August 2026

August 30-31, 2026: The name of the movie already escapes me, but Stallone was in it playing the heavy. There was one of those rave dance floor scenes, self-adoring dancers all smug. The question arose in idle thought: did this sort of across-the-board narcissism, directly or indirectly, help gain the Narcissist-in-Chief his self-perpetuating aura? Super egotist lacks a superego, the ability to make for moral distinctions and self-reflection of a critical kind and so, he flashes his feathers and insults birds. Hell, he dishonours, at his peril, the silverback ambling along his boulevard of a tree branch, just out to take the air. But when a whole country embarks on a dude walk…

For all the mutterings against the man and the regime, in the country to the south of here there is a sizable portion of the population happy enough to let the clowns play at clowning (hey, look at the fun they’re having), one of whom whips off executive orders like they were take-away orders at a burger outlet, the country drowning in greasy wrappings. What? The president is a manifestation of Dionysian energy, his maenads (trad wives?) on a drunken tear, Pentheus (see “The Bacchae” by Euripides) the name stencilled on the forehead of every wanking liberal? Speaking of which,

Was the Jeffries-Kushner meet-up a species of plea bargaining whereby wiggle room is to be determined with respect to who gets who and what, amnesty the cherry on top, once the mid-term votes are tallied?

Cruelty, not as collateral damage, and not for profit, but for its own sake, for the pleasure it affords an extensive array of sadists, is the new-old lingua franca, the new-old coin of the realm in the new-old world on the part of corporate entities and nation-states, privates groaning with the need for release. “Debased currency testifying to her (or his) diminished trading capacity”? No, I do not think Edith Wharton had Trump or Melania in mind when she (1913) published her novel “The Custom of the Country”. (The East India Company and its tentacular squeezings?) Then again on the facing page: It was the heterogeneous mediocrity of the American summer hotel, where the lack of any standard is the nearest approach to a tie, but an organized codified dullness, in conscious possession of its rights, and strong in the voluntary ignorance of any others. If not with respect to casinos and “estates”, might these words pertain to a great swathe of clubhouses and soul rot, smoothies on offer even so, nix-nay to corn syrup?

The dream I had could have meant a thousand things, but as to what, I have not the foggiest. It was a mountainous setting, one resembling the southern Appalachians. Me and the COTU (Comptroller of the Universe) were on our knees before an item of stone in the shape of a spear-point lodged in the earth, point end up and at an angle. Like the monolith in “Space Odyssey 2001”? To commemorate a lost way of being in the universe?

Postscript I: It is Frankenstein Day, seeing as on this day in 1797, Mary Shelley came to be born. Carpenter could teach her a thing or two about monsters.

Postscript II: Lunar tidbits of a Lunarian nature: … …. ‘It is raining [at last], not heavily, but at least the flowers in the garden perked up and said hello when I looked outside… …. [ ] don't know about your news coverage over there but the BBC website has produced evidence for the [West Bank] settler violence of recent weeks. The upshot of this is that the BBC has been accused of being antisemitic. You can't win. What can't be faked was the torturing of a donkey belonging to a Palestinian, slowly dragging it to death by tying it to a vehicle.’ … …. Cruelty as dots all its “i’s” and crosses all its “t’s”, or so one supposes, and then wags the dog. … …. ‘This surely is proof that he has gone clean off the rails. "Lake America" […] not much of a poetic ear either. A shock letter in the post announcing the end of landlines, which means, what, I'll be forced to buy a mobile phone. The Great Swindle continues… …. [And] well, I for one adored her: shrewd operator, kindness incarnate. I'd sooner the flags were lowered for her than for Charlie Kirk. My favourite Dolly quip: "It costs me a lot of money to look this cheap." … …. I'm reading a history of Orkney, and it is incredible to observe how proto-fascism can take root in even the smallest of places. A couple of 16th-century earls as cruel and depraved as anywhere in the world. So, it's there in all of us, dormant, then alive… …. [Last and not especially least]: O Canada. [Or that] I wonder if Trump might not prove to be the best thing that has happened to that country. It is already undergoing a radical shift in its relationship with the rest of the world. If so, so much the better. America is not and has never been a trustworthy ally. All you need to do is look at the lyrics of that moronic Johnny Horton song, "The war had just begun … it was 1941". … …. Well, Horton got the date wrong, to be sure, good sir, but I am not able, otherwise, to identify what in the tune has your knickers in a twist….

