Christmas at Jackie's

it is tremendous in the air
the walls are thick with history
so much has seeped into the wood
i'd like to age scotch in these rooms
the din of preparation almost
as exciting as the sacred event
the will of the day pulled asunder
only love can bicker this well

i remember my first time
collected with new faces of joy
found instruments and displaced jars
expounding more revery into the night
smoke filled eyes taking it in
the future's foundation was poured
under that great east-side star
gathered wisemen, shepherds and thieves

Relatives and friends colliding into one
even strangers ring familiar tonight
trading bourbon for rum and right back around
why isn't someone writing it all down
my skull so soaked in sentiment as to never recover
not even a bloody can bring back tomorrow
what the hell was in that damn stock...
yeah right, gimme a break!

--el vikingo

between the holidays

the townhouse drips
drops cling to faded green
on winding bark
ashalt matches sky
the year's last triangle
quickly hovers from branch
to leaking gray
even so
the necks of pigeons
are iridescent

~la haba lima

xmas away

The Kwikshot was in Spain this year, and with that I pulled ahead or at least tied in the number of Christmases spent here, celebrated in my mother’s house. This year he is in Barcelona with Megan (Jackie’s spelling); after wandering up the coast in the footsteps of Dali while drinking wine from balconies--a nice place to be. Before, I missed when I spent a Christmas in France and another one in Korea (under quite different circumstance).

That first Christmas away I was in Bordeaux at Patrick’s house where I was living. It had been his grandfather’s, who was a bicycle postman and carpenter who lost a lung at Verdun. The basement was where he made his cabinets, outfitted completely with clamps, planes, tables, stains and powders, and not a power tool in sight. The door leading down the stairs had a long center pane of beveled glass. Late in the night, when I’d come up for some more wine, the house would be still with resting dust. That door would glow out into the sitting room.

Patrick would be away in his room challenging the emptiness with his blue typewriter. I was away in the basement making Christmas gifts for my friends. I’d painted two paintings, two static proclamations; adornments to their personality—jewelry for the eye. For a third, I’d taken the empty bottles of ancient wines and made labels, “sanglier, sanglier, fenetre, fete foreign,” (wild boar, wild boar, window, municipal fair; making no more sense in English); just enough to make Herve laugh.

He lived in Toulouse four days of the week, then to Bordeaux, where he tended to his father’s vineyard. Four of us would go out for those three days, spend them at the Chateau managed by Mico, a Portugeses veteran of the wars in Angola, and places that no longer have names. Herve had gotten a Masters in Viticulture and taught us all how to taste. Mico taught Herve what they don’t teach in school.

Incidentally, none of my friend’s liked Paris.

After midnight on Christmas Eve we all met at Patrick’s. We ran out of wine. Every other bottle was dry, even the soaked plums. Patrick said he felt terrible guilt over drinking what had been his Grandfather’s wine collection. We had no money. The wooden shoe from Britannia was empty, except for a few centimes.

In the autumn, when it had gotten cold, Patrick pulled the pot plant in from the patio. First, we smoked the lowest boughs. By Christmas it was a spindly twig in a heavy pot of dirt. We were around the kitchen table; I said had an idea. I had developed a reputation for innovation (by disregarding consequence). So we boiled the plant, boiled it and boiled it; made longer by our anticipation. The water turned green. Then I sought to reduce the quantity of water, thereby concentrating any potency. We drank our tea. We waited. No effect, maybe something, but so slight, could be easily overlooked or invented. Being late, Jean-Marie left. Patrick went to write in his room. And I went to write in the basement. As usual, when daylight touched the little window above the workbench, it was time for bed.

I woke-up when Patrick started making sounds in the kitchen. Something wasn’t right. I was pungently stoned. As it turns out, so was Patrick. And he was having trouble with English; and the French meant nothing to me. Merry Christmas.

Christmas for me was to be with Patrick’s parents. Patrick said he detested them; that they were ignorant and formal to the point of parody. He said they were of a family that had emigrated to Bordeaux in order to cover their crudeness in money and manners. We dressed to go. Patrick was blanched white, nervous, anger rising, over being obligated to associate with such people. Merry Christmas.

Since I was a stranger to their customs, the majority of the conversation was over the foods, from what part of France they came; and of course how they are harvested, evaluated for purchase, and appropriately served. The wine held an exulted position. The bottle was raised in the air by his father like it was a victory—both that someone had made something so splendid and that he possessed it. They served a dessert, a rolled log, frosting and sponge. It signaled the end of the meal, that the indulgence had come to an end. But the novelty, that is the presence of a foreigner, could only forestall the wrong question to Patrick—a parent trap for this time the mother, to express their disappointment in their son. She could not understand why someone so smart wasn’t also rich. I think it made them feel the brunt of an accusation. I recall his father giving him an envelope. Merry Christmas.

Late that afternoon, we met-up again with Jean-Marie; we had money and went to the Gran Viloxera, a creatively licensed social club over in San Michael, and a hang-out for other economic dissidents.

The second Christmas I spent away escalated into an international incident, the origin of which can be traced back to someone teaching Kenny how to say “nice boobies” in Korean.

…and as it turns out, Merry Christmas.

l'a-ro

poe...Edgar Allan Poe (for whom Henry Ford was to name a model had not the poet died before they could meet) had an oppinon of the Didactic in his THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. It looks all the more absurd in all CAPS doesn't it? He, Poe, was a foe; an excerpt:

"...I allude to the heresies of The Didactic. It has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that the ultimate object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a moral, and by this moral is the poetical merit of the work to be adjudged. We Americans especially have patronized this happy idea..."

Ah, the heresies of the Didactic. As it turns out, the Poetic Principle (published postumously) is a summary of his artistic ideals. And no, it wasn't that interesting. I only read it for his critism of the didactic; and went to see how the essay was finished, which--as it turns out--was interesting:

"With our modern and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare, we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul of the old cavalier..."

l'a-ro

tis the season

the days getting longer
spring
just aroud the corner
i hope everyone
is with people
they love

l'a-ro

Ode to Walt Witman... (LORCA)

By the East River and the Bronx
boys were singing, exposing their waists,
with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks
and children drawing stairs and perspectives.

But none of them could sleep,
none of them wanted to be the river,
none of them loved the huge leaves
or the shoreline's blue tongue.

By the East River and the Queensboro
boys were battling with industry
and the Jews sold to the river faun
the rose of circumcision,
and over bridges and rooftops, the mouth of the sky
emptied
herds of bison driven by the wind.

