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Poetry Break

AMONG THE ROCKS
Robert Browning

Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth,
This autumn morning! How he sets his bones
To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet
For the ripple to run over in its mirth;
Listening the while, where on the heap of stones
The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.

That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;
Such is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows.
If you loved only what were worth your love,
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:
Make the low nature better by your throes!
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

In 1972, my home town of Chewelah, Washington was recognized as an All-America City. As a kid, I remember it was kind of a big deal. Since 1949, The National Civic League annually recognizes ten communities throughout the U.S. that “leverage civic engagement, collaboration, inclusiveness and innovation to successfully address local issues.” Only 14 cities in Washington state have received the award, and—I’m proud to say—Chewelah is by far the smallest. (Not that I’m impressed, but Spokane was named an All-America City three times: 1975, 2004, and 2015. Whatever.)

I recently ran across a copy of the April 19, 1973 edition of The Independent, Chewelah’s weekly newspaper. The issue, which celebrated the award, was filled with congratulatory ads from every mom-and-pop business in Stevens County, including the Chewelah Grange Supply.

Normally I wouldn’t get too excited about a 47-year-old, poorly designed newspaper advertisement. But this one featured a photo of the store’s manager, my dad (center), along with two co-workers—all of whom I later worked with over several summers during high school and college. (My mom served as the company’s bookkeeper for several years.)

Yep. Suitable for framing. And a reminder to never let the newspaper design your company’s ad.

A(nother) Rant

In an otherwise interesting essay reflecting on nearly two decades of running a record label, Alec Hanley Bemis offers up some advice for those considering the same path. Hard to disagree with statements like “Dedicate yourself to learning as much about music that already exists as you do contributing new music to our cultural ecosystem,” “Be skeptical of overnight successes,” and “Creativity is inherently indifferent to money.”

Where Bemis and I part ways, however, is where he asserts that “art is a political act.”

For one thing, can we please, please designate one or two areas of our lives as politics-free zones? I mean, it can’t be a coincidence that our societal dysfunction has only increased as more and more people have insisted on politicizing every damn thing around us. Enough already!

For another, Bemis has committed what appears to be an error of logic. “By definition,” he writes, “art is a form of speech—so art is never apolitical.” That only works if we use the following construction:

premise 1: All speech is political.
premise 2: Art is speech.
conclusion: Therefore, art is political.

Forget about the spuriousness of premise 2 (a “problematic enterprise”); premise 1 is clearly untrue. No matter how you unpack it or deconstruct it or apply critical theory to it, “These pretzels are making me thirsty” just isn’t a political statement.

But I digress.

Art can—and should—be apolitical, if only so that we can get back to judging it on its merits rather than on whether the artist holds the correct political position du jour. Or to prevent it from becoming a cudgel with which to beat up the other side. Think I’m overstating things? Think again.

As usual, Nick Cave has the right perspective: “My music is not designed to reward people for good behaviour, nor do I make music to punish people for bad behaviour. My music is not conditional. It is for everybody, regardless of their actions, good or bad or otherwise.”

Miscellany

Happy Monday! I’ve put together some interesting reads to help you start your week off right. You’re welcome.

Elle Hunt in the Guardian: “For the vast majority of our history, while we roamed the Earth as hunter-gatherers, we enjoyed more leisure time than we do today.” This seems like as good a time as any to remind you that, as Christine Rosen reported way back in 2008, multitasking is a myth.

Speaking of multitasking, did you know that manned torpedoes used to be a thing? I didn’t.

Never mind all that. Greg Ross over at Futility Closet asks the important questions. Like, say, “Can every convex polyhedron be unfolded into a shape that doesn’t overlap itself?” Turns out nobody knows. Here’s more for you math nerds out there.

And speaking of math, I’ve wasted far too much time today on this sweet, sweet Mandelbrot set generator. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Recommended

I’m not exactly one of those guys with his finger on the pulse of, well…anything, really. So naturally I’m a little late to the wonders of Tedium. Here on “the dull side of the Internet” you’ll learn that the fake snow on the set of The Wizard of Oz was actually asbestos, read the surprising history of ranch dressing, and ponder the recent disappearance of hidden tracks.

In other words, you’ll waste time. A lot of it. But hey, if it distracts you from politics and keeps you away from social media, that’s a good thing.

Poetry Break

The late Clive James, from his final book The Fire of Joy, out tomorrow:

My understanding of what a poem is has been formed over a lifetime by the memory of the poems I love; the poems, or frag­ments of poems, that got into my head seemingly of their own volition, despite all the contriving powers of my natural idleness to keep them out. I discovered early on that a scrap of language can be like a tune in that respect: it gets into your head no matter what. In fact, I believe, that is the true mark of poetry: you remember it despite yourself.

And here’s James, reading his transcendent “Japanese Maple,” written after he was diagnosed with leukemia.

Here We Go Again

I feel much the same about presidential debates as I do golf: It’s time that I’ll never, ever get back.

For one thing, they’re no longer debates. You know, with argument and discussion and context and logic and, um…facts. If I wanted to watch Kabuki theatre, I’d watch Kabuki theatre—not a couple of septuagenarians preening and posturing in front of a ridiculously self-serious audience while simultaneously dodging every question raised.

Do it Thunderdome-style, though, and I’m down to clown:

So obviously I’ll be skipping tonight’s performance. That doesn’t mean, however, that we won’t mark the occasion. After all, it was only sixty years ago that the very first televised debate was broadcast to the American people. (That’s the one in which, legend has it, those who listened on the radio proclaimed Vice President Richard Nixon the winner, while those who watched it on TV thought JFK had prevailed.)

