Friday, August 29, 2008

My Very Short Story

Jeremiah tore into his Pop Tart with the hunger of a man who hadn't eaten for days. He had, in point of fact, just eaten a Nutella sandwich minutes before. He was ravenous. In his haste, he didn't recognize that his meal was too hot for comfortable eating. Impossibly hot raspberry Pop Tart filling scorched his lower lip and his hunger was quickly forgotten. With disdain and more than a little anger, Jeremiah threw the rest of his meal into the sink. "Jesus" he exclaimed as he reached for a Brawny paper towel.

Minutes later, Jeremiah left a note for his mother before leaving to catch the 96 bus into Albany. It read:

Mother,

I burnt my lip on a Pop Tart and killed Dad. He's hanging in the downstairs closet. Well, most of him is, anyway. I'm sorry but I just lost it.

Jeremiah

PS-You're out of Pop Tarts.

Old Man Manipulates Young, Naive Fisherwoman

Women of American, can you feel it?! The hazy energy radiating from the McCain campaign is being emitted by new Vice Presidential candidate, Alaska Governor Sarah Palin! She may be against reproductive freedom, but you gals are going to love her! While it's true that she was only chosen by McCain in a crass, ham-handed attempt at grabbing up disaffected Hillary Clinton voters, but don't think McCain is pandering. He wouldn't do that. Would he?

Methinks he did. Palin mentioned Hillary Clinton several times in her speech, and John McCain mentioned the universal suffrage movement. It's no surprise that her anti-choice, NRA Lifetime Member thing makes her undesirable in the extreme in my book. And I'm sure many women will reject her for her stand on reproductive rights alone. But I must ask, would Palin be where she is right now if not for Hillary losing the nomination?

If not, that means that McCain found pretty much the only female Conservative with any experience and put her a heartbeat away from the presidency solely because of a crude strategy to pander to women.

And I'm hearing some Republicans on the tele tell me that the Republicans are "also for change" because they nominated a woman for VP. Well, apparently the future for a Republican is 1984 for a Democrat. That's when the Democratic Party first nominated a woman for VP, Geraldine Ferraro. Republicans are at least a quarter century behind.

McCain looks and sounds nervous and old, and Palin looks way out of her depth. They both cling to a harmful and stupid political and economic philosophy that would make them unappealing no matter what their gender, appearance, age, size, color, or species. McCain/Palin is a sad, pathetic but oddly arrogant ticket that has turned to pandering on their very first day together. I'm not talking about pandering in rhetoric. Oh, no. I'm referring to pandering in important decisions for political gain.

That's my early take. Can't wait for the debates. Hoochey Mama.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Little Joey Beck

Perhaps I'm settling into some sort of 30-something funk, but I feel far less compelled to act on my social and political concerns than when I was younger. It could also be the crippling social anxiety and mental illness, but I'm less comfortable with that analysis. Not that getting older and not giving a rat's ass about activism anymore is any better.

There was a time when someone in the Socialist Party, or a letter from Jobs With Justice or some other organization, would compel me towards action. Back in the day, I'd pull my 440lb ass from door to door, getting signatures for this or that; health care reform, abortion rights, banning greyhound racing, that sort of thing. I even worked a phone bank and held a sign for Mike Dukakis back in 1988. These days, it would literally take a gun to my head (or anywhere else on me) to get me to canvas, work a phone bank, or do visibility.

McCain is almost as bad as a gunshot wound, and I have to admit I'm enthusiastic about Obama, even though I'm much farther to the left. I've been told that some members of Democratic Socialists of America are so unhappy with Obama that they are shopping for hopeless third-party candidates for which to vote. I've been there. The Socialist Party USA has a couple of good people, Moore and Alexander, as their ticket, although you'll have to write them in.

It saddens me deeply that the radical Left is in such disarray (it is). Eugene Debs was a long time ago, although that doesn't detract from his being a beautiful, thoughtful man whom I love in some ways. The same way I love Kurt Vonnegut and David McReynolds (a comrade with whom I still correspond). It's unlikely that I'll ever love Obama like that, but I don't have to love him, I just have to think he would do more to lessen economic injustice, maintain social programs and bolster them, and reduce American imperialism. And I do think that about him, particularly when cast in bas relief against McCain.

So Obama it is, and I'll vote for him with enthusiasm. Someone on Fox News called Obama a "socialist" and a "Marxist" the other day. If that's true, what the hell am I? If the spectrum has moved that far to the Right I must have fallen off the Left Wing and am now floating in some sort of Void. Maybe I'm dead. Like Bruce Willis in that movie with the kid that used to be cute but is now sort of ugly.

Many people still support a national, universal health care system that is publicly-funded. I know you're out there, I can hear you breathing. Maybe there are even a few who want to nationalize the oil and pharmaceutical companies, as well as the airlines. Perhaps not as many, but still.

Obama is definitely not a socialist (come on), and "Marxist" is just silly. He's a Centrist Democrat, no matter what Glenn Beck tries to tell you.

As I vote for Obama, though, I'll be thinking of Debs, who once said:

Years ago I recognized my kinship with all living things, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better than the meanest on the earth. I said then and I say now, that while there is a lower class, I am in it; while there is a criminal element, I am of it; while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.

