There’s a lot that can be said about the spectre of sexism, nativism, and racism that led to this shameful moment. Fighting against those forces is not a new struggle for this country--the conflict between those impulses and the--just as deeply rooted--American desire for tolerance and justice is the central struggle of our nation. So what happened? Clearly a large chunk of older white folks don’t like the idea of an upptity woman telling them what to do. So much so that they are willing to throw in with a swindling, bombastic, fantasist rather than hear the words “Madam President.” There’s nothing we can do about that but educate our children and advocate for justice for those who will suffer the most in the coming years.
Something that is being overlooked, or more precisely not considered in the right light, is the way in which Trump manipulated to his advantage our decayed and degraded public discourse. It’s not just that he played “the media” like a fiddle, or that forty-plus years of “silent majority” bullshit finally paid off, what’s really important is that the very idea of an informed citizenry--a key linchpin of a functioning democracy--is now meaningless. When everything can be true, nothing is true. When we consume our understanding of our of culture and its struggles in a rolling tide of decontextualized, trivialized, bias-fueled, self-aggrandizing newsfeeds, we can begin to believe that the craven liar is a “telling it like it is,” and the competent woman who has pledged her entire life to public service is “crooked.” In Amusing Ourselves to Death, written in 1985, Neil Postman warned of our country’s citizens being reduced to “passivity and egoism” by the transformation of our discourse from one of actionable information to one of trivialized emotional entertainments: “When a population becomes distracted by trivia, when cultural life is redefined as a perpetual round of entertainments, when serious public conversation becomes a form of baby-talk, when, in short, a people become an audience, and their public business a vaudeville act, then a nation finds itself at risk.”
The medium is the message. Working in publishing, I’ve hated the rise of the word “content” in reference to what writers, artists, filmmakers, and other creators do--as if there’s just this space to fill out there, with whatever, "content," it doesn’t matter what's in that content, just fill it, we’re content providers. Content is a neutral word, it could mean Breitbart or Socrates, it doesn't really matter. So let’s make it matter. Let’s take it back. Keep your eyes open.
for deserving peeps...
sketchbook sketches, plus a thank you card...
Drawing babies is difficult--they're all shape, no line--and if you get the proportions wrong (as I did here), the whole effect will be off. Still, so far, I like this little guy.
I had a cassette tape of this Cure singles collection back in high school. Summer 1989 I probably listened to it every night. As far as I can tell, it’s out of print (although the songs are all widely available on other collections), so if you're like me and you have a nostalgic affection for a certain collection of songs played in a certain order, I put together a Spotify playlist.
A few cards for the kiddies...
Streetcar, Glasgow, 1960.
Watercolor illustration I did for our baby shower invites...
A recent homemade thank you card drawing...
Over the past month, I drew a ghost a day. Here below is all thirty-one of them...
A SEA OF GINSBERGS
...but more likely you're a Pete in a sea of Peggys.
The Colonel Greenwijk House, Goshorn, NY
Contrary to most of the legends, the real trouble at the Greenwijk House didn’t begin until the late 1970’s. True, stories of ghosts and ghouls had always popped up around the edges of the old house, like bubbles in a witch’s cauldron, but they were mostly just cookie cutter tall tales, local flavor passed down and embellished upon by yarn-spinning aunts and garrulous men in taverns. There was, for instance, the spectral train that reportedly made nightly stops in the desiccated garden behind the house, letting off a pair of hollow-eyed children who cried for their mother. Or there was the ghost of the Lenape indian, Mister Three Owls, who was said to knock on the old front parlor door--the one that had been boarded up when the new addition was put on in the 1790’s--whenever there was a storm due in off the Atlantic. And one mustn't forget the local bogeyman, the Goshorn Snatcher, who grabbed naughty children and dropped them down the Greenwijk well, among other places.
