2022 - A Ranting Retrospective.

 

The predominant focus for 2022 has to be the war in Ukraine. A close second is proof that certain government agencies have colluded with social media platforms to spread disinformation about various essential issues. This real conspiracy revealed the suppression of news that would have significantly influenced the 2020 Presidential election. Yes, I'm talking about the Hunter Biden Laptop. With the aid of social and corporate media, the government spread the lie that the laptop was an effort by the Russians to influence votes in the United States. Specific statistics show a sway of at least 16% of votes in favor of the Trump campaign.  For agencies like the FBI and CIA, running interference in American elections (suppressing the truth and forwarding lies) should have been a significant scandal. For the most part, however, this anti-constitutional corrupting influence was barely covered. This is merely another reason for not trusting mainstream corporate media. 

What naturally follows here is the severe censorship of particular voices on social media, as revealed by the Twitter Files. Those who control the narrative will dictate people's views of the world. The misinformation spread by corporate news and the censorship on social sites has forced many to seek alternative media. From one survey, I discovered that the corporate media is less trusted than the American government - and that's saying something. 

What many call a "mask-off" moment, the extent of censorship across the board is more severe than anyone could imagine. Those promoting a different perspective of the Russian proxy war in Ukraine were banned, shadow-banned, or banished entirely from any platform. War is a divisive issue for people, no matter what they believe. Personally, I lost a good friendship from my views of Ukraine. We agree on just about everything else except this stupid war. For our authorities to expect us to believe everything they vomit out daily is ridiculous. Many people do not have the time to read alternative media and varying points of view on any given subject. Family, two jobs, etc., collapsing on the couch, and switching on the major networks is about the extent of knowing what is happening in the world. 

In an unprecedented move, the US government approved over 780 billion to the war budget. Though it seems to change weekly, close to 100 billion was given to Ukraine for the US's proxy war with Russia. This is a massive amount of money, a massive dent in the American tax dollar. While the US has a huge homeless problem, a corrupt medical system designed to bankrupt families, and the average family working paycheck to paycheck, 100 billion dollars handed over to Ukraine is a slap in the face for the common American citizen.  

Over 2022, I've often commented on why our governments are handing over so much money for war. Our government is not for the people but is the servant of the corporations. Ukraine is a boon for weapon manufacturers and related companies producing military products. Our politicians are rewarded by their donors, ensuring they remain in office. Like all recent wars over the 20 years, including Libya, Iraq, Syria, and Afghanistan, this is our capitalism in motion. War for these people, although shrouded in jingoistic rhetoric and nationalistic cliches of 'freedom and democracy,' is a money laundering exercise and racket. More people are beginning to understand this caper of war, which can only be good. 

In Australia this year, the Labor Party was elected, and there were high hopes that the Prime Minister would speak up about Julian Assange. He finally spoke up about a month ago, but in all reality, the Assange case is out of his hands. The Intelligence agencies are the ones running the show in this case. No one can go against the permanent state because, as one politician has said, "they can screw you six ways from Sunday." Assange remains in a high-security prison without charge in the UK for exposing the machinations of these agencies. These organizations are above the law. 

From a personal perspective, the Russiagate hoax was all a lead-up to the proxy war with Russia. Russia was and currently is rammed down our throats as the west's number one enemy. I remember the movies and TV shows over the last few years that all have posted Russia as the antagonist. Undoubtedly, we have been systematically conditioned to see Russia as a threat. Russia was never a threat after the fall of the Soviet Union. America requires an enemy to ensure its goal of economic and political hegemony of the planet. 

Other big news for 2022 is the amount of disinformation and the suppression of true information regarding COVID-19. Over the year, I refused to comment for fear of being banished. Those maintaining the establishment narrative made a ton of money. Many lost their businesses and homes as a result. 

There have been other important issues and revelations in 2022 that I've failed to mention. Censorship, government agency influence in our elections, and unrelenting war propaganda to promote more destruction are the issues that stand out for me. 

We should see more light in 2023. (fingers crossed).

Happy New Year.

Charles Bukowski - Post Office - Review

 

This is Bukowski's debut novel, written and published in 1971 when the author was 51 years of age. His publisher requested he write a novel after publishing a smattering of his poems. He received the manuscript within three months. When asked why only three months? Bukowski's reply: "Fear." To the author's surprise, the novel became a success, and more novels, poems, articles, and essays followed. Bukowski is considered by many to be one of America's top poets. 

My reading experience with this author was limited to his poetry. During my 'beat' phase, reading Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Burroughs, I came across a collection and couldn't get enough. Post Office is an obscenely honest, hard-drinking narrative of a working man with a curious attitude of "I don't give a stuff about anything" way of life. The novel is about a man who gets a job at the post office, quits, is hired again, and remains there for eleven years. 

There are only three activities our narrator cares about: women/sex, and drinking. He's living with his wife in a small hotel room, where both are devoted to alcohol and each other. He only works enough to drink, bet on the horses, rent, and have a little food. This wife finally leaves him, though they remain good friends. Some years pass, and they run across each other again and have another go at their relationship. Both have aged, and that old 'love spark' has vanished. Later she dies a lonely, slow death due to alcohol. He's right by her side at the end. 

