Howdy Doody

When I was a child (how many reminiscences start with that phrase!) when someone did something that angered me, I would face my opponent, scrunch up my reddened visage and scream, “You’re a doody-head.” And then I would take back my ball and go home. Now, I don’t think that this indictment referred to the television puppet Howdy Doody, whose show was hosted by Buffalo Bob alongside with Clarabelle, the clown and the eponymous wooden character. I did watch the show with childlike avidity and delight, and even recall begging my parents to enroll me in the seated audience gallery filled with children of my age group, but alas, my enjoyment was to continue seated on the floor before the black and white Philco television set in the family living room. Nor did the barb doody-head refer to the cheerful greeting, howdy doody! employed by my nana, Rose, who exclaimed as I walked through the door into her apartment, “Well, Howdy doody!” as she ushered me into her kitchen and sat me down with a piece of her home-made cake and a glass of milk.. No, my use of the taunt, doody-head, referred to the occasion of my enemy’s head become human excrement. As I got older the insult transformed into the phrase, “You’ve got your head up your ass!”

I recalled this connection with regard to the more recent childish retort rising from the potty mouth of Trump, though certainly not at all an isolated incident in the public discourse of this man. He has been too long at the fair. A Federal judge had ruled against the administration’s actions of deporting Venezuelans against court orders. Trump replied, “This judge, like many of the Crooked Judges I am forced to appear before should be IMPEACHED.” Trump continued, describing Judge James Boasberg as a “Radical Left Lunatic of a Judge, a troublemaker and agitator who was sadly appointed by Barack Hussein Obama.” In essence and in his frustration Trump was calling Judge James Boasberg a doody-head! And this seems to be Trump’s sole strategy when he experiences any opposition to his plans. The Red Queen would call out, “Off with their heads,” but even Trump cannot (so far) organize the execution of his perceived enemies, though he has thus far fired a large contingent of government workers. But who knows what he intends as we head into the reign of this wannabe autocrat . . . But to my mind, Trump’s rage mirrored that of a six-year-old child who had been frustratingly resisted by somebody. You’re a doody-head, he screamed. Except he is 78 years old and the President of a nation founded on the premise of division of powers in the branches of a democratic government!
            Enough. I’ve wasted a good hour of my time thinking about Trump. I’ve got to step out of the muck and engage in something lovely.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lotus Eaters

   

  I think frequently here about the lotus eaters. We have been living for the past four weeks in lotus land—Puntarenas Province, Costa Rica. We stayed here last year for seven weeks and the year prior for seven weeks in Guanacaste Province. We traveled a bit about the country, at least on the country’s Pacific coast: walked the rain forest in Monteverde and the coffee and chocolate plantations there; there we hiked a mountainous trail at El Tigre where we suffered serious fatigue and where one of us almost collapsed. She was transported to a safe place via zip line bicycle! The other one was left to complete the walk alone and walking the last 350 meters sludging through the mud and brambles feared suffering a heart attack and hoped that in that event he might be found. To celebrate our survival we dined that evening in a restaurant in the trees and enjoyed a very lovely meal. We have visited Manuel Antonio National Park, spent a few days in the city of La Fortuna and stayed there in a hotel whose window overlooked the Arenal Volcano. In the late 1960s the Arenal erupted and destroyed the town of La Fortuna, but the volcano has been quiescent in the years since and the city has been reconstructed; we spent a day on the beach at Tortuga Island; we hiked the park surrounding Rincon de la Viejo and in the area experienced a volcanic mud bath and natural hot springs. We drove All Terrain Vehicles all three years, and we have stayed in the capital city of San Jose and toured the Pos Volcano.

We have not been completely sedentary; indeed, it almost could appear that we have been very active, but actually for the majority of the time during our weeks-long stays, we lie about amid the lotus blossoms. Twice a day we walk to the beach carrying our beach chairs and water bottles and sit comfortably in the sun and sand for 90-120 minutes. I have slobbered my face and body with SPF-50 sun screen, though I never am not worried about skin cancer, a result of a careless and vain youth on the beaches of Long Island and some bad genes: my legs are splotched with what the dermatologist refers to as ‘wisdom spots’ but which know as blemishes. Sometimes we head into the ocean, she for play and me for a cooling, and then we return to the chairs where we sit until we gather the energy to retread our steps and return to the casa where we will we shower and have a(nother) lie down. We read and write, enjoy a quiet cocktail hour, dine in or out and retire early for the evening. And then on the next day we push repeat. And regardless of our forays out, we remain for the most part sedentary, and it seems to me that with every new day our lethargies increase. 

                I have been thinking about the lotus eaters. In Homer’s The Odyssey Ulysses and his men go ashore on the island and having eaten of the lotus plants they become languid and lose their desire to raise themselves from their lethargic comfort and continue their voyage home. Homer writes that Ulysses’s men went ashore “and went about among the Lotus-eaters, who did them no hurt, but gave them to eat of the lotus, which was so delicious that those who ate of it left off caring about home, and did not even want to go back and say what had happened to them.” They would go no more to roaming. 

Alfred Lloyd Tennyson addresses the same topic in his poem, “The Lotos-Eaters.” In Tennyson’s work Ulysses’s crew having arrived at the island of the lotus blossoms the sailors want to abandon their world-weariness and live forever eating of the blossoms. They say, 

Death is the end of life; ah, why 

Should life all labour be? 

