My writing always wants to begin with a rhetorical flourish. This may not be the time for flourishes. Writing may be a form of survival, a way of hanging on. Survive and wait. Waiting around for something to change when it seems nothing ever truly changes. Some people say time is not real, but time is certainly real because time is simply a measure. Time is as real as feet, yards, meters, miles, kilometers, etc. We still have to orient ourselves through spacetime even if symmetry compels the strange and improbable to occur. An improbable year, the end of fascism in America and the dawn of what hope brings.

The great thing about coining a term is that it gets to carry a bunch of ideas I intended and also a bunch of ideas I never anticipated. Such is the christening of the name hydro-realism. I am unaware of this being coined by someone other than me, though it is possible and, like many of my great ideas, this too was probably stolen.

So what is it? Is it a style of writing? A rebranding of old and well-worn ideas? Is it, for example, another version of magical realism? I suspect not, although there are magical elements to be sure. In magical realism, the world of the mundane meets the uncanny. In this sense, hydro-realism is a version of magical realism. The programs, however, are distinct. The dragons magical realism seek to slay are different than the two-headed dragon I’m pursuing. By that, I mean the all-consuming, world-destroying plague of hyper-realism and its parasitic ethos of unrelenting irony.

Is it a form of realism? It is in the sense that all forms of realism strive in one way or another to portray reality as it is lived and experienced. As a brief aside, there is no need for scare quotes around the terms presented. Everything in this discussion is contextual, so quotes would be redundant.

So what is the realism of Hydro realism? First, it accepts the basic proposition the quantum field theory is our best, most complete, and most accurate picture of understanding the physical world. That’s a good place to start as any because the hydro is meant to be descriptive and structural, not merely mechanical. Hydro, in this sense, encapsulates (perhaps poorly, since words can only serve as headstone markers) the wave-like properties of the universe. The building blocks are not particles roaming around in vector space, but fields and forces. Particles are an emergent reality based upon the interplay of these dynamic fields governed by physical laws.

Second, it accepts the prima facie evidence that the many worlds theory is the best approach to understanding quantum mechanics. In general, you have a universal, non-collapsing wave-function obeying Schrödinger equations evolving over time. Why not simply call it quantum-realism? Probably a matter of taste. It’s a silly proposition to put quantum in front of everything…quantum fiction, quantum writing, quantum tragedy…too many things are described as quantum as to render the word trite and meaningless. Hydro gets to the sense of the reality of the wave-function, this smearing or spreading out across an excited field in Hilbert space.

But I caution not to make too much out of my limited understanding of science. This matters more to me than it should to you. It is really a question of posterity which everyone is entitled to presume. It is a statement about the way I think and process rather than a true article of conviction. In other words, these ideas are not necessary to the enjoyment of my writing. The point of fiction is not to discover brand new formulas and equations, but to entertain. The enlightenment is mine alone. I write to entertain and illuminate the grey clouds of my mind. My role as a writer is to explore the problems of moral freedom and possibility given a QFT framework.

by Stéphane Mallarmé

La lune s’attristait. Des séraphins en pleurs

Rêvant, l’archet aux doigts, dans le calme des fleurs

Vaporeuses, tiraient de mourantes violes

De blancs sanglots glissant sur l’azur des corolles.

—C’était le jour béni de ton premier baiser.

Ma songerie aimant à me martyriser

S’enivrait savamment du parfum de tristesse

Que même sans regret et sans déboire laisse

La cueillaison d’un Rêve au cœur qui l’a cueilli.

J’errais donc, l’œil rivé sur le pavé vieilli,

Quand avec du soleil aux cheveux, dans la rue

Et dans le soir, tu m’es en riant apparue

Et j’ai cru voir la fée au chapeau de clarté

Qui jadis sur mes beaux sommeils d’enfant gâté

Passait, laissant toujours de ses mains mal fermées

Neiger de blancs bouquets d’étoiles parfumées

There is a midpoint in a woman’s life where she is no longer a little girl and not quite a young woman. This is a remarkable period of her adolescence, a moment where she is coming into her own, yet still moored to childhood innocence.

It is a vital time, a last step to the first steps of adulthood. The age, 15 or 16, is not as important as the journey itself. We marvel at this flowering period. It is the stuff of poetry, of literature and art.

A time filled with joys and sorrows, of banalities and whims. A time of laughter and boredom, experiment and self-indulgence, the fine art of wasting time due to an over-abundance of time.

What do we call this time when everything seems possibile, death is unreal, and freedom is not yet an illusion? Youth? Perhaps. Is it not better to call it a living dream?

In one brief instance that must have felt like an eternity, the sexual assault and attempted rape of young Christine forever shattered this dream. It was an attack, not only on her body and mind, but on the animating spirit of her young remarkable life.