The tedium of working at the post office is well expressed. In his early days as only a temporary carrier, his experiences in the rain and the aggressive and sad customer reactions are, at times, hilarious. There is one exchange with a woman who demands a letter from him. She goes into a rage when he says he doesn't have anything for her. It's somehow the mailman's fault she doesn't have mail. Another experience on the mail line is he's seduced by an angry customer. This is a bit of a cliche, "Having an affair with the mailman," though he pulls it off, and it reads truthfully. 

The character's second wife comes from a wealthy Texas family. He's certainly out of his league, but the woman loves him. In fact, she's a nymphomanic and wants it at every turn. All will be well if he just hangs in there for a while. They return home from a Texas trip, and she demands he get a job. She will as well; this is to show her parents that they can survive on their own. It's here he returns to the post office. This marriage ends in divorce because she has met another man at work. After they divorced, she wrote him a letter. Once the man realized she was divorced, he ignored her. 

I totally enjoyed his experiences at the race track. His method of picking the winner could be more scientific, though, for a time, it works wonderfully. So much so he takes a three-month leave of absence from the post office to try his hand at professional gambling. He has a good run, eating at fine restaurants and staying at first-rate hotels, and of course, the winning streak ends, and he returns to the grind. 

I personally love this style of transparent, no-frills prose. 

Post Office gave me the first taste of Bukowski's story-telling, and I'll be returning for more. 

O’ Henry and the Spirit of Giving: A re-telling of "The Gift of the Magi."

 

After teaching for some years in Australia, it is only after the reports are completed that I can finally breathe a sigh of relief and look at the festive season. It is only tonight that my list was made for gifts; although rather slim under the circumstances (less cash than usual), lack of $ somehow turns Christmas into a more meaningful event. Why? One needs to think about the gift because we want the gift to “mean” something to the receiver.

This reminds me of an O’Henry story.

 I recall reading The Gift of the Magi as a teenager, which significantly affected my outlook on Christmas and the world.

It has been many years since reading this gem, so bear with my sparse and general prose; at least, hopefully, the primary theme, the “message,” will be made clear:

Around the 19th century in grand old London, a couple lived in a very small flat on the East end, but a flat was only large enough to cook their breakfast and dinner and sleep together in a single bed. Their home was humble yet clean as the wife ensured their home remained spotless, their sheets crisp and white, their windows transparent, ensuring what little sun they captured would shine through…

Unfortunately, the husband lost his job as a clockmaker because times were hard, and people could not purchase fine-crafted timepieces. But it was Christmas, the season for giving, acknowledging life’s miracles, and the birth of a true Man of God.

In only a few weeks, all their money evaporated, not from frivolous wants but from basic needs.

One thing you should know about this special couple is that they were wonderfully in love. Fine home, beautiful clothes, and objects of beauty made no difference to them as long as they had each other.

She had the longest, most beautiful hair in London. In fact, people on the streets, gentlemen, and ladies, would stop her and comment on its color, sheen, and magnificent appeal.

Though dressed in an old suit, he managed to maintain an air of respectability. His most prized possession was a gold pocket watch that had been given to him by his father, which had been given to his father by his grandfather, and so on. The watch had been in his family for many years.

Carelessly, as a young man, he lost the gold chain attached to the watch. From that day on, he kept the watch in a special box above the fireplace, fearing losing the object representing a long and vital family tradition.

Christmas meant so much to both of them.

Because of their intense love for each other, both felt a need to give each other a gift at this most important time of the year. But with no money, what could they do?

On Christmas Eve, both ventured out into the city, determined to find the perfect present.

Christmas morning arrived, and they rose from their single bed to the chilling cold of their flat.

Excited, he opened his present to find a gold chain for his most precious watch.

She looked at her lover’s face to find disappointment. Why would he not want a gold chain to wear his precious watch?

His lover opened her present to find the most beautiful ivory comb for her lovely long hair.

They looked at each other, and the truth had become clear to both: She removed a string from her hair to reveal that she had cut her beautiful hair.

“I am sorry, my love! I had to cut my hair to sell it to buy the gold chain for your watch!”

He smiled though he felt a pang of guilt.

“I am sorry, my love! I sold my gold watch to buy this ivory comb for your lovely hair.”

To them, it did not matter.

It was Christmas, and they had each other.

This is a beautiful story about the true spirit of giving.

I’ve never ever forgotten this beautiful tale and seem to remember it at this time of the season.

Icon of Modernism - Review of Marc Chagall (Bio) by Jonathan Wilson

 

The reader turns the first page of this little book to see the 1929 oil on canvas painting, "Lovers" by Marc Chagall. The painting depicts a man and woman seated and embracing; the woman's head turned inward on the man's breast, while the man, an expression of calm and contentment, peers upward, watching a winged angel flying overhead across a deep purple sky. The painting has the deep and rich signature color of all Chagall's work, though it lacks the intense emotional suffering and ambivalence that makes up so much of his oeuvre; however, this painting evokes a mystical love, a true love which, in my opinion, expresses the relationship between the artist and his beautiful wife, Bella.

