NeverNesters

lefty politics, Asheville real estate, and what to expect when you're not

Takeaways from the 2016 election for our leaders of tomorrow

Posted on November 9, 2016

It’s OK to insult everyone, lie 90% of the time, have no serious ideas, show an utter disregard for our institutions, and scorn the idea of preparing for stuff. Conservative voters are cool with all that.

It’s OK to make shit up about why you can’t release your tax returns. Conservative voters will buy it. And even a lot of them who know you’re lying will find a way to ignore it.

It’s OK to change just about every position you’ve ever publicly held in order to pander to evangelicals. Had a couple of front-page divorces and affairs? Can’t pronounce “II” correctly? On the record saying that women will let you grab them by the pussy if you’re famous? No problem. Conservative voters will let you off the hook.

Ascribe climate change to a Chinese hoax. Why not? Conservative voters don’t care about climate change anyway.

Don’t start small and work your way up in public service. Much preferable to the conservative voter is a background in casino bankruptcy and reality television. Because guess what? Running for office is easy! All you have to do is tell conservative voters that you’ll single-handedly resurrect entire irretrievable industries. They love that stuff. Also: see if you can wipe your ass with our founding documents while threatening to institute religious tests for refugees. Conservative voters will cheer you.

Go ahead and get endorsed by the Ku Klux Klan while you’re at it.

And remember: a campaign is not about ideas; it’s an opportunity to throw a temper tantrum. Conservative voters love a good temper tantrum.

To future Senate leaders and congresspeople: It’s OK to piss on the constitution for transparent political gain. It might work! And, either way, conservative voters don’t mind.

Also, whenever you have a sense of who you might run against four years down the road, it’s advisable to finance non-stop character assassination and witch hunts against that person with taxpayer dollars. Conservative voters won’t hold it against you.

Too, you should do everything in your power to make sure that the government basically doesn’t work. Don’t pass laws. Don’t confirm appointees. Hell, shut it down! Then run against it for being dysfunctional! Conservative voters eat that stuff up.

And if you ever think about becoming director of the FBI, it’s fine if you want to mess around a little bit with elections. Again: it might work! Anything for a W, right?

 

 

 

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Calling People Stupid

Posted on July 8, 2016

In a recent New York Times editorial, a creative writing professor who drove five hours to attend the Trump rally in Greensboro, North Carolina, hypothesized that the Trump phenomenon is fueled by the collective desire of his fans for their own safe space.

(Leave it to an academic to link arguably the 21st century’s most and least progressive social movements: on one side, the paper-skinned, trigger-warned darlings of the institutional left, carving out free-speech-free zones on the quad and screaming down their liberal centrist elders, and on the other the yahoos hawking TRUMP THAT BITCH-branded merchandise to each other in the rustiest patches of the Rust Belt. But isn’t this precisely the sort of intellectual exercise Trump dismisses?)

His point was that the movement might actually have very little to do with the man himself. In Greensboro, he heard unchallenged vulgarities hurled at all the demographics you’d expect, witnessed people proudly unfurling their resentments, and saw sizable chunks of the audience tire of the ranting figure at the pulpit and leave in the middle. He scarcely heard the candidate’s name at all. In this light, the Trump show is primarily an excuse for adults to behave poorly in public. Looking at it like that doesn’t much tax the imagination.

With his tweeted outbursts (“Bad!” “Sad!”), surreal denunciations, lies of breathtaking audacity and sulking refusal to talk to mean girls, the Trump show has been less a campaign than a massively public temper tantrum. And it is easily the most colossally embarrassing thing that’s happened to America in my lifetime. I mean, it wins that race running away, and I paid attention to the Swift Boating of John Kerry and the Bush re-election. I paid attention for the Monicagate merry-go-round of hypocrisy, when the House Republicans, in a farcical round, couldn’t find a leader free of the taint of adultery, until finally settling on a “safe choice” who just happened to be a child-abuser and future embezzler. It’s so embarrassing that it’s more embarrassing than David Cameron’s recent oopsy you may have heard about.

I’m a native Texan and I watched Rick Perry run for president. My adopted state just passed HB2. Sarah Palin is. But the only thing I can ever conceive of being more embarrassing than Candidate Trump is President-Elect Trump.

We’re experiencing a moment in which America is essentially river dancing across the world stage while shitting itself.

*

One is never far removed from the aggrieved right when one is from Texas. Some of the earliest and most influential adults in my life were three Texan brothers, owners of an Austin coffee shop chain, who employed me for three-plus years from the age of fifteen. Two of them were political, one—Scott—extremely so, and it was a rare shift that didn’t entail being forced to listen to a cynical diatribe directed at the Clintons, at the loony left, at hippy environmentalists driving foul old cars.