Gone. Ripped away from her by the drunken privilege of shallow, unremarkable men. Men, yes, not boys. Their eyes already accustomed to seeing the next conquest, the gateway to a privileged life where rules exist only for lesser men and do not apply to the elite.

Gone. Ripped away from her. Christine wasn’t saved at the last second by the stumbling antics of two men ready to take turns gang raping a young woman. A part of her died that day, on that bed, in that room.

Gone. Ripped away from her. The living dream.

This is not a moment of victory or defeat, nor a time of self-congratulation. Whether or not Kavanaugh is confirmed on the Supreme Court will not bring back young Christine. This is our loss as well as hers.

For those finding comfort in the passage of time, this too is an illusion. I can assure you, with the all the power of physics and the weight of reality behind it, that young Christine is still there, in that moment, petrified, dying on that bed. Her physical existence is as real as you and I are today, flesh and blood, forever trapped inside that terrible moment. And for her, there is no absolution, no last rites, no hope of salvation.

This is what we are asked to forgive. This is what is called youthful indiscretion. The banality of these words, a cold contrast to our remorseless evil.

A leading question is not always apparent. They don’t always take the straightforward or obvious approach: “How often do you beat your wife, sir?” There is a subtle way, a trolling way, if you will. Frame a question in a way that no one was thinking about in an attempt to push them on their heels, get them on the defensive. Your first instinct is to object, to defend the idea because its opposite seems fundamentally wrong, unseemly, at odds with good manners and just the not the way fair and openminded people should think.  Especially if the question is aimed at some uncomfortable or disquieting fact, sometimes words or ideas are intended to smooth over complex ideas and raw, visceral emotions.

Such is the “genius”, if you can call it that, of Tucker Carlson’s seemingly innocuous question “How exactly is diversity our strength?”  A bit of subterfuge against inclusivity. “I’m not a bad guy, I’m just asking honest questions.” What follows is a response full of flustering, sputtering, anger, denouncement, and then inevitably defending something you hadn’t felt the need to defend 5 seconds ago.  In other words, we give the troll exactly what he wanted in the first place.

Why is this trolling? Because no one comes away from this “debate” with any degree of enlightenment or clarity.  That was never the point.  It isn’t an argument. It isn’t intended to be persuasive. Those who were predisposed to defend or oppose multicultural societies will continue to do so. It is intended to evoke an emotional response from an opponent, in order to say “Gee, what’s wrong with you? One little question and you bite my head off.”

There is a better way, though, to address a leading question by turning it around and considering it on its merits. At first blush, the framing of the question is entirely specious.  Unpacking his question and subsequent examples, it becomes clear that he equivocates “strength” and “ease” in a rather careless and thoughtless manner.  No, diversity is not easy, just as no weightlifter thinks bigger muscles are easy to obtain. No one would ever think of defending such a silly claim. Diversity is a struggle. When has strength come without struggle? Working through language barriers, cultural, and ethnic misunderstandings is just one of the many challenges.  We are better because of the struggle – that’s the claim we are actually trying to defend.

The real argument is diversity is a SIGN of our strength.

There we seem to be on firmer ground. Overcoming challenges, differences, in the hopes of promoting greater understanding, in the hopes of producing a better citizenry and a more stable, and dare we say, stronger society? In the end, symbolism matters a great deal.  Now, on equal footing, let the real debate commence.

 

Charting a course through the “infinite expanses of meaninglessness”, as Kafka does, sailing within the nightmarish landscapes of the banal, the ordinary, the injustice of the lived experience, requires a drama of contradiction, a logic that is at once, nihilistic and affirmative. Of course! That is impossible! The simultaneous joining of these two strands of thought requires a pychological heeling with the wind, suspending disbelief, putting aside our preconceived notions (humans don’t usually de-evolve into cockroaches). In Kafka’s world (is it our world, too?) there can be no higher plane of appeal, no justice, no salvation, no calling of faith, no election. In a Hollywood ending of Metamorphosis, we can easily imagine a doctor swooping in at the last minute with a miracle cure to save Gregor Samsa. Such an ending should, perhaps, strain our credulity more than a man becoming a bug, but we acquiesce in this fanciful thinking, wishing to extricate ourselves from the hopeless situation, and embrace our director’s amateurish story-telling.

To accept and abide and affirm an amateurish Presidency founded on the same Kafkaesque logic, we too are called upon to suspend disbelief. This is the logic of all Authoritarian regimes. The result, not surprising, in a matter of a few short weeks, is the same logic of nihilism and affirmation eating away at the hull of our politics exposing the meaninglessness of our democratic symbols. Spectacle becomes the ordinary. Lies are routine, and therefore of equal standing as the truth. Chaos is order. Reason is gesticulation. Thought is dissent. Allies are obedient. Enemies are former friends. Debate is excoriated. Rumors swirl around our civic body like polluted rivers of blood.

