New year sky

Welcome to 2025. After I got my neighbor to Dulles in the pre-dawn, here’s the sky that greeted me on my walk.

I’ll take it.

 

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

 

Once more unto the breach

Well, folks, here we are; a quarter of the way into the 21^st Century. A few kinetic wars; a lot of cyber wars; various heated border disputes and humanitarian crises. Plus a new administration fixing to take over the reins of the greatest power on Earth.

Look—most of us can’t do much to directly affect the above, but we can change the world one kindness at a time. We can make someone’s day nicer or less crappy, and usually at no palpable cost to ourselves.

I’m not handing out advice to anyone else here. Just using the editorial “we” to remind myself that I—like everyone—have the superpower of empathy, and I can use it for good.

See how long I make it into 2025 with this one.

 

©2025 Bas Bleu

Burn up the old, ring in the new

NGL—I am big happy to see 2024 in my rearview mirror. If any year deserves to be yeeted into the sun, this was it. If it weren’t for highly valid misgivings about 2025, that would be the end of it, but here we are.

Still—I’ve got a couple of things I can work on, like getting better at yoga and photography. And writing more. And being more alert to opportunities to be a better friend. Political shenanigans shouldn’t interfere too much with those goals.

So I’ll do my usual end-of-year ritual tonight: burning El Año Viejo and washing it down with a glass of champagne. Then I’ll launch el Año Nuevo by taking my neighbor to the airport at 0600 and then going for a walk.

Here are a couple of the folks I met on my morning walks this month. I hope I see more of them in 2025.

And have the best 2025 you can.

 

 

©2024 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: well, okay

Final Gratitude Monday of 2024. Yeahhhhhh, um…

Let me preface this by saying it was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year that sucked the big one, on both macro and micro levels. I seriously do not know when there was more fuckery in a US election than the one we held this year; the outcome was generally in line with the fuckery and I am not sanguine about the next four years. I lived through (most of) the Vietnam War, the Nixon administration, Ronald Reagan as both governor of California and president, the civil rights and women’s liberation movements, the global riots of ’68, the excesses of the ‘80s, the “war on drugs” and the other one “on terror”, the COVID pandemic and the first regime of the Kleptocrat. I’m a military historian specializing in mass conflicts of the first half of the last century; I still cannot describe what I think may happen after 20 January because the only thing I know is we’re not in Kansas any more.

Moreover, my sister died this month, years before she should have done and from an absolute bastard of a disease that is apparently not as important to fight as the global scourge of erectile dysfunction. It’s all I can do to refrain from howling at the moon ever night in grief and rage.

That said, there is always gratitude.

First of all, for Penny’s life, for all the wisdom and skills with which she imbued hundreds of students over her nearly four decades teaching the hearing impaired. For her unerring ability to play whatever hand she was dealt in the moment as best she could, without overthinking or wallowing in regrets. For her curiosity and her core of steel that took her so many places and got her through so many things that would have left others moaning about victimhood. For her ability to be happy and to share that happiness with everyone around her. For just not hearing people when they told her something was beyond her ability. And for not caring what they might think of her when she tried it.

Best big sister I could ever have had.

I give thanks, too, for the campaign of Kamala Harris and Tim Walz. They picked up some crappy cards really late in the game, and they played them with passion and finesse. They showed us what w might have had, if so many of us could just have got over their outrage about that first non-White president, or past their refusal to envision a woman holding that office. A competent, compassionate, experienced woman with a track record of accomplishment, teaming with the most dad-joking running mate we’ve ever had—also with experience, temperance and a good heart. Watching them campaign was a blessing; they filled so many with hope and joy. That lies, fears and grievance triumphed is not down to them. I’m sorry that it turned out that way, but am grateful we had those brief, shining moments.

I’m thankful that I was able to help several of my friends out this year. Getting laid off under any circumstances tends to make you feel useless and without value. Being able to prepare two friends for the experience of knee replacement surgery, to share my coping mechanisms and fill them in on some things the surgeons don’t think to tell you—that felt good. Looking after my neighbors’ plants while they were in Turkey was another way to be a friend. (NGL—I was not wild about Das Auto. That car hates me.) Being an accountability partner, being the first call when a friend has an opportunity or has been gut-punched with a setback—that gives me purpose.

I give heartfelt thanks for the life of Jimmy Carter, possibly the most decent man to ever hold the office of president. Following his single term, he and his wife Rosalyn showed the world what was best about the United States. We’ll need to hold on to that memory during the upcoming years. I’m also grateful that he is once again reunited with Rosalyn.

