And Now for Trudy

I wouldn’t want to disappoint you, dear reader, by starting without an elaborate digression.  See some recent post about that.  But even those of you, an increasingly shrinking number, who are familiar with the lengthy Homeric comparisons of the great Greek national epic, the Iliad, will have to admit when I get around to my dear spouse of twenty-six years you are going to say, Wow Thats Some Digression, with apologies to the pig.

Now where was I?  Ah yes.  The reason I attempt absolute honesty in writing and in speaking, even though it is difficult to keep up at all times (okay, I exaggerate — by no stretch of the imagination am I honest let alone absolutely honest).  Syntax error.  The reason I attempt it is that the reader, or if you prefer You the Voter upon reading a completely candid discussion of the reason my wife hates me

Here’s the deal.  The reason my wife hates me is that, whenever she comes up with an airy-fairy idea, I mercilessly and unfailingly point out that it is wrong.  I do not do this maliciously, and my dear spouse of 26 years of connubial relations is or can be sure of that fact.  Rather I am by nature an acting pessimist and am not ashamed to spend every waking moment in the contemplation of the worst that can happen now.

So, for example, I spend much of the time they are away from home, or away even from my sight, thinking about what I would do to the news that one or both of my young sons were dead.

I do not let Trudy know because she would be sure to believe with fervor — her alas invariable condition of belief — that I am neurotically morbid.

will then look to his own soul, or anima, as the Ancients called it, meaning not the Anasazi or whatever in I think it’s New Mexico but rather the Mediterranean peoples of the five centuries before and after the life of Christ, so from B.C. 400 (take my word for it, hard as it is for your less-educated consciousnesses to grasp at first), that is from the end of the Fifth Century B.C., to the year 500, which is to say the beginning of the Sixth century, the writers in the countries ringing the basin of the Mediterranean constitute the collected Ancient Authors.

To continue with the thought of previous sentence grown so encrusted with additions: as the dear reader of this blog sees the intimate details of Your Intrepid Reporter’s mixed-up love life, when the reader hears of the wife in 2011, the same year (coincidentally?) that he retired, at age 65 — Dear Spouse was miffed because she had extracted a promise you or maybe he or well in fact I confess it’s me, and it’s all true every word.

A promise I wouldn’t retire until at least the following year.  I was only 65 at the time.  She was really miffed, and I mean miffed, kids.  Don’t try this at home with adult supervision.

Trudy came back from her trip around the United States shepherding our 11- or 12- (I forget exactly) year-old son around the United States to tell me that, I sigh here involuntarily, that she no longer wanted to sleep with me and would divorce me unless I moved out of the downstairs living quarters and into the upstairs where she, at my expense would spend thousands of dollars of money I earned [my dear spouse never worked a day of her life at any real job other than topless dance, at which job she excelled].

I demurred and at the expense of a hell of a lot of shouting got that plan not ended, but deferred for a time.  The kitchen and independent fixtures she wanted for the upstairs are in place at the present moment and the improvement if thats what it was was carried out against my express and repeated prohibition.

This is called Trudy’s respect for the property rights of the guy who paid for the house.

So I moved upstairs.  Within months, Trudy’s younger Mexican lover (o, I didn’t mention him, did I?  well, when the syntax gets as convoluted as mine, some things have to be deferred.  Like draft dodgers, or those Los Andglese fellows) had abruptly left her to return to his wife and family, without a word to her.  So just to drive the point home (if you will allow an implicit metaphor which some readers have suggested is unfit for a family publication), my dear spouse and mother of my two young-teenaged boys then took a second younger Mexican lover.  Younger than her, well I to tell the truth am not sure — but a hella lot younger than me, that is for sure.

During the second younger Mexican lover my spouse and mother of my two teenaged sons advised me that I would have to move across the street because, well, it would save the family a lot of money that way.

That is the stated reason why I should move across the street to the rental unit while my wife of twenty-odd years makes love to her boy-toy in the house I paid for.  Oh, and by the way it has nothing to do with my penis either its length or hardness or frequency of ejaculation.  Spouse responds no thats not it to every enquiry along those lines.  She is less willing to discuss, which is to say not at all willing to discuss, at any time, ever, why she is then requiring me to leave her bed.

This is called earning exclusive custody of the two boys because the husband has psychologically abused them for years and they are frightened of his incessant shouting.

Okay now you know what it’s like to read German.  I am not making that up.  To continue the thought that I was purveying when I was so rudely interrupted by that girl in the back rubbing her bra — that distracts this lecturer, miss, on account of the fact that he is an adult heterosexual male, and the folks in that category invariably respond to an adult or at least nubile female adjusting her bra and looking at you as hinting at, shall I say a sexual frisson.  No I will not define it.  Yes, I believe now that that will be on the final.  Because you asked, Mister south.  Any other questions?

