of star wars, worldbuilding, and capybaras
I keep wanting to get back to blogging regularly, if for no other reason than I have a lot of ideas and I won’t get them out anywhere else. Strangely, it seems that I’ll never get back to blogging unless I actually…oh, I dunno…blog. So here I am. On my phone I have an app …
I keep wanting to get back to blogging regularly, if for no other reason than I have a lot of ideas and I won’t get them out anywhere else. Strangely, it seems that I’ll never get back to blogging unless I actually…oh, I dunno…blog. So here I am. On my phone I have an app for keeping notes, and several of the notes contain the word “blog” — meaning that the note in question is either a single idea for a post or a list of ideas for posts. I intend to go through these lists and notes and write the things. Because my brain is overfull and some of these things need to live outside my head so my thoughts have more space. If you have ADHD (aka DAVE) and/or anxiety, you know exactly what I mean. ______________________________________________ Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away…. <img fetchpriority="high" decoding="async" width="1024" height="302" src="https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/starwars-1024x302.jpg" alt="STAR WARS in late 1970s sci-fi font, the letters transparent but outlined in yellow. In the background, a starscape." class="wp-image-4740" srcset="https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/starwars-1024x302.jpg 1024w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/starwars-300x89.jpg 300w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/starwars-768x227.jpg 768w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/starwars-1536x454.jpg 1536w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/starwars-800x236.jpg 800w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/starwars.jpg 1920w" sizes="(max-width: 1024px) 100vw, 1024px" /> I hope you’re hearing the music in your head. Since I recently posted the lists of my last three years’ worth of books I’ve read, I want to share some observations about a read from 2024, namely Star Wars: From the Adventures of Luke Skywalker by George Lucas, ghostwritten by Alan Dean Foster. This book is the novelization of the film Star Wars, which was released on May 25, 1977, and re-titled Star Wars: Episode IV — A New Hope when re-released in 1981. Interestingly, the novelization was published on November 12, 1976, before the film came out. My copy of the book happens to be the edition published in the UK in 1977, which I inherited from a deceased nerd friend. (RIP Mike!) I guess George Lucas is (in)famous for retconning all the things, what with the various and sundry re-releases and special editions of Star Wars films that have come out over the past 40+ years. I’m still a bit salty over how they changed the music (was it originally Ewoks singing?) at the end of the 2004 DVD release of Return of the Jedi — the original music was much better. Not to mention scrubbing out Sebastian Shaw as Anakin’s force ghost and replacing him with Hayden Christiansen. Obi-Wan didn’t appear as his younger self as a force ghost; there’s no reason Anakin should. Young Anakin made all the bad choices; Shaw’s older Anakin was the one who redeemed himself. Replacing Shaw was disrespectful to both the actor and the character. But I’m not here to gripe about Lucas’s questionable retcons or even praise his good ones. (I can’t think of a good one off the top of my head — is that bad?) I’m here to talk about that 1976 novelization, which Foster based on Lucas’s screenplay. He also used the film itself to flesh out a lot of the Star Wars universe with backstory, planets, species, and languages. And that’s where this blog post comes in. Fairly early on as I read this book, I noted a few oddities that pulled me out of the story a little. I don’t remember now what the very first thing was…but the first thing I wrote down that struck me as odd was in a little descriptive side-scene when Luke and C-3PO are out searching for R2-D2. Unbeknownst to Luke and Threepio, two Tusken Raiders, aka sandpeople, are watching them. In Foster’s version of the story, we get to see the two Tuskens arguing with each other, apparently over whether to shoot Luke outright while he’s still traveling in his landspeeder, or ambush him when he comes to a stop. Finally, the two sandpeople stop arguing and hightail it down a ridge to where their Bantha mounts are waiting. The Banthas are described as each being “as large as a small dinosaur.” This set my brain spinning, and of course I had to have an imaginary conversation with the author about it. Foster: “Each was as large as a small dinosaur, with bright eyes and long, thick fur.” me: waiiiiit, wait, WAIT. this universe had dinosaurs? him: well yeah. they have fossils, right? there’s gotta be dinos somewhere, and people know about them me: sure, but why are they calling them ‘dinosaurs’? him: whaddaya mean? me: we call ’em ‘dinosaurs’ because sir richard owen started calling them that in 1842 him: so? me: so, owen called them that because they were ‘terrible lizards’ and he gave them a name from ancient greek. you’re telling me luke skywalker lived a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away that had ancient greeks in it? him: well, technically, it’s ‘another galaxy, another time’ <img decoding="async" width="300" height="203" src="https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/StarWarsprologue.png" alt="Photo of the first two paragraphs of the novel STAR WARS: FROM THE ADVENTURES OF LUKE SKYWALKER by George Lucas, ghostwritten by Alan Dean Foster. The prologue begins with the words "Another galaxy, another time," which differs in meaning from the phrase which lovers of the films are familiar with: "once up on a time, in a galaxy far, far away...."" class="wp-image-4748"/> him: besides, you think you’re reading this book in its original language? you think luke skywalker spoke english? me: no, smartypants. but ‘dinosaur’ is a pretty specialized word with a lot of real-world ish attached to it. couldn’t you have gone with something a little more in-universe? i mean, you didn’t call the banthas ‘giant extra-hairy yaks’ him: that’s because they don’t actually look like giant yaks– me: and another thing, when the tusken raiders are interacting with their banthas, why are you calling the raiders by the Hindi word ‘mahout’?!?? ‘handler’ was right there!! him: … me: and another thing…. what’s the size of a ‘small’ dinosaur? are we talking stego, t-rex, or compy? And so it goes. Altogether, I enjoyed the book a lot, because it did give me some details and in-universe history that we don’t get from the movies (although it’s been too long now for me to recall those details). But these imaginary Kaffeeklatsche with Foster happened more or less from start to finish of the novel. Other things I demanded explanations for included: Luke knows what a panda, a baboon, and a capybara are. Luke does not know what a duck is. LUKE DOES NOT KNOW WHAT A DUCK IS. “Human” is a thing. I know, I know, that’s not exactly egregious. And I’m not reading the in-universe language in which I’m probably meant to believe it was originally written; like JRR Tolkien “translating” various hobbit manuscripts into English, Foster “translated” it from the SW-universe manuscript into English, which inevitably results words like “human” and “dinosaur”. BUT, I note, unlike Tolkien’s work, nothing in Foster’s book indicates that what we’re reading is a “found manuscript.” Ben Kenobi’s cave is “Spartan”. AGAIN WITH THE ANCIENT GREEKS?! Spelled out, “C-3PO” is “See Threepio.” Might be standard for all I know, but I think “Cee-Threepio” or just “C-Threepio” would make more sense. Especially when a sentence begins with the name: “See Threepio, come in.” Where should I see him coming in? <img loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="448" height="220" src="https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/Lucifer.png" alt="Stylized image of actor Tom Ellis as Lucifer Morningstar on the tv show LUCIFER. He has dark hair, dark eyes, and very tan skin. He's wearing a black suit and looking at the camera. His facial expression is mischievous, as though he's about to ask you his signature question: "Tell me, what is it that you desire?" Behind him are neon red letters spelling out LUCIFER, and the caption reads "HOT AS HELL."" class="wp-image-4749" srcset="https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/Lucifer.png 448w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/Lucifer-300x147.png 300w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 448px) 100vw, 448px" /> Foster describes the Death Star’s tractor beam as “wrenching at (a) ship with the strength of a fallen angel.” So I’m to believe that not only does Star Wars have dinos, animal handlers from India, capybaras, and Leonidas I — this universe that supposedly existed eons before Terrans even thought about oozing up out of the ocean — this universe has not only angels (thank you again, Ancient Greek and transliteration) but a Lucifer?? The change of frequency relative to an observer is called “the Doppler effect.” Yes, not reading in in-universe original language. BUT still not a found manuscript, and still a highly specialized word named after Christian Doppler, the Austrian physicist who described it in 1842. what the hell was going on in 1842 A few other things I noted that weren’t necessarily problematic but were interesting, and possibly show some of