As part of the Jewish Encounter project, Marc Chagall by Jonathan Wilson is one contribution devoted to promoting Jewish literature, culture, and ideas.

It can be observed that most of Chagall's work, according to the author, is an expression of his philosophy, his religious sensibility if you will, in the form of the "literalization of metaphors", deeply grounded in the mystical and symbolic Hasidic world and Yiddish folktales, which include in their writings the "repository of flying animals and miraculous events." (P. 13)

It is impossible to label Chagall's work as "Expressionism", but the representation of an acute imagination, colored in fantasy, depicting highly charged religious symbols, including in several works, Christs Crucifixion, in a variety of contexts. What I love about Chagall is the viewer is drawn into the work by its striking color and busy subject matter and is compelled to study it because the meaning of the painting must be discovered as it is not apparent on a superficial viewing.

Wilson does a wonderful job of narrating Chagall's life in terms of the major events that the artist experienced, spanning through the Russian revolution, two world wars, the Holocaust, and the establishment of the State of Israel. Wilson suggests that in viewing Chagall's paintings against the backdrop of these major historical events will see the artist's work as a response to them and his personal inner conflict between his "Jewishness" and his focus on Christ's Crucifixion and also his attempt at secularism in many of his paintings.

My favorite paintings by the artist are his various representations of love that display an ethereal, mystical quality, a sublimeness that to me, captures love in their most revealing forms; as Wilson comments, "Chagall's vision of love, so appealing to the human soul, frequently involves a merging of two faces, or bodies, into one. In this regard, he is Platonic, as his figures pursue their other halves in an apparent longing to become whole again. Over and again, he paints the myth that Aristophanes recounts in The Symposium." (P.174)

Chagall's life, Wilson suggests, was an attempt through his art at the reconciliation between two worlds, a genuine effort universalizing or merging opposites; he writes, "In his paintings, past and present, dream and reality, rabbi and clown, secular and observant, revolutionary and Jew, Jesus and Elijah...all commingle and merge in a world where history and geography but also the laws of physics and nature have been suspended." (P. 210)

Wilson's Marc Chagall is an erudite biography and insightful critical work. Although relatively short in length, it manages to capture the artist who is considered, along with Picasso and Matisse, one of the icons of Modernism.

Homage to Apollinaire. 1911-1912. Oil on canvas, 209x198 cm.

Joyce Carol Oates – The Faith of a Writer – Comment

 

Joyce Carol Oates continues to write prolifically to this day. The Oates 'cannon' in sheer volume is, for any writer, overwhelming and daunting. To read only a few of her works is to barely make a dent. As far as the American literati is concerned, she stands level with Vidal, Hemingway, Faulkner, Updike, Bellow, and Chandler. For American literature over the last century, Joyce Carol Oates is a force of nature. In this thin volume are 14 essays on writing and being a writer.

The most common question Professor Oates is asked is: When did you know you were going to be a writer?

Answer:

To me, the very question is a riddle, unanswerable. My instinct is to shrink from it: the assumption that I think of myself as a “writer” in any formally designated, pretentious sense. I hate the oracular voice, the inflated self-importance of the Seer.

Oates attempts to talk about writing undogmatically, something provisional...the process of writing than the uneasy, uncertain position of being a writer.

Returning to her childhood, the fascination with the story was instantly there. It wasn't the written word that intrigued her young mind, but the coloring books that sparked that storytelling gene. Remembering the written word, it was The Gold Bug and Other Stories by Edgar Allan Poe. Recalling her feelings about these stories, she didn't know what to make of it. Time moves forward, and she says she Persisted with Edgar Allan Poe.

One can see the influence of Poe in her writings, as the stories appear banal on the surface, later revealing a vile undercurrent of human evil and the macabre.

In the Chapter, To a Young Writer, the advice is straightforward and simple:

Write your heart out.

Never be ashamed of your subject and of your passion for your subject.

The chapters I found to be the most informative are: Notes on Failure and Reading as a Writer.

I came away from Oates' comments on Chekhov, Kafka, Joyce, and Woolf. The early works from many of these writers were never published, however, led the way to their individual masterpieces. Feeling like a failure, persistence paid off. In the case of James Joyce, his first unpublished novel, Stephen Hero, paving the way to A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Would Portrait ever have been written if the uncompleted Stephen Hero had been published? Joyce made a list of “epiphanies” or “spiritual manifestations,” later incorporated into Dubliners and Ulysses.

In the Chapter, Blonde Ambition Greg Johnson's interview about Oates' novel Blonde, a fictional text about Norma Jeane Baker, better known as Marilyn Monroe. Personally, what I found interesting was the author's answer concerning her writing process:

With a novel of such length, it was necessary to keep the narrative voice consistent and fluid. I was continually going back and rewriting, and when I entered the last phase of about 200 pages, I began simultaneously to rewrite the novel from the first page to about 300 to assure this consistency of voice. (p.147)

I remember at school being told over and over again,... there is no such thing as writing, only rewriting. JCO takes this to a whole new level.