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 

And in a little while our lips are dumb. 

Let us alone. What is it that will last? 

All things are taken from us, and become 

Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. 

Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 

To war with evil? Is there any peace 

In ever climbing up the climbing wave? 

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 

In silence; ripen, fall and cease: 

Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

Weary of war and strife, with the constant effort that a life of responsibility demands, of inevitable pain and loss only to be doomed to die, the sailors beg to be left alone. Three times in the stanza they make this demand: they would go no more to roaming. In these times I appreciate their wish to withdraw from the difficulties life means.

The presence of the lotus eaters appears continuously in literature. Chapter 5 of James Joyce’s Ulysses addresses Homer’s episode of the Lotus Eaters as Leopold Bloom wanders seemingly aimlessly about Dublin before attending to Digby’s funeral. Bloom is to keep away from his home where his wife Molly will be meeting for a sexual tryst with her manager, Boylan. Joyce refers to this episode as “The Lotus Eaters." In the chapter Bloom's daylong journey through Dublin begins with thoughts concerning drugs and other strategies for avoiding reality. 

            In another literary reference, in Thomas Mann’s novel The Magic Mountain an implicit reference is made to the lotus eaters by Ludovico Settembrini, the Italian humanist intellectual, a patient/client of the sanitorium being treated along with other sufferers for tuberculosis. Settembrini says, “Analysis as an instrument of enlightenment and civilization is good in so far as it shatters absurd convictions, acts as a solvent upon natural prejudices, and undermines authority; good, in other words, in that it sets free, refines, humanizes, makes slaves ripe for freedom. But it is bad, very bad, in so far as it stands in the way of action, cannot shape the vital forces, maims life at its roots. Analysis can be a very unappetizing affair, as much so as death, with which it may well belong—allied to the grave and its unsavory anatomy.” He argues that music, too, lulls the listener and leads to torpidity. Settembrini is arguing that analysis can act as the flower of the lotus plant: a narcotic that depletes one of the desire to act. There are critics of postmodernism who might agree with Settembrini. And it was Bertoldt Brecht who argued that catharsis as the result of experiencing theatrical tragedy also serves as a lotus flower draining the desire to act as the emotionally drained audience exits the play. Brecht believed that theater should inspire committed action.

            However, in his poem “Ulysses” Tennyson has offered an alternative to the lethargy of the sailors who eat of the lotus blossoms. Ulysses exhorts his comrades, 

Come, my friends,

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

This is the opposite of quietism, of torpidity, of lotus eating. Ulysses’ invitation is to action, to risk, to discovery, and to exploration. There would be no time for indolence, says Ulysses. We must go a-roaming. 

I think the urge to eat of the lotus blossom and forget all cares and responsibility is ever-present. Life is hard here out of the garden. In Costa Rica it is so simple to lay about, to do little, to eat of the lotus blossom. To amble to the beach and then amble home, not to rest from a weariness of doing but to continue to do nothing. Like Ulysses, I have not the strength which in old days moved earth and heaven, if ever I had that strength and the inclination to lie-about is strong and alluring. But I have much sympathy with Ulysses’ call to action, an acceptance that we are what we are, creatures with will and longings to move out and explore and even to suffer. Yes, life might be hard and death our end, but though weakened with toil and age we still possess the strengths to struggle, to explore and discover new worlds. Lying amongst the lotus blossoms there is no energy to set sail still, and it takes a great exercise of will to put away the lotus blossoms and to set sail again. 

But sometimes I just don't have the will.

 

Rings of Saturn

There are motives and methods for attempting to get away from the world, but in fact, do so is ultimately an impossible task. I accept that wherever I go I am always in the world and am subject more and less to its slings and arrows. Perhaps it is truer to say that there is no getting away from the world until one recognizes the world that I am always of and in. That recognition entails acknowledging and understanding the myths by which I have lived in the world. But even more, I have always said that wherever I go, well, there I am, and I carry with me all of my neuroses, peccadilloes and, even amazedly, gather together some of my somewhat positive and appealing character traits. All that being said, nevertheless there is motive for removing myself from as much of the external inputs as I can tolerate—to get away from the world, that is— and by doing so leave time and energy to focus on those stimuli and events that derive from within, recognizing that the presence of the unconscious colors all the remembering, itself always a problematic and imprecise process, and that any control over memory is only partially illusory. I always respect what dreams may come . . . And anyway, the act of remembering is inevitably partial and imperfect and influenced by the present. There is, then, no way to get away from the world and rediscover the self. James Baldwin has written of his own expatriate experience, “I think now that if I had had any intimation that the self I was going to find would turn out to be only the same self from which I had spent so much time in flight, I would have stayed home.” Getting away from the world to find the self is a fruitless endeavor.

Nevertheless, there remain motives for reducing contact with the world even as there are various methods by which such withdrawal can be made. By the world I refer to the ever presence of words, events and personages of which I am made conscious, some of which I love and some that are anathema to me. Marx has said that men and women make their own histories but not in conditions of their own choosing. One motive for getting away from the world was to eliminate as much noise as is possible so that the choices I would make were somewhat but never completely free of some uninvited and unwelcome influence. But as I have said there is always the influences of the unconscious to acknowledge and accept.

