He wakes up. It is cold. Why is it cold? It was hot just the other day. It is summer. It should not be cold. It should be uncomfortably hot. Instead it is cold. He does not know why. He gets up. He makes some Moroccan mint tea and adds some honey. It is refreshing and it by its nature it freshens him. He tries to write. He fails. The cat wants to open the door. He tries to ignore the cat. The cat…

View On WordPress


He wakes up. It is cold. Why is it cold? It was hot just the other day. It is summer. It should not be cold. It should be uncomfortably hot. Instead it is cold. He does not know why. He gets up. He makes some Moroccan mint tea and adds some honey. It is refreshing and it by its nature it freshens him. He tries to write. He fails. The cat wants to open the door. He tries to ignore the cat. The cat…

View On WordPress

Another Day.


He wakes up. It is cold. Why is it cold? It was hot just the other day. It is summer. It should not be cold. It should be uncomfortably hot. Instead it is cold. He does not know why. He gets up. He makes some Moroccan mint tea and adds some honey. It is refreshing and it by its nature it freshens him. He tries to write. He fails. The cat wants to open the door. He tries to ignore the cat. The cat does not allow this. He gives up writing. He will try again later. Herakles can wait. The cat cannot. He makes a breakfast of fried kale scrambled egg and parmesan for two it is very tasty which he was not expecting. Someone has been arrested for the Mansion Murders. The story is full of all the usual details that strike fear into the dark hearts of the 1% and those who aspire to be the 1%. House invasion. Kidnap. Murder of family and staff. Arson. No safety in one’s own castle. Arm the guards. Hovering missile drones need to be deployed around the castle like a buzzing flying moat of death. He thinks. He sits. He runs on a treadmill. He thinks some more. He watches as journalists barely contain their praise of the Isis propaganda machine. It is an odd thing to see. At some point he watches Red Nose Day. It is the first American red nose day. It will probably be the last. It is lifeless anodyne boring vapid lacking character missing the live quality of the British version missing the sense of community inclusiveness of the British version it takes place in a cavernous studio. There is an audience but the laughter seems canned. Maybe the audience are mannequins or the poor forced to work in order to receive foodstamps. They will sit but pride stops them from laughing at a Seth Meyers who is dwarfed by the gargantuan set. All the mistakes are coreographed and as such die before they begin. Al Roker breathes life into the dead room but then life leaves when he does. Jane Krakowski does the same. He shouldn’t care so much about this so he stops. It will probably make more money in one day than the British one has made in its entire 30 year history. Such is the death of empire being born in the shell of a one powerful country to then move and live on the hide of a Leviathan. He goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes at 0400. He wakes at 0415. He wakes at 0430. He wakes at 0500. He gets up. He reads excerpts of books about social work and revolution. He makes a coffee. He writes for an hour. He goes back to bed. He gets up from bed. He watches the sun rise. He hears the trash being picked up. He hears the school bus arrive and the tired children leave. He bathes the cat poo in more litter covering it…

View On WordPress

Another Day.


He wakes at 0400. He wakes at 0415. He wakes at 0430. He wakes at 0500. He gets up. He reads excerpts of books about social work and revolution. He makes a coffee. He writes for an hour. He goes back to bed. He gets up from bed. He watches the sun rise. He hears the trash being picked up. He hears the school bus arrive and the tired children leave. He bathes the cat poo in more litter covering it…

View On WordPress

Another Day.


He wakes at 0400. He wakes at 0415. He wakes at 0430. He wakes at 0500. He gets up. He reads excerpts of books about social work and revolution. He makes a coffee. He writes for an hour. He goes back to bed. He gets up from bed. He watches the sun rise. He hears the trash being picked up. He hears the school bus arrive and the tired children leave. He bathes the cat poo in more litter covering it for later archaeologists to find and interpret the remains. Soothsayers from the future will poke with their implements and predict fine harvests for their Chief Architect because that is what their bio-luminescent leader will be titled. He makes breakfast. He reads about the 100years war. It’s complicated and he is not sure what is happening. Apparently the Scottish are to blame or the French but definitely not the English not them they are never to blame. The Jeremy Clarkson is fired and then someone from one direction retires and jokes are made about jobs was and then black boxes are found and audio is found and mysteries deepen and speculation lengthens and there are so many fascinating faces and combinations of features fractured features frowning on the morning commute hiding laughter and joy and pain and murderous thoughts and forgiveness and shame and pity and pettiness and rage and relocations. There are suicide bombings that are mentioned in passing and CNN is excited because it gets to use all of its plane crash graphics and virtual speculation machines. Then it is raining but not very much. There is a desert somewhere in California wishing it had this rain. Then he draws. Then he commutes. Then he showers because he did not shower in the morning and he smells like a homeless man he is sure this didn’t happen when he was younger when he was younger his musk was fragrant. He lies down. The desert approaches. He goes to sleep.

