Thomas Holctoft: Salutation (1806)
from Henry Fielding's 1742 novel
The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews
and of his Friend Mr. Abraham Adams.

" … it will not be because we knew what to do with it."

My nights have grown longer over the month since NextWorld emerged. Sleep has come in disconnected segments. If I wake a few hours before my alarm rings, I'm apt to opt not to go back to sleep. My monkey mind won't stop grinding, sorting through the disturbing incoming information. Irresolution makes for a disquieting diet.

I sit up with a cat on my lap. I'm desperate to absorb his tranquility. We warm each other while winter dukes it out just outside our window. A persistent cold rain falls outside. A raccoon stops by to clean out the dessicated cat food I left on the porch. He seems grateful for the snack, peering in through the darkened slider, purring contentedly. The cats watch in something approaching amazement, suddenly disinterested in stepping outside. I appreciate their disinterest and share it. I can't imagine any place I might go. There seems to be no escaping this sense that I'm imprisoned.

I wrote a stern letter to my US Representative, who included some snarky comment about supporting the new administration's efforts to root out liberal wokeness at USAID. Since he was so recently elected, I suggested that he'd promised to represent everyone in his district and that engaging in smear campaigns seemed to reneg on that commitment. I suggested that if he needed to use terms like " woke, that he provide a definition, since to me, it seemed an utterly positive attribute. I also reminded him that he'd just recently sworn to defend our Constitution against domestic enemies like the one who'd recently illegally suspended operations lawfully commanded by the Congress, of which he's suddenly a member. He should be, I suggested, drafting articles of impeachment against the President for unconstitutional impoundment of the will of Congress. I ended by telling him that delaying action suggested complicity. Unlike the President, he's legally liable: indictable and convictable. I believe the charge would be treason.

An old, old friend called this weekend, asking if he could come over. He had a few questions for The Commissioner. I told him to come on ahead. The conversation almost immediately swerved off into treacherous territory. Neither The Muse nor I could quite recognize our old friend in light of his characterizations. Gone were the careful avoidances. His misogyny was instantly noticeable. So was his racism. It had never seemed quite so pronounced before. In retrospect, later, it appeared that he had received permission to disclose the full depth of his depravity. He admitted that he'd been listening to the local propaganda station for upwards of seven hours every day for years, so the source of his delusions seemed obvious. I felt disappointed that someone with a degree from a fine liberal arts college could have adopted such a myopic worldview. He seemed to have lost the ability to think for himself. His convictions displayed no depth, either, as every probing question only seemed to confuse him. He was confident in that way that nobody who actually knows ever seems.

He tried to reassure us that the budget cuts would not become draconian. When we countered that they already had been, he refused to believe the data showing they were killing African babies. He disagreed that the President had broken his oath to uphold the Constitution when he started impounding funds Congress had lawfully allocated for specific purposes. He insisted that widespread fraud justified the actions, as if they represented a greater good. He'd wanted to ask The Commissioner questions about an energy technology, but he wouldn't accept her answers. He insisted the technology could come online faster than the experts predicted. He resorted to deploying “All Ya Gotta Do”s, as if he knew better than industry experts. He seemed frustrated that the world was not working as he had anticipated, and he appeared insistent upon supporting someone who just insisted on implementation, anyway, like General Groves had done during WWII to create the permanent Superfund Site at Hanford.

I finally blew the whistle. I told our old friend that he had to leave, that we wouldn't put up with any more of his intransigence. It broke my heart to escort him to the back door and wish him well as the means for getting him gone. I will not warmly welcome him back, for he's turned full Nazi now, and I do not need to entertain Nazis in my home, however far we might go back. I can have zero tolerance without feeling I'm undermining the possibility of engaging in an intelligent conversation. We realized that our old friend demonstrated insufficient intelligence to hold his side of a conversation. He is poisoned. I hope to never become poisonous except to those dispensing the stuff.

This pacifist acknowledges the brutality those bastards dream of inflicting. They are the weakest of the species, convinced they're the very crown of creation. They perceive only through projection. They believe their lies are superior to every form of truth and their defections from their constitutional obligations to be The True manifestation of liberty and freedom. They speak approvingly of throwing loyal public servants into unemployment and seem satisfied that they act in righteousness. They'd slit their own mother's throat to show how benevolent they are. We are being possessed by paradoxes, the inevitable result of belief tussling with sturdier stuff. The true believers will most certainly, eventually lose, if only due to reality almost always proving more resilient, but the believers hold the delisionary high ground. They act with impunity. They see no reason to feel guilty about any obscenity they might commit. They consequently act almost exclusively by employing obscenity. Decency still needs to plug her nostrils to avoid swooning in the stench. She battles one-handed. They seemed determined only to stink up the place before they're vanquished.

Dawn comes as it always does, resolving nothing but temporary darkness. The darkness seemed eternal around twelve-thirty when I startled awake. I managed to mumble myself through another night. Once the fire died, I laid low, checking the weather and wondering whether it might snow. A cold rain continued into the morning, with both cats eventually venturing out but quickly returning. I keep a stockpot simmering on the stovetop to raise the humidity inside. I throw orange rinds and spices in there, so the house almost smells like Christmas. Once Valentine's Day fades, Spring can't be more than another month away. If we survive this winter, it will not be because we knew what to do with it.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #NextWorld, #PureSchmaltz