Postscript III: Cornelius W Drake of Champaign-Urbana, honk if you spot Haitians in chains, hungry bears on the prowl under unnaturally bright skies, prelude to a “I am Legend” variant, and senior military officers, having been purged, at loose ends: … …. ‘Maybe some lost tribe of linguistically malign barbarians could counter Trump tongue for tongue, but you're right, I sure as hell can't, nor can anyone of any civilized sensibilities whatsoever. The midterms? Money can't buy Republicans out of their electoral hell, but Trump's federal goons seizing voting machines could. "Well lookie here, rampant fraud. Told ya!" I'm feeling better through the mental magic of supreme denial. Every so often my brain paralyzes body and soul in a profoundly depressive crisis of existentialism—as in, What the fuck am I doing; why do I bother "doing"; that which I do do is of no import; death will be redundant.’ … …. &c.

Postscript IV: Talking Avocado: … …. ‘So mustang herds are rounded up and channeled into a slaughter pipeline. They are shipped outside the country (Canada a destination, among others) for the culling. Brings the “kill-buyers” serious profits. Brought my writing to a standstill as I explored the depths of my nausea without aid of pencil and keyboard. A continuing saga of impotence. Percival says “hi”, “maa” to you. You can cotton to the rest, I’m sure, as to what constitutes my existential unease. Or where’s a Solzhenitsyn when you need one? Maybe a shake-up is wanted at your local police academy. That is, one day, what may come out of one side of a mouth might correspond with what comes out the other side in the upholding of justice and natural-born decency, sightings of. Just musing. Or it's on the too-much-to-ask-for side of things... In any case, I don’t effing want to read your poem. So you’re dreaming spear points… What next? Mask, paddle, war canoe?’ … …. Look, you got me there. But why are you rattling my cage so? I do not choose what dreams come my way and I hardly choose the poems I write. My friends, like stray cats, came through the window….

Postscript V: Rutilius: … …. ‘Rilke, in one of his letters, spoke of a little house that would not easily be inhabited. Like it was biased against human company. Preferred its solitude to that of some recluse. These words somehow suit my mood. There’s no hail in the immediate forecast, but pro-Russia stalwarts in these parts are gathering traction. I squint my eyes and feel like Clint Eastwood in anticipation of trouble. Shall I agitate for the rediscovery of a Hungarian poet name of Faludy? But where’s the house now and its master?/That old place was torn down long ago, and Grandfather the ancient miller/stands on beams of light on heaven’s floor./So where’s the house now and its master? Stanza from a poem composed in the cellar of the Secret Police, October 1950, on a night when the poet was told he was to be executed at dawn. Savvy?’

Postscript VI: Sissy Gadzilla: … …. ‘Cupcakes in the oven, French horn relaxed. I’ve had no more intentions of trading him in for a bassoon or other item that involves heavy breathing. Polish cousin #19 got me to watch “Interstellar”. Meditation of a sci-fi nature. Well, I didn’t get it. Closer to earth, the same Polish cousin #19 has anxieties about Putin’s aims, speaking of intentions. I regarded myself in a mirror, saw worry lines actively fretting. Once again, I’ve nothing useful to say. You saw me the other day. I asked after your health. You looked around as if the lesser wit in a comic duo, you wondering whether it was you or some other spectre being addressed….’ … …. Sissy G, you caught me in a daze. There was a lot of litter on our tenement’s little strip of grass, and I had a clean-up in mind, that and Musk.

