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Audrey will Reign Over Ivanka one Day?

Would it surprise any of you to know that chunky, muscular, freckled, red-haired Audrey has taken a venemous disliking to slim, fair, elegant, blond Ivanka? Tutor assures Audrey that Momma can buy and sell 1,000 Trumps by lunch and it would only be a rounding error. Put Trump's net worth, and all the Russian Olgarchs, plus Zuckerberg, Gates and Soros, and Big Momma could own them all on the proceeds of her last trade. Since Momma owns a controlling interest in all the world's wealth, what is one slim blond heir of a small time billionaire in the larger order of things? Yet, Ivanka went to Chapin then on to Choate Rosemary Hall, then Georgetown and Wharton. Audrey got tossed from second grade after the Annie Oakley incident, is on the No Fly List, and would be wearing an ankle bracelet if Momma had not intervened with the judge. Audrey gets home schooling from one disreputable Tutor, while Ivanka has every advantage that education, breeding, good taste, talent, straight blond hair, connections and power bestow. 

Audrey will not discuss Ivanka, but she draws endless pictures of her in various predicaments, which if published might get Audrey in even more trouble with the powers that be.

And really, can Momma expect Tutor, holed up in a Castle, in the midst of the sea, to teach Audrey all she needs to know if she is to reign over all the other G2s and G3s (second and third generation billionaire heirs) and rule wisely and justly the world she inherits? 

The Style Best Suited to Subaltern Advisors Writing on Governance of Flourishing Familes of Wealth

To say that for a priest, Tutor is a bit macho, in a 1540's kind of way, is putting it mildly. His true calling was Dungeon Master to the Stars in Wealth Bondage; the priest gig was just because in his day, under primogeniture, the career choices for a younger son were not many. The army, the church, or the law. The priests were the biggest drunkards, gluttons, and whoremongers at Oxford so he went with them for his Masters of Divinity. In our times, he would have been an attorney.

Today, I was talking to him about prose style, the style of our Noble Trade, as Wisdom Consultants to the World's Wealthiest. I was asking him what he thought the right style should be for writing about dynastic families and to help them flourish, from our position as spiritual guides and trusted underlings. I asked if it seemed to him that the prevailing style was more masculine than not, even from the pens of the women. "You mean the virile plain-style?, Phil?," he asked. "Yes," I said. "You mean the prose of the honest man?" "Yes, I said. "You mean the prose that descends to us from insiders in the courts of Emperors and kings, like Horace, Seneca, and Dryden?" "Yes," I said. "You mean the prose of the Courtiers to Louis The Sun King, as it descends from...." "Well, yes, Tutor," I said. "You mean the prose of the coffee house, the prose of the earliest English magazines, like those of Dr. Johnson, Addison, and Steele?" "Yes, Tutor," I said. "And all these highly educated, highly professional women write it. Even when writing about family, and surely that is when we ought to be speaking female. And if they did we could all learn from them." "You mean," said Tutor, "that these females you mention, who do family governance and dynamics, write the prose of Strunk and White, at best the urbane prose of those New Yorker Talk of the Town pieces that E.B. White did, in imitation of Horace, the occasional essay?" "Yes," I said. "The best women in the field sometimes say that the field is male dominated, but they have internalized those very conventions, and don't need to be dominated, because they now quite handily dominate themselves in favor of dynastic, hegemonic, mostly patriarchal power and its prose." "Well," said Tutor, "domination is certainly an interesting topic. Which females do you have in mind?" But we were interrupted.

Audrey hobbled over to Tutor, like a pintsized miscreant in foot manacles. The shoelaces of her faded red Keds, were tied together. "Audrey," said Tutor, "what are you doing, kid?" Says Audrey, "I tied my shoelaces for fun, and now they are all  knotted up and I can't get them apart!" At that she almost toppled over. Tutor picked her up and put her on his lap, working the knots with his deft fingers until they loosened.

Now, Audrey has called Rex her "mascot," and is doing her cheerleader routine for some World Class team in her own imagination. The crowd is roaring. The best of her moves is the cartwheel, from one end of her room to the other.

Now, where were we?

