Here's an extremely important comment on a touching story in the Times today about a woman trying to save her dying father (it's from MGdoc of Oklahoma City):


There's an extremely strong cognitive disconnect running through this story that the writer, Mr Andrey's daughter and most of the comments fail to realize. Mr. Andrey was ALWAYS dying. 90 year old Alzheimers patients falling from weakness and unable to care for themselves are terminally ill. No amount of physical therapy, rehab, nursing home care etc could change that. For this sort of patient, nursing homes are just warehouses holding them until they complete the dying process. While the bedsores, malnutrition etc alleged in the article are horrifying, repeatedly taking a terminally ill patient to the hospital, repeatedly treating sepsis, having emergency surgery for somebody who is about to die despite surgery is a CHOICE. Both the patient and his daughter wanted him to keep on living, but weren't willing to accept the consequences of that decision. Mr. Andrey could have gone home, and stayed home, and died at home. Instead, he kept going back to the hospital, over and over. THAT's the real tragedy here; that he was dying and a slow agonizing death was chosen instead of realizing that death was inevitable and that death at home, without medical intervention was an acceptable alternative.

My response to a friend who sent me a blog that featured a letter by a learned Middle East scholar who seems to like Israel, or at least writes a screed (it seems to me based on nothing but pilpul) in its favor (and against using the words apartheid or nazi in speaking about the country of Israel):

I'm afraid I can't quite read all of this letter, viewing it, as I do, as Israeli propaganda. I too deplore the loose use of the term Nazi, but one cannot blame the world for seeing certain parallels in feeling tone, if not in detail. I am pretty much convinced at this point, that Jews should NOT have a country, and why wouldn't I be, since I've been brought up to believe in the SEPARATION of church and state, as we all have. In fact, I guess you could say that all this is just one more last lingering horrible effect of the Holocaust--making the Jews fulfill the worst thoughts of the ant-Semites.

The Times has one of those seemingly benign editorials about not giving the death penalty to "the alleged mastermind of the 9/11 attacks." A commenter referred to this man as a "mass murderer." I commented:
"But is he a mass murderer? As far as I can tell, this man has not been convicted of anything. And isn't a guilty verdict the only way we'll ever know, according to our system? It seems to me that even if our torturers were prosecuted (an essential move if we are ever to regain our self-respect), this man's trial is hopelessly compromised if he was treated in the cruel, heartless way you describe."

Got 24 recommendations!!

This:
http://peoplesworld.org/dead-child-walking-a-cry-from-the-heart/

says it better than I could. They never mention that it's our children we're sending to these absurd wars.

Nobody ever mentions that our new war will kill actual people, just as dead as James Foley even if they're not actually beheaded. Could someone just mention that? Even if it's just our troops, which it won't be, why send our young people far away to be killed? Because you know that will happen.

From Digby's blog, Hullabaloo, about the working poor and how some sneer at them and call them lazy:
This discussion always reminds me of Jack London's description of what happens psychologically to people who work at low paying hard labor jobs in his book Martin Eden. Martin is an ex-sailor and budding writer who takes a job working in a hotel laundry to make money so that he can ask his girl to marry him. He thinks it's a good deal --- 12 hour days leaving plenty of time in the evening for writing and reading. And one day off a week. It doesn't work out that way. The work is brutal ... and tiring. And it does something destructive to the spirit.

This picks up the story of his laundry work a week into it after he's discovered that he's too tired to do anything but sleep and work:

All Martin's consciousness was concentrated in the work. Ceaselessly active, head and hand, an intelligent machine, all that constituted him a man was devoted to furnishing that intelligence. There was no room in his brain for the universe and its mighty problems. All the broad and spacious corridors of his mind were closed and hermetically sealed. The echoing chamber of his soul was a narrow room, a conning tower, whence were directed his arm and shoulder muscles, his ten nimble fingers, and the swift-moving iron along its steaming path in broad, sweeping strokes, just so many strokes and no more, just so far with each stroke and not a fraction of an inch farther, rushing along interminable sleeves, sides, backs, and tails, and tossing the finished shirts, without rumpling, upon the receiving frame. And even as his hurrying soul tossed, it was reaching for another shirt. This went on, hour after hour, while outside all the world swooned under the overhead California sun. But there was no swooning in that superheated room. The cool guests on the verandas needed clean linen.

The sweat poured from Martin. He drank enormous quantities of water, but so great was the heat of the day and of his exertions, that the water sluiced through the interstices of his flesh and out at all his pores. Always, at sea, except at rare intervals, the work he performed had given him ample opportunity to commune with himself. The master of the ship had been lord of Martin's time; but here the manager of the hotel was lord of Martin's thoughts as well. He had no thoughts save for the nerve- racking, body-destroying toil. Outside of that it was impossible to think. He did not know that he loved Ruth. She did not even exist, for his driven soul had no time to remember her. It was only when he crawled to bed at night, or to breakfast in the morning, that she asserted herself to him in fleeting memories.

