May 2026

May 10-12, 2026: Mischief, thou art afoot. Try visualizing those words squirting out of a hole in Steve Bannon’s mug. How about Mark Antony (not the pop star) in a reflective moment? Shakespeare having one of those – a moment? Supposition: America has received its full petition (of something or other), never mind what is good health for the commonweal, an upscale word. In a discussion of how we got here, one might hear: “Don’t blame the liar. Blame the gullible.” Trump Regime Effects and Aftershocks, Installation #2, more in the offing. What would Shakespeare have made of the Designated Hitter Rule? Would he have rooted for the Knicks? What happens when the liar and the gullible are joined at the hip in a single entity, a person, say, and that person helms the free world, his orange aura miasmic? So far, nothing good. Nothing Good. The new national motto by fiat.

Otherwise, in the wake of recent developments – in Virginia, with respect to menacing electoral realities, I raise my hand (tentatively) and ask: will there be a blue wave or not, come the imminent midterms to the south of here? I expect to be shouted down by experts. I expect my hand to be bitten off. Does one have any right to feel mounting disquiet, to take one’s eye off the ball, so to speak, and ignore the polls and other sources of data, and all the good-times-are-coming oracles, and somehow feel the overall madness as deepening, that it has an unbreakable grip on a nation state’s wits and bones? Can there ever be a morning in America (after a horrendous night of successive storm fronts) that is freshly crisp air to one’s skin again, air not endlessly soiled by Reagan era blueprints for supply and demand, by a presser’s gastric winds, by all the bells and whistles with which Ayn Rand acolytes and Newt Gingrich-ian interns (cloned from the master copy) perform ditties, humbly busking for a polity of white idiots in comparison to which Neandertals come off spiffing? Try articulating the question into a golden phone while on bended knee, while stuck to some posture of ritual submission, a golden statue’s shadow having sucked dry one’s vibe? Well then: A quick break south is the beginning of wisdom, Genoa and Naples are not negligible, and the sea is the sea.

What the above italics mean and with respect to what – some civilizational crisis? – I throw up in the air as beyond sense. The sentence is, within its syntactical confines, a tone poem as opposed to a statement of fact. It is the sort of sentence one might klutz over in a memoir-travel book by an overwrought author overcome by the beauty of a place, with a history of humankind that has not been suborned by bots. (The Hill of Kronos, Peter Levi, 1981, a case in point.) And it is just that in just such a book. Perhaps the author meant to say: “Get out of England (or North America) if you want to understand a thing. Get out of your freakin’ head.” Or perhaps not. The cost of travel, these days…

Still, the following clause (from The Hellenistic World, F W Walbank, also 1981) is telling: in a manner befitting an educated man. Here we have reference to an ancient “presenter” of poetry. He puts a plectrum to his cithara. He brings forth the songs of Timotheus and Polyidus and other “poets”. It is perhaps all rather precious. But how long has it been since the words might apply to a post-post-post-modernist chewing on post-post-post-structural jellybeans in Terra Haute or Regina as opposed to Cnossus, the mic needing tweaking, the laptop out of juice? Beats me. How long has it been since poetry (in the person of, say, a SpongeBob Eumolpus or a freeloading Rilke) took a chair at some breakfast table and buttered toast and sugared coffee and flirted with the lady of the house? Be it a morning-after table… Be it the dawn of an age table… Be it just a getting-on-with-it item of kitchen furniture… There once was a world that was, at least, redeemable, if not equitable to all concerned. Beyond the White House lawn is a world that increasingly has all the texture of coprolites, with or without a Garden of Heroes… (Because everything You-Know-Who touches turns to… and all that… Since you have heard the gossip, twig to the rumours. That the gravitational constancy is one thing; nuclear winter is quite another, if you would seek a metaphor for the rise and fall of the latest neo-Reich to pearl-clutch at the Brass Ring nailed to our necks.)