the earliest retconning: <img loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="203" height="300" src="https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/StarWarsSoloVaderMoff.png" alt="Photo of some stills and accompanying descriptive text taken from the photos section of the novelization of Star Wars Episode IV. Featuring Harrison Ford as Han Solo; masked Sebastian Shaw as Darth Vader; and Peter Cushing as Grand Moff Tarkin." class="wp-image-4747" style="aspect-ratio:0.6766945685694505;width:223px;height:auto"/> Han Solo is a Corellian, which I don’t remember finding out in Episode IV. “Wookiee” is spelled “Wookie.” “Hutt” is spelled “Hut.” (“Hut” means “hat” in German, which makes something conceptually different where Pizza Hut is concerned.) Speaking of pie establishments, Jabba isn’t really a giant goo-slug in this book. Instead, he is “a great, mobile tub of muscle and suet topped by a shaggy scarred skull.” (Say “shaggy scarred skull” out loud ten times fast. I dare you.) The Millennium Falcon made the Kessel Run in “less than twelve standard timeparts!” Clunkier, but a more accurate unit for time’s passage than “parsecs.” Blue Leader (Garven Dreis, unnamed in the book) says he knew Luke’s father, which I take to be another sign that the galaxy doesn’t know who Darth Vader is. Altogether, Foster’s novelization is an enjoyable read, albeit frustrating and perplexing at times. It expands the Star Wars universe, especially the parts relevant to the first movie, obvi. I wish I’d had this book in hand when I watched Episode IV: A New Hope for the first time — in the early ’90s. I knew nothing about the franchise except that its name in German was Krieg der Sterne (“war of the stars”) and, according to my German classmates, anyone who liked it was an unadulterated nerd who should be shunned. Even though we had Episodes IV, V, and VI on (pirated) video, my dad had already made sure I was a solid Star Trek fan. Star Was was fine, he guessed. But he didn’t make a point of having me watch it. I finally did that myself at age 15, fell head over heels for the emo boy from Tatooine, and resolved to consume as much Star Wars as I could from then on. I’ve mostly kept to that — although these days, the franchise’s being exclusively on Disney+ (which we cancelled last year) is prohibitive. Anyway, I wish I’d had access to the novel when I was 15 and very confused about this new universe I’d plunged myself into. Now that I have the book, though, it occupies a special place on my Star TreWarsk nerdshelf. XOXO, CC <img loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="203" height="300" src="https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/03/StarWarsnovel1.png" alt="Image of the cover of STAR WARS: FROM THE ADENTURES OF LUKE SKYWALKER by George Lucas, ghostwritten by Alan Dean Foster; Sphere, London, 1977. Image shows stylized images of Luke Skywalker in a dynamic pose with lightsaber; Princess Leia in a white gown, holding a blaster; R2-D2, C-3PIO, and Ben Kenobi in the background; and a larger-than-life Darth Vader looming over all with the Death Star at his shoulder." class="wp-image-4744"/>
(So, I knew I was a bit behind on listing the books I’ve read, but I didn’t realize that the last time was more than 4 years ago. Sheesh and begorrah, Batman.) Favorite/particularly memorable books get asterisks; the more asterisks, the more the fave. …2023 …2024 …2025 ________________ As of today, I’m on book nr. …
(So, I knew I was a bit behind on listing the books I’ve read, but I didn’t realize that the last time was more than 4 years ago. Sheesh and begorrah, Batman.) Favorite/particularly memorable books get asterisks; the more asterisks, the more the fave. …2023 FAIRY TALE by Stephen King ** DELUSIONS OF GENDER by Cordelia Fine WHY CAN’T WE SLEEP? by Darian Leader THE TWO TOWERS (War of the Ring, #2) by J.R.R. Tolkien CALLING ON DRAGONS (Enchanted Forest Chronicles, #3) by Patricia C. Wrede THE STORY OF GEORGE WASHINGTON CARVER by Eva Moore * NEVERWHERE by Neil Gaiman ** CODEPENDENT NO MORE by Melody Beattie ** DEAR MR. HENSHAW by Beverly Cleary * GOD STALK (Kencyrath, #1) by P.C. Hodgell * GOOD OMENS by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett TALKING TO DRAGONS (Enchanted Forest Chronicles, #4) by Patricia C. Wrede THE GERMAN WIFE by Kelly Rimmer * DEATH IS A LONELY BUSINESS by Ray Bradbury ARE YOU THERE GOD? IT’S ME, MARGARET. by Judy Blume THE DEMONS AT RAINBOW BRIDGE (Quintara Marathon, #1) by Jack L. Chalker * THE RUN TO CHAOS KEEP (Quintara Marathon, #2) by Jack L. Chalker * 90 TRILLION FAUSTS (Quintara Marathon, #3) by Jack L. Chalker * MR. DARCY, VAMPYRE by Amanda Grange DARK OF THE MOON (Kencyrath, #2) by P.C. Hodgell ALL ABOUT LOVE: NEW VISIONS by bell hooks * NERILKA’S STORY by Anne McCaffrey THE CHRONICLES OF PERN: FIRST FALL by Anne McCaffrey DRAGONSEYE by Anne McCaffrey and Todd McCaffrey DRAGON’S KIN by Anne McCaffrey and Todd McCaffrey DRAGON’S FIRE by Anne McCaffrey and Todd McCaffrey PANDORA by Anne Rice ODD INTERLUDE by Dean Koontz THE COLOSSUS AND OTHER POEMS by Sylvia Plath SOUTH BREAKS (Winds of Destiny, #1) by Hannah Steenbock * FAN FICTION by Brent Spiner OPENING UP BY WRITING IT DOWN by James W. Pennebaker and Joshua M. Smyth WHERE’D YOU PARK YOUR SPACESHIP? (Welcome to Firdus: Book 1) by Rob Bell *** SEEKER’S MASK (Kencyrath, #3) by P. C. Hodgell ** TO RIDE A RATHORN (Kencyrath, #4) by P.C. Hodgell THE LAST WISH (OSTATNIE ZYCZENIE) (The Witcher, #1) by Andrzej Sapkowski, transl. by Danusia Stok THE MYSTERIES by Bill Watterson and John Kascht SWORD OF DESTINY (MIECZ PRZEZNACZENIA) (The Witcher, #2) by Andrzej Sapkowski, transl. by David French ** JINGO DJANGO by Sid Fleischman THE SECRET STARLING by Judith Eagle ** HOW LONG ’TIL BLACK FUTURE MONTH? by N.K. Jemisin GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES by Anita Loos THE SCREWTAPE LETTERS by C.S. Lewis WAS by Geoff Ryman * …2024 THE SHORT STORY OF THE NOVEL by Henry Russell BLOOD OF ELVES (The Witcher, #3) by Andrzej Sapkowski * RAGE BECOMES HER: THE POWER OF WOMEN’S ANGER by Soraya Chemaly *** BOUND IN BLOOD (Kencyrath, #5) by P.C. Hodgell * HONOR’S PARADOX (Kencyrath, #6) by P.C. Hodgell ** THE BETRAYAL (Cyteen, #1) by C.J. Cherryh * MINECRAFT, VOL. 3 (graphic novel series) by Sfé R. Monster, Sarah Graley, and John J. Hill THE BALLAD OF BETA-2 by Samuel R. Delaney * CREEP by Eireann Corrigan A WIND IN THE DOOR (Time Quintet, #2) by Madeleine L’Engle A SWIFTLY TILTING PLANET (Time Quintet, #3) by Madeleine L’Engle INSTRUCTIONS by Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess MANY WATERS (Time Quintet, #4) by Madeleine L’Engle AN ACCEPTABLE TIME (Time Quintet, #5) by Madeleine L’Engle THE REBIRTH (Cyteen, #2) by C.J. Cherryh * THE VINDICATION (Cyteen, #3) by C.J. Cherryh * REGENESIS (Cyteen, #4) by C.J. Cherryh * BATMAN AND SON by Grant Morrison, Andy Hubert, J.H. Williams III, Tony S. Daniel * WHERE’D YOU PARK YOUR SPACESHIP? (Welcome to Firdus: Book 1) by Rob Bell ** SMALL STEPS by Louis Sachar ORIGINS by Dan Brown UPON THE PUN by Paul Hammond & Patrick Hughes THE SEA OF TIME (Kencyrath, #7) by P.C. Hodgell ** THE INDIAN IN THE CUPBOARD (Indian in the Cupboard, #1) by Lynne Reid Banks THE SIXTH PAN BOOK OF HORROR STORIES, ed. Herbert van Thal BATMAN R.I.P. by Grant Morrison and Tony S. Daniel STAR WARS: FROM THE ADVENTURES OF LUKE SKYWALKER by George Lucas, ghostwritten by Alan Dean Foster SIMONE WEIL: A VERY SHORT INTRODUCTION by A. Rebecca Rozelle-Stone * FINAL CRISIS by Grant Morrison et al. EMBRACING ALIENATION by Todd McGowan *** BLACK RIVER ORCHARD by Chuck Wendig * STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION — ENCOUNTER AT FARPOINT by D.C. Fontana STRANGE HIGHWAYS by Dean Koontz ASK THE BRINDLED by No‘u Revilla THERE’S A BOY IN THE GIRLS’ BATHROOM by Louis Sachar ATLAS OF THE HEART by Brené Brown THE DRAGON’S HANDBOOK by Barbara Rinkoff FINDING SHARON by Matt Birkbeck THE WAR THAT SAVED MY LIFE by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley * …2025 HOWL’S MOVING CASTLE by Diana Wynne Jones *** SEX TALKS by Vanessa and Xander Martin ** THE END by Catherynne M. Valente * THAT MAD, BAD BADGER… by Molly Burkett ROMEO AND JULIET TOGETHER (AND ALIVE!) AT LAST by AVI * WHY WE CAN’T WAIT by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. *** THE RADIUM GIRLS by Kate Moore *** THE GIRL WHO CIRCUMNAVIGATED FAIRYLAND IN A SHIP OF HER OWN MAKING by Catherynne M. Valente * SERPENT’S REACH by CJ Cherryh TRIPOINT by CJ Cherryh FINITY’S END by CJ Cherryh THE FAMILY UPSTAIRS by Lisa Jewell WHEN YOU TRAP A TIGER by Tae Keller * THE OVERNEATH by Peter S. Beagle SIMONE WEIL: A LIFE by Simone Pétrement ** APRIL FOOL’S by Richie Tankersley Cusick DUNGEON CRAWLER CARL (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #1) by Matt Dinniman * CARL’S DOOMSDAY SCENARIO (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #2) by Matt Dinniman * I FORCED A BOT TO WRITE THIS BOOK by Keaton Patti HORRORSTÖR by Grady Hendrix * THE SOUTHERN BOOK CLUB’S GUIDE TO SLAYING VAMPIRES by Grady Hendrix *** THE DUNGEON ANARCHIST’S COOKBOOK (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #3) by Matt Dinniman * THE GATE OF THE FERAL GODS (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #4) by Matt Dinniman ** MATILDA by Roald Dahl A WIZARD OF EARTHSEA (Earthsea Cycle, #1) by Ursula K Le Guin THE BUTCHER’S MASQUERADE (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #5) by Matt Dinniman * THE EYE OF THE BEDLAM BRIDE (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #6) by Matt Dinniman ** WEYWARD by Emilia Hart *** FLOCK by Kate Stewart * TIME AND THE BATMAN by Grant Morrison & Tony Salvador Daniel BATMAN & ROBIN: BATMAN REBORN by Grant Morrison, Frank Quitely & Philip Tan DRAGON HARPER by Anne McCaffrey and Todd McCaffrey BATMAN & ROBIN: BATMAN VS. ROBIN by Grant Morrison, Cameron Stewart & Andy Clarke * DRAGONSBLOOD by Todd McCaffrey DRAGONHEART by Todd McCaffrey DRAGONGIRL by Todd McCaffrey THIS INEVITABLE RUIN (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #7) by Matt Dinniman ** DRAGON’S TIME by Todd McCaffrey SKY DRAGONS by Anne McCaffrey and Todd McCaffrey * THE MASTERHARPER OF PERN by Anne McCaffrey ANNO DRACULA by Kim Newman * A FLICKER IN THE DARK by Stacy Willingham THE WHALEBONE THEATRE by Joanna Quinn *** A DEADLY EDUCATION (The Scholomance, Lesson 1) by Naomi Novak * THE TOMBS OF ATUAN (Earthsea Cycle, #2) by Ursula K Le Guin * HUNTING MAGIC EELS by Richard Beck THIS CURSED HOUSE by Del Sandeen THE SEARCHER by Tana French *** IVY by Katherine Coville BUTCHER & BLACKBIRD (Ruinous Love Trilogy, #1) by Brynne Weaver * ________________ As of today, I’m on book nr. 17 for 2026. XOXO