I'll probably be stone-cold dead before the pendulum swings back to the radical Left, but swing it will. And then Glenn Beck will have a real Socialist to complain about. Or maybe his kids. Little Joey Beck.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Actually, 19 Cannibals

According to the highly-scientific calculations provided by this website, an advertisement for an online dating service, my body would feed 19 cannibals. The "10 cannibal" comes from a calculation involving a 115lb woman I know. I just know that if she can feed 10 people, I can feed WAY more than 19. But anyway, check out the link.

How many cannibals could your body feed?

The compulsion to write about my painfully uninteresting stupidity and mental illness has mercifully waned of late. Although, clearly I'm still motivated to engage in self-deprecation. Really, that's a brutal combination. It's amazing anyone can exist near the black hole that is me.

Blah, blah, blah, woe is me, splat, fart.

The Olympics just ended. Quite a spectacle. An explosion of Chinese people in bicycle helmets climbing a five-story tower, jumping off, and climbing it again. China is a country of 700 million hot Asian women. Think of that. China is the country that cares not about Darfur, and a genocide they could have stopped. China has the largest military and navy in the world. Everything you and I own is made in China. At the last Olympics, and obviously at this one, Taiwan was terrified by China into calling herself, "Chinese Taipei." But worst of all, China told a cute little girl that she was too fucking ugly to sing at the Olympics.

These are not nice people. Then again, they are no worse than the US or Britain when they were emerging nations and centers of commerce. The USA is on the fast track to becoming a quaint little former superpower on the opposite side of the globe from the biggest, wealthiest and most powerful nation on Earth.

I think we should set up committees, like Draft Boards of old, to find our own cutest little boys and girls. You know, just to be cautious.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Some Vonnegut

It's no secret that I'm extremely fond of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. A quote of his popped into my head, but the title of the book eluded me. Good thing, as I found this article on my search. Really good stuff here.

D

15 Things Kurt Vonnegut Said Better Than Anyone Else Ever Has Or Will

by Scott Gordon, Josh Modell, Noel Murray, Sean O'Neal, Tasha Robinson, Kyle Ryan

1. "I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'"

The actual advice here is technically a quote from Kurt Vonnegut's "good uncle" Alex, but Vonnegut was nice enough to pass it on at speeches and in A Man Without A Country. Though he was sometimes derided as too gloomy and cynical, Vonnegut's most resonant messages have always been hopeful in the face of almost-certain doom. And his best advice seems almost ridiculously simple: Give your own happiness a bit of brainspace.

2. "Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God."

In Cat's Cradle, the narrator haplessly stumbles across the cynical, cultish figure Bokonon, who populates his religious writings with moronic, twee aphorisms. The great joke of Bokononism is that it forces meaning on what's essentially chaos, and Bokonon himself admits that his writings are lies. If the protagonist's trip to the island nation of San Lorenzo has any cosmic purpose, it's to catalyze a massive tragedy, but the experience makes him a devout Bokononist. It's a religion for people who believe religions are absurd, and an ideal one for Vonnegut-style humanists.

3. "Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly; Man got to sit and wonder, 'Why, why, why?' Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land; Man got to tell himself he understand."

Another koan of sorts from Cat's Cradle and the Bokononist religion (which phrases many of its teachings as calypsos, as part of its absurdist bent), this piece of doggerel is simple and catchy, but it unpacks into a resonant, meaningful philosophy that reads as sympathetic to humanity, albeit from a removed, humoring, alien viewpoint. Man's just another animal, it implies, with his own peculiar instincts, and his own way of shutting them down. This is horrifically cynical when considered closely: If people deciding they understand the world is just another instinct, then enlightenment is little more than a pit-stop between insoluble questions, a necessary but ultimately meaningless way of taking a sanity break. At the same time, there's a kindness to Bokonon's belief that this is all inevitable and just part of being a person. Life is frustrating and full of pitfalls and dead ends, but everybody's gotta do it.

4. "There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind."

This line from God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater comes as part of a baptismal speech the protagonist says he's planning for his neighbors' twins: "Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind." It's an odd speech to make over a couple of infants, but it's playful, sweet, yet keenly precise in its summation of everything a new addition to the planet should need to know. By narrowing down all his advice for the future down to a few simple words, Vonnegut emphasizes what's most important in life. At the same time, he lets his frustration with all the people who obviously don't get it leak through just a little.

5. "She was a fool, and so am I, and so is anyone who thinks he sees what God is doing."

A couple of pages into Cat's Cradle, protagonist Jonah/John recalls being hired to design and build a doghouse for a lady in Newport, R.I., who "claimed to understand God and His Ways of Working perfectly." With such knowledge, "she could not understand why anyone should be puzzled about what had been or about what was going to be." When Jonah shows her the doghouse's blueprint, she says she can't read it. He suggests taking it to her minister to pass along to God, who, when he finds a minute, will explain it "in a way that even you can understand." She fires him. Jonah recalls her with a bemused fondness, ending the anecdote with this Bokonon quote. It's a typical Vonnegut zinger that perfectly summarizes the inherent flaw of religious fundamentalism: No one really knows God's ways.

6. "Many people need desperately to receive this message: 'I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone.'"

In this response to his own question—"Why bother?"—in Timequake, his last novel, Vonnegut doesn't give a tired response about the urge to create; instead, he offers a pointed answer about how writing (and reading) make a lonesome world a little less so. The idea of connectedness—familial and otherwise—ran through much of his work, and it's nice to see that toward the end of his career, he hadn't lost the feeling that words can have an intimate, powerful impact.

