Great Exudations

Bricolage (noun): A French loan-word that reflects improvisation in the construction or creation of a work from a diverse range of available materials; DIY. The term has been applied in many disciples ranging from art and architecture to anthropology and cultural studies to philosophy, education and computer science. This blog is a bricolage. A blog-o-lage, if you’ll allow.

Brick-o-lage (faux noun): My own groan-word that reflects any kind of shit laying atop any kind of bricks.

This is a family heirloom passed down through my late Uncle Jack that regards a relative with the surname of Ford, the same as my middle name. It was found in a metal lockbox and my sister miracuously found the key amidst a hoarder’s paradise of numerous books and scattered effects. We hope to learn more about this branch of the family tree and maybe even uncover a photograph or two down the road. 

There are many things to love about this note:

1. The calligraphy-style penmanship. Even though this note is rendered less formal by the scratchings out, the flowing cursive is a wonder to behold. The clerk uses three variations on the “F” — in escalating size and ornament — with Ford, Family and Funeral. There are many things we’d do well to rediscover. In the modern era, teachers lament the loss of handwriting skills and with good reason. My own is barely discernible, even to myself. LOL.
2. The thriftiness. Times being what they were, are, and ever will be, the stationary of the prior decade (189_) gets continued into 1901 and likely beyond. Maybe it’s still in use today! I also like the single dot between the minutes and the hour. Time saved, so to speak. The abbreviation of March to Mch is curious, however. IMO.
3. The terms “wagonette” and “private carriage” are wonderfully redolent of that bygone era. This could be “Deadwood” or “The Gilded Age.” Bring your own snuff! But someday people may find quaint the terms “cell phone” and “cable TV.” FWIW.
4. The mystery. Whose funeral?? IDK.
5. The fantabulous name that is General Ruggles (see below). I don’t know why some names sound funny, but I’m so glad that they do. I have a mind to start penning letters again and to close them with the salutation “By order of General Ruggles”… keep an eye on the mail. YW.
6. The flourish under the signature of M. Curtis, Clerk. His name being the largest on the page. John Hancock, eat your heart out! YOLO.

(Per Wikipedia) As it turns out, there were two contemporaries who went by the title of General Ruggles (Generals Ruggles?). The one referenced in the message above was General George D. Ruggles (1833-1904). Born in Newburgh, New York, he attended West Point and fought on the Union side during the Civil War. He saw action at the Second Battle of Bull Run and the Battle of Chantilly and then became chief of staff to General John Pope. After the war, he served as Adjutant General from 1865-1888 in several military districts including Department of the Platte and Department of the Dakota before retiring in 1897. In 1898, he was appointed governor of the Soldiers’ Home in Washington, DC where he remained until Jan 1903. He was buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

The other is General Daniel Ruggles (1810-1897). He was also a West Point graduate, but, although he was born in Barre, Massachusetts, he fought for the Confederacy. He had married a woman from Virginia, which might help explain his choice. He was a division commander at the Battle of Shiloh. He acted quickly in helping to assemble a long row of cannon with 53 big-guns called “Ruggles’ Battery” that pounded the “Hornet’s Nest” during the furious back-and-forth melee. He later served in Louisiana under General John C. Breckenridge, who had also been the Vice President under Lincoln’s predecessor James Buchanan. This General Ruggles was buried at the Confederate Cemetery in Fredericksburg, VA.

It seems apropos to close here with the opening verse/refrain of Bob Dylan‘s song “Gotta Serve Somebody” from the album Slow Train Coming (1979). These two men named Ruggles, both from abolitionist strongholds in the North, took very different roads during a critical point in our country’s history. And yet, as will all, they both ended up buried in the ground somewhere. One wonders what their respective families should think about them today. They might be venerated or held in contempt; possibly both, at once, by different branches of the same family. Complex are we and all our interwoven histories. Maybe we should ask ourselves, whom or what is it that we serve…

You may be an ambassador to England or France
You may like to gamble, you might like to dance
You may be the heavyweight champion of the world
You might be a socialite with a long string of pearls

But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed,
You’re gonna have to serve somebody
Well, it may be the Devil or it may be the Lord
But you’re gonna have to serve somebody

“The Thunderclown”

The Thunderclown’s face

Lies frozen in frown

His faux d’orange skin’s

Not naturally found

With a bilious heart

He’d send the ship down

And this just because

We’ve denied him the crown

Our gunwales awash

A gash in the bow

Sails all torn up

And twisted around

He’d leave us to founder

Then laugh as we drown

First Scylla, Charybdis

And now Thunderclown.

Yet all is not lost

There’ll be no retreat

We’ll ride a cracked mast

Past the ruinous reef

Heave off the barrels

And unleash the grape

Seize the clown’s banner

To flaunt as a cape

Let’s long and at last

Leave his heresies burned

The time is well nigh for

A lesson hard learned

With wine and in song

’tis our sands to roam

And toast our best hopes

Over yesterday’s bones.

