Peter Clothier's Blog, page 6

EXTINCTION?

I'm no expert in the technology of blogging. I started my first blog back in 2004, prompted by the (to me) shocking re-election of George W. Bush, and I got familiar with the old Blogger over the years. Blogger has made changes in its new version that leave me befuddled and unable to do things I was able to do quite easily before. One of them was to be able to respond individually to people who left comments on my posts. (As an aside, I'd be grateful for instruction!) 
All of which is to say that I'm reposting a part of my general response to comments yesterday, in which I tried to find an answer to a very reasonable challenge, suggesting that there are many people whose support for the man who presently occupies our Oval Office can be understood, explained, justified (choose your word) by deeply held personal views or existential circumstance. As they say, "I get that."
But I am still deeply troubled myself by the results of the election.Here's what I wrote, in response to that thoughtful comment (I quote myself, immodestly!):
"I do have some thoughts about [that] comment, because a part of what I was trying to say in my post was that none of the explanations or justifications, no matter how "understandable", get to the root of the problem: that nearly half of America has proved willing to vote for a (fill in your blank) man for reasons that I (in my infinite wisdom!) judge to be trivial beside the enormity of the challenges we face together as a community of human beings, as a country, as a world. If we humans prove unable to look beyond ourselves and our personal needs, wants, traumas even, we are in for bad times ahead. It's not hyperbole to say: extinction."

BOTH SIDES?

What is clear already this early Wednesday morning after Election Day is that the "blue wave" we had hoped for did not materialize. I look at the election results map and I am appalled by the number of states that show up red. It sickens me that so many Americans could cast their vote in favor of a man who has proved himself in every possible, public way to be so entirely lacking in the values America pretends to embrace. He shows himself, virtually daily and with no trace of shame, to be cruel, mean-spirited, corrupt, incompetent, racist, misogynistic, narcissistic, nepotistic, and unfit for the office to which he was elected. He is subservient to those who wish us ill and contemptuous of our friends. His neglect and contempt for scientific, factual information makes him responsible for the death of tens of thousands of his fellow citizens. Given another term, he will be blithely responsible for tens of thousands more.

How could this be more plain? More incontrovertible? 

I am wearied by the effort to see "both sides" of America's divide. I am tired of tempering my language to accommodate bad faith. I am sickened by those who try to explain stupidity and self-pitying grievance away as though they were somehow defensible or well meant. There is no debate, there is no rational "other side" to reason with. There is only the ruthless exercise of power and its piteous effects on the minds of those who are willingly led by people who wish them nothing but ill. There is only money to buy power and influence, and propaganda to assure its unquestionable authority. Truth is falsehood, falsehood truth. Compassion and concern for the welfare of others are considered weaknesses. Legitimate concern for the very future of our planet home is decried as an obstacle to the growth of our economy.

I sit here holding on to the fragment of trust I have, that Trump will be ousted and Joe Biden will be elected the next president of these Divided States. Given what we see on the board that tallies the election results, however, and the real possibility that Republicans will hold on to the Senate, it is hard to see how this country can be governed even by a man who so publicly embraces reason and fairness, empathy and compassion, and promises to be president for "both sides."

ELECTION DAY

It's Election Day. Well, vote counting day, since people have been actually voting for weeks now and, if predictions prove correct, we may not know the result for days--or even weeks. But still, November 3rd is designated as the day we call Election Day. 

I choose to remain optimistic about the outcome. A victory for the man who has occupied our White House--and our Oval Office--for nearly four years now is unthinkable to anyone who has an ounce of human compassion, or anyone who simply values the truth and trusts the demonstrable facts of evidence and science. It is not merely America and its democracy that are at stake; it is the future of our vulnerable planet. 

My thoughts turned this morning in my meditation session to the ease with I myself can step back from responsibility. This past Sunday morning we went out on a morning walk, Ellie and I, along the Laguna Beach boardwalk and the Heisler Park cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. On our return, we came upon a handful of very loud, very aggressive Trump supporters camped out by the pedestrian crossing on Pacific Coast Highway. They were waving flags and shouting--mostly insults--at anyone who would listen.

