Miracle, Mystery, and Authority in the Catholic Land of Oz: Edward Feser vs. Pope Francis on the Death Penalty

Pope Francis is changing the Catechism of the Catholic Church–a summary of Christian belief–to declare that the death penalty is now “inadmissable” for Catholics. Here’s The New York Times:

Pope Francis has declared the death penalty wrong in all cases, a definitive change in church teaching…Francis said executions were unacceptable in all cases because they are “an attack” on human dignity, the Vatican announced on Thursday, adding that the church would work “with determination” to abolish capital punishment worldwide.

This shift in what it means to be an orthodox Catholic has Catholic philosopher Edward Feser crying foul on the grounds of contradiction:

[T]he [pro-death penalty] traditional teaching clearly meets the criteria for an infallible and irreformable teaching of the Church’s ordinary Magisterium….how the new teaching can be made consistent with the teaching of scripture, the Fathers and Doctors of the Church, and previous popes [is not explained]. Merely asserting that the new language ‘develops’ rather than ‘contradicts’ past teaching does not make it so. The CDF [Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith] is not Orwell’s Ministry of Truth, and a pope is not Humpty Dumpty, able by fiat to make words mean whatever he wants them to. Slapping the label ‘development’ onto a contradiction doesn’t transform it into a non-contradiction.

Two matters at the forefront of Feser’s concern are the demoralization of conservative Catholics and the end of the idea that the Church in key teachings is infallible:

The effect [of prohibiting the death penalty] is to embolden those who want to reverse other traditional teachings of the Church, and to demoralize those who want to uphold those teachings.

If capital punishment is wrong in principle, then the Church has for two millennia consistently taught grave moral error and badly misinterpreted scripture. And if the Church has been so wrong for so long about something so serious, then there is no teaching that might not be reversed, with the reversal justified by the stipulation that it be called a ‘development’ rather than a contradiction. A reversal on capital punishment is the thin end of a wedge that, if pushed through, could sunder Catholic doctrine from its past—and thus give the lie to the claim that the Church has preserved the Deposit of Faith whole and undefiled.

So which will Feser suggest be thrown overboard: “the claim that the Church has preserved the Deposit of Faith whole and undefiled” or Pope Francis himself? Feser’s vote is that Pope Francis should be seen as the fallible one:

If Pope Francis really is claiming that capital punishment is intrinsically evil, then either scripture, the Fathers and Doctors of the Church, and all previous popes were wrong—or Pope Francis is. There is no third alternative. Nor is there any doubt about who would be wrong in that case. The Church has always acknowledged that popes can make doctrinal errors when not speaking ex cathedra—Pope Honorius I and Pope John XXII being the best-known examples of popes who actually did so. The Church also explicitly teaches that the faithful may, and sometimes should, openly and respectfully criticize popes when they do teach error. The 1990 CDF document Donum Veritatis sets out norms governing the legitimate criticism of magisterial documents that exhibit “deficiencies.” It would seem that Catholic theologians are now in a situation that calls for application of these norms.

In other words, Feser sees a stark choice: pretend the Catholic Church on key matters has been and is infallible or pretend that popes “not speaking ex cathedra” are.

But there’s another option, isn’t there? Maybe on big issues they’re both fallible; maybe that’s the curtain Professor Feser doesn’t want to look behind. Perhaps the tension is between fallible people in the present feeling morally and intellectually compelled to correct the blind spots, errors, and absurdities of fallible people from the past.


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Thirteen Climate Atlases Shrug, Departing for France

The flight, because of Trump, of our most precious resource: human brain capital. (Mind wells are far more valuable than oil wells.) Trump has inspired a brain drain of no less than thirteen climate researchers to France. This recalls Einstein’s early exit from Nazi Germany in 1933: he could discern the direction of the political winds from Hitler’s rise to power. It’s what happens when the Anglo-French Enlightenment comes under assault by anti-Enlightenment, despotic know-nothings: the practitioners of reason at the highest levels emigrate to greener pastures. Atlases shrug.



Stalin and Mao, BFF

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Relativity (A Poem)


This is whatever can be measured between us.

For instance, two birds share one sign, tail feathers

touching, heads back in song, a heart of gray sky framed

between them. But look again, for each line clocks

a difference. One breaks off, another begins; attention flows

to the details–then it’s back toward this upward glance

into some larger change of one bird now missing;

the gray heart gone; the sky: cold, clear, alone. There.

2o tree along sierra hwy

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Self Calming: 86 Ways To Activate Your Parasympathetic Nervous System

Below is a concise self calming list I recently brainstormed for myself–and I thought it might be helpful for others as well. I keep a copy on a single piece of paper in my pocket and look at it periodically through the day. It has some eccentricities, so if one or more of the ideas is not clear, ask about it in the thread and I’ll do my best to explain what I was attempting to capture.

The ideas are an eclectic mix of insights derived from places like Buddhism, neurobiology, philosophy, and literature. If you’re not already clear on this, the sympathetic nervous system is associated with stress (the four Fs: fear, fleeing, fighting, mating) and the parasympathetic with calm. And of course the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems interact with one another, so reaching a state of calm or eudaimonia (well being, flourishing) isn’t necessarily about just suppressing the sympathetic nervous system in favor of the parasympathetic, but activating it more skillfully (in sex, for instance, the parasympathetic nervous system activates in foreplay, the sympathetic in orgasm).

The items on the list roughly cluster into categories: discipline and energy (as preconditions for anything in life to happen); wellness (exercise, diet); meditation; general self calming; simplicity; ecology; creativity; venturing forth (novelty seeking and risk taking); networking (connecting with others); and the questioning of habitual narratives.

If I were to boil down the list to just four words, they would consist of a metaphysical claim accompanied by an overriding, parasympathetic practice: one thing, no reaction. That’s probably quite a few historical thinkers–East and West, from Buddha to Spinoza to Schopenhauer–in a nutshell.

Here’s the list:

