Short, essay-esque pieces, ideas, taken from the notebook where random thoughts on whys, whats, and hows, are jotted; presented in their original disorder, so as to be truly assorted.
One Size Fits None
One Size Fits None
Have you ever felt that when a celebrated author flouts Strunk and White-ish dos and don’ts (such as passive voice, adverbs, use of), her trailblazing gives hope to the little people? (And every time you’re told not to do something, isn’t it the thing you’ve just done?)
In fiction writing, “errors”, supposedly against rules, often are founded on illogical premises…which is to stand a thing in opposition to its own existence. Why? Because rules (really guidelines) that are needed, evolve naturally from the apparency of the need, and are curtailed naturally by the apparency of its limitations. Nagging opportunities that evolve from the wish to apply some authority dogmatically and across the board, function as their own gratification, but poorly as alleged principles.
Periodically, in Assorted Opinions, I will tackle some of the popular axioms on writing.
Consider these different ways of opening a story.
There was rain falling on the roof.
“There was” places the narrator at a distance from the scene. We assume the omniscient voice; he/she may be inside or outside the roof in question, and may or may not appear in this work as a character. We may not meet the hero before the stage has been set, or some history recounted.
Rain fell on the roof.
This has the sound of a closer narration; it implies the character, or group of characters, are in a place. The observation is someone’s perception.
Rain was falling on the roof.
All of the above, plus this makes the rain a condition that brackets the action or conversation to follow, as opposed to “fell”, where it is another component of a past event.
He heard rain.
You can shorthand all the way to this pithiest sentence of three words, with the character in the thick of the narrative, while the sense of place is implied. (If he were not indoors, he would perceive the rain more involvedly than merely to hear it.)
But then, to maintain that for having fewest words, this last is best, is to rate other ways of telling a story less valid; validity would be measured on the grounds of pithiness alone—which writers know is not how we work.
Most simply, an unnecessary word that counts as such, would be any the character wouldn’t know or use, in speech, or in narration that follows her thoughts and viewpoint.
(But, note, if I had said, “…in a narration that follows her thoughts and viewpoint…”, I would only have specified “this narration I’m talking about” as opposed to the notion of narration; while I might do the opposite—taking “her” away and the “s” from thoughts—to make thought and viewpoint into concepts, rather than examples.)
If I begin my story: “He had come indoors when it had started to rain”, I could (and should) dispense with the clunky second “had”, because the phrase in which it occurs is covered by the first. But can I change it to “He came indoors when it started to rain”? Only if the action has presently finished.
Were I to write:
He came indoors when it started to rain. Dressed, and sitting at the lunch table, he toyed with his fork…
…the words would take on a feeling of incongruity, order-of-events-wise.
And there is the whole field of humorous effect, wherein all verbosity, tautology, persiflage, rusticity and urbanity, confusion and conflation, are fine and useful.
So at the least remove or replace words:
- That are not true to the voice narrating.
This wedging-in process is tempting to writers of historical fiction, where there is so much information to impart.
(Every time Maryanne passed the Frickerson manor, her thoughts turned naturally to its origins—once an alehouse, erected at what, in 1786, had been a crossroads, marked with the first milestone beyond the village limits; the landlord, Jonas Fricherssen, also a barber by trade, and living with his family in the upstairs loft…)
- That are covered by predecessors.
- Whose meaning is implied by circumstance:
(He knocked his wine glass over on the table, and ruined the cloth.)
- That have the wrong number of syllables for the rhythm of the sentence.
- That are key—noun, verb, adjective, adverb…when this particular word communicates the very point you’re making, and needs to be vivid:
(With seconds to spare, he disengaged the apparatus.)
- If a word doesn’t on the page carry visual weight, or when spoken internally, emotional weight. (But again, not necessarily so in dialogue, or when aiming for humorous effect.)
Bury That Thing
You are familiar with news articles that go something like this:
DIY Project Yields Clue to Thirty-Year-Old Mystery
Tearing out drywall in an upstairs bedroom, Mike and Carol Merganser, of Watsier Point, made a gruesome discovery yesterday.
