social media – T.F. Pruden the writer dot com

The culture wars.

The question, for me, is, where’s H. L. Mencken when we need him? Or, at least, a literate contemporary less focused on reaping the low-hung rewards of division? Why? Well, because a world filled with minds clouded by the virtual hive of social media has lost the ability to see their emperors wear no clothes.

Hello and welcome, reader.

As ever, it’s my pleasure to have you join me.

The thing is, the older I get, the more I believe in practice. I’m not sure why, but it could result from spending my younger days in a booze and drug addled haze. You know, the pain of regret, lost youth, and all that.

All the same, I’ve taken some needed rest. Only time will tell if it helped. But, you know, how can you miss me if I don’t make a habit of going away? Anyway, let’s get to sorting through this madness that brings us together here.

See, when taking the latest break from this life and the work that drives it, I indulged a few of the habits that ever threaten the careful discipline protecting it, too. For a by-now lengthy search has confirmed, well enough for me, anyway, that I am perhaps the laziest man who ever lived.

So, aside from listening to music, reading, or watching films and sports on television, I accomplished little but canine fornication here over the last seven weeks.

Despite the lengthy bout of what I’m calling rest, I could not escape the endless clamour of the times. Instead, in between baseball games on TV, I listened in, bemused, as the world’s assault upon the individual kept on running amok. The result? Waves of collective tyranny, alongside cancelled culture, history, and people. In short, the slow death of freedom.

The online revolution, like all earlier examples, brings plenty of misery.

So, a tyranny of minorities threatens the rule of law. An online mob lends false courage to those without it. The wheels of freedom spin, unable to find a grip in the mire of vitriol. And nearby, the leering ditch of an autocratic future waits beyond a cultural divide.

For those who deny the past condemn not only themselves, but everyone else, to repeat it.

Likewise, to those offended by Mencken’s rep as antisemitic, bigoted, and racist, I must insist on separating the man from his work. So, to those who prefer beheading statues or defacing art, the exit is here. Good riddance to you.

After all, we say ignorance is bliss because the truth most often hurts.

Thus, I’ve no trouble saying I admire Einstein as a genius of physics. At the same time, I regard many of his ideas about people and politics as the foolish ramblings of a naïve ignoramus. Not only that, but I suggest his private writings reveal him as a poor judge of character.

For the genius Einstein, like the brilliant Mencken, was also an elitist and favoured a world governed by scientists and intellectuals.

Western society long ago split the ugly reality of Einstein’s private beliefs from his work. We did so to get the great public benefits found there. Without having to deal with his personal thoughts.

The popularity of Mencken’s public writing, meanwhile, far outweighed the latter discomfort caused by his then unknown personal feelings.

C’est la vie. Nothing, and no one, is perfect all the time. And those living in glass houses should know better, or something like that.

Not only that, but Einstein and Mencken remain two of my favourite people, despite their warts.

For context, what follows is a writing device called an aside.

I’ve told you before how I spent much of my life travelling. What I should have added is that my endless wandering was for work of one kind or another. I was not then, nor have I ever been, a tourist. The fact is, I enjoy few things less than travel.

All the same, I’ve done more than my share of it. And, no matter where or when or for what purpose, meeting people was always part of the deal. Sometimes, there were compadres and colleagues and companions who came along for the ride, too.

The reason I mention the travel is that those miles taught me we’re all different. In practice, if not form. So, the way we do things in one place is often quite different from the way we do much the same in another spot. Because it turns out, local culture and experience, teach what works best for a population.

I, in contrast, am both a living remnant and byproduct of colonialism. So, me and a few hundred thousand distant mixed race cousins speak of a different philosophy. Though far less clear, it takes but a single word to sum it: globalization.

A word to describe my deal is paradox. That is, a situation, person, or thing that combines contradictory features or qualities. And the one shared with you above is, of course, most important to me. See, for me to be, plenty of contrary ideas related to those described had first to mingle. In the most personal of ways.

I’ve spent much of my life conflicted about that.