Remember when the president was touring an African nation, all but engulfed in a human sea of outstretched arms, and someone fell and was getting trampled, and he, florid-faced and yelling, tried to disentangle the masses? Scott misinterpreted his reaction as one of racist panic and took unconcealed delight in the spectacle of the world’s most prominent democrat unhinged by terror at the presence and nearness of so many blacks. I was positive that it was deliberate, this misinterpretation, and I felt nauseous with hatred. The president was trying to save someone’s life—a black person’s life, as a matter of fact—and this asshole, through some horrible mean smallness of the heart, was alchemizing it into proof for all his horrible mean smallness.

In my Southern Baptist education I was taught that it’s an unforgivable sin to attribute God’s work to the devil.

(Though that’s evidence of smallness in me, too, that snarky sentence right there. An atheist dem browbeating a religious conservative with scripture is an act of cruelty for its own sake. It’s a way of saying, I’m so much better than you that look, I can whip you on your own terms—terms I don’t even pretend to accept. I’m stereotyping, to boot: Scott was no Christian.)

It’s a paradox that the governing philosophy founded on an aspirational ethos (that traditional structures be not atrophied and individual agency not stunted by the hand of government) is the one today most inclined to see the worst in people. For years Republicans have won the votes of people they’ve thrown under the bus by framing scapegoats for the violence. The welfare queens threw you under the bus. The inner city threw you under the bus. The Mexican rapists who took your jobs threw you under the bus. The non-believers, the worthless college students and the liberal media threw you under the bus. (Yes, somehow it is the fault of the liberal media.) Also the gays did it. Big government did it. “Activist” judges did it. The national debt that we’ve so diligently watered when it was our turn to hold the can (but never mind that) did it. The bleeding-heart-soft-on-crime democrats did it. Darwin did it. Actual science did it. And now, while you’re not paying attention, we’re going to slash food stamps while repealing the estate tax, so that Sam Walton’s great-great-great-great-great grandson never has to work a day in his life. Vote Republican!

Finally it’s TrumpTrump, the tasteless outsider, Trump, the reader of the National Enquirerwho has the grapes to call the kettle black: It’s our leaders, folks. They’re stupid.

*

Now we’ve come to the part of the blogpost where I once again reference an early Louis C.K. bit:

There’s an early Louis C.K. bit about how stupid is the one thing you can’t get away with. People respect the crazy man and shower praise on the disabled, but if you’re stupid, people hate you: “What are you, stupid? Shut up, you stupid shit!”

There has always been this sneering element among the luminaries of the far rightparticularly of the AM radio set, which has none-too-gradually infiltrated the ecosystems of the heretofore not batshit insane. Though generally an exemplar of the field, Rush Limbaugh’s aborted foray into SportsCenter was not representative: Sean Hannity made the transition from the low bandwidth to the big screen; Glenn Beck’s blessing is courted by mainstream Republicans; and the guy who invites guests to come and be yelled at to shut up in front of a national audience, Bill O’Reilly, adopted his entire persona from the spectrum. The sneer is, to me anyway, as emblematic of the right as the frothy latte is of the left. It denotes a way of being in the world that is adversarial, dominating, incurious and intolerant. In a word: illiberal. In Trump, the sneer has reached its apotheosis.

Remember that Ainsley Hayes episode of West Wing where she takes Josh to task for not liking the people who oppose him on gun control? It isn’t that he doesn’t like the guns, is her point: it’s that he doesn’t like the people. And since we’re all Americans here and all in this together, we need to at least, and always, like each other.

Maybe this is what Obama was thinking of when he referred to the show as a “liberal fantasy.”

I want to like the people on the other side, but I often don’t think this is possible. Besides the litany of policy conflicts, there are vast, yawning aesthetic differences to overcome. I just don’t feel like mustering the energy to try and bridge gaps with someone wearing a pin that says KFC HILLARY SPECIAL: 2 FAT THIGHS, 2 SMALL BREASTS, LEFT WING. (Yes, that exists. I’m sorry.)

We should at least like some of the same things, though. We should at least appreciate, in common, a few of the tenets that make us Americans. For instance: religious freedom. For instance: the right to due process. For instance: a tradition of transparency in electoral politics. For instance: a respect for those who’ve served their country. For instance: the importance of a free and watchdog press.

But the people who gather in the toxic safe space around the Donald to vent their spleens against everyone guilty of throwing them under the bus don’t care about those things. Not really. Not with their feet. When they cheer their candidate’s proposal to impose religious tests on immigrants, when they embrace his enthusiasm for torture and his disdain for the Miranda rights, when they forgive the Braggart of Braggarts’ hilarious refusal to release his tax returns, when they permit him to castigate prisoners of war for having been dumb enough to get caught, and when they remain indifferent as he punishes each institution that has the temerity to truthfully report his actions, they as much as sing out their contempt for American values.

If they’re citizens of anything, it’s television.

