why do people believe...

...big lies?

You know. Like, "Hitler's not so bad..." or, "That's not Shlomo the Tailor you see coming out of that smokestack..." or, "Saddam wasn't brutal..." or, "Russia wants to cooperate to be accepted by the world..." or "it's for the children..." or... this one?

as my old friend Reggie Bowden used to say...

"...sometimes it just be's that way..."


yup. what have you done for me lately?

check out this guy hugh's stuff. he's on his game.

this doesn't mean I agree with him. I'm not a big fan of publishing four-letter words, even if I do use them at times (to my own shame); but this little graphic really hit the spot. Even it is too cynical for me, and I will probably take it down.

Hugh seems to have some warped ideas about religion and capitalism. like many in his generation and genre, he is comfortable defining the act of "giving" as him convincing you to reach into your pocket. Well, that is giving...he just obscures the active and passive roles.

hmm...the obscuring of active and passive...if that isn't a defining characteristic of our times, I don't know what is. In the olden days, people were brave enough to be open about their "activeness." No more. Now, "activeness" is considered impolite; it is customary now to disguise "activeness" as "passiveness," and be considered, chic. Hence the rise of "passive-aggressiveness" to epidemic levels that we all have seen.

Yet, even while apparently certain of his own immunity of the personality ills of his era, he makes some interesting observations.

"...tell me, where is sanity?"

I think it went out the window when the leader of the free world refused to acknlowledge the universal and immutable meaning of something as simple, as bedrock to logic, as the word "is." The man stated flatly, "the world is not necessarily round," and there wasn't enough collective sense in that world to sell such nonsense short in the marketplace of ideas, when it should have been bid to zero before the sun set the day it was uttered. Either that or the market was rigged.

And now, half a very dysfunctional generation hence, I have a hard time not having experiences, regularly, when something I've said or written is spun so completely out of context that is rendered alien to its original meaning -- by any reasonable stretch of the imagination. Note the italicised part: it's critical.

Or when an agreement, after some interval from the time when everyone was smiles and handshakes, suddenly becomes a subjective, "organic" sort of document meaning, ultimately, what the guy with the cleverest lawyer and the deepest pocket wants it to mean.

"Is? Why it means whatever I say it means; it means whatever it needs to mean in order to let me do what I want, without serious consequences, and damn you. If you're stupid enough to suffer consequences, it's only because, well, you're stupid enough to." Machiavelli's legacy? Or someone elses - a more recent name?

What about romance? Should we even go here? Who hasn't come home to a Jekyll, when they thought they kissed a Hyde goodbye that morning? Who hasn't heard, "for better or for worse," and staked their entire earthly existence on the bargain, and probably that of some innocent third parties, too, only to find, one gut-wrenching day, a legal brief in the mailbox with a bunch of words on it that amount to, "it means what we say it means."

Who trusts anyone anymore? Haven't all the "experts" come on CNN to tell us that anyone can be a terrorist, an identity thief, a serial killer, a school shooter? What need is there for due process, armed with such foreknowledge?

Who tolerates a thoughtful, reasoned discussion, complete with reasonable, dignified disagreements, and reasonable, dignified, unaffected agreements on what is agreeable? Is there any such thing? What declaration that is longer than a soundbyte isn't laced with a concotion of words that mean, well, who can know what they mean? If we can't be sure of the meaning of something as basic as "is," how can we possibly know the meaning and veracity of entire sentences?

Oh, you're winking at me. You mean, he really did and does know what is means, right? Of course. Everyone knows what "is" means. You mean for me to understand that the "is" line of, er, reasoning, was just a clever trick, a way of saying, "you got me, and everyone knows it, but nothing you say can make me admit I did anything wrong." It's a way of taking a nice, warm, fuzzy narcotic to make the bad things that happen when I screw up go away; it's a way of dismissing those I owe an explanation and restitution to until they give up and go away.

It is as undeniable a fact as the meaning of "is," that a debt forestalled only grows in size, and still must be repaid. Narcotics can be addictive, and have side effects. A sin unconfessed never ceases to haunt, and who knows what a ceaseless haunt can do to a person, in the long run. Or a society of persons, collectively. When a generation forestalls paying its debt to reality, does it ever go "bankrupt?" Does some cosmic, moral "bill collector" come and repossess souls? It's a different kind of "national debt" we're talking about, here.

The Big Lie. You wanted it, now you've got it. This is what your mother meant when she said, "if you play with fire, you're going to get burned."

sometimes...

...a picture is worth a thousand words.

Dear Abbey

Some notes from the Golden Pear at Grandview (!) where the view on this perfect autumn eve, from this particular hilltop in western Connecticut, is, well, grand.

It began like this. I am in Bethlehem to get out of the city and to see the Abbey at Regina Laudis (about which the movie "Come to the Stable" was made; this note to remind myself to see the movie). I know I need time away from the City, and so, even though I can't get the perfect weekend of guest arrangements at the Abbey (they don't have guests in October), I can't bring myself to drive back tonight.

