Savings
Unknown artist: Saved (19th century)
"They seem to be aching for a comeuppance from Congress."
Christians associate saving with salvation, the deliverance from harm. Savings might seem even more beneficial than a single act of Saving, though in practice, especially in our new NextWorld context, Savings holds an entirely different connotation. One might innocently presume that as a result of Savings, for instance, that one might necessarily have accumulated a nest egg available to purchase stuff. Not so in NextWorld economics; there, the best one might expect from expansive Savings might be fewer future obligations. In a cash economy, nothing will necessarily accumulate as a result, though lower demand on income might eventually result in some surplus. The purpose of Savings in NextWorld exists only on paper. They're intended to make it appear that we'll have no deficit going forward into future years. For this to be the case, of course, the "Savings" would need to focus on paying down pre-existing Deficits, but that does not seem to be the intention here. No, the purpose seems to be to make the economy appear to be credit-worthy, capable of assuming even more significant deficits to subsidize our poor, suffering one-percenters. The billionaires are wailing and desperately need the public to bail them out again.
In practice, Savings means cutting. In NextWorld terms, it means eliminating even essential services.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 02/20/2025
Thomas Holcroft: The Larder (1806)
from Henry Fielding's 1742 novel
The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews
and of his Friend Mr. Abraham Adams.
A Difference Nobody Could Miss
Mid-February reliably brings Spring along the forty-seventh parallel, though an arctic intrusion slowed the usual warming this year. The sun crosses some angle where its light reveals a dimension winter withholds. Trees suddenly show height and breadth, and the sky turns the most reassuring shade. A few days spent struggling to shrug off the accumulated snow and, what do you know, it started smelling like Springtime, too. Linda Sue, our housecleaner, chirped that she was so reassured to see the robins flocking in our yard. Flickers descended from up in the mountains to strip our ornamental crabapples bare before they started budding and discarding their fermented fruits. I felt moved to drive my pick-up across the state line to find some fruit tree spray. I'm dedicated to properly pruning the Sacred Apricot and the two newer Maribelle trees this year. I always enter Winter reluctantly, uncertain if I can face up to and survive another isolation. Spring, though, lures me in a month before the calendar finally insists it's here. The calendar and the meteorological always disagree at this time of year, but the angle of the shadows defines a difference that nobody can miss. This was a winter of considerable discontent. May this Spring bring a hasty impeachment. May the inept insurrectionists receive everything they ever feared they'd deserve. I want our country to be of thee and me and you again!
TheWiseKing
Thomas Holctoft: The Welcome (1806)
from Henry Fielding's 1742 novel
The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews
and of his Friend Mr. Abraham Adams.
"He obviously had no viceroy insisting The King Is Wise."
Our incumbent has taken to referring to himself as King. He'd starting making "kingly" pronouncements from his first day in office, though most of these seemed eminently ignorable, just so much bluster. But the delusion seemed to expand as his tenure lengthened, culminating in a self-published magazine cover depicting him in an ermine-trimmed coat and crown. He'd replaced Time at the top of the cover with his name, as if to amplify the depth of his growing delusion. He performs like an eight-year-old might, aching for a sword fight. He looks ridiculous, though he doesn't seem to notice, for few experiences are more entrancing than such imaginings. To elevate oneself more than entrances, it quite literally ennobles. It's all delusion, of course, but the most uplifting sort. The notorious madness of kings originates in just this way. Even those who inherit their crown are subject to this come-down, for the limitations of every charter tend to far outweigh the power they bestow. Real kings learn in their earliest training not how to cope with great authority but how to cope with the more humbling reality of their situation.
They learn that they were born more figurehead than anything.
Innuendo
Thomas Holctoft: Squire Guzzle (1806)
from Henry Fielding's 1742 novel
The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews
and of his Friend Mr. Abraham Adams.
" … no jury in this universe fails to identify the guilty party."
Being a nation of laws, we highly value evidence. We insist upon more than mere rumor to indict and beyond-doubt evidence to convict. We respect habeas corpus. We prefer to freely cross-examine our witnesses, and we expect them to respond. We have been unaccustomed to moving based solely upon anybody's say-so. NextWorld, though, attempts to run on Innuendo. A mere slur might spur some serious response. Someone without a portfolio might insist that they've cut waste and abuse without producing evidence of either, as if they could replace two hundred and fifty years of disciplined engagement with whispers. Further, nobody seems interested in claiming responsibility. The Who Done It resolves to, at best, vague pronouns. When a federal judge asks who's in charge, the Justice Department defender can't respond, claiming they don't know, so the judge reminds the court of the penalties involved in lying to the court.
The usual sources of vetted information shut down, as if we didn't need to remain well-informed about our government's performance and the spread of the latest infectious diseases.
Dis-
Thomas Holctoft: Lawyer Doublefee (1806)
from Henry Fielding's 1742 novel
The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews
and of his Friend Mr. Abraham Adams.
" … They exclusively worship craven images."
NextWorld seems full of imaginary enemies. Former friends and associates apparently turned on us, though I remain unsure just what their infraction was. One morning, I learned that they were also vilified. I wondered if we would have any allies left at the rate we seemed to be chasing them off. Trust collapsed into enmity. Dignity coalesced into infamy. Cooperations evaporated into clouds of obvious Dis-information. Praise became distrust. Admiration turned into public Dis-gust. The incumbent couldn't say enough bad things about anybody. Fascism apparently thrives on a steady diet of imaginary enemies.
But it's not only trading partners who receive these bum's rush characterizations.
MiddleNightMusings
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.
BeLeef
Thomas Holctoft: Parson Trulliber (1806)
from Henry Fielding's 1742 novel
The History of the Adventures of Joseph Andrews
and of his Friend Mr. Abraham Adams.
" … indulging in innocuously guilty pleasures to discover some sense of freedom …"
I suppose I've been steadily accumulating my belief system since just after birth. I don't know this for sure, but I could speculate that my beliefs are merely the sum of my exposures, though that assertion somehow doesn't seem completely genuine. I understand, as nobody else ever could, how I weighted my absorption, favored some inputs over others, and utterly avoided placing myself in the position where some might influence me. I remember back in the eighties when a vendor mentioned how she'd discovered an entertaining new radio commentator. She said he was on for hours daily and couldn't help but listen in as she made her rounds between clients. She played a piece of one of his programs as she drove us to a lunch meeting. I'd never heard of Rush Limbaugh before. I was appalled by his program. I felt as though my vendor had shared porn with me. Her not-even-a-little-bit-guilty indulgence convinced me I should probably not be doing business with her. I quietly withdrew her contracts as they expired and never hired another contractor from her firm.
It seemed to me that she had been poisoned.
Deficits
Thomas Holcroft: The empty purse (1806)
"Damn those who never learned how to manage money!"
The key might be to balance. The very wealthy are different from the rest of us because they exclusively live on somebody else's money. It amounts to a wise way to live if you can get away with it. The more complicated way to live must be hand to mouth, or hand to forehead when there's not enough. Those who live by exchanging cash or, heaven forbid, gold, forfeit the possibility of leverage, a magical process by which one can comfortably live beyond one's means. Galbreath said that every generation seems to need to relearn the lessons leverage extends. They usually learn by leveraging too far beyond even their magically-extended means to utterly undermine their dreams. They default on their debt and undermine their credit. This catastrophic event instantly evaporates prosperity, sometimes permanently leaving the debtor in penury.
But I speak here of individuals and corporations, not reserve currency nations.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 02/13/2025
Hi Red Center: Bundle of Events
Designed by George Maciunas
Published by Fluxus
Edited by Shigeko Kubota
(1965)
Tracks They Left Before
This might be the Cabin Fever Edition of my Weekly Writing Summaries, for these stories emerged into a frozen world featuring snow and ice. Most of this winter seemed barely different from Fall, but Arctic air finally descended. It's been a winter wonderland since. I've been exhibiting my snow shoving technique, which I perfected through six Colorado winters. I learned to avoid shoveling there, which requires lifting, sometimes heavy lifting. I employ my snowplow-like snow shover to nudge the stuff out of my way. A snow cover makes The Villa seem cozier, though I've been avoiding building a fire, even though I have plenty of firewood. It's like I'm concerned that I might run out, so I wear my down vest around the house. The cats have been reluctant to go out but still resist using the litter box. They despise walking through snow and carefully reuse tracks they left before.
BigMysteries
Hi Red Center. Canned Mystery (c.1964) Distributed by Fluxus
Inscriptions and Marks
Inscription: bottom of can, in artist's hand: The letter on the bottom of the can - either H or I - is a code referring to the contents. The code can only be broken by opening the can, which then changes the work....
—-
"This somnambulance could be killing us!"
Since this NextWorld formally began on January 20, 2025, mysteries have been proliferating for me. They started in the moments following inaguration when the new incumbent tied into what, just a scant hour before, had been universally-recognized as the world's most successful economy, the envy of every other nation. The acceptance speech, or what passed for one, disparaged what universal concensus had previously praised. We were transformed from a prosperous country into a pauper one necessitating wholesale restructuring. Budget cuts were not just proposed but imposed, even though the incumbent was never given that particular constitutional power. Mass layoffs were implemented, again without the authority to initiate them. I could not imagine how this magic had occurred, from prosperity to the very edge of penury, in minutes. Never in the history of this world had any country fallen so quickly and so far.
Since then, the mysteries have only deepened.
BigPicture
Pieter van der Heyden, after Pieter Bruegel:
Big Fish Eat Little Fish (1557) Published by Hieronymus Cock
ABOUT THIS ARTWORK
This engraving hauntingly illustrates the proverb that the big fish always eats the little fish. Starting with the larger-than-life fish at its center, the image teems with grotesque activity, as bodies spill out of other bodies and hybrid creatures walk and fly about. Pieter Bruegel seems to take a dim view of humanity here, one of disgust at its seemingly endless capacity to cannibalize itself. This is epitomized in the hybrid fish-person at left carrying off its prize, another fish, in its gaping mouth. In the foreground, a man directs a child’s gaze toward the scene, telling him to “behold” (ecce) the proverbial truth on display.
"Those incapable of imagining a coherent BigPicture should never be considered leadership material."
My degree compelled me to enroll in a Systems Thinking class when I went to university. This was considered cutting edge at the time. In it, I was introduced to a few cybernetic precepts and assigned to "design a nuclear-powered electricity generating plant.” I knew nothing about nuclear power or generating electricity, but the instructor showed me how to start with a BigPicture notion of how something like that would have to be configured to work. It would require certain inputs to produce desired outputs, and specific functions would need to occur within the system. The professor demonstrated how to group similar functions into what he referred to as "subsystems." I needed to let go of my natural need to describe details to succeed. I wouldn't need to concern myself with what bolts might hold together a combustion chamber. Those were "mere" details. To arrive at a useful BigPicture, I'd need to presume more than any plant designer needs to define. I was instructed to maintain a useful altitude.
From that perspective, I surprised myself by creating a reasonably practical-seeming high-level portrait of the plant in that exercise.
DeVoting
Anonymous: Cartoon of the funeral of Pastor Abraham van de Velde, 1677
Gallery Notes:
Cartoon of the funeral of Reverend Abraham van de Velde, June 14, 1677. A long funeral parade of 4 rows of men with steep ears or donkey ears moves with the corpse of Ds. van der Velde from the House of Unrest over 'the miserable kerkhof', past some tombstones with appropriate inscriptions to the church of the Spiritual Supreme Wore. Some crying sisters lead the procession; in the middle a banner with the inscription 'The profession of Troyen'. The print includes a text sheet with legend. The Footian pastor had previously been banished from Utrecht and played a role in the conflict in Zeeland between the Footians and Coccejans in 1675.
—
"He never understood why he couldn't make the universe dance once he'd gained advantage."
In NextWorld, accolites will vote to enable their leader to choose what to support. That leader will ignore popular opinion and decide to satisfy his desire for vengence against both those he imagined wronged him and innocent, unrelated citizens, for their leader considers himself omnipotent. Their leader intends this novel use of enfrancisement to undermine the future will to vote. As citizens see that their votes influence nothing, they might choose to disenfranchise themselves further. Their indifference could become the most significant influence in future elections, guaranteeing that only the most dishonest candidates succeed. The DeVoted followers might never suspect that they are victims of deliberate DeVoting, a betrayal of everything their country used to say it stood for. By then, the population will have become overwhelmingly cynical, able to explain everything wrong without exhibiting a notion about what might have always been right or how to repair anything broken. It becomes Down With Everything except their disconnected leader. Then it becomes Down With Him, too.
Those most supportive of DeVoting will naturally be the least capable of deciding anything.
ManifestingDestinies
Albert Bierstadt: Rocky Mountains, "Lander's Peak" (1863)
"God the Father manifests as a terrible sword whenever people get involved."
A gleaming emanates from those who believe themselves on a God-given mission. They are not merely existing or just living, but actively Manifesting. Manifesting what? Their Destinies, of course. They might not hold an explicit vision of their end result. Still, they hold an unshakable conviction that they have been especially chosen to deliver something transforming for themselves and the world. These people are crazy, yet if anybody's likely to accomplish something, it seems most likely to be these driven people. They can be self-sacrificial, unconcerned about their well-being. They can also seem completely self-absorbed, uninterested in anything other than their particular obsession. They often exemplify the sin of self-importance, for even given their sometimes considerable self-sacrifices, they always seem to make whatever they're overcoming about them.
These self-selected envoys from God seem odd.
UpRoarious
Charles Joseph Traviès de Villers:
Got to admit that the government has a very funny head.
