THE DUMBIFICATION OF MINDS

A Loitering Words Essay

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.

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Truth from Fools: Polonius, Dada, and the Teacher’s Path to Authenticity

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.

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The Pumps Don’t Work

Dada Mad Porker

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. 

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Tricksters, Crackers, and Gods

The Unpublished Run-On Preface

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:

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Climate Riot!

Announcing the release of my latest book!

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.

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Let Them Eat Cough Cake

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.

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Twas the Night before Apathy

Dada Krampus -Jay L. Schwartz - @jschwartz63
Dada Krampus

‘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!

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A Special Thanksgiving Message!

Dada Halloween - Jay L. Schwartz @jschwartz63

A Special Thanksgiving Message! 🦃

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.”

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