I’m grateful that—if I’m going to be “retired”—I somehow managed to save and invest enough so that my financial adviser assures me I shall not have to live my remaining years in a refrigerator carton under a freeway overpass. That’s largely due to TIAA, which managed the 403(b) retirement plan offered by the non-profit organization I joined in 2015. Their representatives patiently bit my ankles until I located all the 401(k) plans from all my previous employers, and then got them all rolled into my TIAA portfolio. They also patiently explained all the possibilities to me and worked with me to build a program that I was comfortable with. And by “patiently explained”, I mean—they got out the single-syllable words and sock puppets. Remember—I’m the one (with degrees from Scripps College and The College of William & Mary in Virginia) who only last month came across almost 200 shares of stock in a Fortune 50 company that I’d, uh, well—kinda overlooked. For 14 years. I am so lucky to be able to work with this team, and I know it.

I’m grateful that I bought my house when I did and refinanced it when I did, because I don’t see how a retired person could get a mortgage these days. I’m fully aware that millions in this country alone don’t have this kind of security; I do not take it for granted.

I give thanks to my yoga instructor, who’s been teaching me for more than four years. If it weren’t for yoga, I know my recovery from two knee replacements wouldn’t have been as smooth.

I’m grateful for friends across the country and around the world. They keep me honest and build my strength. When they make me laugh, it’s the best thing ever. And I’m thankful for friends who are no longer physically here. I’m better for having had them in my life and for carrying them with me.

I’m grateful for my younger sister, who’s always been the smartest one in the family. I have so much to learn from her.

Being healthy is always a cause for thanks. When you’ve been immobilized by pain, you don’t take simply going up and down stairs for granted. I had some issues in Spring, but have really been heartened by my recovery. Again: yoga.

I give thanks for the Fairfax County Public Library. Especially in the current climate of know-nothing campaigns to ban books and clamp down on people’s access to ideas, possibilities, knowledge and entertainment, FCPL has held the line. There was a time when I’d never even have thought about this, but not now. Yay, librarians!

I’m deeply grateful for the people who work in the food supply chain—planting and harvesting crops, staffing meat packing plants, transporting food to our markets. I fear for many of them in the coming months, and for the bedlam when those who voted for mass deportations discover what was actually on the ballot. Not at all sorry for those idiots, but I wish the workers the dignity their work should bring and the safety that all who live in this country deserve.

I am heartened by the fall of the regime of Bashir al-Assad in Syria. In addition to at least some hope for the Syrian people, it totally screws up Putin’s playbook and messes with his ability to deploy forces in that part of the world. I’m not unaware that there are rough days ahead and that this could go south in some infinite number of ways. But still—like the 10,000 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean, it’s a start.

I’m even grateful for those merry folks at the Social Security Administration. Because after they notified me that I had to prove once again that my income is not now currently what it was last year, when I was employed (after having done so in <checks notes> February), once I got them the documents, it only took them two weeks to correct the situation. I’m really glad that I got this taken care of before the Kleptocrat and his DOGEbro pals start taking an industrial scythe to the federal workforce next month.

You know what—there’s more, but I’m going to stop here. Turns out this year had some good spots; that ain’t nothing.

©2024 Bas Bleu

 

On the Silk Road

I’m thinking that—given the events of this year, and of course the seasonal frenzy—we all might benefit from something quiet and contemplative.

I had a restorative yoga session on Monday, and it was really helpful. For all those who missed it, here’s Kitaro, with a cut from his Best of Silk Road album, “Taklamakan Desert”. Let him take you away.

 

©2024 Bas Bleu

Time for a reboot?

I’ve been thinking, over the past month, about the Christmas narrative. About how the Almighty decides to make his presence manifest in human form…and chooses a peasant girl at the end of the world as the woman to impregnate for this purpose.

I mean—the chroniclers (all male) are primarily Jews, so I guess they’d set the story in their region. Okay, fine. But Judea was hardly the center of the universe for anyone; it was always the edge of empires—Assyrian, Babylonian, Egyptian and now Roman. Why wouldn’t the purported son of God be born in Rome, or even Alexandria? You know, give him some street cred?

Moreover, not only is Mary a teenager from the back of beyond, married to a carpenter, if you please—in no respect can they be said to be quality folk—but she gives birth in a <checks notes> stable. A place that shelters working animals. A place that has to be mucked out on the regular but still undoubtedly reeks of manure. What kind of pedigree d’ya call this?