The Mergansers, high school sweethearts who married soon after graduating from Providence State University in 1975, moved to this quiet New Jersey suburb shortly after Ronald Reagan was elected president. Mr. Merganser is a longtime employee of Brutalitec Industries…
If you’re a typical reader, this is where you’d be saying to yourself, “Don’t care. What’s gruesome?” (Likewise the news site doesn’t much care, when you scroll down, and more ads load.)
The lead is buried. Or is it lede?
Typically, the explanation for the spelling, is that in linotype days the machinery used “leads” (of the metal kind), and to avoid confusion, the newsroom produced its own coinage. Possibly. The Mergenthaler (manufacturer of the Linotype machine) company manual spoke of matrices, slugs, magazines…“leads” seems not an official vocabulary word—but names for things can evolve.
And yet, picturing the matter intuitively…saying, for instance, that an editor had written, “Where’s the lead?”on a piece of copy’s margin, is it likely the reporter would mumble: “Well, this can’t be meant for me”; and afterwards, in the composing room, the linotypist would say to himself, “Huh. I don’t get it”?
This would be something like calling salient facts “bullets”, rather than leads, and fearing they’d get confused with the kind the security guard in the lobby uses, so in the newsroom, they should be called “bulléts.”
However, professions can use their own terminology, origin story plausible or otherwise. Why does “lede” annoy people?
I think it’s because the spelling suggests cultural studies concept-words, such as “mores” and “anomie”. Lede makes it seem as though an underlying contention exists, for an article of grand themes, offering subtext and symbolic layering. Lede looks very much like a Jungian term, and when it confronts someone unexpectedly, they must imagine they’re being told intellectual doings are afoot—and being talked down to.
Some Environmental Don’ts
But not of the scolding variety.
If you have a little patch of yard, or a double-sized lot, or some rural acreage, you can help the planet by employing tactics that are as easy as doing nothing.
One: Mow grass about a third as often as you might, especially if you’re a once-a-weeker. (Community rules allowing.)
A few things are going on here. Short grass grows roots that are shallow and thatchy. The roots aren’t healthy enough to penetrate deeply, helping the harder-working dandelions, clovers, and violets condition the soil; and can’t, under summer stresses, provide for even their own needs. The grass turns brown. If you choose to water and chemically treat your lawn…you make more work for yourself, and with bad consequences for the micro-ecosystem under your watch.
Cut your basic labor at the outset, and you won’t need to do these additional jobs. What else do you gain? Longer grass retains morning dew, keeps the ground cooler and moister close to its surface, matures a crop of seed…all of which are habitat features for tiny things—insects, spiders, centipedes, birds, snakes, and small rodents (many of these last are beneficial…and the odds are far greater you’ll never see them).
Two: Don’t rake leaves in the fall. (Again, if you can get away with it.) Up there in the trees, throughout the summer, insects we like (butterflies, moths, wasps…but even non-beneficials such as tent worms that birds we care about—cuckoos, warblers, orioles—eat), lay eggs, or pupate on the underside of leaves. The leaves fall, and if you rake them away or burn them, you’ve decimated your biome. Leaf mould makes warm winter shelter for those tiny things mentioned above, a breeding ground for useful microbes and funguses, nutrition for the roots of the trees the leaves fell from.
Three: Don’t bustle out with the spray bottle when you see your flowers under attack. Diseases and infestations come in cycles. Plants have evolved robust defenses (poisons, doubling down on reproduction…even pheromonally attracting helpers: insects that eat other insects). It may take a season or two of patience to see a shrub, or a stand of perennials, adapt.
I wouldn’t eco-bully anyone…why should you not enjoy a specimen (a desired plant that isn’t native to, or easy to grow in, your locality), if you like? Just remember that your outdoor space belongs to nature, and she doesn’t obsess about her looks. Anything that really can’t survive, can always be replaced with a better choice.
So there you have it, an easy summer-to-fall plan for making laziness a virtue in the garden.
A Poetry Inspiration Trick
You might have heard of blackout poetry, where you take a page from an old book and black out words, leaving those remaining to harmonize into poetry. But here’s an exercise that’s fun, and that can serve as a jumping off point for inspiration. It’s more a game than an end in itself.
