Musical Chairs
June 15, 2026 Leave a comment
The calls come when I’m in the shower or in a dream. Tonight, a call interrupted someone with a buzzsaw chasing me down a dark alley.
“Roy, if you pick that up it stops making noise.”
“Huh? I love you, too, Laci. Put the buzzsaw down.”
“Roy, pick up that hum-buzzing thing.”
“Huh . . . Oh . . .Hello?”
My sister-in-law Diane was on the phone. She was in a state.
“Roy, it’s Dutch.”
“What’s happened?”
“Dutch hasn’t come home from yesterday’s rehearsal,” her voice broke. “I called and called and when he finally picked up, he sounded drunk, incoherent.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t . . .wait . . .he’s walking in the door right now . . . Oh no! I see why he sounded like that. You should see for yourself.”
I told her I would come right over.
“Roy, what is it?”
“Diane says something happened to Dutch.”
I kiss Laci, get dressed, and head over to my brother’s place.
My older brother Dutch plays trumpet for Center City Symphony Orchestra. He auditioned for the group fifteen years ago and was appointed Principal Trumpet chair. I went in a different musical direction. I blow the whistle on the bad guys as lead detective for Center City.
I arrive at my brother’s house and go inside. Diane, teary eyed, runs up to me.
“Look what they did to him, Roy.”
“Who?” I walk into the living room.
“Someone . . . someone did this to him.”
Dutch was sitting in an arm chair holding an ice pack on his face. His eyes were glazed over. I ask to look at the damage.
His nose and mouth were bloodied. He had a fat lip and two front teeth had been knocked out. Not good for someone who makes a living with serious chops.
“You won’t need stitches, Dutch, but you’ll a need couple of teeth.
“And, he’ll need months to recover his embouchure!” Diane sobbed.
Dutch coughed spitting out blood. “I wasssupposed to play the Haydn Trumpet Concerto homorrow night.”
“Who did this to you, Dutch?”
“Hats just it,” Dutch moaned, “I dunnooo. I wasss backssstage with my horn and sssomeone called my name. I turned and whhaamm ha stage curtain hit me. I fell back and hit my hhhead.”
“Stage curtain?”
“Like a cannonbawll.”
“Did anyone see what happened?”
“I dunnooo,” he gulped. “Whhhen I came to my hhhead hurrd my mouth hurrd and my trumpet bell was smashed.
Diane brought another bag of ice and a shot of bourbon.
“Roy, they took him to the emergency room and kept him there for observation. They were worried about a concussion. Dutch said that the orchestra manager was there fretting about him not being able to play and the Center manager was there fretting about liability. I should have been there fretting over Dutch.”
I told them that I would go to the Arts Center later that morning to investigate. Before I left, I almost told Dutch to keep a stiff upper lip. But he was in no mood for kidding.
“Roy, find out wahhappened. Will ya?”
I promised I would.
~~~
After a couple of hours of sleep and a cup of black coffee with my best girl, I drive over to Central City Performing Arts Center to meet with the orchestra manager. It looked to be a long wet Friday. I needed something to offset the feeling I had in my gut. I stop and buy a couple of boxes of Good and Plenty.
Over at the Center, I introduce myself to the bowtied Mr. Caldecott. I ask about yesterday’s rehearsal.
“Well Detective, I arrived at noon yesterday to set up the chairs, stands, and music for the afternoon rehearsal. But the stage curtain was still down from the previous theater performance, so nothing could be placed. I went and asked the Center’s custodian to raise the curtain. An hour later the curtain was raised and then someone told me that our Principal Trumpet had been injured.”
“When exactly did the curtain go up?”
“The curtain didn’t go up until two. So, rehearsal started at three-thirty, not the usual three.”
“When do the orchestra members show up”
“Usually, it’s an hour before rehearsal begins. They warm up and review the music.”
Mr. Caldecott then informed me that only the sound technician and the custodian were around when he arrived yesterday. He walked me over to the sound booth at the back of the auditorium.
