It’s always more complex than you think it is. International affairs–even the absurd kind. I reacted with somewhat kneejerk irascibility to the news that the comedy film The Interview was not going to be released due to North Korean threats. I was howling about our first amendment rights being trampled by dictatorial foreigners–but I had forgotten one key factor. Sony is based primarily in Japan–headquartered in Kōnan Minato, Tokyo.
Japan has a history with the Koreas and Japan is a neighbor to North Korea, with only the relatively dainty Sea of Japan in between. A threat to Sony can be carried out in Japan fairly easily, with operatives or long range weaponry. North Korea claims to have missiles that can reach Japan. North Korea’s leader may not be quite sane. His dad was certainly crazy as a grasshopper on PCP. So that’s probably a lot of the calculation–and it’s not just about American media and threats to us. So the decision might’ve been made on *that* basis. They’re not all that worried about the USA’s first amendment.
So maybe I was more or less wrong, in practicality if not in principle. I’ll see the movie (only because the North Koreans don’t want me to) when it is, inevitably, leaked online.
If you get a big package of sadness in the mail, or perhaps the package is left for you to find in the house, and you mistakenly open it–why, there it is. It sticks to you, and it penetrates your skin. Then you feel it living in you.
You can try to squeeze it out and put it somewhere. But where do you put sadness? You can feel it in the cabinet, every time you pass it. Also, it whispers to you. Same for the attic, when you pass under that spot. The basement–no, you can smell it seeping up between the boards. You feel it in your feet. They go spottily numb; it climbs up your legs.
Bury it in the backyard? Something will grow, there, from the place sadness was buried. Something will grow huge and overshadow your house and shed sticky seeds on it, and on your land. And from those…
You can try to drop it in the sea, but all water is connected. Won’t it come back that way? Anyway, there’ll only be another package left for you. And you don’t really have to open it–shortly, it unwraps itself.
You can try not to identify with it, and step back from it, but it almost feels like a betrayal of your soul. There’s a reason for sadness, after all. But where do you *put* sadness? In a facebook post? In a book? I sometimes put it in books. But it won’t stay there long.
If a sufficiently potent Independent politician were to run for President, he or she could win, as an Independent. (Bernie Sanders is great but I’m not sure he’s charismatic enough and he’s rather elderly for a Presidential candidate.) People grind their teeth over our supposed two party system but in fact there are lots of political parties, and there’s Independent. There is no “Independent Party” as such; there’s American Independent Party but that’s a thankfully obscure far-right theocratic bozo pack of fantasists.
Perhaps an Independent Party or a Progressive Party should be started. There’s already a progressive party of sorts, the Green Party, but it has fumbled so much and has been so fixated on rigid rhetoric that it has lost credibility except in very small elections.
It would about getting enough support for a truly impressive candidate. The Democratic Party leadership would oppose supporting an Independent no matter how admirable. But if I thought there was an Independent along the lines of Sanders who had a decent chance of winning, I’d vote for them. Normally I’m a hidebound Democrat, because that fits with the idea of pragmatic progressivism (the art of the possible?) which I have embraced. But I think lots of Democrats would defect to a really inspiring Independent. And the category is taken fairly seriously.
A new Progressive Party could at first support progressive candidates in the Democratic party, or declared Independents. It would be like caucusing in campaigns. Then it could build up its status, and support, and field its own party’s candidates.
One problem with this is the electoral college which seems to support the two party system. But it can be worked around–or changed. A really Independent progressive party would generate such hope it might bring a sweeping flood of changes with it.
I was in the garden yesterday watering the new plants when I saw a lark sparrow watching the spray, eyeing it from within a shrub. He was very interested in the arc of water and seemed to be contemplating a shower but he kept looking at me nervously. I knew if I sprayed right at him he’d be startled away. I very carefully turned off the sprayer and then angled it so the water fell on the shrub from directly above, not too forcefully, to give a rain effect. It pattered down through the leaves and he stayed in the shrub, took the dripping for rain and began to flick his wings and shake himself in it, reveling in the rainshower. Yes, it looked like something from a Disney animated film circa 1940, but I didn’t care, it gave me and the bird pleasure. . .
A few days ago I was working on the stairs I’m putting in on the hill, and heard a distinctive drumming, a tone I hadn’t heard before. A tock tock-tock tock, a bit hollow sounding. I was surprised to find it was a woodpecker–surprised because it wasn’t the usual sound. Realized it was because he was tapping at a palm tree, which being a bit spongier and corklike produces a different sound. The woodpecker then went to an oak tree, harder wood, and it made a different clack clack clack sound, quite distinct from the palm tree tone. It was a different *note*. Theoretically you could make tunes by following woodpeckers around to different trees, each type of tree producing a different note from the impact of the bird’s beak; record the variants, cut and mix, make a coherent melody. I leave it to you.
I sympathize with people who dislike the commercialization of every holiday, certainly including Thanksgiving. I sympathize with those who wonder if the Native Americans who are said to have given the Pilgrims a helping hand that day were only opening the door to misery and inexorable invasion. But the concept of ritually or consciously giving thanks, as well as the notion of celebrating “harvest”, whatever it may be, with family and friends, makes Thanksgiving, perhaps, the most sensible of holidays.
I give thanks I’ve got my wife Micky Shirley–I’d be lost without her. Thank God I’ve got the friendship of those few close friends who have put up with my eccentricities, my fits of depression, and occasional louche backsliding over the years. I’m thankful I encountered a few adventurous book editors willing to take a chance on some quite outre fiction. Thank God I’ve got three sons who are employed, intelligent, kindly people. I fully appreciate the fact that I’ve got opportunities to earn money to pay a mortgage on a home, to pay for a celebrative meal, and, thanks to America’s first African-American president, full healthcare coverage at a reasonable cost.
