Coming soon, an essay on 'Our Friend,' John "POW" McCain by editor Hosho McCreesh.
[image courtesy of Father Luke]
30 October 2008
From The Editor
Coming soon, an essay on 'Our Friend,' John "POW" McCain by editor Hosho McCreesh.
[image courtesy of Father Luke]
27 October 2008
The Dream
by justin.barrett
Forty years ago, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated on the second-floor balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. His assassination touched off a wave of riots across the United States, and decades of bitterness amongst the civil rights movement, activists and supporters alike. An official day of mourning was declared three days later by President Lyndon Johnson. Dr. King’s legacy and words still reverberate in our collective consciousness to this day.
The most remarkable thing about King’s assassination, however, isn’t the location, or the timing, or the myriad reasons for it, but the fact that he knew it was the inevitable outcome of the life he chose. King chose to be on the side of the poor, the mistreated, the abused, the discriminated against; he chose to be against war, against injustice, against racism; he chose to be for tolerance, and non-violence, and equality – all admirable, yet, during that time, dangerous, principles to hold. But, King didn’t just believe in these principles, he fought for them – demanded their observance, even – with powerful rhetoric and civil disobedience. And, he did all of these in the Jim Crow South, when a black man, no matter how intelligent or charismatic or eloquent, was considered inferior to his white counterparts, no matter how ignorant or uneducated.
Dr. King knew his stature would inevitably lead to his death. Despite this knowledge, though, he continued on, preaching and disobeying. He did what was necessary regardless of the dangers to his life. Imagine this sense of purpose. Imagine Coretta Scott King, his wife, knowing she would likely be a widow, left to raise her four children alone, and still encouraging her husband in his duties. Imagine the remarkable sense of responsibility King saddled himself with, knowing he was the right man, with the right ideas, at the right time. Not the wrong man at the wrong time, but the right man. He never lamented his fate, but owned it. He didn’t shy away from his responsibilities, but embraced them. King knew the country needed a man like him, and he was willing to become a martyr for truth, equality, and righteousness.
Had Dr. King the ability to do it all over again, I doubt much would change in regards to his participation in the civil rights movement. Jackie Robinson, Jack Johnson, Edward Brooke, Alexander Lucius Twilight, and others who’ve broken the color barrier, undoubtedly felt the same sense of responsibility. And each persevered, each welcomed history.
All of this leads me to current Democratic Party candidate for President, Barack Obama. As you know, should Senator Obama be elected, he will be the first black President of the United States of America. As it is, he is the first to receive the nomination from one of the two major parties, and he is the sole African-American serving in the U.S. Senate (and only the fifth to be elected into the Senate in U.S. history). Mr. Obama, too, undoubtedly understands the importance of his historic campaign, and the possible threats he faces should he win the election. And, like Dr. King, he continues on, knowing he is the right man, with the right ideas, at the right time. Should his fate turn out similar to King’s, I doubt he or his wife, Michelle, would regret it much, because he is doing what he feels is right, what he feels needs to be done; and, undoubtedly, he knows the country will be better for it. He feels the sacrifice is worth it.
I envy this sense of self; this driven purpose of history and righteousness. Most of us possess neither. We move through our lives with little to fear and offer the world little in terms of anything new. But, we all owe great men like Martin Luther King, Jr., Jackie Robinson, and Barack Obama much. Each of them put their life at risk for the advancement of humankind. Let’s just hope Mr. Obama’s similarities to Dr. King’s ends there. Let’s hope we, as a people, as a country, have moved beyond our grotesque history and can accept change, can start a new chapter where tolerance and coexistence and hope are the significant themes.
Our past is filled with despicable and ugly acts of hatred, cowardice and intolerance. From time to time, that ugliness, even now, bubbles to the surface. With the racial epithets and outcries of Obama's murder recently heard at McCain's rallies, no matter how one tries to attribute them to mob mentality, the reality of an assassination attempt appears to grow. And, with the fomenting of hatred, the race-baiting, the exploitation of passionate fears, with the renaming of Obama as an "outsider" and as an "other" McCain's campaign has engaged in, there is bound to be a bitter and potentially angry mood among the McCain supporters should Obama prevail—picture the raucous crowd of villagers raising torches and pitchforks, and volleying epithets, at Frankenstein's monster before moving in for the kill; except trade sniper rifles and handguns for the torches and pitchforks. This scene can very easily come true, should overwrought zealots decide that the country is in danger with Obama as president, something right-wing blogs and the McCain smear ads have either alluded to or outright posited. Just recently, a McCain operative claimed to have been sexually assaulted at an ATM by a “big, black man,” who then proceeded to carve a “B” in her cheek after he saw her McCain bumper sticker. This horrible event turned out to be a hoax perpetrated by the operative; a desperate attempt by a desperate volunteer working for an increasingly desperate campaign. And, we all know, desperation leads to frustration; and frustration can lead to the worst kind of behavior, especially when coupled with fear.
The simple fact is, America has insufficiently dealt with its ugly, racist past; but it’s not the past this campaign is about; it’s the future. On March 18, 2008, Obama said, in a speech on race hailed as one of his finest, “I chose to run for president at this moment in history because I believe deeply that we cannot solve the challenges of our time unless we solve them together, unless we perfect our union by understanding that we may have different stories, but we hold common hopes; that we may not look the same and we may not have come from the same place, but we all want to move in the same direction – toward a better future for our children and our grandchildren.” It’s this sense of change and righting the course our nation is taking that has allowed Obama to run despite the risks.