Things took a turn from fanciful to ominous when the Critchfield family moved into the house in 1978. They were a rich Manhattan family, the patriarch had made his fortune in wartime plastics, and like so many others in that era, they claimed to be looking for a quiet home, an abode where they could replace the sound of sirens and the smell of garbage with cricket song and the scent of wild lavender. They said they were distantly related to an old local clan, long died out, though the name was common enough, and infamous enough, in some of the old Dutch colonial cemeteries: Crichenfeuld. The family never failed to put flowers on the grave of the founding Crichenfeuld, Wouter Chrichenfeuld, who left this earth in 1679. Legend has it that he again left in 1698, and again once more in 1704. The first time by pistol and ball, the second time by a hanging followed by a drowning, and the third time by an angry mob who, it was claimed, set the old warlock ablaze. Imaginative stories note that as unearthly blue flames consumed the elder Chrichenfeuld, he danced in glee and giggled like a child.
And so, not long after the 1978 summer solstice, an old man was noticed to be stalking about the Critchfield property. He wore a dark suit despite the heat, and walked very slowly. He was most often seen staring at his pocket watch, sometimes standing on the porch in the moonlight. Occasionally, he’d turn up at the Dutch cemetery, standing over old Wouter’s resting place. At dinner parties and social events, Emma and Allen Chritchfield said the old man was Allen’s great-uncle, Walter Critchfield, who, after serving as a field officer in the First World War, had stayed on in the old country with the Critchfield’s Dutch relatives, marrying and raising a family there. He was nearly one-hundred and two, and as he had no other remaining relatives, Allen had agreed to watch over him in his final days.
That autumn, the trees in the yard of the Greenwijk House burst forth with almost candy colored foliage, electric in the fading sunlight. And then the trees, the shrubs, all the grass in the yard, dried up and died. The old man still stalked the dusty yard with his pocket watch, now followed by Allen and Emma’s two newly arrived sons, who he said, “were home from college.” Then, all the wells in the nearby homes suddenly turned acrid. The neighborhood cats, once so robust and courageous, began to vanish. Those felines that remained were cagey creatures and they seemed especially skittish around Walter, who would look up from his pocket watch at them with what was described as hungry eyes. Power outages on the block became common. Cars wouldn’t start. Phones would ring and answer to dead air. Locals complained of a sluggishness and a sickly malaise in their children. Those who visited the neighborhood, from the mailman to curious townies, tended to hurry past the Greenwijk House, describing a sense of uncanny dread that could intensify to outright terror if they happened to spot the old man, who, it was noted, seemed to walk quite a lot faster than he did when he first arrived, moving with an almost youthful, lusty exuberance. The two sons had by this time “gone back to school,” although nobody saw them leave, and what school they went to was never mentioned.
On the night of October the 29th, the whole situation, whatever it was, came to a head. For years afterward, schoolchildren told the following tale: It seems that Mrs. Boyd, Mrs Eliza Boyd, who used to teach seventh grade before her husband died, and who lived a few doors down from the Greenwijk House, grew exceedingly upset as one by one, ten of her twelve cats vanished. After the second to last one, a tabby named Honeychurch, went missing she shouted “enough is enough!” and went in to her garage. At sunset, she came out carrying a bottle of kerosene and some branches wrapped in rags. The old woman lit her makeshift torch and marched up to the Greenwijk House, stamping across the dry hard earth to stare down old Walter.
It is said that blue flames, shimmering and bright, danced in the October night. The children who tell the story say that you could hear laughter, almost like a coyote’s howl, echoing down into the valley around the Greenwijk House.
November saw the Critchfields vacate the house, suddenly and permanently. Emma’s arthritis couldn’t stand a New York winter, they said. Old Walter had gone ahead to their estate outside of Phoenix, although they didn’t expect him to live much longer.
The next spring, the trees bloomed green again, and the grass grew back. The water in the wells was once again fresh. The cats are back as well, although to this day, they still seem to avoid the Greenwijk House.
make again great again