Postscript VII: Trail Mix: … …. ‘From “Roman Hellenism and the New Testament”, Frederick C Grant, 1962, apparently a tetractys: There is nothing to fear in God;/There is nothing to feel in death;/Evil can be endured;/Good can be achieved. Perhaps the tetractys as a form was scuppered in the translation. But happiness is something other than pleasure. Sure, tell that to a rave gathering. Gnosticism states we are all of us up the creek insofar as our feet are mired in matter and the genetic code is everything. It is, say what, world-renouncing. Hard on poets who tend to drum up reasons for celebrating existence. Smell the coffee, if not the flowers. I miss my café.’ … …. Sometimes I think that the only time literature was literary was when Mallarmé stood by the fireplace, thumb tucked inside his belt.

ADVISORY: “Blue Neptune”, a collection of poems by Norm Sibum is listed on Amazon.

FOUND AGAIN: “Secretum”, Charlotte Melançon, Des Antipodes, 2013; “Petit Carnet”, Charlotte Melançon, Des Antipodes, 2013; “Montreal Before Spring”, Robert Melançon, translated by Donald McGrath, Biblioasis, 2015

August 22-23, 2026: Articles, posts, mini-essays, half-baked feuilletons everyday declare that the president, 80 years of age and counting, deteriorates in mind and body, and even does so before our eyes. And everyday, I see the man out and about, smile on his batrachian face (when this face is not emitting glares and spewing epithets and other radioactive detritus). “I’m having a fabulous time. You? Too bad.” Then the smile is replaced by another that says: “My money and your sympathy should get together, do business.” Are these the words of a crook, a rebel? A zealot who, as he salutes the flag, dishonours it? An actor delivering some now forgotten film noir’s only decent stretch of dialogue? Do centipedes have whims? In any case, paraphrasing Edith Wharton, it is not strictly true that, with Trump at least, a quick rise to affluence was ever a man’s “natural” tribute to a woman’s merits.

Carrying on with Wharton, from her “The Custom of the Country” (1913): The dining room at the Nouveau Luxe represented, on such a spring evening, what unbounded material power had devised for the delusion of its leisure: a phantom “society”, with all the rules, smirks, gestures of its model, but evoked out of promiscuity and incoherence while the other had been the product of continuity and choice. And the instinct which had driven a new class of world-compellers to bind themselves to slavish imitation of the superseded, and their prompt and reverent faith in the reality of the sham they had created, seemed to Bowen the most satisfying proof of human permanence. I figure I do not get out enough to know whether these words might or might apply to the Current Situation whereby every other tech bro is a callow Gatsby and the president is God’s gift to barking mad blondes, but on some levels the words struck a chord in me as I read them, and I see no reason to toss them out on their ears as out-dated by just over a century, hence irrelevant. In another hundred years, will people remember what windmills were? If so, will this obviate all the divine braggadocio that Cervantes wrote? John Masefield comes into mind. That the poet did not care much for mass production…

Postscript I: There is no holiday on this date, not even in Mexico. Perhaps Carpenter can give us something to celebrate.

Postscript II: Lunar and more Lunarian brass tacks: … …. ‘Me sounding like you? I guess it's time to go and shoot myself.’ … …. Pause while I had the man a pistola. … …. ‘[At any rate], my friend IT has just been given an interesting commission to go to Albania to investigate Kushner's dirty dealings there. I hadn't realised that Sazan Island where he plans his resort has been renamed Kushner Island. Does this mean Greenland will be renamed Trumpland[ia]? There is no end in sight of the sheer creepiness of these people. I am, like you, continually riled by everything that's happening in the news. I am aghast that there should be a public statue of Kristi Noem [half horse that it may be, as if a centauress]. Are we to celebrate murderesses? When I think of all the people I despise in that regime, I despise her the most. It is comforting to think there was once a better America, but I just can't believe [it] because what we see now is surely [ ] a logical consequence of its history.’ … …. Does a bear &c, and in the woods too? … ….’We watched a film called “One Battle After Another”, Leonardo DiCaprio and Sean Penn and quite honestly, I don't know whether to recommend it or not. It is a satire of sorts and although ICE and Trump are never mentioned it is an America batshit crazy, a country whose president might threaten to bomb the shit out of Oman. Where I hesitate is that it contains one of the most repulsive female roles I've ever seen on screen, a heavily pregnant woman firing a machine gun [and so forth]. That in itself earns an accolade for the most sickening scene in cinema. And yet there is much in the film that is genuinely good. Sean Penn is unhinged. … …. This country was brimful with eccentrics once. There are still some but few and far between. The country ever since Thatcher and Blair has become streamlined.” … …. It has been taken over, say, by reductio ad absurdams, no more interdimensional operatives with psychometric powers to be seen. Or else there has been something in the water….

