[NOTE: This is a repeat of a previous post. It highlights one of my favorites moments in the ballet repertory.]
Ballet specializes in transformations. After all, it changes the human body from a lumbering earthbound thing into an ethereal yet steely and gravity-defying, lighter-than-air, transporter of the audience into realms of beauty and transcendence.
Yes, it can be corny, especially the old warhorse ballets such as “Swan Lake” and “Giselle,” featuring doomed maidens and supernatural spells—and in the case of the former a princess who is half-swan half-human.
But that’s part of the fun of it all—going past the schmaltz and the drama and creating something Other. The abominable film “Black Swan” traded at least partly on this mystique.
One of my favorite moments in dance occurs at the end of the second act of the ballet “Swan Lake.” I’ve seen it countless times. To those of you who don’t know the story, it sounds quite absurd, and it is: the prince has been out hunting, sees a swan he’s about to shoot, but before he does so the bird transforms before his eyes into a swan-maiden (whatever that is). They fall in love, and she explains that an evil magician has put her under a spell. After he plights his troth (which occurs in dance when a person touches his/her heart and then holds two fingers aloft; it’s a mime thing) the magician comes out and changes her back into a swan again and she flies off, as he watches helplessly and longingly.
That transformation is the moment I’m talking about. On the stage, when it’s well-done, it never fails to give me chills. You can see the moment the spell starts taking hold, then her struggles to fight against it, and then the instant when the spell totally overwhelms her and she is transformed into a flying bird.
Here are a number of versions of the same moment, all with somewhat different choreography. None of them, of course, have anything like the same magic and illusion they convey on the stage. But they’ll do. Here’s the Kirov-trained Natalia Makarova, in a production I saw many times:
Here’s the American (although born in England) Gillian Murphy:
This next one is the great Bolshoi dancer Plisetskaya (see this):
And here, for variety, is the much more restrained British dancer, Margot Fonteyn:
Here it is. It’s written by Mark Krikorian, and it crystallizes something that I’ve been struggling to articulate about what’s going on at the top of the Republican race this election cycle, at least for some conservative voters (hardly all).
I wrote “Trump vs. Cruz” in the title of this post. But that’s not really accurate. It’s more “Trump voters vs. Cruz voters.” Or better yet, “Trump voters vs. the Republican establishment and Obama, and what those voters see as the possible remedy” vs. “Cruz voters vs. the Republican establishment and Obama, and what those voters see as the possible remedy.”
That’s too big a mouthful. But here’s Krikorian to make it more clear:
The fight…seems more like the Republican nomination fight is between the anti-establishment Cruz and the anti-system Trump. In other words, Cruz believes our constitutional arrangements are basically sound but that the leadership class that manages those arrangements has got to go. Trump, on the other hand, seems to reject those arrangements altogether…Trump’s support comes from people who have given up on our existing “regime,” in the political science sense of the word…[C]onstitutionalism “has been found lacking” ”“ Obama, and the Supreme Court, have pursued extra-constitutional (i.e., illegal) tactics and prevailed. Repeatedly. On momentous issues that immediately affect every American.
So the Left has ignored the strictures of the Constitution, and succeeded in imposing its will on the rest of the country. It’s no surprise that a large share of that rest of the country is going to conclude that adhering to the Constitution’s strictures is a form of unilateral disarmament, like following Marquis of Queensbury rules in a knife fight.
…if we don’t want the November election to be between two post-constitutionalists, where we vote simply on which Duce will rule over us for the next four years, we need to persuade first GOP primary voters, then the broader electorate, why the preservation of our republican norms is vital to America’s liberty, independence, and prosperity. We can’t do that simply by pointing out what a nitwit Trump is.
There’s one more paragraph, but it contains further description of the situation. Leaving aside the question of whether Trump is a “nitwit” (I don’t think he is), it doesn’t offer a suggestion on how to perform that act of persuasion. In fact, teaching “why the preservation of our republican norms is vital to America’s liberty, independence, and prosperity” has traditionally been the function of the educational system in our republic, but that system has also failed, and way too many people in “the broader electorate” haven’t a clue what Krikorian is talking about or why it’s important. If the people get the government they deserve, I suppose it would be a sort of justice if we end up “voting simply on which Duce will rule over us.”
