April 2026

April 27-30, 2026: The third book of Virgil’s The Georgics (which appeared some 30 years before Christ had his ministry and his ragtag followers, the Romans collecting their taxes) ends with an apocalypse of sorts. In Italy, a plague gets its hooks into livestock. The pathogens spread to the human population and to the beasts of the wild, nature going out of whack, the polite word for “whack” being “balance”. Easy enough (all too easy, in fact) to read into it a power point presentation of what boots it in our time. Even so, Virgil stole the horror of it all, the atmospherics and the “science”, from Lucretius who, in turn, got his atmospherics and science from Thucydides who actually witnessed a plague (the Plague of Athens, 430 BC); who contracted it and lived to tell the tale. Relax. I am not hellbent for a jeremiad against poetic license.

No, I will report on a dream I had in the wee hours. A pair of lowing cows in military gear are doing dance moves for the sake of a drill, a dog barking behind them, an unseen trainer outside of the dream’s frame calling out instructions. It is all very serious. Was this dream the out-of-left-field result of checking something in Virgil’s poem just before I went to sleep? That anti-Zionist screed I had read, one written by a Jewish poet, present day, and crackling with disgust? Alright then, rhetorical questions. How about a suppositional non sequitur, a doozy leading to others, or that George C Scott’s rage-scene in a movie prosaically called Hospital (1971), screen treatment by Paddy Chayefsky, noted that the science of medicine has achieved wonders? Some tax dollars, at least, seem to have been well-spent. All very true. And yet, we humans continue spiritually, and in every other way, shambolic, more so than ever, and death still scandalously lords it over us (AI not yet plugged in). This, too, perhaps leaned harder on my psyche than I might have wished at some wee hour when I would rather let sleep be sleep, not a waiting room for a calamitous interview.

Honour or the lack of it notwithstanding, the Sibyl in T S Eliot’s The Wasteland, she semi-immortal, just wants to die. So much for prophecy and wisdom, the triumph of the human spirit, and all that good stuff… Rimbaud saw the human soul as a monster…. (What would he have made of cyborgs?) Enough. And yet, what really gives with that Antikythera underwater site, all the rummaging about down there, the being rather tight-lipped about what is being brought to the surface in addition to the marble statuary and the famous gizmo (born of some ancient Greek geek) already bagged? Did that world, in addition to its astronomical forays, have a more plentiful supply of honour and decency that we moderns have somehow squandered and certainly betrayed, seeing as we are always touting that “we know better”? The heart, in its way, says yes. The head says not bloody likely. Was and always has been and probably will be the same cretinous, gangrenous mess, despite all the incredible inventions as expand our downtime – in theory, at least, so live with it.

Returning to The Georgics, so called because the poem deals with agricultural matters, the fourth book is perhaps a cheerier book, all about bees and beekeeping. So then, the divinity of bees, their importance to humanity, their selflessness, their dedication to the common good… Virgil, of course and among other things, besides bees, had the health of Rome in mind, the wars it had just passed through, Caesar’s somewhat benign but autocratic rule. Could be that Virgil, at bottom, sensed that it was all doomed even so, but that, it being the only game in town, he perforce, would hope for the best. At what point does the damage wrought by a regime, any regime in cahoots with any kind of cutting-edge rolling thunder, become irreversible? The $64,000 (and cheap at the price) question of the moment, or would you care to collect on the interest?

