Author: Mark Tiedemann

Art

Simpler Complexities

There are times I wonder why I do what I do. I mean, the thought occurs that there are simpler things in life. How did I ever convince myself that I could be a writer?

I cannot retrace the steps, not at this point. Somewhere back in the restructured haze of youth I had this idea that it would be cool to tell stories and get paid for it. I can do that, I can make things up, I do it all the time, all I have to do is write it down and send it in.

Well, I will not retrace the learning that showed me how wrong I was about my abilities. Death by a thousand rejection slips.

I’ll admit, I was baffled. I don’t know about others, but for a time I honestly could not see a difference between what I read in the magazines and what I was putting down on paper. You just tell what happens next. What does logic have to do with it? Life doesn’t follow rules like that, why should fiction? And this is science fiction, so rules should apply even less. I mean, what does it mean, it doesn’t make sense?

Because I did not know any of the rules, not even the rules of submission, I received no feedback in those early attempts, and drifted away into something else. Something I thought would be simpler. As much as I appreciate complexity as such, I was not good at creating it or dealing with it. How I managed to reach adulthood with any capabilities at all is one of those mysteries never to be fully—or even partially—answered. It was never that I thought the rules didn’t apply to me, it was that I never recognized the rules.

And still I managed.

It’s remarkable that I’m even alive.

But there were guardrails. My parents, other adults in my life, the rough outlines of general rules, a certain unexamined caution in my approach to daily life. And limited opportunities to get in over my head. In many ways, I had a sheltered upbringing.

That and I read. (One of my favorite films is Three Days of the Condor and one of my favorite scenes is the one where all these CIA operatives are discussing Robert Redford and how dangerous can he be. He has no field experience, why are we worried. “He reads,” Cliff Robertson tells them. Clearly most of them don’t get it. I loved that. He reads.

I read. A lot.

Not as much as I once did, but I retain more now, so it balances out. While I can’t point to a specific example (other than in a debate or argument) where having read something made a difference in a given situation, the cumulative effect has been like a form of experience.

I grew up at a time in a place soaked in the kind of received nonsense that requires outgrowing. At one time or another I have believed a great many false narratives, especially about the relative value of different people, different kinds of people, and like most of the people around I would let proof of my beliefs dribble from my mouth from time to time.  Some of my contemporaries, no doubt, never grew out of that. For whatever reason, I was fortunate in a disposition that made it impossible for me to categorize anyone I personally knew according to prevailing stereotypes, and by extension whatever group they supposedly represented. Little by little, over time, I left a great many prejudices behind. Can I take any kind of credit for that? I’m not sure. The simplistic veneer of easy discrimination always gives way to the complexness underneath, and I have always preferred to embrace the complex—even when I didn’t understand it. And what I eventually understood is that prejudices, especially towards people, are products of simplistic thinking. The defense of such thinking, when pursued far enough, results in complicated structures that ultimately will not even support themselves. That genuine understanding results in simpler structures that allow us to see clearly.

Because I have learned (eventually) that complex is not the same thing as complicated and that often, perhaps usually, complexity manifests in simple forms. When we examine the properties of a nautilus shell, we see something quite simple in presentation. We can take it in at a glance and appreciate what it is fairly easily. It is a simple thing. But the layers of complexity is contains and offers up with investigation amaze us and lead to a trove of questions which, pursued diligently, offer up a glimpse into the underpinnings of the universe. A simple tune, easy on the ears and elegantly comprehensible in its performance, yields up myriad mathematical, harmonic, and even cultural aspects, an onion in its layers, beautiful complexity that manifests in simple melody and harmony. As noted by Samuel R. Delany, a simple declarative sentence—The door dilated—unpacks in ways that suggest an entire civilization beyond the threshold, all the assumptions necessary to result in the logic of that sentence and what it tells us.

Learning to see the two in collaboration can give us a more satisfying experience of life itself.

As a youth, I was dazzled and delighted by the complexities. Sometimes I mistook complications for complexities. Detail can fascinate, even when it might not add up to anything coherent. A consequence of age and continual observation is that I learned to see the whole where before I might only have seen the components. The art of recognizing and assembling complex ideas and details to create a comprehensible something is the art of recognizing that elegance, truth, and understanding should not confuse. We strive for clarity, which usually presents as simplicity.

But like the misidentification of complexity with complication, we have to learn to tell the difference between simplicity and the simplistic.

Thank you for your attention while I did some sorting.

 

 

 

Community

And Another Thing

Sort of a follow-up on the previous post. Georgia has handed down over 10 indictments, not only to Trump but to his posse of enablers. Glee has erupted in many quarters, as well as continued bewilderment over how certain people can still support him. We keep assuming, we who are pleased to see the system finally working, that eventually the corruption inhering to these folks will become so obvious that supporters will fall away, will, in fact, “wake up” to the fact that this was grossly illegal, illegitimate, and inimical to our country. Some have. More perhaps than reports show. But a significant number of people are still encouraging him and applauding January 6th.