86 ways to activate your parasympathetic nervous system: (1) call up (trigger) discipline, Shakti (energy), & Lila (jazz, the brain’s play & seeking systems); (2) imagine a possible future you want & delay gratification for it, exercising the anterior prefrontal cortex; (3) “do the harder thing” (R. Sapolsky), not the easier, exercising the ventral medial & dorsal lateral prefrontal cortex; (4) precommit (remove temptations to strengthen resolve); (5) practice curiosity, critical thinking, attention to detail, excellence, resilience, & grit (stick-to-itiveness); (6) face the truth (ask pointed questions & stay for the answers); (7) say, “I’ll handle it” (have inner confidence) & “I’ll feel the fear & do it anyway”; (8) say, “You’re never going to feel like it”—then do the harder thing; (9) practice Zen no thinking, mindfully observing things via target-vow-witness: i.e. halt deliberation & say “ah so” to whatever surprising, pleasant, unpleasant, distracting, random, or entropic event comes along (example: “I’ll walk from here to that distant light, noticing what I experience in 5-4-3-2-1,” then ask along the way, “What’s it like to be alive?”); (10) have a Zen no-thought morning ritual (think habit, habitus, & neuroplasticity—and also think Sartre, choosing oneself in advance); (11) exercise aerobically for one hour and work muscle groups (arms, abs, legs) to boost GABA, neurogenesis, endorphins, serotonin, oxytocin, dopamine, and glutamate, preferably out of doors (run, bike, swim); (12) dance, stretch, do yoga, or tai chi; (13) eat flax seeds & broccoli, go vegan, fast, or eat only between noon & 6pm (think “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” & “beans are really, really good for you”); (14) take supplements (fish oil, D, tumeric); (15) self-administer dopamine by breaking macro-goals into micro-goals (have a check-off list with deadlines: “I’ll be in the gym by 5am”); (16) set goals & say no to whatever takes you off of them, but also be atelic—or atelic with telic things (think process & practice, not project & goal; performance art, not outcome); (17) dampen reactivity with an even temperament (go from a soundtrack of desire to a meta-soundtrack of non-reactivity); (18) accept the bent nail (Heidegger’s dasein, Dogen’s uji) and all future engine failures now (the cup is already broken); (19) dampen pre-traumatic stress syndromes with Ram Dass’ “be here now” and E. Tolle’s “is now okay?”; (20) after a trigger, breathe with mouth shut or practice breath work, like alternate nostril breathing or breath counting, taking your reactive, default mode network—the spell of your usual head chatter—off-line; (21) notice the delusions of the evolutionary matrix (in-out boundary delusions; delusions for sex, food, status, etc.), then hack the matrix by breathing evenly, noticing things but not reacting, like a lion on a hill; (22) exercise your attention and discipline muscle—pre-frontal cortex—via meditation (fix unconditioned attention on the present, without tanha—thirst—& don’t grasp or push away, but feel the heat—tapas—& stay); (23) notice at what stage of rising-ripening-rotting a thing is & follow it without passion, cultivating wisdom; (24) think: “This will pass” and “This moment can be a chance for practice”; (25) watch karma burn, run, flow off; (26) be in no hurry, have no preferences; (27) see that nothing is simple, but consists of parts, & so take nothing personally (think No Country for Old Men: “I got here the same way the coin did”); (28) after vipassana, replace any remaining, spell-casting negative or reactive self-talk with wisdom-based, rational self-talk (rational emotive or cognitive behavioral therapy); (29) in place of rumination, pan out & see language games, systems, & subsystems as Earth’s cathedral façade, then do tratak (focused subsystem meditation, noticing the inner logic of one of its alcoves); (30) be the Buddha mind (wind moves, flag moves, mind moves); (31) be the radio: broadcast what comes; (32) as you ironically wait on joy, grace, & the law (truth) to visit thee, go from room-to-room with calm and sympathy (think Coleridge’s “Dejection: an Ode”; think Kafka’s The Trial; think of the peculiar spotlight of space-time you so improbably inhabit—and of entropy and Max Ernst contemplating Prague Castle and Charles Bridge as a precarious, traumatic, and “fortuitous meeting of two distant realities on an inappropriate plane”); (33) drop desire to see inside & outside as one (one thing, no reaction; Emerson’s transparent eyeball—then “I choose love awareness”); (34) see each as aspect of you—and you as aspect of each (think HBO/Atlantic shorts series Question Your Answers, Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, Indra’s net, sunyata, and Wittgenstein’s aspect seeing); (35) be in uncertainties (“I don’t know”; neg. capability; think: “There’s the way I think things are and become, and the way things are and become”; mantra: “My model may be wrong” or “My model may not match reality”); (36) think Bell’s Theorem, seeing seemingly unentangled things as really entangled, like water & H2O (if this, then that; if not this, then not that); (37) think of choice, chance, & accident as limited views on a broader, strange attractor determinism, akin to a failure of perception of a deeper interconnection, and so come to calm (Spinoza); (38) reduce serotonin suppressing cortisol by getting or giving a massage (tap, pound, squeeze, rub, brush off, scratch, tickle, poke); (39) soak or shower; (40) trigger an autonomous sensory meridian response; (41) relax muscles & exercise imagination (let go; do somatic quieting or biofeedback, savoring the positive in memory or fantasy); (42) hold thy tongue; (43) go still & silent (play dead, corpse pose, nap: nothing sounds as good as silence feels); (44) get dark sleep or sleep outside; (45) pet your puss cat or pooch; (46) let go perfectionism; (47) make peace & default to peace, your sanctuary nature; (48) make love, not war; (49) make a mental passage to India with ahimsa (nonviolence), satyagraha (truth-telling), aparagraha (non-grasping, non-materialism), santosa (contentment), & saucha (cleanliness); (50) declutter (keep green & clean); (51) unplug; (52) take no action (A. Ginsberg: “It’s never too late to do nothing at all!”); (53) don’t shop: it’s never too late to buy nothing at all; (54) reduce alienation by simple, ecological acts (make toothpaste; dry clothes on a line; compost orange peels); (55) plant a tree; (56) build an upcycled, tiny house; (57) find financial peace (goal: debt-zero; think Camus: money buys time for higher life; think Whitman: “I loafe and invite my soul / I lean and loafe…hoping to cease not till death”; think Coleridge: “The soul itself must issue forth, / A light, a glory [halo] … / Enveloping the Earth”); (58) read or write in a quiet place; (59) do art or photography or sit with an art or photography book, magnifying glass in hand; (60) make or listen to music or poetry, enacting time; (61) slo-mo: pause to ask questions, linger, look, & feel (think what a photograph achieves by arresting time, generating a crawl space around it; think Museum Hours, savoring sights, essential oils & other aromas, sounds, textures & tastes, eating slowly & taking small bites); (62) notice a process (its stage; its parts in that stage; what it’s embedded in) & count patterns (how many trees, exactly?); (63) notice a thing odd, sui generis, ugly, beautiful, true, or good within a process (name & un-name the thing; integrate & disintegrate it); (64) think happening : notice that all things (nouns) are really events and relations in combination (C. Rovelli); (65) be in nature or listen to nature sounds; (66) venture out, travel, or watch slo-TV; (67) get sunlight & rock hunt; (68) look into the sky, day or night, or catch sunrise or sunset; (69) do a new thing (“365 days—no repeats”; think “This can be an experiment”); (70) be grateful and reframe: be more Pollyanna than Cassandra (catch your negativity or disconfirmation bias; bias your default mode network toward the positive—and if things go bad, you’ll handle it); (71) straighten posture/power pose; (72) practice self-other compassion & forgive self-others; (73) practice a bit more extraversion; (74) be with others, share, & make friends; (75) take a walk-and-talk; (76) expand your circle of empathy; (77) find village roles you can play (elder leading a group; cook at a festival); (78) engage in meaningful, ecological, hopeful work & projects; (79) bring to a cause your solidarity, rebellion, & imagination, i.e. come under a spell of Dionysus—a theatrical ecstasy—but just for fun (don’t play it too seriously); (80) watch comedy (be ironic, smile, laugh—boosting endorphins); (81) notice the poet’s fictions (the dramas of imagination; Milton’s “sport of winds”; Magnolia’s “This is the part of the movie where…”); (82) play the poet’s fiction’s light, not locking in on one narrative, but noticing that “there is more than one way to look at a thing” (L. Clifton); (83) subtract imagination from the poet’s fictions & see what’s left (W. Stevens); (84) fake it till you become it: reflect on how it is to think, feel, & behave at your best—and how your thought/behavior is maladaptive or adaptive (Blake-binding or Blake-releasing of life); (85) enter present experience without tightness (be loose, relaxed, open, flexible, accepting—i.e. enact hospitality, welcoming each moment as one might while on an LSD trip); (86) don’t make pain important (Nietzsche)—and open to pain, frustration, failed models, fatigue, complexity, uncertainty, your modular brain, and competing goods (accept, don’t deny; no need to Picasso/Minotaur pose)—and don’t make them excuses to forestall action (the Hamlet Syndrome)—now choose (Nietzsche & Sartre).


Image result for dial it back luther damn

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With Stormy Daniels, The Power of Sex–Not the Russians, Not the Majority of Voters–May Finally Achieve Trump’s Unraveling


Did Donald Trump pay Stormy Daniels to help him win the presidency or was he just keeping a secret from his wife? If it’s the former, he has foisted a fraudulent marital persona before the country to achieve election and also did something illegal (campaign fund usage has to be disclosed). If it’s the latter–if he was hiding an affair from his spouse–then he has committed fraud against his wife, proving they don’t have an open marriage. So it’s one or the other–or even both at the same time. In either case it’s fraud–fraud against Melania, fraud against voters, or fraud against both.

