[Image: “What Might Lie Ahead” (for lack of a better title). I pulled this from the Bing AI image generator to illustrate a temporary, end-of-2024 pause in my weekly Substack posts of chapters of a novel-in-progress. It doesn’t represent anything which happens in the novel; indeed, since it was AI-generated, no matter how realistic the image seems, we might say it doesn’t represent anything at all.]

From whiskey river’s commonplace book:

So don’t ask yourself what people want. Ask instead, What is true? What really inspires me, excites me? What will really help people and take away their confusion and suffering? It’s sort of a funny, crazy way to go, but I think it’s the only way to bring water to the wasteland Joseph Campbell described. When I read something truthful, something real, I breathe a deep sigh and say, “Fantastic — I wasn’t mad or alone in thinking that, after all!” So often we are left to our own devices, struggling in the dark with this external and internal propaganda system. At that point, for someone to tell us the truth is a gift. In a world where people all around us are lying and confusing us, to be honest is a great kindness.

(David Edwards [source])

…and (italicized paragraph):

It was some years ago that my wife and I and our friends first began to catch on to these roads. We took them once in a while for variety or for a shortcut to another main highway, and each time the scenery was grand and we left the road with a feeling of relaxation and enjoyment. We did this time after time before realizing what should have been obvious: these roads are truly different from the main ones. The whole pace of life and personality of the people who live along them are different. They’re not going anywhere.

I’ve wondered why it took us so long to catch on. We saw it and yet we didn’t see it. Or rather we were trained not to see it. Conned, perhaps, into thinking that the real action was metropolitan and all this was just boring hinterland. It was a puzzling thing. The truth knocks on the door and you say, “Go away, I’m looking for the truth,” and so it goes away. Puzzling.

(Robert M. Pirsig [source])

From elsewhere:

James Kimmel Jr., a lecturer in psychiatry at the Yale University School of Medicine and the founder and codirector of the Yale Collaborative for Motive Control Studies, sees [the anger so many feel on Election Day] as a kind of drug. “I’ve been researching the way grievances affect the brain,” he wrote in Politico in 2020, “and it turns out that your brain on grievance looks a lot like your brain on drugs. In fact, brain imaging studies show that harboring a grievance (a perceived wrong or injustice, real or imagined) activates the same neural reward circuitry as narcotics.”

He added that what your brain wants to do with that grievance—how it both extends the high and brings it to its most satisfying conclusion—is retaliate. “To be clear,” he wrote, “the retaliation doesn’t need to be physically violent—an unkind word, or tweet, can also be very gratifying.” So can making sure a political opponent is quashed. Your brain on grievance is a gift to the party and the candidate you support.

(Frank Bruni [source])

…and:

Bluestockings

Oh lovely girl, once a mischief hound with me
when we twentied through school
as boy-brained, romping word-flingers
who gabbed the telephone wires thin,
studied, craved, shared revelations,
and wrote colorful wind-sprints for poems.

What a pang to see you, decades later,
over nouvelle pizza and cappuccino,
—a beautifully suited, associate dean
at a large rambunctious university,
where you hold the entrails of academics
in perfectly manicured hands.

Married long, mother of two teenage girls
(How did you raise daughters?
We could barely raise ourselves),
you’re a distinguished folklorist with a penchant
for fascinating, perfectly researched “smut”
(so the mischief remains!).

As we talk like old friends no longer intimate,
laughing, nostalgic, visibly older,
and our eyes ransack the other’s face,
reading lines etched by unshared dramas,
I keep slipping off the rind of the present,
through mind mirage, deep into the theaters of memory.

I see you perfectly then: a young woman
in her padded cell on the ledge of the galaxy,
wide-eyed, foul-mouthed, vision’s pupil,
shooting the rapids on an optic nerve;
my wicker self, but in a pink corduroy smock,
analytical and macabre, not yet disabused;

growing bone-tough, and agile as a lizard’s tongue,
immune to fear’s teeth in desire’s throat
draining new loves starch white as old wounds;
eager to pin back the ribs of the world;
seductive as a cipher, and nobody’s victim.

But the passing years, the disobedience of distance!
I cheer your victories, wish on your wishes.
Heart’s tinder crackles in my words.
You manage to keep a little something in reserve.
We are the same and not the same,
uniquely other, but with pages of shared history.
Like grown sisters, we were young together.

Now accomplished and admirable,
we greet in public clothes, accept invented selves,
mix goodwill with the genteel respect
we save for distinguished strangers,
as we talk ideas, mothers, jobs, old cronies,
avoid the minefield of marriage,
romp a bit, indulge in the cozy pastime
of whatever happened to that scallywag so-and-so.

When you’ve gone, I dream of flame pots
set out on a moonless runway in darkest Arabia,
and a pilot me piecing together a way home
between the treachery of fog and mountains,
searching down through darkness
for streaks of familiar, precious landmarks
leading to where we might have been.

(Diane Ackerman [source])