the cassandra pages

Prophets in their Own Land...are seldom believed

 

Last night we spontaneously decided to go see A Complete Unknown, the new Bob Dylan biopic, and ended up at a cinema-plex in the Montreal suburb of Cote-St-Luc. The parking lot was empty, the shops in the dimly lit mall already shuttered; fake plants, vibrating recliners and plastic carnival horses on springs had been pushed into the center of the atrium to accommodate the brooms and mops of the late night cleaners.

There’s a particular weirdness about suburban movie theaters, especially when they’re deserted. Our showtime was at 9:30 pm, and there were no ticket-takers or snack vendors in sight; instead we were confronted with an automatic machine saying “buy ticket here” on its digital screen, and no one ever checked the tickets — resembling a grocery store cash register receipt — that it regurgitated.

When we pushed open the doors of the large theater, final credits scrolled on the screen while three grey-haired people wrestled themselves into their heavy winter coats. One woman, gave me a knowing smile as she passed us on her way out. “Why is everyone so old?” we asked each other, and laughed. The enormous, comfortably squishy seats reclined with the push of a blue-lit button to whatever position you wanted.

I couldn’t help wondering what the young Bob Dylan, shown in an early part of the film in a Greenwich Village movie theater with his girlfriend, would have thought of such a place. The Bleeker Street of those days looked pretty familiar, though; I remember it as it was in the 1970s, and how it’s changed since.

The film, which covers Dylan’s early career up to the time he left the pure acoustic folk tradition and went electric, is excellent. I was glad to see it on a big screen: it’s completely immersive, the acting is brilliant, and the film took me right back to my own adolescence. I was only nine or ten when Dylan first came east, hoping to meet his hero Woody Guthrie who was dying in a New Jersey hospital, but I was already conscious of the resurgence of folk music and began trying to play my father’s guitar by the time I was in junior high school. By the mid- to late-60s, he became the poet-prophet of my generation. When Jonathan and I got together, in the late 1970s, we realized that we owned nearly all of Dylan’s records up to that date between the two of us. We’ve only seen him once in concert, here in Montreal about ten years ago, but that was a definite Moment.

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We left the theater at midnight, and came out into a deserted parking lot covered with light snow. Once home, we hurried to get into bed, but after turning the lights out we couldn’t fall asleep. The film had just been too vivid and too personal, somehow, to allow our minds to rest, and when we finally did sleep, it was a fitful night disturbed by mixed-up dreams.

While A Complete Unknown does an masterful job of depicting Dylan’s life as well as those of the other artists and music industry people around him (most notably, Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie, Joan Baez, Johnny Cash, and Dylan’s manager Albert Grossman), and touches on the politics of the time, I felt that it didn’t show how terrible those politics really were. The moves away from the 1950’s revival of traditional folk music, toward contemporary folk ballads with overtly political themes, and then later toward a much harder-edged, angry, electric music, were entirely motivated by hatred of the rightwing government, which had first viciously pursued anyone suspected of being sympathetic to communism, then fought the Civil Rights movement, then pursued the Vietnam War and attacked students protesting the war and the draft on campuses all over America.

I couldn’t sleep last night because reliving those times, in the context of what I’ve learned and observed about human behavior throughout my life, is visceral. Greying people of my age, who listened to Dylan and felt he was speaking for them, will experience that film very differently from people born in later decades. For me, it brought back not only the forces of evil, violence, and oppression we were fighting against, but also the enormous hope we had during the brief years when Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke stirringly of his dream of equality and freedom, when people became outraged by the assassinations, through the time when the Vietnam War was stopped, largely through public outcry led by the young. It seemed like a new era of equality, peace and justice might actually be dawning.

The film focuses on Dylan’s musical and career trajectory, his romantic relationships, and the growing rift between him and folk music purists like Pete Seeger. It vividly depicts the culture of the time, and touches on the overarching political situation, but it doesn’t fully convey the magnitude of Dylan’s motivation or the country’s political reality at the time.

I think that’s both a shame, and a missed opportunity, considering the place we find ourselves right now. People who wonder how the recent election could have happened should look back at American history. The fascists and capitalists have been there all along, waiting for the people to be sufficiently distracted by and addicted to consumerism, glitz and media, or worried enough to be seduced by fear-mongering and lies. I wish that a fine film like this one, which will be seen by so many, had made those connections more clear.

Books of 2024

Time for another year's book list - how can we be here already? It was another year of long reads, book-ended by Don Quixote in the first part of the year, and The Magic Mountain this past fall, both read with my book group.

I did a deep dive into two renowned poets, reading the complete works of Louise Glück, and much of W.S. Merwin, and read a number of short stories as well as other novels. Of these, I was especially struck by the power of Ernest Hemingway's short fiction, most of which I'd read long ago; by Thomas Mann's short stories; and by "The Pole" by J. M. Coetzee.

At the end of 2024, what remains most vividly in my reader's mind? The Magic Mountain, without a doubt. This was my second time reading the book, and -- fittingly perhaps -- happened while I was recovering from COVID. As I wrote in a blog post earlier, "Mann’s book shows us human beings as primarily short-sighted and self-interested, drawn to the pursuit of pleasure and superficialities, and prone to ignoring and forgetting the lessons of recent experience — but also looks at other possibilities of how to live one’s life." My understanding of this book, surely one of the greatest novels ever written, was enhanced by Colm Toíbín's fictionalized biography of Mann, The Magician. By contrast, I found Don Quixote repetitive and tedious, and I'd be hard put to recommend it to anyone! 

I've never particularly liked Mark Twain, which is probably why I'd never read Huckleberry Finn before. It's certainly a seminal book of American fiction, but reading it in 2025, one can't help but be put off by the language and stereotyping of "Negroes", even though it was typical of that time. Reading it now is shocking, and disturbed me because -- even as expressed by sympathetic anti-slavery whites like Twain -- these superior and, yes, racist attitudes have persisted down to today in much of American society. Unfortunately, we saw that played out as a major factor in the 2024 election. James, a retelling of Twain's book from the point of view of the runaway slave, Jim, is a contemporary corrective, and worth reading.