For years I’ve wondered about the Republican leadership in Congress. Not just the obvious—what they’re doing and what their motivations might be for doing it—but also about why we generally have heard so little from them about it. Generally, when they’ve done something that angers the conservative electorate, they haven’t even seemed to feel that they owed their constituents an explanation. At least, if they did, I often couldn’t find that explanation.
Why was it missing? Was it their outright contempt for their public? Or were they just inarticulate boobs? Or were they trying to get the word out, issuing statements and the like, and the MSM was purposely making it difficult for them by not reporting on it, knowing that the lack of explanation would be sure to foster more resentment on the part of conservative voters towards the GOP leaders in Congress?
I don’t have an answer to the question, although I think it’s some combination of the three. So when Paul Ryan took over the speakership of the House, I had no illusions that it would be all that different. And when he allowed the recent Omnibus bill to pass, and conservative voters erupted in rage, there was little reason to be surprised. The only explanation from him I managed to find was a single sentence in a blog somewhere (I no longer remember where it appeared) saying that he’d said something about inheriting a bad series of decisions from Boehner on the budget fight, was not able to do anything to change it this year, but was planning to start from scratch next year and things would be different.
But now, long after I’d stopped looking, I found this audio [hat tip: Powerline], which is Ryan’s explanation of what happened and of his future plans.
After you listen to it, you may still think it’s malarky, or worse. Plenty of the commenters at Powerline did. However, some were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Ryan hesitated to take the speakership precisely because he knew that his options would be limited in this round of budgeting, and that he would find himself carrying the can for the inevitably flawed outcome. He knew, also, that the critics would forget — if they ever paid attention to — his singlehanded effort in the 2012 election cycle to educate Americans about restoring sanity to federal spending. He’s one of the best men we have, and deserves more patience than he’s getting.
What do I think? I have no reason to trust the Republican leadership at this point, but I think it’s at least a possibility that Ryan is speaking truth, or at least some partial truth. It will be easy enough to find out, though. Next year’s actions by Ryan will tell us more about his true intent than any speculation, or any statement.
Last night was Christmas Eve. I was expecting a visit from my son, who was flying in as a rare treat. I had tidied up, and was putting on the finishing touches while waiting for him to arrive from the airport. As I was poised at the top of the staircase on my way down from the second floor, I saw a movement on one of the lower steps.
A dark shape. A small dark shape—very still, and then in motion again. With tiny little ears, and a long tail.
A mouse. Very much stirring.
I let out a shriek, like in the cartoons. Yes, I know that mice do not hurt people. But yes, they give me the willies when they startle me and scurry around—like—mice. The few times when this has happened before, they’ve always sought the little opening from whence they’d come and scurried away, hardly ever to be seen again.
But this mouse seemed to be lost and disoriented. Maybe because it was almost midnight on Christmas Eve, and no creature was supposed to be scurrying. In the midst of my unreasonable fear was a sort of amusement. What was it doing here, this evening of all evenings?
The mouse was still on the staircase landing, and although I assumed that somehow it had managed to climb the three stairs to where it was, it appeared to be perplexed about how to get up or down from there. I watched it from what I considered a safe distance at the top of the stairs, and I could see it moving back and forth, back and forth, first towards the wall and then towards the edge of the step, but it could not seem to get the courage to make a break for it.
What did I do? I called my son and asked how far away he was. Forty-five minutes. And then I settled in, not for a long winter’s nap but for a long viewing from a good vantage point to monitor the mouse’s position till he arrived. For the moment, the mouse seemed quite well-contained on the stairs, but I didn’t trust that—and sure enough, slowly but surely, with many fits and starts, it managed to get back down those three stairs to the ground floor.
