May 01, 2017

Among the Worst of Times

I'm sorry for the lack of writing over the last month. It's been a horrible time and, unfortunately, the horrible time continues. I'd forgotten how emotionally draining and time-consuming it is to take care of an ailing cat. (Of course, I remember in general all too well how exhausting and awful tending a dying cat is -- but once past the event, many of the specific details fade from memory. And I'd forgotten just how exhausting it is. Then, too, there are times when I collapse sobbing. Grief is profoundly tiring.) And then, with all my own rotten health problems on top of that, well ...

Sasha and I have a birthday this Friday, May 5. It's my actual birthday; Sasha's origins remain a mystery -- since I have no idea when she was born, when she came to live here I decided we'd share a birthday together. In recent weeks, I hadn't been at all sure we would both make it to the 5th this year -- I think now that we will, although I doubt the current situation can go on much longer after that.

God, that's all horribly depressing. It's what's happening here. I still desperately want to get back to writing. I'm forever making notes, and I try to do some actual writing every day. It's almost impossible at the moment to have the kind of sustained, uninterrupted time I need to get anywhere. Sasha needs something; I have to lie down for a while; sometimes Sasha and I need some cuddling time. I'll keep trying; hopefully, some day soon, I'll break through.

It's the first of the month again; once again, sad to say, I'm about $500 short of what I need for the first half of the month bills. And I should pay the rent by Friday of this week if it's not going to be late; if the rent were late, much unpleasantness would follow. I would be deeply grateful for any contributions readers care to make to our efforts to survive this very, very bad time.

I am actually sending out thank you notes. I'll get to everyone eventually; please be patient if you haven't received a note from me yet. These days, everything takes me far longer than I anticipate. Getting old and sick genuinely sucks. I recommend that you avoid it as long as possible.

As always, many thanks for reading -- and all my gratitude for your many kindnesses.

April 01, 2017

Some Help, Please

I had promised myself that I wouldn't do another donation post until I had published at least one new, substantial article. I did that earlier today. I'm fairly satisfied with it, although, as with most of my writing, I'm forever seeing things that I wish I had done more elegantly, or more wittily, or just better. Writing that piece did establish one fact for me, which appears to now be unchangeable: it takes me considerably longer to put together an article than it did even a few years ago. Very rotten health and a continuing collection of symptoms of varying discomfort and pain will do that to you.

In any case, I'm beginning to get back in the groove, and I plan to begin the next essay in that series later today or tomorrow. I truly do enjoy the writing itself, and it's a wonderful distraction from the various problems infesting my life, including the questions surrounding Sasha's health. Sasha and I both have bad days and somewhat better days; neither of us appears to have a genuinely good day at this point. But we adore each other's company, and give each other lots of love. If this is the best available to us at this point, I'll take it, for as long as it lasts.

But criminy, it's the first of the month again. And no, regrettably this is not an April Fool's post. This is in deadly earnest. I'm about $600.00 short of what I need for rent and three other first of the month (roughly speaking) bills, including one for internet service. (I suppose it's more like $700.00, if you include incidentals like food -- not for Sasha, I have tons of food for her, if only she would eat more of it, but food for me when current supplies run out.)

I have until Wednesday of this coming week to pay the rent before it's officially late. After that ... well, possibly very bad trouble. So I need to get together whatever I can by Monday or Tuesday, to make sure the landlord has it on Wednesday, if at all possible.

I'm still in the process of sending out thank you notes to those who have made donations in the last month or two. As I indicated, it takes me much longer to do anything these days, including sending notes expressing my enormous gratitude to those who have been so kind and generous. So if you haven't heard from me yet, please be patient. You'll be getting a note from me in the next week or so. (I realize I now need to give myself a little more leeway with these deadlines. Unfortunately, my landlord and other creditors are not of so kindly a nature.)

In the meantime, if there are some of you who could spare some funds, in whatever amount, I could desperately use some assistance. It would be too cruel if, just as I'm finally ready to do some writing on a regular basis once more, I were forced to deal with the possibility of eviction. I will not have my life turned into a Charles Dickens novel, goddammit!

As always, my deepest thanks for your attention, and for the many kindnesses that you have shown me. I shall forever be grateful.

Land of Nightmares

Almost 30 years ago, a film was released that told an unusual and powerful story about the consequences of child abuse. The protagonist was a man whose father was already in his mid-fifties when his only son was born. The father had desperately wanted to play baseball professionally, but he failed dismally in that effort. For the rest of his life, baseball remained his one great passion, and he tried to mold his son into becoming the player he never could be himself. He talked endlessly about baseball, and he made his son practice all the time. The father never tried to help his son identify what the son's own special passion might be; his son never existed for him as a separate, unique person, whose individuality should be cherished and nurtured. The son grew increasingly resentful and angry about his father's efforts at controlling and manipulating him, and he finally left home.

Later, the son married and had a daughter. He and his family bought a farm in Iowa and struggled to make the farm a successful business. They never did have much success, and were barely able to get by. The son still carried with him his resentment and anger toward his father; he felt a void within himself, and he still sought to find the father's love that he had been denied. In his misguided efforts to find that love, he engaged in one crazy scheme after another. He finally lost all the family's money; as a result, the family lost the farm.