So I decided to play around with the Magellan Navigation System in the rental car. The rental car, which I basically had to fight with the counter clerk at Hertz to get (which I felt horrible for doing afterwards). The Magellan thingy was in the car and offered as a concession for my difficulty, though, as it was in the car to begin with, what were they planning on doing, taking it out? Anyway, it was in there, and I used it (and it's actually very cool).

It led me to one B & B, by a winding road that led past signs that said, "Tibetan Festival" -- a new age confab if I ever heard of one. Doesn't that doesn't give me warm fuzzies. The town looked really run down in one part (as run down a town from the 1700's can be; it's not like we're talking about Brooklyn-like run-down). But one part was trashy old New England and the other part was too polished up, too dressed-for-the-part of traditional New England. Freshly painted signs on the little "downtown" street of shops named and decorated to appear quaint, homey, simple-but-sophisticated, and temptingly sinful. That was enough for me. It was all too tacky. This place was all talk and no walk. I felt very uncomfortable there, and I knew I had to be near the Abbey if I was going to stay here.

So I turned right around and followed those Magellan directions backwards and returned to Bethlehem. Imagine, looking for an inn at Bethlehem.

After driving strictly at the speed limit owing to the policeman on my tail, I stopped at the post office and used the Magellan-thingy to look up another B&B. It was so simple. Touch a couple of buttons, and I'm on my way to someplace called the Golden Pear at Grandview or something. It sounded nice, it was nearby, so off I went.

I arrived at hilltop a few pleasant minutes later at sunset. The horizon was belted with hayfields and those electric oranges that become pinks that become blues and whisper a hint of mist on cool evening, overlooked by a stark, white, full moon. Bordering the hayfields were trees giving off the earthtone colors of the sunset of summer. Beyond those, more hills with more color.

The Inn itself was a typical Yankee farmhouse on the corner of a large hayfield, modified, it appeared, for the hospitality trade. There were a couple of cars in the driveway, but it appeared to be deserted. I walked up to the door, wondering if it were a "tibetan" sort of place. I rang the bell. It was a bit reassuring to see a "guardian angel" plaque on the wall, asking "peace on all who come here." That's a nice thing, even though angels seem to be regarded as ecumenical in the extreme. A little American-flag tin offered some brochures, so I helped myself. Nothing written there scared me away; I thought of going to a payphone to call, as no one came to the door. I finally said a quick "whatever, Lord," prayer, and milled around for a moment more. It appeared that they were closed and didn't wish to be disturbed. I wasn't going to whack the doorknocker in that case.

Consoling myself with "it won't so bad" thoughts, I turn to leave. I'd already forgotten whatever it was that I prayed a moment ago. Just as I turn, as if on cue, a car pulls in, and a middle age lady emerges from the passenger seat and greets me warmly. I ask if they are the proprietors, but she didn't seem to hear me. "Hunh?" "Is this your place," I rephrased (at tastefully increased volume, just in case), and she said, "Yes, it is." I apologized for not having a reservation, and asked if a room was available. Well, actually someone's son had gotten sick and that someone had to return to the City and yes, if it was one person for one night, there was a room available. I asked how much and she told me. It was more than I'm used to paying, but not a lot.

I knew from the moment I talked to this lady that this was the place to stay. Still, I remarked that the price was a bit high for me (not high in general) and asked if I should negotiate. She said, no, not really. Then something very interesting happened.

I said, "I'm in town to see the Abbey," meaning only to explain my business here in this little spot. She beamed at me and said, "Well, how about I take ten percent off since you're affiliated with the Abbey?" I protested that I'm not really affiliated with them, "I'm Catholic, that's all." She positively beamed, "Well, that's wonderful," and took my hand. It was such a warm greeting that I was blown away. And she didn't rush the words. She looked me right in the eye and said it very deliberately. There was some connection here and I decided I would just accept it.

I said, if you'll take a credit card, I'll stay here. Then I put out my hand and said, "By the way, my name is Charles." Again, with the beaming. "That's my husband's name!" Again, looking me in the eye, a pause, and then, again, very deliberately, "That's a wonderful name!" I melted. Thank you, was all I could say. It was such a dignifying experience.

Later in the evening I went for a walk on the moonlight dirt road to say a Rosary. This one was for Lauren, because I was breaking-in the Rosary "beads" (they were actually a series of colored strings with knots in them, almost macrame style) that I intended to send to Lauren for her birthday. I looked at the moon and said to God, "if this isn't the perfect place and time to do something to me, I don't know what is."

I turned back, still praying the Rosary. Headlights appear over the hill, temporarily blinding me so that I put up my hand to shield my eyes. They dimmed, I put down my hand. An SUV rolls up and I hear, "how you doing there?!" A friendly, booming voice repeats it. It was Tom Donegan and his wife Jean, just getting back from dinner. We make really pleasant smalltalk. Tom says, "buy some land!"

Mass at 8 am tomorrow at the Abbey.