The “advice” given that I believe to be the most powerful and true is:

Is there any moral to be drawn from this compendium, any general proposition? Read widely, read enthusiastically, be guided by instinct, and not design. For if you read, you need not be a writer; but if you hope to become a writer, you must read.

The Faith of a Writer – Life, Craft, Art is a text any budding writer or practicing writer should read.

An inspiring text.

The Crying Girl

 

It was sometime yesterday or last week (my time perceptions are meshing) while traveling into the city of Melbourne for no reason other than to feel the energy of the streets, a beautiful young girl, no more than 25 years of age, suddenly fell into deep grief, sobbing, not the wailing type, though a quiet somewhat restrained release of pure sadness.

The woman’s sadness was palpable, contagious as I felt like weeping with her. But, no, I thought, do not interrupt, and let her sadness release naturally.

At first, I felt compelled to ask her if there was anything I could do to ease her pain. I wanted to help her but did not have the courage to do so…

Our train reached Flinders Street Station and finally came to a grinding halt. The passengers began standing up, gathering their belongings…but I waited. I could not even bring myself to look at her out of fear of possibly embarrassing the woman.

After a few moments, when most of the passengers had left the train, she gathered her small backpack and headed towards the outside platform. I slowly stood up too, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, walked directly behind her with the only thought in my mind: is there anything I could do to help this woman experiencing so much grief and sadness.

As we walked along the crowded platform, I could not help looking in her direction. I noticed her long auburn hair caught under the strap of her carry bag, where, ever so gently and with such grace, she pulled her hair out from under the strap. She lifted her head, her body pushed consciously straight up and true as she ascended the escalators with the rest of the crowd. Through observing her subtle body movements, I saw raw courage in a fellow soul, feeling so much sadness only moments before, deciding to carry on with life despite life’s pain.

Some moments require us to ‘intervene’ in a strangers’ life, and the motivation to act is instinctive. In this case, a mere kind word might have helped this beautiful young woman, but a coward, I chose to sit back and let the important moment slip by.

I regret this moment but must remember to act in the future when at least a simple kind word might ease someone’s pain…if only a little.

Beauty vs. the Reality of Everyday Life.

 

Trouble sleeping over the last two weeks: waking every three hours, feeling I've slept for days, yet the clock continues to read 3:30 am.

My work is done; most all responsibilities have been met, and with this chased sense of guarantees, this solidity of self, my poised confident persona has gone by the wayside: feeling like a stranger in a strange land.

Received a phone call from my dear friend this morning asking if a scrumptious picnic would be out of the question? Having not eaten properly for days, the invitation seemed like a divine intervention mainly designed for me.

She appeared in front of her driveway holding a true-to-form "picnic basket," sunglasses, and a kind smile.

"Let me drive." she insisted.

We headed towards the country and suddenly arrived next to a river.

Living in city circumstances, cars, petrol, the feeling that one's space will explode at any moment because we all seem to live on top of each other, no room to move, the drive in the country felt like a gift. The river smelled of fresh flowers, and the walker's all smiled.

After a brisk walk, we finally settled next to a deserted old Fern tree. The public walking path was too close for total privacy but far enough to make us feel that we were somewhat alone with each other.

We laid the blanket over the grass, and all at once, the beauty of our surroundings became evident before my eyes.

My friend had made cold Lamb sandwiches with just a hint of mint. The bread was bought at the bakery that morning and tasted like it had just come out of the oven. (There's nothing like fresh bread). Then, reaching into the picnic basket, a bottle of 2000 Cabernet Shiraz and two crystal glasses. The wine and the Lamb were a perfect union, a marriage of the unusual but lovely sort.

As wine and delicious food affect one's outlook on life, the afternoon a perfect temperature, both of us peered out toward the green mountain, she commenting how utterly beautiful the landscape, when, disrupting our reverie of aesthetic vision, a young German Shepherd bounded happily towards our paradise of beauty and perfection, turned around and proceeded to defecate in our ideal world. Her master appeared on the path and looked terribly embarrassed but knew nothing he could say would change things once the dog started.

The young lassie finished her business, turned innocently, smiled at us, and trotted off completely satisfied.

We looked at each other and fell into fits of laughter, to the point of tears, because we both knew life is wonderful, a miracle, but also full of shit.

These experiences make life worth living.

Ray Nayler – The Mountain in the Sea – Review

 

One of the more unusual and unique novels of 2022. Mountain attempts (successfully) at creating a speculative future world of Artificial Intelligence, a planet devastated by war; corporate ownership of governments and all of earth's resources. We're going extinct because of the 'bottom line'. Even slavery is reintroduced, where able bodied men are snatched-up off the streets and sent to fishing boats to further rape the oceans at minimum cost. This is the background of the story. The central concern of the novel is communication with alien species; language, symbolism, empathy and perception.

Nayler writes:

One of the aims of The Mountain in the Sea is to explore the idea of communication with a truly alien species here on earth, one that has developed its own system of symbolic communication. Above all, I wanted to be honest as I could about the complexities of the problem of communication between species.

As said, this is no ordinary novel. The author even stated that he thought about including footnotes and a bibliography.

