A brief public service announcement about information, illusion, and the occasional goose.
“Breaking News! We interrupt our regular broadcast with another manipulative editorial disguised as information …”
Free speech is one of the most celebrated principles of modern democratic society. In the United States, the First Amendment to the United States Constitution is often invoked as a kind of civic talisman—proof that the government cannot interfere with public debate. The idea is intentionally simple, elegant, and deeply reassuring. Citizens speak. Ideas compete. Truth eventually rises to the surface.
That is the theory. Money in the bank.
Reality, as usual as the usual suspects, arrives wearing stranger clothes—and sometimes even no clothes at all.
Some will have us believe that we are living in interesting times … or troubling times … or add-your-own-anxiety-label times. To me, these are unsettling times.
There is something unsettling about the present moral climate, and it has little to do with any single cause, country, or conflict. It has more to do with how morality itself seems to operate—how it circulates, how it authorizes and sanctions speech, how it decides when outrage is urgent and when silence is acceptable or unacceptable. There is a rush to define, categorize and label us by our choice on the menu of morality.
So, the question I keep returning to is a simple one: what else is morality doing now?
Authority is usually most anxious when it has to ask where authority comes from.
I was reading the Gospel of Matthew this week—somewhere around the stretch where authority is questioned and hypocrisy is named without much ceremony. There is a moment where Jesus is asked, rather pointedly, “By what authority are you doing these things?” It is a familiar question. Not theological, really. Institutional. Radical, perhaps, but not reckless.
The assumption behind it is simple enough: authority must come from somewhere recognizable. It must be granted, verified, stamped, and preferably issued by people who already have it—so they say, whoever they are. Otherwise, what you are doing may be interesting, even provocative, but it cannot be taken seriously—especially by those whose authority has been safely invested in themselves. The usual suspects, who most certainly have died and left themselves to be boss.
There is rarely a meeting point between my Loitering Words persona and that of my ELT Vista self. The former writes with a chipped tooth, a leather vest, a jester motif, and a sly-eyed grin; the latter wears a blazer, or sometimes a black tie. Nonetheless, in this article— which may end up as a podcast, a rant, a performance, or a plea—I intend to bring both to the table, not to find a middle ground, but to come at you with both barrels blazing.
I write this post fully aware that slowly but surely, attempts will be made to shut me up. It is what always happens whenever someone challenges the gatekeepers’ favorite myth: that censorship is care and confiscation is a form of moral hygiene.
Today’s contention is the recent Australian ban on social media for children under sixteen—you know those post pubescent, randy teens, easy pickings and already labeled a “lost generation” by the vegemighty powers that be. The answer is always to take something away when you cannot control the message. No need for innovation, imagination, or investment. Just take. The political equivalent of grounding a teenager because you do not know what else to do. Take. Take. Take. Offer nothing in return … It’s the same old story.
There’s a strange kind of wisdom that sometimes falls from the lips of fools. Polonius, that verbose courtier from Hamlet, is a prime example. For all his meddling and pomp, he delivers one of the most memorable lines in Shakespeare’s canon: “To thine own self be true.” The irony, of course, is that the man who says it is anything but. Yet the line endures. It endures because, like so much in life, truth is not always delivered by the most trustworthy messengers.
That’s not a bug in the system—it’s a feature. Truth, especially the kind that touches us, doesn’t depend on the purity of its source. In fact, one of the most useful critical thinking habits we can cultivate is separating message from messenger. The wisdom of Polonius isn’t invalidated by his hypocrisy. It’s sharpened by it.
This paradox is especially relevant for teachers—language teachers in particular—who often find themselves navigating between their ideals and the realities of institutional roles, global hierarchies, and personal insecurities. The classroom is part stage, part sanctuary, and the person standing at the front is never just a grammar technician. They are performer, guide, cultural ambassador, disciplinarian, nurturer, and occasionally, reluctant bureaucrat. However, how does one stay true to oneself amid all these shifting roles?
One answer lies in embracing the absurd. Enter the Dadaists.
My Fellow Americans, I’ll begin with the upshot. Let me make one thing perfectly clear. At the end of the day, we are all human, and I pray to God that love will find a way.
I spent most of yesterday, July 13th, 2024, working on my next novel and writing a chapter about the history of a possible future civil war in the United States of America, especially it’s effect on Florida. Of course, it is hypothetical and just conjecture. However, like my other writings, it is mostly based on true events. That is the nature of fiction, but also poetic license and freedom of speech.
While writing my first novel, O Little Central Florida Town of Bedlam, reality seemed to mimic some of the chaotic scenarios in my book. It should have come as no surprise then when shortly after my completing a first draft of the preface for my follow-up novel, Tricksters, Crackers, and Gods (Roy and Judd’s Inferno and Florida Odyssey), coincidence left its calling card again. The original unpublished preface, eventually shortened from 6 to 2 pages, touched on a trip in my youth to the West Coast of Florida, specifically to Naples and Sanibel Island. Around the time I began to begrudgingly edit the piece, Hurricane Ian—the deadliest such storm to wallop the state of Florida since the 1935 Labor Day hurricane—began to form and take aim at the same areas.