On the other hand, Kukum, by Michel Jean, is a fictionalized account of the life of the author's grandmother, a French Canadian woman who married an indigenous man and went to live a nomadic life with the Pekuakami Innu community in the Canadian woods. Her life with him spanned the era of the residential schools and the coming of lumber and paper companies to the north, who appropriated the land and destroyed huge swaths of territory that had been sacred to the native peoples. The writing is simple and unremarkable, but the story is compelling. I think every Canadian should read this book.

In the "good reads" category, I enjoyed Abraham Vergese's The Covenant of Water, Zadie Smith's The Fraud, and Marianne Wiggins' The Properties of Thirst, all of which taught me about particular places and periods of history, but I doubt any of them will last as major works of literature. 

The most creative book I encountered last year was Teju Cole's Pharmakon, a work of photographs and short fictional texts that pushes the boundaries of both "photobook" and fiction. Pharmakon (a Greek word that means both "cure" and "poison") uses images and visceral texts to evoke displacement, absence, and violence in response to the world in which we find ourselves, and from which so many human beings cannot escape or find refuge. It is also one of the most beautifully-designed and produced books I've ever seen (from MACK).

I'm also happy to recommend The Picture Not Taken, by my friend, the photographer and writer Benjamin Swett and published by New York Review Books. Photography is sometimes the specific subject, but more often an entry-point for these deeply-thoughtful essays about family relationships, creativity, and self.

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Reading is a way to understand my own humanity through the experience of others, all the way to the beginning of writing. It's a solitary pursuit, but I love talking about books with fellow readers, and am immensely grateful for my book group friends and our weekly discussions, as well as other literary-minded friends in my life.

My choices of books have become more deliberate as I've gotten older, because setting priorities feels ever more important. I'm a fast reader, but even so, I don't read primarily for "escape" or entertainment, but to learn and think, and to absorb exceptional craft in writing and literary conception which I hope make my own efforts better. I can see why I often prefer to read older books, trying to fill in the gaps in my reading history rather than picking up whatever is new and getting a buzz, and I've also found it very rewarding to deeply immerse myself in a particular author's entire work. But the new and experimental also appeals to me - it's just becoming more rare. I do think the highly competitive, financially-driven publishing atmosphere, as well the extreme influence of the media, tend to push many authors toward what will sell and generate "buzz". It's a loss for us, and, frankly, a loss for the writers as well.

What did you read this year? What stayed with you? Please share your thoughts in the comments!

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Book List, 2024

The Pole and other stories, J.M. Coetzee

The Picture Not Taken, Benjamin Swett (essays)

The Properties of Thirst, Marianne Wiggins #

The Short Stories, Ernest Hemingway (selections)

The Complete Poems, Louise Glück

Human Acts, Han Kang (in progress)

Death in Venice and Other Stories, Thomas Mann

La pentre de batailles, Arturo Perez-Riverte (translated from Spanish to French)

The Essential W.S. Merwin, W.S. Merwin

Kukum, Michel Jean

The Magic Mountain, Thoman Mann #

The Magician, Colm Toíbín

James, Percival Everett #

Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain #

This Strange Eventful History, Claire Messud (DNF)

The Covenant of Water, Abraham Vergese # 

Don Quixote, Cervantes #

Pharmakon, Teju Cole

Violets, Kyung Sook Shin  MY REVIEW in CHA: an Asian Literary Journal

The Fraud, Zadie Smith #

Why Christianity Must Change or Die, John Shelby Spong

Once in Europa, John Berger # 

The Abyss, Marguerite Yourcenar

# indicates a book read with my book group.

Winter Solstice

 

The last pale light of the shortest day of the year came barely through the mid-afternoon today. In the summer, the sun sets beyond the right edge of this picture. I’ll be glad to see it begin its course back in the other direction.

Here in the north, we feel these short days in our bodies as well as in our spirits. The brightness of the holidays pushes us through December, but it’s January and early February that are the hardest for those who are most affected by the lack of sunlight. I am not, particularly, but we’ll be leaving our tree and star up for several weeks, grateful for their beauty and sparkle in the dim, short afternoons and dark evenings.

Lately I’ve been buoyed by music: the cathedral’s joyful Sing-along Messiah last weekend; a wonderful recital by my close friend Catherine St-Arnaud and the pianist Julien LeBlanc at a Montreal gallery yesterday evening; and watching a live performance by the Berlin Philharmonic this afternoon, on their Digital Concert Hall platform, of Mozart’s D-minor piano concerto and Bruckner’s 9th symphony, conducted by the astonishing Herbert Blomstedt, who is 96 years old.

Today was also a day of baking, package-wrapping, and conversing with friends.

Wherever you are, I wish you a happy solstice and safe passage through this darkest time of the year.

Happy 100, Dad - You Almost Made It!

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A few days after my mother died, a month shy of her 83rd birthday, my father and I were raking the front lawn in preparation for the gathering after her funeral. He stood up straight, leaned on his rake, and said, “Your mother accepted that she was going to die. She said she’d had a good life, and it was fine.”

I waited, certain he was going to say more. Our eyes met.

“I don’t feel that way at all!” he exclaimed. “I want to live to be 100!”

 

My parents, late 1940s.

At the time he was 82, and although neither of us knew it, he would have 15 more years of life -- most of it in remarkably good health— before dying at 97, several months after his second partner. I wish he had made it to 100, but how fortunate he was to have so many good years late in life.

 

My father and his second partner, Barbara, around 2022.

