Happy Easter
“[T]he US, after all [is] a nation with prudish peculiarities, seemingly more alarmed by the proliferation of drag queens than automatic weapons.
McDonnell, C. K.. Relight My Fire (The Stranger Times) (p. 52). Transworld.
TODAY FROM AMERICA:
A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES AS MARCH PREPARES TO STEP ASIDE.
“People find all sorts of things to give their brief lives meaning. Religion, football, astrology, social media. Valiant efforts all, but everyone knows, deep, deep down, that life is both a random occurrence and a losing battle. None of us will be remembered. These days will all be covered, in time, by the sands.”
Osman, Richard. The Last Devil to Die (A Thursday Murder Club Mystery) (p. 323). Penguin P ublishing Group.
I refuse to believe that anything I have done in my beyond average length of life has raised itself to the level of valiant. I have always taken pride in this. Anything that may have even smelled valiant on my part occurred only when I could not figure out how to get away. On the other hand, I would do just about anything for a story with which later I could bore people over dinner. When I was younger, I always loved to hear my father’s stories. Unfortunately, he only had about six, which he told again and again. I swore then that I would devote my life to amassing enough stories to last at least through a month of dinners.
My journey to collect stories led me down paths I never imagined, From spontaneous adventures in far-flung places to heartwarming encounters with strangers in everyday life and at times even into unpleasant and degrading situations, risking both my safety and the well-being of others. From risky adventures in far-flung places to unsettling encounters with strangers in everyday life, each experience added another layer to my collection of stories. Despite the challenges and dangers, I discovered that the stories weren’t just for entertainment; they connected me to the world in profound ways. In embracing the unpredictable nature of life I experienced few grand gestures and even less fame, but reveled in the complex tapestry of human experience, where even the darkest moments can amuse (and in truth often “bore”) everyone in the retelling.
On Saturday morning, Naida woke me up and dragged me off to the Saturday Morning Coffee. While I sat there sipping my coffee, waiting to fully wake up while everyone else was milling about waiting for Gerry with a G, out leader to begin the meeting, I ruminated about the opera we had seen last Wednesday. The director of the opera (Verdi’s La Forza del Destino) had moved its setting from the late 19th century to the latter part of the 20th. The language of the libretto, a story of love, betrayal and vengeance, had been dictated by the fashion, more’s and censor’s pens of the time, I realized that the music, as it often does, transcended it. The music expressed the eternal turmoil of life as we struggle to transcend it limits and supression and more often that not fail — La Forza del Destino indeed.
Later after the announcements, a group of students and their teacher from Sacramento State University arrived and led us through a series of games developed to determine how far along of the road to dementia we were. The games were fun but the only evidence of dementia I could see was in our willingness to participate.
On Sunday morning, St. Patrick’s Day, I got out of bed at about 11AM. While eating breakfast, Naida wanted to discuss the problems with hospice care. I, however, wanted to read the newest Tana French novel. Nevertheless, I listened to her discuss the confusion regarding Bill’s advanced care directive during his last days. I am all in support of advanced care directives, but I had always hoped that when the time came I would be so deep into dementia I wouldn’t care. But, I guess we rarely get what we hope for, so I suggested we take the dog for a long walk.
We decided to take a stroll along the river. It turned out to be quite a lengthy walk, much longer than I’ve been accustomed to lately, about 3 miles in total. The weather was warm, so Naida and I promptly shed any excess layers we had on. I found myself getting very tired, taking breaks whenever possible. Naida, on the other hand, was much sturdier than I am. She marched on briskly, patiently waiting as I collapsed onto every bench we passed. She’s a better man than I am, that’s for sure.
As we walked, Naida kept up a lively commentary on the surrounding flora and fauna, delving into the history of the Native American communities that once inhabited the area. She shared insights into their traditional sources of food and medicine, as well as stories of Jedidiah Smith’s exploration and how he named the river. I couldn’t help but think she would have made a fantastic tour guide with her wealth of knowledge. Once she even stopped and plucked a flower and some leaves from a bush along the path and ate them. She said the Native Americans enjoyed them and offered them to me to taste. I demurred taking her word for it.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but notice the ongoing erosion of the river’s banks despite the recent completion of the 2 billion dollar levee enhancement and restoration project. It was disheartening to see the efforts seemingly go to waste.
Eventually, we reached a point where I simply couldn’t go any further. Although, that statement doesn’t make much sense considering we still had to make the entire journey back home. Nonetheless, we made it back and collapsed onto the sofa, gulping down the copious amounts of water we had forgotten to bring along on our adventure. Well, everyone collapsed except the dog, who promptly and incessantly reminded us it was time for his dinner.
Top row — L to R: On our way; Pookie and Booboo resting; Naida the Naid by the River; Bicyclists.
Bottom row — L to R: View of the river: Naida eating like the Indigenous people; Naida with tree; Going home.
Monday dawned bright and warm, with Naida receiving a relatively clean bill of health from the emergency room doctor. The advice was straightforward: stay hydrated, stick to regular meals, and invest in a better home blood pressure device. Meanwhile, I headed off to the dentist to get a cap installed on my tooth. Our furry companion spent the day doing what dogs do best: sleeping, barking, and eating. On the political front, Donald Trump made headlines by announcing his inability to raise funds for the bond necessary to support his appeal against the verdict of the New York State courts. This verdict stemmed from his violation of various New York State business laws. Adding to his woes, more of Trump’s associates, appointees, and office holders publicly declared their decision not to support him for president. Amidst all this political drama, the liberal press continued to fuel speculation and anxiety, reinforcing the narrative that Biden was too weak a candidate to secure victory in the upcoming election. And just like that, the clock struck 3 PM.