7. "There are plenty of good reasons for fighting, but no good reason ever to hate without reservation, to imagine that God Almighty Himself hates with you, too."

Though this quote comes from the World War II-centered Mother Night (published in 1961), its wisdom and ugly truth still ring. Vonnegut (who often said "The only difference between Bush and Hitler is that Hitler was elected") was righteously skeptical about war, having famously survived the only one worth fighting in his lifetime. And it's never been more true: Left or right, Christian or Muslim, those convinced they're doing violence in service of a higher power and against an irretrievably inhuman enemy are the most dangerous creatures of all.

8. "Since Alice had never received any religious instruction, and since she had led a blameless life, she never thought of her awful luck as being anything but accidents in a very busy place. Good for her."

Vonnegut's excellent-but-underrated Slapstick (he himself graded it a "D") was inspired by his sister Alice, who died of cancer just days after her husband was killed in an accident. Vonnegut's assessment of Alice's character—both in this introduction and in her fictional stand-in, Eliza Mellon Swain—is glowing and remarkable, and in this quote from the book's introduction, he manages to swipe at a favorite enemy (organized religion) and quietly, humbly embrace someone he clearly still missed a lot.

9. "That is my principal objection to life, I think: It's too easy, when alive, to make perfectly horrible mistakes."

The narrator delivering this line at the end of the first chapter of Deadeye Dick is alluding both to his father's befriending of Hitler and his own accidental murder of his neighbor, but like so many of these quotes, it resonates well beyond its context. The underlying philosophy of Vonnegut's work was always that existence is capricious and senseless, a difficult sentiment that he captured time and again with a bemused shake of the head. Indeed, the idea that life is just a series of small decisions that culminate into some sort of "destiny" is maddening, because you could easily ruin it all simply by making the wrong one. Ordering the fish, stepping onto a balcony, booking the wrong flight, getting married—a single misstep, and you're done for. At least when you're dead, you don't have to make any more damn choices. Wherever Vonnegut is, he's no doubt grateful for that.

10. "Literature should not disappear up its own asshole, so to speak."

Vonnegut touchstones like life on Tralfamadore and the absurd Bokononist religion don't help people escape the world so much as see it with clearer reason, which probably had a lot to do with Vonnegut's education as a chemist and anthropologist. So it's unsurprising that in a "self-interview" for The Paris Review, collected in his non-fiction anthology Palm Sunday, he said the literary world should really be looking for talent among scientists and doctors. Even when taking part in such a stultifying, masturbatory exercise for a prestigious journal, Vonnegut was perfectly readable, because he never forgot where his true audience was.

11. "All persons, living and dead, are purely coincidental."

In Vonnegut's final novel, 1997's Timequake, he interacts freely with Kilgore Trout and other fictional characters after the end of a "timequake," which forces humanity to re-enact an entire decade. (Trout winds up too worn out to exercise free will again.) Vonnegut writes his own fitting epigram for this fatalistic book: "All persons, living and dead, are purely coincidental," which sounds more funny than grim. Vonnegut surrounds his characters—especially Trout—with meaninglessness and hopelessness, and gives them little reason for existing in the first place, but within that, they find liberty and courage.

12. "Why don't you take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut? Why don't you take a flying fuck at the mooooooooooooon?"

Even when Vonnegut dared to propose a utopian scheme, it was a happily dysfunctional one. In Slapstick, Wilbur Swain wins the presidency with a scheme to eliminate loneliness by issuing people complicated middle names (he becomes Wilbur Daffodil-11 Swain) which make them part of new extended families. He advises people to tell new relatives they hate, or members of other families asking for help: "Why don't you take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut? Why don't you take a flying fuck at the mooooooooooooon?" Of course, this fails to prevent plagues, the breakdown of his government, and civil wars later in the story.

13. "So it goes."

Unlike many of these quotes, the repeated refrain from Vonnegut's classic Slaughterhouse-Five isn't notable for its unique wording so much as for how much emotion—and dismissal of emotion—it packs into three simple, world-weary words that simultaneously accept and dismiss everything. There's a reason this quote graced practically every elegy written for Vonnegut over the past two weeks (yes, including ours): It neatly encompasses a whole way of life. More crudely put: "Shit happens, and it's awful, but it's also okay. We deal with it because we have to."

14. "I have been a soreheaded occupant of a file drawer labeled 'science fiction' ever since, and I would like out, particularly since so many serious critics regularly mistake the drawer for a urinal."

Vonnegut was as trenchant when talking about his life as when talking about life in general, and this quote from an essay in Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons is particularly apt; as he explains it, he wrote Player Piano while working for General Electric, "completely surrounded by machines and ideas for machines," which led him to put some ideas about machines on paper. Then it was published, "and I learned from the reviewers that I was a science-fiction writer." The entire essay is wry, hilarious, and biting, but this line stands out in particular as typifying the kind of snappishness that made Vonnegut's works so memorable.

15. "We must be careful about what we pretend to be."