*

The thing about stupidity is that it’s irreversible. Ignorance you can stamp out. This is one of the things my office-neighbor, Mr Mashburn, is always reminding me of. “On your way to stamp out ignorance?” he’ll ask me when I’m going to class. “You know it,” I’ll say. And in class, day after day, quarter after quarter, waves of ignorance break against the bulwark of education. Mr Mashburn’s been doing it for a whole career. He’s about to retire. In fact, he might have just attended his final graduation ceremony. It was an odd one.

The honor guard came out with the flag and their rifles and their funny cadence, and right after we sang “America the Beautiful” they departed in their funny, halting way. Said Mashburn in his sonorous southern barritone, sotto voce on the stage, “That might be a bit premature.” Which was accurate, because next we were lead in the Pledge of Allegiance: a whole auditorium of people with their hands on their hearts, staring at the faculty with their hands on their hearts, pledging allegiance to a flag that wasn’t there—or, pledging allegiance to each other.

When you call someone stupid, you dehumanize them. You say: there’s no rescuing you, you aren’t even worth the effort. It isn’t a coincidence that the same campaign that says “Don’t let the back door hit you on the way out” to people threatening emigration in the event of a Trump victory has laid its foundation on calling people stupid.

They say that contempt is the one emotion a marriage can’t survive. In this analogy, the flag is the ring we all wear to signify our marriage to each other.

I want to stomp and cry and call them stupid, too. But if I did, I’d be helping to drag the flag from the room. And my concern is that, once it’s gone, we won’t get it back.

 

 

Nonverbal

Posted on May 4, 2016

1.

WNYC’s On the Media is a great show. One of the things that makes it so is its peerless audio editing. A story from one of its (since deceased) staff members spoke to this aspect: how surprised he was, upon experiencing the process, that Bob Garfield did not in fact always have precisely the word right to hand, but sometimes went searching for it, like the rest of us, behind the wandering torch of a prolonged uhhhhhhhhh; or that each of Brooke Gladstone’s interviewees did not instantly reply to her stunningly composed questions in clean, perspicacious paragraphs. Rather, as with any other magic show, work was being done! Lots of it!

2.

We’re driving home from out of town Sunday, listening to the latest episode, and Gladstone’s interviewing a journalist about the bus that went missing in Mexico when this man says um-hmm in a perfectly natural way that nevertheless knocks me out of the narrative orbit. You don’t normally hear um-hmms in On the Media. Normally they dandruff the cutting room floor, is my guess, victims of the producers’ yen for musically uncluttered dialogue. This one, though, was crafty: it’d been threaded inexcisably between Gladstone’s words. A freight-car-hopping um-hmm. A tumor you can’t cut out. An itsy bitsy little morsel of information. But what is it, exactly: um-hmm? Is it even grammatical?

3.

Arielle and I puzzle over this for a few miles. Clearly, um-hmm is “yes.” Suddenly there is so much to think about. The next day, waiting at the deli for sliced turkey, I scribble down a second list next to my grocery list: categories of speech that can be expressed vocally without using words. It gets more interesting after yes and no.

4.

Let me think about that, for instance, can take many forms. The straight-up, considered hmm belongs here, of course—perhaps the Model T of the hummed nonverbal set—but so to does the aforementioned full-throated uhhhhhhhhhI am shocked could come across in numerous ways, though the one that first occurred to me deliside was the old-fashioned rapid-intake-of-breath (hhe?)That feels good might take the prize for broadest category, comprising the oofs of sitting in chairs alongside the hummed exhalations of getting your feet rubbed and sex’s gamut of breaths and moans.

5.

A little looking revealed the term backchannel: defined by google as “a sound or gesture made to give continuity to a conversation by a person who is listening to another.” According to my researches, the most common backchannels in American English are: yeahuh-huhhmright, and OK. Clearly, the scope of my investigation is larger (a bloodcurdling scream conveys meaning but does not provide continuity to any but the weirdest conversation), but what a swell place to start. Scroll to the bottom of the page referenced above and you will find links to a slightly ticcy Englishman lecturing on “clicking and tutting”, a very brief audio-visual representation of “Huh” being a universal word, and actually pretty fascinating schematics of backchannels in recorded and diagrammed action.

6.

One might intimate that hurts with a sharp inhale through the teeth or with a noise way back in the throat. Speaking in his final White House Correspondents’ Dinner over the weekend, President Obama joked that the media had covered Trump’s campaign with restraint and judiciousness. He commenced then with a trifecta of back-throat notes connoting moral judgement (doubled by the customarily wagging head) followed by a fourth note a full five seconds later! (This drama unfolds from time marks 22:24 – 22:30 in the above, if you’d like to see for yourself.) The fourth note is not so much a reiteration of the judgment as an avowal of baffled helplessness: a Tevya moment.

7.

That hurts or that feels bad encompasses a vast range of nonverbal responses. We can say it with a twitch, a flinch, a look, a coloring. We can say it with a mood, or by retaliating. By pleading and crying, shaking our fist, shaking all over. We can say it by vowing revenge or retreating into silence.

