Postcard From a Pandemic (With Apologies to Wallace Stevens)

Children visiting our bones
Will know that they were once
Nimble, motivated to movement

But in that fateful spring, fast with life
Had clustered in dull arrangement
Lessened to mere being, in place

And know that left with our bones
Was little more than what was
Felt and seen not by them, but by

Fractious, craven minions of an
Ignorance inaugurated in a world
Beyond our doors under beclouded skies

We knew full well the world that was
Once not merely known but grasped
By spirit and skin, but made an image

Empty of us, watched beyond barren walls
By shadows stretched by no sun
Spiritless and broken, left alone by all else


This is my creation, obviously derived from Postcard from a Volcano, a poem written by Wallace Stevens, that other lawyer who was a poet. Of course I'm being silly. I'm no poet though he certainly was a great one. But it seems adequate and to my purpose, which is to shamelessly borrow from him a theme, to the extent I can recognize it. His poem depicted the aftermath of what is ostensibly a natural disaster, presumably the eruption of a volcano, and children of the future viewing some of the remains of what had been destroyed; the bones of those disaster struck.

It's more than likely, of course, that Stevens wasn't writing about what seems to be written about. Perhaps he was inspired by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 C.E. or A.D. and the fascinating, uncovered, ruins of the cities it destroyed, Pompeii and Herculaneum. I found the ruins of Pompeii fascinating in a kind of macabre way when I visited them, even marred as they were by the placement of some huge, vaguely ancient looking sculpture and other objects created by some artist which were strewn, thoughtlessly I think, about the forum. Stevens may have had some cultural or societal disaster in mind, resulting from some cultural or societal deficiency.

Now we have our own disaster to cope with, and can if we wish use it as a metaphor, and I suppose I am in one way. But there's a sense of the unreal about it if the conduct of our fellows is any guide. We don't seem to take it all that seriously. Perhaps here in God's favorite country that's a result of the fact that we're presided over by a self-pitying, scapegoating narcissist. Perhaps we have the president we deserve, being for the most part self-pitying, scapegoating and self-involved ourselves.

Unreal, as well, as we're required to isolate ourselves from the real--that is to say, the rest of the world. But we now do that even in normal circumstances in the sense that we no longer experience it directly, or would rather not do so. No, I'm not referring to that peculiar philosophical doctrine that we never experience the rest of the world, only sense data, or the Kantian assumption that there is some unknowable "thing in itself" lurking behind every perceived rock and tree. Instead, I'm referring to the fact that most of the world is experienced by us in these times through some device like a smartphone, or PC or tablet, TV, etc.

In a way we do now in isolation what we would do in any case. Pestilence is pictured above as one of the infamous four horseman. The current pestilence is pictured by most of us as well, through various media. It won't become a part of our lives we take seriously until we or those we huddle with or think of while we huddle become its victims.

Doomed To Repeat It

I wonder whether the interesting mask and attire shown above would suffice to protect us in this time of COVID 19.  I suspect it would serve as well as, or perhaps slightly less well, than what we must  now resort to in our efforts to "flatten the curve."

This remarkable outfit was apparently invented by a French doctor sometime in the 17th century, to be worn by doctors who, as public servants, sought to treat victims of the plague(s) of that time.  Imagine if you can, my fellow Americans, doctors providing health services at public expense!  It's no wonder so many died back then, taking assistance from public health care providers whose very existence was, and is, an abomination in the eyes of our righteous, and insistently capitalistic, Lord.

If not sinful in the eyes of God, this outfit, complete with aromatic herbs and spices kept in the beak of the doctor-bird, was probably not all that useful one would think.  But given what's taking place now, just why would one think that?  In the past it was thought that epidemics were caused by "bad air" (miasma).  Now of course, we don't believe bad air is the culprit.  Instead we think that the air is bad or potentially bad because it is rife with bacteria or some microscopic things which are generated by a coughing or sneezing victim of the virus, or a victim who, curiously, does not cough or sneeze or display any symptoms associated with our modern plague.  Which, when you think of it, makes such air....bad.

I'm uncertain how porous the amusing bird masks were, but it occurs to me that such doctors, well-covered by the hat and long robe or coat and carrying a cane or stick by which they examined plague victims, were doing much the same as what we're doing now.  That is to say, covering themselves to prevent contact with bad air whether in the form of a miasma or as a conveyance of the invisible (to what we call "the naked eye") virus.  I am curious why a bird mask was used, however.  I think an elephant mask would have worked as well, and been even more charming.

Now we're told we should wear masks of a much less interesting sort, but we have much fewer than we need.  So, we do what that French doctor did, and dream up some substitutes for them, made of cloth, or use bandanas and scarves, while waiting for supplies of the appropriate mask to be made or while we accept the charity of other nations such as Russia or China to obtain them, or for which we pay them.

