A Saturday night, my spouse is out (helping one of our young adult kids). I’m listening to an old Art Bell broadcast dealing with the Death Penalty. It’s of interest to me, not just because of the topic, but thinking to some hints in chats with my kids of just how much existential threats and the like they have to deal with. It brings me back to thinking about the ’90s’, a time of goofy, non-historic weirdness. I mean there were bad things of course, but not of the ‘caliber’ that the 21st century has brought us.
If I were a better writer, or a writer with more time, or both, then I think there is something there, linking 1990s and todays crap and the Death Penalty and, though I didn’t address it earlier, Peggy Noonan and abortion. I still feel so small on many things in life.
It’s been over a year since I’ve written on this site. Looking at leftovers, I have 3 drafts that I never posted. I wonder what the value is in those. I’ll look at them – it feels like those times when I am aware of books that are collections of correspondence for historical figures and I am amazed that they might make interesting reading in themselves. A recent review of such for Robert Frost was so well written it made me want to revisit his works and maybe dive into that book. A new type of literary work which I’ve never explored. Time enough for surprises I guess.
I have really disliked what I’ve seen about myself during the Pandemic. I wonder how much of it is that, being alone with oneself more often, one sees or spends more time self-reflecting. When we are with one another, as much time is spent vollying back reactions-spoken or unspoken, as a stranger or familiarly – as there is initiating the activity. It seems like part of my inner life is filling in for both roles. What I’ve seen is how often I think poorly or am mean in my thoughts towards others and maybe a little more time fealing sorry for myself.
I walk down streets and people coming into ‘my space’ annoy me. I’m eager to put my annoyance on display. If a runner is coming down the sidewalk, I turn around (especially if I have my dog) so I can appear to have not noticed them coming on me and I can then glance up and back away, shaking my head at the obvious immoral and rude behavior on their part. I feel the same at grocery stores. I put myself into a moral panic about what others are doing and want to be the one being in obvious consternation. I think it indirectly is an act of putting myself ‘above’ others. And I hate it.
When I first really came to know my spouse, we were both in a bit of a dark time in our lives. We were neighbors in an apartment complex in Ann Arbor, Michigan. A lot of our dating and getting to know each other had a slight overcast of reflection on life as the young adults we had been and some uncertainty about what it all meant. I recall a recurrent daydream that would come to me in those days where I felt like she and I were two young abandoned kids in a ruined city, destroyed by some war or cataclysm that was not understandable to us – it just provided a backdrop. As kids, we played, somewhat innocent of something more serious than we had the capacity or interest to care about.
In the past couple years, one of the things that I have struggled with is matching up what I see as my giving to her and wanting more back from her. I’ve thought about it from a lot of angles. In my worst moments, I find myself expressing the intention that she really doesn’t ‘love me’. I think of the material things I do for her. I think of the still barely faded, gut-wrenching physical attraction I have for her. I think of how readily and eagerly I go where she wants to go. I have abandoned much of things and places which I value. I struggle to match up these with something similar from her that I could tie to a visible sentiment of love.
There are other moments lately where I think I sense the outline of some broader truth that I’m missing. Or maybe another truth. In those early days of seeing each other, I emphasized to her that I didn’t want a mirror. I was looking or wanting others – other thoughts, other feels, other looks – which by being not me were a way of assuring me I wasn’t alone. I was lonely. I wanted to live in places where there were lots of (other) people. Now in a more mature part of our lives, I wonder if I’ve missed a little of my own sensitivity to ‘other’. I wonder if her being very obviously happy with our life is in itself something bigger that she gives back to me that I haven’t appreciated.
It’s a shade of truth that I can see as a blind spot for me. I’ve convinced myself over time to think that ‘one should want a good life, not necessarily a happy one’. I put that sentiment in quotes because it has become almost a religious little mantra for me. In the same way medieval people might look for little sayings and prayers for protection, I think there’s a part of me that says it as a protection against the worry that I won’t have happiness or, being more forgiving, that happiness is such a shallow thing that I am ensuring something deeper that I can trust I’ll strive for without quite reaching. How else to reconcile with existential fears of infinity?
I didn’t want to end this post on that thought, it seems way to self-centered in a way that goes against my real emotion in writing this which was about seeing the good that is my spouse being happiness and what that gives back to me.
I’m sure most of us are spending time doing things which have come to be habits and which weren’t habits before the pandemic. I spend a lot more time sitting on our deck (3rd floor of a town home) and so I watch the trees grow and fade with time. A little more specifically, I guess I pay attention to the growth and fading of the leaves.
