Uncertain Times— At the West End Gallery
Government is either organized benevolence or organized madness; its peculiar magnitude permits no shading.
–John Updike, Buchanan Dying (1974)
I had planned on sharing and writing a bit about the combination of the verse from Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River Anthology and a painting that seemed somewhat relevant to it. Both seem worthy of discussion.
However, coming into the studio before 5 AM I soon found out that the US was bombing Venezuela and that Venezuelan president Nicolás Maduro had reportedly been captured and, with his wife, whisked from that country.
I am not going to go into why this egregious act of war (without a declaration of war) is so wrong in my eyes and those of most of the world.
I am going to simply say that it created a great and turbulent ball of anxiety in my gut, a potent mixture of rage and dread.
It’s the feeling you might bet if you found yourself in your kitchen and an obviously imbalanced guy bursts through the door with an open 5-gallon can of gas and a Zippo. You want to bellow at him to get the fuck out of there, but you see that the Zippo is open and his finger is twitching on the flint’s wheel.
Your rage suddenly is tempered with the realization of what could happen if this madman in your presence flicks his thumb on that Zippo.
Questions race through your mind like wildfire.
What can I do now? Will he really blow up this place? Why would he do that?
Is this how my house is destroyed and my world ended?
It all brings back the question that haunted me in the early morning soon after the November election of 2024 standing outside the studio watching a strange and ominous sunrise: Is this who we are now?
For the moment it certainly seems that the answer is yes, even though I don’t think that answer is final in any way.
Can we change that answer?
I don’t know. We have responded in such a tepid manner collectively as a people to the atrocities set upon us and others this past year that I have begun to doubt our willingness to engage in the fight that is needed.
I say that with a great deal of sadness. And shame.
I truly thought we were better than this.
Okay, I have had my say for the time being. I am going to lock the kitchen door here in the studio in case that son of a bitch tries to get in here with his gas can and Zippo.
Ain’t gonna happen in my kitchen, if I have anything to say about it.
Here’s song that fits the mood I am feeling this morning. I last played it back in 2009 so you might have missed that post. It’s the classic murder ballad Dehlia from David Bromberg. I first encountered when I won 25 albums from a local radio station in 1972. They were all promotional albums sent to the station by record companies and almost all never saw a single track make it on air. Some were not good but there were a lot of gems in that group including David Bromberg’s self-titled first album. It has been a favorite of mine since 1972. His version of this song is special. Its refrain seems to fit this morning:
she’s all I got is gone
Redtree Times 