We have traveled to Costa Rica to get away from the harsh mid-west winter of Minnesota. In my aging I have grown intolerant of the cold wind and snow. Once these meteorological events did not trouble me: I would run with pleasure in the early morning dark, sub-zero weather only sparely bundled in expensive running gear. Or maybe it is that I have in my life preferred the sun and heat to the cold—I have always eschewed air conditioning—though regrettably now my skin shows the long-term results of my sun worship. The dermatologist kindly refers to these marks as wisdom spots but I know them as blemishes and ugly. Occasional basal skin cancers have been excised from my surfaces, and I am forever anxious of suffering more serious cancerous eruptions. I maintain my annual appointments to the skin doctors. But now on the quiet, sun-drenched and sizzling beach I sit in my chair slobbered over with sunscreen lotions and sprays, and am not troubled by invasive external noises, though occasionally a boom box blares and disturbs my rest. But then, I just move my chair a bit to the north or south and the quiet returns. My breaths echo the crashing of the waves; the yoga instructors reminded me to breathe, and the ocean rhythms return me to my breaths. In this environment the external world can with some effort be kept at bay though I appreciate the paradox that considerable energy and funds has been spent in order to achieve some seclusive peace.

The political situation in this moment is so dire that not to know about it seems to me an absolute motive to leave the world and any news regarding it. The reports today seem to me too ominous, and though I am not personally threatened by events, at least, not yet, I am concerned about the children . . . Paul Siebel sang, “We can teach them nothing, nothing, but survival in a desert bare . . .” Politicians are making the world a desert bare. In my life, the news had always arrived via print copy, computer and phone. At the time of the election, I had stopped paper delivery of the New York Times and relegated its reportage to a location buried in the my stuff bookmark on the computer. I can choose not to go there. I also can choose not to go to the websites for CNN and Politico which I have also buried in the my stuff folder. At the election I had substituted Wired rather than the New York Times as my home page. Most of the articles in the formerare beyond my pay grade and even my interests, and I do not care to devote the energies to learn how to read them. The photos are nice, and I suppose bit coin and cryptocurrency and other neologisms might be important awarenesses, but not for me, I think. My cash-in-pocket, credit cards, and investments are sufficient. I am amused sometimes at the newer technological products Wired recommends, most of which I will not purchase and don’t even understand their purpose, but all of which entice me to live a better life. Away then from the immediacy of the news I have been partially successful at avoiding the fetid political atmosphere, though, alas, I still awaken each morning and feel soiled by even a minimal awareness of the appalling attempts by the present government to destroy a democracy as it has been known for more than 250 years. 

But James Baldwin notwithstanding, perhaps the motive for retreat is not an escape that I seek at all: it is a recovery—a re-focusing—of my internal operations that in the absence of the ever-present stimuli of the external can be better seen and heard. Away from the devices by which the world becomes instantly available, I can listen for my own callings and then make assessments and adjustments. I have put away the phone but I’m writing on the computer. On any of my devices a simple click of the fingers on the keyboard attaches me to the world with which I am trying to minimize contact. It is that easy to re-enter the world. On these devices any question I might have can be effortlessly addressed with just a few clicks and alarmingly soon I have fallen into a rabbit hole and have even forgotten where I had started when I picked up the smart phone or clicked some Googled search. Sometimes I realize that after some time down there in the hole I grow alarmed that I haven’t even found an answer to my original question. The whole motive of escaping the world was to avoid the rabbit hole in the first place and not to follow it down, though my partner who has not had the same desire to leave the world, occasionally offers me news of the headlines that often sadden me. Not her, but them. I have been asking her to refrain doing so, but perhaps it gives her comfort to share the horror. And who am I to deny her that relief. Townes Van Zandt sings, “Maybe she just has to sing for the sake of the song/And who do I think I am to decide that she’s wrong.” I am weary of being chastised by my phone. It tells me that today I am not walking as much as I did yesterday, and that this year I am walking less than I did last year. I know that I can turn off the recording of my activity, but I also like to listen to music that tends to relax me when I walk; then the recording of my steps and calorie expenditure continues as does the judgement. Even my electric toothbrush castigates me if I do not spend the required two minutes caring for my teeth. When I place it back down it displays a frowned face. My writing on the computer keeps me above ground with some effort, but I could too easily become distracted or frustrated in the writing and follow these disturbances down into the rabbit hole. I have to learn to tolerate frustration again and eschew instant gratification.

It is of course possible not to turn on the computer or the phone and return to the manual toothbrush . . . but actually that radical isolation that would result does not appeal to me. I can’t completely abandon the phone because some actual people do call me on it. For example, my daughters, my brother and sister and a few dear friends. And occasionally news of a tragedy back home occurs—a death or illness that requires my attention. Though it strikes me . . . that the wanting to know the details of life and death that surround me a part of an attachment to the world that I have not successfully abandoned. Somehow, it suggests that I want to continue the attachment. When I used to look at the print copy of the New York Times I first turned to the Obituary pages as a way to measure the remaining size of my world, and now even when I have partially buried the Times on the computer, I still do want to know who in the world has left it because this awareness helps me know the world in which I continue to live, announces how with the deaths of those with whom I have grown up the world tends to shrink a bit. I continue to monitor the deaths so that I know the lifes. I know that if I do not track these events in the immediate present, I will catch up later with them when I return to the world in which I daily live, but the apparent distance I experience days and miles away offers me comfort and keeps me in the moment unmindful of the changes. Here, in Costa Rica, I don’t carefully track who has live and who has died. Maybe it is that a motive for getting away from that diurnal world and its obituaries has been an unconscious now made conscious attempt to get away from death. 