Solemn and Silly on the World Stage as Seen from Audrey's Family Room

Audrey scowls spread-eagled on the couch in the family room watching the news. Beside her is lanky Tutor. Ivanka?, Tutor can see Audrey thinking, if she inherits the world, what about Audrey, who has been promised as much by Momma? Tutor reassures her, "Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations is a proverb in all nations. Ivanka is Gen-2, the one that coasts, and her kids, if she has any, will be those who squander the family riches, moral, spiritual, political, financial. That rise and fall of dynastic families is what leaves room open for new growth, as when in a forest a mighty silver beech falls, and opens a space for, say, an oak to replace it." Audrey knows from his portentous tone that Tutor is pretending to be Solemn, his own straightman. Ivanka has her Wise counselors, Audrey," says Tutor, "but you have me." "But you are just a Silly Grownup!" says Audrey. "My point, exactly!," smiles Tutor. "You have a Silly Grownup. Who do you think coaches Ivanka?" To which Audrey and Tutor chant in unison, their faces red, ever so loud it brings Momma running in exasperation, "Stupid Grownups!"  

Tutor's mood is darker of late

Tutor is hiding in Audrey's big toy box, what he calls her Dumpster, drinking again into the wee hours, and regressing to the surly moralist he once was, under emperors and kings and queens long gone.  I only hope he does not cast a pall over Audrey, she who will inherit and rule our world, if it continues past the dynastic family now in charge. Even our future queen deserves a few years to grow as a rose grows in a well tended garden, to flourish as herself. "Come on, Tutor," she says, sensing his despair. "When I get sad, I do somersaults, really fast." And so, he trundles up and down her room, following her high rpm rolls with his slower more majestic ones. Now, exhausted, he is lying arms outstretched like the crucified Christ, as Audrey jumps up and down on his chest. But he is smiling. This Private Morals Tutoring of a nine year old, even for short money, is still his ideal job. Spanking The Wealth Creators, while they shrieked in delight, certainly had its moments, as Dungeon Master to the Stars in Wealth Bondage (Ah, the tales he could tell of important people you might know from the news!), but G-2, before the hormones hit, are more fun. If only every parent could afford a full time Moral Mentor for a kid, the world would be a better place.

The Business Model (Skipping Rope)

Audrey has tied one end of the rope to her doorknob. Tutor is holding the other end, and twirling the rope, as Audrey skips and chants to the slap of the rope on the stone floor. Teddy bear, teddy bear, Turn around. Teddy bear, teddy bear, Touch the ground. Teddy bear, teddy bear, Show your shoe. Teddy bear, teddy bear, That will do. Teddy bear, teddy bear, Go upstairs. Teddy bear, teddy bear, Say your prayers. Teddy bear, teddy bear, Turn out the light. Teddy bear, teddy bear.... Who taught her the song? Not Tutor, he recognizes it somehow from ages past, but never taught her. Maybe Cook's daughter? From my own perspective as a Wise Man and Gift Counselor, who achieved lifelong poverty without having to take the vow first, and chastity, too, unfortunately, I wonder what is the business model for that song and my work? The things we do for love, maybe that is the answer. Wealth Bondage: The Things We Do for Love. Maybe I should get a philanthropic planning job in a Private Bank. But at my age prostitution is a pro bono activity, too. Maybe like Tutor I can become a babysitter and moral mentor to some rich kid. His rap sheet is longer than mine.

How the World Ends and Why

All of Tutor’s tutorials directed to Audrey are pointedly unheard. Yet the fate of the world is determined not by a butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil but by whatever a Morals Consultant may once have said to 9.5 year old Ivanka. A missile strike in Syria, the world’s largest bomb in Afghanistan, nuclear war with Korea, Russia, or China, perhaps the End Times, pivot on the aphorisms of Pubilius Syrus, a freed slave, read to a child playing jacks as her rescue dog runs off with the red ball.