And if in a Los Angeles courtroom Stormy Daniels is granted the right to sue Trump, discovery will open him up to still further disclosures, including his past behavior with women in general–patterns not just of affairs, but of sexual assault and harassment.

So notice these sentences in The New York Times today. They strike me as ominous:

“A lawsuit opens the door, and judges almost always allow for a plaintiff to have a fishing expedition,” said Robert S. Bennett, the Washington lawyer who represented Mr. Clinton in the Paula Jones case. The questions could include, “Have you paid other people money?” he said….It could have simply been a personal matter…of Mr. Trump wishing to keep a secret from his wife.

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Tariffs Are for Friends of Trump–But Not the Rest of Us

Jeffrey Dorfman’s recent essay for Forbes on Trump’s steel and aluminum tariffs is titled, “On Steel Tariffs, the Math Just Doesn’t Add Up.”

But the math actually adds up just fine from the vantage of the connected rich. Tariffs are a form of crony capitalism. They protect a politically dialed-in minority and spread the harm across the majority.

We’ll all pay a little more for products with aluminum and steel in them to protect CEO friends of Trump in uncompetitive–but politically connected–industries, and Trump’s tariffs will be spun as a win for the workers in those industries, not the CEOs who will reap the bulk of the payouts from the tariffs.

So it’s a shell game akin to tax cuts (give the minority rich a tax cut and place the burden of it onto our grandchildren in the form of deficit spending).

Trump’s fondness for tariffs is thus part of his authoritarian impulse for gathering power to himself. It’s a move that forces individual capitalists and nations to crawl to the president and say, “Please exempt us from your tariff, Mr. President.” It hurts the overall economy, but not the friends of Trump.

Stalin and Mao, BFF



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If Trump Now Fires Mueller, Collusion with Russia Will Be Happening Every Day in Real Time

Trump is a traitor who won’t defend the integrity of his own country’s election system from Russian election hackers. Think about that. After the indictment of thirteen Russians Friday, Trump is now literally assisting them in a cover-up if he fires Mueller. He is also now colluding with them in real time if he fails to do anything to the purpose of securing the country against future election attacks in 2018 and 2020–or resists deeper inquiries into Russian election hijacking.

What do the Russians have on Trump that makes him want to protect them and not us? And patriotism-wise, why aren’t conservative losing their minds over this? What kind of leader protects himself and another nation against his own nation, downplaying and resisting even basic inquiry? Since 2014 the Russians have been working to upend our democratic republic.

Trump’s electoral college margin was achieved by a swing of just 70,000 votes in three states, and so it is that we now literally have Putin’s president, and not our own, installed in office. In other words, 2016 was not a fair fight–its scales were tipped by Russian interference–and so everyday that Trump now casts shade on Mueller or resists inquiry into that interference is an act of collusion.

Put another way, it’s increasingly apparent that Russian and American oligarchs have been colluding to destroy our democracy. One of those oligarchs is Trump. And it looks like they might well succeed. We thus need to vote in 2018–all of us. Only by Democrats taking back Congress will we arrest this terrible rot that is currently plaguing our democratic system of government. Trump is a Russian wolf in sheep’s clothing. He will not protect us. Patriotic Democrats must step-up, run for office, and vote. 


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Trump Slurs His Speech–Again

It’s not just the fact that President Trump was put on video yesterday in place of a face-to-face encounter with the press, it’s that, when you actually watch it, the screen cuts suggest the possibility that this was pieced together from more than one attempt by Trump to read through the short text smoothly. And his speech seems effortful, not at ease, slow and on the verge of slurring–even in this very brief appearance. It’s a marked contrast from a year ago, at his February press conference, when he seemed more in command of himself and of his speech. He appears ill here. I wonder why more is not being made of what sounds to me like hints of the same slurring problem that he had in Israel last month.


Contrast this with what looks to be better health and a relatively better sense of command a year ago in February 2017 (at his only press conference since becoming President).


I’ll make a prediction: I’m betting Trump will not hold a single press conference in 2018–precisely because he is in accelerated cognitive decline. He’ll be highly guarded from spontaneous exchanges with reporters by his handlers–especially when before cameras–and perhaps he will even dodge extended interviews with newspapers as well (especially after botching his recent NYT’s interview, sounding, again, oddly incoherent).

Look, for instance, at the weirdness of this USA Today article from yesterday. Why is he apparently requiring a shield from the least sparring with journalists? If he is cognitively sharp, and can sustain coherent thoughts on a range of subjects relevant to his responsibilities as President, why wouldn’t he want to put these powers on display, vanquishing his enemies? He’s hiding behind an Oz curtain. Why?


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Does Trump Have Dementia–And If So, Should It Be Made Public?


We can probably all agree that Trump is a clinical narcissist. He may even be a sociopath. So when Trump has his physical this month, there is no need to test for these–though, in an ideal world, we would. It wouldn’t hurt if Trump had a psychiatric evaluation marking one or more of his mental conditions as “official,” but that’s not likely to trigger Vice President Pence and the cabinet to discuss invoking the 25th Amendment for the removal of Trump from office.

Dementia, however, might.

What I want your opinion on is Trump’s upcoming physical evaluation: should he be checked by a physician, or a team of physicians, not just for the health of his heart, but for the health of his brain, i.e. for dementia? That’s very different from whether Trump matches the DSM for this or that mental disorder.

I want to know if a team of neurological specialists judges Trump to have a serious medical condition. I want to know this because Trump has not yet started a war, nor used nuclear weapons, but he could over the next three years. It’s not about whether Trump’s mental states are, say, marked by delusional episodes–it’s obvious that they are–his Alex Jones fandom being Exhibit A. What’s at issue for me in his January physical exam is whether his brain is actually, objectively, clinically diseased.

If the rules of the game for Trump’s check-up this month includes the restriction on the physicians evaluating him that dementia-checking is off the table–then, Houston, we have a problem. One can’t be referred to a specialist for something one is not evaluated for, agree?

And so, should Trump’s medical check-up this month include some sort of sustained initial evaluation for dementia–he is 71, after all–and with specialists getting involved if signs are evident?

That’s all I’m asking. My concern is that a “don’t ask, don’t tell” regime is going to be put in place surrounding the question of Trump and dementia; that the politicos around Trump will keep this “elephant in the room” from going public by simply insisting to the physician or physicians involved that they are there to evaluate his general bodily health (his blood pressure, his basic blood levels, etc.), not his brain’s health.

It’s hard to imagine a narcissist and habitual liar like Trump submitting to sufficiently sustained questioning from a group of physicians looking to evaluate him for dementia–even as he shows public signs of its onset. Trump almost certainly does not want to know if he has clinical dementia–though if Trump were a decent man, one would think he would want to know, if not for his own safety, then at least for the safety of the country and the world.

Would you try to go on being president if a group of specialists diagnosed you with dementia?

Trump might.

So do you agree that Trump should be thoroughly evaluated for dementia as part of his January physical exam even if he himself does not actually want to know? Surely, given Trump’s access to nuclear weapons, a dodged or delayed diagnosis would be enormously reckless, don’t you agree?

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A Life-Affirming Talk on Sustainable Community Building

I like this.


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THE HATE POTATO: Will Trump Hatred Absent Hillary Hatred Prove to Be the Deciding Election Factor in 2018 and 2020?