I look at some of the pictures of the horrific devastation the storm produced and they give me pause to reflect on the chaos in my own life. You see, for the past 2 years I’ve been homeless. In fact, this next novel was written in one country, edited in another, and finalized and published in yet another. And, in that span of time I went from Greece to the UK, back to Greece, back to the UK, and then finally bottoming out back in the USA, where I was born. Rebuilding is the name of the game, both in respect to myself and the victims of Hurricane Ian. Speaking personally about my own Odyssey, I’m thankful I’m alive and still have the energy to complete this project despite the continuing fallout of my own crisis … but back to the preface of my novel.
Clearly it was too long in its original state, because the publishing mavens balk at a preface that exceeds 2 pages, so like George Washington’s cherry tree, I chopped it down, figuring I would publish it in full here as a lead into the release of the novel. Here it is in its full verbose, stream-of-consciousness glory:
Climate Riot: Absurd Short Stories of Climate Crisis and Social Chaos.
While climate change is no laughing matter, the human condition, especially as a trigger for global warming, is ripe for lampooning with psycho-social satire. Set in Florida, ground zero for climate crisis, this angsty collection of seven short stories—and a preface, too—infuses absurd satire and dark humor into postmodern, cautionary tales of horror, science-fiction, fantasy, and social dysfunction.
A tropical storm of social and climate crisis which touches on the ludicrous, representing small-town eccentricity and featuring a whirlwind of mutating humans, manatees, iguanas, and enlightened cows, as well as hurricanes, genetically-modified corn, weeds gone wild, methane gas, nuclear power plants, Humpty Dumpty, government ineptitude, and a few Florida crackers, rednecks, and hicks. Also featuring my character, Judd Jugmonger, who not only is in the final story, but also plays a large role in the future 2nd novel.
At times, it seems as if the whole world has become one giant furry-esque Disneyland. Denial is rampant and “turn the other cheek” often means looking the other way. The Internet is crawling with the failed, offering their poor experience as “life coaches” and hawking clichés they have gotten out of a one-dollar book of quotes. Why? Because the Internet is also filled with desperate dreamers—and all the snake-oil-selling sharks can smell blood in the water.
Today, professionalism, experience, initiative, productivity, and creativity mean very little in a dehumanized business climate that more so values the bottom line, politics, or follow-me aesthetics.
‘Twas the yawn before the holiday; you know of which I speak. Not a punter was shopping, not even a post-Black-Friday peep. The billboards were bright-shining on the streets below that glared, In hope that no infrastructure would ever be spared. The doomsayers were glued to the latest i-dreads, While visions of paranoia droned in their heads. And a cat with no whiskers, and I with my crap, Had just drank our brains out, and man we were zapped!
Another holiday season is upon us, bringing us its bounty of reminders of what’s important in life … and what’s not. And so, I would like to take a moment to offer up my less-than-humble thanks from the gutter of life. I am thankful for Donald J. Trump; it’s good to have a recognizable face to go with the definition of sub-human. Of course, his pockets are deep enough to buy my love, if he really, really, wanted to—and I could really, really use the money, right now—since, as Jim Morrison said, “Money beats soul, every time.”
Deeply lost in the woods in the unsettling comfort of your grasp. The misunderstood remain elusive, purposely so … and, there but before ego, grace falls in serpentine gasps.
The window will turn seasons again in a few moments. Stay tuned—the show is about to begin! A cast of characters scatter the dreams, laid out like serpents.
“I am Anarcho-Instamatic! (Hail to the populist regime!) I am your law and disorder. Holy crypto-manic libertine!”
And with that absurd battle cry, my band, the Transmystic Blues Sniffers, released our long-awaited debut album, Seeds and Stems. The album is currently available digitally on music platforms like Spotify, YouTube Music, Bandcamp, Apple Music, and Amazon Music. See the links below to hear or purchase the album. Call your local radio station and demand the DJs to play it—yes, I said demand because civil disobedience demands nothing less!
Now, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who knows me that when I’m not writing poetry, prose and novels, I’m writing songs. In fact, my writing exploits really began with my writing music and lyrics, which to be honest, I had hoped other bands might cover one day. Life, however, has taken me down some strange paths—including this one with my bandmates, which I am very happy to have been on as they are also my dear friends.
As far as the album goes, there’s much to be said about hit and run art. “Leave the beholders stunned and confused,” I say. By the time they figure out what the absurd lyrics “Long live the leftist Hitler Youth” and “DEFCON: Defecation!” really mean, I’ll be long gone. In truth, I wanted to produce this album two years ago, but (as it always happens) life gets in the way. Now that it has finally been released, I am leaving Greece, my home, for better or for worse, for the last twenty-five years. It’s a shame that due to the coronavirus we won’t be able to perform the album live, but as they say, “that’s showbiz, kids.” I hope the band survives my departure one way or another because we are all friends and play-well with each other. Also, we have a lot of good music we have yet to record officially. Nevertheless, greener experiential pastures, new creative collaborations, regeneration, and even love await.