The sound tech said that he had been waiting for the stage curtain to go up and the chairs and stands to be in place so he could set up the microphones for the rehearsal. He said he spent his time waiting in the sound booth and was too far away to see anything going on off stage.
Mr. Caldecott then walked me backstage so I could talk to the custodian.
The custodian was a short bald-headed old guy with a pasty face, red nose, and scraps of hair for a mustache. His uniform name patch said “Charlie.”
“Charlie, I’m a detective investigating what happened yesterday before rehearsal.” I didn’t mention my name. I didn’t want my relationship with Dutch brought into the matter.
“A detective, heh? Say, don’t you guys wear trench coats and fedoras?”
“Yeah, when we’re playing a part. But I’m not playing anything right now. Someone received a serious blow to the face.”
I ask them to show me where it happened.” I follow them to stage left.
“Mr. Caldecott said the curtain was down yesterday. He asked you to raise it. He also said that it took an hour before it was raised. Isn’t that right Mr. Caldecott?”
“Yes, detective.”
“Well, Charlie, what took so long?”
“The curtain was down and that pulley you’re looking at had broken loose from the floor boards. So, I had to bolt it down to lift the curtain for the rehearsal. You can see the new bolts.”
I tell Mr. Caldecott that I need the curtain lowered to inspect it. He goes to move some things on stage before the curtain can be lowered.
The stage curtain down, I find graze marks in the fabric. And specks of blood. On the other side of the location of the scuff marks are more scuff marks. Directly below is the remounted curtain pulley.
“Was the pulley loose when the guy got clobbered?”
“Yes, detective.”
“So, anyone could have come along and swung it into Mr. Winder’s face?”
“I suppose that’s possible.”
“Don’t touch the pulley.”
I call the station and ask Ted to come right over. I want him to dust the pulley for fingerprints and to swab the blood on the curtain.
“Where were you when the trumpet player got clobbered?”
“Well, let’s see . . . I . . . I was looking for wood screws to tie down the pulley. Is that all detective?”
“Yeah, for now.” There were some loose ends that needed tying up.
“Mr. Caldecott, you said someone came and told you what had happened to the Principal Trumpet. Who was that?”
He gives me Nelia Swan’s phone number and address. I call her and tell her that I’m on my way over to talk.
I arrive at Ms. Swan’s flat and she invites me in. She offers me some Mariage Frères tea. I tell her a cup of café noir would be great.
“What?”
“A cup of joe.”
“Sorry detective. I don’t have coffee.”
“I’ll live.”
I move the cat from the arm chair and sit down.
I ask Nelia about what happened at the rehearsal.
“Dutch and I arrived early. We were off stage warming up. We were waiting for the stage curtain to go up so chairs could be set up on the stage.”
“Where was Dutch?”
“Dutch was standing near the stage entrance playing intervals.”
“Where were you?”
“I was further off stage warming up.”
“Did you see what happened?”
“One minute Dutch was standing there and the next he was on the floor. I didn’t see him get hit in the mouth. I don’t know how that could happen.”
“Did you see anyone behind the curtain? Did you hear someone call his name?”
“No. I put my horn down to help Dutch.”
“Is there anyone who has a grudge against Dutch?”
“No. I can’t think of anyone. He’s liked by everyone.”
“He was hit right in the kisser. Anyone want him out as Principal Trumpet?”
“We’re all professionals here, detective. If a person wanted to move up in the orchestra, he or she would have to audition for that spot, but only if it is vacated by a musician who leaves the orchestra.”
“So, if Dutch was out another trumpet player could audition for his spot?”
“Yes.”
“Who is second chair trumpet?’
“His name is Mark . . . Mark Jacobson.”
I thank Nelia and make my way back to the station to do some paperwork and call the orchestra manager. I ask for Mark Jacobson’s phone number. I need to talk to him.