In the same speech, he said that “what gives me the most hope is the next generation – the young people whose attitudes and beliefs and openness to change have already made history in this election.” History. It’s what Dr. King envisioned and what Obama is striving for: to realize the dream; for his race, for America, and for the children who come after us, black or white.
[Editor's note: H E R E are some folks j.b mentions above. McCain/Palin the candidacy has morphed into some hideous beast-thing, some freakish, slouching, grinning, conniving, horrible, soul-less creature of its own demented power-lust, concerned only with crushing and destroying the hated Other. It's Golem-Smeagol willing to forgo any chance at personal redemption to clench the illusory ring in its diseased claws. It's the witch in Wizard, sending deranged flying monkeys out across the landscape to do its gruesome bidding, racist fangs glinting in the dull sunlight, ignorance crawling across their pasty faces like lice over the skin of rabid, feral cats, warriors for a jesus of their own imperfect design...shameless bigots with bloodlust curling their sneering lips.
Like it or not, this is the huge white elephant in the country right now. We've seen enough glory-minded armed psychopaths in America that we need not imagine much to imagine someone plotting this very second. The startling, dangerous, and irresponsibly incendiary rhetoric adopted by the McCain camp in attack ads, the unwillingness to publically own them, and the inability/unwillingness to stop a speech mid-sentence and quickly, publically correct these "supporters" when they scream things the candidates find inappropriate or unfair...to focus not on what is, perhaps, a legitimate complaint in re: Senator Obama (inexperience), and instead focus on what is outlandishly out of bounds (terrorist, arab, etc.) is a terrifying and sad thing to behold. Some very basic pre-requisites to even run for president in the United States seem to escape this slavering and vicious mass...not the least of which is "you cannot run for President of the U.S. unless you are a US CITIZEN-- and not a NATURALIZED one." He is not an Arab. Senator Obama is an American,born in Hawaii, which is still the 50th state in the Union. To attack an opponent for anything but his ideas has been the downfall of American politics: it's seen the electorate grow ever more weary, and what's become more acceptable, what's chalk up as "just politics," become more insulting to a nation starved for real political debate.
But, again, of what value are IDEAS? They are nothing short of political currency. After all, isn't it that what killed MLK, Jr., JFK and RFK--ideas? Specifically, it was some crackpot trying to destroy IDEAS by destroying the men behind them. It didn't work, of course, as evidenced by Obama's historic nomination and potential presidency...but, probably, there seems little left when your own campaign has no ideas, while your opponent is flush with them. -- Eds]
Forty years ago, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated on the second-floor balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. His assassination touched off a wave of riots across the United States, and decades of bitterness amongst the civil rights movement, activists and supporters alike. An official day of mourning was declared three days later by President Lyndon Johnson. Dr. King’s legacy and words still reverberate in our collective consciousness to this day.
The most remarkable thing about King’s assassination, however, isn’t the location, or the timing, or the myriad reasons for it, but the fact that he knew it was the inevitable outcome of the life he chose. King chose to be on the side of the poor, the mistreated, the abused, the discriminated against; he chose to be against war, against injustice, against racism; he chose to be for tolerance, and non-violence, and equality – all admirable, yet, during that time, dangerous, principles to hold. But, King didn’t just believe in these principles, he fought for them – demanded their observance, even – with powerful rhetoric and civil disobedience. And, he did all of these in the Jim Crow South, when a black man, no matter how intelligent or charismatic or eloquent, was considered inferior to his white counterparts, no matter how ignorant or uneducated.
Dr. King knew his stature would inevitably lead to his death. Despite this knowledge, though, he continued on, preaching and disobeying. He did what was necessary regardless of the dangers to his life. Imagine this sense of purpose. Imagine Coretta Scott King, his wife, knowing she would likely be a widow, left to raise her four children alone, and still encouraging her husband in his duties. Imagine the remarkable sense of responsibility King saddled himself with, knowing he was the right man, with the right ideas, at the right time. Not the wrong man at the wrong time, but the right man. He never lamented his fate, but owned it. He didn’t shy away from his responsibilities, but embraced them. King knew the country needed a man like him, and he was willing to become a martyr for truth, equality, and righteousness.
Had Dr. King the ability to do it all over again, I doubt much would change in regards to his participation in the civil rights movement. Jackie Robinson, Jack Johnson, Edward Brooke, Alexander Lucius Twilight, and others who’ve broken the color barrier, undoubtedly felt the same sense of responsibility. And each persevered, each welcomed history.
All of this leads me to current Democratic Party candidate for President, Barack Obama. As you know, should Senator Obama be elected, he will be the first black President of the United States of America. As it is, he is the first to receive the nomination from one of the two major parties, and he is the sole African-American serving in the U.S. Senate (and only the fifth to be elected into the Senate in U.S. history). Mr. Obama, too, undoubtedly understands the importance of his historic campaign, and the possible threats he faces should he win the election. And, like Dr. King, he continues on, knowing he is the right man, with the right ideas, at the right time. Should his fate turn out similar to King’s, I doubt he or his wife, Michelle, would regret it much, because he is doing what he feels is right, what he feels needs to be done; and, undoubtedly, he knows the country will be better for it. He feels the sacrifice is worth it.
I envy this sense of self; this driven purpose of history and righteousness. Most of us possess neither. We move through our lives with little to fear and offer the world little in terms of anything new. But, we all owe great men like Martin Luther King, Jr., Jackie Robinson, and Barack Obama much. Each of them put their life at risk for the advancement of humankind. Let’s just hope Mr. Obama’s similarities to Dr. King’s ends there. Let’s hope we, as a people, as a country, have moved beyond our grotesque history and can accept change, can start a new chapter where tolerance and coexistence and hope are the significant themes.
