Garbage & The Hero

It's the end of the year and I'm tired as shit, so let's get this thing over and done with.

Last night I saw a few disturbing things before going to bed. The main thing was this story about this huge swirling land massed sized area of plastic in the Pacific Ocean. Supposedly it's twice the size of Texas. I heard about this several months ago, but just kind of ignored it, hoping I'd see a retraction in the paper in a few months.

There's more plastic in that area than plankton. It's killing hundreds of thousands of sea creatures, up and down the food chain. Is already too big to clean up and is a growing ecological nightmare. The guy said, "Every piece of plastic ever made is still in existence. It doesn't go anywhere."

It's just getting to the point where you almost go from feeling disgusted to being impressed. We were able to bring the entire earth to its knees in a few generations. The dinosaurs ruled the earth for 185 million years, or about 184.9999997 million years longer than us. It is time for us to choose a nice warm tar pit to settle into with our time capsules? Not quite yet. Things are about to get a hell of a lot more interesting. _

What’s funny is that we actually have people that are worth billions of dollars who still believe they have to produce rubbish in order to survive. They somehow think that when shit goes belly up, they'll be able to use their considerable resources to insulate themselves above the fray like something from the movie "Zardoz". It’s a fantasy sure as any. They don't seem to get the fact that we breath the same air, drink the same water, have the same needs and are all linked together in what essentially amounts to an ever shrinking, toxic terrarium.

Is it any coincidence that Hollywood seems increasingly fascinated with Zombies? Or is it just that Zombie flicks don't require scripts and thus striking writers? Either way we're not going to have to worry about diseases turning people into Zombies. And people being chased and torn apart limb from limb. You and I are going to be the Zombies and the victims will be the hyper-rich who attempt to drive through the throng of poor, desperate and starving on their way to their hilltop gated, armed communities.

Things will get bad, inevitably one day. Whether the cause will be man made or not is a toss up. The point is that once shit does go Katrina-style, the rich will actually be able to insulate themselves somewhat for a certain period of time. They will use their considerable resources to hoard resources and try to wait it out until a few billion folks die and it'll be safe for their grandchildren's grandchildren to emerge from their hilltop gated communities.

In any event we have a few years, maybe ten at best before this scenario plays out. That having been said, the thing I don't understand about that big swirl of plastic in the Pacific Ocean, is who thought it was a good idea to dump trash in the ocean? I suspect it was someone exactly like former Treasury Secretary and Harvard University President Lawrence Summers. He and his people and people who believe his macro-economic doctrine are just the type of idealist that propagate the foundational humanity dismissing, anti-environmentalist theories that lead to municipalities tossing non-biodegradable shit into the ocean.

Lawrence Summers famous memo that was leaked to the press on the subject of pollution PRIOR to being chosen as President of Harvard was astoundingly callous and heartless. To paraphrase his statements, he said that we should dump our toxic waste, garbage, refuse and all manner of hazardous byproducts smack dab in the middle of the poorest nations of the world. The Logic? Well, poor nations don't produce that much, and poisons kill, so if anyone's going to die, it simply MAKES SENSE, to have it be poor, essentially worthless sub-humans. Now of course, there were no value judgments, it was all a strict, unbiased, objective analysis of productivity algorithms. You don't have to believe me, The exact ending quote was, "the economic logic behind dumping a load of toxic waste in the lowest wage country is impeccable and we should face up to that" Well.... if nations of people are prime targets for toxic waste, it must be because non-peopled areas like the ocean are no longer viable dumping sites.

We actually have in our midst a monastery full of cloistered economic "monks" that worship the foundational principles of "Free Trade". But it's been my contention all along, that once we leave the marketplace to "market forces" instead of allowing human beings, and our ideals and principles to orchestrate and guide the market, then we have given up free will and control to the most callous and heartless of false gods... the invisible hand of greed, exploitation, extortion and desperation, otherwise known as "free market systems".

Free trade has a very nasty, nasty resume. In a nutshell, there used to be trade routes where spice, silk, salt, gold, ivory, jewels and all manner of treasures were exchanged. Along with this were eras of great kingdoms that roamed the world stealing treasure and slaughtering entire populations. Folks like Alexander the Great, Augustus, Attila, Charlemagne, William the Conqueror, Genghis Kahn, Napoleon, etc. Hitler was really the last in the line of world conquerors. The way he did it had been done for centuries. I could go on, but "Trade' and conquest go hand in hand and lately they joined forces.

With world conquest came the creation of the Great Plantations. Rubber, Tea, Sugar, Cotton, Coffee, Tobacco, and their slaves along with serfs who grew the grains, peasants who grew the rice and paid soldiers and mercenaries comprised the intricate complex relationships, agreements, enforcement and resources that eventually stabilized in “free markets” for commodities, and the creation of "corporations" which created, traded, transformed and sold resources…. In a nutshell at least.

I've been around the sun a few times, or at least enough times to observe that the "invisible hand" really aint that invisible. Is the hand that holds the whip, the gun, the saber, the harquebusier, the grenade, ak-47, the torch, the machine gun invisible? Perhaps it seemingly has a life of it's own, but it's in reality a cash cow that produces riches in exclusive, secluded, quarantined members-only back rooms filled with blue blooded barons that have the credentials to demonstrate inalienable rights written in indecipherable legal-ese granting them license over individual nipples.

The most we can hope for is to find a spot where perhaps we can eat the excrement of the guy that eats the excrement of the guy that eats the excrement of THE GUY on the nipple.... kind of a seventh "economic class" type scenario.

It's somewhat amazing that some deformed mutant being like Lawrence Summers (not to be confused with an actual human) is touted as "intelligent" and yet, wouldn't give a moment to contemplate that perhaps the solution to dealing with toxic waste would be to not produce it, or anything that creates it. Once again, it doesn't take much intelligence, or wisdom to know that as these poisons build up in the environment, we are all going to be affected.... even those of us who make a few million or billion dollars a year.

Granted, to know you can't shit in your own rice bowl is a complex lesson, which requires vast amounts of intellectual capacity, contemplation and of course research to substantiate and definitively arrive at as a wise conclusion.... or is it? If so, why were ALL the tribes in Africa, South America, Cultures of China, and everywhere essentially living in peace prior to being nation-jacked by the colonial forces? And when I say "living in peace,” I mean relative peace with the environment. Of course they killed one another with reckless abandon, but killing humans is the only thing humans have the right to kill. Killing humans does not endanger the lives of humanity as a whole, in fact, it preserves it and more importantly, death is to be expected. We are born to die. That's the simple fact, but must we take every other creature down with us?

Every "indigenous" and so-called "primitive" or "non-industrial, non-invisible-hand culture" knows this, preaches this, teaches this, and lives this. As we come and go in war, pestilence, disease, natural disaster, we are involved in the great cosmic play and ebb and flow of life and death, which although ruthless, can go on for centuries, millennia and geological ages. The point is the dance of life, around the bowl of ever-present death, allows humanity, and the world, to exist in some form ad infinitum. If what you mean by "primitive" means they lived in accordance with nature, and scratched out an existence in a delicate balance and their population would ebb and flow. Then yes, they are "primitive", but they were also something so much more than any individual in "modern" society could ever hope to be.

