Down Goes Alice Munroe

Canada’s Nobel Laureate author Alice Munroe is now being judged for her complicity in her second husband sexual abuse of her then 9-year-old daughter. “There’s some things I just think it’s better not to talk about, don’t you?” (Rich as Stink)

Munroe’s short story collection The Love of a Good Woman collection offers compelling prose and narrative choices along with confounding character psyches that cannot be ignored in light of these revelations. “Her whole life was liable to be seen as some sort of unseemly thrashing around, a radical mistake.” (Save the Reaper)

Society tends towards judgement, which of course is not the purpose of writing and certainly not Munroe’s fictional world. “You can’t take your attention from the tempest or it will rip open your last defenses. You try for sanity’s sake to fix on some calm detail of your surroundings, but the wind’s cries are able to inhabit a cushion or a figure in the rug or a tiny whirlpool in the window glass.” (My Mother’s Dream, 374)

Stupid Never Stops

The problem with stupid is its relentlessness. It just goes on and on. And on.

Smart is its own worst enemy, thinking itself to exhaustion, especially how to explain to stupid, which never works.

Stupid hates smart for being smart. It will not stop for anything, even survival, to be heard. There’s hope you say? Based on what? Stupid has always won.

Slovenly Self-Deceiving Blobs

Anyone who still has any faith in humanity is an idiot. There might have been a chance a hundred years back, but that parlay has been lost.

If it isn’t a war, it’s politics. If it isn’t environmental collapse, it’s pure fucking ignorance. In the end, it wasn’t complicated. We just had to do the work. And we didn’t. We sucked instead.

And so the devolution is on. Slovenly self-deceit wins. The blobs will now stare at each other on their screens and not even remember how to say hello. Or goodbye.

We Have an Expiration Date

I have blogged on my concerns for the future as of late, a dread that worsens daily. Henri Charriere concludes his opus of astonishing escapes, Papillon, with the following thought: We have too much technological progress, life is too hectic, and our society has one goal: to invent still more technological marvels to make life easier and better.

The craving for every scientific discovery breeds a hunger for greater comfort and the constant struggle to achieve it. All that kills the soul, kills compassion, understanding and nobility. It leaves no time for caring what happens to other people.

Charriere wrote those words in 1970, 53 years ago. And how much worse is it now? And how much worse is it going to get? (HInt: Much fucking worse.)

Interested?

So, yeah, I’m a bit of a shit-disturber, childish too, but childlike, afraid to fail, freaky, cartoonish, self-serving, self-pleasing, demanding, lying, sinning cheater.
I tend toward hyper-focus (and not), being a loner, resister and hiker, but more than anything I’m a confused existential sensualist who tends toward drink and judgement.Interested?