To Look For America.

I first heard Simon and Garfunkel’s America when I was in my teens. It remains a favourite, and the line which most piqued my curiosity was ‘… walked off to look for America.’ I wondered what exactly it meant at the time, but I was young then. Much water has flowed the length of the mighty Mississippi-Missouri since my days of callow youth, and now I have a better idea, so please allow me to offer it.

My YouTube recommendations page is loaded with videos which relate, one way or another, to the USA. Being the British version, many of them follow the line: ‘Brits roast American ignorance’ or the more general ‘Britain – or Europe as a whole – is a much better place than America.’ I expect American YouTube followers get fed the opposite story. I think a lot about this, and so I thought I’d write a post about the way the USA tends to be seen by Europeans. It’s a view based on a generalised impression gleaned from conversations, news reports, high profile American activities, and the experiences of a few ex-pat Americans living in Europe.

Let’s start with the recent 250^th anniversary razzmatazz (which was slightly premature given that The Treaty of Paris wasn’t signed until 1783, but let’s not split hairs.) Europeans were naturally unimpressed by this, since most of us can trace our national roots back over a thousand years of unbroken cultural development (and some countries in the Middle East and Asia generally – including Iran – can go much further back than that.) We in England, for example, are more likely to commemorate the Battle of Hastings in 1066 than the generally agreed origin of the English state a century earlier.

And so, notwithstanding its remarkable development over such a short time period, the USA is still a young child in international terms. It might have grown big, rich, and powerful, but it’s still the world’s baby. And let’s be honest and admit that it has often behaved in a manner entirely commensurate with the fact. Trump’s presidency is probably the most obvious example, but there have been others. This means that there is a tendency among Europeans, and probably an even a greater one among Asians, to view the USA as being still a work in progress, and that it will probably remain so for a long time to come. This is why Europeans get slightly miffed when US Presidents swagger around the globe in the arrogant belief that they have ultimate authority on all issues worldwide, from nuclear development in Iran to a referee’s decision on a football pitch.

And then there’s another point which might best be illustrated by comparing the USA with China. They’re approximately the same size geographically, but China has a much bigger population and is far more diverse in terms of languages and ethnic groups. And yet China is still unquestionably China, with all the perception of homogeneity due to a single state. And it’s very ancient.

The federal system in the USA, on the other hand, leads to a vague sense that homogeneity is at least partially absent. Each state operates within many of its own rules, guards its boundaries assiduously, and sometimes comes into conflict with the central power in DC. There’s a fractured feel about it, as though the mortar in the walls of the country hasn’t quite set firm yet and is still moving around. And maybe this is the cause of one of my long-held suspicions – that there is a hidden undercurrent of insecurity lurking in the American mindset, which is possibly the reason for the almost manic emphasis on patriotism, the requirement for children to take the oath of allegiance every day, the flying of flags on every street corner, and the slightly absurd notion of ‘un-American activities.’

So is it all bad? Is this just me sounding off against the damn Yankees? No, of course not. I repeat what I’ve said before on this blog: Some of the finest people I have ever known – people of intelligence, principle, erudition, compassion, good sense, generosity, and wholesome friendliness – have been Americans. And I might add that much of the anti-American sentiment doing the rounds of the globe at the moment is directed mainly at Trump and what he’s made of America and its reputation, not a wholesale condemnation of individual Americans.

And yet, you know, I’m tempted to think – and this might be wholly speculative and based on false impressions – that the high spot of American culture came at the end of the 19^th century and the first half of the 20^th. I imagine a time based on the homesteader mentality, the understanding that there were things of value bigger than the individual, the resilience and energy, the development of new musical forms with the coming of jazz and blues, the creation of a new art form with the emergence of cinema, and maybe even a noticeable level of self-deprecation. It’s an inspirational picture.

But that was before the oligarchs of Big Capitalism persuaded the nation to install consumption and lifestyle obsession as the new king, to worship money as the only true god, and to brag loudly about their wealth-conferred status. And yet it’s clear that there are still plenty of Americans who understand that there are principles and ideals bigger than the individual or their personal fortune. That’s why this post is about America, not Americans.

I hope it doesn’t cause offence. It wasn’t meant to.

