Troubled Oil

 Yesterday witnessed a whipsaw for the ages on the oil markets. At the start of the day, when I looked at the news, everything sounded like it was going to be unspeakably dire. The Strait of Hormuz seemed like it was about to shut down for the first time in recorded history. Oil prices were skyrocketing. Markets were tumbling. 

I held off looking at the stock market numbers all day—in part because I couldn't bear to witness the carnage. But when I finally dared to check them after markets closed at four, I blinked in incomprehension at what I saw. Everything was green. The numbers had all gone up by the end of the day. And oil prices were back down. 

I Murder Hate

 I never found "Make Love Not War" to be a very eloquent slogan or an elegant solution to a human dilemma. The notion that the libido can simply be channeled from one outlet to another, i.e. that if people did more f-ing there would be less shooting, has always struck me as a very naïve, hydraulic model of human psychology. 

In truth, the sex drive is no more innocent than the death drive; and plenty of people throughout history have managed to be sexually active at the same time that they were busy butchering other humans. Genghis Khan comes to mind. His prolific career as a mass murderer does not appear to have made him less prolific in other senses.

B.S. Johnson's The Unfortunates

 Of all the "experimental" and "avant-garde" novelists of the twentieth century, B.S. Johnson's work has lasted in a way that others' simply has not. (Who rests in Robbe-Grillet's mean flattery now?) And I can't help the feeling that his books succeed for reasons largely if not wholly unrelated to their formalistic experiments and convention-breaking eccentricities. 

The things one most remembers from Albert Angelo, say, are the hideously realistic portrayals of life as a substitute teacher in working class England—not the pieces of paper cut out from the text. But then again, I have to ask myself—did I only pick up the book in the first place because of its formalistic experiments?

Sunk Costs

 Of the various Senate Republicans who have expressed skepticism in the past about the president's war-making powers, a curious number of them nevertheless voted against the resolution this week that would have constrained Trump's ability to continue his illegal bombing of Iran. 

The New York Times yesterday highlighted the case of Todd Young, the Senator from Indiana, who in the past had "warned of the dangers of a legislative branch that had ceded its war-making powers to the executive branch." Nevertheless, he helped vote down the war powers resolution. What gives? 

On His Blindness

 As readers of the blog know, my dad is recovering right now from a week-long stay at the hospital for septic shock. On top of that, he has a brain tumor in his right temporal lobe that has robbed him of vision on the left side. He also has severe hearing loss that long predated the cancer, but which has certainly not been improved by the tumor or the fact that he is currently down one hearing aid because of an accident in the ICU. 

As he put it to me at one point: "This would all be a lot easier if I could see or hear." 

American Football

 I have long said that the Trump administration's crudely chauvinistic rhetoric, about their various wars and extrajudicial killings, reminds me of nothing so much as the speaker in Harold Pinter's satirical 1991 poem about the Gulf War, "American Football." 

But at his latest press conference today, Hegseth made the comparison seem even more inevitable. 

Pinter's poem satirizes the sadism and cruelty of the American war juggernaut—and its apologists—by adopting the voice of a triumphant schoolyard bully: 

Into Hell, Into Prison

 My dad just finished a week-long stay in the hospital. It was one of the best facilities in the country. He was in a lovely new building with lots of natural lighting. By the end of his time there, he had a room to himself. A room with a view, at that. 

But "Even in this island richly blest [...] Earth is too harsh," as Edna St. Vincent Millay once put it. Even the best of possible hospitals is still a hospital. And thus, in spite of all its efforts, it still felt like a kind of prison or carceral institution.