The film doesn't show us what happened to the family after they lost their home, but it's made clear that their future was most likely a bleak one. The marriage probably didn't last; the wife had shown remarkable patience with her husband and his schemes, but even her patience had limits. And we saw how the son reenacted his tragedy with his father with his own daughter. He talked endlessly to his daughter about baseball, just as his father had talked to him. We never have the sense that the son sees his daughter as an independent, unique person entitled to find her own path in life. His daughter will probably end up resenting her father just as her father resented his.

It's a dismal, depressing movie. But it very accurately shows a tragically common pattern of child abuse, and how that pattern is carried from one generation into the next.

Because it is so truthful, and because it brightly illuminates a subject that is usually left in shadows, when it is not ignored entirely, the film I just described never got made. Instead, we were treated to a grossly sentimentalized, fundamentally dishonest movie, one which many of you have probably seen. "Field of Dreams" was very successful and received many glowing reviews. It also received three Academy Award nominations, including Best Picture and Writing (adaptation).

Many people find it a sweet and emotionally involving film; many viewers describe how they were moved to tears. Magical thinking has a great attraction for us; this is never more true than with regard to our parents. That is where the first injury occurs; most of us never fully recover from it, and we carry the injury with us for the rest of our lives. I confess that I myself thought of "Field of Dreams" with considerable fondness for a long time. It was not until I watched it again recently that I grasped the huge lie at the center of the film. Even then, I had to watch it again to be certain that my new analysis was correct. I felt I was being too tough in my judgment. As I said, magical thinking will get you every time, if you give it half a chance.

You may recall the central conceit of the film. Kevin Costner plays Ray Kinsella, the Iowa farmer. He hears a voice, which tells him: "If you build it, he will come." The voice later says more: "Ease his pain." And: "Go the distance." Ray is convinced that he should build a baseball field where he is growing corn, the crop which he sells to make a living. So he plows under much of his cornfield and builds the field. The threat of foreclosure and eviction from the farm increases as the film progresses. At the same time, more and more ballplayers -- all dead ones, mind you -- turn up to play on Ray's field. The first is Shoeless Joe Jackson (who had been Ray's father's special hero), followed by the rest of the Chicago Black Sox Eight, eventually followed by still more dead players. And then, at the film's conclusion, Ray's father shows up.

At first, Ray had thought the "he" in "he will come" referred to Shoeless Joe, but we now understand that the "he" is Ray's father. As the film ends, Ray and his father reach a perfect understanding -- just as a huge line of cars approaches the baseball field. These are all the people who don't know why they are going there, but the film tells us that they are drawn to the field as the place where dreams come true, a true heaven on earth. And Ray will charge each of this huge number of visitors $20.00 for the privilege of temporarily visiting heaven. Redemption, reconciliation with dead parents, and financial security, all in one fell swoop. That's magic for you. It sure as hell isn't life, not if we are at all honest.

While "Field of Dreams" is not remotely truthful about the nature of child abuse, it does provide one valuable service: it shows very clearly how we lie to ourselves about child abuse, and how we cover it up. More than that, it shows how the truth about child abuse is inverted -- so that the burden and responsibility of understanding and resolving all the complex problems caused by child abuse become the child's, and not the parent's. The parent is entirely innocent; it is the child's responsibility to understand and comfort the parent ("Ease his pain."). Let's consider how the film conveys this message, a message which our culture communicates to us via a wide array of "experts" and also by the majority of laypeople generally.

The film's opening narration tells us some basic facts: Ray's father was born in 1896. He played a little bit in the minor leagues, but nothing ever came of it. He moved to Brooklyn in 1935, and married Ray's mother in 1938. "He was already an old man when I was born in 1952." Ray says:
Mom died when I was three, and I suppose dad did the best he could. Instead of Mother Goose, I was put to bed at night with stories of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and the great Shoeless Joe Jackson. Dad was a Yankees fan then, so of course I rooted for Brooklyn. But in '58, the Dodgers moved away, so we had to find other things to fight about. We did. And when it came time to go to college, I picked the farthest one from home I could find [which was Berkeley]. This of course drove him right up the wall which, I suppose, was the point.
Note the critical omission: "so of course I rooted for Brooklyn." But many children root for their father's (or mother's) team. Why did Ray deliberately choose to root for the Dodgers, instead of the Yankees? And then: "we had to find other things to fight about." Why were they constantly battling with each other? What had happened?

A bit later in the film, Ray tells us more about his view of his father:
I'm 36 years old. I have a wife, a child, and a mortgage, and I'm scared to death I'm turning into my father. ... I never forgave him for getting old. By the time he was as old as I am now, he was ancient. I mean, he must have had dreams, but he never did anything about them. For all I know, he may have even heard voices too, but he sure didn't listen to them. The man never did one spontaneous thing in all the years I knew him. I'm afraid of that happening to me, and something tells me that this may be my last chance to do something about it.
To be certain he doesn't become his father, Ray is determined to build the baseball field, even if it means losing his family's home.

