Tired Tired Nixon Moon Landing Tired

What a long day!

I don't have much in me for blogging tonight. The fragments left in my brain are the same old borderline hopeless things about impeachment and epistemic polarization as I've been writing about for a while now.

Tomorrow I drive (and drive and drive and drive) all the way up to my family in Oklahoma for Thanksgiving. I hope my car makes it. I hope I make it. Today wasn't so great on the "consuming sufficient calories" score.

In my caffeine-fueled morning, I briefly entertained a whole (smallish) book on online performance and lying. I . . . simply can't bring to mind much of a coherent assessment of that thought process right now, lol.

I leave you, then, with the weirdness of deepfakes. As you may know, Nixon's speechwriter William Safire had prepared a statement for the President to read in the event that the Apollo moon landing had ended in disaster. Some bright folks at MIT have deepfaked a video of "President Nixon" reading that statement:

Funky.

Love and Splits and Methodists

Amidst all my current thinking about friends and enemies, agonism and antagonism, impeachment and fundamental splits, I'm trying to create an opening meditation for a meeting tomorrow. Some Louisiana Methodists who lean to the center and left are gathering tomorrow for a time of updates, learning, connection, and encouragement. We're between crises: the sorrow of the 2019 Conference, the uncertain future of the 2020 Conference.

I present this in a little over 12 hours. I have, right now, only a few inklings about what I'll do or talk about. I'm tired. It's been a long day of meetings, three classes in a row, more meetings. I need to work in a work out. Also I need to eat. It doesn't help that, when I think about the United Methodist Church, the energy and hope drains out of me.

Two plans for the denomination appear to be in competition for General Conference 2020, at least from USAmerican Methodist perspectives: the "Next Generation UMC" plan and the Indianapolis Plan.

The Indianapolis Plan is, essentially, a plan for separation, creating two (possibly more) different Methodist denominations: Traditionalist and Centrist. The Wesley Covenant Association stands poised to institute its vision of the Traditionalist Methodist Church. It has already drafted a "Doctrines and Disciplines" document, outlining a new "leaner" and more "nimble" expression of Methodism, essentially weakening connectional structures in favor of congregational ones. LGBTQ people are not mentioned at all; the document simply affirms that monogamous marriage between men and women is the only proper expression of human sexuality.

The Next Generation UMC Plan smooths pathways out of the denomination but defaults to staying a united church. It repeals the Traditional Plan passed at the 2019 Conference and removes all restrictive language regarding homosexuality from the Discipline.

I'm generally for staying together. But I suspect that, of the two plans, something like the Indianapolis Plan is more likely to get the votes necessary. I do wonder how delegates from the Central Conferences will perceive the two plans; their support is essential for anything to happen. The Next Generation Plan seems to contain more provisions for continued support of Central Conferences. The Indianapolis Plan, as I skim it, provides for General Conference funding of Central Conferences only through 2024.

I suspect, however, that the Traditionalist/Wesley Covenant Association's hard-line heterosexuality-only stance will move most Central Conferences to vote for Indianapolis, since that offers the more robust expression of straight/cis-only positions. Righteousness defined by sharp boundaries between Us and Them has historically proven more appealing to humans than messy coexistence amidst disagreement.

Then again, the Central Conferences may simply balk at any change, insisting on keeping the Traditional Plan version of the UMC. We'll get more messy (and legislatively murky) coexistence for a while--but not forever.

Nothing will prevent the exodus of churches wishing to join the new Wesley Covenant Association denomination, however that appears. They have made the decision to separate, arguing--not without basis--that the "quarrel" in the UMC year after year over homosexuality has made for a "caustic" atmosphere. They've been wanting to go. They just need the path to let them keep their properties and monies. "We will release one another to joyful obedience to Christ's call on our lives," reads the Indianapolis Plan.

In my tiredness, I must admit that there's part of me that wonders if separation isn't just better after all. Psychologist Harriet Learner quotes a sign a counselor friend of hers had prominently posted: "You've got to learn to leave the table when love is no longer being served." Or, more colloquially: if you love something, let it go.

I can't make you love me if you don't. 
I can't make your heart feel something it won't.  