Our past is filled with despicable and ugly acts of hatred, cowardice and intolerance. From time to time, that ugliness, even now, bubbles to the surface. With the racial epithets and outcries of Obama's murder recently heard at McCain's rallies, no matter how one tries to attribute them to mob mentality, the reality of an assassination attempt appears to grow. And, with the fomenting of hatred, the race-baiting, the exploitation of passionate fears, with the renaming of Obama as an "outsider" and as an "other" McCain's campaign has engaged in, there is bound to be a bitter and potentially angry mood among the McCain supporters should Obama prevail—picture the raucous crowd of villagers raising torches and pitchforks, and volleying epithets, at Frankenstein's monster before moving in for the kill; except trade sniper rifles and handguns for the torches and pitchforks. This scene can very easily come true, should overwrought zealots decide that the country is in danger with Obama as president, something right-wing blogs and the McCain smear ads have either alluded to or outright posited. Just recently, a McCain operative claimed to have been sexually assaulted at an ATM by a “big, black man,” who then proceeded to carve a “B” in her cheek after he saw her McCain bumper sticker. This horrible event turned out to be a hoax perpetrated by the operative; a desperate attempt by a desperate volunteer working for an increasingly desperate campaign. And, we all know, desperation leads to frustration; and frustration can lead to the worst kind of behavior, especially when coupled with fear.
The simple fact is, America has insufficiently dealt with its ugly, racist past; but it’s not the past this campaign is about; it’s the future. On March 18, 2008, Obama said, in a speech on race hailed as one of his finest, “I chose to run for president at this moment in history because I believe deeply that we cannot solve the challenges of our time unless we solve them together, unless we perfect our union by understanding that we may have different stories, but we hold common hopes; that we may not look the same and we may not have come from the same place, but we all want to move in the same direction – toward a better future for our children and our grandchildren.” It’s this sense of change and righting the course our nation is taking that has allowed Obama to run despite the risks.
In the same speech, he said that “what gives me the most hope is the next generation – the young people whose attitudes and beliefs and openness to change have already made history in this election.” History. It’s what Dr. King envisioned and what Obama is striving for: to realize the dream; for his race, for America, and for the children who come after us, black or white.
[Editor's note: H E R E are some folks j.b mentions above. McCain/Palin the candidacy has morphed into some hideous beast-thing, some freakish, slouching, grinning, conniving, horrible, soul-less creature of its own demented power-lust, concerned only with crushing and destroying the hated Other. It's Golem-Smeagol willing to forgo any chance at personal redemption to clench the illusory ring in its diseased claws. It's the witch in Wizard, sending deranged flying monkeys out across the landscape to do its gruesome bidding, racist fangs glinting in the dull sunlight, ignorance crawling across their pasty faces like lice over the skin of rabid, feral cats, warriors for a jesus of their own imperfect design...shameless bigots with bloodlust curling their sneering lips.
Like it or not, this is the huge white elephant in the country right now. We've seen enough glory-minded armed psychopaths in America that we need not imagine much to imagine someone plotting this very second. The startling, dangerous, and irresponsibly incendiary rhetoric adopted by the McCain camp in attack ads, the unwillingness to publically own them, and the inability/unwillingness to stop a speech mid-sentence and quickly, publically correct these "supporters" when they scream things the candidates find inappropriate or unfair...to focus not on what is, perhaps, a legitimate complaint in re: Senator Obama (inexperience), and instead focus on what is outlandishly out of bounds (terrorist, arab, etc.) is a terrifying and sad thing to behold. Some very basic pre-requisites to even run for president in the United States seem to escape this slavering and vicious mass...not the least of which is "you cannot run for President of the U.S. unless you are a US CITIZEN-- and not a NATURALIZED one." He is not an Arab. Senator Obama is an American,born in Hawaii, which is still the 50th state in the Union. To attack an opponent for anything but his ideas has been the downfall of American politics: it's seen the electorate grow ever more weary, and what's become more acceptable, what's chalk up as "just politics," become more insulting to a nation starved for real political debate.
But, again, of what value are IDEAS? They are nothing short of political currency. After all, isn't it that what killed MLK, Jr., JFK and RFK--ideas? Specifically, it was some crackpot trying to destroy IDEAS by destroying the men behind them. It didn't work, of course, as evidenced by Obama's historic nomination and potential presidency...but, probably, there seems little left when your own campaign has no ideas, while your opponent is flush with them. -- Eds]
Letter to A Young Tortured Genius
by Christopher Cunningham
so you want to be the greatest writer ever huh?
first of all: love, the maintaining of an intense, meaningful relationship where two people have each other's back, and can trust each other no matter what, are willing to go to Room 101 for the other and have rats strapped to their heads, this is the essential connection that all writing seeks to make; like the saxophone seeks to mimic the human voice singing, the breath from the heart and soul translated into musical notes that transcend the limits of puny speech and mere language, so does writing attempt a Great Connection, a Great Communication, the forging of a link between writer and reader that is so like love that it is, at its finest, capable of drawing out the deepest emotions, causing weeping and laughter, sorrow, pain, soaring freedoms, the Pure Understanding. this is also the goal of love. it is the goal of ALL GREAT ART in the end: connection to the ethereral, the intangible, the impossible.
