Writing to understand

A big part of the practice of writing is sitting down to think something through.  You write, then you read what you wrote, then you think, then you rewrite, then you read it all again.  Why are you writing?  For me it’s to understand and make my thoughts and feelings as clear as possible, to myself and to the reader. 

We know what we are trying to say, most of the time, but the beauty of writing is that it allows us to keep rewriting, refining, fixing flaws in our presentation, focusing our intentions as sharply as possible, so that others can hopefully grasp them in all their nuance.   The writer needs to give the reader enough background for meaning and context, while keeping in mind that background can swallow everything if too detailed.

Yesterday I posted an excerpt of a piece by Jennifer Rubin in which she quoted a governor named Hutchinson giving an ostensibly  thoughtful answer in support of the Supreme Court forcing women and girls in his state to give birth to their rapists’ babies.  Moments later another Hutchinson, a young woman named Cassidy, assistant to Trump’s final Chief of Staff Mark Meadows, gave live testimony at an emergency hearing before the J6 Select Committee.   Today the nation is abuzz over her two hours under oath.  I found her testimony electrifying. 

She testified that Trump, Meadows, Stone (pardoned felon), Giuliani, Flynn (pardoned felon) and others planned the march to the Capitol on January 6th.  Stone and Giuliani appear to have been the point men with the white supremacist militias involved in the siege of the Capitol.  Meadows told his assistant a few days beforehand that things could get really bad on January 6th.  Several of these Trump loyalists, Flynn, Giuliani (Bannon — pardoned before conviction for felony, Eastman, Kerikpardoned felon) established a command center, or war room, in a hotel near the White House.  Meadows wanted to go to the war room on January 5th, asked his young assistant to order a car for him, but she urged him not to go.  He phoned in instead.  

Trump became angry on January 6th that his crowd was being frisked and put through magnetometers (“mags”) because many were heavily armed.   He is famously obsessed with crowd size and insisted the mags be removed so his followers could fill the Ellipse, for the cameras, and march on the Capitol from there.  He didn’t care that they were armed, he was certain they intended him no harm.

We know his supporters had not obtained a permit to march to the Capitol on January 6th.  Now we also know that the march was planned anyway.  An illegal march, with insufficient police presence, to stage a show of force to “stiffen the spines” of men like Mike Pence.  Good luck stiffening that guy’s spine, by the way.  The illegal march to “Stop the Steal” culminated in a deadly riot.  But why keep dwelling on it?

A small number of Trump’s defenders showed up today, two loyal Secret Service men in particular, to cast doubt on Cassidy Hutchinson’s account of a few moments of that stressful day.  They want to testify under oath to dispute Ms. Hutchinson’s account of Trump’s temper tantrum when his driver would not drive him to the Capitol to lead the armed protest there.   Ms. Hutchinson testified that Mr. Ornato told her (with his Secret Service colleague Engle, the driver, present), that Trump had tried to grab the steering wheel of his armored limo and lunged to grab the driver by the throat when he refused to yield to the president’s command to drive to the Capitol. The driver will presumably testify that this claim about the admittedly enraged Trump grabbing him is bullshit.  

In law there’s an old maxim falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus (“false in one thing, false in everything). Presumably if the Secret Service men swear under oath that what she said is not what they told her (sworn “he said, she said” — a draw), and certainly not what happened, they have established, to some, that she is a liar whose entire testimony should be seen in that light. 

There is no law against a president, or anyone else, angrily throwing his lunch against the wall, as Hutchinson reported Trump did after Bill Barr betrayed him by telling AP the truth about the absence of widespread voter fraud.  Even if he did throw it, there are probably witnesses willing to testify that no ketchup dripped down the wall, and even if it did, so what?     

If warnings were given to witnesses to remain loyal, or have bad things happen, like what happened to former US ambassador to Ukraine Marie Yavonovich, Colonel Alexander Vindman, Michael Cohen, so what?  Loyalty is a good thing and it would be a shame if anything happened to a disloyal person who was confronted by a group of righteously angry people with guns or a noose, if you catch my drift.