As this page and others like it show, I like to write, and it is on the computer that I make that effort. And again I recognize that the clicks away from the current page too easily can lead me back into the world from which I have wanted to minimize contact. There along with the current news that I am trying to avoid I can discover announcements about opening new movies, new streaming shows, new products from Amazon shopping (mostly), Skellig Store (occasionally), even eBay (rarely). I have taken to this latter site for less expensive rimless eyeglass frames, a style I have been wearing for upwards of thirty years. In my inbox seemingly hourly there appear dozens of requests by the Democrats pleading for monies, but these urgent requests return me to motive #1 and my wish to lose the politics and find myself again. As if the politics isn’t one of the myths by which I have lived. The assault on the senses from the computer that comes from the world creates tensions and they seem to me now inevitable. Wherever I go, there I am.

Sometimes I realize that it requires an expenditure of some considerable energy not to go on the various devices and lines and to resist the call of the world. Too often I feel myself drawn to attend to notice of the events as if to a magnet; such attention serves as a means of grounding myself, suggesting that I need news of the world in order to situate myself in it. W. G. Sebald’s Rings of Saturn explores just how close one can get to tragedy without being destroyed by it. Saturn’s rings are situated just far enough away from the planet’s gravitational pull to keep from being drawn down onto its surface and smashed to bits. I think I require the connection to the world to maintain the necessary distance from it to avoid being smashed to bits by its gravitational pull.

It begins to appear to me that motives for turning away the world already contain the methods for doing so, though it appears also that a complete escape seems unlikely or even sought. And it takes an honest effort to understand the necessary distance to maintain from the world which must always be held in view.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Catch-22 in 2025

For at least the past twelve years or so I have been enjoying coffee and a crossword puzzle from the Minnesota Star-Tribune every Saturday morning with a friend. In the beginning we met at a local coffee house following the abandonment by my previous coffee klatch—my daughters—who had gone off to college and other locations. During the pandemic when I would not leave the house, Ruven bravely met me at chez moi where in the beginning I made the coffee (always a very excellent brew, saying so myself) and he brought the bagels. During those early mornings I began to recognize that there was no substitute for a New York bagel and over time I sadly declined the fare he would carry over. Ruven then arrived only with the Arts section of the newspaper that contained the Universal crossword puzzle. He carried a pen (!) clipped onto the newspaper and brought his good cheer. We would talk politics and coffee, share some personal stories from the past and the present, rail at the Republicans and the Trump government and talk about books. One Saturday during a light moment in our conversation a reference was made to Major Major Major Major, a character in Joseph Heller’s novel Catch-22, and Ruven commented that Catch-22 was a funny, funny book. I nodded my head in agreement. Now, I had not read the book in years and I picked it off my bookshelf and began to rea and as I read I chuckled aloud. More than once I even guffawed.

And as I was reading in my comfy chair this past evening during the first week of Trump’s presidency, it struck me with not a little alarm that the present seemed to be an auspicious time to be rereading Heller’s novel because the personages and events in the novel seemed too similar to what passes today for government. Catch-22 takes place for the most part on the island of Pianosa, situated in the Mediterranean Sea eight miles south of Elba, where the 256^th Bomber Squadron is stationed. The novel follows the lives (and deaths) of the American service men in World War II who in the fulfillment of their duties are constantly endangered while dropping bombs on the enemy who in turn fire back at the planes and destroying the bombers and killing its crew; the novel narrates the hierarchy of officers who callously order the enlisted men about, and the self-serving staff, like Milo Minderbinder, who use the squadron for their own egregiously self-interested aims and purposes. Milo Mnderbinder for one contracts with the Germans to bomb his own base to fulfill a contract that makes Milo a handsome profit. Colonel Cathcart, who is responsible for increasing the number of missions his men have to fly, considers that “the war was crawling with group commanders who were merely doing their duty, and it required just some sort of dramatic gesture like making his group fly more combat missions than any other bomber group to spotlight his unique qualities of leadership.” One thing that didn’t concern Cathcart was the danger he put his squadron in by continuing to increase the number of missions they had to fly! Rather, Cathcart was concerned with his status and the possibility of his promotion. 