At about six PM I got up from my afternoon nap and returned downstairs to discover Naida had already taken the dog for his evening walk. While waiting for their return I tuned in to Rachel Maddow on MSNBC who announced that Paul Manafort, the convicted Russian intelligence asset, had just been added to Trump’s Presidential election campaign staff.
The addition of Paul Manafort to Trump’s campaign staff sparked controversy and renewed scrutiny over the Trump administration’s connections to Russia. Manafort, a former campaign chairman, had been convicted on charges including tax fraud, bank fraud, and conspiracy against the United States as a result of Special Counsel Robert Mueller’s investigation into Russian interference in the 2016 presidential election. His involvement in Trump’s campaign reignited debates about collusion and foreign interference.
“There are always monsters. Some of them even look like humans….”
Paolini, Christopher. Murtagh (The Inheritance Cycle) (p. 34). Random House Children’s Books.
That night I couldn’t sleep so at about 1AM I returned downstairs and read Tana French’s latest novel for about an hour. The novel is set amidst the rugged landscapes of the Wicklow mountains in Ireland. Unlike French’s other usual dark and mysterious beginnings, this one, although not a tale of joy, rambles on in search of a mystery. After devouring a few chapters, I returned to bed, fell asleep and found myself ensnared in one of the most emotionally taxing dreams I have had in years. It wasn’t a nightmare per se — it lacked terror — but rather only a tale of the young boy shunned by his parents and a man’s futile efforts to help him. It left me so drained and upset by the morning that I lingered in bed even more than usual.
Today is Tuesday, March 19, St. Joseph’s Day—my onomastica, my name day. Back in Sicily, it’s a big deal, with loads of delicious food, especially Sicilian pastries. Here in the US, though, it’s not quite as big a deal, not like St. Patrick’s Day anyway. As usual, I didn’t do much to mark the occasion, aside from acknowledging it here.
After running some errands and a brief nap, the dog and I took a long pleasant walk through the Enchanted Forest. Despite my long familiarity with the paths hereabout, I still managed to get briefly lost.
Later that night, I found myself tangled up in yet another one of those bothersome, dreary dreams. This time, I was cast as an aging attorney. One of the disheartening scenarios in the dream involved someone or some group (I never quite grasped which) deeming a legal memorandum authored under my name as the best of the year, even though it was mostly penned by a young associate. I protested against accepting the recognition under false pretenses, but they (whoever “they” were) were rather miffed with my objection and insisted on disregarding it.
“W]hen you’re talking about lawyers, a little slime is probably not worth making much fuss over.”
Brookmyre, Christopher. Country of the Blind (The Jack Parlabane Thrillers) (p. 70). Grove Atlantic.
I’ve often wondered why so many of these irksome and gloomy dreams depict me in my role of an attorney. Truth be told, I was never particularly skilled in that field. Legal reasoning always eluded me; those who excelled at it seemed more like robots to me, zoned out one moment and then rattling off incomprehensible jargon the next, all while flashing a smile as though they expected you to understand. The only knack I had was in misleading juries and bureaucratic panels. Perhaps these dreams serve as some sort of karmic retribution.
Well well, I ran the above few paragraphs through Chat AI to check spelling and grammar. To my surprise it decided to add a bit of advice:
Additional Information Paragraph:It’s not uncommon for dreams to reflect aspects of our lives that weigh on our minds or that we find challenging. The recurring theme of being an attorney in your dreams might suggest a subconscious grappling with issues of authority, responsibility, or ethical dilemmas. Alternatively, it could stem from a past experience or lingering feelings about your career path. Exploring these dreams further with a therapist or through journaling might provide insights into their deeper meanings and help alleviate any associated anxieties.
Analysis by machine, what’s next? Is it really worried about my mental health?… I will have to ask my analyst. Can you imagine a world where you go to a machine for advice and counsel? Don’t we do that already?
My analyst is Facebook, what’s yours? Tic Tok? You must be in a lot of trouble.
Thursday, I woke up late and fuzzy-headed, Thankfully no depressing dreams clung to me through the gloomy morning. After dragging myself through breakfast, I summoned the energy to drive out to Golden Hills for lunch with Hayden. Still muzzy and half asleep, I was convinced I’d somehow crash the car along the way. Miraculously, I made it in one piece, and we enjoyed our lunch outdoors at Formaggio, one of our favorite spots. Over sandwiches and salads, we brainstormed possible trips to take together next month.
Friday started out boring and remained so throughout the day. The housecleaner arrived and cleaned the house for three hours. The dog barked and barked. Naida’s daughters arrived in the early afternoon to take her blood pressure. Later news broke of a theater attack in Moscow, leaving at least 40 people dead. Struggling to stay awake, I couldn’t help but wonder why I bothered. Maybe, just maybe, something remotely interesting would happen. I briefly entertained the idea of going for a walk, but decided my time would be better spent contemplating the gradual descent of my eyelids until they inevitably sealed shut.
Later, we attended a reception at River’s Edge, a senior housing facility we’re considering moving to. They had a three-piece group with a singer, pianist, and bass player providing musical entertainment while the staff busily demonstrated the beauties and benefits of living there. The band was fantastic, and we thoroughly enjoyed listening to them. Interestingly, the musicians were all octogenarian and older and still going strong just like those more famous members of the same generation the Rolling Stones, Willie Nelson, Blind Lemon Pledge, and Pistol Pete Grennel,
Since we had already decided to move there as soon as possible, we paid our $4000 deposit and made an appointment for Tuesday to sign the pertinent documents. I expect we will move in around early to mid-May. So, a new phase of our lives begins. For the first time that I can recall, I am not particularly thrilled at starting a new adventure.
