Fragile Industries

The Ends Justify The Means

The above statement sums up a school of philosophy called "consequentialism" -- and was first penned by that fun-loving guy, Machiavelli, in arguing that rulers must be consequentialists.

Just in case you need a program to keep your philosophical players straight, here's the summary of what Wikipedia has to say about this line of reasoning:

"Consequentialism refers to those moral theories which hold that the consequences of a particular action form the basis for any valid moral judgment about that action (but see rule consequentialism). Thus, from a consequentialist standpoint, a morally right action is one that produces a good outcome, or consequence.

"Consequentialism is usually understood as distinct from deontology, in that deontology derives the rightness or wrongness of an act from the character of the act itself rather than the outcomes of the action, and from virtue ethics, which focuses on the character of the agent rather than on the nature or consequences of the action itself. The difference between these three approaches to morality tends to lie more in the way moral dilemmas are approached than in the moral conclusions reached. For example, a consequentialist may argue that lying is wrong because of the negative consequences produced by lying — though a consequentialist may allow that certain foreseeable consequences might make lying acceptable. A deontologist might argue that lying is always wrong, regardless of any potential "good" that might come from lying. A virtue ethicist, however, would focus less on lying in any particular instance and instead consider what a decision to tell a lie or not tell a lie said about one's character and moral behavior."

Now that cleared things up nicely, yes?  No?  If not, go back to the title of this post and do a gut check.  If it sounds wrong, then, Devoted Reader, we agree.

Also from Wikipedia, this gallery of notable consequentialists:

 

(L to R: Jeremy Bentham, John Stuart Mill, Niccolo Machiavelli)

• Niccolò Machiavelli (1469-1527),
• Francis Hutcheson (1694-1746)
• Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832)
• William Godwin (1756-1836)
• James Mill (1773-1836)
• John Stuart Mill (1806-1873)
• Henry Sidgwick (1838-1900)
• G.E. Moore (1873-1958)
• Richard B. Brandt (1910-1997)
• R.M. Hare (1919-2002)
• John Harsanyi (1920-2000)
• J. J. C. Smart (born 1920)
• Henry Kissinger (born 1923)
• Amartya Sen (born 1933)
• R. M. Adams (born 1937)
• Philip Pettit (born 1945)
• Peter Singer (born 1946)
• Shelly Kagan
• Peter Railton (born 1950)
• Brad Hooker

To this list of less-than-moral leading lights, we can add Richard "Dick" Cheney, former Vice President of these United States.  He (and his ethically-challenged but loyal daughter) have been barnstorming the country's telewaves arguing that "enhanced interrogation techniques" -- i.e., torture -- are defensible because they produced viable intel about terrorist threats.  They've appeared everywhere from 60 Minutes to re-runs of Romper Room making this case for waterboarding.  The Cheneys claim classified documents "prove" their point, if only to those with a sufficiently lofty security clearance to see these documents like Mr. Cheney.

Now, it does not defeat the general position of consequentialism to assert that in fact, the stated ends did NOT occur.  That assertion, however, has been the primary item in the news cycle of late to show Cheney is wrong -- the former director of the FBI, FBI and CIA insiders who know the outcomes of enhanced vs. non-enhanced interrogations, most recently a ranking member of Congress who has seen the classified documents.  It's coming out that the secret papers are a total MacGuffin, there's no rabbit in that hat, no reliable info emerged from torture, no lives were saved. 

That line of argument begs the question of whether consequentialism is valid in the first place.  My pal Houston recently posted a video of a ringing, if profane, denunciation of consequentialism as a proper stance in statecraft.  For those who don't want to watch the YouTube machine, Shepard Smith dropped the F-bomb when infuriated during a Faux News panel interview: "This is America!!!  We don't fucking torture!!!"  The inanity around him continued regardless, and about 5 seconds later, he utters a soft "ooops."

So: Cheney(s) -- Consequentialist, vs. Smith -- deontologist.

Now where on this continuum of deep thought do we find Mr. Cheney's former boss?  The (alleged) Commander-In-Chief, the Decider, who had to sign off on the torture?  Consequentialist?  Virtue Ethicist (as long as the marine doing the waterboarding is pure of heart, his actions are ethical)?  Obviously not a deontologist.