I wish I could make hearts and minds more open, break what I see as bounds of fear that manifest as exclusion and discrimination.
I wish that openness for my own heart as well, for those times when it becomes hard for me to empathize with my sisters and brothers in Christ when I see their stances as harming the least, the lost, the left-behind.
I wish I could be patient enough for the turn of generations to do its slow work of adjusting us to new worlds.
I wish I could look at 2020 and see hope and noonday sun rather than trepidation and twilight.


Here in the dark,
In these final hours, 
I will lay down my heart, 
'Cause I feel the power. 

There is Power even in the dark, we're told. "If I ascend to Heaven, you are there," writes the Psalmist (Psalm 139), "if I go to sheol, you are there. . . . Even the darkness is not dark to You." 

The essence of the Wesleyan tradition is grace, especially Wesley's own innovation of prevenient grace, the "grace that goes before." Before we knew God, God knew us.

I find it helpful to imagine prevenient grace as something that persists beyond our conscious commitment. Even as we struggle with God's grace on the path to perfection, God's grace continues ahead of us, preceding us into the future, into the darkness.

May God precede me tomorrow morning, helping me to get out of the way of God's Spirit before a group of loving Methodists in crisis.

Computer Crash Terror

I'm conferenced out this evening, just struggling to write something/anything.

Remember how I was going to write about fear for this roundtable I'm proposing (for a whole different conference)? I experienced a moment of pristine, twenty-first-century, first-world terror earlier this evening.

I was grading papers, merrily adding edits and comments to a student paper in Word, when suddenly I realized no button I pressed was having any effect on the screen at all. Total lock. I did the usual things Windows users do: control/alt/delete, escape, nothing. I closed the lid  (putting the laptop to sleep) and opened it. Blank screen. Total lock.

Last resort: I forced a shutdown with the power button, waited, pressed power again--

And watched as the computer's usual startup cycle stalled. A series of terrifying messages, all in that things-are-really-screwed-now old style DOS computer font cropped up: Windows boot failed. More fail messages followed. Finally a screen--not even blue but nihilist gray: "Windows has failed to load due to an error. Insert your Windows disk to effect repairs."

I have no disk. Like most people in 2019, I downloaded Windows 10.

Now, I have a backup or two of my stuff--but it's about a month out of date now. So much grading, so much writing, so much research has happened since then. And then the cost of a new computer at this point--well, thinking about it gave me the deep dark willies.

I shut down, unplugged, took out the battery, counted to 30--look, I have no idea if this is effective or not. It's the kind of desperate ritual magic we do when it looks like our computer has died. I put the battery back in, plugged in, and pressed power.

The computer started--loading everything very slowly. But it started. And sure enough, there was an update pending. I downloaded the update, restarted, and so far so good.

But before I did that I scooted everything I could over to a flashdrive. You betcha that a full backup will happen as soon as I get home Sunday.

Until then, I'm behind on grading, I'm writing my blog late, but I'm grateful to be writing on my computer at all.

No more shocks like that, please, Mr. Computer. I have enough fear and dread and deep dark willies.

Conferences, Resilience, Perseverance

Wuff! Exhausting conference day.

When I tell non-academics I'm going to a conference, I think they sometimes assume I'm going on vacation. I hear some of the medical professions actually structure conferences this way; it's assumed the event is mostly play and only a little work.

There's some play involved in traveling and seeing friends that you only see at conferences. But work ("the work") pervades the event: listening to papers, responding to papers, gathering and updating your sense of where the field is, watching out for prospective material or people to introduce to students, shopping book or article proposals to editors, and the endless process of explaining what it is you do or what you're working on currently to people (and engaging what they're working on).

And on top of that you're trying to keep up with your regular work. In my case, that's grading and editing. I did editing duties last night. I ducked out of a reception to grade more. Well--I exercised (ran 5K on the treadmill) and then ran down to get some food. This hotel and this part of Arlington are a bit light on readily available eats. I ate some fine Ethiopian food for lunch, and I stole some good pepperoni flatbread from the reception. But man could I use some greens and grains. I miss cereal.

And I'm writing this, my morning pages, write-something-anything blog that I mostly hope people don't read (but welcome and hello if you are reading this!).