More important though, it that it’s also the sixtieth birthday of Nixon’s half-eaten sandwich—one of our greatest, if largely unsung, national treasures:

But I digress. If, like me, you miss the days when candidates practiced the gentle art of persuasion—when it wasn’t so hard to tell the difference between a presidential debate and a WWE Smackdown—maybe tonight you should watch this instead:

What we do…

As the decades have come and gone, I’ve had my hands on a majority of the projects that have passed through these walls. But I have done my best to steer clear of one domain: writing. That’s Aaron’s kingdom.

Per the rules, however, I am supposed to write at least two blog posts per year. And apparently I completely forgot 2019. (Maybe all the chaos in 2020 is my fault? Nah, I’m not that powerful.)

Hopefully, this should make up for this gross oversight. So grab a cup of your favorite beverage and enjoy.

Happy National Punctuation Day®!

Big day today, everyone—big day: “A celebration of the lowly comma, correctly used quotation marks, and other proper uses of periods, semicolons, and the ever-mysterious ellipsis.”

How will you mark (Get it? Mark?) the occasion? Founder Jeff Rubin has a game plan. I for one wouldn’t mind tucking into the Official Meatloaf of National Punctuation Day.

But honestly, I’d be happy if more people took the opportunity of this glorious holiday to repent and forswear the comma splice—by far the most common punctuation crime committed in these parts. (I, um…may have ranted about this from time to time.)

Change can only begin with awareness, after all. And awareness, wrote zen master Thich Nhat Hanh, “is like the sun. When it shines on things, they are transformed.”

Miscellany

Today is the first day of autumn. Or, as I like to refer to it, that day in September when the Earth’s terminator line—the boundary between day and night—is a straight north-south line.

I know it shouldn’t, but this makes me happy.

Beware the super-pigs!

The New York Times gets a long overdue lesson in journalistic integrity from…the World Socialist Web Site?

Apparently the editors of Rolling Stone have decided that the American people aren’t quite divided enough. They’ve released a list of what they’re calling “The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time”—and it’s (predictably) laughable.

Monday Diversion

If Al Franken drawing a map of the United States from memory can’t bring us all together as a nation, I’m honestly not sure what could.

This is—using one of Courtney’s favorite adjectives—simply delightful.

Stop! Grammar Time!

“The old man the boats.” “The prime number few.” “Fat people eat accumulates.”

There’s a clever linguistic term for these sentences, which, though grammatically correct, are deliberately constructed so as to mislead the reader: garden-path. (My personal favorite? “Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.”)

The key to a good garden-path sentence, in other words, is intentional ambiguity through shrewd wordplay. It’s a puzzle.

Bad writing, on the other hand, is just…bad writing. And it usually comes from strict adherence to imagined rules.

A lot of folks, for instance, eschew the use of that in sentences such as “I know [that] you love me.” They believe it’s understood and therefore redundant. (That these are the same barbarians who refuse to employ the serial comma is probably not a coincidence.) But in a sentence like “I know the words to that song about the queen don’t rhyme,” you end up with what amounts to an accidental garden-path sentence. What was thought to be implied—that before “the words”—turns out, in this case, to be quite necessary.

When you understand that the rules of grammar, whether real or imagined, are a means of ensuring not consistency but clarity, it’s easier to know when and how to break them.

The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same

Shot: “I sometimes wonder if there have not been two great disasters in the history of modern letters: the first when literature began to be a full-time profession, with writers like Dryden and Lesage, instead of remaining a by-product of more sanely active lives; the second, when the criticism of literature became likewise a profession, and a livelihood for professors.” – F. L. Lucas, Style: The Art of Writing Well, 1955

Chaser: “[I]n all my years in and out of university English departments I never met a freelance reviewer who couldn’t give a better sense of the average novel in 800 words than an assistant lecturer at the University of Uttoxeter.” – Anonymous, “Who Let the Dons Out,” The Critic, September 2020

#eyeroll

“Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony is one of classical music’s most famous works,” tweeted one of the mouth-breathers at Vox this morning. “But to many, it’s also a symbol of elitism and exclusion.”

Forget, for a moment, the lazy and amateurish “to many” construction, which can be applied to any particular axe the writer wants to grind. Like, I dunno, “To many, CK is a merciless tyrant.” See what I did there? I led you to believe that CK is a terrible person without actually having the courage to say that he’s a terrible person—and without any evidence whatsoever.

This isn’t journalism. This is projecting.

But even if it were true—even if there existed a nontrivial number of self-absorbed a-holes who see a piece of music as “a symbol of elitism and exclusion”—so what? That’s their problem, not the music’s. Any idiot can, in the amount of time it takes to type “Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony” in the search field, find literally hundreds of performances on YouTube. FREE.

Who, exactly, is being excluded here? Only those who want to be culturally illiterate. (And those, like Vox writers, who want in on the intersectionality racket.)

So. Want to experience transcendent beauty? Give Beethoven a listen. Rather listen to “WAP”? That’s your prerogative. But for God’s sake don’t go blaming the white patriarchy for your benightedness. That’s just dumb.

An Observation

I may have mentioned that I’m reading my way through The Years of Lyndon Johnson, Robert Caro’s (currently) four-volume biography of our 36th president. The fifth and final volume, which will deal with LBJ’s actual presidency, is apparently in the works, with 600 typed manuscript pages completed as of January of this year.

In an era in which purity reigns supreme—when ignorant thugs are toppling statues of famous people who once had Bad Thoughts—we would do well to recall that Johnson, a lying, cheating, opportunistic dirtbag who apparently believed that the end justifies the means, rammed through some of the most important and effective civil rights legislation ever enacted in this country. And he had to go against his own party to do it.

All this is not to say that politicians are corrupt—they are, obviously—but that people are complex, and that the motives of even the worst of us can sometimes be honorable. Something worth remembering.

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