Personally, I am confident that George W. Bush follows a completely different line of philosophical inquiry.  I mean, just look at the resemblance:

The Power of Sage

 

It's hopelessly wiccan, new-age linthead, woo-woo ...

But it has had some startling effects for me and those around me.

I'm talkin' sage -- the power of the burning sage leaf to cleanse psychic poison from residences, physical spaces of any sort.  Has it ever worked for you?  I want to hear stories, I'm curious.

Here's one story: About 15 years ago, my ex and I came to the recently-completed beach house (where I now live) for a getaway weekend.  At that time, my mother and stepfather were still locked in a hellish matrimony of 33 years' duration, living in the LA area, and this was their vacation house.  The ex and I slept in their bed upstairs -- the guest bedrooms downstairs were not yet furnished.  We had a horrible sleep, what little we had was full of nightmares, we argued (which we never did before) -- the whole vibe of the house was poisonous, toxic.  I broke out the sage, opened all the doors and windows and we did a full exorcism of the house and property.  With loud, joyous music pouring through the structure (Prince's "1999" album, full of fun and hot sex).  It took about 20 minutes.  That night, we slept like babies, and the rest of the vacation was splendid. 

Now here's the amazing part: Mom and stepfather came to Ventura the next weekend.  They both remarked that we left the house ... "so nice, so clean" ... we didn't do a bit of housekeeping.  That next week, my stepfather gave Mom One Last Degrading Insult.  She found a sudden burst of health and strength and turned on him, said, "I'm divorcing you," packed up and left for the beach house, where she felt so happy and whole the last time she was there.  It only took 33 years.  The rest is history.  I've repeated the process a time or two since I've been here when the psychic cobwebs become too overpowering.  It always feels lighter, happier, afterwards.

 

So, how 'bout you, Devoted Readers, have you ever saged your space, and what happened?

 

 

Self-Indulgent Musings On Love

It's all good.  It just is. 

Love of family -- even when the obligations of same are enormous. 

Love of nature and green growing things, especially when you've sprouted them from seed and throw down your body before the leaf borers, spider mites, and mold. 

Love of new information, however acquired, in whatever tantalizes your geekiest impulses. 

Love of neighborliness in those folks you see in quotidian life, the bag boys who, you discover, were also punk rockers ages ago and never expected to live this long, or the owner of the used book shop where you exchange your books and she, too, is hopelessly in love with Orson Wells, circa 1947 (and boy, is Rita Hayworth going to be pissed). 

Love shared with classmates from high school who remember when we were all Serious Thespians and we drove aimlessly around our little town drinking bourbon from pint bottles, talking about Tennessee Williams and Stanislavsky. 

Love between those same classmates when we laugh about where we are now -- estrogen-deprived and middle-aged and still misfits. 

Love in gatherings of friends, feeding them, entertaining them, giving of oneself and saying, yes, this is good. 

Love of the furry companions who ask only our continued presence and attention. 

Love of those we've met along the way in shared pursuits, opera, travel, books, food, cooking, life.

Love of a city, a perfume, a sensation, the taste of foie gras.

Love -- the knowing one can love, that it is not dead, the familiar and the strange and the scary bravery in saying, yes, this is another beloved and I will defend and protect and enjoy this human, this animal, this plant, this commonality.

Love.

I'm letting myself do this again. I'm letting myself continue.  I'm finding that those I loved first I loved most, and even if there is no chance for the expected norm of love-partnership-cohabitation-legal ties (marriage or whatever legal construct is appropriate) -- saying this, this is all good.  I will embrace the temporary neediness without expectation.  I will enjoy the now and the future nows with patience.  I will stand astonished at the way life works and how little, and how much, one changes over 40 (gasp) years.

There are times when it is so easy to love, and love beyond limitation, that it has to be right and fuck the rules -- one surrenders.

Dear readers, Devoted Readers, this is the first time in 4 years of blogging I have slipped to the level of such sentiment.  But I can, unafraid, unashamed, without future promise and in the now, say that I love not only family, bag boys, classmates, my garden and pets, I love a human being with all my heart.