I call Mr. Jacobson and ask him to come to the station. He was more than a little flustered. He was practicing for the Haydn and didn’t want be bothered. I told him I’d come over.
I drove over to Jacobson’s place.
“Mr. Jacobson, I’m a detective investigating what happened yesterday before rehearsal.”
“What the hell! I shouldn’t be bothered right now. I have to play the Haydn tomorrow night!”
I reminded him why he was playing the Haydn. He softened a bit. “That’s too bad. Dutch didn’t deserve that.” Then, he whiplashed back. “I deserve a chance to be Principal Trumpet. Tomorrow is my chance. If it goes well, I’ll be the Principal Trumpet of the Center City Symphony!”
“Where were you when Dutch was assaulted, Mr. Jacobson?”
“Assaulted? What? How do you figure?”
“I figure that stage curtains don’t attack people.”
“The man had a habit of annoying people.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Well, you didn’t sit next to him for ten years.”
“Dutch is my brother. He annoyed me alright and I annoyed him back. That’s what brothers do. Did Dutch annoy you and you wanted to punch him in the face?”
“C’mon. I’m a professional. I need to get back to my performance.”
“Where were you when Dutch was assaulted, Mr. Jacobson?”
“I was on my way to the rehearsal.”
I left Mr. Jacobson to his Haydn.
Driving back to the station I thought about our conversation. Mr. Jacobson was certainly annoyed by me. He had a short fuse. Was it due to stress about playing the Haydn? Did he have anger issues? Did he resent Dutch being Principal Trumpet and decide to take the chair out from under him?
I would question him again, after his performance. In the meantime, I would check on Dutch.
Diane met me at the door.
“He’s sleeping now, Roy. He’s scheduled for dental implants next week. The conductor was here about an hour ago. He said he would tell the subscribers that Dutch had taken ill and needed some time off.”
I asked Diane if she knew the second trumpet Mr. Jacobson.
“I know Mark. He was in the high school band and orchestra with me and Dutch.”
“The three of you have known each other since high school?”
“Yes. And after high school the three of us played in the civic orchestra before being accepted in the symphony orchestra.”
“If I recall, you played the French horn?”
“Yes. But with three kids I had to leave the orchestra and stay home.”
“Did Mark have any issues with Dutch back then?
“Dutch was first chair trumpet during high school. Mark challenged him a few times for the chair. But he was never able to get it. Dutch was too good.”
“Challenged?”
“In high school band and orchestra, a player could challenge a higher ranked player for their chair. The director would set up a music test, listen to both and decide who gets what chair. That doesn’t happen in professional orchestras. You audition when you first come in and then sit where you are told to sit.”
“So, Mark might have resented Dutch’s ability?
“He really wanted first chair. But then he became first chair trumpet when Dutch and I had to leave high school. I became pregnant with Celeste.”
“I see. Anything else about Mr. Jacobson?”
“I was told at the time that Mark had a crush on me. Maybe he thought I was looking at him when I was looking over at Dutch. Do you think Mark did this to Dutch?
“I think I need to have another conversation with Mr. Jacobson.”
~~~
Sunday morning, around nine, I drive over to Mr. Jacobson’s place.
He invites me in. I ask about the Haydn.
“It went very well. My improvised cadenza would have been better if I had more time to prepare, but the audience liked my performance.”
“Say, Mr. Jacobson. How badly do you want first chair?”
“I don’t like your manner.”
“Yeah. I get that a lot in this business. Listen Mr. Jacobson, I know you were in competition with Dutch in high school.”
“Yeah. So what. I have ambition like the next guy.”
“I’ve been a copper long enough to see ambition and improvisation go together like Bonnie & Clyde.”
“Oh, c’mon. Sure. I was a bit jealous of Dutch, his talent, but I would never harm him. I wanted the chair honestly. I have another performance this afternoon, so I really must ask you to leave.”