Not a speck of bling—at least until the Magi show up. Just straw, oxen and poop. That’s where Christ’s life began, to be shortly followed by the family fleeing persecution to a foreign land, where they sought asylum. I can’t get over this.

And what I can’t get over is how really impossible this story is in the age of the Kleptocrat (the self-confessed germophobe and lover of gold in all its manifestations) and his followers, who purport to worship this Christ, but have so thoroughly bought into the gospel of prosperity that their brains must break if they try to align the arc of the son of God’s origin and life with the notion that “God helps those that help themselves.” They vote for billionaires to run the government because their billions are (to them) a clear sign that God approves of them and completely ignore the notion that a God who chose to have his son born to a Brown couple in a stable in the back-end of empire instead of in a palace must have done so for a reason.

Revisit Jackson Browne’s “The Rebel Jesus”, if you will.

At no time in his 33 years of life did Jesus of Nazareth praise the wealthy or admonish his followers to grow their capital. In fact, the one instance that I can recall in his story of him being pissed all the way off is when he drove the money changers from the temple. We’ve come a long way from that, where a husk of a human being who could not name one Bible verse if you held a gun to his head is praised as a “Christian leader” by people who attend church and actually can recite passages from the Bible. (Although, tbh, their interpretation may be somewhat off.) Where “pastors” of mega churches in $6k suits preach prosperity on weekly broadcasts as the chyron flashes where you can use your credit card to donate. Where followers of Christ—born in a stable and on the run within days—nod in agreement when the billionaires, the husk and the pastors tell them that refugees are “poisoning the blood of the nation” and that to save us, they must be rounded up in their millions and deported. End of.

And I wonder, as we focus in this season on the birth of the Savior in that stable, how these billionaires, the husk and the pastors would rewrite that story to make it make sense in our current reality? What would this birthplace look like—marble floors and gold-plated toilets? Manhattan or Cape Town? World leaders coming to pay fealty live broadcast on CNN and Fox? Maggie Haberman writing the new gospel, complete with commentary on the maternity wardrobe?

And what message will this messiah bring?

 

©2024 Bas Bleu

Happy, joyous, shhh

We’ve got a two-fer today; first in my decade of Advent posts. Because, in addition to being Christmas Day, at sundown Hanukkah starts. So just as the frenzy is winding down in Christian homes around the world, Jewish families are gearing up for kids literally spinning like dreidels.

As I consider the birth of Jesus in a Bethlehem stable, it occurs to me that most of the excitement happened in the night: baby born, shepherds led to the manger by angels, possibly the Eastern kings bringing gifts for the baby. Christmas morning might well have been a recovery period. Quiet. Reflective, even.

There might have been some people peeking in—having heard about all the nighttime visitors, they’d want to have a look at the cause. No doubt they went away, disappointed, because just a man, woman and baby, so what’s up with that? “There’s nowt so queer as folk, eh?”

Anyway, here’s a lullaby, which started in Czechoslovakia; it’s from the perspective of the animals in the stable. They open with, “Little Jesus, sweetly sleep, do not stir, we will lend a coat of fur,” and they promise to rock him gently.

Technically, the animals in the stable—the oxen, the ass, the sheep brought in by the shepherds—they don’t have fur, really. But if there were stable cats—I can see them offering to snuggle up to the baby and purr him to sleep. Even a sheepdog—entirely possible that, with the sheep all corralled, the dog would be off duty and overjoyed to curl up with the infant. I love the image this conjures up in my mind.

Here's Chanticleer singing it.

And then…Tonight marks the first night of Hanukkah, celebrating the rededication of the Second Temple at the time of the Maccabean revolt against the Persians. Hanukkah lasts for eight nights, which is the number of days the lamp oil stayed alight in the temple, when there was only enough for a single day. 

“Happy Joyous Hanukah” was written by Woody Guthrie, and why not? This is a holiday that lends itself to counting, and this song does a whole lot of it. Also, particularly in this year, we need all the light and all the happiness and all the joy we can get.

Here are the Klezmatics performing it. I happen to like folk music and klezmer, and this is a blend of both. (Well, heavier on the folk, but whatevs.)

©2024 Bas Bleu

Alpha es et O

Our Advent pick for today goes back to 14^th Century Germany, by way of one of my all-time favorite collector/composers, Michael Praetorius, with some input from our pal Martin Luther.

The text of “In Dulci Jubilo” is what’s known as macaronic: a mashup of languages, in this case (originally) German and Latin. I don’t know the story, but I like to think it might have been an attempt to either dress up a vulgar (as in, not-posh, not as in risqué) German thing with some high-toned Latin. Or to make something Latin understandable to the masses. Or possibly it was just something resulting from folks hitting the Glühwein and not being able to remember what language they were supposed to be using.