The Rewards of Being Auntie Mame

 

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It is amazing (or maybe not) how many blessings, like the flowers in the picture above (blossoms from the Loire Valley -- 2007), I find in my own back yard.  I have come to adore the next generation in my family.  They are wiser than I at their age -- perhaps that's to be expected in the logarithmic advance of time.  And there is something very green and fruitful and fresh in the communion with people one has known before utero, known the parentage and followed along their lives, which tag along one's own.  And then, suddenly, wonderfully, catch up -- and have wisdom to share.  Let's never get so old that we can't appreciate that. 

And hey nieces (I'm talkin' 'bout you) I was the one to send lace-trimmed-hand-embroidered newborn-sized dresses from Bloomies in Beverly Hills (where I worked at the time, mid '80's) just because I KNEW your mommies and daddies were clothing you in Oshkosh or thrift store.  After that, you were on your own for style.  And you've made me proud.  Style is wisdom -- style is self-confidence -- style is originality.  You've both got that going in spades.

Come see Auntie Mame here in Bakersfield-By-The-Sea and we'll go have caviar (or a vegan alternative) and champagne.

Public Notice

"Like Lisa, who, oddly enough, was all fired up and was blogging spoon-fed 'info' from [Athena] (her actual name's Heidi, and she hates it), but she stopped. I'm thinking that Heidi's beating her down on a daily basis until she does what she's told to do or she's turned against. I'm assuming she realized that either the past is dead or maybe she had a little something to do with it too. I'm thinking that Heidi's beating her down on a daily basis until she does what she's told to do or she's turned against. But Heidi blurs that line for you, if she lets you think at all for yourself."  - my ex husband, in email to an ex of his, 5/16/09

Fragile Industries quotes the above syntactically awkward passage in order to state the following:

I have never blogged in any way except from my heart, Devoted Readers.  If I've been spoon-fed anything, it's my own delicious cooking.  For anyone who knows me, the notion of me being beaten down until I do what I'm told to do is beyond laughable.  And for anyone who knows my tastes in perversion also knows that the bottom is boss: she does exactly what she wants to do while making the top think he's in charge.  This is part of the power exchange, and anyone who wants to play those games knowledgeably is well aware of that as well.  Unfortunately, some folks are drawn to that game who have no idea of the real equation and hope to gain some faux power.  I am not, and have never been, anyone's pawn.

Public notice:  I'm a fucking pigheaded stubborn ex-wife who tells the truth as she knows it, uncolored by anyone else's revisions or whitewash.

The only reason I stopped writing "Full Disclosure" here is that I want, very much want, to get on with my life which is rich and full and wonderful. There is no residual thrill in trashing exes.  But if the ex is now spreading actionable threats to other women in his life, I will correct the record.

Did I have "a little something to do with it too"?  Undoubtedly, and I have expressed my regret for this in manifold ways here on the fragile industries channel, and privately to my ex.  Did he ever acknowledge that he had "a little something to do with it too"?  Never.  Ever.  Not a single expression of regret.

I will not be taunted into doing what I don't want to do.

Let it be known that my ex is a liar, a bully, and a weakling.  I will defend with every weapon in my arsenal, legal advice, physical presence, financial assistance or otherwise, any woman he injures.  That's just the decent sisterly thing to do. 

Let it be known that I do this of my own free will, of what sound mind I possess, and with the blessing of the Giant Rat of Sumatra, may she enfold us all in her holy whiskers.

Feh.

PS: Have I mentioned lately, dear readers, that I have shed 5 years of near-celibate isolation to fall in love?  See how life goes on?

Here's a picture from my trip to the Loire Valley, France.  New, lovely blossoms.

 

Last Gasps of the Faux Swine Flu Panic

I Rule (in a pathetically geeky way)

After having aced "Hell's Kitchen,"  I have made it all the way thru "Diner Dash" 4 times -- high score 549,750 -- and have, so far, on my Expert Only player persona, gotten to level 4-3 with expert scores.  A work in progress.  Now, the REALLY pathetically geeky part is that all the players are named after my cats. 