listen: you must shed this "DESIRE" that will, in the end, cripple you. this DESIRE to "be the greatest *blank*" is an illusion. you will never be the GREATEST WRITER, because there will ALWAYS be someone coming up behind you who will do something that will make YOU, the "greatest writer" (by whomever's standards...yours? hardly a capable judge. an editor? fallible as all hell. jesus? good fucking luck...) shudder in your skin and sweat blood and finally grab for the ol' Hemingway shotgun. this is the path of your desire to be the greatest. believe me. I've lived it. finally, you won't be able to outdo your OWN PAST WRITING, no matter how great, and it will kill you.
here brother: learn to be the GREATEST HUMAN first. learn to suffer the misery of COMPASSION, that is, the SUFFERING WITH another that draws GREAT WRITING out of you. throw yourself into love, the FULLNESS OF IT, and LET THE WRITING COME AS IT WILL. this desire will make you FORCE the words, and trust me, it will show. no matter how good you get at the TRICK of writing (that's all it is, really, a magic trick: a conjuring, an illusion like a house of mirrors that reflects the world back upon the reader thru his own eyes, allowing the writer to disappear, leaving only the mysterious puff of fog down a dark midnight alley glinting in the dim streetlights of Prague or St. Louis or Mexico City) you will always be forced to BE A HUMAN LIVING A LIFE.
man, you have to understand most of all that you will WRITE no matter what. you will carve hours out of the night that you never knew existed, all the while living your life with your women, your jobs, your hurts and your triumphs. if this girl means as much to you as you say, there is no need to sacrifice EITHER ONE. one is tangible and real, and one is a beautiful dream that you will never achieve except in the ABSTRACT. I've writ some shit that has made folks stare at me in amazement at how CLOSE TO THE BONE I'VE GOTTEN, and in the end, it's my relationship with my woman for twenty fucking years that matters. the TRUST AND PURE HONESTY OF LOVE. I used to think I had to sacrifice for my art. and I do. and so do you. but the sacrifice comes with the LIVING OF A LIFE IN THE TRAGEDY OF OUR MORTALITY, and doing it WELL. to leave a shining mark on the cave wall for others to find. to make a CONNECTION with another human being that is something done out of selflessness and compassion and the will to give, to sacrifice in a way that isn't negative but rather a positive expression of the best humanity can offer.
getting the artform down is the most important thing in the world to me. but the art lies in the connection generated by the CREATION. and you don't always need the creation to make that connection. the two are not mutually exclusive my man. take it from me. I've spent my LIFE, every waking moment in pursuit of exactly the dream you have, and it has brought me to this place where I can clearly see that the dream is not something attainable, but rather a DRIVING MOTIVATION to make a LIFE THAT IS ART. like Henry Miller said, something about how eventually he will get his life just right and then will never need to write another word, having acheived the PURPOSE OF THE WRITING.
Buk wanted to be the greatest, to kick Hem's ass, and even if he managed, in some ways, to do just that, he still sought LOVE FIRST OF ALL. it was PRIMARY in terms of motivation. the isolated loner puts pen to paper and sends it out into the world hoping for CONNECTION, for someone to say I HEAR YOU SCREAMING. this is literature, my man. get the words down, get them down down down, until the pages cry out, but never forget that by giving up your HUMANITY, you lessen the power of the art.
now having said all this, your partner MUST UNDERSTAND that SOMETIMES we cannot be bothered, that when they hear the MACHINE RUNNING they must find SOMETHING ELSE TO DO. there has to be COMMON GROUND, and if you feel like you are being hampered, you might try a deep examination of motivation, of purpose, of desire, of respect, etc. my lady would NEVER interrupt me or dissuade me from my art but likewise I have to FIND THE BALANCE and respect that there are TIMES WHEN I MUST SIMPLY BE A MAN living a hard human life, mowing the grass, growing some veggies in the garden, cleaning up dogshit, saying I love you, etc. it is ALL PART OF IT: THE MAKING OF ART. it all translates. leave nothing out. make nothing up.
TELL THE TRUTH FIRST. if you do that it will all fall into place. and brother: RELAX. burning up in a furious pyre does NOBODY ANY GOOD, especially you. tell the truth and get it down. be a GREAT WRITER. AND BE A GREAT HUMAN. be kind, be honest, gamble with class and dignity, crush the typewriter with lines like sledgehammers and doom, drink black coffee, sleep late and laugh when you can. this is all you can hope for brother. all else is gravy.
so you want to be the greatest writer ever huh?
first of all: love, the maintaining of an intense, meaningful relationship where two people have each other's back, and can trust each other no matter what, are willing to go to Room 101 for the other and have rats strapped to their heads, this is the essential connection that all writing seeks to make; like the saxophone seeks to mimic the human voice singing, the breath from the heart and soul translated into musical notes that transcend the limits of puny speech and mere language, so does writing attempt a Great Connection, a Great Communication, the forging of a link between writer and reader that is so like love that it is, at its finest, capable of drawing out the deepest emotions, causing weeping and laughter, sorrow, pain, soaring freedoms, the Pure Understanding. this is also the goal of love. it is the goal of ALL GREAT ART in the end: connection to the ethereral, the intangible, the impossible.
listen: you must shed this "DESIRE" that will, in the end, cripple you. this DESIRE to "be the greatest *blank*" is an illusion. you will never be the GREATEST WRITER, because there will ALWAYS be someone coming up behind you who will do something that will make YOU, the "greatest writer" (by whomever's standards...yours? hardly a capable judge. an editor? fallible as all hell. jesus? good fucking luck...) shudder in your skin and sweat blood and finally grab for the ol' Hemingway shotgun. this is the path of your desire to be the greatest. believe me. I've lived it. finally, you won't be able to outdo your OWN PAST WRITING, no matter how great, and it will kill you.