There’s a guy who lives across the street and one house over from me.I might be scared of him.I’m at least wary of him. I feel like a rabbit who’s not quite sure if the fellow creature beyond my burrow is a predator or not. I am upwind of him, and the sight and sound …
There’s a guy who lives across the street and one house over from me. I might be scared of him. I’m at least wary of him. I feel like a rabbit who’s not quite sure if the fellow creature beyond my burrow is a predator or not. I am upwind of him, and the sight and sound of him aren’t clear enough to give me an actionable understanding of him. I try not to let fear get to me. What do I really know about this man? He’s probably in his late 30s, maybe early 40s. He has a beard and short brown hair. He doesn’t wear glasses. He drives a loud pickup. He rents his home. He has an activity that takes him from his home every weekday morning at 7:10 — probably a job. He has a preteen son who visits occasionally, so I assume he has an ex-wife or ex-girlfriend. He has friends or acquaintances who occasionally visit him late at night. He rarely mows his lawn. Occasionally he will work on his pickup in his driveway in the middle of the night. Beyond that, he seems to keep to himself. He also flies a flag in front of his home, a flag associated with right-wing extremists and calls for “no quarter” given to the enemy. I often wonder: if he knew me and my family, would he consider us the enemy? These things I know and observe about my neighbor lead me to conclude that he is in accordance with the current highest power in the nation, a power which is actively eliminating its opposition. As of this writing, The Economist‘s tracker of US-Americans’ stance toward that highest power reports that 39% of US-Americans approve of that higher power. According to public opinion researcher Civiqs, approval 42%. Here in Oklahoma, says The Oklahoman, it was 56% in September. (Dated mid-October 2025, that Oklahoman article claims that Trump’s net rating had dropped. If I am mathing right, that month-ago net approval of -7 translates to 34% approval from Oklahomans. That seems low to me.) So. Whether it’s 39-42% of all my fellow citizens or 34% of my fellow Oklahomans — it works out to a goodly chunk of humans around me who constitute a people in accordance with the current highest power in the USA, a power that is enacting policies that subjugate, hurt, and or kill anyone who doesn’t think, look, or act like them. The German word for “accordance” is “Übereinstimmung” = “one voice with each other.” In the past, I’ve had people tell me I’m a born peacemaker, a mediator. Exemplar of Matthew 5:9. The glue that binds communities together. And sure, maybe that’s a skill I possess — one I’ve both used and misused, as these imperfect human traits go. One of my abiding questions, asked both silently and aloud, has been: Can’t we all just get along? Can’t we set aside our differences? Can’t we reach a compromise? Can’t we reconcile? Can’t we share and discuss and commune and try our absolute damnedest to see why the other person is the way they are? Can’t we make up our minds and change our hearts to, as Atticus Finch says in the movie To Kill a Mockingbird, “consider things from [another person’s] point of view…climb inside of [their] skin and walk around in it”? These are principles…this is a mindset…this is an attitude of the heart I have tried to practice for almost as long as I can remember. I started early, and I’m now 48, so that’s a not meager period of time. Practice makes progress (not perfection!), and my abiding hope for our entire species is that we learn to be human together in a way that benefits all of us. But I am now thinking of this people who are being one voice together with the power that gloats not only when its opponents suffer, but also when its supporters suffer — so that they will raise their unified voice in furthering the harm against the opponents. (This is called “sado-populism.”) Bringing my abiding heartset to bear on this situation, I have to ask myself: How do I reach compromise with this people? How can I share and discuss and commune with them? How do I set aside differences — when the difference is that I want to be a person and they don’t want me to? when I want to live and many of them want me to die? Political difference is “I think we should have libraries in every neighborhood” vs. “I think every city should have one large, central library.” Or “I think every intersection should have stop signs” vs. “I think every intersection should have roundabouts.” But — I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I’ll be saying it again — what we’re dealing with here is multiple groups of humans saying: “we want to be able to live as we see fit as long as we’re not actively harming others” vs. other groups saying: “we want you to stop existing in public spaces or at all.” How can the former groups possibly reconcile with latter? It would be like expecting the former groups to voluntarily place themselves in permanent restraints, to put it far more mildly than I’d like to. The near ancestor of “reconcile” is a Latin word meaning “unite/connect again.” Follow that back far enough, and you reach a Proto-Indo-European word that meant “solemnly call out,” in which “call out” means “summon.” That PIE word also happens to be the ancestor of the Ancient Greek word “ecclesia,” which is often used for “church.” So, the real question here is: can we dwell in solemn purpose together with a people that wants our subjugation and/or elimination? Can I give myself over to union with a people that wants the subjugation and/or elimination of others who, like me, resist? I’m not speaking in hate. I am asking how reconciliation can ever be possible when one of us is saying “I just want to live as a person” and the Other is saying “I don’t want you to be able do that.” I can’t “solemnly unite again” with people with whom I’ve never before “solemnly united” to begin with, who advertise without fear of consequence that in violent conflict, they would murder their opponents, and who have already fulfilled that advertisement and been absolved of that action by the highest power in the nation. I cannot embrace — take into my arms — a people who don’t want me to embrace them and will gut me if I try. And I can’t expect other targeted groups to embrace that violent people, either. Since I’ve been involved in pyrotheology, this whole topic inevitably leads to the question of how the parable of the Good Samaritan applies. What none of us ever mention is the possibility that the Samaritan could bring himself to help the injured man (Israelite? Jew?) because the injured man was too hurt and too weak to harm the Samaritan. Was the Samaritan a kind person who went above and beyond to see and aid the Other? Yes. Without a doubt. Did the Other happen to be in too weak a position to lash out and cause harm, thereby making him less of a risk to the Samaritan? Yes. Without a doubt. Would I see and aid the MAGA Other who are my neighbors? Also yes, without a doubt. I cannot and will not stand by and ignore suffering if I can prevent it. But I would first confirm that they’re too weak to aim and fire a weapon at me. And I would keep them from harming anyone else once they’ve regained their strength. Anything less on my part would qualify as enabling. Maybe even collaborating. I think about my apparently right-wing extremist neighbor across the street. Yes, I would like to see him more clearly. I am open to knowing the whys behind his manner of living as a human on this planet. I am open to compassion, caring, and concern when it comes to him and to the others who unify their voices together with the man who’s doing his utmost to ru(i)n the lives of everyone except his billionaire buddies. I’m even open to compassion, caring, and concern when it comes to that unapologetic narcissist. As one who’s no stranger to emotional trauma and economic hardship, I can well imagine some of their collective whys. Even his. And I feel sorry for him. But just because I understand someone does not mean I don’t set boundaries on how often or how deeply I interact with them. I think I do understand some of their reasons for how they are and what they do. I can empathize with their pain. I can offer them compassion. That doesn’t mean I can reconcile with them. That doesn’t mean that any of their targets can solemnly unite with them.