Moral Maxims of Pubilius Syrus for The Instruction of Future Casino Owners Charged with The Public Trust

Tutor has a favorite Ancient, Pubilius Syrus, a slave from Syria, freed in Rome because of his gift for sententiae.  Tutor identifies with him because a) Syrus was a slave in the greatest empire in history and Tutor was a wage slave in Wealth Bondage the greatest corporatiorn in history, b) Syrus did moral maxims and Tutor has his tooterisms, c) Syrus got his start doing "mimes," as Tutor is best known for mimicking the Wise and Virtuous under the guise of a Fool and a Rogue, and mostly because c) all but tiny fragments of Syrus's works have been lost and Tutor (so he claims) is the author of a Work of Genius, now lost somewhere in his Dumpster under the old books and a sack of garbage. 

So, at this very moment, Tutor is lounging on Audrey's bed, in the Castle by the Sea, reading out aphorisms, to form the moral sensibility of she who will one day rule us all. 

Audrey is on the floor teaching herself to shoot dice, because - bright young lady that she is - she has noticed that owning a Casino is probably the best path to understanding the General Public, winning their votes, if votes are needed, and ruling them as they wish to be ruled, with Dreams, Folly, Cupidity, Lust, and Rage. 

Tutor to Audrey: "Depravity pretends to goodness, that it may be worse than before!"

Audrey ignoring Tutor, blowing on her dice: "Lady Luck don't fail me now!"

Tutor to Audrey, just doing his job: "The less Fortune has given, the less she can take away."

Audrey caught up in the game: "O Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Snake eyes!"

Tutor to Audrey: "Excessive indignation is sometimes evidence of a great crime."

Audrey hopeful again, with the energy of youth: "Sweet Jesus, make me a winner, please motherfucking Jesus!"

Tutor to Audrey: "In the art of praying, necessity is the best of teachers."

More rides on the patience of a Tutor, of Generations 2-4 in Dynastic Families than can ever be corrected by Congress, Nato, or The United Nations. At $14 a day plus room and board in the old Dungeon, Tutor is doing the work of God-in-History. I am not worthy to touch the ragged hem of his Hawaiian shirt. All I claim is that I am one of his lineage, his chief descendent, intellectually speaking, the founder of a peripatetic Dumpster Dwelling School, the Infallible Peter, the rock upon whom my Master  has founded his Church. To me and to me alone has he entrusted his Word. He gives it away, pro bono publico, like a sower of seed in the asphalt wilderness, as freely as a breeze through the trees, or the promptings of the holy spirit, but I own and have reserved all the rights! "It is," as Tutor wisely saith, "all Wealth Bondage after all." 

 

Tending our Garden (Raising Responsible Dynasts above the Law)

Audrey, our future Queen, heir to all that can be owned (and what can't be owned? Can you think of anything?) is sitting cross-legged bouncing a red rubber ball against the wall of her room in the Castle by the Sea, so Rex can get some exercise. The walls, hundreds of years old, are cut volcanic stone, and the physics of the bounce is perfect, with just enough unevenness in the stone to make the rebound unpredictable, and more fun for Rex, the scruffy Rescue Dog. He is leaping to see if he can catch the ball before it hits the ground. When he does, he gets patted. "Good boy, Rex!" Tutor is on her bed, stretched out, feet in flip-flops, ankles crossed, reading what Audrey would call "a hard book." The book is grubby from having been read so often.

"Whatcha reading, Tutor?"

He is reading The Fragility of Goodness: Luck and Ethics in Greek Tragedy and Philosophy, by Martha Nussbaum.  Audrey is a grown up in the body of a nine year old. She likes hard books, as long as she does not have to read them. She likes being told what hard books say, so she can take it in and understand why grown-ups are so messed up. She heads for the bed, as if it were to be a bedtime story, and says, "So, what's it about, Tutor?"

Now, those of you with Degrees in Instructional Design, or maybe who are parents yourselves, know that this is what a Teacher calls a "Teachable moment," or "Learning Readiness." It is a good time to knock out a few "Learning Objectives" and "Competencies." As a Knave, Rogue, Dupe, or Fool yourself, that is to say a good consumer and citizen, what would you want the Heir to the Earth, she who will by law be above the law, who will rule you and your children, and her heirs your children's children, to know, feel, or be able to do? Good question, right? And here it all comes down to this disreputable, broken, Tutor in Priest pants, making what? $12 a day plus room and board and a safe place to hide from the FBI, NSA, NY Police, his former employer, an outstanding warrant for vagrancy, and several irate husbands. 

