“Morals…is the stuff that doesn’t change. The stuff you do no matter what other people do. Like, if someone’s an asshole to you, you might not be mannerly to him; you might tell him to go fuck himself, or even punch him in the face. But if you see him trapped in a burning car, you’re still gonna open the door and pull him out. However much of an asshole he is. That’s your morals.”
French, Tana. The Searcher (pp. 265-266). Penguin Publishing Group
TODAY FROM AMERICA:
“[O]ur memories are no less real than whatever moment in which we happen to be living.”
Osman, Richard. The Last Devil to Die (A Thursday Murder Club Mystery) (p. 320). Penguin Publishing Group.
A. POOKIE’S ADVENTURES
“It’s not the despair; it’s the hope.”
John Cleese.
I’ve come to realize that at a certain age, one’s desires are mostly directed towards having more time and less pain, but one’s hopes tend to be for others. The realization that these hopes are often in vain leads to despair.
On Wednesday, January 17, 2024, I woke up at the more reasonable hour of 10:30 AM. The day was splendid, with clear blue skies and a temperature that felt much warmer than the low 60s indicated by the thermometer. I decided it was a perfect day to accomplish something. After breakfast, I assisted Naida with some financial matters, albeit without success in determining the extent of her dental coverage, if any. I then went to the drugstore to pick up some medications and began tackling the pile of bills and my unfinished correspondence. Later, we hurried to the bank before it closed to address some of Naida’s banking issues. Upon returning home, I abandoned my efforts to make much progress on my bills and correspondence, opting instead to watch television.
On Thursday, I woke up surprisingly early at 8 AM, went downstairs, prepared breakfast, and read more of “Songs Of Penelope” by my newest literary crush, Clare North.
“People say that life is the thing, but I prefer reading.”
Logan Pearsall Smith
Clare North is the pseudonym of science fiction author Catherine Webb, who also writes adult fantasy novels under the name Kate Griffin. I’m not sure why she uses two pseudonyms, and the distinction between science fiction and “adult” fantasy intrigues me. In the past, science fiction was essentially “adult” fantasy, fantasy wrapped in a veneer of “science” to convince adults they were reading mature literature. In the 1990s, real science demonstrated that science fiction was, in fact, just fiction, with fanciful ideas that could never become reality.
Nevertheless, in her novel “Penelope,” Clare North relocates the action of Aeschylus’ play “Eumenides” to Ithaca before Ulysses’ return, turning it into an exciting story of women’s liberation and vengeance.
As long as I am going on about the doings on that fabled island, I recall a short, short bit of a conceit I had written in T&T a little over 10 years ago about that legendary dwarf king of Ithaca, Ulysses. While it is far longer than what I usually post, I really cannot resist an ego massage whenever the opportunity presents itself:
Speaking of Ulysses, Homer’s account is not quite how it happened. It actually occurred something like this:
One night the short, bandy-legged, scraggly bearded young man named Ulysses, who lived in a subdivision on a small island in the Adriatic, left the home on a cull-de-sac he shared with his wife, young son, various hangers-on, and a pack of dogs, telling everyone he was going to the store to buy a carton of milk, or an amphora of wine or new sandals or conquer Troy or whatever. Now twenty years later he stood on the corner of the block down from his old home, broke, hungry and older. He contemplated the excuses he would have to tell his wife explaining his long absence. He concocted stories about ships and strange wars, jealous gods, wooden horses, one-eyed monsters and to cover up the long periods of time he spent living with a succession of comely young women, he fell back on the tried and true excuse of philandering husbands of the time, bewitchment.
On the other hand, the also aging but still zaftig and supposedly loyal Penelope wanted no part of the smelly midget bastard’s return. She had happily spent the past 20 years screwing the Mexican pool boy and every young stud in town. The assholes’ return would only mean she would have to give up the good life and return to working on that goddamn loom. Besides, she needed an excuse of her own to explain why for the last 20 years the same old piece of cloth hung on that machine with no further work done on it since he left. She told all her boyfriends that she would choose one of them to settle down with when she finished weaving the cloth. They were so stupefied with the thought of getting into her toga whenever she lifted it for them they forgot all about the status of that rotting rag.
She believed however, that she would need something better to convince the crafty asshole of her unbelievable 20 years of fidelity. She decided to elaborate on the story she had planned to tell her returning husband, if unfortunately he should ever return. She would tell him that she weaved at the loom all day and every night she tore out what she had done during the day. If the simple and unbelievable story had worked on her lovers why wouldn’t this expanded version work on that scheming lying bastard Ulysses?
Nevertheless, she still was surprised when the testosterone poisoned dwarf suddenly and unexpectedly showed up at her door and started killing all of her boyfriends and the Mexican pool boy as well.
Sadly, Penelope was forced back to working all day at the goddamn loom and at night diddling herself while the drunken scumbag lay snoring among his dogs after buggering some prepubescent boy-chick.
As Holden Caulfield would say, “Crummy.”
(Note: I asked ChatGPT to edit this bit of fluff about Ulysses. It responded that its community standards rules prevented it from doing so. What does that mean?)
On Friday, around 2 AM, my grandson Anthony arrived at our house. We had planned for him to drive me to my sister’s home, where we intended to stay for a week. At about noon, we left to drive to San Francisco to pick up Anthony’s mother, Anne, and change cars before continuing to Mendocino. Naida, my wife, stayed behind as she prefers not to travel. We arrived in San Francisco at about 2 PM, collected Anne, switched cars, and arrived at my sister’s home in Mendocino around 6:15 PM.
After settling in with hugs, kisses, and some snacks, my sister brought out a small mysterious lockbox. She explained that it had been in the garage for a long time. Recently, while cleaning, she considered discarding it but became curious and checked its contents.
