.i“ * ^ / . . . . . ` `~

Good idea, law enforcement needs to be held accountable: “In addition to a prohibition on federal officers wearing masks, they also demanded that the agents wear body cameras and carry identification. Their proposal would put an end to roving patrols and require warrants issued by a judge for arrests and searches.” (NYT)

Here’s a good one: “you raise your voice, I erase your voice.”

It is as if the J6ers are ICE. “They had the professional demeanor of criminals.”

Would actually make the World Cup, and soccer, more fun, if they banned the cup in ’26 and had a shadow tournament.

Forgot how good this was: Ives Concord sonata.

I don’t know what to think of the threat of birth rate decline Noah Smith dwells on today.

My first instinct is, it’s a kind of recondite concern. The sort of thing very smart people will obsess over but turn out to be not a very big deal.

My next thought is, if it is for real, it is such a big deal, such a global concern, that we are not really capable of dealing with it: look at our response to climate change, for example.

(And yet, I find myself counter-arguing, while our response to climate change has not been ideal, we have made a lot of progress — not through the way expected, legislation and restraint, to be sure, but through technological advances.)

Finally, a question: is this an affluence problem or a poverty problem? Is it “life is so pleasant I don’t need to have kids, a spouse, that kind of risk, responsibility and attachment” or is it “how can I afford to have kids when I don’t think I can afford to grow old?”

My fatalist strain tells me this is an affluence problem that will only be solved by growing poor, like trees pollinating more when they are under stress of drought, but I of course support Noah’s idea of studying this more seriously.

Big picture idea: technology, while making life better, is also often the source of our next major communal concern. Fossile fuel was great until it wasn’t — climate change. Social media (as Noah might have it) was great until it wasn’t — population decline… (Makes me think that the decline in fertility rates, too, is not an affluence or poverty problem, as I just suggested, but, as with climate change, mainly a technology problem.)

I don’t know if this is good politics or not, I suspect not, but it makes me mad.

NYT. “The nine Democrats who voted to hold Mr. Clinton in contempt were, in addition to Summer Lee: Representatives Ayanna S. Pressley of Massachusetts, Emily Randall of Washington State, Lateefah Simon of California, Melanie Stansbury of New Mexico, Rashida Tlaib of Michigan, Maxwell Alejandro Frost of Florida, Stephen Lynch of Massachusetts and Raja Krishnamoorthi of Illinois.”

ngrams: “leaned into”

A book, tucked imperfectly in a bookcase, that falls painfully cracking its spine; and shoes that point at each other from opposite ends of the room.

The chatter of the table clutter, talk talk talk — who can keep this quiet for long? (Clean is quiet.)

I know, from the standpoint of this cushion, why I might consider myself a giant, I will seem so tiny an entity within my own form.

There lays where he lays and will soon lay — the cot: there, perhaps, the giant enters me, I am so much larger, but not so that I will know it.

Noah Smith: America is a nation of offline moderates ruled by a fringe of online lunatics.

“It really creeps me out that those are my neighbors — that that’s the kind of people I live next to. It’s really upsetting,” she says, adding, “I just assumed all the ICE agents were like, from Texas and Arizona and Florida.” (source)

Jerome Powel: “Public service sometimes requires standing firm in the face of threats.”

objurgation: a strong rebuke or scolding.

Very idly wondering if Times reporter Valerie Hopkins was thinking of Pynchon when she wrote the opening sentence to this article: “The message came screaming through the skies at 8,000 miles per hour.”

Gravity’s Rainbow’s opening is: “A screaming comes across the sky.”

tweebuffelsmeteenskootmorsdoodgeskietfontein is a farm in the North West province of South Africa that is noted for its unusually long place name of 44 characters—the longest in South Africa and possibly fourth-longest in the world […] the name in Afrikaans means “the spring where two buffaloes were shot stone-dead with one shot.”

Laundry that is warm in a basket that is broken.
Everted socks, a null undergarment, a sleeve.
I will again stand deciphering, with warming hands,
These simple, largely unfashionable puzzles,
Making of the warm clean mound a clear tall stack,
Which is the end of what will seem a cycle of soil:
a tale of a toil  — that soiled — and was undone.

What is this? Ezra Klein

Good, long thread on Russia, Ukraine, U.S., Europe — Ruth Deyermond

A horrifying expose on the brutality of the Russian army towards its own soldiers: nyt.

I’m a little surprised that Sharon’s never offered to cut my hair. She has a line in one of her songs about how she’ll only cut the hair of “the ones she loves and the ones she does” and while I know I’m not one of those, I suspect I might be the other of those, to a degree, and so why did she never offer to cut my hair? Perhaps it’s because she knows I cut my own hair and wouldn’t presume to improve on my work, despite having probably spotted the irregularities of my styling. Maybe it has more to do with maintaining clear boundaries in our relationship.

