Extinction Chronicles - 6 April 2o26 ·

Friend

I grew up in a household of fairytale handsome whip smart human beings with the clinically abysmal self-esteem which comes parceled with narcissist parenting methodology - life’s lottery favored me early with strabismus and the luck-of-the-draw unelected office of ‘identified patient.’ Like most family constellations many traits, roles, and academically identifiable characteristics can be found evenly distributed within the spectrum of college-educated post WWII Dr. Spock aficionados. I am an addict like the rest of my tribe; where they collected friends, I was fond of peculiarities, which would promptly find their way into my back pocket, still do though i’m old. Just yesterday i bent over what i thought was a yellow beaded earring, which before my slow bend reached it appeared to be cameo-like reliquary and ultimately turned out to be a much flattened bottle cap i could not resist adding to my collection, never having quite figured out the rubric for friendship: i may have one or two out there, but like all good cowboys, i’ve no idea who, or where.

Which is why i burst from bed today intent on fashioning an essay for the ages declaring the rock solid relationship between the sacred character ‘friend’ has represented throughout our human history and retrieving its meaning from the clutches of capitalist decay restoring its dynamic force for good and possibly forestalling humanity’s foolish immolation at the hands of Shakespeare’s demons still loosed in the world. So like most creative’s full of piss, vinegar, and hubris the first step was to promptly text a snide putdown to a boyhood chum who’d had the effrontery to run for cover after a nearly hysterical out-of-the-blue (seemingly mutual) exchange only childhood chums sharing anxiety are able to manifest - precipitated the night before April Fool’s 2o26 as googol and fakebook were tuning the integration of “a iEye” in the midst of 47’s slow motion ‘ithinkicanithinkican’ project2o25 putsch cum psychopathic bombing harkening the ’techbros’ Sovereignty wet dream about divvying up what’s left of Dame Liberty’s noble experiment - ‘merica · Long May She Wave.

“A friend is a gift you give yourself:” Wisdom detritus from a job i had manufacturing wallet organizers, pre-computer. Nearly 50 years ago, i read this aphorism printed on a press in tiny linotype at the bottom of one of 365 pages to be parsed, sliced, and assembled into an accessory containing 364 other homilies, the idea was powerful enough to last these many long years in my mind, enough to be shared with you along with “The palest ink is more powerful than the strongest memory.” I carried that organizer long after the address book had no bearing, but was still legible. This compared to the carcass of Pop’s IBM ‘amber screen’ containing all his writings during the last 20 years of his life, even though it utilized 3.5” floppies (long since lost), the hard-drive was adequate and possible well enough engineered to survive the past 20 years in the likely damp but never flooded crawlspace of my brother’s Pacific Northwest home. I may never know, only because the ‘leaping from my bed’ i alluded to at the beginning of this essay was entirely figurative, rather than literal, for i now more resemble the avatar of my youth Hephaestus, with the fallen arch of my younger days devolving into degenerative osteoarthritis, lending emphasis to my distinguished ‘grey ponytail’ with a bonafide gimp.

So much for an ageless essay articulating inexorable logic compelling a return to actual amity between our kind rather than the virtual “a iEye” friend parading across the +/- 5v proskenion cum scrolling/screen tethered to the end of humanity’s wrist guzzling what water is left after the excavation-economy could fracked the last moisture from Gaia’s desiccated crevices - not very friendly. However, the fact that i can stand; after carving a smattering and write whatever the fuck i want is the highest form of self-care my beaten frame can conjure. My thinking is to apply what i deem ‘Enlightened’ self-interest to locate my ‘tribe’, and gain sanctuary to Thich Nhat Hanh’s perfectly logical, however much possible mythical sangha. Not for lack of trying, but i have yet to find ‘Sangha’; be this due ‘psychological projection’; ‘camel through the eye-of-the-needle-implausibility’; or ‘simple laziness, the requisite compassion or sincerity to satisfy this leery man/child, whose tender heart still remembers sitting in the ‘wannabe warmth’ of our family’s home in the process of being trimmed with the trappings of the season and commiserating with a character from a story about which i’d only seen television snippets; but am still moved in solidarity today by the boy’s open heart wanting blessings for his family.

