for example, not as embracing humanitarian charity and decency but, instead, as evidence of our utter disregard for people whose jobs have disappeared or who believe our efforts to improve the treatment of and care for immigrants as a slap in the face of Americans who, in their eyes, are being ignored. They see championing the rights of women to control their own bodies not as an indication of our deep respect for individual liberties but, instead, as evidence of our utter disregard for human life. Our support for free (or even affordable) college tuition is indicative, in their eyes, of at least three fundamental flaws in our thinking: 1) support for the college-bound and college-educated suggests, in their minds, disrespect for those who do not choose college; 2) they see the commitment of free tuition as representative of a handout that does not require an equal commitment by the recipient (after all, tuition support to person who have served in the military (the GI bill) requires a prior commitment) and 3); ‘free’ is never free; they think we are astonishingly naive to think that money to provide free tuition will just magically appear.

Before we begin planning how we are going to correct such absurdly ill-informed ideas about liberals/progressives/Democrats, let’s look in the mirror, shall we? Progressives (I’ll lump all of us in one container for the moment), at least vocals progressives, tend to view Republicans with distrust and their policy positions with disgust. We view their staunch opposition to tightening immigration policies and processes as evidence of their inhumanity; after all, it’s obvious they simply don’t care about the plight of immigrants, even those who flee oppressive regimes in search of freedom and a more serene life…right? We assign sinister motives to their opposition to amnesty for illegal immigrants. We view their opposition to abortion as evidence of their disregard for the rights of women and their fanatical worship of a fertilized egg as an indication of their warped understanding of life and death. And their opposition to free college tuition? It’s a hard-hearted effort to punish and subvert intellectual growth and development.

Both conservatives and liberals in recent years have become increasingly intractable in their positions. As they have solidified their philosophies around immutable ideas, they have built fortresses to protect those concepts from incursions that might lend flexibility to hard and fast positions. That amounts to an unwillingness to bend, even a little, on matters that seem  injurious to certainty. Both camps, then, are unwavering in their insistence that only “their” side’s positions should find their ways into governing principles. Given the results of the recent election, that suggests that only one side or the other will get to have a say in the direction of the country. And, if the current administration screws up royally (as I fully expect it to do), then the next time it may be “our” turn to play the steadfast ruler who’s unwilling to flex. As the ball bounces back and forth from election to election, the divisions deepen and widen into lacerations far worse than political discord; they turn into social disintegration. I wrote those sentences as if they were forecasts; no, they are history lessons and the history is fresh and ugly and beneath the bandages are ugly festering wounds.

Remember when I mentioned “our objectives?” What are our objectives? Is our intent simply to impose our liberal/progressive will on a population that does not share our world view? And is it the intent of conservatives to do the same, relegating us to impotent entities that just happen to share their world, but not their rights and privileges? And who defines what “our” objectives are? We, liberals and conservatives alike, ought to ask and insist on getting (and giving) answers to those questions.

Ultimately, as humans first and Americans second, I think we need to come to grips with the reality that we do, indeed, share objectives that are—if we allow ourselves to admit it—identical from person to person, and from culture to culture. We all want to be, and for others to be, happy. Here, I use the term to mean sufficiently free of painful burdens to enable us to enjoy life.

Despite my frequent intractable positions on all manner of issues, I suspect I am like many people who understand, down deep, that no matter how fervently we believe in our philosophies, we know we cannot always have our way. We know we must compromise on matters of principle that we feel should not be subject to compromise. We know we must hold firm to our convictions, but we must identify a very few that are so supremely important that we would be willing to die or to kill for them. The rest are subject to compromise; not based solely on an economic model but, rather, on a model dedicated to reaching the ultimate aim of happiness.

I think that means liberals and progressives will have to come to grips with making some difficult compromises. The same difficulties will face conservatives. For example, liberals may have to concede that, in order to form a more perfect union, abortions might be restricted in certain circumstances and/or must be actively discouraged. And conservatives may have to concede that, as much as they abhor the concept of abortions, they may have to be allowed except in “extreme” circumstances.  Liberals may have to be willing to tolerate much tighter border controls and more intrusive and harsher means of dealing with violators. Simultaneously, conservatives may have to force themselves to recognize that the price of democracy is the humane and caring treatment of people who, fleeing from oppressive circumstances, seek asylum in the United States. Liberals may be forced to admit that the potential costs of a burgeoning national debt included forced hard choices between Medicare and free college tuition. Conservatives may have to acquiesce to a higher tax burden on everyone, with an emphasis on high income earners, in order to ensure safety nets that they may one day need.

As I look across the country at the deep divides we face as a nation, I think I see ways we can scale back the growing hatred (and that’s not too harsh a word) between left and right. Both sides need to scale back their rhetoric and their stridency. I’m not suggesting abandoning any principles here, just adding a filter to the interactions, a filter including respect and decency. Attacking the other side as people is a sure path to failure. Attacking positions and policies with logic and defending those positions with rational arguments instead of rage can go a long way toward healing wounds. Rather than attacking the opposition as imbeciles (a tactic of which I’ve been guilty more frequently than I care to admit), we ought to argue against positions, while trying to acknowledge why an opponent might hold the position. Ultimately, I really believe we’re all trying to achieve happiness. If we can begin work by seeking to give one another reason to believe we’re looking for the same thing, we might be more likely to make progress.

