Unknown Artist: Hurdigurdiano joining in the wedding dance of Signora Fisketti (19th Century)

" … a heretical thought for this formerly heartbroken Exile."

Unknown Artist: Hurdigurdiano joining in the wedding dance of Signora Fisketti (19th Century)

" … a heretical thought for this formerly heartbroken Exile."

I was never much of a joiner. The Muse belongs to a half-dozen societies and study groups. I stay at home to get supper ready for when she returns. If I had been a joiner, I might have found a church to join after we had been exiled. Takoma Park featured several fine churches to choose from, representing all the usual denominations, but I never learned how to select a denomination, and I remain uninterested in doctrine. I "joined" the Library of Congress. The Jefferson Building's Reading Room served as an ample cathedral for me. I could choose my own doctrine there from the most extensive collection of material ever assembled. I could access much of it, too, and even have books delivered to my study shelf. I'd hop the Metro or sometimes ride my bike down to that library, where I'd sit on a hardwood chair every bit as torturous as the worst Pilgrim or Quaker pew. I almost always felt saved when I stood up to leave at the end of the day.

The Muse was dissatisfied, though, with my general get-up-and-go. I did not get out enough to please her, so she started hounding me to get up off my presumed duff and join something. A colleague we'd met at a conference in Vienna taught at George Washington University, and I received an email announcement about a lecture series he was convening. The lectures were free lunchtime affairs, so I decided to head down there and see what they entailed. The attendees were an odd collection: a few students, some professors, and professionals without affiliation like me. We'd gather to consider Cybernetics, often the cybernetics of cybernetics, a dynamic form of systems analysis. The professor would invite a provocateur who would prepare a short lecture followed by a much longer conversation about the lecture's topic. The conversations were usually much better than the best of the lectures. We'd often dismiss to continue the conversation over a late lunch, finally breaking up midafternoon.

I met some brilliant people there. A few former students of Russell Ackoff, one of the earliest proponents of cybernetic principles. Some continued to be disciples long after their messiah had passed. Others had been influenced without fully taking up the religion. The small universe of Cyberneticians was always fascinating, though they each carried a sense that the rest of the world couldn't quite understand them. They mainly focused on epiphenomenon, secondary influences beyond causal factors in a world almost exclusively focused on finding root causes. Cybernetics is one of those subtle fields that can't quite satisfy its professionals, who know they're not wrong in their suspicions of simple-minded practitioners but who also can't entirely create sufficient standing to gain a full and appreciated seat at any table. Most maintained a career separate from their passion and satisfied themselves with occasional flashes of insight through interaction with others in the field.

This lecture series proved the most powerful connector I stumbled into while in Exile. In one of them, a woman about fifteen years my senior and I caught ourselves finishing each other's sentences. After, she approached me, asking, "Who are you?" I asked her the same question. She introduced herself with the unlikely name of Mitzi. She had been employee number five at The Peace Corps and was a personal friend of Sergent Shriver, the Peace Corps's founder. She had been a former Assistant Secretary of the Navy in the Carter Administration. Her Roledex had given Carter the names with which he populated his administration. I'd learn that she knew everybody in DC. I replied that I was nothing special. She disagreed, so we made a lunch date for the next week. She consented to meet me at my office, The Library of Congress, where we would partake in their cafeteria. Over that lunch, I learned she had maintained a salon in her Friendship Heights home for decades. Salons were a Washington tradition where a matron would invite influential people for a bite of supper and off-the-record conversations. They were the backbone of the city's power and influence—Mitzi's, one of the oldest and most prestigious.

Mitzi found me fascinating for some unknown reason and invited me to her next salon. I remember the conversation centered around what people were forced to do by circumstances. I realized nobody at that table had ever been fired, so they tip-toed around issues that might be terminally controversial. I asked, "Hasn't anyone at this table besides me ever been fired?" Nobody had. I reported that I was proof that there might be life after termination, even termination for cause. It surprised me that such influential people seemed so cautious. I was invited back. Later, Mitzi injured her shoulder in a fall and threatened to stop conducting her salons, so I volunteered to be the cook. I continued in that role for several years until The Muse was transferred back to her Home Office in Colorado about halfway through our Exile. Mitzi's salon became my home far away from home, where I was surrounded by appreciative friends, some of whom were senior government officials. I was often afforded the first question due to a superpower I'd never suspected I possessed: The Power Of The Spatula. Your professional standing won’t matter if you cooked the supper; your question will seem relevant.

So I found my churches and my congregations, or they found me. It might be that these naturally accrete around anyone regardless of location or circumstance. The Muse was correct; I’d just needed to get up and off my duff. I became a strange attractor out there, and my congregation soon found and sustained me. I miss those days sharing tastes of supper with the head of Cyber Security Command or former Director of the CIA. They were appreciative diners, and I was their equally appreciative cook. Other Joinings further broadened my society on Exile. A year after we were Exiled, I felt as though I might belong there, a heretical thought for this formerly heartbroken Exile. All wounds heal, some less completely than others. Unexpected angels always surrounded me. I suspect I never wasn't surrounded by legions of them and it might have just been a lack of faith or something like it that left me feeling bereft before my congregations found me.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Exiled, #PureSchmaltz