It's said our Glorious Republic is the most favored nation in the world, but we must go begging for masks we don't have from old, and probably current, enemies.  As they say:  "How the mighty have fallen."  Perhaps other nations will form something like the Peace Corps and help the poor, suffering people of the U.S.A.  Mothers will tell children they should eat well and be healthy, and cite the example of the poor children in America.

How different are we from those who faced epidemics centuries ago? Our religious leaders (those in the U.S.) declare that God will protect us, as long as we keep coming to church or prayer meetings despite warnings.  Our president keeps referring to miracle drugs of one kind or another and makes unsubstantiated predictions, flaunting his ignorance.  A train engineer in California drove his train off the tracks rather than have its cargo delivered to a hospital ship because he thought the ship somehow part of a conspiracy regarding the virus.  Gun sales have soared.  We're no more enlightened now than we were then.  In response to fear we become the desperate primitives we were.

Welcome to the past we're doomed to repeat.

Of Masks and Masques

Edgar Poe (I understand he preferred not to be called "Allan" as he and his foster or adopted father of that name didn't get along) wrote a story entitled The Masque of the Red Death.  It involved a Duke or Count I think, or some titled person, who held a great ball or entertainment while a deadly plague called as you might expect "The Red Death" raged.  It was held behind locked doors; precautions were taken to prevent any uninvited person from entering.  As the festivities continued, a red, spectral figure appeared and roamed about.  Eventually, all attending died.  The story was made into a film starring Vincent Price, who starred in several films sometimes very loosely based on a story by Poe.  He wore a red cloak and hood and, with his face painted red, he lurked or stalked about while those unlucky enough to be there feasted and danced and, in the end, died.

Et in Arcadia Ego is a theme of the story, I would think.  But it may not be the only, or even the primary theme.  Death is everywhere and everyplace, and even in a utopia, especially in a time of sickness or plague. But what is it to purposefully deny or disregard it while reveling in abandon, as Tom Petty would say, or at least said or sang?  A display of sangfroid, of despair, of perversity, or callousness--while those barred from the entertainment suffer?  Not a display of ignorance, as the risk and even the certainty of death is known by all in the story, but neither is it a display of acceptance, tranquil or regretful.

One thing is certain, and that is that Poe was not interested in expressing any sense of contentment or peaceful resignation in the face of death.  Being a writer in Romantic times and partial to grim or mysterious themes, despair would be more likely, or perhaps a rumination on the frivolousness and transience of human life.

A masque is a kind of entertainment.  A mask is used to conceal, deceive or frighten.  Perhaps the masque, the entertainment, in Poe's story was intended or hoped to be a way to deceive death, or at least the participants in the masque, for a time. The urge to forget.   Nepenthe being quaffed as in The Raven.

I can't help but wonder what writers and other artists will make of the great plague of our time, if it proves to be as impressively destructive as those of the past, or even as malaria, or "the pox" as it was called.  We've shut out the rest of the world too, but the virus is here and spreading.

 What is left, after the slew of shows and movies involving zombie apocalypses, nuclear holocausts and other catastrophes like asteroid impacts?  We've already developed "entertainments" about pandemics of several different kinds, or about outbreaks of some deadly bacterial strain or other.   We've created so many masques regarding the end of humanity that it's difficult to conceive of new or different such entertainments.  Perhaps we've become so accustomed to the idea that the world will end in some spectacular way that we'll lack any concern when and if it actually takes place.

There are of course those who firmly believe in the apocalypse and even eagerly await it.  It will be easy enough to construe any disaster as consistent with the Book of Revelation.  Those who believe  aren't known to be particular in this respect.  Pestilence is one of the Four Horsemen, so COVID 19 fits into it rather well, if it should turn out very bad.

Thus do the Four Horseman serve as masks of a kind.  They represent the consequences of humanity's ignorance, greed and avarice which are masked by the claim that it was all foretold, all a part of God's plan--inevitable, so why hope or try to avoid it?

A Plague On All Our Houses

A comparison of the coronavirus, or Covid-19, with the great plagues of the past is probably premature.  Millions must die first if it is to rival the destruction caused by its infamous predecessors.  It's apparently closest in kind and time to the influenza which wrecked havoc after the First World War, but it simply hasn't proved as devastating, yet.  Do we overreact, or are we only waiting for the worst, which is still to come?

It's hard to say, given the reaction, which is rapidly reaching the point of hysteria.  Unless you count yourself among the dull and self-involved, who think there is no crisis until they feel threatened, you can't help but be impressed by the measures being taken, which as far as I know cannot be compared with anything we've seen for a very long time.  But it's human nature to wonder if what we hear of the symptoms of this virus renders the reaction to it exaggerated (it's in the nature of this human, in any case)  And yet, there are those who've died of it.