Poetry has always been endangered, as in “endangered species”, for all that we like to think that a line of verse is never far from a human in his or her cups, wanting to make some statement or other, to highlight, to underscore, as it were, a sentiment. That quoting poetry was as “natural” a thing as breathing. (Lincoln and Shakespeare, JFK and Frost, Lunar and Leopardi…) Well, before one can quote poesy, it has first to be written. And everybody seems to be writing it, and everybody seems to be publishing it, all the presses groaning under the weight of a tonnage of submissions 24/7 and yet, it does not feel like a healthy situation. I have no bright ideas as to why. Best intentions pave the express lanes to hell? It may well be that poetry has a fresh mandate as the last refuge of scoundrels who cannot get notice any other way short of flashing their privates or indulging serial homicides, mass shootings and the like, on account of a lack of imagination… Even in the world of poetry fashions change, though blow-by-blow accounts of one’s well-being do seem to be all the rage still. Again, what is going on with the Antikythera shipwrecks (located in the Mediterranean between Crete and the Peloponnese) as well as with the edges of the known universe? Do whales and dolphins bare their souls to one another as they buddy up? Eliot did not finish his verse play Sweeney Agonistes. Either the work was intended to exist on a fragmentary basis or the man had insufficient grasp of the form, it being his first stab at a verse play. Or could it be that he saw “no way out?” No escape hatch from the cesspool. I imagine critics have analyzed his life for suicidal tendencies, but what would that tell us, if anything? Right. Giant squids, for all their ferocity, are delicate organisms. The Antikythera mechanism is, or was, an analogue computer, say what. Meant to track the five known planets. How many gears does the human soul have with which to strut its stuff?

Postscript I: On this day in the year 1667, John Milton the poet, blind and broke, sold his copyright of Paradise Lost for ten pounds. Carpenter, nice guy and honour-bound, would have laid some do-re-mi on him and asked for no rate of return in return, were he onsite, and even if out-of-pocket himself.

Postscript II: Lunar Anomalies: … …. ‘Oh, am I imagining things or in the wake of the shooting were the women left to their own devices? Vance is rescued while Mrs Vance had to crawl on her hands and knees. So much for gallantry and nobility of spirit.’ … …. Well, look, it must have been a heat-of-the-moment-sort-of-thing. … …. ‘I'm reading quite the strangest book by a French anthropologist Nastassja Martin "In the Eye of the Wild". [She] went to study tribes in Kamchatka and was there savagely mauled by a bear, losing part of her jawbone. She, or at least in her writing, identifies with the bear and becomes half bear, half human. I'm at the point when she goes back to Kamchatka to face her past. She is a bit of a shamaness. Actually, I am at a loss for words because it really is one hell of a strange memoir, destined to become a cult book.’ … …. I might add, in the spirit of synchronicity, that a bear cult figures in the flick Hospital cited above... … …. ‘There are quite a few people in the wilderness, G, J, ... but at least they, you, continue to write poetry. The day is fast coming when most poetry is going to be POD'd, [print-on-demand, or put-on-diazepam]. Publishers can no longer afford to publish [you know] it.’ … …. Yes, and let me put it to you: 1920s, and perhaps back then Eliot saw the writing on the wall, but then could not help himself. … …. ’This morning I read something that has put me in a numb rage, about how Azerbaijan is going about destroying historic Armenian churches. Those Armenian churches are incredibly beautiful, nothing like them anywhere else. Sick, sick, sick. … …. And how long ago is "ancient" when the young think the 1960s are as far back in history as one can go? Does honour not hinge on simple human courtesies? So yes, there has been a ghastly change in our human story. So, too, say [those] chimpanzees [you wrote me about].’ … …. Agreed. Those chimpanzees… doing retributive politics by committee – that civil war of theirs in Uganda.

Postscript III: Cornelius W Drake of Champaign-Urbana, (in the midst of a weather system raining down rogue indictments and a newly hamstrung Voting Rights Act on bareheaded pilgrims) honk if you think you are fatally lost in a symbolist poem: … …. ‘With respect to the language of current political discourse, the language used is "new" in the US only in the sense that it's been nearly 200 years since political malice and vitriol were unquestionably righteous; that there are no two sides of legitimacy to what's occurring. There's the rational, thoughtful, "good' side and there's pure evil — which can't be confronted honestly by a Miss Manners.’ … …. Alright then, we have gotten that kink smoothed out…