The marches that took place yesterday across the country were, for the most part, positive examples of stating positions and advancing arguments. I think we must be careful, though, not to position those marches and ones like them purely as opposition attacks. Rather, I think careful messaging needs to take place to ensure that the needs and desires of the election’s “winners” will not be ignored because their happiness, too, is part of the outcome we’re all seeking.  We need to craft messages that clearly articulate that “our messages” are, truly, “OUR” messages.  We must enlist opponents to help us understand their needs and be willing to compromise so that their needs, and ours, can be met.

The suggestions, though they may only have been implied, that the progressive agenda would command every ounce of energy in a new Democratic administration, might have been the worst suggestions we could have made.  I, for one, am truly and completely tired of stalemate and obstinacy on the part of both Democrats and Republicans. I am ready for compromise, though agreements reached through compromise will be painful for me to accept. If liberals and progressives deal purely in obstruction like their Republican counterparts did during the Obama administration, our desires and our dreams will go down in flames; and the conflagration will be deserved.

Posted in Communication, Compassion, Education, Empathy, Philosophy, Politics, Wisdom | 2 Comments

Rich Rich Rich

Those of you (I’m not there yet) who subscribe to Amazon Prime—or who otherwise spend your hard-earned and/or studiously saved dollars in pursuit of helping Jeff Bezos topple his latest financial record in favor of building an even greater financial colossusmight find the following chart interesting. You may also find it interesting to know that Bezos, among the richest eight men in the world, is one three of the eight several super-rich individuals who have not signed the “Giving Pledge,” the commitment by many of the world’s richest people to dedicate their wealth to philanthropy. The other two who seem to eschew the idea of pledging their wealth to benefit humanity in general, as opposed to their own descendants exclusively, are Spanish billionaire Amancio Ortega and Mexican business magnate Carlos Slim Helú.

The second chart below illustrates the variations in wealth growth (or shrinkage), by “class,” in the USA. The chart reveals some pretty unpleasant disparities. But another chart I viewed this morning shows that the shrinkage in USA wealth among the middle class paralleled the dramatic growth in wealth among the world’s poorest populations. So, for example, the middle class in Asian countries grew at an astonishing rate, lifting millions upon millions of people out of poverty. But that glorious humanitarian success pales in comparison to the adjustment in the USA; it’s time to “Make America Great Again” by doing all we can to rip those hard-earned dollars from Asian families, boosting our own incomes and slashing Asians’ incomes to more appropriate levels. Or, at least, that’s what the narcissist-in-chief would have us believe.

Courtesy of: Visual Capitalist
Courtesy of: Visual Capitalist
Posted in Economics | Leave a comment

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News

As if a nasty cyst in the White House weren’t enough, there’s one on my wrist. According to my self-diagnosis, based on extensive internet research (AKA a quick Google search), it’s a ganglion cyst. At least that’s what I think and hope. I’d rather not believe it an alien being, ready to erupt through my skin and devour my face. I’m thinking I’ll test my proficiency with a scalpel, using a series of graphic representations of surgical removal of ganglion cysts as a guide. That will save me the cost of paying an insurance premium. Aside from slipping and slicing through an artery, what could go wrong (aside, of course, from deadly infections, unfathomable pain, and severed tendons)?

Posted in Health | 2 Comments

A Sad Day

Today is a sad day for the United States of America. After eight years of a President who is arguably the most poised, dignified, decent, and respectful person to have ever held the office, the position will be assumed by an arrogant narcissist whose behavior is best described as irrational, bullying, sociopathic, and bordering on (or crossing the border beyond) psychopathy.

It is entirely possible, though improbable, that some of Trump’s policies will have positive effects on the economy or on some other aspects of American life. But I am deeply concerned that the damage he does to America’s standing in the world and the damage his personality does to the sense of who we are as Americans will irrevocably harm this country for generations to come; perhaps forever. Trump is a carnival barker, a con man whose need to feed his fragile self-esteem far exceeds any modest interest he may have in furthering the interests of the American people.

If there is any justice in the world, Trump’s time in office will be cut very, very short. Whether through impeachment, resignation, or some other means of removal, I hope justice prevails.

Posted in Philosophy | Leave a comment

Lambs and Slaughter

Where did we go wrong? How did a nation dedicated to justice and freedom, a nation ostensibly predicated on the assertion that all men are created equal, come to this? How can it be that, on January 20, 2017, Donald J. Trump will be inaugurated as President of the United States? I think the vast majority of Americans, both those who voted for Trump and those who voted for another candidate, failed to fully comprehend a key message he espoused: there’s too much political correctness. His supporters interpreted that message as a condemnation of the “left leaning” Democrats’ tendency to preach tolerance and brotherhood and equal opportunity in the midst of undefined economic pain and a “trumped up” fear of the “other” in the world. His opponents read his message as code for intolerance, racism, xenophobia, and virulent nationalism. Both failed to understand.

His message was this: while we view our Constitution and Bill of Rights as if they were sacrosanct, in his view, they are not. In his view, our governing documents are playthings for the rich, playthings subject to revision or repeal without the slightest hint of patriotic reserve. Political correctness prevents the rich from grabbing and holding onto perverse political power that serves only their own deviant, egotistical, narcissistic self-interests. So, yes, for him and his cronies, there’s too much political correctness. Political correctness, to that bloated piece of putrid orange excrement—seething in the stench of self-serving entitlement—means restraint of plutocratic lust. Not all of us missed it; but enough did to enable a lunatic with a fanatic desire for self-gratification to take office.

The words “lamb” and “slaughter” flood my mind this morning.