Something this morning in an analysis of data at The Washington Post by James Hohmann strikes me as extremely hopeful for Democrats. It may prove, in 2018 and 2020, that what holds the Democratic coalition together to beat the fractured Republican coalition is Trump hatred–exactly as Hillary hatred held together the Trump coalition in 2016.

In other words, for the next two election cycles, Republicans may hold the HATE POTATO–which is Donald Trump himself–and they may hold it all by their lonesome. There’s no Hillary to kick around anymore. Here’s the key quote from Hohmann’s article:

Trump keeps talking about Hillary Clinton because it’s the best way to hold his coalition together….In every GOP faction…voters strongly dislike Clinton at about twice the rate that they strongly like Trump. (Similarly, Democrats are held together right now by their near universal disdain for Trump.)

Since Hillary is off of the political basketball court going forward, perhaps all that Democrats really need to do in 2018 and 2020 is to recruit nice, young, centrist, non-scary people to run for offices. Do you suppose they can do it–or will they blow the layup?


Image result for blow the layup gif


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Why Are Some College Students So Lazy?

Maybe it’s an evolution thing. (Of course, everything is an evolution thing.) But what I mean is: all life forms are taking gambles in each moment as to how they’ll expend their energy or conserve it. On the continuum of evolutionary strategies surrounding the value of, say, a college writing class to one’s future and reproductive success, some will put forward a high-energy gambit, others a low one, and still others will fall somewhere in the middle. How much energy is put into an essay is the measure of one’s evolutionary strategy as deployed at a very particular stage of one’s life, and in a very particular context (environment).

Some have guessed they can skate and still get the grade they want, while others might obsess about their essays in ways that are actually counterproductive to their own life development. (They decline a date on a Saturday night to hole-up with a paper that turns out to be shit even after an excess of fretful editing, etc.)

My point is that every human being on the planet is an enormous lottery winner in the evolutionary game, and is now putting forth his or her own gamble toward the future. An individual’s temperamental set-points for laziness and attention-to-detail are there for a reason: they’ve been highly adaptive in the past, either for themselves or for ancestors they inherited them from. As Dawkins famously notes, each individual is the product of a long line of ancestors going back billions of years, and not a single one of them died before producing at least one viable offspring. It’s a stunning string of successes that lead to each one of us. And the college students sitting in our classes have reached reproductive age without yet getting their Darwin Awards (elimination from the gene pool).

What thus looks like a bad sort of laziness brought to this or that college class may in fact be the right sort and level of laziness for the contingent situations our very particular students find themselves in. Each of them are navigating contending demands on their time. Laziness in a class, for instance, may function as a signal to them, by the end of the semester, that they don’t really want to be in college after all, or be an English major, etc.

And where they in fact put their energy, and display no laziness at all, may indeed prove quite successful for them.

I’m not making excuses for college students, just noting how tricky it is to determine what others, in their contingent life experiences, ought to be doing with their time (as if we know). A professor friend of mine who once taught with me at AVC used to say, “Everyone has their journey.”

For perspective, here’s a clip of John Walton fretting over what to do with his time, and wondering what his dad would have told him.

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The Poet’s Fictions (A Poem)



No hurry, no preference;

Nothing simple,

Nothing personal; one fire,

Great Silence.


Bring your rebellion.

Bring your solidarity.

Imagine. Bent nail.

Struggle. Birth.


1l split

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A Guided Meditation With A Little Help From A Wallace Stevens Poem (“The Plain Sense Of Things”)

If the poet generates a soundtrack to an environment, then the meditator, as poet, generates a meta-soundtrack that goes something like this: In your head, bring the inertial, reactive soundtracks down. Do not desire or avert them, but just let them be. Notice how your habitual and evolved inner soundtracks mash-up with the evolved soundtracks around you (social and natural). In other words, notice that you’re an evolved animal in a very particular existential situation. What’s triggering your evolved brain modules (your inner iTunes playlists, as it were) and what’s actually playing in the present moment from one of those playlists? Again, don’t do anything about what you’re currently experiencing (“It’s never too late to do nothing at all”). Just observe. Do not become spell-cast. Be calm and ironic. Play dead.

Now that you’re unattached from your habitual, reactive soundtracks, attend with dispassion to something quite particular, either within or without. Notice its sui generis (one-of-a-kind) qualities, what conditions its existence, and how it consists of parts and processes that are ultimately impersonal, interconnected, and impermanent. Attend to the thing’s implicit or explicit homeostatic and allostatic rhythms and cycles: how does it maintains its inner logic and balance and respond to outside forces? What makes it a distinct, integral thing? Also notice its age. At what stage in the rising-ripening-and-dying process does it seem to be in? Bring yourself to an ever deeper stillness and silence in relation to that thing, as if you are observing a leaf that has dislodged from a tree beside a pond. (You are the tree. You are alongside a still pond.) Now read this poem:

Wallace Stevens



After the leaves have fallen, we return 

To a plain sense of things. It is as if 

We had come to an end of the imagination, 

Inanimate in an inert savoir.


It is difficult even to choose the adjective 

For this blank cold, this sadness without cause. 

The great structure has become a minor house. 

No turban walks across the lessened floors.


The greenhouse never so badly needed paint. 

The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side. 

A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition 

In a repetitiousness of men and flies.


Yet the absence of the imagination had

Itself to be imagined. The great pond,

The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves,

Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence


Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see,

The great pond and its waste of the lilies, all this

Had to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge,

Required, as a necessity requires.

Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

On Having No Head: The Headless Squid Bowl, The Flying Spaghetti Monster, And The Cosmos’s Undirected, Mutually Interdependent Arising

The headless squid bowl sometimes served in Japanese restaurants is odd and fascinating. It strikes me as a metaphor for the cosmos: it goes without a head. How strange. In a sense, even conscious beings like ourselves go without a head as well. When you think about it, who really thinks your thoughts? Do you think your thoughts, or do they just come to you? Aren’t your thoughts happening because neurons stimulated by some combination of genetic and environmental factors trigger them? The neurons themselves are not conscious, and yet they are a condition of your thinking anything at all. Neurons fire in response to stimuli, and you write a blog post, or go to a Japanese restaurant–or, ewww!–avoid both of them. This is what Zennies might call the spontaneous Buddha mind in action, always present and on the move, and which we can discover directly for ourselves to be the case by simply pausing and calmly noticing it dancing all around us and in us. Who are we? We are, collectively, a Mutually Interdependent Arising, the Spontaneous Buddha Mind, the Interconnected Headless Squid. Something like the atheist’s Flying Spaghetti Monster. Yikes.

Think of this Japanese haiku:

The old pond.

A frog jumps in.


No telling how those reverberations will play out. The idea is something like what the novelist Don DeLillo writes in his novel White Noise:

Who knows what I want to do? Who knows what anyone wants to do? How can you be sure about something like that? Isn’t it all a question of brain chemistry, signals going back and forth, electrical energy in the cortex? How do you know whether something is really what you want to do or just some kind of nerve impulse in the brain? Some minor little activity takes place somewhere in this unimportant place in one of the brain hemispheres and suddenly I want to go to Montana or I don’t want to go to Montana.

Isn’t it odd to discover you have no head? That the cosmos has no head?



Posted in atheism, atomism, beauty, climate change, david hume, edward feser, Genesis, God, Lucretius, meditation, origins, poetry, science, Uncategorized | 4 Comments

Partially Excited States: An Interview With Charles Hood


Poet, artist, and photographer Charles Hood’s most recent book, Partially Excited States (University of Wisconsin Press 2017), is the winner of the Felix Pollak Prize for this year. I interviewed Hood, a Southern California native, about his new book.


