Francis Seymour Haden: Kensington Gardens, No. I (small plate) (1859)

" … bound as well as determined to drag itself through Hell again."

As our world continues to draw itself ever closer to Hell, I am gaining a renewed appreciation for SmallExtraordinaries. These tend to be tiny and easily overlooked. In most circumstances, I overlook these and never even notice my omission. In ordinary times, these go unappreciated because the foreground tends to consume the bulk of attention. When, as now, I find myself suddenly living in truly interesting times, I tend to need to avert my eyes. I understand the inexorable momentum of every slow-moving train crashing. I've seen that movie too many times and require no reinforcement to better recall the resulting calamity. I tend to become a little obsessive, as if obsessive ever comes in little sizes. I can become consumed with the resonance of demons and devils when civilization seems determined to run itself through Hell again.

I require respite now, and I have been finding it in SmallExtraordinaries. Just yesterday morning, The Muse and I were forced to make an early departure from Portland, where we were visiting, so The Muse could make a noon luncheon commitment back nearer the center of the universe. Of course, the media machines were working even at that early hour to ensure that nobody who wanted to witness would miss any of the action, regardless of how unworthy the story might have proven to receive anybody's attention. Many find they can no longer successfully divide their attention and so stay plugged in 24/7. The Muse won't countenance The News when we're traveling. I couldn't even successfully tune in music as a distraction because the basalt cliffs successfully filtered out the satellite signal. Circumstances forced us to continue talking with each other.

We didn't agree on very much of anything, but those confines encouraged us to continue conversing. In this Hell-bent world, it's become fashionable to change stations the instant a dissenting or disagreeable voice takes the stage. It has become a vital element fueling our descent that we no longer tolerate different opinions. We vilify instead, finding damnation so ever much more gratifying than the more traditional, tolerant interpretations. The Muse and I were not about to initiate a trial separation, so we persisted, correcting each other's misconceptions for the purpose of better understanding, I guess, or maybe to more successfully annoy each other. We were not speaking to increase domestic harmony, apparently.

We were annoying each other unusually successfully, a skill we seemingly improve whenever we converse, when a SmallExtraordinary caught my eye. It occurred to me that I might never have driven the Columbia Gorge from West to East early in the morning before. I noticed that the light cast entirely different shadows, which rendered the opposite bank in ways I'd never before imagined. It was in every way extraordinary! I mentioned this to The Muse, and we drove entranced for the following few miles. In truth, that trance didn't break until we turned East at the freshly rendered Wallula Gap to head down and back into our valley. By then, we were close enough to noon that the effect was fading, anyway. We'd experienced another SmallExtraordinary.

I suspect these lurk everywhere. They require some attention, a difficult specification to satisfy, given that our attention seems reserved mainly for observing our continuing descent into Hell. Tiny bits of heaven lurk around the margins of even the most otherwise degrading experiences. I seem to need to find some wrinkle out of time to experience such extraordinaries. It seems to help little if I begin deliberately searching, for these little babies seem to most reliably appear inadvertently, when momentarily distracted from obviously more critical considerations. Still, I cannot overstate the importance of such respites, a deliberate reminder for me to at least try to remain a tiny bit distractible at all times. Nothing, and I mean nothing, seems more important than an occasional reassuring and cleansing breath, especially when the world seems literally bound as well as determined to drag itself through Hell again.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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