I left Mr. Jacobson to his Haydn. I didn’t tell him that I had attended Saturday night’s performance.
As I sat in the balcony waiting for the conductor to walk on stage, I read the program notes. I learned about concertos.
A concerto, the program said, features a soloist engaged in an elaborate conversation with an orchestra. A solo instrument is set off against an orchestral ensemble by alternation, competition, and combination. Concertos typically contain three movements, the first and last of which are usually quick-paced, with a slower tempo for the middle movement.
This case has the elements of a concerto. Someone was set off against the orchestral ensemble that included Dutch as Principal Trumpet. The case has moved past the first movement – Allegro – when Dutch was clobbered to the second movement – Andante – which now is slowly unwinding the whodunnit. I’m looking forward to the final movement – Allegro – when everything comes rushing together and I blow the whistle on someone.
After the Saturday evening performance, I learned even more.
I stuck around to see Mark and Nelia get very chummy. They left the Arts Center together. I followed them to a wine bar over on Third Street. They shared some drinks, kissed, and talked for two hours. They left around eleven and drove to Nelia’s place. Mark stayed overnight and left around eight in the morning.
I didn’t press Mr. Jacobson on his relationship with Ms. Swan this morning. I wanted to talk to Ms. Swan first.
After leaving Jacobson’s place, I drove over to Ms. Swan’s flat. I knocked and she invited me in.
“Oh, detective. If I knew you were coming I would’ve bought some coffee. I was just making some tea.”
“You might need something stronger.” I cleared my throat.
“Huh?”
“No thanks on the tea.”
I walk into her living room, move the cat out of the chair, and sit down. On the lamp table was a framed photo.
“Say, this photo wasn’t here yesterday.”
“Mark gave it to me last night. That was taken in the Bahamas last summer. That’s where Mark proposed to me.” She showed me the engagement ring.
“You didn’t mention your relationship with Mark the last time I was here. Why?”
“I didn’t think it had anything to do with what happened to Dutch. Besides, Mark wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“He comes across as a bit on edge.”
“Yeah, lately he’s been pushing himself. Trying out with different orchestra for the Principal Trumpet chair. He wants to make more so we have enough to pay for a traditional wedding. My parents are divorced and they don’t have money and we’re both still paying off student loans.”
I got up to look at the photos on the side table.
“This guy looks familiar.”
“That’s my father.”
“Isn’t he the custodian at the arts center?”
“Yes.”
The third movement was about to begin. I left Ms. Swan and drove over to the Arts Center to have a talk with the custodian. No doubt his fingerprints are all over that pulley.
~~~
Over at the Arts Center I meet with the building’s manager Mr. Fairmont. I have him show me to the custodian’s office.
Inside the cramped room is a small desk with chair, two file cabinets, a bulletin board with the orchestra’s schedule, a sleeping bag, a hotplate, cans of soup and baked beans, a bag of tools, and a duffel bag stuffed with clothes.
A bottle of Mad Dog is in the top drawer of the file cabinet with some Dime Detective Magazines and a dog-eared copy of Mickey Spillane’s Kiss Me, Deadly.
On the desk is a photo of Mr. Swan and his daughter Nelia.
“What’s all this?” The custodian came in.
“Well, look what crawled out from behind the curtain.”
“Hey, this is for employees only, detective.”
“I am employed, Charlie. Have a seat.”
“Now Mr. Swan, I want you to help me sort out a few things.”
“Yes. How can I help?”
“The day of the attack on Mr. Winder, the pulley was loose from the floor, wasn’t it Mr. Swan?”
“Attack? Why do you say he was attacked? Who would do such a thing?”
“Someone playing musical chairs.”
“What? The pulley had come loose from the floor boards. I had to get the curtain raised.”
“Your daughter is planning on marrying Mr. Mark Jacobson, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Are you all in on that marriage.”
“Why yes, I am. Where you going with all this?”