Original Language Title:
Faut avouer que l'gouvernement a une bien drôle de tête.
Series/Book Title: La Caricature III (60) 22 dec 1831, no. 121
(1831)
"You should have cornered the popcorn franchise before you started. That might have rendered you rich and successful."
The MAGA Movement became a movement the same way the more traditional bowel movement emerged, primarily by seeking to create Uproars. They aim to disrupt rather than propose, to break instead of repair. What they intended to be an UpRoar most often becomes UpRoarious, hilarious in its naivety and evident ineptness. They hold principles they carried forward from the darkest Middle Ages. I hope I'm not inadvertently disparaging the more respectable elements of Middle Ages culture to suggest that the MAGA worldview seems tenaciously backward. They tout White Supremacy as if those memes had not been proven self-cancelling since at least the fifties. The eighteen-fifties. They call themselves conservatives, but few understand why they chose to get stuck so far behind modernity. They behave as if everything modern were an abomination, and so they seem to casually discard the accumulated efforts at creating more perfect unions since the creation of this nation. They consequently present a far less than more-perfect platform, but a demonstrably worse one.
They sing the praises of the days when only two genders existed, as if those days had existed.
Sociopathy
Patricq Kroon: Succession of Spanish dictatorships (1930)
Gallery Notes:
The Spanish King Alfonso XIII watches as the dictator Miguel Primo de Rivera falls off the assembly line and is succeeded (in 1930) by the next dictator Dámaso Berenguer. Design for a political cartoon.
"They seem offensively self-centered."
Certain characteristics seem common to the MAGA Class. The traits seem strangely consistent, as if each proponent had been schooled in the same comportment, for each exhibits similar patterns. A MAGA might be reasonably expected to profess Christianity, though not any innocuous odd mainstream kind. They tend to "be" evangelical, which means they carry an explicit obligation to try to convert everyone else to their belief system. This notion must require enormous ego strength to fuel what must eventually seem like serial failures. However, it appears that MAGAs also tend to stay within a narrow social circle where the bulk of people have already "accepted Jesus Christ as their personal Lord and Savior," whatever that might mean. They tend to carry the certainty of The Saved. Whatever sins might have spotted their past, they seem to feel washed clean from them now. They speak and act with unusual impunity.
They might believe they are not beholden to obey specific laws and rules.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 02/06/2025
Carlo Marchionni: Caricature of Man Writing
(18th Century)
Smothered In Fresh Bullshit
I don't think of myself as so much a slave to truth but more of its servant. Truths have generally served me well, once I recovered from my typical adolescent embarrassment over who I was. As I discovered, developed, and learned to appreciate my gifts, I could increasingly feature them in my stories rather than presenting ginned-up exemplars. I found more leverage telling my truths than by fabricating lies. I noticed then that I attracted different sorts of friends than others discovered around them. They weren't selling anything. They seemed accepting. They lived above board. They kept their share of secrets but for privacy instead of piracy. It surprises me how central lies seem to be in this NextWorld presidency. I doubt anybody can keep up with the lies spewing out of the White House. Small and huge, covering every possible topic.
I doubt anyone can discriminate between truth and lies from there, other than to conclude that there's no truth in there. I wonder about the self-esteem required to so thoroughly surround oneself with fabrications. I sense a slimy sort of soul poking out sticks from within a cage. He must be terrified of the truth. I'd never before considered how fungible lies can be. They might be easier to defend than even the most obvious truth, for they do not depend upon anything but imagination to justify them. They seem relatively impervious to criticism. A simple denial surrounded by a remarkably few fresh untruths and even the most dedicated critic finds themself smothered in fresh bullshit.
The American Way
Master of the Die, After Raphael:
Three Cupids Playing With An Ostrich (16th century)
"The stence of competing righteousnesses clogged the nostrils."
The American Way must be one phenomenon that can only be recognized when seen because it sure seems to defy description. I could haul out the fife and drum and affect a limping march while performing an old English drinking song about a gay blade. Very few would take offense at my performance because we were seemingly all raised with that representation, and we immediately recognize it as really about us. Call us, "Macaroni!" We expropriated much of who we are and what we've become from close associations with people from other traditions, other nations. If we aren't a melting pot, we're a slag heap, incompletely assimilated bits and pieces coexisting more or less. Our unity seems to come solely from our inherent diversity: out of many, one. This tenuous identity has been a defining trait through decades of misadventures.
This identity has been particularly annoying to efficiency experts, and few professions have ever been more American than efficiency engineering.
The American Scream
Frederic Edwin Church: Our Banner in the Sky (1861)
Gallery Text:
"Within this vibrant scene of atmospheric flux, an opening within a roiling cloud layer reveals stars against a blue firmament. The barren tree in the foreground doubles as a pole for this celestial apparition of the “broad stripes and bright stars” of the U.S. flag. Following the rapid succession of political provocations that led to Confederate forces firing on Fort Sumter, Church channeled his belief in the divine righteousness of the Union cause into this patriotic visual spectacle.
As the sectarian conflict stretched from weeks into months, the oil sketch, with its allegorical river valley resembling the Catskills and the Hudson River, was translated into a popular chromolithograph. The New York branch of Goupil & Cie issued the prints as a subscription fundraiser to support the families of Union soldiers. This is one of the few lithographs from the series that Church painted by hand."
" … trying to rebuild a society similar to the one that existed on the last day of Joe Biden's administration."
It seems in the nature of countries that they do something monumentally stupid every once in a while. Some of them might have seemed like a good idea to a few. Still, ultimately, nobody holds that opinion because these events introduce an extended recovery period during which the country gets to reconsider every belief it ever held. Brexit was such an event for Britain. The firing on Fort Sumpter serves as an example of us doing stupid to ourselves. We still struggle with integrating the ramifications of that single short-sighted act.
However wise or wonderful, every country takes its turn.
The American Dream
Elihu Vedder: The Fates Gathering in the Stars (1887)
Gallery Notes:
Elihu Vedder depicted the three Fates of Greek mythology working the thread of life: Clotho spins the thread, Lachesis fixes its length, and Atropos cuts it at the appointed time of death. Their symbolic tools—spindle, distaff, and shears—rest in the foreground, emphasizing the Fates’ decisive role in matters of life and death. Vedder adapted this painting from an illustration he had designed for an 1884 publication by Edward FitzGerald—a translation of the work of 11th-century poet Omar Khayyám, The Rubáiyát. Vedder was attracted to mysterious, visionary subject matter. Here, he explored metaphysical questions of life, death, and afterlife, subjects at the core of Khayyám’s poetry.
"We will never feel completely satisfied with this perfection."
People have been trying to improve our Constitution since the day it was ratified. It was born broken, the product of debate and compromise, not even aspiring to perfection. It was genius, though, in perhaps only one aspect. It was deliberately drafted to be amendable. It was created to be changed. Change, therefore, would not be evidence of something having been broken. Change would help realize aspiration, which might have been the whole purpose of our Constitution in the first place. It was an aspirational document rather than the final word. A beginning, never the end. It might have been that the Founders envisioned an ending to their story. If so, history has so far foiled that intention. Between those firmly believing that our Constitution is the word of God and those who perhaps equally firmly believe it was the product of typically imperfect people lies the playing field upon which we create our history's first drafts. Our future might draw a few conclusions about it, but we certainly can't.
The resulting government mirrors the Constitution in one crucial aspect.
The Biggest Lie
Félix Edouard Vallotton: The Lie, plate one from Intimacies (1897)
“Those who had most loudly insisted that faceless bureaucrats had compromised our country became the faceless bureaucrats about who they so publicly complained.”
The Biggest Lie in American politics insisted that our country has been stolen by faceless bureaucrats and, in its later configurations, by an unidentified "Deep State." It insisted that our government no longer belonged to us because its laws seemed to hurt rather than reward us. Of special focus, income taxes were characterized as theft and government services as "inefficient," another undefined term intended to mean "wasteful." Lost in these arguments was any sense of how wealthy our country was, perhaps because few could even distantly imagine how wealthy that might have actually been. It was easier for most of us to imagine our government's finances as roughly similar to our household, where perennial income shortfalls continually threatened solvency when we were collectively wealthy beyond almost anyone's wildest imagination. We were in the postwar years, rich enough to personally bankroll the economies of Britain, Europe, and Japan. Our debt became the free world's burgeoning prosperity, and we more than made back every penny we expended, whether in direct aid or financing.
We were so wealthy during the immediate postwar period that our government spent the equivalent of the value of every bit of privately held property on defenses we would never use, and this while steadily increasing the support supplied to disadvantaged citizens.
The CEO Disease
Edvard Munch: Self-Portrait with Cigar
Original Language Title: Selvportrett med sigar
(1908-1909)
" … nobody's pissed off Old Mary enough. Yet."
Thirty-three years ago this month, I went to work as a very junior consultant with a boutique Silicon Valley consulting firm. Our clients included most of the hot high-tech companies of the time, with Apple topping the long list. I'd gone from a middle management position in a regional mutual life insurance company to being an advisor to some of the best and brightest minds in the acknowledged finest high-tech companies. I found those minds to be largely unexceptional, for they seemed to be prey to the self-same delusions and misconceptions within which I'd caught myself dabbling. Something extraordinary happens whenever we engage in project work together. I had been working on an understanding of this mysterious something. That was a big reason I'd agreed to take that job, even though it gave me a pay cut and demanded that I travel four or five days each week. I sensed a considerable upside. If I could work with these great companies, perhaps I could learn their secret. Maybe I could even finally become proficient in the project work I'd failed to master over the prior decade.
Several of our clients were led by what I understood to be true industry icons.
The Fourth Stage of Cruelty: Reward
John Bell, after William Hogarth: The Reward of Cruelty (1750)
Series/Book Title: The Four Stages of Cruelty (1751)
"We will be as grateful then as we were rightfully fearful before, Gods willing."
"The Final Stage of Cruelty, following the casually random, wide-ranging cruelties practiced through Stage Three, occurs posthumously via some form of autopsy. The corpus will be literally cut open as if to find the source of the evil he incarnated. The coroner will find nothing to explain the behavior. No brain tumor or pituitary problem. He will ultimately be judged as apparently normal except for those disturbing behaviors he seemed compelled to inflict. He was not, as many speculated through his life, particularly sick. Anyone with a dick even that size might have been tempted to act out, but he went beyond mere over-compensating behavior. His performance eclipsed acting. He will have died at his own hand. Not necessarily suicidally, but as a direct result of casually inflicting some genuine cruelty. Eventually, even the universe loses her patience and takes out a particularly errant child. This one never matured into an actual adult. He died as he existed, at the emotional age of about eight. May we finally rest in peace without him." NextWorld, The Third Stage of Cruelty: Perfection
I began this final installment of this series within my Nextworld Series with the final paragraph from the next-to-last installment, for I presaged this ending there.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 01/30/2025
Guiseppe Scolari: Saint George and the Dragon (1570/1600)
How You Decided To Treat Me
Cruelty might be the most unnecessary weapon. It sits like a turd atop an already desecrated dessert, an always absolutely unnecessary embellishment. Whatever might have been intended, its footprints point toward the perpetrator as the guiltiest party because he chose to mete excessive punishment rather than justice. Cruelty might be the victimizer of choice, exclusively employed by those most skilled at victimizing themselves. It remains the bully's favorite response and properly frames the bully's character. Cruelty is always beneath its deployer, effortlessly degrading whatever their standing. The more lofty one's position, the greater the perversion cruelty produces. Our President seems to revel in his power to inflict cruelty on the most innocent among us. This renders him cheaper than most imagined he was, and most already imagined him as cheaper than a two-dollar whore. He'll try to see you by betting a buck-fifty. So far, His administration has suffered greatly from its focus on retribution, not to even scores but to humiliate those not even charged with crimes. This renders them petty rather than powerful, impotent instead of strong. When they assert extra-judicial powers, they disclose how little they know or understand about the land they insist they are dedicated to improving. If humiliating themselves will make America greater, their tactics might prove successful, but in the curious calculus of cruelty, the outcome always mirrors how you decided to treat me.
The Third Stage of Cruelty: Perfection
William Hogarth: Cruelty in Perfection
Series/Book Title: The Four Stages of Cruelty (1751)
"May we finally rest in peace without him."
As The First Stage of Cruelty finding a foothold created space for the institutionalization of cruelty in the Second Stage, the efficient expansion of cruelty within Stage Two burst the barriers into casually practicing any and every perversion after guilt-free cruelty comes unimaginable brutality. What might have started as torture morphs into murder. No limits exist for the experienced. Those who might have dabbled in Stage One Cruelty or felt sucked into Stage Two, if they didn't excuse themselves or flee, finally feel free to simply go off the rails into Stage Three. Hogarth referred to this stage as Perfection because nothing inhibited its excess. It could no longer be considered anomalous. It became just whatever it always was, but now without limits. No guilt intrudes—no sense of error or danger. If pure evil exists, it only persists after reaching Stage Three. Stage Three Cruelty puts everybody at risk because its artillery knows no trajectory. There will be accidents, and innocents will, of course, be destroyed. The perpetrator will have lost their inhibitions by then.
There will be no reformation.
The Second Stage of Cruelty
William Hogarth: The Second Stage of Cruelty
Alternate Title: The Four Stages of Cruelty, Plate 2.
Series/Book Title: The Four Stages of Cruelty
1751
" … no business even attempting to lead others."