Postscript III: Cornelius W Drake of Champaign-Urbana, honk if you see steam catapults launching remote controlled model planes, and if you do, get the hell out of the way. Honk if you see congeries of treasury officials looking a little lost, political blood-letting everywhere, vultures blackening the sky, people happily insisting that self-interest is the only gateway to peace and happiness, pass the crisps. (Damn, they have been recalled.) National park monies channelled into White House vanity projects? Worth a toot on the horn as well: … …. ‘What an absolute loon. Trump now thinks he has the right to dictate Canada's culture. "Carney said that American negotiators pushed to roll back Canada’s efforts to promote Canadian and French language content in online streaming services ... and even mandatory [package] labeling in French." (NYT) I knew T would crank up his crazy, but I didn't know he'd take this particular insanity route, or this soon.’ … …. Ah, but you did know. Down deep and dirty you know, and quite often people do not want to know what they know. They get weary and want a little tenderness.

Postscript IV: Talking Avocado: … …. ‘Spent the week writing. Or I spent the week watching myself write. As if I could forestall the day when my brain will cease to form words as will succeed one another in any coherent fashion. By then I suppose Percival will have long been dead, maa, maa to you. Otherwise, I dreamt I was a master carver in the Raven-Wolf clan (of the Haida). Here’s a pun in bad taste: Haida-Doody time. As you know, I’ve Indian in me, but not from around here, from the southwest (USA) as drifted up to these parts. Otherwise, it’s my damnable Czech sensibility, dark sarcasm, dark irony, quiet resilience (as if a fridge going on the fritz could ever dampen my enthusiasm for life but sure can annoy, just the same, to hell with politics), as drives my outlook.’ … …. Hey man, I thought it was your sunny disposition that gets you from A to B and beyond.

Postscript V: Rutilius: … …. ‘If you’re going to go on about consciousness, you’ll have to go on about Plato. I think so. The soul has a life of its own, the mind too. We had a Sunday school idea of God that was ridiculous. Perhaps we have a Sunday school idea of the afterlife as wants an upgrade. Otherwise, Na zdravie! Mud in your eye. And was that a reference to “Sapphire and Steel” and nursery rhymes that can trigger all sorts of grief? Ah, so it was. Alas, I couldn’t keep a straight face as I watched the odd episode of it once upon a time on the telly, though J Lumley did, and perhaps this was on her part a sort of genius. What if Percy B Shelley had written sci-fi? We must be, indeed, masters of the universe. How easily we trivialize the past.’

Postscript VI: Sissy Gadzilla: … …. ‘Me, too, I had a moment. Closed my eyes while watching some news. (Remember: no news for me before 10 in the morning.) Saw harpies (bird-woman monsters) carrying banners in their claws, Trump’s name emblazoned on those banners. The object of the exercise was to attach said banners to every available surface as was prestigious, no matter if such surfaces already featured famous names. Their snouts were drooling spit. Their eyes were blood red. All Israel knows how to do is kill. If untrue just at the moment, it’ll be true soon enough. Elsewise, Polish cousins have been quiet, and quietly uneasy. You know why, and if you don’t, consult a map. Cupcakes in the oven. French horn disconsolate, though I’ve put off trading him in for a contrabass bassoon, or worse, session time with a heavy metal cult.’

