TRUMP: Loneliest egomaniac on Earth

http://lithub.com/rebecca-solnit-the-loneliness-of-donald-trump/

from Literary Hub

Rebecca Solnit: The Loneliness of
Donald Trump

On the Corrosive Privilege of the Most Mocked Man in the World

May 30, 2017  By Rebecca Solnit

Once upon a time, a child was born into wealth and wanted for nothing, but he was possessed by bottomless, endless, grating, grasping wanting, and wanted more, and got it, and more after that, and always more. He was a pair of ragged orange claws upon the ocean floor, forever scuttling, pinching, reaching for more, a carrion crab, a lobster and a boiling lobster pot in one, a termite, a tyrant over his own little empires. He got a boost at the beginning from the wealth handed him and then moved among grifters and mobsters who cut him slack as long as he was useful, or maybe there’s slack in arenas where people live by personal loyalty until they betray, and not by rules, and certainly not by the law or the book. So for seven decades, he fed his appetites and exercised his license to lie, cheat, steal, and stiff working people of their wages, made messes, left them behind, grabbed more baubles, and left them in ruin.

He was supposed to be a great maker of things, but he was mostly a breaker. He acquired buildings and women and enterprises and treated them all alike, promoting and deserting them, running into bankruptcies and divorces, treading on lawsuits the way a lumberjack of old walked across the logs floating on their way to the mill, but as long as he moved in his underworld of dealmakers the rules were wobbly and the enforcement was wobblier and he could stay afloat. But his appetite was endless, and he wanted more, and he gambled to become the most powerful man in the world, and won, careless of what he wished for.

Thinking of him, I think of Pushkin’s telling of the old fairytale of The Fisherman and the Golden Fish. After being caught in the old fisherman’s net, the golden fish speaks up and offers wishes in return for being thrown back in the sea. The fisherman asks him for nothing, though later he tells his wife of his chance encounter with the magical creature. The fisherman’s wife sends him back to ask for a new washtub for her, and then a  second time to ask for a cottage to replace their hovel, and the wishes are granted, and then as she grows prouder and greedier, she sends him to ask that she become a wealthy person in a mansion with servants she abuses, and then she sends her husband back. The old man comes and grovels before the fish, caught between the shame of the requests and the appetite of his wife, and she becomes tsarina and has her boyards and nobles drive the husband from her palace. You could call the husband consciousness—the awareness of others and of oneself in relation to others—and the wife craving.

Finally she wishes to be supreme over the seas and over the fish itself, endlessly uttering wishes, and the old man goes back to the sea to tell the fish—to complain to the fish—of this latest round of wishes. The fish this time doesn’t even speak, just flashes its tail, and the old man turns around to see on the shore his wife with her broken washtub at their old hovel. Overreach is perilous, says this Russian tale; enough is enough. And too much is nothing.

The child who became the most powerful man in the world, or at least occupied the real estate occupied by a series of those men, had run a family business and then starred in an unreality show based on the fiction that he was a stately emperor of enterprise, rather than a buffoon barging along anyhow, and each was a hall of mirrors made to flatter his sense of self, the self that was his one edifice he kept raising higher and higher and never abandoned.

I have often run across men (and rarely, but not never, women) who have become so powerful in their lives that there is no one to tell them when they are cruel, wrong, foolish, absurd, repugnant. In the end there is no one else in their world, because when you are not willing to hear how others feel, what others need, when you do not care, you are not willing to acknowledge others’ existence. That’s how it’s lonely at the top. It is as if these petty tyrants live in a world without honest mirrors, without others, without gravity, and they are buffered from the consequences of their failures.

“They were careless people,” F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote of the rich couple at the heart of The Great Gatsby. “They smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.” Some of us are surrounded by destructive people who tell us we’re worthless when we’re endlessly valuable, that we’re stupid when we’re smart, that we’re failing even when we succeed. But the opposite of people who drag you down isn’t people who build you up and butter you up.  It’s equals who are generous but keep you accountable, true mirrors who reflect back who you are and what you are doing.

“He is, as of this writing, the most mocked man in the world.”We keep each other honest, we keep each other good with our feedback, our intolerance of meanness and falsehood, our demands that the people we are with listen, respect, respond—if we are allowed to, if we are free and valued ourselves. There is a democracy of social discourse, in which we are reminded that as we are beset with desires and fears and feelings, so are others; there was an old woman in Occupy Wall Street I always go back to who said, “We’re fighting for a society in which everyone is important.” That’s what a democracy of mind and heart, as well as economy and polity, would look like.