Postscript IV: Talking Avocado: … …. ‘What? It only hit you just now, Virgil’s fourth (The Georgics), what every able-bodied mechanic in the garage of verse-making knows… that bees are the bee’s knees…. Hah! I believe Bukowski observed that while there are a great many poets about there's not so very much poetry. Poetry? I would rather (as we just did – Percival and I) watch a documentary. Pompeii: Below the Clouds. Slow, strange and evocative. Rather liked it. Percival kicked in with a “maa”. Had occasion to observe chickens recently. Very instructive, chickens. One understands the term "pecking order". They are individuals [indeed]. One furtive, one a brute, one an escape artist, they love nothing like digging themselves into the hot dirt and basking, until one decides she wants that particular spot in the dirt and drives the other out causing a general uproar. And so it goes. Strait of Hormuz? Mine! At least the hens lay eggs.’ … …. Another bushed islander? But probably the sanest among us…

Postscript V: Rutilius: … …. ‘Had something to say about poets wearing capes, but it’s slipped my mind. You know the fourth book (of The Georgics) ends, with Caesar lauded, he “victorious for a grateful people”. Virgil is in the lap of “sweet Parthenopê, enjoying there the studies of inglorious ease”, Tityrus lazing under a beech tree, persona figure or Virgil himself and so forth and so on… Well, I’m under a beech tree of a kind, lazing here at a spa, submitting my various derangement syndromes to various treatments. Given the right circumstances, I’d wear a cape. [Consider that] there are a thousand ways by which we are ruining ourselves. Politicians [for instance] ruin their sanity by severely disassociating their original morality from [what] they say and do.’ … …. Yes, well, might I ask: Are they and their cousinly tech bros born that way, or is it a process of attrition as promulgated by hubristic capitalism and energy drinks?

Postscript VI: Sissy Gadzilla: … …. ‘Cupcakes in the oven. French horn resting up for a foray into the countryside where we hope to visit a Polish deli very soon, eat some perogies, and catch up with the lives and loves of cousins. In the meantime: Be courageous when reason fails you / in the final reckoning it is the only thing that counts. – Something like that. I am trying to quote Zbigniew Herbert, Polish “post-war” rhymester, if we refer to poets as such who write with or without recourse to rhymes. A Polish acquaintance of mine (not a cousin) paled around with Herbert from time to time in London. I find it just a little strange that you and I have yet to sit over a coffee, seeing as we abide in the same abode, as it were (this apartment building), though four flights of stairs separate us, oxygen ratio, and maybe overall seriousness of intent. Alright, I won’t obsess.’

Postscript VII: Trail Mix: … …. ‘Eugene McCarthy, remember him? quoted poetry bigtime. Yeats, Frost, Seferis. He, too, wrote verse. He’s the last American politician I can think of to have done so. Yesterday, I went and sat in the park, lamented the state of my café as I walked past it, the place still under wraps, as it were (plastic sheeting), workers about in no especial hurry. The day was warm enough, though a bit of a chill obtained in the breeze, branches sprouting leaves, in any case. Each spring should be taken for the miracle it is, one’s gratitude front and centre. But I was feeling too self-conscious. I was annoyed with myself, as if I had to squeeze some “being there” out of that visit to the park lest there never come another instance of “parking it”, all the while observing a spectacle of squirrels, and I couldn’t just be, well, there. What floated into my mind as I sat was an image of Socrates’ last moments. How everything is personal and yet, best not take it personally.’

Stray Quotes Department: The following two trickled in at the last minute, 1, Spiritual combat is as brutal as the battle of men; but the vision of justice is the delight of God alone – Arthur Rimbaud, French poet, 1854-1891, and 2, Whereas our modern languages, when they died – which was inevitable, since every tongue on earth was becoming a colony of American English, itself dying a slow death by suicide – what words would they hand down to posterity? Junked? Kickback? Normalcy? – Andrea Camilleri, Italian writer of detective fiction, 1925-2019. And surely there is room for another, attributable to the same author, or 3, True, the destruction of nature, the death of good taste, the prevalence of ugliness were not only harmful, they were offensive, too. But it was clear that a good part of his (Montalbano’s) rage was simply due to the fact that at a certain age you become intolerant and let nothing slide. Further proof that he was getting old.