Still later, Ray is talking to Terence Mann, a J.D. Salinger-like writer who was widely acclaimed in the 1960s, but who later became a recluse:
RAY: [My dad] never made it as a ballplayer, so he tried to get his son to make it for him. By the time I was 10, playing baseball got to be like eating vegetables or taking out the garbage. So when I was 14, I started to refuse. Can you believe that? An American boy refusing to have a catch with his father ... I never played catch with him again. ... Anyway, when I was 17, I packed my things, said something awful, and left. After a while, I wanted to come home but I didn't know how. Made it back for the funeral, though. ...

MANN: What was the awful thing you said to your father?

RAY: I said I could never respect a man whose hero was a criminal.

MANN: Who was his hero?

RAY: Shoeless Joe Jackson.

MANN: You knew he wasn't a criminal. [Ray nods in agreement. The film is very insistent on Shoeless Joe's innocence. Even though he took a bribe, we are told that no one could ever prove that Jackson had done anything to deliberately throw a game. Although I am not overly familiar with the details of this historical episode, I don't have the impression that Jackson's innocence is all that clear. And there is no dispute that he did take the bribe.] Then why did you say it?

RAY: I was 17. The son of a bitch died before I could take it back. Before I could tell him ... you know. He never met my wife. He never saw his granddaughter.

MANN: This is your penance.

RAY: I know. I can't bring my father back.

MANN: So the least you can do is bring back his hero.
The key is in this snippet of dialogue: "[My dad] never made it as a ballplayer, so he tried to get his son to make it for him. By the time I was 10, playing baseball got to be like eating vegetables or taking out the garbage. So when I was 14, I started to refuse. Can you believe that? An American boy refusing to have a catch with his father ..." In a few brief lines, we learn that Ray's father "tried to get his son to make it for him" as a ballplayer -- that is, his father never encouraged his son to pursue his own interests and passions, or even allowed him the space to discover what those interests and passions might be. His father would use his son to redeem his own failure, and transform it into success. To whatever extent a child has an independent and vital sense of self, he will bitterly resent manipulation and control of this kind. Resentment and anger are healthy reactions to parental cruelty of this kind -- and cruelty is precisely what it is.

But then, we are immediately told: "I started to refuse. Can you believe that? An American boy refusing to have a catch with his father ..." The father's manipulation and cruelty, and the disastrous consequences to which they lead, consequences which will shape Ray's adult life in significant part, are all ignored -- and it has become the child's fault and responsibility. He refused to play catch with his father; he rejected his father or, to be more precise, he rejected his father's efforts at controlling and directing his life. But Ray was absolutely wrong to do that.

We know that he was wrong according to the filmmaker's catechism, because the ultimate payoff is that his father finally comes to Ray's field to play baseball. His father is the "he" in: "If you build it, he will come." In the final scene, Ray and his wife, Annie, chat with Ray's dad (who is now a young man again):
RAY: It's my father. "Ease his pain."

ANNIE: "Go the distance."

RAY: My God. I only saw him years later, when he was worn down by life. Look at him. He's got his whole life in front of him, and I'm not even a glint in his eye. What do I say to him? ...

DAD: It's so beautiful here. For me, well, for me it's like a dream come true. Can I ask you something? Is, is this heaven?

RAY: It's Iowa.

DAD: Iowa?

RAY: Yeah.

DAD: I could have sworn it was heaven.

RAY: Is, is there a heaven?

DAD: Oh, yeah. It's the place dreams come true.

RAY: Maybe this is heaven. ... Hey, Dad? You want to have a catch?

DAD: I'd like that.
As Ray and his dad have a catch, and all wounds are forever healed, we see the throngs of people coming to Ray's baseball field, to visit the place where dreams come true. And at 20 bucks a pop, Ray and his family won't only be able to keep their farm. They'll be rich! Hell, yeah! America!!

This is truly godawful stuff. I wouldn't object to the film as strenuously as I do if it were merely a minor film, seen by few people, a movie which gave its viewers the opportunity for a good cry (even if it is a cry arising out of a fundamentally false scenario). But "Field of Dreams" was enormously successful, seen by a great many people, and it is widely regarded as correct in its depiction of the relationships between parents and children. Don't take my word for it. Look at what two reviewers said. Reviewer One:
“Field of Dreams” is a fairly talky, convoluted film, for all its iconic baseball diamond images. It’s the perfect family pick for you and your teenagers and tweens – not to mention grandparents – on an off night during the Rockies’ World Series run. And you won’t find a better film to clue your children into how important their parents will seem to them as they grow older. Is it a shameless way to tell your kids to show a little love? Yes, and it will probably work.
Reviewer Two:
Robinson`s film looks back on a lost father figure from the perspective of guilty adulthood, trying to reclaim the dad who disappeared, or was actively denied, during the process of growing up.
So our "kids" should "show a little love" to their parents? What about the parents showing a little love to their children? Oh for Christ's sake, most people will object. Parents always love their children. Everyone knows that parents always love their children.

That claim may be true, but only in terms of gross sentimentality, identical to the damaging and destructive sentimentality that suffuses "Field of Dreams." True, most parents don't actively set out to systematically damage their children. They reenact the patterns of behavior they learned from their own parents. And like their own parents, they are incapable of seeing and treating their children as inviolable, independent persons -- persons who are entitled to find their own way, and their own passion. Demanding that one's child be used to fulfill the parent's denied dreams means that the parent denies the child's claim to his own soul, and to a life that belongs to him and no one else. In the film, Ray's father is like the worst imaginable kind of "stage mother." Yet, the second reviewer clearly implies that Ray was profoundly wrong to "actively den[y]" his father: Ray looks back "from the perspective of guilty adulthood." If Ray (or any child in similar circumstances) wishes to survive with his own identity at all intact, he must deny his father, at least that part of his father that seeks to control him.

