The Declaration of Ray Vashon

A refugee is a person outside his or her country of nationality who is unable or unwilling to return to his or her country of nationality because of persecution or a well-founded fear of persecution on account of race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group, or political opinion. An asylee is a person who meets the definition of refugee and is already present in the United States or is seeking admission at a port of entry.

United States Department of Homeland Security website

This is my statement explaining why I am seeking political asylum from France.

“Crap,” Ramona said in her neutral, slightly gravelly voice. She sat there with her elbows on the table and both hands around a white coffee mug that said “let it go” in tiny black letters. It was a very contemporary kitchen, neither too cheerful nor too spare, looking out square cement yard. Fairmount was a transitional neighborhood, getting pricey but no one left their porch chairs out overnight. Ramona liked it there; she could feel the opportunity in the sidewalks. “Sorry. It’s just: there it is. Anyway, whoever reads this won’t consider it a new application, meaning they won’t delay your interview. It’s just a supplement to the short statement you already submitted, an explanation so they don’t think this is some kind of joke and dismiss your claim as frivolous.” She hoped. Then she shut up because and let her brain get back to figuring out how to get her out of this stupid mess; her brain would figure it out, it always did eventually.

When she got the call from the agency she’d put on her raincoat and trooped over, where anyone else would have waited. Anyone else probably would have wondered why they were calling her personally, instead of sending an email to the entire listserve as usual. Ramona, being no idiot, did finally note the anomaly, but figured they were desperate, which as it happened was entirely correct. Ramona heard Kay’s straightforward but always pleasant voicemail asking could she represent a Syrian applicant, or that’s what it sounded like, and off she went, never mind the rain or that it was already early evening and the only one there was the receptionist, just putting on her coat, who handed her the file.  

Thus Ramona Tacker, Esq., Danielle King, interpreter, and Ray Vashon, teenage client, sitting around Ramona’s kitchen table and facing facts.

Of the three, you’d feel confident trusting Ramona. She was a fortunate woman in her late forties and looked it, from her perfect, subtle makeup to her fit, average figure and acceptable if not remarkable features. She had a sharp, confident eye and an accommodating, slightly judgmental demeanor. At this point in her career she was not so much retired as never fully commenced, but she was also a lawyer, a condition aggravated by a deeply competitive ego, and she’d been sidelined some years right out of the gate, for trite enough reasons – marriage, divorce, cancer, and possibly some kind of breakdown. Now here she was, ready to be alive again, and forced to deal with this insane immigration case. Asylum cases get handed out pro bono because the law involved is reasonably straightforward, ideal for the inexperienced attorney seeking a little human rights cred or necessary pro bono hours. Ramona was corporate by experience and taste, but perfectly willing. And the agency would be there to help, of course, they assured her. The same agency that stuck her with this mess to begin with. Deliberately. The people, I can tell you right now, who will spend the next months assuring her they were looking for someone, just stick with it a little longer. Please?

“D’accord,” Ray said, and pushed his hair off his forehead. He was following from Danielle’s translation, his reasonable English not equal to the demands of justice. He was eighteen, a Drexel student, and even more adorable than usual when his bangs fell in his eyes. Behind them, his forehead went on forever, both broad and wide.

My grandfather is Georges Vashon the famous writer. When he was at Oxford he studied mythology because the mysteries of history intrigued him. For example, why do so many cultures from around the world have flood stories where one good person is warned before the catastrophe and told to save a pair of each type of animal, or all the valuable animals and the seeds, sometimes in a boat or a basket or sometimes in a tree. The very same story is everywhere. Then he became interested in monoliths; there are so many, but no one has ever explained these strange structures that cover the earth. How were all these massive blocks of stone transported and assembled into these incredible pyramids and walls without mortar or modern tools or even the wheel. Throughout history we’ve made up myths to about these things because we have no real explanations.

Ray read with the unquestioning innocence of a child reciting the obvious. A gorgeous, fluid child liable to slip into any intimate space, a blue-eyed Peter Pan with thick brown hair brushed forward from the crown and delicate yet masculine features, a delicate nose and open blue eyes. He was just tall enough not to be short, and somewhat underweight, but he moved like a bruiser, bent forward, arms swinging straight from the shoulder. It made for a very physical presence, a very sexy monkey, Basically he looked like a porn star still angling for a legit acting career, someone you would automatically discount or at least underestimate. God knows these women will. 

My grandfather went to Egypt and there underwent his great epiphany. He saw the simple truth behind the legends: that all these mysteries were the work of an advanced species. And so he started to develop his theory by examining the advanced astronomy that our ancestors had mysteriously mastered, and he learned to read the ancient texts: the legends and religions and myths. It took him five years of investigation and study. His renowned theory explains how humans were taught by the great serpent gods of Sirius the Dog Star, the great binary brilliance, in Egypt and in Mexico and in Peru and everywhere. The evidence is irrefutable! Unfortunately, most people are unwilling to admit this because then they would have to renounce their own small concerns in the face of the Other, the unknown extraterrestrials. People are terrified of life without any underlying purpose or fairness or eventual redemption.

“That’s a little strong,” Ramona said. “We want to present your views; we don’t want to attack religion.”

“I do,” Danielle thought, and when she thought with words like that, out loud in her mind, she was invariably addressing God, her one intimate and current archenemy. Danielle resembled a tall bird, a stork or a crane, with an outsize beak and glossy brown feathers. Even with her nose she looked unique; Ramona, a very new acquaintance, instinctively loved and envied her. They were of an age, both about fifty, but one was coming and one going. Danielle sat over her own copy of the statement, skin smooth, hair gleaming, long fingers splayed on the scrubbed wooden table, “He’s lucky he’s never met You, You fucking shit.” People were surprised she even knew the word, which was ridiculous.

This was about globalization, as isn’t everything. Once it stopped being about my God against yours, my God protecting me, you couldn’t excuse any of it, because it was you: He could do the same to you, it was all the exact same God: the diseases and fucking casual betrayals and catastrophes and never any justice. How could you consider God anything but a shit when you’re abandoned, all the personal assurances whispered to your heart abruptly withdrawn, and now only absence no matter no matter how you shout? When you wee designed to give and give and never be an end in yourself? When god just reached into you and scooped out the guts and heart and moved on to someone he actually loved? Of course Danielle understood her God was her own creation, but knowing was no help whatsoever, and anyway God encouraged her to trust her delusion, apparently so He could pull it out from under her and teach her some important life lesson. Mostly Danielle wanted to put a gun to God’s head and pull the trigger. The world would be better for it.

According to Dr. Finn, Danielle’s therapist, she needed to express gratitude. Talk about ironic! Like that wasn’t exactly what the great narcissist in the sky wanted: unending praise and no demands, never being held to account. “Volunteer,” prescribed Dr. Finn. “It eases depression. Trust me.”

“I’m not depressed, I’m furious,” Danielle said. Yet here she with this androgynous kid, and this lawyer she sort of respected, and bad coffee in a souvenir mug from Mark Twain’s house.

During this period my grandfather was living in France, first in Troyes and then for a while in Renne Le Chateau, pursuing his research into the Knights Templar and certain vital connections between the Ark of the Covenant and the technology given to the ancients. While he was there he published his first book revealing his insights, and it was an enormous success. His explanation was so obvious once you heard it; as I’ve said, it was undeniable. Nevertheless, he was viciously mocked by conventional scientists and archeologists; he was openly insulted and his motives impugned.

“The Knights Templar,” Danielle repeated, watching the boy; she’d heard the basic story by email and found it off-the-wall but logical, but now it felt wrong somewhere. Of course she’d heard of Georges Vashon, who hadn’t? She caught Ramona’s eye; she had her hand to her mouth and seemed to lost in quiet delight, a positive sign. Maybe they’d work well together. “And the Ark of the Covenant, too.” Danielle said.