Cruelty becomes insidious once institutionalized. However benevolent an institution might have seemed when founded, it might always remain vulnerable to corruption. The corruption might first seem merely seductive, a not-quite guilty pleasure, diverting entertainment. It was probably championed then by someone who seemed unafraid of judgments, somehow above routine worldly cares, a millionaire, seeming unusually powerful. Few would have noticed how vulnerable he felt, for even he was probably not in touch with those depths. He stood securely in only two dimensions and, lacking depth, could have been easily toppled then by even a concerted casual wind. But he stood. He stood and didn't entirely embarrass himself, and he took the wrong message from this early success, which was actually more like an early absence of overt failure. He continued until his behavior became his identity, and it became merely expected. He attracted followers who, accustomed to mimicking, behaved the same. Soon enough, those performances no longer raised so many eyebrows. They still seemed uncouth but no longer obscene. Values had already eroded.
When institutions turn to cruelty, they render it efficient.
The First Stage of Cruelty
William Hogarth: The First Stage of Cruelty (1751)
Series/Book Title: The Four Stages of Cruelty
Alternate Title: The Four Stages of Cruelty, Plate 1.
"I'm asking for a dear friend of mine and yours."
The initial stage of cruelty must come subtly if it's to be sustained. Too overt an entry can shock even partisans into premature recognition. It ideally occurs against some other, preferably one long-reviled. The torturer often targets minorities for precisely this reason. The best victims naturally have the fewest supporters. Some leakage remains unavoidable, though, scrupulously one designs their offensive. Remember, cruelty is inherently offensive. It will seem at least somewhat repulsive to every witness, even the most thoroughly enthralled. The executioner, therefore, has, by long practice, characterized himself as the greatest victim in the transaction. "Poor Henry, whose fate calls for him to behead people for a living!" In extreme cases, the director of the cruelty can comfortably characterize himself as the worst off for the experience. Just imagine! He has to forever live with the memory of the execution while the victims hardly felt a thing as they exited.
The psychology does not seem terribly complicated.
NoNews
Christoffel van Sichem II:
David receives the news of the death of Absalom
Alternate Title:
A ruler on a throne rends his clothes upon receipt of a message (1646)
"I can't be bothered now!"
I was once a perfect news consumer. At ten, when I started delivering newspapers, I read each edition from cover to cover, skipping over the parts that didn't interest me. I was there when NPR first launched and quickly became an ardent listener. For decades, my alarm clock woke me with BBC or Morning Edition. I rarely missed a broadcast and felt deficient whenever I did. I thought I could not live without those twice daily doses, morning and evening. I subscribed to the local paper, too, and read it through. I considered these habits to be necessities of citizenship and to be ill-informed, a high crime, or at least a significant misdemeanor. When our newly-instilled Chief Executive was sworn in the first time, I found myself suddenly unable to listen to the travesties reported twice daily as news. It seemed like unnecessary information, as meaningful as something produced by the Worldwide Wrestling Federation because it probably was. Further, my old, reliable NPR reporters were retiring on me, replaced by what sounded like interns who insisted upon ending every declarative statement with another question mark. I felt as though the more I heard, the dumber I became. I painfully weaned myself off of my NPR habit.
I retained my New York Times and Washington Post, though I made no attempts to scour those from end to end as I had with my small city publication.
Dreadfulled
Corita Kent (Sister Mary Corita):
(tame) hummed hopefully to others (1966)
Inscriptions and Marks
Signed: l.r.: Sister Mary Corita
(not assigned): Printed text reads: TAME [IT']S [NO]T / Somebody up there likes us. / A hum came suddenly into his head, which seemed to him a good hum such as is hummed hopefully to others. Pooh / Deep within every man there lies the dread of being alone in the world, forgotten by God, overlooked among the tremendous household of millions upon millions. That fear is kept away by looking upon all those about one who are bound to one as friends or family; but the dread is nevertheless there and one hardly dares think of what would happen to one if all the rest were taken away. Kierkegaard
"They are terrorists …"
The dream was back again last night. I do not recall the last time it visited, but it had not been so long ago that I wasn't familiar with the scene. We were driving through a hallucination. I'd lost my visual field, so when I looked out through the windshield, it looked to me like we were driving on a body of water. I knew there had to be a road there somewhere, and I suspected The Muse could see it, but I couldn't. There was also something about the music playing that seemed especially upsetting. We were in a precarious balance but at great risk of crashing. I woke up, but the dream persisted. It took an hour of sitting up in the dark for the vestiges of it to finally leave me, and even now, the memory persists.
I realize how exhausted I feel.
Cowardice
Kiyochika Kobayashi: The god of cowardice (1895)
"Only cowards engage in endless wars."
Ares, the Greek God of war, was known for his brutality and cowardice. When discovered to have been conducting an affair with Aphrodite, he and his lover were humiliated before the other Gods. Throughout history, mythical and not, great leaders have been reluctant warriors. They could muster an army but would rather settle differences more peacefully. The inherent cruelty of battle renders it a distasteful choice and always has. Beware leaders who rattle swords, for they disclose the opposite of what their saber-rattling might suppose. They might outwardly appear brave, but they will be quaking beneath their armor. Those who pick fights are rarely the mightiest. They attempt to chase off their opponents by appearing fierce. Once engaged, they're more likely to attack the most vulnerable than the more powerful. They invade schools to entrap parents rather than engage with peers as peers, perhaps because they never feel equal or superior.
Our MAGA maniacs come similarly shackled.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 01/23/2025
Jack Gould: Untitled [composite photograph of a man doing a jumping twist; continuous motion] (c. 1950)
I Dare Not Avert My Eyes
The content shift seemed stark enough, but the underlying context shift seemed more consequential as we moved away from a government sworn to tell the truth to one dedicated to delivering only self-serving lies. Lies betray even the liar, though, and prove unreliable. They backfire. What might have been intended to help the cause often hurts it. In just four days, our new/old Chief Executive sparked several constitutional lawsuits and ample attempted crimes and misdemeanors to justify at least one impeachment inquiry. More will be coming, for this guy clearly knows no limits and personifies self-delusion. His performance seems more feature than problem and reassures me that this NextWorld Series might prove to have been amply justifiable. Under Yogi Berra's old advice that one can see a lot by looking, merely observing and reflecting upon this performance seems to have already better prepared me to cope with its presence. I remain perhaps unjustifiably optimistic that this performance won't last long, certainly not for four more years, but its inherent self-sabotaging nature probably amplifies its fragility. Tough guys feel the weakest inside.
The most confident require continual reassurance.
ContinuouslyTranslating
John Singer Sargent: Figure and Head Studies (1872)
" … his Base eases into apparently effortless understanding."
I cannot comprehend most of whatever The Incumbent says. He mumbles. He exclusively speaks in incomplete sentences that often lack an object, subject, or coherent verb. He seems to speak in a shorthand dialect that some of his more fervent followers certainly seem to understand. I do not know how they accomplish this feat, which seems like mindreading to me. My best explanation comes from my experience working with a partner named Jeff after I joined that boutique Silicon Valley consulting firm back in the nineties. Jeff had previously worked as an engineer for Attari, the early video game producer, and with Apple. He was considered a rainmaker in the consulting firm, for he seemed to know everybody in the valley. Name a company, and he invariably had an old friend there with whom he was on a first-name basis. Several of them were CEOs. They'd grant him an interview and often enough agree to sponsor at least a trial workshop.
Jeff baffled me because as I was learning how to teach that firm's flagship workshop offering, I had been sitting in the back of the room watching Jeff facilitate.
Backpedaling
Unknown: Clown riding donkey backwards (1820 - 1835)
"Yadda yadda, spink, spank, spink!"
Forward progress induces much Backpedaling for the experienced self-saboteur, who tends to make a hash of most things. They cannot seem to stop themselves from going overboard with every initiative. He includes a full cup or more if the recipe calls for a tablespoonful. Consequently, his cakes tend to crumble. He unwittingly encourages his opposition and chases away his partisans with each pompous proclamation. Part of the problem seems to be his penchant for proclaiming, a pastime most Presidents use sparingly, if at all. They were apparently more aware that most changes, indeed, most expressions of a President's power, have to pass through those contentious halls of Congress before they have lasting effect. Proclamations tip off the opposition and so render whatever's proclaimed much less likely to happen. Proclaiming remains an integral part of every self-saboteur's portfolio, though. This inclusion results in much pomp but very little circumstance, some smoke blown over what might have been much more loyal partisans. This even offends those who might have otherwise been a more loyal opposition.
At some level, attempts at Backpedaling rarely succeed.
Apologists
Oliver Herford:
The Goat, for "The Crocodile," by Oliver Herford (1891)
"When you're President, the Apologist supply is infinite."
Whenever a new incumbent ascends office, a crowd of true believers quickly encircle the new President. Their primary purpose might be the opposite of their apparent one, for they might seem to be there to ward off any serious misperceptions and set the story straight from the outset, though they're likely also defending their delicate egos lest some inconvenient truth slips out. It's important to understand that everyone engaging in the following farce already knows the worst about the incoming President. They know most of his most serious shortcomings, for he'd been featuring them as evidence of his superior experience for the position throughout the campaign. Seriously, anyone still able to stand in public and spout self-importance after being convicted of rape and fraud might have curiously earned his place as the leader of the free world, a role that might require an egregious amount of shamelessness.
The Apologists have a ready response to every criticism.
Rationalizing
Helen Hyde: In the Rain (1898)
"The result will mete out its own punishment. Vengence was never mine to deliver."
Slightly more people voted to elect The Oldest President (TOP) than voted against him ever holding public office again. He had abused his privileges during his first turn. He had been promising ever greater abuses if returned to office, so those who couldn't see any attraction to him as either candidate or ex-president were baffled as to why anyone might feel moved to waste their franchise on such a clearly unworthy character. Their vote amounted to an act of self-abuse, I suspect, or maybe it was just a mistake. Ask, though, and one acquires a fresh lesson in the human power of Rationalization, the attempt to make some irrational act seem reasonable in retrospect. Every terrible public servant has trailed a long line of Rationalizers behind them. They've attracted the Lesser Of Two Evils Crowd, who always seem to see only the worst in anyone representing an opposing party. They'd vote for Hanibal Lecter if he were a Repuglican running against anyone enjoying a more conventional diet. They also attract the partisan who never even investigate alternatives. They vote without reflection, choosing not to choose, a part of this country's sometimes overly-proud suffrage tradition. Democracies include even those opposed to democracy.
Then there are the Pig Shavers, the ones who split hairs.
DogEaters
Adriaen van de Velde: Dogs (17th century)
" … they will insist that they represent the real spirit of the laws …"
We speak of the Republican'ts and the Democans as if our society's essential divide lay in mere political labels. It likely lies much deeper than that, as deep as belief and perspective might lie. On one side, we have a cadre who, try though they might (they don’t really try at all), still firmly believe they inhabit a zero-sum world. Conversely, we have those who understand it needn't necessarily be so characterized. It can be a zero-sum world if we insist that it must be, for the world, indeed, our universe, seems poised to be responsive to whatever belief we bring when considering its nature. When it comes to universes, it's not believe-it-when-we-see-it, but we see what we believe—it cooperatively becomes whatever we believe. The eyes we bring to the inquiry make all the difference. Of course, we're always blind to the eyes we cannot bring to an investigation. The Republican'ts, like the Southern Confederates a century and three-quarters before, experienced a zero-sum world of their own projection, where one person's loss was necessarily another's gain. They seriously entertained the notion that force alone could secure their future. They held hostage the means for securing their fortune, believing they could hold justice at bay indefinitely, infinitely.
The zero-sum people see a dog-eat-dog world, where every newborn puppy's destiny must be to either master the skill of puppy killing, or they will undoubtedly be killed and eaten by another puppy.
Inconstancy
Allart van Everdingen: Reynard disguises as monk and distracts cock (17th century)
"Hail to the chief."
[Author's Note: I draw this story from various archetypal descriptions of a psychological type: this one, the eternal eight-year-old who cannot successfully focus upon anything for long. The particulars might misrepresent, though I feel confident that these patterns paint quite an accurate portrait. When dealing with Inconstancy, any opponent can feel confident that their opponent will be their opponent’s most effective opposition, for they cannot maintain their focus or attention long enough to achieve any strategic objective. Hell, they rarely maintain focus long enough to settle on a coherent strategic objective. They mainly pursue warm air, not possessing adequate attention to heat their story to the point where it truly qualifies as hot air.]
Perhaps his sole superpower lies in his sheer Inconstancy.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 01/16/2025
John Singer Sargent:
Sketch of Sir David Murray [1849 - 1933]
and John Seymour Lucas [1849- 1923] (Jun 18, 1907)
This Seems Inevitable
Winter finally came in the middle of January. Its tardy arrival served as a lesson for me that all inevitabilities eventually occur, however delayed, and that I might depend upon this one principle. Hell might never freeze over, but nobody ever proposed that it should. It will be enough if the backyard pond freezes over, which it usually does, for a week or so before the end of February. Next week, another long-dreaded inevitability will occur when the least capable individual ever to be elected to the highest office twice is supposed to take an oath he has no intention of even trying to live up to. Warren G. Harding might have been less interested in the office, but he had the public courtesy to die before anybody proposed he run for a second term, and nobody would have. It's inevitable that our next incumbent's lies ultimately get the better of him, for he convinced a spare majority under decidedly false pretenses, and he will prove incapable of delivering on his many contradictory promises. I do not know where his sandcastle will first exhibit cracks, but I sense it won't stand long. He inherits an impossible act to follow, an economy in better shape than any odd anyone can remember, and an unparalleled-in-generations standing in the international order. It seems all downhill from here for him. This seems inevitable.