Many will continue to object to my observations, insisting that what Ray's father did, for example, wasn't that destructive. When I was making my way through Alice Miller's work more than 20 years ago, I sometimes had that same reaction to stories of cruelty that Miller examined. About that reaction of mine, I wrote:
My own reaction reveals yet another means by which the truth of childhood is buried and denied: as we grow up, we identify with the authority figures in our lives. We dare not question them, or their "goodness," or their "good intentions." We dare not, because we depend on them for life itself. Since the child cannot question them, he must question himself, and he must believe that the fault lies within. And that leads him to believe that if he alters his own behavior (and even his very being) in some unidentified manner, then he will win his parents' complete love. The child cannot grasp that his parents' behavior has nothing to do with him at all; it arises out of their childhoods, and the abuses they themselves suffered. In this way, the child is left feeling that he himself is wrong, in some fundamental way.

Because most of us identify to varying extents with authority (and most adults identify with authority almost completely), it is impossible for us to understand the child's experience.
"Field of Dreams," together with the reaction to it of many viewers, reveals these dynamics in a striking manner. The entire film is devoted to the efforts of the child to console, nurture, redeem, and heal the parent. The wounds inflicted on the child by the parent are mentioned only glancingly. It is the parent's wounds and the parent's pain that are the film's concern. The ending of the film tells us that, once the child has successfully reached out to, consoled, and healed the parent, then all be well. The responsibility is entirely the child's. The two reviewers -- and their perspective is typical of many of the film's viewers (including many friends and acquaintances of mine whose reactions I've heard over the years) -- rush to defend the parent, but who will speak for the child? The injured child is the world's foremost forgotten victim. For most people, the injured child barely exists.

The truth is that the methods most commonly used to raise children are designed to deaden the child's soul, and to prevent the growth of an independent, genuine, vital self. No, most parents do not realize this consciously -- which makes the danger only greater. No, most parents do not intentionally set out to cause their children grievous harm: they simply repeat what they learned from their own upbringing. That does not lessen the damage done to the next generation. Alice Miller offers this critical definition:
Poisonous pedagogy is a phrase I use to refer to the kind of parenting and education aimed at breaking a child's will and making that child into an obedient subject by means of overt or covert coercion, manipulation, and emotional blackmail.

In my books For Your Own Good and Thou Shall Not Be Aware, I have explained the concept using concrete examples. In my other books I have repeatedly stressed how the mendacious mentality behind this approach to dealing with children can leave long-lasting imprints on the way we think and relate to one another in our adult lives.
I have summarized Miller's perspective this way:
There are several interlocking parts of the mechanisms that Miller describes that must be kept in mind ... The first part is obedience to the demands of the parent and/or other authority figure -- the second part is denial of the pain experienced by the child himself, when he is made to "conform" to arbitrary edicts and to suppress his own spontaneous, genuine emotions -- the third part is idealization of the parent and/or additional authority figure, since the child depends on the parent for life itself and dares not challenge the parent or the parent's "good intentions" -- and the final, inevitable part is the denial of the pain experienced by others. If we fully acknowledge the injuries sustained by others and the pain they experience, it will call up our own injuries. Because this would call into question our most fundamental sense of ourselves, this cannot be permitted. In this manner, the deadening of the soul -- which began with our own souls -- must expand to deaden us to the full reality of the selves of others.
If you wish to read a detailed analysis of how a parent manipulates a child, and forces the child to focus on the parent's well-being and happiness as the standard for "proper" behavior, you can consult this essay, and the story about a mother disciplining her young child for splashing too much in the bathtub. (I have written a great many articles about Miller's work and its applications. You will find a number of those articles, although not all of them, listed and described here [more recent ones] and here [older ones]. I remain deeply proud that Alice Miller's own site still maintains the link to the collection of my older essays. [It appears very doubtful that Miller had seen the more recent essays before her death several years ago.])

I've devoted this article to a consideration of "Field of Dreams" for several reasons. Given the focus of my writing over more than ten years, it would have been more than sufficient justification to explain again how the scourge of child mistreatment and abuse is covered up and lied about. For the reasons I've set forth, the film offers a strikingly clear example of common mechanisms by which these ends are accomplished. But, as this article demonstrates, you have to know what to look for. The clues are always there, but it requires time and work to bring them to the surface. That is the second reason for this essay, which I intend to be only the first in a series of articles (which might number five or ten, or even more, by the time I'm done).

Over the years, I've sometimes expressed one of my frustrations to friends by noting that, in order to discuss any issue of importance, it is first necessary to sweep away a host of rationalizations, distortions, misrepresentations, and outright lies. We're drowning in a sea of notions devoid of supporting evidence or argument, accusations hurled in every direction, again often in the total absence of supporting data, and lies, lies, and more lies. Nowhere is this more true than in politics. I'll get to politics in this series, as I work my way up the ladder of examples I think worthy of consideration (or down, which is the more accurate direction given the ugly and blatantly irrational nature of politics as currently practiced). As we consider very different kinds of examples of these issues, we might adopt a question asked by Errol Morris as one of our guidelines. You may know Morris as the filmmaker who brought us "The Thin Blue Line," and whose earlier film, "Gates of Heaven," led to "Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe."