While well meaning Field Leaders in the Wealth Bondage Planning Business want to be a Trusted Advisor, or Consigliere, to the world's wealthiest families, and everyone knows that it is not about the numbers anymore, or the tax and tools, it is about Family Systems, and Family Dynamics, and preparing the heir for the money rather than just preparing the money for the heir, and while everyone wants to present themselves as a Mentor, and Paragon, and Role Model for the Heirs, and some quote Vergil to that effect, implying that they were sent by a goddess, Athena, goddess of wisdom, to impart priceless wisdom at $10,000  a day plus tax, and expenses, no one has the patience or the low self esteem, or the limited career options, to serve as a glorified babysitter for a stubborn kid in her formative years, as she bounces a red ball annoyingly against the wall of the Castle, while you are trying to read a hard book. So, it falls to Tutor, who lives for this, and has since Seneca suicided himself under Nero, for speaking truth out of turn, and Tutor took over as the Mentor to emperor's kids.

Dynasties, family enterprises (inclusive sometimes of entire countries), entire civilizations, religions, even languages, come and go, but always there are the Powers that Be, and always there are the little kids growing up to one day run the world. Tutor lives for the pleasure of playing with their heads, to help them be just and fair and kind and ruthless as we know our rulers must be, if they are to be above the law, by law, and do what is right not only for themselves, but for all of us, and all living things, too. Facts, laws, don't hold Power back. Power can decree Fact and double dare you to object. Law says what lawyers say it says, and judges, and they can be cultivated as Assets to those with the Wealth to do it. Happens all the time, and always has. So it comes back down to what the Owner/Leader wants and decides. That is why we have a "Decider" at the top. So things get done.

"Well, kid, it is about flowers and a garden."

"OK, what about flowers and a garden, Tutor?"

"Well, kid, it says that you are, we all are, like flowers in a garden."

"Ok, so?" She is really asking, her attention span is short, yes, but intense. She is focused. But easily bored, if truth is not forthcoming.

"You mind, heart, soul, how you are is a garden with a big wall around it, that Momma built, but the wind blows over the wall and in come seeds of weeds, and they grow in the garden, and they choke out the flowers inside."

"So, we have to weed it, right?" Smart, kid. She is always one step ahead. Catches the point, like Rex leaping for the red ball.

"Yes, we weed our gardens, and spade, and harrow, and tie the up delicate rose tendrils."

"Like when you tell me not to pick my nose and eat it?"

"Exactly! But you do anyway, right?"

"Because you told me not to."

Exactly!"

"Is that a weed?"

Tutor, puts the book down, and whispers in her ear, "Eating snot on purpose is a flower, kid. Keep it up!"

Audrey cuddles closer. She and Tutor are like two travelers on the bridge of time. She is a child who acts like a grownup, passing the grownup, traveling into a second childhood. They are at the balance point, where either has much to teach the other, true things, that stay true, even when the Supreme Courts agrees unanimously they are false, and the Pope concurs, and the Leader denounces the truth as fake. Even when fake stuff is against the law, and you pay for it with your life; fake includes art, which includes tragedy, and stays true.

"So, if we did pull out the weeds, we would have more flowers, right? Like my ballet? And Akido? I would get better and better?" Audrey leaps to the floor and begins her Akido kicks and chops.

"Exactly, kid. But the book is a true book and says more." Curious, Audrey climbs back on the bed.

"What?"

"It makes me so sad, I don't want to tell you. No one will ever tell us, except the artists. No one wants it to be true, and no one will say it is true anymore. We are not able to accept the truth, and so it takes us by surprise, and we are ashamed."

"What truth?"

"You may spend your whole life weeding the garden, tending the flowers, watering, pruning, and guess what?"

"Come on, tell me!"

"A worm will come in the night, or a storm will come, or drought, or hail, or a pestilence, and no matter what you have done the flowers will die."