These humans weren't out just to save, comfort, indulge and enrich themselves. They were part of a legacy and a culture that taught values of a deep respect for nature, our earth, our home, our families and the roles and skills that we needed to learn to not only survive, but to serve as oracles, shaman, wise men and wise women, matriarch’s, historians, judges, negotiators, etymologist, botanist, naturopaths and keepers of the flame. In the time before libraries, humans were the libraries. Every bit of knowledge, wisdom, cultural practice, survival skill, legend, music, rhythm, was embedded within the mind, heart, soul and personality of every tribal member. The price for violating these mores and practices was either banishment or death.

Imagine that, more relevant knowledge in the art of 'living' than can be found in the library of congress within the leaders of the tribe. Wiped out with the pull of a trigger, the casting of a net, a chain, a whip and a steely will for "free market forces" and an over arching drive to find out what market will, or can bear.

The 6 nations united under the Mohawk name had the concept known as "7th generation" which is to say that if your decisions negatively impacted not only your people, but their children, their children, their children, their children, their children and their children, then you could not take that action. Only if the action did not have a negative impact upon the next seven generations could you do it.

The great empires of colonist and traders laughed at the simplicity of these people and the ease in which their cultures were destroyed; land purloined, populace enslaved and their humanity bent upon carrying out the will of the oppressor. But the philosophies of these cultures, their practices and ways are something we should have been more eager to not only study anthropologically, but culturally, economically, spiritually, organically, and how they lived and persisted within their environments.

Ultimately, we must transcend blame, and fully grieve the loss of times gone by if we are to rise to meet this challenge. For now, all of our hands are bloody. The problem with humanity is not only exemplified in "free market forces" or flawed philosophy, the "problem" with humanity is unbounded potential, limitless problem solving, sentient contemplation all wrapped up in this impulsive, prone to expedience and pleasure loving package.

"We" are the problem. You and I and the guy on the hill with a few billion dollars are different incarnations of the same soul. We control him, as he controls us. As he shouts out orders from on high, the collective harmony of our voices as we call out for cheap oil, electronics, groceries, clothes and snacks sounds to him as irresistible as the sirens’ call to Ulysses. Are we mad at him? or ourselves for not being in his position?

Our fascination with death and strange sense of self-preservation, as well as passion and drive has pushed us to the ultimate precipice.

Zombie movies are great, but ever wonder why almost all action adventures end with the hero, a beautiful lady, a world destroying device and several seconds to save humanity, against the odds before we can get back to the status quo? Stories used to not only have a plot but also a moral. Not anymore.

We love to create death and evade it. Well, now we've created it...

One day a hero will rise, to help us all evade it.

The Present is History or History is Present

Why are we in Iraq? What's going on in the Middle East? Why did the Russian military collapse in the early 80's? Why can't any of the independent nations of Africa get their shit together? Why are there so many bodies in East Timor? How come Tibet is crawling with Chinese? Why doesn't the U.S. have Universal Health care?

If you have any prayer of knowing the answer to any these questions, you need to study history, because today’s headlines will only tell you who got killed. When the next round of negotiations will begin, what the latest lists of demands are and the difficulty of transporting aid to the areas most heavily afflicted.

The catastrophe in New Orleans did not begin with Hurricane Katrina. The War in Iraq did not begin with intelligence to indicate they were manufacturing biochemical and nuclear weapons. The latest military strike into Palestine by Israel cannot be traced back to the latest intifada.

The answer to all of these questions can be found in the history books.

Increasingly I find that the news seem to be engaged in collusion with the government to not delve too deeply, or to even cover major issues fairly for fear of actually causing individuals to think and thus paving the way for them to act. Granted, the New York Time and Wall Street Journal, as two of the best newspapers do give some back story, some critical analysis and if they fail to ask a few insightful "next step" questions of their subjects, they at least as them rhetorically, AND answer them through excellent research and talking to everyone surrounding the supporting the individual or situation in question.

But most newspapers are too into sound bytes and following "hot" "sexy" stories with comprehensive "superficial" coverage. What I mean is, they cover almost everything, but almost all of it on a superficial level, such that if you didn't read all of last weeks stories, or all of the next weeks, you would only have 1/14th of the story which ultimately has nothing to do with the "real" questions about "why" "how" and "who".

If you are only interested in who lost their shirt today, or their life today, or their money today, then stick to the newspapers. But for the real questions, hit the history books.

What is the U.S. doing in Iraq? Well, what were they doing in Vietnam? What were they doing in Korea? Cuba? Mexico? The Philippines? Panama? It’s pretty much the same thing, just a different location. Whereas you can still find out what the real fuck-up is in Iraq if you are savvy, somewhat intelligent and can discern obfuscation from antecedents. Seeing as most folks can't even find the United States on a globe, I would suggest that you study up on the U.S's involvement in Korea, Cuba, Mexico, The Philippines and Panama. All of these wars and clashes which occurred 10-20-30 years ago. They are well researched, the essential government documents have been released and de-classified and are now available. As you begin to study history, you will find that the basic operations of a self-interested, colonial-based superpower has changed little since the Byzantine, Hellenic, Greek, Mongol, Moorish and Persian eras.

To illustrate a situation where the knowledge of history, or lack thereof has had catastrophic results, I quote from a Elisabeth Bumiller's recent biography on Condoleeza Rice:

“Some of Rice’s friends were stunned that she actually seemed to believe Bush’s argument in the final days of the war buildup that a liberated Iraq could spread freedom across the Middle East.” Ms. Rice also believed that “the postwar phase would be like the successful occupation of Germany after World War II, and that it would be possible to plant democracy in a shattered Iraq.” Either Ms. Rice knew less than she should have about pre- and post-1945 German history, or she was carried away by false optimism.

Hell, if you want to stick close to home and be "macrobiotic" and "organic" in your inquiry, just pick up a pamphlet on how the U.S. treated Native-Americans. See if you can count all the broken treaties, treacherous acts, murders, bribes and political double-crossings. I bet you can't!

If you can understand even one (1) thing the U.S. has done overseas, or for that matter what Britain, or France, or Spain, or Belgium, or the Dutch have done, then what's going on today, can not only be understood, but it could have been predicted, because history will show that it's inevitable.

Want to know why the Jena 6 shit blew up? Go get the manifest from the Dutch ship, "The White Lion" which brought the first 20 slaves to Colonial America in 1619. If you can understand that, and the forces that allowed that, supported that, invested in that, protected that fought for that... then Jena 6 is nothing more than a footnote in history.

In fact, everything that's happening today is a footnote.

Global Warming? Get a book on the industrial revolution, the exploitation of coal miners throughout the world, and "The Wealth of Nations" by Adam Smith... in fact, if you want to understand everything from why you're a mixed race individual to why 90% of the shit under the Christmas tree was from China, go get yourself "The Wealth of Nations" by Adam Smith.

See you in the History Section.

The best book (I read) in 2007: CONQUEST by Hugh Thomas

This one wasn’t even close.

If you like well researched epic adventures, larger than life personalities, timely interdiction of the gods, far away cultures clashing in life and death winner-take-all struggles, unimaginable treasures and riches, and political intrigue involving monarchy’s from one side of the world to the other, well then, have I got the book for you!

Previously, my favorite adventure tales were “Don Quixote” and J.R.R. Tokien’s “The Silmarillon". Whereas Don Quixote was at once a fabulous, incredible and fantastically funny and creative tale, The Silmarillon concerned itself with the history of Middle Earth while setting into motion the eventual backdrop from which “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” would raise their clutch like tentacles upon the imaginations of real earth.