“Find Yourself First”

While wending your way

Through the parking garage

And rolling into a tight turn

Know that mirrors can blind,

Distort and misguide,

If you don’t stop to find yourself first.

If you’re like me, then you find the convex parking garage mirrors, well, vexing (convexing?). I suspect they cause as many accidents as they prevent. And the ones in our garage (above) are way too small. I might be slowly morphing into Andy Rooney here (the expiration date on that reference has long passed, I’m aware), but I’d back off if they’d just standardize these things. Cars keep getting bigger and so should these mirrors… 

But there is a trick I’ve discovered, regardless of the mirror size. Perhaps it’s too obvious to mention but since this is my blog… The first step is to slow to a crawl. This buys you some time. Your speed should about match that of The Rogues’ hearse from the end of “The Warriors” (1979). Then check the mirror and find your car. You’ll quickly recognize it unless you’re in a rental, in which case the first step is even more important. Now that you’ve spied yourself inching along, you will fall back on your ancient animal instincts and watch for motion. This is classic predator/prey shit that goes back to our pre-history. It’s there for a reason. Chances are the other guy will be moving faster (if not, then great!) and that contrast will help confirm who’s who and allow you to take whatever corrective action is needed. Voila!

And as I was pondering this, it occurred to me that this directive of “find yourself first” could be applied to other life situations. It’s akin to “take a beat” or “gather yourself.” A preparatory step that gives you a chance to establish your center, your mood, your base. Say you walk into a party. It’s crowded and pretty loud. You won’t know even half the people. For me, an introvert who sometimes pretends to be an extrovert, that can be a little daunting. So you look into the proverbial mirror and drop a pin. Find yourself. Close your eyes, even. What’s the goal here? Maybe there’s someone in particular you want to catch up with. What do you want to say to them? Or maybe you plan to mostly observe. That’s fine, too. Just make a note of it. A little “swing thought,” as my friend RR likes to say. You have to set yourself before you can take a swing. Before taking it beyond yourself. Before thinking about the ball. And mightn’t this work as well for a job interview? A first date? A speech you have to make? A contentious Thanksgiving dinner with MAGA relatives? And here we’ll pivot from Mr. Rooney to Mr. Rogers…

Today’s lesson:

Slow down. Take a beat. Find yourself first. Think of all the things you have been or might be in similar situations. We all have a range. We are all 4D (three dimensional beings with a time variable). We can be funny or insightful or vulnerable or attentive, as well as their opposites. The question then is what do we want our equalizer settings to be, at least going in (game conditions will dictate some things). I think that if we do that, optimize our own settings, then we can better engage other people and find out who they are. If we focus solely on trying get ourselves across successfully, then we miss half the party. You don’t learn much from your own performance. Dancing alone can be fun, but it’s no match for that spontaneous bodily call-and-response with a partner. Melodies are terrific but often improved by harmony. So look in to look out. Find yourself to then find other people. Watch their motion and respond to it. What are their coordinates and heading? But don’t take my word for it, listen to the great Zen guru, Ty Webb. And if you’ll wear that blindfold, then you, too, can “be the ball, Danny.” This may all sound like pop, self-help psychobabble, and it probably is. But at least it might get us to slow down in the parking garages.   

My cousin and his wife sent me a Donald J. Trump bobblehead doll as a joke around the time of the 2016 election. And true to any Trump-related product, it promptly failed and the head fell off. I tried putting it to use for a series of photos before tossing his visage into the garbage (a deeply satisfying moment). I feel that long after he’s gone a disembodied Trump will continue to haunt this nation. America, WTF?!

“So what is Donald Trump to you?“

Donald Trump is an abject fraud.

Donald Trump is a physical and moral coward. He famously dodged the draft with phony heel spurs before spinning round to spit on the graves of those who actually risked/lost their lives in bona fide service.

Donald Trump is a raging and malignant narcissist.

Donald Trump is a lifelong tax-cheat.

Donald Trump is a compulsive liar. A sociopath of both the highest and lowest order. His lies run the gamut of the utterly trivial to the thoroughly tragic. 

Donald Trump is a loud-mouthed braggart with few, if any, true life achievements and who rose to our highest office on the backs of white nationalists, hypocritical Christian evangelicals, and the self-interest of a like-minded Vladimir Putin. 

Donald Trump is a repugnant, pussy-grabbing, sexist pig.

Donald Trump has no true friends.

Donald Trump has no inner life. No soul. No palpable humanity. He is only fragile ego.

Donald Trump was a horrible President. For his paranoia and mendacity, he surpasses Nixon and enters the company of Andrew Johnson, James Buchanan, and Warren G. Harding on the White House Wall of Shame. A second term would be an unimaginable travesty for America. 

Donald Trump is a sore loser. Maybe our country’s sorest. We need a little more R.E. Lee here and a lot less N.B. Forrest.

Donald Trump is a racist.

Donald Trump is a hypocrite.

Donald Trump is an intellectual cretin.