Take a page of text from your notes or prose writings, and change the font color to white (or whatever color matches your background). Then select words at random and change them to back to black. Unlike blackout poetry, whiteout poetry can’t be calculated in the making. You’ll want to polish it up…but the illustration (left) gives an idea.
What Can You Laugh At
We seem to live, these days, in the “it takes one to know one” era.
Those most likely to taunt others, with a motive of dominance, silencing, or plain cruelty, or to openly aggress on them with nothing that lives in the neighborhood of humor, are both the first to claim offense when they, being public figures, are lampooned (under fully accredited comedy auspices); and conversely, the first to excuse themselves by accusing others of “not taking a joke”, when their own offenses manifestly were not meant as such.
Anyone can crack wise spontaneously, and any comedian can ad lib. If the joke is thoughtless, the investment of backlash should equal and not exceed the investment of thought. But—heads up!— comedy will often appear in the funny pages, on TV, in movies, in clubs…all places where the recipient has the advantage of “being under the roof”.
You knew joking would take place when you came here…that understanding is an aspect of the social contract.
So, how do you tell a joke? (Not tell, but tell.)
Let’s start with some old-time slapstick. You might, under present-day PC rules, find this 1914 Mack Sennett short sexist…brute-ist, even…though Mabel Normand gives as good as she gets; further, the various objects-at-hand the characters hit one another with are props.
One expects then, that perspective, and consideration of era, make it okay to laugh at the above. What about “organic” slapstick? The next clip shows a series of texting-while-walking accidents. In this news report (not always the case with videos online) events are responsibly curated. But here is one of the central conundrums of comedy, one serious philosophers have tried to explain.
Why do we laugh at mishaps, even when they are “real-life” and the consequences may be unfortunate?
This past April, a couple of tempests in our nation’s teapot took place, when Sean Hannity picked a fight with Jimmy Kimmel over Melania Trump’s accent; and when comedian Michelle Wolf hosted the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.
Links: USA Today
Are matters of appearance, or habits of speech, truly off-limits for jokers? The freedom constitutionally afforded to satirists is, of cousre, everyone’s freedom, as in oppressive regimes…monarchies, dictatorships, and such…humor is often the front line of fighting back, for ordinary people who have lost their representative voice. Whereas, in long-established rules of cultural interchange—etiquette—those things apparently true of a person, and which everyone is expected to ignore as though they did not exist, are regarded either as tragic afflictions or embarrassments.
So it may not be a welcome defense to suggest a person’s accent or her face must be unmentionable, for decency’s sake.
Mimicry is a comedic convention. To separate good from bad requires analysing what makes a device (that which mimicry, shorn of social burden, is) function. Cartoons, as a type of comedy, employ portrayal in the most direct way. The punchline is part of the joke, but the joke gets its flesh from the accompanying artwork.
Below, one of my own, “A Friendly Smile, and a Firm Handshake”. In this case, the joke really is the art.
When monologuists portray famous people through mimicry, they are sharpening the joke…drawing for the audience a picture, in effect.
In the first of the following clips, Stephen Colbert gives a physical representation of Eric Trump, that so unexpectedly delights the audience, he barely is able to finish the joke, and ends up doing the gag twice.
In the second clip, Trevor Noah’s satire of Facebook’s apology ad gets surgical with his impression of the narrator’s voice and mannerisms.
Mean mimicry is not only identifiable to most people by instinct, but has the characteristic of pointlessness. People who suffer are not always saints, in any hollistic sense; not always uniformly saintly in behavior…if holding to a higher set of ethics, or showing greater tolerance than the average person, is any wish of theirs in the first place; and they are—having enough to deal with—fully entitled to refuse such a role. In which case, the things they do that violate social codes are legitimate joke fodder, externalities notwithstanding.
A fat man just being fat is one thing; a fat man who hogs a beach is another. Making fun of someone with a degenerative disease merely because he has symptoms of this disease, is utterly pointless. Making fun of people who speak a language, or practice a religion, merely because they do so, is utterly pointless.
That stuff is not comedy. Therefore it is not excused on the grounds that the target had not “understood” the humor.