8.

When something tastes good, there’s a noise for that. It’s different from when something tastes refreshing. The former is typically another back-of-the-throat noise, while the latter is a cold, happy exhalation, ala the Busch beer commercials of old. The former might start high, dive low, go high twice more and finish low (a ditty of enjoyment that must have come from somewhere, ’cause everything did, and was it a commercial, probably? Some grandma in hair-curlers, licking a spoon clean and shaking her hips? Did I just create that image?) but the latter is always true. (My touchstone for that was refreshing is Danny Glover’s character in Silverado, integrating a saloon by having his first sip of whisky in ten days.) (Which is strange, when you think about it, because no matter your take on whisky, it is many things, but it is seldom refreshing.) (O.K., I can’t find the scene I’m talking about on youtube, but if you watched the one I linked to, trust me, after John Cleese is done straightening everything out, Glover walks over to the bar, knocks back the shot and emits this awesome, lip-smacking exhale of satiation.)

9.

Like animals—like animals—we laugh. But we giggle, too: hummed melodious giggles, spurred by tickles and pokes (Pillsbury Doughboy, anyone?). We inflect the hmm of thoughtfulness and it becomes skepticism. Like animals—animals—we growl.

10.

I must warn you, once you start noticing backchannels, they are wonderful and distracting. Arielle and I are having some beers in our library, making recordings of these noises, incapable either of omitting backchannels or ignoring them. I tell her I learned that people wait about 700 milliseconds after hearing a low note of about 100 milliseconds to voice one. I pause fractionally and she fills the gap with an um-hmm—completely on autopilot. I discover a bias toward right in my own speech. The proffered backchannel says: I am listening to you and you’re not insane. It says that rhythm is essential to dialogue.

11.

Representations of which often leave much to be desired. I remember that one of the nasty things people would do when George W. Bush was President was reproduce verbatim his speech to emphasize its clumsiness. Of course he was a bad speaker, but a verbatim transcript of anyone’s language is invariably the written equivalent of the first HD cameras making luminous and unignorable the caked-on makeup and cratering pores of TV personalities. For the most part, it’s a miracle that any of us are ever understood. We speak in dizzied ill grammar. We’re experts at filling-in each other’s lacunae. We slosh about in a rain of fragments and change case and tense at the drop of a hat. It’s a mess. Or it isn’t. It’s an inimitable solo. Your voice is a singular instrument, and when you play it, I weave in my rights, my uh-huhs, to say I hear you, you make sense, because conversationalists duet better.

12.

You can make how about that? with an uptilted hum, like a jaunty fedora: the audible equivalent of a cocked eyebrow. You can do I don’t get itI’m exhausted and, maybe my favorite, I didn’t mean to do that. We compared notes and decided Nicholson Baker, author of The Mezzanine, was right when he noted that women say “Oops” and men say “Oop.” Louis C.K. nailed it, too, riffing on those moments when you say nothing at all. You enter an occupied elevator, go to press a button and realize it’s already been activated. What noise do you make? And what the hell does that mean?

13.

An occupied elevator is a weird sort of audience, isn’t it? It’s either no stage or all stage. And that stuff matters! Only the most self-centered person in the world would let fly the backchannels as a student in a classroom during a lecture, but as soon as the professor is responding to a particular question, that questioner often feels swept up by a tide of um-hmms and yeahs. A little reaction is O.K., though, at a poetry recital, and encouraged during a certain kind of church service. We’re informed by the rules of wherever we are.

14.

Masters of prose dialogue are praised for their ears, their uncanny knack for translating the spoken word into print. Elmore Leonard’s got shelves full of these accolades. So does Richard Price. An audacious actor might salt her silences with backchannels, but they’re only ever given the scantest role in books, which substitute tag lines. I remember a sequence of dialogue in Don Delillo’s Endzone: two college football players in earnest, worldly discussion in their dorm room. Delillo’s not much for the tag line—preferring to make his readers pay closer attention—but he deploys a whip-sharp “he said” after a short sentence and it stood out. At the time I’d thought he did it for the rhythm, and I still do. But now I know it was also a stand-in for um-hmm.

15.

Arielle recalls that one of her favored tactics is to isolate me in my speech: to let me go on and on in silence. She’ll stare at me, unblinking, with a slightly suspicious look, as if she is a five-year-old girl and I am a benign stranger. I will keep talking, becoming amused, feeling odd. She will deprive me of yeah, and O.K. until I am crutchless, unsupported, a guy talking-slash-dragging himself across the parched mesa of her silence. It’s funny because it’s true.

A Case for HRC

Posted on March 21, 2016

Hillary Clinton is not typecast for the role. Her figure doesn’t suggest power. Her voice belongs in the overlit, underairconditioned rooms of county party headquarters, not rising across a stadium of the devout, rinsing away their hopelessness. You can see her leading a shaggy, too-old group of volunteers in the Pledge. It is harder to imagine her establishing doctrines that radiate out across the globe from 1600 Pennsylvania, a commander of fleets and astronauts.