Now, it turns out that watching a mouse is actually sort of interesting. This one darted from stair-bottom to hall to bathroom to bedroom and back again (my place is built upside-down, with the bedroom and bathroom downstairs and living room and kitchen upstairs). I had a special horror of the mouse being in the bedroom—so after its one foray into the bedroom for five minutes and then out again, I slammed the bedroom door shut and placed a thick towel to block the crack at the bottom. The towel seemed to act as an effective barrier, like a small mountain range, and the mouse didn’t venture into that room again.
But back and forth it went—along the wall in the hall, into the bathroom, up a few stairs and then back down them again. I noticed that it seemed to get smarter and smarter; each time it climbed the stairs it was better at it, until it seemed as though it had been doing this all its little life.
And then by trial and error it found the molding along the side of the stairs, which then acted as a sort of ramp by which the mouse could easily climb all the way to the top. This filled me with dread. I was conceding the downstairs for now, but the upstairs was my territory! But what to do? That molding-ramp made it so easy; the mouse was coming up in a determined sort of way, till I could look into its beady little eyes and it could look into mine. I let out another involuntary yelp, stamping my feet and clapping my hands, trying to make enough noise to frighten it off.
I looked and sounded completely and utterly ridiculous.
And yet it was effective; the little thing stopped in its tracks, then turned and went back downstairs again, to my great relief. Then a few minutes later it came up the ramp-molding again, and I re-enacted the same stupid pantomime I had before. The mouse kept coming—up up up, light and fleet of foot, relentless and implacable. I actually thought of throwing something at it to head it off—perhaps my shoe, like Clara in “The Nutcracker.” But oh, for a platoon of tin soldiers like hers! (I’ve cued up the video to start at the right spot):
But alas, we were alone, just the two of us, mousie and me. And I didn’t really want to hurt it, which I thought might happen if I threw my shoe, so I reached for a pillow—and at that moment I heard the key turn in the lock and my son walked in.
I’m always happy to see him, but perhaps never so happy as this time, as I stood at the top of the stairs in a semi-crouch, clutching a small pillow and making silly-yet-hopefully-scary noises at a mouse that was climbing a molding-ramp on the edge of the staircase.
My son managed to keep his disdain under control long enough to catch the mouse in a plastic container and escort it outside to be released, but not before we took a photo though the plastic. Yes, the mouse is cute. But no, I don’t want him in my house, not on Christmas Eve or any other time.
[NOTE: This is another recycled poetic effort of mine. By the way, on the words “the dog,” that’s a picture of the actual dog we had when my son was growing up.]
[NOTE: This small poetic effort of mine has become somewhat of a holiday tradition at neo-neocon. So here it comes again—just like the holiday itself. Merry Christmas Eve to you all!]
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the ”˜sphere
Bloggers were glad to see Christmas draw near.
Their laptops were turned off and all put away
The bloggers were swearing to take off the day.
Their children were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of extra time danced in their heads
With a father or mom not distracted by writing
No posts to compose, and no links to be citing.
But we all know that vows were just meant to be broken
And the vows of a blogger can be a mere token.
There’s always a chance that some sort of temptation
Will rise up to make them of fleeting duration.
For instance, there might be found under the tree
A sleek Mac; well, what better sight could there be?
And who could neglect it and wait the whole day?
It cries to be tried out, one just can’t delay.
Or maybe somewhere there’s a fast-breaking story
Important, and possibly leading to glory.
It can’t be ignored, there’s really no choice,
So add to the din every blogger’s small voice.
And then there are some who may just like to rhyme
(I’m one who at times must confess to this crime),
And it’s been quite a while since Clement Clarke Moore
Wrote his opus (though authorship’s been claimed by Gore)””
So it seems about time it was newly updated
And here’s my attempt””aren’t you glad you all waited?
Forgive if it sounds a bit awkward to read.
In writing, I set a new record for speed.
I had to get under the wire and compose it
Before Christmas Day. Now it’s time that I close it.
But let me exclaim (or, rather, I’ll write)
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!
Here’s a video of the original, with some 50s-type nostalgia for those who remember. There are a few odd anomalies (“safe in their beds” instead of “snug in their beds”). But it brought back memories of pincurls, and the days when parents were assumed to sleep in twin beds (even though I don’t recall that most people did).
