Intrepid
Henry Hitchings: Oregon--Beyond the South Pass (c. 1860)
——
Dedicated to the memory of
The Intrepid Pioneers
Who came with the
First Wagon Train
In 1843 over the
Old Oregon Trail
And Saved the "Oregon County"
To the United States.
Erected by Old Oregon Trail Ass'n.
July 4, 1923
Dedicated by
Warren G. Harding
President of the
United States
July 3, 1923
——
" … we have an uninterrupted history of falling somewhat short of our lofty ideals."
I have lately become inordinately interested in the history of my surroundings. I was raised here, and, like anybody, learned to be unimpressed with what I experienced daily from my earliest breaths. Those unfortunate enough to be born into the center of anything understand. Those who were born in Paris, overlooking the Eiffel Tower, had their gauges set to impossible standards so that it might take a true cataclysm to even distantly impress them. Likewise, for me, who only later came to understand that I had been raised very near to the center of the universe, where gravity reliably works right. I found myself secretly pitying those whom I, by most rights, should have envied. Those who'd grown up in New York City or London seemed impoverished in comparison. Those who remained ignorant of my home country all seemed like comparative bumpkins to me, who by all rights probably appeared even more bumkin-ish to them.
Pride of place barely scratches the surface of my feelings about my home country, because I genuinely feel 'of' the place.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 05/29/2025
Adolph Menzel: The End (19th century)
Failing to Find What I Sought
The Muse and I think of ourselves as avid foragers, though we only forage for a few items, and we don't always manage to find what we're seeking. Last August, we headed up into our usual hunting grounds seeking Wenaha Black Currants, a local variation of the most popular fruit in Europe. We lagged the season, the bushes already barren after a hotter-than-usual July. Better luck next year, we said, and moved on to take the long way home. Along the way, we stumbled upon an enormous huckleberry patch, which we proceeded to enthusiastically raid. The Muse garnished desserts this week with leftover frozen huckleberries from that fortunate accident. (She's assured me that she tagged that secret patch so we can revisit it later this summer.)
This week, I toodled up into the wilderness again, this time searching for the sometimes elusive Morel, a pine cone-shaped mushroom much prized by the natives.
Systemantics2
Ben Shahn: Untitled [Borobudur, Java]
(January 26, 1960-February 2, 1960)
"Woe be to anybody believing they know better than even the simplest system, for they are the most easily fooled."
A panel of three judges, one nominated by our incumbent the last time he pretended to be president, found his Liberation Day tariff scheme unconstitutional and, therefore, illegal, ordering the administration to immediately stop collecting these extortions and to refund any already gathered. This ruling, of course, appealed, guts the incumbent's aggressive and ill-conceived transformation of our economy from the envy of the world to its pity. Our incumbent insists upon employing simple-minded strategies to achieve all of his aims, and such strategies hold little promise when pitted against mature governing systems.
It's not simply that the systems he attacks have been around for ages; they are each extremely complex.
Alonely
Figure 1 
Figure 2
Figure 1: Charles Howard Hodges:
Portret van een onbekende man, het hoofd niet getekend
Portrait of an unknown man, the head not drawn
(1774 - 1837)
Figure 2: Charles Howard Hodges:
Portret van onbekende heer
Portrait of unknown gentleman
(1774 - 1837)
"I remain a hale enough fellow, best met by myself …"
In this world at this time, I characterize myself as not so much alone or lonely but Alonely. I spend a great deal of my time alone. I rise extremely early to work in isolation, finishing my efforts just before The Muse rises to begin her day. A short time later, I query her about her schedule, for as a public servant, she almost always has an active agenda: meetings. I listen impasively as I learn what I might expect from the day. Typically, she's gone before noon, returning several times between sessions. She doesn't have an evening meeting every evening, but a late afternoon session will still likely delay supper. We're almost always fed by eight or eight-thirty. I head for bed around nine.
There's little time in any day for us to while away the time together.
MemorialDay
John J. A. Murphy: Memories (20th century)
"We left feeling more connected …"
Come MemorialDay, the iris have gotten closer to gone. The Peonies and roses have just started. We have plenty of blossoms to share a few with our dearly departeds. The Muse and I observe MemorialDay by toodling out to the local cemetery to play hide-and-seek with our forebears. We visit graves in a circular sequence, without regard to seniority. We always start with my great-great-grandparents, people I knew when I was small, both born in the 1870s. I remember sitting on my great-great-grandmother's broad lap in the rocking chair. The Muse later recovered it, and it now sits in our library room, still squeaking as it always has. My great-great-grandfather Luther's father, was a Civil War veteran who died of a war-weakened heart after crossing the Oregon Trail three times. His grave was lost to the ages near a dusty Eastern Oregon rimrock cowtown.
We always lose our way at first, misremembering exact locations.