She paused, then opened the box for us to see. Inside were numerous envelopes and a bundle of notebook pages filled with handwriting. She revealed that our mother, who passed away four years ago at the age of 99, had left a note with the box. It instructed that the letters, addressed to her children, and the notebook pages, her autobiography, should not be opened until after her death.
I was stunned to find at least seven letters addressed to me. Among the others, there was even one to one of my ex-wives. We decided to open it. The envelope contained two documents: a brief one and a longer one. The brief one said:
“You have turned out to be a manipulating person who hates the world. You turned Joe and Jessica from loving us to hating us. It’s obvious you hate yourself and may someday become alone and unloved. You’ll get what you deserve.”
After reading that, we were all a bit stunned, so we decided to postpone reading any more of them until the next morning.
I had also brought along a box of old photographs that my daughter had sent. We spent a couple of hours sorting and organizing them. There was a lot of discussion and amusement as we reviewed the photographs and identified the people and places in them. I felt somewhat embarrassed by the number of photos of former girlfriends whose names I’d forgotten, which amused the others. I wondered why anyone would keep photos of my old girlfriends and planned to ask my daughter where she found them.
Later, as I prepared for bed, I pondered whether I truly wanted to know the contents of the letters my mother addressed to me.
The next morning, after breakfast, Maryann and George read to us the autobiography that my mother had left. It was well over 100 handwritten pages and took almost three hours to read. It was stunning and filled with despair. I wanted to share some of the more interesting passages here, but it had been written in very difficult-to-read longhand, so my sister volunteered to type it up so I can share it here in T&T. Nevertheless I copied out a few pages. Her story began:
I was born in Sicily in the town of Canicatti in the year 1918 on the seventh day of June. I was the fourth child of my parents Josephine and Giacento Corsello. I had two sisters and a brother. When I was born my father was a soldier in World War I. While there my father contracted Heart Disease and Leukemia and was sent home, a very sick man. When I was 15 months old my mother gave birth to another child but both she and the child died. She was 32. My father, a sick man, was left with four children to raise…. When I was seven another tragedy struck my father passed away…. It was very sad, but I did not understand why everyone was so nice to me. I guess they all felt sorry for us now that we were orphans….When I was 8 1/2 my uncle Vincent who was my father’s brother Vincenzo, my father’s younger brother decided since we were now orphans… we should get the chance to come to America to live with another brother of my father and his wife… (My Uncle) married my oldest sister who was then 17… He and my dear sister were not allowed to come to this country (America). I didn’t want to … leave my family, my aunt who loved me and my grandmother. But the papers were drawn and we… (found ourselves on the boat Giuseppe Verde on the way to another world. My brother(aged) 18 my sister then 16 and I age 9 (were) 3 homeless scared kids who did not know what was ahead of us. We were all seasick on the boat with no-one to console us. We cried all the way. When we got to Ellis Island we had to stay there a week, desolate, lonely and not knowing the language… We slept on the floor and ate strange food …our hearts were broken and we didn’t know what to expect. It was hell, just not the hell we were going to encounter when we met our aunt and uncle…
After a very nice dinner, I went upstairs to bed, but I could not fall asleep, and the images from my mother’s story haunted me. As a child, she had no relief from disappointment and fear.
Another surprise in the box was three letters from my brother addressed to my mom. He was estranged from the family from the late 80s until he died a few years ago. I believed he had refused any contact with the rest of the family during all that time, especially with our mother, who had always told me he had refused to allow any communication with her and the rest of us. The last letter was written in 1993 and ended as follows:
In your letter you asked me to make you happy by meeting you for coffee. I wished you would have asked how it might make me feel. I am not going to be at the appointment you scheduled because I am feeling very good about my life and the way things are now. I want to keep it this way. I know that you will be disappointed, but possibly you will think about my feelings also, and maybe you can accept the fact that this is right for me. Please have a wonderful birthday and many, many more — and remember I do love you.
All the best,
Jim
On Monday, when I woke up, there wasn’t a drop of rain in sight. I figured it would be the perfect day for a stroll into town. However, the night before had been rough, and I wasn’t feeling my best. So, after breakfast, I decided to head upstairs for a nap before embarking on my town adventure. As expected, I ended up sleeping until about 4 PM, and with the skies getting darker, I decided to postpone my walk until the next day. I then ventured downstairs and indulged in some reading before dinner.
During dinner, I opened one of the envelopes from my mom contained in the lockbox. To my surprise, it held a three-page letter addressed to me and two poems I had written years ago that she had kept. Her letter began like this:
After having a wonderful day in Bodega Bay, I cannot believe you can turn and be the most disrespectful and miserable person in this world. Yesterday was your birthday, how I looked forward to. Making it a nice day for you. I wanted so much to thank you for Bodega Bay. So, I wanted to have a nice dinner. An d have a birthday cake and a gift that I thought you would like. I knocked myself out and put all my love into it only for it to turn into a disaster. Why? Because of you my son. You have got to be the most antagonistic, miserable, cold and unfeeling person I have ever known. Why do you hate me so much?…
Well, I guess I know now how she felt. She then goes on in the same vein for the remainder of the three pages. My mom was sickly and often dominated by others. As a result, she had no childhood and not much of an adulthood either, at least until she was in her forties when my sister was born. She believed had little no control over the major events in her life or decisions made for her by others. She devoted her life to doing what they needed or wanted. Only in a few cases were her needs recognized or acknowledged so she lived a life of pain and resentment until much later in her life. But let’s not delve too much into amateur psychology. I always felt I couldn’t adequately respond to the needs of others, not due to a lack of willingness to try, but because I struggled to understand what those needs were.