“I did some digging and found out that the pay scale is the same for all section players and that principals make more. Stands to reason that with Principal Trumpet Mr. Winder out of the way, your daughter’s fiancé would get the chair, get more pay, and then marry your daughter”
“If you say so.”
“I do and so does the logic.”
“I did some more digging and found out that you like to drink and gamble and that’s how you lost your wife and your house. You are now living here. Isn’t that so, Mr. Swan?”
I looked over at the manager of the Arts Center.
“I had no idea that you were living here, Charlie.”
“I . . . I. “
“Did you daughter know that you lost your house and were living here?”
“No. No. No. I don’t want her to find out and worry about me. She doesn’t know about the house. We see each other here every time the orchestra plays.”
“With Mr. Jacobson coming into more pay and your daughter’s marriage you planned on living with them. Didn’t you Mr. Swan? You knew you couldn’t keep living here. Someone would find out.”
“Are you suggesting that I attacked Mr. Winder? Look. There were plenty of people around who could have socked the guy.”
“You had motive and opportunity. You were working on the pulley when this happened.”
“Oh, c’mon detective. I’m just an old guy down on my luck trying to get by.”
“I had a conversation with another old guy down on his so-called luck. You see, I lead AA meetings at a church two blocks from here. One of the men at the meeting told the group that he messed up and went back to his old hangout – Blake’s tavern a couple of blocks from here. He had a few with some old friends. One old friend, he told the group, was pounding drinks and talking crazy, saying that sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands and eliminate the competition to improve your situation. The guy saying all this to the group is your bar mate Sam.”
“Sam?”
“I talked to Sam this morning, Charlie. He agreed to tell the judge what you said, nothing more and nothing less. And, I talked to my forensics tech. He said that there is only one set of fingerprints on the pulley. If their yours, well . . .”
“Alright. Alright. I . . .I just wanted to sideline the guy for a bit to give Mark a chance in the spotlight. I thought the curtain would cushion the impact. And I figured the guy had disability insurance to cushion his income.”
You had all this figured out, didn’t you Mr. Swan?”
“I figured I was helping my daughter.”
“By swinging a pulley into some guy’s mouth, busting his chops and taking the chair out from under his livelihood to leverage a better living situation for yourself? Does your daughter know that you . . . pulleyed this off?
“No. No. No. She doesn’t and I don’t want her to know.”
“Too late for that Mr. Swan. It’s curtains for you. Come with me down to the station. I’m booking you for aggravated assault on Mr. Winder. You can call your daughter to have her bail you out.”
~~~
After Mr. Swan was booked into custody, I went over to see Dutch and Diane.
Dutch’s mug looked like he’d been in a hockey fight. I told them that it was the custodian Mr. Swan who swung the pulley. No one else was involved. I told them Swan’s motive. They were both shocked by the account.
Then I told Dutch what the orchestra manager told me: they’re passing the hat around so you can buy a new trumpet and some new teeth. I give Dutch a box of Good and Plenty and he gives me a smile that hurt both of us. I tell them that I have to take off.
“There’s a blue-eyed blond waiting for me with a steak covered in onions and Farewell, My Lovely.”
~~
©J.A. Johnson, Kingdom Venturers, 2026, All Rights Reserved
Cindy Wity 
And the Beat Down Goes On
May 4, 2026 Leave a comment
“. . . the terror of the night
or the arrow that flies by day
or the pestilence that stalks in darkness
or the destruction that wastes at noonday.” Psalm 91
Fires, floods and extreme weather will imperil a third of all life on land in the next 60 years.
Nobel Physicist Predicts END DATE For Modern Civilization: And it’s quite soon…
The New York Times’s Resident Catastrophist Delivers Another Subscription to the End of the World
You wake up in a news cycle that never sleeps. With a cup of coffee, you read what ‘doomcasters’ are saying about end-of-life scenarios appearing on the horizon. Now you are fully awake and wondering what to do with these high alert headlines? Do you let existential crisis into your life?