The “slippery” question of Trump’s intent is not very slippery in light of his consistent behavior, and the evidence presented so far in the January 6th Select Committee hearings.  He has obstructed justice since he was a young man, suckling at the hideous tit of the evil Roy Cohn, who begat ratfucker Roger Stone.  He was not exonerated by Mueller for at least ten specific instances of obstruction of justice related to shutting down or obstructing the Mueller “witch hunt”.

Trump cannot lose, will not tolerate it, each of his bankruptcies were actually genius uses of the legal system to keep his untold billions. Every loss in court, a strategic victory. He surrounds himself with people ready to do whatever is necessary to protect the Big Baby.

As we wait for the next explosive revelations from the J6 investigation, the Congressman and others who asked Trump for pardons after January 6th have been mostly quiet about that.  After all, the real story is a planned COMMIE takeover of the US and the godless attempt to rob from the rich to feed the unworthy poor!  Biden inflation, Biden mental unfitness, Biden lies, Biden weakness!

There are two sides, at least, to most stories, but the side that claims an armed riot to stop the ceremonial finalization of Trump’s election loss is perfectly legal and fine, and nothing to see, has a much weaker story, one they’d rather avoid going into.  Instead they stick to praising a radicalized Supreme Court and gearing up for a sprint in the last leg of a marathon toward American fascism

When retired three star general, convicted perjurer, QAnon and martial law promoter Mike “Lock Her UP!” Flynn was asked, under oath, what he thought about the peaceful transfer of power, his answer was one word “fifth.”

It’s going to take a while, may come too late, may involve a Supreme Court ruling on presidential pardons to criminal co-conspirators, but several of Trump’s capos are going to be tried, convicted and locked up, at least until another Republican president can spring them with an unappealable, totally non-corrupt, pardon.

When all you can see is sorrow in every direction

Close friendship, that state of grace where we extend the benefit of the doubt to sympatico strangers who become friends by returning the kindness with reciprocal care, adds years to our lives, psychologists tell us.  We feel this every time we are refreshed by a relaxed visit with old friends.  We don’t need science to tell us that laughing, breaking bread together, catching up, retelling old stories is a great antidote to the many daily horrors we are powerless against.

The other side of the picture, a life without close connections to anyone, is about the most hopeless darkness imaginable for social creatures like us.  Millions and millions are confronted by this terrible darkness, many of our relationships reduced to tapping out little notes to each other on the phones that surveil us and mine our quirks for dollars.   Isolation, as so many of us felt much more acutely during the pandemic lock down, kills.   

Deaths of despair multiply where there is no hope for relief, new records are set every year for overdose deaths, deliberate and accidental, here in the USA.  Shooting by gun is now the number one cause of death for people ages one to twenty years old in this country!  Mass murders of enraged despair become common as young men break under isolation, particularly when isolation itself is weaponized to further divide us, the “reasoning” of the killers being that since nobody will understand or care about me anyway, might as well go out as a “gunman”, in a hail of bullets, and make others feel the unbearable pain I fucking feel.

The New York Times periodically publishes a story like this one,   
362 School Counselors on the Pandemic’s Effect on Children: ‘Anxiety Is Filling Our Kids’  Do you need to read the report to understand how shattered young people are absolutely right to feel today?  It’s not as if we lived in a harmonious, universally fair nation of infinite promise and hope before the pandemic.  Add a world-leading million pandemic deaths, at least half of them preventable, and the hot war over who is to blame for all those deaths, scientists or political absolutists, and you don’t need the New York Times to delve into the uniquely American reasons for more schoolyard fights than ever in our history as school mass murders reach record levels, adults clash angrily over whether any laws can change this grim exceptionally American reality, and a handful of Senators insist on the right of a minority to block all discussion of such laws in the Senate, should it come to that.