But I’m not here to debate the left, right, wrong, shoulda, coulda, and what-have-you related to this place in which we live. No. As usual, my concerns are specific and rooted in experience. And my choice of Mencken and Einstein as today’s examples speaks to them.

So, let’s return to the rumination.

The so-called culture wars must end. The practice of reviewing the past by the light of the future is both prejudiced and narrow-minded. In the near-term, it demonizes history and encourages division. In the long term, it impedes both learning and progress.

That is because those who would cancel the past condemn the future to repeat a cycle of ignorance. They also prevent the world learning from it. And no matter the reason, those who seek to justify such cowardice commit crimes against the society to which we all belong.

And, like it often does, life once again presents us there, with another somewhat ironic paradox. For we must suffer the pain of learning the unfortunate details of our shared history if we are to improve our future.

Ain’t it grand?

My belief is they exist to remind us of the random and uncertain nature of the place in which we live. Thus, I think of life and its assorted ironies as the universe sharing a Newtonian response to a Quantum equation.

For a laugh, maybe?

Well, after all, I don’t know about that. But for me, the lives of Einstein and Mencken raise one question above the many. Because, you know, writer. And thus, arrogant, obsessed, self-centred, and all that.

So, how does knowing the background and private life of a writer change the way a reader perceives their writing?

After all, both Einstein, and Mencken, held private opinions about many topics. Were they living today, keeping them that way would prove all but impossible. And once they became known, the cancel culture would dispose of them without remorse.

But are we obligated to cancel people for their private opinions? Are we obliged to remove them from public life now, for opinions held then? If so, why? And, if we are thus duty bound, how can we justify use of their ideas? What about the public good?

As we can see, a lengthy and fast-growing list of paradoxes soon emerges. Not to mention the host of existential angst that comes along with all that navel-gazing.

Instead, let’s use another literary device, the outline, and the storytelling method, to illustrate the point.

Here’s what I mean. Let’s say our hero is born into the working class. He could also assert his youthful talents included dropping out of school. It then wouldn’t surprise a reader when earning a living shaped his younger days. So, too, learning he retired early from the ring, and spent his twenties swinging a hammer in the trades, should also make sense. News a return to school led to white collar success in his thirties and the freedom to choose in his forties would then cause a reader no great shock, either.

With the known popularity of rags-to riches stories, this one is shaping up. As background, it sets the protagonist up for sympathy.

Now, what if our story told of his life as a working stiff, and how it made the writer’s career play second fiddle through the early part of it? What if it also included school-age success? Or told of decades making music and writing part time before it got to be a full-time gig? Then, what if he spent years in obscurity until a minor hit record in his fifties, followed by a niche market bestseller as he enters his sixties?

After all, every plot must have enough twists to keep a reader turning pages.

To maintain our story’s arc, we must take the next step in this writer’s tale. So, let’s have him tell us that like many, he thought himself a late bloomer, too. He could then declare that for him, it’s because he thinks of the past only when writing about it. He should also claim a more accurate metaphor for his life is that of a perennial, to better fit the narrative. To further move the plot, he could then tell us how, in most aspects, he enjoyed a seasonal parade of high and low periods.

From here, the action falls, for the tale must soon resolve. Often, a writer loses his way there, too, much as his story’s hero might, were any of it true.

However, because the hero yet lives, it’s a story with an unknown end. So, the next part might go something like this. He could start by telling how, before falling off a series of injury cliffs to start his fifties, he enjoyed a long athletic career. He might tell us about little league baseball and high school football, and pro boxing in his twenties, power lifting in his thirties, and trail running into his advancing years. Then, he might close with an uplifting comment about the value of discipline, sport, and fitness training.

Just like that, we’ve got an ending ambiguous enough to let the reader think.

Much like life, though our story doesn’t end, its hero’s journey is complete. It also fits a standard narrative arc well enough to serve our purpose. But was it fact? Or fiction? And, either way, how might knowing it affect a reader’s experience of its writer?

As near as I can tell, the answer is unknowable. I didn’t have to deface any art to figure that out, either. Though it appears I’ve stumbled across another paradox.