So. I am truly, without a doubt, the Very Worst Self-Marketer. Why? Because my latest book has been out for weeks and I haven’t said anything. Prolly ’cause depression & anxiety have been getting the best of me. I haven’t been tending to The Babadook as I should. (ICYMI, “Babadook” is the name of my …
So. I am truly, without a doubt, the Very Worst Self-Marketer. Why? Because my latest book has been out for weeks and I haven’t said anything. Prolly ’cause depression & anxiety have been getting the best of me. I haven’t been tending to The Babadook as I should. (ICYMI, “Babadook” is the name of my mental illness, which worsens when I don’t set it a place at my table.) Can’t celebrate a book when the ooze and goo are cementing you to the pavement. October is usually my worst month, even though autumn is my favorite season. I just don’t get to enjoy it until Halloween arrives. Going into the darkness the eerie the creepy the weird (the evil) the ludicrous always pushes me through to the cozy waiting on the other side. On the other side, that good feeling never lasts…but I no longer expect it to. I nestle into the cozy and prepare as best I can to go dormant. Y’know, like every creature in the northern hemisphere other than the modern human. This is the season in which living counter to capitalism is most vital. Like the trees, the squirrels, the bees, and the snails, at this time of year we’re meant to slow down, stay safe, preserve energy and sustenance. This year-round go-go-go rise-and-grind hustle culture is antithetical to how we’re put together. I practice living intentionally counter to that. *Practice*. Because I’m not there yet. I never will be. But practice makes progress. In which progress means doing less. Doing smaller…. In the practice of going dormant along with nature (because there is no objective difference between nature and human; we are a part of her; we are her), progress means *not* the more of what our capitalist world violates us with. Progress = less. So I get through October, descending into darkness. Despairing, almost. But the only way out is through. And Halloween has come to mean THRESHOLD to me. The threshold is an invisible barrier thick as gelatin. Pushing through means pain and tired and tears and miserable and ache and loss and grief. But I push through, and I get out my wild costumes and my glittery makeup and my ridiculous high heels, and I dance my way through ghouls and goblins and spooky scary skeletons, and I come out on the other side ready to shed what does not serve me in this season. I nestle into cozy, and I remind myself every day to quit the frenetic pace, to quit the activity, to quit. And rest. And re-create what does serve my being a human in this universe. What *does* serve? -settling into my senses: in this moment, what do I touch? what do I hear? see? taste? smell? -breathing: a daily practice of i n h a l i n g as slowly as I can — h o l d i n g — e x h a l i n g as slowly as I can, repeating until my nervous system calms -water -sleep -sunshine when I can get it -reading -listening -kindness to myself and my self, to others and their selves -boundaries: when rest is on the schedule, I won’t allow myself or others to fill that slot with anything else -returning again & again (because I am highly distractible) to the *practice* of intentionality, of clarity, of gentle planning, of soothing words to my self when the plans change perforce or go awry -attending to the trees as they lose their leaves and seem to die, as they look stark and bleak as though joy and vivacity will never return — and reminding myself that depression is a lying bastard — and sinking calmly into the warmth of my surroundings and *waiting* because it is okay to do so -reminding myself to accept that I am accepted -allowing myself to smile and even laugh, and saying to myself, ‘of course, of course,’ when things do not go as I wish them to (because they won’t) -and all shall be well and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. XOXO
This post is brought to you by Somebody Was Grammatically Wrong On The Internet. I’m gonna try to keep this short <– this is my caveat emptor concerning the fact that I am not going to cover all the bases in this little essay. Essaylet. Whatevs. Anyway, I’m warning you, Gentle Constant Reader, not to …
This post is brought to you by Somebody Was Grammatically Wrong On The Internet. I’m gonna try to keep this short <– this is my caveat emptor concerning the fact that I am not going to cover all the bases in this little essay. Essaylet. Whatevs. Anyway, I’m warning you, Gentle Constant Reader, not to expect a War & Peace treatment from this trifold pamphlet. Many moons ago, back in the Dark Ages when the ice was on the ground, I was a 17-year-old US-American growing up in Germany. I spoke English at home and German at school, and my life was a hodgepodge of weird. (Still is, but that’s another story and shall be told another time.) One day, as my English/Lit/Humanities/Journalism/Drama-teacher mom was driving me somewheres, I told her an anecdote from my day about an uncomfortable encounter with I-don’t-remember-who. Of my perception of that person, I said to my mom, “I didn’t know how to gauge their reaction.” I was being very serious. My mother, who is not given to giggling, giggled. I had read the word “gauge” many a time, as I had already been a book nerd for longer than I could remember. I had also heard the word “gauge,” as I was hearing English spoken around me on a daily basis. I had not, however, connected the word spelled g-a-u-g-e with the word that, when spoken, rhymes with “cage.” Therefore, as I related to my mother this anecdote of an uncomfortable encounter, I pronounced “gauge” to rhyme with “dodge,” thereby eliciting her giggle-ing. At 17, I was, of course, monstrously offended — and pretty damn mortified at having made such an error. After all, I wasn’t known as “The Walking English Dictionary” at school for nothin’. I was also a grammar and pronunciation prescriptivist, although I didn’t know to call myself that yet. I also, however, already had a pretty well-developed sense of self-deprecating humor, so it didn’t take long for me to let it go and laugh at myself. About “gauge,” anyway. I stayed picky for probably another decade but eventually morphed into a descriptivist and found myself a much happier person. (Other changes to self were concurrent with said morphing, surprise surprise.) Fast-forward to a few years ago, and I read something somewhere that said something like this: “Don’t make fun of someone for not knowing how to pronounce a word they understand perfectly well but have only read and never heard.” And I remembered my mom, who, yeah, did laugh at me — but good-naturedly, not mocking. And I remembered my husband, who in the early years of our marriage rightly took me to task for publicly correcting his pronunciation of a word. And I remembered all of my friends from school decades ago, struggling to make their speaking apparatuses (apparati?) form English phonemes, when all of their muscle memory and neural pathways revolved around German ones. And I remembered my younger self, fluent in German but incapable of understanding the dialect of my best friend’s parents two villages over. Language is complicated. Language is hard. And an adult who tackles learning a new language owns greater courage and fortitude than a lot of people who think they’ve got the courage to step out of their comfort zone any time. I used to be a grammar and pronunciation prescriptivist. I used to be a grammar and pronunciation snob. There were a couple of right ways: what I thought of as standard American English; and what I thought of as standard British English, which was probably what my English teachers in German school called “Oxford English.” Everything else, to my snotty little mind, was non-standard, aka incorrect. Snotty. Snobby. Little, as in, small-minded. I know now that’s who I was. I didn’t have clue then — but to give my younger self credit, as soon as I learned, I changed. Or at least started to. Provided we allow the humbling to take place and stop embracing that monster named Certainty: when we know better, we do better. I gave myself over to a process (which I’m still undergoing some 20 years later) of sitting down and shutting up and listening. And one of the things I heard was that I wasn’t just a small-minded