TakingCredit
Honoré Victorin Daumier:
Very High and Mighty Legitimate Brats.
Peoples, defend yourselves, tear yourselves to pieces,
sacrifice yourselves for these royals,
you belong to them, imbeciles, plate 19 (1834)
"He firmly believes he's smarter than everyone else, which renders him the stupidest …"
On inauguration day, the adults will leave the administration, and a malignant narcissist will move in. He started TakingCredit for good things his predecessor accomplished before he even took office. He seems to maintain such a high opinion of himself that he simply cannot help himself. He seems to firmly believe that he is, indeed, the greatest. He accomplishes this astounding feat of self-esteem by steadfastly refusing to acknowledge anything he might have attempted that didn't quite make the grade. Indeed, his actual track record shows him mostly failing, though if you listen to him and his minions tell the story, he never fails. He will rather quickly begin identifying people who disappointed him. He claims to pick only winners, but his choices inevitably prove faulty. He will fein surprise then and insist that this seldom happens to him and that it was actually somebody else's fault that he selected a faulty incumbent. He maintains a queue of even better candidates, though he insisted before that his original list comprised only the best and brightest.
I will have to get used to having a malign eight-year-old in the highest office in the land.
Disingenuosity
Anonymous, after a design by Hans Baldung Grien:
Tenth commandment:
do not give false testimony about another
[iende gebod: leg over een ander geen vals getuigenis af]
1539
" … the least qualified President in history about to begin his second term."
It would simplify the situation if certain nominees would appear to testify wearing orange jumpsuits. Some of these guys seem like they're interviewing to be included in the Colorado Supermax Class of 2030. They quite transparently lie or withhold or deny. Their clever attorney clearly counseled them to go ahead and be disingenuous. They give Disingenuosity a bad name. History will remember them, but not kindly. Those disseminating straightforward questions become infamous, especially when 60 Minutes replays the juicy part of their testimony after the future incident. There will always be a future incident with these clowns. There always has been. They are uniformly unqualified for whatever role the incoming executive has nominated them to fulfill. Everyone in the hearing room understands they are not voting for or against the clown before them but the impending executive who chose him. Partisans need to appear supportive. Opponents must appear fair and balanced, which is always tricky in a context where the clown in question won't answer even the most straightforward question. This one's mom submitted testimony against him.
He calls known facts with sufficient evidence anonymous rumors and innuendos.
Ineptitude
Israel van Meckenem the Younger:
The Fight over the Trousers (c. 1495)
" … the patience of Job and the countenance of Greek statuary …"
Through his first foray into The Presidency, our impending incumbent proved incredibly, if intermittently, inept. Usually, his operation proved capable of producing run-of-the-mill cruelty and only managed anything more significant by accident. Many attempted initiatives got away from their initiators to take on their own lives, seemingly without meaningful external control. They proved the adage that a broken clock works twice each day, even though it's ordinarily so wrong as to be useless. Those of us opposed to those initiatives learned that we could usually rely upon that administration's inherent Ineptitude, which would have been humorous had it not also been occasionally so disastrous. It was as if the incumbent brought no executive experience into his role, for he seemed incapable of even the barest executive performance. He exhibited little strategic influence, frittering away his time on initiatives that could no more than temporarily annoy his opposition. His opposition would occasionally register outrage when something especially egregious occurred, but they primarily focused on building their coalition and expressing gratitude their opponent was so poorly resourced.
Before taking the oath of office that he will have no intention of upholding, he's been busying himself with selecting prospective cabinet members.
IntoFamiliarity
Rembrandt van Rijn: Peasant Family on the Tramp (c. 1652)
"I might even rediscover who I always was …"
Trump's election as President for the second time left me peering into a dreaded future. I felt curious and confident that he would once again prove himself not nearly up to the task and dreading the inevitable failures he would most certainly produce with his inept attempts. His successful campaign rendered him no smarter or more popular, and it seemed inevitable that he would be dragging his familiar ineptness into everything he attempted to accomplish. I most dreaded that impending bumbling, for he would set about attempting to reinvent wheels his predecessors had already successfully invented, leaving us worse off for his efforts. It seemed a certainty that he would leave us all worse off. We liquidated our stock portfolios and hunkered in, though that's not all we did in response. We also fled IntoFamiliarity as an antidote to the dread.
Finally, almost three years after returning from Exile, I began organizing my tools and basement workshop.
SelfRecrimination
William Blake:
To annihilate the Self-hood of Deceit & false Forgiveness
(1804-08)
"The usual answer will be, "No, there wasn't," but only because there never is."
After any significant loss comes a period of SelfRecrimination, I suspect that the healthiest might engage in the deepest reconsideration of their former positions, for a loss should properly bring some of anyone's basis into question. What of what then seemed so right was so wrong? Could I have credibly owned any alternative position? Would I have agreed to pursue any other end with anything resembling a similar passion? Were my convictions wrong enough to warrant a reconfiguration of my perspective? Each of these questions should rightly feel unsettling, for these challenge the very basis upon which any thinking person holds any position.
Contrary to popular opinion, the best team does not always win.
Pherocity
Spex:
The sovereigns offered their subjects entertainment and fierce beast fights in circuses
[Les souverains offraient à leurs sujets des divertissements et des combats de bêtes féroces dans les cirques]
(1882 - 1884)
" … we cannot help but hear their disturbing noises."
Outrage, outward rage, might be the signature emotion of the MAGA movement. They seem consumed by theatricality, always performing as if they were cast in a production from Ancient Greece where the actors needed to artificially project their voices so the backbenchers could hear their lines. Their every expression seems cartoonish and caricatured. They seem incapable of thoughtfulness or gentleness. They never seem to be merely disappointed with an outcome but enraged. Their emotional content seems unsustainable, but with each new performance, that same familiar character emerges. Whatever the role, they seem to overplay their part. They seem decidedly self-conscious, not just in role but hyper-aware that they're in that role. They rarely, if ever, let down this facade. Some speculate that they're deep down shallow. A seething frustration lies just above their surface. They have an unscratchable itch. They bitch about everything. They would seem ferocious if their performances were in any way believable. They project a phony-seeming form of ferocity instead, mere Pherocity.
They seem to believe everything's a life-or-death matter and a zero-sum game.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 01/09/2025
Giovanni Battista Tiepolo:
Punchinellos Cooking and Tasting Gnocchi
[Punchinellos’ Repast] (1740/52)
Stay My Course
This week, I saw inklings that we are moving back into a post-truth era with Zuckerberg deciding to stop fact-checking on his Meta platforms. Also, President-Elect Unmentionable released a fresh stream of whoppers. I suspect he's warming up for his inaugural speech, which should set fresh records for fictional content. The need for reliable witnesses has never been greater. In my eighteen years of posting here, I have tried to avoid sharing lies and advice. This hasn't been much of a stretch. I've thought of myself as a principled contributor. I have occasionally, like anybody, been caught echoing what turned out to be false stories or lousy advice. I've quickly taken them down when notified of my error. I look back and wonder how that one slipped through my defenses. I come to the same conclusion. I want to believe the best of everyone. I find it incredible that anyone might want to deliberately spread false information. My nature has made it difficult for me to create this present series, where I'm striving to describe patterns that often violate what I consider to be moral and ethical boundaries.
When our leaders lack moral foundations and ethical edges, their only recourse might be to spread more lies. Hence, another post-truth era. I will not be vacating Facebook, though. I intend to stay and remain the bastian I believe I have always been there. The Muse promised to show me how bluesky works. I might dabble there as I dabble on SubStack and LinkedIn. If I stay in one place, the world will undoubtedly slip by me. It has slipped by me before. Whatever I do, this world will eventually learn to slip by me. For now, though, I will stay my course. Leaving FaceBook would abandon my audience. Why would I do that?
Pretexting
Charles WIlliams: A New Mode of Presenting Two Addresses at Once
(published February 1818)
"We must be their enemy."
When one feels called to save the world, one must find some Pretext for engaging because nobody would ever recognize their savior should they happen upon them. Vonnegut described The Second Coming as featuring an undescribably ugly alien who appears at a suburban shopping mall and communicates exclusively through tap dancing and farting. Rather than recognize salvation in their midst, a disgruntled crowd beat him to death. One might choose to dress themselves up in any costume, but whichever one they choose, it will be a mere Pretext, a cloaking mechanism primarily intended to prevent others from understanding one's agenda. This charade must occur if the means don't matter. If the ends truly justify whatever must be done to achieve them, then deception becomes job one. Making America Great Again, for instance, must involve tearing down America's reputation. The best economy in the world must be characterized as failing. Justice must be framed as fundamentally unjust. Wrongs become violated natural rights. Up must always be referred to as down.
Educating a population in this kind of negative thinking also involves continuous Pretexting.
Threatenings
Attilio Mussino: Harlequin and Pulcinella...
were threatening each other with sticks and blows. (1925)
"That's a promise, not a threat!"
Another common aspect of the MAGA style seems to be a fierce vacuity. They spend inordinate amounts of time threatening people, places, and things, even nothings. They always seem ready to interpret any butterfly's shadow as a mortal threat and overreact. This comes across as needlessly theatrical, maniacal ravings rather than well-thought-out intentions. These performances might primarily serve as distractions because any attempt to parse any deeper meaning or significance or, heaven forbid, pattern out of them will leave one grasping hot air. There's rarely anything there, and whatever manages to manifest bears little resemblance to the fire and brimstone characterizations that utterly fail to describe what was supposed to be coming. These performances almost always prove unsatisfying both from a content perspective as well as from any resulting action that might have been expected. In retrospect, they seem like Daffy Duck or Donald Duck rants: many feathers, little consequence.
They do seem to satisfy themselves with this barking, though.
Newness
Attributed to Philip Dawe: The New Fashioned Phaeton (1776)
ABOUT THIS ARTWORK
Devoting less effort to the fabric textures and pearly luster of high-society mezzotint portraits, publishers also mocked sartorial excesses, especially those with foreign sources. In 1770s London, the epithet macaroni was directed at dandyish men and overdressed women who adopted an outrageous, European style and acted in an affected manners that their genders were said to become indistinguishable. Such costumes evidently even made leaving home difficult. This print’s subtitle, “Sic Itur ad Astra” (which translates as “Thus one goes to the stars”) comes from the Roman poet Virgil and suggests that the wigs and expanding carriages shown here have reached astronomical new heights.
—Art Institute of Chicago
"There was never a prescience half as satisfying as projection."
Newness is getting old. As I have aged, the new has increasingly lost its attraction. The information age might have finally done it in, what with the daily builds and too-frequent upgrades. I can't hardly start my laptop without some update needing to be installed, and the old, once-reliable app suddenly behaves differently, never to regain its former utility. We seem too anxious to abandon what was in favor of what never quite is yet. We speak of evolution but experience near-constant revolution. What might I depend upon now?
I struggle even to imagine replacements when an old and once-reliable falls by some wayside.
NuthingBut
Honoré Victorin Daumier:
A Young Man to Whom Nothing is Sacred,
plate 8 from Professeurs Et Moutards (1846)
"We will be inaugurating the lamest duck in our country's history …"
In courts of law in this country, witnesses are compelled to swear to tell "the whole truth and NothingBut." Consequently, telling falsehoods can result in a perjury charge for lying to the jury. Outside of court, nobody holds anybody to such stringent expectations. We all can get a little loose with literal truths, but most of us work hard to avoid materially misrepresenting ourselves if only because few want to be fairly characterized as loose with the truth. We rely upon each other to fairly represent our experiences, so it’s scandalous, if not strictly illegal when a private citizen routinely misrepresents himself. Further, deliberate misrepresentation tends to introduce a parody of a response as repeated attempts to uncover the truth produce responses intended to cloak it further. These interactions resemble old I Love Lucy episodes from the fifties but are not nearly so entertaining.
As of this writing, our current President, Joe Biden, has kept his promise to tell The People the truth.
Statusing
Nicolas Toussaint Charlet:
Metselaar bij een muur [Mason at a wall] (1821)
"They despise themselves most."
With the MAGA crowd, I sense that I could never belong. Though I cannot delineate their selection criteria, they run a more exclusive operation than most country clubs. It seems backward and upside-down from more established segregations, though a few selection criteria seem obvious. They stand in apparent deliberate opposition to more traditional segmentations as if formulated to thumb their nose at an establishment. However, they seem every bit as exclusive as any old-school gentleman's club. Those granted entrance can seemingly do no wrong until they do. They remain blessed regardless of their sins, former or ongoing, much as their leader enjoys blind forgiveness from his followers. They do not perceive themselves as members but as loyal and devoted followers. They insist they're Christian, though apparently only in name. They also claim conservatism as a central organizing principle, which seems unlike any conservatism the good old days knew. It seems secret, though, as if its members were plotting the overthrow of something. Those not allowed into their club believe they represent a malign influence on our politics and treat them with the same respect they traditionally extended to the Klu Klux Klan.
The apparent obsession with status, though, baffles me.
BeingGrudged
Edvard Munch: Two Human Beings. The Lonely Ones (1894)
" I'm hoping the arc of our collective experience turns toward enlightenment …"
Last week, I proposed five elements of what I referred to as The Stupidities that seem to be ascendent as we move into our impending NextWorld. These elements terrify me because they seem to reduce our polity's resilience. They amount to increasingly popular fallacies, mis- or dis-representations of our everyday reality. They undermine an individual's ability to agilely navigate together into our future. Gathered together as a common practice, the group engaging in these behaviors damages their abilities and hobbles their societies. As I explained before, those engaging in The Supidities tend to insist that they're certain about what nobody could ever be certain about, often about delusions and fictions. They engage in what The Muse refers to as The Sins of Self-Importance; they are vain and sincerely believe that everything was always actually all about them. They also exhibit a discernable addiction to common Inanities. They seem dependent upon and exclusively informed by unreliable sources that have few compunctions about just making shit up as news.