I was shocked by their presence in normally ultra-liberal Laguna Beach, and by the number of honks--presumably supportive--they were getting from passing traffic. My mind turned, this morning, to ways in which I could, perhaps should have intervened to counteract views that were, to me, abhorrent, as well as the aggressive tactics. But I chose to avoid confrontation and, instead, to walk on by. (When I heard one of them shout about people who "hate America" and "hate the Constitution," I did turn around and shout back, mildly enough: "No one hates America! No one hates the Constitution!" and was rewarded with a shout accusing me of being naive.

So I sat there, two days later, asking myself whether I had been one of those proverbial "good Germans"--my apologies for the odious phrase that was nonetheless much debated in the years after the war--who chose to stand by in silence as their country and their values were subverted by what must have seemed, for a while, a petty, power-grabbing, slightly ridiculous would-be autocrat? Should I have engaged these hooligans? Should I have tried to expose the irrationality of their support for a man who has already wrought great damage on this country and the world?

It would, surely, have been a vain gesture on my part, and perhaps even a dangerous one. I would have persuaded no one, changed no minds. And yet this morning I felt that I had sacrificed some part of my integrity in walking past and making no real attempt to defend the values for which I claim to stand.

I trust that today America will make a start on returning to its senses. We cannot afford to slide further into the chaos already generated by this one man's narcissism and arrogance, and by his failure to address the pressing issues we face as a country and, frankly, as a human species. Either way, it will be a turning point. Let's hold to the faith that America will turn back to reality, and the courage to face it with respect for truth and mutual compassion. 

THE EIGHTH

 I just got through watching a performance of Beethoven's Eighth Symphony by the Los Angeles Symphony at an empty Hollywood Bowl (thanks to Covid-19) with Gustavo Dudamel conducting. Despite the reminders of our current predicament--the obligatory masks, the rows of empty seats, the plexiglass partitions separating the musicians--it was a heartening experience.

My thought throughout: what an incredible gift to the world. Had the composer written just this one symphony, the gift would have been inestimable. It awes the mind--and I find it infinitely humbling--to know that it is only one small part of the legacy he left behind him. Richard Wagner is said to have called the symphony "the apotheosis of dance" and to hear it played, even for one with as little musical savvy as myself, is to understand exactly what he meant. The often familiar, sometimes lilting melodies enliven the heart and mind and evoke that irresistible and lyrical bodily response. 

And Dudamel is amazing. To watch him is to see a man unreservedly and ecstatically in the moment. His whole being dances on his podium with the music. To conduct, I suppose, is to act as medium for the music; but more than that it is the art of communication with other human beings, the ability to engage in the dance with each of the performers individually and together, and convey his wishes, his instructions, his vision in a gesture or a glance. In Dudamel we see a man in love not only with the music--though especially that--but also with his orchestra, whose instrumentalists respond in kind. What we witness on the stage is a subtle and engaging act of love, with foreplay, rhythmic progression, crescendo and climax. It's a beautiful and deeply moving spectacle.

So... what a lovely experience for a Sunday morning. Thanks to Dudamel, the Philharmonic, and Beethoven himself for a much-needed uplift at a moment of critical anxiety for--no exaggeration!--the future of the world. The example of gifts like this renews hope for the human species.

CELEBRITIES

 A strange, distressing dream last night.

It started with a celebrity couple--a Beyoncé type superstar from the entertainment world and a well-known sports figure who were house-hunting in our area (though it was not our area at all; more like Bel Air). The Beyoncé figure had just finished making a duet song and dance piece with another woman, a peer in stature, in which I was much involved, perhaps only as a spectator. But there was that. Two of them, working repetitively to perfect the importance.

