Hardcore Times
- Mike Dickey
- 9 hours ago
- 3 min read
"These are the times that try men's souls."
-Thomas Paine
During this morning's predawn doom scroll, I came across a long Facebook post from Dan Carlin.
Dan's one of my favorite people I've never met. We're about the same age, both from Southern California, both history nerds. His podcast Hard Core History is a staple for P and me on long car trips. We're in the eleventh hour of his series on the life of Alexander the Great, haltingly making our way through the Battle of Granicus because Peg keeps falling asleep.
That installment came out in December, and we only have an hour or so to go. We're at the very beginning of Alexander's greatest military campaigns. And yet there's no next installment, which I would've expected several weeks ago.
Carlin explained in his post what's going on in his world:
I feel I have less useful commentary to offer. I don’t know how to get us out of the mess we’re in. At that point what’s there to say that’s helpful? I am sure there’s something. But I haven’t figured out yet what it is.But it’s haunting me. And it is thwarting me. It is sapping my energy and I feel angry and I feel stuck. Normally when I have things to say I will talk your ear off. I am silent these days. I’ve turned inward and want to read and study, rather than communicate. Even around the house. My wife is driving me nuts saying “are you ok?” all the time. But I am worried about the future. I think all intelligent Americans are. And like a computer that gets co-opted trying to figure out the value of pi to the last digit, my mind goes over our circumstances, endlessly and without answers or resolution.
Man, I get that. My work product right now is crap. We are living the greatest adventure of our lives, P and I, but there's this pall over everything. Peg's more of a talker than I am, and as she verbally works through troubles local and remote, my only response is, "I get it." Over and over. Not very helpful.
There was an essay in the NYT this morning that said what I've been thinking for years--DJT isn't just an aberration in our grand national story, he's the malignant embodiment of it.
I can't give my neighbors a pass because more than half of those at the polls voted for it, some for the third straight time. It might be going too far to say we're a bad country; in the end, we're just another political and geographic entity, no better or worse than any other. And that illusion of American exceptionalism hurts to let go.
Turning to blog as travelogue, yesterday's mediation cancelled so P and I played hookie in the afternoon and took the subway to the building where P lived when she was here twenty-five years ago. The neighborhood was so different from the LES--broad, quiet streets with couples pushing kids in strollers, no restaurants or bars anywhere near.
And only a block from the East River.
Afterward we wandered around looking for a subway to take us to Grand Central Station, where Peg made reservations for us to have supper in its famous oyster house. Beforehand we stopped at the Campbell, an old speakeasy built into the side of the building, then wandered the much photographed and majestic space of the main terminal.
Tonight we have tickets to see John Lithgow in Giant on Broadway.
These should be the very best of times. What to do with this weight on my chest?
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