Of the many blessings in my life a great one has been the procession of characters, real and not so real, just like friends. One person in particular stands out: D.E. Tuppins who resembled an odd blend of Duke Ellington and Cab Calloway - built like ‘The Laughing Buddha’, yet when you weren’t looking, could sound like a bad impression of W.C. Fields. He was north of 70, his wife was south of 25, and they lived in Senior Housing in the city of Santa Ana; as part of the ‘liberal’ give-aways still available at the time. I was participating in the ‘Comprehensive Educational Training Act’, a thoroughly practical program that provided a stipend for schooling which was partly funded through part-time employment as a guard at the Bower’s Museum of Santa Ana. I had hours to do little more than tell eager doyennes not to touch the art, and to listen to D.E. Tuppins who was raised in Detroit and old enough to share Tap Dancing tips with the Psychiatrist’s wife from across Bishop; they were good days until, wife number one arrived on the scene - a Cherokee who the Doctor told me afterwards, was a paranoid schizophrenic. Between the Dr. and D.E. Tuppins it would have to be a tossup whose advice was more valuable: the Dr. whose enthusiasm for all things allopathic; visceral and cerebral, influenced me to be seen by his Doctor, a young internist then, ’making his bones’ who thought it prudent to biopsy my, now arthritic femoral articulation because it was, in his professional estimation, too ‘taut’, or Mr. Tuppins who, on more than one occasion, commented while passing through the many doorways of our appointed rounds, “After me, you come first.”

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6 April 2o26

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Extinction Chronicles - 3 April 2o26 ·

Friday(good)3 April 2o26

Easter has many echoes through the chambers of my heart - Ma more than Pa, had mysterious relationships with ‘holydays’ often attaching a mysterious significance quite articulated, more distinguished by valence of emotion and flurries of activity. Once when young, she’d herded Pop, and the ‘whole famdamly +1kidofftheblock’ into the used conveyance du-jour and continued her herding, all the way to Grand Central Market in downtown Los Angeles, for “cultural immersion”, and back. Much later as her 2nd husband Leo, lay dying in their desert paradise; she’d conceived it appropriate i and my professional painter Belgian Papermaker spouse come and spruce up corners of their ‘pyramid ranch’ high-ceilinged living room, it being given to dust and all, being located in the desert. My wife and i were nursing the dregs of an unhappy marriage, and gave orders better without me to take them, so i went to amuse myself stacking rocks on the low retainer driveway wall. Yet being Easter time too, Ma required the drama of a rupture and came to tell me how rocks ought to stack; yeah it didn’t end well. Truth be told; she - ma was never able to break the loving bond i carried throughout my life protecting somehow the fragility her ‘mania’ manifested in my own peculiar intensity.

The elder brother, who i cannot claim to understand, save the tactical awareness required to survive those who throw their weight around from a broken will. Turned up MIA one particular Easter when he was still dabbling in our family’s proclivity for Alcoholism; the Sunday morning the plan was for the SoCal tribe to rendezvous at the Beverly Hills pied-à-terre; i was living in a hand-me-down shared-home remnant from the ‘suburb domestic collapse plague’ of the 70’s, and it was sweet - Grand Piano, cement floors, my room was lime green, the roommate: a ’Canuck’ Country Western, OC Tavern-busker / Tony Robbins Acolyte (nascent MAGA-mindset); she, La Dueña: old-money Pasadena, even blend of Aunty Mame, Morticia Addams, and Mrs Robinson and insanely smart, along with a dense and equally incongruous mix of academics, aerospace ‘players’, and personalities passing in and out of the permeable membrane of this ‘cultural shipwreck’ within a bastion of OC Aristocracy. In telephone confabs with distraught mother, stepfather’s sister, resigned sister-in-law Beverly Hills was officially cancelled by noon, and the wheels began the inexorable grind the ‘Sacred’.

Who, what, when, where and how - all fair questions: ‘The Lair’ with its magic magnetic appeal to the ‘unmoored’ answered 1 and 4, leaving 2, 3 and 5 to rise from the ashes of  the conventional to transform a ‘dead loss’ into an as yet unknown miracle. And like all narratives the need to drag the corpse of past miracles into the fusion-melding torment of contemporary struggle is what makes story telling fun’ not a little like the ‘muting’ habit formed from living under an airport runway, to ‘blocking’ instinct which makes living next to loud neighbors possible. Item 2 on the list was simple: food, which?, no time for turkey being closer to one o’clock than 12, roast/lamb were out: fowl¿ I had some few frozen pheasant, but not nearly enough for an unknown number of spiritual warriors, already returning calls for an answer to 4. DUCK ¡ and just like that, off i dashed to the “Market Basket, cum Tokyo Central,” within 1/2 hour i was back in the kitchen immersing two rugby ball sized carcasses in hot water, hoping against hope - thawing, physics and broiling would intersect in a reasonable amount of time - “reasonable” being the operative expression for answering the open number 4, along with the evolving 2 and 5.