I think I had the book on which this is based. The illustrations look very familiar:
Your guess is as good as mine as to whether the Obama administration will actually go about deporting some illegal refugee families, as rumored in this WaPo report based on the word of “officials familiar with the undertaking, who spoke on the condition of anonymity because planning is ongoing and the operation has not been given final approval by DHS.”
My hunch at the moment is that it’s being floated out there to see what the reaction would be, and that it may never happen. Also, in typical MSM fashion, the headline—“U.S. plans raids to deport families who surged across border”—is somewhat misleading although not strictly inaccurate.
Let’s see what the article actually says:
(1) Yes, there are plans, but it might not happen.
(2) These tentative plans that might not happen involve “hundreds” of the more than 100,000 families that have come here since last year, according to the article.
(3) And even these “hundreds” of families only involve those “who have already been ordered removed from the United States by an immigration judge.”
(4) It appears that it would not affect any of the unaccompanied minor children who have also come here in great numbers.
The article goes on to describe the fact that officials in the administration have been arguing about whether to do this or not. It doesn’t name names except that of Secretary Jeh Johnson, who is supposedly for it. As far as I can tell, even if it actually ends up happening it would be mere window-dressing designed to give an appearance of something being done when in fact virtually nothing is being done.
Notice, also, the truth embedded in the news but not highlighted: at present, even a judge ordering deportation (something that doesn’t happen to the majority of the new arrivals who go to court, and many of whom don’t even appear in court when ordered to do so) has absolutely no effect on these families, who instead have so far been allowed to stay. Our court system, inadequate as it is in the first place to deal with the numbers involved, is meaningless without enforcement.
Liberal columnist Greg Sargent sees this deportation development as a possible trap for Hillary. If it ever occurs, she will be forced to comment on it. Her approval would make the immigration activists condemn her, her disapproval would place her way to the left of most Americans.
I’ve been writing about politics for eleven years now, and never have I felt such a sense of dread about it. Dread mixed with a certain lassitude caused by overload.
The slowly-approaching and already nearly endless-seeming election campaign of 2016 has made it worse, but it really started in November of 2012. It was then, with the re-election of Barack Obama after what I considered an obviously disastrous first term, that it truly sunk in that the American voting public had changed in an even more fundamental way than I had previously thought, and I hadn’t been sanguine about things before.
This year is even worse. Forget the Republican field for a moment (if you can), and just look at the fact that Hillary Clinton is considered a competitive candidate by nearly half of America and may indeed win not only the Democratic nomination but the presidency. And yet, in almost every arena around the world, things have gotten worse during the administration of Barack Obama and his enabler, Hillary, and that’s before you even look at her own personal character and history.
When I was deciding on the title of this post and chose the word “ennui” to describe my feelings, I thought to look it up just to make sure I had the right word. When I did, I saw that the definition seemed to include the idea of lack of excitement: “a feeling of utter weariness and discontent resulting from satiety or lack of interest; boredom.” That doesn’t quite seem to be right, though— “satiety” maybe; lack of interest, no.
But then I found this helpful page entitled, “How to tell whether you’ve got angst, ennui, or Weltschmerz.” Note that the first and third words have German origins (although “angst” is also found in Dutch and Danish, and has passed into common English usage as well) whereas the second comes from the French. Ah, those world-weary Europeans!
I’ve got some of all of those three feelings, but I’ve concluded that the term with which I’m least familiar, Weltschmerz, fits the bill most exactly:
Weltschmerz, German for “world pain,” was also coined during the Romantic Era and is in many ways the German version of ennui. It describes a world weariness felt from a perceived mismatch between the ideal image of how the world should be with how it really is.
Wiki mentions “the feeling of anxiety caused by the ills of the world.”
Now, I realize this runs counter to the holiday spirit I should be exhibiting, and often do exhibit. Maybe a contributing factor is the exceptionally warm-but-gloomy (foggy, rainy, cloudy) weather we’ve been having in New England lately, the equivalent of a gray rather than a white Christmas. I figured, though, that I’d devote this post to the feeling and hope to purge it—angst, ennui, Weltschmerz—from my system.