Jay Leonard Schwartz – O Little Central Florida Town Of Bedlam – @Jschwartz63
NOTE: The following is a transcript of the second part of a self-interview with Jay Leonard Schwartz, author of O Little Central Florida Town Of Bedlam. The interview is taken from a podcast to be released in the near future. The author—that’s me—discusses his new novel and its development. The first part of the interview can be found by clicking here:
Jay: OK, so now let’s move on and talk a bit about the process of your writing the novel. You said before that the book didn’t start out as a novel. Is that right?
Jay: Yes, as I mentioned, I began this book mainly as a writing experiment. Ultimately, it took on a life of its own as a novel—which was a pleasant surprise to me, to say the least, considering how it all began as sort of a bit of therapy.
Jay: Therapy? How so?
Jay: Initially, I began writing because I was recovering from an intestinal bug and became bored with an academic project I had originally started. Later, I returned to this material as a distraction from the local coronavirus-related lockdown. It’s often said that laughter is the best medicine—and I can ceertainly attest to having much fun writing this work.
NOTE: The following is a transcript of a self-interview with Jay Leonard Schwartz, author of O Little Central Florida Town Of Bedlam. The interview is taken from a podcast to be released in the near future. The author—that’s me—discusses his new novel and its development.
Jay: Hello and welcome to this podcast that champions independent authors of absurd fiction and non-fiction, as well as works of satire and dark humor. Also discussed are their creative approaches to writing, be they process or product in nature. Today, we have with us writer, musician, filmmaker and self-confessed Dadaist at large, Jay Leonard Schwartz, author of the absurd and social-satire novel, O Little Central Florida Town Of Bedlam. Jay, welcome to the show!
Jay: Thank you, Jay. I appreciate my being here. I’d just like to say that it’s really nice of me to have myself here, today.
Jay: So, Jay, what is this book about?
Jay: That’s a good question, Jay. You know, I always find that it’s much easier for me to write or develop a project, even a novel in this case, than summarize it in fifty words or less. Basically, however, the novel is the absurd saga of a soggy little Florida town in crisis. The town’s inane history is marred by natural disaster, social dysfunction and bureaucratic ineptitude. As a result, the quirky and eccentric locals of this quagmire of civil strife are forced to live with chronic flooding, political apathy, and societal decay—and eventually fight for their very existence when suddenly threatened by a cosmic collision of political corruption, vindictive weather patterns and supernatural forces.
It’s a shame that all relevance is lost
in the to-each-his-own,
taking for granted the lost-in-translation
and the solipsistic lies we tell ourselves.
And in a world desperate for a unified sense of belonging,
we stand alone and wax indifferent about love. Continue reading →
Oh, children! Where are you marching off to today?
Oh, children! Where are you stomping off to today?
Are you going down to St. James Infirmary?
– (No, Lord, I’m staying home today.)
Will you go down to Maggie’s Farm?
– (No Ma, I’m staying put today.)
Let me tell you ’bout social editing
in the new math of justifying
the survival of the populist regime.
One soul dying … but it’s only one.
Ten souls dying … but not in my home.
A hundred souls dying …
– (Well, they were already gone.)
A thousand souls dying …
– (Didn’t know ’em. Save the other ones!)
Ten thousand souls dying …
– (Not in my constituency. Come on!)
A hundred thousand souls dying …
– (Gotta keep moving on …)
A million souls dying …
And it goes on and on … Continue reading →
You think you know – You’re not clever
You think you know – You’re not clever
You think you know – You’re not clever
You think you know – You’re not clever
Sittin’ in the middle of your own paranoia
cause you ain’t got nothin’ to do.
Countin’ all the reasons for the change of the seasons
cause your window’s got a poor point of view.
Test your diagnosis in your clinical neurosis
and hypothesize your self-validity.
Politicize and ostracize the obviously
justified and label it impartiality. Continue reading →
What we’ve known will always be,
even when we choose to forget.
It’s not about the silent distance
or the march of balanced offset.
The hour approaches
… and the dawn grows dark
…. and the eyes remain unspoken.
The “in a minute” lingers
… as the flame runs from the spark,
…. and the woke sip the lethargy of the moment. Continue reading →
The demands of others are paramount …
Relentless, they are – in sickness and in health.
Unyielding in their vying for your attention.
Be warned …
Yes! Yes! A story!
A story of infinite glory!
Have you ever met a spineless wonder?
How about a spec of thunder?
“To each his own”, says the needy,
mainly to brave the trickling pity.
But wait for the punchline; it will come in time. Continue reading →
Loitering Words 