Here’s a clue how myopic this topic is; on the very outside chance you’ve shoehorned time from far more sophisticated “a iEye” fare, the possibility you find a scintillating rehashing of obscure events 30 years old curious enough to focus over your neighbor’s insistence you appreciate her/his music selection rather than pan for useful nuggets of wisdom is to quote Bob D. - “Love minus Zero,” and yet i persist, inexplicably; are we dialing in on the deeper meaning of Easter ¿ persistence ¿ Back to the ‘nowhere near’ last supper - Wo/man¡!i was that house was humming that Easter: had to have been sometime 1990s, prior to my 2nd marriage, for i’d just finished the granite DNA strand, and yet to commence the Granite Femur wife number 3 would bestow on my ‘Best Friend,’ just before she bailed 1 week after my ‘emergency appendectomy’ - hard to believe, i know, it’s hard to believe and i’m the one writing; at the very least, what i write is not “a iEye” blather. The house on Country Club was filling, nearly the same rate the Ducks were thawing; the gifted pheasants were fortuitous experiments on ‘Fowl Dressing’, me favoring the citrus influence of countless bbq’s, but smart enough to collaborate because my ‘fragile male ego’ was yet to be eviscerated by __________fill in the blank, coming down the pike; nor convinced the ‘light at the end of the tunnel is not still a train,’ coming this way. What did get served that memorable Pasqua, was a lesson on the durability and utility of a persistent portion of ‘goodwill,’ a lesson reinforced over time and most recently from the writings of Benito Juarez, the first indigenous president of Mexico: “Una voluntad firme y constante de hacer el bien superará las más graves dificultades”.

And so i keep trying; i.e., concomitant with this excursion down ‘memory lane’, a man i barely know lay dying as close to me as 3rd base to home-plate; there is fuck all i can say, think or do to alter that fact. Only from members of his clan do i know, as much as any refugee can know about hosts: - he is kind, given to all the frailties and strengths our species has or is learning. Paradoxically a sister, i also barely know, lay dying on the other side of our shared continent. Sadly the greater likelihood this vignette will affect our species is through the greed and stupidity of the “Epstein Class” whose intellectual wraiths troll the ‘information super-highway’ for what their combined business acumen is unable to generate - content containing · affect, an oversight akin to the destruction of “Chavez Ravine” for a baseball stadium of the ages, but lacking water fountains to quench the thirst of its fans. As an artist/writer i take pleasure in drawing parallels of the implausible and inchoate - like, for example the possibility that Jesus was just another bloke looking for a drink of water, “But what do i know”¿ - Michel de Montaigne ·   

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3 April 2o26

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Extinction Chronicles - 1 April 2o26 ·

Had much fun yesterday, so much it catapulted me up to 2am in my sometime bifurcated sleeping habits. Yet now i feel fresh and fruitful with a renewed determination to simplify and continue my plunge into the ‘deep end’. Where i live is fraught with death, delusion, prevarication; all the parts of life which makes it so interesting. As recently as this past Monday i was preparing to launch/boogey/bolt - not the most efficient response to controversy, but one plays to one’s strengths, while explaining why i feel so ‘oppressed’ by the evasive behavior of everyone around me¿ Laugh if you must, it’s not you who is appealing to an unknown reader for understanding. Much like my inclination to  relocate at the 1st sign of conflict, i vacillate about the extreme focus on myself to which one of my chosen disciplines yokes me. For too long the concomitant guilt about holding forth was like an itch which could only be scratched by me, but over time the guilt was simply pulverized as grist for the mill ll’be. (the red underling of my contraction for ‘mill will be’ - has been deemed unfit for public consumption by a series of +/- 5v electrical impulses directed by an algorithm of unknown origin; and i’m supposed to be goofy ‘cause i resist capitalizing “i”)