Postscript VII: Trail Mix: … …. ‘From “Roman Hellenism and the New Testament”, Frederick C Grant, 1962: … for mysticism is not a religion of feeling, as many writers now assume, but a religion of hard thinking, of thought reaching out beyond its own utmost limits in order to catch a view of the Eternal… …. Could’ve fooled me. Would like to catch a view of the 105 bus one of these days. I still await the reopening of my favourite café (has been undergoing renovations) slated to be sometime soon. I have to say the substitute place has been growing on me, even with all the bad paintings on the wall, expressionism with a bad case of intestinal wall irritation. They do play lovely guitar recordings here, classical, Spanish, flamenco, the works, bossa nova thankfully not on the set list. If, on the “consciousness front” we’re missing out on something through neglect, I’d like to know what it is, though I’ve no appetite for another drubbing in lysergic acid. The inner décor? There’s a counter along the streetside window giving space to potted plants, to one’s coffee cup and book. There are ten tables and a loveseat, ceiling tracks for spotlights, assorted pastries, teas, coffees. The laptops seem under control. Your basic sort of venue. The Persian proprietor always greets you as a long-lost friend. I think he means it. But could be the business school in him. Or there’s an atom or two left of some ancient civilization orbiting his person, even as they’re on the verge of being sucked into a vacuum and anything else that nature abhors.’

ADVISORY: “Blue Neptune”, a collection of poems by Norm Sibum is listed on Amazon.

August 10-13, 2026: Opoponax is not a word come across often in literary fiction. It is a word for “sweet myrrh”. Its use struck me as anomalous on a page of Edith Wharton’s “The Custom of the Country” (1913), as it threw her prose rhythm to the winds. Having gotten off on the wrong foot with this book, my first encounter with any Wharton book, and I was going to characterize her writing style as “fustian”, but then I was abusing word-sense. “Fustian” is neither equivalent to “fusty” nor to “fussy”, and besides, Wharton was not a pompous, devoid-of-meaning writer. She was just a little dry, understated to the point of lemon sour at times. She has been growing on me.

And she was not the first American writer to finger a certain breed of American capitalist as ruthless in a near absolute sense, but for me she has had her moments. She put into the mouth of one Charles Bowen a rather arid but pertinent speech as to the turn-of-the-last-century American male’s obsession with making money while not really knowing how to spend it; of his being more interested in business than in women; of his thinking that women were not capable of arriving at sound business decisions, so why bother involving them? &c. Current days, and, casual observation: the American male has been more interested in video games and smoking dope than in women or in business. Does this observation have legs, signifying improvement in male-female relations?

I have not been one to view the poet as a source for moral life, lest I bedevil any notion of “moral” with dogmas and attitudes too rigid or, indeed, trendy. But in a Trumpian Age corrupt all across the board and to the hilt; with philosophy all tangled up in language, ensnared, as it were, one might reconsider. Homer was “moral”, no getting around it, if not in any sense we necessarily recognize. Imperial Rome and the big change that took place under its aegis (one of the changes at any rate) was how “worship of the state” gave way to the cult or to the worship of the emperor. Can it be said that with us, what was once reverence for the Constitution morphed into sycophancy, that peculiarly fetid mist enveloping Current President, and the next thing we will see: deification, a god slept here? Further question: to what extent will the cult stick and hang around? Or is it gone when You-Know-Who has completed his innings, turned in his bingo card, savaged a journalist for one last time?

Fascist in Spirit Department or: Whenever I came across some interview with Richard Dawkins or a TV panel show featuring the man, he always put me off. Some “believers” are nutters, true enough, but not all those who believe in God are freakin’ idiots. Full stop. That doctrinaire atheists are as much zealots as evangelicals who think that God loves them, hears their thoughts and prayers, has their nicknames always on His lips. The fact that the universe may not be an “accident” does not necessarily privilege humankind vis-à-vis a “creator”. Much of the language to do with Christian religiosity came from the Greeks in any case, and was more weighted with philosophy and rite than with what I would call the narcissism (and the hubris) of those who think that “belief” renders them as automatic inductees slated for heaven’s Hall of Fame. It is rude, otherwise, to talk religion, the old implication being that someone somewhere will take offense. Then again, how about the Iran peace deal? Language referring to it is getting about as thick as some exegesis with respect to Genesis or Revelations or the Gospel According to (S) Miller who would have himself canonized before the good ship Lollipop sinks, or that, alas, he might be able to swim.