April 22-23, 2026: The poet Virgil, in The Georgics, Book Three, remarking on the wine-god Bacchus, wrote: … …. for he it was who tamed in death the liquor-maddened Centaurs, Rhoetus and Pholus and Hylaeus, him who menaced the Lapiths with a massive wine-bowl. Well, talk about weaponization, eh. Who would not wish to chuck flagons at Hegsethian half-men half-horse entities, at anti-vaxx, wormy-brained junior quadrupeds, each with a proclivity for cocaine-laced toilet seats? But yes, I worry myself sometimes: too much You-Know-Who of late, derangement syndrome doing its worst. This results in prose with hyper-extended elbows. And yet, I can hardly apologize. And yet surely, I can do better. I can continue to promulgate a sensibility part Proust and Camilleri, Lampedusa and Steinbeck. I can throw in a Chinese poet or two. I can relieve Virgil of an onerous chore – that of weighing the cost of Caesar’s victory and the imperial face behind it, and it all come out in the wash or the poesy (while Ovid in his sh-thole banishment gets snitty with that same face so that his, as it were, objection, is, in fact, poetic, personal, not a “stance”), and, presto zesto, we have “milieu”.

Or I have in mind Harry Heine (1797-1856), German versifier who transformed the feuilleton into an art form. (A made up word “phooeyton” just popped into my head. The next Substack or pod-spiel?) Sick in Paris, mattress-bound in the streets, the thing filthy, he railed against the powers-that-be. It was a stance, but it was one no less sincere for that. His writings would even come, in time, to vex Goebbels, Reich Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, so much so Goebbels would have the language purged of “liberalism”, “Jewish opinion” during the Nazi glory days. Now, “The City of God”, film set in a Rio slum of the same name – is it a serviceable metaphor for Trumpism? I would say, even odds, and it has an outside chance to be as such, if the logic of violence has anything to do with it, of zero-sum transactional acts, even in the hands of youngsters barely out of diapers. So then, yes. But TACO moments? Does not seem to have been a part of pre-teen DNA, or so the flick portrayed it. No reversing those bullets once unleashed. As if the young were too young to reflect maturely on the finality of death or had not the patience…

Postscript I: Richard Nixon died on this day in 1994. It is not known if Carpenter danced on his grave, so to speak.

Postscript II: Lunar notes: … …. ‘The Iran business is putting this country (Hammersmith) into recession, which I suppose Trump would see as sweet vengeance. They say the Italian [word] for shame, 'vergogna' is so much more powerful than [the] English [equivalent], more of an existential condition, a deadly curse. Otherwise, I have completely lost all direction. Yesterday evening, though it cost me dearly in physical terms, we went with N to our local cinema for a live relay of Arthur Miller's "All My Sons" and well, it is one hell of a play, as relevant now as it must have been disturbing in 1949, not a picture of America Americans would have loved in the wake of the war. Small wonder they kept him at arm's length. Powerful stuff and it addresses what was already a deep moral vacuum in the USA, which is why I can't accept that what we are seeing now is wholly new - an absence of political discourse, yes, maybe – but the void it describes ... if you don't know the play, look it up. Miller certainly had his finger on the pulse, which is to say I think he saw today's America. The only cheering news is the late queen has been addressing Fergie through her Corgis. [Arff. Arff].’ … …. Well, I never… Ought I to let Lunar get away with this?

Postscript III: Cornelius W Drake of Champaign-Urbana, honk if you see wheels (unattached to anything resembling chassis) rolling all over the place, some industrial, some rather sporty, but all bearing logos as would signify that the libs are owned and the country is great, peerless, awesome again. And never has a POTUS been more brilliant. Ignore yet another errant Cabinet member (looking for his or her arse). Sidestep the bonkers rhetoric going lonely into that good night. Tip of the hat to a Tucker who has noticed a direction change in a vapour trail: … …. ‘They'll all be gone soon, and sooner than anyone expected. I've never seen an outfit implode so fast. Damn right [all] Americans are culpable, including Dems and Inds who sat out the election. Several times I've written that T is less to blame; he just exploited mass ignorance as any con man would do. Still, it's not a position that should dominate discussion since pressure on T is what's needed. The Iran war is already lost — lost weeks ago. Iran is stronger than ever. The Strait is its winning hole card from here on out. I think Cuba was inevitable anyway, but losing this war could make T all the more determined to stage a glitzy Cuban invasion. He should have stuck with picking on the weakest, like Venezuela. Iran was way too tough, as every previous potus understood but T was too fucking stupid to grasp. Otherwise, for all that, Fortune does favor the bold. Audentes fortuna iuvat. Therefore, I’m throwing paint on canvas.’