I’ve always liked paying attention to them, even in pre-pandemic times. Some of that comes from a childhood with a lot of time spent being outside ‘in the weeds’ as we would say. I was also quite addicted to Tolkein and he certainly paid attention to trees and the land throughout his stories. Trees and landscapes would literally be figures.
There are two trees which come very close to our deck. One is a Gingko and one is a deciduous of a type I’m not sure – a Basswood? It’s odd in that it has leaves whose stems come from the center of the leaf rather than an apex. As I’ve written before, the end of summer brings colors which show the Basswood having aged to a dark and dry green while the Gingko stays closer to its bright, light green throughout the summer. Now as October readies most trees to fade and drop, the Basswood has turned a yellowish which reminds me of some ripe pears. The ones which are a pale green when not ripe and fade to the yellow as they go soft and then too soft.
I was pondering the Basswood yesterday and how the leaves are always ultimately connected to one another as in a connected graph and it comes to my mind that clusters of leaves form a community and I realize that I come to think of the leaves as denizens and the bulk of the tree as that which connect them. I know that the whole is the real thing, so why do I give an identity to the most ephemeral part of it?
A very happy event came to me this week. The local bookstore (The Book Table) started getting periodicals again. I think I’ve alluded in the past to my enjoyment of well written book reviews and how The New York Review of Books is the pinnacle of this art form. When the pandemic descended, the bookstore dealt with it for a time by allowing one to order online and then go to the back door to receive your purchases – a little like a 1930’s speakeasy type of thing. Sadly, it turned out that they would not make periodicals like the NYRB available. Maybe receiving those deliveries was too much of a manual process like getting newspapers delivered.
The Book Table had started allowing people to go into the store when Summer came. I’ve tried pretty hard to not go into places that I don’t need to and I stuck to my backdoor access instead – and we used it; I’ve bought a couple books and our daughters asked for a few which my spouse and I were happy to buy. This past week, we went to pick up a book I had bought (Man’s Fate, Andre Malreaux. I’m sure I’ll write on that at some point, very much a favorite which I’ve reread many times). This time though, I went into the store. That was interesting in itself – a bookstore is necessarily a tactile place. You browse, touch, flip pages, read – just like going to a food store or farmer’s market. Prominent signs made clear the need to use the omnipresent hand sanitizers. Despite the daily or hourly chatter of this or that implication of the pandemic, it had not sunk in with me the particular challenge for a place like the bookstore. I took a pretty cautious approach, joyously noted the NYRB and took a copy from the back of the stack.
The first article was a review of a new book from Elena Ferrante by Elaine Blaire. I knew of Ferrante by name but haven’t read anything of hers. It was a great review. One of the nuggets in it was a paragraph on how Ferrante’s characters who write or reflect or meditate are dealing with the challenge of how does one organize the jumble of thoughts that run through your head and memories and shape them into something. I am not doing it justice right now, but it was written well enough that I reflected on how it has a similarity to aspects of my own life – whether written or otherwise. In physics, there’s a notion which is conveyed in the idea of entropy that organization has information inherent in it which is not always directly related to the objects being organized. Not surprising really but it interests me.
At the same time, this idea conflicts with other ideas around how to run a life. Sometimes when I think of the depth and discipline I need to learn about things I want to do or need to do, I start down the path of thinking that I need to organize for the future; I will do X for this period of time on days A and B. But I reflexively recoil almost immediately. It might be a result of getting older, but I feel like the flexibility I retain by not deciding ahead of time exactly what I will do and when is more important to life and to doing things than the rigidity of an organized plan. Is there room for the apparent chaos in waiting to the last moment to decide what to do? I’m not sure.
I write so much less than I’d like to, or maybe what I imagine I’d like to. For a good part of this cursed Summer of 2020, I’ve had an outline of some thoughts about leaves I wanted to express. It’s something in late Summer that catches my senses. In the formal, professional, work world, there’s a weird dynamic where you wonder on which day is it that you are supposed to start perseverating (I know I’m wrong here, a word I picked up from my wife many years ago) about the end of what you want to continue and the forced start of what you have no interest in. In Summer, late July brings a kind of similar thought and feeling.
Summer is dead. The time for getting ready for something else, something not yours, is coming. I see it in nature, in particular in the trees and their leaves. They’ve reached deep maturity at this time of year, their green is not delicate, but dark and matte. There’s an exception though – the Ginkgo tree. It behaves like an adolescent when it needs to have the proper solemnity. Ironic, given that it is ancient from an evolutionary perspective. But I envy that Ginkgo.