Morris asked: “What if everything is the opposite of what it seems?” It doesn't matter what in particular Morris asked this about (although I'll be telling you in an upcoming article), for it can be applied to a number of subjects. It is certainly applicable to many aspects of parent-child relationships, and God knows it's applicable to politics. As I think about the many issues I'd like to address in the political realm, I'm often brought up short by the fact that almost everyone is lying about almost everything. To say anything meaningful, all that must first be swept away. It's daunting work, and should be performed only after one has put on the most impregnable hazmat suit imaginable.

So suit up -- and get ready.

March 20, 2017

Awful Times, So Back to Writing

I'm deeply sorry to have been out of touch for so long. Life has been terrible for the most part, for Sasha and for me. Something is obviously wrong with Sasha -- but after spending over $500 on a battery of tests, the vet still doesn't know exactly what it is. It's "one of the most puzzling cases" he's ever seen. Christ. It makes me want to scream, or go to another vet, which I now can't afford. And even if the cause were to be finally identified, it's very doubtful that I could afford the treatment, whatever might be indicated. I try to keep the searing feelings of guilt at least slightly at bay; usually, I fail.

So now, it's just a waiting game. Sometimes, Sasha will seem sort of okay for several days, eating well and being a bit like her old, perky self. Other times (like the last several days), Sasha barely eats anything at all. I give her lots of love, and she continues to purr very loudly when she's curled up in my lap. So she doesn't seem to be suffering too awfully (although I often wonder how accurately we're able to determine that), so I'll continue to give her all the care and love I can, and hope for the best. At this point, she always has at least three food dishes to choose from; I keep hoping that something will taste good to her. Sometimes it works! More often, it doesn't. (Someday, when I'm not this upset and in so much pain about all this, I'll explain more about what's been going on with Sasha. For now, it hurts too much to write about it in more detail.)

My own health is terrible, as well. But I still haven't called 911. Regular readers will recall that my last hospital visit was absolutely dreadful. It was so nightmarish that I simply won't call 911 until the direst of emergencies is at hand. I will call then, but that eventuality has yet to arrive. One small mercy, maybe not so small.

Bless every one of you who donated to help Sasha and me. I've written to some people already to thank them for their help, and I plan to write to everyone who has donated in the last few months. If you haven't heard from me yet individually, please give me some more time. I'll be writing more thank-you notes this week and next.

So I think the time has come to get back to writing. If I don't, I will certainly lose what little is left of my mind. It appears I will have to start with some observations about life in the Age of Trump. I continue to find certain aspects of the reactions to Trump altogether fascinating. It turns out that some people who might have been regarded as "radical" aren't all that radical after all. What a surprise! (/sarcasm) I've been floored to observe that some "radicals" even express a hesitant, barely confessed longing for a Hillary Clinton presidency. Many people prefer their Murderers-in-Chief to behave properly, doncha know. Trump's boorishness and overall persona offend them, apparently in ways that Clinton does not. Amazing. More about all that in a few days.

And I truly loathe having to mention this, but, yes, I'm perilously close to broke again. Between the vet, buying endless varieties of cat food, and the other bare necessities of my life these days, the donations people made so generously and wonderfully are almost gone. I'm down to my last $200, and that's on the sole credit card I use to buy food. I have a grand total of $30 in cash in my wallet. It would be a tremendous relief to receive just a few donations this week, so Sasha and I can continue to eat (if only she will want to, please God), although I will certainly understand if some people prefer to wait to see if I actually come through with some writing. I assure you that I will; the only alternative is to get ready to die myself, and I'm not quite prepared for that.

So I'll be back in a day or two, with thoughts about ... well, I'll see. Lots to choose from. Please allow me to offer my deepest gratitude once more to those of you who have been so gloriously kind. Sasha and I are always mindful of your great good hearts, for whatever time we have left.

(I realize that last bit sounds as if death sits over this home, like a bird of prey waiting for its victim to weaken sufficiently so as to be seized. I do feel like that much of the time, which is one reason, a major one, why I now need the writing so badly. So to work! Death will have to wait for another day.)

January 26, 2017

Sickness, and Fear

It is my very sad responsibility to report that sickness and fear are this month's themes. I'm still very sick, and I've finally concluded that I should probably be in the hospital, at least briefly. The overwhelming fatigue and weakness that won't go away (plus a number of other symptoms I'll spare you here) would seem to require some medical intervention. So I'll call 911, but probably not until next week, because...

My darling Sasha is sick, too. For those who may be new to these parts, Sasha is a wonderfully sweet cat, a delightful and loving little girl. Her illness has come on very quickly; without going into her symptoms, I'll simply say I have a bad feeling about it. She seems to be slipping away very quickly. After three decades of having more than one cat, Sasha has been my only cat for the last year and a half (since Cyrano's death). And I've lived with at least one cat since 1968 -- so if I were to lose Sasha, I would be without a cat for the first time in almost half a century. As a result, I'm basically hysterical.

