… Tatte, in Harvard Square. Les UDs are on their way back home to ‘thesda.

UD‘s Christmas thoughts, as she wanders thro’ each charter’d Boston street thinking of the dead (who said – was it Saul Bellow? – that at a certain age every other thought should be of the dead?) — thinking, that is, of people whose efforts to understand themselves and the world are over… UD‘s thoughts are all about the pretty unliftable fog we move in forever. Love Lifted Me goes the great gospel song, and it’s pretty to think so.

Truly pretty are the great stories – our greatest stories – that settle us deeply into the fog, right in the thick heart of the cloud – and let us abide there: John Cheever’s “The Swimmer,” whose drunken-boat drunk, Neddy Merrill, gets his name from Merrily merrily merrily merrily life is but a dream. Kafka’s “The Judgement,” whose main character knows nothing of his appalling fate until seconds before he peremptorily carries it out. Kleist’s baffled Marquis of O, or the dreadful demented brothers in “Saint Cecilia, or the Power of Music” – these are characters who struggle to exist at all inside the wall of Kleist’s endless discursive paragraphs. John Marcher’s mind-forg’d frigidity and fear finds itself similarly barely situated within the thick masterful paragraphs of Henry James.

O Lost.

Lise Ravary, a writer for the Montreal Gazette, makes the simple, crucial argument UD‘s been making since Blog Day One: Despite Katha Pollitt’s lazy claim that “religion is what people make of it,” religion actually isn’t anything people might claim it is. All sorts of acts, ranging from socially destructive to barbaric, are routinely defended as religious, and secular societies have an obligation to scrutinize these acts and when appropriate call them legally out of bounds.

“When she wanted to get the party going, a very progressive lawyer friend of mine liked to argue that female genital mutilation is none of the state’s business and should be allowed under the Charter [of Rights and Freedoms],” notes Ravary, who shares UD‘s incredulity that any self-respecting state would let this progressive lawyer have her way. Few things are more subject to state concern than large-scale physical assault against children.

States similarly have the right – again, I’d say the obligation – to respond to the desire of the people to sustain their secular identity in social places where this seems important. Thus, the bill Ravary talks about, which forbids religious symbols, “applies only to public service workers in positions of authority, including teachers, police officers, prison guards and Crown prosecutors, while they are at work.” So this means no, you cannot wear a niqab and teach at the same time; and if you are unable to imagine life in the social world without your niqab on you at all times, you are going to be unable to teach in the Quebec public sector. This is of course true of many other localities, including France and England.

Color UD ambivalent about Christianity Today having spilled the beans.

Dramatically, as in O’Neill’s great play and a zillion others like it, it’s only fun to watch until someone… you know… coughs it up. Until that moment at the very end (“I… am… George… I am…”) when the obvious truth everyone’s been lying about gets very flatly stated, we sit and watch in delighted suspense, in excited anxious awareness, in a tense condition of enlightenment, astonishment, pity, euphoria, dread, amusement, fear…

When Mitt Romney wrote his beautiful editorial spilling the beans, UD felt a dramatic let-down. When Christianity Today did the same thing, she felt the same onrush of flaccidity. You know how everyone loves to quote Have you no sense of decency? Blah. Play up! Play up! And play the game!

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UPDATE: Trubu Roi’s Run Far From Over!

The long-running American version of Jarry’s Ubu the King (UD‘s posts about The Trubu Show go way back: put Trubu in my search engine) runs on. As UD suggests above, the citizen in her desperately wants the show to end, while the aesthete can’t help lovin this seniors gone wild caper, this Hangover franchise for mature audiences. Every time hoary Rudy Giuliani loses his shit and slobbers that “Soros is hardly a Jew. I’m more of a Jew than Soros is,” every time naughty octogenarian Alan Dershowitz describes the New Yorker’s editor as a neo-Nazi-friendly fraud, the girl can’t help it: She’s giggling in the wings, she’s having a grand time, she doesn’t want it to end. She doesn’t want Trubu psychiatrist Keith Ablow to lose his license; she floods with excitement when she sees the names Mike Huckabee, Michelle Bachman, Jerry Falwell Jr. and Ralph Reed lined up together in a cast list. She’s watching her very own, her native, La Grande Bouffe, where eventually one of Trubu’s Grand Old Men will sit at a piano, play a few chords, and fart himself to death.

