Essays in Idleness

An American reader asks: “Is Trump trying to get Trudeau re-elected?” …

Or perhaps he has intentions focussed on Mark Carney, the proposed replacement, who has been, if possible, more irritating as the eco-socialist bank governor of both Canada and the United Kingdom. For Carney would be a good candidate for the most disastrous prime minister Canada has ever had, a position that Trudeau currently enjoys.

A suddenly revived Liberal government, thanks to Trump’s (easily justified) tariffs on us — itself a retaliation for decades of Canadian abuse of free trade arrangements, and naughty exports such as fentanyl — might be in the devil’s cards.

I don’t think that promoting Liberals is Trump’s central intention, however. …

But Canadian near-monopoly media have suppressed knowledge of why Trump might be doing what he is doing; & we have an incurious population, that has been trained in stupid for more than half a century.

The great Bishop of Mynyw, son of Non, the famed Dewi Sant, is now one thousand years old at least and — depending which Welsh annals you are reading — perhaps 1,563. He lived to the age of one hundred thirty-nine, by my simple calculation, or less, according to most scholars. (I am innocent of Welsh and mediaeval Latin.) He is venerated in both the Western and Eastern Church, though modern scholars, television hosts, and radio broadcasters, throw out any of the hagiographic facts that have come down with him. For the accounts were written after the events to which they refer, when, coincidentally, all memoirs tend to be written. The best the scholars can say is that reports of Dewi’s birth in the village of Henfynyw, are “not improbable.”

This is my Saint David, whose date is the First of March. I cannot claim to be Welsh, however. The stone church in that locality in Cardiganshire still stands, and has been standing continuously, since before Dewi Sant was conceived, and most of the people who still live there still speak Welsh. The shrine to this Patron Saint of Wales also stands, where he founded the monastery that became the Cathedral of Saint David in Pembrokeshire. It was in that surrounding vale that the Synod of Brefi was held, at which he preached against Pelagianism, and the white dove alighted on his shoulder.

Saint David founded chapels and monasteries throughout Wales, Cornwall, and Brittany, and continues to be remembered in each, while it lasts. That nothing lasts forever must also be conceded to the scholars, among whom doves no longer alight.

March first was the precise date of David’s elevation to heaven, in a “monastery that was filled with angels as Christ received his soul.” And these were his last words, spoken here below:

“Lords, brothers and sisters, be joyful, and keep your faith and your creed, and do ye the little things that you have seen me do and heard about. And as for me, I will walk the path that our fathers have trod before us.”

Now, as in the past, I take sides on public issues according to which side I hate more. There are no sides to love; unless they are Christ, beauty, goodness, truth; but these are not the “sides” that are available in the restaurant of public affairs. These are indicated instead by cheerleaders. Indeed, the very idea of taking “sides” tends to tickle my vomit reflex. But there are better sides and worse, in the main, and one must oppose the worst.

Americans and others should know this. The mass market’s growing revulsion with the Democrat party brand gave Donald Trump his remarkable win, last November. This does not mean they, or any large number of them, had learnt anything about the issues involved. All they had to know was that the Democrats were detestable, and indeed, worse even than the Republicans. Since that election, it turns out they were dead right, and we now know what a vast “shithole” America had become, but now they have called in new “plumbing managers.”

Canada is, I suspect, only a different case for the moment. Everything I know about politics in this country assures me that the NDP-Liberals are actually worse than the Democrats, and that we are proportionately more deeply enmired in corruption. If Poilievre does what Trump and Musk are doing, to eliminate counter-productive spending and thus cut debt and taxes — up here in the frozen north — we wouldn’t have to embarrass ourselves with “Orange Man Bad” demonstrations. We would instead simply resume getting rich (which shouldn’t be our absolute, either). But give it a year or ten to work out, and Canada will once again be chasing the U.S. example.

If we were intelligent, improbably enough, we would be proportionately well ahead of the United States, rather than well behind. Alas, so long as we are voting for the latest “progressives” to send to Ottawa, we will be going down the drain hole faster.

Many kinds of lie are told, and not all are confined to politics; but there are two kinds frequently encountered in this trade. The more popular is the plausible lie, in which the politician presents information as true, although it is, at best, misleading, and usually, very misleading, and “based” upon a flat lie (although the incurious may not be aware of this). Yet it is meant to be believed, which is why it is made to sound plausible.

Usually, statistical estimates are involved, which could not be accurate, even if the intention were honest — because you cannot count the hairs on your head, until you go bald. Indeed, estimates are presented of all things because the modern man, who is deeply sceptical about the existence of  God, can only be convinced by “the numbers.” (See the Bible, passim, for what God thinks of statistics.)

