"Whenever I go into a restaurant, I order both a chicken and an egg to see which comes first"

Monday, July 24, 2017

Donald Trump And The Art Of Exaggeration–Without It Life Would Be Tedious Indeed

Aunt Tally, the story goes, was a Colorado rancher born in the back room of a Nevada whore house, worked as a Laramie barkeep in her twenties, rustled cattle across the Rio Grande in Sonora in her thirties, and served as Deputy Sheriff of Pima County Arizona until she bought her ranch spread in Paonia at forty-five.

Some of the story is true.  Tally Lord was indeed a Western rancher born in Colorado; and one of the first women to become a senior law enforcement officer in the State of Arizona; but the rest was added for emphasis. 

The Lord family, all of whom except Tally’s branch were Easterners and direct descendants of the earliest settlers of the Massachusetts Bay Colony – governors, shippers, merchants, and bankers. 

Image result for images wealthy settlers mass bay colony

The Western Lords were among the first settlers of Colorado, taking up the offer of the railroads for free land along the right-of-way, luckily finding silver on their 10,000 acres but moving over the Rockies when they saw their mines play out and buying well-watered land in the fertile valleys on the western slopes.

Image result for images colorado mining towns 19th century

The early Lords had had no sons, so the responsibility for their ranching enterprise was left to Tally who turned a profit in the third year thanks to ample rains, management instincts, and good relationships with the Bureau of Land Management and local elected officials. 

The rest – questionable birth and income and reputation as a rustling gunslinger – were all fanciful inventions by her relatives who had never been west of the Monongahela, added incrementally over time, so that by the time the real Tally took her last breath at 100, she bore no resemblance at all to the down-to-earth, ambitious, and very practical woman she had always been. 

No one goes for long without stretching the truth, adding a bit of spice to an otherwise uninteresting vacation or to the ordinary lives of their children.  Gas mileage, profit margins, awards, sexual conquests, accolades, promotions, and golf handicaps are all bumped up or down a bit.  All credible, not far from the truth, harmless, and while self-serving, not impossible.

Life in fact would be dreary and dull without exaggeration.  Who wants to hear about accountancy, middle management, and mortgages? And who doesn’t want to hear lions, tigers, close encounters with African militias, near-death experiences in the Carpathians, and trapping marmot on the Tibetan plateau?

In ‘The Devil - Ivan’s Nightmare’ Chapter of The Brothers Karamazov Dostoyevsky creates a very different kind of Devil, one dressed in the slightly shabby clothes of a diminished aristocrat; one with a sense of humor, irony, even vaudeville.  Where would you all be without me, the Devil, asks.  Life would be a bloody bore, wouldn’t it?


God preserve me from it, but one can't help complaining sometimes. I am a slandered man. You upbraid me every moment with being stupid. One can see you are young. My dear fellow, intelligence isn't the only thing! I have naturally a kind and merry heart. ‘I also write vaudevilles of all sorts.’
Without criticism [life] would be nothing but one ‘hosannah.’ But nothing but hosannah is not enough for life, the hosannah must be tried in the crucible of doubt and so on, in the same style. But I don't meddle in that, I didn't create it, I am not answerable for it. Well, they've chosen their scapegoat, they've made me write the column of criticism and so life was made possible. We understand that comedy; I, for instance, simply ask for annihilation. No, live, I am told, for there'd be nothing without you. If everything in the universe were sensible, nothing would happen. There would be no events without you, and there must be events.
So against the grain I serve to produce events and do what's irrational because I am commanded to. For all their indisputable intelligence, men take this farce as something serious, and that is their tragedy. They suffer, of course ... but then they live, they live a real life, not a fantastic one, for suffering is life. Without suffering what would be the pleasure of it? It would be transformed into an endless church service; it would be holy, but tedious.
“Life would be holy, but tedious”, the Devil says echoing the words of Ivan who has hallucinated the scene, created it in delirium no differently than he wrote his short story of The Grand Inquisitor.
Dostoyevsky’s Devil has much more modest designs on man – peccadilloes, silly indiscretions, bald-faced lies, minor deceptions and deceits. 