But none of them paused,
none of them wanted to be a cloud,
none of them looked for ferns
or the yellow wheel of the tambourine.

As soon as the moon rises
the pulleys will spin to alter the sky;
a border of needles will besiege memory
and the hearses will bear away those who don't work.

New York, mire,
New York, wire and death.

What angel is hidden in your cheek?
Whose perfect voice will sing the truths of wheat?
Who, the terrible dream of your bruised anemones?

Not for a moment, Walt Witman, lovely old man,
have I Failed to see your beard full of butterflies,
nor your corduroy shoulders frayed by the moon,
nor your thighs as pure as Apollo's,
nor your voice like a column of ash;
old man, beautiful as the mist,
you moaned like a bird
with its sex pierced by a needle.
Enemy of the satyr,
enemy of the vine,
and lover of bodies beneath rough cloth...

Not for a moment, virile beauty,
who among mountains of coal, billboards, and railroads,
dreamed of becoming a river and sleeping like a river
with that comrade who would place in your breast
the small ache of an ignorant leopard.

Not for a moment, Adam of blood, Macho,
man alone at sea, Walt Witman, lovely old man,
because on penthouse roofs,
gathered at bars,
emerging in bunches from the sewers,
trembling between the legs of chauffeurs,
or spinning on dance floors wet with absinthe,
the faggots, Walt Witman, point you out.

He's one, too! That's right! And they land
on your luminous chaste beard,
blonds from the north, blacks from the sands,
crowds of howls and gestures,
like cats or like snakes,
the faggots, Walt Witman, the faggots,
clouded with tears, flesh for the whip,
the boot, or the teeth of the lion tamers.

He's one, too! That's right! Stained fingers
point to the shore of your dream
when a friend eats your apple
with a slight taste of gasoline
and the sun sings in the navels
of boys who play under bridges.

But you didn't look for scratched eyes,
nor the darkest swamp where someone submerges
children
nor frozen saliva,
nor the curves slit open like a toad's belly
that the faggots wear in cars and on terraces
while the moon lashes them on the street corners of
terror.

You looked for a naked body like a river.
Bull and dream who would join a wheel with seaweed,
father of your agony, camellia of your death,
who would groan in the blaze of your hidden equator.

Because it's all right if a man doesn't look for his delight
in tomorrow morning's jungle of blood.
The sky has shores where life is avoided
and there are bodies that shouldn't repeat themselves in
the dawn.

Agony, agony, dream, ferment and dream.
This is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
Bodies decompose beneath the city clocks,
war passes by in tears, followed by a million gray rats,
the rich give their mistresses
small illuminated dying things,
and life is neither noble, nor good, nor sacred.

Man is able, if he wishes, to guide his desire
through a vein of coral or a heavenly naked body.
Tomorrow, loves will become stones, and Time
a breeze that drowses in the branches.

That's why i don't raise my voice, old Walt Witman,
against the little boy who writes
the name of a girl on his pillow,
nor against the boy who dresses as a bride
in darkness of the wardrobe,
nor against the solitary men in casinos
who drink prostitution's water with revulsion,
nor against the men with that green look in their eyes
who love other men and burn their lips in silence.

But yes against you, urban faggots,
tumescent flesh and unclean thoughts.
Mothers of mud. Harpies. Sleepless enemies
of the love that bestows crowns of joy.

Always against you, who give boys
drops of foul death with bitter poison.
Always against you,
Fairies of North America,
Pajaros of Havana,
Jotos of Mexico,
Sarasas of Cadiz,
Apios of Seville,
Cancos of Madrid,
Floras of Alicante,
Adelaidas of Portugal.

Faggots of the world, murderers of doves!
Slaves of women. Their bedroom bitches.
Opening in public squares like feverish fans
or ambushed in rigid hemlock landscapes.

No quarter given! Death
spills from your eyes
and gathers gray flowers at the mire's edge.
No quarter given! Attention!
Let the confused, the pure,
the classical, the celebrated, the supplicants
close the doors of the bacchanal to you.

And you, lovely Walt Witman, stay asleep on the
Hudson's banks
with your beard toward the pole, openhanded.
Soft clay or snow, your tongue calls for
comrades to keep watch over your unbodied gazzelle.

Sleep on, nothing remains.
Dancing walls stir the prairies
and America drowns itself in machinery and lament.
I want powerful air from the deepest night
to blow away flowers and inscriptions from the arch
where you sleep,
and a black child to inform the gold-craving whites
that the kingdom of grain has arrived.

--honored saint... Federico Garcia Lorca

================================================================

the fascists murdered beloved lorca because he was
a leftist, a homosexual, a thinker, a lover, a dangerous man...
a dangerous man


AUGUST 19TH 1936

We creep in shadow
a chill at our spine
our small hands fumble
our hearts have no more blood
consumed by pale darkness
Today, they murdered the sun

--el vikingo

Papaya Complete

The Iron pieces seem oblong and original
Not the products of assembly lines…





Of what use are they in this world of universals?



................. Chivo

what santa wants for christmas

"In the 1990s, the Trabant suddenly became famous when it performed better than the 'Mercedes-Benz A-Class' while performing the 'Moose test' (a slalom with small obstacles on the course). Mercedes had to deal with the embarrassment, while the Trabant received unexpected praise." -Wikipedia

but yet, the missuz is holding out for a citroen; sighting, global warming in equal esteem with crash test results.



l a-ro

Service: 352 Wolverine
Duration: 5h 30m
Monday


Chicago - Union Station, IL (CHI)
19-DEC-05; 1:15 pm


Detroit, MI (DET)
19-DEC-05; 7:45 pm


1 Reserved Coach Seat

exercising the tercet

humanista- in an attempt at your form, this came out instead- at least an homage to the chivolian tercet:

only innocent
in love
and toll plazas

my girl
circles the night
from the balustrade

the airplanes
are all
chasing something

a pail full of sloshing water
bailing out the basement
of fish and frogs

to be fat
and rich
and wise

they took down the doors at the zoo
and the animals stayed in their cages
selling peanuts to passers by

he knows the names of all the dinosaurs
just ask him
go ahead try ‘em

and friday is near
and my girl circles the night
from the balustrade

l a-ro



-some computer advice to a friend (friar waxus maximass of atlanta): ...this is simple, all you need is a hacksaw and a rivet gun; I trust you can procure this material, if it didn't come in the computer's tool kit. You will also need some light sticks and one cup of very strong coffee. The problem with the computer is its animation processor; it needs to be threatened out of its stupor. And those two tools frighten the wits out of it. But you have to be ready to carry your threats to action; even if it means smashing the computer. This is bigger than that one device on your desk-- This is Man vs. Machine. And it's time it was on our terms.