Indeed, the reader should come away from the text with a greater understanding of linguistics and the major issues confronting the science of Marine Biology. More so, for this reader, the novel explores the notion of consciousness – awareness of oneself or being aware of one's awareness.

Our central character is Dr. Ha Nguyen. She is whisked away to an island in the South Pacific to continue research on the brain, intelligence, habits and behavior of the Octopus. She meets two incredibly advanced AI's who're there to help her with her research and provide security on the island. The AI Evrim, displays exceptional intelligence and empathy. Apart from (their) outer appearance, (they) display human consciousness at an advanced level. Evim's pronouns are 'their' and 'they' and 'them' as the AI's (mind) is made up of several neuron systems firing at once.

At the beginning of each chapter is a long quote from Dr. Nguyen's book, How Oceans Think. These quotes provide greater insight into what exactly the doctor is attempting to achieve

Not only do we not agree on how to measure or recognize consciousness in others, but we are unable to even “prove” it exists in ourselves. Science often dismisses our individual experience – what it feels like to smell an orange, or to be in love – as qualia. We are left with theories and metaphors for consciousness. A stream of experience. A self-referential loop. Something out of nothing. None of these are satisfactory. Definition eludes us.

The famous line from Descartes, I think therefor I am, was the first “modern” attempt at defining consciousness. As the good doctor expresses, however: Definition eludes us.

Dr. Arnkatia Minervudettir-Chan is the genius and creator of the most advanced AI. We also get to read sections of her writing at the beginning of certain chapters. Arnkatia is the person who recruited Dr. Nguyen to study the octopus. Through studying the octopus, its obvious superior intelligence; the research focuses on its communication, only to discover the extent and complexity of its language.

The novel also portrays a dystopic future, run by corporations whose wealth exceeds many countries on the planet, but what will certainly eventuate if we continue to extract earths resources without any thought of her future welfare. For certain, the novel does not portray the “corporation” in a positive light. Profit over the well being of the planet and the well being of our fellow humans will lead no-where but to a dark, and empty oblivion.

Our future welfare is assured if we maintain our humanity.

A wonderful novel.

Dreaming Away

Woke to my alarm clock registered (enough decibels to raise the dead) for terrorist attack or a nuclear explosion.

The problem is that it takes this kind of alarming sound at full volume to bring me back to consciousness after a long sleep. All through my life, sleep and dreams have always been deep, sometimes reaching the depths of the comatose, sleeping through 4pt to 6pt earthquakes while living in California through the eighties. The apartment coming down around us as my girlfriend at the time, panicked and, as always, dramatizing the event like a B-grade actor in a lame seventies film.

Once awake, though, the soul comes alive, and no matter what the hell is happening, self-preservation prevails, scrambling outside while paintings fall off the walls and the ceilings begin to crack. Though my girlfriend was, and probably still is, a drama queen, if she didn’t wake me that morning, I’d have slept through the entire earth-shaking affair.

Remembering a most chilling incident, house-sitting for my boss with my girl friend, shaken awake to a terrified whisper….

“There’s someone in the house.”

Crawling on the floor in the dark, peering around the corner, not seeing anything at first then, a shadow, and the sound of boots on the wood floor of the kitchen…there was not only one person in the house but two or perhaps three.

The kitchen is next to the door to the garage, where my boss, an amateur carpenter, had tools to the worth of thousands.

Crawling again to the front window, their truck was parked outside, as these thieves conveniently stacked my boss’s tools in their vehicle, casually and without fear.

My girlfriend was already on the phone talking to a 911 operator:

“Alright darling, don’t panic! What ever you do, please stay on the phone. Now, tell me your address. Good girl, tell me what is happening now?”

“But we have children in the house! You need to come now, please…”

Watching through the corner on the floor on hands and knees, I could see they were satisfied with their takings. The smaller one of the three, said something that was just out of earshot, but it sounded like,

“Let’s have some fun.”

These thieves, a coven of criminals, all laughed and it was at that moment that my stomach decided to reject everything that had been put into it in the last 24 hours.

While retching, I heard: “ON THE GROUND!”

One of the threesome attempted a getaway over the back fence, hitting it hard, ending up on the ground, handcuffed.

The sound of him smashing against the fence, an extremely loud scrambling bang, at that point I knew that it was finally over.

Interestingly and thankfully, the two young children, aged two and four, slept through the entire harrowing experience.

My boss’s tools were saved and his children were safe, but the question always remains:

What if my girlfriend hadn’t been there at the time?

Would I have slept through the entire ordeal, possibly causing, inadvertently, something terrible, an event much more sinister?

In fact, this is useless speculation, the pointless “what if’s” of a past event.

Sleep is a wondrous, natural and necessary aspect of our lives, mine, unfortunately or otherwise, is all consuming…

Thus I continue to put the alarm at nuclear or terrorist mode because it would be a shame to miss life while sound asleep…dreaming away.

Yukio Mishima – The Sailor who Fell from Grace with the Sea – Review

 

Yukio Mishima (1926-1970) was a novelist, poet, screenwriter, actor, fashion model, right wing militarist and Japanese Nationalist. Probably his most famous novel in the west is Confessions of a Mask. (see my review below) Just as popular is The Sea of Fertility tetralogy,  a collection of four novellas. Mishima predicted that when he finished the last novel of the four, he would meet his death. This became a self fulfilling prophecy when he committed seppuku in November 1970.