I cannot say when my interest in antiquity first came about. There was the image of Apollo cradling his lyre on the title page of a book of Plato’s writings. It frightened me. It was saying: “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to reckon with what I get up to”. I was roundabout twelve at the time, the world an abyss. The book was one of those cheap editions by which my father, in all modesty and with mild intent, said: “I have no intellect to speak of, but I know that intellect exists.” (My mother had no objections. Hell, when a schoolgirl, she read Rilke like Americans once read “Hiawatha” at their desks.) I read the Plato and understood nothing. But that I did read it, yes. And it might well have introduced to me the notion that language was something one could explore. Even so, I was also very much smitten with baseball and basketball and comic books. I hoped to play “pro” in one of the aforementioned sports, extending my love of sport into adulthood. Serious reading in the “classics” came later – in my early twenties, and I was grappling with the “New American” poems, Shakespeare easier to grasp. I had long since quit Batman and Red Ryder and Archie. I discovered Juvenal in a bookstore, Vancouver Island, and that was that. One whacked the f-word (fascism) about like it was a shuttlecock back in the 70s, and it would die in the air and drop and yet, one was fairly sure that it, the f-word, was still a matter of not if, but when.

There was a time in the history of humankind (long, long, long before Das Kapital) when “profit-taking” was frowned upon. Or perhaps not quite so, but it was an idea making the rounds. Gain at the expense of another belonged to a different realm, to warfare and raiding, where it was achieved by acts (or threats) of prowess, not by manipulation and bargaining. The Straits of Hormuz? But then the quote just cited, from The World of Odysseus, applies to “the world of the Homeric poems” and perhaps, to the Bronze Age itself and wherever barter was the mode of “exchange”. I keep saying (somewhat flippantly) that I have no quarrel with mom-and-pop capitalism. This kind of economy, if it still exists in any meaningful way, at least had, and still has a face. What does one do with robocalls and bots and all sorts of other “late stage” capitalistical goodies and fetish items of which I have no understanding nor desire to warm to, that it is all alien to anything once recognizably human and approachable….

When everyone attains honour, then there is no honour for anyone. (Not a sentiment from a Project 2025 directive but a declarative sentence like any other, one elicited from The World of Odysseus, 1954.) And what about Trump, his greatness spoon-fed him in gobs? The honour, by way of his wolf hour screeds, is all his. Verily, here is a truism that he thinks is true to his incandescence: In the final analysis, how can prepotence be determined except by repeated demonstrations of success? You have heard of irony, I trust.

I sling quotes around like they are frisbees or boomerangs or so much hash fries. Prepotence? It is a word signifying strength and authority. There is thought as has circulated for decades now in which a ”competitive spirit” is a negatory and nothing but. Then there is the regime headed by You-Know-Who that wishes to ban all challenges to its hegemony electorally and otherwise, mostly otherwise. It was argued, even in remote times, that the hero, because of his obsession with honour (his prowess), cared more for that than for the “community” at large, so, as an idea, he had to be killed off. Did Odysseus give a straw for the people of his Ithaca? Was it only the insult to his person that he was bound to avenge, the false suitors raiding his stores and stalking his wife, his oikos (see post previous), as it were, sapped as per a siege? The answer, if there is one, may be a great deal more complex yet than anyone would like to acknowledge – in a book review, perhaps, AI crib sheets attached. One thing is certain: if honour is a worthy aim in life, Trump can never know honour because he is a cheat who does nothing but cheat. Obviously, House members and senators think him the alpha and omega of whatever the sun pisses on. It follows that Congress is certainly incapable of a noble act, having removed itself from the equation because heroes are too much damn trouble, and besides, the notion of heroism, by way of mere mention, has long been debased by drugstore blowhard-cowboys, by cowards and hucksters and cultists and collectivists and supremacists of all stripes. Whereas Odysseus (who was a trickster, who played any number of fellow travellers and Trojans for suckers) never assumed the “world” began and ended with himself, everyone else in it collateral damage.