I’ve been listening, while I make my art, to background music, 70s channels on YouTube—not merely to enjoy the songs, but for being reminded of “good ones”, I’d forgotten existed, as “Fox on the Run,” by the band Sweet. But, to my disappointment, one of these channels had got fancy notions, playing a bunch of alternate versions, instead of the good old radio song I know and love. It makes me think that “live” cuts are the musical equivalent of kale. A lot of people find them superior…leafier, as it were, and more fibrous when digested by the temporal lobe, than polished radio “candy”. Myself, I like big in a song—big production, big guitar, big drums, big backup vocals, big lead vocals—total fakery, as long as it shines. That’s all.
A Cross Between
As Torsade’s mission in part, is always to stand for misfits and outsiders, and to help in any way possible disassembling the bullies’ toolkit, the serious question of humor keeps cropping, and needs addressing analytically—whenever we see another rearing-of-the-head, of: “My offense was only a joke.”
So, Part II:
How to Tell a Joke.
Fallout has fallen, and things have settled somewhat, but not long ago, a TV personality got into trouble for a toxic variant on the “cross-between” format of quipping.
You see this type frequently in reviews and light news articles.
The band’s vibe is a cross between heroin-chic nihilism, and a Reno lounge act.
Her public relations approach is a cross between McMann and Tate, and viral word-on-the-street hustling.
The humor nexus is in the contrast of two disparate things, each of which, for the reader’s sake, should conjure a picture; the pictures making together, with luck, a packet too ironically incongruent not to be funny.
If used at the personal level, the outlandishness of comparison then serves to soften the blow (and of course, points towards “not seriousness”).
She looks like a cross between Wilma Flintstone and William Howard Taft.
His penthouse is décored in a cross between UFO and Hee Haw.
Can you ever joke about someone’s appearance?
Let’s ask first, why do we want to?
Society has certain airbrushed standards of beauty and coolness that almost none of us meet. And…people sometimes take ridiculous measures to live up to them. Then again, people continue being (and despite the doing-unto-others snag) harshly judgmental towards those who don’t.
So, in matters of appearance, we have the behavioral, as well as “what can’t be helped”. Behaviors, when they are conspicuous and in some way idiotic, strike a common chord of response…to joke is often a means of acknowledging: “I think so and I know you do, too.”
But, if what we have both noticed is that a small and powerless person is also fat or old, or identifiably possessed of a race, where is the humor? The observation would be pointless; the acknowledgment of it, cruel…if not stand-alone stupid.
If someone is powerful, wealthy, privileged, enjoys a position in the public eye; or if even an ordinary person exhibits behaviors that are egregious (as of some recent Twitter infamati), a certain amount of take-down is indicated…perhaps in the matter of sunglasses or hair gel.
Many style choices are aspirational: i.e., plastic surgeries, hair extensions, makeup strength incompatible with local lighting conditions (let’s say); the combining of tight garments with a prominent Sitting Belly Bulge, etc.
If your skin is orange, your eyeliner Cooper-esque, you have a hole in your tongue; or if your procedure to rein in chin baggage has left your profile prognathous, you know these things about yourself. You chose them. These are not disabilities. They are a few of the “looks” aspects that fall in the behavioral category.
Religious clothing, unless it’s a species of cult-wear, doesn’t qualify as behavioral, and isn’t suited for joking…nor are malpractice-level consquences in plastic surgery; nor are hairpieces worn as a result of illness. Foremost, because these subjects aren’t funny.
Below, samples of Larry Tate in action; the old Sci-Fi series UFO; and a running bit on Hee Haw.
“Burial at sea…has always been her ‘wish’,” the captain said.
Here is an opener that would make it hard to quit reading. And why? The mystery is in the punctuation.
Content creators often have rules that represent a house style, implying that punctuation is dead where it fell, and can only lie in that pose forever. Always the Oxford comma; never the Oxford comma. Always the period inside the parenthesis; never the period inside the parenthesis. Always in effect pluralizing a singular possessive that ends in s; never other than Charles’s, the Jones’s.
We punctuate writing for logic. One problem in text is that words sitting next to each other can convey different meanings—the intended and the unexpected. People sometimes use this phenomenon playfully, as this invented example:
The nationalist leader insists she is not a fascist; bitch as they will her detractors.