These considerations are valuable. The underlying idea of Thanksgiving, if I open up to it, makes me a better man than I usually am, however briefly. If I give it a chance, it lifts me out of my self-pity. It reawakens my feelings of charity toward others even as it encourages volunteerism and charitable thoughts in many people who otherwise are caught up in their own troubles; these same people are sometimes found handing out hot dinners, on this day every year.
The philosophy implied in thanks-giving is a holiday even my many friends who are sturdily atheist can appreciate; praying Pilgrims or not, the occasion has lasting ramifications for a healthy secular society. One doesn’t need to thank God, in particular. One can simply be thankful. (In the end, the same thing–but don’t tell the atheists.)
Thank God for giving thanks.
My dog Iggy Pup wants to write a book–that is, he wants to dictate it to me for publication. He just told me this. It’s to be called THE SQUIRREL THREAT TO AMERICA: A Study in Evil. I asked him for a sample. He thought about it and then cleared his throat and growled, “Squirrels. Harmless, bushy tailed pseudo-rodents? Those bushy tails are flicking, signalling to one another in a code known only to the squirrel. To what end, as it were? What could be the content of these messages? Secret messages, surely, are secret for a reason.
“Everything about the squirrel hints at the diabolic; its razor sharp incisors, which can deal a painful wound when the squirrel is cornered, its devilishly efficient claws which enable them to climb trees to escape safely away from justice; their cold, beady eyes suggestive of murderous purpose.
“The squirrel’s typical passage through tree, or over fence top, takes them past your window. They look in–and they see! Is this preparation for blackmail?
“Squirrels mock the faithful, heroic family dog–chattering at them sneeringly from just out of reach. They mock more than the dog–they mock America herself.”
I have had suppressed memories of Satanic sex abuse arise,locked-away memories out of my childhood–I remember how me and the other kids caught the Satanists when the Satanists were giving out food to the poor at their food bank. We tricked each one into going down a basement stairs of the food bank; we told them there was an injured puppy down there. One by one they ran down, worried about the puppy. Then one of the other kids–I think it was Geraldine, or was it little Timmy–would hit the unsuspecting Satanist on the head with a crowbar, stunning them.
We’d tie them up and…it’s shameful to remember the way we abused the Satanists. Eventually we let them go, promising we would get therapy.
The Klingons did in fact have a method for eliminating bodily waste on the ship–it was much like the holes cut into projections over the sea, in old Earthly wooden sailing ships. You sat on a bench and did your business into the sea. (that was for officers. I think the sailors used chamberpots and had to dump it to leeward.) The problem with the Klingon system is, there’s vacuum outside. So after opening the covers on the holes, they’d quickly turn and get sucked onto the hole, with painful rapidity and force, and their was then rump exposed to the extremes of space. Getting off the elimination hole was difficult due to the suction and one usually lost some skin. But the Klingons felt that it was a sign of TOUGHNESS, of Klingon fierceness. So a few of the smaller Klingons got sucked into space, what of it?
So all the crew had lost most of the skin on their rumps–what of it? Coward! What is it to be a warrior? To pooh into space is to mock its dangers, its darkness!
My little half-Dachsund dog Daisy–made me think of Fred Astaire. This is because her claws are overdue for clipping and when she ambles along on the hardwood floor I hear a distinct pattern, TICKeta TICKeta ticketa TOCK, TICKeta TICKeta ticketa TOCK… sounding just like a tap dance pattern. So I’m bemusedly listening to my dog, and this tap dance association brings an image of Fred Astaire to my mind. I flickeringly see him dancing. This leads to an image of Ginger Rogers, which associates its way through my mind to another cinematic memory of Glinda, which leads to the Wizard of Oz and suddenly I hear the song Ding Dong the Witch is Dead in my mind. Because I’m trained to keep some attention separated out to watch my mind I see visual images that go with each link of associations–I glimpse Fred Astaire, visually, and eventually see happy Oz residents singing gleefully about the witch, all in a moment or two.
Patterns of free association are of interest to me. They’re not so free, really. You could, in fact, break down an essay by, say, Emerson into deliberate linkages of associations; it’s a verbal sculpture made of associations, leading to an overall shape. Is everything just associative? Do the linkages constitute largely meaningless concatenation that, via an Emerson, might be ordered to reflect subjective human reality? Are they too another indicator of reductionistic hopeless randomness?
Or do they, broadly viewed, signify the unity of things, and the ongoing musical soloing of events playing out?
I don’t agree with Pres Obama about everything–HOWEVER, people who feel he’s too moderate, not forcefully progressive enough, make me think of a guy sitting beside the driver of a large truck. The truck is being driven across a busy, traffic heavy city to deliver its goods. “But you’re heading north and the delivery point is to the west,” the passenger protests.
“I have to take the truck north before I can turn west because it’s too large for these side streets and they aren’t cut through anyway.”
A bit later the passenger asks, “But now that you’re headed West why don’t you accelerate?”
“Because there’s cross traffic, and there is construction and there are traffic cops stopping me for long periods and because there are small vehicles in the way going slowly.”
“This is taking too long.”
“We’re getting there.”
“Why don’t you ram the truck to the west, just smash over those cars, you’re driving a big truck after all, and crash through the fences.”
“Because that would crush people and destroy other people’s legitimate personal property and I’d be arrested before I got there for breaking the laws.”
“You’re not forcefully progressive enough.”