Twenty-Three
Willem Claesz. Heda: Still Life with a Gilt Cup (1635)
Gallery Comments:
The range of grey tonalities that Willem Heda could paint is astounding. With this subtle palette, he deftly rendered the objects – of pewter, silver, damask, glass and mother-of-pearl – on this table. A few yellow and ochre accents compliment this refined interplay of colours. Heda specialized in near monochromatic still lifes, so-called ‘tonal banquet pieces’.
——
" … to revel in what randomly colliding atoms can sometimes produce."
I met Mark on the same day I met The Muse, so it seemed especially fitting that he'd made the long trek across the state to visit on our wedding anniversary, May 25. We were married on 5/25/02, and this year's anniversary would fall on 5/25/25, Twenty-Three years later. Our life together has been characterized by fives and twos by inadvertent design. The Muse made a fabulous veal scallopini supper, and we sat around the table reminiscing. Our wedding had been a cooperative affair. Everyone invited had also been asked to help in some way. The result was the product of everyone present. We celebrated being together as much as we celebrated the marriage. On reflection, over supper, we recalled all who were no longer with us, twenty-three years later.
We were in the same house, now extensively renovated.
Thinning
Jacques Callot: Gardener Pruning a Shrub (17th century)
"My garden tolerates my well-intended presence."
I think of gardening as a nurturing activity, though that description misrepresents the bulk of my effort. Much, if not most, of the time, I spend communing with nature there, defending myself against encroaching fertility rather than trying to encourage it. Sure, I maintain my compost heap, recycling every non-meat bit of kitchen waste back into superrich soil, but the plantings here hardly need any further encouragement. The soil, after more than twenty years of continuous improvement, has reached a level of self-sustainability. None of it will ever need much fertilizer or nurturing in my lifetime. Water whatever into the soil, and it will try to take over. Therefore, I spend most of my gardening time discouraging plants from taking over.
As with any garden, weeds prove to be the most prolific plants.
Aftering
Edgar Degas: After the Bath III (1891–92)
"I'll be actively Aftering until this nightmare's over."
During an intolerable time, I appreciate even more fully the human capacity to project into a more satisfying future. Even if it comes in the form of daydreaming, there's something supremely satisfying about it. I can seemingly leave present troubles behind me for a spell and heal myself there. These respites help render difficult experiences more tolerable and prove to be a godsend for those of us who occasionally find ourselves overwhelmed. I find reassurances in the realization that, however awful, every present proves fleeting, never to return. If today seems awful, tomorrow and especially the days after, promise at least the potential of better.
Those who believe they can extend their current streak indefinitely tend to be the most disappointed in the end.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 05/22/2025
Jan Saenredam: Spring (1601)
Mastery Was Always Illusory
I swear that I used to understand how this world works, though I probably never did. It might be that none of us ever understood or could understand. We get by almost exclusively via lucky guesses and collaborations. Without either, we'd be sunk. I over-rely upon The Muse, who understands more than I ever knew needed to be understood. She relies upon me, too, though. Nobody is self-reliant anymore, and never was. I feel increasingly vulnerable. I'm finally arriving at the age where I can no longer deny that I've been aging. My doctor concluded that I'm still street-worthy after my annual physical last week, just before I managed to wretch out my back again. Then I caught a common cold, a not-so-common experience anymore. I used to be able to set up a Zoom call, but the application has become user-hostile as it's claimed to contain more intelligence. I miss the dumber version that reliably remembered me from one session to the next. Now, I have to invoke a Pastword remembering app in order to access my account, and the smarter new version seems to assign a unique account number to each session, so regulars cannot use their familiar logins. Neither can I. I'd ask why if I didn't already know the answer. Entropy rules here and always has. Mastery was always illusory.
Futuristic
Corita Kent (Sister Mary Corita):
let the sun shine (1968)
Inscriptions and Marks: Signed: l.r.: Corita
Printed text reads: LET THE SUN SHINE IN
the creative revolution—to take a chunk of the imagined future and put it into the present— to follow the law of the future and live it in the present. Waskow
inscription: l.l., in graphite: 68-69-E
"Let's focus, as we almost always have, on Making America Great Like Never Before."
The American Way might be most properly described as Futuristic. We live in our future. Dissatisfied with our present, we project and take ownership of a better future. We are gleefully mortgaged. In the fifties and sixties, when I was a kid, the future seemed more present than it has ever been since. Since then, we've seen a slow erosion of who and what we were once destined to become. We grew up to disappoint ourselves. Conservatives, always a presence, began asserting a backward-looking dominion over us, as if our futures featured sin instead of the always before expected salvation. They equated mortgages with penury and our unique sort of prosperity with degradation. They worshiped tax cuts and balanced budgets, false gods from the distant past, over our proven, reliable gods from our future. They promised less and delivered worse, proving themselves wildly unpopular. They'd get elected by lying, by playing bait-and-switch politics.
Whomever reviles their future undermines their past, for our past holds no relevance except that which is delivered by its diligence.