In Mother Night, apolitical expatriate American playwright Howard W. Campbell, Jr. refashions himself as a Nazi propagandist in order to pass coded messages on to the U.S. generals and preserve his marriage to a German woman—their "nation of two," as he calls it. But in serving multiple masters, Campbell ends up ruining his life and becoming an unwitting inspiration to bigots. In his 1966 introduction to the paperback edition, Vonnegut underlines Mother Night's moral: "We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be." That lesson springs to mind every time a comedian whose shtick relies on hoaxes and audience-baiting—or a political pundit who traffics in shock and hyperbole—gets hauled in front of the court of public opinion for pushing the act too far. Why can't people just say what they mean? It's a question Don Imus and Michael Richards—and maybe someday Ann Coulter—must ask themselves on their many sleepless nights.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Out That Day

This morning I found my neighbor walking up and down the courtyard, loosely following a grid pattern. It is August, but she was wearing a Winter coat, which was totally justified; it's cold out there at the moment. As it turns out, she was looking for dog shit. Not just any, but the shit deposited by her own dog, Maya. Sometimes it's difficult to keep track. She was out there for quite some time, and I'm not sure she ever found it. This has happened to me before, but after a few minutes, I give up. Dog shit helps prevent kids from playing in the courtyard and making a lot of noise on these Summer nights.

I'm listening to Yael Naim's Paris at the moment.

Ever since I gave up the Vicodin and got out of the hospital, I've been a little depressed. That's natural, I suppose, given that I was taking enough of that stuff to kill a panda. Instead, I'm cramming tramadol down my yap, along with lorazepam, and that is helping. I've been sleeping a lot.

Now I'm listening to La Goualante De Pauvre Jean sung by Edith Piaf.

These days, despite the various and sundry problems with drugs and mental illness, I'm pretty happy. Although I do have my eyes firmly set upon the Void. It's hard to ignore it, like sitting by the sea. You have to look up every once in a while and take it in. I'm always doing that. Looking within or without at the Void that underlies life itself. I'm transfixed by it. Once you get that way, it's impossible, or near impossible (I don't know how) to get your eyes back onto life. The world is full of people who suffer from a terminal illness. It amazes me how many of us can look past that, and find (usually via ambition) something else to ogle and consider endlessly. I lack that ability. Perhaps I was out of school that day.

Last night the light, cool breeze moving through the trees, the starry sky turning beyond, and Linda and I in what felt like the beginning of it all. I'd like to know what it feels like to hear and feel that breeze, as it moves through you and the trees, and all those little leaves moving and whispering, and feel the presence of something more. Although, even when I know there is nothing more out there, It's still quite beautiful.

A quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Full Retard

I'm sipping my little sugar drink, Coke, while I answer emails from friends and whomever else may feel need to communicate with me. It's hard to think of any. Sometimes a friend or family member will ask me about this psychiatric drug or that, knowing for sure that I've been on everything at one time or another. It makes me wonder if any of these drugs have been beneficial. Perhaps in some way, as a tranquilizer, it keeps one out of trouble. But besides lithium carbonate, there are only benzodiazepines, like lorazepam. Nothing else has worked for me for more than a brief period of time.

I saw the movie "Tropic Thunder" this past weekend with my gal, and really laughed my ass off. Particularly at the retard jokes. As Downey says, "You don't go full retard."

That should be on the dollar bill.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Did McCain ad lift "cross in the dirt" story from Russian novelist?"

I picked this up out there on RawStory.com. Enjoy.

D

Senator John McCain (R-AZ), in a Christmas-themed December ad for his presidential campaign, told the following story: "One night, after being mistreated as a POW, a guard loosened the ropes binding me, easing my pain. On Christmas, that same guard approached me, and without saying a word, he drew a cross in the sand. We stood, wordlessly, looking at the cross, remembering the true light of Christmas. I'll never forget that no matter where you are, no matter how difficult the circumstances, there will always be someone who will pick you up." "It just sounded so fake and so contrived, so I did a little research about it," said DailyKos contributor rickrocket. The research revealed a similar story by recently departed novelist and McCain favorite Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, recounting his experience in a Soviet gulag in The Gulag Archipelago, released in the United States in 1973. Luke Veronis, in The Sign of the Cross, recounts: "Along with other prisoners, he worked in the fields day after day, in rain and sun, during summer and winter. His life appeared to be nothing more than backbreaking labor and slow starvation. The intense suffering reduced him to a state of despair.

On one particular day, the hopelessness of his situation became too much for him. He saw no reason to continue his struggle, no reason to keep on living. His life made no difference in the world. So he gave up.

Leaving his shovel on the ground, he slowly walked to a crude bench and sat down. He knew that at any moment a guard would order him to stand up, and when he failed to respond, the guard would beat him to death, probably with his own shovel. He had seen it happen to other prisoners.

As he waited, head down, he felt a presence. Slowly he looked up and saw a skinny old prisoner squat down beside him. The man said nothing. Instead, he used a stick to trace in the dirt the sign of the Cross. The man then got back up and returned to his work.
As Solzhenitsyn stared at the Cross drawn in the dirt his entire perspective changed. He knew he was only one man against the all-powerful Soviet empire. Yet he knew there was something greater than the evil he saw in the prison camp, something greater than the Soviet Union. He knew that hope for all people was represented by that simple Cross. Through the power of the Cross, anything was possible.

Solzhenitsyn slowly rose to his feet, picked up his shovel, and went back to work. Outwardly, nothing had changed. Inside, he had received hope."

Friday, August 15, 2008

Noble Calling

The marijuana is beginning to obfuscate the anxiety, to make it a lesser concern by giving it less focus. The lorazepam is washing away the edgy feeling, and I can sit normally and truly relax a bit. In a vague way, I'm thinking about making an appointment to see my psycho-therapist. Is there any way that can work? Can I reveal all these things I'm embarrassed to even think about, let alone examine with a complete stranger?