I know exactly what he attributed his good health to: exercise. After quitting smoking in the late 1050s, a habit acquired during his service in Europe in WWII, he became obsessed with physical fitness. He’d always been a good athlete, particularly as a baseball player and runner, and was one of the first people to take up jogging in our small town. He kept running until his knees simply wouldn’t let him. Every morning he did the Royal Canadian Air Force exercises - and kept that up until a year or so before he died. His other sport was table tennis, which he practiced incessantly, playing any challenger, and having a regular weekly game with a series of well-matched players. He competed regionally, at the state level, and many times in the national Senior Games, where he won first place in his age class, one of the years when he was over 90. He denied being competitive, but that claim was disingenuous - he never let me win at anything, even when I was little! I do agree that his drive was less about winning than about continual self-improvement. It could be difficult to be around someone like that, but I also admired it.

 

Dad and me, early 1970s

He ate a lot of sugar, red meat, and had a cocktail every night, but stayed thin, and never took statins or blood pressure medications. Maybe when you exercise as much as he did, both in an athletic sense, and in building and taking care of a house and property, it mitigates the effects of diet. Certainly he had a high metabolism! On the other hand, we’ve also had people in our families who never exercised, were overweight, and took plenty of medication, and also lived well into their 90s. I think my father was lucky in his genetic makeup, courageous and strong in spirit, as well as having two women who loved him and many friends through his life. The greatest challenge he faced was surviving the war — and he had several very close calls. After that, I think he was determined to build a life and live it fully — and he did. I will always miss him, and be grateful for the qualities we shared and the things he taught me.

 

Subscribed

Revisiting Old Journals - 1997

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Recently a friend and I have been discussing writers’ and artists’ journals and diaries. It prompted me to go back and read some of my own, since I’ve kept a journal of sorts through most of my life. Here are some excerpts from two months in 1997. I was 45 at the time and living in Vermont. The pencil drawing above was done today.

February 1997

A comforting thought: when I DO read someone else’s journal, esp. Merton’s, I can see that they too struggle with the whole notion of ego as it is embodied in the particular form that is journal-writing. He gets disgusted just as I do, threatens to (and did, apparently) tear out pages and throw them away, finds, at times, the whole thing embarrassing and trivial and poorly written and full of sniveling navel-staring. Yet for some reason we keep on, I think more than anything because it allows this particular type of person to organize their thoughts. I used to think that I would use the journal as the basis for other writings. I don’t know if that will ever be the case — this may be it. And possibly no one will ever think it is interesting enough to read it through. But to say it is written solely for my own eyes is deceptive. It IS intended to be read, and although I try to be as free as I can in what I express, there is always the sense that I will not be able to edit it myself; that someday it will exist as a record of me. It’s an interesting scenario, and one that I might as well ignore and just get on with the writing.

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September 1997

On Labor Day we finally woke up to a day free from obligations, which we could spend reading the Sunday Times (Lady Di had just died in Paris), making some nice food, going to a movie (“Air Force One,” at the Town Hall Theater in Woodstock).

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Someday someone will write about e-mail being the death of letters, if they haven’t already, but will they also write about it as the death of journals? I have pages and pages of e-mail correspondence from this year, but the idea of collecting it, organizing it, putting it into Word files, and printing it makes me faint with fatigue. But I am sad at the thought of losing a whole year’s worth of thoughts and reflections. I find myself wondering if the form itself, though, breeds a kind of terse, abbreviated writing which lacks depth and substance. I know I try to write well no matter what the medium — a postcard even — but how much am I leaving out by the lack of a journal discipline, and the total lack of what any literarily-minded person could call “letters”. The other day I received a long message — letter — from P.Z. about the birth and first month of his daughter’s life. It was wonderful. But I find myself missing the fat envelope, the anticipation of carrying something with real weight home from the post office and opening it up to find someone’s actual handwriting — written, no less, to ME. And I find myself somewhat ashamed and saddened to notice how quickly I have given it all up myself — and thus deprived my closest friends and family of the same pleasure.

—

October 2

At lunch yesterday Mounir said, “Isn’t it odd, how when we get old we want things to be the way they were when we were children. I woke up in the night feeling too hot, and I started thinking about how in Syria we used to sleep under just one cover — it was a padded thing — what do you call it? — right, a quilt, and under it there would be a sheet and on top of it a very thin layer of cloth. When they wanted to wash it they took it apart — it was sewn on the edges — and washed it. I can see my mother spreading it out on the floor — on the rug — with the sheet underneath and this other material on top, and then we would all help by getting around the edges and taking a big needle and sewing the layers together on the edges. Funny how you think of these things.”

October 3

Cold, grey and rainy today. By contrast, yesterday was brilliantly blue with the fall colors just starting toward their peak. In the afternoon the skies became that heavy leaden color and the trees stood out even more against it. Jonathan went skiing.

October 19

News of the world: a Vermont woman who has crusaded against land mines won the Nobel Peace Prize. Clinton is being investigated ad nauseam for his fund-raising practices. It just came out that John Kennedy negotiated a deal with Khrushchev to end the Cuban missile crisis - our missiles in Turkey for theirs in Cuba. Only seven people knew, and not one of them told. Orel Hershiser lost the first game of the World Series (we didn’t watch).

After several nights of frost, the trees have lost their brilliance and the hillsides have all become of a piece again — that muted late-fall tapestry I like so much. Walking across the bridge this afternoon I noticed the dusty blue stems of one of the swamp trees — I don’t know its name — and that they were the same color as the water and the sky. When you rub the stems they become dark maroon under the silvery blue.

The Blank Page - and some November fields

 

The only way to get over the fear of the blank page is to encounter lots of them. The first page of a new sketchbook is always the hardest, but the subsequent ones get easier. I’ve started on a project of painting twenty 11 1/2” x 15” watercolor sheets. That’s five large sheets of Arches cold press, cut into quarters. I’m hoping that by the time I’ve worked through all of them, I’ll have learned some new things, and possibly had a breakthrough.