"Inside me?" Audrey is pointing to her heart.

"Inside you, yes, inside you. You will become like a Real Grownup...."

"I love you Tutor." She puts arms around his neck and kisses his grizzled cheek.

"I love you, too, kid. You have to promise me you will never ever grow up. You will always be a kid, ok?"

"But I have to grow up, Tutor, I can't help it!" Audrey is waving her arms over her head.

"Well, maybe, but look at me. Did I ever grow up?"

Obviously not, but the moment has passed, and Audrey has vaulted onto the floor, and is now on all fours, pretending she is a dog, and barking to Rex to see if she knows dog language well enough to make him roll over. But he just sniffs her nose, which is a start.

As a free born citizen myself, I only wish that Tutor had gotten to World Leaders young enough to change them for the better. You talk about weeds! And when they get so big, who has the courage to pull them out by the roots? Not I. God bless Tutor and our once and Future Queen.

 

Scenes from the Castle

I have not been sharing much about Audrey and Tutor at the Castle, because in recent months the world has become such an angry, divisive, and often delusional place. Yes, one day Audrey will buy out and own the Billionaires, every last one of them. They will be her loyal vassals, as servile as they would expect their Direct Reports to be with them. Or, she will have Tutor counsel them in the dungeon. It won't be torture, but enhanced tutorials few may survive intact. For now, though, Audrey is just a kid. It does not seem fair for me to share with you her small joys and sorrows, when you, apparently, expect to have your own privacy, without her nosing into your affairs. I don't really have permission to share her life, and my only excuse is that she, Tutor, and I, too, am a fiction, "as indistinct as water is in water," to quote Anthony in Anthony and Cleopatra, just before he does himself in, after the Battle of Actium. But I know many of you do care about the kid, and so, to reassure you that all is well, in her Sanctuary Castle, here are some recent episodes in the life of our once and future Queen. Monarchy looks better to me all the time. Never have Morals Tutorials for Dynastic Wealth been more important for the body politic. Can you imagine if You Know Who had had The Happy Tutor as his morals coach, back in the day when He Who Alone Can Save Us was still coachable? You have to start Dynasts young, or they can do us all a world of hurt. See how Tutor prepares Audrey. Watch, my Fellow Courtiers to the High and Mighty, and learn!