Posted in Politics | 1 Comment

A Community

Last night was the second HSV Open Mic Night I’ve organized. I thought the first one, on October 10 last year, was successful. But, then, I didn’t quite know how to define success; it was, after all, the first such event I’ve undertaken to organize and I hadn’t quite settled on what success might look like. When I went into last night’s event, I still hadn’t decided what success might look like; at the end of the evening, I knew. It looked exactly like last night’s event.

Yesterday morning, the event was shaping up as an evening in which five performances would take place. By the time the program was over last night, just a bit after nine o’clock, eleven individuals or groups had performed, the final performance having received a standing ovation. That’s what an open mic event is supposed to look like; people show up and, if there’s time, they perform.

I thought all the performers did a magnificent job. And the Coronado Center, especially Craig Annen, the manager, performed above and beyond, ensuring the musicians and performers had what they needed to look and sound and be their best. I was impressed with Craig and his team. The only poor performer last night was the photographer; he ought to be replaced.

For my own record, here’s what last night’s HSV Open Mic Night looked like:

Chloe Stainbrook, guitar and vocals (a middle school student!)

Courtney Stanage, formally-trained pianist, played an Elton John medley.

David Legan

Ed Bayer, told a George Carlin tale

John Chapman, Emcee extraordinaire!

Linda Black, read Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, which received a standing ovation!

Mike Catlett, Steve Skubish, and Dan Chandler, three-fifths of Common Ground Band.

Myra Rustin read “The Sound,” a poem, in a jazz conversation with John Leisenring on Trombone

Philip Doyle played and sang a song he wrote.

Toby Hamilton told the story of how she got her name.

Two Guys, the feature performers: Jameson Burton and Tai Nishiuchi

Posted in Music | Leave a comment

Feasting with Friends

My failure to photographically record yesterday’s food frenzy is unfathomable. How could I, after spending the better part of two days preparing an extraordinary feast, forget to take pictures of the final product? I cannot explain. I cannot justify my oversight. I will never forgive myself for the lapse in mental acuity that permitted those visually gorgeous experiences to pass unrecorded. Oh, well, it’s done. Nothing to do but accept it and decide to either let it go or recreate the entire thing so I can take pictures. I am not mad; I will let it go. But before I do, I must record for posterity and my own future recollective joy the components of the unphotographed feast. Our hors d’ouevres/tapas feast consisted of the following:

  • Albondigas de Cordero a la Hierbabuena (Lamb Meatballs with Mint)
  • Cauliflower Fritters Topped with Yoghurt & Caviar
  • Cucumber Tapas
  • Marinated Shrimp
  • Spanish Chorizo Poached in Red Wine
  • Cubes of Smoked Pork Loin
  • Mushrooms Stuffed with Italian Sausage
  • Radishes Dressed with Goat Cheese and Toasted Cumin Seeds
  • Gochujang Mixed Nuts
  • Gochujang Deviled Eggs
  • Traditional Deviled Eggs
  • Chocolate-Olive Bread
  • Cherry Tomatoes*
  • Pickled Asparagus*
  • Green Olives Stuffed with Jalapeños and Garlic Cloves*

Only the last three items (*) required no effort by us, save opening a jar. The rest came together over the course of two days in the kitchen. The occasion? We had long promised some neighbors a feast in reply to one they prepared for our enjoyment. And we had promised we would introduce them to some friends we thought they might enjoy (rare people where we live, people who share our mutual political and social perspectives). So, we finally found a date that would work for all of us. Seven of us came together, beginning with a blind taste test of four wines (all from the same vintner) and that monstrous spread of hors d’oeuvres/tapas. None of us correctly identified all four wines (we tasted Merlot, Zinfandel, Pinot Noir, and Cabernet Sauvignon; I got just one out of four), suggesting that it’s probably pointless, when buying wine in restaurants, to say anything beyond, “I’d like a red wine, please.”

By the time we had waded our way through all four bottles of wine (and finished another half bottle) and had eaten as much of the banquet as we could without exploding, we were seven sated souls. I rated only one of the dishes (the chorizo) unworthy of the rest; it tasted fine, but cutting and chewing it reminded me a little of the shoe leather my mother used to feed me when all the rest of the victuals in the house had disappeared on gone bad (the bit about eating shoe leather is fantasy, but the texture of the chorizo was pretty damn unappetizing). In spite of our efforts to finish it all, we have a refrigerator full of leftovers. The trick is to eat them in sufficiently low volume over a sufficient length of time to allow me to successfully return to my diet, which I destroyed in nuclear fashion yesterday.

Posted in Food, Friendship | Leave a comment

Control

I find it helpful, on occasion, to gently remind myself of the many things over which I have control. The results of that tender reminder are two-fold: 1) I expose my negativity as an obstacle to happiness; and 2) my outlook on the day ahead and life in general brightens. Reading back over the words I’ve just written, I realize I’ve attempted to record something quite simple in abstract terms. Maybe simple examples are better-suited to the discussion.

This morning, as I lost myself in online news and reading of the experiences of friends through their Facebook posts, my hot coffee cooled. I no longer had a warm, enticing mug of dark French roast coffee before me. In its place was a luke-warm, utterly unappealing beverage. When I realized I’d let the coffee cool, I felt annoyance rise in me. But, instead of allowing it to grow and influence the way I experience the rest of the day, I decided—I realized—I had the wherewithal to change it. So, I heated my coffee in the microwave. I had other choices; I could have poured it down the sink and made a fresh cup or I could have decided to switch gears completely and iced it down in a glass for an entirely different treat. I had control over that simple cup of coffee and I exercised control. Over the course of my life, my natural inclination in such a situation has evolved to this: I would have finished drinking the luke-warm mug and silently complained to myself with every sip. That attitude is lazy and crazy.