Early Morning School Work.

I was standing by my bathroom window in the early hours of this morning regarding the third quarter moon hanging bright in the clear eastern sky. I saw the winking wing lights of a commercial aircraft encroaching into my view from the right, evidently outbound from East Midlands Airport and flying north-west, probably to Belfast. The plane approached the moon, crossed it, and then continued its flight to Northern Ireland.

My first thought was that the passengers would have watched the moon coming towards them until it was alongside, and then slipping away behind as the plane continued its journey. I quickly realised that I was wrong; the moon would have appeared more or less perpendicular to their view through the window all the way from the airport to their destination. So then I set about working out why, and realised that it’s a simple matter of the function of arc.

The distance between East Midlands Airport and Belfast is a tiny fraction of the distance between the moon and the plane, which means that the arc described on the line of travel would be extremely slim. The angle between the two, therefore, would hardly change in such a short distance, and so the moon would appear to the passengers to be in more or less the same place. It’s simply a matter of geometrical relativity.

And so, having demonstrated to myself that my mind still functions moderately well after two double scotches and in a state of fatigue, I continued to bed with an almost satisfied air.

A Rarity Among the Habits of JJ.

I spoke to another Shire resident this evening for something like an hour. (My lack of association with Shire residents must surely be the stuff of legend by now. Ten minutes is usually the maximum I can tolerate, and even then only if it serves the cause of politeness.) And what’s really odd is that I initiated the conversation for reasons which would be improper to reveal. Rest assured, however, that they were entirely pure, proper, and in accordance with my INFJ personality type.

My only error was that I failed to ask the lady’s name (and she mine), but maybe that won’t matter. Maybe I will never speak to her again. It will all depend on whether my gut instinct convinces me that it will be to her benefit. (I have been known to be wrong in such matters.)

A Poetic Note on the Pronoun Division.

I’m not even an occasional reader of poetry, much less an avid one, and yet I do respond strongly to the power and richness of words. And sometimes a particular line from a poem strikes me as having a quality of subtle but profound knowing wrapped up in a few brief, perfectly chosen words (which I suppose is what good poetry is all about.) Such a one is Emily Dickinson’s

 

Because I could not stop for Death

He kindly stopped for me

I think about it often, and it struck me recently that the line might be frowned upon these days by those who regard the recognition of gender as a sure and certain ticket to perdition’s flame. They would insist that it must be:

Because I could not stop for Death

They kindly stopped for me

It doesn’t take much poetic nous – nor even recognition of the power and richness of words – to know what dreadful carnage the use of the plural pronoun would wreak upon such a notable creation.

Celebrity and Armageddon.

I’ve said this before but it bears repeating: I think it reasonable that the BBC World News front page should lead with a subject which intelligent consensus would agree as being of reasonable magnitude. So what did the BBC World News lead with today?

The wedding of Taylor Swift.

I think I’m right in presuming that Taylor Swift is some kind of celebrity, and that’s my point. No intelligent consensus regards celebrities as being of any greater importance than the rest of us; they just happen to be watched by a lot of people when they’re doing their job.

And so today’s headline gave a further boost to my increasing conviction that the world really is growing dumber and dumber (as do a lot of people, it seems). A sense is growing in me that in the not-too-distant future, the mass of humanity will shrink like the big bang going backwards and result in a takeover by more intelligent robots, or expand with irresistible force as several billion people suddenly wake up.

A Wordsmith's Concerns.

I was walking through Ashbourne last Wednesday when a sudden thought entered my head. It ran: ‘The prim young girls in pretty clothes (and not so very much of those…)

Aha, I thought, a new ditty is offering itself for an airing on my blog. But then I realised that ‘much’ should be ‘many’ which ruined the metre, and so fearing for my reputation as a competent user of words I consigned the fledgling ditty to the gutter in close proximity to a discarded coke can. I think it might have been the close proximity of the town library which influenced my decision.

Cryptid Imagination.

Sometimes when look out of my bathroom window at the rising field beyond my garden hedge, I see a humanoid shape striding along the ridge from left to right. I can tell from the height of the tree branches, the hedgerows, and my occasional sightings of dog walkers tracing the same route, that the figure is around 8ft tall. And its appearance is fuzzy as though its body is covered in dense brown hair.