Another common presence in this mix engaging in The Stupidities seems to be, among a significant portion of the population, a sense of BeingGrudged.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 01/02/2025
Jan Goeree:
Frontispiece Design from Corpus Inscriptionum (c. 1707)
Gallery Statement: A weeping Minerva is depicted here near a dilapidated statue of the city of Rome, surrounded by all manner of ancient remains. The drawing is the design for the title page from a collection of Roman inscriptions compiled by J. Gruter and published in 1707. The engraving was used once again in 1726, with a different text, as the frontispiece for a survey of the monuments of ancient Rome.
—-
The Day Inexplicably Turns
Into the new year and still without a killing frost. My Magnolia tree is budding out and will bloom before the end of January unless some winter settles in. I'm now praying for what I so recently dreaded, though the extended rainy season has already answered many prayers. It still unsettles me to acknowledge that we utterly rely upon the rains, which come more or less randomly. Anyone still holding on to the conviction that we must have strong central coordination might have missed this underlying condition. The context within which we exist was not concocted by us, no matter how much we might have tried to reengineer it to do our bidding. Now that we're actively influencing age-old patterns, our world responds, coloring outside expected lines. Summer gardens extend into the following January. Winter might not come this year. Magnolias might bloom twice. Our NextWorld seems only tangentially related to our more familiar ones. It's a wonder I hadn't noticed much earlier. I might not have been paying close enough attention, but I suppose it's our nature to take much for granted. We might be more blessed than we could ever appreciate. As I've watched my world slink toward the dreaded upcoming inauguration, I have been paying closer attention. I suspect the tardy winter will arrive to inconvenience what might have been an early spring, and everything will become jumbled again as if that might constitute a difference. I anticipate everything becoming strange once the new administration begins with their abomination. I savor these final few days before the air turns gray and the day inexplicably turns into a long night.
Inanities
George Wesley Bellows:
Dance at Insane Asylum (1907)
"I'm confident it's coming."
In the late 1980s, a relatively new phenomenon entered America's media landscape. A disc jockey from Miami found traction as a political commentator. He was never knowledgeable. His superpower seemed to have been his willingness to say anything on air. He was not careful to distinguish between fact and fiction. Indeed, almost everything he said on air was provably fictitious, but the delay between utterance and rebuttal rendered his utterances most memorable. Ordinary people were attracted to this doubtlessly entertaining programming, and very quickly, the vocabulary of political dialogue changed on Main Street. What had previously seemed unspeakable became common vocabulary. In this way, formerly arch-conservative opinions slid into more of a mainstream position.
A decade later, a media billionaire from Australia started an alternative news service patterned after the worst of the British Fleet Street rags.
Vanities
In the manner of Adriaen van der Werff:
Bubble-blowing Girl with a Vanitas Still Life
(1680 - 1775)
"He spends his wealth on the equivalent of candy and gum."
We were the first country founded on the principle that every citizen was granted the freedom to pursue happiness. Unsurprisingly, this freedom has not resulted in unbridled happiness. Like always, true happiness seems intermittent and the purview of a select few. Most seem to more or less content themselves with the understanding that they possess the right to pursue happiness, even if it continually eludes them. Happiness, under this freedom's influence, seems to have taken many curious forms, the Second Amendment right to bear arms among the strangest. Who would naturally correlate gun possession with happiness? The Beatle's tune Happiness Is A Warm Gun was intended as irony rather than a declaration of natural fact.
Happiness can be a tricky objective.
Certainlies
James Gillray: Election Candidates
(published May 20, 1807 by Hannah Humphrey)
ABOUT THIS ARTWORK
Despite its jovial hand coloring, James Gillray’s response to the 1807 parliamentary election in the district of Westminster caricatures real candidates with ruthlessness. Here, Gillray implied that the winner, the radical Sir Francis Burdett, had extra help. Burdett becomes the goose atop the pole, supported by a demonic figure with a pitchfork, while the agitated constituency below degenerates into a mob.
" … can't see how this latest experiment in degenerative Democracy can go any way but sideways."
The first of The Stupidities I introduced in yesterday's missive deserved to be Certainty; for Certainly, Certainty must be the primary difficulty of our age. Every age preceding us complained about the complexity of their situation, and should have. Each successive generation could rightfully complain about their age's complexity, which might mean that our world has become increasingly complex. Suppose the purpose of civilization was ever to somehow tame this native context each generation faces. In that case, civilization has utterly failed because it seems that it has managed only to amplify complexity rather than attenuate it.
Perhaps because of this, the urge for simple solutions seems to grow with each successive generation.
Stupidities
Jean Dubrayet*:
Minerva bindt de Domheid vast met een touw
[Minerva ties the Stupidity with a rope] (c. 1627)
Titelpagina voor een boek met tekenvoorbeelden.
[Title page for a book with drawing examples]
*"Jean Dubrayet was a print maker who is known for works such as Minerva ties the Stupidity with a rope and Portrait of Ajax." (Google AI experiment) I could find no other biographical information on this artist.
" … the trinkets with which our future was purchased."
It might be that history has always been a slave to the Stupidities. When I was still very young, I remember my more ancient elders wondering how their world would get along with the quality of young people coming up to eventually replace them. The young have always known nothing, and to those who knew everything in their time, they unavoidably seem relatively stupid. Youth tend to master stuff that seems meaningless to their elders. Our own Grand Other was showing off her gaming computer, a gift she and her dad built together as a Christmas present. She was proudly displaying the high-quality graphics, which I could barely see. I was thinking that the old text-based Adventure® game I used to play back on that 360 clone in the 70s had far better graphics, and it was text-based. I lasted a few seconds before I excused myself and went to wait for The Muse in the car. It disturbed me deeply that our Grand Other would somehow tumble to such stupidity! (She belongs to an after-school sports team at her high school. Her sport is, and I kid you not, competitive gaming!)
I'm ordering handbaskets.
UnSerious
Cornelis Visscher after Adriaen Brouwer:
Hearing [De Fiool Speelder] (c. 1649-58)
"We seem poised to reenter kindergarten, where the bully holds the pulpit."
We console ourselves by remembering how inept he was the last time he was in office. He managed to use his office to be cruel to innocents, to unconscionably waste resources, and to inflate the deficit toward no discernable end. Still, he mostly proved incapable of inflicting long-term damaging influence. The office of the Presidency quickly snapped back into respectability once he was ousted, even with him endlessly whining that he'd been illegally overturned. He provided nothing that any court considered proof of his assertion. He proved to be an eminently ignorable distraction, a sore loser, and the most UnSerious candidate ever to seek re-election. That he won astounded everyone I know.
This time, he will be the most UnSerious President in the history of this nation.
Surrealizations
Dorothy Dehner: Landscape for Cynics (1945)
"Merry Christmas might take any of a variety of meanings in any NextWorld."
When The Muse and I bought our Villa Vatta Schmaltz, we imagined it would eventually become the center of many extended family gatherings. I imagined that when my kids had children, The Villa would naturally become the over-the-river-and-through-the-woods holiday destination of choice for them, as my folks' place had been for me and my family in my time, but it hasn't. Our twelve-year exile opened space for different patterns to imprint. By the time we returned, we remained as off the holiday radar as we had been when exiled in Washington, DC, and Colorado, both places too absurdly far away and lacking any history for the family to reasonably consider as holiday destinations. So, those generations imprinted on other places for the holidays, though I hadn't reimprinted on this NextWorld until this just passing Christmas.
My Christmas gift was the Surrealization that I had been living embedded in that past notion, that what I had tenuously believed would be the case twenty-some years earlier would likely still eventually come to pass.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 12/26/2024
Tobias Conrad Lotter:
Astronomische theorieën en uitleg
[Astronomical theories and explanation] (1749)
Adequately Chilling
The first week of Winter brought Spring-like weather with Chinook winds and more rain than we've seen since last Spring. We've had three bomb cyclone systems bump into our coast since Halloween, each bringing fierce wind and much-needed rain. The Winter Wheat, already sprouted in the fields, has gotten a great head start. Our wheatfields sport Spring Green cover while we continue waiting for our first killing frost. I still have last summer's petunias, geraniums, and roses, which are still blooming. I sank the fuchsias into a composter bin; they seem secure enough for now. Winter has not come yet. Moreover, our usual weeks of numbing fog mostly missed us as those wet and windy systems repeatedly scoured our valley. I began a new series this week that has yet to reveal its purpose. After the terrifying results of last Fall's elections, I needed something more positive than politics to focus my attention on. I anticipate a period of great upheaval, even tragedy. I needed to clean out my backlog before taking on another initiative. Winter might not come this season, but the events unfolding on the world's stage threaten to be adequately chilling. I worry about our NextWorld.
UnProcrastinating
Stuart Davis:
Advancing and Retiring Colors Diagram (1942)
" … I can accomplish virtually anything."
Almost four years ago, when we moved back into The Villa Vatta Schmaltz after a twelve-year absence, we just crammed some stuff into whatever corner availed itself, particularly in the basement. Then, life regained momentum, and we didn't find a reason to retrace our earlier decisions. Clogs resulted. Particularly in my basement shop/laundry room, the clutter predominated. I'd just splayed most of my tools along the vast workbench top and worked around that mess. A month ago, I took positive steps toward eradicating that embarrassment. I hired Kurt, our painter, to refinish a peeling back wall, and I pivoted some of the shelving ninety degrees to provide space along its backside for pegboard, where I imagined I could mount my hand tools for tidy and convenient access. Painting done, I've not yet started moving back into the freshly refurbished space.
I am in the process of UnProcrastinating, with the explicit intention of creating a fresh context, if not a NextWorld.
Distinctioning
Jan Luyken: Vrouw Wereld toont kinderen de brede en smalle weg
[Woman World shows children the wide and narrow road] (1699)
" … largely unexplored."
When might this NextWorld appear? From here, the answer to this question seems to depend upon what one considers a distinction between one world and a next. What change, one to another, might qualify as enough to accept it as a genuine difference? I know, this seems awfully subjective. Some people maintain stricter standards than others. It might be that those who acknowledge slight differences as constituting distinctions experience more successful lives, for they might more comfortably manage to "change the world." Those who hold the strictest standard when making such distinctions live in a world that, by self-imposed definition, must always stay the same.
But aren't some changes more obvious?
Faith-Based
Jehan Georges Vibert:
Trial of Pierrot (Not Dated - late 19th century)
"I will have levitated by the means of tugging up on my own shoelaces."
I might be one of the least religious people you could ever meet. I don't have much particular animosity toward religion, only that I don't belong. Their lore doesn't interest me much, and their metaphors tend to lose me. For instance, I will never understand the concept of a personal lord and savior. I cannot understand what that phrase means nor imagine what such a service if competently performed, would even look like in practice. I never bought into the idea of original sin, either. I appreciate the good works various religious bodies perform. I am rightly appalled by the evil organizations engage in, seemingly as a matter of course. Any collection of individuals organized together becomes capable of evil far exceeding any individual's potential. I believe that groups must be more careful lest they inflict unintended damage on others. The notion that one collection of people is necessarily superior to another due to their beliefs disgusts me.
All that said, I acknowledge that my life has been a Faith-Based initiative.
ThinkingIll
Lovis Corinth: Cain (1916)
"No whining!"
Two days into creating my Christmas Poem Cycle and halfway finished, I encountered a definite blockage to completion. I caught myself seething inside. I have been holding an anger, and the old, probably incorrect definition of depression was "anger turned inward." The idea apparently was that inward-aiming anger might fester into deep self-destructive sadness while anger aimed outward might at least dissipate, perhaps even harmlessly. But we live in an era when anger has turned outward, which has resulted in considerable carnage. School shootings seem to have become a daily occurrence, and what are those but outward-focused angst? You must have played hooky through those years if you were not seething through middle school.
My challenge as a poem writer involves poisoning the well.
WritingPoems
Yashima Gakutei:
Woman About to Write a Poem (c. 1824)
" … not the definition of insanity but of quality."
Every year, as Christmas nears, I find myself stuck to my desk WritingPoems. Years ago, I solemnly swore to stop buying presents in stores. I'd had it with that despondent shuffle exhibited by people hoping to find that perfect gift while having no real ideas about what such a gift might entail. That annual desperation of hoping a pre-Christmas miracle might appear in an overcrowded aisle. The passion play involving the eternal search for perfection, demanding faith and devotion yet often fruitless. It might be that perfection cannot be successfully sought but can only happen unbidden. Anyway, I'd had it and swore off that curious addiction. I would henceforth write poems and give them as gifts.
After more than twenty years of experience, I can't say that WritingPoems has necessarily been easier than shopping would have been.
NextWorld
Franz Marc: The Bewitched Mill (1913)
"I guess I'll keep watch and see if I can catch a NextWorld emerging."
The inescapable ignorance of youth and the inevitable arrogance of age conspire to mislead most into believing that youth possesses innocence and the elderly own prescient wisdom. What could prove to be further from the truth? Youth has never been able to hear its elders, let alone understand them. The elders innocently expect their broadening experience to amount to something when it rarely does. Youth insists upon making its own mistakes and elders have little with which to trade but their undervalued perspective. The NextWorld, the one continuously emerging, has never turned out to be as anticipated or similar to what came before. Forced to poke sticks into darkness, civilization continually moves onward, if not necessarily forward.