here brother: learn to be the GREATEST HUMAN first. learn to suffer the misery of COMPASSION, that is, the SUFFERING WITH another that draws GREAT WRITING out of you. throw yourself into love, the FULLNESS OF IT, and LET THE WRITING COME AS IT WILL. this desire will make you FORCE the words, and trust me, it will show. no matter how good you get at the TRICK of writing (that's all it is, really, a magic trick: a conjuring, an illusion like a house of mirrors that reflects the world back upon the reader thru his own eyes, allowing the writer to disappear, leaving only the mysterious puff of fog down a dark midnight alley glinting in the dim streetlights of Prague or St. Louis or Mexico City) you will always be forced to BE A HUMAN LIVING A LIFE.
man, you have to understand most of all that you will WRITE no matter what. you will carve hours out of the night that you never knew existed, all the while living your life with your women, your jobs, your hurts and your triumphs. if this girl means as much to you as you say, there is no need to sacrifice EITHER ONE. one is tangible and real, and one is a beautiful dream that you will never achieve except in the ABSTRACT. I've writ some shit that has made folks stare at me in amazement at how CLOSE TO THE BONE I'VE GOTTEN, and in the end, it's my relationship with my woman for twenty fucking years that matters. the TRUST AND PURE HONESTY OF LOVE. I used to think I had to sacrifice for my art. and I do. and so do you. but the sacrifice comes with the LIVING OF A LIFE IN THE TRAGEDY OF OUR MORTALITY, and doing it WELL. to leave a shining mark on the cave wall for others to find. to make a CONNECTION with another human being that is something done out of selflessness and compassion and the will to give, to sacrifice in a way that isn't negative but rather a positive expression of the best humanity can offer.
getting the artform down is the most important thing in the world to me. but the art lies in the connection generated by the CREATION. and you don't always need the creation to make that connection. the two are not mutually exclusive my man. take it from me. I've spent my LIFE, every waking moment in pursuit of exactly the dream you have, and it has brought me to this place where I can clearly see that the dream is not something attainable, but rather a DRIVING MOTIVATION to make a LIFE THAT IS ART. like Henry Miller said, something about how eventually he will get his life just right and then will never need to write another word, having acheived the PURPOSE OF THE WRITING.
Buk wanted to be the greatest, to kick Hem's ass, and even if he managed, in some ways, to do just that, he still sought LOVE FIRST OF ALL. it was PRIMARY in terms of motivation. the isolated loner puts pen to paper and sends it out into the world hoping for CONNECTION, for someone to say I HEAR YOU SCREAMING. this is literature, my man. get the words down, get them down down down, until the pages cry out, but never forget that by giving up your HUMANITY, you lessen the power of the art.
now having said all this, your partner MUST UNDERSTAND that SOMETIMES we cannot be bothered, that when they hear the MACHINE RUNNING they must find SOMETHING ELSE TO DO. there has to be COMMON GROUND, and if you feel like you are being hampered, you might try a deep examination of motivation, of purpose, of desire, of respect, etc. my lady would NEVER interrupt me or dissuade me from my art but likewise I have to FIND THE BALANCE and respect that there are TIMES WHEN I MUST SIMPLY BE A MAN living a hard human life, mowing the grass, growing some veggies in the garden, cleaning up dogshit, saying I love you, etc. it is ALL PART OF IT: THE MAKING OF ART. it all translates. leave nothing out. make nothing up.
TELL THE TRUTH FIRST. if you do that it will all fall into place. and brother: RELAX. burning up in a furious pyre does NOBODY ANY GOOD, especially you. tell the truth and get it down. be a GREAT WRITER. AND BE A GREAT HUMAN. be kind, be honest, gamble with class and dignity, crush the typewriter with lines like sledgehammers and doom, drink black coffee, sleep late and laugh when you can. this is all you can hope for brother. all else is gravy.
True Terror
by Father Luke
Despite what the television and radio talk shows may present, growing up in a violent and alcoholic home is not romantic, it’s not something with easy solutions brought about by swift decisions. It’s not debatable, and it’s not something that has an easy solution, because the problem is not obvious. It’s truly something akin to actual terrorism.
Imagine this. Imagine being barely old enough to talk gibberish, wearing a full and wet diaper, your face dotted with food from this morning’s wrestling match with breakfast. Then imagine the people you love most fighting each other with voices so loud you want to cover your ears and cry. Then the beatings begin. The people you are turning to for trust and security, are hurting one another, and all you want is to let them know your diaper needs changing. What is that if not terror? Who does a baby turn to to begin to seek solace? Is it the Church? How about a City Council member or the Television news? What does a baby do?
Well, you’re a baby, so you cry.
But big kids don’t cry, now do they? Oh yes we do. I do. I cry for my lost youth. I cry about the children still in homes where there is violence. I cry for the alcoholics, still trapped in a situation they cannot win, and who feel they have no way out. Not unless making someone else to blame is a way out. It’s still popular, you know. Blaming someone else for your actions is still making the rounds, even today. I cry for violence in the home, and for the children too scared to cry.
When I was young, I lived in a house where I saw violence; I saw plenty of violence. By the time I was 16, I was a pants shitting drunk, pissing myself in school, and daring anyone to fight who looked at me. I hadn’t yet found drugs. That came when I entered the work world. At home, my Father would disappear for days at a time. There would be a peace in the house with his disappearance. Nerves would settle, like bubbles in soda rising to the surface, popping letting the soda go flat. There would be calm. My Mother’s bruises would have time to heal. The purple welts on my brothers and I would begin turning yellow, and start to fade.