She’s got all her husband’s political baggage and none of his political skill, remarked a poster to an internet forum.

The Senate conservative’s favorite Democrat, said Senate conservatives, according to an article in Harper’s 

Neither a progressive, nor a liberal, until Bernie decided to run, wrote John MacArthur, that magazine’s publisher.

So what’s a gun-allergic, bible-abjuring, tax-amiable lefty like myself thinking? Why am I not feeling the Bern?

OK, one reason is because, the nearer we come to the end of his historic presidency, the more I like Barry, and she’s the most like him of anyone running.

He’s by no means been the black Messiah progressives hoped for, but let’s be honest: the root of that disappointment should rightly be assigned to progressives them(our)selves, who in 2008 succumbed en masse to a fever dream, googly-eyed with romance, heedless to the clues (they weren’t concealed) that Obama fancied himself an intellectually honest pragmatist first, a liberal partisan not at all. (This should have been obvious even from his national coming-out party: the “audacity of hope” speech at Kerry’s convention.)

(It’s a sad shitty tragic thing that his administration had to exist in the same swamp with Mitch McConnell and his yahoo caucus; think of what could’ve been accomplished over the last eight years for our country [and our world] had the Republican Party not been…itself. Anyway, the new insanity is upon us, and it’s worse and different than it’s been in our lifetime. The inevitable eruption of the GOP is making Mister President look better every day.)

“I miss Barack Obama,” wrote conservative columnist David Brooks a little while ago, suffering a bit of nostalgia-for-the-present (saudade [sow-DAH-chey], is how I just learned the Portugese refer to this condition).

He has such a knack for taking the heat out of things, a SXSW attendee said of the President, who’d addressed a group there about justice and iPhones.

The only grown-up in the room–that’s how they’ll write it up in history.

I’m not sure it’s possible that he could’ve done more to bridge the gulf between his administration and its opposition, but it does seem that he exhausted his tool bag fairly quickly. In the theatre, actors playing characters who are trying to get something from someone else are exhorted to change their tactics: if reason isn’t working, try flattery. If flattery doesn’t do the trick, try sweet. Try hot. Whatever it takes. But the dynamic between the Prez and his opponents (Obama: Be reasonable. Congressional Republicans: Won’t!) has been remarkably consistent from the beginning. Say that’s his greatest political shortcoming: a lack of creativity in terms of combating the cynical intransigence of his self-proclaimed enemies. This is not I think a problem he shares with Hillary.

I’d rather be caught trying, the Secretary of State told her staff.

That was in the lead-up to the Libyan intervention, which, OK, not the best example, but the point remains: she’s an inveterate tryer. She believes in it. She is, in this way, nearly the photo-negative of the fraying Republican monolith that works (well…) in the Capitol Building. Where our current president is a thoughtful and finicky cat, repelled by squalor, Hillary is (oh dear) a hound at peace with muddy scrums if muddy scrums are called for.

I like that she isn’t an ideologue. I like most everything Bernie has to say and I think, unfortunately, that he’s right: the only way he can deliver on his promises is if he surfs in on a tremendous and revolutionary wave. Very recent history shows us that waves of such a scale are not unheard of (Obama ’08), it’s their tendency to dissipate upon impact that’s terminal.

(He tried to tell us that, too–Obama did–first in his acceptance speech when he originally won the party’s nomination [It’s about you, he said] and again in his second inaugural [when he answered the right’s ceaseless anti-government bromides with a long overdue paean to citizenship].)

No. The campaign to move the dial left needs to be wider and deeper than what Bernie can offer. It needs to happen in every state at the grassroots level, gradually (imagine the America that went frothing mad over the Affordable Care Act reacting to President Sanders’s first hundred days to-do list); it needs to be organized around quantifiable goals (overturning right-to-work laws, for instance; reversing the [very recent] legal notion that the 2nd amendment grants an individual’s absolute right to own firearms); and it needs to be financed beyond the lifespan of one charismatic curmudgeon’s Quixotic run for office. Bernie is a great conversation starter (he’s certainly preferable to the one the Republican underbelly belched up), but he’s not the guy to bring it home. No one person is.

HRC may not be up to the task of putting out the fire in Washington, but she might over time do quite a bit to curtail its spread. A president who doesn’t come into office saddled with grandiose hopes, who is more concerned with substance than with optics, who’d rather be caught trying, might be the best thing we can expect right now. A president who began her political career with a listening tour, for crying out loud, sounds awfully refreshing.