I have little to offer in the way of advice.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 12/19/2024
Rembrandt:
Self-portrait in a Soft Hat and Patterned Cloak (1631)
Tomorrow Morning's Problem
Someone I was chatting with at a holiday party asked me if I was retired. I'm never sure how to respond to that question because I don't consider myself retired, yet no one employs me. I responded by declaring myself a writer who puts in his daily hours. I don't know what I'd do if I retired. I still feel the deep need to create something every day and the responsibilities owning The Villa place on me. I continue to get up very early every morning to seriously consider what I should be doing that day. By the time The Muse rises hours later, I've already accomplished something, however modest. The balance of my day builds upon that early success. I rarely fail to achieve something of my own devising, early each morning. If I fear anything, I fear not accomplishing that something. I might suffer from some obsessive-compulsive disorder, except my world seems exquisitely ordered. I am free to procrastinate after I've finished my writing, and I procrastinate plenty, but I am never free to avoid my writing. Am I retired? Not hardly. I can't imagine myself ever hanging up my spurs.
As I finish another series, I ask myself if I have another one in me. The answer is an inevitable maybe. I cannot know until I've finished whether I have another in me. The honest answer would be that I didn't but that I didn't need to have another one in me before I started writing. What would become another one was never in me before I began but passed through me as I continued once I started. The starting primed the pump. The daily ritual maintained the flow. Knowing was never necessary or, I suspect, sufficient. There's no going back to recover what was never started. There's never a good enough excuse for not starting. I have not yet decided what my next series will focus on. That's tomorrow morning's problem.
Passing
Winslow Homer: The End of the Day, Adirondacks (1890)
" … anyone Exiled never returns."
Our Exile didn't so much end as pass. In the same way, a person passing from life to death does not undo what they've accomplished; their story continues in their absence. As this series might have demonstrated, my Exile, our Exile, remains a prominent presence even now, three years after it passed. It continues Passing. I expect its Passing to continue until I pass, too.
The final few weeks away were excruciating.
PiecesOfMe
Louis Rhead:
I diverted myself with talking to my parrot (1900)
"Another Exile might be in all of our near futures."
These Exiled Stories have not just been about me, but actual PiecesOfMe. Everywhere we landed on our twelve-year odyssey, PiecesOfMe sloughed off and were left behind. By the end, I felt as though I had been pruned to within an inch of my existence. Though I supposed I was supposed to return with treasure, I returned immeasurable instead. What had I gained but some stories? What had become of me in my absence? Who was I supposed to have become? I returned dumber than I left and likely no wiser, either, for I had been absent the entire time. I'd learned a raft of things that have no practical application back in my homeland, even as generalized abilities. How could I apply my learned facility with public transportation in a place offering little of that? How would my learned tolerance for high humidity serve me when living on the edge of a vast desert? I returned with very little to show for my absence but stories.
Did my extended absence at least make my heart grow fonder?
LastAdolescence
Carel Christiaan Antony Last:
Meisje met Tulband [Girl with turban]
(1835 - in or before 1839)
"Once we were empty nesters again … "
More than a year before we returned from Exile, well after we'd comfortably settled into Colorado, The Muse received an urgent message from her granddaughter, our GrandOtter. The Otter had struggled since graduating high school, and even achieving that success had proven extremely stressful. All drama aside, and there had been ample drama from The Otter over recent years; she suffered from a baffling collection of diagnoses. One suggested she exhibited symptoms of some borderline personality disorder that seemed to me to have been an over-the-border one. Whatever the context, when The Otter contacted us, we couldn't help but respond, for she was our GrandOtter, and we'd considered ourselves an implicate part of her childhood and life. If she were in trouble, we'd respond.
It was always difficult to separate the real from the imagined with her.
Separations
Félix Edouard Vallotton:
Cancellation sheet,
fragments of ten woodblocks from Intimacies (1898)
" … actively engaging in her separation dance."
We ended our Exile with several preliminary Separations, for we'd become connected, perhaps even addicted, to our Exile after more than a decade gone. We had been Exiled for almost as long as we'd been together before we were Exiled. The Exile threatened to outshine our prior experience together to become the new anchor. The shelf life of any Exile experience was never meant to outlast the sum of any of the Exileds’ pasts. We felt some pressure to return before we exceeded some imagined upper limit, after which no one can credibly reappear, but we couldn't simply disappear. We had made connections. The Muse was still employed and more or less enjoying her Exile career. I'd made peace with where we'd landed, only rarely feeling too isolated to bear. Wherever we were once we landed in Colorado; we were much closer to home but still more than merely a long two-day drive away.
My mom died after we moved to Colorado.
LeaveMaking
Randolph Caldecott: Taking leave. (1885)
"More complications sat between us and our exit."
We focused on leaving through the last half of our Exile. For over six years, The Muse schemed to position herself—us—where we could cleanly leave. In Takoma Park, Maryland, our starting point seemed impossibly far away from our target in Southeastern Washington State. A single hop home seemed unlikely to work from there. Further, after the first six years in Exile, we barely had our heads above water. We'd need more capital to achieve what we aspired for upon returning from our Exile. The Villa would need considerable refurbishment once we returned, and we'd learned that opportunities for accumulating wealth were few and farther between there than they would be almost anywhere else, like in Colorado.
Our first move took us to Colorado, then, where we figured we just might be able to swing purchasing a home.
ChristmasesPast
Samuel Palmer: Christmas (c. 1850)
"Our Exile was best when ChristmasesPast were the present."
The Muse and I didn't dwell day-to-day upon our dilemmas. We had our lives to live, Exiled or not, and the usual activities of daily living consumed most of our available attention. However miserable we might have become, we maintained a believable semblance of normalcy. Wee-hour thoughts rarely visited and never persisted into full obsession. We did not live lives of silent desperation. We were comfortable after a fashion. In some ways, we became more comfortable than we'd ever been before while we were Exiled, for some of the complications of regular life didn't haunt us in our absence. Our social obligations narrowed. Our acquaintances slimmed. We knew few. Our time largely remained our own. Once we developed routines, little further problem-solving was involved in our daily lives. It was sometimes like we had been furloughed from our regular life instead of being absent without leave.
When the Christmas season came, though, we teleported ourselves home.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 12/12/2024
Copy after(?) Maurice-Quentin de La Tour:
Self-Portrait (18th Century)
Except For Occasional Reappearances
I took myself to lunch today, the busiest day of my week after the carpenters finally showed up this morning to begin installing our new porch deck. They'd hauled away the gold-plated deck boards—clear, verticle grain Douglas Fir tongue and groove three-inchers—a few weeks ago to sand and finish them in a heated shed. The boards returned transformed! We'd discussed the final details as light snow fell, and I left exhausted. I decided to take myself to lunch to purchase some respite. I went to the Sub Shop to order some of their chicken rice soup, which isn't soup so much as a thick goup, perfect for a chilling Thursday lunch. I ordered the soup and a half of a tuna sub. As she dished up my goop, the checker said she'd bring out my sandwich when it was finished.
I retired to a table in the back and enjoyed my goop, but my sandwich never came. I returned to the counter, and the checker reacted as if she'd never seen me. I responded to her asking how she could help by saying I was back for that half sandwich she'd said she'd deliver to my table. She looked astonished! "I wouldn't have said that," she replied, "because I don't deliver sandwiches to tables." She went on to ask what I'd ordered as if she were speaking to someone who had recently returned from the Twilight Zone. She turned to dish up the goop, and I stopped her, saying I'd already eaten my goop and just wanted the sandwich. She asked me what I wanted as if I had yet to order and paid for what I wanted just a few short minutes before. She took my order and passed it on to the sandwich maker, who had witnessed my earlier interaction. A minute or two later, she handed me the tuna in a to-go bag, though I'd ordered it for there, and, curiously, didn't charge me again for the sandwich she'd not acknowledged I'd earlier ordered and paid for. She'd even thrown a chocolate chip cookie into the bag. I retired to my table to swallow that sandwich, wondering.
The Muse has been out of town this week, so I've been lacking one of my usual verification mechanisms to confirm I'm present. Due, probably, to some Heisenberg factor, I might not actually exist unless observed by someone who knows me. My cats often perform this service, but in that sub shop, I was missing my verification medium and, therefore, experienced what it might be like without me being present. This episode perfectly encapsulated my Exiled experiences. You might recall the episode where I was feeding feral cats with a four-year-old. We named one of those cats The Cats Who's Never There. I got to experience how that cat must have felt. My certainty that he probably didn't exist and that raccoons were eating the food we left collapsed his existence wave, but only for me. For lunch today, I had a dish best never served, the sense that I might not actually exist and that I might have been permanently Exiled to someplace else, except for those occasional reappearances.
ConstantCompanions
Possibly after Ignatius van Logteren:
Young Bacchus and Companions
(not dated- Early Eighteenth Century)
"He serves as a continuing inspiration."
My Exile was eased and occasionally burdened by the presence of ConstantCompanions in the form of two cats. Crash, the senior partner, had adopted me when I was recovering (poorly) from my second divorce. I suspect he recognized me as a fellow Exile and took to jumping up in my lap. I've always suspected that cats are clairvoyant or, if not, that they're not entirely subject to the same space/time limitations that contain us. I believe he knew what a remarkable companion he would become for me and chose that fate as an act of appreciation and service. He was a life-saver through those harrowing days when The Muse and I first found each other. We were both exiled then, and both were somewhat worse for the wear. Crash took great care of us.
Later, after we found The Villa and relocated to Walla Walla, we found our second cat, Rose, who was forever skittish.
FellowTravelers
Jean Charles Cazin: Tobias and the Angel (1878)
Background Note:
Tobias and the Angel is the traditional title of depictions in art of a passage from the Book of Tobit in which Tobias, son of Tobit, travels with the Archangel Raphael without realizing he is an angel (5.5–6) and is then instructed by Raphael what to do with a giant fish he catches (6.2–9). The Book of Tobit is accepted by Catholic and Eastern Orthodox Christians as part of the biblical canon but not by Judaism or most Protestant Christians, the latter including it in the Apocrypha. (Wikipedia)
" … mirror images playing before us."
Those who have been Exiled develop an ability to recognize others who have been Exiled, their FellowTravelers. This fraternity was never anything anybody aspired to join. Each was conscripted, much as each was Exiled, not necessarily against their will but probably without anybody first asking permission. Being Exiled must leave similar wounds across its population. Exiled men, women, and children each seem to carry this common attribute. Time doesn't seem to affect its presence. Neither does any trauma related to the experience. For some, their Exile served as an escape; for others, an imprisonment, yet for both, the experience seems to leave similar indelible traces. It's rare that anyone quickly discloses their personal experience with Exiles. Most keep this story secret until the listener can be fairly classified as an intimate. Yet when the disclosure finally emerges, the previously Exiled listener will probably experience an I Knew That Moment. They realize that they knew without being able to assign an explicit label to that sensation.
We're all connected in myriad ways.
Arrogance
Hieronymus Wierix: Val van de mens [The Fall of Man] (1578)
Allegorie op de ondergang van de mens. De Wereldse Mens (Mundanus Homo) valt met tafel en al door het geopende luik in de vloer. De duivel (Diabolus) houdt zijn netten gereed om hem te vangen. Een naakte vrouw, de Zonde (Peccatum), trekt de Wereldse Mens aan zijn jas, zodat ze hem met haar pijl kan doorboren. In het midden richt de Dood (Mors) zijn pijl op de vallende man. Hij wordt tegengehouden door de Goddelijke Genade (Gratia). Boven haar hoofd de duif van de Heilige Geest. Geheel rechts vechten Arrogantie (Arrogantia), de man met helm, schild en opgeheven zwaard, Eerzucht (Ambitio) en Geweld (Violentia). Ze strijden om de aardse rijkdommen die van het bed van Vanitas door het gat in de vloer zijn gevallen. De voorstelling wordt verduidelijkt in de Nederlandse, Franse en Duitse onderschriften in de marge.
Allegory of man's demise. The Worldly Man (Mundanus Homo) falls into the floor with the table and all through the open hatch. The devil (Diabolus) keeps his nets ready to catch him. A, Sin (Peccatum), pulls the Worldly Man by his coat so that she can pierce him with her arrow. In the middle, Death (Mors) points his arrow at the falling man. He is held back by the Divine Grace (Gratia). Above her head, the dove of the Holy Ghost. On the far right, fight Arrogance (Arrogantia), the man with helmet, shield, and raised sword, Ambition (Ambitio), and Violence (Violentia). They compete for the earthly riches that have fallen from Vanitas' bed through the hole in the floor. The performance is clarified in the Dutch, French, and German captions on the margins.
—
" … an infantile worldview and a wound that could never heal."
The Exiled exhibit a common Arrogance. The act of being Exiled feels undeserved. Consequently, the Exiled feel wronged. They believe themselves to be, as a class, innocent parties. Nothing better fuels an Arrogance than having been unjustly punished. The Exiled feel almost saintly superior in their anguish. Many carry a martyr complex. The world they've been cruelly forced into feels far beneath their station. Having been coerced into abandoning the center of their universe, they recognize how everything in the Exiled-Into hinterlands stands well beneath their standards. Forced to live among the rabble, the Exile might seem withdrawn. They are probably not as shy as they first appear. They are seething and have no idea what rules govern their presence there. They feel embarrassed.
Washington, DC, might seem like a shining city surrounding Capitol Hill until you search for an apartment on the backside of that shining hill.