I'm also wracked by guilt. I'm almost completely broke, down to my last hundred dollars -- yes, yes, my standard complaint at this time of the month. But being broke means I can't take Sasha to the vet, even if I could manage to get there. I'll undoubtedly have to ask for help from a friend in that connection. So I ask for donations, because I must at least try to save Sasha. If there's nothing to be done, I'll be a wreck, but I'll know I tried.

And believe it or not, I still want to get back to writing. If Sasha and I pull through this, I'll be so overjoyed that I may put out a book or two worth of essays in a month. If I should lose Sasha ... well, I'll probably latch onto writing to save myself and to keep from losing my mind altogether.

I can only offer overwhelming gratitude to all those who may be able to help. Insofar as the universe in general is concerned, Sasha and I are in need of a bit of mercy -- and perhaps a small miracle or two.

December 29, 2016

A Mercifully Now Past Emergency, and Collapse

At the beginning of December, I was looking forward to doing a lot of writing. Unfortunately, I've been very sick for most of the month. For the last few weeks, I've been unable to do much of anything at all. On many days, I've slept 14 to 16 hours. I think my collapse was largely the result of what had transpired in the previous two months. So, about that ...

In the first half of October, the tenants of my building were notified that there would soon be an inspection of all rental units by the City of Los Angeles. It's part of their regular inspection program, to ensure that living conditions are basically sanitary and safe, that there are no leaks in plumbing, that things are generally "habitable." At first, we believed the inspection would happen just three days after we were notified. That turned out to be a mistake, and the initial inspection didn't happen for two weeks.

That first notification provoked deep panic in me. Over the last several years, as my health continued to decline, it became harder and harder for me to lug garbage to the dumpster. Making even one trip to the dumpster took me longer and longer; I would usually have to rest after five or ten steps, depending on how heavy the bag(s) were. One dumpster trip became the Event of the Day, leaving me unable to do anything else except collapse into bed.

As a result, more and more crap piled up in my apartment. I won't even describe the worst of it to you; it's simply too horrifying. Just recall scenes you may have witnessed in films or news reports of "hoarders" and the like, with huge piles everywhere, when it's difficult to find a path to walk through the apartment. My place was like that. I didn't ask for help for one major reason: I was embarrassed beyond describing to let anyone see how I was living. (I might have considered hiring a stranger to help with the cleanup, but I never had the money to do that, even if I had wanted to.)

But that first notice of inspection jolted me out of my paralysis. I know what City Inspectors can do to tenants when they want to, often regardless of whether conditions merit punitive measures or not. And in my case, there was certainly a lot of cause for genuine concern. In extreme cases, tenants can be evicted. Regular readers know that one of my greatest fears, together with my fears about my health collapsing entirely, is being homeless. So I slowly began cleaning up. I very slowly began making trips to the dumpster. It was taking forever. Blessedly for me, a neighbor pitched in and took over responsibility for lugging all the garbage from the landing outside my apartment to the dumpster. That help was truly a godsend.

By the time of the first inspection (ultimately, October 24), the worst of the flood of garbage had been cleaned up. But a tremendous amount of crap still remained. I knew the Inspector would give me a warning and schedule a followup inspection, to make certain that I was making my apartment "habitable" again. I'm leaving out a lot of details, but that's essentially what happened. The Inspector said he would come back in about a month to see how I was doing; the date of the second inspection was finally set for December 6.

So I spent an inordinate amount of time between the end of October and the beginning of December cleaning up my apartment. Even with the help of my neighbor, it still took a tremendous amount of work on my part. And given my health problems, I had to be very careful about exerting myself too much. If I tried to do too much or carry things that were too heavy, I could be in very serious trouble. Even trying to be careful, there were many days when I simply couldn't do any cleanup work and would have to rest for a day or two to get just a little bit of strength back.

But slowly, very, very slowly, the disaster was cleaned up. I estimate that I threw out roughly four dumpsters' worth of garbage. Yes, there was a lot of crap in my apartment. It's scary how much crap was waiting to be thrown out. (Remember: we're talking about three or four years' worth of accumulated stuff.) When the Inspector came back, he took one look around and said, "Ah." He was pleased and said everything was okay now. There remains quite a lot of straightening up and cleaning to do, but the apartment is basically livable.

That effort over a period of a couple of months took a lot out of me. I'm sure that's why my body basically collapsed in December. My neighbor continues to be wonderfully kind and generous, and I will continue to ask him to lug my garbage to the dumpster a couple of times a week. I've sworn an oath not to let things pile up again, and to beat back the tide of crap that engulfed me before.

So, that's what's been going on. I'm very sorry I haven't published any new posts, but I still look forward to doing new writing -- and using all the notes that I've been keeping all this time. Yes, I've continued to save links to items of interest and make notations about issues I want to discuss.

In the meantime -- and I'm also deeply sorry about this -- I find myself financially in essentially the same situation I was in a month ago. I have only about half of what I need for January rent, and nothing for an electric bill that I'd postponed to early January. And then there are several other first of the month bills, money for food, etc.