Anyway, rather that reading the entire letter at that time I decided to read the shorter of the poems. It was one I had written when I was about 14 years old.
Some walls work well
Some don’t
But those that do,
Will never tell
Why the hell
They work so wellSometimes when I am alone
I wish I were not me
But when I think again
Who else would I beWho else knows me so well
Who so patient understands
Who my secrets could I tell.
This was written by one obviously lonely and isolated little boy.
“(A)s Aristotle put it, ‘To do is to be’; and more to the point, as Zappa put it, ‘You are what you is’.”
Brookmyre, Christopher. One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night (p. 258). Grove Atlantic.
The following day, despite the persistent overcast sky, the rain thankfully held off, so I decided to venture into town. I took it easy, but to my surprise, I found myself getting tired after just about 100 steps, forcing me to take frequent breaks. Eventually, I reached Frankie’s, where I happily settled in and indulged in a delicious lunch of pepperoni pizza, washing it down with a refreshing bottle of root beer.
My next destination was my favorite bookstore, where I had initially planned to shop for presents for everyone I could think of at the time. By the time I arrived, I was so drained that I could barely recall my purpose, let alone select any books. The idea of lugging them back home seemed impossible. So, after spending quite a while on a bench amidst the bookshelves, I decided it was time to make my way back. The journey home took a long time, with me pausing to sit on every available bench I passed and leaning on fences or walls to rest whenever I could.
Eventually, I made it back to my sister’s place and practically collapsed onto the sofa by the window, my favorite spot. At that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder if this might be the last year of my life. As I gazed out over the ocean, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, casting rays of light that transformed the frothy waves into bursts of fire.
The following day, I struggled to get out of bed. On Wednesday, my sister drove me back to Sacramento, as she had a conference to attend with local economic development directors, representing Mendocino. We hit the road around 1 PM.
Thursday left me feeling drained, but I perked up in the evening when Maryann returned from her conference. We all enjoyed a delightful dinner at Lemon Grass. The next morning, Mary left to return to Mendocino, and I headed to my appointment with my primary care physician. I’d been grappling with sleep problems and recently had swollen ankles. Later, I met up with Hayden for lunch.
Hayden and I dined at Subway, where he shared captivating tales of his recent adventures in Thailand and Japan. Upon returning to Sacramento, Naida and I spent the remainder of the afternoon resolving a hiccup with her account.
Saturday morning saw Naida heading off to the Saturday Morning Coffee event, while I, feeling under the weather, decided to stay home. In the evening, I felt guilty about missing the coffee gathering and spending so much time in bed nursing my hypochondria. To show my love for her, I told Naida I would have the soup she had prepared for dinner. She attempted to use up the surplus of beets and potatoes delivered weekly by the organic farm co-op and combined them with milk to make the soup. Unfortunately, the milk had curdled. She assured me it wouldn’t taste too bad.
I woke up Sunday feeling better than I had in a while, having finally enjoyed a full uninterrupted night’s sleep. The day was sunny and bright, with fluffy clouds scattered across the sky. January had been an unusual month here in the heart of the Great Valley. Most days had been gloomy and overcast, with damp ground – quite unusual for California, which is typically starved for moisture and known for its sunshine. Even more peculiar were the unseasonably warm daytime temperatures in the high 50s and 60s. Today, still in January, the forecast predicted a high of 70 degrees. We are living in peculiar times, where the old certainties are fading, replaced by the new. We, the older generation, view the future with apprehension, fearing pain and danger for our descendants while they often see opportunities and adventures in the impending storms – the eternal yin and yang of our species.
After a short nap, I decided to head out for a stroll. The weather still was quite unusual for mid-winter January – sunny and around 70 degrees. Some might view this as further proof of global warming, but even if it is, it’s still quite an anomaly. What’s even more intriguing is something I mentioned about a decade ago, which still seems to be overlooked in discussions about global warming.
When it comes to capturing the sun’s heat, the oceans play a significant role, accounting for about 75% of it. We’re all familiar with how El Niño and La Niña affect weather patterns. However, these variations primarily involve changes in ocean temperatures in the deepest parts of the world’s largest ocean. While the impact of this variation, likely caused by atmospheric heating, seems to be growing and influencing global weather patterns, it’s confined to a specific portion of the Earth’s oceans. Other parts of the oceans must undergo similar dynamics, releasing heat at a steady pace or perhaps in periodic cycles with less disruption to the atmosphere. Anyway, why am I digressing from describing today’s walk? I have no idea.
During my walk, I bumped into Naida and the dog, Boo-boo the Barking Dog, who were returning from their own adventure. Naida explained that Boo-boo was all excited to go on his walk, and assuming I would be napping all afternoon as usual, she didn’t wait for me. Feeling a bit embarrassed, I continued on my way.
Physically, I was feeling great, so I decided to extend my walk all the way to the lake and back. There seemed to be more people on the paths than usual, although there are never very many. Normally, I encounter just 4 or 5 people during my walks, but today, I must have passed by as many as 15.
I stopped and rested on a bench near Ed Hullander’s house. Ed had dedicated this bench to his late wife Joni. He used to be a regular at the Saturday Morning Coffee until he passed away a few months ago. I affectionately called him “Spy” because he had served as a high-ranking official in the US Agency for International Development from its inception until his retirement around 2001. He once shared with me an interesting tidbit: American spies weren’t typically stationed in State Department embassies. This was because host governments generally restricted State Department employees from leaving the city where they worked. AID employees, on the other hand, had to be mobile and travel wherever their projects took them.