You sip your coffee and remember that not long ago the world was subjected to pandemic hysteria. Coronavirus, the “global crisis of unprecedented reach and proportion,” started making headlines at the beginning of 2020.
You recall the WHO declaring the coronavirus a “public health emergency of international concern.” And the headlines declaring surges in COVID-19 cases attributed to the Omicron variant, a “tripledemic” – COVID combined with flu and RSV, and of overwhelmed hospitals and healthcare systems and dancing nurses.
How could you forget that Biden imposed OSHA vaccination and testing emergency standards on your business or the reality-warping restrictive policies involving mandated lockdowns, masking, social distancing, fines, and vaccines, or the CDC predicting people will die?
You pour yourself another cup of coffee and look out the kitchen window. You see the couple next store – Vivian and Zoe – walking their dog Baxter. The other day, when you took the garbage can to the curb, the apoplectic twosome accosted you with “Democracy is threatened by the likes of you extremists, fascists, racists, homophobe Christian nationalists!” and “Trump is Hitler!” They saw you going to church last Sunday.
You drink your coffee troubled that Viv and Zoe had been beaten down by another media existential crisis campaign, akin to the rollout of the COVID-19 marketing campaign that told us to worry about it, and how to worry about it.
Under the spell of the “Democracy is threatened” campaign, Viv and Zoe were in a state of emotional panic. And that had them beat down on the closest person who didn’t share their views or the views of the commercial-sponsored media. The media’s inordinate influence has you very concerned about the collective fear and confusion its campaigns were causing to psyches.
The beat down goes on . . . in our heads.
~~~
How shall we then live in the context of existential dread?
Day after day imagination is battered with dire predictions– the end of this and that unless we do this and that. The steady beat of amplified headlines overwhelms one’s patience, strength, and soul.
Climate change, pandemics, wars, “Democracy!” AI Could Make Humans Irrelevant!
How do we respond to headlines telling us that we are done for? Should we let fear and helplessness dominate our lives? Can we live in terms of “accepting disharmony from the outset and defying it”? This last way of going forward is the directive C.S. Lewis prescribes in his essay “On Living in an Atomic Age.”
Published in post-war 1948 and at the beginning of the atomic age, the essay provides a reality-check perspective and presents a scenario of how to live in life-ending times.
The following is an excerpt from the opening of Lewis’ short essay. During COVID the excerpt was passed around on the internet, with “atomic” replaced with “coronavirus.” Certainly, the essay can be applied to any dire life-threatening circumstances.
In one way we think a great deal too much of the atomic bomb. “How are we to live in an atomic age?” I am tempted to reply: “Why, as you would have lived in the sixteenth century when the plague visited London almost every year, or as you would have lived in a Viking age when raiders from Scandinavia might land and cut your throat any night; or indeed, as you are already living in an age of cancer, an age of syphilis, an age of paralysis, an age of air raids, an age of railway accidents, an age of motor accidents.”
In other words, do not let us begin by exaggerating the novelty of our situation. Believe me, dear sir or madam, you and all whom you love were already sentenced to death before the atomic bomb was invented: and quite a high percentage of us were going to die in unpleasant ways. We had, indeed, one very great advantage over our ancestors — anesthetics; but we have that still. It is perfectly ridiculous to go about whimpering and drawing long faces because the scientists have added one more chance of painful and premature death to a world which already bristled with such chances and in which death itself was not a chance at all, but a certainty.
This is the first point to be made: and the first action to be taken is to pull ourselves together. If we are all going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends over a pint and a game of darts—not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs. They may break our bodies (a microbe can do that) but they need not dominate our minds.
The full essay, in the document below, contains questions and positions Lewis maintains, such as
Are we “accepting disharmony from the outset and defying it?”
Do we “hold up our own human standards against the idiocy of the universe?”
Are we the product of blind physical forces and therefore unable to provide answers to questions of a fatalist existence?