I frankly do not see why this is hard to understand. It doesn’t matter that what he did was probably illegal (I say “probably” because here we have this little thing about innocence till proved guilty, so I’ll adhere to the principle for now, despite my convictions) because that was the whole point anyway. They believe, if I’m reading them right, that the system that holds what he did to be wrong is itself corrupt and illegitimate, so finding him guilty per its standards will, for them, prove nothing. It will be another talking point for them to remonstrate against the system.

Those of us who do not see any benefit in abandoning a system which, despite its flaws, has managed to sustain most of us for over 250 years are scratching our heads at these armchair revolutionaries (which I believe many if not most of them to be) who are convinced that he was about to bring about the changes they so eagerly await and that now he is being pounded by the very system that he sought to overturn on their behalf.

They Believe, in other words, that Trump was the leader of a populist revolt that would, in the much overused and vacuous phrase, take their country back.

I’ve been wondering for decades—back from who? From what?

When they bring out their lists, if they do, it becomes fairly clear that what they seek is a return to some golden age of white supremacy, low or no taxation, and pure christian values. That this is a fantasy matters little because it is the fantasy they have come to embrace with the fervor of a reformed smoker lecturing others about the evils of tobacco and vaping. Most of the rest of us see this as psychotic because, despite the problems and the flaws (and there are many), the path we’ve been on seems a pretty good one. With hiccups along the way, we’ve been moving toward equity and justice and shedding the dross of past privilege. We’ve been participating in building a world that is fairer and better. It might even happen someday. It’s taking too damn long, sure, but the alternative being offered by the Right is largely what we’ve been trying to leave behind.

And that is what his supporters want, a return to…

Fill in your own blank. My point is, stop trying to parse their convictions according to standards you embrace. For the time being there’s no rapprochement. They do not want women to have autonomy or minorities to have equal power to them or even have a safety net if along with it comes support for people they hate. I don’t have to assume this, they’ve pretty much said it out loud, often and repeatedly. We—you and I who do not think that way—keep defaulting to a reasonable person model that suggests they will see through him at some point.

Well. It’s not Trump they need to see through. It’s themselves.

Community

Belief and Other Matters

By now it should be obvious to everyone that the so-called Pro-Life movement is not interested in confining itself to abortion. They have a definition of it so flexible that some designate birth control as a form of it. The line is not clear. Not to mention that in individual cases there is an evident record of hypocrisy. It’s all right for me, but no one else. It should not be legal.

It makes me uncomfortable.

I do not wish to get into the gears of the matter. I have a couple of observations about the framing issues.

Firstly, the division is largely (though not wholly) a consequence of Belief. At base, if you believe that the fetus is fully human, separate and distinct as a person from the woman carrying it, then you established a moral line difficult if not impossible to cross. There can be no compromise over that. Like other questions of assumed rights, it will not matter what counterarguments are made, the reality is you believe this and there can be no fact that will persuade you otherwise. For a change to occur, you would have to abandon your belief. That would not alter the substance of the belief, only your position in relation to it. Either it is a belief you embrace or it is not.

And no reasoned argument will alter that.

If, in other words, somehow it could be demonstrated that the fetus is not a person, it would change nothing. That would have no validity in the face of your belief.

(To move this out of the abortion arena for a moment, take for example the debate over the Second Amendment. For some, what the framers of the constitution actually meant would now make no difference—the belief in the right to personally own firearms is unassailable, regardless of what facts may be shown to the contrary.)

In any confrontation between deeply-held belief and fact-based alternatives, the latter has no purchase.

However, the chief flaw in the overall Pro-Life argument lies in its deployment as a feint. Again, this is connected to a species of belief, but since it was for so long buried in the rhetoric of “unborn rights” it only recently emerged. Given that a fairly substantial number of those who align themselves with that movement have proven to have feet of clay—namely, many who talk the talk end up availing themselves of the services they so loudly decry—it becomes clear that abortion is not the main issue. They are now going after contraception.

To my mind, going back to those with marrow-deep commitments to the Second Amendment, the reasons for such positions emerge only later. The why of such positions. We should all know now that a sizeable cadre of such gun rights advocates are not insisting on them for matters of self-defense or sports, but because they believe they have a right, even a duty, to overthrow the government. They are nascent revolutionaries. Along with this, there are those who seem to believe they are in an unacknowledged war for the supremacy of one tribe over others. The philosophic issues surrounding the constitution and its presumed properties are secondary to their assumed “right” to defend themselves against the boogeyman of potential oppression. Often in the guise of other ethnicities, immigrants of all stripes, and even political opposites. The insistence on personal firearm possession is part and parcel with an ingrained paranoia that holds that a presumed set of cultural privileges is sacrosanct and will have to be defended against abrogation. We do not have to go far to find historic examples—the entire history of the KKK is based on exactly this kind of thinking.

Such duplicitous thinking underlies many otherwise insurmountable divisions. Within a given group, the supposed “purity” of purpose can be seen to break down on closer examination. It is not a monolith.

Curiously, the one thing that seems to offend them all within their group is the idea that it should be left up to the individual.

So the two issues I’d like to address are conjoined in this instance—firstly, the presumed sanctity of Belief, and secondly the shell games that come about when belief runs into politics.