Both tales were fantastically written, proving that the human imagination knows no bounds. But as is always the case, in the final analysis, truth is stranger than fiction. You could not come up with a tale more tragic than “Conquest”, by Hugh Thomas, winner of the 1994 New York Times Editor's Choice Award. Has there ever been a tale with more blood, tragedy, devious maneuvers and destruction? I simply doubt it, or at least hope that such is the case, although I already know that Pizarro and DeSoto probably were responsible for equal or greater numbers of dead and the Middle Passage from Africa to the New World holds greater quantities of blood within her depths. Can we also forget the complete carnage in Belgium's "Congo"? The point is, this tale belongs right up there with the worst of 'em.

To be fair, I supposed one could make the argument that compared to Ghengis Khan, Cortes was Mother Teresa. Ghengis' choice was to summarily surrender all treasures, females and resources, or face the loss of all of the above in addition to the lives of the entire population.. Luckily, this adventure has much more to it than carnage. It also chrnoicles the loss of something that can never be had back.

It is with a peculiar sense of sadness that this tale unfolds. As the Spanish run roughshod over the Aztecs, it's as if we are watching the equivalent of children shredding the only remaining copy of the new testament to make confetti.

The heart of this tale is the fall of The Aztec Ruler, Montezuma, the rise of Hernan Cortes and the end of one of the two last great civilizations in the Americas. In this tale, Hernan Cortes, a rather ordinary Spaniard, seeking wealth, fortune and a name for himself in the new world finds himself plucked from relative obscurity to lead an expedition. Not satified with this, Cortes sets about plans for a grand conquest. He sees his mission as a mandate, and seems to also have a peculiar sense of destiny and focus as he re-cast himself in the role of virtual King of the New World.

Cortes soon proves himself to be a more than able ruler. His ability to lead, deceive, con and strategize reveals a cunning rarely seen in the great rulers of the world, especially since less than a year prior to his expedition, he was little more than another "Jose Blow". Honestly, Cortes was nothing other than the 5th or 6th choice to lead what was supposed to be an exploratory expedition.

Make no mistake; from any angle the fall of the Americas was inevitable. No ruler, no matter how mighty had the wherewithal to defeat the inevitable encroachment of the worlds European powers; however, in Cortes, the Spanish found a man that was able to set that demise into motion a full 10-20years earlier than anyone had the right to hope.

The book itself is a masterpiece of research. The book does not begin with Cortes marching into Tenochtitlan, rather, it begin from the Aztec side, from their own histories with the very first sightings of Spanish ships off of their coast. Apparently Montezuma had premonitions of his own demise, and from the first reports of strange visitors and ships off his coast, he fell headlong into a panic which went unabated until he was finally put out of his pitiful, pathetic misery.

What facts are in support of this account by Hugh Thomas (author of “The Spanish Civil War”) you may ask? To name but a few sources, The Florentine Codex, The documentos Cortesianos and Juicio de residencia of 1524 (numbering 6,000 exhaustive pages on every possible detail of the conquest). Also examined in this book were writings by many of those who took part in the conquest, shoulder to shoulder with Cortes; Fr. Diego Dorian, Fr. Sahugun, Fernando Alvarado Tzozomoc and Fernando Alva Ixthixochitl…. I think you get the point.

The Spanish wrote a lot and the bloodshed by Cortes (as well as the desire to unearth all of the treasures he looted) lead to several official inquiries into his methods and actions. Somehow Hugh Thomas was able to unearth never before found archival treasures to give us a work that supplants the work of William Hickling Prescott (1796-1859), whose work was so comprehensive in sweep that it was used s a field guide by the US. in the Mexican-American war

That notwithstanding, my whole motivation in reading this book sprang forth from one small question. I had read many stories of how Europeans had defeated many a Native tribe, all over the world, from Africa to India, to the New World, to the Philippines. I wondered, how did they communicate with these tribes? How did they seemingly almost immediately upon landing, have capable and dependable translation services? I just couldn’t really get my head around it, so I bought this book.

My question was answered rather quickly, but by then, I was hooked, the translation thing seemed unimportant. The story was simply fascinating.

But to answer how the Spanish were able to get interpreters, what they would do, is land on shore, set out a quick expedition, kidnap a few natives and retreat for several months to a year. In that time, they would force the captives to learn their language, and in turn, question them as to the kingships, cultures, riches, practices, armies, etc, of their native territory. In this way, they gained valuable intelligence about all manner of important detail about heir soon-to-be defeated enemies.

Not only did Cortes have to content with numerous bloody battles with various lordships on the way to his date with destiny at Tenochtitlan, but he also had to battle Spanish authorities who suddenly recognized the vast sums of treasure, and subsequent political power to be doled out to the supreme conquistador (Cortes). ironically, the fact that Cortes had to leave the captive Montezuma with subordinates while he traveled to dispatch his Spanish brethren, is a major precipitator in the tragic events that lead to Tenochtitlan (Mexico City) being razed to the ground.

I cannot re-count the untold number slain, massacred and mutilated by the Spanish. Also, untold numbers of natives were killed by their own native captors in blood sacrifices, as well as by being eaten in cannibalistic ceremonies.

Near the end, the ruthlessness of Cortes, the needless destruction, the cruelty, the genocide and culturicide is incredibly painful to slog through. But by that point, the repercussions of this clash have already stunned you into supplication and acknowledgement that this book and the story it tells, is truly one of the most important tales ever told in the Americas.

Patsey, Solomon & The power of words.

I'm not really sure that we humans conceive of words properly. It seems strange that something that we invented to express our thoughts, in the most completely organic and natural of ways, could possibly be thought of, or conceived of improperly. The fact is there's more to language than just words.

Words are not only the expression of thoughts; they are also the expression of concepts. With words, and with skill, one is allowed the opportunity to convey all of the earthly experiences that humans engage in. Yet, at the same time, in some ways, something is lost through the use of words. At the same time, something is gained.

What is lost, even before one writes, is the original experience. And yet, the experience is resurrected back to life through words. Does the experience happen without an observer? Once the experiece is written about, is the original experience of any real value to the reader of the words? or is the experience the reader has in realation to the words that are conveyed paramount. Undoubtedly! its a cause of celebration that the original experience becomes secondary to the experience of the reader of words. Physics alreadyteaches us that the observer can never be taken out of the equation. What happens when observed may not happen if it is unobserved, and in the least, it does not happen for you if you do not read about it.

What is gained through the reading of the experience, is the personal "flavor" that the experience has upon the individual, which can in ways exceed the original. Also, the reader is allowed the ability to conceive of previously un-explored aspects of the original experience. And I'm not referring to hidden, or obscured meaning, rather, new understanding altogether.

For example, there is no doubt, that the experience of Jesus imbued the observers of his mystical works with a certain cognitive quality based upon the personal experience with the mystical experience. We could go on to say that the perspective of Mary, Jesus' mother was a very informative experience, pregnant with an untold number of vital insights, never to be revealed. Yet, as the story of Jesus has been told, there have been innumerable interpretations, some mystic, some formulaic (pertaining to religious organizations and interpretation) and also, some deeply personal. The point being, the very differences within the description of the mystical experiences as told by the disciples demonstrate the differences that can be had through one same experience, while also serving as an example of how those experiences, as read by others, has created an exponential number of subsequent cognitive experiences. All of the experiences emanating from that one act in time that was told in various summations by Jesus' apostles.