My heart is full of love and relief, not sure about the ‘gas tank’, but i’m having more fun than i can remember when, nor am i sure why. As soon as i figure it out, i’ll share here; until that time, we’ll needs be slog, ‘cause that is what i’ve learned best - the word itself may be part of the fatigue i feel. Confluence is a peculiar reality of the ‘digital’ overwhelm facing the species, for example just now by way of keeping movement part and parcel of the process, i glanced out my upstairs window to witness the indifference (pointed indifference) of the local transit workers. My umbrage at strewn trash is as ancient as customs for which side of the sidewalk men are supposed to escort their love interest ‘depending on which streets received what refuse tossed from which window. The paradox is the transit workers are as often as not simply oblivious, but suffer from institutional helplessness woven into the ‘ruling class’ narrative designed to neuter the objection anyone struggling to preserve that childish belief Don Quixote might have applied in his zeal to help ‘the world be what it could be, as opposed to what it is’.

Can you imagine being stuck in honking traffic for years just to earn scratch enough to feed a family of ______fill in the blank, yeah me neither. Now the rat bastard “Epstein Class” to rub said driver’s nose in what he/she could buy to increment their way out of and into the ‘reality’ found only in the magical screen; what no one is telling the carefully groomed ‘consumer’, is that there is ‘no there, there’. Edward Bernays, Sigmund Freud’s nephew and invented the “infinite growth paradigm’ upon which “Anarchistic Capitalism” rests held in place by the tax code which elects the public servants responsible for ‘socializing the risk and privatizing the profit’ civilization’s “Hamster Wheel” economy. Coincidentally the same reasons i used for ‘creating’ and whose carefully devised “point of diminishing returns” gradually transformed my existential vision from a mystical portal into a deeper comprehension of the world and its inhabitants into the failed state of “if you’d only_____”fill in the blank.

And yet rather than insightful sharing in service of an unknown reader; so much of what i read in review of my efforts is self-serving solipsistic blather; along with why it is called ‘essay’ at least i am trying and moreover seeing the needlessly self-destructive language serves to aid me in breaking the cycle to a more generous approach to life in what time is left to me; Thich Nhat Hanh as with much else wisely declared, “the way out is in.” He also clued into the ‘inter-are’ challenge we face in the supposedly ‘connected’ digital age. I recall early on the radical absence of conventional courtesies with which i’d been raised. I still remember the vivid disconcerting feeling of being in the midst of an enthralling interpersonal exchange and reading on my screen, “ggfn”, gobsmacked doesn’t begin to describe the free fall; neophyte me eventually understood acronyms and found out ggfn, was an ‘alert’ for bolting. What wasn’t in place for me were the repercussions, however sophomoric and puerile they may have appeared to another, the simple ‘brute force’ of cutting someone off at least gave the illusion of some type of self-care, whereas the wide open ‘here-one-minute-gone-the-next nature of digital threads reminds me of the wonderful passage in “Inherit the Wind” whereupon the character of Clarence Darrow drew thoughtful contrasts highlighting the sacrifices modernity has wrought - the venal ‘lookatme’ outcome of traffic makes much insight highly refined like the processed goop passing for nutrition today.

I’ve lost much interest in whether anyone ever goes through the necessary effort to ‘see me’, yet if that were really true there would be no need to make such a statement¿ I have a unreasonable repulsion of normal interaction with and proximity to other humans many enjoy. Therapy has been useful providing a vocabulary to explore this what i increasingly consider a curiosity rather than the malady characterized by my highly judgmental birth family; “Why yes¡ i am also highly judgmental, why do you ask¿” An indispensable for anyone in the creative disciplines, for without the ability to discern and combine the most appropriate relationships, one is left with a miasma - a condition which by definition is repulsive. Here is where the confluence of creation with creator gets interesting; Rumi - “The cure for pain, is in the pain.” · I don’t know what art is, but i know what i like. Paul Cezanne had described a successful work as one when held up against nature was not jarring. Another art marketing advocate; advised ‘fine art is defined by a very small group of “authorities.” And i remember the affront i felt when reading in the preface of no less and authority for language than the Webster Collegiate; “If you want to know what is proper grammar, ask me” - William F. Buckley · whom i saw, not without some satisfaction, his professional dignity shredded by an intransigently gentle, but inexorably logical James Baldwin. All of this is to say regardless of my hyperbole, i am human and relish someone else’s existential confusion from the eviscerating pain of ’comeuppance’ as much as any sanctimonious, vindictive, mean-spirited hater when it’s not me being skewered; as Dame Paradox and her two whelps “T’is & T’ain’t” shout from the wings: “GOOD ENOUGH FUCKING REASON to inhale, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 .  .. - embrace your suffering and exhale 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 .  .. · simplicity, patience and compassion.”     