ST: You now share a distinction with a prominent writer in the skeptical community, and I wonder if you know this. In 2005, Jennifer Michael Hecht wrote a book of poetry titled Funny, and it too won the Felix Pollack Prize. Hecht has also written some widely acclaimed skeptical titles, my favorite being Doubt: A History (Harper 2003). Do you know of her, and do you regard yourself as an atheist?

CH: Yes we all know her, right? And envy her clarity of expression? (I do, anyway.) I had to stop going to my long-time church this year when the new pastor just was too Yabba Dabba Doo for words. I miss it though, miss singing the songs I grew up with, miss the sincerity of the congregants (even the homophobic ones). It’s easy to be skeptical, and particle physics even makes it scientific to be uncertain, but I do like the mystics, I like faith, I like C.S. Lewis when he’s a fussy old apologist in a worn-out sweater. I miss the church, even if I can never commit to it fully. Didn’t Wallace Stevens return to faith on his deathbed? Cremate me, that’s fine, but I hope I come back as a really odd animal. A porcupine? Would you like to be a porcupine? The quills make a rattling sound, cold and hollow, as it waddles along. You just trundle through the forest, all alone, gnawing tree trunks and doing your thing, perhaps humming to yourself. In the Amazon last month I saw prehensile-tailed porcupines, sort of a half porcupine, half monkey sort of thing, black and white with a pink nose. Durga the great goddess rides a tiger (or a lion in some versions)—let’s rewrite the story, make it a goddess on a porcupine. That is my faith, part fancy dress party, part ur-narrative.

ST: Oh, well, by that description, I think I may already be a porcupine. As to your book, it isn’t titled Funny, but like Hecht’s, your new collection of poems has a lot of devices in it associated with humor, such as double entendre, as in your poem, “How My Parents Died,” where the narrator writes of a clerk working in an office in which death certificates are processed, and he remarks, “She has a form.” The phrase recalls Theodore Roethke’s poem, “I Knew a Woman” (“when she moved, she moved more ways than one”). Is there, in your view, a natural affinity between what the poet does and what the comedian does? Do people read Hecht, Roethke, and Hood for reasons similar to spending an evening at, say, a comedy club?

CH: Maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s the late-night hours, but most comedy clubs are safe zones where you can be completely un-PC; alone in my truck I listen to “Raw Dog,” a comedy channel on satellite radio that is R-rated and beyond. It’s a guilty pleasure—I could never have it on if you were riding with me, and I could never do it during daylight, when I am locked onto NPR like the good foot soldier of neo-liberalism that I am. Yet being transgressive is fun: who doesn’t want to put a thumbtack on God’s chair once in a while? Poets, court jesters, standup comedians: we all listen to how language works and then try to bend it the other way. That old Vaudeville joke, “Take my wife…please,” that’s zeugma plus an enjambed line break. A Woody Allen monologue and a Robert Creeley poem both pivot on the same perfectly timed pattern of pause / punch line  / pause, without ever cracking a smile.

ST: In your poem, “How My Parents Died,” each line surprises. Instead of a grim, serious poem, it’s in turns energetic and ironic, and its opening lines, “I finally get to Montana—I have always wanted to go to Montana— / but while I am there, my parent die,” recall for me a passage in Don DeLillo’s novel, White Noise: “Who knows what I want to do? Who knows what anyone wants to do? How can you be sure about something like that? Isn’t it all a question of brain chemistry, signals going back and forth, electrical energy in the cortex? How do you know whether something is really what you want to do or just some kind of nerve impulse in the brain? Some minor little activity takes place somewhere in this unimportant place in one of the brain hemispheres and suddenly I want to go to Montana or I don’t want to go to Montana.” The narrative voice in DeLillo’s novel sounds a lot like your own ironic, experienced, world-weary (because world-familiar) poetic voice. Do you ever get world-weary yourself for long periods of time, or do you just enact it on the page? And if you do get world-weary, who or what lures you back into all the suffering and travel (from the French word travail, ordeal) that you embrace? In spite of life’s ironies, pains, and pratfalls, should we go to Montana anyway? Should we be good Stoics and make pain unimportant as we press forward with life? Or is “How my Parents Died” a “vanities of vanities” poem—a warning to just stay home?

CH: Probably not Montana, too cold in the winter and Jim Harrison is dead now anyway. My father did pass when I was in France, and there was a general strike, I couldn’t get back to Paris to fly home, so I almost missed the funeral. Then when I got there, I had left my eulogy at home on my desk, then I stepped in gum. What a day! That poem you cite about my parents, I do grieve sincerely at the end, even as I play with the tension—and I think you have it too—of looking at parental units and thinking, “Surely I have nothing in common with these people. Look how ugly they all are, plus they voted for Trump!”—and yet at the same time, having to admit how much of them is in me, even the N-word, holocaust-denying parts of them. So in the poem if they hypothetically lived larger-than-life lives, and if in reality, that’s the thing they did NOT do, maybe I am just flirting with the fear that I too am small and constrained, and that all my worldly knowledge is just an illusion. At heart I am 90% white trash, with the barest trace of a classical education slopped on like a cheap coat of red paint.

ST: Now that last sentence is funny, and Dante can be funny too, and the way you arranged this new book of poems seems to echo Dante’s Divine Comedy: there’s a hell realm section titled “The History of Hell in America”; a sublunary (beneath the moon) purgatorio section addressing various secrets of the hidden, human heart (“Invisible Terrain”); and a section focused on the heavens (poems devoted to planets and moons brought together under the title, “Escape Velocity”). Was Dante in your thoughts when placing them in this arrangement? And did you settle on the title, Partially Excited States, in part because it sounds a bit like paradiso—or am I giving this book a far too Catholic overlay? Was the title no more mysterious than say, at the time it occurred to you, you were watching Curb Your Enthusiasm?

CH: I hate that show and you only mention it to annoy me, I am sure. The last third of the book, the part after the journey to hell, goes from Mercury to Venus to Earth and on out past Pluto, very directly and linearly, and as with the end of 2001 (which I saw as a child at the Cinerama Dome), it wants to join the stars. We are reborn at the end, or at least we get in line to do the ride all over again. That third section is the ejectimenta from a failed project about all 177 moons of the Solar System; that it works at all is more luck than skill, since I tried to put those pieces in about a thousand different orders. I am still not sure I got the pace right. I do though think that a good book needs an invisible structure, even if it’s based on intuition and rolling a ten-sided die.

ST: In this collection, you have a poem (“Magazine Tiger, Harper’s Bazaar”) that appears to flip roles played by tiger and lamb in William Blake’s “The Tyger.” In Blake’s poem, the tiger is a symbol of fire and experience, terrifying, while the lamb is white and innocent (“Did He who made the lamb make thee?”). But in your poem you have humans that are terrifying and a tiger that is innocent, taking on qualities of Blake’s lamb, even being nursed like a little lamb: there’s “this lady…bottle-feeding a baby white tiger.” The baby tiger is encircled by the human world, which consists of coarse lusts, capitalist greed, superficiality, and the machinery of an advertising photo shoot—a real hell realm, which you describe. Yet even as the tiger has been encircled and dominated by the human environment, the poem ends with a dramatic panning-out to a yet larger, Inferno-like encirclement: “The world waits patiently before / crushing us into powder with the immense weight / of its beauty and indifference.” Is that baby powder? Have we hit an iceberg? Have we moved beyond mere innocence to experience, and into Camus’ realm of the absurd, the poem functioning as a kind of myth of Sisyphus for environmentalists? Or is that crushing to powder not a punishment at all, but the shock of the new: larger nature waiting for us to unplug from narrower dramas and actually notice, really notice, the sublime and surprising power of each moment, however indifferent it happens to be to our own selfish and self-absorbed existence?