“Right, well, all that is very familiar, but it is a major part of ancient astronaut theory.” Ramona heard herself being officious and patronizing and fell back on legalese. “We need to present this theory in a perfectly straightforward, unapologetic way, as a legitimate belief system, which is exactly what it is. The important thing is that Ray comes across as credible.”

She could afford to be tolerant of these crazy ideas because she already had the whole spiritual thing settled, what with having been brought up in the church. She had her bible, and she knew for certain God was running things, even if it didn’t always seem that way. This case was just business.

“I think a lot of that has been discredited,” Danielle said. “About how the monoliths and pyramids were constructed, I mean. And about crop circles. Archaeology and radiocarbon dating and stuff. And people confessed to the crop circles.”

Ray shook his head and almost smiled. “I don’t think so.” He seemed very certain.

Ultimately my grandfather decided to take his family, which at that time consisted of my grandmother and their children, and relocate to Ile St. Vincent, which is a tiny island off Cannes. St. Vincent is a desolate yet beautiful place, with rocky footpaths, umbrella pines, and eucalyptus trees. There are some villas and a few small stone houses and a marina. There aren’t any good beaches. Also now there are some resort cottages, built very quaint and pretty, and some shops, and fishing, but not a lot of tourists go there, mostly only the people with houses on the island. My grandparents and my aunt and an uncle and their families all live there today, and my father grew up there. 

Today my grandfather’s theories are very popular and there are television programs and magazines and hundreds of books, maybe thousands. What does science really know? Or archeology? Look at Gobeckli Tepi, only recently discovered, although until then science never imagined mere hunter-gatherers could build such monuments. It shows that everyone was wrong about farming, because agriculture developed to support this religious site. This proves how science can get everything backwards. The real truth behind religion is the Sirians. They gave us language and technology and mathematics and astronomy; they are hiding behind every myth, they built every civilization. Once you understand the part played by the Others everything makes sense. Unfortunately there is ample evidence that their purpose was to create a slave race to mine gold and other minerals for them. There are terrible legends of great violence and destruction happening without warning or reason.

“You love that shit, don’t You? A volcano or tsunami, maybe a plague to liven things up. Being fair means doing the expected and You can’t have that, right? Need to escape reason; need to expand into some greater idea. Like you didn’t start out as a rock in a tent somewhere. That’s Your fucking secret to immortality.”

When I was fourteen I went to stay with my grandfather. I suppose I ran away; I felt I was old enough to make my own decisions. But my mother’s family, through the authorities, brought me back, and this is where the persecution begins. She is from a very wealthy family, very influential in the government. My parents met when they were students in Paris, and at first she thought she could change his mind. When they were divorcing and she demanded custody of me there was a lot of argument, and she said my grandfather was the leader of a cult. She is a very devout Catholic, but she will not admit the irony. She left my father when I was nine, but even before then I could see the sense of my Grandfather’s theory, how it explained so many things that otherwise made no sense. Children think very clearly, without bias or guilt about religious nonsense. Then before the divorce was settled my father hanged himself. Today I realize he was murdered by people working for my mother’s family. I’m not crazy to think this; I know these people and how they operate.

“Let’s be very careful here. I need background on your family, proof: names and documentation. Anything that will substantiate what you’re saying, especially anything official.”

“It’s easy,” Ray said. “They are well known.”

I was brought to this hotel room where they deprogram people. They kept me from sleeping and from eating. These two men, they kept talking at me until I was vomiting. Then when it didn’t work they hit me again and again until I lost consciousness.

“This is good; the more details the better. We’ll want witness affidavits from any friends you told at the time or anyone else with knowledge of this. I’ll get background on the practices of these sorts of people. We’ll need any medical records from that time; they’ll support your claim and otherwise the judge will want to know why we don’t have them. And we’ll have you examined by a doctor who can testify on your behalf.”

Eventually I just pretended to think what they wanted. Not obviously, just enough. Then I was allowed to go home and I ran off again, not to my grandfather but to the country, and it was fine for a while, almost half a year and then I was caught again. This time they were not so nice to me. I was handed over to different people and they gave me drugs. I started to accept what they were telling me, but only a little, more as if I could imagine thinking it. But eventually I went through a whole long show of agreeing with them to make it stop, but I couldn’t hurry because it wouldn’t be believable. Then I went home again, to Paris. As soon as I turned eighteen I went back to my Grandfather. I had a legal right but actually I escaped. I remained not exactly hidden but quiet and immediately applied to study in the United States, at Drexel University here in Philadelphia, where I thought I would be safe. I want to learn more about engineering and astronomy and ancient history to help with my grandfather’s researches. But first I have to take English classes.

At this same time, while I was still at St. Vincent, the refugees started to come, the Syrians. There were maybe three families that were to stay on the island, and the houses for them were ready. The priests arranged all this and brought them to us. I remember when they first arrived on the island, how heartbreaking it was. They were empty, just waiting for life to decide everything.

“It was very existential, if you understand that,” Ray said.

Then the incident happened with the boys going at night to taunt the refugees, always the same troublemakers from the island families but my age or even younger who went to frighten these men who were already captured by fate. They would take their hunting rifles and shoot at nothing, just being stupid. And then other people came to protect the refugees, and there was a fight, and one of the troublemakers was shot in an accident.

“But you had nothing to do with this?” Ramona asked. “Why were you even there? You weren’t even remotely involved, correct?”

“No, this was far from me.” Pushing it away with an exaggerated grimace of disgust. “I heard shouting and I went to see but I wasn’t close yet.”

The next thing that happened was when I was here in the United States and I heard from both my uncle and my grandfather that the police had brought a charge against me for this boy’s death, and that they will extradite me. Also they’ve frozen my grandfather’s bank accounts so I have no way to pay a lawyer. It makes no sense, because the boy responsible told the authorities and it was just an accident anyway. That’s how I know this is my mother’s family trying to bring me back to France. So I have applied for asylum because I understand that I cannot be sent back while I am applying for asylum.

“Non refoulement.” Ramona said. “I wish we had more time. Things are so crazy now; there’s this ‘last in, first out’ system in effect. But of course you had to file as soon as possible.”

“Do you think they will give me asylum at the interview?”

“No, not unless you’re actually bleeding and maybe not then. The case will be referred to the court, but that will give us time to prepare for the hearing. The problem is that to get asylum, you have to be persecuted for certain kinds of reasons. No one else who believes in Sirians is being targeted, just you. It’s not like Amnesty has reports we can use. So it’s going to depend on your family, how they tried to deprogram you and then influenced the government to initiate this false charge against you.”

“D’accord. But then I win, because in America there is rule of law.”

Rule of law: those magic words. Ramona fled from them, burrowing into that part of her mind dedicated to extricating her from this confusion. Obviously she had to hand this off to someone more capable, however personally embarrassing. The agency would have to find someone else; it was still technically their case anyway. She looked across at Ray and fought an impulse to gently brush aside his bangs. The important thing was that he shouldn’t be hurt again.

A thought falling out of nowhere.

Enough for one night: Ray donned his backpack, Danielle got her raincoat, and they headed to the front door, then lingered together on the pavement as if by agreement. A noticeable emptiness obliterated the row houses opposite; and black splotches like blotting paper perched in the young sidewalk trees. An odd night; the day’s unacknowledged oppression had moved off somewhere, making room for exhilaration.

“Tell me something.” Danielle spoke to Ray’s shadowy bulk; she was the taller of the two. “You really believe all that shit?”