I keep thinking about Elder Bush: a pragmatic technocrat intolerant of partisan silliness who looks better and better all the time. He didn’t have “the vision thing” in a moment when “the vision thing” was ascendant. (He also didn’t have much of the personality thing.) But that crap can be misleading. To use a metaphor he would appreciate, lots of baseball players get promoted on the basis of an individual tool (usually power) even while, on the daily, they vastly underperform their less glamorous colleagues. When Elder Bush assumed the Oval, its previous occupant had been an undisputed master of vision–someone capable, when he wasn’t napping, of hitting immense rhetorical home runs. He got drummed out by a personality equally as large. And that’s pretty much where we’ve been stuck for a long time. (Although it might be worth noting that the current president described his foreign policy as a singles hitter.)

This is weak tea so far as political endorsements go, I know, but we would do well to temper our enthusiasm when it comes to our leaders. The yen for a single fixer who can come in and solve all our problems is childish, and it opens the door to the Trumps of the world. Plus, it’s undemocratic.

Of course, that yen is encouraged by those who would lead us. Which is another reason I like Hillary. She isn’t selling herself like that. She’s selling herself as a team player…someone who will lay down a sacrifice bunt, steal a bag, go the other way to advance the runner. (It’s Spring, so I’m kind of basebally right now.) Perhaps what the country could benefit from the most at present is someone who takes the job more seriously than she takes herself. Looking at the field of available candidates, there’s no question to me who that is.

She fights, she loses sometimes, she comes back, she wins. She tries, she adapts, she tries again, she keeps her eye on the ball. She knows she won’t please everyone, she knows she’s not a natural politico, she knows it isn’t going to be easy.

Could we maybe give that a try?

 

Loon Lake: A Meditation on Death and Tom Clancy

Posted on July 22, 2015

Well, now E.L. Doctorow is dead.

There’s a lot I don’t know about Doctorow. For instance, I am only just today, now that he’s dead, learning that he was, politically, a great lefty.

My dad gave me a book of his years ago called Loon Lake. I read some but not all of this book before putting it down. I’ve moved it approximately one million times. Early on it’d be taken from a bookshelf that was being moved too, filed with its colleagues into a cardboard box, lugged, then slipped back in among its colleagues onto the same bookshelf, now in some unfamiliar room. Eventually the bookshelves were replaced; the book kept moving.

In grad school I was struck when a professor referred to a book as a “technology”. It’s really an incredible piece of technology when you think about it, she said. We clashed a lot, this professor and I, although I ended up having nothing but affection for her. Affection can creep up on you like that, co-opting what’s mean in you.

But it’s true: they really are amazing pieces of technology. A book is a middle finger to Impermanence. Loon Lake had lives in the minds of probably hundreds of thousands of people, and even though its author is dead it will continue to. The ship doesn’t sink with the captain.

I don’t really have what you’d call a relationship with Loon Lake. I remember that there’s passengers on a train all heading in the same direction for different reasons, and that my dad had highlighted a monologue in which a grown-up was advising a youngster on the importance of determining what level of moral compromise he’d be willing to accept in life, and staying there, and not exceeding that level. I think.

This embarrasses me a little, even though it probably shouldn’t, but my first favorite author was Tom Clancy. I borrowed a copy of Patriot Games from my mom and read it when I was probably 12 or 13. Clancy didn’t used to be such a hack; there were very thoughtful explorations in that book, which had a lot to do with the Irish Republican Army, about terrorism. A lot of these passages were underlined in the book–passages concerning when it could be arguably permissable for a person to act if the state wouldn’t or couldn’t—and I remember being genuinely afraid that my sweet Baptist mother was hatching a terroristic scheme. Because you’re stupid when you’re a kid!

Then I realized the book originally belonged to her friend Beverly, and I felt a tremendous relief, because obviously Beverly was the terrorist, and my mom was safe.

I did the flashlight-under-the-blanket-thing with Larry Bond’s Cauldron, a global military techno thriller about a war in South Africa. I was way into tanks and shit, bombers. I had my own favorite Air Force jet. It wasn’t even an especially fast or powerful one—I just thought it looked cool. I watched a History Channel show narrated by George C. Scott (of course) called “Brute Force” and got really excited by the prospect of cruise missiles that delivered a payload of multiple independently-targeted heat-seeking bombs. I wrote long imitative fictions about the U.S. going to the brink of war with North Korea. I remember having a Secretary of Defense tell the President the line “You can’t spell nuclear without unclear” and thinking I was a chubby genius.

These young versions of you are ineradicable. I cannot erase the chubby genius with a hard-on for Jane’s Defence Weekly. Even in a Faulkner seminar in college, even unthreading The Sound and the Fury around a whisky-wet table with hot, smart friends, all of whom have lit cigarettes and divergent opinions, he haunts me. You’re more Benjy than Quentin, he says. You’d rather be reading 1960s baseball fiction—admit it. But why should I resent him? Why shouldn’t I just be grateful for having had a gateway passion and be done with it?