My brain, I must say, is mainly done with hard thinking. It's run a 5K of sorts just listening intently to panels and ideas. My socialization batteries, never champions at endurance events, are pretty drained.

People ask how I've been, how it's going. I'm not sure what to say? I've been in much, much darker, rougher places (two weeks ago was a snippet of what that time was like all the time). But the trials and tribulations of some student issues over the last six months have been an unusual drain to life energy.

It also bothers me anew that I'm so prone to really morbid, suicidal ideation. It bothers me, of course, in that I shouldn't be thinking that; no one should. But it bothers me also that it seems such a first world white guy way of being. Reddit is full of only-half-joking memes of suicidal fantasies. The normalization/romanticization of clinical depression is both shocking and annoying. Saying I often feel low-grade anhedonia is a bit like grumbling about how I'll never find a girlfriend. It sucks, but it's not a life-threatening illness. When PA says it's been a rough year, I suspect he means he almost died due to health issues. I have not almost died due to health issues. Many things are going well. It's fine.

PA told me things had been really rough. I touched his arm. "It's OK," he said. "I'm pretty resilient." That started me thinking about how resilience is one of the new watch-words for our students. We worry because this crop of students just seems overall less resilient than past ones.

I'm not sure I'm that resilient. What's gotten me through rough times is more like a grim, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other persistence. I don't need to be happy or love life. Those things are lagniappe. All that is required is that I continue. It's like Zen, but without the peace. Who needs peace? All that's required is that you continue.

And, eventually, some peace and happiness occasionally show up. Ethiopian food with M was lovely. The working group I saw was stimulating. Seeing friends and students is uplifting.

And finishing my writing for today so that I can play a little Zelda (I brought my new Switch) and turn in is good, too.

Empathy, a tired ramble

Speaking of empathy...(a tired ramble after a day of travel).

Two instances of empathy:

I wrote my second rejection letter for an article in my capacity as editor (co-editor). This one stung. The author had gotten feedback and had put work into revising. I inherited the article--and found I could not in good conscience publish it. That. Sucks.

It's highly unusual to invest in the time/effort of anonymous readers, have the author revise according to their comments, and then reject the revised draft. It's kinda bad form. From the author's point of view, it's a slap in the face. If your article gets rejected off the bat, a desk rejection? That you could chalk up to a mismatch between the article and the journal. Even negative reader reports--well, they can flatten you. Still, though, there are the consolations of "well, at least I tried" or even "They just didn't get what I was doing. I wonder who that reader was? I bet it was . . ." But the second time, after you've revised and resubmitted? After you've done everything asked of you? A rejection there feels more like, well, your fault. You're just not good enough.

I hate feeling that way. I hate that the author I'm writing to will feel that way. At least, I imagine they'll feel that way. That's the tricky thing about empathy. Growing up, I thought of empathy as a super-power, like Diana Troi from Star Trek: The Next Generation. She'd squinch up her face or flinch or look generally uncomfortable. Then she'd utter, "I feel . . . great pain." Empathy was telepathy, but for feelings. It was often vague, and the screenwriters frequently seemed to forget the character possessed it. But when it worked, it was infallible.

Real empathy is all in your head. It's imaginary. I don't know what the other person is feeling. I think I do based on how I think I would feel in their situation. "Vicarious introspection," psychologist Heinz Kohut defined it. I'm imagining what the other person must be feeling. Even that turn of phrase--must be--hides the essential leap of faith we call empathy. The newer neuro-cognitive brain imaging that shows mirror neurons firing remains good old-fashioned imagining, just on an unconscious level. I see a clip of someone who slips on the ice and falls on hard their butt, and I flinch, a sympathetic shock shooting through my hindquarters. I don't know the person actually felt pain. They might be faking, or at least overdoing it. Maybe the video cuts short so that I don't see the aftermath of their impact at all.

Vicarious introspection. We see into others by seeing into ourselves.

The thing is, we're famously awful at introspection. Humans, most of us, aren't all that great at assessing ourselves. We're not transparent to ourselves. We misperceive our strengths and weaknesses.