Above is a sheet that’s been soaked with water and then taped to my desk with masking tape. I run a sponge around the edges first to dry them a bit, and then apply the tape, pressing it down again and again over the succeeding minutes until it adheres well. This is to minimize the buckling of the wet paper as it dries, and the stretching also allows for the addition of wet washes or re-dampening the sheet during the painting process.

 

The swatches at left are the palette I’ve chosen for this piece. Just six pigments: ultramarine blue, quinacridone burnt orange, yellow ochre, hansa yellow, sap green, buff titanium. The blue and orange mix together to form many colors, from dark blue to a range of browns and greys, perfect for the November fields and woods that are the subject of this picture.

While the paper is still wet, the first washes need to go down - but if it’s too wet, they’ll run into each other. Sometimes you want that, sometimes not. I painted the ochre fields and a background for the woods first.

 

The sky had an initial blue wash, leaving the clouds white, and then as the paper dried I further defined the sky/cloud edges and added some grey shadows in the lower parts of the clouds.

 

The middle of the paper is still damp here, allowing me to create softness in the hedgerow and the shadows on the field. The woods were drier when I put the dark trees in, and I went back with a sea sponge to blot out the bits of field showing through them and soften the tops of the trees.

The foreground trees couldn’t be painted until the field area was drier. I’m still learning how to judge what will happen when I put my brush onto the paper, and the exact moment when I should do that. The result depends not only on how damp the paper is, but also how wet or thick the pigment is that I’ve loaded onto the brush, and whether that particular pigment is opaque or transparent.

 

The calibration between all these variables is very tricky, and only experience with specific materials, as well as years of practice, add up to judgement. On the other hand, it’s often speed and unexpected events that give watercolor its spontaneity and vibrancy, so being too careful is a detriment. That’s the Zen quality I want to aim for in this most difficult medium — having such a mastery of the technical aspects that I don’t have to think about them, and can let go. I’m not there yet, but hopeful that this project will result in progress.

 

I had a hard time photographing the final painting — the image above is too contrast-y, and the colors are washed out, but when I adjusted those parameters during editing, I couldn’t achieve a good balance. This detail shows the subtlety a little better:

 

In the end, there are things I like here, and things I don’t — the painting does get across the colors and mood of the rural northeast in these last days of November, but it’s too detailed. No fussing or second thoughts, though: I’m just going to move on to the next blank sheet and make another painting. This is only number 3!

It’s easy to imagine a flock of wild turkeys on these fields. Happy Thanksgiving to all my American friends!

Simplicity, in life and in death

 

 

Landscape on I-88 near Nineveh, NY. Pencil drawing in sketchbook.

 

On Monday, we drove down to Binghamton, New York, to attend a family funeral the following morning. My Aunt Doris was the wife of my father’s eldest brother, the Rev. F. Porter Adams. Porter died suddenly in his early 60s, forty years ago, and yet Doris continued in good health, living independently until she was 94, and dying last week at 98. Like his father, my paternal grandfather, Porter was a Methodist minister, and so is his daughter Nancy. He and Doris were married in 1952. I remember her as a devoted mother to her children and the embodiment of the perfect minister’s wife, always at her husband’s side and involved with their church communities. After he died she was an equally caring mother and helper for her adult children and grand daughters. She was a homemaker, a good baker, cook, and seamstress, with a strong Christian faith; she was always kind to me, and I never remember her being annoyed, complaining, or saying a cross word to anyone. I realized, sitting at the service, that -- outside of these roles, which were also the subject of the sermon and the family reminiscences — I had barely known her at all.

Or then again, perhaps I had. Perhaps the way she was remembered and described at the funeral was exactly who she was, and that her choice had been just that: to live a simple, modest, selfless life, expressing her faith through devotedly caring for her family and community. It must have been terrible to lose her husband so suddenly and unexpectedly, just when he was looking forward to retirement, but somehow she managed not only to go on, but to find meaning and purpose in the many decades that remained. Not only had she been loving and faithful, she must have also been quite strong, and have had the support of good friends in addition to her children and her siblings.

The funeral was simple, straightforward, and heartfelt. Old favorite Methodist hymns played on a piano, stories shared by her family and the chaplain at the nursing home where she had lived for the past four years, a brief eulogy by the pastor of the church, a duet sung by those two women - the chaplain and pastor - followed by prayers of commendation. I was glad there was a lot of music, because it’s a tradition on my father’s side of the family. When they were young, my dad, his sister, and his two brothers had often sung as a quartet at church services led by their own father, and later on my grandmother always insisted that we all stand around the piano and sing together at family gatherings. I grew up playing those Methodist hymns at the piano while my father sang, in his clear tenor voice, and I could hear him next to me, in my mind, on Tuesday morning.

In addition to being there for my cousins, who have always supported me at such events, I’d wanted to acknowledge the passing of my aunt as the last of my parents’ generation. The eldest on both sides of my family is now...me. It’s a sobering thought, and it has come late, mainly because many of them lived very long lives.

 

Landscape on I-88 near Nineveh, NY. Pencil drawing in sketchbook.

The drive back to Montreal was long -- more than six hours, not counting stops — but the weather was good and we took turns driving. The first stretch, on I-88 from Binghamton to Oneonta and then to Albany, passes through what feels like home terrain to me, and near towns where my grandparents and father, and later, friends of my own once lived: Nimmonsburg, Afton, Bainbridge, Sydney Center, Nineveh, Otego.

Jonathan drove the first stretch, and I looked out the window, taking photos of the landscape I love and making these two fast pencil sketches, while I thought about my aunt’s life, so different from my own. I also replayed the service we’d attended, fixing it in my memory. Such simplicity! It couldn’t have been a greater contrast to the grand liturgical events at the Anglican Cathedral we attend and where, as a choir member, I was part of the presentation for so many years. I had loved this very Protestant service, though, and felt comfortable in it — partly because it reminded me of where I came from, and mainly because it was utterly sincere. Anglican liturgy gives structure, dignity, solemnity, and a progression of mood and intention throughout a service; the language is poetic, and music provides meditation, participatory moments, and enhances the mood of the readings, the time of year, the occasion. The words and service used at a royal funeral are almost the same as those for the funeral of any Anglican, anywhere in the world. But there is a lot to be said for the directness, familiarity, sincerity, and simplicity of what we had just witnessed. It suited my aunt perfectly, and perhaps some of that feeling came across in the simple drawings I did later that day.

