Matsuo Bashō, "A caterpillar / this deep in fall"
Our online presence destroyed "for sale: baby shoes, never worn" and William Carlos Williams' "This Is Just To Say."
Hi all --
I found Aaron Flaherty's "Will Texas Prisons’ New Collective Lockdown Policy Increase Violence?" fascinating as well as a call to action. I'll start with the latter, as a collective lockdown is a gross human rights violation. Entire populations should not be punished for the sake of a few. The torture extends well beyond prisoners who have not done anything wrong. The families of those depending on incarcerated loved ones are victims, too. Look especially at the last paragraph of what I've quoted below:
...in January 2025, prisoners in five maximum security prisons across Texas received a notice on their tablets announcing a new plan: 15-day lockdowns.
The notice said these lockdowns will be the new norm for any individual violations in a living area. This pilot policy tries collective punishment as a new deterrent against drugs, and expands the restrictions placed on residents. In April, the 15-day lockdowns were expanded beyond the initial five prisons.
During the lockdowns, all activities except medical appointments are suspended, including commissary, recreation, group meals, in-person education, visits, e-messaging services and even phone calls to family.
No "commissary, recreation, group meals, in-person education, visits, e-messaging services and even phone calls to family." This is extreme: prison isn't meant to be a picnic but this is asking for trouble. Can all of this really stop someone who has an addiction? It more or less asks prisoners to take justice into their own hands.
I said above I found Aaron Flaherty's piece fascinating, and that's because they honed in on the punitive nature of Texas' "y'all." Some here say Texas means "friend," that "y'all means all." And I hope one day that it will work that way. But right now, Texas has delusions of grandeur. The world's 8th largest economy (if considered an independent country) doesn't have time for the details (like leading the nation in hunger). The governor has Fox News segments to attend. Groups considered less than optimal are judged in the name of a ruggedness and independence the ruling class themselves does not have. Case in point: the sweltering, deadly summers Texas prisoners undergo because of a lack of air conditioning. The Texas State Senate has been an obstacle to stopping heat stroke and death for years. Collective punishment coming from a rich, unaccountable body of legislators and a governor with no interest in stopping the deaths of those in his custody:
I do believe that Texan identity can be used for positive change. The more prisoners we hear from, the more their voices are featured, the more people will be comfortable with understanding who actually lives in this state. Who experiences the full power of the state. Hoping Aaron Flaherty's piece will make me a better advocate, continually looking for opportunities to help.
Matsuo Bashō, "A caterpillar / this deep in fall"
Our online presence destroyed "for sale: baby shoes, never worn" and William Carlos Williams' "This Is Just To Say." They're not just jokes, they are jokes wielded as usernames. In this haiku, Bashō focuses our attention on a mere caterpillar and the time of year. "A caterpillar / this deep in fall / still not a butterfly." He evokes the tragic in a few words–we acutely sense the caterpillar is doomed–but his work is perhaps not as vulnerable to becoming cliche as Hemingway's one sentence story or Williams' cry about icebox plums.
A caterpillar / this deep in fall Matsuo Bashō (tr. Robert Hass) A caterpillar this deep in fall still not a butterfly
After all, we get the sense that Bashō tracks this caterpillar. He's in the garden, he has seen a butterfly or two, and then there's this little dude munching on a leaf. And maybe it takes a second to realize this isn't normal. Bashō himself looks and ponders; the haiku is an exclamation of recognition. He's not just seeing a caterpillar. He's seeing the end of life before it happens.
This is not an uncomplicated theme. What does it mean we see the caterpillar's end of life even as the caterpillar might not? I think I'm tempted to imagine the caterpillar as happy-go-lucky, one of nature's weird guys, who will somehow enjoy living out his remaining days. I'm tempted to think this because Bashō's story isn't only about inevitable death. It is also about growth, and it strongly suggests that growth is relative. Not every caterpillar can into a butterfly or moth; some are victimized by wasps or parasites or have birth defects and can't transform. Our expectation is to see a butterfly or moth. But who are we?
In my case, I'm someone who takes teleology a bit too seriously. I want caterpillars to turn into butterflies as acorns turn into oak trees. I would like virtues, pursued through reasonable means, to turn into powerful civic legacies we can build a better world from. And I have to remind myself that nothing works this way! Some of the best people I know are in hopeless situations doing them no favors. They excel in giving to others and their communities and will never be appreciated or known. This isn't just injustice. This is part of growth being relative. If you're that much bigger than some circumstances, if you yourself are growing in incredible ways, your impact is still delimited by where you are. You're a caterpillar, muddling through with the best anyone can offer, and it isn't enough.
It is that moment of identification with a caterpillar which gives Bashō's poem a peculiar tragic note. This isn't to say that Hemingway's short story or WCW's famous lyric do not hit like a truck. A lot of people mock "This Is Just To Say," but we know how people abandon others. They didn't know how to communicate before and they certainly don't know how to say goodbye. Awkward, clumsy moments which easily slip into comedy become griefs and scars. The peculiarity of the caterpillar is that, to quote the Internet, "it is doing the best it can," and this demands a grim respect. Show me someone with all the titles and accomplishments and often, I can show the privilege.