Just before writing this I was taking as shower after an (inadequate) workout. I looked in the mirror at myself, spotlighting the flabby, unattractive parts. And I thought about my toiletries bag . . . which I realized with sinking certainty I had left hanging in my bathroom at home.

At this point, I don't even get angry at myself for such lapses. There's just a weary disappointment. Again, John? I guess we just need to adapt to the new reality: You Will Always Forget Something Vital. And I began planning a trip to the CVS tomorrow morning to get toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant (which you just put into the toiletry bag this morning, right, John? I added).

Wait, I cautioned myself. Let's just make sure. I dried off, walked out of the bathroom, and looked into my open-faced suitcase. There it was.

Gosh, we're hard on ourselves, I thought.

I wonder sometimes if the way I talk to myself, my own frequently negative self-regard, has an effect on my ability to be empathetic to others. What if I treat others not as I want to be treated but as I actually treat myself?

Yeeg. There's a sobering thought.

Low Batteries and All Saints'

Wuff. I think I may be fighting off a minor cold. There's an undercurrent of tired that makes the notion of writing a blog, running errands, and working out seem far more onerous than it has any right to be.

The errand I have to run involves getting my car battery changed. My car also exhibits an undercurrent of tired. Every time I start it, it's doing that uh-huh-huh-huh-huuuuuh thing before the engine catches. I'd prefer not to be caught out with a dead battery and have to look up the rigamarole of jumping the car (this cable to that lead, get the order just right or you'll burn out the car). I've done it before, but it's not information that stays in my sieve of a brain.

Auto Zone sells batteries and advertises that they'll replace them for you. And they have before. In practice, though, when I've gone before, I always get a blast of impatience and shame from the folks working there. Do I really have to do this thing for you that any adult male should be capable of doing blindfolded? Do you even lift, bro? That last bit I just imagine. Actually, I probably imagine a lot of it. But it still makes going to Auto Zone to ask if they will, please, replace my battery for me an onerous task.

But it's gotta be done.

I also have to prep a Children's Moment for church tomorrow. I've set myself a high bar. People expect theatrical flourishes, humor, tears (pity and fear, hamartia, reversals, recognitions, etc.). The sermon, in light of All Saints's Day, is about the Communion of Saints. The verse is Hebrews 12: 1-3, about the "great cloud of witnesses."

The cute approaches here might include buying some New Orleans Saints flair or perhaps talking about what it means to be "on the cloud" in internet-speak.

But I think I might instead talk about death--my mom. My grandmother. My friends.

I need to find some pictures, make a storybook of my mother's life, talk about how the story doesn't end when it seems to.

That may be a little heavy for children's moment. But I think I can make it.

Huh. I don't feel quite so tired now.

Ramble-Grumbles about Trumpian Intractability

Despite a pretty good day, my general funk deepens.

Impeachment seems destined to become a tribal identity contest. Those of us convinced the president is guilty gesture repeatedly, exasperatedly at the evidence and wonder how anyone could think Trump innocent of corruption and incompetence. Trump's defenders may have retreated from "no quid pro quo" to "yeah, quid pro quo, but everyone does it!", but they remain constant in their insistence that the impeachment inquiries are a coup. The Senate GOP's latest anti-impeachment resolution, symbolic though it may be, signals what everyone already knows: impeachment will die a quick death in the Senate, no matter what. The DOJ's opening of a criminal investigation into the origins of the Muller probe promise to throw enough chaff into the air to confuse anyone not already engaged and committed.

It'll be red versus blue, not Trump versus evidence. Even Trump's red-leaning critics are, by and large, still "Yeah, but he's better than a Democrat."

I can't deny a lot of my animosity toward Trump is rooted in red/blue, them/us dynamics.

But the reality of motivated reasoning isn't the only thing going on here. Trump is really, truly, objectively operating out of the normal range of any president in living memory. There's just no legitimate comparison with Obama or Bush or Clinton. Even Nixon managed to govern without daily public, narcissistic rants. Nor did Nixon comport himself internationally as an ill-educated boob. I mean, the White House had to confirm that the Erdogan letter wasn't a parody. They had to de-satire-ize the president's own letter!

