American Fez

The Age of Babble

My ability to focus on facts presented to me has diminished in recent years. Perhaps this is because modern facts are unappealing or untrustworthy; or perhaps there are simply too many facts whizzing around: focussing on a blur merely reproduces a blur, after all.

When I was a young man, my beach reading was mostly Bible-sized, dog-eared paperbacks about paranormal phenomena and occult personalities. These books presented their arguments like a stage magician pulling an endless string of multi-colored handkerchiefs from his previously empty sleeves. 

A paragraph about Simon Magus would suddenly become an assertion about Egyptian gods, get sidetracked into remarks about Aleister Crowley, and finally come to a close as a so-called revelation about Nazi warlocks. It was impossible to keep up without feeling like a volunteer from the audience getting sawn in half. 

Alas, today it seems that all expositional texts are written in this manner, even science and history books. After the introduction, the deluge, as it were. Or, to paraphrase Philip Larkin: all modern books have a beginning, a muddle, and an end. 

So I conclude that my poor attention to facts is not due to advancing age or smartphone addiction or any fault of mine, but is actually a consequence of living in the Age of Babble: mobs of robotic spokespersons all shouting simultaneously and incoherently, trying to get a word in edgewise amidst the deafening noise of too much information.

Look At Me!

In the very ancient past, especially lugubrious hermits often resided atop tall pillars for years on end, demonstrating their superior asceticism for all to see. Some of these so-called stylites claimed they merely wanted to be left alone, Garbo-like, to contemplate infinity, but most were always very eager to dispense snippets of holier-than-thou profundity whenever seekers below requested such information. It seems an appeal to ego will shatter any vow of silence. Nevertheless, these stylites, crouching on their lofty, narrow perches, make the quintessential guru sitting cross-legged on a mountain look distinctly accessible

I'm not sure quite what sort of wisdom applicable to regular life in sixth-century Antioch anyone could acquire from sitting on top of a column except, perhaps, maintaining a phenomenal sense of balance and how to avoid nosebleeds. Likewise, I'm not sure what our two current Presidential candidates, considering their unappealingly self-interest stained biographies, can know about day to day existence for most people in twenty-first century America. Yet Hillary and Trump will straddle their debate podiums bellowing platitudes and babbling nonsense into the shadows of the spotlight. 

Stylites and politicians have much in common if you ask me. For instance, I have no doubt that if Simeon Stylite was alive today he would employ a publicist and a press agent, and if they believed it would ensure their election, I'm certain Hillary and Trump would scramble up the filthiest of pillars to promote themselves. In the fables of olden days, both the stylite and the politician were taught humbling lessons by the simple goatherd. Alas, today, only the politicians are left and politicians listen to nothing but what media analysts tell them about the abstract realities of demographics and poll numbers. 

So, because there is no goatherd candidate running for President, and despite Republican and Democrat zealots shrieking that this is the most important election for many, many decades, I will not be voting for anyone again. I don't want to encourage or validate these extroverts. After all, back in the Byzantine day, I would've thrown rotting vegetables at the stylites. Unfortunately, it's against the law to express your contempt in that manner today.

Moody Moggy

White cats must occasionally wish they were black cats, if only for the melodramatic cultural associations humans entertain about black cats. I think this extroverted cat, for example, would willingly swap the last mouse in the house for more eldritch fur.

Posing atop its broken pillar, he or she always seems to be desperately auditioning for a portentous role in the Twilight Zone, or as the shape-changing protagonist of some gothic horror movie.

So here you go, cat, I've turned the color photograph I took of you into a black and white image more suited to your ambitions.

Maybe a Hollywood casting director will come across my picture and get in touch with you. It will only take a few hours in make-up and several cans of black shoe polish to transform you into Edgar Allen Poe's idea of a revenant in feline form.

Seascape Escapism

Here is a picture I created with the camera and a photo editing application on my iPhone: a slight abstraction of sand, sea, and cloudy sky. Instant art, of a sort. Arrange a gilt frame around it, hang it in a gallery, and who would know I wasn't a graduate of the school of Bob Ross or some paint-by-numbers masterclass?

Thunderstorms were skirting the shoreline that day and the waves were unusually large, leaping headfirst into each other, belly flopping on the beach, then running back for more. A scene to take the breath away such as the ocean provides so often, easy to imagine being a shipwrecked sailor on a desert island, or to believe you glimpsed Neptune riding a seahorse through the undertow, or to turn around and spy a mermaid basking on those rocks. This, I decided as I took my picture, is why we take vacations.

 Alas, you can never quite "enjoy the moment" at the seashore. The relentless breaking of the waves keeps dragging you unceremoniously into the next second. You are only too aware of the ocean's complete indifference to your efforts at momentary transcendentalism; that the sand doesn't give a crushed seashell about your mythopoetic notions; that somewhere out there, just out of reach, a lugubrious octopus drapes its tentacles over a sunken treasure chest that can never be yours.

Ocean Front Property

"Beneath the sidewalk, a beach!"

The Situationists are certainly right about that, and the tide is coming in quickly if measurements of rising sea levels are to be believed. The city's grimy boulevards will become suntan lotion splattered boardwalks. You will be able to go whale watching along Main Street and hail a speed boat to take you uptown. Municipalities will replace street lamps with palm trees to make their stretch of waterfront more tourist friendly. 

Meanwhile, I've recently returned from vacationing at a fancy island resort where it's more a case of "beneath the beach, the sidewalk."

The coastline was discreetly landscaped into a luxurious simulacrum of tropical Paradise meets the Harvard Club. Each morning, flip-flop clad plowmen raked the sand clear of debris and seaweed. I'm pretty sure he changed into snorkelling gear and, armed with an aqua-broom rather than a spear gun, swept the coral reefs clean as well. From my well-appointed, umbrella-shaded sun lounger, all the comforts of modern life were but a snap of my fingers away. It was the sort of place where NYSE stock tickers ran around the Tiki Bar roof. 

City turns into seaside and seaside turns into city, so prepare yourself for "Beneath the waves, a parking space!"

The Isle Is Full Of Noises

I'm bound for Bermuda on a short, one-week family vacation. Contemporary descriptions of the island are often suggested as an inspiration for Shakespeare's The Tempest, although I am obviously counting on nicer weather.

Once I take my shirt off on the beach, you may consider the part of Caliban has been cast. I'm a natural. But I shall also be taking on the role of Prospero whenever I am ordering dinner; and even Ariel when the time comes to pay the bill, if you know what I mean.

I Am A Cheap Camera

Shall I compare my mind to a camera? It is a low-end, auto-focus point-and-shoot digital model. The pictures it creates are not very sharp and there is only limited storage. The zoom often gets stuck, the red-eye reduction doesn't work, and the flash is very weak. Worse, it's out-of-date and lacks all the great new features that people want. 

What wouldn't I give to have a mind like a top-of-the-line, fully manual DSLR with interchangeable lenses; or at least possess a cool, vintage daguerrotype brain requiring long exposures and a black blanket covering my head. No such luck, I'm afraid. I think this is why the posts here are always so very short: smile, snap, here's a new one!