I made it back home just in time to witness the San Francisco 49ers getting thoroughly beaten in the first half of the NFL Championship Game. It looks like there won’t be a Super Bowl appearance for them this year. What a disappointing day it has turned out to be.
Later, Naida brightened my mood with a dance to “Shall We Dance,” a song from “The King and I,” At dinner, we enjoyed a Newman’s Own frozen four-cheese pizza topped with Naida’s secret vegetable mix, which made me feel a little better. We’ll have to wait till next year.
After dinner, we settled in to watch the final three episodes of “English,” a western series that was beautifully filmed, albeit a bit challenging to follow at times. Nevertheless, it remained captivating throughout all eight episodes. When it concluded, around 11 PM, I decided to check the final score of the football game, and oh my goodness, the 49ers won by coming from behind for the second game in a row. Go Niners! This, of course, is utterly ridiculous because I don’t have any interest in professional sports and don’t typically watch any games. Strangely enough, I also consistently avoid watching the 49ers play because I fear that doing so will jinx their chances. Go figure.
Anyway, Monday blessed us with another beautiful day, with the temperature hovering around 70 degrees Fahrenheit. In the morning, I drove Naida to the Kaiser Health facilities to pick up her medication, and afterward, we had a satisfying lunch at Bernado’s.
Then some grocery shopping and home again.
In the evening we watched Rachel Maddow’s interview of E Jean Carroll and her attorney’s on MSNBC. Three things struck me about the interview.
The first was E Jean’s quirky sense of humor and her stating that when she looked out in the courtroom and saw Trump she realized “He was nothing. He was an emperor with no clothes”
The second was that E Jean’s two attorney’s represented the new face of woman trial attorney’s.
And finally, I was impressed by the closing words of one of the Attorney’s. She mentioned that when she initially joined the lead team she viewed Trump as a powerful, wealthy and aggressive man. However, after observing him in the court room without his usual; entourage of supporters and sycophants around him she realized “He was just a guy, just another guy.”
The spring-like temperatures remained through Tuesday, Naida worked cleaning up the yard while I typed this.
On Wednesday, the rains came. Apparently, a so-called atmospheric river will bring us here in the center of the Great Valley, not only most of the year’s rain but hateful February as well. At mid-day I trundled off through the gloom to have six separate blood tests done. On a positive note the vampire technician painlessly removed about 90% of my blood leaving enough for my to drive back home and plop into bed. I hoped whin I woke up it would be March.
B. MOPEY JOE’S MEMORIES: Bangkok Thailand, February 10, 2011
I’ve settled into my new surroundings quite comfortably. Here’s a typical day for me:
At 8:30 AM, I walk Hayden to school, and then at 9:00 AM, I head to the gym for some swimming, exercise, and a relaxing sauna. Around noon, I grab lunch at a nearby affordable restaurant close to my apartment. After lunch, I usually take a nap at 1 PM, and from 2 to 3 PM, I either read or work on my computer. At 3 PM, it’s time to pick up Hayden from school and help him with his homework. From 4 PM onwards, I enjoy some more reading or computer time while Hayden plays with the other kids downstairs. Dinner usually happens at 7 PM, and by 8:30 PM, I’m getting ready for bed.
On weekends, I head to my apartment in Paradise by the Sea, and on Wednesdays and Thursdays, I include a massage in my daily routine.
Now, there’s been a development with our maid. She has moved into the spare bedroom. I assume that now that the maid is here to keep an eye on Hayden, SWAC will find some reason to encourage me to leave and go back to Paradise by the Sea full-time. Our apartment has maid’s quarters off the kitchen with its own separate entry into the hall. It’s a windowless room that feels more like a dungeon, complete with a small toilet, more like a hole in the floor in a closet. But don’t worry, the maid won’t be staying there – she’ll have one of the three bedrooms for herself.
Some news on my health – the results of my medical tests show that while the CT scan of my abdomen makes my kidneys look pretty beaten up, my kidney functions are actually normal. I’ll need to undergo an operation soon to sort out the rest of my plumbing to avoid the possibility of spending the rest of my life on dialysis. I’ll probably have the procedure done in the US as early as April.
Our street here in BKK starts (or ends, depending on how you look at it) at a gate to a large piece of land in the city center. The gate announces “The Tobacco Monopoly of Thailand,” but I have no clue what that’s all about. This property is filled with many run-down low-rise wooden buildings and a few neglected parks. From this gate, Soi 4 goes generally north, passing by my apartment building, along with a few other mid to lower-class condominiums and hotels. Family restaurants and pushcarts line the street along this stretch until it reaches Hayden’s school. Beyond that, it becomes increasingly populated with massage parlors, bars, and budget hotels until it reaches the traffic mess that is Sukhumvit. Once across Sukhumvit, Soi 4 turns into Soi Nana and goes through Arab (and Indian) town before continuing on its way.
On Soi 4, just before it meets Sukhumvit, you’ll find Nana Plaza – the first neighborhood you encounter after passing through the gates into Hell. There, surrounding a small, crowded plaza, stand three and four-story interconnected buildings offering a variety of entertainment options, from regular Go-Go bars to ladyboy lounges to short-time units.
Much like in the US, where urban private schools tend to locate in transition zones due to cheaper rent, Hayden’s school is in a similar area. One morning, as I walked Hayden up to the school gate across the street along an extended cement platform in front of some shops, I spotted a burly, shirtless foreigner in his forties, obviously high and sporting scars on his head and body, but surprisingly devoid of tattoos. With him was a ladyboy, displaying the defining features of both genders (known as “pre-op”), and another professional woman. It seemed they had spent the night there, and as the ladyboy put on the man’s shirt to cover up, the man staggered across the street and attempted to enter the school grounds.