solidarność 

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1 April 2o26

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Extinction Chronicles - 31 March 2o26 ·

 Just when you think it’s safe to go back in the water .  .. Friday before the nokingsiii i got a cryptic text msg from el mero mero del pueblo: “Te lleve un refrigerador” - a convenience which i’d not asked for but understood its intrinsic value to a planet heating exponentially by the second. This was the Friday prior to the ‘protest rally’ which might still determine the fate of our planet, yet for unanswered questions by the local Democratic ‘apparatchik’, had been reconfigured into a ‘cocktail soiree’ on a completely different day to one of the trendy local scenes expats are fond of patronizing, regardless of the ‘country du jour’ that the Digital Vagabond Tribe descends upon guided by no more than that increasingly ubiquitous sirene “a iEye” frequency now being installed in every new computer appliances via the “Epstein Class” processor monopoly - project 2o25 ‘Rockefeller Railroad Monopoly’ turned ’Information Super Highway’.

Back to the chronicle; thinking nothing of it, i left the ‘(camouflaged) tribute - in sheep’s clothing’ in the freezer of the curious ‘unaskedfor’ appliance, texting back “why am i buying a refigerador, when i’ve still not got my ‘fone, minusvoz camera BTW, howz things¿”; that was 5 days ago and i must’ve hit a nerve, for i’ve apparently become ‘persona non-grata’ in a compound within which i’ve invested blood, sweat and tears along with substantial good faith while enduring an equal measure of bad faith - ‘live and learn’ - I believe strongly in the inherent value to the community for building a “mercadoCOLECTIVO,” but am weary to the bone due to ‘cultural resistance from behind.’ I am a stonecutter, artist, writer who’d been born to members of ‘merica’s “Greatest Generation,” which like all media monikers contains it’s polar-opposite mostly because the business of creating monikers is learned in the same venal academies that inculcate the will of the “Epstein Class” rather than the more esoteric, but far less profitable socratic search for an honest man.

Now on this day before April Fool’s day, i have no home, no woman, no friend or family who’ll admit to such; guess i’ll eat some worms. And i stand, because i can, it’s what exactly for that gets a little hazy. It was simple when i’d returned from my vision quest and knew myself to be a stonecutter; though truth be told when i’d announced by ambition to become a ‘painter’ in the Vermeer/Cézanne hothouse conceit of my youth, Pop’s equally glib reply was ‘you’re not a painter, you’re a sculptor;’ as with most pronouncements of my father’s this one was a mix of fact and fiction. On balance his advice was nearly pristine in its perspicuity. For example, near his death as he resigned himself to his mortal reality, he didn’t abdicate his role as consigliere incomparabilis pulling me to his grizzle face and exacting a sacred promise, ‘don’t ever stop writing,” good son i remain, i haven’t; but i gotta say, it’s the incalculable hidden benefits i am still uncovering to this day.

For example, (one of his favorite, cliches¿) this essay like many began as a battle ground for petty personal umbrage parading as higher purpose. The entire preceding sanctimonious litany was obscured by partial truth and incomplete information; el mero mero is faced with the impending death of his father - a man i knew only a distance and through description from his taciturn son; like father like son. The tex message i share about the mysterious cold box, also included the Spanish word for “resigned” when replying to my preoccupied courtesy, “como estas¿.” It has only been through the Jesuit-like training from pop in which i further explored the meaning of “dimido” 5 days later; a century of silence, and unnecessary torment to a household up to its gills in grief. I don’t share this as a pro forma mea culpa, but to emphasize the importance of one of Don Miguel Ruiz, et. al. 4 Capital aphorisms “don’t make assumptions,” or as ‘Scotty Anderson’ a greatlymissedgrowingupgoombah might have opined in his pre ‘MAGA’ drawl: “assume” makes an ‘Ass out U & Me.’