“I can believe what I want.”

“Sure. Which is?”

“What I can see.”

Danielle gave an inadvertent snort of amusement. She felt, for some reason, genuinely pleased. “Okey-doke,” she said.

These three will be my heroes. Down the block someone laughed – a raucous, delighted intrusion that zig-zagged across the night before careening down the street.

Copyright 2019 JAM Publishing, all rights reserved.

Photo credits: Adam Woodrow, CIMG3481 (CC BY 2.0) / Michael Gwyther-Jones, Cannes (CC BY 2.0) / FolsomNatural, aiAlienS (CC BY 2.0) / Keith Yahl, The Great Pyramid of Giza (CC BY 2.0)

That’s What I Just Said!

(Faced with a blank screen but thinking very meta to avoid actually writing.)

Randomly:

You know how, when you’re doing something, and some guy comes and “helps” you by moving in on it and taking over? What’s that called? Mansumption?

I just learned that “drink the Kool-Aid” refers to the suicides at Jonestown. Here I always thought it had to do with the Grateful Dead Kool-Aid acid test, but Jonestown makes slightly more sense. Either way, it’s an expression I hear fairly often in the lawyer business, having to do with defending arguably disreputable clients. In my personal legal opinion, the more you understand the importance of Rule of Law, the less you feel the urge to imbibe.

The expression I’m most sick of at the moment is “open up about,” but putting on a burst of speed and coming up fast on the outside is “curated.” It’s ubiquitous but subtly, insidiously wrong; it grants a false legitimacy to the insignificant. 

Also there’s this business of words versus sound, how audio books are as effective as text. Meanwhile we universally use our phones to convey words rather than actually speak. Is that about privacy? Words are all up in secrecy, which seems ironic for a means of communication. Do written words really count more than sound or video? They certainly seem inherently definitive, able to divide the then from the now, so we put the important things in writing. And words can damn sure hurt you. Or else save you: flip you from screw-up to victim with an offhand concept, for example.

But that’s trite. Moving on:

Tom Wolfe, in The Kingdom of Speech, considers Darwin and Chomsky to conclude that language is a mnemonic device, an appallingly simplistic identification. Language is an incredibly complex topic, and I’ve dipped into it enough to know how little I know. There’s so much more than language acquisition to consider, more even than pragmatics. Delve into the relationship between words and consciousness; take a look at Wittgenstein’s language games; explore both reflective and intentional theories of representation. Do it because it’s entrancing, transfiguring, and fun.

Here’s my truth: words are power. It’s not that we remember with them, it’s that we own them, we take control. Those are our ideas, baby, to do with what we will. To build: in the beginning was the Word. Or else to deconstruct, or to imagine, or to question, or to create tomorrow. And we can make new words! Think about that: it’s so enormous, it’s literally overwhelming.

And then there’s reading: acquiring the very best words in order to convey the most expansive universe of meaning, or perhaps to juggle them and wake up the world.

As for me, once I’m fully back from vacation (clearly not yet) I’ll be refining a short story based on my work-in-progress, Fairmount. And once I figure out what I’m missing, or not loving enough, or whatever it is that’s making me do a condensed excerpt, I need to get back to writing the book itself. Like Worthy, this next novel is a pyramid of concepts pretending to be simple, but in Fairmount they’re all about The Other, courtesy of an unusual asylum claim. I don’t yet know what will become of the short story, poor misbegotten orphan. One option is to send it out to some reputable publications, the other is to post it on my own website, and that idea has a certain indie righteousness about it. Meanwhile another patched-together story, comprising the end of the prologue and the full first chapter of Worthy of This Great City, remains up right below this post, and you can read the entire prologue on the Excerpts page.

(Now was that a book promo, or what?)

Later.

Photo credits: Jesper Sehested, write (CC BY 2.0) / Nina G., Words. (CC BY-ND 2.0) /

At the Philadelphia Folk Festival

So I’m taking the next few weeks off, be back in early May. Meanwhile I’ll be posting some excerpts from Worthy of This Great City. You can find the full Prologue on the Excerpts page, and the Amazon link on the Home page.

From the PROLOGUE

Now about what happened.

Understand the Philadelphia Folk Festival as a forthright exercise in Liberal musical theatre as much as a celebration of peoples and their endurance and joys. Taking place, as might be expected, in an aesthetically pure venue, typically under a blazing sun on drying August fields embraced by unremarkable trees, and always featuring lots of suburbanites absolutely behaving themselves.

When there came Ruth Askew, taking that venerable stage to address a staunchly progressive audience. Standing rigid there, thin and broad-shouldered, a pale, unfathomable giantess on twin Jumbotron screens.

That night was odd from the start. Behind the bright box of the stage those generic trees formed a black stockade against the encroaching universe, and these very brown clouds streamed past a cheddar yellow moon. An unforgivable coincidence, but it was literally like the sky was shitting.

I suspect Ruth walked out onto that stage in a rage of frustrated arrogance. For one endless minute she simply stood behind the microphone and stared out at us, the thousand dark humps under blankets, the bouncing neon glow sticks, the luminous haze at the line of food concessions, the smokers tapping off ash by the Porta Potties, and the awkward, restless shadows moving up and down the roped-off aisles or carefully stepping over the confusion of tarps and blankets.

Then she spat at us.

CHAPTER ONE

I lay in the shade with only my bare toes exposed to the vicious sun, part of a modest audience similarly disposed beneath the modest fringe of trees surrounding the field. Light fell down through the foliage: thick, somehow victorious beams that described powerful angles in their descent, creating the usual breathtaking green cathedral. Around me the grass was withered and compressed into a flattened mat over ground still saturated from the previous night’s thunderstorms; everything smelled of baking wet earth, sunscreen, and greasy event food. I don’t remember any intrusive insects or even visible birds except for a couple of extremely distant hawks, dull specks in the otherwise empty sky. 

Another respectable scattering of spectators occupied the baking field, most sprawled directly in front of the small Camp Stage, true fans eagerly upright despite the merciless heat. So just as expected, one of those perfectly innocent afternoons you buy with the ticket, monotonous while deeply nourishing, readily absorbed through the whole skin like childhood summers.

I’m tempted to say there were witches afoot; three potent women, anyway, able to command natural forces, summoned by a highly demanding assembly of affluent suburbanites accustomed to directing fate. And while arguably they were all benevolent in so far as they were anything, with such powerful forces you never know how it’s going to turn out.

Every August for more than a decade I’ve headed out to Schwenksville for this dependable throwback party. And not precisely to enjoy the music, because although it receives my absolute respect I find it too intense for everyday entertainment. It’s a kind of church music, an unashamed church of humanity: pure sound, plaintive and honest, twanging and rambunctious, dulcimer gentle. Fitting, then, for this late-summer pagan rite in honor of righteousness, and I immerse myself in it to perform a spiritual cleansing of sorts, processing across the fields from one rustic venue to another, affirming a succession of bluegrass pickers and ballad wailers and theatrical tellers of old tales. And it’s a mildly uncomfortable ritual in another sense, but that’s because of the mostly undamaged people, the ones who wholeheartedly enjoy everything and applaud too often.

As with anything religious, there were incredibly subversive undercurrents longing to manifest, easy to exploit by those amazing women. Two of them performed that day, one with enough tragic skill and clarity to arouse huge amounts of self-loathing and subsequently resentment, at least in me. That’s who I am. The second inspired a joy vigorous enough to move the plot. And the third exerted an indirect but equally damning influence courtesy of her own celebrity, her mere idea inciting a shaming nostalgia; in truth it was dangerously stupid even to speak her name aloud. And all three came clad in absolute certainty.