Yet exaggeration has been given a bad name by many.  In liberal quarters truth, objectivity, and dispassionate, logical analysis are necessary ideals for a complex, troubled world.  Progressivism is based on the assumption that, despite the discouraging lessons of history, humanity can evolve to a better, more peaceful, and cooperative world – but only if enough investment is made.  There is nothing that logical discipline, commitment, and purposeful endeavor cannot achieve.  Exaggeration, idealistic distortion, lies, deceit, and untruth are the enemies of progress.

The election of Donald Trump has been progressives’ worst nightmare.  Not only has be been characterized as evil – misogynistic, homophobic, and racist – but he lies.  He distorts the truth, tells outrageous stories, makes impossible promises; and even worse he – the master of deception, exaggeration, and mendacity – blames his opponents for ‘fake news’, bias, and media distortion. 
Of all these sins, his lies are the worst.  If Trump simply stuck to his hateful policies and programs, liberals’ criticisms would be tempered.  After all, George Bush, Nixon, and Reagan were called out for their crony capitalism, insider politics, and intellectual corruption.  One could deal with them on an even playing field.

But what to do with a vaudevillian, a circus clown, a side show freak who not only cares nothing for the truth but values the same exaggerations and inflated fantasies so hated by the Left?

Image result for images 19th century barnum and bailey circus

The Great Gandolfo was the greatest magician of the early 19th century.  Because of a somewhat shady and questionable past, the big circuses like Barnum & Bailey never engaged him.  On the small tent, county fair, 4H and watermelon circuit he was a big draw.  He performed all the classic magic tricks – sawing a woman in half, wriggling out of a buccaneer’s chains, and making pigeons and rabbits appear and disappear – but his real talent was legerdemain. 

What his audience saw – a hand of cards, a live toad, a glass of water, or a furled flag – was nothing of the sort.  He made everything change in appearance, change places, colors, dimensions, and posture.  By the end of his show no one was sure exactly what they had seen or what had become of what they did.



Gandolfo was brilliant, exotic, and absolutely compelling.  He wore a traditional magician’s outfit – top hat, white tie, and tails – before every audience no matter how humble.  It was a showman’s outfit, what everyone expected; and his hat woven of fine silk, his studs of 14 karat diamonds, and his tuxedo tailored in Bond Street, showed his respect and gratitude for his followers.  He never thought of them as gullible or na├»ve, and prided himself on giving them what they wanted in glamorous style.

Everyone knew that rabbits didn’t really disappear, that no one could possibly read minds or dismember and reassemble women’s bodies; but they willingly suspended disbelief.  It was the circus after all, and one didn’t pay good money to see railroad tracks being laid or cows being milked.
In fact the voters of rural America suspend their disbelief all the time; and the circus was just the most theatrical display of it.  They are sure that Armageddon is coming within their lifetimes, that the End of Days is nigh, and that Jesus will soon receive them on their entrance to heaven.  No matter how much paleontological evidence is presented; no matter how many prehistoric fossils are discovered; and no matter how disciplined and rigorous the logical line of inference might be, they know absolutely, unequivocally, and with all their hearts that God created Man in his image.

Image result for images durer armageddon

It didn’t take Donald Trump to create the suspension of disbelief; he only gave loud voice to it.  His exaggerations, evangelical bombast, impossible distortions and fantastical stories were par for the course for Americans who never had any faith in liberal ‘truth’.  For all Washington’s insistence on governance, sane policies, objective analysis, and good judgment, nothing could be less true.  Better to embrace an out-and-out vaudevillian who understands the frustrations, resentments, and anger of the people than those who posture and say they do. 

“He gets it, he gets us, and we get him”, they said.

Donald Trump is nothing new.  He has only been waiting in the wings for his moment.  He is today’s quintessential American – a man fast and loose with the truth, never corralled, all Wild West, Hollywood, big tent braggadocio, and televangelist. 


He is one of us. We all have an Aunt Tally; and now we have the biggest, greatest, most stupendous Aunt Tally ever.