Postscript I: On this day, 1962, Marvel Comics released the first issue of The Incredible Hulk, towering muscle-bound anti-hero. Carpenter was around to sample the pages, metaphysical implications of the strip there for the asking.

Postscript II: Lunar: … …. ‘Every time I check the election results Reform has won more and more seats. I can't even begin to tell you how much this shocks. [ ]. Sorrentino’s La Grazia stays with me. (You'll have to see it before we can discuss it further though.) And of course, the election has shaken me because it seemed not so long ago that this country had bucked the trend that so many countries have in moving towards the political right. I keep saying, "What happened?" and the answer does not materialise.’ … …. Hey, we feel you, bro. … ….’This morning I watched a trailer for a new movie of The Odyssey starring Matt Damon as, yes, Mr O, the lousy mariner, and my first impression is that it looks like a candidate for the worst movie ever made or at least the worst since Brad Pitt starred as Achilles. Why do Americans take on classical roles when we all know the ancient Greeks and Romans spoke with Oxbridge accents? Trouble, double toil and trouble, it looks like Iran may be Trump's nemesis. You tell me which side wins, the side on which even a single loss of life is too much to bear or the side that can sacrifice without blinking ten thousand lives? Trump doesn't get it. Yeh, I've been wondering about the universe. One gets to the age when things ancient no longer seem so ancient at all and for all we know the birth and death of the universe may be no more than a blip in someone else's eye.’ … …. Goodness. Well, the last time I heard someone say as much, and he was Polish, too, I was ten or so and trying to throw a perfect spiral. (Football.) I took the words under consideration.

Postscript III: Cornelius W Drake of Champaign-Urbana, honk away because it is all going to hell in a FedEx packet: … …. ‘No, I'm thinking that Trumpism is in its early stage of death throes. It'll have a long half-life, of course, like radiation. But its demise has begun. That's not insightful. It's fucking obvious.’ … …. Alright then. I’ll set my calendar. … …. ‘[Robards in that Caesar flick? Here’s an opinion or two on how a good actor is unmanned by Shakespeare’s blank verse]: “Generally as flat and juiceless as a dead haddock" —Howard Thompson, NYT; "There's hardly any way to describe how Jason Robards brings Julius Caesar to its knees, but let me try" —Roger Ebert. … …. [But] about not yet hitting bottom, [situationally speaking, politics the enabler], that's the beauty of this paradox: The worse things become, the better they become.’ … …. But for whose profile? “The Last Yuppie to Shop at Walmart”, sequel pending?… …. ‘The Democrats just can’t catch a break [.] [Virginia?] I think the Dems will still win the house, but [for] sure [the] margin will be slimmer.’ … …. Ah yes, when beggars die there are no comets seen. … …. Cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war…. But hey, Drake, you have the last word: … …. ‘Yes, we can't know if the ancient Greeks were "better" [than us]. But I would caution that what we know of their thoughts on life and living comes from a highly select group of first-rate minds and temperament. If in 2,500 years all humanity knows of Americans is what writings were left by some of the Founders and Abraham Lincoln, they'd think we were the most virtuous people on earth. (As some scholar once said, "The only thing worse than writing history without documents is writing history with documents.") [And] yes, the universe does have an edge, it's like a bubble, and assuming no multi-universes, it's all nothingness from there. Infinite nothingness, no edge, no end; it just goes on and on.’ … …. Your source? Pilgrims getting pedicures in the Toe-tally Polished Salon? Sorry, I was once, many lives ago, the Class Wiseacre. … …. ’Imagining blackness extending endlessly is an impossibility for the human brain, it being wired for only the finite. As the Buddhist priest said when asked if there's an afterlife, "Why do you ask such a question? It'll make your brain hurt." Your mention of themis was interesting. Last night I was reading Pericles' funeral oration: "We are lovers of nobility with restraint"; nobility translated from kalon, "nobility of character." I thought maybe the two words were synonymous. I did some digging. They're not, says the research. But the distinction in modern parlance is an awfully fine one. Themis (from the goddess, Themis) means "divine law," or law from the gods ("tradition," as you say), and kalon means "moral excellence." A person of kalon, then, is "virtuous." Today's theists would say morality (whatever that means) is what conforms to God's law (whatever that is, or might be). I like the Greek distinction: themis is divine, whereas kalon is generated by humanity.’

