A Brief History Of The Now
Ned Merrill (Burt Lancaster), "The Swimmer" (1968)
It's A Strange, Undeniable Fact; Out Of The Blue And Into The Black
While the majority of America has basted and boiled through these summer months so far, San Francisco slipped its hands in its pockets, tucked its chin down a little, keeping its cool. We have beautiful sunsets beyond the Golden Gate, light gold and red across the La Nina waters, the delight of sailors. We also have fog, of course.
I'm grateful, but immediately think: Don't say that; you're tempting the Wrath of the Whoosis From High Atop The Thing, go outside, turn around three times and spit, because I've always been like that. I am the embodiment of George Carlin's Hippy-Dippy Weatherman ("Behind every silver lining -- there's a dark cloud"). Look both ways before you cross the street -- and even if you do, stuff happens.
And so while places in America are baked beneath a Dome, here in yesterday, it rained -- or, almost -- and I made my way across the City to the house of the Best Friend to join others in a low-key dinner, a rite of passage: my retirement after 25 years from, almost assuredly, the last regular job I will ever have.
One of the Last Of The Old Unit arrived. So did The Girl who Refused To Be Mrs. Mongo (now happily married, but not to Mongo); the Godson, an A.I. Robotics Wizard-In-Training who took the biography of Oppenheimer I gave him and read it seriously; the Goddaughter, just back from a Masters' program abroad with a gift from The Old Country. Mostly, we were Olds, which meant by ten-thirty it was time to say goodnight.
____________________________
W. 40th Street At 6th Avenue, New York, New York, 1940;
"Nazi Army Now 75 Miles From Paris"; Breakfast Special, 10 Cents
I can see up ahead the grey, granite plinth by the side of the Road, the 75 Mile stone; three-quarters of a century. Physically, things are good. A short, sharp physical ailment this past January was resolved quickly but reminded me this is how it happens. As abruptly as a switch being thrown. Someone was standing in front of you, and in an instant, ein Augenblick, they're not. You were this; now, you're that.
A work friend (actually, an old boss) counseled against giving management more than two weeks' notice. She reminded me a mutual acquaintance, an Executive Director with over thirty years' tenure, had retired after giving senior leadership months of advance notice, and was shelved for most of that time, little to do. "They cut him out," she said. "It drove him crazy. They'll do it to you, too."
"And, why retire? What will you do?" This, from someone in a senior director role, 37 years with the company, who gardens but lives to work. I explained, my health issue in January reminded that life has always been a crapshoot, but after 75 years, the odds had shifted. I have no way of knowing how much longer I'll live. It's really that simple. "Well, retirement scares me," she snorted, though I sensed she was afraid of the same thing I was; work is her distraction. We each have our methods.
_______________________________
"We'd like to welcome you to Styx Airways. If the flight attendants in the cabin walkway could have your attention, we would like to take a moment and review the Safety Card -- which should be in the seat-back pocket directly in front of you. The Safety Card will show you positions and items and popular songs which may assist you should an unanticipated event occur with this Boeing aircraft. Also with the Safety Card is our in-flight drinks menu."
_______________________________
Every January, corporate organizations begin firming up strategic goals, setting work assignments. If I waited until the last two weeks to drop my bailout notice, the team I was part of (already understaffed, no backfilling in sight) would have to scramble.
A week after the minor health issue, I met with the Person I Report To and advised within six months, I would be retiring. Already tasked to move 1,000 tons of sand with two spoons and too few hands, she wasn't happy, but said she recognized that was not my fault.
I appreciated her saying that. However, I didn't give a shit. I was committed to leaving; and while over the next 22 weeks I would wake up thinking what the fuck am I doing, last Friday was functionally my last day; tomorrow I begin burning through a banked 500 hours of Paid Time Off. In November that stops.
