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“One Breath Meditation Paintings”

New motherness, and good in any chaos or Old Night.

Mindful that every breath is the breath of one and the breath of all.  True strokes of the brush, each by each.  Painting “the one true thing / rain drops darkening the roof / of Fukusawa temple.”

The narrator thanks Julie F for this attention.

[Update same day: related to both this page and the linked previous on the internal/external contradictions of totalitarian chaos, I’ve just read this wonderful NYorker article (orig talk) by Masha Gessen, “How George Orwell Predicted the Challenge of Writing Today.”

For instance, quoting Gessen:

We live in a time [in which] intentional, systematic, destabilizing lying—totalitarian lying for the sake of lying, lying as a way to assert or capture political power—has become the dominant factor in public life. . . . When we engage with the lies—and engaging with these lies is unavoidable and even necessary—we forfeit the imagination. But the imagination is where democracy lives. We imagine the present and the past, and then we imagine the future.

When the values, institutions, and most of what we hold dear about politics is under attack—which it most certainly is—we find ourselves fighting the good fight to preserve things just as they are. This is the opposite of imagination, the opposite of literature, and, I suspect, the opposite of democracy. Fighting to preserve things as they are inevitably becomes a battle to think and speak of things in certain ways, either defensively or preëmptively. In trying to salvage the meaning of words as they pertain to the present, we keep words and concepts from evolving. Salvaged words quickly dry up and crack. Then they fail. We face the future empty-handed, language-wise; we are dumb in the face of the future.

Gessen then brilliantly illustrates the present challenges to imagination, accuracy, sanity, our future wellbeing, and democracy that she finds in her own thinking and writing.]

Anything Is Possible, with Chaos

Anything that is evil.

It’s the chaos theory of the nonfiction novel.

This page is simply to record the day in the plot line when it became possible the believe, even to expect, that Herr Trompf will do anything.

We’ve reached the point where wise pundits are publishing their opinions that we might not have a democracy, in the near future.  Today it is possible to believe, not just imagine, that Trompf and his Republican sponsors will end American democracy.  First, “as we have known it,” then as anyone has ever known it.  One can believe, not just imagine, that they will, not just fire Mueller, not just end the investigation, but put the DOJ entirely under control of the president.

And all that can follow, in The Mind of Trompf.  He can’t be prosecuted for obstruction of justice, because in his mind there is no such thing, as justice.  He can justify anything, even State Terrorism in the form of separation of children from their parents, to discourage asylum seekers from approaching his border.

Obstruction of sanity?  Again, no such thing.

One can believe an attempt at a military coup.  (He might call for Russian intervention on his side.  Or Chinese.  Philippine.  North Korean.)  Then a more chaotic chaos, or a kind of chaotically omnipresent Law and Order like that of Nazi Germany or Stalinist Russia.

In the whirl of the tweet world, the authoritarian cult of personality, He might declare himself Messiah, ruling by direct Revelation.  Shocking, but not surprising.  One gets used to it.

This is not a nihilistic narratorial point of view.  It’s not about nothingness, it’s about anything and everythingness of believable possibility.  The aesthetics of nonfiction fiction is the aesthetics of fictional nonfiction and no longer requires a willing, or unwilling, suspension of disbelief.  Nothing is believable, everything is probable.

Strange contradictions of the Trompfian underworld (paraphrasing Ellison, with his allusion to Marx).

[Update 6-10-18:  Reifowitz (DKos) on the importance of R politicians bucking T’s lies.  And here’s a thought:  what if the WH staff resigned, not only out of exhaustion, frustration, and fear of damage to their reputations, but as a refusal to cooperate in the destruction of our democracy and truth?  Well, to paraphrase JFK, there will never be more horror in the WH than when Trompf is home alone.]

And a directly related page.]

A Shadow in the Darkness

I just want to say at this moment in the plot line that I’m aware that the narrative has offered barely a mention of a character who has been active with extraordinarily destructive power. He’s an Ideology Warrior, in battle against democracy, whose ideological ferocity blinds him to humanity, with self-righteous pride in his achievements in subverting democracy and serving the Despicables of Wealth.