snob. I was also a classist and a racist. Realizing that I was/had been a bratty little snot on top of a too-high horse was hard enough. Accepting that I had ingrained classism and racism as well? Those two were a lot harder to swallow, because that was not how I conceived of my Self at all. Long story short (I said it would be, remember?), an example of my classism was my mockery of the word “ain’t” in place of “isn’t,” and an example of my racism was my mockery of the word “aks/ax” in place of “ask.” I didn’t know. I thought I was on the side of Good Communication. I thought I was helping humanity by Supporting Correct Pronunciation, Correct Spelling, And Correct Grammar. Granted, I didn’t go around correcting people by rote — but given half a chance to critique anything, I’d rip it to shreds while complimenting what was “right” about it in the same breath. It’s what I had been taught to do by nearly every teacher I’d encountered. (For instance, my teachers at German school did not hesitate to correct The Walking Dictionary’s German in front of the whole class.) It simply never occurred to me that I was in the wrong. It simply never occurred to me that there might be a kinder, gentler way to be in this universe and actually facilitate good communication between humans. I had a lot of work to do. I’m still doing the work and still need to. Just a few months ago, a friend chastised me for my criticism of the grammar on a protest sign. Now, I look back on the me of June 2025 and frown in confusion at who the hell I thought I was in those moments. The grammar police with her priorities out of whack, I guess. In those moments, I was undermining everything we all had gathered to accomplish — and it was humiliating, frustrating, depressing, and convicting for a trusted friend to point that out to me. Was the sign writer’s grammar “correct”? Not according to the rules I learned for English grammar — on either side of the Pond. Did it matter? Hell no. Because the writer’s wording clearly communicated their intent, and this wasn’t a linguistics classroom. At best, my criticism was out-of-place, inappropriate, pedantic, and unnecessary. At worst, it was elitist, classist, and downright mean. It was born of my own anxieties and insecurities, which I would’ve done better to express honestly to the people who love me, rather than bottling up those insecurities and shooting them at an innocent target. I’m just glad the person carrying the sign was too far away to hear me. So the only hurt feelings were my own pride and maybe the dismay of the two beloveds I word-vomited in front of. Sometimes, there is grace for even me. _________________________________ I started writing this essay because Someone Was Wrong On The Internet. Scanning a forum for inspiration for a short story I’m working on, I came across a comment containing a malapropism. Past Courtney would’ve immediately taken to social media to share the phrase and its correction, as well as lament the general drop in literacy among English speakers, blah blah prescriptivist emergency blah. And then I would’ve sat back with satisfaction as the “likes” poured in. I might be okay to note the malapropism here and monologue on how I think it came to be and what the correct version is and where that correct version came from historically. But I don’t think I’ll do that. Because this essay isn’t about how that person was wrong on the internet. It’s about how I have been wrong on the internet — and in many, many other places. I’ll be wrong again. It’ll happen, because there’s always more growing to do. I will never have reached the perfect state of Descriptivist Oneness. I’ll ever keep learning and changing and realizing where I’ve screwed up and doing better as I’m able. I might even use wrong grammar or misspell a word along the way. Gasp and egad. XOXO P.S. I still have only to look at my mom and say “/ɡɑd͡ʒ/” for both of us to dissolve into laughter.
I wrote this back in mid-September. I don’t know why I didn’t publish it then. It might be a poem. I don’t know that either. ____________________________________________________________________ Had a convo with Josh last week that altered my opinion of the USA. And by altered, I mean worsened. So. If, like me, you grew up immersed in …
I wrote this back in mid-September. I don’t know why I didn’t publish it then. It might be a poem. I don’t know that either. ____________________________________________________________________ Had a convo with Josh last week that altered my opinion of the USA. And by altered, I mean worsened. So. If, like me, you grew up immersed in conservative, evangelical, historically-Protestant Christianity, you’re familiar with the “Old Testament” scriptures (in Book of Leviticus [in Torah/Pentateuch], Book of Jeremiah [in Tanakh], Book of Kings [Tanakh; 1. & 2. Kings in Christian Bible]) referencing “Moloch.” In context, the ancient Israelites are being warned to stop sacrificing children either to a god named “Moloch” or in a ritual called “Moloch.” At any rate, these scriptures tell a story of an ancient people named “the People of ‘He Who Contends with God'” a people who had committed themselves to a certain way of being in the universe– but instead, in the story, murdered their own children in the hopes of gaining a benefit. Were they appeasing a god? Trying to protect themselves from the god’s wrath? Did they believe that they were releasing a transformative energy? Was the wheat just not growing well enough? Were the thunder and lightning of storms just too damn confusing and scary? Who knows. But in this story innocent children died in pain, in fear, in blood so that the adults, who stayed alive, could gain something. Dead children. Murdered children. For the preservation of a culture. For the preservation of a nation. For the preservation of a way of life. And now, approximately 4,000 years later, the United States of America, a nation accustomed to a certain way of life, faces a crisis of dead children. Murdered children. Today, in the great and glorious nation named “United States of America” (and, interestingly enough, “America” is a word descended of words meaning “struggle” and “king”), the ritual of Moloch is thriving. Since Columbine 1999, there have been at least 400 school shootings 390,000 children exposed to the violence of these shootings 200 deaths of children in these shootings. In the USA, enacting the ritual of Moloch means allowing these school shootings to continue. In the USA, the dead children of school shootings the murdered children are the live sacrifice slaughtered upon the holy altar of our school grounds. We feed our children to the god whom we name “Freedom” so that the god will continue blessing us with our Second Amendment rights. The ritual of Moloch is the religion of the United States of America. The US-American Church of Moloch has its temples: the National Rifle Association the National Shooting Sports Foundation the National Association for Gun Rights the White House. The US-American Church of Moloch also has its priests: Charlton Heston Lauren Boebert Kyle Rittenhouse –and its high priests: Dudley Brown Bill Bachenberg Charlie Kirk Donald Trump. The US-American Church of Moloch is thriving. A religion of greed, violence, fear, blood, death. All glorified: every knee shall bow. Every priest and high priest of the US-American Church of Moloch is celebrated and valorized, especially the high priest who died last week by the same violence he had preached and was preaching as he died. His children were there, watching, two more innocents tossed onto the altar, their present and future pain an ongoing sacrifice to appease that god named “Freedom” so we can have our Second Amendment rights so we don’t have to give up that which we truly treasure: the satisfying snap of the clip the hiss of metal sliding against metal as the bullet chambers the click of the trigger the force of the explosion we imagine we’re controlling the power of knowing that in this moment, we control life and death the illusion that in this moment we have won the striving against the endless Abyss we all know is there. Our treasure: the pretense that we’ve successfully held back the night and put off the day of wrath. The children of the United States of America are the accepted Moloch sacrifice so that our god Freedom will make us feel (better). May the universe have mercy on us.