Let me clear up first the potential pitfall—belief vs Belief. In order to navigate the day, we all have to base certain actions on a level of belief. You have to believe certain things just to get by because there is simply no time to verify every single thing we take on some species of faith. We have to believe that the food we buy from the grocery store is safe. When something goes wrong and there’s an outbreak of e. coli, we have to believe the agencies responsible for our safety will do their jobs. We would go insane to act otherwise. And as a consequence of statistical reality we are right to do so.

(For me, one of the most important things to cultivate in life is a healthy skepticism and an appreciation of doubt. Doubt is essential. I was asked once by someone, quite sincerely, why they should doubt that which they know to be true. The only answer that serves is that while the thing being believed may well be innately true, it is our ability to understand and interpret what it is that we must always doubt. That we have it right is the necessary question. I have no doubt the universe is real and operates according to certain principles. What I must always doubt is my ability to know and understand what those principles are and how they operate. What the True Believer seeks is to eliminate doubt altogether. I do not know if it laziness or impatience or insecurity, but I find this the most baffling aspect of such a position.)

In the back of our minds, though, it is conditional. Under certain extraordinary circumstances, we are also right to suspend our belief in all this, at least temporarily.

I’m not talking about that kind of practical assumption of reliability.

I’m talking about the moment belief becomes Belief, which is a different order perspective. It is the conviction that in all instances under all conditions, Something Is Always True and Reliable, regardless of any evidence to the contrary. With Belief comes intransigence. With Belief comes a conviction that one is being lied to by those who do not share said Belief. With Belief comes a rejection of evidence arbitrarily, based on how it may or may not conform to the scaffolding of Belief.

With Belief comes a vein of conviction, often constrained but always there, that anyone living otherwise is a potential if not actual enemy. And because of the presumed lies and the nonconformity and the absence of like-mindedness, any level of duplicity is justified because this is a war. In other words, Crusade is an acceptable response to differences of opinion and an insistence that there is more than one way to live one’s life.

Most of the attributes of a personal view of life well lived have long since subsided into minor things that cause little friction between people. All that is required for social harmony is a modicum of attention and respect for differing choices. We do not see seismic convulsions over dietary differences (although it may be possible to imagine one over the omnivore vs vegan question). We simply recognize differences and do not impose a monolithic preference.

Underlying and permeating this level of Belief is a deep and often unexamined insistence that the world conform to our expectations. That contrary positions be extirpated. That differences over key issues be eradicated. That everyone should be the same. And underlying that is the assumption that the Believer has the right viewpoint and has not only the right but the obligation to impose it on everyone else.

Mostly, this rarely rises above an ongoing anxiety that things do not conform.

But the central tension resides in a refusal to acknowledge that those who do not share your Belief have a right to hold their own.

We come now to where it erupts into conflict, namely social policy.

We’re seeing another example in Oklahoma right now, where a debate over the opening of a new—religious—charter school is unfolding because public funding is involved. I understand the concerns of both sides of this argument, and have felt personally for years that this is a conundrum with an easy solution, at least in terms of policy. My solution, however, would have the added consequence of driving partisans into the open to declare their actual intent. People have a tendency to camouflage their true desires, probably because a bold statement will be met with bold resistance. We live in an era in which major policy demands are too often couched in euphemism or hidden inside secondary or tertiary issues in order to slip the real goal in like a trojan horse. To state baldly that you want a school where children are spoon-fed religious ideology is a non-starter. So all the other reasons for establishing a separate, non-public institution are given. (My solution? Include religion in public schools, as part of history or even separately as a class on World Religions. Teach them all, give them all equal time. I suspect the howl of protest would quick strip the veneer of First Amendment concerns touted by partisans of a given creed.)

This is where Belief comes into conflict with the World. Belief dictates a preferred state, a template of how things ought to be, and where possible informs a drive to make the world conform. Giving equal time and respect to competing Beliefs is simply nonsense against such deeply held desire.

In a democracy, it is the back-and-forth that we recognize as the Will of the People that undermines any and all such attempts at enforced conformity. This is a brute-force method, of course, and too often satisfies no one, but it allows for the one thing that does effectively alter Belief—experience.

Even a cursory look at history shows that once deeply-held Beliefs have changed significantly, that the unquestioned givens of one period are the subject of bewildered speculation now. The only thing common to all this is experience, which erodes the details and eventually forces what we know to be true to change to accommodate a world that apparently had never been what the Beliefs of the Day said it was. Time and experience work like tides to alter and sometimes obliterate Beliefs.

Which understanding serves only to underscore the impermanence of them. We are taunting fate to insist that we must hold fast to ideas in the face of a reality that cares nothing for our wishes.

But then we come to the most intransigent aspect of Belief and that is where it coincides, reifies, and validates Identity. Our Beliefs, we imagine, are who we are.

What we have done historically in this country could be described as a series of holding actions, one part of the community erecting barricades to another until something new emerged from the confrontation. This has happened repeatedly and rarely without pain. The one thing that makes it all seem different now is our ability to see it as it happened, even if we are not directly involved. And that seeing elicits an opinion, a stand. The buffer of long communication has eroded to almost nothing. In many ways, this is a good thing. We have no excuse being surprised by injustices happening somewhere else. But the erosive effect on Belief has also accelerated. We are trying to establish that which will not change, under the assumption that principles are eternal. Well, perhaps some may be, but their formulation and the conditions in which they are expressed are not. What they are is water. Water is always water but the way it flows, where it rests, its very manifestation is mutable.