DoubleBounding
Will Hicock Low:
Pale Grew Her Immortality,
For Woe of All These Lovers (1885)
"It was already plenty great enough …"
One cannot exercise MAGA-style governance and retain a democracy because the two seem in fundamental opposition with each other. MAGA demands authoritarian leadership, someone, above all, willing to tell others what to do. It also presumes that the majority will passively follow, regardless of the questionable direction from the top. Democracy assumes almost the precise opposite: a populace willing to be actively involved in deciding direction and the gumption to follow properly determined decisions. Both MAGA and democracy follow their leader. The MAGA leader is a person, while the law leads democracies.
Once elected, MAGA faced a dilemma, for the country remained a democracy rather than an autocracy.
Prosterity
Prosper-Alphonse Isaac:
Wrak van roeiboot op strand in Cancale
[Wreck of rowing boat on beach in Cancale] (c. 1912)
"I pray that we might come to understand one day."
Those buildings fortunate enough to still have businesses leasing their street-level spaces are nevertheless hollow above their second floor. Portland, Seattle, and San Francisco mirror each other. A generation ago, their downtowns bustled with economic activity. Each was the absolute envy of the other as postwar prosperity reversed their wartime austerity. Actual prosperity resulted. Since, a series of austerity-promoting presidents and feckless Congresses have managed to pretty much hollow out the promise evident on each street corner then. Now, Portland shows no shortage of first-class hotel rooms that overlook empty windows in century-old, once-proud commercial edifices. The Starbucks doesn't have seats, only stand-up tables to discourage the homeless from encamping there. The visiting writer can't, as he once casually did, find a corner to create his morning missive. He takes one to-go instead and stumbles back to his tiny first-class hotel room, with altogether too much furniture, overlooking near absolute devastation.
The austere years bought us little.
Dementia
Unknown Artist: ‘Crazy Quilt’ Parlor Throw (1887/88)
Chicopee Falls, Massachusetts, United States
"They were neither patriotism nor loyalty, but the effects of top-down Dementia."
A case could be made that our incumbent suffers from Dementia. The evidence seems overwhelming unless presented to a partisan supporter, who might as well also be suffering from the same disorder. The behavior of the incumbent's party members exhibits the same dysfunction evident in their leader. Fish. Water. They cannot see it. The rest of us can't help but see it in nearly every action of both the incumbent and his followers. Nothing else rationally explains the behaviors. They're not entirely logical, but neither are they merely irrational. They seem non-rational, not guided by reason or explainable through a reasonable description. They are not wholly random, but somewhat more patterned, with a pattern that probably best resembles a crazy quilt. It's all of one kind yet never rational. Empassioned explanations utterly fail to explain anything. People seem patient, perhaps too patient given the gravity of the resulting situation. The whole administration resonates with the clearly disturbed behavior of its leader.
This response seems perfectly understandable.
Dubiety
Heinrich Hoerle: Worker
(Self-Portrait in Front of Trees and Chimneys)
Arbeiter (Selbstbildnis vor Bäumen und Schornsteinen) (1931)
"Justice, like freedom, stands on firmer premises than the dubious."
Never before in all history has a presidency attempted to administer upon such dubious premises. I could label this the Dubiety Presidency. Each proclamation has been justified by citing some obscure ruling obviously used out of its original context. An insistence that our present condition legally puts us on a war footing, for instance. Congress might tolerate these imaginings, but so far, the courts, as has always been their purpose, have remained dubious. They call a questionable justification into question. They question baseless accusations. They restore a much-needed sense of reason to the proceedings. The fever dream that always was MAGA was never based on anything even distantly resembling reason or fact. It was impure emotion packaged as if it might qualify as justification when it wasn't, and it couldn't succeed. The vagaries of our system allow an incumbent certain latitude. He can act first, knowing he'll only be questioned later. Later, he will have already effected some change, inflicted genuine damage. Then his act becomes something in need of reclaimation. Employees, acting in good faith, follow his directives only to become complicit in some grave miscarriages once the courts find against the incumbent again.
It's become a pattern now.
WordSalad
Georges Hugnet: Au pied de la Lettre/Word for word
Series/Book Title: The Guaranteed Surrealist Postcard Series
(1937)
"He does not want to be accurately understood."
The same menu every meal with this guy. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks - the same things always come to the table. Standing up, sitting down, or on the run, it remains identical. Furthermore, it tastes terrible. The mouth feel remains the same. It's always too salty and never quite sweet enough, though it's obvious sometimes he's tried to sugar-coat it, often with saccharine substitute. Still, it never manages to taste very different. It's somewhere south of gourmet while still north of greasy spoon. It always comes too soon and stays too long. It's not just him, though he's clearly the instigator. Nobody else could create such culinary abominations. Even when slathered with that inevitably gloppy dressing and gaudy flags flying to distract, it remains the same incomprehensible flavor to even the most sophisticated palate. He deals exclusively in WordSalad.