My brother argued that I do things to make his life better. I felt like dancing. That felt like the way to a cure. Because I feel so totally useless. But I do take care of my father, help Linda in the morning and usually cook dinner, clean the house, do laundry and all that. It's not much, but it is something. Plus, my family is growing larger and Linda's daughters, beautiful as they are, may need some muscle to rough up some stalker or something. What a noble calling! Oh, the things I would have missed had I died that day.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Mr. Sebastian and the Negro Magician

Less than a week ago, I'm not sure when, Linda brought home a book from work. She does this now and then, taking books from the "free table" that she thinks I might enjoy. So far, she has judged my interests well. The newspaper at which she works receives numerous newly-released books of all kinds, to be reviewed and written about, naturally. So many hopeful books, looking for careful consideration by a professional journalist. Some get that consideration, most don't, but all end up at the free table for employees to take home. And then some make their way to me. It's like being a member of a book club better than any other. It's not Oprah Winfrey picking out a book for me to read, it's someone who is very close to me, and loves me, and whom I love back.

The latest novel that I can't seem to read fast enough is entitled, "Mr. Sebastian and the Negro Magician" by Daniel Wallace. It reminds me of Ray Bradbury's, "Dandelion Wine" although I'm not sure why. Both are given to writing caliginous, poetic celebrations of the ordinary, as if we are living in a world of dark magic. In a very different way, "The Terror" by Dan Simmons also engages the reader with the notion that there are great forces at work in the universe, that we are not alone, and that even if there is a god, he or she or it may not be what you had in mind.

There is nothing supernatural out there, in my opinion, which may be why these books are so compelling to me. Mr. Sebastian and the Negro Magician is one hell of a novel so far (I have yet to finish reading it) , but the magic therein feels as if it comes from the characters themselves, and not from a magical universe. It's full of eternal mysteries, but it's not working to solve any of them, at least not without creating more mysteries in the process of answering one.

These are beautiful romantic fantasies that offer up truth with little concern for the facts. Again, I'm fond of stories told in this way. In To Kill a Mockingbird, the neighborhood children fill their days by playing, in an attempt to kill their boredom and spend their imagination with the easy ability of a child given time with little to do. We all remember "Boo" Radley, who the kids elevated to mythic status, mostly via Jim's story-telling and Scout's earnest desire for there to be more in the world than meets the eye. So a mentally-ill man, who happens to live in a house the children also find creepy. Or it could just be that way because, in the mind of a child, it should be that way. Evil should look evil. Good should look good. And Radley displayed all the aesthetic inclinations of being evil. The omens and signs are there to be read.

Again, we all know what happens. "Boo" Radley saves Jim's life, and Scout learns the lesson that things are not always what they seem. But even before Radley played the hero, he was very valuable to those kids. The natives on Skull Island had King Kong, and these kids had "Boo" Radley. Something or someone to add a modicum of mystery and magic to their plain lives.

What a thing to have! As an atheist and existential nihilist, I can't have such a thing. Those are just labels, self-applied, but they simply mean that I do not believe in god, or that life has any purpose except the one we provide for it. And it ends at death. Science has mysteries unending, but they are cold to me. The Void makes frequent appearances in place of god or heaven. When I look up at a night sky and sees stars, I see the Void. Others may see god. After death, there is that Void again. Others may see an afterlife.

But before you really start answering these questions one way or the other, when you are a child, the world is a mysterious, wondrous place. And these books help me remember a time when I seemed to be living in a different world, and was, in a way. Of course, the world has changed little and it is I who have done most of the changing.

But I have found fear again. Not a fear of physical pain, or of heartbreak, or for family members' health. Those are all normal, I think, and come and go for everyone. The fear I speak of motivates to paranoia. I'm afraid that I am a grotesque parasite living off of a healthy world that exists apart from me. I'm on disability, and the student loan people are after that with a vengeance, but they will not succeed. And I living in pubic housing. Yesterday, I went to a food pantry to get some pasta, coffee and cereal. I'm physically able to work, but it's true that mentally and emotionally, I would not last long in anyones employ. So I'm stuck, unable to work but in grand self-loathing because I do not. Do those who love me, who are close, resent me for not working? I suspect that they sometimes do. Getting up and going to work all day is hard for everyone, and I admire them for that. I'm also endlessly grateful for all the help I get.

Usually, in the course of my day, I have a very hard time just walking into a store or calling my doctor for an appointment. For every time I talk to one of the living, I feel that contact is a conduit to a place of judgment. To be judged, you must be seen and/or heard. And then I go through manic phases where I post near nude pictures of myself, or kick the front door apart. Every time I think of my manic stupidity, I wince.

All day long I'm trying to scatter nasty, self-hating thoughts away, like pigeons as you walk through a public park. My conscience never stops whispering into my ear, "You are a sycophant. Good for nothing. Weak. Everyone is ashamed of you." It goes on all day, every day. Some days I ignore it well, most days it whittles me down to size to one degree or another.

Just last summer I tried to get back to work, at a newspaper, no less. I even went to the interview, and with the help of a friend, had my first assignment. Naturally, I backed off, ran away, defeated and pitiful.

These days, I read a great deal during the day, and do chores, go to the market, walk the dog, that sort of thing. If I'm useful and kind, and a good partner, maybe the self-loathing will dissipate, to any degree less that it exists now. I'm also writing (besides on here) for various left-wing political groups. It doesn't come as easily as it once did, but that is of no importance.