On Saturday morning it was overcast. We missed the Coffee. Naida’s son David arrived from wherever and tried to fix the dog door. My sister Maryann called me. She told me George and she are off to San Diego to attend the Bruce Springsteen concert. She had purchased the tickets as a 70th birthday present for George. After the concert she and her friend Ester are flying off to Finland for a week to view the Northern Lights. And, just like that it was Saturday afternoon. So I took a nap. I was awakened an hour of so later by David rooting around the bedroom trying to install a second telephone. Outside I heard the sound of thunder. I went down stairs and watched a movie about a catastrophic flood. I looked outside. it was raining real rain. I enjoyed seeing it puddle the yard. It takes little these days to entertain me. The rain lasted only a few minutes. It was nice though. Then the sun came out again.
After breakfast on Sunday, Naida decided to show me how her voice had changed from alto to soprano as she’s gotten older. I couldn’t think of anything clever to say in response, so I decided to head out for some grocery shopping. The windstorm from yesterday had cleared the air, painting the skies a brilliant blue. Along the great white way, many of the trees had lost their blossoms in the storm, leaving them looking a bit forlorn, eagerly awaiting the arrival of fresh green leaves of spring.. As I shopped, I stocked up on plenty of bagels, lox, and cream cheese for myself, and lots of flowers for Naida.
After editing the above paragraph, ChatGPT opined:
“It’s interesting to note that changes in vocal range as we age are not uncommon. As the vocal cords undergo changes over time, it’s typical for the voice to shift in pitch and timbre. Factors such as hormonal changes, muscle tone, and overall vocal health can all play a role in these alterations. Embracing these changes can be a fun journey, as demonstrated by Naida’s playful demonstration of her evolving soprano voice.”
While I appreciate the AI’s comments after editing my ramblings, but this is becoming a bit spooky.
Naida was feeling better and decided to spend the rest of the afternoon working on her memoir. As for me, I went off for a nap, nothing unusual there. Later, when I returned downstairs, Naida shared with me an intriguing story her son David had told her. He recounted how his uncle, a well-known artist and sculptor, had once taught in the Art department of a university. This uncle had constructed and lived in a treehouse nestled by the school’s gymnasium, cleverly concealed by thick foliage. When nature called, he’d descend from his arboreal abode to use the facilities in the gymnasium locker room. In later years, after achieving renown as a sculptor, he battled Parkinson’s disease, and David moved in to care for him until his passing.
That night, I was troubled by a peculiar dream. I found myself in Africa, somewhere south of the Sahara, around 80 years ago, perhaps. In this dream, I was a black man within the entourage of a leader who had just secured success for our tribe, liberating them from the grasp of British, French, or German interests. However, another group’s leader, who had colluded with the imperialists, sought to join us in order to enjoy the fruits our agreement but was rebuffed as a Quisling. In a dramatic turn, the bodyguard of our leader, bribed by the Quisling, attempted to assassinate him. Reacting instinctively, I struck out at the bodyguard, inadvertently hitting Naida, who startled awake with a scream. After profusely apologizing to her, I fell back asleep immediately. The chaos of the dream persisted, prompting me to lash out again, unintentionally kicking Naida this time. She, understandably, erupted in anger, stormed out to the bathroom, and scolded me upon her return. I drifted back into a half-sleep, torn between the reality of Naida’s frustration and the lingering echoes of my African dream, pondering the significance of this departure from my usual dreaming self and the dream’s persistent focus on Africa. It left me wondering if this disjointed dreaming experience was a symptom of aging and decline.
The following day, Naida’s son David paid another visit, tinkering with an additional telephone to install upstairs. That night, around 4 AM, wary of descending into another tumultuous dream, I decided to rise shortly after Naida fell off to sleep. I made my way downstairs and immersed myself in reading until exhaustion eventually granted me the respite of dreamless sleep.
On Tuesday, we completed the paperwork for our transition from the Enchanted Forest to The River’s Edge senior housing. Now comes the daunting task of planning the move—a task I can’t say I’m looking forward to. Deciding what stays and what goes is always a bit of a headache. And now, staring down at the seemingly ominous door of non-existence, it feels even more daunting. It’s like suddenly realizing you’ve overstayed your welcome at a party. We reach a point where we start to feel like we’re just hanging on, being sustained by the efforts of others. It’s a strange feeling, watching our once-sharp minds and agile bodies fade away. Our wisdom seems to slip through our fingers, while our physical abilities diminish, leaving us dependent on others for care. Our loved ones visit, but it’s a relief for them to see us in the hands of professionals. We’ll find distractions in activities and occasional trips, but they’re mere observers now, unable to fully participate. Despite it all, we’ll try to keep up a cheerful facade—for the sake of our loved ones or our own sanity—until our faculties dwindle, and we become nothing but fleeting memories in the minds of others.
The next morning I woke up after having another depressing dream. This one of unrelieved failure and frustration. If this keeps up I will have to consider giving up sleeping.
Later in the day, we headed to the theater to catch Live at the Met. This week’s performance was Gounod’s “Romeo et Juliette.” Surprisingly, it turned out to be much more enjoyable than I had anticipated. The final scene was particularly memorable. While the stage setting wasn’t as breathtaking as the one in “La Forza del Destino,” which we saw two weeks ago, and the music wasn’t as grand, it still made for a fantastic experience.
The two young leads portraying Romeo and Juliette, Benjamin Bernheim and Nadine Sierra, were absolutely superb. Benjamin Bernheim, hailing from France, has quickly risen to prominence in the opera world with his powerful tenor voice and emotionally resonant performances.