The intent to deceive is what makes this kind of lie malicious. Too, one should look for other acts of malice within this “rhetorical figure,” for an unambiguous evil will generally point to another. Indeed, we might call it “scientific lying,” and note, fraudulent research (for instance, “climate science”) invariably depends upon statistics.

Contrast, the outrageous lie. The most typical form of this is in satire. To be truly outrageous, you must tell a lie that no one can believe (always excepting the fatally stupid). Two recent examples from the news: one, Ukraine invaded Russia; and two, Russia wanted peace. The person who supposedly told these actually said something more subtle, as is often the case with satirists. The outrageous lie — and I am thinking of Trump here — is meant to “misdirect” the audience towards a paradoxical truth.

Previously (perhaps not in this space), I have argued that only satirists are honest. To which I might add that, only satirists are entertaining and funny.

The idea that human affairs should be governed by just relationships, at every level from small to where God takes over — rather than by democratic voting by the mentally and morally infirm — was one I felt bound to defend during my years as a sleazy journalist.

There are degrees to sleaze, however, and I generally preferred “responsible” or accountable government, in defiance of progressive, “liberal” sham and deceit, which has been usually in the ascendant throughout my adult life. In the extreme we had (and still have) “people’s republics,” which carry progressivism and liberalism into the theatre of the absurd.

Whereas, Lady Justice does not consider, and generally despises, the latest fashionable thing, when it is admitted to her judgement; promoted as it will invariably be by government officers, “dressed in a little authority.” (The phrase shows Shakespeare’s absolute contempt for bureaucrats.)  “Equality,” another word for democracy, is opposed to freedom; Her Ladyship is not, and will accommodate honest disagreement.

But even within a “democracy,” we must be on guard against cheating. For justice does not cheat. Mr Trump’s proposal to the American governors, that they must restore paper ballots and same-day elections, did not have to be made to the governor of Canada, because the true-north-strong-and-free has always used paper ballots. Apart from making fraud easy to demonstrate and prove (by consulting watermarks, &c), this reduces the cost of an election to a small fraction of what it will be when expensive machinery and elaborate rules are introduced to manufacture a result.

The American Democrats have flourished by such cheating, but also, like Canada’s NDP-Liberals, they have benefitted from shameless misrepresentation of the facts of life to low-intelligence electorates. The “Conservatives” and “Republicans” do this reciprocally, too, but in support of progressive views, one must become a pathological liar.

Sixty years ago, today, Canada received her new flag, the so-called “Pearson Pennant”; and I do not remember it because my family were settled in Asia at the time. Of course, being Canuckistanis, my father and I had produced several proposed draft versions in various hues and patterns, not all of which included the brand identifier: a Norway maple leaf, in Pantone matching colour 032. Norway maples grow only in a few parts of the country; but so does any tree, for we have much surplus geography. My preference would have been for a beaver, the original Canadian lumberjack.

I missed the premiere, in which the winning entry was displayed: a superior example of monochromatic graphic art from the Liberal Party’s advertising agency. Several greeted it by singing the “Internationale.” (Was Pearson a Communist?) But I read about this controversial event only later, on the front page of the Montreal Star, when it arrived by sea.

The best part was when the Liberal minions tried to hoist their new banner in the Senate Chamber, over the objection of partisans of our traditional Ensign, with Union Jack next the flagpole in the canton. Some members of Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition had come prepared for a rumble. It was a fine brawl, such as we seldom get to enjoy except during hockey games. But it was the last scrap of British North America, torn from its mast, and a preview of the fifty-first state.

It is also the sixtieth anniversary of Lament for a Nation, by the metaphysical Tory, George Grant.

Alexander Hamilton argued at the Constitutional Convention of 1787 that the U.S. president should be elected for life, which would make him, in effect, the King. I’ve often found Hamilton’s political judgement to be very wise, although his personal judgement was sometimes rather weak, for instance when he agreed to duel with that “profligate and voluptuary,” Aaron Burr.

Mr Hamilton was the first American Secretary of the Treasury, and the last successful one.

Without entering overmuch into details, I am an enthusiastic monarchist, and see it as the solution to many little problems; that, and an appointive legislature. I think this would appeal to that sizeable majority of Americans who approve Mr Trump’s policies, on immigration and everything else, and might also assuage the minority of voters who worry what might happen if he were ever deposed. For with democratic practices, the future is always unsound.

Immediately we have the lovely Queen Melania, and a very plausible, impressively tall heir in Prince Barron, together with an extensive royal family. But more to the point, Canada and Greenland could join this American Union uncontroversially, together with other entities including Panama and Gaza, for our own various monarchical traditions (British, Danish, Spanish) could be easily revised.