The rational defense of Trump--behind the distraction, he's giving us what we want--doesn't quite work with me. Sure--you get your judges and justices appointed, and that's not nothing. But in other arenas of governance he's a disaster! International relations? The long-term economy? And just plain character, a model for our children to look up to. There's no sense of the right calling Trump out for the kind of mean, petty, and deeply irresponsible discourse that makes up his whole rhetorical style. Trump himself won't stand for it. His rants aim at his critics. He talks like a cartoon supervillain--but not the scary kind, the sadly inept kind. I mean, that's the best defense The Wall Street Journal can summon: he's too inept to impeach.

But none of that matters. The base supports Trump for reasons that aren't rational. His combativeness is for them a signal of strength. He's saying what they've wanted to say to all those people who call them stupid or bigoted for denying climate change, wondering why white men are so put upon, or hating taxes.

Actually, I get at least two strands from the comment threads I read. On one hand, Trump is seen just as he sells himself: a kind of outsider/house cleaner, clearing out the festering wound that is "government" and replacing it with American Greatness. Trump isn't just pragmatically right; he's a good man unfairly smeared by people who hate goodness. Others, though, readily admit that Trump is an agent of chaos, that he's rude and unrefined and even a bit willfully ignorant. He's less a cleansing treatment and more like chemotherapy. He'll burn out the badness of Washington. And if he burns the place down while re-arranging the furniture? Well, all the better. It needs to go.

"Savior" and "agent of destruction" aren't obvious bedfellows--except in certain forms of American evangelicalism. I'm not sure that a wedge strategy to split the salvationists from the nihilists would actually work.

Hm. Gotta think more on that.

Funk out!

Warning Lights on the Control Board

Ugh. The funk that is this less-than-stellar week continues.

I do not drink, nor do I do any drugs. I dislike inebriation, find it a turn-off.

But at times like these, I see the appeal of creating for yourself a blackout period. You dive into non-consciousness. You wake up, days later, and resume your life. It's nothing like that, really, I know. Actual blackouts are terrifying for loved ones and no picnic to pick up after for anyone.

But the fantasy of just turning off for a while, sleeping through it, like a surgical procedure: that has appeal. If perfect cryonics existed, I'm sure people would dip into the freezer for weeks, months, years at a time, just to escape . . . everything.

All these thoughts, I know, are little warning lights blinking on my mental control board. "Check engine." "Maintenance needed." But that's costly work. It feels better to power off and restart in the hopes that jump-starts things.

Except I have stuff to do yet tonight, stuff I wasn't able to do earlier because Reasons.

I've checked all my usual news sources for some inspiration about what to write about. I do not recommend such an activity when the warning lights are blinking. Evidence increases of Trump's having done--or at least having tried to do--exactly what the whistle-blower's complaint alleges: using military aid already allocated to Ukraine to get Ukraine to investigate/embarrass his political rival. Republican response? Condemn the inquiry, disrupt it, delegitimize it, call any GOP member who dares question Trump "human scum."

The Wall Street Journal editorial, apparently (it's behind a paywall) suggests that Trump ought not be impeached because he is too inept to have accomplished the crime. As with the Russia thing in the Muller report, Trump tried his darnedest to break the law, but his own people foiled him. He tried to bend Ukraine to his will via pressure, but someone cracked and filed a complaint. I'm worried that argument--he would have done it, but he didn't--will actually work.

I'm more depressed, though, that it just seems impossible to foresee a working democratic government emerging from this crisis.

Such is the working of despair. Hope is forward-looking, future-imagining. Despair is stuck on the present, extending the worst aspects of the now into the forever.

Perhaps my worrisome fantasy of "just sleep through it" is hopeful after all. At least I imagine waking up. At least right now I do.

Oy! Yet another tired ramble!

Bleg. Writing is just plain hard. People who say otherwise don't write themselves, as a rule.

Alas, another day finds me just as swamped by multiple assignments as yesterday. My brain is not quite at the melted-plastic-thing state--but it's close. I imagine tendrils of smoke and an alarming mechanical grinding are coming from my head... It will be a blessing to have this week and its many writing/grading pressures behind me.