Then there was a very curious bedroom scene in which we were in bed, each in our own house though seemingly cheek to cheek, each with our own spouse--though mine was unknown to me, definitely not Ellie. And I was asking this celebrity woman, whispering, literally, into her ear, as we were trying to fall asleep, to ask if they were going to be our neighbors. She told me sleepily that she didn't think so, and her husband was grumbling that he wanted some sleep.

Then--was this the same dream?--we all moved on to a big gathering of socialites and celebrities for a party of some kind. We were all outdoors, in a kind of wooded glen, a valley, getting ready for the party, or perhaps already partying, and Jake was with us, our King Charles Spaniel, and everyone loved him, wanted to pet him, oohed and aahed...

A game was announced--a treasure hunt? a mystery tour? an adventure of some kind...--with a great fall of whiteness, snowflakes, it might have seemed, but I thought butterflies. Among the thousands of delicate white objects fluttering down were messages on small pieces of paper, like those you find in fortune cookies, directions as to where to go and what to do. 

Mine told me to go to the top of the hill, where I found the group reassembling, jovial, noisy. I began to worry about Jake, where he might be, when suddenly he appeared, dragged along up the hill towards us by the muzzle, limp, in the mouth of some big mutt, black and white, and fierce. He was bleeding badly from the mouth when I rescued him from his attacker and picked him up, held him in my arms. He needed a vet.

I rushed down to the bottom of the hill and found myself in a huge mall, where there was everything but a vet. I wandered on, shouting to anyone who would listen that I needed to find a vet, shouting, "Vet! Vet!", but no one seemed to listen, or know where to find one. Moving on, out of the mall, I ended up in a kind of town square and there, finally, was an storefront--it looked like something out of a Victorian novel--that identified itself as a vet's.

With Jake still limp, upside down in my arms, I went into the store, and found several people at the counter, none of them seeming to have much to do. I called for help, and some one said, "That looks like an emergency," as indeed it was. I told everyone as much, and was frustrated that I could not get any of them to do anything other than look on... And the dream ended with Jake still limp, and badly injured, and unattended.

(I've heard that everyone in a dream is a projection of the dreamer. And I sometimes feel, in today's social and political environment, like I'm being mauled by a big mutt! No joke, really! Otherwise... I have to say that I'm non-plussed).

NON-SENSE

Ellie and I watched American Utopia, the new David Byrne movie directed by Spike Lee. Given our current situation, you have to wonder whether that title is irony or satire. Well, no. Or yes, at least in part. There is certainly an absurdist element--as there has always been in Byrne's music. It was a powerful motif in his much earlier movie, Stop Making Sense, which I remember having loved when I first saw it, many years ago; and recently decided to replay. But "American Utopia" does in fact end with a hopeful vision of what this country can be--multi-racial, multi-cultural, welcoming of immigrants and their energy and talent, open to new ideas and, above all, caring for each other.

Watching "American Utopia", I was once again captivated by the hypnotic rhythms of Byrne's music and the choreography of the group of musician/dancers--you could hardly call it a "band"--he had assembled. There is something haunting about the use of minimalist staging and the movement of identically-clad human figures in its space. The "costumes"--call them that--consisted of loose grey suits and grey shirts, buttoned to the neck without a tie. Lighting was used to occasionally dramatic but often simply high-lighting effect. The whole production understated, then, leaving the emphasis on the human body, music, words.

I understood Byrne's work in a different light--though I should perhaps have recognized it all along--when he spoke in a break between songs about Dada, and the between-the-wars years after the monstrous travesty of World War I and the rise of Nazism and nationalism, when the European Enlightenment's belief in the power of reason to govern individuals and the affairs of the human species was shattered by horrific historical realities. Dada was a conscious effort to "stop making sense"--or stop trying to make sense of the incomprehensible, irrational behavior of actual human beings in a chaotic real world. 

