4 May

Flo In The Apple Tree

by Jon Katz
Flo In The Apple Tree
Flo In The Apple Tree

Barn cats inhabit many different worlds, they seem to glide through time and space and form their own geography. Flo is sometimes to be found in the apple tree, sometimes the woodshed, often the front porch, often the back porch, sometimes the garden, and many nights (like tonight) sleeping on the couch. She got two mice and a mole today, carcasses and body parts everywhere.

Cats can be affectionate one moment, joyous serial killers the next.

4 May

Waking To The New Order. Sleep In Peace, Grandma, We Will Survive.

by Jon Katz
Bedlam-A-Largo
Bedlam-A-Largo

When I woke up this morning to the still shocking word of the new reality – I did imagine he would have been gone by now – it all seemed almost dreamy, even cinematic. I thought the Nominee Presumptive would be back to his next TV show  – Campaign, in which aspiring presidential candidates get booted for failing to defend themselves against insult, and they must leap, shamed,  from the top of the great castle in New York  in disgrace while the host shouts:  “You’re Suspended!.”

I thought he would be back on the golf course at Mar-A-Largo with Melania, brooding in our new  San Simeon (apologies to Mr. Hearst, I was once briefly an editor of a Hearst Newspaper, and have a bit of experience with deranged billionaires), the tycoon already dreading the inevitable fall after the unexpected rise.

Tycoons know that the only thing worse than not getting what you want is getting what you want.

What a movie this year will make.  Christopher Walken as Trump!.

We open with Mar-A-Largo shrouded in mist, a ghostly single figure walking along the ninth hole, trailed by a platoon of Secret Service agents, protesters shouting in the distance, a stunned country staring into their Iphones in fear and disbelief.

It seems the masses have risen up, grabbed their torches, and torched the system that has been oppressing them for so long. Only the man they have chosen is the system, that is the irony and the plot. In seeking a rebel, they chose The Man. And that is the timeless story of the masses, it seems. The rich always end up screwing the poor, in one way or the other.  That story never seems to change.

Or maybe I’m in the wrong movie, perhaps that is Frankenstein. Or maybe that is the same movie.

Mary Shelly wrote this story a long time ago. “I have love in me the likes of which you could scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other,” warns the monster in Shelley’s Frankenstein.

I loved Citizen Kane, a great study of power, lust and celebrity. If Melania were a bit more tormented, this one might even be better, plot wise.  Hearst always wanted to run for President, but there was too much scandal in his life, and before the age of the Reality Show, scandal was thought to be a disadvantage for aspiring politicians. We loved the myth that they were above it all.

Our new Kane boasts about his scandals, he does not hide from them.

I do practice transparency and believe in it. Free is the man or woman who are so open about their lives, they know neither fear or shame. They have nothing to hide.

Briefly, I had this idea of writing a satirical fantasy about Bedlam-A-Largo,  building a wall around the chickens, banning sheep who do not submit to being herded, negotiating better deals with the donkeys – more work for their hay and cookies. Donkeys have made fools of us for years, they always outsmart us when it comes to negotiating.

But it didn’t seem all that funny to me when I tried to write it. That is the thing about writing, what is in your head comes out of your fingers.

I kept thinking of my grandmother Minnie, a woman who loved me dearly, an immigrant who fled one country for her life and was chased out of several others, what kept her going, what saved her life,  was her dream of getting to America, the one place she had ever known, where she didn’t have to fear being tracked down and killed for who she was, or for who people feared she was. She would have understood the meaning of mobs pointing fingers at people because of their faith and driving them off.  When I think of Minnie Cohen, the morning news was not funny, and my satirical balloon fizzled.

For you, grandma, I will get political this year.

I will fight for your dream, and for all of the other Minnie’s clinging to rafts and passing their children over fences. Some things are almost as important as jobs and money.

Instead of writing about the farm animals in their new regime,  I picked up my H.L. Mencken and read about democracy.  In a chapter in Notes On Democracy called “Last Words,” Mencken wrote that one of the merits of democracy is that it is the most charming form of government ever devised by man.

The reasons are not hard to find.