Nobody, not even the incredibly well-paid shill commentators, ever really understands what he's saying.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 05/15/2025
Otto Piene: Untitled
(bleed-through of previous page, left page);
Untitled (notes with design for stage and screen, right page)
Series/Book Title: Sketchbook:
"Retrospective of Inflatables"/"Tobago faces"/Landscapes
(1984)
So Much For The Speeders' Experience
If I could wish everyone one experience, I might choose to bless them with a leisurely toodle through The Palouse in Spring. Much of the year, The Palouse seems an unlikely wish to bestow on anyone. In High Spring, though, anyone might readily understand the blessing. It's green where most of its year knows only buff beige. It's surprisingly yellow as farmers have increasingly embraced Canola seed culture as an antidote to abysmal export wheat markets. It's lonely highway, two-lane blacktop, when you might have been convinced freeways had conquered and ruled every worthwhile route to anywhere. It's the slow way there, uninteresting to anyone still striving to get there first. Oh, there are plenty of drivers who haven't read the memo, passing on blind turns, apparently more anxious to arrive on time than alive, but those have always been there and are easily tolerated by anyone tenaciously insisting that they always win. I pump my brakes to ensure they can return to their proper lane before they execute the Wylie Coyote they seem insistent upon manifesting. Every second I slow prolongs my primal experience. This was never a race. I suspect that The Palouse might be best experienced at the speed of a walking Horse, the way my ancestors traveled. They could breathe in the scents that only ever manifested that one week in Spring, and for the duration of their passage, they were in the center of every possible universe. So much for the speeders' experience.
Weaponizing
Gustavs Klucis (Klutsis):
Turn Your Weapons Against the Soviet Bourgeoisie
Original Language Title:
ПОВЕРНИТЕ ОРУЖИЕ ПРОТИВ СВОЕИ БУРЖУАЗИИ
(c. 1924)
"We might as well believe ourselves blessed to have elected
just this sort of incumbent to remind us who we always were."
The sickly scent of true desperation accompanies our incumbent's every official action. They seem overly staged, as if the production assistant feared not being noticed. Their content often proves incomprehensible, much like the campaign "rallies" that preceded this presidency. The pronouncements do not properly parse and resolve to the fundamentally incomprehensible, though a deep sense of anger inevitably shows through the cheap, glitzy veneer. One finally concludes that he thinks he’s exacting revenge from an earlier assault to mend some essentially unhealable wound. These staged performances amount to elaborate defensive stances. It might seem as though he's actively assaulting much of what we hold dear, but he's more likely frantically shoring up a defensive perimeter he deeply fears has already failed him. The more outrageous the messages, the less convincing they seem. He's already throwing the kitchen sink into action, a sure and certain confirmation that he deeply fears he's losing, that he's likely already lost.
He accuses his predecessors of "Weaponizing" our government, but it's he who's engaged in weaponization, whatever that might mean.
Venge
Adrian van de Venne:
The Donkey Laden with Food,
from Emblematic Figures of Animals (1633)
ABOUT THIS ARTWORK
Prints of animals could be accurate and fanciful simultaneously. This finely engraved yet slightly caricatured scene from Aesop’s Fables depicts a donkey laden with fine food and wine who nonetheless happily gnaws at a prickly thistle instead. Moral interpretations of the text have ranged from “One man’s meat is another man’s poison” to a critique of stinginess. Though unsigned, this humorous image of feast and famine set off a chain of copies, ironically ending with a dozen Aesop roundels that decorated the back of trenchers, wooden plates used for the final fruit and nut course in England.
————
"It's probably nobody's friend and certainly everybody's enemy."
With this incumbent, a raft of archaic usages appears to have made a comeback. Perhaps it's the conservative lilt, which intends to return to simpler times, but terms not seen in public since the Old Testament have been appearing on the lips of even the most unqualified cabinet secretaries. Many commentators have compared their vocabulary to that which emerged in 1930s Germany, where certain terms had to be resurrected to describe the horrors being initiated. Nobody had seen anything like them since at least the Dark Ages, and, sure enough, the emerging vocabulary did, indeed, accompany a replaying of some of the Dark Ages' greatest hits. Proper euphemisms gained popularity to avoid describing what was actually happening, just as they have today. Concentration Camp looked better in print than the more direct Death Factory, and the meaning of rights and freedoms were flipped on their heads for the duration. Rights became unspeakable obligations. Freedoms became insidious conscription. Life became death, and death equated with a better life.
Venge has become perhaps the most frequently used.
Emoluments
El Greco (Domenikos Theotokopoulos):
Christ Driving the Money Changers from the Temple
(c. 1570–75)
"I suspect his first impeachment indictment will focus upon his many violations of the Emoluments Clause."
What's in it for me? has never been a question that comes very naturally to me. My birth family raised me under a more self-sacrificial ethic. I always asked what I could do for my country rather than what it might do for me. I do not believe that everybody shares my perspective. Indeed, when reflective, I don't share it, myself, because I learned through sometimes painful repetition that it's often better if I understand what's in it for me when I engage. Not to get all self-centered about it, but I discovered that I also have valid needs and that it need not be all about me for it to have some alluring something in it should I choose to engage. The choice matters. I was raised to default toward self-sacrifice, as if dimninishing myself should serve as adequate payment. I'm still apt to default in that direction and I often require considerable circumspection to catch myself before I martyr myself again.