Now, like most private schools and important buildings in BKK, there are typically four or so Bangkok police officers stationed by the gate to manage traffic during the morning and evening hours. The school also has its own uniformed security personnel. One well-dressed cop (all Bangkok cops dress sharply) signaled for the farang to stop with a vertical palm gesture while using his other hand to indicate firmly that the man should return to the other side of the street.
It’s crucial to understand that the Thai cop did not show any intention of physically engaging with the farang, nor did he display anger. Such actions would be seen as a loss of face and inhumane. It makes you wonder how people from this culture perceive Western entertainment that often glorifies uncontrolled fury and violence as a sign of manliness. To them, someone like John Wayne might seem like a circus clown. (Come to think of it, American football, with its glorification of anger and violence, probably looks like a sport played by water buffalo rather than humans to them.)
After the incident, I asked Hayden what he thought, and he simply said, “The girl was naked, and the policeman had a gun.”
Just so you know, Hayden isn’t too young to understand the word “naked.” A few nights ago, as we were getting ready for bed, he took off all his clothes and put a paper bag on his head like a hat, then proudly pranced into the bathroom where I was brushing my teeth and announced, “Look at me. I’m the Naked Chef.”
TODAY’S FACTOIDS AND OPINIONS:
1. SOME AMERICAN INTELLIGENCE FACTS:
21% of American adults are illiterate.
The average American adult reads at a 6th grade level.
48% of Americans don’t know where chocolate milk comes from. At least 7% of those are certain it comes from brown cows.
Less than 50% of all Americans are able to answer basic geography questions.
The US states which are the most religious are also the ones with the lowest average IQ, highest crime rates, highest levels of poverty, most incarcerated, and lowest education levels.
2. The Future?
Basically stupid people tend to be creationist and there is no shortage of stupidity in a country where religion is forced on children.
Sometime about the middle of the century or during the latter half of it, those of us still alive will experience a day not experienced by humankind since the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries when Genghis Kahn slaughtered about 10% of humanity living at that time and the following Plague carried by fleas riding along on those sturdy Mongolian ponies offed another 10%.
On that day in the near future according to several demographic studies there will be fewer humans living on the planet then the day before. This will occur not because some new Genghis or Plague will ravage us (although that remains a real possibility), but because of the education and liberation of women, increasing living standards and urbanization will have resulted in not enough babies born to offset the death rate among oldies.
3. Foreign-born Residents.
For those who consider those nordic countries as small and homogenous and thereby not applicable to the situation in the USA, note that their combined population is slightly less than that of Canada and their percentage of foreign-born residents is greater than that of the USA and most other industrialized nations (Although it does beg the question of whether anything in Canada is applicable to the US). On the other hand, in terms of sheer numbers the US leads the world in foreign-born residents as it has more or less from its beginning.
4. Study by NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center:
A new study sponsored by NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center has highlighted the prospect that global industrial civilization could collapse in coming decades due to unsustainable resource exploitation and increasingly unequal wealth distribution.
“By investigating the human-nature dynamics of these past cases of collapse, the project identifies the most salient interrelated factors which explain civilisational decline, and which may help determine the risk of collapse today: namely, Population, Climate, Water, Agriculture, and Energy.
These factors can lead to collapse when they converge to generate two crucial social features: “the stretching of resources ”; and “the economic stratification of society into Elites [rich] and Masses (or “Commoners”) [poor]” These social phenomena have played “a central role in the character or in the process of the collapse,” in all such cases over ‘the last five thousand years.’”
PEPE’S POTPOURRI:
A. Terry on Top: Trump v. Anderson.
Given that we are entering a presidential election political season and Terry’s increased production of commentary on things political, I’m tempted to dedicate this section of T&T to Terry for the rest of the year.
Here below Terry sets out his prediction on the Supreme Court’s decision on whether Section 3 of the 14th Amendment to US Constitution applies to the President and requires prior Congressional action. I am not as optimistic as Terry. Politics is politics even in the chambers of the Supreme Court Justices.
You can take your pick of the multiple briefs filed in this case. It’s worth just scanning them and see who’s on what side and why.
The pro Trumpers tend to focus on the President not being an officer of the United States as included in the words of Section 3, despite the fact the section actually states …. “And all other officers of the United States.” which is an obvious catch all which includes the President, who is repeatedly referred to as an “officer “ in the Constitution.
The CSC majority dismissed the “President is not an officer“ covered by Sec. 3 argument as preposterous . But it’s interesting that the Trumpers are heavily relying on it. It’s the kind of technical argument that they think is easiest to get to a SCOTUS majority to reverse the CSC. I think they are wrong.
I think the 3 Democratic Justices will force the Court to confront the question directly : Was Trump proven to be an insurrectionist by a preponderance of the evidence in the CSC record, including the Colorado trial court record and Jan 6 Committee record?
Appellate Courts generally refrain from second guessing a trial courts’ record and determination of the facts. The Trial Court here found Trump to be guilty of insurrection based on a preponderance of the evidence but held that the oath he took was not the one subscribed in Sec. 3. The CSC affirmed the factual finding that he was an insurrectionist but reversed the lower court’s technical legal conclusion regarding the oath. The CSC held that the Presidential Oath “preserve protect and defend the Constitution “ was included in the Sec. 3 reference to an oath “to support” the Constitution.
The Democratic Justices will push to affirm the CSC decision because there is no significant evidence contradicting the lower court record. If the evidence supports a finding that Trump was an insurrectionist, then Sec.3 is crystal clear that he’s disqualified. That will give our 2-3 Republican Establishment Judges legal cover to say they have no choice, he’s disqualified. And McConnell and company will heave a big sigh of relief.