So into this swirling stench, I bequeath to you the lifeline of our emancipation, in the hopes of giving my conservative friends enough cover to stem the flowing tides. For it seems to me that you (I mean Republicans) have a narrow window of opportunity before Trumpism destroys conservatism. There is enough evidence and proof of High Crimes and Misdemeanors (Emoluments, Kleptocracy, Russian-Compromised, Pschological Instability, etc.) along with a great level of dissatisfaction with the lack of progress or a winning strategy, that Impeachment would be easily accomplished. The argument would be, we gave it a go, it was a noble experiment in populism, but his lack of experience and political knowledge has made Trump a spectacular failure. Champion his most populist causes and pay lip service to the struggling middle class. Mike Pence would serve as a loyal and dependable conservative President. Strike early, and the anger and sting of those who cry foul will subside. A sense of order and stability would be restored to the public. But do not delay. Above all, do not make 2018 a referendum on Impeachment, which is as certain as death and taxes. And then your (I mean Republican) fortunes will be sunk, tied inevitably to this Titanic of a failed Presidency. 

But I realize that you won’t do this, not without a certain suspension of disbelief. Thus, it is in this spirit of contradiction, that I offer you this chainmail letter, to be copied and sent around to thousands of family and friends. In short, here’s an opportunity to blame Trump on the LEFT!

Do you think Washington DC is dysfunctional? What if I told you it’s all a CONSPIRACY. You must read this to know what’s really happening! 

Dear Madames and Sirs of the Committee of Affairs, Senate Chamber 107B. As evidence today in this secret hearing on the matter of NSC Director Mike Flynn and the allegations of Russian blackmail, I present to you this sworn affidavit and testimony of my client, a Mr. Joseph K- (identity protected), as recorded on January 30, 2017 at 4:38 AM., EST.

I, Mr. Joseph K-, was born on December 7, 1968 on the Black Bear Ranch Commune in Salmon, California and currently reside in the City of San Francisco. My home address is -REDACTED. For the past thirty-one years, I have belonged to a secret left-wing militant organization known as the Seekers. Our fanatical belief is to create a one-world Socialist Worker’s Party state. In pursuit of this goal, our organization has undertaken several covert and clandestine operations to further our radical left-wing agenda such as support of Pro Life Groups like Planned Parenthood, the ACLU, Acorn, and Media Matters.  But these efforts proved small and ineffective against superior right-wing organization.

Beginning in the late 2000s, our group took a radical, and I believe, misguided turn. It is hard to explain the mindset of this sudden change of tactics. I cannot stress to you the profound sense of dismay and sadness many in our organization felt when our signature achievement – Obamacare – failed to deliver on so many of its promises. Moreover, the failure of Obamacare to convince a large majority of Americans to accept the inevitability of COMMUNISM caused many in our group to conclude that Americans will never, without coercion or compulsion, embrace BOLSHEVISM. It was felt that only through radical measures and drastic steps would we be able to reverse this course. This, then, was the origin of Plan B.

What is Plan B?  Simply put, Plan B is the most diabolical, treasonous plot in American History. Our organization, the Seekers, working together with Russian Intelligence agencies, members of Trump’s inner circle, the alt-right, and hard-core ex-Soviets still committed to STALINISM, were able to run a COINTEL AGITPROP DISINFORMATION campaign to dismantle and destroy Madisonian-style liberal democracy. This plan was hatched in 2011, but an early trial run version allowed us to undertake market manipulations and engineer the 2008 financial crisis to great success. The current administration was brought to power by a combination of Sanders-Stein supported third-party double agents to discredit Democratic centrism and a well-fed FBI backed disinformation campaign by our PSYOPS program Wikileaks. The goal of the Trump administration is to so destabilize, delegitimize and even bankrupt American constitutional democracy, it will allow us and our Russian allies to impose a MARXIST-LENINIST form of government on the American people.

To date, Plan B is an unmitigated success. By our current estimates, the hostile takeover of America will be complete by 2021, three years ahead of schedule. I encourage members of this Committee, Senators and Representatives to look into their heart and their conscience for solace and strength to do the right thing. My coming forward was not easy. For many years, I would have cheered on the demise of my country’s greedy capitalist ways. But I cannot in good faith allow the will of the people to be subverted at the hands of an evil cabal even when I believe in my heart in realizing my dream of a DICTATORSHIP OF THE PROLETARIAT. 

Impeach this President. Impeach him and know that you are defending your country and upholding the cherished symbols of our democratic institutions. Impeach him, and you will honor the men and women who served and bled and died for our freedoms and our rights. Cherish the flag! Don’t let the traitors burn it! Country before party! Impeach! And though I myself am godless, let each one of you say proudly today, God Bless the USA!