Friday, July 21, 2017

We All Hear Voices–It Just Depends On Whose

Billy Randall heard voices, or at least so he thought until an audiologist diagnosed him with ‘High Frequency Wave Distress’, a disorder which flipped on certain neuron switches when he picked up high frequency electronic transmissions and distorted them into seemingly human voices.

Image result for images high frequency waves

He never accepted this diagnosis because the voices were so clear, persuasive, and insistent.  There was no way that they were simply the result of some electronic interference.

His parents, who like most were willing to listen, accept the possibility that their son had a special talent, and help wherever they could, never spoke openly to each other about their real concern – that their son was a loony. 

Billy knew that his parents did not believe him and if anything tolerated him; so after a while he stopped telling them about what he had heard or overheard that day.  More importantly he knew, after a few humiliating experiences, that sharing his uniqueness with friends and classmates was a big mistake.

Image result for images the raven poe

Billy’ reception – what he picked up downtown, at construction sites, and at airports – was varied and not unusual.  In some cases it was like eavesdropping like the afternoon at Willow Park when he heard two women from Chicago discussing their recent trip to Alaska.  Sometimes he heard admonitions not unlike those of Father Brophy; and not infrequently he heard what he called ‘otherworldly voices’. 

Not God necessarily, but certainly no one of any consequence in New Brighton or anywhere he had ever been, or anyplace he had seen on television; so by default he assumed the voices were disembodied.  The power of suggestion being what it is, dead people were the easiest explanation.

There were enough movies like The Sixth Sense’ (“I see dead people’) to influence a young mind.
By the time he was a young adult, however, he began to give more consideration to epiphanies and other religious experiences.  Perhaps the voices he heard were indeed those of the many incarnations of God.  If so, these could not possibly be random receptions.  God would not broadcast indiscriminately on the chance that his transmissions would be picked up.  His nature was purposeful.  If the voices were indeed those of God, Billy had been chosen.

Image result for hearing voices images printable

Mark Salzman wrote an interesting book (Lying Awake) about a  nun in a monastery who experiences visions and is regarded by the others as a spiritual master. Sister John, however is also plagued by powerful headaches which, medical authorities conclude, may be serious, life-threatening, and the cause of her visions.  She then faces a devastating choice.  Is this ‘grace’ that she feels God has bestowed merely an illness ? And will a 'cure' mean the end of her illuminations and spiritual salvation?

Billy Randall felt himself in the same situation.  If the increasingly beautiful, poetic, spiritual voices which inspired him daily were nothing but synapses misfiring, then where would he be?  If he ignored the possibility of neuro-physiological anomaly, then he was being irrational and stubborn.  Yet so what if the visions and voices were neurological in origin?  Perhaps God had chosen this particular avenue for his enlightenment.

Image result for images book lying awake salzman

Of course there was a third option – that he was becoming what his parents had suspected all along.  Loony.  In fact he could be victim of a perfect storm – a brain malfunction exploited by God to produce miraculous visions; and a serious mental illness causing wild distortions far beyond anything else.

He knew that before he lost his lucidity, he had to do something.  But what? Deny his increasingly profound spirituality? Get a few nips and tucks in his cerebral cortex, stop the interference, and get normal? Admit that the wild visions now accompanying the voices were a sure sign of schizophrenia which had to be arrested before he did something crazy? And where to turn first?

The Church he knew, of Father Brophy was any example, would certainly encourage him just like the nuns at Sister John’s priory did.  Who can guess the mind of God? Take what you can get.
Psychiatrists would give him enough psycho-active medication to quiet the most disturbed bi-polar madman; and neurologists would want to snip a few connections here and there in his brain no matter what the opinions of Father Brophy or medical doctors.

The older Billy got, the worse – or better, depending on perspective – he became.  Living in a large metropolitan area in the midst of a construction boom, ubiquitous electronic devices, and a tangled network of high-frequency connections assured that he heard voices all the time.  Bi-polar disorder was becoming de rigeur as an explanation for all kinds of personality quirks, and New Age religion always open to and encouraging of alternate spiritual experiences, was increasing in popularity and influence. 