Mr (surely, Lord?) Vance would make an excellent Prime Minister — a job he already has de facto — and any one of Mr (surely, Lord?) Elon’s youthful staff could be given the Treasury to mind, assuming the rocket-man himself wouldn’t have time.

I think this is a more practical alternative than any that has been suggested, and I make it out of my home and native love, on Saint Valentine’s Day.

The most consequential act the new Trump administration has brought upon the American Republic, is its (declared) war on secrets. After several weeks we see that this extends beyond free public enquiry into the Kennedy assassination, the killings of Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert Kennedy, Sr., the 9/11 incidents, UFOs, the Batflu origins, and the Jeffrey Epstein client list. Much ugliness will likely be released for each of these tabloid stories, and I say this not with any special knowledge but by observing how tightly the secrets have been held. (Investigations into assassination attempts on Donald Trump himself will also prove interesting.)

But the inspections by Mr Elon Musk of more recent secrets, with his clever young cybernetic accomplices and their latest algorithms, is already bringing us so much truth. The reader who has made himself aware of only the USAID payments will understand what may, or rather will, be revealed as the Musketeers survey the remaining ninety-nine-one-hundredths of the U.S. government, with not only presidential but majority congressional approval.

That the Democrats, and their allied “uniparty” Republicans, are appalled — shrieking bloody murder in defence of secrecy, corruption, fraud, deceit, and abuse — is part of the common instruction. I have long supposed the Devil’s “fan base” is to be found overwhelmingly on the political Left. The cause is obvious: they are the godless parties.

One bites oneself, for this is a dream come true. … “DEI, die, die.” … Let us recite the Prayer of Saint Michael, the way we imagine that good Catholic, Tom Homan, is doing this morning.

Deafening hype is coming from both sides (there are only two) of American politics at the moment. I find it hard to think of any other topic, even though I long for quietude and inner peace. Given my preference for peace over war, freedom over slavery, and strength over ignorance (some subtleties are being concealed here) — and, more generally, for good over evil — the reader will understand that I have associated with the “Far Right” of the current political spectrum. I take a reactionary and controversial position.

There is considerable confusion, however, of just the sort that the Party was trying to bestow upon the public in Nineteen Eighty-Four. I realize this at every demonstration of what we call “Trump Derangement Sydrome,” and now “Musk Derangement” and many related syndromes. Our (mildly) right-wing politicians tend to argue vaguely for free-tradism, are sensitive to minor points of liberty, and recall supposed religious traditions. Almost all are mediocrities. For these reasons, they are frequently smeared as “fascists” by their opponents. They share nothing with the actual fascists, however.

These fascists, and national socialists, and communists, have and had approximately interchangeable policies, along with a propensity to savagery, violence, murderous rage, and oppression. They are (and were) idealists, in other words, obeying charismatics (i.e. crazy fanatics).

Mao, Stalin, and Hitler slaughtered millions, in that statistical order. Each was hero-worshipped by the left, in his season, and Mao Tse-Tung is still on the PRC banknotes. Queen Elizabeth II is still on Canadian banknotes, yet wasn’t charismatic in that kind.

Like many another, my introduction to the “intellectual” life came with the purchase of a “beuk.” It was not my introduction to reading, per se, for I had learnt all about this, almost involuntarily, at the age of three. (I can date this because it was when my sister was born, my mama almost “doyed,” and I was left for several weeks in the charge of a babysitter whom I despised, and a Pookie beuk. My attempts to read it began, positively, from my typographical delight with the letter “g,” which resembled a pair of spectacles hung vertically from their side. Negatively, it began with my clever tactic, to escape the attention of this nanny, by concealing myself behind this beuk, which had large pages. I had the other twenty-five letters down in no time. Soon I discovered that reading was a means to be left alone, by everybody.

I had years of reading “for pleasure,” which led from Pookie through Kipling to other story-tellers, and I was able to avoid what was given me to read, for “education.” But I was not reading, nor thinking, philosophically.

This I attribute to Mr Huntington Cairns, and Miss Edith Hamilton, and the others who assembled the edition of Plato, in English, for the Bollingen Foundation. It was a thick, wide book (the text is 25 picas), with nearly 1,800 pages of thin paper, whose physical design commanded, “Care for me.”

All of my knowledge of things, or more precisely, of what I know I don’t know, began there and continued in beuks — to Aristotle, quite naturally, and then to Aristotle’s brilliant exponent, Thomas Aquinas, and thus from paganism to the Catholic religion. But all of this was continued at leisure, which is to say, it took a long time. I was twenty-two before I discovered Christ, the real person, or rather He discovered me. But all of this began, I think, with Plato and typography.