Or headline writers may sometimes editorialize. A recently famous (apocryphal?) one, re the U.S. presidential physical:
Doctor: No heart, cognitive issues
The punctuation and grammar of a sentence may be fine, and it will still on the page read weirdly. Below, a comma, though not strictly needed, might help break up an awkward set.
People in the minority hate charity relieving them of free choice.
Punctuation in the more complicated sentence puts its components into reading order, as bracketing in mathematical equations puts expressions in solving order. Such constructions are fun for the writer too, because the flow of persuasion at times requires the short-and-sharp; at times a symphonic build-up.
When a statement is offset with parentheses, these contain a relevant aside, but one with no material bearing on the sentence’s meaning. If the parenthetical belongs to a leading or internal clause, the comma logically comes after the closing parenthesis. If the contents are an insertion, where no comma is needed, then the parenthetical doesn’t need to assume one.
I contend it is a piece of cake to put your house in apple-pie order (though those full of beans may have a bone to pick).
There’s no call for a comma after order. Some stylists would prefer placing the period between pick and the closing parenthesis. I don’t, on the logical grounds that it would make the aside actively part of the sentence, and it isn’t meant to be.
Dashes are another type of offset. As in parentheticals, the statement contained within can have its own question or exclamation mark.
In spite of strong evidence of tampering, and the danger of lasting harm, the action a baseball commissioner could hardly avoid taking had cheating tainted a World Series game, goes—unbelievably!—begging where a nation’s well-being is at stake.
The dashed expression is material, and can be commented on.
It amounted to small reparation—it amounted to his paying himself while pretending to right a wrong—but the landlord’s ‘discount’ would have to be accepted.
Then, there’s the double ellipsis. This is appropriate on two occasions: when the character is hesitant in thought or speech; and when dubiety or sardonic humor are being expressed.
It was fine for Lucille to claim wind or the cat could have disarranged things…there, Margot saw again the heavy dictionary fallen to the floor…but after all, they were noticing these oddities, were they not? Did that not imply an introduction, a phenomenon?
“Do you think it’s louche,” she asked, as the driver…showing, at any rate, élan…accelerated into the blind curve, “to be the sort of person who live-streams her own demise?”
All these devices taken together lend a naturalistic progression to a train of thought in close narration…
In actuality, though, rats were intelligent, were they not? More so, perhaps, than…he felt it possible; he had seen uncontrolled horses run simply mad—in which case the conceit…
Inimical, Chapter 9, “Considerations Beyond Understanding”
…or an omniscient narrator’s tone of light humor. Logically, each new thing is mentioned just where it bears on that to which it’s relevant.
And had either newcomer known it, that a family-sized carriage, one confiding wealth—in that its brass lamps shined, their glass intact; the side panels were of a glowing mahogany which, burnished under a coachman’s care, laughed at dust; the spokes of the rubber-tired wheels thrust true (and were not a bit rusted, nor especially dirt-caked for their travels)—was an unusual sight, pulled to a standstill before the Main Street Hotel, one or the other might have remarked on it.
Hammersmith, Chapter 26, “Chickens in a Mood to Roost”
In other words, the parenthetical above briefly expands on the tires; the entire dash-off explains the meaning of a carriage “confiding wealth”; the sentence complete establishes what: “If either had known…one or the other might have remarked.”
And whether the (seemingly) haphazard sentence echoes patterns of natural thought, or whether humorous complications echo those of a humorously complicated plot, these types of offset allow the writer to plug in information, just where it’s needed.
The Green-Eyed Monster
On a bad family vacation in 1989…a time when my father was, for some reason, going through a Rush Limbaugh phase…we (as people who have bad family vacations do) were tussling over the radio. If it had been pop music, I’d have been happy to have it on; but talk shows, no.
I was captive audience, though, to a caller who boasted that whenever he saw a Mercedes-Benz parked on the street, he keyed it (which…just in case this practice I haven’t heard referred to in ages, has become unfamiliar, means using the sharp edge of an old-fashioned key to scrape someone’s paint, with malice).
I really disliked his attitude, his praise-seeking for a criminal impulse, from a radio figure; while other members of the family seemed to chuckle over it.
What mentality are we dealing with?
He subscribes (the man with the key) to a commonplace, certainly so where I come from, that when others have nice things, benefits and advantages, this by itself is unfair to those who don’t have them. The plausibility is apparent…the emotional appeal, the “my life is hard, and yours is easy” relatability.