Postscript IV: Talking Avocado: … …. ‘I guess we’re done with all things Odysseus, meaning we’re on to other talking points. Harriet Beecher Stowe? Is a kalonoscopy in order? Percival says “maa”’.

Postscript V: Rutilius: … …. ‘Still recovering from my cure at the spa. I leave you with the following – from a book I’m sure you’ll recognize and for what it’s worth, and apropos of everything and nothing. But before we begin, there had been a discussion of a lament that a woman was singing on a bus making its way through backcountry to a town in Arkadia (Greece). The point being: a local lamenting the dead Christ, as opposed to a dead anyone else, was considered poor form when there were foreigners among the passengers. The quote: And Mikis Theodorakis, most famous and beloved of Greek musicians, learnt the elements of his art from an old church singer at Tripolitsa, now called Tripolis, which is also in Arkadia. That old man knew by heart every part of the ancient repertory of the church, and the whole corpus of secular, traditional music. He sang all day in churches and all night in taverns. [ ]. Mikis was going to be a great musician, and George was going to be a great poet. They were going to write an opera together. It would be a pastoral opera, and it was going to have real sheep. They were 8 years old then. … …. And then a discussion of Arkadia’s history and what Arkadia was good for, if anything. Mother-goddesses with strange eyes? A few good poets who wrote short, perfect poems like the dying notes of sheep bells? … …. From Peter Levi’s The Hill of Kronos. Need I say more? Was there once a world that had textures not always friendly to the touch, but something one could touch just the same, as might pave avenues into all the senses? I’ve rendered myself a conspiracist.’

Postscript VI: Sissy Gadzilla: … …. ‘What’s up, doc? You got me. I was munching on a carrot. As you must know, the movie crew has decamped, taken all their gear, fist bumps all the way to their vans. The building is ours again. What were they up to? Anna Karenina remake? Cupcakes in the oven, French horn awaits his turn. Not to be put in the oven but to proffer a tune. I love classical music, opera, those sorts of things. (I love all sorts of music, generally.) But the other day I happened to hear Jean Ritchie sing “Shady Grove”. Shady Grove, my little love, I'm bound to go away. Cheeks as red a blooming rose, and eyes are the prettiest brown. It put shivers down my neck.’

Postscript VII: Trail Mix: … …. In the flick “A Month by the Lake” 1995 rom-com (and the lake is Lake Como), Vanessa Redgrave shamelessly pursues the affection of a man. In our day and age, it’s called stalking. Still, a charming movie in its way. I didn’t wince once. Not a hint of creep in it, save that it’s the year 1937, war in the air, fascists in the streets… Whereas yesterday, the literal yesterday, not a metaphor, was all about baseball and “Julius Caesar” (the 1970 film). I switched back and forth between them. I see one of your buddies was onto it too, this movie version, I mean, of “lend me your ears”. Does it have anything to say to this moment in time? My kingdom for a gerrymander? (Right. That was some other Shakespeare. One of the Richards.) Look, it’s been a pouty spring. It wants to be warm. It can’t quite get its act together. You talk about raising your hand, you timorous, so as to posit a question, all the while you expect to be rounded upon by the perspicacious? You have my sympathies. My favourite café is still held hostage by obstreperous bricklayers two months after it was slated to re-open to a smattering of applause. Will Cassius rate a presidential pardon? Is the current Geist an “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” subtext? They’ve been streaky, those Blue Jays. They either score runs in bunches or they claw for air.’