This year Hannah Arendt is alarmingly relevant, and her books are selling well, particularly On the Origins of Totalitarianism. She’s been the subject an extraordinary essay in the Los Angeles Review of Books and a conversation between scholar Lyndsey Stonebridge and Krista Tippet on the radio show “On Being.” Stonebridge notes that Arendt advocated for the importance of an inner dialogue with oneself, for a critical splitting in which you interrogate yourself—for a real conversation between the fisherman and his wife you could say: “People who can do that can actually then move on to having conversations with other people and then judging with other people. And what she called ‘the banality of evil’ was the inability to hear another voice, the inability to have a dialogue either with oneself or the imagination to have a dialogue with the world, the moral world.”

Some use their power to silence that and live in the void of their own increasingly deteriorating, off-course sense of self and meaning. It’s like going mad on a desert island, only with sycophants and room service. It’s like having a compliant compass that agrees north is whatever you want it to be. The tyrant of a family, the tyrant of a little business or a huge enterprise, the tyrant of a nation. Power corrupts, and absolute power often corrupts the awareness of those who possess it. Or reduces it: narcissists, sociopaths, and egomaniacs are people for whom others don’t exist.

We gain awareness of ourselves and others from setbacks and difficulties; we get used to a world that is not always about us; and those who do not have to cope with that are brittle, weak, unable to endure contradiction, convinced of the necessity of always having one’s own way. The rich kids I met in college were flailing as though they wanted to find walls around them, leapt as though they wanted there to be gravity and to hit ground, even bottom, but parents and privilege kept throwing out safety nets and buffers, kept padding the walls and picking up the pieces, so that all their acts were meaningless, literally inconsequential. They floated like astronauts in outer space.

Equality keeps us honest. Our peers tell us who we are and how we are doing, providing that service in personal life that a free press does in a functioning society. Inequality creates liars and delusion. The powerless need to dissemble—that’s how slaves, servants, and women got the reputation of being liars—and the powerful grow stupid on the lies they require from their subordinates and on the lack of need to know about others who are nobody, who don’t count, who’ve been silenced or trained to please. This is why I always pair privilege with obliviousness; obliviousness is privilege’s form of deprivation. When you don’t hear others, you don’t imagine them, they become unreal, and you are left in the wasteland of a world with only yourself in it, and that surely makes you starving, though you know not for what, if you have ceased to imagine others exist in any true deep way that matters. This is about a need for which we hardly have language or at least not a familiar conversation.

A man who wished to become the most powerful man in the world, and by happenstance and intervention and a series of disasters was granted his wish. Surely he must have imagined that more power meant more flattery, a grander image, a greater hall of mirrors reflecting back his magnificence. But he misunderstood power and prominence. This man had bullied friends and acquaintances, wives and servants, and he bullied facts and truths, insistent that he was more than they were, than it is, that it too must yield to his will. It did not, but the people he bullied pretended that it did. Or perhaps it was that he was a salesman, throwing out one pitch after another, abandoning each one as soon as it left his mouth. A hungry ghost always wants the next thing, not the last thing.

This one imagined that the power would repose within him and make him great, a Midas touch that would turn all to gold. But the power of the presidency was what it had always been: a system of cooperative relationships, a power that rested on people’s willingness to carry out the orders the president gave, and a willingness that came from that president’s respect for rule of law, truth, and the people. A man who gives an order that is not followed has his powerlessness hung out like dirty laundry. One day earlier this year, one of this president’s minions announced that the president’s power would not be questioned. There are tyrants who might utter such a statement and strike fear into those beneath him, because they have installed enough fear.

A true tyrant does not depend on cooperative power but has a true power of command, enforced by thugs, goons, Stasi, the SS, or death squads. A true tyrant has subordinated the system of government and made it loyal to himself rather than to the system of laws or the ideals of the country. This would-be tyrant didn’t understand that he was in a system where many in government, perhaps most beyond the members of his party in the legislative branch, were loyal to law and principle and not to him. His minion announced the president would not be questioned, and we laughed. He called in, like courtiers, the heads of the FBI, of the NSA, and the director of national intelligence to tell them to suppress evidence, to stop investigations and found that their loyalty was not to him. He found out to his chagrin that we were still something of a democracy, and that the free press could not be so easily stopped, and the public itself refused to be cowed and mocks him earnestly at every turn.