In other words, figuring out what was right or wrong with him became literally impossible.
He disappeared after 40; or at least no one in New Brighton had any clue about his whereabouts.  Most assumed that he had not gone the neurological route or he would be still in town practicing law or medicine.  Some felt that he was in a Carpathian monastery in the Alps or some other secluded place where distinctions between neurological disorders and spiritual perception are never made.  Many were certain that he had been committed.

Image result for images carpathian monastery into great silence

Truman Capote on more than one occasion said that his book Other Voices, Other Rooms was a son's search for his father who was "a father who, in the deepest sense, was nonexistent”; and "the central theme was my search for the existence of this essentially imaginary person."  Capote always heard the voice of his father, imaginary and absent though he was.

The voice of John the Baptist “crying out in the wilderness” has always been a metaphor for those who refuse to hear the ‘good news’ of Jesus Christ.  That of Cassandra has been a secular parallel to John – unheard by those who should know better, who ignore signs, history, and original insight.
Everyone knows the difference between listening and hearing.  When you listen, you pay attention, reflect on the words being said, and either take them to heart or formulate a response to them.



When you hear, your mind is elsewhere.  Words go in and out, thoughts wander, ambience may be felt (the room is too hot or too cold), the attractive woman in the corner and the smell of cooking roast beef noticed, but the speakers words do not register.

We also hear the sound of waves, distant traffic, birdsongs, barking, the refrigerator humming, and the A/C turning off and on.  Hearing is ambient and non-selective.   There is nothing to listen to, only sounds which fade in and out of recognition or are marked by the brain as too intrusive or too alluring to ignore.

Sometimes silence is part of impression rather than the lack of it. The density and impenetrability of Conrad’s jungles are part of their intimidation and terror.  As Marlow proceeds up the river to find Kurtz (Heart of Darkness) he says:
We called at some more places with farcical names, where the merry dance of death and trade goes on in a still and earthy atmosphere as of an overheated catacomb; all along the formless coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if Nature herself had tried to ward off intruders; in and out of rivers, streams of death in life, whose banks were rotting into mud, whose waters, thickened into slime, invaded the contorted man-groves, that seemed to writhe at us in the extremity of an impotent despair.
Nowhere did we stop long enough to get a particularized impression, but the general sense of vague and oppressive wonder grew upon me. It was like a weary pilgrimage amongst hints for night-mares.


Sometimes we hear nothing.  Tunnel vision coopts hearing. We can be so absorbed in writing or reading that all ambient sounds disappear.  We hear nothing.

Listening on the other hand requires a high cognitive function. It takes attentiveness, interest, and patience.  The listener ascribes value to the words of a speaker, wants to record, parse, and analyze them for meaning and intent.  Each word spoken in delicate negotiations has its own meaning whether literal or figurative; whether stand-alone or part of a sentence or soliloquy.
Other authors like Hawthorne have written about ancestral voices. 

The Salem house is a symbol of Hawthorne’s ambivalence, for generations of both sharp-edged, canny descendants and ne’er-do-wells have resided in it.
In almost every generation, nevertheless, there happened to be some one descendant of the family gifted with a portion of the hard, keen sense, and practical energy, that had so remarkably distinguished the original founder. His character, indeed, might be traced all the way down, as distinctly as if the Colonel himself, a little diluted, had been gifted with a sort of intermittent immortality on earth.
At two or three epochs, when the fortunes of the family were low, this representative of hereditary qualities had made his appearance, and caused the traditionary gossips of the town to whisper among themselves, "Here is the old Pyncheon come again! Now the Seven Gables will be new-shingled!" From father to son, they clung to the ancestral house with singular tenacity of home attachment.
Image result for images Puritan men salem 17th century

There is a spectrum of voices from those of Billy Randall, Sister John, to schizophrenics, to the imaginary ones of Truman Capote, to the loud but unheard ones of St. John the Baptist and Cassandra, and to the unspoken voices of the past.  There are voices of conscience, fathers, imagination, and penance – some ignored and others which can never be switched off. 

 We tend to give more dues to the voices we can actually hear; but those imagined or recalled are even more important.  Billy Randall was neither deranged, badly wired, or a prophet.  He was only sitting at one end of the auditory spectrum which has little to do with sound.