And the view, mostly working-class conservative, can mesh in cozily with a type of folly on the left, a nominal social consciousness. Much of the sheer charm that buffets the world from the politically correct swing of the compass is rooted also in the doctrine of unfairness—an unwillingness to allow people who have erred to fix anything, to change their minds about anything, to be offered a squaring-away task and allowed to complete it, to have their imperfect contribution valued for being a contribution, rather than scorned for being imperfect; to admit themselves wrong and receive redemption.
You frequently will see (in the Twittersphere) a conservative pundit or legislator condemn the American president’s policies, only to be met with:
“You let this happen in the first place!”
And further words of never-forgiveness.
The unfairness doctrine rests on a general, generally unexamined belief that people who have things, “got away” with having them; or that people who seek amity might short their accusers on the sackcloth and ashes, be let off the hook without sufficient suffering for the honor.
For all the man with the key knew, the Mercedes might have belonged to a disabled grandmother, for whom a community, grateful for her years of volunteering, had taken up a collection; they might all, that year, have gone without their turkey and holiday gifts. Yes, a rich f*** is more likely to be the owner, but the angels-in-disguise principle asks for faithful application, not quibbles on probability.
(The only thing you really need to believe in, as concerns all variations of creed, religious and secular, is that if you’re not done fixing yourself, you aren’t ready to start on anyone else.)
All this has an interesting bearing on creative work, on folklore concerning it; on the shadowy figure of the elitist—into that arty-farty stuff and insisting on funding it with your taxes.
Artists, poets, writers…perhaps especially writers…have often to deal with a type. This type interprets all a novelist’s characters and circumstances as autobiographical, or as evidence of sublimated psychology. This type may, if she’s very pernicious…and particularly with paintings, drawings, poetry…find evidence of depression, schizophrenia (possibly, if she’s worked herself into the zone, of “dissociative disorder”) in color combinations, rhymes and repetitions, surreal imagery.
If these people were up to any good, they would have some idea—one they could articulate—of the world’s being a better place for their efforts. But has any artist who’s ever encountered the type, heard tell of a plan for crafting, on the strength of these observations, a body of knowledge and a scheme to improve society?
Because creative success engenders a jealousy like no other. Someone gets to draw pictures for a living, or sing songs, and gets to be rich and famous?
Of course, by far, mostly not…but that doesn’t alter the radar sweep of the unfairness scouts. And as the boastful vandal above indicates, such persons would like to “get back” at the ones they see unfairly rewarded. The diagnosey behavior towards creative work serves to abnormalize it; therefore in turn making people (who could perfectly well make art, if their circles’ opinions weren’t so inhibiting to them) feel they are better off at their distance…not knowing art, but knowing what they like.
Hate for You, Hate for Me
I had the wrong idea about gossip.
I thought people sowed hatefulness by putting a bad name on someone; accusing another of having done something:
“Look out, he’ll steal your lunch.”
“She smokes in the bathroom.”
“His resume is a joke. He was never a Navy SEAL.”
“She got her job because her father’s a big shareholder.”
Mild enough examples. But even serious charges…
“That new guy has a criminal record.”
“She’s wacko. I mean, for real!”
“Fred in accounting is a pervert. Don’t let him get you alone.”
“Judy just came out and called Ron a you-know-what!”
…are not quite it. Yes, people accept, and repeat, such statements, and feel comfortable with themselves doing so, while having never approached the accused for balance. However, the worst, truly divisive attacks come from the opposite flank. Not, “that person is hateful”; but “he (or she) hates you”.
For me at least it’s true, that if someone had told me any of the above (possibly, I would avoid being alone with Fred), I would still work with that person, engage him/her in a business-related exchange, without radiating suspicion and judgment. I wouldn’t feel judgment, in several instances. Why hate someone who’s starting a new life, or someone mentally ill…or even a pizza thief?
But suppose I’m told, “She can’t stand you. She rolled her eyes when she found out you were the one sent to help… She said you mess everything up, and why don’t they fire you?”