“When Did We See You” When I speak of my chronic illnesses or see others speaking of theirs and then I hear or read certain responses have you tried a liver cleansehave you tried colloidal silverhave you tried meditationhave you tried a vegan diethave you tried essential oilshave you tried yoga it sounds just like …
“When Did We See You” When I speak of my chronic illnesses or see others speaking of theirs and then I hear or read certain responses have you tried a liver cleanse have you tried colloidal silver have you tried meditation have you tried a vegan diet have you tried essential oils have you tried yoga it sounds just like certain people of my past people in Christian circles Christians who were fundamentalist saying you just don’t have enough faith.
finally, a new book announcement!; or: i am the worst businessperson
Recently, because of reasons, I have had occasion to give multiple people my business card (yes, I do actually have business cards! they are very old! but the info on them remains accurate! I think!). That being the case, and in view of the fact that this blog’s address is emblazoned (actually printed demurely) upon …
Recently, because of reasons, I have had occasion to give multiple people my business card (yes, I do actually have business cards! they are very old! but the info on them remains accurate! I think!). That being the case, and in view of the fact that this blog’s address is emblazoned (actually printed demurely) upon said business cards, I guess it doth behoove one to write something here about one’s most recent accomplishments and current activities. Well, that was unnecessarily mouthful-ish. ANYWAY, I have a new book out. ANNOUNCING <img loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="640" height="1024" src="https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/JPG-AfL-Front-Cover-Final-640x1024.jpg" alt="" class="wp-image-4694" style="width:342px;height:auto" srcset="https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/JPG-AfL-Front-Cover-Final-640x1024.jpg 640w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/JPG-AfL-Front-Cover-Final-188x300.jpg 188w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/JPG-AfL-Front-Cover-Final-768x1229.jpg 768w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/JPG-AfL-Front-Cover-Final-960x1536.jpg 960w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/JPG-AfL-Front-Cover-Final-1280x2048.jpg 1280w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/JPG-AfL-Front-Cover-Final-800x1280.jpg 800w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/JPG-AfL-Front-Cover-Final.jpg 1600w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px" /> APPETITE FOR ANTITHESIS: (DE)KNOWING GOD IN A LENTEN PRACTICE is my first ever non-fiction tome. It’s based on the practice known as “Atheism for Lent,” brainchild of philosopher and radical theologian Dr. Peter Rollins. He kindly has allowed me to pick apart his baby and dress it up in all sorts of mismatched outfits of my choosing, and he also wrote the Foreword. The man is apparently infinitely forgiving. For a little more detail, here’s an excerpt from my Intro: In 2023, I participated in Atheism for Lent for the third time. Or maybe the two-and-a-halfth time. This go-’round, I worked through each day’s material by posting my various thoughts and confusions on my blog…. Hoping for conversation and critique, I shared several blog links with fellow AfL participants. The feedback both helped my understanding of the material and encouraged me to keep blogging. And finally, I realized what I was doing: I was popularizing the AfL texts and visuals, making them more accessible not only to myself, but to all of us who didn’t have an extensive philosophical and/or theological background. …It occurred to me that if it helped me and helped AfL participants of ’23, then maybe it could help AfL participants every year. And if so many AfL people deemed it useful, then maybe Peter Rollins would deem it useful, too. Hey there, Pete, I had an idea…. And that’s how this book came to be. It’s worth noting that this Lenten practice of atheism is not offering a new belief system. It’s the farthest thing from such an offer…and if you’re hoping for concrete answers concerning what to do with your existence every day, you will come away from this Rollinsic practice and/or this book disappointed and frustrated, if not angry. Not to mention that you’ll miss a good deal of the meat these writers and thinkers put forward for mastication, ingestion, and digestion, and, in some cases, incorporation (into-body-tion). Instead of giving us something to hold on to, Atheism for Lent aims to take (some? of) our unexamined safety nets away. This practice is about articulating things we think we believe—and things we didn’t know we believe. It’s meant to help us look closely at the foundations we’ve considered ever firm, that we might determine just how solid they truly are. It uses a dialectic: presenting a thesis, providing a counter-thesis, and sometimes even wrapping things up in a synthesis of the two. Counter-thesis can become the new thesis—which then, itself, must be countered. And so the conversation goes on. This dialectical practice of Atheism for Lent critiques and questions our dearest-held beliefs in a way that helps us critically discern whether or not those beliefs are functional in reality. Do they truly work for us? improve our lives? make us better people? Do they fulfill what they promise us for the now? Can they fulfill what they promise for the future? We cannot find answers to these questions if we don’t allow something to destabilize us. We cannot find answers to these questions if we refuse to doubt. …Hello darkness, my old friend…. I’ve been calling this book my theo-philosophical doorstop. It’s a honkin’ big book, y’all. In my defense, the bibliography is necessarily massive, because the book showcases 48 different philosophers and theologians throughout history; the writings and/or practices of several different groups of mystics; and a smattering of writers, artists, and musicians. In reading, you’ll move back and forth between theistic and atheistic belief systems, critiques of various faiths and philosophies, despair and hope, comfort and existential dread. You’ll see paintings and read about the heat death of the universe. Oh, and you’ll read a lot about cats, because who the hell writes a philosophy book without including cats. This book was a labor of blood. Tears and sweat happened too, but they were made of blood. It’s all blood. There aren’t even any zombies or vampires (at least, I don’t remember putting any in there, but I make no guarantees). But still, it’s all lifeblood in there. I probably need a transfusion. Well, that was unnecessarily gory. (Maybe.) If you follow this link, you’ll find a page listing most of the vendors where APPETITE FOR ANTITHESIS is available as an ebook: Kobo Thalia Apple Smashwords Angus & Robertson Vivlio Fable. You can also find the book at: Barnes & Noble Amazon (this includes the paperback). If you don’t see your preferred vendor, drop me a comment below, and I’ll see what I can do. I won’t say “happy reading,” because “happy” isn’t what this book is for. So, I’ll just say…thanks. And I hope I whet your appetite. XOXO
So, when last you left Your Heroine, she’d posted a thing about a McGowan-Engley podcast episode entitled “Euphemism.” If you haven’t read that thing, you should probably go do that now. And maybe even listen to said podcast episode, too. In fact, your best bet at maintaining serenity and sanity is probably just to skip …
So, when last you left Your Heroine, she’d posted a thing about a McGowan-Engley podcast episode entitled “Euphemism.” If you haven’t read that thing, you should probably go do that now. And maybe even listen to said podcast episode, too. In fact, your best bet at maintaining serenity and sanity is probably just to skip Your Heroine’s scribal meanderings and go crawl straight into the original horses’ mouths. Not that I’m calling Todd and Ryan horses. I’ve never met either of them, but from photos and vids online, I’ve never gained an impression of anything remotely equine about either of them. YMMV, of course, but I think that says more about your need for zoomorphizing people than it does about the two humans in question. I seem to have disgressed. Anyway, after my previous post, I listened to more of the episode, and I have a few thoughts to share. They might lack coherence, and they will most certainly lack length. I would apologize profusely, but I suspect that the latter will be of relief to most of you. I seem to be in self-deprecatory mode today. What a deal. Something struck me further about Todd’s description of how euphemism blunts trauma. He brings an example from his own life: the struggle of watching his mother succumb to Alzheimer’s disease. (Having lost a great-aunt and a grandmother to this horrific disease, and watching a relatively young aunt degenerate under it year after year for nearly the past decade, I find this example both fitting and a little too apt.) Todd talks about the necessity of giving over his mother’s living situation into the hands of a “memory care facility.” This term is, of course, the euphemism: this is not a facility where memories are cared for. The memories themselves will unavoidably continue to disintegrate; there is neither preservation of them nor prevention of their inevitable dissolution. A “memory care facility” is, then, a facility for caring for a person in their loss of memory. But we don’t call these institutions “loss of memory — care facility” — because that doesn’t blunt the trauma which people undergo when consigning the loved one to this type of professional care. The designation “memory care facility” is meant to make you feel better about making your person go live among strangers who are professionals in feeding, cleaning, and safeguarding adults with the minds of toddlers — and strangers who suffer the same illness and need the same care. If we called it what it really is, fewer people would put their loved ones there, and these facilities would make a lot less money. That last part about the money is my thought; I don’t think Todd and Ryan talked about that aspect of it. And maybe I sound jaded — but over the years, in trying to figure out why humans choose one action over another, I’ve found that “follow the money” usually applies. (Upton Sinclair is in play here, as well, but that is another story that shall be ranted another time.) NOTE: I have zero problem with consigning a loved one to a safe, aboveboard, professional care facility. There comes a point when the health and safety of that loved one depend on 24/7 professional care, and keeping them at home for as long as possible at all cost is not actually loving, but selfish. One problem with blunting trauma, Todd points out, is that when we do things to soften these blows, all we’re doing is putting off dealing with it. And the longer and more deliberately we put off dealing with it, the longer we use euphemisms around it, the worse the trauma is going to hit us in the long run. Harking back to my last post: in my own home, I have a definite say