I would be profoundly grateful for any donations readers might be able to make. As I said, I very much want to do additional writing. I'm certain there will be a lot to discuss with the Trump administration coming to power, although I have to confess that I often find the reactions to Trump more revealing and intriguing than Trump himself. Trump is obviously quite different in certain respects from the standard-issue politician, and it is fascinating to see how those differences cause many other people, including some of Trump's severest critics, to reveal more about themselves than they intended. I very much want to explore those issues, among others.

Many thanks for listening to this tale of woe, and for any help you may want to provide. Here's to a much happier -- and cleaner! -- New Year for all of us. And blessings on all of you who are still out there.

November 27, 2016

The Usual (Sorry)

Regular readers know that I have no source of income other than donations to the blog. As has been true for an unfortunately long period of time, I'm forced to put up donation posts much more frequently than I (and you, undoubtedly) would prefer. I have to, because my readership has decreased substantially due to the infrequency of posting over the last few years; as a result, those donations I receive are few in number and only cover immediate needs. It's very rare that I have any funds left over as a cushion for the following month's expenses.

December will be here in just a few short days. I only have about half of what I need for rent, and nothing at all for several other first of the month bills, as well as for food. Donations in any amount will be most gratefully received! In the past, I've sometimes made donation posts sound a bit too casual, and then almost no one responds. This is not casual. If I don't get at least some additional funds by mid-week, I'm in serious trouble.

Are we going to let the likes of Jill Stein outdo us? She's raised around $5 million for her recount effort. Here's a grimly amusing post about how the amount Stein claims to need keeps rising even as she raises more and more money. Now, I don't need anywhere close to $5 million. A cool million would be more than sufficient. I kid, I kid. Compared to amounts like what Stein is raising, what I need is a microscopic speck. But for me, the amount needed, while trivial in absolute terms, is critical and urgent.

I'll have more about Stein in an upcoming post. God, she is truly awful -- to be accurate, she's beyond awful, more on the order of contemptible and vile. I'll deal with that soon, among other matters. I'm tremendously happy and relieved that I'm writing again, and that it seems I can still do it. This essay was kind of like old times. Lots more coming up; my list of topics I want to cover keeps getting longer.

And just think what fun we'll have! Recounts! And a red under every bed, just like the 1950s! So says The Washington Post, and we know the Post is a serious newspaper that would never peddle "fake news." I'll soon have more on this "red scare," too. You'll need someone like me, who will give it to you straight, with four-letter words and everything.

Many thanks for reading here, and I remain tremendously grateful to all those who help keep me going. Without your support, I'd be out of this game altogether. Actually, I'd be out of all games. That would be sad and scary, and generally not nice.

Thank you again!

November 25, 2016

Thanks, Comrade!

Thank you, indeed (via The Rancid Honeytrap). I have a few comments to add to that immensely enjoyable post. Not only does it justly mock and humiliate intellectually and morally bankrupt liberals who offer ludicrous and self-contradictory arguments, but it also makes several points of critical importance.

For example, this:
Now I do want to remind you that the alleged rig was done via hacking, liberation and dissemination of actual, true information about the clownishly disingenuous, war criminal Hillary Clinton. Nobody serious is actually talking about the direct hacking by Russia of the actual voting machines, just of unjust influence via enlightenment upon the lowly scum we allow into a small, usually meaningless part of our political process.
As proof of this contention, we can turn to that reliable source of propaganda -- i.e., "fake news" -- The Washington Post. Today, the Post is touting this story: "Russian propaganda effort helped spread 'fake news' during election, experts say":
The flood of “fake news” this election season got support from a sophisticated Russian propaganda campaign that created and spread misleading articles online with the goal of punishing Democrat Hillary Clinton, helping Republican Donald Trump and undermining faith in American democracy, say independent researchers who tracked the operation.
A few paragraphs on, the article states:
There is no way to know whether the Russian campaign proved decisive in electing Trump, but researchers portray it as part of a broadly effective strategy of sowing distrust in U.S. democracy and its leaders. The tactics included penetrating the computers of election officials in several states and releasing troves of hacked emails that embarrassed Clinton in the final months of her campaign.
Got that? The "hacked emails that embarrassed Clinton" were an integral part of a fake news campaign.

Any semiconscious observer knows, because we've seen this game played countless times before, that if the hacked emails had embarrassed Trump, the Post and all the whiny liberals would have leapt on them with the bloodthirsty savagery of a starving man attacking his first meal in a month. Similarly, because we are nothing if not evenhanded and just in our observations, we know that all those who were thrilled to exploit the hacked emails to make the case against Clinton -- which group was comprised primarily of conservatives and their fellow travelers -- are precisely those people who offered the most brutal criticisms of "traitorous Wikileaks" when that organization first appeared on the scene. At that point in distant history, the leaks embarrassed the Death State also known as the United States government, and they particularly embarrassed the military in connection with the U.S.'s nonstop campaign of criminal and murderous international aggression.

I assume it must be distant history since it appears that everyone, and most particularly those who mercilessly attacked Wikileaks several years ago, has failed to grasp that the views of Wikileaks have been reversed in this latest episode. We can therefore conclude with full confidence that neither the liberals nor the conservatives hold their positions vis-a-vis Wikileaks on the basis of any kind of principle. How old-fashioned and quaint such a concern would be. Can a principle fix your broken leg? No. Will a principle buy you dinner? Of course not. Will a principle help the candidate you prefer get elected? No siree.