As I sat reflecting on the control over my emotional reaction to my cooling coffee, it occurred to me that I have similar control over myriad other experiences. Rather than let an automatic reaction take hold and blossom into a full-throated negative experience, I have the capacity to stop that response cold and turn it into something more appealing, more enjoyable. I tested my theory of self-control by reading some online attacks made against the “Hollywood elite” who have called for a general strike against Trump. The type of rants made against the “Hollywood elite” tend to make my blood boil because I find the attitudes of the ranters so thoroughly obnoxious. But, today, I read the rants and imagined myself sitting in front of the ranters, smiling at every new insult. I imagined myself looking into the minds of those hateful people and finding shards of their shattered dreams, dreams broken in the throes of their own tantrums. I looked deeper and found their stunted efforts to understand the world around them; I could see that their efforts to understand the world were thwarted by their undeveloped intellects. As I watched the pieces of scar tissue float through their brains, my anger at their idiocy morphed into pity, the sort of pity one experiences when one realizes an animal, too badly injured to be saved and rehabilitated, must be euthanized.

Following that bizarre trek off the track of normalcy, I returned to my quest for suitable examples of things over which I have control. I control the thermostat in my house; if I want it warmer, I simply turn it up. I control my schedule; sometimes I allow myself to think I am being controlled by it, but in fact I control it. So, too, do each of us. We have the capacity to control how we spend our days. I decide what to eat and when. I decide whether I want the room dark or light. I decide whether to stay indoors or wander out to face whatever experience the weather offers today. I decide how to react to the inauguration of Donald Trump and how to respond to his capacity to destroy what has taken seven generations to build.

Sometimes, when one exercises control over oneself, a gentle reining-in of unexpected anger and angst is appropriate. Other times, when one recognizes his ability to control how his rage and fear are channeled, one realizes his potential power as a component of the tools of radical change.

As you might have guessed, my carefully curated effort to see beyond my reactive self and to enable me to exercise greater control, thereby priming the pump to self-actualization, has gone slightly off the rails. I will return to the track after sufficient adrenaline has found its way back to the safety of the glands from whence it sprayed in high-offense mode.

Posted in Philosophy | Leave a comment

On Racism: I Will Miss the Obamas

A white person—especially a white man—in the United States today, try as he may, is unlikely to be capable of eliminating racism from his thought processes. Our history and the institutional racism upon which this country was built and on which, unfortunately, it still relies are too deeply ingrained in our experience for racism to be washed from our consciousness. It’s simply part of our cultural DNA, an ugly mutant gene that resists extraction. Its demise, I’m afraid, will require generations of careful genetic engineering.

That is not to say racism is excusable; it is not. However, those who try hard to excise it from their psychological makeup ought to give themselves some credit; credit for recognizing its malignancy and credit for making an effort to cut it away. I count myself among those who struggle to eliminate that genetic defect from our psyches. Only through those efforts will our minds be cleansed of an ugly stain. But the effort will not be successful in our lifetimes. So, while we can congratulate ourselves on the efforts, we can never stop making them; claiming ‘success’ would undo all the good we’ve tried to achieve.

More than eight and a half years ago, as the country was preparing to select the party nominees for President of the United States, I put my support behind Hillary Clinton. I liked Barack Obama, but I thought he was too young, too inexperienced, to lead this country. When he won the nomination, I willingly—though not without some concern—stood behind him and supported his candidacy.  I celebrated his election to the Presidency and  hoped the election of a Black man would change the direction of the country. It did, but not in the way I had hoped. Instead of bringing the country together, Barack Obama’s election served to emancipate the racism that had been muffled by years of public education that taught overt racism was intolerable. His election seemed to trigger a signal to overt and covert racists alike that it was now acceptable to stop hiding their racism and, instead, to unleash it on President Obama and his wife in wave after wave of vicious attacks, thinly disguised as partisanship.

I discovered my lingering racism in how I reacted to the attacks on the President and his wife. I feared that they would justly respond in kind, labeling their attackers ignorant racists (which they were and are) and revealing righteous anger. I feared the President and the First Lady would expose rage at the racist barrages flung in their direction; I feared they would play right into the hands of their attackers, giving racists excuses to fling even more racial slurs and epithets their way. That fear of mine revealed my own latent racism; I thought they would respond the way most of us expected them to respond when attacked. What I did not understand is that they have endured a lifetime of racially motivated slurs and accusations. They have perfected grace under the onslaught of racist diatribes and provocations that would shatter most people.  I did not realize, early on, how strong and dignified the President and First Lady were.

During the eight years of his presidency, Barrack and Michelle Obama demonstrated decency and decorum and poise unlike I have seen in my lifetime. Barrack Obama’s presidency was the model of leadership and civility and strength of conviction. Unlike his soon-to-be-successor, President Obama does not take himself too seriously, but he takes the gravity of his responsibilities as Commander-in-Chief with somber resolve. Michelle Obama’s time in the White House brought focus to issues relevant to all Americans; bullying, opportunities for young girls, and healthy lifestyles, among others. And above all, she demonstrated and served as the role model for kindness.

