I have trouble coping with news of war. It sends me into a funk, which more personal troubles do not. Personal ups and downs I expect, but I have a naive optimism about world affairs. War hits me in the gut. It’s visceral, enveloping. I have friends who would say that I must have lived through, or died in, a war, and I can see why people imagine that we have lived other lives when feelings like this hit me. Yesterday I read that the chair of the FCC was talking about bans on the fake media, in which he included the Wall Street Journal, for not reporting the war as the administration would prefer. I am not a fan of Orwell because I’ve read too much about his treatment of women, but is there anyone who has so neatly grasped the way the politically powerful need to control words, and truth? Mandelstam, too, and I’m sure many other writers, have much to tell us, but Orwell’s talent was turning it into fiction, and short pieces.
Ethan Cohen sent an invitation to a friends-and-family gathering for Jerry (Jerome Cohen), at his gallery in New York. That is the kind of event I’d really like to be at, but I’ll be in Seattle with Tom. I’ll get to NYC soon and perhaps meet up then.