What makes this all the more difficult is the fact that there are dispassionate forces willing and able to take advantage of these differences to exercise power. I say dispassionate, but only in very specific aspects—those who crave power could actually not care less for the specifics of a given Belief. If they could get what they want by fostering and manipulating completely different sets of Beliefs, they would. All they want is the chasm between partisan advocates into which they may step and benefit by the conflict.

And we let them, because we are blinded to that by the nature of the Beliefs they exploit to their advantage.

I’m examining all this in order to find a way to navigate the current landscape. It has always bothered me when reason, backed by fact, fails to persuade. It took a long time for me to realize that I was not facing a reasoned position, but an expression of Identity that cannot yield, not without fundamentally changing its own nature. That is a tremendously difficult ask. It may or may not help to understand that eventually, the separation itself will yield to the erosion of experience. When some one or some group thrusts their Belief into a question that bears on people with whom they disagree, such disagreement a consequence of those same Beliefs, it comes down to a matter of assertion alone. Commonalities go by the wayside until—finally—experience erodes the division enough that some kind of compromise or altered perspective has a chance to manifest. In the meantime, other factors enter into the argument that most of time alter the question sufficiently that it becomes a new issue.

This is not conclusive. I’m still working all this over. But my inclination is to reject the assertions of those who offer only the testimony of their Belief as sufficient argument to impose their views on everyone.

I’ll come back to this in future.

 

 

 

 

Art

On The Road, Off The Road, In Between

We attended an out-of-town convention last week, the first we have done together in many years, the first I’ve done since 2015. I made a policy not to go on the road when I have nothing to promote. The exception to that is the chance to see friends who will be at a con or who live nearby and the dates just happen to coincide. In this case, two of our favorite people live in Pittsburgh and seeing them was the deciding factor in choosing to attend Confluence.

Confluence is a small local convention that has in the past been surprising in what it offered, namely the chance to sit down with writers I respect and admire. I’ve had breakfast with Gene Wolfe, longish conversations with Michael Swanwick, met William Tenn (Phil Klass). The panels are of interest and usually the interaction with fans has been on a high level. I like the people who run it. They do a good job.

But it’s quite a drive from St. Louis to Pittsburgh, and while it has become a familiar one, we are older and more susceptible to road-burn. The weather was pleasant enough going up and it remained moderate while we were there, but it was hot coming back and we return to a scorching week. It’s Friday and I’m still recovering.

One off-site event was fascinating. Friday morning, before the con got started, a small group of us drove into the city to tour a church with some amazing murals. St. Nicholas in Millvale. Go to site, take a look. A Serbian artist named Max Vanka painted murals over most of the interior and they are amazing. Done in stages,  from World War I on, they are more than just religious paintings, and they are radiant. There is an organization trying to save them (watercolor over bare wall, the leaching is bad) and I commend you as an art lover to help if you are so moved.

You might wonder, knowing me, why I would marvel and support something like this. Religion aside, which I could not care less for, these are works of art. This is the product of people of skill and imagination. The passion is evident.

After that, we returned to the hotel (out by the airport) and spent a few days being fans. I reconnected with some folks I haven’t seen in some time. And we spent time with our friends, Tim and Bernadette, who are amazing. We needed a longer stay, but alas.

Confluence, as I mentioned, is good convention. They take science fiction seriously and are good to their guests. But I will tell you that I’m now of a disposition that I’m less inclined to just pop into a town, especially that far away, for just the con. Next time we will take more time, do other things, relax. The in-between time from the road is the vital part, even though we generally like traveling.  I want to take things more leisurely in future.

Next up, SF-wise, is Archon. Perhaps I’ll see you there.

Meantime, it’s good to be home….and not moving.

career

Assessments, Arnold, and Aspirations

I recently had to find a new gym. The facility I had been going to for, oh, hell, 25 years I suppose, closed because they lost their lease. They evidently had no plans to find a new location in South St. Louis (they have one still in St. Charles). I had made friends over the years. For a time there was what might be viewed as a Geezers Club, three or four of us Of An Age and hanging on, but they all passed away, one after another. One may yet be alive. For the last several months there, going in at my usual time, I usually had the space mostly to myself. Four or five others would be there, spread out.

And then, closing down.

I took a few weeks off to shop around for a new place. Interestingly enough, there was one not a block away. This one is clearly a higher end club. Clean, spacious, newer equipment. They even have a big dance studio space. It’s more expensive than what I had been paying, but that didn’t surprise me. A few others I checked out were considerably pricier, so I finally bit the bullet and signed up.

It’s taking some time to acclimate. See, every gym is a bit different, especially with the kind of equipment they offer. No matter what, some things are just not going to be a smooth one-for-one transition. What you thought you were doing may not be what you can do here, at least not yet. Again, fine. I’ve changed gyms before, even though it’s been a while.

But this I did not expect. I’m doing better, at least in the way my body is responding.