The question I wrestle with today is what to do when every direction you look in, public and private, leads to sorrow?   There are only so many things we can do to distract ourselves from it, or numb ourselves to it, before the sorrow in every direction we look turns to despair, hopelessness, misdirected anger.  Old friends deliberating over whether they can accept your immediate, sincere apology for momentarily losing your cool?  A blow that lingers over the course of their ongoing deliberations, which can extend indefinitely through months of avoidance, denial and a pointless argument over who has the greater right to be hurt.  A slowness to forgive becomes coupled with a new readiness to take offense?  The self-preserving reflex is to walk away, the harder path of continually extending understanding for your old friends’ weakness is very fucking hard after feeling enough extended unresolved hurt.  Keep the door open or finally close it, to keep the grave-scented chill out?  Hard question, that one, with terrible consequences to loved ones beside yourself for a hasty choice.

My family was brutally truncated by angry mobs mobilized by the fanatical followers of Adolf Hitler, an insane man of limited intellect and great apparent charisma.  Of the many dozens of family members alive and struggling before Hitler invaded their insecure little corner of then Russia only five or six (all but one in the US) were alive after 1943.   The letters just stopped coming, in my father’s chosen description of their slaughter.   

The loss of all these close relatives, whose names I never even learned, these abstractions (“mere abstractions” as my father called them), haunts me as I watch the world gearing up for the next round of irrational mass killings in the name of hopeless, senseless rage that needs somewhere to go, an “ideology” to direct it.  That sympathetic, funny youngest brother of my grandmother’s, her favorite, little Joey (the only one whose name I know), might have been my most beloved great uncle, had it not been for the gleeful, drunken mob that massacred them all in a ravine to the northwest of town thirteen years before I was born.  It takes one particularly relatable loving family member, or stranger, like a great teacher, or sympathetic neighbor, or friend of your parents, to change the course of your young life.  Or, as many beautiful ghosts as you can imagine, which is a poignant substitute for the touch of the living hands and expressive faces of those souls when they were capable of showing you love.

My niece and nephew grew up without their playful, sympathetic uncle in their lives.  They saw him regularly when they were kids, their mother’s only brother, their only uncle, recalled his visits with love, and then, after their grandmother was buried, never saw him again.   They never learned the reason — that the lies their parents tell to protect them, and themselves, those desperate attempts to shield themselves from shame they actually lived were impossible for him to play along with.   To preserve his tenuous relationship with their mother, the uncle would never lay out explicitly to his now adult niece and nephew that the reason for their estrangement was the dishonesty required of him, the pretend smile, the erasing of shared, lived history, a strict adherence to a lifetime of lies he, his sister and his brother-in-law all know are lies.  How to  tell the truth without becoming the enemy their parents always feared stymied the uncle every time he contemplated how to explain to them why he hadn’t seen them in more than a decade.  From their point of view, they can only take it as a personal abandonment, otherwise their strange, inconstant uncle would have found a way to spend time with them.

How many years of unresolved sorrow can we expect ourselves to endure before our life expectancy begins to take a hit? I am fairly sure my old former friend Friedman, a man who fought with and was eventually betrayed by everyone he ever cared for, literally died of a broken heart when he expired in his chair from no apparent cause a few years ago, at age 65.

Here is what I have worked out for myself, though I don’t know how coherently I can lay it out or how helpful it will be to you.  I exert myself to remain mild in the face of aggravation, in ways I could not have imagined twenty years ago.  That, by itself, it turns out, only helps a little.  You will get no points for it. The heat can always be turned up and turned up until your old reflexes finally boil up and you must tell someone in no uncertain terms that it’s enough, they can feel free to fuck off now, for the following seven impossible to unhear reasons.  

More important to facing sorrow is my sense of fairness, my determination not to treat others in a way I hate to be treated,  nor to endlessly accept such treatment from others, no matter how ingeniously rationalized.   The knowledge that we can all only tolerate a certain amount of unfairness is important to working through sorrow caused by friends who may, under great stress, need to blame you for the strains we all feel from time to time.  I give myself permission to grieve, to feel hurt, to eventually stop extending the benefit of the doubt to people who continue to insist on denying me the same.  Their insistence is usually based on a purely emotional appeal, a protestation of love that will be instantly withdrawn if you don’t relent and return their love without hesitation or need for further discussion. That far I know now I will never come in my long quest to be as unfailingly gentle as the Christian’s Jesus, as my imagined Hillel, or the Buddha.