Postscript IV: Talking Avocado: … …. ‘The 16th satire of Juvenal, the last of them, and there’s not much to say. Military matters, the military life. Pluses and minuses of. Serve all that up to the Secretary of War and see if that gets you a fast-track promotion or else a broken trash mouth. Virgil had much to say about goats. As symbols for lovesickness, “poetic expressivity” though? It’d only make Percival nauseous. He says hello. It’s clearing overhead. Cooler than one would like.’

Postscript V: Rutilius: … …. ‘I read somewhere recently, I forget where, that the kazillionaires have lost all touch with the common herd, with people like us, that all chemical signals (pheromones) as might lead a not so benevolent Daddy Warbucks to his conscience have been erased in his brain as operates now in dimensions that have no interface with our three. So much for stinging the soul. So much for ulcers of the flesh. As a Stoic would have it, it’s not enough to refrain from evil deeds, one must pursue the good. But with these empty-brained lunkheads, ka-ching is the only word in the language worth repeating, the more the merrier in a sentence. How did you put it? Ma and pa capitalism is one thing, but this taking up all the oxygen in all the earth’s ballrooms, Christ, I might have yet to return to Ezra Pound. And here I thought I was free of all his harangues. Well, you plunk away at your malaguenas like a duelling banjoist. I’ll reach for my kazoo. We’ll be legendary. Me especially, as I’m headed for Bardejov Spa. I’ll be staying in the Hotel Alzbeta, formerly Hotel Deak where the wife of Franz Josef used to stay. What remains to be seen is whether the supervising doctor will cheerfully ignore the state of my mental health, and whether or no I’d be acting out the part of a patient as per Sartre’s waiter, should I, in fact, have come down with something like derangement syndrome…’

Postscript VI: Sissy Gadzilla: … …. ‘Coincidence? That, at the beginning of “Roman Holiday” (1953) the princess (Audrey H) loses her shoe, potential embarrassment, as she receives guests at some function or other. And then, near the end of “The Great Beauty” (2013), the sanctified nun sheds a shoe as she receives high-ranking religious muckamucks at a reception… At any rate, as both films are set in Rome, and the one follows the other after a span of 60 years, is the scene in the latter film a reference to the scene cited in the earlier film? No Polish cousin of mine seems to have an opinion. Cupcakes in the oven, French horn set to a warming trend. The Big Bang, they now say, wasn’t such a bang up bang as all that. Will the Trump regime go pfft, or can we expect lots of Roman candles, sizzling skies? I’m not feeling verbose this a.m. See ya.’

Postscript VII: Trail Mix: … …. ‘They’ve speeded up the game of baseball. What, so busy, ambitious people, as they cosplay with hats, can while away a game more quickly? I used to be all for what slows time down, like sex, like baseball, like a well-made lasagna, and now? I’m still all for it, and is bingo in the cards? I need my café. No signs of life on the renovation site. I’m put in mind of drive-bys of Jovian moons, as I walk by on investigatory tours. What life, if any, under all the plastic sheeting (standing in for ice). I’ve no advice for you with respect to derangement syndromes. Light a lot of candles, read Shakespeare?’

