About Trump and the Russians…
Atlanta, GA
April 21, 2019
Have you ever braced yourself for a Michael Jackson biopic on Nickelodeon, a George Carlin routine at a convent, or a Sarah Palin press conference anywhere…ready to cringe, wince, and contort so much that your face resembles Keith Richards after a hangover?
The subject of this note may very well have prompted such a reaction.
Fear not.
First of all, Keith Richards is no longer capable of a hangover. Second, I have no intention of discussing Trump. I have much more relevant and mundane things to spout-off about.
But the Mueller Report is out and everyone is apparently supposed to opine on it, even if doing so produces enough hot air to keep the Hindenburg aloft.
As it happens, I couldn’t talk intelligently about this even if I wanted to. Then again, no one seems capable of talking intelligently about it, particularly those who want to most.
As Murray Rothbard once said of economics, it is no crime to be ignorant in the field, which is, after all, a specialized discipline with considerable nuance. But it is totally irresponsible to have a loud and vociferous opinion on economic subjects while remaining in that state of ignorance.
The same may be said of most public matters about which people have loud and vociferous opinions. In most cases, those opinions, like a novice violinist thrust on-stage with the Vienna Philharmonic, are best kept quiet and inconspicuous.
Besides, little of what passes for public debate is consequential, much of it is beyond our control, and most is forgotten within the week. It’s basically a circus to distract the Third Estate from rising up to demand more bread.
It’s modern omnipresence notwithstanding, politics – the confiscatory art of shifting wealth from the outsiders to the insiders – should be peripheral to the lives of a free people…allowing fresh air and bright light to fill the center, where family, faith, friends, hearth, health, and happiness can flourish.
It’s been said that political events should be viewed as flavoring to the stew, painting on a house, or trim tabs on a flight: worth noting, but—unless they’re really bad—only marginally important over the long run.
Trump, like his post-war predecessors and our elected representatives in Congress, is mostly ornamental anyway. The prevailing power – like roaches under a rug – lies a layer down…in the Praetorians, Janissaries, and Prefects of the Intelligence agencies, Armed Services, and Federal Reserve.
And with their ubiquitous monitoring of our every thought and move, they already know what we think of them.
So, we withhold what little opinion we have of Trump and his antagonists, primarily to spare those who couldn’t care less…but also to preserve our integrity by not becoming part of the thing we are trying to observe.
Like a frenzy of predatory sharks tearing into a school of innocent mackerel, politics can be fascinating from afar, but frightening up close. It’s usually best to keep our distance.
I say this recognizing that, regardless how little interest we take in it, politics will always take an interest in us.
But not today.
Good Friday commemorates the day politics had the floor. And quite a job it did!
But this is Easter. The tomb is empty, the Spirit is full, and our petty overlords must yield to a Kingdom not of this world.
Rather than risk unnecessary rancor discussing the state of affairs with the affairs of state, let’s promote harmony and peace…knowing we may nod off to a soothing sleep, or lapse into a catatonic coma.
Today, we leave Trump, his acolytes, and his adversaries to the side…and sing hymns to basements, baseboards, and boxes.
Like Napoleon turning his gaze to Moscow after subduing Smolensk, our eager eyes sought new realms to conquer this winter after remodeling our family room last summer. Fresh landscaping, a new sunroom, a refurbished basement, updated bathrooms, and new carpeting were all in view…like a Nafud mirage.
Then, the leaves fell, the air chilled, and our glorious march froze in its tracks.
Instead of gaining new ground, we fought rear-guard actions to preserve territory we’d previously captured. Aspirations succumbed to reality as structural and financial priorities asserted themselves.
Aesthetics matter little if the frame, pipes, and wires are flawed. Mascara and a new blouse are low priorities to a woman preparing for by-pass, brain, or bariatric surgery.
When our water tank leaked, the basement flooded, and the air conditioner gave up the ghost, plastic surgery took a backseat as we instead checked our house into the ER.
Funds earmarked for beautification instead went to fortification. Soaked carpet and baseboards were pulled from the basement, and for several days fans large enough to dry the greens at Augusta blew moisture from the still air of damp rooms.
A new water heater now serves the house, and a new air unit makes it bearable during hot summer days and cold winter nights. Fresh carpeting covers the basement floor, and new baseboards will soon bind it to the basement walls. Emergency surgery is complete. Cosmetic surgery bides it’s time.
As we continue improving one home, we have finished emptying another.
“This is sad. The end of an era.”
So Rita reflected as she gazed one last time across the emptiness of the one-bedroom apartment her father occupied the last seven years. She had spent the prior week packing, tossing, or moving his possessions, then cleaning the floors, walls, and shelves that harbored them.
Those chores complete, and the occupant having moved to the neighboring nursing home where we expect he will spend the rest of his days, his daughter seemed as low as the Mariana Trench.
Some of his belongings moved with him to his new home. Most came with us to our old one. I am glad for that. These heirlooms matter.
Tertullian in the second century expressed a minority view among early Christians by asking, “What has Athens to do with Jerusalem?” Most who shared this contempt for the past veered, like Tertullian himself, into rigidism and, ultimately, heresy.
In his zeal, the convert usually begins with pure intentions, but his disdain for what came before typically leaves him unmoored, pressing relentlessly, unreflectively, and uncompromisingly ahead…till, in extreme cases, tumbrils and heads begin to roll.
More often, he who derides what preceded him will simply lack the awareness, fortitude, or perspective to inoculate himself against the vacuous fashions or fads of an arrogant and fickle modernity.
He will glide on the latest breeze or float on the trendiest stream, not sure or caring where it takes him…until the wind shifts or current changes, and he has no vest or chute to sustain him.
We discard the past to our own detriment, and to that of our heirs. It is essential that we maintain a conversation with our ancestors, and be guided and informed by what they learned and did. Symbols, photos, relics, and letters help to revive or sharpen our memory, bolster our relationship, and facilitate dialogue with those who came before, and made us who we are.
As we unpack, sort, and seek spots in our house for assorted pictures, paintings, books, and china from Rita’s father, I understand the emotion she expressed that last day in his former home. These are reminders of an era that is indeed passing. But it is not quite gone.
I have known Rita’s father for twenty-six years. Stern, strong, and opinionated (he would have no qualms spouting-off about Trump!), he is also among the most genuine and caring people I have ever known.
For better or bitter, there is nothing superficial, duplicitous, or phony about Lazar Morgulis. For most of his life, he had neither the time or luxury for such artificiality.
He endured unimaginable hardship and loss as a child raised in one of the worst theaters of the Second World War. His reward was to remain his first four decades in the grip of the Soviet Union.
When the opportunity arose, he gave up most of what he had, and risked all of what remained, to bring his ten-year old daughter to the United States. He brought her to Savannah and enrolled her in school, where she began to learn English.
Since then his daughter, and now his grandsons, have been almost everything to him. Today, with his frail frame, sporadic memory, and precarious health, they are absolutely everything.
Earlier this week, Rita, David, and I visited him briefly as he was seated in the dining area awaiting his supper. He politely acknowledged and said hello to his daughter and her husband, not realizing his younger grandson was with them.
When David came to view, he immediately elicited from his grandfather’s face a smile bright enough to obscure Venus from a clear night sky.
We often take such moments, and each day, for granted, and don’t appreciate them till they have evolved into the weeks, months, and years we managed to miss as they passed…and miss even more when they are gone.
I have tried for two years to care about the Mueller investigation, and to determine why exactly the Russians are supposed to be my enemy.
I can’t bring myself to do either.
Of course, I have been colluding with Russians for a quarter of a century…and it has worked out pretty well.
Happy Easter.
JD