It came down to us via the 19^th Century translation that swaps out the German for English, retaining the Latin. We know it as “Good Christian Men, Rejoice”. (Fun fact: when I was a kid I wondered why all the good Christian women were excluded. Were they out fixing a meal? Or putting the kids to bed? I did not know.) It’s also often sung in such a way as to make me think the choristers have been hitting the Wassail—lotta glissando. It’s also one that I very often hear performed by brass groups. It seems to suit those instruments particularly well.

To give you an idea of the macaronic thing, here are a couple of verses of the German version:

In dulci jubilo
nun singet und seid froh!
Unsers Herzens Wonne
leit in praesepio,
und leuchtet als die Sonne
Matris in gremio,
Alpha es et O, Alpha es et O!

O Jesu parvule
nach dir ist mir so weh!
Tröst mir mein Gemüte,
o puer optime;
durch alle deine güte,
o princeps gloriae
trahe me post te.

Here it is, sung at King's College:

The English version (kind of mid-way between German and “Good Christian Men”) goes:

In dulci jubilo
Now sing with hearts aglow
Our delight and pleasure
Lies in praesepio
Like sunshine is our treasure
Patris in gremio
Alpha es et O
Alpha es et O

O Jesu parvule
For thee I sing always
Comfort my heart’s blindness
O puer optime
With all thy loving kindness
O princeps gloriae
Trahe me post te
Trahe me post te

And, “Good Christian Men, Rejoice”:

Good Christian men, rejoice
With heart and soul and voice!
Give ye heed to what we say
News! News
Jesus Christ is born today!
Ox and ass before Him bow
And He is in the manger now
Christ is born today!
Christ is born today!

Good Christian men, rejoice
With heart and soul and voice
Now ye hear of endless bliss
Joy! Joy!
Jesus Christ was born for this
He hath ope’d the heav’nly door
And man is blessed evermore
Christ was born for this
Christ was born for this

 

 

©2024 Bas Bleu

 

Songs of joy and peace

Not gonna lie—this Christmas is a tough one for me. There’s a great, gaping chasm in my heart for the loss of my sister and I confess I’m largely going through the motions. Badly, actually. Penny had the gift of happiness—she accepted the cards she was dealt and played them with all her heart. That’s a gift I have never possessed, so I’m basically just mucking about.

However, this can be a good season for dealing with loss—if you don’t get wound up in all the festivities, which can’t help but taste off and wear you out. For me, holiday lights and music can take me out of myself.

So I’m grateful for my custom of posting Advent music every December. It makes me seek out and immerse myself in seasonal songs, which is a blessing.

Today’s piece is Joni Mitchell singing “River”. She wrote it while living in LA, where the only thing approaching riparian status is the LA River; it won’t get you anyplace you want to go (certainly not by skating), and Mitchell knew it.

 

©2024 Bas Bleu

 

Scatter the proud

Fourth Sunday in Advent for many Christians is devoted to the Annunciation, which was what got the whole thing rolling, as it were. The Annunciation was when the Archangel Gabriel appeared to Mary and announced that she’d been chosen to bring the Son of God into the world via virgin birth.

(Obvs the Annunciation did not occur during Advent; that would be weird. Weirder than the actual impregnation by the Holy Spirit. It’s just that this is the Sunday when we reference it.)

We only have the (male) Gospel accounts of that event and they pretty much gloss over what must have been quite the awkward conversation. What we’re told is that, upon receiving the announcement (no discussion allowed), Mary replies, basically, “Well, okay. I am the handmaiden of the Lord. Let’s do it.”

A prayer for today is the Magnificat, a canticle sung by Mary. Technically, this takes us to the Visitation (which took place shortly after the Annunciation, thus long before Advent, but is referenced in seasonal readings), but I am not responsible for how this shakes out. “Magnificat” is the opening of how Mary describes her condition to her cousin Elisabeth. “My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.”

There are often discussions about the “magnifying” thing. People talk about magnifying glasses, which I think misses the point. Magnifying glasses make things look bigger; they stay the same size, we’re just experiencing an optical illusion. Mary tells us that she (through her soul) will add to the Lord; amplify him, if you will. Or perhaps she’s saying that she’ll make God manifest, and thus larger in our lives; she’ll actually add to the Lord.

So I think we should have a Magnificat today, and what better than J.S. Bach’s?

©2024 Bas Bleu