And as soon as I got home, I started looking for a piece of land.

ready to ride.

I haven’t dispatched any thoughts from the train in some time.

But today [Saturday] I took one out of town just to take a break. I’m heading into the hills of Connecticut. I intend to visit the gift shop at the Abbey of Regina Laudis, where I hope to take some weekend retreats to rest and volunteer in the future. The anti-New York. I would have taken this entire weekend there, but they don’t take guests in October.

Per usual, I’ll just record a few observations, and hopefully the result will be something entertaining and useful.

Grand Central was jammed at 11 am this morning. Lots of college students and the usual clueless European tourists with their slouching spines and their mealy mouths, and their local counterparts. A couple of progressive looking women stood around in their blue-jeans and their J Crew T shirts, with someone’s child sitting on the floor a few feet from them. Mind you, that’s on the floor of the Grand Concourse of Grand Central Station, New York, New York, on the Saturday morning of Columbus Day weekend. Is that a good time to have your child on the floor of any train station? Is any time a good time? Perhaps in Europe.

So anyway, it’s nice to be around all the people, despite their rudeness, inconsideration, hostility, stupidity, and who knows what else. It is usually the course of things for me that as I’m getting my iced coffee at Zarro’s downstairs, I have mixed emotions. I’m glad for the coffee, but I’m dreading the lonely walk down the platform...

I’m a people person. Being surrounded by stares and glares that are by turns icy, indifferent, suspicious, and hostile is like punishment to me. I like to look people in the eye and smile and be smiled back at. I don’t like it when it’s bad manners to be polite; when it’s rude to be friendly, when it’s an offense to be courteous, when it’s a perversion to find someone attractive. But such are the times we live in, and such is the nature of man, and such are the effects of the urban environment. And sometimes I’m just oversensitive. I think all the women in my life have said something to that effect at one time or another.

Incidentally, the conductor reminds us that if you purchase your tickets on-board, they will be substantially higher. And no feet on the seats. My feet are on my computer bag. Is that OK? This puts me in a dilemma. Do I claim my legal right to have my feet upon my bag, which happens to be on the seat? Well, he took my ticket without giving me a dirty look, so I’m sure it’s all good. I sit this way because it’s too cramped to face forward and operate a laptop. It forces one put his spine, knees, thighs, elbows, wrists and other appendages into unnatural and uncomfortable positions. There is an abundance of empty seats. So I’m OK with stretching out.

This is the 11:37 to Stamford. It stops at every crossing between there and here. My iPod battery is dead. I have a book about options pricing and volatility, and a legal pad with a few problems to solve. Problems I’ve been wrestling with all summer. I’m not used to having it take me this long to figure something out.

My schedule is such that I have almost no downtime, which is a pity, because I’m used to having lots of time to contemplate things, solve problems, chase ideas, and rest. I haven’t had any downtime since…spring of last year. It has literally been a rat race since then. That’s why I really would like a retreat, if I can’t manage to build some regular downtime into my life.

Noise, noise, noise. Noise at work. Noise on the street. People everywhere. Even Mass is rushed. People in the elevator at the apartment. Roommates. Nowhere to just flop and be at peace. I want to be busy. But I realize – once again – the absolute necessity of downtime. The weekend. The Day of Rest. The Vacation. Time spent on the concerns of others.

Out of the tunnel…I’m reminded of that line,

“…sing like a heart found in a dream

on an outbound train picking up steam…”

That used excite me, that line. But as I never really GO anywhere, I’m not really outbound. I’m more on the end of a big bungee cord. And it’s an overcast day, as we stop at 125th St. It’s cool and fall. The train is filling up with Harlemites. Noisy New Yorkers who don’t give a shit about you.

If there’s one word I would use to describe New York, it’s “bitch.” Nothing like what I would have expected. But the city is a bitch. People are rude, they go out of their way to aggravate others, just like a bitch does. The complain about everything. They demand attention. They seem to think they are queens of the universe. Queens have remade the place in their image.

Everyone north of 125th who speaks Spanish surely knows what the conversation’s about between the lady in the seat immediately in front of me and whoever she's talking to on her cellphone.

I will confess a bit of a fantasy. Do you recall the scene in the movie “When Harry met Sally,” where Billy Crystal was on a double date, and they were all strolling down the street, and Billy’s date is talking with Billy’s friend – they are starting to hit it off – and she’s going on about something she read and Billy’s friend says, “I wrote that.” And Billy’s date drops her jaw and says, “You WROTE that?” And their connection is sealed. I secretly hope I will somehow cross paths with the woman of my dreams who says, “I was reading this and I thought it was so cool…” and I get to say, “that’s on my blog. I wrote that.”

It’s just a dream. Reality beckons.

OK, sitting in this position is making my back sore, and I’m out of thoughts, so that’s all for now. And no amount of contemplative commuting would prepare me for the escalation of hostilities that occurred at the Hertz counter. But no matter. I returned from my sabbatical a changed man.