Comedian Michael Che has an insightful and funny piece on the disparity between the innocuous meaning of the word “matters” and the visceral anger in which it seems to evoke when placed after the words “black lives”. Indeed, that visceral response is something that truly surprised me. Not coming from the usual suspects of right-wing apparatchiks which was to be expected, and I’ve longed since ceased being shocked by the level of depravity from that cottage industry. No, it was rather the response from those I should have thought more sympathetic and closer aligned to the cause of civil rights movements and racial injustice. There was something in the name itself that was perceived as accusatory, a great moral failing on the part of broad swathes of the larger and generally white public. A guilt felt for years of liberal indifference masked as enlightened sympathy. Not me! seemed to be the first, reflexive response, embodied in the phrase “All lives matter.”

Curious, because I did not experience this sensation myself. That response, coming from political allies, was so foreign, so far from my own thinking, that I was truly baffled, and then somewhat ashamed and embarrassed when I reflected deeper upon this canned response. No, my first reaction to BLM was the same reaction I always have when I learn about a new political movement from whatever ideological bent – the 99%, the Arab Spring, the Tea Party, etc. – my first thought is to find out more about the movement. What’s it about? What things do they advocate? Who is funding them? Who speaks on their behalf?  In other words, the very ordinary process of forming an opinion.

I raise this point, not because I think my reaction represents some englightened response. I truly was caught off guard. So how did the name strike me? It captured a frustration and anger that many of us felt, a sense that at the margins, blacks were perceived as inherently dangerous and therefore largely to blame for their own deaths and mistreatment. 

I watched a video of Eric Garner murdered by NYPD police. The police with clear malice and intent and with no regard for his life, murdered him in cold blood. That’s what I saw. It was as clear as any execution conducted in the name of righteousness and order. And yet millions of people looked at the same video and came away with the perceptaion that Eric was somehow the master of his own fate and destiny.  That any of us are, shows the degree that perception is forced upon us. The madness of the crowd.

I’m not famous. So there’s a good chance my words will fly under the radar. But they most certainly would face the wrath and indignation embodied by the response “Blue Lives Matter.” 

But here my response will probably surprise, shock,  and evoke a deeper visceral reaction than BLM could ever achieve. In fact, blue lives don’t matter. No, they don’t. Blue lives don’t matter in the same way all lives don’t matter, in the same way unicorns don’t matter because none of those things exist. BLM is an existential fact, and therefore a concrete and real historic cause. It represents a real program, grounded in history, perpetuated by institutions. To say that blue lives matter is as obscene as saying white lives matter, a way of diverting and divesting the relevancy of historic identities. Identities which exist because race does matter, has mattered, in the very formation of our republic. So I reject this false consciousness which is nothing more than a false choice, an insidious attempt to change the FUCKING subject. Sometimes words hurt in order for actions to follow. Or as Ionesco pointed out, only words matter, the rest is mere chattering.

From whence arrived the praying mantis?

From outer space, or lost Atlantis?

glimpse the grin, green metal mug

at masks the pseudo-saintly bug,

Orthopterous, also carnivorous,

And faintly whisper, Lord deliver us. 

~ Ogden Nash

I came to Florida to escape my life. I was trapped inside bad habits, swimming against the current, going nowhere. Long commute, poor diet, lack of movement or exercise. No social life, no lover, no partner in flesh and spirit. My health was declining, poisoned by someone or something invisible and insidious. There seemed to be no more life, no ability to feel happiness or pleasure, certain that I had died a hundred times already, a sense of being lost. In a word, depressed. All the telltale signs were there. Florida is the only place where I have felt happy and alive, and young, save for a few scattered childhood memories. Did I say youth?  Yes, youth. Did it escape me? So it seems. I travelled a very long way only to find myself turning around again. The world, you see, has dragged me back, kicking and screaming. I’d prefer to leave it behind, because, really, it doesn’t mean anything to me. No, not one goddamn thing. Problems aren’t left behind. Only people are. People = problems. The desire for lonlieness, to be alone is neither a curse nor an affliction. It’s simply a desire for peace. I have no roots, no country, no heritage, no past, no future. That judgment was sound. For with this absurd vote tonight, this monstrous step into the abyss, with one collective voice we have proven what I knew all along to be true. We are insane.  We have been taken over by a hostile, militant, force. Truth is dead. Lies don’t matter. Propaganda rules. In a word, we are in hell. And try as I may to escape this hell only leads me back to the hell of lonlieness, despair. So Florida. Eternal land of sunshine. But also, a land full of monsters. The last refuge of the vile. My people. May God have mercy on your souls. For me, there is only contempt.