Because good lefties should start off reading Tolkien? I don’t know. Because I feel like a fake. Because now the chubby genius wants to be seen reading Pynchon. Because during one my blacker moods as an undergraduate it seemed that the study of literature trained readers how to appreciate what they didn’t love and dismiss what they did. Because if Loon Lake had been more like The Cardinal of the Kremlin and less like Loon Lake I probably finish it.

More and more these days I bump into the necessity of forgiving myself for being who I am. What a pain in the ass it is, always running yourself down and then picking yourself up. “You are a piece of shit, Walsh.” “Hey, go easy on him! He’s only human!” “Why didn’t you finish that fucking book?” “Calm down! Can’t you see he’s trying to sleep?”

It’s like you have to flog that flimsy genrelove out of you with Seriousness. Why can’t I can’t get affection to co-opt all that meanness?

Mostly what gnaws at me is the suspicion that my slavish commitment to Sloth is undermining my talent, consigning me to historical irrelevance and ruining Arielle’s life.

*

Speaking of ostentatious Pynchonianism: it is well known among The Bucktooth’d One’s fans that he writes with a Post-It note affixed to his monitor reading ESCHEW SLOTH. “And Sloth,” he wrote in an essay on the subject for the NYT, “being continual evasion, just kept piling up like a budget deficit, while the dimensions of the inevitable payback grew ever less merciful.”

I’ve been writing the same novel now for oh about three years. It’s great and I love it and when I can’t sleep at night I think about what’s happening in it, what’s happened in it, and what’s going to happen in it. It’s about 120- or 130-pages long, which is really bupkus for three years’ work. You have to put some pretty serious effort into just absolutely farting around in order to duck 300 pages after 1000 days.

I have a relationship with this inactivity. It evolves. Sometimes it’s the bane of my existence and other times it’s actually admirable, like in a tranquil, Zen sort of way. Finishing things is overrated, I think. It really is about the journey. Oh, but, by the way, you’re going to be 40 in the blink of an eye, so maybe you better get scrivening there, pal. 

Melville knew. What were those 400 pages in the middle of Moby Dick but a prolonged deferral of narrative obligation? “Dear Reader,” he might as well have written after approximately the fiftieth page, “thank you very much for buying my book. I know I’ve set up quite the gripping tale here, what with the maniac captain’s relentless pursuit of the demonic beast and all, but the thing is, I’m really just flat terrified of finishing this mother, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to spend around 400 pages on the subject of whales in general. Then at the end I’ll sink the ship and we can all just get on with our fucking lives. Deal? Deal.”

My sister told me once about how Zadie Smith confessed to spending loads of time on the first halves of her books before rushing through to the end, and she said this explained Zadie Smith books for her.

The chunk of my book that’s written has been polished to an extraordinary gleam. I stroll through it regularly, rubbing sentences, holding paragraphs up to the light. The other half swims mostly intact and alive but unfished in my imagination. At night I visit it in its aquarium, admiring its beauty, doing next to nothing to dredge it out splattering and sputtering onto the page. What isn’t written yet is perfect. Then you have to go and pin it down: a naturalist killing a butterfly. But I digress.

Friend of mine had a t-shirt in Junior High: “Top 10 Reasons to Procrastinate: #1:”

Well, anyway. This has been a delightful couple hours at the office. You cannot see in here all the breaks, the living ellipses: the twenty minutes reading Nearer My Couch to Thee; the episodic sessions surfing Astros chat forums; the occasional outbreaks of honest work done. This meditation is lousy with punched holes. It is interlarded with air. Like the soul, writes T.P. in Mason & Dixonbread is mostly air. 

Maybe that’s just another example of That Which is Below resembling That Which is Above: looking at me, the stranger cannot see the chubby genius thrillingly turning the pages of military potboilers; or the son putting down the book his father gave him to read and letting the memory of it vanish into the fog bank; or the thirtysomething donning a nightly mental hair shirt. We are each an index of what we can’t forget, and each alone in the remembering.

This year, as soon as I’ve finished THE THOMAS PYNCHON BOOK I’M CURRENTLY READING, I’ll pick up Loon Lake.

Thanks, mom, Thanks, dad. Thanks, Tom. Thanks, E.L.

D.W.

The disordered room

Posted on April 8, 2015

I woke up this morning thinking about a poem one of Arielle’s friends read at our wedding: a Mary Oliver poem, “#13”, the last one in her excellent collection, West Wind. After a concise introduction (It is midnight, or almost), a long breath of wind rushes into the poet’s room, touching everything, upheaving her manuscripts, entering even the pockets of the clothes hanging in her closet and wobbling the lampshade before getting inhaled back toward the ocean and a sky rife with stars. The wind’s winding, almost punctuationless sentence concludes by placing the poet on the scene, sitting at her desk, smiling: I pick up a pencil, I put it down, I pick it up again. / I am thinking of you. / I am always thinking of you.