 

Near Unadilla, NY. Watercolor, 5.5” x 8” in sketchbook.

Today, though, I’m back in my own home. That peaceful landscape of fields and gently rolling hills continues to call to me, so I did a quick watercolor in my sketchbook, hopefully bringing the muted colors of November to life for you. There will be more to come.

A clarification, and a positive thing to do

Since writing my last post, I’ve heard from many people who appreciated what I had to say, and a few who thought I was excusing rather than condemning Trump voters and, in talking about the economy as a major issue that drove people’s votes, failing to strongly endorse the centrality of the critical liberation/justice movements of the past decades: anti-racism, anti-sexism, LGBTQ+ rights, the rights of immigrants and refugees, and other struggles for human dignity and freedom.

• I think that anyone who voted for Donald Trump made a grievous error which will result in untold suffering for millions of people, while ripping at the heart of democracy. It was crystal clear who he was, so the voters knew, and did it anyway, for a wide variety of reasons.

• I think that all of these liberation struggles MUST continue to be cornerstones of policy for those of us on the left, because caring about and protecting others, especially all those who are oppressed, is a major part of who we are.

—

Talking about policy is one thing. Strategizing about how to win elections is another. So is analyzing what went wrong, and picking up the pieces in order to move forward.

I just read a carefully-reasoned op-ed by a liberal in a major newspaper. It was followed by 2386 comments, and about 90% of the commenters were Democrats, screaming at the author and at each other. Yes, tension is high right now, and people are angry and very upset. But when the dust settles, we’re going to have to do better.

Here’s where I’m coming from: I’ve always been to the left of the Democratic Party, especially now that the Party itself has moved significantly to the right. I’ve put my body on the line and invested my heart, my skills and my time throughout my whole life for peace, for women, for LGBTQ+ rights, for greater understanding of the politics and culture of the Middle East, for community organizing and safety, for the survival and stability of the arts. In the process, I’ve gained a reputation as someone who is willing to talk to both sides, building trust and finding common ground. I have only been able to do that by starting from a point of respecting my fellow human beings, and refusing to dehumanize or demonize others even when it’s being done by one or both sides.

At the present time, that is a tall order. We are at a very distressing, destructive point in our history. Those of us on the left are shocked and reeling at the realization that so many voted the way they did, and frightened at the vindictiveness of what we see unfolding. We are correct to see an appalling rise in fascist ideology, racism, misogyny, trans-phobia and homophobia, science- and climate change denial, and an outpouring of hate against refugees and immigrants.

Some of those on the right are expectant, waiting for the litany of promises to come true, while others are clamoring at the gates of the Colosseum, ready for the blood-letting to begin, emboldened in their own prejudices and hatred by those about to control the government.

However, eventually some of us will have to try to talk to each other across this abyss. The Democratic Party has to do a lot of soul-searching and, one hopes, significant restructuring and re-strategizing. I fear that the instinct will be to move even farther to the right, but sincerely hope that doesn’t happen. Neoliberalism has failed; the Party’s establishment has to go, new leaders need to emerge. Waging and supporting endless wars must end. Democrats cannot drone-bomb villages and send arms to conflicts that have killed tens of thousands of innocent women and children, while saying they are for women’s rights at home. They cannot accuse the Republicans of corruption when they themselves are corrupt. Both parties are in bed with money and corporate power, and have done little to address the wealth inequality that is fracturing society. These hypocrisies are evident to many people.

The Democratic Party will have to put forward a platform that doesn’t betray its core values and principles, but at the same time addresses the concerns of the more moderate voters who defected to the Republican side, and particularly the disenfranchised people, many of them young, who did not vote for either candidate. We cannot win another election without them. That will require active listening, and, at the same time, quelling the unfortunate tendency of the left to fight among themselves.

Like many of you, I am quite exhausted by the past week and the news that emerges each day. After this post, I plan to take a long break from writing about politics. Let’s all try to be kind to each other and to ourselves, as we regroup and start to move forward. Let’s remember that things change. Nearly half of the country’s voters agree on the basic principles I’m speaking of here, and a majority agree on issues like abortion, gun violence, and wealth inequality. Where there is positive energy and love for one another, people can accomplish a great deal.

——
Here is a small action I took today, and that I’d like to recommend to you: Dr. Katelyn Jetelina, MPH Ph.D., is an epidemiologist who started the Substack “Your Local Epidemiologist”. With her team of public health experts, she writes “a public health newsletter that translates evidence-based information for everyday decision-making.” Through it, I’ve learned a great deal about what we know and don’t know, and the history that got us there; epidemics; potential emerging threats; vaccines; the regulatory process; controversial treatments and policies; and practical advice about making good decisions. In addition to the weekly newsletter, there are sections on Mental Health, Violence, Reproductive Health, Infectious Diseases, Public Health Emergencies, and (Mis)information. I have followed this info-letter since 2021, and I’ve just become a paid subscriber to try to help out at a critical time for public health.

In the current issue, “Body as a Shell: The RFK Jr. pick for HHS secretary” she writes:

“For many of us who have devoted our lives to public health, science, and medicine—driven by an unwavering commitment to improving the health and well-being of Americans—this strikes deep. A mix of profound sadness, anger, exhaustion, and disbelief because the playing field has now completely shifted: Instead of pushing forward toward a healthier society, it’s now about keeping us from moving backward…

…After going through the pandemic, watching rumors turn the public against the people trying to help them, it can suck the wind out of you. Right now, science communicators are exhausted and demoralized at the prospect of doing it all over again.