And so, words, and stories can convey much, and yet, always something slightly different to individuals.

And how do we think of words? Is it not amazing, when we read something that absorbs our being, and our minds so completely, that we are transported to another time and place? Is it not wondrous when words take on visual, tactile, geographic and time aspects, such that we are in the heart of the very experience? During these times, we no doubt conceive of words "properly". This is a good example of a "proper" experience.

And what is an "untrue" experience? When we "label" and define an experience thereby limiting it based upon our previous conceptions of the terms we use to describe the experience, then we have had something "untrue". or we could say we had an experience that was inauthenbtic. When an experience is limited, held back, not given full life due to our inability to move beyond the word, or to express the concept, or even to understand it, then we perhaps perceive of that concept improperly.

As an example, we can look at the bible in Aramaic, Greek, Latin and finally English. each translation changes the cultural significance, for each culture devises forms of expression meaningful to that particular culture. Arabic, no doubt, has been affected by the religion of Islam. Christianity, and so on and so forth have affected English, the other languages of antiquity are subject to the times and meanings and technologies of their age. And so when we translate a word that has significant cultural meaning in one culture, and less so in another, we lose those meanings, those subtleties, the cultural significance, and innumerable other aspects.

For example, take an English phrase and translate it into German using an online translation service. Take that very same translation and translate it back into English from German. What you will find is that you will not end up with what you started with. Strange grammar will appear. Different words than were first used. Different, concepts will be called forth even in the translation of a simple phrase.

Language is the expression of more than just concepts, or words, it's the expression of culture, tradition, formality, conventions, virtually every age, every evolution of a people, will change or effect the meaning of that language.

Which brings me to another example of the power of words.

Solomon Northrup wrote one of the most famous slave narratives in the history of the world. the story is simple, take a free Black man from New England, rip him from his family, transport him deep into the belly of Antebellum Louisiana and make him a slave. Now, look upon his words, read his experience... What can we learn? How do we feel? What do his words truly mean? What do we take from it?

The following passage is from Twelve Years a Slave ,is about a slave girl on Solomon's plantation and her woeful lot.

She had a genial and pleasant temper, and was faithful and obedient. Naturally, she was a joyous creature, a laughing, lighthearted girl, rejoicing in the mere sense of existence. Yet Patsey wept oftener and suffered more, than any of her companions. She had been literally excoriated. Her back bore the scars of and stripes not because she was backward in her work. Nor because she was of an unmindful and rebellious spirit, but because it had fallen to her lot to be the slave of a licentious master and a jealous mistress. She shrank before eh lustful eye of the one, and was in danger even of her life at the hands of the other, and between the two, she was indeed accursed. In the great house, for days together, there were high and angry words, pouting and estrangement, whereof she was the innocent cause. Nothing delighted the mistress so much as to see her suffer, and more than once, when Epps had refused to sell her, has she tempted me with bribes to put her secretly to death, and bury her body in some lonely place in the margin of the swamp. Gladly would Patsey have appeased this unforgiving spirit if it had been in her power, but not like Joseph, dared she escape from master Epps, leaving her garment in his hand. Patsey walked under a cloud. If she uttered a word in opposition to her master's will, the lash was resorted to at once, to bring her to subjection; if she was not watchful when about her cabin or walking in the yard, a billet of wood or a broken bottle perhaps hurled from her mistress' hand, would smite her unexpectedly in the face. The enslaved victim of lust and hate. Patsey had no comfort of her life.

Multiply this experience by the millions of Africans who died and lived in slavery and you have a different meaning altogether.

The artworld gives us another symptom of our Genius

So, it appears that the art world is hot. So what? This is the type of news that really isn’t news and yet is “totally” the news.

I’m not even sure how “selling” art even became a respectable practice. It seems to run contrary to the whole “artistic” notion.

Someone creates something, and it’s a piece of their soul, or their experience, and then, they sell it… I don’t completely get it. It seems a bit strange that the main factor in, who would get it, is who is willing to pay the price.

Back in the day, it used to be hard to get some Native-Americans, or indigenous folks to even pose for a photo. The idea being, that a piece of you, perhaps even your soul would be caught. Wouldn’t the same be the case for something you crafted with your hands, mind, heart, etc? Or at least enough of you that you would want to rely on more than just market forces to separate the artist from their creation. I don’t know. But when I read the headline about the art world further distancing itself from reality, I was a bit torn and unsure how this recent irrational run up in art prices could be understood for what it was saying about our society, or world as a whole.

On one side, you would have to think that there are a lot more worthy investments, with social value where these funds can be spent. On the other hand, I like the idea that these millionaires and billionaires are buying essentially nothing with their money, rather than investing in more world-destroying businesses, or more harmful pursuits.

But still, one has to wonder, what could be the possible maximum value of some canvas, wood and pigment? Perhaps $10? The fact that someone would spend $40,000,000 on something worth $10 perhaps means that some type of formula for actual value, vs. paid value could be deduced which could then be used as a part of an overall “divorced-from-reality measure”… I don’t know, but it seems possible that such information could be useful and that once we cross some set threshold, say, $2,000,000,000 for something worth $10, and the factor of actual vs. paid worth exceeds 200,000,000:1, we could assuredly say, we have officially proven that life is truly an irrational dream… at least for those that understand the economics of such a purchase…

In several elements in today’s society, human irrationality has reached a zenith of absurdity which seems to indicate a new pressure point can now be palpated from which we may track post-modern cognitive frailty. Granted, it's difficult to draw vast parallels to society at large based upon the irrational exuberance of a few dozen individuals; however, I believe we live in a world where everything means something... especially when it warrants front page attention and sums of money that could solve a great many social ills.

Certainly we cannot separate ourselves completely from these individuals who engage in such practices. They are humans, not at all unlike us. What it really shows is that a human who is elevated so far beyond rationality by a complete and total absorption in a token economy, is capable of any type of extreme act. Whether that individual is “we” or someone else.

The thesis is that anyone could fall victim to this psychological deficit if they become too far removed from reality and the essential meaning of life, and the subsequent pursuit of sustenance, shelter, love, security and propagation of either ideas, or life itself.

The evidence? This year an Andy Warhol painting sold for more than $71 million. A Matisse sold for $33.6 million and a limestone lion (the guennol lioness) sculpture that measures 3 1/4” sold for $57 million.

One of the reasons cited for the “strength” of the art market is rising “global wealth”, which is another way of saying that folks in China, India, Russia and Africa are now raising their appendages, not quite so sheepishly at Sotheby's and Christie's, instead of Ebay and Overstock.com. For this, we can thank the same global factors that extend back 400 years.

Starting with the colonization of the world by the world powers, to this day, the emulation of European society has continued unabated. Undoubtedly aristocracy, nobility, royalty, has existed in some form in all of the worlds cultures, but the standard, the benchmark, the hallmark of the most rarified forms of abstracted engagement in trade and commodities, has always rested in European and Middle Eastern/Asian society. The values taught by these cultures and their dogma keepers (universities) have continued to set the rules, certify individuals as well as mold and shape the opinions of the rising third world upper crust, into hybrid hunters and gatherers of a new clique-ish sort.