The current festival setting, the Old Pool Farm, is perfectly suited to the occasion. There are wide fields to accommodate the generous crowds, a nicely crisp and sparkly creek, and the requisite gates and groves, all at a situation remote enough to evoke a wholly separate culture despite easy proximity to the city. Although that’s not difficult, because even today you only have to poke your nose outside the nearer suburbs to spot a rusty silo on some decrepit farm, with another of those filthy black-and-white, diarrhea-spewing dairy cows leaning against a sagging wire fence, its pelvis practically poking through its muddy hide. Peeling paint and hay bales directly across the road from another mushrooming pretentious development, a slum of dull, identical cheapjack townhouses. So despite the fervent country claptrap the festival is essentially a metropolitan scene, drawing a sophisticated crowd.

Murmurs of anticipation brought me up on my elbows to discover Hannah Lynch already onstage, a typically modest entrance. I sat up straight and paid attention, and caught sight of her inside an amiable circle of probable musicians, a glimpse of face and one thin shoulder between competent-looking backs in cowboy or cotton work shirts, all of them endlessly conversing there in surprisingly gentle voices.

Until finally they broke apart and here she came gliding toward the front of the tiny platform, moving within a reputation so illustrious it made her physical presence so unlikely I had to struggle for it. A tiny bird of a woman, an elderly, fragile sparrow with fine gray hair and hazel eyes and translucent skin, nodding to us and smiling nicely with small unremarkable teeth while seating herself on a wooden folding chair. She was dressed like good people, like a decent Christian farmwife in a faded print skirt and cotton blouse of mixed pastels, pink and beige and blue. Only with dangling silver jewelry to be noticed, since after all she was a major star.

With this one unshakable article of faith: that her famously quavering soprano was entirely unrelated to her own ordinary self, more of an imposition or a trust, an undeserved gift from God that in no way merited personal praise. So she has stated. And accordingly she, at least, exuded genuine empathy with all of us waiting out there for her, straining forward to better capture the spirit and stamina investing each word. A curve of laughter lit her face, and there was grief there too, but nothing to diminish that serene spirit. 

Beside me Crystal, blatantly artificial trendoid in that audience of cosmopolitan pseudo-naturals, for once had the good sense to keep her mouth shut. Crystal, please note, was present only because she suspected this event mattered to me and meant to chain herself to it in my memory. She was an unashamed criminal, and I admired that about her.
Lynch sat there looking at us and hugging her guitar, once giving it a surreptitious pat like a favorite pet before launching into one of those unexpectedly piercing old songs, a rather shocking rush of raw bitterness and despair – nothing silvered there – railing rather than mourning yet cleanly tragic because without any confusion of entitlement or excuse, an expression of rightful fury to upend your sensibilities and make you cringe inside your pampered, complacent soul.

And onward, commanding that summer hour with a repertoire of futile longing, black misery, true love, outrageous injustice, and journeying away as only the truly dispossessed can journey. How inadequate we were by comparison, what undeserved good fortune to be sitting there vicariously sharing the infinite human endurance of those former generations, thus beatified for our enjoyment. Sharing a deep pride in our good taste and our faultless fundamental values.

And that’s how this festival always goes for me: a fusion of rapture and fleeting realization, of purging and rebirth, I suppose. We avid celebrants being served by true vicars, unassuming conduits of grace because essentially craftspeople evincing the unquestioning self-respect of their kind and therefore automatically accepting us as equals and worthy of their respect, refusing to cater. That’s how Lynch and her ilk deliver their deadly blows, how they incite our reckless, self-destructive impulses.

Because the problem is, nothing is enough or ever can be, not at this particular event with its impossible burden of triumphant civil rights baggage. A weight of expectation, purest gold and just as heavy, presses down on those fields like an approaching storm, flattening the grass, placing an unbearable strain on our moral muscles, making even the most authentic and engaged participant stagger for reasons most often never identified.

You see there’s no battle here anymore, not among this crowd, a situation as frustrating as it is pathetic. A decade past the mood was easier but less focused; I mean, what’s so pitiable as striving mightily to wage a war already won, or achieve a moral victory already popularly embraced? Acting like you’re on some lone and dangerous crusade instead of enjoying a mere reenactment, an amusement park ride. As if any real social hazard or physical extremity ever threatened most of these initiates. And now, well, obviously everyone’s hyperaware and insecure because everything that seemed impossible keeps happening. And so off to the phony frontlines, the ones with the costumes funny signs, and out to relax into this festival’s undeserved legacy, although what in the world ever sprang from this placid piece of Pennsylvania countryside anyway, or even its nearby metropolis, so far from the bloody scenes of decades past? What justifies this hallowed ambience? Everyone knows the real struggle was over in another state, in the deep South or New York or California, all that televised passion and pain.

Seriously, you have to consider this heritage of the sixties, that era of righteousness and innocence and victory, you have to ponder the connection to today’s violent last stand. Resurrect that intoxicating scent of possibility, and remember how strong it was, what it did. Watch any old news film and it’s literally like viewing creatures from another planet, those young people seem so alien with their strident, accusatory gestures and expressions, an entire new world in their wide open eyes.

Anyway, today’s Folk Fest is largely a masturbatory farce of self-congratulation, courtesy of this pushy, upscale audience basking in its accustomed sunshine, displaying that forceful amiability that means money while smiling too brightly over bare freckled shoulders. Uniformly pale people displaying their ease on this bucolic faux battlefield, all aggressively self-aware. And meanwhile a barely perceptible, slightly demented energy flutters along at grass level, an intrepid impulse bent on having a significant experience and more than a little desperate to measure up to itself. 

I’m as progressive as anyone; I secretly gloat over my superiority, so for me all this underlying energy eventually manifests as low-grade irritation, and the fact that bad temper is implicitly verboten at this event only makes it that much worse. And then here comes Lynch to further emphasize everyone’s obvious unworthiness and what can you do but silently seethe with frustrated moral ambition. This is the one festival constant I always dismiss until it’s too late and I’m climbing aboard one of the yellow school buses that shuttle people in from the parking fields, all boisterous but balanced chatter. Probably a deliberate amnesia, because as I say, for me it’s a religious event.

So by later that Saturday afternoon I was largely disgusted with myself, and as you can imagine, wonderful company. Once again stretched out on my back but this time my whole body obstinately exposed to the brutal heat, and while I had a bucket hat shielding my face I’d raised my knees to better facilitate the fire penetrating my jeans. I reached my left hand out past the edge of Crystal’s spongy blue blanket, feeling for the heart of the earth deep underneath the dispirited vegetation, Edna Millay fashion.

There we greeted the second of the female forces controlling that day, and for an interlude of spontaneous revelry the whole disguised carnival dissolved, wiping away our precious fictions to reveal the one face behind the infinitely varied masks. Rather commonplace moments to underline the supertext, a brief but blessed release from introspective angst, an intoxicated dance that anyway began wholeheartedly but inevitably dwindled into posturing before ultimately discarding us back into isolated, shattered pieces of humanity scattered over a sunlit field.

We were in front of the main stage, the Martin Guitar Stage, a venue that backs into some tame leftover woods. The smaller Tank Stage was to my right, with behind it a private area for performers, and to my left the equally small Craft Stage. Further left was all the familiar festival retail, folkie variety, striped tents selling hippie throwback goods like handcrafted ceramics, carved wooden bowls, tie-dye skirts, hand-strung glass beads, and bad art. In between the main and Craft Stages a tiny dirt path paralleled a shallow creek of sparkling mica and soft mud; both disappeared into the dim coolness of the Dulcimer Grove, a rather precious habitat of jugglers and magicians and others of that Renaissance Faire ilk, a determinedly magical place more or less reserved to scantily clad or frankly naked children, their cheeks painted with stars and moons in indigo and crimson. Either they’re truly mesmerized by these archaic amusements or they’re convinced they should be by the adults and the daycare atmosphere, because they all sit there expending fierce concentration on colored sand and sparkly fairy dust, their little pink tongues extended in effort. I mean, all the world is fake, even the kids. Around them circles a protective hillside of slender trees roped together by string hammocks in bright primary colors, a haphazard effect of beggars’ rags pegged out to dry.