There’s a big difference between indignation on behalf of others, and indignation on your own behalf. Now, if she smiles, I may think, “That’s so phony.” If she asks me, “How long will this take?”; or, “Do you think you can figure out what’s wrong?”, I may see snark, veiled belittlement. And if the accusation is true, these manifestations may also be true—deliberate offenses. If false, my own standoffishness and unforthcoming communication will make it true. She’ll either begin disliking me because she finds me rude…or dislike me more, because she feels her opinion confirmed. I’ll dislike her in turn, because I find her rude; the warning I was given, confirmed.
How did assaulting strangers, for the color of their skin, or their clothing, or the language they speak to each other, become a line to cross? The message, since the upheaval of the last few years began, has been that evidence doesn’t matter, facts don’t matter. They don’t matter because the “opponent” is not accused of anything specific. A charge against Jill the Liberal that she has stolen something, or physically harmed someone, is a charge that under the rule of law she has the right to know of, and defend herself against…a charge which ever after, if she obtains a verdict in her favor, the rule requires her accusers, “drop it”.
But Joe the Conservative, under these mechanisms of propaganda, never has to relax his attitude towards Jill, because she is accused, merely, of being his enemy: “Jill doesn’t like you, Joe.”
By extension, all people similar to Jill, affiliated with Jill, roughly represented by Jill, don’t like you, Joe. They are all your enemies.
And Jill, Joe hates you in turn. Everyone similar to Joe, affiliated with Joe, roughly represented by Joe, hates you. They are all your enemies.
Rod Liddle, commenter for Britain’s “The Spectator” magazine, wrote (2 July 2016) a sarcastic assessment of mutual hate between Brexiteers and Remainers. Intended humor or not, these notions that old people hate young people, that all Brexiteers are racists, all Remainers spoiled urbanites, are the essence of the modern political disjunction. If debate were a matter of making your points, answering the opposition’s, hashing out a middle ground, no one would seek to solve policy with elections. Elections are popularity contests. Or footraces. Debate and resolution are the very practice of parliaments and legislatures…but of late, governing bodies have tended to stack the deck first, in their own favor; wanting then to rubber stamp their agenda.
In America, the idea anyone would even raise the simple argument, “the other side disagrees with your positions” seems laughable. It is all reaction, all cultivated myth; the elites, a group which flexibly can be made to encompass the free press and every left-leaning political candidate, while excluding the very wealthy, hate you…if (flexibly again) you rate yourself a “regular American”.
Hillary Clinton hates you most of all. During a speech in India, while promoting What Happened, her book on the 2016 election, she referred to the Deplorables, that coinage forewarningly coopted by Republicans, saying (as the voice of Trump), “You know, you didn’t like black people getting rights; you don’t like women…”
How easily such statements can be filtered down to their corollary: She (read: all Democrats) doesn’t like you. One reason, then, that her email contretemps (not wholly a scandal, since what this is, exactly—other than next to nothing, as evidence suggests—hasn’t been proven) can’t be dropped, is because Hillary-as-enemy fills this role to a T for the far right. She’s against you…look, she says so.
At a basic level, enemy-making works for propagandists because the human race has an existing language for veiled hostility, one often employed by those whose dislike is genuine. We’ve seen the phony smile; we’ve heard polite words uttered in a sarcastic tone of voice; been damned with faint praise; marveled at, conversely, over tiny achievements. We’ve come across scads of passive-aggressive “accidents”, designed to make us feel bad.
Primed, or coached, to believe someone hates us; that she thinks we aren’t as good as she is, doesn’t want to work with or live with our kind, we can learn also to readily spot signs and wonders. We can grow so reactive that all the other person says seems untrustworthy; we can, influenced by propaganda, be made paranoid enough to feel hate at the other person’s mere walking into a room. Look at the way she goes around! What she wears! How she talks! We can offer her a cup of coffee and be outraged she dares accept it.
Thus, this spate of fearful Whites attacking Blacks and Spanish-speakers, can burgeon even while the speed-dialer may insist, “I’m not a racist”. In the enemy-seeking mindset lies reward…and a sense of reward not hard to come by, if consultation is contained within an insular group. She is not, among her particular “us”, a racist; she is an innocent threatened by inimical moves, almost a glamorous role…the stuff of books and movies. She is a model citizen, being safe rather than sorry, heroic, misunderstood—by “them”.
