I queued this to what I think is a watershed moment in a fascinating discussion, held from being infuriating solely by Peterson keeping his relative cool and eloquence responding to questions hardly befitting a high school student, much less a puffed up professional journo. She carefully tries to lay traps, but is so outmatched they end up clamping on her own fingers and toes. Like lobsters? It’s not that she’s dumb; clearly she isn’t. But she is obviously utterly possessed by ideology.
I have points I’d like to drill down on myself with Peterson, points of real divergence. I first discovered him some years ago now, and have watched his ascension with fascination, and appreciated his support of ideas and feelings with which I broadly sympathize. He has been and appears to be increasingly wrong on certain things. I find little to disagree with here, also sharing his world weariness about the sheer stupidity of the ideologies that seem to hold our cultural elite in zombified thrall. Ideologies that for all their spun candy floss seems to basically boil down to simply: “White (orange) man bad. Brown lady good.”
JP: “Part of the problem in discussions like this, and the reason I think that it indicates ideological possession, is that it becomes so predictable.”
GQ: “But having a coherent ideology means that it is predictable.”
JP: “You don’t need an ideology.”
Exactly! No ideology – not feminist, not nationalist, not antifascist, not even anarchist. Just questions, faith, and reason. Takes courage, intelligence, and care. Many today would seem to rather trade those in for self-righteousness, anger, and resentment.
All of my favorite painters are turning out to be old British mods. It shouldn’t be so surprising, I guess. I like how he talks honestly about what it’s like to really be an artist trying to work at a deeper level, devoid of jargon and political nonsense.
I’ve been thinking about God a lot lately. This isn’t such a novel state of affairs. Although a “serious Zen practitioner” now for decades, I was raised Christian; I continue to marvel at the tenaciousness of these roots in my own psyche, and keep considering its influences on the culture I’m inextricably bound to. After another intense, decade-long deep dive into the floral Mahayana Buddhist universe, I just reread the New Testament for the first time in at least 20 years. As you’d expect, it was by turns challenging and comforting, and so familiar I struggle to believe it’s been that long. Continue reading “God: an Appreciation”
When I was about 13, a friend loaned me a copy of British band the Jam’s definitive (if hardly best) album, In the City. The lyrics may be hard to take seriously as an adult, but the vibe was happening, and it really started some motors for a certain art-school-bound teenage suburban romantic back in the day. I’d been hearing a lot of punk up to then in friends’ rough split-level basements, sort of pretending to like it: Sex Pistols, Stiff Little Fingers, The Clash, Circle Jerks, the lot. Punk already felt ancient and tired to me in 1982, although I don’t know if I could have articulated that then, much less dared say it for fear of drawing the disdain of my relentlessly snobbish punk-cult friends. Honestly, punk mostly sounded like my dad’s rocknroll from the ’50s, just sped up and played badly – which of course it mostly was. It generally sounds better to me today than it did then, and I wish looking back I could have taken more advantage of it to process some well-deserved anger at my parents. More mosh pits might’ve helped. But I’d been exposed to enough real violence. I didn’t need it snottily foregrounded in my art. In college, I got into more melodically post-punk bands like Husker Du, Minutemen, and Fugazi, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Continue reading “Mod Culture: an Appreciation”
My dog Charlie died just before Christmas last year. He was about 15. He’d come down with what we treated as pneumonia, but knew might be congestive heart failure. He was coughing a lot and for a dog that age, it can be one or the other, or both. He had been doing fine, and before he got sick I thought, maybe he’ll make it to 17 or something extraordinary. He didn’t look so old. He didn’t like long walks much anymore, but he’d still have his run-arounds in the yard. That was always his greatest joy, and mine to watch and encourage. I’d half chase him around or just lunge, and he’d take off. Around and around the yard, park, or beach he’d go. We called him Wind Dog, both because he ran like the wind, and ran most when it was windy. He loved wind.