These new rich world groups have proven themselves to be all too eager to purchase the false gods from their masters. They perhaps read a bit too much into the fine print of their art appreciation text books. Or perhaps had a few too many glasses of champagne at some penthouse soiree's. But from my view, admittedly from far, far below, it appears that they seem to think they can purchase status, prestige and legitimacy through these investments. Perhaps the strangest thing is, that within the groups they circulate, it is absolutely true that status, prestige and legitimacy can be purchased. Such intangible elements have been on sale for the past (aforementioned) 400 years, if you believe what has been taught in school, and continually re-freshed in all forms of media.

It’s but another humbling development in the evolution of our wonderful world.

A cocophony of ill-blended, incoherent money.

Don't we have the most god-awful cash in the world? Back when the dollar was almighty, it was quaint, sexy, and even mysterious. Now that it's got the value of toilet paper, it looks down right shitty. And these recent attempt to half-hearted redesign it, are utterly disastrous.

Have you seen the new nickel? What was wrong with the old nickel? I don't get it. Money has gone the way of stamps. I guess the strategy is seeing as we've had to print an additional 583 Billion dollars (and issued an equal amount of securities, i.e. debt notes on the loans we've taken to pay for this war) It seems that the U.S. treasure has taken a page from the post office and figured that if you issue hundreds of different types of bills and coins, then you increase the amount that won't go into circulation as collectors add them to their collection rather than stuff them into envelopes intended for their nieces and nephews.

I guess people must be hoarding and collecting all of this ugly money. But I was thinking the other day; seeing as the money looks so horrible, why not hire actual designers to design money? I'm sure, as in everything else, the creativity of true artisans in fashion and design, could be combined with the world's pre-eminent fraud and counterfeit counter intelligence and we could flood the market with money that not only would be able to spend well, but also, look faaaabulous!

Can you imagine? What would be more appropriate to adorn Benjamin Franklins $100 image? The U.S. Mint, or Gianni (may he RIP) Versace? Can you imagine the feeling of buying your loved one a diamond (or course not a blood diamond) with Fendi designed $500 bills? or tipping a chauffeur with a D&G (Dolce & Gabanna) $50? Why we could even recruit someone as minimalist and intelligently refined as Kate Spade to design the lowly $1 bill. I think you can see the potential.

I'm sure Sean John would love to weigh in on the much needed, but previously non-existent $25 coin... Or, perhaps a special limited edition $911 dollar bill based upon the artwork of Andy Warhol to commemorate the attack upon our nation that spawned tumult about the globe?

I don't know, something needs to be done, and soon. It's getting increasingly embarrassing to pull out a cacophony of ill-blended, incoherent money when I'm exchanging dollars at the Banque Du France on the Champs D'elysee!!

Here's to you! (You know who you are.)

Congratulations to all of you multi-tasking over-achieving, anal-retentive, can't keep your mouth shut people out there! You've almost made it through another year of high-expectations, pressure, doubt, tears, frustration, impossible deadlines, sleepless nights, writers block, and missed deadlines!

Soon you will have made it through this year, and have the opportunity to opt out of another year of craziness and unrealistic expectations. You could make a new year's resolution to slow down a bit, become more reasonable, measured, plan better, take on less assignments.. But we all know you won't.

Hell, next year the bar will be even higher. Kinko's is open 24/7, which means fed-ex is open 24/7, even you're open 24/7, Hell, even 7/11 is open 24/7... (for those of you who are younger than 30, did you know that 7/11 got it's name because it was open from 7 in the morning until 11 at night? ridiculous huh? not really when you consider that most supermarkets at the time didn't open until 9am and promptly closed no later than 8pm. In the 70's even those hours were crazy. many grocery stores closed by 6:30pm. that's why wives would call their husbands to pick up eggs or milk on their way home, otherwise, it would be too late! You're probaby wondering how people did their shopping if they worked and stores closed at 6:30 well, their wives would do the shopping mid-day like a normal human being. females (respectable ones anyway) didn't work in those days, as much. and if the did, they did their shopping on saturdays, or sundays after chuuuuurch!)

and not only do you have a great new year of even higher expectations to look forward to, but don't forget that great new job with the more money/opportunity, that's an hours drive from your house. Yeah, don't forget to factor in that extra 2 hour bite outta your day on the road, and the extra time you'll need to gas up in the morning.

Here's to YOU! and the wonderful year you had, and the great one you're going to have next year!

The third and tenth of sixteen random thoughts.

Thirdly

A lot of beings have been destroyed by enlightenment.
in fact all that have been enlightened have been destroyed
many have been destroyed only to return to the previous perspective
with the added knowledge of what it was that was being accomplished
many find their choices abandoned

there is but one perspective available
and that is the perspective of one watching the game from above
of the game player having been outed,
never to invest again without the knowledge and perspective from which all actions embody futility

while non-action become prayerful restriction
from insect-like engagement in that which is temporary and ultimately unfulfilling.

Tenthly

Remembering knowledge is futile
knowledge is the lack of remembering
combined with experienced presence
where expression of what is, needn't be remembered.

a thing happens
the happening is expressed.
while what happened may be forgotten.

what is understood is its meaning

regardless of event or circumstance
remembering is futile
for what is happening now
is merely an evolved form
of a prior happening.

Blue Tongues and Mistletoe

See this kid? He’s having fun. Are you?

It’s the holidays, Hanukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, New Years, etc. It's a time for family get-togethers, kids on vacation, Christmas shopping, getting blitzed, making out with the secretary, sitting on the copier at work and… etc, etc.
Once we get swept up in the “holiday spirit”, it can be easy to forget that the holidays can exert a lot of pressure. Whether everything is great in your world or not, BE KIND TO YOURSELF. Give yourself the gift that doesn’t stop giving. BE NICE TO YOURSELF.

I know that I’m under pressure because last night I had a dream that my grandmother was still alive. Yeah, the holidays are also about not having those loved ones around you. Whether by death, distance, disagreement, divergent paths, etc, Christmas in your 30’s, 40’s and 60’s aint gonna be quite the same as when you were a little snot nosed punk and everyone you knew and loved were still alive.

In the dream with my grandma I followed her thorugh a department store as she ran up the stairs, dashed through employee areas, and jumped down staircases and streaked about looking for bargains.

My grandmother was old, old, old school. Raised during the depression, she always went to every “white sale” and presidents day sale, and the day after thanksgiving sale. She always kept a closet full of extra blankets, sheets, pillowcases, curtains, t-shirts… when we came by looking for provisions, she would say, "you must think this is your personal storehouse! Why do you think i have what you want?" and you know what? she always did!

I miss her. I love her still, and I’m so thankful that she still visits me from time to time. When I wake up from a dream she was in, I always reflect on my life and what I'm doing well, and what needs to be improved upon.

I mostly remember how incredible she was, and her tireless, selfless sacrifice… but I also remember how she went out.
She died many years before she actually died, her mind robbed of its power and usefulness by dementia. It was hard to watch as she receded back into a shell of her former self.

During those last years when I did visit, It became increasingly difficult to rouse her from her appointed rounds, floating about between worlds. The last few times I was able to awaken that light within, she looked at me startled. Her breathing increased and she wore an expression of someone that had been jerked unexpectedly from something peaceful, or at least non-disturbing, back into the realization that she was still alive and trapped within something she no longer had the power to understand….

I certainly hope that these last few days of the year that we are all able to exhibit some Dickensesque compassion, and take those few extra moments to check in with family members, co-workers and even complete strangers on the street and wish them peace, love, happiness and see if they’re doing o.k., especially if you know that they may not have chestnuts roasting back on the home front.