Well, this is not the time or place to analyze this wonderful and frightening novel, except to say that during my reading I grew alarmed at how our current reality under Trump looked too much like the events and personages of the novel. Marx had said “Hegel remarks somewhere that all faces and personages of great importance in world history occur, as it were twice. He forgot to add: the first time as tragedy, the second as farce.”  Trump’s appearance as President for the second time on the world stage appeared to me as farce, dangerous as it seems. That is, what transpires in his administration as responsible governance can only be understood as farcical and incompetent and cannot be understood as anything approaching honest and effective government. His leadership is organized by motives of revenge and greed, and like Heller’s Colonel Cathcart, his leadership is relevant to him only as it increases his wealth and satisfies his illimitably greedy egotism, energies for revenge and grasp at power. Trump’s inauguration (his coronation, as it is turning out) and his brash accusations and lies; his unashamed display of his abysmal ignorance; his appointments of incompetents and unethical candidates for cabinet positions who are charged to enact his will and support his unlimited narcissism and greed and his desire for retribution; his self-aggrandizing harangues all appear to repeat the absurdities of the events and personages in Catch-22. For example, Trump’s acts on the first day of his reign was 1) to pardon the 1600 violent insurrectionists of January 6, 2020 and return these racist, misogynist nazis to the street even as Trump decries the illusory lawlessness rampant in the nation perpetrated by illegal immigrants (whom he refers to as animals and vermin) and by what he terms the left-wing crazies (whom he terms wackos); 2) to withdraw the United States from the Paris climate treaty amid the continuing crisis of global warming and his absurd promise to increase the use of fossil fuel and to drill, baby, drill; 3) to withdraw the United States from the United Nations World Health Organization who Trump has claimed mishandled the corona virus epidemic. This from the man who had suggested that the corona virus pandemic was basically not serious and could be managed easily with quack and dangerous treatments! This from a man who had been treated preferentially and expensively when he early on contracted the disease. Trump’s first actions speak to the dangerous threat to the democracy of the nation. The absurdity and incompetence of the present government seems to me too frightenedly like the events and personages in the novel. On every page of Catch-22 the danger posed by those incompetent, oblivious and self-aggrandizing administrators to the lives of the men they dominate is prominent. So is our nation endangered by Trump and his band of incompetent, billionaire sycophants.

            I am aware that everything any administration does in governing the United States can be wrong, but during the Biden presidency I awoke every day without a sense of fear and dread. Those calmer days are over, and I awaken each morning with a sickly sense of being fouled and threatened. As Yossarian heads out at novel’s end away from the war he admits to being frightened, and Major Danby says, “That’s good. It proves you’re still alive. It won’t be fun.” I’m frightened and alive, but  I know it won’t be fun.

             

 

 

 

            

 

 

 

            
 

 

 

            

Cooking and Life

I suppose that I believe that the act of cooking often serves as a mirror into the character of a life.  There are intimate connections between what we eat and its preparation and who we might be or think we are; as the cliché contends, “We are what we eat.” And the opposite is also true: we eat what we are! There is an ethics to our food consumption even as there is an ethics to how we live our lives. Henry David Thoreau speaks to this relationship when he says, “But certainly there are modes by which a man may put bread into his mouth which will not prejudice him as a companion and neighbor.” I recall foregoing lettuce and grapes to support the strike and unionizing of mostly temporary and under paid farm workers, and I have been long a vegetarian for an assortment of reasons, both political and personal. My father had urged us to eat everything that was on our plate because there were hungry people over there, but he also taught us that it is good to leave something on our plates to remind us that others remain hungry with nothing on their plates. How we ate became a moral activity that reflected who we were. Eating became emblematic of life choices. In his book that recounts the trip Thoreau made with his brother John down the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, he says, “When you come to a brook or pond, you can catch fish and cook them; or you can boil a hasty-pudding; or you can buy a loaf of bread at a farmer’s house for fourpence, moisten it in the next brook that crosses the road, and dip into it your sugar,—this alone will last you a whole day;—or if you are accustomed to heartier living, you can buy a quart of milk for two cents, crumb your bread or cold pudding into it and eat it with your own spoon out of your own dish. Any one of these things I mean, not all together” (italics added). Thoreau would prepare his meals as he lived, with temperance, economy and moral conscientiousness, and this was consistent with the moral stances he assumed in the world. Thoreau advocated for a life of leanness and liberal concern before liberal was a cynical word for a dubious politics. In “Slavery in Massachusetts” Thoreau had forcefully decried the execution of John Brown who he believed to be a hero and martyr, and Thoreau railed against the surrender of the escaped slave, Anthony Burns, to his Southern owners by the Boston authorities. We approach food as we do our friends, family and neighbors and as we do the exercise of our lives.

Cooking like breathing and movement, sustains life. The yoga instructor quietly repeats, “Breathe, just breathe, align your movement to your breaths.” I have always had difficulty with that process. And the preparation of food, too, requires attention, patience and alertness. So does life. I’ve had considerable difficulty with that process. I too quickly lose patience, attention and alertness. These days I fall easily down the rabbit hole my phone provides me. But recently I twice screened The Taste of Things a film about food and love in which the two categories are intimately related. Indeed, Dodin states that “everything started with something they ate,” referencing the story of Adam and Eve in the garden eating from the forbidden Tree of Knowledge. In the relationship between Dodin and Eugénie, Monsieur Dodin first reads the recipe; that is, he creates the dishes, and then Eugénie prepares it. She is the cook! The two have been partners for 20 years. Repeatedly he has asked for her hand in marriage and consistently she refuses him. But during the meal that he prepares for her after her illness, Dodin hides a ring within the dessert, and unwrapping the dessert and discovering the ring, Eugénie smiles and accepts his proposal. Cooking and love are here linked. In one of the final scenes in the film, Eugénie asks Dodin, ““Do you see me more as a wife or a cook?” and Dodin responds, “A cook,” and with the same smile she wore when he proposed, Eugénie says, “Thank you.” That is, Dodin loves Eugénie because her passion for food preparation translates into her passion for Dodin and vice versa. If she were viewed first as a wife, Dodin would be bound to her by custom and by law, but as his cook her passion for food is inseparable from her passion for him. They are what they eat! “And there’s nothing that you eat that I don’t eat, too,” Dodin tells her. Now, I believe the food in this film is certainly more glorious than the bread to which Thoreau has alluded, and they do tend to prepare and eat not any one of these things as Thoreau had recommended, but, indeed, to repast on all of them. The sumptuous multi-course meals they prepare and consume was staggering. But the meal’s preparation does not at all prejudice either Dodin or Eugénie. Though this film is about food, and as a vegetarian I was not overly interested in any of the recipes (except maybe for the Baked Alaska!), I was fascinated by the dedication Dodin and Eugénie enacted to every aspect of the culinary art and to their lives and love. As they devoted their days and years to the food, so did they devote their love for each other. 