April 10-12, 2026: When in the fourth century AD the Roman empire itself split into two halves, the Hellenistic world still enjoyed a ghostly existence in Byzantium. … …. From The Hellenistic World, F W Walbank 1981. We may as well begin with this, this melancholy-tinged compass heading, now that we have been dragged across a line from which there is no going back, the unilateral whims of a single man what has us by the curlies. One debacle (shitshow) succeeds another. They pile up, domino effect. It is not so difficult now to envision a crack-up fate for America in a time near enough or far distant, somewhere beyond history’s chuckling Loony Tunes rainbow, the capital recycled, say, in Houston or Los Angeles, the culture feeding on itself in vampiric fashion, rom-com esoterica set alongside conceptual follies in the world of the abstracted mind. What might have been vigour however raw, early days, is displaced over the centuries by a sentiment refined to the point of caricature. Yeats wrote “Sailing to Byzantium”, a poem about old age and the search for truth and permanence (1926), long after Rome gave way to Byzantium (Constantinople, 330 AD) gave way to the Ottomans (1456) which led, in its turn, to a sunset glow as was captured by Pamuk novelizing on Istanbul (once Constantinople) in the 80s and 90s of the 20th century when, whatever else civilization is, it comes with ads.

Truth Social gibberish and the follow-ups by news venues of all stripes are our lingua franca no less than when Greek was the language that crossed all borders in the Hellenistic era and, at a certain level, held things together. To be sure, Trump, crowing about a reset for his military, is no Alexander the Great (who had, at least, a functioning brain). The Macedonian started out his leadership as a peer among peers subject to review. But after amassing unsurpassed power and territory at the expense of the Persians and others in his 33rd year, he was now an out-of-the- closet raging autocrat. He had submitted his lively and knowledge-hungry brain to paranoia and the inclination to put his political enemies to death. Predictable, as hindsight will always tell us. And merrily, merrily, so goes You-Know-Who, though it is debatable as to whether, in him, there was a brain to ruin. In addition to which, it seems he is married to a woman turning all Juno on her guy Zoose the Gooser.

All the while some sort of default position is being arrived at whereby the republic, hooked to a ventilator, barely breathing, will eke it out for the foreseeable future at the discretion of a cabal of oligarchs. The will to do things, in Congress, for starters, has been ebbing to the point of flatlining. Nor is You-Know-Who an Augustus Caesar who finished off a civil war and allowed Virgil to flourish, Rome gotten some respite from its troubles, its senate however, somewhat redundant. Succeeding Caesars would take the shine off the peace by way of their grotesqueries, but America, as stated above, crossed a line the other day (bombs away in Iran, emperor-president spookily ranting, his hole-in-one attempts triple bogeys at best), and a card laid is a card played. (Or one might say that a shark must keep moving lest it catch a glimpse of itself in a mirror and flinch.)

One has discussed since the 70s the demise of the republic. One has even heard pronouncements and obituaries that more or less add up to: “bag the fucker”. One has been questioning one’s sanity all along, for all that one lacks a license with which to commit psychiatry. One’s ability to make sense of things, never mind putting anything into historical perspective, has been open to debate, an opening so wide one might venture to float a birdfarm though it (aircraft carrier). One watches the world of the mind get increasingly clever with less to say, though this may well be an unfair observation, impossible to track the totality of all that is published and feted (let alone absorb the gist of every podcast), creativity one’s license to pass Go, life as an electronic game in which “ignorant armies clash by night”. Nothing new in any of this, just that possibly, the inability to separate a false note from a true one is still a novel experience for us in our moment of time and so, has all the more power to wrong-foot well-intentioned pilgrims. One says of an athlete: “Man, but he or she is off his or her game. And the more he or she fights it, the more he or she flails around to no avail.” At the very least, one has to step back and breathe every now and then, centrifugal forces rendering that maneuver more and more problematic.

Postscript I: On this day in 1816, Coleridge read out his Kubla Khan to Byron, and Byron (Lord Byron the poet) thought why the hell not, get the damn thing published and raise a few boats. Melania was not there, saying she had not, in fact, had relations with a man dangerous to know (as was said of Byron. To interface with him was risky business for an apparently respectable woman bored out of her tree). Carpenter was not around to thumbs up or down or otherwise referee….