Postscript I: Roundabout this time in 1974, Richard M Nixon, scandal hard on him, resigned. That is, under pressure from his fellow Republicans, he let go of the presidency. For those born after the year 2000 who have as yet no real sense of history (do not worry, you will, once current realities have run their course) Nixon was, in fact, an American president whose term ended in disgrace, the country the lesser for his performances. Perhaps Carpenter provides something like a microwave background to it all.

Postscript II: Lunar and brass tacks: … …. ‘There is a forest fire close to where B is supposed to be having an exhibition next week. There was an extended news bulletin last night which points to the seriousness of the situation. The oceans are the warmest they've ever been and the rivers are filled with fish dying from the increase in water temperature. The ground is so hard that any substantial rain will result in dangerous floods. What's going on out there finds its parallel in the burning on the inside of my brain. I seem to be in a state of constant dread these days. Old age? Surely what is happening there [in America] is a consequence of what has been steadily brewing throughout its entire history. The only thing that is genuinely new is to drive science and medicine back to some kind of air-conditioned Stone Age. Just look at Trump's latest health bill which has been slapped together by an ex-druggie. One thing about reading Norman Lewis is that one is reminded that the evil goes back a good distance and that includes the administrations of the better American presidents. If I were a native in South America, I'd be saving my poison-tipped arrows for American missionaries. They are of the very stuff that the people surrounding Trump are made. It's nothing new. My question is why the Protestant beast has gained such ground in predominately Catholic countries. I suppose it is because the Protestant aim is so closely aligned with that of the most vicious regimes. I am not especially defending Catholicism, but at least their missionaries do what they do with an eye to "good works" with the hope that conversion might come later whereas the Protestants aim at "conversion first" or else eternal damnation. I'm sure Carpenter would scoff at this, saying all religions are to be held equally accountable, but there is a vital difference. Also, the Catholics have always been far cleverer when it comes to incorporating native beliefs whereas with the Protestants the native culture has to be eliminated first. Burn, burn, burn.’ … …. And previously, Lunar in an even more climate-defying funk: … …. ‘Just in and bracing ourselves for another major heatwave. The emerald-green isle is Sahara brown, dead leaves falling from the trees. So we didn't get an eighth drop of rain. Apparently, there is going to be a huge surge in food prices. It's the old trick in that, once up, the prices will never come down. [ ] Yes, well, Trump has got his new creep in as attorney-general but worse still is the absolute bitch Liz Murrell in Louisiana who has turned down most of the compensation claims from prisoners who have been wrongly jailed with the line, "They haven't proved themselves innocent." Are women in politics actually more heinous than men? More sadistic? Certainly Kristi Noem was. I correct myself though: they are not women but avatars. … …. I watched enough of that interview with Denis Noble to want to see more. Certainly he comes as a relief after the arrogance of so many in his field [genetics, micro-biology] and he sings Troubadour poetry to boot. That almost impresses me more. [By the way, speaking of water], taking advantage of the Mediterranean drought, Israel has been deliberately setting fire to forests and olive groves in Lebanon. A dirty, rotten state. Water, water. [But no, not everywhere…]’ … …. We will take our leave of Lunar on this plaintive note.