Of course, it’s Mitch McConnell.  Republican Senate Majority Leader.  Like Sessions, an antebellum Southern aristocrat.

I’ve been negligent, but I’ll get to him.

The Shearing of Hair Trompf (31)

Really, the purpose of this page is simply to mark this moment in the plot when everyone everywhere knows the whole character, and more than enough of the malevolent acts, of the novel’s Villain-in-Chief. His supporters and enablers deny it publicly, for a variety of personal and political, self-serving reasons. Trompf himself sounds and reads like he has a deep scratch across his entire pr*sidency. Wherever the needle hits vinyl, it skips to the default groove, “No Collusion!” That’s a term that never meant anything but now serves him as a floating anchor for his persona, and serves the rest of us as a leaden reminder of his insanity—the reality is that he “conspired against the United States.”  And continues to do so.  He’s Guilty as Charged.  Republican politicians who are trying to keep themselves in power by keeping him in position are now reduced to this defense:  Yes, he did all those things, he’s as bad as you think, probably worse even; but it doesn’t really matter. Life goes on, in this wonderful, Republican, best of all possible worlds. Mueller and the Democrats are only boat-rockers, who threaten to drown our Captain.

[Preceding page of this episode.]

The Winter of Our Disrespect?

This spring is the veritable winter of my disrespect, apparently.

I have been bedeviled by American politics for more than sixty years.  In such a long watch, I might have seen the worst during the first decade, or somewhere around the middle or so.  I’ve seen Joe McCarthy, Nixon, Reagan, W.  As it happens, the worst is now.  Our pr*sident, in addition to being out of his gourd, psychopathologically disempathic, making a mockery of life, but with no sense of humor, is a common, mediocre real estate crook and self-publicist, an NYC/NJ mobster, but with international pretensions, whose major policy goal, besides enriching himself, is to destroy everything admirable that was accomplished by his predecessor, because that president was black and once made fun of him at a televised dinner for journalists.

The party that put this dis-grace in power has aspired to one-party, fascist rule for decades, and now is doing its damnedest to get its wish fulfilled.  In polls, even after a year of this disastrous pr*sidency, 80+% of self-identifying Republican voters still stand by their man.  His base is so rabid that this party’s members of the House of Representatives will not speak ill of him because they fear being voted out of office if they admit the truth.

And yet, the current journalistic theory of why voters in the Heartland voted for him (granting sexism, racism, xenophobia, etc.), and would do so today, is that they feel that they are not respected by people who live on a coast.  As I do now.

(Here, in the interests of full disclosure, I must note that my view of these deluded heartless is clouded by experiences when I lived in the largely fundamentalist district that elected Mike Pinch to be its congressman, and went for Trompf/Pinch against Clinton by 42%—and, redrawn, just nominated P’s older brother to stand for that seat.  Lordy.)

But do I respect them?!  Of course I do.  As beings, humans, suffering persons rowing beside me in the floundering boat of life, I respect them wholeheartedly.  And I respect them as fellow-citizens, whose right to vote, equally with mine, has been protected by hundreds of thousands of young citizens who died in battle, just within my lifetime.

But do I respect their ignorance, their foolishness?  Do I respect them for their sexism, racism, xenophobia, etc.? Do I respect their selfishness, their maliciousness, their viciousness?

Hmmm. After all, many of them know not what they do.

Maybe their god will forgive them for that.  Maybe their god will forget them for that.  I doubt that He respects them for it. Why should I?

[Dear readers who agreed with this page also liked the pages (so far) of “The Verdict Is In.”]

The Shearing of Hair Trompf (30)

The Trompf Mob

This

I agree with Adam Davidson (NYer) that the end draweth nigh.  En effet, quoting Francis Cabrel, “Cette histoire est déja fini.”  And lies aren’t gonna get anybody out of this reckoning.

When Dick Nixon declared, “I am not a crook!” he had no idea.  We are about to find out what a crooked Pr*sident really is.  Crime, thy name is Trompf, all his life.  Thy middle name is “Sleaze.”