Part of the problem is that I'm writing that dang editorial statement (still!). It will never be finished. Never. It's odd to switch from the loose-personal voice on this blog to the minding-my-manners voice of scholarship, particularly as I'm grappling there with similar issues as here on this blog. I must say I miss the ease of a continuing rumination that I enjoy when writing here. The inevitability of being edited looms.

It's evil of me as a critic and professor to admit this, but I despise critical feedback on my work. If it isn't "that was great! tell me more!" I don't want any, thanks. Nothing stymies the writing process like the back-seat driver of What Will The Editor [or teacher, or audience] Say?

I envy people who love honest criticism. I think at times my critical voice rankles them, as I try to phrase my criticism as if I were the one receiving it. It leads to very hand-hold-ish, constant-encouragement, conversational comments. "Why don't you try...?" "I'm getting a little lost here..." "What if you said...?" The honest criticism folk see this as passive-aggression: just tell it like it is!

Comments like that, of course, are the very type of criticism (meta-criticism?) I don't like.

Well, I'm afraid I'm going to beg off again this evening. Hopefully tomorrow's entry will see me bright-eyed and new-brained.

More then,

JF

too deep for words

The good news: I have completed the article I was working on after a full day of writing.

The not-so-good news: My brain feels like a hunk of melted plastic. You can tell the hunk of plastic used to be something, maybe even something colorful and fun. A toy? A Playstation 3? But now it's just slag. There's no hope of getting it to do anything more complicated than just sitting there, having mass and taking up space.

I like to think, at empty, beyond-weary times such as this that I earn some kind of points simply for showing up. It's easy to keep to a discipline (writing, exercise, diet, work, etc.) when you've made time for it and saved energy for it. But when you're running late? Running on empty? Kicking at a pile of melted plastic to see if you hear any hint of mechanical noise from the clockworks that used to be inside of it? That's when discipline really...disciplines...

It used to be that I stressed out about times when I felt empty or less-then-jazzed about doing something God-related, like going to church or reading scripture or praying. Now, I have written about (and against) the notion that God sits in heaven above us ever-poised, lightning bolt in hand to strike us down out of impatience or hatred. I do not believe that a God who inspires nothing but fear and (((very hidden resentment))) makes for a healthy faith.

But I do try most of the time not to be casual about approaching the Creator of the Wide Universe. "What is man, that you take notice of him?" asks the Psalmist. Who am I that I expect God to take notice of me? And more--who am I that I ask God of all things for favors? To protect, to care for, to assist. Again, I do not subscribe to the theology of the God who can barely stand us, but neither do I dismiss evangelical reminders to be still and know that God is God.

It's frustrating, then, that there are times when my soul feels like my brain right now--cold, dead, immobile. The last thing I feel like doing at times is forcing myself into the mindset of communion with God.

I take no small comfort, then, in Romans 8:26, which assures me that the Holy Spirit prays in my place, prays better than I am able, prays with sighs too deep for words. To me, this message from Paul suggests that God's love is not dependent upon our transient emotional states or our transient abilities to be spiritual or thoughtful or reverent. I have read that the practice of speaking in tongues (glossolalia) in Pentecostal churches--the Baptism of the Spirit--serves in part as a way for the prayerful intercession of the Spirit to bypass a person's lack of rhetorical flair or fear of saying the right thing. It relieves the pray-er of the burden of praying right. "I have you," says God, "I will speak for you and through you."

I do not myself practice the Pentacostal doctrine of tongues, but really--is it that different from the Methodist doctrine of prevenient grace? Methodists believe that God's lovingkindness for us precedes our awareness of it. Pentecostals have a way of performing the fact that the Spirit's power exceeds our human ability to respond to it. And are not both of these doctrines but different expressions of God's sovereignty--the excess of God over humanity? I had never thought of sovereignty as anything but a mark of God's impossible distance from us, but grace and the Spirit give me ways to think of sovereignty as impossible support, impossible intimacy, a miracle of upkeep for a weary mortal.

I ramble--forgive. It's time to put my plastic brain to bed in the hope that the new day will find it whole and functioning again. In the meantime, an assignment: find a way for the impossible, sovereign intimacy of God to surprise you with how it prays for you, works for you, writes for you, perseveres for you, with efforts too deep for words.

More tomorrow,

JF