Then it would happen.
The brakes on my Father’s vehicle were old, and they made a sound like someone screaming in pain. That’s very appropriate, as I look back. Because when he would come back home we could hear his brakes a block away. My four brothers and I would look to my mom. She would look to the door and say: He’s here. We knew what to do. We would become petrified. Absolute horror came to live where the calm serenity had lain down for a nap, and we would all prepare ourselves for the worst we could possibly imagine.
But how do you prepare yourself for the worst? Imagination is a funny thing. It can heal, and it can hurt, but a hyper vigilance sets in which allows for suspicion, and keeps one keen to be able to survive in any circumstance. So, you wait. You wait for the worst of it. You wait to see what you will need to do to survive. And, if you haven’t given up, then you also hope. But you learn not to hope too much. For in hope lies hopelessness. You certainly can’t trust those who are in charge. But, you make it. Somehow you make it. You always do.
Despite what the television and radio talk shows may present, growing up in a violent and alcoholic home is not romantic, it’s not something with easy solutions brought about by swift decisions. It’s not debatable, and it’s not something that has an easy solution, because the problem is not obvious. It’s truly something akin to actual terrorism.
Imagine this. Imagine being barely old enough to talk gibberish, wearing a full and wet diaper, your face dotted with food from this morning’s wrestling match with breakfast. Then imagine the people you love most fighting each other with voices so loud you want to cover your ears and cry. Then the beatings begin. The people you are turning to for trust and security, are hurting one another, and all you want is to let them know your diaper needs changing. What is that if not terror? Who does a baby turn to to begin to seek solace? Is it the Church? How about a City Council member or the Television news? What does a baby do?
Well, you’re a baby, so you cry.
But big kids don’t cry, now do they? Oh yes we do. I do. I cry for my lost youth. I cry about the children still in homes where there is violence. I cry for the alcoholics, still trapped in a situation they cannot win, and who feel they have no way out. Not unless making someone else to blame is a way out. It’s still popular, you know. Blaming someone else for your actions is still making the rounds, even today. I cry for violence in the home, and for the children too scared to cry.
When I was young, I lived in a house where I saw violence; I saw plenty of violence. By the time I was 16, I was a pants shitting drunk, pissing myself in school, and daring anyone to fight who looked at me. I hadn’t yet found drugs. That came when I entered the work world. At home, my Father would disappear for days at a time. There would be a peace in the house with his disappearance. Nerves would settle, like bubbles in soda rising to the surface, popping letting the soda go flat. There would be calm. My Mother’s bruises would have time to heal. The purple welts on my brothers and I would begin turning yellow, and start to fade.
Then it would happen.
The brakes on my Father’s vehicle were old, and they made a sound like someone screaming in pain. That’s very appropriate, as I look back. Because when he would come back home we could hear his brakes a block away. My four brothers and I would look to my mom. She would look to the door and say: He’s here. We knew what to do. We would become petrified. Absolute horror came to live where the calm serenity had lain down for a nap, and we would all prepare ourselves for the worst we could possibly imagine.
But how do you prepare yourself for the worst? Imagination is a funny thing. It can heal, and it can hurt, but a hyper vigilance sets in which allows for suspicion, and keeps one keen to be able to survive in any circumstance. So, you wait. You wait for the worst of it. You wait to see what you will need to do to survive. And, if you haven’t given up, then you also hope. But you learn not to hope too much. For in hope lies hopelessness. You certainly can’t trust those who are in charge. But, you make it. Somehow you make it. You always do.
25 October 2008
Letter to the Apartment Thieves
by Jordan Hurder
Dear Person/People who Robbed my Apartment,
I hope you enjoyed the time you spent at my apartment yesterday. The following things came up as I inspected the place after you left:
1. How much did you get for my bike? It was worth about $5000, but I'd imagine you hocked it for a couple hundred, at best. Congrats on that one- quite a score.
2. Why did you take my change? Seriously, there weren't any quarters in there, since I use them to do laundry. How much change could there have really been? $10? You must have been busy after you left, what with trying to hock my bike, getting rid of my electronics, and THEN having to hit up a Coinstar machine!
3. I couldn't help but notice that you took my alarm clock, but left 3 big binders of CD's that were next to it. This was an $8 alarm clock I got at Walgreens. After my car got broken into a while back, I assumed that CD's were hot property on the thievery circuit. Well, in any case, I hope you know what time it is from now on and that you have no trouble waking up at pre-specified times.
4. I want to extend a special thanks to you for stealing my cell phone charger. I suppose that a $15 thingy gets big bucks on the electronics gray market, but it was a huge pain in the ass trying to squeeze in as many calls as I could before my phone died.
5. Okay, I'm back on the alarm clock again... You looked through the carrying case of my high-tech bike light, but took the alarm clock and left the light? I'm kinda confused, but maybe it was just a nicer alarm clock than I thought.
6. That backpack that you took from my living room (thanks for leaving my DVD player, TV, and guitar, by the way. I guess you just went in there to see if there was a bag that was suitably strong to carry that awesomely amazing alarm clock you found)... I was selling it on eBay, and I had to cancel the auction... And the high bidder was kind of pissed. So just know that you not only hurt me, you hurt "swiftskier16" as well.
7. You are unbelievably messy. I hope you don't leave hotel rooms like that when you go on vacation. I assume you've never had the pleasure, but coming home to a room that has been "ransacked" sucks as much as you'd imagine it would suck.