A true tyrant sits beyond the sea in Pushkin’s country. He corrupts elections in his country, eliminates his enemies with bullets, poisons, with mysterious deaths made to look like accidents—he spread fear and bullied the truth successfully, strategically. Though he too had overreached with his intrusions into the American election, and what he had hoped would be invisible caused the whole world to scrutinize him and his actions and history and impact with concern and even fury. Russia may have ruined whatever standing and trust it has, may have exposed itself, with this intervention in the US and then European elections.

The American buffoon’s commands were disobeyed, his secrets leaked at such a rate his office resembled the fountains at Versailles or maybe just a sieve (this spring there was an extraordinary piece in the Washington Post with thirty anonymous sources), his agenda was undermined even by a minority party that was not supposed to have much in the way of power, the judiciary kept suspending his executive orders, and scandals erupted like boils  and sores. Instead of the dictator of the little demimondes of beauty pageants, casinos, luxury condominiums, fake universities offering fake educations with real debt, fake reality tv in which he was master of the fake fate of others, an arbiter of all worth and meaning, he became fortune’s fool.

He is, as of this writing, the most mocked man in the world. After the women’s march on January 21st, people joked that he had been rejected by more women in one day than any man in history; he was mocked in newspapers, on television, in cartoons, was the butt of a million jokes, and his every tweet was instantly met with an onslaught of attacks and insults by ordinary citizens gleeful to be able to speak sharp truth to bloated power.

He is the old fisherman’s wife who wished for everything and sooner or later he will end up with nothing. The wife sitting in front of her hovel was poorer after her series of wishes, because she now owned not only her poverty but her mistakes and her destructive pride, because she might have been otherwise, but brought power and glory crashing down upon her, because she had made her bed badly and was lying in it.

The man in the white house sits, naked and obscene, a pustule of ego, in the harsh light, a man whose grasp exceeded his understanding, because his understanding was dulled by indulgence. He must know somewhere below the surface he skates on that he has destroyed his image, and like Dorian Gray before him, will be devoured by his own corrosion in due time too. One way or another this will kill him, though he may drag down millions with him. One way or another, he knows he has stepped off a cliff, pronounced himself king of the air, and is in freefall. Another dungheap awaits his landing; the dung is all his; when he plunges into it he will be, at last, a self-made man.

Rebecca Solnit
Rebecca Solnit

San Francisco writer, historian, and activist, Rebecca Solnit is the author of seventeen books about geography, community, art, politics, hope, and feminism and the recipient of many awards, including the Lannan Literary Award, and the National Book Critics Circle Award. She is a contributing editor to Harper’s, where she is the first woman to regularly write the Easy Chair column (founded in 1851).

 

Trump and Obama: notes on the Holocaust

The message written by US President Donald Trump at the Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial Museum guest book and signed by him and his wife Melania is seen after their visit on May 23, 2017, in Jerusalem.  / AFP PHOTO / GALI TIBBON        (Photo credit should read GALI TIBBON/AFP/Getty Images)

President Obama’s letter:

I am grateful to Yad Vashem and all of those responsible for this remarkable institution. At a time of great peril and promise, war and strife, we are blessed to have such a powerful reminder of man’s potential for great evil, but also our capacity to rise up from tragedy and remake our world. Let our children come here, and know this history, so that they can add their voices to proclaim ‘never again.’ And may we remember those who perished, not only as victims, but also as individuals who hoped and loved and dreamed like us, and who have become symbols of the human spirit.

Donald Trump’s letter:

It’s a great honor to be here with all of my friends—so amazing + will NEVER FORGET!

__ __

 

Speaking of Big Sur…

California highway part of $1 billion in damage

 

JANIE HAR,Associated Press 1 hour 26 minutes ago  5:55 pm

Sierra vintage gear notes from Rex

Here are some vintage notes on gear and general ways-and-means of backpacking in the Sierra Nevada.  Lifted from the memoirs of Kenneth Rexroth (1905-1982).

These passages concern Rex’s visits in the Sierra with his first wife, Andrée, from 1927 (when he was age 21) and onward, through to visits made with his second wife, Marie, around 1940.