But we will. I will keep showing up and doing my best to help you sort the evidence from the rumors. 

The only thing we mustn’t do is say everything is now pointless and give up on what’s real and true. We’re tired, sad, and afraid. But we’re still here. We’re not going anywhere.”

Those are words we should all take to heart.

The Price of Arrogance

4th of July parade, central New York, 2024

This has been an exhausting week. I don’t recommend having Covid at the same time as the U.S. election. However, while getting sick was unpredictable, the results of the election were not. I’m sorry to say it, but I was not at all surprised.

We’ve all had the chance to read endless articles and op-eds about why the Democrats lost. I’ll give a short list of some I thought were the most illuminating at the end of this post. The reasons for Harris’ defeat were, I think, complex, and we all need to sit down and reflect on them for a good long while before rushing into “resistance” mode. While it’s tempting to generalize and stereotype, doing so is a disservice to both sides. Instead, I’d like to write a little bit from my own experience and observations.

I grew up in the 1950s and ‘60s in a sparsely-populated rural county of New York State where most people worked in agriculture, light manufacturing, or the local service sector - schools, libraries, town government, roads, health and safety, retail and small local businesses. A majority of my classmates in the centralized public school came from family farms; others had fathers who were truck drivers, school teachers, woodworkers, welders, mechanics, factory workers, store workers. Many mothers didn’t work outside the home unless they were single parents, which was rare. My own father was a real estate broker. The town was quite self-sufficient -- you could buy almost everything you might need in its downtown, where there were grocery, clothing and hardware stores, a pharmacy and other retail, restaurants and soda fountains, a newsstand, a bakery, a feed store and grain mill, a nice hotel with a bar and dining room. At least 90% of these families were affiliated with one of the seven local Christian denominations— in a town of 1,400 — and most attended church regularly. One of the two local family doctors was Jewish, but in our town, that family was the one exception. There was one black family of migrant workers who had come up from the south to pick beans, and stayed. In spite of significant poverty in some areas, it was, and still is, a cohesive and caring community. Multi-generational family connections have always been very strong. In my class of about 135 high school graduates, about 1/4 went on to four-year and two-year colleges. Others went into the military, got local jobs, stayed on the farms, married and had children. Most remained within fairly easy driving-distance of their original families.

What has changed in fifty years? Almost all of the manufacturing jobs are gone. One exception is Chobani yogurt, which employs a number of people and has helped the struggling dairy industry. Most of the family farms have gone out, due to corporate farming, lack of government support, debt, and children who didn’t want to do the very hard work of farming for little return. Malls and online shopping have decimated the downtown, where there is little retail left. Both partners in a couple usually have to work, often at more than one job. Single-parent households are common. Many people raise children and also take care of aging parents. Healthcare is not great. People must use the limited local options, and travel to cities for specialist healthcare, which many are reluctant to do. Poverty, obesity, smoking and accidents contribute to disability, premature aging, and ill health within the society. While in my youth nobody talked about drugs other than alcohol and dope, and crime was almost non-existent, opioid addiction and drug-related crime are now significant problems. Cutbacks in state programs have taken away more jobs. And everyone is dependent on cars to get around; there’s no other transportation, so the price of gas affects everyone. When I was growing up, there was quite a lot of wealth in these towns and it showed — farms were well-kept, houses were well-maintained. Today, this area, just south of the former “Rust Belt” of manufacturing that ran along the Mohawk River Valley across the center of the state, is definitely poorer and struggling, and you can see it easily.

New York State voted for Harris, 55.8% to 44%, but that result was driven entirely by the urban regions: Buffalo, Rochester, Syracuse, Albany and the Hudson River Valley, New York City and its surrounding region all went to the Democrats, though by lower margins than four years ago. Every one of the rural counties in the state voted for Trump. In my former home, Chenango County, he won by 64% to 36%.

In my own case, my mother, grandmother and great-aunts all had college educations and were Democrats. My father, a veteran of WWII with a high school education, voted Republican most of the time. It was expected that I would go to college, and my parents had begun saving for that when I was born. After graduation from university I worked for New York State in an environmental education center in my hometown, but two years later I left the area to live in a well-populated part of New England where there were greater opportunities to use my education and abilities. Americans like me — urban, educated, willing to move and adapt, facile with technology, single or with small nuclear families, often living far from their parents — have benefitted from the years of Democratic presidencies. We have the luxury, given by our privilege, to think about ideological issues: justice, human rights, democracy. But, mainly, we are OK with the status quo -- we aren’t living paycheck to paycheck. Those of us who are female, or black, or brown, belong to ethnic or religious minorities, or have a non-straight sexual orientation, may be politically motivated by the oppression and prejudice we have witnessed and faced. We’re comfortable with diversity because of our life experience with many different people in colleges and universities, in the workplace, through travel, and in our urban environments.

Where I live now, in Quebec, we talk about the Two Solitudes - the very different lives and outlooks of the French and English communities, especially in the last quarter of the 20th century, which ended in the so-called “Quiet Revolution” where the French Canadians took control of the province from the wealthier English and ended the oppressive domination of their society by the Catholic Church. What we’re seeing in America is somewhat similar: two entirely different cultures who find it extremely difficult to understand each other or to communicate across a wide divide. As happened in Quebec, one of those American cultures has considered itself superior, and acted that way. Resentment by the other has been simmering for a long time, fed by condescension, neglect, growing economic inequality, and fear of losing even more to outsiders who are given advantages that are perceived to be unfair. When a toxic leader comes along who stirs that pot, stoking the resentment by encouraging racism, sexism, homophobia and xenophobia, telling lies and making promises, it can boil over to catastrophic consequences.