Beside the lens essaying provides for personal growth in the tradition of Michel de Montaigne, is the opportunity for communication with the ‘shadow’ we all carry and parry in out work-a-day worlds, or at least those of fortunate enough to not have been delivered into the rapidly evolving ‘pariah class’, i say evolving for while today our collective ‘awakening’ is content with polite euphemisms like “Epstein Class,” for the unconscionable and gratuitous violence they, the pariah class, have visited upon our inherently peaceful, however paradoxically beastial lot. Time is nigh and face a ‘gordian knot’ of mythological proportion simply to get through the year, much less to arrive at a point in our future where we begin to forgive ourselves for ________fill in the blank. The oddest aspect of such a hope is how plausible it is, at least for some. Others of our kind suffer from an inevitable conclusion to all hope and dreams, consigned by an existential weight to the reality of death; about which the progenitor Mssr Montaigne of this curious form of ’trying’ kindly advised: “I would always have a man to be doing, and, as much as in him lies, to extend and spin out the offices of life; and then let death take me planting my cabbages, indifferent to him, and still less of my gardens not being finished.”       

solidarność 

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31 March 2026

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Extinction Chronicles - 24 March 2o26 ·

 A productive morning, played a lot of hide and seek with the salacious “a iEye” attendant foisted into every crevice within which the limited range idiot savants can imagine: fortunately for our species that range is restricted their avaricious fictions. I continue the re-engineering the surgical clusterfuck from Boxing day - run hard, gutted, and put away wet: virtually and literally. It may have been my faux pas pulling the furtive attendant, who after a night’s festivity outside my recuperation room thought to inject narcotics into my empty saline drip but instead faced an old-ready-too to-yank-his-shorthairs-out-by-the-roots Californio. Lightening quick denials to the suffering surgeon’s likely hangover gave credence to a litany of bald-face lies the medical hack used to document his basis for a post-op ‘blackout’ of hippocratic compassionate care instructions, replaced instead with a ‘Trumpian’ emulation of prevarication, greed, and irrational fear of “other;” but good training for nascent powers-that-be fascists in the wings who intrinsically understand whatk must happen to preserve the status quo.

‘It is a good day to die’ but not for the travel an i Ching consultation seemed to advise: Hexagram 47 - Oppression (Exhaustion) · leading up to the portentous no kings iii rallies slated across the ‘Once a Gr8 Notion’ of my birth. As with many aspects of my existence a peculiar confluence of synchronicity seems to haunt my steps, even my dying sister identified this propensity giving me the early-on moniker of “odd todd” before either of us was out of grade-school, pourquoi pas¿ i am serious as a heart-attack, i.e. what are the odds of finding a stingray prong with the heal of my foot 1/2 mile into the bay of Guaymas at the inception of a 3-month long family sojourn on the same leg that would 40 years later provoke the cutting of a 5 foot tall granite femur that was then stolen by a wife to bestow as troth to the treacherous best man at the nuptials of a marriage which would dissolve soon exacerbated by an emergency appendectomy seeding fertile ground of arthritic erosion resulting in a hernia assault. Lest ye come to think this ‘history’ is contrived as “she who would be queen” who’d later managed to kickstart my dead and departed love muscle might said; my wife and i then lived @ 234 Hamlet St “There are more things in heaven and earth Horatio / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy” - Hamlet, Prince of Denmark · via William Shakespeare  

It is a pleasure to find the ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ is not necessarily a train coming this way, however disconcerting it is to have one’s path illumined by the ‘the way’, an echo from a Chinese sage antedating the above literary sage thrice times as many years as the light of our age ‘son of god’ antedates us - you do the math. In terms of confluence way back in January of 2o26 prior to the ‘inauguration’ of the heir-apparent anti-christ the “Doomsday Clock” of our age was moved twice 89, then 85 seconds prior to midnight; unfortunately this was far ahead of the insanity of King Doofus the First, being exposed for the insatiable leacher the planet has come to use as its flimsy excuse for unleashing pent-up penis-envy at the greed (bait-and-switched) in my birth nation’s erratic experiment with ancient conceit of Democracy, roughly paraphrased with LASER-like accuracy synchronistically close to the same time the acronym itself came to be: “the authorities all stand around and boast, how they blackmailed the Sergeant-at-Arms into leaving his post” - Bob Dylan.

enough for now - i believe in the sacredness of the “5 paragraph essay” due to the wisdom of my father ‘still oozing out of my ears’ - B.Dylan · yet the truth be told as i understand things, the ‘essay’ itself has evolved from a much looser form developed by Michel de Montaigne, close to 500 years ago more closely resembling ’stream of consciousness’ than the more pedantic ‘5 paragraph’ form Pop so kindly shoehorned into my noodle oh-so-long-ago.

 

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24 March 2026

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