Nadine Sierra, on the other hand, brings her own remarkable background to the role of Juliette. Born in the United States to parents of Puerto Rican and Italian descent, Sierra’s diverse heritage infuses her performances with a unique richness and authenticity. I found portrayal of Juliette was captivating. Together, they created a dynamic and unforgettable portrayal of Shakespeare’s iconic lovers.
When we got back home following the performance we were exhausted and went directly to bed.
The following morning, I drove Naida to the accountant’s office to drop off the documents he needed to prepare her taxes. Once back home, Hayden showed up. We all decided to treat ourselves to a delightful lunch at Piatti. Post-lunch, Hayden took off back to the Golden Hills, and we headed back home. About an hour later, our moving consultant, Lee Mahla, arrived. Alongside Naida, her son David, and me, we dove into planning our move to River’s Edge in early May..
Friday arrived damp and dark, heralding the predicted storms here in California. In the morning, I attended my appointment with the nurse practitioner at my primary care physician’s office to obtain medication for my Thrush infection. To my surprise, during the visit, I was informed of a diagnosis of COPD. It wasn’t entirely unexpected; throughout my childhood and adolescence, I battled recurring lung illnesses such as pneumonia and severe bronchitis.
One can discern the onset of terminal decrepitude when days are consumed by preoccupations with the weather, health, and reminiscing about the past.
Speaking of the past, having exhausted my current collection of fiction, I’ve delved into my backlog of non-fiction for stimulation. Among the books I’ve picked up is “Forged” by Bart Ehrman.
As I’ve previously discussed, I’ve long been fascinated by what I term “The First Centuries” – the era in the Levant from approximately 200 BC, when Western Semitic myths were collected by scholars in Alexandria, Egypt, and compiled into documents such as the Septuagint (The Old Testament), through to around 200 AD, when many of the books constituting the “New Testament” were written. My intrigue stems from the realization that the assumptions and beliefs forged during this period have significantly influenced human behavior, particularly in the last six centuries, as the children of the Book extended their influence across much of the globe.
I turned to Ehrman’s work due to his efforts in identifying the authorship of various books in the New Testament. Ehrman, once a devout and very conservative Christian who has since become a critic, brings a unique perspective to his scholarly endeavors. He wrote:
I did my very best to hold on to my faith that the Bible was the inspired word of God with no mistakes and that lasted for about two years […] I realized that at the time we had over 5,000 manuscripts of the New Testament, and no two of them are exactly alike. The scribes were changing them, sometimes in big ways, but lots of times in little ways. And it finally occurred to me that if I really thought that God had inspired this text […] If he went to the trouble of inspiring the text, why didn’t he go to the trouble of preserving the text? Why did he allow scribes to change it?
Saturday, Mel Brooks was 96 today or perhaps it was yesterday or the day before. I decided unsurprisingly to remain in bed. Naida on the other hand opted to attend the Saturday Morning Coffee and got dressed. It was raining slightly and not wanting her walking in the rain I jumped out of bed and into the car without any pants on and drove her to the Coffee. I returned to the house and then back to bed. At about 11:45 AM I got up again, put on pants, got into the car and drove back to the Nepenthe Club House to pick up Naida. While waiting I spoke with a few of the attendees at the Coffee who were just leaving. We discussed the planned move to River’s Edge and my COPD diagnosis.
Regarding the COPD diagnosis, although it is considered terminal, I was relieved. Because of my pulmonary problems as a child and adolescent that included annual hospitalizations for pneumonia, bronchitis and other maladies of the lungs, I was sure I would ultimately die of some disease causing the failure of my breathing apparatus (ignoring of course that death and cessation of breathing are pretty much the same). I became somewhat despondent when in appeared likely that maladies such as my experiences with cancer, embolisms and general life-style choices seemed to conflict with that lifelong belief. Alas, COPD is so dilatory in its execution, sometimes 20 years or so, that I will probably pass on by something equally unpleasant, most likely in my throat.
While I was obsessing on and writing about disease, death, throats and lungs, Naida insisted on reading to me a section of her autobiography, “Daughter of the West” about an event she experienced in about 1943 when she was about 4 years old and living in Idaho. She was at the log cabin of her great-grandma Kerr a one-time wealthy heiress from NY who was disinherited for marrying an Irishman. The cabin had oil cloth stuffed with newspaper tacked to the ceilinging for insulation. Since it seemed to fit with the theme of the last few paragraphs I have written above I thought I would include it here. Naida wrote:
“I am looking up because I can’t watch what they are doing to Norton. He’s as big as a man and has some whiskers, but he cries like a girl. With a vial of Merthiolate Great-grandma Kerr bends down to see into Norton’s throat while Grandma Miller holds his mouth open — one hand pulling his upper teeth upward and the heel of her other hand pushing down on his lowers. Great-grandma inserts a wand into his mouth leaving a trail of bright orange liquid on his lips, while the man behind the chair tightens his elbow grip on Norton’s forehead to stop him from wrenching his head away. Norton gargles a squeaky yell. Again Great-grandma dips the wand into the vial of orange liquid and probes around his throat while several women with rolled-up sleeves and bulging biceps hold his legs and arms so he can’t get away….Norton tries mightily but cannot wrench his head away. Keeping his teeth apart, Grandma Miller bites the side of her lower lip. She always does that when she is working hard. She glances at me, and I grab my chance, loud enough to be heard over the groans, “Why is she painting his throat?”“He’s got the quinsy.”
So with that I bring March 2024 to its end and prepare for April’s sigh.
Always remember, “Beware of the Quinsy.”