Assorted Opinions: Grab Bag
When cleaning my garage, I found a forgotten laser pointer.
The cats my father had given it to me for the entertainment of, are all past cats now; but recently I’ve adopted two brothers, Ed (grey) and Chester (orange), about a year and 3 months old. I checked the internet to see if pointers were considered dangerous, and the only objection highlighted was that being unable to ever catch the red dot might be frustrating for the cat.
My guys, not frustrated, learned in a hurry where I keep it; they emphatically come running when they hear the drawer slide. They beg and pestify as soon as I sit down at my computer cabinet to work, Ed rocketing himself through the five pillows I have to stuff in open spaces to block him, getting in among cables, chewing on these (which has to be stopped at once); also chewing up my notes.
My little kitties are obsessed…they find the laser pointer the Toy of Toys.
I’ve tried playing it over actual toys, or pieces of food, so they’d have something to catch, but they’re not really interested. Chester’s favorite thing is watching the dot vanish down the cold air duct; Ed’s is just chasing it round and round in circles.
There’s a certain curiously worded type of rejection I always wonder about.
First of all, let me say that none of these writing-career setbacks should be found very critical, for the excellent reason that…
Well, consider the process. If a journal receives five hundred poems entered in a contest, the task at that stage—of choosing one above all—is plainly impossible. You would have to be able to memorize each and every, and bear all in mind simultaneously. You would need, also, to be equipped with a mind free of prejudices, conscious at all times of clearly delineated standards.
So, dunked in the submission pool, your work begins by being sieved. Are the sievers reliable? That depends on a definition the submitter can’t know, and that may (must?) be variable and individual. To a given publication, is relevance relevant? Is the reader freshly trained to dislike this, find that outdated…and the next thing not sufficiently sensitive? Is the reader an old hand, confident of his/her own taste, willing to shoulder controversy?
And does that matter, since the ultimate choice, out of maybe thirty, then ten, etc., is still an amalgamation of tastes, prejudices, fears, aspirations.
Just as are the submitted poems.
But, now and then, you get a rejection that says, in effect, “Good luck someplace else”. And here I tend to question, are they sincere? Do they believe this sounds encouraging? Do they not notice that it sounds like, “Never send us your work again”?
You may enjoy this, hopeful poets. (Right now, we’re in a pesky phase of online exigencies, where sites not carrying a proper certificate are being labeled on Google “not secure”. If you like to dig up some of Malley’s poetry, and judge its merits—yes, there are some well-curated lines—a number of them are out there, but mostly on http sites.)
A Few Nice Turns of Phrase
Caesar and Grannie came back, both in fearful outbursts of Sunday clothes.
The Manxman, Sir Hall Caine 1903
The bathroom that he now whistled in was a utile jewel… [non-italics mine]
Mildred Pierce, James M. Cain 1941
(‘Utile jewel’ so perfectly captures American mid-century bathroom pride.)
It is singular, however, that those who hold up the pigs as models to us never hold us up as models to the pigs.
My Summer in a Garden, Charles Dudley Warner, 1880
One of the greatest advances in modern technology is the freedom, which will only be meaningful to those who lived under the old system, to not receive, thus not have to store, electric, gas, credit card statements…all such as we were once guilted into making a second career out of ordering chronologically (if not alphabetically), and tucking away in hanging files, then in shoe boxes, then years later—for the bold—shredding and dumping. Some had such a fear that the Paper Trail Force would kick their door in and demand to see every grocery receipt from 1972, on pain of foreclosure, that they could never throw old documents out, even when the garage held thirty years’ worth of them.
No doubt the survivalists will chortle over these digital developments. When the apocalypse comes, everyone else’s identity will be wiped out…
But, just possibly, a handy thing in the midst of apocalypse.
When I was growing up an ad ran on TV, in which the tagline was, “I just washed my hair, and I can’t do a thing with it!”
These days, we pull our spandex jeans out of the drawer, and have to wear them a couple of hours until they’ve stretched enough to eliminate the muffin-top.
“I can’t go out yet…I’m still bulging…”
Assorted Opinions: Grab B
Hate for You, Hate for Me