The greatest mystery left for me, about me, is about my mind. Will it improve with time? My degree in biological anthropology and former work experience are ready to help me. The plot thickens, the story moves along, and time will tell. For now, I just want there to be peace and happiness at the House of Four Cats.

Thursday, August 07, 2008

Aria #5 Villa-Lobos Bach. Braz.

The title refers to what I'm listening to right now. My god, do I love that opera. I'm just getting into opera again. As it is, I only appreciate a little of this and that. Today found me yet again feeling as if no progress has been made in the fight against madness and addiction. I've been told that I have an "addictive personality." No shit. I'm an atheist trying to get in as many Ring Dings, narcotics, weed, booze and sex before I die. A perfectly reasonable philosophy. In order to make sure that I live beyond 40, however, I need to reign in my addictions. At OAS they tried to purge every addictive drug I may have been on. That includes marijuana, which isn't physiologically addictive, and is hardly psychologically addictive. It's just not an addictive drug.

All I want is sex, benzodiazepines and sweet, sticky weed.

I'm not going to try and kill myself anymore, due to various promises made. But the previously mentioned goodies take the edge off. Besides, I'm diagnosed with a mental illness, which benzos are meant to treat, god damn it. And sex...well, sex.

The pictures of two men in a dress, myself and Ann Coulter, is part of a contest set up by a friend of mine. The question, ladies and gentlemen, is, "Who looks better in a dress?" Clearly, got to be me. Her freakishly long hand versus my beautiful legs.

The Male Nude, Sex and The Wonder of Women

So some people may be curious as to why I am putting near nude pictures of myself on my 'blog. Especially given my social phobia, general anxiety disorder and extremely negative body image. If you've seen the nudes, you can see why I have such a low opinion of my physical self. Ironically, those are the fleshy reasons that posing nude contains such emotional currency with me. My body is just awful. There is a lot of hair, testosterone has taken my balls, given me breasts and thinned out the hair on the front of my noggin. One thing I see in one of my nudes is the Black Hole behind my cock, where my tiny, empty scrotum hangs. There are no nudes on my blog, but several were taken. My penis is average in length and width, and generally works very well. No complaints. But I've found that I'm rather sensitive about infertility and the two surgeries to remove my non-functioning nuts.

All I can do, as they say, is deal with it. Accept what I cannot change and all that crap. And I have. I don't wander the streets of East Arlington, earnestly calling out for Bjorn and Andre (a name given to my balls by an ex-girlfriend named Sandra, an graduate student, back in 1999). They also went by the names Sarah and Robin. That was the doing of a lovely Czech woman I fell in love with in the Spring of 1998. In fact, every woman I've been with (not including the one night stands) has taken it upon herself to attach little names to my little cock and balls. I returned the honor by naming the vagina, breasts, and sometimes clitoris of my paramour. It's fun. Try it!

Fiona's vagina was named, Harriet. I don't think Harriet the Vagina liked me. Louann's clitoris was called Bug, because the new Volkswagon Bug was new and she had just bought one. Whatever year it was that we cuckolded her husband. In Milwaukee, at a Socialist Party Convention, a comrade and I hooked up at the Hotel Wisconsin. She named her vagina and clitoris Emma, for Emma Goldman (I loved that, still do). That was remarkable because it usually takes awhile before you start naming things. Before we had sex, she said something like, "I'd like you to meet my little Emma G" and then revealed a very bushy marvel between her legs. I swear this is true. I could go on, but I'm indulging romantic nostalgia too much as it is.

I'm not going to mention if the Love of my life currently has a name for my bits, or if I have a name for hers. And what those names are, if we do. I'm sure that Linda is the last woman I'll ever love. Even if she dumps me, I'm not doing "love" again with anyone else. She is it. I'm mentioning this to show that, while I did have more than my share of partners in bed in my life, that frantic horniness is behind me. How do I know? I don't, really. Linda could dump me tonight, for all I know, and who could blame her? But I doubt it. And I can say for sure how I feel; I do so love that woman. If she moves on from me, I'll have my memories of her. Memories of us together would make the affections of another woman a dim, moon cast shadow compared to the light of my beloved Linda.

One of the reasons I screwed around so much in my youth is that I wanted to be normal. In my twenty-something eyes, everyone was fucking. The picture I had of myself in my mind was not flattering; I weighed a lot more than I do now, although I was far more social. Still, I charmed a fair number of attractive women into bed, sometimes even into a relationship.

I'm incredibly fond of women.

There was an actress from a play called, "Stages" that was playing at UMass Boston when I was a student there. We flirted. My flirtations had a goal, to bed this gorgeous actress. She was just flirting for the hell of it. Just because. It bothers me to this day that I never had the courage to ask her out. That shit haunts neurotic people like me forever. I had what the kids call a "crush" on her. Plus, she could have been a model, she was that pretty. After the play one night we went out to dinner with about 5 other people, some my guests, some hers. After that, I never saw her again, as the show was staged just before the Winter break. Saturday, December 11th, 1996.

Sometimes, the things that don't happen give us strength, or at least a fond memory.

Why am I thinking about this stuff? I'm especially given to a sentimental disposition these days, and my thoughts keep turning to the past; attending university, having an affair with a married woman, doing Socialist Party shit, and thinking about friends long gone. Most women I've slept with were close friends even after the break-up. The ex-girlfriend who found herself and came out as a lesbian is my best friend outside of my Linda. Although it was easy because I'm a friend of her partner. Clare and Melanie have been together for 7 years or so. Amazing. I love them both, as friends, of course.