Originally I thought the wind was a metaphor for love: the singular disordering ungrammatical event of love. In its reckless, breathless sweep the alphabet is lost. Then, quickly, after frisking every interior surface of its object, it goes out the way it came in.

We were English majors! We were drunkards! Drunk with poetry, drunk with love, and quite often drunk with whisky. We were smart enough to get the most out of not knowing how to handle this new, ferocious, hilarious way of life. Our wedding program began with the epigram Robert Hass wrote for his 1979 collection, Praise:

We asked the captain what course

of action he proposed to take toward

a beast so large, terrifying, and

unpredictable. He hesitated to

answer, and then said judiciously:

“I think I shall praise it.”

Our previous lives were smashed by the Interloper. No sense resisting it. A moment ago our futures had contained infinite possibilities, now they just contained each other, and that was that. Only a fool would try and squash capital l Love down to something manageable. That’s why the poet smiling in her wind-tumbled room makes sense: she knows that this particular tyrannical visitor is to be welcomed—greedily. (Earlier, in probably the book’s most famous poem, “#2”, she instructs a young reader: There is life without love. It is not worth a bent penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a dead dog nine days unburied.)

This morning, though, yet a little flighty with dream logic, I thought: it’s not Love, it’s Time, Love’s interloping cousin.

Time, which, though always happening, tends only to occur to us in gusts. Time, which, in its ceaseless pouring, shuffles the indices of our minds, crawls through our bookshelves, intermixes our chapters. Time, which, while invisible, adjusts the light we see ourselves in.

In one thought I thought: Isn’t it funny: am I only now, seven years later, thinking about this? and No, no—I’ve always thought this, haven’t I?

*

I have been preoccupied lately with the idea of “the past”. In a recent very vivid and internally logical dream I assembled a minor philosophy of life revolving around the concept of memory: it is chiefly what separates us from our cats, say, who can be livid with you one second and five minutes later purring and supplicant. Memory of the past is what makes us smarter than we were in the past. By definition, we improve at life every day because we have a greater reservoir of past to draw on. There’s an inverse relationship between the length of our future and its immediate quality.

Then I’ve been thinking: actually the past is stupid, as in intransigent, like a mule. It’s stupid because you can’t do anything about it. It just fucking sits there being what it is. It doesn’t even have respect for you enough to cackle or taunt or sneer. You’re irrelevant to the past, yea tho’ thou plow and sow It, tho’ It be meat and milk to thee.

But, truth is, the past’s a malleable, liquidy thing, perforated with lacunae. We’ve each of us got darkened wings in our libraries, entire card catalogues locked and keyless.

I was recently reminded of an incident in grade school: a food fight that led to my and a classmate’s week-long internment in separate little rooms: In School Suspension. Was this before or after she and I shared our first French kiss? Don’t know. Don’t remember. I’m not even sure I honestly remember the food fight, or the ISS. I may have populated the recounting with a troupe of old feelings trained in the School of Trouble and convinced myself I remembered. Like moths feel made of other moths, memories sometimes are Lego constructions of other memories.

Could it be this was the first time I was in serious trouble? Could be, sure. Maybe someone else has access to this particular cache. I do not.

We are just flat stuck in these rooms. It’s always nearly midnight in them, and the moment you find time to sit and write something sensical, great big snapping bolts of time come in and blow everything around. Did you always feel this way, or is it just occurring to you now? Can you even tell the difference?

*

It’s helpful to have big ass epic moments standing out back there amid all the fog to, if nothing else, show how far you’ve come.

At our ceremony, Julia’s voice caught somewhere between the poem’s last two sentences. You don’t realize how much heavy “#13is packing until the end. Mary Oliver is a tall woman, but she hides behind that wind and then socks your nose in the last stanza.

Her voice caught, which of course meant both Arielle and I got misty, locked eyes.

The wind, time, whatever, it was just distraction; just some noise while I thought about you. Not even the sifting ocean of the past can bury that.

—D.W.

And now, reproduced for you, in its entirety and without permission, the poem:

West Wind #13

It is midnight, or almost.

Out in the world the wind stretches

bundles back into itself like a hundred

bolts of lace then stretches again

flows itself over the windowsill and into the room

it scatters the papers from the desk

it is in love with disorganization

now the manuscript is on the floor, and reshuffled

now the chapters have married each other

now the alphabet is lost

now the white curtains are tossing wing on wing

now the body of the wind snaps

it sniffs the closet it touches into the pockets of the coats

it touches the shells upon the shelves

it touches the tops of the books

it slides along the walls

now the light lamp wavers

as the body of the wind swings over the light

outside a million stars are burning

now the ocean calls to the wind

now the wind, like water slips under the sash

into the yard the garden the long black sky

in my room after such disturbance I sit, smiling.

I pick up a pencil, I put it down, I pick it up again.

I am thinking of you.

I am always thinking of you.

      —Mary Oliver