8. Would you mind telling me what happened that caused you to flee so quickly? I mean, you already had my computer monitor in a duffel bag that you left on the ground outside my building... and you left my computer tower outside my kitchen window... and my subwoofer on the kitchen floor in front of the window. Maybe you took more than you could carry... I've been there before- one time at this vegan restaurant, I ordered so much food that I convinced myself I would stuff it all into my face, just because I went to the trouble of ordering it (just as you went to the trouble of breaking into my window)... although the difference between you and I is that I DID finish it, because I'm not a QUITTER.
9. Please explain this logic... you took every electronic appliance in my bedroom, including the AC adapter for my cable modem and my ethernet cable... but you left my cable modem on my desk, along with my old cable modem that you found when you dumped my desk drawers out on my bed. ???
10. Here's a treat you may or may not have discovered yet: in the top pocket of the backpack you stole, there are some sticks of "Terrapin" brand lip balm- positively the best lip balm ever made... and now totally off the market. The warehouse where I work has literally the only remaining stock of Terrapin lip balm in the world, and you now have a few sticks of it. You know, for if your lips get chapped from all that burglarizing. It's no alarm clock, I know, but what're ya gonna do?
Okay, that about sums up my thoughts on the matter. Have a wonderful weekend, and I'll see you in hell.
Love,
Jordan
Dear Person/People who Robbed my Apartment,
I hope you enjoyed the time you spent at my apartment yesterday. The following things came up as I inspected the place after you left:
1. How much did you get for my bike? It was worth about $5000, but I'd imagine you hocked it for a couple hundred, at best. Congrats on that one- quite a score.
2. Why did you take my change? Seriously, there weren't any quarters in there, since I use them to do laundry. How much change could there have really been? $10? You must have been busy after you left, what with trying to hock my bike, getting rid of my electronics, and THEN having to hit up a Coinstar machine!
3. I couldn't help but notice that you took my alarm clock, but left 3 big binders of CD's that were next to it. This was an $8 alarm clock I got at Walgreens. After my car got broken into a while back, I assumed that CD's were hot property on the thievery circuit. Well, in any case, I hope you know what time it is from now on and that you have no trouble waking up at pre-specified times.
4. I want to extend a special thanks to you for stealing my cell phone charger. I suppose that a $15 thingy gets big bucks on the electronics gray market, but it was a huge pain in the ass trying to squeeze in as many calls as I could before my phone died.
5. Okay, I'm back on the alarm clock again... You looked through the carrying case of my high-tech bike light, but took the alarm clock and left the light? I'm kinda confused, but maybe it was just a nicer alarm clock than I thought.
6. That backpack that you took from my living room (thanks for leaving my DVD player, TV, and guitar, by the way. I guess you just went in there to see if there was a bag that was suitably strong to carry that awesomely amazing alarm clock you found)... I was selling it on eBay, and I had to cancel the auction... And the high bidder was kind of pissed. So just know that you not only hurt me, you hurt "swiftskier16" as well.
7. You are unbelievably messy. I hope you don't leave hotel rooms like that when you go on vacation. I assume you've never had the pleasure, but coming home to a room that has been "ransacked" sucks as much as you'd imagine it would suck.
8. Would you mind telling me what happened that caused you to flee so quickly? I mean, you already had my computer monitor in a duffel bag that you left on the ground outside my building... and you left my computer tower outside my kitchen window... and my subwoofer on the kitchen floor in front of the window. Maybe you took more than you could carry... I've been there before- one time at this vegan restaurant, I ordered so much food that I convinced myself I would stuff it all into my face, just because I went to the trouble of ordering it (just as you went to the trouble of breaking into my window)... although the difference between you and I is that I DID finish it, because I'm not a QUITTER.
9. Please explain this logic... you took every electronic appliance in my bedroom, including the AC adapter for my cable modem and my ethernet cable... but you left my cable modem on my desk, along with my old cable modem that you found when you dumped my desk drawers out on my bed. ???
10. Here's a treat you may or may not have discovered yet: in the top pocket of the backpack you stole, there are some sticks of "Terrapin" brand lip balm- positively the best lip balm ever made... and now totally off the market. The warehouse where I work has literally the only remaining stock of Terrapin lip balm in the world, and you now have a few sticks of it. You know, for if your lips get chapped from all that burglarizing. It's no alarm clock, I know, but what're ya gonna do?
Okay, that about sums up my thoughts on the matter. Have a wonderful weekend, and I'll see you in hell.
Love,
Jordan
The Election 'Oh Eight
by Father Luke
[The editors may or may not disagree in re: the efficacy of voting, but that won't stop us from publishing this or from strapping on our dancing shoes. - Eds]
[The editors may or may not disagree in re: the efficacy of voting, but that won't stop us from publishing this or from strapping on our dancing shoes. - Eds]
I’m dancing with my arms in the air. My shirt is off, and my hairy belly is bouncing in rhythm with some shit-kicker music I’m listening to that is streaming over an internet radio station. Maybe it’s The Blasters. I don’t exactly know who‘s singing. I really don’t care. Eventually the airwaves will be owned by thieves. People owning air, it seems unspeakable, doesn’t it? But there are those who will control the very air which surrounds me.
I have never voted in a Presidential election. I will be 49 years old in November, and I have never voted, not once in my entire life. I am dancing half naked in the privacy of an old hotel room which I call home. I’m wearing work boots with laces tied in knots because the laces broke long ago, and I’m alive during a time in which the economy of my country has driven our privileged class to frantically rush toward insane solutions as if they were crazy housewives calling Psychics on a pay by minute telephone line looking for a plan they hope will stop their financial lives from crumbling like a flaky pie crust at the touch of an infant’s finger.