Monday morning he was hard at work, sorting clothes, while Joe, a towel bound tightly around his head, with groans and blasphemies, was running the washer and mixing soft-soap.

"I simply can't help it," he explained. "I got to drink when Saturday night comes around."

Another week passed, a great battle that continued under the electric lights each night and that culminated on Saturday afternoon at three o'clock, when Joe tasted his moment of wilted triumph and then drifted down to the village to forget. Martin's Sunday was the same as before. He slept in the shade of the trees, toiled aimlessly through the newspaper, and spent long hours lying on his back, doing nothing, thinking nothing. He was too dazed to think, though he was aware that he did not like himself. He was self-repelled, as though he had undergone some degradation or was intrinsically foul. All that was god-like in him was blotted out. The spur of ambition was blunted; he had no vitality with which to feel the prod of it. He was dead. His soul seemed dead. He was a beast, a work-beast. He saw no beauty in the sunshine sifting down through the green leaves, nor did the azure vault of the sky whisper as of old and hint of cosmic vastness and secrets trembling to disclosure. Life was intolerably dull and stupid, and its taste was bad in his mouth. A black screen was drawn across his mirror of inner vision, and fancy lay in a darkened sick-room where entered no ray of light. He envied Joe, down in the village, rampant, tearing the slats off the bar, his brain gnawing with maggots, exulting in maudlin ways over maudlin things, fantastically and gloriously drunk and forgetful of Monday morning and the week of deadening toil to come.

A third week went by, and Martin loathed himself, and loathed life. He was oppressed by a sense of failure. There was reason for the editors refusing his stuff. He could see that clearly now, and laugh at himself and the dreams he had dreamed. Ruth returned his "Sea Lyrics" by mail. He read her letter apathetically. She did her best to say how much she liked them and that they were beautiful. But she could not lie, and she could not disguise the truth from herself. She knew they were failures, and he read her disapproval in every perfunctory and unenthusiastic line of her letter. And she was right. He was firmly convinced of it as he read the poems over. Beauty and wonder had departed from him, and as he read the poems he caught himself puzzling as to what he had had in mind when he wrote them. His audacities of phrase struck him as grotesque, his felicities of expression were monstrosities, and everything was absurd, unreal, and impossible. He would have burned the "Sea Lyrics" on the spot, had his will been strong enough to set them aflame. There was the engine-room, but the exertion of carrying them to the furnace was not worth while. All his exertion was used in washing other persons' clothes. He did not have any left for private affairs.

He resolved that when Sunday came he would pull himself together and answer Ruth's letter. But Saturday afternoon, after work was finished and he had taken a bath, the desire to forget overpowered him. "I guess I'll go down and see how Joe's getting on," was the way he put it to himself; and in the same moment he knew that he lied. But he did not have the energy to consider the lie. If he had had the energy, he would have refused to consider the lie, because he wanted to forget. He started for the village slowly and casually, increasing his pace in spite of himself as he neared the saloon.

"I thought you was on the water-wagon," was Joe's greeting.

Martin did not deign to offer excuses, but called for whiskey, filling his own glass brimming before he passed the bottle.

"Don't take all night about it," he said roughly.

The other was dawdling with the bottle, and Martin refused to wait for him, tossing the glass off in a gulp and refilling it.

"Now, I can wait for you," he said grimly; "but hurry up."

Joe hurried, and they drank together.

"The work did it, eh?" Joe queried.

Martin refused to discuss the matter.



A big screen TV and a computer are probably the only respite from the mind numbing nature of the work low paid workers do --- it's all they've got to keep them from going nuts. Sadly, some of them might be watching Fox News.

I wrote a letter to the Times about how they always leave out the real antecedents to any "unrest" attributed to Palestinians in Israel. Now what could they say (instead of "events that led to" referring to one recent incident)? They could say, "The West Bank and Gaza, where most Palestinians live, have been occupied by Israel since [whatever year]" or "for nearly 50 years." They don't even need the phrase about "events"--the fact of an endless occupation would be sufficient, I think. They could, of course, add, "the ancestors of current Palestinians had homes in what is now Israel, an entity which expelled them from their ancestral lands." But it's not bloody likely.

Overdetermined. The word of the year? The decade? The century? While "overdetermined" was used quite a bit in the last century, in this one, it seems to be taking over. In just the last day, I have come upon it in about four times in four web excursions. Very useful it is, too, when you're talking about something we all know and are already bored with. But is the word "overdetermined" also overdetermined? Yes, I think so.

Jeff Koons at the Whitney:

A wonderful piece by Jed Perl in the New York Review of Books: "His combination of in-your-face banality and in-your-face extravagance"is just one beautiful phrase among many. How I detest that banality and that extravagance and everything this "artist" stands for, including getting the largest amount ever for a piece--82 million dollars, maybe. Not while I'm eating.