My racism, the racism I once thought I had overcome, revealed itself most visibly in my surprise at how much better a leader President Obama proved himself to be than I expected. In spite of my early reservations about his experience, I thought he would be a good president. But I was surprised at just how good he has been. And I think my surprise came as a result, in part, of the fact that I did not expect a Black man to be so much better than so many of his predecessors. I did not consciously feel that way, but I think my subconscious allowed me to think it.

There were times during his time in office I vehemently disagreed with President Obama. There were times when I felt betrayed by his actions. I recognize his and my philosophies and opinions about a number of important issues conflict; in some cases, dramatically. But during the course of his presidency, I came to understand he stood firmly for what he believed was best for the American people. I came to appreciate and realize that he brought to the office a commitment to justice for all that almost no one else could have done. Because of his racial identity, he brought a unique perspective that no white person could have brought to bear.

Unfortunately, through no fault of President Obama’s, millions of Americans remain trapped in the cesspool that is racism. It would have been impossible for him to reach into every one of their lives to show them the lunacy of their racist attitudes. But I feel certain that his performance in office and his behavior as President of the United States changed a lot of minds.

It’s odd, I think, that my admiration for a Black man in the White House helped reveal to me my latent racism. For that and for so many other things, I am grateful to President Obama. I am grateful for a First Lady who exhibited so much decency and style and class. I will miss them. I will miss them deeply. I hope they remain highly visible role models in the years to come.

Posted in Civility, Philosophy, Racism | Leave a comment

Fog and Mist: People and Countries Get Sick and Die

I learned recently that two friends had heart attacks a few nights ago.  They inhabit opposite ends of the political spectrum, so I can’t blame fear of the nightmare that is about to befall the United States (and the world) for their personal catastrophes. I suppose I can blame age and its accompanying ailments. Our bodies wear out or fall victim to our abuses. I told another friend a few nights ago aging is a treacherous process, not one with which I am prepared to deal. But we have limited choices; we can accept our bodies’ decline, decay, and death or we can accelerate the end game. In either case, the result is the same. The arguments for one process over the other are steeped in emotion. Though I might not feel the same way in a week or a month, at the moment I think the arguments favor the natural process; until, that is, the quality of life is so sorely lacking and one’s days are so painful, so unfulfilling, and so utterly monstrous that an unnatural end is the most merciful one. I think even in decline, insights and wisdom can grow like crystals and, quite possibly, if shared with others, can change lives. So, there’s my maudlin thought for the moment.

Everything else in life, except death, seems so temporary and artificial. Even friendships seem to be interactions of convenience. And what of marriage? Marriages do not survive the absence of one partner, do they? So even that monumental institution, the one we witness falling like elaborate domino shows, is as ephemeral as a veil woven of fog and mist. Individual lives and friendships and marriages are the personal equivalents of social structures and political institutions. Yet we see those personal tragedies unfold around us and we recognize them as real, irrevocable events. But when we watch the collapse of complex political institutions, we stare in stunned silence, not believing (depending on one’s perspective), the carnage (or triumph of good over evil) taking place before us.

During the period of its existence, the Soviet Union was, by area, the world’s largest country and one of the most diverse; more than one hundred distinct nationalities lived within its borders. But, between 1989 and 1991, the country that Americans had grown to see as a permanent adversary came undone. The impossible—the disintegration of the Soviet Union—become not only possible, it became a reality.  The United States is not the Soviet Union. But, like the radical change in policy and position that caused the Soviet Union to come undone, a new administration in the U.S.—predicated on trampling civil liberties, eliminating economic justice for the average citizen, and assuming the stance of domestic and international bully with an affliction of pathological prevarication—has the potential and, I believe, the very real likelihood, of taking our country beyond the brink of self-destruction.

At what point, I wonder, does one choose to cease making personal protests at the undoing of his society? What does it take to direct anger and rage not at a keyboard, but at real people doing real damage? When does it become principled to lay down the pen and pick up the sword? These questions will need answers, I’m afraid, and soon. Our choices may well be between soldier, surgeon, and undertaker. Will we fight, will we help to heal, or will we prepare the body for its place in the ground?

I realize this stream-of-consciousness rant is a series of incomplete thoughts. That’s what my mind is about these days. Fear. Loathing. Pain. Weeping for what’s lost, or about to be.

Posted in Depression, Politics | Leave a comment

Standish

Standish Cole, watching the morning sky as pale light blotted the horizon, hoped for signs of warmth and a day dry enough to take his tractor into the fields. If he couldn’t get into the fields today, the crops would be lost. Along with them, his hopes of making the payments on the land and the tractor would be crushed. Never before had he felt so utterly at the mercy of the weather. Even after the floods two years earlier, when the water took his crops and his wife, he was confident he would prevail and rebuild his farm and his life. This was different. His little remaining confidence felt fragile, like a paper-thin layer of ice on a frozen pond; a beetle could walk across it, but if a mouse were to make the mistake of testing its strength, the creature would drown.

Until recently, Standish refused to allow his mind to wander down paths leading to “what if” the farm failed. But the last two months had proven the power of positive thinking was myth. Too many things had gone wrong to allow himself the luxury of believing in his own capacity for overcoming adversity or his deeply religious neighbors’ admonitions.

“Everything will work out, Standish, the Lord is testing us and He will show us the way.” That was Chloe Webster, whose house burned to the ground when the candles she used for light caught the place on fire after the power was cut to her house for nonpayment.