It has also occurred to me that, had I been fertile for all those years of free love and sex, I'd be a father right now. I'd like to say that precautions were always taken, but they rarely were. Working up to sex is a tough time to think about anything but sex, even if it's contraception. But I'm disease and baby free. That's a good thing. A very good thing. Disease or baby. There's no way I could handle a child! I've seen what parents and grandparents go through; the work, the constant worry, the irritation, more worry, physical and emotional pain...mercy. I'd be in a state of constant terror. When I'm around Linda's grandchild I'm equally protective. My eyes are always upon him, I'm conscious of people in the vicinity, and cars, and bikes, and wind...everything. It's exhausting. I don't know how his mother does it. How any mother does it.

Women are so much stronger than men. A casual stroll through this dump of a planet will make that clear.

With any luck, this sentimental jag will end soon, and I'll stop reminiscing about purely sexual one nighters and the actual relationships, the longest of which lasted almost 5 years. There are also a few men in there. Not partners, just friends. I'm thinking of Adam and Moisha, both international business lawyers now, and I never see them. Social phobia keeps me from going out for a drink, or just calling to say, "Hi." Poor Moisha wrote a spy novel and sent it to me from London. He was kindly trying to engage me, as he wants me to write, too. After giving him my opinions on his novel, that was it. I fell out of contact with him, again. Too bad.

Anyway, enjoy my semi-nude photographs. I'm fat, have way too much skin, am white as a ghost and hirsute. I'm awful. But take a gander, for there I am. I'm enjoying the catharsis. In the immortal words of Popeye, "I am what I am!"

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

Quelques photos de mes amis et je, avec une histoire fausse d'un photographe

My recent photo shoot with Manhattan photographer Ghurby Mbugua not have gone better. Pure magic from could his camera. I'll let the images do all the talking. I had wanted to go to New York City, but his new "thing" is taking pictures of people in their own homes, flats, whatever. You're the boss, Monsieur!

In one picture I'm actually nude, but my Obama hat covers me up nicely. I don't like the loose skin, but it's better than when I was 200lbs heavier.

Love your body! Love it! I spent so much of my life hating my body, and I know I still have plenty of reasons to hate it. There is something so liberating, however, with posting these pictures of myself. I'm not ready to go totally nude, except with close friends, and it would probably get taken down, anyway. But in a dress? Sure!

I threw in some pictures of my friends, a snapshot of some of my world. They are Mary (tattoos), who is an amazing artist, Lilac (with the kissing lips), Clare (sitting on a blanket at a picnic), Donna with a corn snake, and Amanda on the bottom right. And finally, my friend and comrade David McReynolds in front of the SP red and white sign. There is also Charlie, a FtM transsexual who had the "top" surgery last year. His girlfriend is there, and some of their friends in the background.

Of course that is my beloved Linda up top, next to me. How I love her!












Sunday, August 03, 2008

Letter To A Friend

I spent about 23 minutes, according to my computer clock, writing the following letter. All the time typing quickly, but rather poorly. When I reached the end, I was surprised. Like when I'm driving somewhere and I stop paying attention, but reach my destination safely, anyway.

The question asked was about politics, and why I argue it so often and so well, according to this fellow. A very flattering question, but I don't take the compliment very seriously given the quality of debate on the website where this was first posted. Still, it compelled a long response, and here it is.

The person I wrote to is not named, "Mordecai," I just like that name. The letter:

Dear Mordecai,

I've always had an interest in politics, and I read a lot, and for a long time I traveled with some very profound intellectuals. Including people I've had a falling out with, like Eric Chester, the author and activist. And the man who knows more about American labor and union law and history than any man I know of, Bill S. I haven't seen either of them in years. Nor Quinn or David McReynolds. Frank P. Zeidler is dead, as is Ann Rosenhaft. The world didn't seem to skip a beat at their passing.

Every one of these radicals and intellectuals and activists have said and done a great deal, and still do, and I used to spend a lot of time with them, listening and discussing, late into countless nights. And I made it to the Socialist Scholar's Conference many times, that helped. They provide many helpful lectures, along with encouragement for young Reds. The SSC was the first place I'd ever been to that had more than 20 radical socialists in one place. There were hundreds down there at the Borough of Manhattan Community College who identified themselves that way. We probably had less than $20 between us.

I started volunteering for political campaigns when I was 12, and in earnest when I was 16. At 17, I joined the Socialist Party USA and did a little bit of everything up until 4 years ago when I signed the Fist and Rose Manifesto, joined the tendency of the same name and, for reasons that are still a unclear to me, left to form another party. I'll let you know how that works out. Le sigh.

It may also help that I'm bipolar. For the uninitiated, that means I bounce between terrible, "treatment resistant" depression and hypo-mania. I'm not quite manic, but close. I once asked my psychiatrist if an attention deficit disorder drug might help me, like Adderall, and he said, "You don't need any more focus and concentration." I have an idea of what he means. I still want to try one. Maybe then I would understand "Ulysses" by James Joyce. Or be able to balance my check book. Then again, I may implode.

At university, I took a few philosophy course and was told that I should major in it. Political Science interested me as a hobby, and I read volumes, but my heart is in biology. Literally, I suppose. Evolutionary biology. I wish I had the brains to be a great scientist.