If you follow that same path straight on you come out on a field of more dry grass, more distant trees, and another vacant horizon. On the right is the Camp Stage, site of Lynch’s morning concert; on the left an unremarkable gate gives onto the campers’ settlement, one of those ephemeral constructions of funky tent-and-RV fantasies, castles and pyramids and suburban estates complete with lawn furniture and barbeques and anything else you need for rustic comfort. Notice how everyone’s personal effects are carefully positioned to define private family spaces but without absolutely excluding the requisite hobnobbing community, because that would repudiate the spirit of the thing. The affable professional performers come here after the regular shows to sit and indulge and play their music well into the summer nights, just for these special stalwarts.

And again, anywhere you care to look there are all these exceptionally pleasant people, a seasonal confluence of the enlightened: middle-aged, nattily-bearded men with thick hairy ankles showing beneath those long gauzy skirts; visibly well-educated younger couples falling all over each other in reassuring mutual recognition; friendly teens aglow with their own laudable social spirit or familiarity with meaningful music or both; and grimy toddlers in T-shirts and shimmering plastic haloes with their baby curls shining and their fingers to their mouths and their tiny feet covered with dirt. Skimpy tank tops and glittery backpacks, idiosyncratic witches cones and sombreros and straw cowboy hats covered in button collections, pale muscled calves and freckled backs red with sun and damp with perspiration.

All these regulation types navigate cordially across the fields, buying and eating and exercising their approval, until later in the afternoon when it’s all been done and seen and the heat is truly intolerable, and it’s a matter of claiming a place for the folding chairs and coolers and settling in for the afternoon concert. When for a couple of hours all these enervated devotees create for themselves an enormous patchwork quilt of blankets and tarps, an American prayer rug rolled out beneath the glare.

I among them, hiding under my hat, squinting up from under the brim, intending not so much to watch the performances as to absorb them from a neutral distance. Meanwhile I was relishing the sense of Crystal beside me, resentful at having to endure all this legitimate music. 

When here came a second celebrated woman into this extraordinary and disorganized day, an ineffably cosmopolitan presence in a white silk shirt that billowed out over notably slim hips and tight black jeans tucked into cowboy boots. The costume only emphasized the unmistakable sophistication in the sharp angle of her jaw and the sleek black bob swinging at her shoulder. That taut body edged itself onto the stage and into our attention, anticipation suffusing her narrow face, her whole person radiating the intrinsically cool self-content of a magician about to pull off the big illusion and astonish us all.

Lifting fiddle and bow, lowering them to call a comment offstage, bringing them back up to her pointed chin experimentally while a guitarist, drummer, and another violinist fooled with getting into position, and around me an expectant rustle shook off the afternoon lethargy, and once again I sat up and wiped the sweaty sunscreen from my forehead.

She leaned forward a fraction to acknowledge us.

“Hello all you very special people.” Now decisively raising her instrument. “Three jigs.”

Well, you know that kind of tritely manipulative music, but then her exceptional skill, that energy climbing into a frenzy, the first notes reaching us with the adolescent enthusiasm of uncurling spring leaves. Music so familiar and yet astonishingly fresh, something behind the insistence of it transcending its own rather sentimental imagining. Passages as fleet but powerful as pure energy, and you’d actually have to defend against the physical impact but why would you bother to fight off such delirious joy?

They have a reserved seating section in front of the main stage, a modest pen containing rows of wooden folding chairs surrounded by a fence of deliberately rickety palings. It was largely unpopulated for the afternoon performance. A dirt lane about ten feet wide separated this area from the field of common folk. Crystal and I were up front, right near the dusty edge of this path, and close to us, in the lane itself and with one tiny hand firmly grasping the enclosure fence, stood a fairy-slim blonde girl of five or six. Just as I fully noticed her she launched into the familiar steps of an Irish jig, lifting first one exquisite bare foot and then the other into tentative arcs, curving each arm alternately above her head. From her shoulders a pastel summer dress floated out in the shape of a loose triangle, and her movements caused her hair to caress her perfect little back.
With the increasing confidence of the music her delicate feet, fragile pale-pink petals, rose and crossed each other in an assured sequence that bespoke formal lessons, and meanwhile her eyes never lifted from her toes and her pallid face was tense in concentration. Only once did she manage a quick glance up to a middle-aged scholarly type, probably her father, who nodded mild encouragement but displayed, I thought, some slight annoyance.

Now complex annotations around the tune turned tight elegant spirals; it was all self-interest now, you understand, nothing to do with us but instead its own internal voyage. In the path the child reworked her steps, her frown expressing frustration with her own limited expertise.

When suddenly appeared two barefoot, competent-looking women in their early thirties skipping down the lane, then widely twirling, then skipping again, their hands clasped and arms outstretched to form a traveling arrow. Both flaunting gauzy pastel skirts and silvery tank tops that exposed perspiring firm flesh, both draped with multiple glittering strands of Mardi Gras beads flashing purple and green and mauve. They acknowledged the blond child with an upward swing of their joined hands high over her head, a bridal arch speeding by on either side. It made her giggle but move closer to the fence.

The fiddler was bending practically in half over her bow and the second fiddler not being any slouch either, their hands and arms pushing toward the absolute limits of muscular possibility, straining against themselves to maintain their momentum.

Then four ethereally lithe teenage girls forming two pairs, and they were in regulation T-shirts and shorts except all bore silvery translucent wings that flapped at their slim shoulders; they went whirling around and around each other and simultaneously forward, delightful gyroscopes with their feet stomping hard on the infectious strain yet for all that maintaining the ludicrously disinterested expressions of runway models.

Promptly followed by a young couple charging along in an outright polka, aggressive but a tiny bit shamefaced, too: he was slim and wore a neatly-trimmed dark beard; she was sturdy and short with a pixie haircut and a refined air, like an educator. The little dancer flattened herself against the fence but continued a rhythmic bopping, presenting no less enchanting an image. And she was proved wise, because here came the same young couple back again, being the kind of people who need to underline the obvious. Passing midway an approaching male pair, seeming now a little more obliged than inspired, their muscular calves flashing below their khaki kilts: one was broad in the shoulders and chest with a thin ass and spindly legs; his partner was entirely slim, remarkably tall, and balding. Presenting the impression although little of the force of a strong wind, they nevertheless managed to turn the little dancer halfway round, her moist mouth open in wonder. She paused there, staring after them.

Now the dancing was everywhere. I stood up to confirm a modest sea of erratically bobbing heads at every side but especially to the right, past the Tank Stage: enlightened middlebrows and emotionally stranded hippies and likeable healthy teens and self-disciplined mandolin players and confident cultural elitists and miscellaneous commonsensical types engaged in a nearly impromptu production number, for one bright second emerged from behind the mask of individualism, openly expressing one joyously creative soul.

Well, we were dancing out in the field as well, all of us to some extent, the more exhibitionist characters gyrating on their bright blue tarps and lifting their hands in the air, and some efficient types illegally occupying the marked-off aisles, prancing with impudent liberty up and back. Patrons excessively enthusiastic or self-consciously hesitant but almost everyone involving themselves in the music. I was dancing too, not to make a spectacle of myself or anything but feeling myself a part of the gala. And about then I realized it was already ending because that’s how these things always go.