B. MOPEY JOE’S MEMORIES: The Golden Hills Ten Years Ago (March 2014)
The recent rains have brought a flush of green to the foothills, painting a picturesque scene against the backdrop of my routine days. I find myself caught in a loop, doing the same things at roughly the same times each day, which has left me somewhat disoriented when it comes to tracking time. I’ve even lost count of how long it’s been since I last spoke to certain people I used to regularly keep in touch with. But amidst this monotony, one thing stands out: the clouds. Oh, how I adore the clouds here in the Golden Hills! They’re a magnificent array of cottony white, pearlescent, and sometimes ominously dark hues, with splashes of red, pink, orange, and even yellow painting the sky.
Today, the “Mothers” rugby team faced two challenging games. The first match was against a team that previously trounced them 95 to 5. This time, they narrowed the gap, losing 30 to 15. However, the second game took a different turn. Their opponents were a team of South Sea Islander kids, half of whom were girls. Within minutes, the Mothers found themselves trailing 30 to 0. Sensing the lopsidedness, the coach intervened and proposed that only the youngest members (aged 8 and under) from the Islanders’ team play, supplemented by six “scrub” players from the Mothers. Despite this adjustment, the Islanders continued to dominate, adding another 30 points in 10 minutes before the game was mercifully called off to spare our team further humiliation. Nevertheless, amidst the chaos, HRM was recognized by the referees as the Best Tackler of the Game, particularly for a dramatic last-second tackle that drew cheers and applause from the spectators.
Unfortunately, I’ve fallen ill again and have been confined to bed for nearly a week, battling bodily fluids while awaiting the effects of antibiotics and other medications to evict these unwelcome invaders wreaking havoc on my system.
Emerging onto the deck once or twice a day for a breath of fresh air, I’ve noticed an unusual absence of both winter and spring this year at the foothills’ edge. It seems we’ve leaped straight into summer, with the parched grass and trees responding to the recent meager rains by hastily releasing seeds and pollen in a desperate bid for survival before succumbing to the impending drought. Regrettably, this sudden burst of reproductive activity has exacerbated the woes of hay fever and allergies, compounding the discomfort caused by the invading bacteria and viruses.
As the rugby season draws to a close, marked by the Mothers’ predictable defeats at the regional tournament, swimming season dawns. I find myself on the pool’s edge, among a cohort of proud mothers, cheering on our young charges as they strive for new personal bests, all while surreptitiously tinkering with our smartphones.
Beyond the realm of sports and seasons, the local ecosystem seems to be undergoing subtle yet significant shifts. Climate change has cast its shadow over our region, altering the rhythm of nature in ways both observable and imperceptible. From the timing of rainfall to the behavior of flora and fauna, these changes should remind us of our interconnectedness with the environment and the urgency of addressing environmental challenges.
PETRILLO’S COMMENTARY: It Could Happen Here.
“For ourselves, we shall not trouble you with specious pretenses — either of how we have a right to our empire because we overthrew the Mede, or are now attacking you because of wrong that you have done us — and make a long speech which would not be believed; and in return we hope that you, instead of thinking to influence us by saying that you did not join the Spartans, although their colonists, or that you have done us no wrong, will aim at what is feasible, holding in view the real sentiments of us both; since you know as well as we do that right, as the world goes, is only in question between equals in power, while the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must.”
The quote originates from Thucydides’ “History of the Peloponnesian War,” specifically within the Melian Dialogue, an exchange between Athenian envoys and the inhabitants of Melos during the Peloponnesian War. In this dialogue, the Athenians, representing the dominant power, assert their imperialistic intentions towards the neutral city-state of Melos. The Athenians dismiss moral or legal justifications for their actions and instead emphasize the harsh reality of power dynamics in international relations.
Thucydides’ quote encapsulates the principle of realpolitik, highlighting the pragmatic understanding of power relations prevalent in ancient Greek political thought. The Athenians bluntly assert that in the absence of a balance of power, the strong impose their will upon the weak. They dismiss appeals to justice or morality, asserting that such considerations hold little weight in the face of raw power. The quote underscores the Athenians’ belief that might ultimately determines right, emphasizing the ruthless pragmatism that governs state behavior in the anarchic arena of international politics.
The significance of this quote extends beyond its historical context, resonating throughout the annals of political theory and international relations. It serves as a stark reminder of the enduring relevance of power dynamics in shaping state behavior. Scholars and policymakers alike have drawn upon this principle to analyze and understand the actions of states in various geopolitical contexts. Thucydides’ portrayal of the Athenian stance towards Melos serves as a cautionary tale, highlighting the harsh realities of power politics and the imperative for states to navigate the complexities of international relations with pragmatism and strategic foresight.
DAILY FACTOIDS: Current Climate Concerns.
A. Sea Temperature Rise
B. United States Winter Heat Record.
The United States just had its warmest winter on record.
From NOAA.February 2024. The average temperature across the contiguous U.S. last month was 41.1 degrees F, 7.2 degrees F above the 20th-century average and ranking as the third-warmest February in NOAA’s 130-year climate record. Iowa, Minnesota, Missouri and Wisconsin each had their warmest February on record. An additional 20 states saw their top-10 warmest February on record. Persistent winter warmth resulted in a steady decrease in ice coverage across the Great Lakes, which reached a historic low of 2.7% on February 11 — the lowest amount of ice coverage on record during mid-February. February precipitation for the contiguous U.S. was 1.86 inches, 0.27 of an inch below average, ranking in the driest third of the climate record. Illinois, Maine, New Hampshire, New York and Vermont each saw their second-driest February on record.