Steven Pepperman, too, insisted the Lord worked in mysterious ways: “Standish, one day you’ll understand the Lord’s power. He will show you the way out of your darkest hours if you will only believe in Him. I believe we are being tested so that He will show Himself to you as the Almighty God.” Pepperman, too, had perished. He died in the horrific collapse of the Evangelical Redeemer of Faith Bible Church building.

As Standish stood on his porch, waiting for light, he saw a distant cloud bank illuminated by flashes of lightning, then heard the far-away rumble of thunder. He did not move a muscle; his eyes remained fixed on the section of sky where he saw the lightning. Another flash punctuated the morning, this one brighter, followed by a peal of thunder louder and deeper than the first. A third burst of light followed, yet closer, filling the dim morning sky, followed almost instantly by a crack of thunder so loud it shook the foundation of his house. Even before the sound of thunder dissipated, the jarring noise of rain hitting the tin roof sent convulsive shivers through his body.

Standish, the man who had weathered floods and the loss of his wife and who had withstood disdain for his lack of Christian belief, felt a sense of hopelessness envelop him like a choking cloud of noxious gas. He turned toward the door and then stopped and turned around again to look at the gloom.

Maybe this will blow over; just a passing shower.

But he knew this was no passing shower. This was the end. This was the ugly conclusion of a punishment he did not deserve, delivered by something he could not understand, for reasons that he did not care to know. Standish turned around again and stepped inside. He opened a drawer in the table just inside the entry, fishing around under papers and rags until he found it. The pistol he bought twenty years earlier but had never fired, not even once, was there. He opened the cylinder; the six bullets he had loaded when he bought the gun remained in place.  He drew the gun from the drawer, let out an involuntary sigh, and made his decision.

Posted in Fiction, Writing | Leave a comment

Writing Out of Fear

My limited writing of late skirts the edges of frivolity from time to time, then rushes headlong into its muck. Poor writing, they say, is better than none at all. My writing in recent weeks fits the bill of better than none. But now I wonder whether “they” are right? When all I can muster are half-hearted attempts that fall on their faces, might I better serve myself by resting my fingers and allowing my frazzled brain to relax and unwind from what feels like an unending period of angst and anger and fear?

I do not recall whether I read it, or made it up; regardless, this thought resides in my brain: Frantic irrational reactions to fear claim energy best stored for that moment when one must pounce to survive.

That idea seems rational and right at this moment. I read the stories in the news about Trump’s Russian connections and claims about his dalliances with prostitutes and a host of other potentially damning information. Along with those stories, I read frantic reactions, assertions that THIS is the smoking gun we need, THIS is enough to cause us to stop this travesty going forward, THIS better command our attention. I wish the media would simply collude in silence with reliable members of the justice community, passing on information and encouraging behind-the-scenes explorations of best courses forward. The dribbles and drabbles finding their way to the newspapers and fake news sites, which blow up simple things (thereby making everything in the news subject to accusations of “fake news”), enable Trump and his minions to use their well-polished gas-lighting techniques to confuse and obfuscate. Trump does not know how to respond to silence; he cannot understand being ignored. When he baits the media, the media should redirect its attention elsewhere. When he tweets, the media should say, “Trump tweeted…what’s news about that?” and go its way, leaving his tweets to languish in the sewer occupied by his followers.

When enough incontrovertible evidence is amassed, then the pouncing should begin in earnest. Only then. In the interim, a steady stream of citizen resistance should be used to make his way forward hard and unpleasant. The news should report on that resistance and, when the time is right, fill the airwaves and newspapers and social media with FACTS that cannot be disputed. And when Trump and friends gas-light to dispute them, the media must expose, over and over and over, the bastard’s fraudulence.

This experiment in social media governance will not end well. Whether it ends in armed insurrection or martial law or nuclear holocaust, I predict it will not end well.

Posted in Anger, Fear, Government, Politics | Leave a comment

Adrift in an Ocean of Hard Air

I think I’m turning Japanese…

“I think I’m turning Japanese, I think I’m turning Japanese, I really think so…” Those words are from the lyrics of a 1980 tune called Turning Japanese, by the Vapors. From the moment I heard that tune, as nonsensical as it was in many respects, I loved it. I do not, to this day, know why I found it so appealing, but I do. The remainder of the lyrics are not so strange. For example:

I’ve got your picture
Of me and you
You wrote “I love you”
I love you too
I sit there staring and there’s nothing else to do

Oh it’s in color
Your hair is brown
Your eyes are hazel
And soft as clouds
I often kiss you when there’s no one else around

But the lyrics seem to be from two different songs. Yet they fit together. They make an odd sort of sense of madness.

And so I wonder if my fascination with Japanese breakfasts these last twenty years or so has anything to do with my own madness? A madness born of missing opportunities like the song-writer missed his girl? This little philosophical side-trip down a rabbit warren has nothing in particular to do with this post. Or, on the contrary, it may have everything to do with it. Regardless, I will write about this morning’s breakfast with a sense of awe because, for the first time, I made it at my wife’s request! Yes, she actually asked for miso soup! That’s never happened. Heretofore, she has acquiesced to my desire for miso soup because she is a good person and tolerates a lot of strangeness in her husband. “If he wants miso soup,” I can imagine her thinking to herself, “I’ll indulge him. After all, it’s not so very bad, is it? I mean, I can tolerate it from time to time, can’t I, if only to keep him moderately and tolerably sane.