Introducing El Humanista

Buenos dias los friars

I have met your el vikingo while trudging through these slushed wastelands we call the midwest of the united states of America. After succumbing to the icy blizzard and having been stuck and frozen for more than an hour in the cravase created by me when I had relieved myself in the snow outside of an old saloon, a hand appeared and pulled me to safety. Thank you el vikingo.

I have traveled these many strange lands for years as a simple Shepard of ideas and ideals. Selling my wares at whichever small town or oasis I could find. The pickings have been slim but I have remained resolute in my quest. Is this simply because I have no other path or because it is my calling? Since I was a babe in diapers I have fought against the tyranny of forced belief and the oppression of the staunchly dogmatic. I endeavor thus to always remain a free man who is hell-bent on protecting the freedom of others.

I am el Humanistica. I thank you, los Friars, for your warm invitation.


In other news,

Book Recommendation: The Corrections by Nick Franzen.
This is the novel I have just put down a week ago and am still rapt in thought about. Beautiful poetics and a very modern assembly. He denied Oprah's book club when they offered it. Applause.

And a poem idea for the friar folk. I have begun this train of a poem in hopes that it might continue on. The idea is that each four line stanza tells a small story, beginning middle end if you will. The "chorus" can be used to heighten or end the last or next stanza.

It was one night
In all the dark days ends
It was one night

Carved steel ravine
Twisted carbon-fiber frame
Broken glass
Not an accident

Said the wrong words
Spilled the wrong milk
Left you to dry
I want to be alone

Wine stained teeth
Labored breathing
I sprain
And suffer a decade

A child is born
Mother's arms are soft
Her breast now successful
Only to make more dark nights

It was one night
In all the dark days ends
It was one night

I grab his hand
We shook and smiled for a minute
Flashbulbs and lights across America
Couldn't be more proud

The rain made a sound so loud
I cower under cotton linen blend
I am not sad
You are not here

I have but a horse
Both of us are night blind
I'll drive until light
A neon sign

You can't joke at this hour
Almost daylight and no sign
Maybe they won't come back
I hope

You, boy, come here
I am not a girl, anymore
Nor wish to be
Blood and hope

It was one night
In all the dark days ends
It was one night

That's it, listen to Sufjan

El Humanistia

The Deep Roots of Ignorance

Hmmm, yes here's to acting at the fullest potential...or should I say acting efficiently, but then our old friend laziness is apt to rear his wise, seasoned cabeza.
Unsolicited opinion!!!
Ah well, for what its worth I'm still on this rusty track but then with three out of four classes focused at understanding the Ummah, well we'll just see if we can't be patient- Yes, Ojo del fantasma???