I am not so enamored of food nor do I possess or am interested to acquire such skilled preparations in the kitchen; the care and cares with which Dodin and Eugénie’s meals are prepared have only a vague similarity to my culinary efforts and techniques. Well, in fact my meals have very little in common with those of Dodin and Eugénie except perhaps that we both employ food stuffs and prepare them in a kitchen. I have been cooking meals in my kitchen for much of my life, at least for fifty-odd of my seventy-seven years. I have fed my children from my anxious effort in the kitchen. I believe they consumed both, but they have survived and even thrived. Often the meals have turned to odd. Once I tried to prepare a vegan sloppy joe but the dish somehow turned out a bright shade of pink and no one partook.  I am a careless cook: And it may be true that in the same amount of time I have grown as well to be a somewhat dedicated, somewhat successful and careless lover, father, friend and scholar, though perhaps for each with different intensities. 

I am the founding member of an organization I have taken to calling “The Careless Cook Club.” Perhaps there are other yet anonymous potential members. I invite them all to join my association and tell with care the stories of their careless cooking and living.

 

 

Second Time as Farce

I return at times to Karl Marx’s The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte. I am not alone. Marx comments, “Hegel remarks somewhere that all facts and personages of great importance in world history occur, as it were, twice. He forgot to add: the first time as tragedy, the second as farce.” Farce is a term that refers to something that is meant to be serious but that has become ridiculous. Marx suggests that though men do make their own history, they do not make it under circumstances of their choosing; they make it under circumstances that are drawn from the past into the present. Marx then suggests why events turn to farce. He writes, “And just when they seem engaged in revolutionizing themselves and things, in creating something that has never yet existed, precisely in such periods of revolutionary crisis they anxiously conjure up the spirits of the past to their service and borrow from them names, battle cries and costumes in order to present the new scene of world history in this time-honored disguise and this borrowed language.” The present in borrowed names, clothes and manners pretending it is the past become farce just as the skits in Saturday Night Live that mimic the current political situations and characters. The present becomes farce and though funny it is also sad. Freud will suggest that often behavior represents the return of the repressed and in the present those behaviors look ridiculous and inappropriate. I suppose that if Trump’s first presidency was tragic—and it certainly was for the nation, democracy and decency—then this second one will be farce. I have only to look at his choice of cabinet members and presidential advisors to recognize that whatever seriousness might have once existed in the office of the presidency has been by him and his minions in the present lost.

Trump often describes himself as a great man: he refers to his first term of office as the greatest in history!  His lies are laughable. Great man? Isaiah Berlin says, “What are great men? They are ordinary human beings who are ignorant and vain enough to accept responsibility for the life of society, individuals who would rather take the blame for all the cruelties, injustices, disasters justified in their name than recognize their own insignificance and impotence in the cosmic flow which pursues its course irrespective of their wills and ideals.” Not exactly a perfect description of Donald Trump but certainly close enough a portrayal of this very ignorant, pathologically narcissistic man. In fact, however, Trump takes responsibility for very, very little, preferring instead to blame others for his own self-serving and ill-informed decisions. In his posturing as “a great man” he reminds me of Seinfeld’s George Constanza who passes himself off to others as whatever is at the moment convenient: a marine biologist, an architect, a lingerie salesperson! George is all farce. So is Trump. George is harmless but Trump is dangerous.
           And sometimes it has seemed to me that other second iterations do occur as farce. In Gustav Flaubert’s 1869 novel Sentimental Education, I find a description very much reflective of our time. Flaubert might have intended sarcasm, but the population that is described was all too real and dangerously serious. In the years following the suppression of the rebellion of 1848, itself a rebellion appearing to Marx as farce, Flaubert’s narrator describes the social scene and politics,

. . . everyone agreed on the urgent need for decentralization . . . to divide Paris into numerous high streets and re-establish villages, transfer the seat of government to Versailles, put the university in Bourges, do away with libraries, entrust everything to the general staff. And they extolled country life, t, the uneducated man naturally having more sense than everyone else! Hatred was rife: hatred against primary school teachers and wine merchants, against philosophy classes, history lessons, novels, red waistcoats, long beards, all independence, any display of individuality. For it was necessary to restore the principle of authority, no matter where it came from . . .