The ramifications for Congressional action for the rest of the session are huge. It will unlock Ukraine, Israel and Taiwan funding , the border compromise and approval of appropriation bills. Trump is lobbying heavily against all of it, terrifying Speaker Johnson and some Senate Republicans. If he’s gone baby gone, he loses his clout.
This is a momentous decision.
https://www.scotusblog.com/case-files/cases/trump-v-anderson/
B. Trenz Pruca’s Observations:
Faith is built on ritual. Allegiance is built on faith. Organizations are built on allegiance. Without ritual there cannot be organization. When at the last supper Jesus said “Do this in commemoration of me” he was building the foundation of faith. Power requires Faith. Power without ritual fails. All authority requires ritual.
C. Today’s Poem:
I first began writing this (T&T) and posting poems in it, about 14 years ago, in order to allow me to rummage through the world of poetry in and outside of the English canon from the dawn of the written word the present from the great and renowned to the unknown and obscure and from the accomplished to the amateur. During this time I would now and then run across the name Michael R. Burch first in his translations, then in his poetry and finally in his comments on some of my posts.
Burch who lives in Nashville Tennessee is a remarkable poet, editor and translator. What I appreciate about both his poetry and translations (which he refers to as “loose translations) is their consistent gracefulness and humility.
It should be noted that Burch had been criticized for “Weak translations.” I find it hard to believe that many a poet would fuss and fume over a translation of his or her work that makes it more accessible and enjoyable to a new set of readers.
I have chosen to post here in its entirety Burch’s post in “Hello Poetry” primarily because of my fondness for early English poetry before the form’s were debased by the importation or poetic forms from the Mediterranean. Like the early English (Anglo/Saxon, Celtic) the Mediterranean forms were based the idiosyncrasies of Latin and Italian and thus available to most of the population. When in about the end of the 16th century the English adopted and adapted those Reniassence poetic forms they began a long forced march of poetic forms into academia and then the ash-can at the beginning of the 20th century.
THE RUIN in a Modern English Translation
“The Ruin” is one of the great poems of English antiquity. This modern English translation of one of the very best Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems is followed by footnotes, a summary and analysis, a discussion of the theme, and the translator’s comments.
THE RUIN
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burchwell-hewn was this wall-stone, till Wyrdes wrecked it
and the Colossus sagged inward …broad battlements broken;
the Builders’ work battered;the high ramparts toppled;
tall towers collapsed;the great roof-beams shattered;
gates groaning, agape …mortar mottled and marred by scarring ****-frosts …
the Giants’ dauntless strongholds decaying with age …shattered, the shieldwalls,
the turrets in tatters …where now are those mighty Masons, those Wielders and Wrights,
those Samson-like Stonesmiths?the grasp of the earth, the firm grip of the ground
holds fast those fearless Fathers
men might have forgotten
except that this slow-rotting siege-wall still stands
after countless generations!for always this edifice, grey-lichened, blood-stained,
stands facing fierce storms with their wild-whipping winds
because those master Builders bound its wall-base together
so cunningly with iron!it outlasted mighty kings and their claims!
how high rose those regal rooftops!
how kingly their castle-keeps!
how homely their homesteads!
how boisterous their bath-houses and their merry mead-halls!
how heavenward flew their high-flung pinnacles!
how tremendous the tumult of those famous War-Wagers …
till mighty Fate overturned it all, and with it, them.then the wide walls fell;
then the bulwarks were broken;
then the dark days of disease descended …as death swept the battlements of brave Brawlers;
as their palaces became waste places;
as ruin rained down on their grand Acropolis;
as their great cities and castles collapsed
while those who might have rebuilt them lay gelded in the ground:
those marvelous Men, those mighty master Builders!therefore these once-decorous courts court decay;
therefore these once-lofty gates gape open;
therefore these roofs’ curved arches lie stripped of their shingles;
therefore these streets have sunk into ruin and corroded rubble …when in times past light-hearted Titans flushed with wine
strode strutting in gleaming armor, adorned with splendid ladies’ favors,
through this brilliant city of the audacious famous Builders
to compete for bright treasure: gold, silver, amber, gemstones.here the cobblestoned courts clattered;
here the streams gushed forth their abundant waters;
here the baths steamed, hot at their fiery hearts;
here this wondrous wall embraced it all, with its broad *****.… that was spacious …
Footnotes and Translator’s Comments
by Michael R. Burch
Summary
“The Ruin” is an ancient Anglo-Saxon poem. It appears in the Exeter Book, which has been dated to around 960-990 AD. However, the poem may be older than the manuscript, since many ancient poems were passed down ****** for generations before being written down. The poem is an elegy or lament for the works of “mighty men” of the past that have fallen into disrepair and ruins. Ironically, the poem itself was found in a state of ruin. There are holes in the vellum upon which it was written. It appears that a brand or poker was laid to rest on the venerable book. It is believed the Exeter Book was also used as a cutting board and beer mat. Indeed, we are lucky to have as much of the poem as we do.
Author
The author is an unknown Anglo-Saxon scop (poet).
Genre
“The Ruin” may be classified as an elegy, eulogy, dirge and/or lament, depending on how one interprets it.
Theme
The poem’s theme is one common to Anglo-Saxon poetry and literature: that man and his works cannot escape the hands of wyrde (fate), time and death. Thus men can only face the inevitable with courage, resolve, fortitude and resignation. Having visited Bath myself, I can easily understand how the scop who wrote the poem felt, and why, if I am interpreting the poem correctly.