CH: I wish I could have a dollar for every allusion you make on your blog and then I could retire early. As for Blake’s tyger, that’s the most widely anthologized poem in English supposedly, and as such, it’s hard to escape its driving trochaic beat. What modern writer hasn’t internalized its rhythms and its dichotomies? In my case when I speak of the indifference of the world I am being a modern skeptic: dinosaurs come, dinosaurs go, and we want to be important, yet we are not—not as a species, and certainly not as individuals. And the power of the primal woman, the allure of sexuality, that’s in the text too: on the imaginary set (though it is a real ad, my set is imaginary), I make the gaffers and grips all willing to be walked over by the model, so enthralled are they by woman as Siren. It doesn’t have to be a woman: sexuality more generally, so it could be a young male model who captivates and seduces. We as consumers are kept on a choke chain, same as the tiger, which is sedated and leashed, and yet the tiger is sexuality, ready to devour us. To quote one of my own lines in another book, if you could sleep with the most beautiful person in the world, think how ugly you would feel—which might be reason enough to do it.

ST: In “Sunrise on Mercury,” you contrast your father’s passion with your own reserve: “My own wounds / I have learned to tap with a little metal spigot”—a wonderful image of ink tapping the music of your words into a journal. And such lines also feel very much like the Buddhist poet, Gary Snyder, as when he writes in “Riprap” (1965):

Lay down these words

Before your mind like rocks

placed solid, by hands

In choice of place, set

Before the body of the mind

in space and time:

Solidity of bark, leaf, or wall

riprap of things:

Cobble of milky way,

straying planets,…

This would seem to be the map you’ve followed in your new book—indeed, in all of your books. And yet, though you have a Buddhist’s eye for control and precision, lingering on details, collecting your stones—you don’t quite have the Buddhist’s patience for holding still like a stone. Would you describe yourself as a rolling stone; a rolling Buddhist; a Buddhist on the run (akin to Paul McCartney’s “Band on the Run”)?

CH: Can somebody tell me what the band is on the run from? That song came out when I was in middle school and I still don’t understand it. Spigot and tapping is a maple tree image: how one gets the syrup is to tap a spike into the tree and slowly, slowy the sap leaks out into the attached bucket. As for the great Gary Snyder, he blurbed my first book. I am not in his league in terms of craft or political cachet, but he’s another poet whose rhythms are inside me deep as blood pulse.

Yet I write wider lines than he usually does, with a faster rhythm. What can I say? He’s a good Buddhist and I risk a speeding ticket every time I get in the car.

Two stories: one, I was at an eco rally once, waiting for Ed Abbey to speak, and it was at a fairground, on the lawn, and I was so bored, so antsy. Speaker after speaker, many quite good (Simon Ortiz). But I had no patience, so I pulled the grass, I tried to look up skirts of passing hippie chicks, I stabbed sticks into the lawn and made small forts. One fellow though some rows ahead of me sat perfectly still, cross-legged and present, attending to everything. No fidgeting. It was of course Gary Snyder. I played frisbee with his kids. Later when he was supposed to read there was a thunderstorm and the power went out. We went into a barn and sat on hay bales while he read by kerosene lantern. You think, “Okay Jesus, take me now, it will never get any better than this.”

ST: In your poem, “The History of Hell in America,” you write, “To be American is to be eccentric, preaching / to 30,000 like Aimee Semple McPherson / or else building vast networks of railroads / in your basement…” And in “On the Island of the Not-So-Broken Poets” you defend the incorporation of facts into your poetry against another poet, your friend Kate Gale, who says to you, “facts are overrated.” I can’t help but hearing in the voice of Aimee Semple McPherson and Kate Gale dark prophecies of the Trump era, and this is your first book of poetry to come out in the Trump era. You’ve written on politically charged themes before, such as your historical meditation on Hiroshima (The Half-Life of Salt: Voices of the Enola Gay), and so do you suppose Trump will begin to creep into your poetry over the next several years, invading your art? Or do you think you’ll exercise your will not to include him, as one might decide to swear off, well, cussing?

CH: He-who-shall-not-be-named has become a thing for all of us, just as the Great Depression was a thing for your dad and mine, or the Vietnam War for that generation. I can’t be bothered to write anti-Trump screeds though. Just wouldn’t be an interesting text. I assume any writer working now will have to deal with him / his followers / the triumph of ignorance, at least indirectly. How that will manifest itself, too soon to say I think. It may be fifty years before we can fully weigh the consequences of the moment. Combat experiences in World War I influenced Tolkien in his descriptions of Mordor and yet the Dead Marshes or other quasi-Somme-like battlefield scenes did not fully reach the general culture until Peter Jackson made the film version of Lord of the Rings. The malignance of this present era may not be fully seen until some opera cycle on Mars explores it 100 years from now.

ST: There’s far more of play than politics in your new collection. Poem titles include apolitical subjects like the following: “Street Trees of San Francisco” and “The Life of Jasper Johns.” These are gorgeous poems, and don’t need justification beyond themselves, and many such poems were written in the 20th century in the midst of collective traumas. But poetry anthologies of twentieth century witness, like Against Forgetting: Twentieth Century Poetry of Witness (1993), edited by Carolyn Forche, remind us that poets of the previous century also spoke to collective traumas as they occurred—from Soviet gulags, to the Holocaust, to the war in Vietnam. In our own time, what is the future shelf life for a poem about, say, the trees of San Francisco? Will such a poem, a decade from now, seem anachronistic if the public realm goes dramatically south? Is it to some degree irresponsible for poets not to write at least some explicitly political poetry in times like these? Does, for instance, the stand-off between Donald Trump and Kim Jong Un not yet merit the sustained attention of poets?

CH: All life, all language merits our attention. We’ve been mad at North Korea before, and they at us. No news there. And I shouldn’t say this, but I did go to hear Carolyn Forche when she was first getting promoted as the Next Liberal Thing, and while I don’t doubt her sincerity, there was an unexamined easiness to her condemnation of Central American violence. It’s like saying “child abuse is bad!”—well, sure, duh. But how do we deal with it? What are the causes? Those are much harder questions. She was good at shock value. Robert Peters said she was only famous because she was so beautiful. An ugly person could not have become a spokesperson for a cause as she did. In any case, be wary of agendas and didacticism. Writing an anti-Trump poem may make the author feel like resistance has happened, but come on. It doesn’t really do any good, does it? Even a bumper sticker reaches a wider audience than a poem.

ST: The Russian poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko died in April of this year, his most famous poem being “Babi Yar,” a poem about the murder of 33,000 Jews in Kiev over a two-day period in 1941. The subject invites our lingering attention and sobriety, but Yevtushenko’s own writing about it perhaps not so much, for he was born in 1933 and didn’t actually experience Babi Yar. Instead, he wrote a poem about it in 1961, while still in his twenties, and at a level that reads (at least in translation) as more sentimentality and outrage than actual witness. By contrast, whenever I read a poem of yours, I tend to come away with the sense that you’ve earned whatever sentiment you’ve expressed; you did the requisite homework and actually went physically to the site you were writing about. Even with a poem like “Street Trees of San Francisco,” I have no doubt that you never cheated, just Googling images of trees in San Francisco and writing about them. You went there. You studied the trees. You lingered and thought about them. You made the details matter, and you confronted their matter (their material existences) head-on. So in a sense, though visiting the site, would you say that Yevtushenko didn’t quite earn the right to write “Babi Yar” in the way that he did, or is this too harsh a judgment, speaking ill of the too-recently-dead?