Some were apparently raised with an opposite ethic, though theirs hardly seems ethical to my reconning. They wouldn't think of lifting a finger without an explicit agreement concerning the resulting payment, and sometimes even requiring a prepayment or deposit to initiate engagement. Their employers are in their debt. The ego strength supporting this stance astounds and confuses me. What could lead anyone to believe they're worth any outlay before they've delivered anything on their promise? This does not smell like service to me. Nor does it resemble what I consider a free or fair exchange. Render the service, then accept payment. In extreme cases, perhaps create a sinking fund to hold the funds until the contrracted effort's acknowledged as done.
Our incumbent observes the latter order. He seems in no way self-sacrificial. Historically, every prior holder of that office has felt as though it was honor enough to simply hold the office. The trust extended by the voters represented essentially a prepayment of whatever salary the execution of the office's duties might provide. This guy has been scheming to bring in more personal revenue from his first second in office. It has often seemed as if he sought the role just for the income it would attract to him, personally. The actual responsibilities of the office seem secondary to how he conducts business. He comes across as a definite Me First character, which is to say he seems to lack some essentially character required of those who hold high public office. The Presidency, especially, was intended to be fulfilled more selflessly than selfishly.
Article I, Section 9, Clause 8 of the U.S. Constitution, The so-called Emoluments Clause, prohibits federal officeholders from receiving gifts, payments, or other things of value from foreign governments without Congressional consent. Along with preventing the federal government from granting titles of nobility, the Founders intended it to safeguard against foreign influence and corruption by ensuring that public officials are not influenced by personal gain from foreign entities.Clearly, our current incumbent does not subscribe to that element of our Constitution. He has proven to be a pick-and-choose chief executive, selectively ignoring significant elements of the checks and balances our founders prescribed. Consequently, he adds to the growing Bill of Particulars his adversaries have been accumulating with almost every decision he's been making. Tension builds with each pronouncement.
Few disagree with any fair payment scheme. Many in the public believe their president to be overpaid. They hold the same opinion of their dog catcher, for public service was never supposed to make anybody rich. Accepting a gift of a $400 million dollar obsolete airplane from a jihadi sympathizer wouldn't seem like the shortcut to anybody's heart, but the MAGA crowd lost its pride when it lost its mind. It's heart followed. They don't seem to mind that their titular leader makes billions corrupting his office, our office of our presidency, not his. The plane seems like spare change when compared with his crypto-currency schemes and stock manipulations. Character cannot be purchased no matter how many billions get exchanged. Corruption rots more than merely the direct participants. The context itself sours as simple decency decomposes through complacency and greed. Jesus chased the moneychangers out of the temple, the one exchange where he seemed to genuinely lose his cool. Those who believe they can barter decency for their own enrichment render everyone else poorer, however wealthy they might become. I suspect his first impeachment indictment will focus upon his many violations of the Emoluments Clause. Good riddance!
©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved
El Greco (Domenikos Theotokopoulos):
Christ Driving the Money Changers from the Temple
(c. 1570–75)
"I suspect his first impeachment indictment will focus on his many violations of the Emoluments Clause."
“What's in it for me?” has never been a question that comes very naturally to me. My birth family raised me under a more self-sacrificial ethic. I always asked what I could do for my country rather than what it might do for me. I do not believe that everybody shares my perspective. Indeed, when I reflect, I don't share it, myself, because I learned through sometimes painful repetition that it's often better if I understand what's in it for me when I engage. Not to get all self-centered about it, but I discovered that I also have valid needs and that it need not be all about me for it to have some allure in it, should I choose to engage. The choice matters. I was raised to default toward self-sacrifice, as if diminishing myself should serve as adequate payment. I'm still apt to default in that direction, and I often require considerable circumspection to catch myself before I martyr myself again.
Some were raised with an opposite ethic, though theirs hardly seems ethical to my reckoning.
Surrendering
Anonymous Germany, Anonymous Italy:
Book XXXIII.10 Macedonians pretend to surrender
{Quarte Decadis Liber Quartus p. CXCVIII verso}
Series/Book Title: Illustrations from Livy, Decades.
Venice, Philipp Pincio, September 27, 1511 (1493)
" … to continue contemplating a Surrendering I'll never accomplish."
The seemingly endless inanity eventually wears anyone down. Surrounded by monstrous stupidity, the least of us start feeling defeated. Logic won't work. Reason fails us again and again. There's no reasonable explanation. We eventually say, to ourselves if to nobody else, "Maybe I'm the crazy one." We're exhausted trying to maintain what we previously never even needed to consider. I stopped eating eggs rather than continue fretting over their ridiculous price. I sense my world contracting. I was raised with the explicit expectation that our universe would inexorably continue expanding, so I hold few antibodies to defend against this unlikely experience. I reframe until I appear blue in the face, but all to little avail. I feel altogether too much of a world that seems to exclude altogether too much of myself. I feel older than my age. My back began bothering me as if I'd been shouldering too great a burden. Weariness haunts me. I declared an obscene number of sick days. I feel defeated much of the time, though little of substance seems to have changed.