And if you aint got nobody and you’re all alone, Go eat something that will dye your tongue blue and take a picture of it.

The translated thoughts of Chief Dan George

Wise words are beautiful, yet, we must think of more than just the wisdom of these words. For what makes these words beautiful, is not just their seeming gentleness, but the gentleness of how they have bubbled forth in the mind of this particular thinker.

Part of what is to be celebrated, is that this indivdual, just didn’t think these thoughts, but that he thought of them in this way, in this manner, and the gentleness, and uniqueness of the expression, give a hearty resonance to the words. A resonance beyond their meaning.

Chief Dan George was transcribing his thoughts into English from his native words and his native mind. The words are so powerful, that even in translation, they speak of a way, a view, a manner and relationship with the word, that spills forth, but can not be lived.

As Chief Dan George says, “Those who have worn out their shoes many times know where to step. It is not their shoes you can wear only their footsteps you may follow,
- if you let it happen.”

Perhaps there will be a day you will want to sit by my side asking for counsel. I hope I will be there but you see I am growing old. There is no promise that life will live up to our hopes especially to the hopes of the aged. So I write of what I know and some day our hearts will meet in these words
- if you let it happen.

You come from a shy race. Ours are the silent ways. We have always done all things in a gentle manner, so much as the brook that avoids the solid rock in its search for the sea and meets the deer in passing. You too must follow the path of your own race. It is steady and deep, reliable and lasting. It is you
- if you let it happen.

You are a person of little, but it is better to have little of what is good, than to possess much of what is not good. This your heart will know,
- if you let it happen.

Each day brings an hour of magic. Listen to it! Things will whisper their secrets. You will know what fills the herbs with goodness, makes days change into nights, turns the stars and brings the change of seasons. When you have come to know some of nature's wise ways beware of your complacency for you cannot be wiser than nature. You can only be as wise as any man will ever hope to be,
- if you let it happen.

Our ways are good but only in our world I you like the flame on the white man's wick learn of his ways so you can bear his company, yet when you enter his world, you will walk like a stranger. For some time bewilderment will, like an ugly spirit torment you. Then rest on the holy earth and wait for the good spirit. He will return with new ways as his gift to you,
- if you let it happen.

Use the heritage of silence to observe others. If greed has replaced the goodness in a man's eyes see yourself in him so you will learn to understand and preserve yourself. Do not despise the weak, it is compassion that will make you strong.
Does not the rice drop into your basket whilst your breath carries away the chaff? There is good in everything
- if you let it happen.

When the storms close in and the eyes cannot find the horizon you may lose much. Stay with your love for life for it is the very blood running through your veins. As you pass through the years you will find much calmness in your heart. It is the gift of age. And the colors of the fall will be deep and rich, - if you let it happen.
As I see beyond the days of now I see a vision: I see the faces of my people, your sons' sons, your daughters' daughters, laughter fills the air that is no longer yellow and heavy, the machines have died, quietness and beauty have returned to the land. The gentle ways of our race have again put us in the days of the old. It is good to live! It is good to die! - This will happen.

The Ghost of a homeless guy from the past.

When you’re a social worker, you touch so many lives and hear so many stories, that your mind becomes haunted with the spirits and experiences of your employment. As the years roll by, your inner house of horrors expands and grows with layers of a virtual graveyard of clients past.

Occasionally, your life is touched by another in a deeper and more personal way.Usually the distinguishing characteristic, is time. If you spend months or even years with an individual, they carve out a space in your mind and spirit. When that happens, as you move through life, from time to time you think of these folks and how they touched and changed your life.

Most people (in the continental United States) don’t have the number of experiences that a social worker has with truly fucked up people, in fucked up situations. Since these old ghosts of clients past aren’t doing anything special in my mind. I think it’s only fair that I share one such spirit with you. Especially seeing as the holidays are coming up, I’m much more prone to reflect on the meaning of life, and the dichotomy between those who celebrate Christmas with family, praise, thankfulness and the anticipation of another years of abundant blessings and surprises.

Today I want to talk to you about this crazy white cat named “Dave”.
Dave was a serious trip. Born in South Africa, in his youth he was a feared individual on the streets of
San Francisco. When he was in his prime, he collected debts for various individuals on a freelance basis. This type of work was much more dangerous than working for the local loan shark with mob affiliations. No one messed with the mob, however, every third person tries to beat, stall, bullshit or take out the freelancer.

In this incarnation, Dave rode a Harley, usually with a beautiful woman, and kicked ass on a moments notice. Gradually he worked his way up to having his own legitimate construction company. One thing I quickly figured out is that the one thing ALL of my homeless clients shared in common was either a life of trauma, or a life rather ordinary, with a horrible tragedy that served as a transition point from Joe Blow, to the wretched of the earth. For Dave, this transition occurred when one day, he crashed his bike (or course he wasn’t wearing a helmet) and he fucked his head up. After weeks in a coma, and months recovering, he got out of the hospital a mere shell of his former self. His right side paralyzed, he’d lost everything and he began to drink a few 5ths of vodka a day.

Brain surgery was successful in removing the twisted knot of bleeding veins in his head, but the injury itself left him with frequent seizures. When I met him, he used to hold court out on hallidie plaza near the Powell Street cable car turnaround, a mere dozen feet or so from the hottest tourist spot in San Francisco.

At his point in his life, Dave was completely dependent on the kindness of strangers (and the cash incentive to crack heads) to push him around in his wheelchair. When he was broke, or alone, he frequently, urinated and defecated on himself. At night, he would use the blankets made of recycles fabric that we handed out to the homeless. With this makeshift curtain, he would cover himself and the end of a days performance as societies biggest outcast and pass out into a bitter, intoxicated oblivion.

On the first of the month, every month, Dave’s social security check arrived via general delivery at the Tenderloin Post Office. When he had several hundred-dollar bills tucked into each of his crusty, piss stained socks, he was everybody’s friend, or at least their target. About every other month, we would see Dave on the 1-4th of the month with a black eye, bloody and crusted nose and various scrapes and cuts on his face because some desperate crack-head would rob him for his cash. Sometimes he put up a fight. When that happened, he got robber and his ass kicked.

I remember the day he died. I knew I should have gone out to see him, but there were too many emergencies going on. It was one of those rare late summer days in Frisco when the temperature reached over 100 degrees. On these days our homeless “death prevention team” would hand out several cases of water to crack heads and dope fiends under bridges, in tents under underpasses, and industrial areas all over the city. But on this day, although I thought of Dave and how vulnerable he was, I didn’t hunt him down. Just before this heat wave Daves’ “brother” by the name of “Mike” had recently gotten out of San Quentin. Mike was broke and he wouldn’t let anyone get within 10 feet of Dave if he had more than 10 cents. This guy was one of only 2 homeless folks that truly scared the shit out of me. He was huge, as if all he had done during his 10 years in the joint was eat brass and kick ass.

When I got the news that Dave was dead, it wasn’t really sad. I felt too guilty to be sad. I had spent so much time with him, wheeling him around town to various housing appointments, all to no avail. He had burned down two apartments from fires from cigarettes when he had passed out. All of his clothes and possessions were so stiff with the ammonia from his piss that they would combust within 20 feet of a match. Anyone and everyone in social services knows that once you get arson or “fire damage” on your rental history, you were a dead man walking, or in this case, in a wheelchair.

