American Fez

Polls Pall

Never before, at least not in my lifetime, have our presidential candidates been so selective and exclusive with their appeals to the American people. Instead of appeals for national unity, both Trump and Harris are writing-off entire sectors of the population in order to focus on scavenging the 51% of votes needed for election. If you cannot be included in their 'base' then you will be ignored and ridiculed and threatened with either imprisonment or deportation if your side loses. Which candidate has the most celebrity endorsements? I don't know. I've never heard of any of these people. Honestly, I think WrestleMania staged in a mud bath has more dignity and subtlety than the Republican and Democratic campaigns combined. The both make Silvio Berlusconi look like a philosopher-king.

Consequently, since our current choices are limited to these unacceptable showmen and buffoons, I shall write-in a name on my ballot. I'm not sure who yet, possibly a fictional character worthy of the role of Leader of the Free World. And why not? After all, surely our recent technological advances in the areas of cybernetics and AI can make such a gambit feasible. The boffins could maybe even merge two venerable personalities, one real and one imaginary, into a single supreme presidential figure: Aristotle and Eisenhower mix with a melange of Moses and Cleopatra as their running mate. That should cover most political bases. Their opposition could be Disraeli fused with the Queen of Sheba, which would be really interesting in the swing states. Then our AI ballot could also contain a Akhenaten and Buenaventura Durruti blend as a third party option for all the contrarian voters. The possibilities here are endless.

Je Pense

In the olden times, back when city book shops were still thriving, I would wander their paperback-bulging aisles for many hours. But like an apprehensive pedestrian crossing the road when confronted by approaching delinquents, always studiously avoiding the so-called Self Help section with its pop psychology best sellers and pop-up chakra alignment guides.

Not that I held any particular animus against positive thinking or personal growth, I just didn't see why I should have to do all this Self Help work on my own. After all, it wasn't my fault if I was born diffident, shy, and melancholic. Surely these apparent defects were an accident of birth and environment and not my fault at all. So I was damned if I was going to spend good money on a book requiring hours of reading and naval-gazing to address them.

Consequently I eschewed Kahlil Gibran, Madame Blavatsky and Norman Vincent Peale in favor of Andre Malraux, Albert Camus and pretty much anyone else who'd been photographed with a very serious expression in the pages of Combat magazine. In those days I thought all the answers were published by Editions Gallimard or could be found by looking through a pair of Vuarnet sunglasses, darkly. In purely literary terms, I obviously made the correct decision but unfortunately found myself smoking far too many cigarettes and drinking entire carafes of coffee, a lethally cliched combination that seriously affected my health. If only I'd researched Tarot cards and pyramid power back then instead of Left Bank arrogance I'd not entertain wheezing second thoughts about ascending the Rue Foyatier steps today.

I suppose that's the wisdom of the ages: follow your mentor's philosophy but for Heaven's sake reject his accessories, whether they be a pack of Gauloises or homemade sandals and a Kaftan. Any form of self-flagellation is the big no-no here, especially carrying a huge cross on your shoulders at Easter or spending your life's savings on an economy plane ticket to Mecca. It's too late for me. I'm typing this at an alfresco cafe table while pontificating about Algerian history to an unrepentant communist. But even though there are no extant city book stores today, if you want to help yourself, there is still time for you to download the complete works of Parmenides to the e-reader of your choice. It shouldn't take long because there's only one work and it's composed of fragments. Now that's the best kind of wisdom, if you ask me.

Mariana Trench Inc

Today is Wednesday, also known as 'Hump Day' in office jargon. For some reason, for me, that image of a hump always calls to mind a whale surfacing in the sea rather than an obstacle to be surmounted. From there it's easy to imagine the progress of the entire working week as a great Orca swimming through the ocean deep: Monday is the flopping tail that propels me forward, Wednesday the aforementioned hump, and finally Friday as a joyous spout of water vapor in the air. And I am obviously Jonah, swallowed by the behemoth on Monday morning then spat out again on Friday afternoon.

Except, these days, the working week is surely more of an ugly bottom-feeder than a majestic whale. In fact, let's go with a slippery saltwater eel and the nine-to-five as just one long unpleasant wriggle, in and out of the empty eye sockets of some drowned sailor's skull. And there is no sunken Spanish galleon this far down, no shell-encrusted treasure chest overflowing with golden coins, not even a mermaid to guide me through the trails of seaweed. Just the impenetrable darkness and eerie silence wherein lies the wreckage of your desk.

Falling For Fall

In the midst of winter, Albert Camus apparently found within himself an invincible summer. One can only imagine the oppressive humidity; the perpetually sweaty armpits; the wasps repeatedly dive-bombing your ice cream. You'd think, having grown up in the Algerian heat, Camus would make better seasonal choices in his life.

For me, I think I'd find within myself an invincible Autumn. I'd be reasonably content with an invincible Spring but I'd prefer Autumn. Just imagine, it's deep midwinter, your heart is frozen stiff and your brain is encased in ice, but all of a sudden you feel fruitfully mellow. Is that mulled cider running through your veins and an apple pie baking in your solar plexus? Yes it is and it sure beats the painful sunburn you'd  suffer from in an invincible summer.

I suppose there may be dark moments when a dreadful sense of pumpkin spice pervades the air, but on the whole you're sitting on a park bench admiring Mother Nature's paintbrush tinting the trees shades of red and orange. The days maybe shorter than summer, but who in the name of Sisyphus likes long days? Bring on cozy nights by the fireside.