Our incumbent trades exclusively in paper tigers, though even the paper kind can still cause real havoc.
TEaCh
James Gillray: The Graces in a High Wind
published May 26, 1810
published by Hannah Humphrey
"I hope never to become its master."
The incumbent uses Truth Social, a failed social media experiment in which he holds majority ownership, to share his lies with the world. I suppose a few of his postings contain honest renderings of his thoughts and feelings. Those elicit a near-universal Ewww response from most of the public, offering glimpses into an internal universe about which we imagine we'd be better off never knowing. But it's a given that everybody must employ tech to count these days. Those not plugged into the latest 'thing' seem hardly worth considering, and I'm little different other than the fact that I cannot seem to keep up. I resist downloading every promising new app. I have never once played a video game on any of my many machines, and not just because I do not know how to download and play any of the curiously popular video games. They belong to the class of experiences I've deliberately avoided engaging with, believing them to be the electronic equivalent of poison. I avoided Candy Crush like it was plague. Same with Wordle, whatever that entails. I'm the sort who can't absorb the rules and key strokes required to play because that sort of play feels like excruciating work to me. My eyes glaze over, and I become unresponsive.
I've likewise avoided learning how to operate Microsoft anything.
Trappings
Margaret E Price:
Princess Furball attends the royal festival
adorned in her golden dress (1921)
" … deserve to ultimately be humbled by their surroundings."
Power seems an intangible entity. Nobody would suspect one possesses it until they wield it. Titles largely seem to threaten its use more than promise it. It seems too easily over-reached. It can often be breached. It can manifest as defensive or offensive. It need not be used at all. Gaining power tends to reveal more of a person than many other experiences might, for it carries a frightening capacity to buoy one's self-credulity. Anyone unprepared for a certain shock of recognition or an awe in their own presence seems likely to embarrass themselves without noticing. The true test of any influential person might be the restraint they employ. Not using power serves as the most potent use of power. In this way, power always proves paradoxical. To use it is almost the same as to abuse it, though shrinking from its legitimate uses renders it useless. So, a certain maturity seems necessary for anybody granted power. We've seen immaturity undermine otherwise powerful people. We've watched the assumption of power go to someone's head. We've seen the Trappings that inevitably accompany power catch the attention of the suddenly powerful to utterly undermine whatever their intentions might have been.
The Trappings our incumbent enjoys seem to distract him.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 05/08/2025
John Simmons: Unite or Perish, Chicago (1968)
I Will Inhabit My Future
I was supposed to write this introduction on my new MacBook Air, which arrived yesterday afternoon just as I was sitting down to create this week's writing summary. I deferred playing with that new machine until after I'd completed that chore, setting the copying over of the six hundred thousand odd files through supper. It was still happily grinding away two hours later. When I rose at two, the progress bar reported that three more hours remained, so I went off to distract myself for that time. Back just after five, I found it had finished copying, but it hadn't yet finished with me. It had prepared a gauntlet of Pastwords for breakfast, each with a slightly different name and incomprehensible, in turn. With The Muse's groggy help, I made it through the first two gates and was delighted that Safari and Chrome could remember the last opened tabs. The new computer apparently had a functional touch key, which might mean that I won't have to continually type out my seventeen-digit Pastwork so frequently. That alone would justify the purchase. I'm hoping the continual crashing that has become a near-constant background annoyance might finally be reduced or even eliminated. Facebook couldn't remember me or my Pastword, and, as is often the case, my Pastword-remembering software apparently couldn't remember the most current iteration, either. I figure if it can determine that my Pastword's incorrect, it already knows who I am and is just playing hard to get. Typed in Pastwords make as much sense as TSA pat-downs yet we all submit to the tyranny. The Facebook failure chased me back to my old machine, even though I knew I'd undermine the parallel environments final migration would require. It was Friday, and I was not yet ready for my daily posting and my preparation for my Zoom Chat. One day, I will inhabit my future.
SlyenceFriction
Lucas Emil Vorsterman: Backgammon Players (c. 1630)
ABOUT THIS ARTWORK
Adam de Coster was a prominent painter of illuminated night scenes in Antwerp around 1630, about the same time that Lucas Emil Vorsterman was engraving works after his popular contemporaries in the same city. A student of Peter Paul Rubens, Vorsterman employed a style that was originally similar to that of the Flemish master, until a falling out with Rubens and subsequent trip to England provoked him to create stronger, more stylized, Caravaggesque engravings such as Backgammon Players. Clearly influenced by De Coster’s handling of light, Vorsterman brightened the otherwise dark scene with two candles whose flames illuminate the faces of those seated around the table.