Fear, he wrote is the currency of demagogues, “the professors of mob psychology..they make it the cornerstone of their exact and puissant science.”

Democracy, he wrote, “is based upon propositions that are palpably not true – and what is not true, as everyone knows, is always more immensely fascinating and satisfying to the vast majority of men than what it is true. Truth has a harshness that alarms them, and an air of finality that collides with their incurable romanticism. They turn, in all of the great emergencies of life,  to the ancient promises, transparently false but immensely comforting, and of all those ancient promises there is none more comforting than the one to the effect that the lowly shall inherit the earth.”

The myth of democracy, he wrote, is that we citizens are all noble savages at heart, inexorably coming to the wise and just decisions. That is not always true or possible. Is is not a great system, he argued, just the best one around. Better to dance around the pyres of demagogues than rush through the streets killing people, as so often happens in so many places. Democracy, he wrote, is a self-limiting disease, it is also  self-devouring.

Democracy has, he wrote presciently,  a curious distrust of itself, a tendency to abandon its whole philosophy at the first sign of strain.

“Learn from me,” cautioned the monster, “if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be his world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow.”

The founders worried about this, Jefferson wanted the vote to stay in the hands of wealthy farmers, the framers feared the mob, they were suspicious of the masses. Mobs are almost always creepy. It is not a pretty system, it is just the best system.

“Is rascality at the very heart of it?,” Mencken asked. “Well, we have borne that rascality since 1776, and continue to survive.

Sleep well, grandma, we will continue to survive.

 

 

4 May

Soul Portrait: Kim

by Jon Katz
Soul Portrait
Soul Portrait

Kim, our only Karakul sheep, is also our most skittish sheep. The others have gotten used to the dogs and our comings and goings, Kim is shy, she always hides in the flock if she can. Sadly, lambing season last year began with her lamb being born very early and dying in the ice and the snow. She is a beautiful sheep, her wool is especially beautiful.

4 May

Responsibility: “I Am Sorry. I Was Wrong. I Failed. I Made A Mistake.”

by Jon Katz
"I Was Wrong"
“I Was Wrong”

Jean-Paul Sartre wrote that human beings are condemned to be free, because once thrown into the world, we are responsible for everything we do. It is up to us, he wrote, to give meaning to life. I sometimes want to cry when I think of this beautiful ethic, I wonder where it has gone.

And I ought to know, I lost it myself.

When my life broke apart seven or eight years ago, I went for help and a therapist asked me what my goals were in my remaining life. I did not hesitate to answer. I said I wanted to shed the fear that was choking my life, I wanted to understand the role of money and security in my life, but most importantly, I wanted to learn how to take responsibility for my life, and for everything that I did.

Looking around me, I see a culture in which everyone else is blamed for everything that happens to us. If a politician loses an election, it is never because he or she failed or was rejected.

It was the media to blame, or a “rigged” system. We grow angrier and angrier at them, they screwed us again and again they forgot about us, they don’t care about us. Many people blame the government for their troubles.  When we get divorced, it is often the other one who was at fault, we are not to blame. If we can’t pay our taxes, we hate the IRS for asking for them, we hate them for existing.

The problems of the world are caused by the left, or the right.  Or the billionaires, or the bureaucrats.

This is a very personal issue for me because I did not know how to say those rarely heard words “I was sorry,” or “I made a mistake,” or “I failed.” I never heard them spoken in my family, I never hear them spoken now. The lawyers worry that we can be sued, we might get scorned on Twitter. It seems an old and hoary idea, admitting mistakes and taking the consequences for them.

A month ago, I was pulled over by a state trooper for speeding, I was going 10 miles over the speed limit. When he asked me if I knew why he had stopped me, I started to say I had no idea – I was always told to never admit to speeding.

I decided to take responsibility and I said, “I was speeding, I was driving ten miles over the limit, and I didn’t notice until I saw your lights flashing.” He looked startled and he said that was right, and he smiled and said he wasn’t going to give me a ticket for speeding, he gave me a ticket for failing to use my wipers in the rain, no points for that.