May 4-5, 2026: Old news by now, though it was centre-cut a few days back when the question arose: am I dreaming? Dreaming an episode vis-à-vis Congress… Wherein a king, Brit monarch at that, lectures (mildly, even good-naturedly) the members of that body on the matter of a few nuts and bolts. Yes, as pertains to a cog or two in a political mechanism. Or what is minimally required for a democracy to function as it goes through a rough patch, a nightmare, in fact… And for his troubles, he rates a standing ovation. It is bipartisan two-hand clapping, and in unison, fancy that. Perhaps the ruckus startled him. As if all those men and women were desperately in need of a venting moment, and they let off a bit of pent-up consternation, of, how shall we say, repressed rage? No doubt, stranger things have happened, much stranger, not the least of which was the re-election of the, how shall we say, lizard brain for HOS or Head-of-State, guest-friendship relations up for a reboot. Lizard brain with disposable lizard tail and somewhat convex lizard eyes (cannot nail the sucker, impeachment proof) … And so forth and so on… Even so, that royalty should ever so slyly admonish what would be the leader of the free world not-so-free-as-we-speak-and-it-is-getting-more-parlous-by-the-minute, is that not a hoot?

I have in mind the word themis, one I came across in a little book. The book is entitled The World of Odysseus, M I Finley, 1954. The sense of that word lies with “the right thing to do” or with “what is not done – ever”. With what is customary. With “tradition”, and there is a word as had a bad rep in the 60s, with some justification… But the violation of unwritten law as opposed to what is on the books – it is at times the more unforgiveable crime… How many “unwritten laws” of the last ten years have been routinely and gleefully trashed? I am not going to do it here, but ask yourself, for a grand for instance: how many court orders has the regime ignored since 2016? And that is just for starters. And how many jellybeans are in that jar?

Whatever “themis” was, it was discussed in the local assemblies of Homer’s Greeks. From Finley’s opus: The world of Odysseus had a highly developed sense of what is fitting and proper. In the world of the U.S. of A., whatever might constitute a bunch of “themis” has been quashed, abandoned, bulldozed over, hardly missed. Though the stony island of Ithaca was nowhere near being democratic in practice, everything tilting in the direction of lords lording it over peasants and slaves, things were discussed by one and all; most everyone figured in the discussions and so, this or that lord who had executive decisions to make at least knew what was thumbtacked to the community’s bulletin board, what was on everyone’s mind from the top rungs to the bottom tiers of the collective oikos, or economic unit beyond that of the immediate family and its household “issues”. Let me catch my breath.

Perhaps the millennia that separate us from those Greeks are not such a barrier as all that when it comes to a glimpse of their moment at one of history’s mustering points (the Bronze Age). In light of which, what the “people” wanted from their bards was not so dissimilar from what TV audiences desire of their HBO binge-watches, i.e. action, one might say action-narratives, what happens to whom and who does what about this or that, even if no one lives happily ever after, never mind exegeses of what it means to be human. (Proust, for all his nattering about jealousy and what the passing of time does to body, mind, and soul, wrote up characters to whom things did their worst, to whom sh-t, or life as a general principle, happened.) In any case, it is not to say that your average action-thriller has more to offer than the poetry in which Achilles drags Hector’s corpse around Troy’s walls (after he has hitched it to his chariot) and how that spectacle came to pass. And as for what it means to be human, the tragedians that succeeded Homer – Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides (not to mention a great many lost authors and their lost works), from whom do you think the likes of a Proust lifted a nugget or two of insight? Nobody-Is-Interested-in-Sweetness-and-Light Hedda Hopper? In summation: Conversely, there was no weakness, no unheroic trait, but one, and that was cowardice and the consequent failure to pursue heroic goals. What were we saying about Congress?