David Byrne's work, as I see it, is an effort to get past sense and into a reality that transcends it. One sequence in this film is a lunatic snippet from a dada "symphony" followed by the setting of a sense-less "poem" by Hugo Ball; it fit perfectly in with Byrne's aesthetic. It makes some, excuse the expression, sense to suggest that we find ourselves in much the same social, cultural and political predicament as that time. We have put ourselves through the nightmare of more wars and population shifts--provoked in part by climate change--threaten once complacent Western societies, including our own. The self-protective nationalist response, with its ever-present potential for violence, is as pandemic as the coronavirus. The line that stands between us and chaos has indeed become a very thin one.

Yet Byrne sees and offers us grounds for hope in the creative human spirit, and in the desire of human beings to be in touch with each other, to communicate and, yes, even to love. The end of "American Utopia" embraces that spirit as the performance group descends into the audience, mingling, touching, encouraging, including as they play. Then they all get on bicycles and ride through the darkened New York streets to what we assume is Byrne's personal residence for what we assume to be a party.

I think you'll love this film as much as Ellie and I did. Give it a try.

PAY HEED

I have noticed that there is an increasing sense of inexorability to the passage of the days, in this time of plague. It requires vigilance. When I allow my attention to lapse, I find that time dulls the senses, dulls the intellect, dulls the spirit, too. It becomes an effort, a chore, to perform even the most basic and ordinary of tasks. Times slows down, drags, and can even seem to bring me to a halt.

So attention must be paid, even to the most basic and ordinary of tasks. Perhaps especially to them. When I remember; I too often forget! Because attention is the only palliative, the only cure for what would otherwise be overwhelming. Attention sharpens the senses, the intellect, and the spirit too into clear awareness, and wrests the mind out of the inexorable passage of days to bring it into the present moment. Which, after all, is the only place there is.

THE WAY HE SEES IT

Ellie and I watched The Way I see It last evening. This is the documentary about the photographer Peter Souza who documented the presidencies of both Ronald Reagan and Barack Obama. Having worked as a

photojournalist for so many years, dedicated to the work rather than the politics, which he eschewed, he felt obliged to "come out" during the Tr*mp era and expose the pettiness and venality of our current president. I was not aware of his efforts until now, but it seems he has been doing this for some time by the simple act of visual juxtaposition. His book, Shade: A Tale of Two Presidents and his continuing Twitter series, with images of a dignified and thoughtful Obama posted in response to his successor's often vacuous tweets are an act of social conscience. He abandons journalistic objectivity in favor of the passionate expression of opinion.

It's a great documentary. Directed by Dawn Porter, it includes lengthy interviews with Souza himself, as well as with notables from around the Obama administration. There is a good deal of historical film and video footage, and an unforgettable selection of the still photographs for which Souza is justly acclaimed. Ellie and I, along with I'm sure every other viewer, were deeply moved to be reminded of Obama's human dignity, his intellect, his need to think through every issue in depth, his love not only for his own delightful family but for the great family of humankind and, above all, his compassion. 

The comparison between Obama and his successor offered by this engrossing documentary is stark, and deeply painful. The film reminds us of what a president can, and should be; and of the utter failure of the current occupant of the White House to reach that standard. Watching it, I frankly wept at times. But mostly I was inspired by the example of the truly great man who led us for eight years, and mindful that his trusted right hand in office, Joe Biden, shares many of his qualities. He must be our next president.

MERCY

Watching the US Senate hearings on the nomination of Amy Coney Barrett, I could not help but think of Portia's famous speech about mercy in The Merchant of Venice. It is addressed to Shylock, as he contemplates the extortion of his "pound of flesh." Anti-Semitism aside--it's there, it's wrenching--Shakespeare puts his finger on a quality that is all too rare in today's vicious political environment. Says Portia:
The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: ‘T'is mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown...
Okay, no monarch, no crown, please. But the absence of compassion in those who occupy our leadership positions in America today threatens to lead us down a truly dangerous path--one where we are no longer able to respect each other's humanity. To embrace raw, unmitigated power--power without mercy, without tolerance, without compassion--is to risk the loss of our humanity, and with our humanity the very survival of our species. As I understand it, even the theory of evolution--the survival of the fittest--allows that mercy, compassion, generosity, conscience, were qualities developed by our species as a matter of self-interest, to come to better terms with each other and the world around us.
Republicans in the Senate today are bent on confirming this nomination by a man who knows no mercy, except as a public demonstration of his power. Their action, too, is an exercise in pure political power. It's my belief that they, and we, will live to regret this act of willful ruthlessness, no matter the qualities of the nominee. 