"Real life does not even distantly resemble a game of Grand Theft Auto, and probably never will."
A seemingly separate species of human has emerged over recent decades. If this species existed before modern times, they were never terribly influential in human affairs. In scientific circles and among scientific professionals, odd lifestyles doubtless proliferated and were tolerated. Many famous early scientists’ histories read like psychodramas, but they were rarely asked for their opinion on taxation, for instance, or moral questions. Today, nerds seem to have gotten out of hand. Gamers carry a certain reverence in much of the public mind, as if their successes on the Xbox certify them as geniuses or something. Those who take science fiction seriously today enjoy a certain cachet imparted on no ancient. Those who believe we should be colonizing Mars are inexplicably thought to be exceptionally insightful rather than the more traditionally delusional. Something feels unsettling about people who choose to spend their non-refundable time gaming, especially those who consider gaming to be a competitive sport. People who get their jollies blowing away imaginary space aliens might be "on the spectrum" but seem too spacey to ever be senior advisors to a President. So much the worse for anybody who believes science fiction is mere allegory. Many now sincerely believe it's predictive and prescient.
Those who follow false Gods have never before been so involved in politics.
Pettiness
Style of Abraham Jansz Diepenbeeck:
King Midas at the Contest Between Apollo and Pan
(circa 1616–1675)
"That's the cultural capability of our present incumbent: Pettiness."
I was raised on tales of great men accomplishing great things. The possibility of a President actively promoting Pettiness never came up in polite conversation, so it's been particularly jarring as our incumbent has set about accomplishing nothing after rising to the role of so-called Most Powerful Person In The World. Such authority apparently lies in something other than the title, for our incumbent has already amply demonstrated that power lacks authority when placed in unworthy hands. It's not clever to opt out of employing lawful means to attempt to accomplish change. It's downright stupid to flaunt the Constitution because that document, above all others, amounts to sacrosanct text in this culture. Further, the oath of office insists upon an active defense against enemies of said Constitution, both foreign and domestic. It does considerably more than stretch credulity when the incumbent embodies every element of that enemy against which he took that oath, dedicating himself to defending against it instead. This paradox just seems to amplify his pre-existing cognitive disabilities.
Nothing of greatness has even been suggested since this administration, Hell-bent on not successfully administering anything, began failing to effectively rule.
Scheduled
Lewis Wickes Hine: Women do Irregular Work,
Schedule of an unusually fast wrapper stripper for four weeks.
Series/Book Title: Social Museum Collection
(1907-1908)
"It was only ever eternal in the moment before it was declared done."
My dental hygienist reported that she was Scheduled into next year and booked solid into November, six months hence. Her dentist was booking into the following month, and so couldn't possibly perform any procedure not previously Scheduled. I once maintained such a schedule where I could reasonably predict my position months into the future. I inhabited a speculative reality, one capable of containing me every bit as effectively as any jail cell might have. I willingly entered, feeling secure in there rather than imprisoned. Call it job security, but I felt a real sense of certainty then. I later became a freelancer and lost most of my previous confidence. Then, I felt as though I was constantly juggling, coniving to survive somehow. Like the biblical Birds of the Field, though, I rarely starved. Plenty manifested before me, even in the absence of a tangible Schedule. I came to understand that Scheduled might have always been more of a preference than an imperative. In the absence of a Scheduled horizon, I'd reliably stumble upon one that managed to sustain me. This experience amounted to heresy.
I worked in the Project Management field.
Mistery
Master of the Die: Apollo Slaying Python, plate one from The History of Apollo and Daphne (c. 1532)
Gallery Note:
The alteration to this impression is not initially evident, but closer inspection reveals that this predominantly nude Apollo is missing his genitalia. A viewer deliberately scraped away the ink at the god’s crotch in a campaign of extremely localized censorship. Given how modestly Apollo was originally endowed, this change does not significantly alter the image overall. Rather, the god’s sizable arrow quiver dangles more provocatively between his legs than his own penis ever did. The objecting viewer, apparently lacking a grasp of age-old visual puns, may not have realized that, with his alteration, the visual emphasis merely shifted to this larger and more obvious phallus substitute.
"Eye for an eye and tooth for tooth sentences actually seem like justice to them."
For MAGAs, the past is not comprised of memories. Those of us seeking referents for MAGA assertions about the past seem doomed to disappointment, for they do not share a history with anybody but themselves. They rely upon a different basis upon which to anchor their assertions. To their minds, these are not fictional representations, but more like Biblical ones. Sure, the past might not have happened precisely like they recall, but their rememberings seem more divinely inspired and thereby more valid than what might have actually happened. Their recollections carry the gravitas of Old Testament testimony, unlike the obviously phony more conventional histories. They and the members of their tribe know better than the “lame” mainstream academics. Academic histories were obviously written with political agendas, as are all histories written by winners. The losers carry different stories and believe in theirs more fervently than any professional historian ever believes in theirs. The professionals might insist that theirs are not dependent upon belief but facts. In any wrestling match between belief and facts, bet on the beliefs to ultimately prevail.
