AS I PLEASE X

Before I resume blogs which devote themselves to a single question -- such as rating the HALLOWEEN films in order, discussing the abject failure of the promised Red Wave, ranting about how much I hate wokeism, or discussing mental health in an insane world -- the time has come once more for me to empty my head of accumulated thoughts. I'm a fellow who thinks constantly, more constantly than he would wish, and while many of my thoughts may be nonsense and objectively silly or stupid, once in awhile I come up with something worth mentioning. Or at least something I think is worth mentioning. Hence "As I Please."

* I just spent a half an hour reading at-the-time criticisms made of the music of Beethoven, Brahms, Debussey, Sibelius, Tchaikovsky and Wagner. Words like unbearable, smug, evil, vague, meaningless, ponderous, dull, and hideous were used. Among the things their music was likened to were: cow shit, bombs falling on music factories, a musical score smeared while the ink was still wet, and my own personal favorite, the observation that "there can be music that stinks to the ear." Something to remember when the critics don't like your work.

* I miss Instant Messaging. There was something special, and something uniquely exciting in a consciously child-like, silly way, about hearing the little musical charm on your PC from the next room, knowing it meant someone you wanted to hear from wanted to hear from you. In that sense I also miss e-mail. I can vividly remember a time when seeing five e-mails in my Inbox meant five human beings had actually written me messages, sometimes longform messages of surprising interest, humor, sadness or beauty. This of course was before I discovered spam, or rather before spam discovered me; also before e-mail began to give way to other forms of communication. Opening my e-mail accounts now means sifting through an descending avalanche of phishing scams, erectile dysfunction ads, and class action lawsuit notifications, and like as not if I find a human-composed message, it's of a professional nature. There's very little exictement in that.

* Learning to cook is an empowering experience. I've always had knowledge of the basics of cooking, but the higher combinations, i.e. actually following recipes and doing multiple tasks at once, timed to culminate perfectly in a “dinner is served!” moment, have always eluded me – until now. For the last two weeks, I have been using a meal delivery service which necessitates doing things like making sauces, baking, frying and chopping, all more or less simultaneously. I'm not only enjoying the process of learning and the much better food I'm eating as a result of my newfound knowledge, I find that actually handling all those ingredients does something to my brain, in much the same way handling soil does: there's a release of endorphins, a connection to reality, a feeling that we were really meant to be getting our hands dirty rather than fondling iPhones seven hours a day.

* I just said “I've always had knowledge--” That is a lie. When I was 18 years old I was so completely helpless in the kitchen that I could not even use a hot plate. The first time I tried to make Ramen noodles in college, I was left with a bubbling puddle of goo which was hideous to behold. People joke that they can't boil water: I literally couldn't make soup.

* I recently purchased a (used) Kindle because several books that I wanted to read were either too expensive to purchase in hardcover/paperback or simply unavilable in that medium. It's a nifty little device, but it just reaffirms the feeling I had when I got the original version of the iPad years ago: a book read electronically has no resonance. It has no substance. Reading it in that format lacks the tactile pleasure of reading it in physical form. As Rupert Giles once remarked on Buffy The Vampire Slayer: ”Books smell. Musty and rich. The knowledge gained from a computer, it has no texture, no context. It's there and then it's gone. If it's to last, then the getting of knowledge should be tangible, it should be...smelly.”

* On my Kindle, I just finished The Border Wolves by “Damion Hunter” a.k.a. Amanda Cockrell. This book may set a record for the most-delayed sequel in the history of anything. Cockrell wrote the first book in this historical fiction series, The Centurions, in 1981; Barbarian Princess in 1982; The Emperor's Games in 1984; and The Border Wolves in...2021. The total distance between Book 3 and Book 4 is therefore 37 years. I grew up reading the original trilogy, which was in my father's library, and I tip my hat to Hunter/Cockrell for managing, in large part, to recapture both the spirit and the essence of her earlier novels in this, the (supposedly) final book in the series. If you're a fan of historical fiction, especially the sort that is written with romance and adventure in mind, The Centurions series is worth your while.

* So far this year I am (as usual) behind on my reading list. Aside from The Border Wolves I've also read Fire and Blood, War as an Inward Experience, Johnny Carson, Now & Then, The Life and Death of Trotsky, The Life and Death of Lenin, Mine Were Of Trouble, and Passchendaele and the Somme: A Diary of 1917. I am currently reading American Nightingale. I mention this mainly because it's remarkable that I, a novelist, read so few novels anymore: of the ten books mentioned, only one is fiction. Also because I'm supposed to read 15 books this Year of our Lord 2022, and I've completed only nine. But I'll hit fifteen come hell or high water: I can't face the shame of failing (yet again) to complete my Goodreads Reading Challenge.

* Why don't I read more fiction? Because so much of it is poorly-written crap. That in itself, however, bothers me a great deal less than the inability of critics and readers to understand that fiction generally, whether in novelistic or screenplay/telepay form, is in a very bad way. George Orwell once lamented that we lived in an age where people had been fed poorly for so long they now preferred powdered milk and canned peaches to the genuine articles: I lament that the general decline in craft, discipline, artistry, boldness, and imagination has led to audiences who cannot distinguish between, so to speak, filet mignon and a McDonald's hamburger. There are definite reasons why artistry has been debased into mere commodity, and why modern writers cannot tell a story, or create memorable characters, or write convincing dialog; but for now it is enough to understand that this is the case. Good writing is on the downgrade, and the sooner this is accepted as fact, the sooner we can remedy the condition.

* I just watched the Netflix-produced, German language version of ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT. It is a remarkable film in the literal sense, in that there is much to discuss about it. It's brutal, graphic, grisly, depressing, well-acted, and extremely well-crafted. It is also curiously distant from its subjects. Unlike the 1979 film starring Richard Thomas, which hews closely to the source material, this movie takes some distinct POV liberties, injects extra anti-militarist sentiments (as if there weren't enough in a story widely regarded as the most ferocious antiwar novel of all time), and yet, with one or two exceptions, does not really let us get to know its characters. The previous cinematic version of this tale spent a lot of its energy making sure we, the audience, felt the full humanity of Paul, Tjaden, Kat, etc., etc., so that their deaths would hit home. This one invests in but one or two fo the characters, with the result that their futile ends mean much less to the viewer. It was a curious choice in an otherwise arresting film.

* Speaking of Germans and war, the present conflict in Ukraine, which has already killed 100,000+ people, has caused within Germany a sudden, unwanted, unwelcome, but entirely necessary understanding that pacifism is really only tenable provided there is someone else available to do your fighting for you. Since 1991, most of non-Russian Europe has been steadily disarming, smug in their belief the United States would come to their aid if it somehow became necessary, with the result that in 2014, Ukraine could not even resist the seizure of the Crimea by Russia. Now, watching Putin bomb defenseless cities, massacre civilians, launch systematic attacks against infrastructure with winter coming, and in short, do his best to imitate both Stalin and Hitler, modern Germans are waking up to the cruel reality that sometimes, in order to be free, one must fight, and one cannot fight without an army. God knows war ought to be the last resort of any nation under any circumstance, but the idea that it can be done away with simply by wishing it gone is childish nonsense. As Herman Wouk put it in The Winds of War, those who turn their swords into ploughshares will have their arms cut off by those who kept their swords.

And that is it for this evening. Next week I will sink my pen into something deeper. Perhaps I will even discuss my quest to obtain proper journalistic credentials so I can go to Ukraine. Until then, just remember that Christmas music really has no place on the airwaves before November 25.