I could not help but compare this sentiment in what is a very political novel about events in France during the crises of mid-19th century to our present-day atmosphere of the ascendent Republican regime. Though I don’t suspect that Trump wants to move the capital of the nation to say, Mar-a-Lago, he does seem to be attempting to brand the world by his arrogance, greed and self-serving posturing. His boasts that he would buy Greenland and re-invade Panama exemplify his ignorance and bullying stances in the world. And wouldn’t his threat to jail his critics and close the media that exposes his profound ignorance sound farcically like the Reign of Terror during the latter years of the French Revolution, a history of which Trump must be woefully oblivious.  I am considering the banning of books, the criminalization of librarians who continue to advocate for free speech, the spewing of calumny and hatred that vomits from the mouths of Trump and his acolytes, the condemnation of education and teachers by people who know very little about education and who attack the schools and teachers for promulgating justified criticism of the nation. The attempt by Trump and his appointed minions to dismantle the government and leave those most powerless and least capable to the whims of whoever is in temporary power at the moment appears to me as a blatant exercise of cruelty and power grabbing. I have wondered how it could be possible that a novel written more than two centuries before could describe our present situation now understood as farce.

And then there is this, spoken not by Greta Grunberg or any other contemporary Jeremiah apprehensive about the effects of climate change and global warming. “The Russian forests are groaning under the ax, millions of trees are being destroyed, the dwelling of wild beasts and birds are despoiled, rivers are subsiding, drying up, wonderful landscapes vanish never to return, and because lazy man hasn’t sense enough to stoop down and pick up fuel [peat] from the ground . . . Man is endowed with reason and creative powers so that he may increase what has been given to him, but up to now he has not created but only destroyed. There are fewer and fewer forests, rivers are drying up, wild life is becoming extinct, the climate is ruined and every day the earth gets poorer and uglier. . .” No, this sentiment is not spokenBy Greta Thunberg in this century but by Mikhail Lvovich Astrov, a doctor, in Anton Chekhov’s 1897 play, Uncle Vanya. As Yogi Berra so aptly said, “It’s déjà vu all over again.”

I have often wondered why there is nothing new under the sun! How could things happen twice as Marx had said the first time as tragedy and then again as farce. This is not to say that the ever-present epidemics and genocides or climate denigrations are farce—but my experience teaches me that Marx is correct. This past pandemic so vehemently mishandled by so-called leaders was a replication not only of the occurrence of the epidemic of the flu in 1918. Wikipedia reports that the pandemic broke out near the end of World War I, when censorship in the warring countries suppressed bad news to maintain morale, but newspapers attributed the outbreak in Spain, creating a false impression of neutral Spain as the epicenter and that led to the "Spanish flu" misnomer. Limited historical data makes the geographic origin of the pandemic indeterminate, with competing hypotheses on the initial spread. Sounds so familiar to  Trump's response to the 2020 Corona outbreak. It sounds not a little like President Reagan’s refusal to recognize and provide aid during the AIDS crisis. George Bush’s failed Afghan war occurred not a dozen years after his father’s invasion of Iraq. Today’s climate crisis continues the environment’s destruction as it did in 1897. Do we really learn nothing? Isaiah Berlin writes,
 

Happy are those who live under a discipline which they accept without question, who freely obey the orders of leaders, spiritual or temporal, whose word is fully accepted as unbreakable law; or those who have, by their own methods arrived at clear and unshakeable convictions about what to do and what to be that brook no possible doubt. I can only say that who rest on such comfortable beds of dogma are victims of forms of self-indued myopia, blinkers that may make for contentment, but not for understanding of what it is to be human.

Ignorance and weakness rules, as always. Isaac had re-dug the wells his father had previously turned, and like his father before him passed his wife Rebekah off as his sister to Pharaoh even as Abraham had told Pharaoh that Sarah, his wife, was his sister. We are the product of our histories and that we unconsciously repeat. Our acts become farce. Freud has taught that understanding those histories is a first step toward changing direction but those that Berlin describes opt for ignorance rather than understanding. For these individuals—sometimes turned mob—what is sought is comfort and ease, a sense of stasis in identities and relationships. Once in power always in power. Such people want no disruption to the lives they live, no threat to their often-imagined and even unearned place in the world. As a result they repeat the life they have lived in changed circumstances and their responses to circumstances are not reflective of that change. Often, they are ridiculous. Second time as farce. They repeat because in the present they live out their pasts and do not and would not know it. Jacob’s cry that God was in that place and he didn’t know describes for me these myopic individuals. These individuals alone and in groups know no other way and would not learn an alternative. 

It amuses me to consider, then, David Brooks’ article in The Atlantic. Brooks decries the meritocracy established by James Conant, the President of Harvard in the post-World War II years. Brooks writes that Conant’s intention was “to eliminate admission criteria based on bloodlines and breeding and replace them with criteria centered on brainpower. His system was predicated on the idea that the highest human trait is intelligence, and that intelligence is revealed through academic achievement.” Hence begins the development of standardized tests to measure academic achievement. But as it turns out, academic achievement is intimately connected to financial resources: affluent parents spend a great deal of money to ensure that their children can enter elite institutions. Schools in high socioeconomic communities have far greater resources than schools in less affluent areas; high SES parents have the means to purchase elite private schools and tutors to greatly increase their academic achievements. But Brooks’ article echoes Nicholas Lemann’s 1999 book The Big Test: The Secret History of the American Meritocracy, but Brooks neglects to cite Lemann’s work nor the work of hundreds of educators that actually includes me who have long argued against the present educational establishments that has moved steadily towards inequality by giving priority to standardized, scientific testing.

First time as tragedy and second as farce.