The recovery of the West may proceed in the same way — aesthetically, and then philosophically — and then, eventually, we may find that we have been rediscovered, by Christ. Deus vult!

____________

POSTSCRIPTUM. — You see, this was the first of many gifts from my wee little sister. By dawdling in the maternity ward, and delaying my mama, she made it possible for me to learn the alphabet; and this would prove (on balance) useful in later life. Though as you may have noticed, passim, I do not think literacy an unambiguous blessing.

It wasn’t really necessary to give Elon Musk a job recommending savings to the U.S. government. For he has a job already, or at least some $56 billion of personal income via “SpaceX,” formerly incorporated in Delaware. (“Meta” and various other corporations have also fled that state.) While Mr Musk is piling up his, and his shareholders’, winnings in the new space age, he shouldn’t waste his time unknitting the American bureaucracy (as “Doge,” named presumably after the Chief Magistrate of Venice). He is doing this charitably, apparently for free.

By simply cancelling all of the one-fifth of the American budget that is already identified as “discretionary” spending, the deficit could be eliminated immediately; and as 100 percent of this spending is essentially corrupt, there would be no need for regret. (Canadian spending is much more nebulous, even than American, so this would be incalculable up here.) Of course this is not real money, but electronic play money, that could not possibly be exchanged for gold, silver, platinum, or coal to keep us warm through the winter.

A more suitable financial topic for this morning, in the Canadian news, is “Trump tariffs.” (He is settling the score for decades of smug, Canadian abuse of American generosity.) I mentioned in a previous post that his intention is, incidentally, to destroy our government, and implied that this would be a good thing. The Canadian government is cooperating, by counter-tariffing, and the voters, especially in Ontario, are confirming their reputation as malicious idiots. I could explain how the trade war they are demanding will accomplish Trump’s end, by accelerating the tailspin of the Canadian economy (“drill baby drill”) — but why throw pearls before swine?

My advocacy of potholes goes back at least half a century, to jeepney-riding in the remote Philippines. The vehicle was bouncing around wildly, and my companion of that moment complained about the construction of Philippine roads. I, however, recommended them, because if they weren’t so uneven, our driver would be trying to go much faster. Our lives were already in as much danger as we could wish.

Asphalt had been invented a hundred years before that, by some Belgian, and I’m sure that road has now been asphalt-covered as part of the progress of the “tiger economies.” Rather foolishly, if they have retained any jeepneys. Indeed, the number of fatal road accidents that may be blamed on this Belgian inventor (his name was “de Smedt”) has possibly exceeded even the number who perished of disease, as the result of banning DDT (credit “Rachel Carson”). But the modern takes such cold-blooded slaughter in his stride.

Travelling, today, on foot along the back lanes of Toronto, I am often appalled by the waste of paving materials, even where human life may not be endangered. I watch armies of workmen lay down smooth asphalt in these narrow passageways, and then, because the elimination of pedestrians by speeding vehicles in tight spaces would be inconvenient to automotive traffic, the workers go back to install “speed bumps” at regular intervals to slow traffic down. They also like to place them across residential streets in the more affluent neighbourhoods. This method of “traffic calming” is second only to the insertion of bicycle lanes along major freeways.

But I am most offended by the replacement of the quite serviceable, free potholes by expensive speed bumps. The multiplication and spread of potholes is, after all, a requirement of civilized life, as one may determine by inspecting any depiction of an ancient road in art.

Now that we are in the “age of science” (i.e. scientism), we are harassed by its many “health experts.” Or rather, this is the “advertising age,” and it only appears to be medically obsessed. The advertisements can sometimes be muted, by turning off the Internet, and choosing one’s walks carefully; except there is an “Internet of things.” The “advertising industry” — a voracious evil — has bought up most of the viewing angles, indoors and outdoors; and those which are exceptionally attractive are used as a lure.

“I think that I shall never see,” — my papa used to quote Bennett Alfred Cerf — “a billboard pretty as a tree. Perhaps if billboards do not fall, I shall not see a tree at all.”

Given the worthlessness of most commercially available products, the advertisers of them must still leave a fragment of our attention to what is uncommercial, in order to catch our attention with constant interruptions. Mindfulness to what is good, true, or beautiful, is invaded by their audio and video noise, using the various techniques of attention-grabbing.

With each passing year, the governments’ share of this advertising increases. Each government warns us against more and more things, ranging from the obvious to the imaginary. This reduplicates the noise.

Truly, every bureaucracy, both public and private, is staffed with snake-oil salesmen, and their administrative staff.