Frenzied vibrations, faster than you could believe, and we listeners attended first with our ears and then with our bodies, stilling them now, desperate to capture every last second until inevitably all of it was swiftly and immaculately recalled into one compact point of silence and we found ourselves abandoned to our accustomed exile, returned to the pretense of our separate selves.

She played two more sets, we in her audience dutifully imitating our initial enthusiasm, grateful for the continuing reprieve. I’ve said it before: reality moves so fast anymore, we’ve all become experts at self-deceit.

Folk Fest protocol is to kick everyone out around six, sweep the grounds, then ticket patrons back in for the evening concert. You wait in a cattle shoot, at least if you’re fairly close to the gate, or anywhere nearby if you’re not, until finally the loudspeakers blare a Sousa march and you grab your lawn chairs and blankets and coolers and run like hell to beat the other folkies to a premium patch of grass. Therefore it’s prudent to leave early enough to ensure you’re at the front of the return pack, and that afternoon, as usual, the knowledgeable attendees ignored the still high, unrelenting sun, ignored even the name performer just introducing himself, and started unobtrusively filtering out.

I was making my own preliminary moves when I recognized Ruth off to the right, by herself and slightly beyond the audience proper. She was rather elaborately brushing grass off her shirt, and her hair was drifting into her face as usual; her entire aspect projected excruciating self-consciousness. It was the intricate performance of a woman uncoordinated at life yet used to being watched. She was in a lacy peasant blouse that didn’t suit her big-boned frame – it was lavender, too, which didn’t help – and loose black jeans over black cowboy boots. Her attention shifted to getting the blouse centered correctly; when finally she noticed me, that man standing perfectly still and staring at her, I waved a hand over my head in greeting. I have no idea why I didn’t just avoid her.
She assumed an automatic grin but then recognized me back and her smile turned beaming, and with it she transformed herself into a reasonably attractive woman, an odd but intriguing combination of big straight white teeth, thick dirty-blond hair, low forehead, pale freckles, and a long, arched nose that enlivened her profile with an aquiline swiftness.

Behind me Crystal was standing with our blanket gathered up in a big, baby blue synthetic wad; we watched Ruth maneuver through the half-seated, half-moving spectators, visibly enduring our inspection. When she got closer you noticed the deep frown lines between her brows and realized how much older she was than you’d assumed from the juvenile posturing.

A forthright greeting to Crystal and a frankly offered hand, all fraught with the deep disdain of the intelligent, accomplished woman encountering the undeserved self-esteem of the merely lovely. To which assault Crystal responded with her typical flaccid grip and a near shrug, an implied refusal to expend any more of her precious personal energy on uninteresting shit. Ruth turned away from us, toward the stage, where an athletic-looking but otherwise unassuming man of about forty in a tired cowboy hat was inaudibly explaining a song. That duty done, she faced us again.

“This is all new to me. It’s wonderful! That dancing.” She opened her arms wide to encompass the stage, the field, and the discreetly dispersing audience. “Very Caucasian.”
Well. The cowboy strummed an acoustic guitar, meanwhile calmly examining his surroundings for concealed gunslingers. And naturally I remembered our lunch but that was months ago, so surely whatever she was babbling about then was old news, and anyway too vague to reference or be embarrassed over now.

She was brushing at her jeans for no discernable reason. “And did I tell you about Leticia Rowan?”

Just fucking typical. What about Leticia Rowan? How aggravating when I hadn’t seen Ruth for months! I knew Rowan was the night’s closing act. Meanwhile my brain was automatically playing familiar media images backed by the old uplifting refrains: that bold soprano keening from the Capitol steps, debunking the myth of American justice; the slim, avid girl of the famous photograph, perched on a stool in a Greenwich Village coffee house, radiant with the novel excitement of causing real change and living a validated life, perfectly exemplifying those decisive, glorious years of energy and faith. Today still socially engaged, as you would expect, and while no longer that wondrous sylph just as lovely in the clean bone beneath the motherly padding. But most often these days appearing during those public broadcasting fund-raisers, programs aimed at prosperous boomers eager to relive a spurious past.

“I’m introducing her tonight.”

“The hell you are.” It was such a stupid thing to say, not even remotely sustainable. Especially outrageous when you considered Ruth’s musical identity: her morning drive-time show featured one of those feel-good formats: generic soft rock interspersed with headlines, traffic, celebrity gossip, and a few carefully screened listener calls. Media hypocrisy providing a safe harbor for the harried, immature listener, all carefully friendly and slick and sympathetic and definitely never political or socially oriented when that might mean causing offense. Also never mind that Gene Shay, comfortably stout folkie radio program host from a very different station, legendary teller of truly horrendous jokes, always introduced the performers here, world without end, amen. Come on.
“Right, you know everything. I forgot. And you’re never wrong.” I suppose that was an ostensibly genial poke at my renowned erudition. I happen to think if someone asks you a question they should have the courtesy to listen to the answer. 

“As it happens I’m speaking after Gene.” Gene! And she was looking repulsively self-satisfied. “I asked Leticia Rowan if I could say a few words and she agreed, for some strange reason.” Now slipping into her professional mode, that rather arch blend of certainty and faux intimacy delivered with an indelible Lina Lamont slur: cay-unt um-an-jin. Fingering the silver holy medals at her throat, a crucifix and two others piled up together on a single delicate silver chain: Jude of the impossible and the Virgin Mary.

And she fake laughed at my horrified expression and launched into what I assume was a fairly mendacious account of a reception for Women in the Media at the lovely old Bellevue, where at that sort of event there’s a rigid social hierarchy: the unfed proletariat leaning forward from chairs up on the mezzanine to watch on monitors, while the elite dine at tables down on the ballroom floor. Ruth skipped over who was speaking on what and cut straight to dessert for the privileged few, she naturally among them being her gracious public self, wandering around being affable and networking with vibrant women in suits too bright for an office and intelligent men with pampered complexions, clearly expensive slacks and jackets, and beautifully cut hair.

And there was Leticia Rowan already in town, seated comfortably in a corner behind a tortured centerpiece of bamboo and tiny orange orchids, casually chatting with a couple of intimates. So Ruth went up and offered another of those frank handshakes. “I’m truly awed.” Basically insinuating herself into the party, flipping who was honoring whom.

Then went prattling on in her practiced glib fashion about youthful idealism and her own fictitious activist past, seasoning it with ingenuous regret over her current disengaged state to smooth along the manipulation. Although this with a woman surely inured to dubious approaches? There’s something unconvincing about this I haven’t the will to investigate, but the result must hinge on Ruth’s accumulating nervous tension, the months if not years behind the coming explosion. That kind of stress sets you to performing impulsive actions and forcing unaccountable outcomes.

So in retrospect I think Ruth once again mistook a fortuitous encounter for the hand of destiny and just barged ahead. Either that, or else she fell victim to that common desire to cleave to what one professes to despise.

I was dumbfounded. “Why?”

“Oh, envy I guess. I wanted to be part of it. Of her.” Charmingly stated, her forehead furrowed in recollection. And what was I supposed to say to any of it?

Behind us the cowboy mooed through a mild dirge, disrupting nothing; around us the field was nearly empty, abandoned to the insistent sun. And Ruth was standing before me explaining too much and nothing at all, once again much too intense.

Crystal lifted a pastel spaghetti strap from a pink shoulder and raised her impudent gray eyes, looking at Ruth with that innocent expression women use to express contempt. Her private opinion of Ruth: “Nobody has to look like that.”