in how others in my home comport themselves. Not only do I have a say, I have direct influence. Not only do I have direct influence, I have an explicit responsibility for setting and maintaining certain boundaries. For example, I have a responsibility for making sure my offspring learns — via my example, via her dad’s example, and via natural consequences of her actions — not to stand on the dining room able and scream obscenities. When her friends or our friends are in our home, I carry a responsibility for setting that same boundary with them. (Please note that none of the three of us nor any guest of ours has ever even hinted at wanting to stand on the table and scream obscenities, much less attempted doing it.) In the public sphere, though, in the commons, I do not have the responsibility for making sure other people don’t stand on tables and scream obscenities. They might do it; but it’s not my job to stop them. By refusing to listen and by walking away, I might be one of the people who allows them to experience the unpleasant consequences of their behavior — because, once again, we all make the rules of the commons together. And one of the rules generally goes something like: “if you stand on a table in public and scream obscenities, people are going to remove themselves from your presence and you will be alone, screaming at clouds or whatever.” Another general follow-up rule might be: “if you keep this up long enough, somebody’s going to get irritated enough to call on people with physical strength and/or weapons to remove you.” On my blog, which is in many ways more a private arena than a public one, I have the right and the responsibility to make sure no one in comments is standing on my metaphorical tables and screaming obscenities at me or at other commenters. In this context, exercising my right and responsibility takes the form of first warning the screamer, then deleting the screamer’s comments if the screamer persists in ignoring my warnings. This process is an application of what writer John Scalzi calls “the Mallet of Correction.” It is highly effective. On Mastodon, which is a public arena, I don’t have the right to tell someone not to stand on a fediverse table and scream obscenities. I do have the option of muting and/or blocking them — which allows them to experience the natural consequences of their behavior. If they keep it up long enough, somebody’s going to get irritated enough to call on an instance admin to toss the obscenities-shouting fedizen out of the instance. Those are all extreme examples, but I think they get the point across. Now. What if I, Courtney, find the word “fuck” offensive? (I don’t, because of reasons — but that’s yet another epistle for another time.) If I find the word “fuck” offensive…if it causes me a deeply visceral, unpleasant emotional reaction…then I enjoy the right to ask people within my own home not to use that word. Because that’s my private sphere, and I am one of the persons in that private sphere who owns both the right and the responsibility for setting boundaries. But even if I find the word “fuck” offensive…even if it causes me a deeply visceral, unpleasant emotional reaction…I still do not have the right to ask people on Mastodon not to use it, because Mastodon is a public space. It is part of the commons. Can I politely ask someone in an exchange of “toots” (Mastodon posts) not to use that word when in conversation with me? Sure. But I can’t make them not use it, and I can’t ask anyone else to make them not use it. And even if I’m polite in my request, I have no recourse if my conversation partner decides I’m tiresome for asking and blocks me. So, if I find the word “fuck” offensive, but people on Mastodon — a public space I want to continue engaging with — keep saying “fuck”…what can I do? Well, I can loudly and continually proclaim my aversion to the word and demand people stop using it. I can pin a relevant toot to the top of my profile and link to it every time I encounter the word “fuck” on this social media site. When scrolling through the feed of fellow fedizens I follow, if I see the word “fuck” in someone’s post, I can reply to them and ask them to use hide their post behind a content warning. If they refuse, I can harass them until they give in or block me. Or, if they refuse, I can block them. All of these actions on my part are a violation of the commons — because apparently, I have some kind of trauma attached to the word “fuck,” and I am trying to make other people respond to it the same way I do. I am trying to make other people replace the word “fuck” with euphemisms (either a substitute word or a content warning [WHICH IS A TYPE OF EUPHEMISM]) in order for my trauma to be blunted. And every time I do this, whether the other person submits to my demand or not, I am holding my trauma ever farther at arm’s length instead of facing it. This only allows my trauma to deepen and become stronger, because — as Ryan points out in the Why Theory episode, my use of euphemisms creates in my mind and in my heart an alternate reality in which the ur-cause of my trauma was really not so bad. This alternate reality lets me tell myself the story that “yes it was AWFUL but now I can live with it on a daily basis because other people aren’t confronting me with it all the time.” Ultimately, I come to believe that I am in control. (The feeling that we have control is only ever an illusion.) I’ll say it as bluntly as I know how: every time you demand that someone in the public stop saying something that triggers your trauma reaction, all you’re doing is fucking yourself up even further by creating for yourself an intellectual and emotional alternate reality. Equally as bluntly: if someone says something that triggers your trauma response, then your responsibility is to go do the work of facing that trauma and learning to deal with it in a healthy manner. What it boils down to is the same thing my mom told me about relationships when I was a kid: you cannot change the other person; you can only change yourself, or remove yourself from the relationship. And finally as bluntly: some of you reading this are feeling offended by what I’m saying. And I want to be clear about what I’m NOT saying: I am NOT saying that all of us have blanket permission to say whatever we want to in public without experiencing negative consequences; I am NOT saying that it’s okay to use currently dehumanizing or historically dehumanizing language; I am NOT saying that you should be able to post images publicly that depict torture, war, cruelty, or a host of other images that people online frequently request be hidden behind a trigger warning. What I am saying is that every time you feel a painful, visceral response to something you see or hear in the commons, then that is a signal for you to be doing the work of confronting your trauma. And if, instead of going out and doing the work, you demand euphemisms to cover over the thing that triggers you, then you are not alleviating your own pain. You are, instead, deepening your own trauma and guaranteeing that it’s going to last a much longer time than it would have. In effect, you’re slapping a compression bandage on a broken leg and telling yourself you’ll be able to walk again. And yes, everything I’m saying requires an answer to the question: “is trauma healable?” The only answer I can give is: I don’t believe that trauma is ever fully healable…because, when you get right down to the nitty-gritty of being human, that in itself is a trauma we can never get past…and that’s okay. That is existence in this universe. But I do believe that like that broken leg, trauma can be healed to the point where we can walk again. The evidence of the fracture won’t ever vanish into perfect wholeness…but we can heal to a point at which we are thriving again, even though we limp. (Hint: we are all of us limping.) What I do know for sure is that if you keep bowing to euphemism, it’s going to enable you to do nothing but deepen your own trauma…and, eventually, inflict it on others. I didn’t mean to write quite this much on this particular aspect of it all, and I’ve wholly missed delving into another part of the Why Theory episode I wanted to walk about, so CELEBRATE WITH GLADNESS AND TRUMPETS Y’ALL BECAUSE THERE WILL BE A PART THREE heavens help us all.
I’ve been listening on occasion to the Why Theory podcast by Todd McGowan and Ryan Engley. I don’t always understand what they’re talking about — but at the very least, there’s never a dull moment with these two. This morning, I started the episode “Euphemism.” Full disclosure: I’ve only gotten about ten minutes in, because …
I’ve been listening on occasion to the Why Theory podcast by Todd McGowan and Ryan Engley. I don’t always understand what they’re talking about — but at the very least, there’s never a dull moment with these two. This morning, I started the episode “Euphemism.” Full disclosure: I’ve only gotten about ten minutes in, because their discussion sparked thoughts that I needed to write down. So, without further ado or adon’t…. In this episode, Todd and Ryan posit that “euphemism” is the new politics — not only of the USA, where it perhaps has a lampshade permanently attached to it, but of the entire world. The initial example they give is D.O.G.E (which, for the record, I refuse to refer to as anything but the letters D-O-G-E, because “doge” and the associated pronunciation are a fun but ridiculously silly meme and I am determined to be prescriptivist about how utterly inane and juvenile it is to name a governmental agency after it). <img loading="lazy" decoding="async" width="800" height="450" src="https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/dogememe.webp" alt="" class="wp-image-4679" srcset="https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/dogememe.webp 800w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/dogememe-300x169.webp 300w, https://courtcan.