But this morning, she actually requested it. Perhaps she’s turning Japanese, too. Or, perhaps, if you eat foods you do not enjoy for long enough, they become not only palatable, but appealing. I will say this: she did not partake of the cucumbers, saying she would eat them as snacks later on (as in, ” at a time of day more appropriate for the consumption of cucumbers.” She once was that way about radishes and, to a large extent, still is; but she will eat a radish or two at breakfast these days. It’s what you’re used to.

After breakfast, as I was cleaning up the kitchen and putting food back in the refrigerator, I noticed that we have some fresh snow peas. Damn! They would have been the perfect accompaniment to my radishes and cucumbers! Curses! Maledictions! Big damns and little damns!

Were I to turn Japanese, I would have to make some significant changes in myself. First and foremost, I would have to become fluent in Japanese; essentially, it would be necessary for me to become a native speaker. Second, I would have to change my body shape (which is a work in progress) if I were to want to blend in with the population (assuming I were to go to Japan; one need not be in Japan to be Japanese, right?). And radical changes to my world-view would be required, wouldn’t they?

It’s not just Japanese that I think I’m turning. I think I’m turning Icelandic. And Nordic. And Arabic. And French. And Canadian. Wouldn’t the world be a wonderful place if each culture could retain its unique characteristics, yet embrace and value the differences in all other cultures? I’m afraid that’s a bit like wishing for eternal life or an end to world hunger. It’s not going to happen in my lifetime. (Get it?)

I am adrift this morning. I’ve written about this same tune before. Something about it has its clutches around me, keeping me floating through the air, yet inextricably tied to its claws. I am adrift in something like a sea. But this sea is invisible. The waves are dark, foreboding emotions that dash me against what looks like a shore but is, instead, a block of air as hard as a stone wall. The solution to this is, of course, music. I will visit Spotify, where I will create a playlist of tunes I wrote about last October 30; I called my post Eclectica, but I’ll call this new playlist Mourning Becomes a Mirage. And if the playlist does what I hope it will do for me, I will use its title to spur me to write something with the same title. That’s it. That’s what I’ll do this morning while I wait for HVAC repair people and the exchange, later today, of furniture. Onward in pursuit of happiness.

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Sleeping with a Caffeine Buzz and Awakening to Brilliance

I’ve taken to drinking coffee in the evenings in recent days, something I’ve scrupulously avoided in the past for fear of caffeine-induced insomnia. I cannot honestly say whether the coffee is having any effect on my sleep patterns. Even before throwing caution to the wind by drinking a cup or two of strong black French roast in the evenings, sleeping through the night was unpredictable.  Some nights, I might lay awake for hours, without the benefit of coffee; lately, I do not know whether to blame the caffeine or my racing mind for the sleepless hours.

Today, if the gods are smiling down upon me from their perches in the mountains where decency hides, an able technician will come to our house to evaluate our HVAC system, give it a seasonal exorcism, and find and correct the problem that has on a few occasions of late caused a breaker under the house to trip, turning the system off. And if the gods continue to smile throughout the day, two men and a truck from Haverty’s will arrive to exchange three glass-top tables for three wood-top tables; the gods have sneered and snarled for weeks, announcing delay after delay in this process. Today, perhaps, the master clock of all the good times will be re-set to ensure happiness and joy henceforth. Only time will tell. I do hope today will reveal brilliance and beauty more so than days past have done. Again, only time will tell. I wish time would speak a language I understand so I can know what she is saying.

I bought lounging pants yesterday. Not the sort of pants one wears when leaving the house to visit a lounge, but pants one wears about the house when comfort is one’s primary objective. I had not intended to buy lounging pants. My objective was to buy a replacement for our recently-demented indoor-outdoor thermometer that decided it would refuse to display outdoor temperatures if they fell below forty-seven degrees. Alas, none of the indoor-outdoor thermometers we saw satisfactorily excited our neurons. But the pants! They made my neurons leap and dance and sing vaguely erotic hymns in honor of joyful comfort. The pants were cheap and will not last; the pants will last long enough, though, to improve this cold and dreary winter, at least. Considering what I’ve written lately about conspicuous consumption and minimalism, I should be ashamed of myself for buying pants. I should, in atonement, swallow a packet of treble fishhooks and dive face-first into a belching volcano. ‘Should’ and ‘will’ compete for space in my brain and my mouth, along with ‘won’t’ and ‘Calliope.’ How easily my deepest convictions can be flushed into an inconsequential sea.

In today’s mail, I received an envelope from a brother. Among other things, the envelope contained two photos of me. One, which I’ve seen recently and actually have a copy of my own, is my school picture from first grade at Menger Elementary School in Corpus Christi, Texas in the 1960-1961 class. The other is a photo in which I am standing next to my father outdoors next to a car parked on a street. Both of us are looking into the camera with expressions that I can only describe as suggesting disdain for the photographer. I have no idea how old I was at the time. It could have been while I was in college, but I think it’s more likely it was post-college. I wish I knew. I’m wishing a lot lately, am I not? Yes, I am.

Day before yesterday, I bought a new pair of earrings. They are the same style and design of the pair I’ve been wearing for the past year. But the pair I’ve been wearing are showing their age; the chrome is peeling, the underlying copper shows signs of tarnish, and the sheen is long gone. The new pair, on the other hand, fairly gleams. Light cannot settle on them, they are so reflective. So, I have one very shiny earring dangling from one ear and another one, equally as shiny, sitting patiently in a drawer, awaiting its call to action. Hmm. I just described an inanimate piece of metal as having patience. That suggests my linguistic abilities are failing. I must get to word-shaman quickly! I’ll write more when I have nothing to say.