There’s no longer plenty of time to order from Amazon through the neo-neocon portal. But it’s still possible, and if you’re a procrastinator, it may be just the thing. And hey, if the gift gets there the day after Christmas, it’s the thought that counts, right?
And if you use those widgets on my right sidebar to click through for all your Amazon purchases (now and at any other time of year) you will also be giving a small but still not insignificant gift to neo-neocon (it adds up, folks), and all without spending any extra money yourself. What could be more wonderful?
I thank you all in advance, and I thank all of you who’ve already done your shopping through my blog.
[NOTE: In case you have ad blocker or something of that sort, and the Amazon widgets don’t show up on your computer, go here. You can also click on any Amazon book link within a post and anything you order during that click-through gets credited to me. I believe it’s true even for things you put in your cart but don’t order till a bit later, although there’s a time limit on how long they can be there and still get credited when ordered (I’m not sure what that limit is, though, so best to order sooner rather than later).]
I’ve always been annoyed that in some states crossover voting is allowed in the state’s primary. That is, voters affiliated with the opposite party can vote in their opponents’ primary, which leaves a great deal of opportunity for mischief.
And yet, I’m not sure how to control for it. Even where crossover voting is not allowed (so-called “closed” primary states), a determined person can ordinarily change party affiliations for the purpose of the primary vote—although usually not on the day of the primary; it requires a bit of advanced planning—and then change back again later. Different states have different rules about it (see this for the state-by-state breakdown).
Democratic and Republican primaries are held on the same day, and a voter can only participate in one or the other. By voting in the opposite party’s primary a voter gives up the chance to vote in his/her own party’s contest. But in years when one party will be nominating an incumbent and there is no contested primary in that party (such as, for example, the Democrats in 2012) and the other party has a hotly-contested primary, the temptation for members of the party with the incumbent to cross over and dirty the waters is increased.
This year, although there’s no incumbent for the Democrats, Hillary Clinton is nearly being treated as one. Back when Bernie Sanders seemed more competitive with her, earlier in the season, I was thinking that a competitive Democratic race would have the advantage of discouraging Democratic crossover votes in the Republican primary. As Sanders’ stock has fallen, the possibility of those strategic crossover votes by Democrats increases, and the crossover voters are likely to vote for whoever they think will damage the Republicans most (I leave it to your imagination to decide which person that might be).
This year the Republican contest is such that Republicans are less likely to cross over and use their one and only votes to play games with the Democratic race, simply because the Republican race is so hotly contested and most people feel so strongly about it.
The days of the smoke-filled rooms did away with these problems. But they raised other problems. If the establishment still chose the nominee (with or without the smoke), we’d be seeing candidate Jeb Bush in the ascendance, and we’d have had no say in the matter.
Here’s someone who specializes in moral psychology, discussing the pros and cons of telling kids that Santa exists, knowing that some day they’ll find out he doesn’t and realize that you lied to them.
The conclusion? Hard to say what’s best:
…[T]here’s no evidence that children are harmed in either case. What’s clear, though, is that parents shouldn’t be overly worried about the repercussions of believing in Santa ”“ children are not completely credulous.
In fact, children continually take stock of what those around them believe ”“ and actively assess the uniformity of such beliefs to reach conclusions about the plausibility of various claims. As children’s causal reasoning develops (“Santa is too fat to fit down the chimney”), they eventually realise that he is not real, while understanding that other things they can’t actually see, for example germs, are. The key task for parents is managing the likely disappointment that comes when their children eventually grasp the truth.
My own answer is: know your child. Some kids are fine with it. Others of a different bent find it troublesome to learn they’ve been lied to. I was of the latter type, but some of my post-Santa angst had to do with the particular way in which I learned there was no Santa.
It was my older brother who told me, when I was about four and he seven—in fact, we may have even been as young as three and six. At any rate, I was very young, and I was a Santa-believer.
That Christmas eve, my brother went to his bedroom window and looked out, pointing excitedly. “I see it!” he shouted. “I see Santa’s sleigh, and the reindeer! There’s Rudolph!”