Spend time every day doing something you love. Creativity for its own sake, if we are lucky enough to enjoy it, is a great balm, and an excellent tonic, though it is somewhat dependent on mood.   You can become overwhelmed by the sorrow all around and even the act of making yourself feel better by taking your imagination out for a spin can seem futile. 

Do not succumb to futility, action to improve your mood and situation, to exercise your liberating imagination, is always better than inaction, impossible as it may sometimes feel.

I write, every day, to you.  We have never met, you and I, but I imagine the reader of these words with the fond hope of making an intelligent connection.  Those readers who know me, once in yer proverbial blue moon, will mention that they were moved by something I wrote, which always makes me feel good, but most of the time it’s just a “like” or a larger than usual number of readers clicking on a certain post that tells me I have made some kind of connection.   I remind myself periodically that the clarifying act of sitting down to write, and making it as clear as possible to others and myself, is itself a net benefit and a good swing in the fight against felt debility. It is also indispensable to me beyond that, the quiet in your mind as you write is a kind of sacred space. Being able to hone your expression, in a way not possible in daily speaking, an infinite blessing.

This impulse to connect to others is important to nurture in the larger project of avoiding despair.  The feedback we get is also very addictive.  Lately the number of views of these posts has dropped dramatically and I feel disappointed when I don’t get the usual hit of dopamine I felt after posting something when I saw that several people had immediately clicked on it.  That piece hit the mark, I think to myself lately, as the number of views stays at the same low count for hour after hour, as if rebuking me in my belief that I can connect with strangers.

This is the world young people were born into, likes, dislikes, friend, unfriend, LOL, WTF.  Shoshana Zuboff laid out the dystopian world of social anxiety, conformity and future robbing this online feedback loop from peers real and virtual produces.  A brilliant hermit I know, once a good friend, has zero in person social connections, but hundreds of friends and followers on “social media”.  Going online to find missing connections, as I am doing right now when Sekhnet is sick of hearing me talk about things that make her sad, is like wearing those goggles that realistically put you in a three dimensional, totally realistic world that doesn’t exist.  Girl of your dreams?  She’s waiting for you when you put on the goggles and check out that smile of happiness to see you and the dream outfit she’s wearing for you!  Why would you ever leave that conscious dream world?  Predictions are that you would not, time would disappear, the illusion of fun, love and excitement infinitely preferable to a world where your best bet for coping with your sorrow is a strong anodyne (some of which will kill you if taken wrong) or a military assault rifle to give yourself a feeling of agency, importance and godlike power.

I’d like to end on a note of hopefulness.   The forces that would make us all fight each other to the death so that they can own and control everything seem to have become bullyingly triumphant here in the US a few months too early to take the absolute power that has long been their dream.  This tiny but powerful reactionary core appear to have overplayed their autocratic hand with time to organize against them before the crucial midterm elections. 

After the Civil War (War of Northern Aggression to you, Yank) there was a brief period, called Reconstruction, during which our Constitution was amended to reflect a better understanding of democracy and a more perfect union. We created the Department of Justice to enforce laws required by this better understanding.   Reconstruction, which proved we can do much better as a nation, was soon halted in a series of Supreme Court decisions and political compromises, after about ten years.  

During the time Reconstruction was allowed to proceed it demonstrated that democracy can work to produce a better, more fair and inclusive society.   Such a result was intolerable to those few with the most power, north and south, and the most to lose by “equality” and “justice”.  In the defeated Confederacy it was not long until a form of race-based American fascism took over.  Elite, wealthy local white men, backed by a secret army of terrorists and like-minded police, lawmakers and judges, and empowered by a block of similar white men in the state and federal legislatures, ruled unchallenged in every area of the South, with a firm, autocratic hand, until LBJ betrayed his former buddies by signing both the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and, even more importantly, the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

Hope?   The American oligarchs and their paid apologists seem to have overplayed their hand in a way that if mobilized around correctly will jar millions out of their apathy to vote for candidates who do not insist that the 75% who support gun control, the right of a pregnant woman or girl — particularly one who was raped, or in danger of death from the pregnancy — to end an unwanted pregnancy, who support fair taxes on the wealthiest to fund desperately needed public programs, a living wage for all workers, affordable health care, real measures to slow the gathering climate catastrophe and all the rest of the “kitchen table” issues simply stop acting like spoiled “woke” babies and socialists and shut the fuck up. 