And, inane question, one worthy of a juvenile, but an adult of mature age? And yet here goes nothing. Does the universe have edges beyond which is some kind of nothingness? As if that nothingness were an amniotic fluid of sorts nestling a perverse appetite for cosmic paradox. And why should any of it – a universe of energy and matter and nothingness exist at all? The mind wants a reason or reasons as it is so constituted that reason is its raison d’etre and yet, so often reason is an impediment to knowing a thing. Why should there be any reason for anything, for should x=y, top that z, then q has to be taken seriously? (Seems that, tail-end of my seventh decade, and I find myself sifting through the same questions I had on hand when I was a pre-teener.) Homer had all that in mind too, in his way, although his responses, if any, were posited in the melee called human affairs having to do with a warrior class. Was Odysseus a thug or a man of principles as he went about slaughtering the false suitors stalking Penelope, those sackers of his stores? (The storeroom, not the hearth, was the centre of every household.) And if you do “A”, “B” is likely to follow. So, do you want “B” to follow? Well, you do not piss off the gods, for starters. That was morality for a Homer man, guest-friendship relations that world’s underpinning, its cutting edge of enlightened behaviour. A thousand years later, with Plutarch, and we arrive at what is needed to “improve” one’s character: mastery over one’s appetites and emotions. Even so, a somewhat stuffy Plutarch does not seem to have been that much of a finger-wagger, of “you’re going to rot in hell for your un-Christian attitudes” kind of censure, as when the Bird of Paradise flies up your nose, but there are consequences just the same, have a care. And here, another two thousand years later, and we seem to be shadow-boxing one another and ourselves in a world where it seems like anything flies, even shit-filled balloons, let alone the heaviest and least aerodynamic egoisms.

Postscript I: On this day in 738 of the “common era”, Maya ruler 18 Rabbit of Copán is captured and beheaded by his former vassal Cauac Sky, ruler of the nearby city of Quiriguá. How could I resist that mouthful, not to mention that Carpenter, in a past life, might have witnessed it, sporting feathers as he did? He is certainly witnessing stuff now, and he is not clutching pearls. Read this time-traveller should you have need of a rather lustful union between insightfulness and acerbity.

Postscript II: More Lunar Anomalies or: … …. ‘[King] Charles was put in an awful position of course and ought not to have gone. It was really forced on him by Starmer who is so bloody obsequious that it is embarrassing to observe.’ … …. And then, after a decent interval of time, this: … …. ‘I have only just realised King Charlie did rather better than anticipated with his speech to congress, the fact that Vance refused to applaud him. That is a kind of victory. I suppose that means Vance understood what was being said. And the little creep comes over here to lecture Europe!’ … …. I know. I know. And I thought I had a bad case of Herr Professor. As for Pompeii: Under the Clouds, what say you? … …. ‘Hmmmm, it was the film I was most looking forward to and ... and ... I was disappointed. Yes, the trailer was most promising, but it was a great opportunity missed, nothing, for example, about the philosophical implications of living with the thing that might one day kill you. So many people have profound things to say about Vesuvius but there were [these] silly phone calls to the police department abouts tremors etc. I'm not saying it was bad, but it was not half the film it could have been. … …. A certain I-country doing unto Lebanon what it’s still doing to Gaza and the West Bank where shoot-to-kill civilians now has official sanction – there’s that too. So, a number of British Jews have escaped into the “relative peace” of Israel at which I don't know whether to laugh or cry. [ ] And of course the [ ] Starmer wants to ban pro-Palestine marches as supposedly being vehicles of hate. [Hate?] I hate what this world has become, the genies that have been released from the bottle.’ … …. Roger that. I can hear bubbles sparkle and hiccups fly and the can you kick around rattling something fierce.