Postscript II: Lunar and Lunarian homiletics: … …. ‘I have come to absolutely [ ] Israel and its kink for wholesale destruction. Spoke to Dr Cannabis this morning and we agreed I'd give it another shot before throwing in the towel. Expensive though. Well, "it" didn't happen and I suppose Trump will take all the credit for "it" not happening. What does one do with the [thoroughly] impervious? Meanwhile Israel continues to bomb, bomb, bomb, the most cowardly warfare. So, the settlers are now attacking a Christian village, not that that will register with people too embarrassed to think of themselves as Christian but yes, Macmillan's "The Seven Last Words of Christ" does speak to some Christian bone in me, as does Alfred Schnittke's “Choir Concerto”, both works of genuine mysticism as opposed to New Age mistiness, says he to “themselfs”. So, did Melania throw Donald under a bus? I don't really think so and that it is just a continuation of the bizarre fin du la monde spectacle. I read an extraordinary rant Trump made against Candace etc. May they all perish at the bottom of the Bosphorus.’ … …. Cue the music for “Hail to the Chief”. Serve piping hot. Follow with “Jimmy Crack Corn” ….

Postscript III: Cornelius W Drake of Champaign-Urbana, honk if you detect a ceasefire missing a sharpie or two; if you see a Vance looking to set-up a sideshow (in contradistinction to Trump’s extortions) as would have to do with his own presidentialness, the auguries perhaps favourable; if you see pocket squares fluttering in the breezes, cheerleading for the First Amendment even as You-Know-Who shreds the constitution like one grates zucchini so as to make for pancakes; honk if the only presence that smacks of “integrity” in the whole wide country is a space craft named as such, sticking out like a parachuting sore thumb into a dumbshow of cheap grandiosity, or, really, a triumphal arch? Says Drake: … …. ‘I thought Socrates and other ancients — exploring what is "the good," what is justice, beauty, truth — did that (laid the foundations of western civ, comes with ads, bad satire and disclaimers), as did America's founders and, ultimately, European luminaries not long after European Christians stopped killing each other, which is why the founders kept religion the hell out of the constitution. I look forward to reading (Gilbert) Highet. … …. ‘— but yeah, of course, Shakespeare lifted what was bad or at least questionable history to begin with and took literary license from there. He never pretended to be a scholar. [ ] Some writers deny it, [but] some are so intimidated by Shakespeare's unequaled genius they deny that he authored his plays — the most pitiable example being Freud, a brilliant writer (I couldn't put down Civilization and Its Discontents) who just couldn't handle the fact that Shakespeare was better; the greatest. [At least this was true in 1975 or thereabouts.]’ … …. ‘That clown Hegseth had B-52s crawling across Iran's skies. A moped could outrun one of those behemoths. The greatest danger now is if Iran captures the downed pilot — a mini version of Carter in 1979. T's instinct would be to send in the Marines with guns blazing, which would get 100s of them killed. The pilot, too, if rescue looked likely. If T's tailspin starts looking fatal to T, then we're in for the greatest long-term danger. He'd go full Adolf, and he'd have the military behind him because of Hegseth's Stalinesque purges.’ … …. Has there been a boom in tattoo sales, the five wounds and all that, speaking of the Hegsethian mode of seeking a speaking tour in Crusader heaven?

Postscript IV: Talking Avocado: … …. ‘Had to look up “cynocephalus”. I should’ve known the word, however: dog-head. It’s to say, as per your request, that I read the 15th (satire) of Juvenal, and all I’ve got to say is this, based on the imperative Now attend, and learn what kind of novel atrocity our day and age has added to history. If not in ancient Egypt, then in religious and/or political discord between various factions of various American towns. Otherwise, it’s Juvenal ragging on said Egyptians and their apparent cannibalistic practices. And why did Pythagoras abstain from eating beans? Does the body-politic to the south of here suffer from favism? Coolish in these parts, temperature-wise. Percival the goat says hi. If and when I get around to the 16th, I’ll get around to it and update you. Will the whole world transmogrify into the world of “Dover Beach”, the poem buried under layers and layers of genocidal obscenity and intellectual folderol and indifference? Guess correctly, take home a stuffed bear.’