What is the official current GOP platform?  The guy who repeatedly lies about losing by 8,000,000 votes is himself the victim of LIES!!!   By a bipartisan cabal of powerful pedophiles, queers, anti-fascists, Black racists, dirty immigrants, Muslims and Jews!!!  After enough frustration, that kind of transparent bullshit wears thin with all but a diehard 39%, particularly in the face of a premature, in-your-face celebration of minority triumph in defeating what the powerless 75% strongly prefers.  We are told 110,000,000 eligible American voters didn’t bother casting a vote in 2020, thirty million more than voted for either presidential candidate.   Those are the sorry, demoralized citizens we have to reach, instill with minimal hope, get them to cast a vote for the minimum of what the majority of us needs and wants.   

That may not be direct, personal hope for a lonely world where all we can personally see is sorrow in every direction we look, but any steps we take, with others, away from the march toward worldwide oligarchy and fascism, are steps in the right direction, steps toward hope rather than despair.   

As a personal matter, treat your friends and family with as much care as you can, but know also that agreeing to a demand that you somehow overcome prolonged, unresolved suffering has its limits and a time may sadly come when the best course is to step away, that very few things last a lifetime.   I’m going to compose a long letter to my niece and nephew, setting out the harm done to our ability to know each other by years of insistence that lies be accepted as the real truth, no matter what some disturbed, childless uncle in NY might think. If I can set out the issues clearly and non-judgmentally enough, one or both of them may actually be able to hear me. If so, I’ll chalk one up to the power of love speaking truth without blame.

Above all, and however difficult it might be at a given moment, be of good cheer!

Follow a thought

Emotions move us through life, or stop us in our tracks, but, when trapped, only thinking, and learning from our mistakes, can lead us out of a deadly maze.   Start with a reasonable idea, test it out, if it doesn’t help, think about what was wrong with the first idea.  Make it better, test it again.   

This is how we learn, by profiting from our failures, and to many it feels much harder than just slugging our way through an emotional challenge.   There is no guarantee that you’ll be able to think your way out of a given problem, but thinking about a difficulty as deeply and fairly as you can, understanding your predicament as clearly as you can, drawing on past experience, only helps.   If nothing else, actively thinking restores a feeling of agency and hope as you work to extricate yourself from something that makes you feel awful.  Hope is no small thing.  Without it, you are finished.

The hardest part is listening to the perspectives of people close to you when they go against everything your adrenaline and cortisol are telling you is true.   The difficulty of sitting long enough to let something you don’t want to hear sink in, make an impression, inform your thoughts, means that many people don’t do it.   You must do it, sometimes, if your goal is to become a wiser, better person, or to live without clenched fists. 

There are traps you cannot think your way out of, but even a trap you can spring is impossible to escape while all you can think about is the agony of your ankle in the metal jaws of the trap that is keeping you stuck until the hunter arrives to administer the coup de grace.   One day we all find ourselves powerless against some variation of that scene, but not yet.

Waking up wrestling with thoughts and feelings

I’m not sleeping well these days, I wake up with some details of an upsetting, unresolved conflict with old friends going through my head.   Sometimes, like Monday, I wake up and am able to succinctly state the exact, specific issue to Sekhnet.   “You should tell them that!” she says, but since it is not always possible to convey things directly, or in a timely way, I go into the other room and write.