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Evidence of the Endeavor

Today is Day Eight of my effort to lose massive amounts of weight over the long haul. In my defense, I introduce into evidence two photographs, taken today, illustrating the outcome of my effort…not lost weight, but the WAY to losing it. These are not unusual meals; these are relatively typical breakfast and lunch (though, I admit I have never made these nachos in my life before today). But I do eat relatively healthy meals most of the time. I just eat more of them than I should. And I tend toward modeling gluttony. I should have put those statements in the past tense. For I am a changed man! So say I. The proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Well, I shall have no pudding, but I will deliver up an order of proof one day. And with that, I say good day to you.

Zucchini nachos with Mexican salsa, mozzerella, and pepperoni.

Poached egg, Canadian bacon, radishes, white cheddar, encacahuatado sauce (oh, you would not believe this stuff), and a few assertive drops of habanero sauce.

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Taking Shortcuts to Mediocrity

Last night, I adapted a tried-and-true (if overly simple and insufficiently spicy) recipe for Shrimp Fra Diavolo. I adapted the recipe in several ways, the two most obvious deviations being the substitution of cod for shrimp and cauliflower for rice. Cooking cod in a skillet differs rather substantially from cooking shrimp in a skillet, so that element of recipe revisionism started the path down different-dishdom. Cod takes longer and, if not prepared properly, will fall apart. So, I patted the cod filets dry, dusted them with flour, drenched them in an egg wash, and squeezed the flour and egg coating off until just a hint of it remained. After cooking the cod for a total of around five and half minutes (compared to three for shrimp), the remainder of the recipe was as it would have been had I been cooking Shrimp Fra Diavolo. Except, of course, I did not use broccoli rabe in the dish because it was unavailable; I used frozen chopped broccoli instead. And I did not cook rice. Instead, I cauliflower, steamed with boiling water into which I had introduced a few teaspoons of lemon juice. Along the way, because I am lazy, I omitted various steps that traditional Shrimp Fra Diavolo would have included. Instead of crushed tomatoes, I used a nice squirt of Italian tomato sauce from a tube. Instead of a crushed anchovy filet, I used a squirt of anchovy paste from a tube (whose “best by” date was early 2015, but I don’t buy that nonsense meant to sell more tubes of the stuff to fearful consumers). And I omitted the white wine and basil leaves and diced onion.

In short, I pretended to make Shrimp Fra Diavolo, substituting cod for shrimp, using cauliflower instead of rice, leaving out several ingredients during the course of preparing the meal, and taking a few other shortcuts.

The end result? It wasn’t bad, not bad at all. But it did not result in the kind of meal I would have eaten had I stuck to an original recipe, followed the plan, incorporated all the commonly-used ingredients, and dedicated myself to making it “right.” Even with the substitutions, it could have been a more delightful experience, had I not taken shortcuts. But it turned out fine. We were hungry. We did not want to wait the extra time it might have taken to reach a higher rung on the gustatory ladder.  Last night’s meal was more about satisfying hunger than achieving culinary excellence. I think I married the two reasonably well; the union will not produce offspring, but it did not end in divorce.

Taking shortcuts tends not to produce great art. We rarely herald writers of formulaic mysteries as great writers. Painters who generate mass-market assembly-line copies of masterpieces fail to achieve artistic recognition. Cooks who take shortcuts to fill hungry bellies are not called culinary wizards.  Actors whose characters are wooden and two-dimensional are not awarded Oscars.

There is nothing wrong with mediocrity, if mediocrity satisfies. But we tend to pity the mediocre and, even more so, we pity the lack of dedication and drive that permit mediocrity to suffice. I want to believe such an attitude is elitist, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I think there’s something in us, at least most of us, that forces us to push on beyond mediocrity. Shortcuts are acceptable in the right circumstances, but accepting them as a way of life would be a shame.

I may try creating Cod Fra Diavolo again. Next time, though, the hunger will not reside solely in my stomach; it will sizzle in my brain. Next time, I will create a dish worthy of the energy of someone who could call himself chef.

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Justification

We think the world owes us an explanation. It doesn’t. We owe it one. We owe the universe substantive  justification for why we should be allowed to remain here; an argument validating our existence. If there’s purpose, it is not some external “thing.” Purpose is something within us, something of our own making. We must, individually, defend our presence on the planet. Without vindication, we do not merit space in time and place. That could be a frightening thought in the absence of belief in oneself. Even if one possesses high self-esteem and indefatigable self-confidence, the idea that we must prove our worth in order to stake our claim to life introduces the potential for existential anxiety; as well it should.

I do not subscribe to the belief that humankind exists in homage to a purpose set forth by some higher power. We create our own purposes. When the purposes we create run counter to our own interests and the interests of the planet we occupy, bad things happen: conflicts, wars, murder, rape, misogyny, xenophobia, et al. Those result from indefensible purposes, purposes insufficient to defend our presence on the planet.

When the purposes we create parallel and support peace and harmony and, at minimum, survival in reasonable comfort for all who share our common humanity, good things happen. It seems to me that the logic of creating purposes that support such outcomes is flawless. Why, then, is it so hard for us, individually and collectively, to embrace purposes that justify our existence? Are we fighting flaws within ourselves? That, I suppose, is an unnecessary question; of course we are. The better question is this: who wins?

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