Plot
The plot of “The Ruin” seems rather simple and straightforward: Things fall apart. The author of the poem blames Fate for the destruction he sees. The builders are described as “giants.”
Techniques
“The Ruin” is an alliterative poem; it uses alliteration rather than meter and rhyme to “create a flow” of words. This was typical of Anglo-Saxon poetry.
History
When the Romans pulled their legions out of Britain around 400 BC, primarily because they faced increasing threats at home, they left behind a number of immense stone works, including Hadrian’s Wall, various roads and bridges, and cities like Bath. Bath, known to the Romans as Aquae Sulis, is the only English city fed by hot springs, so it seems likely that the city in question is Bath. Another theory is that the poem refers to Hadrian’s Wall and the baths mentioned were heated artificially. The Saxons, who replaced the Romans as rulers of most of Britain, used stone only for churches and their churches were small. So it seems safe to say that the ruins in question were created by Roman builders.
Interpretation
My personal interpretation of the poem is that the poet is simultaneously impressed by the magnificence of the works he is viewing, and discouraged that even the works of the mighty men of the past have fallen to ruin.
Analysis of Characters and References
There are no characters, per se, only an anonymous speaker describing the ruins and the men he imagines to have built things that have survived so long despite battles and the elements.
Related Poems
Other Anglo-Saxon/Old English poems: The Ruin, Wulf and Eadwacer, The Wife’s Lament, Deor’s Lament, Caedmon’s Hymn, Bede’s Death Song, The Seafarer, Anglo-Saxon Riddles and Kennings
For more on Michael R. Burch:
https://www.facebook.com/Michael.R.Burch/
http://www.thehypertexts.com/Michael%20R.%20Burch%20Bio%20and%20Curriculum%20Vitae.htm
D. A bit more Twain*:
“When I look around me, I am often troubled to see how many people are mad. To mention only a few: The Atheist, The Theosophists, The Infidel, The Swedenborgians, The Agnostic, The Shakers, The Baptist, The Millerites, The Methodist, The Mormons, The Christian Scientist, The Laurence Oliphant Harrisites, The Catholic, and the 115 Christian sects ( the Presbyterian excepted), The Grand Lama’s people, The Monarchists, The Imperialists, The 72 Mohammedan sects, The Democrats, The Republicans (but not the Mugwumps!), The Buddhist, The Blavatsky-Buddhist, The Mind-Curists, The Faith-Curists, The Nationalist, The Mental Scientists, The Confucian, The Spiritualist, The Allopaths, The 2000 East Indian sects, The Homeopaths, The Electropaths, The Peculiar People, The–
“But there’s no end to the list; there are millions of them! And all insane; each in his own way; insane as to his pet fad or opinion, but otherwise sane and rational. This should move us to be charitable towards one another’s lunacies.”
Mark Twain, Christian Science
* We need more twains and fewer singularities.
E. I don’t know why I wrote this or what it is all about:
Alliteration mumbles
Metaphor lies, and
Metonymy sounds like something you buy on the Mercantile Exchange.
F. Tito Tazio’s Tales: From JOEY’S MYSTERY NOVEL — “ENTER THE DRAGON.” (Chapters 30 and 31 ) “Mavis”
Dragon’s Breath:
Eddie Mars: Your story didn’t sound quite right.
Philip Marlowe: Oh, that’s too bad. You got a better one?
Eddie Mars: Maybe I can find one.
Chapter 31:
While waiting to Mavis to change I received a call from the grieving widow Madame Riley.
“Did you forget about me?” She said. “We were going to talk about finding out how Clarence died.”
“No I didn’t,” I lied. “I have been clearing up a few things first,” I lied some more.
“When will you be free to talk about it?”
“How about this evening, say about 8PM at La Taverna in Belden Alley? Do you know where it is?”
She did and after passing a few more pleasantries she hung up. I had forgotten all about my discussion with her yesterday. “Well another day another thousand dollars,” I thought. I felt confident I could put together a report that would give her and her attorneys a fighting chance with the insurance company.
“Who was that” asked Mavis as she finished dressing? She looked like she was prepared for a two-week camping trip into the Sierras. She wore brown hiking boots, dun-colored cargo pants a checkered long sleeve shirt and a well-worn brown leather jacket.
“Just some business,” I replied.
We left and got in to the car. I put Mavis in the back seat this time. As I got into the passenger seat I asked Joe Vu, “do you have your gun with you? We may need it.”
“You never need a gun,” he responded. “But sometimes it can be useful.”
“Asshole,” I thought.
We traveled down the peninsula passing over Skyline Ridge to Half Moon Bay, then down PCH to the turn off to Pescadero. Pescadero was a tiny town nestled in a valley about a mile or two from the coast. It was noted for antique shops, pottery studios and a popular restaurant specializing in a cuisine focused of the many ways artichokes can be incorporated into a meal.
We passed into the low hills beyond the town and through several rural roads until as directed by Mavis we turned into a dirt driveway that seemed, given the mail boxes impaled near the turnoff, to service four properties that were hidden somewhere over a small rise. As we topped the rise we ran into a cop car blocking the road. Yellow crime scene tape connected several trees around a small clapboard house with peeling white paint and a tiny porch. Other official vehicles including an ambulance were scattered under the trees that surrounded the cottage.
“Oh shit,” I said as a group of uniformed individuals paused in their discussions and looked our way. A woman in a brown sheriff’s uniform broke away from the group and began walking in our direction. She had dark curly red hair, broad masculine shoulders and walked with the slightly waddling gait of a weight lifter.
I heard Mavis behind me say, “oh my God. Something’s happened to Mark.”