The Sailor who Fell (1963) is a beautifully written tale, (the Times called it 'A major work of art') that is at once poetic and under the surface, deeply sociopathic.

The young lad Noboru is the son of a wealthy widow. They live in a seaside town where the boy is fascinated with the great ships, sailors and imagining their adventures. Noboru is a very intelligent boy with strange ideas as to what it means to be human. He belongs to a gang led by a boy they call the Chief. This group have a particular view of existence, mainly despising the lies adults engage in and their weaknesses. One's conscience must be eradicated at all costs because to have one is weak and opposite to “heroic”.

There is a particularly disturbing chapter where the gang engages in the murder of a young animal. Noboru kills the animal and the Chief eviscerates the corpse as a twisted method of removing the fur, skin and muscle to reach the core truth of existence. To practice actions to rid one's conscience to achieve a level of purity of character is insane. (The boy's are practicing to be full blown psychopaths).

Noboru's mother is a wealthy and beautiful woman who inherited a high end clothing store who's clientele are only the wealthy. Since her husbands death she has becomes lonely and finally meets a sailor, where they begin a relationship. Ryuji is a life long serving member of the Japanese merchant Navy. He is only at port for short periods of time, preventing any serious long term relationship.

Noboru discovers a peephole into his mother's bedroom behind his chest of drawers. When his mother and Ryiji are together, he watches them in silence. This kind of voyeurism for a pubescent can be chalked up to mere curiosity. Though Noboru knows it's wrong, revealing this behavior as obvious perversion and the actions of a sexual pervert.

The ending of the novel is a picture of mob psychopathy.

Mishima pushes the boundaries of his subject matter in this novel as he did in Confessions of a Mask. Certainly not for everybody, Mishima's work, however, provokes thought and issues that many would rather not read or talk about. Personally, worth the read.

Confessions of a Mask- review :  https://sychronicity1.blogspot.com/2020/10/yukio-mishima-confessions-of-mask-review.html

Childhood Memory of Lost Time

 

A time in my old neighborhood during the change of the season from spring to summer.

So many years ago, I recalled riding my bike through the fog, closing my eyes, then stopping abruptly because it was too quiet and still. As ten-year-old boys' do, being alone in the dark and fog, mainly when there is no one around, can be terrifying.

On the curb next to my bike, I sat quietly, listening to the sounds of, well, nothing, total silence. The fog turned to a thick, white wall on the curb, and seeing two feet in front of you was impossible.

The thunder and lightning began their diatribe. Finally, I was lost in a cloud.

Panic set in as my orientation was lost... was I to go right or left?

It began to rain, then rain harder as the raindrops hurt my face, so rather than sit there like a scared rabbit, I rode in a direction that I hoped would lead home.

The rain was unrelenting. 

In the distance, I saw multi-colored lights, thus headed in that direction.

I skidded to a stop in front of the house (though never seen this house before) and decided to knock on the door and get some directions. The door was surrounded with lights like it was Christmas, and easy to see through the rain and fog. I rang the doorbell and waited, wet, cold, and shivering.

The door opened, and there stood a strange old lady. Her hair was pure white, swept back in a long ponytail. She looked like a gypsy, with too many earrings and bracelets, too much make-up, and her dressing gown one would associate with hippies. (Of the eastern variety).

Walking into her house, I detected the scent of violets and sandalwood incense...candles sat on every shelf, all lit, burning bright, though the best memory is the room's warmth...I felt safe.

"Sit here, little one." She wrapped a blanket around me.

"What is your name and phone number, so I can call your Mother to come for you?"

I gave her my name and phone number, and she disappeared into another room.

While she was away, an old cat sat on top of an old, overly stuffed chair, yawned, stretched, and meowed at me. Then, the old cat sauntered over and merely sat and continued to stare into my eyes.

"Go away, cat!" I said.

The old woman then entered the room again with a surprised expression.

"I spoke with your mother...how long have you been away from home?"

Strange question, I thought.

"No more than a couple of hours."

She laughed and suddenly turned serious.

"According to your mother, you have been missing for three days, and the police have been looking for you, too."

"Crap, I just got lost in the fog and found this place!"

Then she asked, "Do you know where you are?"

"Yea, Northglenn, where I live..."

She smiled and said,

"Well, little one, you are in Pueblo, over one hundred miles from where you live."

"That can't be right. I've been riding my bike for only a few hours..."

Drinking sweet tea and wrapped in a smelly blanket, my father arrived.

He placed my bike in his trunk and said nothing during the trip home.

Now the rain had stopped (there was no fog), and the evening's last glimmer of light floated in the distance through the windshield of my father's car.

Once home, strangely, my mother did not yell or anything, but put me in the shower, fed me warm chili, and duly sent me to bed.

Over all these years, nothing has been mentioned about this incident again...

Though even today, this experience continues to confound and disturb. 