Postscript III: Cornelius W Drake of Champaign-Urbana, honk if you see food assistance being dumped in the street amidst the cannon fodder staring down NICE hoods and phalanxes of anti-vaxxers: … …. ‘Trump has absolutely cratered; the last Pew poll has his net disapproval at +30. Even Rasmussen and RMG — a couple of GOP whores — have him at +13 and +15. And his numbers get worse (i.e., better) every week. I've not read Finley but bless his heart he comes cheap, 6 bucks, unlike so many other works on ancient lit. (And I still say the Iliad is superior to Odysseus.’) … …. ??? You mean The Odyssey. … …. ‘[And] Maga knows it (by way of the bad polls, not ancient literature), but won’t admit it. Everyone else knows it and is telling pollsters precisely that. [You see], we're already scathed. It'll get worse and, I suspect, [and the worseness will] hang [around] for a long time. But the sooner we correct course, the shorter the duration of pain. All I really know is that what the Trumpists want most is for us to declare defeat; to say, well that's it, we're doomed, it's all over. Thank you, no. Ain't doin' that.’ … …. Yes, I think we get where you are coming from. When I wrote you to say: Texas town, churchy, exceedingly kinky, corruptions new and old, hypocrisies as stale as OT accounts of evil kings, as fresh as yesterday in the life of the regime, and if this depiction (by TV series writing) is even halfways accurate, America as paradise is thoroughly noxious, the sunset a swamp, night a bottomless bog, you said: ‘You could have stopped at "Texas town”. I would’ve gotten from whence you’re coming from.’

Postscript IV: Talking Avocado: … …. ‘We’ve been fascinated by all things Odysseus for a long, long time, how he stacks up in this world of threadbare Christian virtue and transactional thuggery, Polyphemuses comprising every legislative body, Percival and I being islanders a la Ithaca, the Recycling Depot the centre of our “oikos”. Then again, I prefer to downplay the fascination, literary fetishes anathema to me. We’ve received an e-mail from one of your buddies in which he suggests that things are so bad, there can be no saying how bad they are. We’ll have to accord that some thought. Maa. Yesterday, the sight of a movie crew assembling at the ferry dock gave me a chest full of melancholy and other misgivings. Yes, we’re listed as local luminaries – as in a “man and his goat”, but we don’t flash. Maa. The side of me that’s Odysseus, sacker of cities and all-around trickster – it’s on high alert as I consider the likelihood of yet another one-word awful title as will flag the latest pile of movie trash to be released into the world. Maa. Not to get me wrong: I love movies. Will watch almost anything, even mindless farce. But feel-good pottage all mean girl and bad boy dialogue – it unnerves one. It points to a great sucking sound at the centre of the universe swallowing every iota of sentience…. Thank you, even so, for presenting me as having been sane. (Previous post.) Dubious claim, however.’

Postscript V: Rutilius: … …. ‘Taking a pass this go-round. Recovering from my cure at the spa. It was an out-of-body moment, me seeing myself in towel and flip-flops, the weight of western civ on my shoulders, some part of my brain a shrine to Schopenhauer, even if I’ve long since forgotten what he stood for, unless it be that humankind is mostly a fool’s errand, but suffer the little children anyway. You know there was a variant of a certain story-line as floated about in the ancient Greek world. It went like this: one of Odysseus’s sailors (under the influence of Circe’s spell) would rather not have been turned back into a man. He liked being a pig. Ah, pigglety wigglety igglety what’s up, doc? I think I’ll grow carrots in my garden. I sense a downturn in the air….’

Postscript VI: Sissy Gadzilla: … …. Yet another movie shoot in this building. Weary of it. (Landlord, ass and wannabe arts patron, gets shekels for the vacant suite.) But I aren’t weary of cupcakes and my French horn. Of course, you realize the horn is schtick on my part. Can’t play it worth beans though I’ll have it bleat away at times, in warm weather, say, in the park down the street. Gets me high-fives and looks of concern. Wonder what this latest cinematic venture is to be called. Something as grotesque as “The Man with the Smallest Penis in Existence and the Electron Microscope Technician Who Loved Him.” Actual title. Polish cousin brought it to my attention.’

Postscript VII: Trail Mix: … …. ‘Seems to me we ought to be getting serious. Too much badinage in our badinage.’