Physicists Discover Geometry Underlying Particle Physics | Simons Foundation


This may be at the heart of everything. Pulsating. Or doing something that doesn’t even have a verb.

THAT. DOESN’T. EVEN. HAVE. A. VERB. TO. DESCRIBE. IT.

Physicists Discover Geometry Underlying Particle Physics | Simons Foundation

Physicists Discover Geometry Underlying Particle Physics | Simons Foundation


This may be at the heart of everything. Pulsating. Or doing something that doesn’t even have a verb.

THAT. DOESN’T. EVEN. HAVE. A. VERB. TO. DESCRIBE. IT.

Physicists Discover Geometry Underlying Particle Physics | Simons Foundation

The Decline of the Humanities—and Civilization


The headline is a little cataclysmic and yet it seems we are letting the sciences, which are to be loved and cherished, squash the more nebulous importance of the humanities. Life is an organ of chaos – it feeds off everything. It feeds off inquiry, dreams and analysis, off observation and imagination.

Do not make us choose because in choosing we will have amputated a part of ourselves whichever choice we make.

The experience of millions of people seeking living contact with the arts (largely conceived) should wake us up to a central fact: Most people need and want the arts in their lives. Our civilization may now be so coarsened that we will eliminate the humanities from our schools, and we will train citizens only for technical skills which give them no sense of what they are living for, or why. But if that happens, the humanities will continue to flow elsewhere, into unofficial forums, and people will flow with them to satisfy their needs for song and story, for explanation, for the drama of seeking and making sense. The unofficial academy will become the real academy where the arts and philosophy and history survive. And where we try to remember what it is to be fully human. But in that case, we shall also have suffered a massive loss, and it remains a serious question whether a democratic society could survive such a collapse in values, and the quest for values. That quest, ever renewed, is the province of the humanities, and it is at risk.

The Decline of the Humanities—and Civilization

The Decline of the Humanities—and Civilization


The headline is a little cataclysmic and yet it seems we are letting the sciences, which are to be loved and cherished, squash the more nebulous importance of the humanities. Life is an organ of chaos – it feeds off everything. It feeds off inquiry, dreams and analysis, off observation and imagination.

Do not make us choose because in choosing we will have amputated a part of ourselves whichever choice we make.

The experience of millions of people seeking living contact with the arts (largely conceived) should wake us up to a central fact: Most people need and want the arts in their lives. Our civilization may now be so coarsened that we will eliminate the humanities from our schools, and we will train citizens only for technical skills which give them no sense of what they are living for, or why. But if that happens, the humanities will continue to flow elsewhere, into unofficial forums, and people will flow with them to satisfy their needs for song and story, for explanation, for the drama of seeking and making sense. The unofficial academy will become the real academy where the arts and philosophy and history survive. And where we try to remember what it is to be fully human. But in that case, we shall also have suffered a massive loss, and it remains a serious question whether a democratic society could survive such a collapse in values, and the quest for values. That quest, ever renewed, is the province of the humanities, and it is at risk.

The Decline of the Humanities—and Civilization

Subterranean Thoughts


Prodding dreamily at the space under

My chin. The space where the shotgun would fit

Snugly in. Thoughts that vaguely meander

As I rest under this gnarled tree’s bough. It

Seems that it would be no trouble at all

If I was to fall from this place and rest-

Lessly crawl on through. I just need to call

On that one moment’s decision; a guest

In no time of neck-snapping Death who yet,

As my host, ushers me beyond.

What remains; a whip lashed marionette,

Shattered and twitching, that will not respond.  

Leaves


The leaves are bronzing over, as umber

Shafts of the Autumn’s sun, tent-

like, shade folly’s of a forced mortal year.

Of life’s rich liquor; mulched rot, a blotched smear

On her flawed, lawless cycle of some transient

Phase of decay. A shining veneer

On a crafted, sharply piercing, dream spear.

Grinding to the obsequious pause; lanced

Through Nature’s grim drab soul; an empty tear

From her nascent eyes drench, with a clear

Banality, the children of a spent

Future with a haggard, wasted fear.

Brevity


Drifting in the terrible scream

Of a trembling explosion. Neat

Victims seeming to shimmer in the melting heat

Before thudding crisply dead as in some padded dream.

Water’s pure rainbow sucked dry into steam

At the elemental border. Manufactured order, Great

Like an old War, its fire squandered from the grate,

Fractures as Nature’s chaotic unfettered seam

Is mined in a panoply of rising octaves.

Life craves for it’s own empty, forced continuance

With every dirt soaked breath a horrid struggle

Until that essential calm meets and greets us to our graves.

A tidy randomness that not even the web of Science

Can stave off. Just ensure the space in-between isn’t dull.