I have more on this but am pausing for now.
I was biking with my spouse today. She had the one of her two jobs which brings her home earlier on Fridays. She’s been having various aches, pains, etc. that are keeping her from a lot of the physical activity she likes and hence is open to sporadic opportunities to do other things, like today, she says – I’ll be home shortly. Let’s bike.
It’s a route we’ve come to like this Summer. A little more in her likes – decently rural, even if it is in an urban area. In the afternoon sun, my mind drifted to thinking about my son’s exposure to sexuality over the past couple years. One of the absolute best things about my wife, is that we’ve raised our kids to be open about sexuality – to the best we can at least. I know from my wife that with his last girlfriend he never came in certain situations, like getting blown. He had felt good enough to say that (ask? Not sure) to my spouse.
I’m not sure why that triggered what it did but it’s something. I found myself daydreaming about telling him (maturely of course) that the relationship between physicality and emotion is a strange one. The idea of what is ‘Love’ is tied up therein too. That led to an imagined soliloquy on how love shows itself this way with heavy cast of a certain kind of physicality but with any other person, it shifts and gives itself away in other ways. I thought and said a lot more in this ‘conversation’ and a good while into it, I realized that a lot of what came to be advice on Love I wanted to give, would be something I should bring into my own life.
Recently, I’ve had a lot of thoughts that centered around an admittedly self-centered notion of what am I getting [from our relationship/marriage]. Do I grab those opportunities to grow love and rethink it? Am I a bad person for not having done that? I guess its lazy in a sense to not keep pushing. ‘They lived happily ever after’ doesn’t suggest work to move to the next castle.
In particular, Holman Jenkins. I went through today’s (7/22/20) WSJ op-ed pages like I usually do. I want to do a better job of understanding the content of their arguments because so often I just get disturbed by the conclusions that I shake my head without giving them their due of actually reading the material. In working through Jenkins article this morning, I kind of remember why – well, at least one part of it – their writing just isn’t very good. To unpack all the points and figure out where things are assertions, where they are fact based and the apparent obfuscation which almost seems intentional to confuse just to get to the points.
I think his article’s point is that he has figure out that ‘it makes sense’ and therefore ‘is likely’ that the FBI’s leaks of information which appear buttress the case for some kind of collusion with Russia are a distraction from the FBI itself being a stooge for Russia in terms of the HRC emails.
By the end of the piece, its clear this is just Jenkins speculation and that it ‘fits’ to him, but nothing more. Along the way, though, he often conflates what ‘the FBI’ does with what specific individuals thought- or just hints at it. I think he’s talking about margin-notes from P. Strzok in interviewing a Steele source where he (PS) doubted elements of the source. Okay, but it’s a bit of an extrapolation to the view of the FBI.
Jenkins seems to make a lot of two things: 1) the coincidence in timing of the HRC investigation denouement and the probing of Trump campaign for Russia ties; and 2) what Jenkins sees as the contradiction between the PS comment and public statements made about the Steele-related investigation. Kind of thin I think. Oh, in between there’s the cry about why an appendix in an Inspector Generals’ report isn’t getting trumpeted because *surely* it is the key to this whole mess. An there’s a particularly awfully written paragraph about ‘lending verisimilitude to the media leaks’ via the use of dossier material in the FISA court requests. I had to read actual sentence 5 times to figure out what he was trying to say – as in ‘what is the subject’ and ‘what is the verb’. I’ll bet Holman had an orgasm using ‘verisimilitude’.
The claims that I would like to understand better are that the ‘FBI knew the collusion asserts were unfounded, false, baseless’ and also the legitimacy of the FISA court requests. Jenkins’ end-note speculates that Carter Page was an informant mischaracterized as a Kremlin agent. (at least I think that’s what he’s speculating’ -again, clarity is not a strong point with Holman).
Yesterday afternoon and evening seemed to be just a generally bleak time. I’m struggling to figure out how much of it is me, how much is just my sensitivity to the riot of ugliness in our days. My oldest daughter, I think focusing on herself, nearly accuses my youngest child of being racist because of his perspective on when people do racially insensitive acts out of ignorance. The youngest also had a very mild fever at the end of the night. At my work, I feel chronically under-appreciated and voiceless. My oldest was rejected for two more jobs and my middle child’s college is making decisions in terms of re-opening that are heartbreaking for her and (in my view) potentially psychologically damaging to her.