What was it, anyway, that induced me to think that we might be a couple? Despite sharing several enthusiasms, it wasn’t that we really hit it off, or had great chemistry, or what have you. In addition, based on what I knew of her romantic history, I wasn’t really her type of person; she liked black guys, Jewish guys, Latin guys, foreigners — and tall — while I, from her point of view, was non-exotic and of medium height. I was also kind of a nice guy which, from the stories she’s told, may not have been her regular fare — and, of course, she enjoyed her independence. Her independence was such that a potential consort really had to conform to the unique circumstances of her life, and that wasn’t something just anyone could do.

I suppose what had put couple-dom in mind was something like this. We had been old friends who’d reconnected after many years, with nothing like romantic feeling in our past, and one night I was sitting across from her at a restaurant and I thought “this feels like a date to me.” And then on another occasion, we were hosting a couple to dinner in my home, and I thought “this feels like we’re a couple hosting another couple for dinner in our home.” And then, when we argued about something that I did that I wouldn’t apologize for, I thought “this sounds like the kind of argument that couples will have when they argue.” I will say, it had been a long time since I had had such a feeling — since I had been in such an argument — and pretty soon I was thinking about her all the time. I was thinking about being in a couple.

Now, by the time this Thanksgiving rolled around, it was already clear that nothing of that kind was going to happen, as I had heavily hinted to her multiple times as to the extent and kind of my interest and she had shown no encouragement at all; I knew it was only a “romance in my mind”; however, at the time we arranged to spend Thanksgiving together, that had not been entirely clear to me. And now I was going up there with the idea that I would probably need to pull back somewhat on our friendship going forward, because — how do I put it — with most of my friends I am much more remote. I was thinking, “Ray, you have to restore some balance.”

The plan was, I would drive up on Tuesday and go back on Friday. She took pride in being the perfect hostess, she said, but could only keep it up for three days. I was in charge of the stuffing, desserts and an inspirational Thanksgiving message, in lieu of a prayer, for which I chose the sixth section of Whitman’s Crossing Brooklyn Ferry; but she would handle the rest of the cooking and cleaning. We were both thrilled to be doing something with our Thanksgiving, which had become, for me in particular, a depressing time after my parents had passed. And from the beginning, too, there was, for both of us, no little trepidation about what would happen when our dogs got together in her small space. (This turned out to be justified.)

Sharon, for as long as I’ve known her, has always had a unique fashion sense, which extends to her sense of interior design, enjoying bright colors and stark, cheerful contrasts in form-fitting clothes that can be purchased on a budget. That love of contrasts may explain her taste in partners too, I am moved to reflect, and is rather the opposite of my own tastes, which tend toward neutral colors and earth tones. It may explain differences in our behavior too, now that I think of it, for while she is brazen and direct, I am more politic and inclined to smoothing things over. She shines a light on what I sweep under the rug. We really are opposites in a way.

The first day I was there, when I picked her up on a corner near to her school, she was wearing a bright yellow coat, which I believe she identified as a rain coat — and which looked like a rain coat — but was of a cottony material that didn’t seem water resistant. (It’s actually woolen, she informs me.) The second day, another workday for her, it was the bright orange knit top with shoulder pads — these, though out of fashion, felt empowering, she said — as well as her favorite pair of blue jeans, which were to get ripped later that night, when she broke up the dog attack. Thursday, when she was hustling all day — really hustling from dawn to past dark in a way that impressed me — she wore a t-shirt that read Gobble!; and Friday, the day I returned to Washington, she wore blue stretch pants and a white, loose-fitting athletic top that she would use to walk the dogs in, and whose sleeves had straps that crossed over each palm. Sharon looks good in everything she wears – she tells me her proportions are the same as Barbie’s – but it was this last outfit that made me feel most poignantly.

The visit was a series of disasters. The first day, and first thousand dollars, I spent in NYC was almost entirely at the animal hospital for something unrelated to the dog attack — an abscess that had developed between “my man’s” toes. The second day was the day of the attack, which shocked us both — shocked her, deeply, that her two “sisters” could do that to each other, which they hadn’t ever before; shocked me that I had exposed my “poor man,” the gentlest fellow imaginable, to such a danger; and shocked us both with the raw animal fury of the encounter, which drew blood, — and the third day was Thanksgiving dinner, which, in contradistinction to all the rest, came off exceptionally well, but only after I had self-cured a bout of food poisoning by means of an early slug of Compari and gin. (After I had finished chopping my vegetables for the stuffing I thought “I better sit down for minute,” then after I’d sat down for a minute I thought, ” no, I better lie down for a minute,” then after lying down for a minute I thought — “bathroom immediately.” So when you envision Sharon hustling in the kitchen for her guests that day, you must imagine it with the sound of my loud wretching in the background. You must also imagine it with her wearing a glove on one hand, so that her bandaged and swollen finger – injured during the attack – didn’t get in the food.)