We went off to the Sierras whenever we could, even if the main road to Yosemite (this was before either tunnel) was closed. We hitchhiked up the steep, dirt Sand Hill Road. …

No matter the season, we were able to get away from the main trails, which was not a common thing to do in those days. One fall afternoon, we hiked down one of the old lumber roads from our camp near Hume Lake. Andrée had spent the morning painting, and I had been botanizing and writing. …

Midway up the trail there was a cabin which had belonged to a prospector, trapper, and general mountain rat by the name of Put Boyden. He had discovered a cave at this point which later became one of the sights to see in Kings Canyon National Park, kept closed by huge iron gates so that people would not get lost in there, and to prevent vandalism, the curse of national parks, national forests, and city parks. Boyden’s cabin was a little shingle hut, with a bunk and a stove. In front was a broad deep pool in the river where the current was still enough for swimming and full of immense fish, the largest of which were almost as long as my lower leg. The smallest fish weighed about a pound and a half. We only had to toss in a fly to pull out a meal. That gave us a plentiful protein supply, and we could carry in on our backs three weeks of dry food. …

We’d go in and stay a month. … When our supplies ran short, I’d hike out, twelve miles or so, to Hume to get some food and come back. No one was around yet because there was still snow on the way over the bench from Lake Hume. So we had our refuge all to ourselves. It’s extraordinary to think that then we could spend six weeks in California and never see another human being. …

Most travel was done with packhorses and mounted tourists. There were few backpackers like us. We’d go off the trail wherever the country was relatively level and travel with geological survey topographical contour maps. So I began the habit of living under the stars, later even in the winter. Until very recent years I’ve spent most of the year living outdoors. We would lock up our little studio in the Montgomery Block [a bohemian apartment building in downtown San Francisco] or let somebody use it. We knew everything would be perfectly safe. It was the same with camping. In those days, you could leave a tent with cameras, fishing tackle, and everything else in the public campgrounds in a national park, let alone in the high country, and no one would ever disturb it. The high country was far less populated and polluted than it is now. Then there was no road in Big Sur. The Muir Trail was not finished, nor was the trail from Giant Forest to the Muir Trail, the so-called High Sierra Trail. Now the Muir Trail along the crest of the Sierras resembles the Haight-Ashbury in its days of horror [this was written after mob-related drug pushers and fake hippie-wannabe drifters and grifters crowded out the original flower children], and if you leave your tent, it will be gone when you come back. …

Our snow equipment was very primitive, but we had a wonderful time making it. For those days, it was really good. Some of it we simply invented. Some we had information about, but that described equipment which was much too heavy. We did have sleeping bags, and Egyptian cotton covers for them — all of this waterproofed with alumina gel which we mixed and precipitated into the things ourselves, something I still prefer to complete waterproofing because it breathes. The great trouble with modern equipment is that it is impermeable. …

…We eventually did a lot of rock climbing, and some glacier climbing elsewhere, not in California, and ski mountaineering…. That first year in California was a period of intense activity. … When Andrée discovered the distant landscape of the mountains, and the near landscapes of trees, rocks, and waterfalls, she was entranced. She’d always take watercolors and paper along, even on winter trips, find a sheltered spot in the sun, and sit there and paint watercolors on top of eighteen feet of snow. I was writing and painting, and the creative outpouring never stopped. …

All this had tremendous influence on us. My poetry and philosophy of life became what it’s now fashionable to call ecological. I came to think of myself as a microcosm in a macrocosm, related to chipmunks and bears and pine trees and stars and nebulae and rocks and fossils, as part of an infinitely interrelated complex of being. This I have retained.

My backpack astonished [Marie]. It was so heavy that it was extremely difficult to lift off the ground onto my shoulders. I would put it on a stump or a downed timber, adjust the shoulder strap and the tumpline around my forehead. She would pull me to my feet and we’d start off. We got a ride from the ranger up the narrow dirt road to Florence Lake and Blaney Meadows hot springs, and from there by easy stages to the pass below Mount Humphreys about Desolation Basin. …

Every year after that we went to the mountains, eventually to cover the Sierras from Yosemite to Sequoia Park. We soon tired of trying to pack three weeks of supplies on our backs and each year we rented a burro, usually in Sequoia Park if we were going into the southern Sierras, from there always the same burro, whom we called Bebe and who must have been as old as the rocks among which she shit, for she was marked by a running iron with the brand of the Kings River Packing Corporation, which dated back to the days of Jack London [1876-1916] and Stewart Edward White [1873-1946]. She was the wisest equine animal I have ever known. It was not necessary to tether or hobble her, she always stayed near camp, and in the evening would come and lie down near the fire like a dog. …