The new facility is a two-story affair. Free weights are downstairs, machines upstairs. I go directly downstairs first. I’ve already established a routine (which will change in time; the best thing to do is change things up every two or three months, otherwise your body gets too used to what you’re doing and the benefits diminish) and I work through about 12 to 14 separate motions. Then I go upstairs to do my legs and a few other shaping exercises on the machines. At the end, I’ve done 20 to 22 motions, which is considerably more than I’d been doing.

I’m not sure where I’m getting the energy, but I think just the fact that I have to break it all into two distinct periods is psychologically beneficial. By the time I walk up the stairs to do part two, somewhere in my brain there’s a reset and it’s like I’m starting over.

And it’s beginning to produce results.

Now, it may seem curious to some that at my age this is even a thing. I will be 69 this year. In certain respects, I’m as if not stronger than I have ever been. It may be that one day I’ll run into a wall and crash, but for now I intend to hang on to whatever physical ability I have for as long as I can.

Serendipitously, I recently saw a new three-part documentary about—Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Now, I have never been even close to a fanatic about body building. I’m vain enough to try to keep a fit body, but the kind of devotion, nay, obsession that body builders give to their sport is just not in my repertoire. I admire them, yes.  Have I ever wanted to look like Mr. Universe? Not really. But that doesn’t mean one can’t find inspiration in them.

Schwarzenegger is a cultural icon. The body building, the films, two terms as governor of California…there’s a lot going on there. I was unaware of most of the details. It’s quite an informative documentary. Plus, he has a new series on Netflix, an action comedy called FUBAR, and I have to say, it’s fun. Not great art, but it does what it intends to do rather well. In the first episode there is an action sequence which includes him running after a fire engine, dropping down a manhole, killing some bad guys, etc. The usual kind of thing. His handler remarks that he’s the fastest 55-year-old he’s ever known. It is a plausible assessment.

But Schwarzenegger is 75.

There are brief scenes of him still working out. He says of himself “Right now I’m just trying to hold on.”

It’s not so much the exercise, but everything else he’s doing at the same time, that I find inspirational. what I would like to be able to do is operate at 80 to 95% capacity until one day I just stop. (Not 100% because I believe that running like that is an invitation to burn-out, to injury, to some kind of loss that can’t be recovered from. I have personal reasons to hold back that last 5 to 15 percent, not least of which is I feel I’ll last longer and manage better results.) It helps to see someone apparently achieving that.

On those other fronts, I’m working on a new novel and preparing for some other publisher things which I will talk about later. I’m seeing more of my mom than before, because dad is gone and I don’t want her to feel in any way neglected, or pass up a chance to just soak up more of her. My daily schedule is a bit of a mess, so I’m trying to find a way to fit everything in that I want to do.

Other stuff. One other thing I took from the Schwarzenegger documentary is his “philosophy” of life, if you can call it that, and why not? A philosophy like that doesn’t have to be complex, and this is not. “Keep busy and be useful.” Be useful. Apparently his father taught him that, Whatever you do, be useful. That resonated.

You never know where you might find reasons to do more.

I’ve been keeping busy.  I hope I’ve been useful.

Absurdity

Courtroom Chaos

I answered my civic summons to jury duty this week. One day, Monday. I confess to being annoyed by this as I have Things To Do this week and would have preferred another week. I do not object to being called to jury duty. I think it’s important. The last time, I was selected but never got the chance to serve because the judge had had a ruling overturned and they had to start all over. I was disappointed in that one, it would have been fascinating as both lawyers appeared to be at the top of their game and it was a murder trial with some interesting features. Ah, well.

This time, though it was a civil case.

I reported to the court building on time, got my number, and settled down to read a book until called. As it turned out, I only got 20 pages read before that, and I was the third number called.

It became clear fairly quickly that this was not something that would be especially interesting (in fact, about 30 minutes into voir dire I more or less deduced the issue). An insurance suit, the twist being that the plaintiff was suing his own insurance company. There was man at the defendant’s table wearing a rather ordinary polo and a drawn, permanently discommoded expression who was the representative of the insurer. The plaintiff was a rather well-dressed man who did, after watching him for a time, seem to be limited in his movements. The lawyers seemed competent if underwhelming. This was a bookkeeping matter that had gotten contentious and if my assumption was correct, my sympathies already lay with the plaintiff.

The complication—and the reason for the suit—was that the driver who had caused the accident at the heart of all this had fled and no one knew who he was, so he/she and their insurer could not be sued.  (My assumption therefore is that the plaintiff filed an injury claim with his own company and was denied.)

We all had little white paddles with our seat number and when answering questions or asking them we were to hold them up so the court recorder could efficiently identify us. The plaintiff’s attorney finished up by lunch, we broke for food, and returned for the defendant’s attorney.

That’s when things got interesting.

He wanted to establish that we could all fairly judge the facts of the case (fair enough) and treat the insurance company like any other person. He then pointedly asked if we could accept the company as a person.

I felt a tingle over my scalp.

Several paddles went up to admit that, no, we could not. He then said, “Corporations, according to the law, are people. Do you disagree with this?”

Someone said, “No, I can’t. Corporations are not people.”

“Anyone else feel this way?” the lawyer asked.

And a flurry of discussion erupted around the jury pool about that. When it wound down, he pushed “Even though it’s the law?”