Impermanence
Lee Russell:
Migratory berry pickers in temporary home
near Ponchatoula, Louisiana (1939)
[United States. Farm Security Administration]
"My sense of Impermanence gratefully proved impermanent itself."
A fundamental paradox of living involves the necessity of seeing the temporary as somehow permanent. Life is a wasting state, destined to end eventually, but living seems best served when presumed to be permanent. We don't take the temporary as seriously as we take the eternal; just a subtle reframing materially transforms experience. We live in a too-disposable era where many things come in single-use packaging. We've grown too used to discarding so that we too easily perceive even our precious, non-refundable minutes as somehow disposable.
When I was Exiled, my life seemed to go off the books.
Untreatable
Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes:
Of what ill will he die?, plate 40 from Los Caprichos
(1797–98, published 1799)
" … the lesson that seems to need to be relearned anew every time."
Being Exiled does not amount to a treatable condition. It is not a problem requiring a solution, though I first considered it a serious problem. I spent considerable nonrefundable time needlessly and fruitlessly seeking a solution. My life became a parody just as certainly as if I had awakened to find myself cast in an old I Love Lucy episode. This experience might have been tragic. Indeed, it seemed as though it certainly could have become tragic. That it didn't, or eventually didn't, amounts to a form of magic. I certainly contributed to the comedy of errors. I sought salvation from what I might have more productively considered a mere flesh wound, a scratch. I blew my condition out of proportion and then blamed the Gods, the universe, or my ineptness for cursing my meager existence. I felt cheated, wronged, and violated. I was the one wielding the weapon, though. I was burgling myself unawares.
In this life, stuff happens.
Reappearing
Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn:
The Incredulity of Thomas
["Christ Appearing to the Apostles"] (1656)
"Home seems less where the heart grows fonder than where one's pasts live …"
After Being Exiled, The Muse and I occasionally Reappeared on our old home turf. We came for various reasons, usually to see family, though I also once came alone to repaint the Villa. I'd slip down to the Main Street Starbucks at 5 AM to swipe some wi-fi and post my latest dispatch. I would inevitably get spotted by somebody from my former existence. I would get the opportunity to explain where I'd gone and what I was doing returning. Somebody would usually ask if we'd come back, but I'd have to admit we hadn't. Not yet. We'd recount a few of our former misadventures before disappearing into the ether again. I'd run into old friends wherever I went, even visiting my mom in the old folks' home. Another inmate's kid or a staff member knew us under other circumstances and usually asked after us.
Our stories always seemed pretty lame to us.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 12/05/2024
Cornelis Visscher: Lievens van Coppenol, Writing Master (1658)
Muster An Effective Resistance
As Winter approaches here, a persistent inversion layer appears. It brings low cloud and consistent temperatures that very slowly work their way downward toward freezing. For weeks, temperatures might hover in the low thirties without actually freezing. The petunias have not yet been frostbitten, nor have the geraniums. Their days will come as December unfolds. Genuine cold will arrive, and the fireplace will become the center of our lives again. This old house becomes its coziest when it's coldest outside. Sure, a place this ancient leaks a lot. A more or less subtle yet constant breeze discloses its respiration, but it's nothing that can't be cured by putting on another sweatshirt.
The Muse becomes even more the South Dakota Farm Daughter when this weather arrives. She bakes her pies and buys a hog's head to render into head cheese and souse. She finds poppy seed for Stölen-making, and we continue experimenting to find better ways to shell fresh chestnuts. The outside world seems as though it's upside-downing itself, preparing for a new administration spouting absolutely insane notions. Another inversion, with temperatures hovering just above chilling. It remains out-there as it has always been in-here. This time of year, we might just as well celebrate something as collapse into tears. We celebrate being here, at the right time and place for a change, rather than Exiled. Exile might come again next year. For now, we're still here, having so-far survived. The outside might rage in impotent insistence. We can muster an effective resistance.
Mine
Kate Greenaway: Baby Mine (1910)
Edmund Evans, Wood Engraver
"I haven't quite yet gotten over it."
Being Exiled eventually reframed my notions of possession. Before, I held a narrow idea of what belonged to me. Besides books, I never cared much for possessions. After Exile, I held onto my collection of books until just before we relocated to Colorado, when I gave away at least a quarter of my collection to the Takoma Park Library fundraising book sale to avoid moving so many. I took to borrowing books from libraries instead of buying them, and I grew to feel that I came to own any book I'd read and even those I'd just perused. Before Exile, I'd also imprinted on our home as our possession. This relationship was a unique one. I felt more the steward than the lord of that manor. That possession was more obligation than anything else. Exile left me feeling as though I was neglecting that obligation.
My relationship with real estate shifted when we bought that second house in Colorado.
Never_Returning
John Steeple Davis: Rip Van Winkle's return. (1879)
Charles Maurand, Wood Engraver
"We returned sequestered and suspicious if we ever returned at all."
At some point after we'd relocated to Colorado for what we imagined would be the final part of our Exile, I started believing that we would be Never_Returning from that excursion. Our source had by that time changed too much for me to believe that we might find enough recognizable remnants of our former existence to believably argue that we'd returned, for time and passing circumstance had already pulled that rug out from underneath us by then. I didn't necessarily view this realization as tragic, for it seemed simply inarguable. We had once imagined we would one day return. Then we came to understand that returning might have never been in the cards, that the plane within which our return might manifest might have evaporated like a wave function upon the moment of our exit. Only constancy of perception could have ever argued otherwise. That constancy almost always proves to be little more than an illusion, albeit reassuring, until it isn't any longer.
If I'd been baited and switched, I had baited myself.
Explorers
Oskar Schlemmer:
Three Figures with Furniture-like Forms
[Drei Figuren mit Möbelformen] (1929)
"That wanderlust has largely left us since we returned from Exile."
Exploring became one sure way to distract ourselves from often depressing realities after being Exiled. We could go discover something. Though earlier explorers had already discovered every possible thing, our surroundings were new to us; strange customs always surrounded us. We were looking for roads less traveled since traffic seemed to be the most significant barrier to going anywhere. We learned when to avoid the freeways and when they might be okay. We'd often chart a course around the most direct route since they frequently proved to be the most significant hassle. If everyone's discovered a shortcut, it takes longer. We ached to discover our own secret passages.
We kept our navigating systems offline when Exploring because we didn't want The Cloud to learn and then advertise our secret shortcuts to anybody else.
SnappingBack
Corita Kent (Sister Mary Corita): enriched bread (1965)
Inscriptions and Marks:
Signed: l.r., in black ink (ball point): Sister Mary Corita
Inscription: ENRICHED BREAD / WONDER / Great ideas, it has been said, come into the world as gently as doves. Perhaps then, if we listen attentively, we shall hear, amid the uproar of empires and nations, a faint flutter of wings, the gentle stirring of life and hope. Some will say this hope lies in a nation; others in a man. I believe rather that it is awakened, revived, nourished by millions of solitary individuals whose deeds and works everyday negate frontiers and the crudest implications of history. As a result, there shines forth fleetingly the ever threatened truth that each and every man, on the foundation of his own sufferings and joys, builds for all. Camus / Help build strong bodies 12 ways sTANDARD LARGE LOAF no preservatives added
Inscription: On verso, l.l.: 65-2
" … still in more or less one piece."
When we were Exiled, losing my DelicateBalance and slipping into LostDays rarely lasted long. We would shortly be SnappingBack into more fully functioning organisms. Just the continually threatening nature of being Exiled sort of insists upon the Exile's full functionality. Days lost cannot turn into lost weeks without increasing the already screaming threat level. We had defenses to handle and offensives to scheme. Exiles do not simply take care of themselves. As with everything, there's always something insisting upon attention, threatening an already tenuous homeostasis. Remember, we had chosen not to be mere renters, so we needed to maintain that all-important owner mentality. We had responsibilities! However powerless or exhausted we might have felt, no excuses could have worked. Like our pioneer ancestors, we'd get back behind the plow mule again, usually by the following morning.
Our discipline doubtless helped us recover after we'd stumble.
LostDays
John F. Peto: Lights of Other Days (1906)
" … a familiar part of our regular repertory."
Lest any reader of these chronicles receive the impression that The Muse and I were exceptionally courageous or virtuous after being Exiled, I must note that we experienced at least our share of LostDays there. Sundays seemed to have presented particular problems for me, for I couldn't seem to settle into any rhythm for them. Separated from my weekday routines and alienated by bizarre local rituals, I often felt like the odd man out on Sundays. Both DC and Denver exuded football madness in season, an attraction I never even wanted to muster. There are rituals that inhabitants of big cities observe that nobody not of those places can ever come to understand. The Sunday morning church bells served to alienate me further there. Our small hamlet outside of Denver featured a mega-church with parishioners in the tens of thousands among its half-dozen affiliated campuses spread along the front range. Whatever might have occurred in their sanctuary, they reliably produced a mega-traffic jam every Sunday at noon. We were wise to head in the other direction.
I mentioned in an earlier installment that shopping seemed to be the entertainment of choice for those living anywhere near shopping centers.
DelicateBalance
Peter Sheaf Hersey Newell:
Old Father William Balancing an Eel,
from "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" (c. 1901)
" … whimpering like a wounded puppy."
I live in a DelicateBalance. I never know precisely how delicate my balance might be until some event or experience nudges me off my center. I sometimes seem remarkably robust with the sense that almost nothing could possibly throw me off balance. Other times, I feel precariously poised upon some precipice and likely to take a terrible tumble. Most days, under most conditions, I feel in no danger. I've always been most imperiled by forces I could not see coming. I seldom accurately anticipate the arrival of any unbalancing. These events bushwhack me into becoming their victim. I seem powerless to avoid these, depending upon my allostatic load, a rough measure of the level of burden I'm already compensating for carrying. When that load's been excessive, a feather in the wrong direction can tip me over and pour me out all over the floor.
I don't suppose I carry an unusually high allostatic load.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 11/28/2024
Claude Monet: The Petite Creuse River (1889)
The Impending Downfall
My Business Law professor told me back when I was still an undergraduate that if I wanted to predict our political future five or ten years out, I should just keep an eye on British politics. He insisted that the United States parrotted whatever our British cousins did over the prior couple of centuries with a few years' lag. It never seemed to matter whether the British did something brilliant or stupid; we'd be following on their tail. Their Brexit vote, arguably the most foolish political movement in modern history–at least up until the MAGA movement kicked in—took place in 2019, with the catastrophic effects starting immediately. Their government's "conservative" response to the vote's impact proved disastrous, for they began to engage in austerity to manage the immediate effects of choosing to walk away from their previous prosperity. After a few years of that absurdity, with government services worn to less than a nub, their conservative movement in Britain effectively ceased to exist, a victim of their own appalling excesses. We're about five years behind. November 5, 2024, was our Brexit vote, and we narrowly chose to leave our union. We will shortly experience an austerity-induced recession, which could become depression-quality depending on how quickly we smarten up. Our unemployment numbers should soar as qualified workers are serially disqualified from contributing because Congress could never codify the rules for their inclusion. They took five years. Like Britain, we chose to follow lies rather than obvious facts, chasing pasts improved with fictional proofs. Our government, by and for The People, seems set to turn against The People in favor of a regressive austerity that can only wound the weakest while enriching the already wealthy. The comeuppance will come after providing a lesson Britain had already learned and we could not quite learn from yet. Divided, we fall. We can only stand tall when united. I'm grateful for the coming comeuppance if not for the impending downfall.
ThanksGiven
Giuseppe Rosso: Thanksgiving (1968)
" … an experience one cannot choose but for which might feel gratitude later."
I had not understood when, sixty-seven installments ago, I began this Being Exiled chronical. I thought I might be trying to release some trauma by recounting it; a strategy long ago rejected as ineffective by trauma specialists. I had no intention of discovering justifications for gratitude, for had we not been wounded by the experience? Didn't it ding our dignity and leave us wondering about our viability? Of course, it did, but those feelings seem no different from what any random day might deliver. Nothing's strictly one thing or another. We live bittersweet existences, usually more salty and savory than sweetness, anyway. As we age, we grow to favor bitter flavors and think of ourselves as more sophisticated for appreciating them. We find our friends in the most unlikely places and grow to appreciate experiences that might have otherwise just made us bitter.
I might as well feel grateful, for all was not lost.
IdEntity
Julia Margaret Cameron: Julia Jackson (1867)
" … I returned an IdEntity with Ego clearly absent."
After bankruptcy took my professional identity, my ego seemed to recede. I became progressively less and less interested in making something else of myself. For the first time, I stopped striving to become something other than I was. I also lost much of my former curiosity for uncovering who or what I actually might be beneath my cloaking exterior. I became more instinctual as I became less purposeful. I began following my senses. I was never skilled at following maps, so I relied upon a kind of dead reckoning to guide me. I'd imagine the topography, then follow where that notion led me. I often ended up very near where I intended. I sometimes ended up in another county, but neither outcome mattered. I usually had no particular place to be. I held few imperatives. I began thinking of myself as more an observer than a player. What I wanted or needed didn't seem to matter very much after we were Exiled.
My therapist friend Carole first noted my ego's absence.
MissingHistory
Arnold Topp: Abstract Composition, from the portfolio "New European Graphics, Portfolio III: German Artists"
[Abstrakte Komposition, aus Bauhaus Mappe "Neue Europäische Graphik III: Deutsche Künstler"]
(1921)
"I couldn't hope to become a local while being Exiled there …"
Exiles arrive with little knowledge of the history of the place they're relegated. They remain contextless for a time. In some ways, their initial contextlessness never leaves them, for most of the local history could never have been captured in stories and books but needed living to comprehend. Even the written stories impart little meaning without some understanding of locations. Locations take considerable time to imprint on any newcomer who first tries to get from place to place and can't yet be bothered with history's subtler dimension. Later, an insipient disorientation settles over the Exile, and he seeks resolution. He asks questions, hears stories, and slowly starts comprehending.