“Listen,” I said to the others in the car, “I’ll do the talking and try to find out what happened.” At first I though I’d lie and tell them that we were just taking a drive, but immediately thought better of it. If they found out later we were lying we’d come under scrutiny and scrutiny was something I hated.
As the woman came closer something about her struck me as familiar. I rolled down the window as she approached. “What’s up officer?” I said as she got within conversation range.
Enter The Dragon:
Dragon’s Breath:
Vivian: Why did you have to go on?
Marlowe: Too many people told me to stop.
Chapter 30:
Mavis was in her shop when I arrived. She appeared to be cleaning the tattoo ink gun that I always thought resembled an assault weapon.
“OK,” I said. “Let’s try for the truth this time. You spoke with Holland. Were is he?”
She put down the weapon, gazed at the floor and said, “I do not know for sure.”
“But you have a pretty good idea.”
No answer for a few moments then, “Look I did not want anyone to get hurt, I only thought it might be a way to make a little money.”
“Confessions later, where’s Holland?”
“He has a friend who has a farm-house in the hills behind Pescadero. The friend travels a lot and Mark stays there now and then. I went there once. I do not know for sure if he’s there. He didn’t say. I’m just guessing.”
“Did you tell anyone besides Joe Vu about Holland’s call?”
“No..uh yes, I mentioned it to Lilly yesterday at the party..ah…wake.”
“Shit! Does she know about the farm?”
“I don’t know.”
I turned and stared out the shop window at the street and the Lexus in which Joe sat waiting. I tried to think. Did the Tons of Fun or whomever was running them know? They seemed not to. Why would they ask if I found something? Of course if they already found him, maybe they would want to know how close I was. Fuck, what am I doing here spinning out theories? I’m no fucking cop.
I turned back to her. “Let’s go over the story from the beginning.”
She haltingly began by telling how they met one day when he came into her shop for a tattoo. She eventually introduced him to Lilly. Besides buying some cocaine from him when he had some to deal she introduced him to Reilly who needed someone to help him with his remodel and Mark had been a carpenter at one time. Eventually Reilly told Mark about his dream to import furniture from Southeast Asia and sort of become another Ikea. Mark, Mavis and Lilly talked about this and Lilly mentioned Martin Vihn as a client looking for some cash investments. Eventually Mark became the go between with Clarence and Vihn. After about a month and a trip to Southeast Asia where he met with Clarence’s wife’s family things began to move along.
One day Mark came by the shop looking troubled. They went upstairs had a joint and Mark told her that someone wanted him to slip some jewelry into the shipment to be smuggled into the US. He was unsure about the risk but thought the money promised to him was enough to take the risk.
There were a few more trips back and forth to Asia one or two of which he was joined by Lilly. Then one night not long before the things were to be shipped, while they were sitting around stoned and Mavis suggested that maybe we could ship a little heroin also and they could split the sales. He did not say anything about it. The next morning she had second thoughts about it and told him so.
A few days before she hired me, Mark had told her the shipment had arrived but that more people knew about the smuggling than he thought. Mavis asked him who. He refused to answer but said that he thought their piece was secure. She began to scream at him that she had told him she did not want to be a part of it. That’s when he hit her and walked out. She had not heard from him until yesterday morning.
It was hard for me to believe anything she said but at the same time I hadn’t the slightest idea what if anything to disbelieve so I asked, “What did he say on the telephone call.”
“He said he was not far away and was in trouble and could I help him out. When I asked him what sort of trouble, he said that they may kill him. I asked who is trying to kill him, he said it was not something he wanted to tell me. He knew where the stuff was he said, ‘because I put it there.’ He said he needed money and help to get it away. I told him no, that I had hired you to find him and you had gotten hurt and I did not want anyone more to get hurt. Then he asked if you would be able to help him since there was a lot of money involved. I said I did not want you involved and asked him why he wasn’t asking Lilly or the gangster. He got himself in this mess and while I felt bad he had to get himself out of it. He threw a fit and threatened both me and you and hung up.”
“How do I get to the farm-house.”
“Why? Your not getting paid for this. Why put yourself in danger?”
“Well actually I am getting paid to find him but if I tell anyone about this I can’t promise he won’t be hurt.”
“I’m going with you. I know the way but I can’t describe it.”
Against my better judgement, I agreed.
“I have to change first.”
“Shit, Okay, I’m going to stay right here and watch. I don’t want you calling anyone.”
“Don’t you trust me?” she said with a smile.
“Not on my life.”
TODAY’S RANDOM QUOTATION POTPOURRI:
1. “Of all creatures who live and have intelligence, we women are the
most miserable. [. . .] People say that we women lead a life without
danger inside our homes, while men fight in war; but they are wrong.
I would rather serve three times in battle than give birth once.
Medea’s complaint, Athens, Greece, 431 BC (Euripides, Medea
230-51.)
2. “When you die, the first thing you lose is your life. The next thing is your illusions.”
Pratchett, Terry. Pyramids (Discworld). Harper Collins.
3. “It is now known to science that there are many more dimensions than the classical four. Scientists say that these don’t normally impinge on the world because the extra dimensions are very small and curve in on themselves, and that since reality is fractal most of it is tucked inside itself. This means either that the universe is more full of wonders than we can hope to understand or, more probably, that scientists make things up as they go along.”
Pratchett, Terry. Pyramids (Discworld) (p. 313). Harper Collins.
4. “Somebody has to do something, and it’s just incredibly pathetic that it has to be us.”
J. Garcia
5. “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.”
Henry David Thoreau
6. “Always assume everyone is an idiot. This saves time.”
Burke, Declan. Absolute Zero Cool. Liberties Press.
TODAY’S PHOTOGRAPH:
This and that from re Thai r ment. 