The Bane of Humankind

 

“At the time of the Civil War, the monetary value of the country’s enslaved men, women, and children was greater than that of all of its factories and railroads combined.” Adam Hochschild. New York Review, May 25, 2023

What am I thinking about? Feet of human beings, males and females of the species, old and young, but it’s mostly the older folks I observe, in their sandals, flip-flops, pumps and every now and then completely naked of foot. Feet that have held body weight over many years, walked, who knows? thousands of miles, endured heat and cold and friction, corns, bunions, and blisters. Feet that have felt fine sand between the toes, desert dust, red clay, black loam, coal dust, broken glass, pebbles, stones, thorns. Feet that swim and feet that dance, run, jump. I see them now, mangled, bent, dry, toenails uneven, horned, sharp as blades. Unattractive, I think. And fat ankles. Kankles. Not a fan. Am sometimes startled by the girth of a human ankle. I think of an elephant’s foot. My eye is drawn to the slender ankle, mostly of the female, though my eye can be disappointed if ankle and foot are mismatched. Uncomplimentary. Also unfortunate. My opinion. 

My wife tells me she’s taking me for my first ever pedicure, a father’s day gift. Feet will be encased in wax, massaged with warm oils, scrubbed with pumice stones of various hues, and clipped with sterile instruments. My feet will emerge from all this treatment feeling fantastic. I may wish to wear sandals and show them off. No toenail polish. Not there yet. 

Janky feet, the bane of humankind. 

My daughter and I are in the Honda Accord, driving to the dispensary on a weekday afternoon, discussing various subjects of life, when stopped at a red light at the intersection of a prominent corner, my daughter says the foot massage place near the corner (which will go unnamed to avoid potential legal exposure or other unintended consequences) has to be a front for shady or illegal business because most of the employees are usually in the parking lot in the back, smoking, as if possessed of all the time in the world. Languid smoking, full inhalations and exhalations. Prodigious clouds of smoke. But while they’re smoking, what’s going on inside? This is the mystery. Most businesses cannot afford to have people standing around doing nothing, although I’ve noticed that in many low-wage, shit-job establishments, that’s what many employees do, stand around doing as little as they can get away with. My daughter tells me I can probably get a “happy ending” there and I don’t know what she’s talking about. Daughter is incredulous at my stupidity and lameness. Schitt’s Creek, remember, David, went and got a happy ending? Oh, yeah, sorry. I fucking loved Schitt’s Creek. 

Trump is indicted at long last. Such a long, tortured wait. Rusty wheels of justice. Disheartening. Half the nation cheers; thirty percent says it’s all a lie and the other side wants to murder unborn infants, so there; and twenty or so percent could care less. Aren’t even aware that a historic first in the history of this Republic is happening. The oblivious. Many have given up. They keep their heads down and move on, always moving on. They don’t look to government for anything but stop signs and traffic signals. Self-government requires too much sacrifice for some people, especially people who must, for their survival and that of their families, focus entirely on making enough money to live.

Will be infuriating to watch the Republican Party try to brush off Trump’s 37-count Federal indictment. Has already begun, two days before his arraignment. Grab the narrative. All that matters anymore. Truth in, lies out, citizens lost in between. 

I’m reading Yellowface by R.F. Kuang, a young woman with all kinds of literary awards to her credit, Ivy League credentials, a popular trilogy, a phenom, shooting meteor-like across the literary skyline. I’ve read 263 pages and still find myself disliking the protagonist, a young female writer, white, who hits the literary and social media big time with her first novel, about Chinese labor battalions in World War I. Unknown history, unusual angle. The book was conceived and sketched out by her friend/nemesis, Athena Liu, who, like R.F. Kuang, is just dazzling in almost every way, a literary prize winner, with well-received books and hefty advance payments, a robust social media machine, good looks, too, and ambition to be the next big literary thing.  The protagonist helps herself to the notes and sketches after Athena’s tragic death, turns them by a measure of diligent labor and talent into a big book, one that can be marketed, packaged, publicized, and sold. It’s the book that puts the protagonist on the literary map, scores her invitations to sit on panels at prestigious writer’s conferences. Speaking engagements at colleges, readings and Q&A’s in upscale bookstores. Soon she’s being interviewed, written about, asked for her thoughts on this and that. Intoxicating. Validating. Is she a thief or just an opportunist? Both. Some strong writing about the publishing industry (brutal and cutthroat), and how quickly a social media audience can turn from adoring to vicious, as well as facing the question of who has the authenticity to write about certain subjects, in this case a white female writing about Chinese people. What does she know about it? No final opinion yet, other than that the pacing seems off. Shouldn’t I feel, by now,  something other than annoyance for the protagonist, more than a desire to encourage her to grow up? Maybe take a minute and think about someone else?

But maybe that’s the intent, to challenge a reader to accept an unlikeable character enough to keep reading. It’s like Succession on HBO, or whatever it’s now called, which I often hated because I found all the characters so grasping and power-mad and striving and controlling and empty, though also recognizing the dark humor, some finely written and acted scenes. Almost a different dialect with all that Finance-Bro speak. I watched until the end. “Fuck Off!”

Books are funny, magical vessels. 

Want to watch something on the political front other than the 24-Hour-Trump-Indictment-Saga? Just pay attention to what red state governors like Abbott down in the Republic of Texas and Ron DeSantis in Floridistan are doing legislatively to cities and counties where blue-minded voters live and work and recreate. Watch how they’re attempting to wrest more and more control over such places. Austin. Parts of Houston. 

It’s another overcast day here on the Platinum Coast, day after day of thick marine layer, a blanket. The old June-gloom. When I was a young boy, the land around the Whole Foods Market where I work part-time as a utility worker (mostly janitor and shopping cart-wrangler and trash-emptier), was orchard, avocado, walnut, and lemon. Hitchcock and State Street. Been here a fair time now, almost my entire life, many summers. Very strange thing life, and time. On my strolls on the lower Riviera, I notice how different the view is from the opposite side of the street I usually take; I see things that had gone unnoticed before.