The Naiad

 

If one attempts to immerse into a certain artist, writer or poet, will discover a theme or motif that casually travels throughout their particular body of work.

The Pre-Raphaelite, J.W. Waterhouse, had at least two obsessions, his model, Muriel Foster, and his focus on water spirits, nymphs, sirens and other mythical water beings.

Although most his female subjects were characters or representations of ancient myths and poems, his model, Muriel Foster, appeared as the main star, the leading lady in all his work. She was the "Marilyn Monroe" of the 19th century art movement...though her true identity was kept secret because of the social mores and hypocrisy’s of the time period.

Muriel was indeed a classical beauty.

This painting, The Naiad, has always intrigued me because the Naiad has the expression of pure wonder and curiosity, almost intently surprised as if the boy is hurt in some way. She has seen a human being for the first time: and luckily, while he sleeps by the river.

What is a Naiad?

Always connected to a body of water, it is their world and they depend on the water for their existence. The ancient Greeks believed after many encounters with these beautiful beings, that they had inspirational powers and the knowledge of healing. Some also believed they could predict the future…they were special divine beings connected with divinity and growth.

I love this painting for many reasons: the beauty of the Naiad and her cautious curious expression as she peers at the half naked human, covered in what appears to be an animal skin: perhaps a leopard or something more mundane.

The Naiad are divine spirits of a natural existence. They are shy, humble and fearful of the out side “real world”. Thus this painting is special as it is a first encounter between the human and the divine. (Of course in the pagan sense).

One of my all time favorites.

Preston & Child – City of Endless Nights – Review

This novel is the next in the series after The Obsidian Chamber. The tale kicks off with the discovery of a gruesome murder by two kids raising havoc in suburban Queens. After egging an old mans car in the middle of winter, he decides to give chase following the boys into a an industrial area. Hiding inside a vacant building, the boys find the naked body of a young woman. This is not an ordinary corpse, though nude and frozen, the body is missing a head.

A familiar character enters the crime scene: Lieutenant Commander Detective Vincent D'Agosta. Reader's are aware of the detective from almost the very beginning of the Pendergast series. He's a no nonsense cop who prefers to play by all the rules. The man puts his heart and soul into every homicide case, sometimes at the detriment of his health and relationships. Pendergast and D'Agosta go way back and now find themselves partnering on a case that should be a simple homicide, but turns out to be something far more insidious.

As partners in an investigation, D'Agosta and Pendergast are like chalk and cheese. Where Pendergast is caviar and expensive Champaign, Vincent is steak and potatoes, drinking a cold beer on a hot day at a baseball game. Their differences seem to compliment each other, and their loyalty and friendship for one another is rock solid.

The decapitated young woman turns out to be a tech billionaires daughter. She had been reported missing a few days prior to her body being discovered. Because the case is now 'high profile', by orders of the mayor, the detectives visit Anton Ozmian, the father of the deceased. Ozmian turns out to be a menacing character, having a violent fit when told of his daughters death. Ozmain takes the term 'wealthy eccentric' to levels never seen before. Because the case is high profile, the pressure and heat from the top is strong, thus solving the case for the NYPD and the FBI is high priority. Then another murder is committed.

In most or all of the Pendergast series is a dogged journalist on the heels of the investigation. Bryce Harriman once worked for the NYT and now works for the Post. The man's ethics are sketchy, but he always seems to get the scoop. When the second victim is found headless, there's talk around town of a serial killer. Because both murders were members of the 1%, Harriman makes a link. There must be a 99% crusader making examples of the 1%. When this story makes the headlines, all of New York's elite are seen fleeing Manhattan in droves.

The mark of a great crime/thriller is it keeps the reader guessing as to the killers identity until the end. This tale is no different. One would never deduce this killer's identity and their motive for the murders.

For fans of this series, this installment will not disappoint. For readers who read City of Endless Night by itself without knowledge of the series will also be entertained from start to finish.

Shakespeare's Sonnets - Short Comment.

 

Shakespeare's Sonnets come from the Bard's deepest thoughts, passions, suffering and the expression of the ultimate Joy of Beauty, and Love.

Here are the words of a suffering soul, in love with "someone" much younger than himself, thus his references to age being no barrier to true Love in many of the verses.

All or most scholars agree, the Sonnets were written about and to a single person. The argument, of course, is who this person was...Oscar Wilde speculated the object of the Master's heart was a young male actor, due to the law, had to play all the female parts as acting in the 16th century was purely a man's job.

Shakespeare himself has become a mystery as to his true identity for many years. Interestingly, Sigmund Freud's "free time", was devoted to revealing the Bard's true identity

For me, when reading the Sonnets, Who wrote them or Who they were written For makes no difference. Because the Sonnets are the most beautiful Ode to Poetry, the Muse and Real Love and its Tragedy, that all too often, is true Love's end result.

Over the last three nights, reading or more acurately 're-reading' these wonderful verses, my admiration for the English language, its beauty and cadence, its ability for subtle irony and truth is astounding.

One of my favorites: LXXV.

So are you to my thoughts, as food for life, Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground: And for the peace of you I hold such strife As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found: Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the flinching age will steal his treasure; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better'd that the world see my pleasure: Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by-and-by clean starved for a look; Possessing or pursuing no delight, Save what is had or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day; Or gluttoning on all, or all the away.