In January, I found myself in a disturbing conflict with people I thought were my friends, it was one of those Facebook arguments, I think there is a translation software there that turns discussions into misinterpretations, insults and arguments. She was furious with me, and I couldn’t quite understand it, and I apologized if I had upset or offended her, I hadn’t meant to. I was sorry, I said, perhaps we could talk about it. But she couldn’t talk about it, she clung to her rage and victimhood for months, still does for all I know.

She simply could not admit the sad truth that it always takes two people to have a bad conversation like that.

Being sorry or admitting a mistake doesn’t always seem to be enough, more blood is demanded, more drama. After my divorce, I blamed my wife for not sharing the life I wanted. I blamed my daughter for not understanding why I broke up our family. Over time, I worked to understand this in a different way. I was not responsible for them, I was responsible for me. What had I done wrong? Why hadn’t I listened more and seen more?

My wife had a right to live a different life than I wanted to live. My daughter had the right to see it in whichever way made sense to her. The person I had to look at was me, not them. The person I had to learn from was me, not them. And we were all responsible for the choices and decisions we made.

Sometimes, I think we are living in a cloud of blame and denial. Personal responsibility is a lost faith, it seems.

I know so many people who can never stop pointing the finger at others. Everywhere I go I hear people raging at politicians, institutions, politicians, banks.

But I am not responsible for them, I am responsible for me, and I am happy to stand in my truth and fight for my identity, but I have also learned to value these precious words: “I was wrong. I am sorry. I made a mistake.” When I started learning them anew, they seemed almost foreign to me, I hear them so rarely.

Taking responsibility for my life was one of the most difficult things I have ever done, and I still work at it every day. I don’t think there are any more difficult words to speak than “I was wrong. I am sorry.”  When we declared bankruptcy last year, I started to blame the banks and publishing and lawyers and the recession for my troubles, and there is a good case to be made for some of that.

But I chose a different path instead and have worked hard at it. In my very wonderful marriage, there is sometimes conflict and confusion, hurt feelings and poorly chosen words. There is nothing more healing or loving than to say “I am sorry, I was wrong,” there is no shame in it, only love. And every time we say it, we love one another all the more.

I am responsible for my life, no one made me get divorced, no one made me try to sell my farm in a bad market, no one kept me from saving money 30 years ago, when everyone was doing it. Those were my choices, my responsibility, my life.

I always liked Eleanor Roosevelt’s idea: “In the long run, we shape our lives, and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility.” Confucius suggested that we blame the devil that is in ourselves rather than the devil that is in others. The devil loves me, he visits often.

A long-time reader messaged me after I asked for support in buying a new camera, he said he would never read the blog again because I was asking others to indulge my “hobby.” I did not apologize to him, I was not sorry. I wrote that I was responsible for what I chose to ask for, not him, and the people who helped me were responsible for their choices, not him.

Responsibility is not always about surrender, quite often it is about affirmation. It works both ways, and  your heart and your bathroom mirror tells you which is right and which is wrong. Responsibility is about honesty and authenticity, it literally builds character and strengthens the soul, emotion by emotion.

The only face in the mirror I have to please is my own. It is not what others think, it is what I think.

In this year, this presidential year, candidates come and go, and there have already been many defeats and withdrawals. Everyone single defeated candidate has blamed the system, his party, the media, the pollsters, the consultants. it is the Cult Of Sore Losing.  A chorus of whines and finger-pointing. Was this me for much of my life? It will not be me for the rest of my life.

I have yet to hear a single leader stand up and look into a camera and say “I accept the process, I failed, I have been rejected, and I will take responsibility.”

If they can’t do it, how can we? If lawyers and marketers shape our ethics, how will we ever find them?

When our leaders fail to guide and inspire us, where are we to go for inspiration and direction? Back to the bathroom mirror, I guess. That was my choice.

There is no more effective antidote in my experience to hate and frustration and disconnection than personal responsibility.  The more responsibility I take, the less anger and frustration and fear I feel. I was wrong. I made a mistake. I am sorry.

Responsibility is strength, it is purpose, it is meaning. It is the ultimate way in which I have learned to stand in my truth. And it is hard, every single time. It is was a great relief for me to stop blaming the world

For me, nothing has been more important.  It gives meaning to my life.

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