The only thing that’s different about me from many people of my demographic profile is that I have experience with real people on both sides, and I refuse to participate in the disrespect. It’s wrong to paint all Trump voters with the same brush; they are not all Christian far-right, women-bashing, vaccine-denying white supremacists who advocate lawlessness and the overthrow of democracy, any more than all “blue” voters are all “childless cat ladies” like me, “San Francisco communists” — or all the other demeaning epithets thrown out by Trump and Vance.

Do many of the local people back in my hometown feel angry, abandoned, and left behind? Do they feel life has been stacked unfairly against them, even though they have worked hard all their lives? Of course they do. Neo-liberalism has failed them, taking jobs and self-respect away; the American dream is slipping further and further out of reach for them and their children; and the Democratic Party, once far more popular, has failed to offer them a vision for a better future. Post-pandemic, everything costs more — I find the prices in American supermarkets shocking. At the same time, it’s clear to all that the wealthy have become wealthier, and the middle class and the poor much poorer, with diminishing hope that this will change. Worse yet, the arrogance and disrespect of the liberal establishment are keenly felt by rural working-class people. Hilary Clinton was the Senator from New York before she was Secretary of State. And she’s the one who called people like my childhood neighbors and classmates — her former constituents who she should have understood far better — “deplorables.” People don’t forget that.

I have a pretty good idea who my classmates were, and who some of them are today. I know quite a few Trump voters, some working-class, and some who are very wealthy, and some who are in-between. All are decent people. It’s unfair and inaccurate to lump 64% of the county’s population together under some liberal notion of what a Trump voter looks like and thinks. What we’re learning is that the economy and immigration are at the top of the list of their concerns; they’re fed up with the Democrats’ focus on identity politics and political correctness, and they share a basic distrust of authority and governmental institutions. They feel that America should take care of its own citizens first. Socially and religiously, they tend to be more conservative, more patriarchal, and less concerned with democracy than with economic issues, gender, and personality. Was racism a factor? Yes, but remember that we did have a Black president for eight years. Was sexism a factor? Yes, and I think it was greater than race. Even among Latino and Black men, and even among women who, as one phone solicitor reported, repeatedly said they didn’t think America “was ready for a female president” and that they “couldn’t see her in the chair.” **

When people are desperate for change, they are going to vote for the person who seems to share their frustrations, speaks to their concerns, appears to respect them, and makes promises that resonate. They are most likely to vote for the candidate who seems strongest and most likely to get things done, in spite of the distaste they may feel for their style, lies, and behavior. I noted, in particular, this comment on a Facebook thread about immigration written by a former classmate of mine: “He’s (a) loudmouth bully but he’s probably the best of the crooks.”

====================

Tragically, the answers to some of these problems could have come from the left. The social democracy championed by progressive Democrats like Bernie Sanders offers an alternative, populist, but compassionate and broadly-respectful agenda, based on the right to jobs and housing, a living minimum wage, universal healthcare and drug coverage, strong worker’s rights, inexpensive daycare, parental leave, fair taxation to address income inequality. It sounds…a lot like Canada. But in the U.S., such a program is labeled as “socialism” or even “communism.” As a Vermonter for thirty years — our state was the first to enact universal healthcare — I was well-acquainted with Sanders’ style and saw him in person several times; he too has the ability to listen to and speak to people from all walks of life, and he tells the truth. When he ran for the presidential nomination, he was extremely popular — but the Democratic establishment would have none of it. Instead we got Party insiders Hilary Clinton and Joe Biden. This week, Sanders issued a post-election statement accusing the Party of neglecting the working class and their concerns, and failing to address the war in Gaza. It was immediately repudiated by former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi and Democratic Party chair Jaime Harrison, showing how unwilling the Party has been to move in a progressive direction, even though a majority of the country has been desperate for help, and for change. Instead, they campaigned with the Cheneys.

While pointing out Trump’s unsuitability for office and the threat he poses to democracy, Harris refused to make a significant break from Biden and the Democratic Party establishment, and didn’t clearly articulate an economic plan that resonated with working class voters. Although her support for women’s rights was a major positive that crossed party lines, her refusal to acknowledge the immorality of Israel’s war in Gaza and Lebanon alienated not only Arab-Americans, but many young people, and others like myself who are appalled that their tax dollars are used to support that conflict. Her gender and race were a positive draw in some sectors, and a surprising liability in others. If America is really still not ready to elect a woman president, surely this could have been predicted through polling. In the end, many people, myself included, voted for her reluctantly, wishing we had been given a better choice.

The fact is that you cannot have a social democracy and support a massive military budget at the same time. You cannot have a social safety net for all citizens, and also have a corrupt government that’s completely enmeshed with, and beholden to, corporate, military, and special interests, including foreign ones. You cannot reward corporations and the wealthiest individuals with tax breaks, power, and influence while the citizens who keep the economy going through their labor become poorer, and increasingly feel that they have no voice. And you cannot wage endless wars that destabilize other parts of the world, or fail to deal with climate change as the global emergency which it is, and expect other countries to shoulder all the burden of refugees fleeing desperate situations.

Into that situation of growing inequality, instability, fear and discontent rode Donald Trump, with his promises and lies, his anger and threats, ready to say whatever played the best to his audience, willing to subvert the law, and democracy in the process. It makes me think of a marriage that’s been failing for years, but the husband has been so busy and satisfied with his outside life that he’s refused to see the signs. Then one day, the wife comes down the stairs with her suitcase, and tells him it’s over; she’s leaving with Mr. Right. He’s astonished: “You’re such an idiot. You can’t possibly think he’s going to take care of you or treat you better than me! He’s a liar and a cheat, and everyone knows it!”

“Yes,” she says, “maybe that’s right, but you’ve been calling me stupid and fat and lazy for years. I’ve worked hard forever. I’ve told you what we needed to do to keep our marriage going, but you wouldn’t listen. There’s barely enough to pay our bills, and you’re always giving money away to strangers I don’t even know! Now I just want to feel some hope and some pride again. He may be everything you say, but he understands me, he seems to like me, and doesn’t talk down to me. He understands why I’m so angry and scared. I just want to try it. I want things to change.”