Either that, or a bit of nonsense to enjoy with a morning coffee. As usual, I’ll leave that for you to decide.

Until we meet again, thanks for being here, and for sharing this with anyone who might want to read it.

TFP

September 14, 2024

The unplanned lunch.

But, as all those who have done enough of it know, the world is smallest to those who travel. So, it was no surprise, to me, when the once young writer and I again met when each of us passed through another of the world’s countless crossroads.

Hello and welcome, reader.

As always, it’s my pleasure to receive your online attention.

For here in these rural parts I call home, the wheel turns, and the hamsters run, much as they do wherever you might find yourself on this luckiest of rocky blue marbles. As nowadays, global trade has turned these postmodern times into a near homogenous parade of pointless sight and sound for all but the most isolated of us.

To some, my claiming luck is enough to provoke a sneer, if not an argument. But as the death of optimism was reported everywhere, I won’t bother repeating the news here.

Anyway, the glass remains at least half full, to me.

That’s despite the empty promises of collectivism now sweeping the globe, by the way. Made possible thanks to the greatest evil to confront the twenty-first century so far, social media. I call it Fascism 2.0, for short. It’s the same old script, distract people with enough bullshit so the wildest lies start looking like the truth.

Of course, the sweetest irony, for me, is the widespread refusal to learn from even the most recent of our shared history. In fact, based on the current rush to embrace autocracy and collectivism, one might think the twentieth century didn’t happen. If that’s not funny, I don’t know what could be.

But these are sensitive times, with facts believed little more than inconvenient, by those with a political agenda. Though few, if any, will admit either that, or that they have one, without a fight.

What else could such absurd and lemming-like behavior be, aside from hilarious?

I know only this. It’s easy to be distracted by one’s perception of what’s happening. And that makes it simple to lose sight of not only where one is, but where one wants to go.

But rather than argue about it, this month I’m sharing a story that better illustrates my point. Like all stories, this one may or may not be true. However, being fact or fiction will make no difference to your enjoyment of it.

So, away we go.

When still a young man myself, I got to know a handsome young writer who claimed to want to write more than anything else. He had the gift of gab and told me he was consumed by a desire to write great works of art. And so, wherever he went, and whenever I saw him, he carried a pencil and notepad in some pocket of the tweed blazer he most often wore.

He made a point of being seen at cafes, nightclubs, and parties, too, scribbling in the notepad. For much like today’s cohort, the young writer struggled with the weight of expectations. These included his own and what he imagined as his fellows, along with those of his vocation. Unknown to him then, as it is to many now, the world cared nothing for his wants, and these devilish concerns lived only in his mind.

I was a young drunkard at the time, and still learning the trade. I first made acquaintance with the handsome young writer at a local watering hole. Like myself, he enjoyed a drink, and, once again, like me, perhaps a little too much for his own good. Anyway, I took scant notice, then, as we met only when one or both of us was on a party.

One hungover morning, after sharing a binge or two, he asked me to read something he wrote, and I did. Because he didn’t ask for it, I offered him no criticism. From then on, when on a bender together, he would give me more of his stuff to read.

Just as with all who claim ‘writer’ as either vocation or profession, what he wrote was most often bad, sprinkled with some good. His work also left little doubt he was quite a talented writer. And though I thought him a great competitor, our friendship carried on through the formative years of my early twenties.

Life and circumstance being what they are, the handsome young writer and I went separate ways in pursuit of individual goals. For the next several decades, we remained out of touch, and, in fact, as unknown to one another as though we had never met.

He sat at a table in the window of a restaurant overlooking a busy downtown city street, speaking to a server. Even from a distance, and despite the passing of many years, his striking good looks stood out. I was on my way to the same place and noticed him from across the way as I waited for the light to change.

It was a thrill to see the no longer young writer, and I hoped he would be as happy as I to renew our friendship.

After walking in, I told the hostess I was meeting a friend, and strode up to stand before the fellow’s table. Upon arrival, I spoke out at once.

“Howdy stranger,” I said, “long time no see.”