That’s when I opened my mouth. “It is the law, but we all know it’s a legal fiction. It’s used as a convenience to circumvent certain procedural difficulties for the purpose of an expedited trial. Of course a corporation is not a person. An individual generally doesn’t have a machine behind them.”

He blinked at me. “What does that matter?”

“Well,” I said, “you can’t actually put a corporation on the witness stand. At best, you get a representative. He’s limited in what he can say by prior instructions. The entity giving the instructions is not actually present. Responsibility becomes a moving target.”

Everyone—all the lawyers, the court clerk, the judge, many of the potential jurors—was staring at me.  The defendant’s attorney’s mouth opened, then closed.

And then several people pointed at me and said “I agree with what he said.”

The questions wrapped up quickly then and we were sent out of the courtroom while the selections were made. In the hall, a woman came up to me.

“Are you a lawyer?”

“No, I’m a writer.”

“Oh. What do you write?”

“Science fiction.”

“Oh, well that figures,” she said and walked away. I wanted to ask what she meant, but I never got the chance.

When the selections were made, not one of the people who had voiced doubts about corporate personhood was chosen. Predictable if a bit disappointing. As we were all receiving our slips of paper confirming our service, several people smiled at me. I assume they all had pressing matters to attend that jury duty would have made more difficult.

Thus endeth my current civic duty. I do have to wonder what they would have done had everyone in that pool voiced the same skepticism. Well, draw another pool, yes. But then…

 

 

blog

A Mechanics Of Grief

We have an emotional field, generated by what goes on inside. Much like a gravity field, the space-time field, it distorts in the presence of other bodies. The degree of distortion is relative to the size of their presence in your life, which can explain why someone we never met can be the cause of genuine grief when they’re gone. That well created in the field you project is a result of how much value you put on their place in your life.

The orbits thus created shift and jostle for equilibrium. When one disappears…

Back in the Age of Burgeoning Awareness (the Sixties through the Nineties) many introspection disciplines advised us to leave nothing unsaid. Finish your business, lest the chance vanish in a puff of mortality. Having undergone a degree of this in an attempt to find handles on various dilemmas, I took this one to heart. The first time its utility was tested, I fell apart at the seams. I did not feel okay, even while being relieved that the suffering of my departed friend was over. It’s not so much that the advice was wrong, but they say nothing very useful about what comes of it. Judging the success of something by an absence is frankly impossible.

People die. They leave a space in our lives they once occupied and that emptied space must be dealt with, because it exerts a pull on us and now that mass is gone. Adjustments must be made. The reassessments of going on with a new relation to our living ecology is required and you simply cannot do that in advance. Those spaces they occupied in your life supplied stabilizing effects. We relied on them to be there for navigation. Remove one and we have to find a new stability.

That is even before the emotions unleashed by loss come to the fore.

Not every loss that causes grief is a necessarily close or even active relationship. The weight of their importance in your life is not always of their doing.

But when it is, when it is mutual, when it goes both ways, that sudden absence can be seismic.

We are taught to assign reasons to things, especially important things. Why this, why that. We reduce to detail, catalogue, justify. We want to seem reasonable and, often, unfazed, especially by things which by their nature unhinge us. We want to understand, of course, but also we want to appear to understand, for, among other reasons, those around us who need us to understand so they might anticipate understanding themselves. We start negotiating with the universe to somehow let us be all right with what was never in our power to do anything about.

Someone dies. Their position in our ecology is suddenly empty. Memory remains, of course, and those around who who also had them in their fields remind us, but there is now a hole where once a person was, someone who affected us, influenced us, drew us along pathways in a complex web of tangled suasion along with others, who they also drew along, and by so doing added to the total set of forces molding our journey through life. Gone, that complexity must readjust, find  new equilibrium. That unbalancing creates a sense of powerlessness. It hurts. Just by its absence.

Things will come back into equilibrium. Not the same kind and the difference may linger to haunt us with a sense of not quite right. And it will happen again. And again.

Trying to pretend nothing is changed or that you were all right with the loss or any of a dozen other sophistries to avoid the ache…it only hurts in a different way, but it doesn’t ever not hurt.

My father died on May 19th. These are some thoughts I had in the aftermath. He isn’t there anymore. It feels off. I miss him.

 

 

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Hank

He did not care for his name, either his given one—Henry—or the nickname he ended up being known by, Hank. At his last job, he became known as Hank the Crank. It was an affectionate sobriquet. He managed a department full of engineers and took care of them. One of the first things he did when he took over was get them all raises which had been long overdue.

He flourished in that job. At the end of decades of struggling, moving from one place of employment to another, seeing opportunities die, usually in the mismanagement of others, he came to a place where all his unique and quirky skills and proclivities came together. For the years he managed that department, he was, as they say, in his glory. It was good to see him so enthused, all his faculties engaged. He would have worked at that till he died given the chance, but once again forces beyond his control took it away.

But he retired with his wife, my mother (though it was a few more years before she left the working world), and they bought a new house and settled into a suburban neighborhood (to my surprise, actually) to enjoy each other. I think they did. For a couple of decades they were able to be with each other in a way they might only have imagined possible.