The whole Dave era was hard to forget for me. So often I would come home smelling like feces and urine after spending hours with Dave on various medical and social service appointments. I would have to change my clothes outside my house before coming in, so that my kids wouldn’t cry when they ran up to hug me.

In summary, It’s strange working with sub-humans like Dave. I don’t mean that as an insult, it’s simply the truth. What’s strange is the fact that they can survive a single day on only vodka and lies. And yet, when they die, you are left to wonder what it was that took them out. After months and months of degredation, what was it that finally pushed them over the edge? I honestly didn’t know how they could survive on the street, but I was able to figure out that it wasn’t because they had something I lacked, rather, they lacked something I had.

The reason I could never spend the night on the street In 40-degree weather and rain, is because I knew that if I didn’t find shelter, I would be compounding my suffering by millions of seconds, night after night after night… that would be enough for me to do everything in my power to clean up my act. But for guys like Dave, they were protected from that type of cognition. They only lived in the moment, so that one second of suffering, was just one long interminable second. Yeah, lack of cognition and being blitzed out of his mind certainly didn’t hurt.

Szsigmundo Freudeneros Movie Interpretation

Freud wrote a book called, “The interpretation of dreams.” In it he breaks down his theory that all dreams are the unconscious fulfillment of wishes, or expression of anxieties. The anxieties may be represented in many ways, and be related to current day events; however, through the use of his theories of psychoanalytic dream analysis, one can uncover deep conflicts extending back to, and ultimately originating in childhood.

If you take a modern media approach, one could say that movies are the representation of unconscious social wishes and anxieties…. rather than just to do a movie review. I'll stick to thewoozy.com philosophy of looking things from a larger /psychological/social perspective
Here’s my take on several new movies out there.


“Lust Pause”
by Ang Lee

Ang Lee is Chinese and also an American. Lust/Pause is a great movie. The sharpest criticism has been that many have viewed it as superficial, and perhaps not understood, or did not believe the motivation of the characters. From my interpretation, much of the criticism is of the ethnic cleansing variety. That is, if you do not understand Chinese culture, it’s history, it’s traditions and culture, then yes, you may not believe the story, it’s motivations, or even have the subtlety to understand the traditions of Chinese entertainment, the influence of classical theater and social etiquette which all go into a beautifully constructed and potently contemporary and historically relevant film.

In essence, Lust/Pause does not represent a true social desire or anxiety, rather, the western interpretation and criticism of the film reveals that cultural intolerance is alive and well in the United States.

The movie itself is about youthful idealism. Lust, adventure, rebellion, seduction, human connection, politics, poor management (even within the rebellion) and the intricate process of being diverted through ignorance and naiveté, onto an unsustainable course which leads to a lot of excitement, yet, ultimate failure.

the plot is simple. Japan has invaded China. a group of young university students and actors stage a play that reveals a deep passion and love of China. they make the jump to reality, and believe that they have received their mandate to serve as revolutionaries. circumstance provides an opportunity. naively they jump in. soon, they're in over their heads. as their plot moves forward, life happens.

what's different is that it is based on the actual history of China. As I mentioned before, the history of China is the foundation. Their culture and sensibilities guide the story. But, being judged from a western perspective changes the viewing from something true and beautiful and enlightening, to ethnocentrism. that's not the way to go. Enjoy the diversity, the freshness and the boldness and braveness of Ang Lee and his actors in crafting a beautiful and complex soap opera.


“Into the Wild”
by Sean Penn

If you want to understand Sean Penn, then you would in the least need to become familiar with his father’s work, Arthur Penn, and also Penn’s major film influence, John Cassavettes. In the film, Penn uses the opportunity of a period piece (early late ‘80’s, early ‘90’s, to write at once a timeless story of the heeding of the age old existential crisis and also a love letter to a world that at one time allowed and even encouraged one to wallow in ones own self-pity and ignorance, groping for meaning, stumbled off into a fog of isolation and through that emerged feeling deserving of the comfortable life they had previously rejected.

This movie was hard to watch at times. Who hasn’t romantically attempted, whether in short spurts, or in longer expeditions, to rid oneself of their own petty desires for fear that if they didn't, there would be no real reason for their individual existence? o.k., o.k., i'm talking about very few individuals here. but let's just say, I've attempted many times what this guy did. but i just couldn't die, physically, or spiritually. So I gave up and went to graduate school.

Due to the degree of inner conflict in the main character, his desire to become “empty” was so great that ultimately, it lead him to his own death. He actually had what it took, to commit an elaborate and romaticised form of suicide.

Make no doubt, this movie is greatly romanticized, beautifully and artistically shot. Attentive and present in every scene and yet roughly hewn and gritty. “into the wild” represents a dead, if not almost completely comatose last gasp of America’s 400 year love affair with it's frontier, where anyone could go to die, or get rich tryin' . what this movie taught me was that we may truly be at the point that there is no more west. No more frontiers, and no more opportunity to move unwatched, to grope and fumble blindly, in this great nation of ours.

Sean Penn, ever the one to attempt to live true to this spirit, is a genius for ferreting out a tale so perfect to illustrate not only his values, his growing mastery but also allowing him to exemplify the essential death of the existential American dream.

Not to be forgotten, the soundtrack by Eddie Vedder is one of the most poignant and appropriate/seamless/beautiful/moving scores I’ve heard in a movie in a long time. I say this even though I hate the sound of Vedder's voice and I detest his whole lynyrd skynyrd/powderfinger rock sensibility. Let me say it again, Vedder's score provides both the best song and best score of this movie season.


“The Golden Compass”
by the White Supremacist

O.k. so first of all, it’s not my imagination. There really are no Black folks in this movie. This movie is about the master races’ worship and idolization of the white wasp virgin. It seems we need to have that porcelain skin jammed in our faces in at least 15 movies a year. In this particular incarnation of the dream, “Ballou” from “The Jungle Book” bleaches his hide white, cuts out all the bullshit and masquerades as a drunken, raging polar bear. Although there is no one Black in this flick, it’s a standard understanding among Black movie lovers and movie critics, that it is impossible for even white folks to truly whitewash a movie such that there are truly no Black characters. In movies with no Black people, there will invariably be an animal, in servitude, dwelling in a lower caste, usually embittered, drunk and oppressed, who functions as the “N’ga. for example, in “Star Wars” it was Chewbacca. In Blade Runner, it was the artificial humans. and to name others; E.T., Dracula, Wolfman, Frankenstein, Jason, King Kong, The Thing, the pods in "invasion of the body snatchers", Lassie, etc, etc, etc. Let me say it one more time. There are always N’gaz in every movie, especially the ones with no N’gaz.

The most interesting thing in this movie is Daniel Craig. He looks great, confident and is strong in this flick. Too bad he’s hardly in it.

I don’t really give stars in movies. But if I did, this one wouldn’t get any.

“Love in the time of Cholera” based on ggm (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
Most of what is misunderstood about this movie is once again, the cultural subtleties that make the choices for acting, motivation and scene development slightly beyond the radar for the majority of White film reviewers. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, although loved by White intellectuals, aint White. Much of what they forgive in his prose, due to his unbelievably transcendant grasp and utilization of language and structure, they can not forgive when it is played out on the big screen. It just doesn’t have the same elegance with which to cause them to look the other way. What was essential and unavoidable in the novel becomes confusing and almost laughable on the screen.