“But suppose we really are spirits? Suppose we are not the offspring of Nature…?”
“We must go back to a much earlier view.”
“We must simply accept it that we are spirits, free and rational beings, at present inhabiting an irrational universe, and must draw the conclusion that we are not derived from it.”
“If there is no straight line elsewhere, how did we discover that Nature’s line is crooked?”
“Nothing is more likely to destroy a species or a nation than a determination to survive at all costs.”
https://www.matthewaglaser.com/living-in-an-atomic-age
“On Living in an Atomic Age” (first published 1948) by C. S. Lewis (1898–1963) From: Present Concerns: Essays by C.S. Lewis (edited by Walter Hooper; New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1986), pages 73–80
Born a few years after the above essay was published, I became well aware of ‘doomcasting’ headlines. I recalled some of the headlines in my January 2025 post Surface Readings.
The post began with the words of poet W H Auden – “Now is the age of anxiety” and my own take on things: “Impending doom has been in the news during my entire lifetime.” I wrote about the headlines and pronouncements of those anxious times which included the book The Late great Planet Earth based on the modern and heretical notion of dispensationalism.
~~~
Imagination Reset
Taking in the spirit of the times, imaginations are exposed to the negation of life and dire predictions often made for political ends that use fear to move power into the hands of the few.
Taking in the digital tabloid times is the “WHAAM!” of a Roy Lichtenstein Ben-Day dots painting. Imagination is amped up and ready to pop with a Pow!
What happens to our imaginations when we are constantly confronted with crisis? And, how do we live with dire predictions?
With the 24/7/365 news cycle, it’s little wonder that “News Avoidance” is becoming a common way to deal with the constant specter of troubling things, as Thaddeus G. McCotter writes in I Didn’t Read the News Today, Oh Boy: Embracing the ‘News Avoidance’ Pandemic
“If you live today, you breath in nihilism … it’s the gas you breathe. If I hadn’t had the Church to fight it with or to tell me the necessity of fighting it, I would be the stinkingest logical positivist you ever saw right now.” ― Flannery O’Connor
What we shouldn’t avoid are resources such as poetry, art, classical literature and music to help us cope with and see beyond the terrors of the modern age. We need the signal of those who came before and dealt with all kinds of things and not the clamoring noise of influencers.
Poet Wallace Stevens, in “The Noble Rider and the Sound of Words” writes that poetry, as it interacts with reality and the imagination, can shape our perspective and provide meaning and comfort in a world that often feels overwhelming and harsh.
Wallace emphasizes the role of imagination in countering the beat down of life. If you are a Christian, you already know that the poetry of the Psalms does just that, e.g., Psalm 91.
In the video below, Dr. Jason Baxter, author of The Medieval Mind of C.S. Lewis discusses his book, Why Literature Still Matters.
Why Literature Still Matters: An Interview with Dr. Jason Baxter | Classical Home Education
~~~
If you need a quick antidote to climate hysteria, Itxu Díaz provides his take on the news of impending doom: Climate Change Scientists Set a Date for the Arrival of Hell on Earth: the Year 2085.
~~~
Naomi Wolf with Outspoke: “I’m here tonight to talk about a huge news story that broke in the last couple of days. It could be thread that unravels the whole COVID virus/vaccine perpetrator issue.
“A criminal syndicate, essentially.
“Even just this initial gesture is so transformational. It breaks the spell of, “No one can be held accountable, no one can be investigated from the untouchable third rail COVID vaccine rollout, COVID virus rollout.””
“The Shocking Story of NIH Secretly Funding COVID”
~~~
And the Beat Down Goes On
~~~
Wreathing (Matthew 6:34)
On my shed door, atop its plastic wreath,
a robin fashioned a nest, found twigs the binding.
then, behold,
above the manufactured certainty,
within the steadfastly twig-tucked wreathing,
her brood burst burst burst forth.
J.A. Johnson, 2026
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