Really, I don't eat Cheetos.

Much.

Just Another Friday In California

Santa Barbara is burning to the ground, has been blazing for days, strong offshore winds.  Bazillion dollar houses in ashes.  Massive evacuations.  Huge smoke plumes up the coast, Mom's coughing, but gorgeous sunsets.  Tonight the view over the ocean was like a back-lit witches hat.  The smoke clouds made a wide, narrow brim with a peaked top, the setting sun a dull red disk in the middle. 

 

If the Red Cross didn't have their collective heads up their collective asses, I'd be at a shelter handing out coffee and setting up cots, but I'm banished from their circle.  Fuck 'em.  Most of those folks can afford the Ritz-Carlton anyway.

 

AND just to make it a perfect California day, an earthquake at 1:27.  From the US Geological Survey site:

 

A light earthquake occurred at 1:27:13 PM (PDT) on Friday, May 8, 2009.
The magnitude 4.2 event occurred 6 km (4 miles) E of Ojai, CA.
The hypocentral depth is 8 km ( 5 miles).

 

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I was sitting in my car, parked in my shrink's lot on Main St., Ventura.  My appointment was at 1:30, and I was enjoying the song on the radio so I thought I'd hear it out and cut it close.  Stevie Winwood, "While You See A Chance" -- an '80's song that still plays well.  Anyway, there was a strong, sharp jolt -- I thought someone ran into my car, and then a long bouncy roll.  I figured it out and put the car in gear and backed away from the building.  Nothing fell on me.  Three or four people ran out of the building (why do they do that?) and that was that.  I went to my appointment, my shrink and I pulled out our cell phones, she called her husband in Ojai, I called Mom, everyone survived.  On to the next.

 

Chatting with Mom was kinda cute.  She's unsteady on her legs these days, she swears her blood pressure and cholesterol pills make her dizzy.  She was walking when the quake hit,  and stumbled.  No injury, but she thought she was just clumsy, and cursed the meds.  She was reassured that she could blame plate tectonics.

 

I love California.  

Just Another Saturday Night With Judy

We'll sing 'em all, and we'll stay all night!!!

Not So Full Disclosure

In which I call a time out.

Devoted Readers, I can't go on.  *holds hand to brow, slumps shoulders*

Suitably melodramatic ... but really, I can't.  All this bile and old old old stuff.  It's a toxic place for me to live.  I spent Wednesday evening and part of yesterday trying to write the last two chapters, and felt physically ill.

Chapter the next was going to describe how I decided to attend the Oakland hearing with Athena, how another friend came along for further moral support, and the fun of imagining the ex's face when he saw us.

Chapter the one after that (may have needed a few installments) was going to describe the hearing itself.  As it concerned the specific case, it was anticlimactic.  No guns or swordplay, a quick resolution, Athena presented the case brilliantly, again, and the ex waffled inepty, again.  The judgment was rendered swiftly, and Athena won.  Again.  It is now final and incapable of any further appeal.

The courtroom experience itself was open for great comedic literary expansion, as we had to sit through the first two appeals, each of which was a landlord-tenant dispute, each of which took an hour, each of which was defended by a succession of "Dumb and Dumber" landlords, all heard by a very senior (80+, is my guess) judge who was severely hard of hearing and kept mislaying papers and files.  As time dragged on, it took on the absurd dimensions of a Monty Python skit.  

But it's over and done.

The tale of the ex's exes continues. While there is some residual satisfaction in knowing that we could all write each other's stories, and that women as bright and capable as myself (brighter and more capable, even) fell prey to the same con job, were fed the same lies, were subject to the same betrayals and sponging, and have been similiarly besmirched to future exes, you know, it gets old.

We can't change him.  We can't change our past, singly or collectively.  I wish we could prevent future harm, but the more energy we expend on this the more power we give him in our heads.

There's enough else in my life that this has become a time sink.

So I apologize to my Devoted Readers for leaving them in the lurch. 

Corporate note: Fragile Industries has divested its holdings in the business of exes and is investing in the future.