Crystal was another communications major and model manqué hoping to become, of all things, a personality. That ubiquitous blond hair, the pleasant features of no special distinction just slightly out of proportion, signaling another responsibly raised, college-educated harpy bereft of individuality because nature abhors individuality. But she totally emanates sex: it’s in her bones and baby face, her short upper lip and outrageous ambition. Don’t expect her to evolve, because she’ll never be other than she is. Fortunately she’s immune to jealous criticism, not being that kind of stupid. She held some kind of entry-level management job at the Center City Holiday Inn Express, an occupation that never seemed to seriously impact her real life. Crystal is her birth name.

“Thom here?” I asked.

Ruth’s husband, a frequent guest on her program as either political insider or amiable comic foil, was a local celebrity in his own right, a Philadelphia familiar, a compendium of agreeable ugliness, frightening intelligence, crooked teeth in a moist marshmallow grin, Ivy League polish, loud patterned shirts, genuine charm, horrible posture, an unrepentant gift for outrageous flattery, and an impudent, cutting wit. Outsiders considered him the epitome of Main Line class.

“He’s in Harrisburg.” Acknowledging my disquiet, looking amused for my benefit, but her eyes were shading into wariness. She pushed that uncontrollable hair from her damp forehead. “I’m running around loose today.”

And she gave me a minor, tight smile, raised a few fingers in a little goodbye salute, and strode purposefully toward the gate.

“Hunh!” Crystal said for both of us.

Festival security is handled by costumed volunteers: polite, energetic young people impersonating funky pirates or medieval wizards or just nameless creatures of purely idiosyncratic design. This clean-cut constabulary was shepherding we stragglers to the main gate with cordial efficiency, their intricate hats, adorned with oversized badges of authority, visibly bobbing over the heads of the crowd. The cowboy singer had vanished.
I stood there in the empty afternoon glare, hunting around for a rational line of thought but failing to find one. Finally, today, I have an insight: my being there that afternoon helped determine the event.

I tugged Crystal’s hand and navigated us out of the grounds, then smuggled us under the rope to a decent spot not too far back in the queue; none of the courteous people already there objected. Crystal was perking up now she could catch the scent of approaching evening, her posture opening up to opportunity, her eyes brightly observant. I ducked back under the ropes to get a couple of Cokes from a vending machine and together we waited out the forced restorative lull, letting the afternoon settle down around us, watching families in lawn chairs eat their dinner in public. At length the loudspeakers sounded and we all pushed forward through the gates and launched into the usual painfully hilarious sprint. I got us fairly far up front on the center aisle and bent over gratefully, hands to knees, while from the corner of my blurred vision I saw Crystal plop herself down and assume a mildly victimized face.

Faint applause, which had to be for the traditional bagpipe welcome; a moment later I could hear the piper myself, and then came Gene Shay with his terrible jokes. By twilight we were enduring a young bluegrass quartet of some nascent merit but an unfortunate air of artsy superiority. Then an enjoyable mambo interlude evoking romantic images out of fifties movies, and by full darkness the Jumbotron screens displayed a close-up of a frail, dedicated Canadian singer-songwriter, another totally admirable female. Insidious damp was seeping through my jeans and sweatshirt, chilling my ass. Disembodied light-sticks moved at random, children giggled, and the kindly scent of marijuana wafted by in sporadic gusts.

Crystal and I outlasted the Canadian over strawberry smoothies doctored with vodka while around us the night coalesced into a blackness that seemed physical and bulky, something you could push aside like drapes. Then came that deep yellow moon lurking behind those shit-brown clouds, making the entire universe feel unusually sentient.
Gene Shay was back with even more of those horrendous jokes, to be replaced by a middle-aged dignitary in a blazer over jeans, quietly defiant.

“We are the light of truth, the truth the capitalists and the banks and the conglomerates want forgotten. But we’re still here, still burning bright through the darkness.” So he said, that sure of the personal politics of these many music lovers who could afford to share his opinion. Declaiming thus in an understated but confident bass, Main Line meets simple country boy to produce unfaltering self-respect. Positions shuffled onstage and there was Gene Shay back, leaning sideways into the standing mike to signal brevity.

“And now let’s talk about one particular brilliant candle shining through the darkness, brighter than almost any other, one of the iconic voices of an era of real social change: the inimitable Leticia Rowan.” Grinning back offstage as if to a good friend, as maybe she was. “And just to underline how special this really is, we have an additional guest, because Philly’s very own Ruth Askew is going to provide us a more personal introduction.”

There was a kind of group shrug but nothing worrisome.

A further positional dance, the screens displaying indistinct blobs and random emptiness, and finally there was Ruth behind the microphone. We observed her taking us in: waving lights skittering over dull shapes, anticipatory shifts and murmurs, and a few people in motion pausing on their way somewhere to see if it was worth the wait. Magnified, she looked brutally plain, with noticeable lines around her mouth and those disproportionately large, disturbingly vulnerable blue eyes.

And she just stood there, absolutely rigid, until we all paid complete attention. I think she was overwhelmed by pure contempt, that it confounded her ability to speak, so instead she spat at us.

When everyone instinctively recoiled, as you can imagine, but now she was past that initial paralysis. More, she was beyond pretense, out in the wild ether, and we could actually see the hubris. We instinctively coalesced into a tight defensive silence.

“That’s for all you virtue thieves.” She’d struck this theatrical posture of aggressive confidence, all very square and speaking directly down to us. “But unfortunately for you, we’ve reached the end of righteousness. No more hiding from consequences and calling yourself good.

It’s almost over, but I hope you see how excruciating it was. I’m sorry to have to assault your sensibilities with this shit but we were all squirming in unforgivable embarrassment and you should understand.

“Time is nothing but an endless separating away from absolutes, and every truth, every virtue chosen comes at a cost. Now we see everything, everywhere, and we’re beginning to understand that it’s only about choosing the right wrong, the correct truth.”

To be fair, isn’t every great religion or even philosophy just as impossibly childish? And here’s something else: she was handing us a diagram of her own psyche and circumstances, issuing a perfectly clear warning that went ignored simply because it was way too obvious. Because this is, after all, a story about stupidity, where everything is fucking clear if you simply pay attention.

Ruth put a hand to the mike, still keeping that confident posture.

“This is the next great evolutionary leap. This is unimaginable freedom. This is how we become more like God.”

Just at that moment, the words flown, the energy abating, I could sense her dawning comprehension of the enormity of her situation. She looked to her side for something or someone, but then she sent a little nod out to us, to the compact, alert darkness.
“Then to the elements be free, and fare thou well!”

That’s Prospero, retiring his magic and releasing the slave-spirit Ariel at the end of The Tempest.

But Ruth stayed out there, holding that same strong, taut pose until a calm Gene Shay was suddenly present and gently thanking her from the stage, sending us a tolerant nod while herding her aside. And there at last was the great Leticia Rowan herself, that vast, benign goddess in a golden caftan, smiling an unrestrained country smile, exuding inexhaustible strength and kindness. Clearly decent people, both of them.

Ruth was barely visible now, but I saw her turn to take a final glance back at us, her face momentarily revealed on the giant screens. Terrified of course, but then terror is her resting state. And still insolent, and even smug.

Photo credits: Montgomery County Planning Commission, Hammocks at the Philadelphia Folk Festival (CC BY-SA 2.0) / all others by Michael Stokes (CC BY 2.0)

Maybe in April

The last days of March and I am in between, and waiting. If there’s a sentient universe it’s uninterested in me these days, it’s not taking my calls. Maybe it’s shut down. The corny signs of spring, the greening and robins and daffodils pushing through, showed on schedule but then everything seemed to slow down, and now it’s as if the entire world is drifting in some amorphous limbo. Nothing matters because caring is too exhausting. My new novel-to-be has an outline but I’m not ready to write yet, I just don’t happen to feel like it. I write to play, and playing requires a lot of freedom and transgression, it has to be embarrassing. 