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/dogememe-768x432.webp 768w" sizes="auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px" /> *this* is doge Anywhich, Ryan and Todd state that the agency name “D.O.G.E.” is a euphemism for the agency’s destruction of the public. It’s been 30 minutes, so I don’t remember now if the guys use the word “destruction,” but that’s how my Swiss-cheese memory has chosen to retain the information. I’m connecting this with some of the things I’ve read in Todd’s Embracing Alienation (highly recommend!), in which he defines and discusses “the public” (especially in the book’s final chapter). Basically, in the public, you don’t get to make the rules. I don’t get to make the rules. For better or for worse, we all make the rules together, and none of us gets to escape the consequences of infringing upon or breaking those rules. You don’t get to leave your home, step out onto the public sidewalk, and behave in that space exactly the way you would inside your home. I don’t get to walk into a library and hum loudly to myself as I browse books, the way I hum and sing loudly when I’m at home. When we’re at a city park, we don’t get to fence off an area and refuse to let strangers into it. And so forth. In the public, we’re constantly confronted with the Otherness of people. We’re constantly confronted with the myriad ways in which the Other is alienated is alien and alienates us. This highlights to us in a most discomfiting manner the myriad ways in which we ourselves are alienated from ourselves are alien to ourselves and alienate ourselves both from the Other and from our Self. The public is an uncomfortable space in which to tarry. It’s also a space that’s vital for our ability as humans to live together in this universe and on this planet. We must have a commons in which no one person and no one group of people gets to make all the rules and force everyone else to follow them. For better or for worse, we all make the rules of the commons together — and adhering to those rules by general consent is, paradoxically, one of the only ways we get to live in a society and yet experience freedom. In simplest terms, the so-called Department of Government Efficiency has the task of eliminating wasteful spending. According to Todd and Ryan (and me, ftr and fwiw), what’s happening is that this group of people with no experience in these matters is looking at things of the public they do not understand; seeing that these things are expensive, and doing away with them. The D.O.G.E. disruptions of Social Security, as well as D.O.G.E.’s plans for Social Security, are good examples. The question, I think, is why? Of what possible benefit can all of this be? I know very little of economic theory, but even I can see that in the long run, this targeted erosion of the commons, of the public, will cost the US-American public an unimaginable amount more than any current “waste” costs us. (And it will cost us in more that just financial means.) I mean, if we’re to eliminate waste in governmental spending, can we please start with the disproportionately huge salaries drawn by politicians and their various staff organizations? Nobody should be able to become wealthy as a result of their job in government — not senators, not governors, not presidents. The highest yearly salary in the senate currently nears US$200,000.00. You cannot tell me that the value of that person’s work is greater than the value of the work of a schoolteacher in Oklahoma. I’m not going to debate that. Don’t even get me started on the president’s annual salary of US$400,000.00. So. Before we go slashing things like museums and Medicaid, science and social programs, can we please eliminate the cash cow that all of our politicians are milking to our collective detriment? But back to the why of it all. If even an uneducated layperson can see the looming disaster smeared in human feces on the wall, then what the hell is the because? Well, it goes back to Lack. It goes back to alienation and self-alienation. If you’re the kind of person who categorically refuses to engage in honest introspection feels irrationally angry at the thought of making yourself vulnerable to others — which is an irrational anger that covers over fear of anyone’s seeing your failings — despises and rejects the Otherness you perceive in someone who’s different from you (and let’s be honest — what you despise in another person is usually something you despise about yourself) and, therefore, despises and rejects the Other, then of course you’re going to do everything you can to destroy and eliminate any spaces where the Other has the freedom to move, to speak, to act. Of course. Of course. And what we’re seeing is the Right’s radical, ultimate response to their own terror of the alien Other. Which is, really, the Right’s radical, ultimate response to their terror of the Lack in themselves. Now for the Left’s responsibility concerning all of this. And feel free to sit with that statement, that idea, for a minute. Doesn’t feel great, does it? Nope, not to me, either. I’ve never claimed the label “Left” any more than I’ve claimed the label “Right.” There’s a lot of personal history informing where I stand and where I’ve stood, but I’m not going to get into that right now. For my current purposes, suffice it to say that these days, if you’re wanting a neat drawer to put me in, you can use the one labeled “Left” — just keep in the front pocket of your brain the fact that no human is all one thing, and nuance is important. Ideas and concepts that involve care and concern for the most vulnerable, no matter who they are — these are ideas and concepts we generally? find in that same “Left”-hand drawer. (“But Courtney — what of that nuance you were just talking about?” –Yes, I know. But this is a blog post, not a book chapter, so you’re going to have to bear with some of my generalizations and shorthand.) Elon Musk, a right-wing South African billionaire obsessed with the letter “x” and whose business career began with his father’s money, said, ““The fundamental weakness of western civilization is empathy.” That statement, y’all — anathema to any civilized human, correct? Well, sort of. And maybe not. It all depends on how you define “empathy.” I’m not going to speak to how anyone else defines it. Me, I consider the word’s etymology and the fact that it was coined in English in 1909 as a translation of the German word Einfühlung (see Keywords for Today: A 21st Century Vocabulary, ed. McCabe and Yanacek). It means a “feeling into” another person’s emotions or “feeling into” a situation. There’s a connotation of deliberately, intentionally trying our damnedest to see something from the Other’s perspective understand where they’re coming from name the emotions they feel as a result (which requires checking with them to see if they agree with the names) and feel those emotions with them. Here, empathy goes far deeper than sympathy ever can, and it leads inevitably to compassionate action (in word and/or in deed). Back in my day — nineteen-hunnert-an’-none-o’-yer-bidness — I interacted regularly with a lot of people who complained about “political correctness.” It was “politically incorrect” to say the word “retarded”; we had to say “disabled” instead. It was “politically incorrect” to say “stewardess”; we had to use the term “flight attendant.” Pretty soon, we couldn’t say “African-American” or “Indian” anymore; now it had to be “Black” and “Native American.” And even though nobody used this term back then, these people in my circles complaining about “political correctness” were annoyed at having their language “policed.” I probably complained too, but I honestly don’t remember. I spent most of my days amongst German kids, who were more concerned about pronouncing their “th”s correctly than they were worried about US-American language foibles. But I won’t claim full innocence in anything, because I just can’t remember (see: Swiss cheese). As I look back, though, I believe that this “enforced political correctness” was fundamentally a call to practice sympathy and, going deeper, empathy and compassion. The call was to stop using words to hurt others. The call was to listen when others claimed that certain words caused pain. My parents taught me not to call my friend an “asshole” when he made me mad. Granted, their given reason was that “bad language” didn’t please God, and we didn’t really get into why it displeased God. But eventually, I understood that this God I was meant to please (and, Gentle Constant Reader, I do encourage you to check out my latest book for further thoughts on “God”) didn’t like the word “asshole” because it is language that dehumanizes. And anytime we use language that dehumanizes, we come one step closer to seeing that other person no longer as a fellow human — German: “Mitmensch,” a “with-human” — but as an object we can either use or eliminate on a whim. The call to “political correctness” was a call to stop using language that ignored the other person’s humanity. It was a call to respect the Other as a human eking out a human experience in this universe. Today, in this Winter Year of Our Discontent 2025, we don’t call it political correctness anymore. We call it “triggering language.” We give content warnings. We make sure that no matter what we say in public, we don’t offend anyone. We tread carefully. We tiptoe around the pieces of eggshell that might be somebody’s unpleasant experiences, we know not whose, but we know that person is out there and might end up having a bad week because of something we said. Y’all. This is a fucking CULTURE OF TABOO AND EUPHEMISM, and it is ensconced firmly in that nifty Left-hand drawer. This is no way to run a railroad. Why? Because euphemism creates an ungodly number of rules and regulations that erode the public. WE — those of us futzing around in that Left drawer, even we who are the most well-meaning — we are destroying the commons with our Incessant Euphemism, and we started doing it a long time before South-African-emerald-mine-X-D.O.G.E.r Musk showed up as shadow-VP of the USA. “Please put trigger warnings on your posts about _____________________.” “How many times have I asked for content warnings about _______________? I don’t want to see this shit!” Honestly, sometimes it sounds exactly like my deceased, super-conservative grandmother who couldn’t stand the sight of blood or any mention of sex in her presence. Minus the four-letter word, natch. Again: in the commons, in the public, you don’t make the rules. I don’t make the rules. Nobody is in charge of the rules. Nobody is in charge of enforcing the rules. Plenty of people will gladly put themselves in charge of public rule enforcement, but they are trying to cover over their own Lack by functioning as control freaks, and all while probably breaking the rules themselves (either in the act of policing others’ language or in unrelated ways). What it boils down to is: you do not get to behave in public the way you do at home you do not get to make public spaces conform to the rules you follow inside your home you do not get to do what you want in public without consequences you don’t like you do not get to tell people what words to use in a space that is not inside-your-home you do not get to demand that the commons adopt your preferred euphemism you do not get to use dehumanizing language in the commons without uncomfortable-to-you results you do not get to project your fears onto others in the public and force them to do and say what you would do and say. Simply put: in the public, in the commons, you don’t get to pretend that you’re inside your safe zone. Because you’re not. The public is a dangerous space, people. It’s full of people. It’s full of inherent, Lacking, horrific Otherness. You don’t get to pretend otherwise. And if you try to pretend otherwise — by inviting others to bully the person you’re trying to police, or by using dehumanizing language with the intent to cause suffering, or by taking a barely-metaphorical chainsaw to public service after public service — then all you’re doing is destroying our commons and their associated freedoms one after the other. That’s all for now. I’ll write a follow-up if the next ten minutes of the Why Theory episode inspire as many ruminations. You’ve been (content) warned. P.S. Just ftr, a blog is not a public space. It’s the blog writer’s invitation for you to peek into a select window of their home. Comment fittingly.