Once we'd arrived in Colorado, I'd occasionally meet someone who claimed to have grown up there.
TrackingIn
Pierre Redouté: Morus rubra = Murier rouge. [Red Mulberry] (1801 - 1819)
"We couldn't help but TrackIn some of what we'd acquired … ."
The house I grew up in featured a Mulberry tree in the backyard. It grew over the clothesline, resulting in some interesting sheets reminiscent of Batik in season. Us kids would climb high to reach the ripe fruit, TrackingIn bright purple footprints across my mother's kitchen floor. Ever since then, I can't help but imagine myself TrackingIn whatever I've just been walking through. This time of year (late November), I notice my Muck shoes carrying smashed Dogwood berries in their treads. Last night, while The Muse and I were preparing supper, I noticed we were listening to The Big Broadcast, a Sunday night tradition broadcast on Washington, DC's NPR station, WAMU. This show replays radio dramas from the heydays, and it, along with Hot Jazz Saturday Night, became a habit when we were living in Exile in Takoma Park. We continued listening when we relocated our Exile to Colorado and still tune in sometimes now that we've returned home.
Nobody returns unchanged from any Exile.
ElbowRoom
Eugène Delacroix: Standing Lion (1833)
" … lest I become a traitor to my home."
I continued my Discrediting efforts for the duration of our Exile. I wanted to avoid becoming 'of' Colorado, for that would violate my relationship with my true home, the one from which The Muse and I were then Exiled. I tolerated no mixed emotions; even when I found some aspect of our temporary home endearing, I'd find some reason to characterize it as one down from my "real" home. Denver was remarkably easy to characterize so, for it was always a curious major city. It didn't look the least bit pretty, though the views could be fantastic. It grew according to nobody's master plan, being one of those railroad towns that got out of hand. It grew by booms and busts, upward and outward when the times were good, and then down and out when the booms went bust. All the booms eventually went bust except for the population one. A confusion of brick buildings were torn down in the fifties and sixties in the unlikely belief that skyscrapers would replace the resulting naked parcels. The naked parcels remain today and serve as eyesores and parking lots, some with unlikely single-story suburban buildings littering urban views.
Had the place been Vienna or Rome, I would have extended the same treatment, for I was in the business of ego defense.
Discrediting
Edward Donovan: Anchovy, Clupea encrasicolus (1804)
" … not a single deli in all of Denver could hold even a small candle [to the one I left behind.]"
Under the Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder Clause of the Exile's Charter, I set about hazing our new location shortly after we arrived. I've noticed that I do this by attempting to discredit the new place by demonstrating how different it is from the old familiar one. As with anywhere, living there accustoms one to certain readily available items. For instance, people living near the ocean grow accustomed to eating only the freshest fish. Move one of them inland, and you'll likely hear no end of complaining at first about how much better the fish were when they lived at the beach. There will be no slight hint of derision embedded within these complaints. Perhaps they're protecting or promoting their ego. The net effect of these grumbles reduces the validity of the newer place. I'm uncertain why this is so often the case.
I felt the lack of Italian delis almost as soon as we landed in Colorado.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 11/21/2024
Mary Cassatt: Meditation (1883)
You Were A Gem
My first wife's mother, Nancy, my first mother-in-law and kids' grandma, died this week, aged ninety-six. Her mother, "Grandma Nelly," had lived into her nineties before her, just like most purebred Norwegian women do. She was an educator and a former Dean of both Seattle Central Community College and Chemekita Community College in Salem, OR. She profoundly influenced me, her son-in-law, who had been designated Not College Material in high school. She encouraged me to continue my education after I'd been out of high school for seven years. She gave me a book that showed me what my working-class upbringing had never known. It explained which clothes fit what conditions, when to wear a brown suit and what to wear with it, and how to comport myself in business, stuff my business school studies never covered. I learned to dress at a price point above my station and to shop the all-essential menswear sales. Her master's degree was in home economics, and her PhD was in education. She was a whiz in the kitchen and could paint, hang wallpaper, and sew with the best of them. She finally convinced her caregivers to stop trying so hard to prolong her life. She told them this dying stuff was boring, like watching paint dry. She died like she'd always lived, on her own terms. Rest In Peace, Nancy. You were a gem!
AWriter_(4)
Lambert Antoine Claessens,
After Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn:
Philosopher, Meditating (18th-19th century)
" … evidence that I'm at least still trying to make some difference."
I recently realized that this year, 2024, I have been meditating twice daily for fifty years, with very few instances where I could not maintain this pattern. I have yet to give up on the promise the practice held, and while it promises nothing explicit, the implicit benefits continue to attract my almost undivided attention. Initially, the promoters of the practice promised no end to the benefits. They described it as a backdoor route to everything from perfect health to increased intelligence. Some of the devotees went on to carry their originating metaphor out of all reasonableness, claiming they could break some of the otherwise immutable laws of physics. I never held much interest in violating otherwise immutable laws of physics, so my practice has encompassed much more modest objectives, like no explicit objectives at all.
I firmly believe that it's beneficial for me to engage in something diligently, so fervently that I will not shirk even such a trumped-up obligation as meditation.
AWriter_(3)
Edouard Vuillard: Album Cover for Landscapes and Interiors (1899)
"I became AWriter by typing with my two-and-a-half typing fingers: Another Summer."
The Muse recalls always thinking of me as AWriter because I always seemed to be writing, but I had not gained the discipline being AWriter requires. She says she thought I'd become a consultant to collect material, and she might be right. To my mind, AWriter, a real one, writes. Their writing can't be contingent upon how they feel or whether they're inspired unless they trade in mere transcription. I once believed writing required inspiration or some other high-minded situation to express itself. That became a self-defeating belief because it often dissuaded me from writing. It generated excuses instead. Whatever else might be the case, a straightforward fact underlies the whole writing business: Writers Write. It's just as simple and certainly no more complicated than that.
That said, though, it must matter what AWriter writes.
AWriter_(2)
John La Farge: The Dawn [Former Title: Dawn on the Edge of Night] (1899)
" … before I could properly proclaim myself AWriter."
When my soul brother died of ALS, I became the apparent heir to replace him as the author's representative on our mutual publisher's board of directors. This nomination boosted my sense of legitimacy as an author, if not necessarily as a writer. It was unusual in the publishing industry for an author's representative, let alone an actual author, to serve on a publishing company's board. Other board members included a bookshop owner, a diversity and inclusion expert, also an author, and a woman who worked for a prominent author's company, so it was more than just me there representing author interests. The assignment confused me since its details had little to do with what interested me. I was never that into balance sheets, but the responsibilities leaned more toward encouraging a coherence between the firm's philosophy and its operations. That purpose was right up my alley. I even felt hesitantly competent to serve.
The firm's CEO took to coaching me through a book idea I'd been harboring but hadn't managed to get flying.
AWriter_(1)
Jan Ekels II: A Writer Trimming his Pen (1784)
"I wasn't quite a writer yet …"
I discovered that I'd become a writer while in Exile. This discovery took a while, for I needed to work through the usual stages of acceptance to make it. I had already become an author by the time I made this discovery, and though I'd been writing for decades, this discovery shocked me. I had previously considered myself a wannabe writer with the aspiration but without the necessary certifications. I didn't yet understand just how one became a writer. I just knew that I hadn't become one until then, I had. The final transformation came in a moment of begrudging and beligerate acceptance, an "alright, then, dammit" moment that finally quieted the roiling questioning and controversy forever. Before, I wasn't. After, I really was.
This discovery resolved nothing but the lingering background uncertainty anybody might hold about any aspiration.
TheLight
Warren Mack: Colorado Landscape (First half, 20th Century)
"The last half of our Exile would surely cast lasting shadows."
Before we left Takoma Park and The East, I would tune into television serials set in The West to vicariously experience TheLight. The atmosphere in the East becomes heavier. It seems to blot out much of light's native intensity. A few Spring and Autumn days might approach the everyday clarity of TheLight in The West, but in Colorado, every day features blinding brilliance. I noticed that difference first. I'd rise early to write on the East-facing concrete pad porch of our Barbie and Ken transitional apartment to watch the sun rise out of Kansas to bathe the bluffs and plains in its purity. At better than a mile high, the air's thin, so the sun slips right in. Sunglasses were never optional there. I wore long sleeves and havelocks to avoid melanomas.
I watched for that returning sun every morning The Muse and I lived there.
Suburbia
William Michael Harnett: For Sunday’s Dinner (1888)
"I said I thought I might be able to live there …"
Though I was raised in the fifties and sixties, I came of age without developing an appreciation for the modern American suburb. We lived in a turn-of-the-century castle, compared to the concrete slab construction passed off as Mid-Century Modern. I disliked the gently curving streets inevitably leading into cul-de-sacs in which those places tended to be built. The streets typically sported what I labeled Tourquise Names, with hyphenations stolen from far-away places, describing nothing similar to the local topography. Mar-a-Lago Lane overlooking high desert terrain. Their cookie-cutter sameness and visual blandness, with each place identical to its next-door neighbors, disturbed something wild within me. I'd always dreaded ending up in some Suburbia somewhere.
Exiles exist to expose us to our worst-case scenarios.
Weekly Writing Summary For The Week Ending 11/14/2024
Archibald McLees, Engraver: New Spencerian compendium of penmanship, Part 2 (1879)
We Can Be Certain Now
When I began writing this series, I couldn't have known we would experience something like another Exile together when I was halfway through creating it. Exiles might be much more common than I had earlier appreciated. I had innocently figured that most people never experience that sort of trauma, and it was consequently a rare sort of event. I recognize familiar tells when surveying my friends and colleagues' reactions since the recent election. We're all Exiles now, seemingly kidnapped against our will and forced to cope with conditions we'd hoped we'd never have to face. Our faith has already been wounded, and we anticipate it will get worse, much worse. We're heartbroken, and we damned well should be. What's coming still seems utterly unnecessary. We seriously believed that we were better than this. It sure seemed like we used to be. These feelings provide the context within which Exiles have always existed. The sense of unfairness never completely relents. It would be unreasonable for me not to doubt my ability to cope with the upcoming insults. Must we exist on platitudes now? We were formerly engaged in serious business. We're forced to struggle to barely achieve survival, and even that's in question now. All Exiles start the same, with their end in question. Every Exile ends differently; of this, alone, We Can Be Certain Now.
VenueChange
She wrangled a transfer to her lab's home office in Colorado, where real estate seemed more affordable. Slip over here for more ...
Visitors
Isaac Israels: Two Donkeys (1897 - 1901)
Gallery Notes:
Scheveningen’s donkeys were not just entertainment for seaside visitors; Israels made grateful use of them in his paintings. He portrayed them a few times, either with children riding or a boy leading, or as here, waiting for the next ride. Their keeper lies in the foreground, on the sand.
"I remember we'd once been Exiled before our Visitors found us home."
Visitors transformed our Exile. On our first days there, two old friends just happened to be passing through the area to visit relatives, and we spent two days easing into that terribly unfamiliar place together. It seemed much less foreboding with them there to distract us into entertaining. Something about visitors brings the host out in us. We might not usually take ourselves out to dinner, but when we have Visitors, we're much more likely to consent to the splurge and even try to find the best. I become tour guide-y, even when I'm unfamiliar with the territory. I have an almost uncanny ability to find interesting places, and our Visitors almost always appreciate my efforts. We wouldn't have visited half the tourist traps in DC had Visitors' presence not quietly goaded us into agreeing to go.
The GrandOtter was our most frequent Visitor after we were Exiled.
Just_Visiting
Philippe Pigouchet: Visitation, from Book of Hours (15th Century)
" Who would greet us when we returned?"
During Exile, The Muse and I were able to infrequently return to the scene of our banishment to visit family and friends. We learned early in our Exile that holidays were lousy times to visit since people already had their traditions, and the last thing they needed was some fifth-wheel visitors messing up their rhythms. Also, we ached to visit ordinary times rather than during celebrations when people might be on their best or worst behavior. The one visit we made over Christmas, early in our Exile, proved disastrous. We never attempted a repeat performance.
I usually managed to make it back for my grandson Roman's birthday, even though it was in February.
DaGoils
Beatrix Potter: Cats in the Window (1909)
" … those fading days may never go away."
Before I move these stories away from Takoma Park, I must recount one of the most fulfilling activities I engaged in there. Our Sherman Street neighbor and benefactor Clair had been involved with a group that cared for the town's many feral cat colonies. He recruited me to take a turn. Rather than try to domesticate these critters, these people trapped and neutered them, then returned them to the wild, returning daily to feed them forever. Each volunteer agreed to feed a certain number of cat colonies for specific days each week. I decided to service five drops, four days each week. I was responsible for buying and dropping the food off each designated day.
The colonies lived invisibly.
Good For A Goose
Fambly (93)
Grace (92)
Humor (2)
iAlogue (1)
Letters to the Editor (1)
NextWorld (64)
Personal (19)
Steam Festival (4)
Vaporized (6)
Work (16)
January 2025
December 2024
November 2024
October 2024
September 2024
August 2024
July 2024
June 2024
May 2024
April 2024
March 2024
November 2006
October 2006
September 2006
August 2006
July 2006
June 2006
May 2006
April 2006
March 2006
February 2006
January 2006