...It would be easy for any mindful observer trying to fathom the woes of the Muslim world, the Ummah, to briefly review historical facts and conclude that conflicts with the West dating back to the crusades have resulted in the widespread antipathy toward the western world. But do the roots of resentment not wind and become tangled by more recent events? Was it always a predestined inevitability that if the United States dared enter into any modern matters of the Muslim world that Americans would have to be labeled and hated as modern day crusaders? Given other factors, such as the poorly designed, British-born, imperially implemented national borders that divide the Ummah and inconsistent, uninspired policies of the U.S., are the principle regions of Islam doomed to eternal instability?
It is a sad fact that the history of U.S. foreign policy is mired in miscalculations, misinterpretations and a profound ignorance of the basic historic positions, prejudices and motivations which have conspired to construct the difficult realities of international affairs. The people of the United States are not the first to lay their path by a rather blindish form of ignorantly bumbling forth, reshaping their world to their advantage in a myopic mode with little regard for long-term ramifications. Since the earliest tribes were formed, leaders noticed that simply threatening and using violence when dealing with adversaries often paid off, at least in the short-term. The U.S. is unique though, in the immense amount of power that it wields when seeking to iron out the potentially uncomfortable, unruly creases of the world. Yet, U.S. policy makers have found that simple flexing of military muscle often solves little in the modern world. The fact is, that the United States took on the role of super power after many other powerful civilizations dating back thousands of years had already made mankind’s earth a very complex place indeed.
As Britain recognized that the empire had been completely exhausted by World War II, the government slowly began a withdrawal of the forces that assured its position as regional power in the Middle East. Mostly because of the perceived threat of Soviet expansion, President Truman felt that the United States was obliged to take up the reigns and fill the void wherever it could. This hand-off of British domination to the U.S. is somewhat comparable to an unhappy car owner faced with nickel and dime problems, deciding that riding the tube offers a whole lot less headaches in the grand scheme of things. Meanwhile the United States having little experience in international affairs is analogous to an anxious fool grabbing the keys forgetting that he doesn’t know how to drive, let alone work, on the hapless automobile when it breaks down.
Two key factors conspired to chasten the new driver as the U.S. became more settled in behind the shoddy wheel and further invested in at least shallow stability of the region. The first factor refers to the condition in which British imperialism had left the analogy’s vehicle. As a result of World War I, the Ottoman empire ceased to exist. This left European powers with the opportunity to imagine new borders for the Middle East. Very little consideration, if any, was given to actually drawing the lines along the vague, natural borders which already existed due to regional ethnic and religious differences of those who populated the area. In fact, borders which encompassed more than one group that could be identified as distinct peoples benefited European powers for ruling purposes.
Dividing and conquering was the form of rule most often employed by the British. What came to be known as indirect rule called for the placement of a desirable “native” ruler. The loyalty and compliance of the native ruler with imperial interests was insured by the fact that he could not retain power and would be quickly deposed without the support of the imperial power. The problems which likely arise when one attempts to maintain colonial boundaries in the absence of a blatantly brutal, overbearing, imperial power were quickly exposed as the U.S. implemented different methods to dominate the region.
After WWII, as the empires of the old European powers began to crumble under the financial strain of repressing the independence of colonies, it became clear that old-fashioned imperialism was not a viable option in the modern world. To propagate U.S. dominance and expand markets, the United States drastically broke from classic imperialism and even denounced stubborn European claims to remnants of rapidly disintegrating empires. In the face of rapid decolonization, partially due to the persistent wave of nationalism that had drenched the world by midway through the 20th century, the U.S. recognized that official control of a government was unnecessary. To maintain U.S. dominance over most nations and their resources, all that was required was the financial dependence of the nation. The tactics that the U.S. employed to insure its economic superiority over a wide range of decolonized nations across the world were soon emulated by other western powers and the practice eventually became known as neo-imperialism.
The attraction of neo-imperialism for the U.S. was the more hands-off approach that it allowed. Yet, although the U.S. had mostly avoided overt occupations of Muslim countries before the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, the rarely subtle economic pressures, as well as the small scale interventions and humiliating covert actions that the United States readily implemented in order to influence policies, were easily interpreted by the peoples of the Muslim world and often culminated in resentment of Western power. Even the often generous financial and military aid that western powers offered pro-western regimes of the Middle East could not be interpreted as simply altruistic gestures. Aid has often been openly withheld as a form of punishment for disappointing positions of regimes. It is not difficult to see the correlations between the levels of foreign aid regimes receive and the relative approval western powers feel toward their foreign policies. The repeated meddling in the internal affairs of sovereign Muslim nations, along with the incentive-driven system of delving out aid, combine with economically devastating embargos easily levied by those who hold all the cards, evoke a profound ire in the Muslim world that is easily directed at the “Great Satin”.
The second factor that seemed to have bungled U.S. policy in the Middle East from the days immediately following WWII was the Cold War. From involvement in Vietnam to its support of Latin-American right-wing dictators, viewing the world in the context of cold war politics led the United States to forty-some years of irrationally hypocritical and dangerously contradictory policies. The misconceptions of policy makers that seemed welded to U.S. involvement in the Cold War may stem from the measures which had to be taken to cajole the American populous into willingly participating in Cold War antics.
Europeans were not the only ones worn out by WWII. Americans were quite ready to call their boys back home, leaving dirty power politics once again to the European powers. Knowing that Western Europe was not up to facing the Soviet Union’s expansionist ideals alone, President Truman felt that he must somehow persuade the American public to support continued U.S. involvement in international intrigue. The only way to do this was to literally scare the hell out of the public. The moralistic Americans’ fear of evil had always been any president’s most potent weapon in rousing the public. So, it was not long before not only communism but any who even appeared to support communism at home or abroad became evil enemies. With Cold War fears acting as shades blinding policymakers to many crucial realities, the United States was easily manipulated by savvy, unsavory proxy states. National security objectives repeatedly blurred the fact that many of the regimes being dealt with were remnants of the age of imperialism that had lost their imperial benefactors. That is to say, a minority segment of the ‘native’ populous hoping to hold onto the powerful positions imperialists had bestowed upon them had to quickly learn to play the two superpowers off each other, or face losing everything. Many regimes were fast to realize that U.S. support could be won easily by simply warning that their nation was in danger of becoming the first domino to fall. It is difficult to divine whether those who contrived policies with an eye on containment ever stopped to ponder the awful side effects that their cure for communism would cause. Unfortunately, the containment policy was not simply a prescription pill with a warning on the side of the bottle for the American public to read: Warning: containment may cause regional instability, Islamic fundamentalism and extreme anti-Americanism. If terrorism occurs consult a physician immediately…
The West must now face the warranted agitation that much of the Muslim world feels toward their “immoral oppressors”. But since the United States is still for the moment in the driver’s seat of the rickety contraption, what of the two factors which have so deftly conspired to create the woeful dilemma? Well, the problem of outdated colonial borders and the despots that cling to them is not likely to soon be resolved. Luckily because of the moralistic American reaction to Hitler’s Nazi Germany, and the magnification that the region is under due to huge oil and natural gas deposits, simply turning a blind eye to attempts of former colonial states at ethnic purification through genocide or expulsions has not been an option. Mass media has also gone far to help limit the prospects of even the most despotic of regimes simply purging the societies they rule of any “undesirables”. With a mass movement of peoples unlikely, what about making up new countries with borders that more readily align with ethnic and religious divisions to quell instability? The prospects of redrawing the borders of the region are dim. Presumably, an international coalition could never agree to simply redraw the borders of the Middle East, despite any benefits that one would argue that such an action would incur. It is quite likely that even with the strongest military amassed in the history of the world at its disposal, the United States would face insurmountable resistance if it were to attempt such an immense mission. It would take a tremendous amount of wherewithal, and perhaps blind moxy on the part of any administration that might dare to tackle such a massive undertaking. The predictable domestic uproar alone that would ensue from the mere suggestion is reason enough to be sure that no major American politician is likely to ever suggest such a strategy.
The second factor, the U.S. propensity to view national security and therefore foreign policy in the context of the Cold War, came to its fortuitous end in 1991. Yet, the damage done to the image the Muslim world has of the United States cannot be erased by simply changing detrimental policies instigated by the Cold War. Just as fear of communism often blinded the public and policymakers alike to the long term consequences of erratic, ill-conceived strategies in the Middle East, fear of terrorism could easily have the same effect. Along with a fear-fueled foreign policy, features within the U.S. political system itself make intelligent insightful policies all the more difficult to come by. Powerful lobby groups with tremendous influence over U.S. policies that effect the Ummah rarely have good relations between the West and the Muslim world at the top of their list of concerns. Inconsistency due to the U.S. electoral cycle also often aggravates the coherence of U.S. policy. Moderate and secular leaders of the Muslim world have a difficult time relying on U.S. policy due to the unpredictability of U.S. stratagem resulting from drastic breaks in policy that often come with new administrations.
Despite all the evident difficulties in forming better relations between the Muslim world and the West, steps can be taken by both sides to begin bridging the fissures. First, if those within the Muslim world who disapprove of terrorist tactics were to vocally condemn atrocities committed by terrorists views held by many in the west that all Muslims are Islamic fundamentalists could quickly evaporate. Secondly, Americans in particular must drop their illusions that the terrorist attacks of 9/11 were the beginning of some new chapter in history with no links or roots in past chapters. The horrific terror attacks of that fateful September day were not the first action of some new war to be fought. They were, in fact, the most dramatic and awful reaction in a series of reactions dating back decades. That is not to say that U.S. citizens ought to feel that they brought it on themselves and ask for forgiveness. They should, however, attempt to better understand both the roots of terrorism and the nature of the conflict they have entered into. The moralistic expectations of Americans do not allow U.S. leaders to simply butcher millions of Muslims until survivors either comply with their will or do not exist. Therefore, long-term strategies must be well thought out. If the United States continues to haphazardly rely on short-term solutions, at best, in forty-some years, Americans will be confronted with the next great ism that they will have to fear as a result of policies put in place today to win the war against terror.