"Feasting on your sight", just to see (her) brings on so much joy."Thus do I pine"... but saving her image in his mind like a glutton, a wanting, a Love deep and experienced from afar...

Merely to remind yourself of the beauty of the English language read the Bard's Sonnets and Poems.

Erich Maria Remarque – The Night in Lisbon – Review

 

Remarque (1896- 1970) is best known for his WWI novel, All Quiet on the Western Front. (1928). The author in known for creating a new genre of literature, the modern war novel, where many of his texts were scooped-up by Hollywood. After WWI, like many German writers and artists, he escaped the oppression of the Nazi party and the rise of Adolph Hitler.

This novel is certainly not a “cheer-up society”, but an expose', a depressing narrative of the ordinary men and women caught-up the machinations of war. As we know now, war only benefits the world's elites, earning billions of dollars while millions are murdered or placed into camps. Nothing has changed in war except the efficiency of the weapons deployed to destroy.

A young man looking to escape Europe and sail to the United States, spends his last cash on gambling in order to buy tickets for him and his wife. He meets a fellow refugee from Germany and they begin a conversation. The man offers our gambler two cruise tickets to New York for free because he says he doesn't need them anymore. He offers our gambler one condition: stay with him through the night and listen to his story.

Thus begins Schwartz' tale, taking an entire night and morning to tell. The men travel from restaurant to bar, drinking wine and eating delicacies while our German narrates his extraordinary tale of war, relationships; being a refugee in Europe at the start of WWII; the evils of the German Nazi party and most of all, the love he has for his wife.

Because Schwartz (not his real name) denied the ideology of the Nazi Party, he was immediately placed in a concentration camp. After spending two years in the camp, he escapes the camp and Germany, and travels through Europe for five years in constant fear of being captured by the Gestapo. The mass refugee crises in Europe that the Nazis created should be well known. We're aware of the Jewish exodus, but any person denouncing the thousand year Reich was hunted down and killed or imprisoned.

Schwartz decides to risk going back to Germany to see his wife again. Danger at every turn, he manages to travel through Switzerland into Germany. He finally tracks down the beautiful Helen. After the awkward meeting, (they haven't seen each other for five years) they spend a night of wine and re-acquaintance. At the last moment, Helen decides to leave Germany with Schwartz and live the dangerous refugee life on the run.

For the most part, The Night in Lisbon is a love tale against the backdrop of war.

The reader feels the desperation of the many people escaping the brutal oppression of the Nazis: standing in long lines in front of consulates, trying to obtain a temporary visa. The educated and once privileged, now work in the fields for a pittance or merely food and a place to sleep.

If you've never read Remarque before, I'd recommend All Quiet of the Western Front. Though The Night in Lisbon is an informative and interesting read. Truly a window into the early 20^th century, revealing the ravages of war.

Preston & Child – The Obsidian Chamber – Review

 

The Obsidian Chamber follows the Crimson Shore, bringing the tale full circle; #15 and #16 respectively. Arguably one is not required to read the Pendergast series in order. Though reading these 2 novels consequentially, made the reading experience, for me at least, that much more enjoyable. See my review on Crimson Shore:

https://sychronicity1.blogspot.com/2022/08/preston-child-crimson-shore-review.html

Obsidian is a volcanic glass formed when lava extruded from a volcano cools rapidly with minimal crystal growth. It is an gneous rock. (Wikipedia) The Obsidian “Chamber” in the novel is a “meditation” space, made from the substance, used by our antagonist located on an island in Key West. To reveal who our antagonist is might be a spoiler for some (if so, stop reading now) though Agent Pendergast's evil twin, Diogenes, appears to be alive.

Pendergast's mysterious “ward” is the main character in this tale. While Pendergast is assumed dead by drowning, as told in the previous novel, Constance is living once again in the underground chambers below 891 Riverside Drive in an attempt to deal with the loss of her protector and love, Agent Pendergast.

A character in this series that is only mentioned occasionally is Pendergast's Chauffeur and bodyguard, Proctor. Late in the morning, Proctor is attacked from behind, a hypodermic needle pressed against his throat. Proctor recognizes the voice as he slips into unconsciousness. He wakes up a few minutes later to see Constance being pushed into a black SUV and racing off into the streets of Manhattan. Proctor gives chase, following Constance and her kidnappers across the planet ending up in the deserts of Africa.

(I felt sorry for Proctor at the book's end).

I've always been intrigued by the character Constance Green. She is a throwback to the 19th-century New York elite. I believe the character was introduced in The Cabinet of Curiosities so long ago. As the series progresses, we gain insight into the beautiful woman's mysterious past. In The Obsidian Chamber, her past is revealed as her strange connections to the Pendergast family line.

Personally, when reading Gothic tales and Science Fiction, I must consciously turn on my 'suspension of disbelief”, to enjoy the story. Not so in this series because over so many years, the characters and their ongoing adventures has become a part of my imaginary-reading world.

The Pendergast series is recommended to readers for pure entertainment.