I can’t stress enough how important writing has always been for me.   You draw a picture and nobody really knows what to say about it.  “Why did you put a Chihuahua’s head on that buxom nude woman’s body?” a friend’s father once asked me, with genuine confusion and a bit of concern on his face, like he was too dense to get an obvious joke but at the same time wondering why anyone would think such a joke was funny.  I smiled, having no answer, nor any idea why I’d combined those two elements in a realistic pencil drawing I’d shaded as three dimensionally as possible  It is rare that I have any idea why I draw a particular thing on the page, I just follow my hand and we work quietly together and I don’t ask questions or have answers.  It is the same with music, if I come up with a musical idea, I generally don’t put lyrics to it and it can convey virtually anything to anyone.  If you like it you will find a groove there, otherwise, what can one really say about such things?

Writing is altogether different.   You sit down with a feeling and an idea and as you set it down you picture the reader taking it in. What is essential comes into focus.   As you read what you wrote you can see what you left out, what muddles what you’re trying to say, what you’ve phrased poorly, with insufficient background or in a way that obscures your intended meaning.

In the end you have, if you aim for it consistently, something coherent. A point of view another person can take in, understand, agree or disagree with, react to, discuss, dispute.   Now, all on the same page, a knowing dialogue, in light of the things you set out, things you weren’t able to shoo away from your consciousness as you tried, pointlessly, to get back to sleep after waking up thinking about them. 

The roots of my need for coherence

Growing up in a home where I was treated as a dangerous adversary from the day I came home as a newborn affected my wiring in fundamental ways.  Because my parents were always ready with anger and blame, and I was often regularly excoriated over trumped up offenses, sometimes things I was not remotely at fault for, I became painfully sensitive to the brutality of an incoherent, self-serving narrative.   

It was much easier for my parents, two overwhelmed abused children who grew up without essential tools to process their own frustrations, to unite in their blame of a kid who was, in their view, just an irrationally angry little bastard constantly fighting for no apparent reason.  In their story their own behavior had nothing to do with their child’s mysterious, unfortunate, completely innate bad feelings.  They insisted they were right, stuck together most of the time, and that was that.

My life’s work was set for me early on — to discover a truth deeper than the harmful bullshit that was being angrily forced on me and explaining to myself coherently the reasons for the insane arrangement I was expected to subscribe to as simply reality.  As I learn reasons that make sense to me I begin to calm myself. 

Understanding is my most important tool and I wield it with as much clarity as I can against the sometimes awesome incoherence of a world that requires little by way of reason or clarity to form huge enraged armies to inflict hell on their enemies.   Finally learning of the extreme abuse my father underwent, from infancy, (I was in my forties when I learned some key details) unlocked a door of empathy and understanding for me that my father was unable to approach, until hours before his death.

Whenever I am confronted with an incoherent reframing of actual upsetting events it gets my back up.   If someone treats me in a thoughtless way that hurts me and when I react with pain tells me I am wrong to be hurt in any way, that it wasn’t thoughtlessness at all, it was an innocent misunderstanding and I have to forget about it because they love me, because they wouldn’t have been hurt at all if I’d done the same to them, it never quite gets down the old craw.   

I literally can’t swallow an incoherent story, maybe because it makes no fucking sense.  Maybe it’s just me, I don’t know.  I think I am probably not alone in preferring a story that is understandable in the light of observation and experience to a senseless one designed to serve an emotional agenda to protect someone else against feeling bad.   

Friends, when they feel defensive, see my need for coherence, which requires an openness to accepting one’s part in things that actually happened, as a relentless need to be “right”.   I can understand why it could look that way to them, particularly in a competitive and violently adversarial culture like ours, but it is a need for honesty and mutual understanding on my part, more than anything else I can put my finger on.   I was forced to defend myself from before I could even speak, in adversarial proceedings brought daily by a father/prosecutor who was very good at prosecuting.  I developed skills in arguing way before I finally, misguidedly, went to law school.   People sometimes tell me they feel overmatched and it gets their backs up, because they need to feel “right” too and I’m a more skilled fighter with words than they are, so their disadvantage makes them fight harder.  There are many ways to fight against something that makes you feel defensive and many are familiar from my childhood.   

Reframing is a famous technique for avoiding any discussion of anything you don’t want to talk about and my father was a genius at constantly steering the conversation away from what his children needed to talk about to a much deeper thing that we were “really” talking about.   Any conversation about being hurt was constantly reframed until we were talking about the real, and only, issue:  what an irrationally angry little fuck I’d always been, and remain.   