1. Tutor and Audrey are in her big wooden toy box, with a blanket pulled over the top, which makes it their secret clubhouse. Their feet touch, knees bent. They peddle against each other, preparing to cogitate on the important issues that compelled Tutor to call this special meeting. After an appropriate pause, his feet pedaling and stopping, pedaling and stopping, his finger shoots forward, and in the pedantic tone of certainty for which he is well known, when making stuff up, he exclaims: "You are not normal!" To which Audrey, also pedaling, responds, "You are not normal! I am normal!" This continues for another three or four rounds, getting louder. Then Tutor exclaims, "Well, you are normal, very normal - for you!" And Audrey stands up abruptly in the toy box, her head pushing up the blanket, her fists dancing over her head, "I am normal, very normal, for me." Well, Momma being a very good Momma, has been auditing these proceeding, unbeknownst to Tutor and Audrey, her ear pressed against the box. Exasperated, understandably enough, she raises the blanket and exclaims, "Can you two please act normal just this once?" At which, Audrey drops straight down on her bum. All Momma hears is, "Shhhh! Let's be normal, ok?" Then silence, then suppressed laughter, then shouts and whoops of hilarity. What is Momma to do? All she can do is laugh, too, and hope that no one hears.
2. Same scene, a day later. This time Tutor opens his Morals Tutorial, in the Socratic manner, with a hat tip to Diogenes, and his old pal Dr. Rabelais, by speaking in the most wooden and portentous tones: "You," he says pointing his pedantic finger at Audrey, "You! are very immature!" To which his young charge thinks fit to respond, "You are immature, Tutor. Momma says you need a Baby Sitter more than I do." At which point, Tutor, his cover blown, and his disguise ripped away, says in a tiny broken voice, "I know I am immature. I have always been immature. Inside, I am just a kid, too." Then he begins to sob and whine. "I don't want to grow up. I want to be little. I want to always be little. I always want to be kid like you!" "Well, you can't," says Audrey calmly, in the tone of a good teacher teaching an unwelcome lesson, or a nurse administering a shot. "You cannot be a kid because you are almost 2,000 years old." At which point Tutor has a classic melt down, sobbing and wailing. Audrey, however, has adult level responsibilities. Where is Rex? It is time for his 3 pm walk, and he is probably down in the kitchen with cook, begging for table scraps, and they are not good for him. So, Audrey is hoisting herself up over the shoulder high edge of the toy box, first one leg, then the other, dropping down on the outside, leaving Tutor to cry himself out.
3. Tutor, his lesson plan complete, Audrey's competencies mastered, and checked off on his master sheet, exits the toy box only to find Momma standing there, arms akimbo. "So, what exactly do you think you have been doing in there?" she asks. Tutor draws himself up to his full lanky height, with all the dignity and unctuousness of  The Morals Tutor to the World's Wealthiest Heir, and says, "Simply my job, Madame. I am preparing the heir to inherit more than the earth." And he begins to walk on. But Momma is not done with him yet. "And how do you plan to do that?" "By proven best practices, Madame," says he solemnly. "By instilling High Moral Sentence, clarifying Practical Practices, and resting it all on a solid foundation of Purposeful Playfulness." Now it is a duel between two strong-willed people, Patron and Patronized, to see who can keep from smiling longest. Tutor is his own best straight man (other than Phil Cubeta, in other words, me, your Omniscient Narrator). So, it is Momma whose smile dawns against her own best judgment. Tutor ambles out of the room. And Momma says to herself, "There is something a little off about that guy. But he is good with children." And he is; the more babyish he gets, the more adult and patronizing the child becomes. And without becoming a good patron, what is a proper heir to do?

Is this Cheating at Morals Tutoring? You decide!

It is 9 am, time for Audrey's court mandated daily hour of Morals Tutoring by a Qualified Morals Tutoring Professional, but the silence in her room is palpable.

She may have hurt Tutor's feelings. She is sitting in her blue denim jacket, and pink corduroys, with her back to him, quite content to work on her Thelma and Louise coloring book. She has told him terrible things, without even looking back over her shoulder at him, as he lies on her bed, sorting his Values Cards, bearing the Christian Martyrs, to decide on his Personal Values. St Sebastian today seems right, shot full of arrows. Audrey told him that he is not her Most Trusted Advisor; not even her Morals Tutor; he is just her babysitter, and she does not even need one. She knows it hurts him, and that is why she says it so calmly, like our future Queen, setting her Queendom to rights. The Servants must know their place, even Tutor. Brooding, face downcast, Tutor rises and dejectedly shuffles toward the door. Audrey does not see him, as her back is turned, but she senses him escaping. "Where are you going?," Audrey asks reproachfully. 

What fun would it be to be alone? Really alone? Much better to sit with back turned, imperious and self-sufficient, as the Tutor witnesses separateness and confirms it. How sweet to make a grownup whimper. No sense letting one escape.

Tutor knew that all along, because he suffers from the same problem of reality-mediated-by-the-other. Without Audrey, or some other child to have fun with, he would not be a Silly Grownup, anymore, he would be an ancient man growing more ancient every day. He only got to be thousands of years old because, luckily, there has always been another prince or princess or inheritor to coach.

So, Tutor returns to the bed. He knows it may be cheating, at least it is in a gray area, but he will write up today as 'Worked with Audrey for 60 minutes on Lessons from the Christian Martyrs." He did work with her, in a sense. She worked, he worked. They worked together? About as well as any client ever does with a morals tutor, I think.

Today, though, Tutor gets the last word. "OK, so I am not your babysitter. Some day I am going to be your P.O."

"What is a P.O.?", asks Audrey rising to the bait.

"Parole Officer!," shouts Tutors, exuberantly, his fists dancing over his own head, as Audrey does when excited. 

Our once and future Queen, serenely crayons on.  Her face says, "What a Stupid Grown Up." But she does not deign to make a sound.