Chivo

the sadness of speed limits

Yesterday, I watched the “el” go by the window. I was instantly depressed. It lumbered on. I noticed the tracks were laid on concrete pilings. The other night I saw the ghost train. It crept up the track, all its lights out- rolled right through the stations. I recall the gravel trains from last summer that would clank across, pulling a generator barking on the flat tool car. I can’t stand riding the “el”. Every boarding renews the disappointment, you enter wearing its frown. It shakes from going so slow; it rattles itself to pieces in sluggish exasperation.

Clear the line. One train, 10 cars, what can it do- top it out; upgrade, let’s go! But no, it’s good enough, meets most needs of the community- humf. It’s depressing somehow to see it so; once I did see a fast one, but not since. It’s draining to have contact with things that run so far under their potential; and I am forced simply to appreciate that they work at all.

You wouldn’t think if you were at college and took the time to look up at an enormous mobile hanging through three floors of the Student Union building, that there of all places you would discover a sign of degrading potential. The mobile is large, as I said, hung over the academic crib; yet swing freely it can not. Its upper two arms can’t make a complete rotation. They nudge there against the painted drywall in little dark dents. And on the third floor they have wired it so it won’t swing onto the balcony where students study at tables (especially since the library fire). It’s a bound mobile, limp like a dead kite. You can tell how much thought went into that.

l a-ro



-Ojo del fantasma; right on, I started cooking up a response of sorts, but the words would not cooperate. It’s difficult to use relativity to take a swipe at reason's key feature- abstraction; that is, the ability to contemplate a model of reality; because in that moment we have entered the supernatural (which seeks an orientation to the myth of a universal), quite the opposite of reason’s goodwill spin; yet, the sensation is curiously grounding.

A reply to those essential questions

When the questions cease, so does the mind.

You threw me for a loop by editing your response after I just figured out how to respond. Anyhow, in my experience and observation (rightly or wrongly), I see many actions are senseless as they lack the appropriate fibers and fundamentals of decison making and problem solving. They would be: Break down the "pain" or "pleasure" to the simplest unit of identification and generate INNOVATIVE ways to correct or influence the desired state with minimal cost and Evaluate whether the action had the desired effect.

History tells us time again these acts are repetitive and responsive with failure to correctly identify whether the action performed was designed to solve the original pain or pleasure, it becomes automatic without evaluation. However, these acts can be purposeful and goal-orientated like a cat chasing its tail, but with sound thought and sense; I think not.

In reality, the impluse for authority is the goal, it's strong. And with that, allows us to have the good fight, which is needed for absolute moral development. Those in power are pawns really, they have yet reached a position of moral development, especially by Kohlberg's standards. They are rocks and mountains in the way, always will they be there, sometimes eroded there and there, but formed elsewhere.

When you desire to control others, you fail to know yourself.

Another thing, sometimes it's encouraged to bite the hands that feeds, when that hand prevents you from feeding yourself.

Ojo del Fantasma (Thanks for the correction)

proud of my weaknessesssss

-awesome posts pirata and ojo de la fantasma;

pirata, as i have expressed to you, i have my reservations towards "blowing the lid off our aspirations and delusion" due to its simultaneous attack on hope.

And Ojo de la fantasma, "Archaic, barbaric, and senseless/ like a car bomber, solider in war/ gangster peeling caps back/ They are all the same acts/ of honoring retaliation"; could you explain that a bit. I've been looking at things through the eyes of an anthropologist, and nothing is senseless; or, could retaliation instead be seen as reciprocity, and what does that mean to the good fight...and could we look at this instead as an impulse to authority; then what does that mean to those who cling to the ideal of moral progress?- ah, so many questions; and that is beautiful

(proud of my weaknessesssss)

articles of interest
1) How Christianity (and Capitalism) Led to Science
2)The big bang theory of art; If we think poets and painters have better sex lives...
3)On the hunt for a conspiracy theory
4)STRANGE FITS OF PASSION; Wordsworth’s revolution.
and
5)The Troubadours of Brazil's Backlands

Emotional decisions are crippling

Impatience is a sign of weakness. Rome wasn't built in a day.
____________________________________________________________________________
Slow, methodical, and calculated.
One's life hangs in the balance
Was his worth what ours is?
Who knows, we can't say for sure.
Were his sins and crimes worth termination
anymore than ours, or our thoughts?

The most claimed faithful go behind
God's back and steal from the cookie jar
embracing acts reserved, suggesting
their faith is immediately in false.

Archaic, barbaric, and senseless
like a car bomber, solider in war,
gangster peeling caps back
They are all the same acts
of honoring retaliation
respecting the powers of those in control
One form or another

There are behaviors that plead remedy;
Rape, robbery, murder, and stupidity
But the aftermath or conviction should be
towards something, not against it
lead by example to fix not destroy
Anyone wearing white?

Yesterday, the 1000th person
was murdered in the USA
by the political serial killer
on the loose
while the warrant of arrest was
issued by the "less than" authority

Now, there are 1000 reasons
to justify and defend terrorism
to support organized crime
And 1000 steps back
from the evolution machine
__________________________________________________________________________________

He said, "Forgive them Lord, for they not know what they do" or something like that. Who knew he meant his followers? Was is a hiccup or were we just told 30,000 people were exterminated since 2003?

Ojo del fantasma

An Introduction...

is in order. "Ojo de la fantasma" is the silent observer gathering his thoughts in efforts to learn how to speak once again. The trials and tribulations of institutions and segmentation in corporate America has produced a low mental drumming that blocks out the yearning of intellectual curiousity and creates a repetitious mantra to become the automated machine manufactured societies dreamt us to be (Perfect consumers).

I desire to absorb the visions this group, which I suspect wasn't gathered for the first time, in order to rediscover communication. Like the ghost, he seeks to build sufficient energy to develop new tools to speak, mimics life and remembers the body.

Yes, there clearly are two distinct levels of language; one is exhibited fiercely within my mind and it's personal mandalas, the other is what is in need of resurrection.

Let it begin with slogans....I found "Get Revenge Or Get Out Of The Way" very fitting for the Austrian's political victory this evening.