If I behave toward you in a way that’s wrong, and keep defending it as a mistake, like all humans make, I am choosing a neutral, understandable synonym to let myself off the hook for hurting you.   I was wrong because I made a mistake and I made a mistake because I was wrong are fairly close, almost interchangeable.  Wrong carries a bit more moral weight than mistaken, since using it accepts responsibility for the harm the mistake caused, so to shift the ground from the moral idea that it is wrong to do something to you that I hate done to me, I can insist on calling it a mistake and put the onus on you, the person I wronged/mistaked to have the human compassion to forgive me without more.  It is a painful thing to be unforgiven and an ugly thing to be unforgiving, isn’t it?  About a simple mistake?  Come on.

Then there is the greatest weapon of all against responsibility or reconciliation — silence by way of response.

This is kryptonite to me, as it would be to you, if applied steadily and consistently over years to make sure there was no possibility of being heard, no chance for reconciliation of any kind.  After months of silence about my last attempt at reconciliation with my father (and, naturally, I’d chosen the infuriating medium of a letter, where I have the unfair advantage of not being interrupted, reframed, dismissed, or ignored while communicating as clearly as I am able) he spoke words that live with me to this day “oh, that letter (the one I’d sent twice before hand delivering a third copy).  Yeah, I read that.  You have to respect my right not to respond to that.”

A debatable proposition, but there you are.  As polite and crisp as my father’s sentence was “you have to respect my right not to respond to that” is, it’s a problematic, even incoherent, response to a loved one expressing a need for something better, even as it attempts to close a door forever, even as it succeeds, until the last night of the poor devil’s life when he admits, hours before he breathes his last and I close dead eyelids over eyes I never really noticed were the stormy grey green color of a troubled sea, that he had been wrong.   Wrong or mistaken, he blamed himself harshly, as he was dying, for things he understood that last night he should have had the sense and strength to work on in himself, instead of being content to blame a baby for being a deadly adversary.

Sometimes there are swamps we walk into without knowing where we are, and clarity is essential here in order to avoid wading into danger for everyone.  We can mistakenly believe that people we love can show us an intimate side, a dark side, make themselves exceptionally vulnerable, and then not act desperately to make painful things disappear.   The private lives of a couple, how they treat each other, show anger to each other, accept or reject each other, is a swamp we must exit as quickly as possible once we see we’ve stepped into it.  Any attempt to protect one against the other will go as badly as reaching into the muddy depths of a swamp to pull at something you can’t see.   

This last piece is recently acquired wisdom, thanks to friends who shared experiences to illuminate the truth of this.  If you doubt the truth of it, try it yourself sometime, spend a few days alone with a couple and begin trying to protect the wife against the open hostility of the husband and tell me you are not suddenly neck deep in a hot, humid, mosquito rich paradise for dangerous reptiles.  Live and learn, my friend, and take the lessons you learn to heart.   Only by doing that can we get out of a dangerous swamp that can easily swallow everything we love.

The terror of inchoate rage defended incoherently

Long, deep talk with old friends the other day, reminding me of the healing power of being heard and of forcing yourself to hear things you may not like to hear because these are crucial perspectives you can’t come to on your own when you are impaired by pain. Good friends don’t always have to agree with you, though they often do, but they always treat you with care when you need care.   A walk through the experiences they share sheds light that can reveal important, difficult things impossible to see on your own.   

I forgot, in all the emotion of a long, complex talk about heartbreak and forgiveness, to make a point about my personal, visceral terror of an incoherent argument insisted on to the death.   

In worldwide politics this kind of incoherent argument is made every day, insisted on by partisans and, spreading via “social media” able to gain millions of enthusiastic adherents almost instantly.   

What is the argument against continuing to fund a program that very recently took millions of vulnerable little children, our fellow Americans, out of the living hell of poverty?   The program seems to have done a great deal of good, cost a tiny fraction of the world’s highest military budget. What is the argument against helping the neediest and weakest to avoid a life that nobody, particularly a tender young child, should ever be forced to experience?