I have no doubt that it’s a sasquatch, and that pleases me because I like sasquatches. I even leave an apple in the wood at the top of the lane sometimes, just in case there’s one keeping itself carefully hidden up there. I’ve heard they have a fondness for apples.

And I suspect that the various chemicals to which the bathroom plays host combine to cause the mind to see favoured pictures where there are none.

Too Tired to Think of a Title.

This was Zoe’s song back in those distant days when she still thought me worthy of a few sparkler showers:

You’ll remember me when the west wind moves

Among the fields of barley.

~ Sting. Fields of Barley

And so I thought about the phrase ‘west wind’ and naturally wondered – as is my wont – why that wind and not another. It didn’t take long to come up with a reason.

We recognise four cardinal winds and each of them is imbued with its own reputation. The south wind represents heat; the north wind is associated with frigidity; the east wind we think of as sharp and unfriendly; the west wind, however, says ‘mellow.’ This is not always true because it depends on the position of the weather system and other considerations, but as a generalisation it’s what we’ve got. And so the west wind is the least likely to be threatening and also has the benefit of alliteration to commend it to the lyrical mindset.

*  *  *

Talking of words, I sometimes watch a YouTube channel by a woman called Hilary Layne. She’s a writer who uses a simple ‘talking heads’ approach and covers notable literary works and their relevance to modern culture. Last night’s offering took what she considers the three primary works which most describe the causes and effects which produce a move towards dystopia: The Napoleon of Notting Hill, Brave New World, and 1984.

She suggested that modern societies – at least those which follow the ‘western’ model – are becoming so replete with bland conformity to the exclusion of higher values that an increasing number of people are blind to anything which is bigger than them. It caused me to think seriously about the assertion, which very few YouTube channels do. But then I decided that I’m more interested in a different scale of things. My main preoccupation now is not to look for things which are bigger than me, but levels of reality which are bigger than the one in which my mortal body functions. So I decided that dystopia probably doesn’t matter very much after all.

Dreaming of the Priestesss and Other Bits.

I had a rare dream about the priestess two nights ago. Remember her? I do, but then I suppose I would. I went to visit her in Australia, even though she doesn’t live in Australia as far as I know.

I was nervous at first, but she was friendly enough and smiled a lot. She even kissed me briefly on the lips which I assumed to have been a contrived device to make me feel a little less ugly and shambolic than I naturally would feel in the presence of an attractive 32-year-old Chinese lady. I accepted the kind thought with gratitude.

And then she sent me to a shop down the hill and around a corner to buy some drugs. The dream ended before I returned and no attempt at interpretation was made.

Meanwhile, I might remark that 22 posts in June is the most I’ve made in one month all year. Is there something afoot, I wonder?

And my newly converted – analogue to digital – computer set-up does not get on at all well with YouTube. The technological age is proving troublesome.

Auntie Beeb's Exciting News.

One of today’s exciting features on the BBC News website is the incidence of tonight’s strawberry moon. Being possessed of some little interest in the moon and its moods, I read it. It contained two facts of real significance:

1. The moon won’t be pink, but just the usual moon colour. The term ‘strawberry moon’ is simply the nickname given to the full moon which happens to occur in June. (Remember my post a few months ago about the blue moon which wasn’t going to be blue? ‘Blue moon’ is the nickname given to the second of two full moons which happen to occur in the same month. They’re never blue.)

2. The only notable feature of tonight’s moon is the mildly interesting fact that it will be very low in the sky, almost on the horizon, and so will appear slightly larger than usual. It happens every year.

So there we have it: a full page feature giving we lucky mortals forewarning of tonight’s big celestial event – a full moon which will look no different than all the other dozen full moons throughout the year apart from the fact that it will look slightly bigger (which is really thrilling, isn’t it!?)

So I returned to the top of the page to look again at the banner pic which introduced this exciting event and first piqued my interest. It showed a cityscape at night, and bestowing its beauty on the lucky inhabitants is a glorious, cerise pink moon hanging high in the sky. Can anybody tell me what the point of all this is?

This is modern journalism. This is modern times.