I myself have written quite a bit for various left wing organizations, as well.

When I told Eve that this information is tattooed on my brain, I wasn't kidding. Naturally, I wasn't speaking literally, either, but not even ECT could get rid of it. I don't think I'm an intellect, either, but I thank you for your kind words. A kind word is always welcome.

I'm well-read, perhaps thoughtful, but broken. On my blog I think I mentioned my conundrum. I sincerely and totally believe, with every part of me, that life is just not worth it. Look at me. I'm 36 and have no balls. In evolutionary terms, I'm irrelevant, a dead end. But that's not the only reason. Without a modicum of kindness from others, including the manifestation of "kindness" as assistance from the government, I'd be dead, or living under a bridge trying to print money with a turd and an old parking ticket.

Life without compassion, and the assistance of scientific advance, is heinously painful. Eat, eat, eat, eat, eat. Fight or flight. Survive. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. And I reject it. If there were a god I would spit in his, her or it's face for this masterpiece of cruelty that is the world. But I don't feel very angry, one of the benefits of atheism. It feels like we're a thinking, feeling race of animals that sadly evolved to the point where we can be self-aware. How cruel!

If you want to step into the Void with me, go to the beach. The ocean. Land meets water with the sky above. Sit and look at it for a long time. Tempestuous vapors, as Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet, and nothing more. Beautiful, perhaps, but insanely empty. It just is, and we're stuck between the noble gases and minerals and emptiness. The Universe has gone out of it's way to make one thing absolutely clear: You don't matter. Not your pain, your happiness, your joy, your love, nothing. Kindness is good though, as it always finds a home.

Tell me not in mournful numbers, life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers and things are not as they seem
Life is strong and life is earnest and the grave is not its goal
Dust thou art to dust returnest was not spoken of the soul!

That's Longfellow's The Psalm of Life. Well, part of it. My father had me memorize it many years ago, but that's a long story. He's not religious, he just likes Longfellow. As do I. The passion. But Longfellow is wrong (poets are always lying their asses off). There is no soul, and each end is coming for all of us. And it will be The End. Which is good, 'cause I don't even like harps.

So if that's true, why stay alive and talk politics and write and wear an Obama hat? Several people have asked me to stick around, which I would have taken as a sarcasm had they not been close friends and family. Another reason is that I still do believe in a lot of things, like compassion, kindness and animal empathy. That is, we're all in this together. We don't have to like each other, but kindness must be our guide. Even if it leads to our doom.

So if you care about the world, and people and animals and the reduction of pain and suffering, you find yourself with political beliefs. That's why it gets me so mad when people say they're all the same, the pols, and that it's not worth getting involved, or even reading about. Because if that's true, that you can't change anything and the elections mean nothing, then we have a lot MORE work to do, not less. If that is true, we need a revolution. Apathy, when based on holier than thou cynicism, is bullshit. Call it "laziness" and you'll have an ally in me. But I can't stand it when people act as if the NOBLEST PATH is to act wise and do nothing. It's a path, alright, one I totally understand, but it is not noble. It's not anything.

So that, in a very tiny nutshell, is why I'm so passionate and thoughtful about politics. You may think me an idiot, and I may be, I admit that. I may "sound" arrogant on here, but trust me, in reality I hate my fucking guts on a level that is impossible to describe. Some of you hate yourselves, too. It's a post-post-modern economy thing. Everyone is pathologically something.

There's more, but I'll save it for later. Happy Day!

With Love,
Darren

Friday, August 01, 2008

Robust Plumage

I've been picking some fights on various blogs, usually left wing and feminist blogs, writing with a nom de plume and playing Devil's Advocate. I consider myself to be a Socialist-Feminist, which means I never shut the fuck up about class. There's a site I want to talk about, but I have to explain why I'm belligerent. Well, that's hyperbole. But I'm annoyed, and what has me in such a state is, naturally, drugs.

My girlfriend just told me that she won two tickets to see Jethro Tull at the Bank of America Pavilion. I'm invited, and have accepted. There is a small but genuine possibility that, as Jethro Tull sails onto the stage, I will start uncontrollably laughing my ass off. Sincerely, I don't know why this is, or why I know this, but there it is.

Anyway, back to the drug situation. I haven't taken a narcotic anything in three weeks or so, and am doing fine. Earlier today I spoke to the people at the addiction services clinic, and they told me that, had I been accepted into the program I would have been "weaned off" of benzodiazepines. For me, that means taking less lorazepam (Ativan) over time, and eventually having to give it up entirely. Had I known that "drug abstinence" was required, I never would have applied to the program.

This infuriates me because lorazepam works, and what it works for is crippling social anxiety and what feels like paranoia. Even if I'm addicted to it, why would I give up one of the most effective medications I take out of some desire to adhere to a principle, the principle of zero tolerance for any addictive drugs. Today I heard a nurse tell me that the program would endeavor to get me off of these drugs, and that I would have to find an "alternative." Man, did that piss me off. Because it doesn't matter if I find an alternative or not, the decision is already made that I'm to be taken off. I'm showing no signs of any problem with lorazepam. The script is never filled early, I take it at the correct dosage, and I don't feel that I have a problem.

Regardless of that, they propose to take an efficacious medication away from me, for my own good. A drug that a chief psychiatrist on staff at another clinic feels I need as much as I do. So basically I told them to cram it. My battle is with narcotics.