Ojo de la fantasma

Whitman,
what have you done
to leave an echo
of eagerness
to be fresh
and eaten up
and devastated by wonder

you wear helmets
ball caps
and bonnets
and you answer phones
and take orders
and work as a crossing guard

you are a bear balancing on a circus ball
still smelling of the wild
and fearful places
that get covered in snow

you’re a night watchmen pacing the fence
with a transistor radio
and in the winter
you sit in your car
to warm-up
between the rounds

it’s you, Walt
living pay check to pay check
boiling corn
and before you are your neighbors
the stars

watching the world unfold
like a flower
suits you very well
and you are also that suiting
you Walt, rant

l a-ro

more sloganry!!!!!!!!

we can now have slogans created for us for crissake!!

http://thesurrealist.co.uk./slogan

hours of fun!!!

also good to hear from el pirata
excellent post!!!
although i would have to say one needs
to know what 'The Darkness' sounds like
to cringe at something sounding like them.

and nice work l a-ro

--el vikingo

why meet the devine sober?
we go for drives
with the computer
we spell out a-b-e
Lincoln
we rehearse for things
that will never happen
with what the generation before
has left us

no, its not a push and pull
it’s a waving in the wind
oh, the next epidemic
what will it do to our souls
our lighthouse souls
our noble lamps
on the rocks?

here comes the ravishing
the moonlight love
in a mouth of evaporating champagne

l a-ro

My Jesus Hits like the Atom Bomb. . .

"It's when I'm not workin' things get weird. Start draggin' around the damn house, your attention gets side tracked. It can easily happen, son. Hell, for damn years mah attention was wonerin' everwhichway. I was strung out all over the damn universe . I didn't know what the hell was goin on.

"I'm coming back. Now, I've said it, it's for me to prove it. That's my job. . . but i'm only still doin' it cos I can, and cos I want to. Don't have to prove nothin' to nobody! I just likes to kick ass is all."

Multiple choice quiz- are these the words of

A) Jesus Christ, or

B) Jerry Lee Lewis

A weird week, wherein I make peace with Jesus and Paul Mccartney, and Fall out with the White Stripes.

I. Musical Valium.

Well, It took some reading to help me out, and it was Elvis Costello interviewed by Nick Kent that straightened me out - to the effect that when we put down sir Paul, it's a question of who are we comparing him to? To whom next to is he not a giant? To Audioslave? To Maroon 5? I guess I've been holding him to the Jim Morrison's, the Hendrix's, and the Dylan's of the world. Notice that there is a fulcrum point of illusion there - the line between legend and shit. Look for those spots if you want a greater understanding of Maya. That leverage is the foundation of all our arts.

I heard a White Stripes' song off the new album, and I thought it was the Darkness. Which can't be good. I think it is the duty of every single musician on the earth today to make tracks that could not be mistaken by anyone, no matter how inebriated via strong liquor or stronger curves, from the Darkness. No more, this indescriminate looting of the decades! ! !! ! ! That bulllshit radio format of hits of the 70's , 80's, and 90's has become so widespread that the NEW music is falling into step with it! ! ! ! ! It's Zappa's apocalypse via nostalgia.

Is it me? Is that what you have to do? ? ? Alot of kung-fu guys say you need to master one existing style to create a new one. . . . I dunno -look at Miles Davis' nemesis, Wynton Marsalis . He never moved beyond the skinny tie era. This whole problem is eating my brain [actually, I just heard a white stripes song called the big 3 killed my baby and I love them again.]

-Rob, I feel ya [re:Writing] in a different medium. I think I need some thinking. I'm through with all music that is essentially dickless. With the songs I'm doing with Sarah, our bywords are 'where's the Dick in this song. Where's the Pussy? ? ? ' It can be musical or lyrical, but if it wants to be rock n' roll it has to be there. Elvis didn't die on the toilet so we could have generations of eunuchs follow . . . .

which brings us to that other savior.

I'm quits with the whole thing. I guess I always thought I could use logic and reason to talk to the jesus-ites, and one of them would say '-wow -I see what you mean!' That battle doesn't take place on the planes of perspicacity. You can't use the tools of curiousity to fight the tools of need. I saw this years ago, in Last Temptation, where Jesus, his own damn self, is explaining to St. Paul how it really went down, and the artist formerly known as Saul decides it doesn't matter anyway. . . .'You know, I'm GLAD I met you ' Paul says '- cos MY Jesus is a hundred times more important than YOU.' - and lest we start laughing, let's be wary of this place, for it shows us what poor tool reason really is. If I ever fight again, it's gonna be dirty, up close and personal and prey upon the imaginations and superstitions of the afterworldly.

To any of you who still want to fight that good fight, let me commend to you a book {besides 'the Worlds Twelve Crucified Saviors'} - 'Jesus: the Evidence' by Ian Wilson, (isbn 0-06-069433-5) - alot of conversations degenerate into 'well, experts say. . . . ' This book names all the experts. And their primary sources. It also names the experts who've interpreted the original experts. The real deal, not all this vague DaVinci Code stuff. You can 'quote chapter and verse' if you will on the whole debate. Nobody agrees with Anne Rice, however. . . . . .

II. Crazy Night at the Brothers - man, there were a couple hundred people there. I made myself at home and shot some pool. Our pal Jen was there - something strange happened- we were talking about Rob, and she said 'one thing you can say about Rob -he's never an asshole. ' and I didn't quite get her gist - was that to mean 'unlike you jon, who is famous for it' or was there some falling out, and this was earth sarcasm? ? ? maybe it was the booze talking. At that moment, the jukebox played 'bitch' off the stones sticky fingers, and in the spirit of repartee I said 'look, they're playing your song!' and beat a retreat. There were some drugs present, none just the quick tokes in the ladies room; I walked into a snowstorm on the street, and I really got a feel that I didn't want to be on the road with this crowd. The Kid came in with his new 'ain't love grand' gal- she's a 'woman' , 32, and it's all funny to see. It's good for the kid, who never does anything halfway - his heart is open to the whole earth now. George sympathized, and gave him one chance per game to make a good impression.

III. the Great American Songwriter. . . .

Well, I've done alot of listening, and I'm ready to stand on Steve Earle's coffee table in my nike Vandals and tell him he and his buddy Townes have along way to go before the come close to the ghost of Warren Zevon. Somewhere I read a description of Fitzgerald, what made him the Cliche 'great american author it's so cliche to knock on' (- probably 65% of the last 75 years of masters thesi in american literature - ) it felt his writing 'blew the lid off our aspirations and delusion. Said it all.' -that seem like a requisite for the great american songwriter too, and I think Zevon is peerless in this regard. Everyone else seems kind of like a sweet kid in comparison. Maybe Randy Newman comes close to the bitterness of striving for, and in some cases the bitterness of acheiving, what used to be called the american dream.

On the subject of aspirations - It was the AMA who were so successful cos they could ' articulate and simultaneously mock the aspirations of todays young people.' -anyway, I brought all this up not to debate the merits of our songsters, but rather cos this is what I want out of you writers. Blow the lid off our aspirations and delusions!