_______________________________
I arrived home after the dinner, stood in my living room considering the evening, listening to the silence at the top of Nob Hill. I thought of Neddy Merrill, Cheever's The Swimmer -- he did most things right, tried his best, but still discovered Stuff Happens -- and I wondered: Now What.
_______________________________
Obligatory Cute Small Animal Photo In Middle Of Blog Ogg Ogg
Bark Bark Bark Bark
The news of the day: I didn't expect Saturday, July 13th. I'd gotten up that morning, considering how utterly, deeply fucked America seemed. Biden was staying in. He had enough delegates to secure the nomination. However, our politics requires candidates for President be an avatar, able to articulate a compelling vision of the future.
It's shitty, popularity- and gut-driven; yes -- a large number of voters don't pay attention to more than their instinct about a candidate: Uh yeah I guess I'll vote for Trump, 'cause he's strong, ya know? Seems like that, anyway.
Biden couldn't bring it. Everything was going to end as badly as you can imagine. I looked as far into the future as I could, and it was violent, hungry -- The Shire, plundered and oppressed by Orcs. My old, self-critical persona cackled, You picked one hell of a time to retire, buddy.
_______________________________
"The Captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belts sign, and we request you remain in your seats and not move about the cabin. Please bring your tray tables to their full upright and locked position, and consult the Safety Card in anticipation of a brief period of turbulence."
_______________________________
Trump Rally Site, Butler, PA: After
Trump had been absent for a while, letting the Democrats self-destruct, but had just returned to the campaign -- roaring, screeching; mumbling about battery-powered Hannibal Lecters, sharks with tasers -- America mesmerized by his swagger and brutality. Polls showed Biden's numbers falling and beginning to affect down-ballot Democratic races; Trump was having him for lunch, unstoppable; Der Fuhrer. In fact, he was having a rally in Butler, PA, that afternoon.
I was one of those trying not to think about it but failing, as ever -- and there was Trump, reigning as the dark center of it all. It could be different, If only ... and while I'm not the only person in America to make this observation, it's not one I would share.
But thinking in that vein reminded me of a passage in Furst's Dark Star -- August, 1939; Hitler and the nazis rattling sabers at Poland. Everyone knows what will happen on September the first. Andre Szara is a Soviet journalist and intelligence operative in Paris, involved with de Montfried, a member of the French aristocracy, to move Jewish refugees to Palestine. The men meet at de Montfried's club:
When Szara entered the library de Montfried was reading a newspaper. He looked up, his face flushed with anger. "He's going into Poland. Do you know what that means?" ... "I was born in Poland," Szara said. "I know what it's like." "But, why this man, this Adolf Hitler? Why is he permitted to live?" [de Montfried] folded the newspaper... "I don't know," [Szara said]. "Can nothing be done? ... An organization like yours, its capacities, its resources for such things... Forgive me," [de Montfried] said. "What I feel is like an illness. It will not leave me." "I know," Szara said.
The events in Butler occurred four hours later. I wasn't expecting that on my bingo card -- but having idly considered, If only ... just that morning, was I picking something out of the ether? Is that how it all works? It did seem oddly coincidental.
______________________________
I watched the videos. Once Trump could hear his protective detail saying, "Shooter's down", the Slug instinctively understood what a gift he'd been handed. He delayed the agents, twice, as they were trying to push him off the stage, so he could pump his fist and mouth fight fight fight ! And the agents let him.
Later, at the Rethug convention, Trump basked in great waves of adulation, praise and -- dare we say it? -- love from the Mob. He sported a bandage over one ear. His mob roared, an ecstatic frenzy, fight fight fight fight ! Ah, what Leni could have done with that.
Trump, at his Zenith. He was the Chosen One, head of House Harkonnen, eager to hurt that Mumbling Old Man Biden and seize control of his prize, his America -- there for the taking. Feared and bigger than his daddy at last.
______________________________
Somewhere in there, Federal Judgy Aileen Cannon dismissed in full the classified documents case against Trump in Florida. It seems that Special Prosecutor Jack Smith was improperly appointed and funded. It's already been appealed to the Florida 11th Circuit, and who knows what happens next.