Very well then.  Where was I.  Ah, as I was saying before the bra-adjusting incident, no there will not be any bathroom breaks for the entire class until I finish the lecture portion of the lesson and you have all written your notes.  Then you can go to the bathroom, which means that you have to wait ten minutes.

No, that is not cruel and unusual punishment, but the requirements, the reasonable requirement of the instructor that you take a minimal interest in what he has spilled his life’s blood to be able to give to you, namely a lifelong love of learning.  Okay, lets move on, people.  Rules are good.  Rules build discipline.  Wir müssen Ordnung haben! [said in a half-shout]

Now then.  Hurrrumph [adjusts glasses, takes breath].

When you the candid voter, or you the voter reads the candid discussion of the Intrepid Reporter’s fucked-up life, the Average Man In the Street then says, “Hey his life is pretty fucked up!  Wow, he’s just laak meee!” and votes for me for the Third District House of Representative Seat now occupied by Flower Drill Blumenauer.

That way, ladies and gentlemen, I get elected because I am able to propagate the impression that I am like the average guy.  That would be the only way I could give this putative average voter such an impression, because, as I’ve said before, I came from a town which had five large yacht clubs, and that’s not counting the smaller ones such as the one for yacht-owners under the age of 18 and one for Jews and so on.

I know firsthand that the Salem Country club is located in Peabody because thats where my wedding was held, and I know first hand that the Boston Yacht Club is located in Marblehead because thats where the family racing yacht was kept.

At the Boston.

So you see the point is that the only way to achieve a personal identification in the mind of the voter is to show what a fucked-up family I (sigh) have, so that the voter, who didn’t go to the best schools in the world and travel for the summer to the preCastro Cuba and live with Dad’s friends there, would have a genuine feel for what we share — a lousy love life.

But that is done by telling the truth, even though, truth be said, I am upper-class.

The above really doesn’t involve any charges against Trudy, in the sense that I can quote her exact words, and then show you definitively that she was lying.  That’s what I wanted to do when I started the post.

But I cannot now continue, let me see it is Monday 13 June 2016, with what I had begun on 9 June 2016 because . . . and here I think you are going to doubt my grasp of reality.

I no longer have the documents of the Order of the Court, together with the Petition for Temporary Restraining Order, because the police stole them.  This possibility, which in fact sort of rules my life, is rejected by spouse and children with how should I call it, some degree of horror.  Their world would alas! fall apart if they contemplated the possibility seriously.

Hey now.  Is this a digression or is this a digression, eh?  Hang on to your seat belts.

You start ladies and gentlemen with the sure knowledge that your country has a political police.  Modern policing was started in France in the period after the Revolution and its primary purpose was political surveillance.  If you have some doubt about the validity of the first of those clauses, and clauses let us recall are joined by the co-ordinate conjunction ‘and’; if you have any doubt about the validity of the first of those clauses then you might do well to recall Sherlock Holmes.  No, just pick up any, at random, detective novel written in the nineteenth century by a British author — it will praise the French police.  The thoroughness and efficiency of that organization was legendary throughout Europe (and, by continuation, throughout the world).

Having said that, let us ask, as is so seldom the case in a classroom intended to prepare dolts for the Machine, let us ask, Just Who founded this wonderful organization and get serious about the answer.  Well it was Fouché, thats who.

As his most celebrated biographer, the incomparable Stefan Zweig says on pp. 100-101 in the very beautiful 2011  Fischer Klassik edition, with its full-color illustration of the lovely portrait of Napoleon’s Minister of the Interior [which was the official title of his nest of spies], in the original

Endlich, endlich, nach langer, langer Nacht in Lebensfrost, in Armutsdunkel, , wittert Fouché Morgenluft.  Ein neuer Herr is im Lande, eine neue Macht in Entstehen, und er beschließt, ihr zu dienen.  Diese neue Macht

 

I believe that should establish beyond cavil that Fouché was not interested in saving little girls and women from Jack the Ripper, nor even in an equitable administration of the so-called Code Civil but rather was grasping for power through his adroit management of spies, the political police.

Well, suppose you doubt that thats what it says.  All along I’ve been scornful of Google — so now, go ahead and prove me wrong.  Good luck.  If you want to offer him money, my old friend and longtime German teacher for Portland Public Schools Peter Janke might help you.  If you want to contact him why dont you ask the Roosevelt High school front office.  Just dont say I sent you.  Roosevelt was one of the schools that sent me packing.  Along with lets see now Grant and Benson.  Lincoln could be added to the list in a way.

 

 

You know when I go to sleep at night

About M. Meo

Worked as translator, museum technician, truck lumper, lecture demonstrator, teacher (of English as a Second Language, science, math). Married for 25 years, 2 boys aged 18 & 16 (both on the Grant cross-country team). A couple of scholarly publications in the history of science. Two years in federal penitentiary, 1970/71, for refusing the draft.
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