CH: Just to fess up, there’s a lot of pseudo fact or misplaced fact in that poem about trees: Bristlecone Pines only live in the Great Basin, in just a few mountain ranges, not in San Francisco, but I hoped everybody would see that. They are not street trees: they take 5,000 years to grow. Ah, woe is me, even my irony isn’t ironic. But it is true, I have done pilgrimages—in Poland I went to Treblinka, the Nazi death camp site, went there alone on a cold afternoon as sleet turned to snow and sadness filled me right up to my eyebrows. In Tibet I was allowed into the monastery that is closed to foreigners. Blah blah blah. And I know my trees, yes of course, and have published on them more seriously, as in the Heyday anthology LAtitudes, when I wrote about the trees of Los Angeles. Climbed them, smelled them, licked them, planted them, bought a small library of books about them. I live in terror of the inauthentic, which makes me a true Romantic in the most cliché way. In San Joaquin Marsh there are five oak trees, “Hood Grove,” trees that I planted and kept alive bucket by bucket. White-tailed kites nest there.

ST: In being a Californian and calling yourself “a true Romantic in the cliché way,” do you put the two together and find yourself gravitating toward, and influenced by, the poetry of the ever nature-attentive Robinson Jeffers (also a Californian, also typically classed a Romantic throwback, blowing off with indifference the politics of his time and the modernism of Eliot and Pound)? Jeffers’s most famous poem is perhaps his manifesto, “Shine, Perishing Republic,” content to let America burn its way through empire, decline, and “the mould of its vulgarity” while, along with his children, he heads for the hills and (presumably) Tor House. Some lines from one of his poems (“Birds”) recalls for me what seems to be the project of your own poetry:

[A] poem

Needs multitude, multitudes of thoughts, all fierce, all flesh-eaters,

musically clamorous

Bright hawks that hover and dart headlong…

CH: If I say that I find Robinson Jeffers tedious then people will accuse me of wanting to club the baby seals or eat hard-boiled condor eggs for breakfast, but I just find myself annoyed, not inspired, whenever I go back to his collected poems—maybe we could call it the collected doilies and buttercups—and for me, it’s hard to believe he was born in the same generation as Hemingway, Stein, Pound, John Dos Passos, or even e.e. cummings. Robert Hass speaks of him respectfully so I keep thinking it must just be me (it HAS just to be me), but jeez—such long, droopy lines, like pasta that has been cooked at a full boil for forty-five minutes. “Clamorous” as a word choice? He reads like a hippy dippy version of the worst of Thoreau’s poetry, and trust me, Thoreau was a really bad poet before he became a really good prose writer. I’ve had three chances to tour Tor House and have yet to take my cod liver oil and go do the pilgrimage. Each time instead of that I just went whale watching or fossicked around in the tide pools. Jeffers’s nature feels too much like he wants it to be cap-N “Nature,” and not actual ecological nature. Remember that anthrax is nature. Bubonic plague is nature.

ST: How about, then, San Francisco Renaissance poet, William Everson (Brother Antoninus), who Kenneth Rexroth loved? In the twenty years since his death, I think he has been wrongfully ignored. For me, he’s always been the real, complicated deal. I love lines like these (“Fog Days”): “Only the cedars do not tire of fog; / They drip patiently through days, / Gathering mist and letting it fall.” And from “Year’s End”: “I sit in the northern room, in the dusk, the death of a year / and watch it go down in thunder.” I’m guessing he’s a bit too religious and philosophical for your taste, and you might hate him. Just curious. Can you put in a good word for Brother Antoninus? He was, at minimum, a devoted letterpress printer, which surely you can appreciate.

CH: Again this is where you and I read differently—you’re more interested in content, and, to some extent, the genteel expression of ideas, while for me it’s craft and the line, taking risk, who influences whom. It has to do with what poetry does for me as a working writer. So of course Everson is charming and readable and you and I and he could share a pot of herbal tea and some organic orange slices, and all of us pass a very pleasant morning. You could come to the meeting fresh from a yoga class, with copies to have him sign that you bought at the thrift store and are toting around in a hemp bag. But to me (and most active writers?), he no longer feels essential, perhaps because his poetic practice is ever-so-slightly generic. If you wanted to think about the 20th century in terms of technical changes in poetry, he’s not an author one would study in order to watch the line evolve and to hear persona played with, or even to be wowed by the flash and bang of language. Yet for you, his congruence with your political ideology adds to his charm. That’s fine—that is a perfectly valid reason to go to the poetry buffet. I wouldn’t put him on a syllabus though, not unless we were doing a very very thorough review of the San Francisco Renaissance.

As for the letterpress, the lure and love of the hand-made lives on today; of my own books, the one I am fondest about is the one that was released just in an edition of fifty, the one with art by Christine Mugnolo titled 25 Tigers. It is an accordion-fold book; as soon as you finish one side, it takes you back around to the other side, infinitely. No more copies are available, making the few extant versions some kind of very, very minor saint’s relic.

ST: How about a contemporary California poet, the USC English professor Dana Gioia? Perhaps you’ve assigned his literature textbooks to classes, as I have, but do you have an opinion of him as a poet? I find him impressively attentive to detail, including the subtleties of the modern soul (what it means to live with not knowing, etc.). He’s someone people might well be reading a half century from now, especially if one is Catholic.

CH:  First of all, in my world Mr. Gioia can do no wrong, simply in terms of services rendered to the Republic. First he saved Jell-O and after that, he saved the NEA. Go, Team Gioia! He is an interesting writer because he uses rhyme and often writes about direct life in a very accessible, un-French-theory way. He has a connection to the high desert, though he may not know it, in that he championed the once-unfashionable Kay Ryan, who also writes in rhyme and with deceptive simplicity. She grew up in Rosamond by Edwards Air Force Base (home of the “right stuff”) and went to Antelope Valley College, then much later became Poet Laureate, in part due to his sponsorship. If you can hear him read, he has a beautiful speaking voice—sort of like a cross between Morgan Freeman and Dan Rather. I was supposed to introduce Dana Gioia at a major event, but I turned it down in order to be a good spouse. My wife, Abbey Hood, was giving a reading across town at the exact same time, so I forfeited my Gioia gig in order to be in the audience and support her. (She was pretty good, too! Shout out to Catamaran magazine for setting that up, and to Hennessey and Ingalls for hosting it.) Will he be read in 50 years? All those predictions always turn out to be wrong. Even Emerson misjudged Thoreau, thought Mr. T was wasting his time keeping ultra-detailed nature journals instead of being an abolitionist or public speaker. You are optimistic though, even to ask: apparently you think people will be reading anybody in 50 years. Let’s hope so, even if it is just Robinson Jeffers.

ST: Speaking of the 1850s and just past it, given her distance from the Civil War, was it a good thing (in retrospect) that Emily Dickinson never wrote about the Civil War? Was it better for her poetry that she focused on what she knew—her garden, etc.? Given her privilege (the daughter of a Congressman), and the way she lived, could she have written, in your view, an honest poem about the Civil War—and if so, what would she have had to do?

CH: Oh I dunno, I think she was writing about the war the whole time: loss and dismemberment is in there so much. I don’t just mean poem 444, written we think in 1862, which starts out “It feels a shame to be Alive— / When Men so brave — are dead.” That’s conventional piety that she was just trying out to see how it sounds. Not that, but in all the little gaps and losses that so enchant us and yet defy explication… that gap between syllable and sound that she mentions, there is an awareness of the brevity of life in all of it, and that can’t just have come from the regular deaths and infant mortalities that were part of 19th century life. She was too attuned to the music of the spheres not to wince a little each time the Death Star nuked another Alderaan.

For my money, the best Civil War poem is Charles Olson, “Anecdotes of the Late War.” As he says, Jay Gould got rich, “while Joe Blow got swap / in the side of the head.”