(And yes, though not related to the foregoing incident, there was drinking involved. “Drinking buddies,” was how I characterized this relationship to a friend. At one point on Thanksgiving night we all went down to the courtyard, so that the by-now-sedated dogs could have a pee, and I filled my coat pockets with beers in the event that anyone, like myself for instance, wanted one — or wanted two — only to discover that Sharon had brought down her own big bag of beers. “I think I see why you two like each other,” one of her relatives ribbed.)

The dinner was a great success both as a meal and as a social event (Sharon’s love of contrasts translating well in the kitchen too). And my Whitman recitation was not so shabby either: “I am he who knows what it is to be evil,” I intoned to those seated around the set table…. I was reminded of Thanksgivings of yore.

When the crowd had left, we put on a movie, but Sharon, exhausted by her holiday exertions, retired early, leaving me there to feel sullen and bereft. I laid down on the couch draped in my winter coat, feeling acutely “I’m not in a couple.” I woke up the next day every bit as sullen as I’d fallen to sleep, but I thought, “Ray, you’re not 22 – so get with it.” And so it was that, after a very agreeable long walk with all the dogs around Prospect Park – in the bandshell of which Sharon and I had played music together so very long ago – we had one of those pleasant conversations that hosts and guests will have before parting.

“Do you think I’m a fucked up guy,” I asked her, seriously, as she lounged around in that top with the cotton straps on her palms. “I mean, I know you like me and all, (or I mean, I guess you do) but do you sometimes reflect on the things I do or say, and think, ‘you know, Ray is kind of fucked up’?” (I felt like a stranger, a weirdo so often. Like I was looking up at people from a well.) Her response was measured but fair: “I guess I think of you as stable — dependable — and that’s not usually how I think of people who are fucked up.”

Last I saw of her she was leaning in through the car window, where I was parked on the service road. I don’t think I had seen her that close up till now. She had deep circles under her eyes and wrinkles here and there, a middle-aged woman, and I was thinking of how I loved that face. We fist bumped and I drove off.  

Something you’d seen often before — a trash can near the parked cars of the volunteer firefighters — was that for the deposition of medical waste? (You’re thinking the medical waste should be deposed? “For disposing of medical waste,” you perhaps mean). And you’ve noticed a founding stone you’d never seen before — “1983.” Yes: Going to the doctor not to avoid getting sick but so as to avoid going to the doctor after getting sick, which would demonstrate you were a fool, which would be worse than getting mortally sick? (Shouldn’t you go to the doctor just to be well?) “When the Challenger happened, I was age ten, which was around 1983…. Knowing another language might so radically alter your English Language brain chemistry as to meaningfully reshuffle the sequence of years.” The fool: now that nothing can be done — what can be done?

Shadows of plants climbing over the “horizon” of the sidewalk into the “sky” of the road. Then I identify a separate branch as “marcessant.” … I am concerned to see the Bobcat turn so abruptly toward the worker. (The worker’s helping lift heavy manhole covers into the extended shovel portion of the Bobcat.) I pass Brittany in the shade of her front yard — studying for the pharmacology exam. I experience a moment’s disorientation by being engaged in small talk by a pretty girl, but am dismissed before long. All moods pass eventually, I think, and so will the one I’m in now — it will — it does — which is among the positive health benefits of walks. On Cleveland — I will forget how big and wonderful that one tree is. On Cleveland: someone has neglected to pick up after their dog. A disturbance down Edgewood has caused me to change course and, now on 13th, I’m looking at my watch: precisely twenty minutes ago I was climbing the hill checking my watch. I was seeing, at that time, I was about ten minutes earlier at that point than I had been the previous day, which was the normal time I would be at that point. (I was early today.)

Red empty open shoebox leaned against recycling barrel, bright unblemished cardboard with a design. Dusty black electrical tape at hill bottom beside an orange Orange Gatorade twist-off cap. Now passing two oil spots in a hazy swirled track. Bumper sticker — “i love mountains.” Sign: “VAX HERE.” “Each day as it comes,” you tell yourself as the suspended wheel of the trailer of a cement truck passes closely. Worker striking soft earth hard with a tool: that “thunk” or “thud” of the beaten earth. The “chink” as it hits a small stone. Engine of that truck turning over provides a “bottom,” or baseline, to the “high pitched electric guitar chirring” of the locusts, I note.

I arbitrarily reach out and touch the large metal box by the stoplight for the second fire station as I pass it, and find it is of less solid construction than I’d supposed, like a filing cabinet. Little blue flowers with small purple ones along a couple of these lawns; daffodils, about six daffodils, in the woodsy portion of the 28th street hill with the retaining wall of rotting rail road ties. Dog seems merely to paddle with his paws, the movement is so relatively insignificant, while the whole body of the mistress seems an efficiently gliding canoe behind him.

Question: if you pretend to be something you’re not (though I mean by that something less than what we would today call being a hypocrite) does that mean you’re as far as you can possibly be from being that thing, pulling in the wrong direction, or does it mean you’re at an early stage of morphing into that thing, heading in the right direction? (I suppose the question depends at least somewhat on — who you actually are.)