The husband can’t believe it. “What about your commitment to marriage? I thought you believed in it.”

”That’s just a piece of paper. I want to feel better.”

”Wait and see,” he says. “You’ll come running back to me. And I’m sure we can work something out.” She walks past him, out the door, and then turns for a moment, “By the way, I’m taking the car and the keys, so you won’t be able to drive for a while.”

===================

In my next post, I’ll try to explain what I think we need to do as individuals, and what the Democratic Party has to do to survive.

Some articles I found worth reading:

Thomas Frank, “The Elites had it Coming”, New York Times.

Sam Wolfson, “A fatal miscalculation: masculinity researcher Richard Reeves on why Democrats lost young men.” The Guardian.

John Harris, “From Trump’s victory, a simple inescapable message: many people despise the left,” The Guardian

David Brooks, “Voters to Elites: Do You See Me Now?”, The New York Times.

**Oliver Hall, “I spent hours trying to persuade US voters to choose Harris not Trump. I know why she lost.” The Guardian.

 

Maintaining One's Practice...notes on self-preservation

Like many of us, I am very anxious about the election. Even though I live in Canada, I’m a dual citizen, the U.S. is my country of birth and where I lived for the first fifty years of my life, and it’s where members of my family have lived, worked, and tried to contribute to society for three centuries. We voted several weeks ago by absentee ballot. I care — a lot — about what happens today, and not just for the sake of America itself.

I also realize that our lives are going to continue, no matter what the outcome is. We’re going to get up on Wednesday, and Thursday, and next week, and next month, and we’re going to have to keep going and continue trying to be our best selves. Worrying and obsessing aren’t going to help. Am I sleeping well? Not particularly. But I’m trying to exert some control over what I actually can control: my attitude, and how I fill my time. Maybe what I’m going to share here will provide a break for you from all the news today, and remind you that there’s always more breadth and depth — and color! — in each of our lives, waiting to be discovered.

Yesterday, frustrated with my fragmented focus of late, I decided to act on a goal that I’ve mentioned here — to make a concerted effort to improve my watercolor paintings. The two main problems I’ve identified are the paper in my sketchbook, and the size I’ve been working in. Both limit my ability to use a full range of watercolor techniques, and to use larger brushes and a more expressive style. Years ago, before I began keeping a sketchbook as a sort of visual diary, my watercolors were quite different. I want to get back to that, and to improve from there.

The first thing I did was to cut up some sheets of beautiful, high-quality Arches cold-press paper from my paper stock. Then I did an inventory of my paints to see what I really wanted to have in my palette and what I might want to add or switch out. There’s not much change, actually, except that I want to substitute modern equivalents for the cadmiums eventually, since they’re toxic. So is cobalt blue, but I can’t do without it, so I exercise caution. Then I used the first of the watercolor sheets to paint some test swatches.

 

After that, I took a hard look at the watercolor palette I’ve been using, shown at right. It’s a small, hinged-top box, 6”x 4.5”, with 24 removeable wells. It’s perfect for travel and for use with my sketchbook, but both the wells and mixing areas are quite small, which means I end up being miserly with paint. It’s just not possible to mix up a big juicy quantity of color on such a palette, and that’s a requirement for large work.

I took out my own large studio palette, as well, but decided it was old, dry, and had far too many wells. Then I remembered the big, 16” x 11” palette that I’d bought years ago for my mother and brought here when we sold the house this summer. Yes! Perfect! I cleaned it, and set it up for myself afresh. This palette also has 24 storage wells for the colors, but they hold much more, the top seals to keep the paints moist, and the mixing areas are really generous. Here it is, with a “map” of the pigments below.

 

 

Once I had done that, I felt inspired and ready to work. Isn’t it odd how sometimes all we need to do, to clear the necessary space in our heads for a new start, is to clean and organize our physical space?

I soaked a piece of that fine paper in water, sponged it lightly, taped it to my work table, and began a painting of a view from our walk at the Morgan Arboretum a week ago. I had studied the reference photos and made some planning decisions about the colors, the shadows and light, and various technical issues I knew I’d be facing — in particular, how to show small bits of light on the leaves and twigs, falling through trees and foliage which were in deep shade - preserving or creating small light areas is a perpetual problem in watercolor. Several hours later, I had this painting in front of me:

 

At 7” x 10.5”, this is still too small, but it was large enough to reinforce my instinct about using good paper. The strong, medium-toothed, Arches paper responded wonderfully, giving vibrant clear color and depth in the shadows, standing up to soaking and wet washes, and holding as much detail as necessary. It allowed for pigment removal, re-soaking and re-working, dry brush scumbling, and scratching with knives and other tools.

It was a good experiment, and a good starting place for new explorations. Best of all, I hadn’t thought about anything else while I was working on it.

 

Singers need to sing, dancers need to dance, poets and writers need to write, artists need to paint and draw — and we need to do this on a regular basis, with focus and concentration. It’s so easy to let life intervene, and of course, sometimes it has to. But when we’re able to maintain a practice, day after day, week after week, then we can make progress, even if it’s in very small increments.

Our practice is a big part of what sustains us, through the good times in life and the difficult ones. And our practice is what helps us sustain others, whether through our creative work or just by being better balanced and more fulfilled human beings. Sometimes we need to jump-start our practice, and sometimes we need to do a housecleaning, or to take stock and rethink what we’re doing and how we’re doing it. That comes with this territory.

But we can’t let ourselves be de-railed by negativity or the endless opportunities for distraction, even as our hearts are filled with strong emotions from outrage to anxiety to compassion and grief. Today, I’ll work on some more art, and I’ll also play my flute for half an hour, and do some cooking. Over the weekend, I made bread for the first time in a long while. Winter’s coming. We need sustenance in all its forms.