I was beside myself with joy. I went to the window and looked and looked and looked where he was pointing, and then at the rest of the sky. All I saw were the usual stars. “I can’t see it!” I whined, frantic. “Where is it?”
He kept pointing and saying “There. Can’t you see it? It’s right there!” I kept straining to see, to no avail.
Suddenly he stopped and became very serious. “The reason you can’t see it is because there is no Santa. He doesn’t exist. It’s just a story.”
This really made me wail. My brother was such a tease—and here he was, teasing me again. So mean! I wasn’t going to be taken in. “Yes, there is a Santa, there is!” I insisted. We went back and forth on that for some time, and finally I ran to my mother.
“He’s saying there’s no Santa,” I told her indignantly, assuming she would tell him to stop. But instead she told me (somewhat sadly) that he was right, there was no Santa.
Now, I’m not sure what my mother should have done. Should she have said my brother was lying, and that there really was a Santa? And then later on I’d find out that it was she who’d lied? I’m not sure what I would have done in her place, but I know that the entire episode was so searing and disillusioning that I decided never to tell my own child there was a Santa, and to avoid the entire deception problem entirely.
I love the opera “Hansel and Gretel,” by Engelbert Humperdinck (no, not that Humperdinck or this one; this one). His name may be a yuk, but the music he composed is among the masterpieces of opera, soaring and sonorous, tuneful and moving, and altogether delightful.
“Hansel and Gretel” is often performed at Christmastime, being suitable for children. The original German is rarely used in this country, and there are various well-known and well-loved English translations. A few years ago, when I read that the Metropolitan Opera of NY was doing the work, I thought of going down to see it, because it’s such a favorite of mine.
And then I checked out the Met’s website, and watched a video there of the production. My ears were not offended; the voices, as expected, were great. But I could hardly believe my eyes.
First, in order for you to understand why, let me set the scene, directly following the famous Prayer Song which occurs after the children have discovered themselves lost in the dark and dangerous forest and the Sandman has come to help them sleep by sprinkling sand in their eyes. The German libretto then has Gretel singing that it’s time to say their evening prayers, and the words of the prayer song that follows are very specific in describing a religious image of comfort and protection: fourteen angels will surround the children to guard them from harm while they sleep.
Most stagings—in fact, all stagings I had ever seen—follow what are really clear instructions in the libretto when they set up the scene that directly follows, in which the music of the Prayer Song is expanded, rising and swelling as the children fall asleep with visions of these angels (or perhaps actual angels) guarding them. It’s an exceptionally beautiful and inspirational image.
Well, here we have the Met’s newer, improved version (for those unfamiliar with the opera, don’t be surprised at the fact that Hansel is always played by a woman dressed as a boy in what’s known as a “breeches” role):
The original setting has turned into a Sendak-esque, vaguely threatening scene in which the fourteen angels have become chefs In the Night Kitchen. I believe it’s no accident that the unabashedly religious aspect of the opera has been turned into secular emptiness (although perhaps “emptiness” is not the best word, since this is about food). And this staging is not just wrong because it represents a change from the traditional, or because it’s not religious; it’s wrong because it goes against the fact that the music itself expresses holiness and serenity. One might even say that the music is celestial. So the concept behind the staging goes against the music as well.
In case you want an antidote, here’s the old Met production, before angels feared to tread there. I have kept the Prayer Song because it’s so beautiful, too; it constitutes the first two minutes, and is sung here in an English translation that is inferior to the one I know best, which explicitly describes the fourteen angels and their relative positioning in the tableau, and is also a better rendition of the original German (for greater enjoyment, go to the full screen version to watch):
Merry Christmas!
[ADDENDUM: For those of you who didn’t follow the link above to “the one I know best,” here it is:
When at night I go to sleep,
Fourteen angels watch do keep.
Two my head are guarding:
Two my feet are guiding:
Two are on my right hand;
Two are on my left hand;
Two who warmly cover;
Two who o’er me hover;
Two to whom ’tis given
To guide my steps to Heaven. ]