Then the health problems began. Little by little, this man I had viewed as a kind of superman began to diminish. He had always been a private and often reticent man, so complaining was not part of his repertoire. It must be said that had he complained a bit more, things might have been easier for him. But he had difficulty admitting he needed help and for most of his life he had always been the one to be relied upon by those around him.

Compensation for his willingness to Be There had never been a consideration

My parents’ romance was the stuff of movies. They certainly didn’t see it that way, but when you hear the way it happened you can’t help but be charmed. He was in the army, stationed at Fort Leonard Wood. After basic training, his original unit was set to ship out to Spain, but he was pulled at the last minute because of his teeth. On his first leave, he and a buddy came up to St. Louis. They were at the Hilands, which used to sit on the ground that now supports Forest Park Community College. The Hilands was an amusement park, right on the edge of Forest Park. After a day of enjoying the rides and attractions, they were about to try to find a hotel. At  the bus stop, they spotted two girls. They approached looking for directions and ended up riding the bus with them down town.

Dad must have been immediately smitten. Soon enough they were exchanging letters. Mom told me he very quickly wanted to meet her parents. At some point, she became smitten, too.

They decided not to marry until after his service was done. He was cognizant of the possibility of injury and had scruples about burdening her with an invalid, but the fact is he never saw combat. He ended up on Hokkaido across a stretch of water from Korea and never jumped off into the fray. He came home intact and they married on New Years Eve 1953.

I was born in October 1954.

From all I have gathered, dad did everything he could to make a fine and nurturing home. He had come from domestic circumstances that were far from ideal, from an alcoholic and abusive father and an apparently resentful if dutiful mother. He had been a late baby for her, giving birth to him when she was 40. While that is less uncommon today, in 1930 that was not only unusual but entailed more risk. There was a considerable age difference between Henry and his siblings and he ended up the last to leave home, which he had to do under fraught circumstances. It seemed that he was determined to do better for his own family.

And he did.

It has taken me a lifetime to appreciate what he did.

When you grow up in a bubble it never occurs to you to examine the surface of the bubble. As with most people probably, I underappreciated what my parents were like and what they did for me. In the last few years, I’ve been having longer and deeper conversations with my mom and I’ve been learning things about dad I might have suspected but never knew. I always knew, for instance, that he’d had a rough childhood, that his father was bitter and often cruel, but I never knew quite how deep the ambivalence ran with his mother and some of the details about his siblings…

All that to give context to the fact that he did a phenomenal job of breaking a nasty cycle. I was cherished and nurtured and provided with a wonderful example of a mature relationship because it has always been obvious that my parents were crazy about each other and also best friends. They shared a true partnership. In the context of the times, this is a remarkable thing. Dad insisted that mom have her own credit card and have her own car. He fostered her independence.

The biggest source of friction between my dad and me had to do with that. Independence. He wanted above all to be sure I was prepared for it. It seemed he often despaired of that since I seemed not to Get It. He was a Depression Baby, I was raised in a comfortable home and need was kept at bay to give me room to be what my dad had never had much chance of being—a kid. So our apprehension of the world conflicted. Even so, he did not back off from care and sustenance and respect. He suffered silently for the most part and hoped things would come out right.

He served in the army, came home, married my mom, and then landed a job at Remington Rand as an office machine repairman. At the time it was a well-paid job. During that time he and mom converted to Mormonism, which in hindsight was weird. Then came the first major break in what I eventually realized was my dad’s inability to compromise on certain principles. The church abused his fidelity and suggested going around The Rules so he could take on work they wanted him to do. When he called them on it, their response drove him to sever ties. I learned eventually that he was what I came to call a 110 percenter. He committed, he gave more than his all, but there was an implicit understanding that the thing he committed to must be just as committed as he was. He walked away from jobs, a church, a business he loved because it had become compromised and soured for him. If he felt his integrity was at stake, he walked away.

He taught himself machining and worked for many years as a journeyman machinist. This led to better money than he had been making and things got easier. During this period, he became a Freemason.  One is never not a mason, so while his ardor cooled, that tie was never broken.

We did not quite Get each other. He tried. He tried harder than I knew. When I found something new, he was interested. The closest we came to sharing a passion was photography. He simply did not have time to get into it the way I did, but he always supplied me, and it led to a career. When I made my first few forays into writing fiction, he took an interest, but we both realized quickly that he would not be a useful critic, but he was clearly proud of me when I published my first stories and then novels. He would brag about me to strangers.

For all that he was a gregarious man, he was intensely private. As the world changed around him, many of our conversations took on a tone of bewilderment, sometimes anger, but he always tried to understand. Always. That willingness to try set him apart from so many people I have known. That he succeeded as often as he did amazed me. I can only hope I returned the courtesy.

He lost he eyesight and his hearing. Arthritis took his ability to get around and he began falling. Finally, one night, mom called me to come help. She could not get him up. We spent a few days until finally she called 911 and they took him to the hospital. From there, he went to a care facility. We were very lucky in the quality of the place. They cared, they gave a damn, and he became, as so often happened with him, popular with the staff, even though he could not communicate very well.

He was there two-and-a-half years and for most of that time he was stable. Last week he stopped eating. We saw him one day and he was clearly struggling, but there wasn’t anything specifically wrong with him. This past Friday he passed. The staff gave his body a surprising send-off.