We came to spend more and more time in high country at or above the timberline and off the trails. Sometimes we would go down with the donkey and load her up with wood and come back to the high lake. About the same time we began to climb with a rope — fourth- or fifth-class climbing — but without pitons. I have never liked mechanical aides in rock climbing — besides the nuisance of carrying all that hardware around. Snow goes from the summits of the Sierras in July, and the more difficult climbs are on very homogeneous granite, something like Chamonix in France. I have never cared much for climbing on ice and snow, although I’ve spent many hours cutting steps with an ice ax. I much prefer the acrobatics of difficult rock climbing. The Saw Tooth Range in northeastern Yosemite Park is granite with large crystals of glagioclase feldspar about the size of sugar. It provides, as it were, its own hobnails. Nevertheless, the traverse of The Three Teeth is nothing to sniff at. At one point you rope down to the end of your doubled rope about a hundred and fifty feet, drive in a heavy piton, attach a carabiner and attach a rope sling to that, put your feet in the sling, pull down the rappel rope, thread it through the carabiner, wrap it around yourself, and throw yourself backwards into space.

We joined the rock climbing section of the Sierra Club and went on most of their weekend practice trips on local rocks, but never on one of the High Sierra trips. I have a strong distaste for group activities in the mountains. I can sympathize with the insane Englishman encountered by one of the Everest expeditions, who set off to climb the mountain alone and was never seen again. But I found a few friends who enjoyed winter camping, ski touring, and mountaineering, and made a complete outfit for the purposes — goose-down mummy bag, coffin-shaped tent which could be pitched to anything upright or in an X by two thick rubber bands cut from an inner tube, on crossed skies in front and ski poles behind. I used a high count, long staple, Egyptian cotton spinnaker cloth and dyed it the most brilliant red I could obtain. … My tent would hold just three men, very close together in their sleeping bags with their duffel at the long narrow end. I used it for many years in the blazing sun of spring skiing in the Sierra Nevada. It never faded. Then I loaned it to a fiend who was going to the Himalayas. It came back the palest apricot color. Otherwise I still have it, and it’s as good as ever — over forty years old.

Ski touring and mountaineering have given me some of the happiest moments of my life. It’s not just swinging long turns down a steep mountainside, or traveling through the snow-bound forest where the treetops stick up like little Christmas trees, but even crawling out at night to piss under the black sky full of billions of stars shedding a pale grey light in the infinite expanse of snow. One is tempted to write one’s initials doing this, while realizing under planets, stars, and nebulae, and surrounded by peaks heaved up in the Jurassic, that like Keats “here lies one whose name was writ in water.”

