Welp, last week was truly satisfying for the news-addicted. First there was massive rescue mission for the tiny lost Titan submarine with all the networks worldwide speculating about how many hours of air remained for the handful of gazilionnaire tourists trying to see the Titanic wreck. The newscasters seemed almost disappointed when it was revealed that the thing imploded instantaneously about the same time the “mother” ship lost touch days before.
Then that was knocked out of the headlines by a coup in Russia that was the quickest one I’ve ever read about that didn’t fail—its organizers lined up against a brick wall and shot. I mean, Yevgeny Prigozhin, and his Wagner Group mercenaries were half-way to Moscow and then just ran away like what Elmer Fudd would call cowawdwy wabbits? What’s up with that?
The whole thing was so weird that a friend of mine speculated that Prigozhin like Buggs Bunny never meant to take over the country, but to… To do what? Create a fake scandal and draw the Ukrainians into attacking before they were ready at which point an ACME anvil would fall on their heads? To get more support for his troops that didn’t arrive in the form of friendly fire?
One writer called the effort catastrophically successful, as in, Mr. Prigozhin really did intend to take power but when he succeeded so easily and got so far he lost his nerve when he saw the walls of the citadel shake, maybe even threaten to fall. Or equally likely, he got a call saying there were guns pointed at his family’s heads. In any case he agreed to go into exile in Belarus.
Even that’s an odd ending. The head of Belarus is a pal of Putin and not exactly a welcoming host, so it’s not like Prigozhin could sleep well at night in that unneutral country.
Anyway, after calling Prigozhin a traitor and demanding his head (preferably detached from his body), Putin is back to being less than murderous, because Russian has so many fingers in the pies of Mali and the Central African Republic that they need Prigozhin and his Wagner group. How will arms get delivered without them? Who will provide “Russian instructors” and disappear troublesome natives? Not to mention, who will fight in Ukraine? I get the impression that Russia would have had to slink home ages ago without Wagner boots on the ground.
I only hope the Ukrainians at least benefit as Sauron looks in the other direction, grappling with the trouble at the gate. Even if it isn’t the elves and humans and dwarfs that are there, but just more orcs.
Meanwhile, my own life goes on like the horse, like the dog, like the kid in Auden’s poem Musée des Beaux Arts.
I’m sure you know it. About the painting of Icarus in which there are momentous events happening but the rest of the world is going about its business, not exactly indifferently, it’s just that their interests are in another sphere. The torturer’s horse rubbing his ass against his tree is solving a problem of an itch. The boat passing Icarus’ disappearing legs has somewhere to get to. Nothing ever stops. And so I eat and clean and shop and write while not so far away the graves fill up and countries shake.
Wednesday, solstice, and the longest day of the year, when there is always a massive music festival in France, I decided to go out into the city and enjoy what I could. All the public spaces offer carefully curated events, but every street corner, too, is an opportunity for local musicians to install themselves and contribute to the general din.
I saw on a schedule that Saint-Eustache had music all day, and in the afternoon caught a pretty good classical trio that I think were students. And after they ended, I walked around for a snack at a bakery where I remembered they had excellent little buns. I still have dreams of one seeded with blue cheese and walnuts, though this time all they had left was bacon and gruyere.
Back at Saint Eustache a remarkable soloist played her violin. I listened for a while, but instead of staying for a concert featuring the fabulous organ—which I adore, I decided I was more in the mood to walk or bike part way home and see what I found en route.
Not far from the Pompidou Museum, there was a Chinese gentleman perched on a stool sawing away at a skinny stringed instrument. I listened while choosing a city bike from the stand nearby, but then he started to sing. And time stopped.
I’ve rarely heard a voice so pure, so sweet. And I stood there transfixed until he finished that song, and picked up a little wooden flute.
I wonder who he was, this guy who wasn’t on anybody’s schedule, didn’t even seem to have a container out for tips. Just blessed us with song on a day when the sole guiding principle was joy.
An Interesting Read
That’s it for this time.
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Disgruntedly yours,
xoxo K