PEPE’S POTPOURRI:
A. The X Man on Top: Xander Comments on My Previous Post.
Pete Xander a friend and one time colleague of mine has often commented on my posts, always with great erudition and knowledge. In fact, I have a category in my blog Papa Joe’s Tales, Fables and Parables (https://wordpress.com/home/papajoesfables.wordpress.com) entitled Xander and Friends. Here he comments on my musing about the state of cosmological science. In his discussion he provides insightful observations and criticisms of the parties involved in the current, Hamas/Israeli conflict.
“1) The way forward is never backwards. Science is not perfect, but it has always perfected. Turning to imaginary gods has been the curse of every society, the causes of wars . . . and still IS causing wars.2) I never thought an Israeli Prime Minister would allow the slow deaths of hunger and thirst by any people by the thousands, by the tens or hundreds of thousands, much less cause it. To kill tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, to “eradicate” Hamas? There will ALWAYS be an Islamic terrorist group until both Israel and Palestine are allowed and are agreed to co-exist.3) Just any ONE Saudi Royal Family billionaire could turn Gaza into a thriving economy, having young men have jobs and provide for their families and themselves, instead of throwing rocks at Israeli soldiers. But they want Palestinians to be the ticks, lice, and mosquitos pestering Israel instead of caring about their fellow Muslim brothers. They WANT Palestinians’ hate and poverty. Why the US cares about Saudi Arabia and the other fascist woman-degrading oil-producing states is our gluttonous and self-destructive hunger for carbon-based fuels, and we’ll NEVER made wise foreign policies until we kick our energy drug habit.4) I thought years ago, representing San Diego State at the 23rd National Conference on Student Affairs at Texas A&M, the topic of which was “The Politics of Energy,” we would have evolved into renewable energy sources. I spoke fervently – and hopelessly – stating the obvious case, and that was 1978. I ran for a seat on the Chula Vista city council in 1980 on a platform of requiring new development to be powered by solar and renewables as well as being water-conserving. I knew that Stephen Burch ranch land between Chula Vista and Otay Reservoir, near Southwestern College, was going to more than double the city’s population.Yeah. Got my ass wiped because the local paper’s ownership changed, and the new editor, from west Texas, disagreed with me because I had spoken against the Chula Vista Local Coastal Program and their grandiose – and impossibly ignorant — proposed marina and hotel developments that would destroy Sweetwater Marsh and other wetlands, development that would NEVER occur at that level. In fact, I’d met with Harriet Allen, Judy Rosener, and Norbert Dall and had a workable compromise that protected the marsh, reduced the intensity of development, and would satisfy the Coastal Commission and state and federal wildlife agencies. Tom Crandall scuttled it because it didn’t come from his office and was made to feel impotent, apparently.5) Netanyahu, Trump, and Putin are the inevitable results of dictatorial powers. Bibi should know better from history – Israeli and Jewish history; Putin should have known better that to attack the land from which the Tsar’s guard in 1697 consisted of Cossacks from Ukraine. Ukrainians will fight to the last man, woman, and child. I’ve known a journalist from Kherson for three years who was raised by her grandmother from infancy and who now cares for her through the brutality of Putin’s genocide and destruction of Ukraine. They are what remains of the 30,000 or so people in Kherson out of the original 350,000 who are still shelled every night in the middle of the night, taking refuge in their ice-cold basement.The grandmother went outside on February 24, 2022, the day of the invasion. As soldiers walked behind tanks on the street, she took out the Russian rubles she had and burned them in their faces. Four days later, my friend saw a man loitering in front of her building, acting suspiciously. She called the local police, who arrived soon after and arrested the man. He was attaching a 2″ by 1″ bright green strip on the building. It was a fiducial targeting device, which is how heat-seeking missiles lock on to their intended target. They had been marked for assassination.Twice they survived attacks, on one occasion being blown off their staircase to the basement during an attack. The grandmother suffered cardiac arrest and her granddaughter spent nearly two minutes resuscitating her while screaming for someone to take them to the hospital. That hospital was shelled last August (the 1st, in PST). That was the attack you might remember, when a young doctor was killed on his first day as a doctor.But you can’t conquer or destroy the rights of human dignity or the will to survive, a lesson Netanyahu and Putin have yet to learn and never will.6) As for Trump, that bastard doesn’t understand the word “dignity.” This November is when America needs to get its ass out of its collective head and vote for democracy. Our institutions have been comprised by right-wing ideologue idiocy, and unless Trump loses in a significant landslide, these words might be banned, as will history and democracy. We need to stand up to tyrants like Netanyahu, Putin, and Trump. Failure to do so will kill democracy, and the idiotic American public NEEDS to know this and act.
B. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:
It is difficult today to distinguish between an ideologue and an idiot?