Postscript V: Rutilius: … …. ‘I was having a go at Cavafy, as I used to do every now and then in the Bush-Cheney segment of the last minutes of history, and came up with this, a la Keeley and Sherrard, from a poem entitled “Kleitos Illness”: She secretly brings some votive bread, some wine and honey/and places them before the idol. She chants whatever phrases/she remembers from prayers: odds and ends. The ninny/ doesn’t realize that the black demon couldn’t care less/whether a Christian gets well or not. And instead of a lovelorn lover boy, we could be talking the Secretary of War. Trump. Vance. Und so weiter. I could be a podcaster with flaming nails. The Hellenistic world, you say? So much easier to breathe its air, the tail-end of which was Neoplatonic, gnosis pita-wrapped and served to three major religions, than to breathe New Agey crystals as purveyed by literary reviews … I’m in a funk.’

Postscript VI: Sissy Gadzilla: … …. Nearest Polish cousin to me in space-time brought over a movie. There is a Polish element in A Bridge Too Far, spearheaded by Gene Hackman biopically playing a Polish general who had doubts about the battle plan and how it might get his paratroopers killed to a man. (He was, in real life, scapegoated for the Allied failure to hold the Arnhem bridge.) We tried to watch. I’d served cupcakes. I’d played a ditty on the French horn aforehand to put us in a watching mood. We called it quits after a cigar-chomping Elliot Gould, vamping his lines, noted that his little portion of the battle plan dubbed “Market Garden”, humongous airborne operation, was 36 hours behind schedule. Ain’t life a hoot? What else have I got to say? Nothing. A wild and woolly month it’s been in the news. That’s a big ten-four as used to get said. Polish cousin left in a huff. (He later phoned with apologies, saying his brain chemistry has altered. The yawns I couldn’t suppress as the war unfolded on the screen probably didn’t help.) Alone now, I watched something else, scenes of which I meant to commit to memory and which I’ve forgotten. Oh right, Mulholland Falls. Another neo-noir less-than-flattering portrait of the American military. And then what? Sixpack Annie, flick with myriad wiseacre one-liners, bad taste delivered with such gusto it was innocence, of a south that never existed, the quotable being, and imagine the wailing register in which it was cast: “Josephine, kiss my Bonaparte”. Will we all be wearing Jerusalem crosses by Victoria Day, seeing as we did manage to squeak by Easter, Christ having busted out of the Château d’if? Irreverence is best served hot as opposed to cold. Tepid, and then the tone merely patronizes. Polish cousin in question is a good guy, don’t get me wrong. He once swam the St Lawrence in an undesignated spot. I once wrote a term paper on John Steinbeck that was anything but designated.’

Postscript VII: Trail Mix: … …. ‘There’s a guy who hangs about the street on which my favourite café is located, he propped on his peg leg. I often exchange a few courtesies with him for luck. Minus 15 out and I say: “Warm enough for you?” That sort of thing. He plays along, humouring LaLa Land in a tuque and scarf. He’s part of a senior low life ratpack that’s out and about rain or shine or snow, and he addresses each and every home boy with sardonic remarks as to the weather or Trump or the price of smokes, even though he claims to have quit. He’s let his hair grow long, all salt and peppery under his green baseball hat. I don’t know what he did for employment when he wasn’t, how shall we say, retired. Bottom tier bagman? He’s cheery enough though his eyes say “life sucks”, and he’s no fool, though somewhere in him, there’s a regard for a little decency and the odd fine sentiment so long as one doesn’t overly dwell on all that. I’d miss him, were he to disappear, for he has more to do with what makes a community a neighbourhood than the local member of parliament. Going on for thirteen weeks and still, my café is closed for renovation. Peg Leg Man thinks he’s too low brow for the place. He doesn’t know it’s a scurvy lot as would hang about the premises. I comb the local Sally Ann for DVDs and hear orisons along Byzantine lines, antiphonal song in my head, and I get the heck out of there. The amount of self-help books on the discount shelves could sink a continent.’