And the makeup is absolutely horrible. It’s like they had blind old ladies running amok with a cache of 1920’s stage make-up. The acting is great. Some of the best tits I’ve seen in a movie in a long time (the last love scene excluded… YEEEECh!!).

I actually really liked this movie. I felt it taught me several things and showed me several things about Latino culture and psychology that I didn't understand before.


“No Country for Old Men”
The Coen Brothers

What has been touted, as one of the best movies of the year is actually a very long piece of human excrement? The Coen brothers finally figured out what Clint Eastwood and Steven Spielberg finally figured out when they put together their successful Oscar campaigns. White folks love movies that are slow, sanitized, with very little dialogue that sounds intelligent and deep, but is actually cartoonish and unreal. They love characters that do stupid shit, for little understood reasons and then either catch hell, or give it as a way to resolve the dispute.

For me, this movie was one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen in my life. The moment the main character, which is a redneck to the bone, gets up in the middle of the night to take a jug of water to a Mexican who is 9/10th dead, it made absolutely no sense. But I know what White folks loved it. They are so racist, so hateful, so intolerant, that when that redneck risked his life to make a foolish decision, seemingly based on his own character, which essentially resulted in the death of him and everyone he knew, White folks couldn’t help but to feel that some great movie magic had just occurred. And they’re right. and so, I hate to say this, but it will probably win an Oscar for either Best Film, or Best Original Screenplay. It certainly doesn't deserve it though.

That’s it folks. Spend you money as if it were your life.

Waiting to die in West Oakland

It’s so strange how things work in the hood.

Last month at the medical meeting at Santa Rita jail, an old black doctor by the name of Benton, told me he had been called by the director of the Lowell community center in west Oakland to speak to a group of about 100 kids and parents. Another young black man was gunned down, this time in front of over 50 young children after school.

I offered my advice. The doctor seemed unsure, but he was determined. As an older Black man, with an MD degree, and a long time resident of Oakland, I knew that just the fact that he would show up, would be healing for the community.

This month we had another meeting. At the end, I asked him how the community meeting went. He said it went as well as could be expected. Almost 200 community members had shown up. I was a bit taken aback that so many people had shown up. Dr. Benton informed me that not only had this young man been gunned down in full view of dozens of young kids, but also a full 25 minutes had passed before the Oakland Police Department had arrived on the scene. I was angered, appalled, shocked, offended... I wanted to write a note to myself stating, "waiting to die in West Oakland" when I got home, but then, as I pulled onto my street I saw one of those street corner memorials at the closed park several doors down from my house. There were over 3 dozen candles burning. Three t-shirts hanging in the chain length fence with messages and signature and words of love and encouragement for the afterlife. I saw balloons, a stuffed animal and even empty pill bottles. I assumed it was the young man’s medications, placed on the corner in the tradition of North African antiquity, to serve him in the afterlife. This is the 5th person killed ON my block in the 6 years. I'll always remember the first. We had only been in the home a few weeks when a woman who was a well-known neighborhood crack addict was found dead on the other side of my backyard fence. She too had been shot to death.

I also had to think about the time a few months back when I first brought my children to the corner liquor store to get some lollipops. Shots rang out as we exited the store. People ran. The bullets landed in the back wall several feel from where we were standing. In my typical fashion I was cool and calm. The shots had BEEN fired. And we WERE alive. We had cheated death. It wasn't our time. There was in fact, absolutely nothing to be worried about. That's how my mind works. I had lived in Harlem, the Bronx, West Oakland, The Mission in Frisco, the central district in Seattle.... it wasn't my time. It had never been my time. In the hood, the difference between life and death is measured in millimeters and fractions of seconds. So to miss a bullet by several feet and several seconds was the same as having never been shot at.

I pulled out my cell phone and called my neighbor, "mike" who lives two doors down. A young black man answered, but it wasn't my Mike. I had dialed the wrong Mike. I accidentally dialed Mike Dixon in Seattle, co-founder (with his brother Aaron) of the Black Panthers in Seattle. I explained my error to his grown son "Che" who I counseled when he was 13 years old. "Tell your dad Damon in Oakland says 'hi'.". I hung up but before I dialed my neighbor Mike, I had to think about another Black Panther, Huey Newton, who was also gunned down in West Oakland. I thought of how easily and unquestionable Mike Dixon’s son, now grown, had taken the news that I was trying to call another "Mike" to ask about a young black man who had been dunned down a few yards from my house.... I finally got Mike on the line but first I had to ask him if he had any 9mm shells. "Naw man, I don't." he said. I told him about the dream I had the previous night that someone was trying to tear down my house with a bulldozer. In the dream I ran to get my Glock, but remembered that I didn't have any bullets. I hunkered down behind my dresser as the shots from the bulldozer pierced the carpet around my feet. In the dream I wasn't scared to die, but wondering what kind of idiot I was to purchase a gun for protection but to have neglected to buy bullets.... I explained the absurdity to Mike, he said, "yeah, you don't want to do that (pause), and naw man, I aint got no bullets. I need some… (pause) what do you want?" I said, "Hey, who got killed down the street? Do you know?" Mike sounded distracted, "Oh yeah, uh, can I call you right back, I’ll be home and call you in a minute."

I hung up and thought about how anecdotally I knew that a young man had gotten killed and the Oakland Police Department took 25 minutes to get there. Anecdotally, I also knew that a man had been killed on my block. I had no hard facts, but it made me realize that life in West Oakland is so silent and so anecdotal. Silent because the voices are being snuffed out one by one. Silent because the dreams are personal and the sounds do not escape your mind. Silent because there is no one who will be shocked for more than a few seconds when you share a tale of death, or near death. There is no one who cares to bother to discuss the fact that the cops don't give a damn. It’s a fact buttressed with thousands of untold anecdotal tales.

The inadequacy of the community, anecdotally, is absurd in that it has been a condition that has persisted unabated for generations. It gets a few lines in the paper. But the cries, the pain, the anger, the resignation is absorbed by the community, in their silently burning candles. The stuffed animals, incapable of speech and the balloons that only voice displeasure when the wind causes them to rub against one another. The dreams where you live, or die, and wake to hustle another day’s manna from someone, somewhere, for something.... and this silence dissipates as it is told from mouth to ear, to young and old.

It seemed like such a perfect example for a lesson in the power of the media, to make, or ignore stories. It seemed like such a perfect example for whatever it is to not be fact checked, to not be "mass communicated", to not be a "story".

Les fils de Fanon is born

geez,
been waiting forever to get a blog up. i knew it had to be much easier than it seemed.... actually, the truth is, i knew it was EXACTLY as easy as it looked. knowing how things are nowadays, it was a pretty safe assumption that a push button blog template would be out there somewhere waiting for me to stumble across it. and voila!
so, the sons of fanon (for those that know fanon) is pretty much as advertised. critical analysis of everything. i'm not sure how much a sense of humor fanon had, but i certainly have one in spades. to me, a sense of humor is a natural condition arising from the asurdity of the present... i say, "present" because i doubt that life has been any more or less absurd at any point in the past than it is now. sorry to disappoint, but we are not reaching an apex of anything folks. it is as it is, and as it will be for the next few hundred million years.
so, anyway, for all zero of you reading this, welcome. hopefully you will enjoy the output.
-evz-yoyo, LE fils du fils de Fanon!