C. Today’s Poem: The Maori Pig Market.
In distant New Zealand, whose tresses of goldThe billows are ceaselessly combing,Away in a village all tranquil and oldI came on a market where porkers were sold —A market for pigs in the gloaming.And Maoris in plenty in picturesque rigThe lands of their forefathers roaming,Were weighing their swine, whether little or big,For purchasers paid by the weight of the pig —The weight of the pig in the gloaming.And one mighty chieftain, I grieve to relate,The while that his porker was foamingAnd squealing like fifty — that Maori sedate,He leant on the pig just to add to its weight —He leant on the pig in the gloaming.Alas! for the buyer, an Irishman stout —O’Grady, I think, his cognomen —Perceived all his doings, and, giving a shout,With the butt of his whip laid him carefully outBy the side of his pig in the gloaming.A terrible scrimmage did straightway begin,And I thought it was time to be homing,For Maoris and Irish were fighting like sin‘Midst war-cries of “Pakeha!” “Batherashin!”As I fled from the spot in the gloamingBy Andrew Barton Paterson
D. Tuckahoe Joe’s Blog of the Week:
Back on September 4, 2014, Brad Delong wrote that he had set a 9 1/2-year email-delay message-to-myself reminder in the system. This reminder was triggered by an article he read in The Wall Street Journal on that same date in 2014. According to DeLong, Matt Ridley’s piece, “Whatever Happened to Global Warming?”, caught his attention. In it, Ridley discussed climate scientists’ explanations for the “hiatus” in global warming. He argued that the climate-research establishment had acknowledged what skeptic scientists had been saying for nearly a decade: Global warming had paused since shortly before the turn of the century. Ridley’s commentary was a prominent voice at that time, echoing sentiments DeLong indicatedmhe had encountered years earlier when reading Steve Levitt and Steve Dubner’s “Superfreakonomics.” Levitt and Dubner highlighted lesser-known facts about global warming, including the decrease in average global temperatures during the period when concerns about climate change intensified.
Delong adds that the article also touched upon the inefficiencies of solar cells and their unintended contribution to global warming, presenting a thought-provoking perspective on alternative energy solutions.
One critique of Levitt and Dubner’s work he points out came from a commentator who expressed disappointment with the book’s approach to climate change, suggesting they could have engaged with more informed sources for their research.
DeLong’s discussion then turned to individuals like Roger Pielke Sr., who maintained that natural variations in atmospheric and ocean circulation were primarily responsible for observed global warming trends.
His last encounter with Roger Pielke Jr.’s work in 2014 DeLong indicates left him unimpressed, asheI found shortcomings in Pielke’s understanding of data analysis and modeling techniques.
Despite shifts in public opinion and scientific consensus, some individuals DeLong points out, such as Christopher Horner and Anthony Watts, continued to dispute the existence of global warming. Their persistence in promoting contrarian views underscored the ongoing debate surrounding climate change.
As for Matt Ridley, he point’s out that while he may no longer deny the reality of global warming, his recent comments still reflect skepticism towards certain aspects of climate science. Ridley’s concerns about potential disruptions to public events due to protests illustrate broader societal anxieties surrounding climate activism.
In light of recent developments, including record-breaking temperatures and escalating environmental concerns, there is growing acknowledgment of the urgency to address climate change. Even established institutions like the Financial Times Editorial Board have emphasized the need for action, citing unprecedented heatwaves and widespread ecological disruptions as evidence of accelerated global warming.
Gavin Schmidt’s remarks on the unexpected heatwave in 2023 underscore the complexities of climate dynamics and the limitations of current scientific understanding. As we confront these challenges, questions about the economic costs of transitioning to renewable energy and mitigating the impacts of climate change loom large. The future trajectory of technological innovation and its potential dividends remain uncertain against the backdrop of environmental instability.
(The above is taken from https://braddelong.substack.com/p/dealing-with-global-warming-over?utm_campaign=email-half-post&r=bzx0n&utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email)
E. Giants of History: Naida West.
Author Naida West once resided on a small ranch bordered by the Cosumnes River to the south and Rancho Murieta to the north and west, a distant suburb of Sacramento. This locale, along with the broader Sacramento area, serves as the primary backdrop for her trilogy of historical novels. Over two decades of research and writing about the ranch’s previous inhabitants, West found inspiration from both the evolving landscape, marked by the emergence of new houses, and the enduring remnants of the past unearthed in artifacts and the unaltered river.
In her novels, West skillfully intertwines real-life figures and events with fictional characters, breathing life into the bygone era. Her works are captivating sagas, enriched by endnotes that provide further historical insights for curious readers.
In her acclaimed trilogy, California Gold Trilogy, each book recounts a forgotten tale of individuals and events in central California. Although each can stand alone, history enthusiasts argue they are best experienced sequentially. Narrated by the spirit of a native woman inhabiting an oak tree, all three books are enriched with extensive endnotes offering deeper insights into the depicted characters and locales. Widely incorporated into college curricula across the US and UK, the trilogy attracts devoted fans from diverse backgrounds and age groups.
The trilogy comprises historical novels, distinct for their adherence to historical accuracy. While conventional historical fiction often overlays a fabricated narrative onto a historical backdrop, “Eye of the Bear” and “River of Red Gold” remain grounded in documented events. The author seamlessly navigates between these events, bridging gaps with plausible conjecture and historical context.
In “River of Red Gold,” major characters retain their historical identities, with their names unchanged, mirroring real-life figures. Similarly, “Eye of the Bear” features mostly authentic characters, with the author supplementing where historical accounts are scant, particularly regarding Native individuals whose presence in historical records is limited. By naming these individuals, the author counteracts the historical oversight that minimizes the role of Native peoples in pivotal events like the Spanish-Mexican military conflicts and the California Gold Rush.
Unlike typical historical novels, where storytelling often eclipses historical accuracy, the trilogy leans heavily towards fidelity to historical events. This commitment continues in “Rest for the Wicked,” where a fictional protagonist, Mae Duffy, is introduced against the backdrop of real-life figures. Notably, key characters with ambiguous historical documentation carry on the narrative from “Eye of the Bear” and “River of Red Gold,” providing a poignant continuation of the saga of the last Miwoks from the village featured in the earlier books.
For readers eager to delve deeper into the interplay of fact and fiction, comprehensive endnotes in all three novels offer invaluable insights.
Born in Idaho, West spent her formative years among small-town communities, farms, and ranches, frequently residing with relatives of diverse backgrounds and beliefs. From Methodist and Catholic to agnostic, her family spanned a spectrum of ideologies and professions, from conscientious objectors to military patriots, and from alcoholics to religious teetotalers. Amidst this eclectic upbringing, West’s love for nature flourished, nurtured by her wandering explorations alongside her greatest influence, her grandmother Elizabeth Symon Smith.