IV. Fate Mocks Me. . . .

The little helpful links on the gmail have promted a 'Korn Vs. Slipknot- which band is more talented?' Maybe we need a new generation of critics. It's hard to understand that neither of those bands is important now -it's the music some people will look back on as the soundtrack to their college days. WE are already in AOR land -yikes! I don't know of any groups more important to the teenagers right now than the Franz Ferdinands or the My Chemical Romances, so we have to aim below THAT for the next thing coming.

I hear there is some great shit happening in chicago though. . . . there's a group called the Tossers that's supposed to be the new Pogues, and Qualo is getting some attention as a serious anti-propaganda force.

Our own music is what's important, though, and word to anyone who doesn't already know, get the lark in the morning catalog -[the catalog is more helpful than the website, because you can't really imagine the stuff they have. . . ] Need a build it yourself banjo kit? A flute made out of black jade? A hurdy-gurdy? A combination violin/trumpet? A folding suitcase organ ? ? ? It's just a sampling. . .

V. Spawn of Reaganstein I'm not in the politics this time - if anyone is interested, get me your snail address, and I'll send you a little briefing I'm calling the Playboy Papers. It's an element unto itself, [and perhaps, like franz ferdinand, we need to be looking behind it -perhaps it's also just a tool of the man] that we are perched on the brink of a conservative apocalypse- the country is going so far to the right we won't recognize it. . . .well, this indicates that it's just business as usual. If anything, we're going back in time to about 1970-74. I leave it to you which is more scary- the 'impending doom' school of thought, or the 'this more or less normal'.

One example -Abortion has become a cause celebre for a long time now, and do you want to know why? I was talking to some oldtimers about polio - and they said the kids today don't get vaccinated cos they don't see kids in the leg braces. Nobody knows anyone in an iron lung. With abortion, no one remembers what it was like to have 1,000,000 illegal abortions every year in the U.S. -And it'll probably take alot of preachers daughters to go through some rough times before it comes around again.

VI. A fresh green breast of the new world. . . .

For a sign of hope, check out this bastion of nonconformity in a punk ass rollover world! [thanx Dave!]

http://www.thesun.co.uk/article/0,,5-2005540906,00.html

VII. A strange bit of synchronicity/ minutae/ Tales of the Future/ Memeories of Green

- I was reading some of John Sinclair's old newspaper articles, and he says that originally none of the Wayne State hipsters were into rock -they were all Coltrane-jazz guys - and that he was turned onto the Beatles by- Cecil Taylor! ! !

He used to sign every column off by saying 'See you in the streets!' -I recently read something [can't remember where] that remarked 'We are no longer a nation that comes together in the squares and markets' It seemed to feel that TV had taken the place of that. . . . Except now I think even that is specialized to the extent that it promotes isolation now too.

In an existential puzzle, isolation can only bring misery, but the thought of coming together is so uncomfortable to me, and also to a growing number of 'Social Anxiety Disorder' prescriptees. . . I think I'm understanding that Vow of the Boddhisatva now. (anyway, I'm angling for one of you WRITERS to make all these connections for me-I'm laying it out for you to play it out babe.)

It's creepy how as a drug, Media is worse than smack. . . . everyone is going around half in this CyberCeltic style other-world. Which brings me to my fear of Los Vegas. I was reading some trade magazines from the strip- And if LA is my model of the future of the american melting pot, and Detroit is the post-future undead city, then I nominate Las Vegas as the third, and perhaps most troubling city of the future. As a playground that provides a setting for a specific range of experiences It doesn't have that same ' anything' can happen that LA (or to a lesser extent Hamtramck) has - it's geared for certain things to happen, and there is alot of manufacturing behind that. It is the perfect living example of Boudrillard's theories of simulacrum -let's give you a little Paris without all the pesky French. . . . I've heard people who've been to both say the prefer the Vegas version. The whole world presented to you as a mall - albeit one helluva honky paradise of one. I'm afraid of it. That's my impression from the outside. Maybe I'll go undercover. Anyway, that's all for now - hopefully I'll see everyone in person real soon!

-Love,

-el pirata

where O.D.F.

"Mira fijamente la imagen, concentrate y encuentra el ojo del fantasma entre las florez y el cuadro, para poder ubicar al fantasma, justo en medio de las dos ventanas, mira fijamente por 60 segundos. Escucha atentamente al fantasma cuando aparezca."

where

Mondo Cocktail:

A Shaken and Stirred History

"Take the origins of the word "cocktail." Sismondo has no doubt that Sir Francis Drake made the first cocktail, in Cuba in the 1570s (adding lime, mint, and sugar to the primitive local rum to make a prototype Mojito)..."

http://www.thestar.com/NASApp/cs/
ContentServer?pagename=thestar/Layout/
Article_Type1&call_pageid=971358637177&c=Article&cid=1133566817956

--l a-ero

Sloganry

the slogan that comes to my mind is
NO WAR
in which i firmly believe as a concept
but the fact of the matter is that
humanity does not exist without war.
be it pure greed or the need to be right
at the express expense of someone else
being wrong. it is not good enough to
think one's own ideas are good and proper
we feel more secure at knowing someone
else is wrong!
it is against this that we must rail!

my being right does not depend on you
being wrong

i would rather champion that great phrase
from contemporary playwright Joel Mitchell
"Viva la Rumalution"

--el vikingo!!

El Invierno de vino rojo...

Yes it is the winter of wine. This morn, as ice forms across my placid dream- a saddle weary drunkard honors that sacred elixir dropped from civilization’s cradle…

The complexities are beyond me. Just so it is clear that I absolve myself of the incriminations bound to pounce at me. I have been attempting to understand some of the woes of a troubled world. The Ummah- The world of Islam.

Last night I researched and wrote of a group who many, fearing the loss of their own precious power, have labeled a terrorist group. Hizb-ut-Tahrir, it would be outrageous after one night of research for me to claim a deep understanding of this group. Yet, I can say this they sprung up in 1953 in Jerusalem, they have taken root across the middle east and central Asia, they have at least some presence all across the world from the Americas to south-east Asia. Today they are strongest in Britain. They have an Idea, embodied by a slogan- ‘Secularism has failed the world’ The primary Aim of Hizb-ut-Tehrir is to reestablish the Islamic Khilafah (caliphate). The group reasons that only the establishment of a modern caliphate can bring Islam back to the forefront of civilization and truly restore dignity to the Islamic world. This goal is seen as a solution to most of the problems faced by the world today. The group’s views do not end with a vague ideas. It states that its purpose specifically is to reverse the acute decline of the Islamic Ummah, which it links to the dominance of the west.