 

 

 

 

Jacob and Esau

Jacob had first blackmailed his brother Esau, exchanging a bowl of lentil stew for Esau’s birthright. Then, Jacob, in collaboration with his mother, Rebekah, disguised himself as his brother Esau and gave to his father the meal Isaac had asked of Esau. In his blindness and ignorance (metaphorically identical) Isaac blessed Jacob, the younger son. The meal itself had actually been prepared by Rebekah. When he returned Esau learned of the deception and weeping said, “Father, have you no blessing for me?” It was a painfully poignant moment. Esau was so angry that he even threatened to kill his brother. Overhearing Esau’s threat, Rebekah sent Jacob away to her brother’s home. After years of estrangement, Jacob headed back to Canaan and had to pass through Esau’s territory. Jacob feared that Esau would then exact his revenge. But Esau meets his brother with an embrace and invites he and his entire family and retinue to his home where they might feast, rest and renew their relationship. Jacob accepts Esau’s invitation but then heads in another direction to his home, standing up his waiting brother. I imagine Esau at the front door of his tent eagerly awaiting the arrival of Jacob and his family and retinue but who will not ever arrive. I try to imiagine how it might feel to wait at my front door for company that never arrives.

And then in Bereshit, Chapter 35:27-29 we read of the death of Esau and Jacob’s father, Isaac.  “And Jacob came to his father Isaac at Mamre, at Kiriath-arba—now Hebron—where Abraham and Isaac had sojourned. Isaac was a hundred and eight years old when he breathed his last and died. He was gathered to his kin in ripe old age; and he was buried by his sons Esau and Jacob.” I don’t rcall reading when Abraham and Isaac stayed in Hebron, nor does the Torah say how either Jacob or Esau had learned of their father’s death nor how Esau had traveled to Hebron. Since Isaac’s life and death mirrored that of his father, his burial, as that of his father Abraham, is attended by his sons, Jacob and Esau. Following the events on Mount Moriah, Isaac did not descend the mountain nor return home with his father. One story tells that Isaac descended on the opposite side of the mountain from Abraham and sojourned with his estranged brother, Ishmael. The two men probably had a great deal to discuss about their upbringing. And it is suggested that the half-brothers had not been estranged.. Thus, to learn that they had buried their father together does not surprise me. They buried Abraham in the space he had purchased for the burial of Sarah, his wife. Abraham’s funeral standing beside his brother Isaac. Interestingly, there is no mention if Isaac had also attended his mother’s funeral. Certainly, Ishmael might have felt less than interested in paying his respects towards the woman whose complaint had led to his banishment.  

Now, the Rabbis have treated Esau in a manner not dissimilar to the way Jacob had earlier behaved towards his brother: ill-treating and disappearing him! To my mind unjustifiably the Rabbis eventually turn Esau into the quintessential enemy of the Jews. What we do learn textually about Esau is that after Jacob escapes from home following his deceptive assumption of Esau’s character, so too does Esau leave home and journeys I believe to his uncle, Ishmael, the other cast out and badly treated son. As I have noted, Isaac had already been a sojourner with Ishmael after his father 
Abraham bound and almost sacrificed his son on Mount Moriah. I am certain that Ishmael and Isaac must have had a great deal to discuss concerning family matters. And when their father dies both sons return to bury him in the Cave of Machpelah, though there is no record of their attendance at their mother’s funeral earlier. By the time of Abraham’s subsequent death, these half-brothers had already processed their experience with their parents and had established their relationship on some firm basis. 

Then when Isaac dies we read that his sons, Esau and Jacob, buried him at Hebron in the Cave of Machpelah with their grandfather and grandmother. Interestingly, there is not even record of their mother Rebekah’s death and certainly not a single mention of her funeral, only that she, too, was buried in the cave first purchased by Abraham. Esau’s attendance at Isaac’s funeral surprises me: he would have stood next to Jacob who had blackmailed, deceived and stole from him.  Jacob doesn’t appear to have attempted any contact with his brother having left home after he deceptively received Isaac’s blessing, and except for meeting him in the desert there is no record of any attempt to meet with Esau. I wonder under these conditions what the two estranged brothers could possibly have said to each other? Esau’s experience and hurt could only have made any intimate talk impossible, nor had they shared similar experience in their upbringing that either might be willing to share. But I think that if Jacob apologized for his behavior then the whole history of the Jews would have to be rethought. If Jacob had apologized to Esau then the third of the patriarchs—Abraham, Isaac and now Jacob—would have to acknowledge how he had lied and cheated his way to the top. Alternatively, Esau might have to be understood as a far more admirable and sympathetic man than the Rabbis have described him and consider Jacob less so. Perhaps then Esau might be considered a fourth patriarch.

Vigils at death beds and attendances at funerals have been plotted lately in cultural products as moments of familial and friends reconciliations. I think of the films The Big Chill, His Three Daughters, This is How I Leave You, or The Skeleton Twins, or Normal People as examples of such plot lines in which family tensions get resolved during the periods of mourning. There have been others. But in these biblical stories there are no mentions of what the brothers might have spoken to each other. Perhaps the Torah doesn’t care what the brothers might have with each other; perhaps the Rabbis had preferred to ignore the maltreatment of Ishmael, Isaac and Esau. Their attendances at the funerals of their fathers could not have been moments of familial reconciliation. Maybe so. Of course, I would prefer that at my funeral the tension would arise from my absence at the event, but, alas, I am no Tom Sawyer.