West’s journey led her to Carmel, California, during her high school years, where she thrived amidst the town’s artistic ambiance. Despite financial constraints, she worked diligently, even as her mother pursued a career as a piano bar player to support the family. Following her academic pursuits at UC Berkeley and Sacramento State University, West furthered her education, eventually obtaining a Ph.D. in sociology from UC Davis in 1979.
Embracing diverse roles from potato picker to college teacher, West’s career trajectory shifted when she transitioned to writing full-time in the early 1990s. Settling on a historic ranch by the Cosumnes River, she found her muse in the tranquil surroundings. West’s literary endeavors garnered recognition, with her books earning accolades and awards, including first place for historical fiction in the Next Generation Indie Book Award in May 2011.
Today, residing in Sacramento for proximity to medical facilities, West remains an active figure in the local literary scene. She continues to draw inspiration from the natural beauty surrounding her, as she works on completing the second part of her memoir, “Daughter of the West: Herstory.”
Beyond her writing, West has been deeply involved in fostering literary engagement within her community. She co-established the Authors Booth at the State Fair and had managed it for over two decades. A dynamic speaker, she shares her expertise at writer conferences, workshops, and various gatherings, captivating audiences with insights into her books and the intricacies of the writing and publishing process. Additionally, she lead educational walks along the Cosumne River, offering participants a glimpse into the real-life settings of her novels.
The above is adapted from information in Naida’s website https://www.bridgehousebooks.com/ca-gold-trilogy. She has also edited and published Symon’s Daughter: A Memoir of Elizabeth Symon Smith and co-authored with Don Ian Smith and published Murder on the Middle Fork based on a true-life murder.
F. Pistol Pete’s Comments on Prior Post.
How is Naida doing? How are You doing? Sounds a bit like physiology frolics (eg, throat pain) are beginning to get out of hand. Welcome to physical therapy; see if you can do exercises in a warm pool; I did for a while. Hospital sounded grim; they are, of course. The inevitable creeping up of old age and decrepitude……(I’ll be going for cataracts surgery soon.) If I have to stop taking the meds to reduce night-time peeing — apparently that medication may cause the pupils in which the new lens are installed to expand and the lens to fall out! If no more of such meds, I’ll be up doing some of your late night frolics and day time zombie jollies. Thrill…..Now, That TAT was quite an epistle! Seems like the combination of your unusual sleeping habits, dreams, reading (books, blogs, fantasy), long walks, and communications with those close to you generate a continuous pondering on the nature of the world, from Saturday coffees to the universe to the ominous/dreary/depressing political situation and your consciousness within it all- and, your desire/ability/compulsion to write it all down—wonderful!!So, the universe is what science says just now; but the apparent human need for “certainty” and “comfort” leads to many gods, and the universe expands…. BFDWe still have a landline; it collects crank calls….What’s your landline number?About this gender business: Now someone is called “they”; that’s cumbersome and confusing, “they” need to create a new word. Idea: Suggest at the Saturday Coffee the creation of this new word, and when the group chooses the new word from all their proposals, big celebration with double espressos and shots of sambucaYour trip to NYC with Hayden sounds wonderful. My old neighborhood was around 104th St. and Broadway (we lived on West End Ave.); if the barbershop on Broadway (103-4th) is still there, that would be monumental! His interest in exploring abroad is great. He’s already done a bit and ready for more. He should get a Eurail Pass. In 1960 I sailed by ship from Mumbai to Japan traveling steerage: $165! A French boat, so Van du Table at every meal, and African and Viet Namese passengers lifting their goblets and saying “Bon appetit!!” Shades of Julia Child. An 18 day trip, Mumbai to Sri Lanka to Singapore to Saigon to Hong Kong to Kobe Japan.Yes, Robicheaux and Purcell are great.The Supreme Court is terrible; in fact, it’s been fairly miserable most of the time over the years. Meanwhile, Asia is, indeed, the focus of the future with their collective, take-care-of-business cultures, and certainly not just China. The US seems to have had its prime time, but its historic myopic focus on ultra-individualistic financial aggrandizement backed up by a pathological preoccupation with guns, a growing radical conservative oligarchy (Charles Koch & Co.) and a woefully inadequate collective response to impending environmental disaster, is heading us toward disaster and chaos. Our children and grandchildren are going to have it real rough….sea level rise……….True, the news media is derelict in not displaying Trump’s extreme and criminal lunacy; pathetic.We have an Antioch student staying with us for a few weeks, in SF for her Antioch coop job (working at a child care day center). She and a couple of other Antioch coops were here for supper; interesting to hear their views, observations, complaints about the old Alma Mater. Looks like it really needs a new president big time; desperately short of cash.Meanwhile, the band plays on: did our monthly at Pacifica with our faithful roomful of groupies, and back at the Sausalito yacht club (the paid gig!) on Hollywood’s Oscar night; one clear very appreciative listener, and a few at the bar. As Vonnegut says, “So it goes….” Waiting to see how the new album does on the national Roots Music acoustic blues chart; the previous disc was #9 nationally for the year 2021.Later……
Congratulation’s to Peter. Another octogenarian musician makes into the big time.
TODAY’S QUOTE:
“Politics is just hustling from one dishonest conversation to the next, for every waking hour of the day. No wonder only the crazy people want to do it.”
Pargin, Jason. Zoey Is Too Drunk for This Dystopia (Zoey Ashe) (p. 117). St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
This and that from re Thai r ment. 