As I look back on the period between the wars [World Wars One and Two], with all its busy work and endless meetings in the labor movement, mass strikes, police attacks and killings, and all the other seemingly eventful activities, what I remember clearly are stones and trees and flowers, and snow, and the companionship of my wife. Tout passé, ils demeurent!

~~~~~ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ~~~~~

 

 

 

House-bound

 

An Excuse For Not Returning the Visit of a Friend

 

Do not be offended because

I am slow to go out. You know

Me too well for that. On my lap

I hold my little girl. At my

Knees stands my handsome little son.

One has just begun to talk.

The other chatters without

Stopping. They hang on my clothes

And follow my every step.

I can’t get any farther

Than the door. I am afraid

I will never make it to your house.

 

~ Mei-Yao Ch’en (1002-1060)

translated by Kenneth Rexroth (1905-1982)

from Songs of Love, Moon, & Wind: Poems from the Chinese, translated by Kenneth Rexroth. From the original by Mei Yao-Ch’en. Copyright © 1971 by Kenneth Rexroth. New Directions Publishing Corp. All rights reserved.

Spring Rain

Spring Rain

 

The smoke of our campfire lowers

And coagulates under

The redwoods, like low-lying

Clouds. Fine mist fills the air. Drips

Rattle down from all the leaves.

As the evening comes on

The treetops vanish in fog.

Two saw-whet owls utter their

Metallic sobbing cries high

Overhead. As it gets dark

The mist turns to rain. We are

All alone in the forest.

No one is near us for miles.

In the firelight mice scurry

Hunting crumbs. Trees toads cry like

Tiny owls. Deer snort in the

Underbrush. Their eyes are green

In the firelight like balls of

Foxfire. This morning I read

Mei Yao Chen’s poems, all afternoon

We walked along the stream through

Woods and meadows full of June

Flowers. We chased frogs in the

Pools and played with newts and young

Grass snakes. I picked a wild rose

for your hair. You brought

New flowers for me to name.

Now it is night and our fire

Is a red throat open in

The profound blackness, full of

The throb and hiss of the rain.

 

~ Kenneth Rexroth (1905-1982)

from In Defense of the Earth (1956)

Clowns and coping with clowns

Some nights I literally cry for a few moments before composing myself in order to fall asleep — cry over the evil and stupidity of our so-called national government administration and the unnecessary harm, suffering, and mass murders caused to our world each day by such evil and stupid men (and their few women collaborators). Other nights, instead I sigh and chuckle quietly to myself, darkly sardonically, over the unbelievable ignorance and foolishness also involved in the same evil mess of this national and planetary catastrophe. A world “governed” by an evil and insane clown posse. A fumblingly stupid posse of drunken clowns — evil, insane, half-wit clowns. Literally. Think about it.

It’s as if a large van-load of such clowns had arrived to maraud your neighborhood. A large car-load of mentally deficient doofuses, dressed in clown costumes, face-paint, and fright-wigs and each armed with submachine guns, hand-grenades, cans of gasoline, sticks of dynamite, and flame-throwers. The entire posse has rolled up drinking and already way-past drunk from some toxic home-brew that has rendered them half-blind and just barely able to stand upright but has also given them hyper-ramped-up energy to rush around bumbling and shouting slurred half-wit insults once they’ve spilled staggering out of the van. Each clown smashed-out crazy drunk on a toxic booze that rips the lid off an already seething psychotic anger, rendering them all ragingly angry and half-blind.

Here they all come trotting goofily down your street, but as they start shooting aimlessly and blow-torching the nearest cars parked on the curbs of your block, they have also already managed in a couple of cases to set each other’s fright-wigs on fire. And three or four of them have even managed accidentally to shoot themselves in the foot with their own Kalishnakov assault rifles. The first one to pull a pin from a grenade fumbles and drops the handy little pineapple bomb. It rolls under their own van and blows it to smithereens—stolen billions in cash now flying and fluttering everywhere, raining down bills now as thick confetti clouds of thousand-dollar green trash-leaves, massive flakes of still-glowing hot ashes.

But the clowns are still staggering and rushing around, shooting into windows, trying to kick-in doors, and pissing and shitting themselves as they trip and bump into each other. As they fall and get up and stagger around they are still trying to turkey-trot down the block. They’ve set three neighborhood dogs on fire now with their blow-torches and have scattered a cat with their machine-guns while simultaneously killing five of their own posse with the same burst of hot bullets. Two other dogs from the block, a pit bull and a chihuahua, are now taking down one of the nearest clowns, they’ve bitten off one of his hands making him drop his can of gasoline which is gushing a stream of liquid fast-flowing toward where a car is in flames.

This is what I mean by the kind of scene conducive to sardonic humor—if you think this sort of thing is the least bit funny. It’s our street, our block of homes. It’s our government administrator-clown posse. Their dented-up official-use-only government van has just pulled up and stopped at our corner. Could it be any worse?

Every hour it gets worse. This was the stay-at home van-load of insane clowns. Another load of these same armed and drunken half-wit clowns has flown and landed overseas and tumbled out onto the streets of a capital city of our frienemies.

Good luck y’all and goodnight.

This is the nightmare imagery and narrative captured by the evening news each and every evening. I can only bear to watch and listen in snippets every few days. To steady my nerves after such news programing on those nights when I do struggle to watch a minute of the ongoing real-life horror show, I then switch over to youtube and watch some old Hallmark made-for-TV rom-com chick flick. It works well enough. I become warmly drowzy as it draws to an end and I fall asleep like a baby.

And how are you coping?

 

 

 

__________________________

Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon

The Six Degrees: Kevin Bacon

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9u-TITxwoM

And, by the way, at instant first glance, my Bacon Number is 3:

Kevin Bacon (0) ~ Hugh Jackman (1) ~ David Bowie (2) ~ me (3).

“Chances are” I have other Bacon Numbers as well, but perhaps (?) none smaller than 3…

But these are likely to be just social in my case, not professional! I’ve never made any movies!

Here’s another one I just realized:

Kevin Bacon (0) ~ Bob Dylan (1) ~ Joan Baez (2) ~ Mimi Farina (3) ~ me (4)…

Again, this is purely social (as well as just for silly fun): I’ve bumped into Dylan as well as having seen him in concert; I’ve met Joan and have attended a few of her concerts, and I slightly (!) knew Mimi … I’ve never “worked” with any of them, and I’ve never met Bacon.

But it’s a silly fun game …

Such lists could go on and on. Here we all are (ALL of us!), alive on the same Earth, at the same moment in time….    Enjoy your life.

“Hey now, you’re an all-star, get your game on, go play
Hey now, you’re a rock star, get your show on, get paid”

Have fun. Help other people. Save the whales. Save the planet.

You do you.  Be happy.  Be kind.