Many advancements seem absent from MAGA history.
RecitalRules
Lee Russell:
Boy giving recitation in program at end of school term. FSA
(Farm Security Administration) labor camp. Caldwell, Idaho (1941)
"We only have everything to lose otherwise."
Lest I forget the purpose for which I started writing this series forty-five days ago, The Universe has been conspiring to remind me. In my experience, if I set my mind on something, the universe sets about reminding me when I misplace my focus. My part in the circus seems to come from forgetting that focus and generously accepting reminders. I tend to wander and weave my way, whichever way I've chosen. The universe always seems to be conspiring to remind me, and I don't mind. I appreciate that I inhabit a universe so generously disposed to focus on somebody as genuinely insignificant as little old me. I can use the reinforcement, especially when I'd committed to write about hope and coping. How have I been doing? I've been wandering and weaving, as is typically my way. I rarely travel via straight lines. I've even proven myself to be more than capable of going backwards when pursuing something, even when that something seems as essential to my well-being as coping and hope. I've proven myself more than capable of losing my way, so I sincerely appreciate this universe when it seems to nudge me back into awareness.
It's been a rough time, with interference appearing almost every morning.
Idiology
James Castle: Red Coat; verso: Back of Man ((20th century)
"The best of all possible opponents to have when battling for decency and justice."
People complain about the MAGA ideology without slowing down to appreciate its underlying Idiology. It might be that we innocently mistake one for the other. Ideology amounts to ideas and ideals—beliefs—that drive political theories and policies. It's easy to presume that some shared beliefs drive an ideological bus, when they might not be present or that influential. It sure seems as though every MAGA has undergone a brain transplant to replace their intelligence with something less inquisitive. Belief sure seems to drive their behaviors, but their beliefs don't seem to be all that consistent. What might bring them together when their beliefs only seem to converge? I think it's the urge, or more properly, the inherent inability to control that urge. It's not so much what they believe as how they believe. They believe with such conviction that they do not seem to question the reasoning behind their interventions. Because of this hair-trigger belief system, they render themselves incapable of foreseeing likely implementation complications. They act without first questioning. They engage with such unshakable certainty that they seem genuinely shaken when their latest hare-brained scheme predictably blows up in their face.
It's a genuine gift for an opponent to exhibit authentic Idiology, for however fickle the details of their moves might seem, they each share a hyper-predictable pattern.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 05/01/2025
Charles Green Bush:
Let Us Have Peace! -Fortissimo, from Harper’s Weekly
(published June 19, 1869)
He Will Probably Never Recover
May caught me napping. It arrived while I spent most of my writing week escaping from a seriously twingy back pain that visited me for no apparent reason. One problem with even attempting to be a reasoning being comes with unreasonable events, occurrences that sidestep or somehow transcend reason. There never seems to be a reasonable end to the search for the cause of these afflictions. The doctor asks questions to which I can muster no reasonable response. The first prescription doesn't work. The second doesn't do much, either. Circa day three, I took a high-level pain pill The Muse had leftover from some prior procedure, one of the ones the doctor threatened to prescribe, so I took one. It didn't touch the pain, either. Maybe that second batch of muscle relaxers worked, or, after four down days, my body started responding to rest. By the fifth morning, my back still felt twingy, but the twinges no longer elicited grimaces. A week spent in intermittent agony serves to reset the gauge intended to determine whether I'm okay. My threshold has been considerably reduced from where I'd grown accustomed to it.
Ire
Peter Paul Rubens:
Hl. Ambrosius und Kaiser Theodosius (1615/1616)
"This reaction makes the so-called superior appear inferior and the complier seem spineless."
Recent headlines reported that many, including a few of the wealthiest and most powerful people in this universe, have taken to tiptoeing around our incumbent to "avoid his Ire." I recognize the word "Ire" as one of those holiday serving spoons restricted from ordinary supper use, exclusively reserved for company. I remember the few times it's been trotted out, not for itself, but for what it was always associated with. Its presence seems rare enough in memory to almost be considered a sacrament, warmly remembered. I proudly recall the times when I managed to spark Ire, especially in someone I was supposed to automatically provide deference: a principal, police officer, or high official who felt as though I'd disrespected their position, if not them personally. The Ire itself always took the form of threats, promising retribution for the imagined infraction. The imagined portion was almost always a misunderstanding stemming from my failure to engage with what I might characterize as adequate gravitas. I might have engaged with a superior as if he were an equal or, worse, a lesser. Few angers rival those sparked by a sleight perceived by a superior, for they might seem to threaten the whole concept of "superior." Those relying upon their position to prevent being perceived as inferior seem to possess the thinnest skin and generate the bulk of the Ire in this universe.
I prefer to inhabit a world where we employ a more level playing field where nobody can be seriously considered to be anyone's better.
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