Of course she did. Of course That Court, a judiciary packed with judges hand-picked by Leonard Leo, would back Trump, the flawed but necessary Leader who can help them realize Project 2025. My response is fuck all of you fucking motherfucking fucks. Not to put too fine a point on it or anything.
"PULL UP -- PULL UP -- PULL UP -- PULL UP"
_________________________________
Then, two announcements on Sunday, July 21st.
I didn't expect Biden to leave. If he did, I assumed a bloody, dramatic bar fight, in public, would follow among the various factions and personalities of the Democratic party. The national convention would showcase just how churned and divided and you-can't-trust-us the Dems are.
(And oh, the MSM, whose two main themes are Dems In Disarray and Biden Old, were expecting a long, ugly contest, too. They were hoping for it, because (to quote the Mango Mussolini) "you can be the worst person in the world -- but if you have the ratings, it doesn't matter." It's all about clicks and likes and audience and revenue. It's Capitalism and the Free Market, baby. News? Facts? Ha ha; no.)
But It didn't happen. Biden stepped away. He passed the torch to Harris, and (even putting aside knee-jerk hyperbole) -- the explosive response from Democrats measured in contributions to Harris' shiny new campaign in just the first 24 hours was record-breaking, staggering. It was like putting a tiny sponge in the shape of a dinosaur into a dish of water and watching as it became hideously large. And nationally, 48,000 new, first-time campaign volunteers were signed up -- in those first 24 hours.
I'm one of the most cynical people I know -- but all this tells me Left / liberal voters seemed desperate for almost any Democrat who could articulate a consistent message, stand up to the bully in public and kick his ass. The Democrats have pressed the message that Democracy Is On The Line in this election; and guess what? People believe it.
Something else stood out which hasn't been mentioned enough: The Dems weren't in disarray. If anything, the transition from Biden's campaign to Harris' was rapid and (from the outside, at least) seamless. Endorsements from major Democratic players and even potential rivals, from the Clintons, the Obamas, were quick to line up.
Harris has all the delegates needed to clinch the Democratic nomination -- it will be either by acclimation, or a first-ballot win. But it's all been disciplined, with few if any rough spots. For a party traditionally seen as too factionalized for its own good, the transformation, discipline and organization was impressive.
_________________________________
I'm cynical, but I want to hope. I don't want everything to go back the way it was in the late 50's of my childhood. I don't even want a return to pre-Trump, pre-Covid America (Harris' campaign has already settled on a slogan that resonates: We're Not Going Back). What I'd hope for is a country with an actual future. There is no future in an authoritarian America -- and that will determine my vote.
I live in the Bluest of cities in a Blue State, so my vote is not critical -- except to me. How and what I choose matters, to me. I suspect that's true for many people, even living in a 'battleground' state. I won't support our nation-state becoming a dictatorship of native nazis and so-called 'christians'. I'm too old to do what I did, age 19, in one war; but as an Old, there are other ways to resist. I hope that's not another choice I'll be faced with.
The Democrats have to deliver on a demand from The People -- that they prove their ideals, their policies are better than Trump's within the context of a culturally-saturated political contest. Harris has a slightly easier road -- she's younger; can articulate the Democratic message. And, Trump is a bloated, raving monster. But whether she can maintain momentum, really bring it to the bully and kick his ass -- whether she can win this absurd personality-contest of an election -- I hope, but no one knows. Not yet.
____________________________________
"We have arrived at Big Airport in Your Town. Before you deplane, please take a moment to look around and make sure you have all of your personal belongings. Local time is 0800 Hours, or Eight A.M., and the temperature is 65 degrees Fahrenheit. On behalf of Captain Mongo and our flight crew, we'd like to thank you for flying Styx Airways, and wish you a pleasant trip."
____________________________________
Gute Reise!
ReplyDelete