I am lunatic happy. Too bad I don’t drink anymore, this would be fun. What the hell, maybe I’ll start again?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not happy that the landed gentry are going insane with worry. No, no. That’s not it. Not it at all. No, I am not happy that my fellow Americans are losing everything they have. I’m simply happy. I’m happy because I have no other choice left for me. I have no choice as to where to work. There is no place to work. I have no choice as to where to live. Without money, there are no places to live.
Former Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan was in the news today trumpeting this news:
"Given the financial damage to date, I cannot see how we can avoid a significant rise in layoffs and unemployment" – Alan Greenspan
I don’t know what paper you read, but the facts are in, unemployment is up in America 44% over last year. But not to worry, Ladies and Gentlemen, according to the experts it’s only going to get worse. Alan Greenspan has declared a depression. Ah well, easy dot com, easy dot go. Let me turn the music up just a bit.
So, then how will we live? Where will we live? Family homes are being brushed away like so many crumbs off the lapel of a fat man’s dark business suit. Ah, but the streets are open, aren’t they? The streets are always open. The streets are open twenty four hours a day. If you don’t believe there is vacancy on the streets of America, take a stroll through downtown Los Angeles. Hell, it doesn’t even need to be Los Angeles. It doesn’t need to be downtown! Former New York City Mayor John Lindsay called the crimes of the homeless and poverty stricken in this country a slow motion riot. Well, disaster is headed for your front door, Amos. Like dead zombies walking with their arms out in front of them, wanting to eat your brains. Slowly they creep, step, by step . . . inch by inch. . .
So where do the homeless live? Well, that’s just it. They’re homeless. They don’t have anywhere to live. Maybe they’ll shit on your front lawn while you are bathing your children, or look in the restaurant window as you leisurely eat, and pick their nose. Maybe they’ll steal your new car, and kidnap your children. Not likely, however. Besides not having any money for fuel, the poor truth is that you may very well have bought your car from these homeless people. Maybe you also bought your home from them. Maybe John McCain or Barack Obama may come by to ask you if you have any odd jobs, so they might have shelter for the night.
Does this sound farfetched: Political candidates with “Will Work for Food” signs? Well, think about it. It’s not exactly that wild, now is it? It’s precisely what is being asked of us at this very moment.
Vote for me, and put me in The White House.
John Steinbeck’s Tom Joad, in Grapes of Wrath, during the depths of a depression, never stooped to such lickspittle measures. Grapes of Wrath told about hard working, depression dust bowl people looking for an honest day’s work. Yet our country’s highest Politicians engage in cockamamie posturing, ridiculous charades, and manipulative crap slinging every four years. One of these lying bastards will end up with the most powerful position on the planet. Goons; Smear Pundits; Deviants, Pick Pockets, all of them vying for the same thing: The Office of President of The United States. If you miss it, the festive parade repeats itself every four years. Hitch a ride, hayseed. It’s all in fun. We’re going to Fresno to look for work! Hoorah!
Oh, quite a stretch from Grapes of Wrath, Father Luke. Well, not really. But, it crosses my imagination that Tom Joad, with a car full of weary and hungry family members, was more honest than any of these manipulative bastards. Ha Haw! Has it really been four years?
BOHICA, Buster: Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.
Servant of the American People
Of The People, By The People, and For The People, that’s the paradigm. And this new collection of power hungry manipulators will have become the trusted public servants held on high, and put forth to preserve the American Dream; servants who will again have been elected on their word, and who will again double cross the American public. I’m certain of it. It’s the torch they carry. Like the Summer Olympics, the shenanigans happen regularly every four years. It’s nice work if you can get it. But please note: The official in charge of building Beijing's Olympic Games venues worth about $55 billion was recently sentenced to death for taking $1.45 million in bribes. If we were moths, you would see us flying into the lights bulbs above the heads of these screwballs each time they come up with another harebrained idea during the dark night of our depression. America’s Presidential Candidates are gumball machines dispensing stupid every four years at the twist of a wrist, and we chew it up like the sugar craving idiot children we have become.
What is the meaning of this?
So, where does this all end? Where do all roads lead? What is the meaning of this? What am I talking about? I don’t even vote, and so by all rights I don’t even get any say in the matter. The truth is that nearly 5 million, or 1 in 43 Americans, are not entitled to vote. So why don’t I just shut up? Well, as I dance in my little hotel room to music which moves me to smile my lopsided smile, I have full knowledge that Now More Than Ever, and Four More Years is still only four more years, and that this is still the only moment there is, and the only choice I have is for happiness. Happiness is at a premium in a world gone foamy mouthed rabid with money sickness, in a world grown weary of Political lies which are increasingly more confusing than the Religious beliefs we turn to in our places of worship during our times of soul sickness.
Happiness is wisdom. Wisdom comes with a price. It’s paid with a grinding, and gnashing of teeth when the things we want aren’t the things we get, and the chasm between the upset of what we have is balanced with the expectations of that which we didn’t get. Happiness does not depend upon a political outcome. Happiness does not depend upon a Religious belief. Happiness depends entirely upon whether we choose to be happy. Come Election Day, I will be happy. I’m practicing my dance steps for the inaugural ball. As AC/DC said:
We’ve got the biggest balls of them all!
We do! We put up with this horse shit every four years. Let’s ask the poor how to be happy. They’ve had lots of practice, and they’ve suffered the storms of injustice we are only now beginning to prepare for. Let’s go find them, and ask them to dance.
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