Donald Trump has terrible tastes. In everything. Decor. Wives. Offspring. World leaders. He’s a pampered philistine, thinly plated in fool’s gold. A gilded gutter-snipe.

Donald Trump is a giant fucking tool.

Donald Trump is a terminal tightwad who often feigns generosity. But when the check arrives, his black car is long gone. He consistently demonizes (non-European) immigrants while hiring illegals who ultimately get stiffed. And he does the same with his bespoke lawyers, so in that way he’s at least an egalitarian Scrooge. It’s as if just being in one of his tawdry towers is payment enough. After all we’ve seen, who would be stupid enough to trust this grifting carnival clown?!  

Donald Trump often takes credit for other people’s achievements, and he always blames others for his own frequent and stupid mistakes. 

Donald Trump is the absolute personification… the quintessence… the apotheosis… the ne plus ultra of corruption. In the manner of King Midas, everything he touches turns to fool’s gold and then, in short order, becomes a pile of shit. An ice-cold seat awaits him in Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell.

Donald Trump has very small hands. And we all know what that means! 

Donald Trump is an avaricious, venal, and gluttonous miscreant. He is a bottomless pit of wanton greed and lust for power.

Donald Trump is fantastically insecure. Hopelessly and endlessly insecure on a celestial scale. A black hole of all-consuming insecurity.

Donald Trump hates himself but projects this disdain onto his would-be enemies.

Donald Trump, while not necessarily the subject of one, is the human equivalent of a stretched and degraded 80’s-era VHS pee-tape video.

Donald Trump is just a dick.

Donald Trump never displays a genuine smile or mirthful laugh. And that tells a very lot. There is an utter absence of joy in his being. He is made purely of bad energy. The dark triad, plus a few. The Eye of Sauron would finally have to look away. Sad! 

Donald Trump is an insurrectionist.

Donald Trump is said to be more of a symptom than a disease. And that may well be true. But that’s also true of lesions in tertiary syphilis that render appalling and grotesque the contours of the human body (see below), as Trump does of the political discourse and our institutions.  

Donald Trump admires fascists and covets their unchecked power. He may ultimately rise to their ranks as a polyester knock-off before being tossed into the rancid dumpster of human history.

Donald Trump is an orange-skinned reality TV buffoon.

Donald Trump regularly cheats at golf and has a hideous golf swing.

Donald Trump, in the parlance of William Shakespeare, is a “spleeny, hell-hated clotpole”… or a “dissembling, clay-brained joithead”… or an “unmuzzled, fat-kidneyed lewdster”… just to name a few.

Donald Trump is a bully.

Donald Trump is the tragic mirror in which we see all of what ails humanity (an astute observation by a family member, LF).

Donald Trump is unfit for public office. He’s unfit for private office. He’s unfit period. Full stop.

Donald Trump has a terrible record as a businessman. He’s the Trump Shuttle serving Trump Steaks and Trump Vodka to graduates of Trump University en route to a Trump Casino to bet on the defunct USFL’s New Jersey Generals in a place they call Trump’s Twilight Zone.

Donald Trump is a divisive demagogue.

Donald Trump, as my mom might say, is a fink.

If Trump were in the Legion of Doom or SPECTRE, he would surely be fragged for polluting their public image. As with all things, “evil” has its limits and unthinking idiots will not be tolerated.

Donald Trump is a national and international disgrace.

Donald Trump holds the Bible wrong side up and wipes his ass with the Constitution.

Donald Trump isn’t at all funny.

Donald Trump never admits that he’s wrong and never says he’s sorry. This despite the fact that he’s most often wrong and is one sorry-ass excuse for a human being.

Donald Trump is a petty, thin-skinned, vindictive and manipulative asshole.

Donald Trump is an unstable non-genius.

Donald Trump is America’s fulminant perirectal abscess that steadily seeds our national blood stream with virulent, drug-resistant bacteria threatening septic shock and multiorgan failure of our body politic.

Donald Trump is a reflexive misogynist.

Donald Trump is a walking tabloid who never reads a book. And, although he’s a published author, has also never written one.

Donald Trump is a fuckwad.

Donald Trump has been convicted in court, by a jury of his peers, of sexual assault and defamation of Jean Carroll. That cost him 5 million dollars for starters. A subsequent defamation charge for his double-down defamation of her added another 83.3 million dollars to the ledger. Trump Crime Family, Inc. has also been found guilty by a New York State judge of civil fraud to the tune of 355 million dollars plus interest. Maybe DJT and his crack legal team finally just got tired of so much “winning.”

Donald Trump has ridiculous hair. Absurd hair. Insane hair. Inane hair. Fraudulent hair.

Donald Trump is the fullest possible embodiment of everything and everybody that you, your parents, your teachers, your siblings, your friends, your classmates, your co-workers, and your romantic partners never, ever, ever wanted you to be.

Donald Trump sucks ass.

Donald Trump is now the very thing he was most afraid of becoming. A total… fucking… LOSER!!

I could go on. And on. And on. And likely will…