August 2026

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.