Hizb-ut-Tahrir views Islam itself as political. The goal is not simply a massive united state presided over by a Muslim. It envisions a pan-Islamic state living in strict accordance with Shari’ah rules. Arab and non-Arab Muslims of all races and nationalities are welcome to become members of the group. Members are urged to liberate the Ummah from its domination through rejection of all things that anger Allah.

Hizb-ut-Tahrir calls for struggle against both non-Islamic governments and Muslim rulers who have not been true to the Ummah. Activists of the group operating in central-Asia have disseminated books and pamphlets that are extremely critical of the regions governments. Their agenda is seen as a threat to stability, especially in central-Asia where calls for a unified religious government may potentially undermine fragile existing governments. Tough leaders of the region have described the group as a terrorist threat they have found it difficult to eliminate its operatives. The group has employed several tactics to elude government forces including a semi-autonomous cell-based structure and an underground meeting network.

Hizb-ut-Tahrir was not brought to Britain until 1986, when it was founded there by a Syrian named Omar Bakri Muhammed yet, today it finds its headquarters in the United Kingdom. Within the United Kingdom the group seems to be most focused on the removal of Musharraf as Pakistan’s President. It is known that roughly 8,000 souls attended Hizb-ut-Tahrir’s 2003 annual conference in Birmingham, however, because of the group’s proclivity towards secretiveness it is difficult to accurately estimate the size of the group within the UK. Although the group is considered by many the most controversial Islamic group operating in Britain today, the British government has not yet followed the advice of German interior minister Otto Schilly to ban the group as Germany did in 2003.

So then, I found out these things and more, Hizb-ut-Tahrir is thus far a non-violent group. It seems to be popular on campuses and such- places where one is prone to find individuals willing to challenge a power structure. This then brings me to the nut of this missive:
I have been reading this book ‘Reading Lolita in Tehran’ it is more or less about a female college professors thought’s feelings, and reactions to the ’79 revolution in Iran. Before the revolution she carried placards with hateful slogans defaming all that is associated with the west. But after the revolution as she became horrified by the realities occurring as a result of the real implementation of the slogans she realized it was too late to go back. As the stern ayatollah, created a new hash reality out of what had been for many a convenient opposition ideology she lost nearly all she new to be freedom.

What I wish to ask of the friars is their thoughts on slogans. We all have cleverly worded phrases that we cling to for simplification of a greater understanding. What slogans and quotes do we embrace without really considering the effects of their physical application? What truisms have we accepted forgetting to question what they truly imply?

-- el chivo


response to el chivo's (El Invierno de vino rojo...) and call for thoughts on slogans:

SEMPER FI: the slogan of the most dedicatedly pro-U.S. organization that walks the earth. And they could be in a town near you within 72 hours, and most of that time is for the pre-flight inspection. This is their reward for having attributed to their government the power akin to a distant and incomprehensible god; who through their sacrifice is made real in the world- a fervent and secular aberration of the monotheistic impulse to enforce a “Divine authority”. “The few, the proud;” an invitation to a moral aristocracy-monks with guns, the lightening bolts.

I myself find it difficult to resist. But the cost is exacted as a debt from one’s personal liberty, a selfless sacrifice. Isn’t it interesting that a country generating the mythos of “Freedom” to the world, demands that within its organized force that there is an ideology, the theology even, of: “Freedom isn’t free”? Their hero’s are fallen; they died so their unit could survive; they loved their buddies, would not let them get left behind- something civilians may never understand.

On the battlefield, there are men trying to stay alive. The better organized the unit, the better chance you got. And friends are never left behind, never forgotten: SEMPER FI.

And there is a mystical allure to the motto, almost irresistible; of being subsumed by the whole, a unified force, being one with god. (Secular and divine are as arbitrary as race, and we should instead look to observable behavior before deciding what is part of a cultural ritual, and in regards to love and death, especially so.) But as far as mottos go, SEMPER FI has a special place in my heart. I get it, though it’s not my way; I respect it… even as I think their purpose is destruction. It is an absolute contradiction for me. Sometimes I like to think about things in odd ways, like thinking that that news is a poetic image of ourselves...

Ubi dubium, ibi libertas

article of interest: Japan’s Kamikaze Pilots and Contemporary Suicide Bombers: War and Terror:
http://www.japanfocus.org/article.asp?id=458

and yet another: Corn, Labor, and Chicha: The “Energetics” of Empowering Feasts in the Prehistoric Andes: http://titicaca.ucsb.edu/cotahuasi/jennings/papers/jenningsAAA2002.html

and one more yet: The Role of the City in the Formation of Spanish American Dialect Zones:
http://arachne.rutgers.edu/vol2_1lipski.htm

-- el adventureo

"They try and shush me..."

Don't get caught unawares!
Speak your mind and never
let them silence your dream.
Only we can stop our voice.

"... but i holler gleefully!"
---will oldham

---- el vikingo

Papa Gede

*

I think there are two languages, one internal, which is instantaneous and privately understood. It does not consist of conclusions, but instead is a continuous response of who we are to ourselves; and when examined and then annunciated is our verbal soul. This, I think, is the spring of lyric poetry.

But there is another language- that which is made to circulate among us. This is the language of communication. It does not belong to us like the former, but can be claimed as our own. It is a language of progression where common meaning is created. It is through this language we exchange ideas, thus creating an objective field.

I believe a story is a combination of these two voices, one which is an instantaneous and personal truth, the other which is a compounding set of ideas given birth only to be tested by its effectiveness to communicate- a story then, is the unique combination of these, one soul displayed with another which is shared- a story then can be a point of contact and thus an art of perpetual compromise- in fact, is a described geography of these contacts, a history of dilemmas and conflicts.

I saw a picture of Papa Gede yesterday; he is a voodoo spirit. In the picture I saw, he was wearing sunglasses, as he sometimes does. But his sunglasses always have one lens removed. And that is because he can see into both worlds- the world of the living and the world of the dead. I think I am going to wear his sunglasses from now on when I write. I have put them on, and am wearing them now, with one lens removed- this will remind me of the difference between how one sees, and how others understand the rendering of that vision, like the two languages, the rapid and then the necessarily methodical- the living, and that which is made alive through our participation.

+ I should add, this rests on one important and necessary assumtion: that life by itself has a gravity- that life attracts life.

-- el aventurero

*picture of dambala (the gate keeper)