There’s a bike path along the river near my home, and I’ve been walking it this weekend, watching the rest of the world, snapping some photos, and letting my mind roam around anywhere.

I read a piece on Slate this week about Toni Morrison, by Namwali Serpell. Morrison’s a difficult writer; I too feel the reader should take part in the book, should never be pandered to. I too know there should be space for questions, for options. One difference is that she’s good. I loved Sula and Beloved and even Jazz, although that last seemed to me devoid of the major idea I take from Morrison: the strength of community. A strong community can laugh away the devil. Or sing it away as in the musical Carousel, even if it only has a trite school song to work with. Morrison has spoken of her own family laughing in the face of despair. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, too, laughs at the devil. An expression of invincible integrity. 

I should reread Beloved but I’ve fallen into a Bukowski phase, starting with Pulp, which is awful. I mean, I can pull something out of it about old Hollywood dying along with its literary tropes but I won’t because the book is too boring. So now Hollywood and checking it against the Wikipedia entry on Barfly, playing who’s who, with Mickey Rourke and even Faye Dunaway not coming off especially well, never mind the insane business side. But the ghetto scenes are terrific! It’s fun enough and sharp as hell, with that polite, gently humorous distance you get in some books about serious drinkers, The Thin Man for instance, with Sarah playing the usual female foil. A very mid-century vibe, or even earlier. There’s a brief meeting with Mailer, both of them happy to be fighting the good fight against feminism, but even so I could fall into the Bukowski poems. Anyway I needed a fiction break after consuming Merchants of Truth, and I have to write something serious about that book and the news business someday soon. Ditto AI and the legal trade.

Bukowski talks about unknown civilizations, barflies for instance, and it occurred to me that I know a few of those. Something to think about, maybe develop.

One thing: why is there a martini on the cover? I’m halfway through and so far it’s been nothing but wine and beer. Lots of wine, gallons of wine, continuing infusions of red, red wine.

Here’s a weird thing: I just this year ran through the Eve Babitz canon. You never hear of a place your entire life and suddenly you spend a season between Musso and Frank’s and the Chateau Marmont, reading this real life as fiction stuff.

Meanwhile the brain’s at rest. I haven’t seen a movie, I mean to really see it, since the Oscars. I maxed out, but maybe now I’m up to it again. It’s a lot to undertake, though. A lot of directed passion.

Soon, I hope.

(UPDATE: I ended up taking the train into the city to see Ash Is Purest White. There is only so much I’m able to forgive a woman, even if she is an analogy, when she’s involved with an obvious narcissist. She needed to strangle the dude. Otherwise a superb vision of rapidly mutating China. So my movie mojo is returning, after all.

Going and coming home I took some photos from through the train window. I think this is the start of a series.)

SALES PITCH: The Reader Alert for Worthy remains up on the Home page, so check it out, along with the Prologue on the Excerpts page. The Kindle sale, alas, has ended.

Wise Up: America has always had a love affair with ignorance

If it’s a parent’s duty to embarrass their children, then the parents caught in the college admissions scandal have outdone themselves. And this although it’s obvious that Lori Loughlin’s daughter Olivia Jade, for one, never wanted to go to college to begin with. Her particular genius lies in self-promotion, where she’s already an expert. Which is odd when you consider that her parents, both strong supporters of higher education, surely must have modeled reading and curiosity and a deep passion for art and history and ideas throughout her childhood. I mean, wherefrom this image fixation? Why this need for back door machinations? 

She’s an influencer, which is a job now, a lucrative one. She does incredibly lame sales pitches for sponsors who want in on her popularity, and she’s popular for being the vapid but pretty and oh-so enviable daughter of celebrities, blissfully unconcerned with anything outside the brand she’s been building since she was fourteen. You can see that dedication in her red carpet photos, the way she poses with her shoulders back for maximum sex appeal. She seems like a genuinely nice, hard-working kid, but she radiates a particular kind of childlike insolence, the kind a twenty-year old shows when she ignores the internship to sleep with the president of the company. The same wide-eyed spit-in-your-eye Kardashian kind that takes its haul and the hell with wagging fingers.

What matters is having enough followers. Take Kylie Jenner, a shabby billionaire heading a cosmetic business she knows nothing about, peddling make-up kits to tweens enamored by her family’s equally shoddy celebrity. None of that matters, and she knows it, and that visible insolence only compounds her success. (Although sister Kendall Jenner might be running into a little bit of an issue, due to her Fyre Festival involvement. Apparently there’s some minor difference between being a paid model and being a self-employed influencer, something confusing to do with responsibility. Whatever.)

It’s all about the oblivious leading the gullible, with a few of them getting rich and millions loving them for it and want to be just like them. Stupid is where the money is. 

The truth is, we Americans love stupidity; we always have, it’s in our national DNA. We’re proud of it, we proclaim our ignorance! We’ve always been looking to outsmart those redcoats, those snotty Europeans, those revenuers, those company big-wigs, those scientists, that eastern elite. We may not be educated but we’re shrewd, we know what’s what. Look at Will Rogers, or Mark Twain, or that “country lawyer,” Senator Sam Ervin. Look at Lincoln, with his sly tales to confound established assumptions. Or, obviously, our current president. It’s always us against them. In America, reading is a chore and never exciting, or pleasurable, or a privilege, or an adventure, or an inestimable joy, or an opportunity to engage with another’s brilliant, questioning mind. Frankly, too much reading is kind of suspect; it’s just not healthy, and anyway we have our Bibles. And while science and math are worth something in the job market if you have that kind of brain, history is mostly boring, and philosophy the epitome of uselessness. Everyone knows school isn’t really any use after maybe eighth grade unless you’re a genius and going into medicine or technology, and that’s just training, not excess erudition.

The real money’s with brothers Logan and Jake Paul, or the Jackass movies and their ilk. It pays to play to stupid, to court those who equate ignorance with faith, glamor with quality, and inclination with truth. Maybe the stupid people are right, and the venal, primitive truths inevitably triumph. The company president really does prefer the empty-headed beauty to the wife of thirty years. You daily news is designed to your tastes, so as not to offend you with contrary opinions. Breaking old stuff is fun because tearing down is always the first step in creation. If you can get away with it, that probably means you should. Stupid is as stupid does.

But America has this little problem: a college degree is almost a necessity these days, whether for survival or prestige. Gotta get that diploma. How did that happen, anyway? Who made that rule, New World Order globalists? There’s something plain mean about it. And getting that piece of paper is no joke these days, when even the brightest college applicants are over-worked, over-scheduled, and consumed by stress. It’s a full-time job. It’s work.

But the diploma is the prize, not the education. Nobody every talks about learning. Depending on your place on the spectrum, it might even warp your all-American values. And for what? I mean, why spend your days listening to some underpaid adjunct dissect War and Peace when Kylie Jenner is a billionaire.

SALES PITCH: As journalist Con Manos, protagonist in Worthy of This Great City, says, “It’s just that I always underestimate stupidity, even though I know it rules the world.” The Reader Alert for Worthy remains up on the Home page, so check it out, along with the Prologue on the Excerpts page. The Kindle sale, alas, has ended. Even so – prove me wrong, buy a book.

Photo credits: Matt Madd, college (CC BY 2.0) / Ron Mader, Buzzword Bingo Willful Ignorance = Inentional and blatant avoidance, disregard or disagreement with facts (CC BY-SA 2.0) / Tax Credits, College (CC BY 2.0)