At this stage, however, it strikes me that what is most interesting and fearful regarding the virus is the reaction to it.  I choose "fearful" because it seems that fear is very much a part of its significance.  I don't say along with the Oaf that things are under control and there is nothing to worry about.  Why anyone would believe him is a mystery, on this or any other subject.  Only he and others like him would think that stopping people from entering into the country will prevent a virus already among us from spreading or taking hold.  But the hoarding taking place, and the opportunism, and the isolation we impose on ourselves or which government imposes on us is a concern to any thinking person.

Now perhaps we no longer think, not really, as I've thought and said and written more than once.  We merely react in the quickest and most hyperbolic way possible--at least to the extent we can by limiting ourselves to what we can tweet or spit out quickly by means of social media.  That may be so, and may be explanation enough for our conduct.  But can it be that we're so anxious to be alive  that we react in such a manner at even the smallest chance that we may die as to, in effect, stop living as the social animals we are, and huddle in our homes and huts until the Angel of Death has passed us by?

I've wondered before in this blog and elsewhere whether we've become more fearful of death than we were in antiquity, and whether the cause for our timidness in the face of nature's power over us might have its basis in Christian doctrine, which dwells so lovingly on the eternal horror that awaits most of us on death, and is so inclined to see as being the cause of every disaster our sinfulness and the wrath of an offended God.  As far as we can tell, this kind of longing for eternal, blissful life, and fear of eternal, horrific punishment wasn't much present in the ancient pagans of the West, at least until Christianity along with the various mystery cults began to take hold.  Life after death was dull and dreary to the ancient Greeks and Romans, compared with life on earth, but nothing which would cause one to cling desperately to life.

And certainly one can infer that fear will spread with far greater ease now than it did in the past.  Just as ignorance and falsehood do, thanks to our technology.

The Pope walks the streets of Rome, praying for our salvation.  Perhaps we should beat ourselves and wear sackcloth and ashes, wailing.  It would be just like the old days, and at least as effective now as it was then, until it passes or our capacity for intelligence, or that of some among us, does through science what we hope to do by petitioning God to save us from...what, exactly?

Barking Mad

What better way to illustrate the smug, cruel, hectoring and thoughtless nature of the times then through this later sketch by Goya?  Surely you see someone you've seen before among those pictured, here?  Someone you've seen on TV or a computer monitor or smartphone, perhaps (where else do we see anyone or anything, anymore?).

I'm increasingly impressed by what I think are the limits of the human mind, made bare--certainly not glorious--by the vast information available to us and our sad reaction to it.  It must be true that there is more available, more to know if we were to make the effort, than ever before in our history.  But though that's clear it isn't possible to think that we're any the better for it.  We seem instead to be suffering from a collective form of attention deficit disorder.

A particular kind of collective ADD, however.  One in which our failure, or inability, to pay attention is paramount, particularly in connection with information which doesn't comfort us or comport with our preferences.  We seem unable to either process or accept such information.  In fact, more than that is involved.  We also actively doubt and even condemn such information.  It is "fake news" to use the unwittingly stupid parlance of the times.  It's something designed to mislead us, by enemies sometimes known, sometimes unknown, sometimes imagined.

As may be expected, this rejection of what doesn't accord with our beliefs and desires is matched by an unthinking, uncritical, acceptance of what does.  Words and sounds and images appear before us or are heard by us, and if we like them we believe them to be the way, the truth, and the light (there's something religious about the zeal with which we accept what we like, especially when it's transmitted via the technology we use every minute of the day, which increasingly becomes our reality).  So, we pass it along through social media as the truth, without verifying what is said or pictured.

In times when communication was much slower than it is now, someone, possibly P.T. Barnum, noted that a sucker is born every minute.  Now perhaps it's more accurate to say suckers are born always.  Why particularize, or qualify?    We live in the time, or kingdom, of the con artist.  Never before has it been easier to pass on and popularize untruth and exaggeration.  In an age where we come more and more to seek simple answers, an understandable result when a limited mind is subject to unlimited information, it may be the case as well that never before have we been more inclined to be conned.

Lately I've been thinking of the play Marat/Sade, and the movie inspired by it (actual title:  The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade).  I'd like to see it again.  It seems particularly pertinent given the upcoming election here in God's Favorite Country.  Perhaps we're in a madhouse of sorts, under the direction of other, more fortunate inmates, playing out scenes derived from a cherished past for the benefit of those who wish us to be amused and distracted while we do their bidding.