I am a child of the whole self-analysis era. I learned the hard way, though, that leaving things unsaid is both unnecessary and harmful, so dad and I had had our “final” conversations. We had no unfinished business. That in itself does not secure one from pain. But it is not, for the moment, the raging pain of someone who failed at important exchanges. Dad and I were good with each other. No regrets.

But I am sad. Not that he’s no longer in an absurdly unpleasant situation—he had been vital and active most of his life, to see him unable to walk down a hall was difficult—but that he is gone from everything but memory. He mattered to people who came to know him.  He was a Presence.

I love him. He was a great dad. And a good man.

 

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A Word About The Loyal Fan Base

CNN aired its town hall with Trump and received some criticism for it. But it had been scheduled for a while and since the Right likes to accuse the Left (which CNN is at best only an honorary member) of Cancel Culture, the question to air or not to air doubtless prompted them to err on the side of not canceling. Nevertheless, opinions about the man on the stage notwithstanding, I have no carp about that. The only downside to something like this is that it took up space where something else of presumably more value might have been aired. As that seems rarely a consideration in the board rooms of media companies (what is value? what is worthwhile? what is meaningful? ratings) I’m fine with them going ahead. I am fully capable of exercising my prerogative to not give him any oxygen or eyeballs (mine) and attend to something else.

What I do find useful is the polling afterward and as reported during the audience response. Applause, cheers, enthusiastic support from his supporters. After all the demonstrated toxicity inhering to the man and even after the just-finished libel case that did not go his way, he has followers who bathe in every insipid utterance that falls from his mouth. We have, the rest of us, been scratching our heads and asking why since 2015. What seems obvious to us appears to be grounds for adulation for them and we are profoundly puzzled.

When stripped of all the polemic and rube-goldberg extrapolation and analysis, this tells us something about populist politics that is very useful to recognize. Hard to accept, yes, but real nonetheless, and I think it time we deal with it directly. Going all the way back to the Founding, we have heard warnings about it. Many of the Founders did not trust democracy. We keep hearing that and consider it an aberration, but in truth they recognized something basic about the relation of government to the governed that we are now seeing in full cinematic glory.

What do people want from their government?

This questions is at the heart of this phenomenon and it’s time we faced it and recognized its consequences. We can point to examples throughout history in which the same issue has so distorted a nation’s social and political landscape as to cause dismay and horror at the result. What were they thinking?

To my mind, this question can be answered by three related but distinct apprehensions.

For most of us, here, we want government to reflect our values. By this we implicitly acknowledge that sometimes our choices in how those values manifest may be off the mark and we presumably put in place people who can parse the complexities and do what is proper according to the basic ideas inherent in those values.

For others, we want government to validate our values. That is, we want government to reassure us that we feel and believe that which is right and beneficial. We may not be entirely certain what our own values are. We might have a good sense of them, but what does that mean? Does everyone else feel the same way? In this we wish our representatives to reassure us that yes, we are part of a community that shares what we feel.

Then there are those who want government to validate their prejudices. What we dislike, disapprove, disdain takes the place of a positive set of values because all we can see or feel is that which makes us distrust or resent. Maybe we feel that if only all those things we think do not belong can be gotten rid of, things will be all right, and by that I mean things will go to our benefit. This leads, if unchecked, to a policy of discrimination, of segregation, of injustice, of hate. You can see this in political movements the sole purpose of which is to take things away from certain people.

This latter group is what we see in Trump’s base. He has from the beginning validated their resentments. Nothing he says or does matters other than as a target for the kind of response from those they scorn. He has told them, by word and deed, that they’re right to feel besieged and that who they feel they are is fine. In fact, more than fine, it is what being an American means.

They love him because he validates their resentments and prejudices and fears of the Other.

Trying to reason with them repeatedly fails because the rest of us always start with the wrong set of assumptions. In aggregate, they do not want to be more inclusive, but the opposite. When he made fun of the disabled journalist, most of us were horrified. His supporters reacted against our horror by doubling down on their presumed right to make fun of who they want, to laugh at things rather than grow any empathy, to find humor in tasteless reductionism, and to ultimately sort people into Us and Them camps based on nothing but an unwillingness to extend themselves to consider that intolerance is shameful and destructive. Much of this is aesthetic.

So I’m okay with seeing this aspect of our culture on display where we can come to terms with the irrationality and pettiness of it. I just wish more of us would get over our reluctance—a reluctance often born of those values most under threat—to call it what it is and then take steps to counter it. Effectively countering it, though, necessitates dealing with it as it is, not as what we wish it were. Many of us resist seeing others in such starkly unflattering light. We tell ourselves there must be deeper causes, more complex meanings, that it can’t be that base and simple. Well, the circumstances in which this thrives are deeper and more complex, certainly, but the people rushing to cheer on the evil clown are not. They have lived by stereotypes and clichés—such things have allowed them to feel good about themselves in their immediate surroundings—and they want their government to tell them they have been right about all that.

And then…there are those who know perfectly well what this is and are willing to take advantage of the chaos to gain power and/or profit. They aren’t at the town halls cheering. They are watching and checking their ledgers and waiting for the rest of us to do nothing.