William Delamotte: Resting, Men and Dogs Under a Big Tree,
from the first issue of Specimens of Polyautography 1802, published 1803

An Emboldened Opposition Cheers
How many ways can anybody observe an unsettling situation? Probably an infinite number of ways. I've concluded that their strategy was primarily to scare. My job must then be to refuse to be spooked and to remain self-assured. The howl was never intended to serve as a warning. It was their initial assault, their strategic first step, meant to seem blood-curdling. Those whose blood has curdled produce weaker defenses. Their offense depends upon our weakened defense, so we must muster something other than an, in any way, weakened one. Some insist that we should feel emboldened instead, that we might as well interpret their venom as so misguided as to qualify as self-sabotage. Who's to say it isn't? Who's to say they didn't intend it to be self-undermining? We might be and probably are still witnessing a lemming-like mass extinction event, an attempt by backward-looking Repuglicans to finally do themselves in. They noticed the numbers and have been watching the trends.

No future warmly welcomes them. They exclusively propose and attempt to inflict wildly unpopular policies. They lie to forestall inevitables, and lying ultimately never successfully forestalls anything of substance. In the seventy days since I started this series, I've watched the opposition serially humiliate themselves. I've watched as each and every ineptly attempted initiative has blown up in their faces without exception. Their war on decency has been a wake-up call for many who firmly believed before that they were on decency's side. Their strategy could have only worked while the enemy remained faceless. Once we recognized that the enemy they kept referring to was us: me as well as you, regular Joes, we could not go there. Theirs was ultimately an obviously false premise to most of us. Now, it seems even more obviously false to many, many more. We never were dogs; even if we were, we could not countenance a dog-eat-dog existence. Ultimately, MAGAs will prove to have been cannibals, consuming each other and themselves while an emboldened opposition cheers them on.

——

Weekly Writing Summary

This NextWorld Story describes how a strategy to produce Savings resulted in nobody's salvation but devastation instead.

Unknown artist: Saved (19th century)
"They seem to be aching for a comeuppance from Congress."
—
This NextWorld Story considers the influence Bluster induces, which is little and mostly of the negative variety. It successfully discloses how little substance exists beneath that gruff exterior.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec: The Mad Cow (1896)
"It displays just how frail you've become …"
—
This NextWorld Story focuses on the unserious business our Incumbent engages in instead of fulfilling his responsibilities of elected office. Perhaps the most prominent aspect of NextWorld, Golf seems to be the purpose of the presidency now.

Jack Gould: Untitled [woman wearing dice costume playing golf] (c. 1950)
"He's absent without leave or purpose. This might be his greatest gift to us."
—
This NextWorld Story finds me staring Enough in its face, something NextWorld initiators never managed. Imagine a world where Enough could never exist. Can you see its leading shadow casting over us?

Hercules Segers: Still Life with Books (c. 1618–1622)
" … they'd never before achieved anything even approaching Enough."
—
I designed this NextWorld Story, Imformation, to offer a false promise. Read carefully, and you might discover the scam. Read it anyway. Unlike those you might find in NextWorld, this one won't disadvantage you.

Claes Oldenburg: False Food Selection (1966) Designed by George Maciunas, Published by Fluxus

Claes Oldenburg: False Food Selection (1966) Designed by George Maciunas, Published by Fluxus
"Find friends who will deny your heart's desire in exchange for everlasting innocence."
—
This NextWorld Story, Uncle!, begs off telling a story, for the author requires a touch of respite. He'll return with his usual Weekly Writing Summary tomorrow morning. This morning, he needs to be gardening.

Bernard Picart: Bust of Young Man Resting Chin on Hand (c. 1720)
" … only I hold the cure."
—
It seems like I've explained each of the last few weeks' writing efforts as difficult. This writing week seemed little different, with a continuing accumulating toxicity. I began this exercise seventy days ago, on the Winter Solstice, speculating how it might be after the old/new administration took the oaths they seemed unlikely to either be willing to or prove capable of fulfilling. My earliest speculations weren't wrong, but they were projections. It's proved stunningly different to describe what I've observed unfolding from within the tidal wave. I admit that what we've seen has primarily been performative rather than substantive, but it never fit within my performance art preferences. It seemed so unartful. It also induced PTSD for me, remembering my own Exlie and painfully pondering how it might have been had The Muse and I been so crudely treated in our hours of extremis. My heart breaks for every family whose breadwinner has been slandered and displaced with few recources. I pray that the inevitable class action settlements will be huge and arrive quickly enough to preserve some modicum of decency. Decency might have become the rarest resource as our federal government, the wealthiest in the history of this world, continues to pretend to be poor. [Note to Playwright: It might be best if you don't cast the wealthiest person in the world into the role of Simon-freakin' Legree.]

Our new obsession with Saving and the accompanying Bluster failed to disguise the fact that our chief executive seems most interested not in recovering from the calamities he so reliably produces but in his Golf game, at which he reportedly cheats. I came to a fresh appreciation for my sense of Enough, which doesn't seem to be shared or even accessible by the wealthiest among us. The wealthiest seem to have no sense of what might constitute Enough. (This amounts to a seriously communicable disease.) I stumbled upon a standard Imformation scam, one practiced with unabashed aplomb by our new/old incumbent and his cronies. I ended this writing week declaring Uncle!, for I'd had plenty and more than enough perversity for my delicate sensibilities. Thank you for continuing to follow me! Invite your friends and colleagues to follow these stories if you think they might find value in them!

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #NextWorld, #PureSchmaltz