As I was speaking, he lowered the book from which he read and placed it with care in his lap. For a moment, I feared he didn’t know me. Then he raised a single eyebrow and grinned up at me as he made his reply. I didn’t have time to notice the book’s title before he spoke.

“By god,” he said, “fancy meeting you here, you pirate!”

He stood, and placing his book on the chair, embraced me. A moment later, we shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, and he invited me to sit and join him. Of course, I accepted without hesitation, because we at once had picked up where we left off thirty-five years or more ago, as birds of a feather with a long way yet to go.

Though neither of us, I thought, knew what had become of the other in the meantime.

For the next hour, we caught up. As it turned out, he was eating lunch before catching a flight to his home on the east coast, at the end of a business trip. Meanwhile, after visiting family to the south, I was passing through on the drive north to my small town home on the high prairie.

Our meeting was as pure an example of coincidence as anything I’ve known.

Even by then, both of us were grandfathers. For each of us, life had been full, too. While the years had treated him with kindness, the once young writer was now a grey-haired executive, pushing software for Big Tech. Like many of our cohort, he long ago left for the better-paying pastures of our southern neighbors and turned his degree into dollars. Though, despite the abundant greenbacks, he told me it took years to pay off his school debt at home.

From our smartphones, we shared countless family photos, and soon learned we had each been equally blessed. Though our paths had no doubt taken different directions.

Somehow, the hour of our unplanned lunch slipped away, and too fast, besides. Soon, it was time for us to part. To me, given our circumstances, it looked sure that we should never again meet.

Then, for just a moment, nostalgia threatened to overtake me and ruin the great blessing of seeing my once good friend. With a quick shake of my head, I returned to the moment and smiled at the no longer young writer, who was making a request.

I will admit he caught me by surprise.

“Before I go,” he said, “and knowing I might not see you again, I’d like to ask a favor.”

I was surprised and may even have raised my eyebrows before answering him.

“Well, let’s hope our paths cross again, somewhere,” I said, “and whatever can I do for you?”

He picked up the book on the chair next to him and handed it to me before speaking.

“Well,” he said, “I’d appreciate it if you could autograph my copy of your latest novel.”

Like I often am at such rare moments, I was flustered by his request. But I did as he asked, and he looked pleased when reading the inscription after I was through. A few minutes later, we parted. He in a cab headed east to the airport, me in a van driving north to the highway. As far as I know, we’ve not seen each other since.

Now, I think it important to say he was dressed in style. In a word, he looked great. But, because clothes make the man, though neither of us mentioned it, the wealth gap between us was made plain in what we each wore. By my crude accounting, I thought he must earn my annual income in less than a week. In contrast, mine wouldn’t be enough to pay his yearly green fees.

But he was gracious about it and picked up the tab for lunch without a word.

While driving home that day, what passes for insight here came upon me. At one time, both the once young writer and I were distracted by what we perceived as life’s major concerns. And so, we made things beyond our control more important than reaching for what looked to be simpler dreams. Only much later, after discovering the pitfalls of peer pressure and collective thinking, did either of us find an individual path to the life he most wanted.

To each of us, the demands of the nameless herd proved not only false, but dangerous. Just as ignorance of history means, today’s youth are as distracted from reality by events beyond their control as were those in the last century. While, as usual, the gulf between have and have-not increases. For only the status quo is served by ignorance.

Sadly, I haven’t seen or heard from the no longer young writer since that impromptu lunch date. But I hope he liked the novel, just the same.

Now, I’m not sure if my story’s use of metaphor is clear enough for everyone to appreciate. Likewise, its balance of symbol and motif might not be elegant enough for some readers. While its attempts at humor, meanwhile, may prove too crude for others.

I don’t care about any of that.

All that matters to me is you getting what I’m trying to say. Because I’m not speaking to anyone but you, reader. And what’s most likely is, we’ll never meet.

That’s just how it should be, too. After all, I’m a writer, and my job is sharing our story. Not just with you, but for you, as well.

As ever, thanks for being here, and for sharing this with anyone you think might like to read it.

TFP

May 11, 2024