Therefore, because journalists for many publications (of which the handful that have been my main sources are obvious from earlier pages) have been doing an excellent, really historic, job of chronicling the characters and plot line of this episode, and because I don’t have life to waste on every twist and turn of the demise of this low-life whom a fascist Republican Party and a slew of foolish voters put into the white House, I’ll reduce my additions to this episode to the high points.  I’ll focus my attention on aspects of the novel such as archetypal psychology (e.g.) and anarchistic community (Larks!).

May 3, 2018  The Beginning of the End, Game

Seems like, with Giuliani (a blow-hard fool) and Flood (who apparently really knows what he’s doing and is highly respected as solid) taken aboard as Big Time defense lawyer-negotiators, things are taking a turn. For the better. I’ve been wrong so many times that I’ve lost count; but that won’t stop me. Here’s where I think we are now, in this wonderful plot:

Mueller knows everything. And he’s backstopped by the SDNY, who can deal with the financial crimes. Stormy Daniels will prove sleaze. M can prove conspiracy against the United States and obstruction of justice, at the least.  Plus, it’s entirely likely, perjury, if Trompf sits for an interview with either M or a grand jury.

Certain facts are now established, and known to all (but denied by the Trompf base, who are in denial, in Foxlandia): T is a Big Time crook, a mob criminal with intrntnl aspirations and pretensions; and his family and circle of friends are totally corrupt. That’s what he/they has been and what he/they is. Add, that he is increasingly crazy, really now quite obviously over the cliff, and the Rs can no longer risk keeping him. Nor can his family. The owners and managers of the Party, who are members of the intrntnl criminal oligarchy, know that T is now a liability that must be gotten rid of; so they, not T, have brought in G and F as their fixers.

The R oligarchs must get control and end T’s influence over events and processes.  He’s finished.  They’re easing him out to pasture.  It’s a question of whether they can geld him before he has to sit for questioning. The familia will retire him, while trying to save their butts. They’re all just working to get out as unscathed as possible.

There is absolutely no possibility that T himself will come through this intact.  He’s finished, except on twitter.

The big impediment to the Fix is that the Rs don’t dare dump T with the midterms coming up, because T’s base support is ALL THEY’VE GOT to campaign with. There won’t be anybody else who will vote for them in large enough numbers.

So now it’s just a matter of time, and how much damage will yet be done.

And this, just a little later.  Ah corruption.  It’s so transparent.

[Preceding page of this episode.  Next page. ]

Dream 3-26-18 6:30 a.m.

My car needed fixing, so I drove it to a combination of repair shop, used parts store, and dump for wrecked cars. There was a large parking lot that sprawled down the side of a hill. The workable cars and the hulks were parked in horizontal rows, pointing around the hill, on an uneven surface of bare ground and grassy patches. With a remarkable combination of skill and error I managed to park my large, 1960s car (reminiscent of the pink Pontiac Bonneville that I drove during the 70s) with its passenger side not only parallel to the next car downhill from it, but with their sides just touching, along their full length. There was also a bump at the right front of my car, which I had moved that corner of the car up and over, so that the wheel had settled into a shallow indentation, with the front wheels turned fully, sharply to their left. I got out and walked up the hill to the shop.

When I was back in my car, with the parts that it needed, I had to, somehow, pull out of that parking spot and away from the car beside it without scraping the sides of the cars. I pressed the gas petal to the floor and held it there, to get every bit of power that the car could produce, while I slowly engaged the clutch. With an enormous, prolonged roar, I got the car to inch up forward, while turning the wheels slowly to the right, so as to first create a few inches of space between the cars and then to align the possible motion of the tires with the direction of the thrust of the motor and rear wheels.

As I drove slowly toward the exit of the lot, I passed a young man who was a mechanic and a young woman who was waiting while her car was being fixed. Both commented on the roar that I had created, and the power of my car, how courageous I had been to try that, and how lucky it was, that I had been able to get the car out of that jam.

[Immediately previous, seemingly possibly related, in a way, dream.]