Postscript III: Cornelius W Drake of Champaign-Urbana, honk if you see, oh, a number of things, Trump attorneys drawing lines in the sand, then rubbing them out; National Parks money enroute to White House vanity projects via the main drag; a booth selling tickets to ride or subscriptions to Truth Social posts; Tim Conway on the sidelines doing nostalgia schtick with novocaine-filled syringes, and he might be thinking dentistry and its horrors, but you might as well think the comedy of anti-vaxxing; and what about Jonathan Winters and his patter, by which one can still smell homesteads of piss and kerosene heat and milk crackers and sock-it-to-me cant building up to fascist lullabies, just that what follows is not a skit: … …. ‘Until the Enlightenment's scientific method, we didn't know shit. Ignorance prevailed and mere superstitions explained. Likewise, in 20 years or 50 or 500, all of [Denis] Noble's "We don't yet know" will, almost certainly, be only history. Same for the much more intriguing question about the Big Bang's teensy singularity of no volume whatsoever and yet infinite density, capable of containing every last element now present throughout the universe. Talk about mind-blowing. In one way, I prefer not knowing the answer to either question, since scientific ignorance permits differing philosophical theses to flourish, all of which are loads of fun to ponder and debate. Answers would kill the latter. Most of it, anyway. Even astrophysics' newfound certainty about precisely how something can come from nothing would fail to eliminate the question of some mysterious Mover. For now, my one great scientific hope is that we'll soon be able to send Elon Musk to Mars.’ … …. Do not know about your “we don’t know”, but as for the Elon guy, hear, hear. Or what’s a heaven for?

Postscript IV: Talking Avocado: … …. Have you read Tertullian? Men remain in ignorance as long as they hate, and they hate unjustly as long as they remain in ignorance. That’s the extent of my session with the man (who seemed to have had it in for Eve and women in general). Just thought I’d ask. Percival says hello. Maa-maa to you. Took my novel out of the dumpster, thought I’d give it another go-through. Couldn’t, in fact, go through with it. Could see myself being interviewed upon its publication, me lying through my teeth about literature and its healing properties. Ta-ta.’ … …. Must be a windy day on the island.

Postscript V: Rutilius: … …. ‘I still pass. On strike, as it were. Irenaeus however: “The glory of God is man fully alive.” I leave it to you to imagine whom I’d like to see fully extinct. Standard summery day here in Presov. Danger ahead of dehydration. One hauls a barrel around.’

Postscript VI: Sissy Gadzilla: … …. ‘Cupcakes in the oven, and as for my French horn … well, I was thinking of giving him up for the contrabass bassoon. Here’s hoping French horn isn’t too devastated. Polish cousins regard me as if I were evil incarnate. Perhaps I are. I am pleased to see that I’m not seeing “The Odyssey” everywhere I turn. “Super Troopers 3” on the other hand? Perhaps I’ve been away from lyric poetry too long. A shot of Lorca, some guff from Neruda as a tonic of sorts to “life-affirming” bank and pharmaceutical ads. I don’t always “get” Seferis, but I like what I’ve seen.’

Postscript VII: Trail Mix: … …. I’ve started in on “Roman Hellenism and the New Testament” (Frederick C Grant, 1962). It’s history writing with a bit of bounce in its step. Another quality which runs through much if ancient Greek religion is sobriety. The ancient Greeks were not at all the light-hearted, cheerful, ever-optimistic devotees of sensuous enjoyment, basking in perennial sunshine, as pictured by the enthusiasts for romantic classicism (more romantic than classical) at the end of the eighteenth century; rather they were a very sober, industrious, and, if not godly, certainly a very sensitive people, who deeply felt the limitations and frustrations of our human situation. Best leave it at that, just to say that I do not see in this much scope for our Trumpian world which, in any case, would fare better in a time where a Caligula has softened things up for certain antics rather than, say, the Athens of Pericles with all its drinking parties, date rape not the prime aim of the action. Otherwise, once more, as I was in the bath, some words drifted into my head to the tune of “The Monster Mash”. Oldish song. 1962. I thought there was a stanza in that song to do with a tub and a humble bathe, but I recollected wrong. (I looked it up.) I cite this verse though: From my laboratory in the Castle east/ To the master bedroom, where the vampires feast/The ghouls all came from their humble abodes/To get a jolt from my electrodes. Hey, a nifty end-stop T-Rex rhyme, the T standing for You-Know-Who. I’ll meditate upon an executive order signing ceremony involving T and his minions as a retrospective on Hitler and his. That’s all I’ve got for this go-round. Maybe I’ll take to hibernating early, see you in the spring.’

ADVISORY: “Blue Neptune”, a collection of poems by Norm Sibum is listed on Amazon.