In other words, and to speak in broad terms: liberals and conservatives frequently adopt positions primarily, and sometimes solely, for the perceived partisan advantage those positions confer. Logic, consistency and facts, along with highfalutin concepts such as justice, are discarded entirely. This is one of the basest and most contemptible results of primitive political tribalism. You can read much more about that here. With regard to the ease with which liberals and conservatives will adopt the position of the "other side" when doing so is to their momentary advantage, particularly note this statement from that post: "The basic dynamics of all tribes are the same."

I must offer a brief comment about a real howler in the second paragraph of the Post story:
Russia’s increasingly sophisticated propaganda machinery — including thousands of botnets, teams of paid human “trolls,” and networks of websites and social-media accounts — echoed and amplified right-wing sites across the Internet as they portrayed Clinton as a criminal hiding potentially fatal health problems and preparing to hand control of the nation to a shadowy cabal of global financiers. The effort also sought to heighten the appearance of international tensions and promote fear of looming hostilities with nuclear-armed Russia.
No one -- and I mean no one -- did more "to heighten the appearance of international tensions and promote fear of looming hostilities with nuclear-armed Russia" than Hillary Clinton herself. After the second Clinton-Trump debate, I commented to some friends that it was genuinely unnerving to witness the degree to which Clinton was jonesing for war with Russia. She conveyed her insatiable longing for military confrontation on numerous occasions throughout the campaign. She reminded me of this: "My fellow Americans, I'm pleased to tell you today that I've signed legislation that will outlaw Russia forever. We begin bombing in five minutes."

Reagan said that as a joke, and he didn't, you know, actually do it. But I pay Hillary Clinton the compliment of believing that she means what she says. Clinton's longstanding love affair with visiting death and destruction on helpless populations around the globe is one of the more sickening symptoms of the evil that suffuses the U.S. government at the highest levels.

In this context, Sassy's most urgent and compelling point comes in the next to last paragraph of the post:
But I just want to say this loud and clear right now. If Vladimir Putin and Russia had anything at all to do with the successful rigging — the actual hacking of the vote tallies — of the elections of this rotten, disgusting country, nothing short of tripping over a big currency war-devalued sack of rubles would make me happier. Nothing. If for once someone hit back at the United States successfully, I as an anti-imperialist must only cheer, and that’s even if it were just in a vindictive, destructive fashion. But if Putin were worried, as many were, that Clinton would go to war with Russia starting in Syria, then Russians AND AMERICANS owe a huge debt of gratitude to this great leader of men. He has not only kicked the empire in the nuts, he has potentially saved his people, and us, from a disastrous conflict. Not to mention the crossfire that would certainly be primarily borne by the tortured citizens of the Middle East.
I want to add one final point. Besides the flood of State propaganda that flows from all the major news organizations -- see my recent post for a detailed discussion of how these news organizations function as devoted adjuncts of the State -- the United States has one further card to play. In fact, the U.S. has been playing it for decades. And the U.S. doesn't hide it. To the contrary, the U.S. government proudly boasts of its actions and views its actions as entirely honorable. Because our enemies are just that bad.

I'm speaking, of course, of the Voice of America. I offer the opening of Wikipedia's entry because these particular facts are well-known and beyond dispute (numerous internal links omitted; consult the original for the sources listed in the footnotes):
Voice of America (VOA) is a United States government-funded multimedia news source and the official external broadcasting institution of the United States.[1] VOA provides programming for broadcast on radio, television, and the Internet outside of the U.S., in English and some foreign languages. The VOA charter—signed into law in 1976 by President Gerald Ford—requires VOA to "serve as a consistently reliable and authoritative source of news" and "be accurate, objective and comprehensive."[2]

The Voice of America headquarters is located at 330 Independence Avenue SW, Washington, D.C., 20237. The VOA is fully funded by the U.S. government; the Congress appropriates funds for it annually under the same budget for embassies and consulates.

VOA radio and television broadcasts are distributed by satellite, cable and on FM, AM, and shortwave radio frequencies. They are streamed on individual language service websites, social media sites and mobile platforms. VOA has affiliate and contract agreements with radio and television stations and cable networks worldwide.

Some scholars and commentators consider Voice of America to be a form of propaganda, although this label is disputed by others.[3][4]
With this track record -- and this is merely what is disclosed publicly and completely omits similar covert efforts (just as it omits the vital role of "news organizations" such as the Post and the NYT that carry government propaganda day after day) -- it's absolutely hilarious that, in this brouhaha, the U.S. government and a tawdry collection of cognitively impaired liberals mightily puff themselves up in phony moral outrage (now there's something that is undeniably fake). There isn't a thing about "fake news" that the U.S. government doesn't know. Not only does it spend a bloody fortune on it, but it forcibly takes the required funds from its citizens to pay for the "fake news" it disseminates. Ah, freedom! (I will not insult readers' intelligence by examining the claim that the VOA shall "serve as a consistently reliable and authoritative source of news" and "be accurate, objective and comprehensive." I assume you no longer believe that Santa Claus will personally deliver your presents this Christmas. Finis.)

This is one of the more ridiculous controversies of the moment. Desperate times make many people remarkably stupid. At least it has its amusing aspects. So I'll add: Thanks for the laughs, Comrade.