The arguments are all variations on Democrats “tax and spend”, liberty means no government “coercion” (unless you’re planning to murder a zygote or embroyo), Makers versus Takers, the president is a doddering dotard puppet, the Democrats are communists, socialists, liberals, it’s a slippery slope from a Child Tax Credit to forcibly closing all the Christian churches and confiscating all firearms, we are under attack by powerful Jews with a plan to dilute our vote by brainwashing millions of imported brown idiots to vote Democrat, the most powerful Democrats, and smiling, false-faced liberal monsters like Tom Hanks, are pedophiles, and child murderers, who drink the blood of the helpless kids they kidnap and rape, when they are not out aborting nine month old fetuses, looking them in their tiny eyes and sadistically slaughtering them in cold blood to prevent their baptisms.

The horror of such arguments, aside from the “argument” itself, is that they prevent agreement about anything you can actually talk about, let alone resolve, they preempt all reasonable discussion.  No compromise is possible between fervent followers of the Prince of Peace and Love and Satan.   Why Satan advocates for a program to take two year-olds out of poverty is a separate and complicated theological argument that no secular humanist could possibly understand.  God is infinitely mysterious in His infinite love and mercy.   Heathens, heretics and “humanists” simply lack any understanding of the higher realms of faith and divine justice. End of chat, have a blessed day.

It makes me sound old, I know, but there was a time, not long ago, when a president who was caught lying many times every day, and openly, angrily, disrespecting all law and democratic tradition, would be a villain who’d be turned out of office.   He would lose reelection not by 8,000,000 votes but many times that, and after he lost he would not be able to convince millions that he’d won in a landslide, his victory stolen by LGBTQ, hoards of angry, cheating urban Blacks and woke college students, Muslims, anti-fascist terrorists, dirty recent immigrants, disloyal Jews, etc.   

My biggest terror about the world today is that our lowest human impulse, to fight to the death for an insane cause when locked in righteous rage, has been monetized by people of infinite wealth and privilege who decide, strictly on the basis of how much more money they can make, that they will automate the process of spreading incoherent hatred that cannot be corrected by reasonable discussion.   The “invisible hand” of the Free Market, you understand, protects their absolute right to do this.

If you remove the ability of people to argue about issues of mutual and public interest, on the merits, weigh the advantages and disadvantages of a government policy, and replace it with legally sanctioned partisan incoherence (unlimited spending by billionaires and legally created “persons” to influence elections is guaranteed by the First Amendment now), we are close to done as a free society.  It’s a coin toss whether we will soon stick a fork in our long, overcooked experiment in democracy, to protect, in perpetuity, the privileges our most privileged are entitled to.

That’s the piece I forgot to mention to my old friends the other day, not that it changes anything — how much it freaks me out trying to make a point to someone in my personal life who has closed their mind, insists I accept an incoherent narrative and stands on their demand to have me respect their right never to have the issue brought up again.   In a world with so much anger, shapeless, formless and deadly, loaded gun anger that can be pointed anywhere, the only small comfort I can take is in carefully taking in and analyzing what’s raging all around us, understanding it as clearly as I can and finding small signs of hope in the details that point toward decency, fairness and Lincoln’s better angels of our nature.  

With politics there is a widespread feeling of debility among those not in a rage toward authorianism, a learned, media-enforced helplessness and fatalism on the part of the great majority of our cynically, deliberately divided nation.  We have seen over and over that corrupt officials and powerful criminals are not punished, except once a decade or so when a particular powerful person is ceremonially held accountable for some particularly heinous crime and sent to prison, to prove that not every such person is above the law. 

In my personal life I have almost no tolerance for a senseless argument that I am expected to swallow without protest, an unappealable verdict I must never smart from the unfairness of or even refer to again. 

But there are other ways of looking at occasional insistent incoherence among close friends, and they must be looked at with love and a patience that may at times seem superhuman.    It is not superhuman if you are lucky enough to have kind, honest friends to help you understand the burden you are carrying and offer a way you can’t see in your hurt to take the impossibly heavy load off of your shoulders, off your heart.