ST: You have a reference or two to Buddhism in your book, and some references to Native American culture and Greek mythology—but though you’ve been to India on numerous occasions, no Hindu gods get a cameo here, so I’ll ask a parting question in the name of two of them: Shakti (the god of energy) and Lila (the god of play). So many writers and artists struggle with depression and addiction, ruining body and mind at a young age. How do you maintain the energy, playfulness, optimism, and discipline you do for getting so much work, travelling, and writing done?

CH: Strike me dead and burn my library card if I am a liar, but I am done being suicidal, I am done with bad relationships, I am done with boring meetings (ever notice how often I am on my laptop at work?), done with all the dross and slag of everyday bullshit. Life is too short not to be giddy with the pleasure of all the good stuff. I am like some manic hummingbird now. Besides this book, I am publishing two more books this year, the other prize-winner (a book of experimental fiction, with art plates by Christine Mugnolo, titled Mouth), and a field guide to birds coming out from Heyday. They both are at the printers as we speak. Next year I have two more nature books coming out plus there’s a new poetry manuscript in contest circulation. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.

It may seem like too much but let’s face it, I only have 30 or 40 years left to live, maybe not even half that, and fuck it, in that case I am going to jet flower to flower and hog up all the nectar I can slurp into my slobbery mouth. I want to be like Issa (or at least Issa as translated by Robert Hass). This is the only time I approve of exclamation points in poetry:


on a naked horse

in the pouring rain!

Yeee-haw. Gallop faster, you old nag, gallop faster!



hood image for partially excited states interview 2017

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American Nazis at Jefferson’s Statue: That Image from Charlottesville I Can’t Get Out of My Mind

Image result for nazis gather in torchlight parade around thomas jefferson statue


The hate that dares not speak its name. If this doesn’t look like Nazi Germany in the 1930s, then what is it? And at the University of Virginia. And around a statue of the greatest humanist of the Enlightenment, our third president, Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson would have despised these coarse and loathsome barbarians–but our current president, the 45th president, clearly signals sympathy and solidarity with them. From Trump to this moment, the Republican Party, its billionaire donors, and Fox News have unleashed a tiger of populist fascism into America’s public square. This is the fruition of an appalling year-and-a-half. Our country, founded as an Enlightenment republic of laws and rational deliberation, and of democratic solidarity with all of humanity, has been hacked. Many hundreds of thousands of Americans gave their lives in battle to defeat the Confederacy and Nazism, and many millions more made other sacrifices to overcome them, yet here we are in the 21st century with a president clearly in visceral sympathy with Confederates and Nazis. Did 45% of Americans really vote for this? If this image does not animate the apparently bare majority of sane Americans still remaining in this country to resistance and counter-action, what possibly could? Have we all finally had enough yet? 

Posted in atheism, Bernie Sanders, brexit, climate change, donald trump, edward feser, feminism, hillary clinton, science, Uncategorized | 30 Comments

Distract, Maul, And Dominate: Donald Trump’s CNN Wrestling Video GIF And Hitler’s Reichstag Fire

“There is nothing so fretting and vexatious, nothing so justly terrible to tyrants, and their tools and abettors, as a free press” (Samuel Adams in 1768).

However tense we may be with Trump as president, our republic is still functioning and we’re at peace. Yet something isn’t right, is it? One of its core values–the freedom of an oppositional press–is clearly under assault.


Because a full-on, Putin-style takeover of America is still in the cards with this president, and Trump’s Twitter GIF of him taking down CNN forecasts it.

We’re one Reichstag fire away from this Trump take-down.

By this time next year, we may find ourselves whispering under our breath Shakespeare’s line, “all that is solid melts into air.”

That line will take on an especially horrific character if Trump’s Reichstag fire is an exchange of nuclear weapons between himself and Kim Jong Un.

So the question isn’t whether our press freedoms, our Constitution, and the separation of powers will hold-up under Trump for a couple of years in peace time, but in war.

A major war, perhaps with nuclear weapons, is the sort of crisis that a free press is being softened-up for right now. The knock-out blow on press freedom will come, not in peace, but in war.

Trump’s video is thus as telling as when Hitler announced publicly that war between the great powers would mean the extermination of Jews from the continent of Europe. Trump’s not articulate. He’s not going to speak his intentions that directly and explicitly. But he’s going to post a GIF that symbolizes them. And that’s what he did.

In that GIF, Trump has now announced that he means to conduct a mauling from behind of the press–and when freedom of the press goes, the rest of the republic will follow.

So the video is not humorous, it’s literal. It’s psychologically telling. Trump’s instinct is to distract, then maul and dominate.

It’s thus plausible that sometime over the next three years Trump will gather Putin-like powers to himself in the following manner: first, he’ll maul Kim Jong Un or Iran, initiating a first-strike on one of them, perhaps with nuclear weapons, bringing on a major global crisis. Then he’ll act on his domestic enemies, conducting a rapid-fire take-down of the press (federal marshals shutting down The New York Times for leaks or “treason,” shooting or disappearing a few prominent journalists, etc.). From there he’ll consolidate power, ultimately crippling the separation of powers and ending free elections.

At that point it will be Trump’s America. He’ll own us. He’ll do exactly as he pleases. But it will all be achieved in crisis, not peacetime.

The summer of 2017 is in the eye of the storm. It’s calm, we tell ourselves. Trump’s not effective as a peacetime president. He can’t get anything done. He’s therefore harmless.

That’s our mistake. We shrug at his antics, failing to marshal organized, serious resistance to him in peacetime, focusing on distractions, and turning our backs on him.

Then we get hit.


That’s what Trump’s Twitter GIF means. He’s forecasting his modus operandi for how he means to deal with the press in a time of crisis or war. He intends to soften-up his enemies with distractions, then maul and dominate them. We’ve been warned.


Posted in atheism, Bernie Sanders, brexit, climate change, donald trump, edward feser, feminism, God, Ted Cruz, Uncategorized | 4 Comments

What Does It Mean For God To Exist, Think, And Act?

It’s always comforting to (seemingly) settle hard questions in thirty seconds. But as a matter of logic, if space-time is the condition for existence, and existence is bound up with space-time (as Einstein proposed), then in what sense could God possibly exist, think, or act outside of space-time?

The very concept of being is itself entangled in questions surrounding space-time. So the problem with someone saying that God exists, thinks, and acts outside of space-time is in definition. What does it mean to say that something “exists” outside of space-time, or that something “thinks” or “acts” outside of space-time?

Because thinking and acting are processes, thinking and acting necessarily require space-time as a condition for their functioning. One’s thoughts shift in relation to space-time; one’s actions shift in relation to space-time. So when someone says that God exists, thinks, and acts, making a world, she or he must be using the words “exist,” “think,” and “act” in a manner that is very different from their conventional use. But by shifting the meaning of the words without redefining them to the new context, the person essentially talks gibberish. It’s akin to calling God “good.” In what sense is God “good” after having let the Holocaust happen?

If skeptical questions surrounding God’s existence and relation to the cosmos were as easily slapped down as religious apologists so frequently imply, then (one would think) the geniuses of the past several hundred years–from Spinoza to Stephen Hawking–would not have puzzled over space and time quite so intensively, and drawn such starkly different conclusions about what it means to “exist.” In a cosmos where God isn’t talking, the more honest responses to the question of God’s existence are “I don’t know” and “Define God.”




Posted in atheism, atomism, david hume, edward feser, Genesis, God, God, Lucretius, philosophy, Uncategorized | 8 Comments

Trump and Authoritarianism

Clarity. A must-view, short video from Vox surveying some of the political science data on authoritarianism and its relation to Trump. A really excellent summary.

Posted in atheism, Bernie Sanders, brexit, climate change, donald trump, edward feser, feminism, God, hillary clinton, Politics, science, Ted Cruz, Uncategorized | 4 Comments