… to frigid, dreary Boston for the holidays.

Though now that she checks the weather, maybe the old joint will crank out some sunshine for a change.

Blogging continues undaunted.

Les UDs finally discovered the precise boundaries of their property; their landscaper had a surveyor do the deed. Turns out we own a good deal more forest than we thought we did, so yesterday UD created a path through the woods, connecting one of our established paths to the new boundary marker. This involved raking up leaves and dirt, plus pulling and tossing dead branches – work UD loves for itself, and also for the way it shapes the land and gives the dog and me more walking space.

It was a clear cold day, full sun, and it took UD very little time to forge a nice wide walkway.

At one point she raked up an old lp.

Why would someone toss/bury a record in the woods? She and Mr UD speculated. An unwanted gift? Did it fall out of a trash bag? But then how would it end up a half acre away, at the very top of the property? What animal would find it worth picking up or nudging?

Something emotional? A favorite track, associated with a love affair gone sour, hurled in rage or sorrow into the void?

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Short of sending it to the FBI forensic lab, there was certainly no way of identifying the record. Right?

Wrong. Take a look at the lp’s center, where I’ve focused a light. All it took was deciphering the printed and written language there, and then checking a discography.

VAN GELDER appears on part of the curve; that would be the recording studio; PRLP is I suppose the record label: Prestige. 2934A (I think that’s the written number) is, according to the Prestige Records Discography for 1961, “To Rigmor,” a piece Joe Newman (the whole album is the Joe Newman Quintet, Good ‘N’ Groovy) wrote for his wife.

The high-profile arrest, in Dubai, of a spectacularly murderous drug lord based in the Netherlands, prompts a BBC article which touches on a disturbing possibility: Liberal drug laws (which UD, as an old hippie, tends to go for) attract the cartels. “… 59% of [the Dutch believe] the Netherlands [is] now a narco-state.”

[A] report commissioned by the mayor or Amsterdam in August described the capital as a “Valhalla for drugs criminals .” … The Netherlands has in a sense created the perfect environment for the drugs trade to flourish. With its extensive transport network, its lenient drug laws and penalties, and its proximity to a number of lucrative markets, it is an obvious hub for the global narcotics flow.

Just wondering what my beloved Nabokov would say this morning.

UD‘s county – Montgomery – barely holds on to its top twenty richest counties in the country ranking.

Legacy admit, got my eyes on you
Baby you don’t know shit
Legacy admit, got my eyes on you
The way you use your mom
You’re the sub she’s dom

Otherwise you’ll bomb

Watch her shake her poms
It’s the new rom-com

You’ll move to Panmunjom

Until the shitstorm calms

Legacy admit, got my eyes on you
Mama buy your credits now
Legacy admit, got my eyes on you
The way you boogie all night
To your heart’s delight

While Mama makes it right

With her online sleight

The Court of Appeal upholds Quebec’s secularism law.

[A]s an image, the blacked-out face of a woman, the alleged obscenity of a woman’s face and hair which must apparently be hidden from view to please God, is not conducive to the post-religious value of democratic equality and democratic engagement.

Writers can only be so conscientious about truth before becoming paralyzed…

We have lousy memories. Proust had a lousy memory. (There is no “little patch of yellow wall” in Vermeer’s “View of Delft.”). Memory is a liar. It’s a heap of dog-eared, smudged, incessantly revised fictions. The stories make cumulative lies – or, give us a break, conjecture – of our lives…

Meaning is so much better than nothing, in that it defines “nothing” as everything that meaning is not. Meaning prevents nothing from being only nothing.

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The spectacular writer and art critic Peter Schjeldahl thinks about life as he approaches death.

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On meaning and nothing, see also John Cheever:

Fiction is art and art is the triumph over chaos (no less) and we can accomplish this only by the most vigilant exercise of choice, but in a world that changes more swiftly than we can perceive there is always the danger that our powers of selection will be mistaken and that the vision we serve will come to nothing.