I'M HENERY THE EIGHTH, I AM, IAM

So goes the cheerful old musical hall song. But author Hilary Mantel must surely have had the current American president in mind as she wrote the third part of her Wolf Hall trilogy, "The Mirror and the Light." As she portrays him in this lengthy but compelling read, Henry VIII is vain, petty, vengeful, promiscuous, self-indulgent, oblivious to those around him, manipulative, domineering--the complete

narcissistic sociopath. He is overweight, unable to control his appetite, and infamous, of course, for his serial marriages. He expects unquestioning loyalty from everyone, but is capable of none himself. He craves power, but only for his self-aggrandizement and the expansion of his realm of influence. The only difference between Mantel's Henry and our Trump is the authority to literally chop off heads at whim, where Trump can only "fire" those who incur his displeasure.

That said, King Henry is not the protagonist of Mantel's trilogy. That would be Thomas Cromwell, his marriage broker, his consigliere Michael Cohen, his factotum Attorney General Barr, his Secretary of State Pompeo, his Secretary of Commerce Wilbur Ross, his Defense Secretary Mark Esper--all rolled into one. Cromwell is of common birth, which leaves him in a weak position with the contemptuous (and contemptible!) nobility. By hook and crook--and often the latter--he has ascended to his lofty position by guile, by manipulation, by abject, if easily shifted loyalty. We like him perhaps in part because of the vulnerability that lies just below the surface of his smooth self-confidence. We always know that he is doomed: one thing we know for sure about Henry is that he eventually turns on everyone he once trusted, and Cromwell is no exception. He knows it himself. We like him also because we admire his smarts, his uncanny ability to navigate the court intrigue, and at heart a kind of wisdom, even a kind of compassion for humanity that virtually all others lack. 

The great historical background of the book is the tenuous relationship between England, France and Spain, and the Holy Roman Empire. In part it is the then intense struggle between religious faiths--the "papism" of the entrenched Roman Catholic tradition and the growing independence, under Henry, of what will become the Anglo-Catholic church. Henry dissolved the monasteries and convents, freely looted what had been church property and wealth for his own enrichment, persecuted (tortured, killed) those who remained adamantly loyal to the Pope, and gathered the power of the church into monarchical hands. Still, Protestantism, as practiced by the followers of Luther in Germany and the Lowlands, was considered heresy, punishable by public burning at the stake.

The bigger picture, then, is a constant, sometimes bewildering chess game between monarchs and their teams of duplicitous diplomats, in which women, potential queens, are essentially nothing more than pawns to be exchanged for political advantage. They are expected to be the providers of succession in the form of sons, and are spurned and cast aside if they fail to perform that function. Otherwise, they are treated and spoken of with contempt, or treated as convenient chattels or whores by men, no matter what their social station. It was, it seems, a bleak world for the female gender. Some might argue that it has not greatly improved; and most would agree that it took too long to make progress. Mantel does us a fine, if uncomfortable service, in reminding us of these truths about the historical hegemony of men.

Were the times as bad as Mantel would have us believe? She nothing if not convincing in her depiction of the casual torture, the beheadings, the disembowelments, the hangings, the burnings at the stake. If there's a take-away, it's a moral condemnation of barbarity and a recommitment to a more compassionate regard for all humanity. The history of this country of my birth has little to recommend it, but at least in Mantel's hands it gets to be an excellent read.