Avranches

The people who make your stuff rule you. So that would mean that Asia (not the band), mainly China, is the real superpower. Not 10 or 25 years from now, but right now. A post-industrial economy, the thing we're supposed to have in the US and Europe, is useless when it comes to meeting the needs of the 6.2 billion people on this planet. In the US we've even given up on wheat to grow corn, which is a marginal food source compared to wheat.

So the day has come when we don't grow anything but corn for bio-fuel and corn syrup. In 1945, 50 percent of the population lived on a farm. Today it's 2%. And the sad tale of industry is certainly well-enough known.

And it's all totally to blame of "globalization." We ask the nations of Africa to adhere to "free market" tenets that Europe and the US ignored when they were developing. Corporations can pass through borders whenever it suits them, perhaps to avoid a minimum wage law, or environmental regulations. Meanwhile we are a world of nations, with very real borders to keep people in or out.

It feels like a canned hunt. And none of us can fight back until we recognize that private corporations are, almost by definition, working against the interests of people. Profit for a few is fine only for a few. It is actually unethical for a publicly-traded corporation to consider the interests of those who don't own stock in that corporation.

So a small number of people control massive amounts of wealth, and with globalization they can bolt at the first sign of unionization, or a political appetite for regulation.

The Music of Chance

Of Jung and Flaming Bowling Balls

It appears to be a lovely day outside, and there is no reason to assume that it won't be one in here, as well. The cats look happy, the dog is sleeping and the coffee is hot. I have no human interaction of any consequence scheduled today, and that suits me just fine. In a deeper recess, however, it concerns me, and that is odd. I'm vexed a bit at being so content with social isolation, as it clashes with my affection for the other human beings. But it is no matter.

Sometimes, the effective dose for an ailment calls for less of a given medication, not more. I was told that I'm not a good, "candidate for hermitude" given my fondness for people. I'd be too lonely, it was said. And that is probably true, although part of me thinks it may be the ticket to Heaven.

Three people keep me from being lonely (my brother and father, my beloved Linda) in a sort of embrace of identity. The Jungian mask rarely comes off for anyone. We have a lot of layers in our society, that you have to peel through to get down to the hairless ape with a pen and a Social Security number. The minimum mendacity zone that is established with caution and varying degrees of hesitation, or even resistance, is a very good place to roam with one of the other humans.

Right now, on FaceBook, my page says that I have about 60 "friends." I haven't any idea who most of them are, having not met with them in person or even had any correspondence.

But I digress.

Methinks that I am making the world a better place by not seeking friendships that are entirely based on small talk. Fewer humans are subjected to my advances as I seek to deliver myself from loneliness. Linda alone keeps me outside of a melancholy funk of fond remembrances, and I'm given to sentimentality by nature, so it's no small trick.

There is love in all her forms in that single relationship. Enough complexity of emotion and thought to occupy me for a hundred thousand years! And all indications are that she loves me, as well, which isn't easy. Despite the recently sent words of encouragement from an anonymous source, I can really be a jerk. If she ever kills me, I would like everyone to know that I'm not pressing charges. I love her so much I sometimes think I owe her the satisfaction of breaking my nose. Sort of a gift for being hard to deal with sometimes.

My brother, Kent, also gets to be one of the few people with whom I'm totally open. You can't lie to your older brother. He simply knows me too well for me to get away with pretense. And my father and I have been especially close since I joined the Socialist Party at age 17. He eventually joined as well, and we became a father/son team of radical socialists. Ah, good times. He, too, knows me through and through.

He's my father, too, so, there you go.

Ask yourself how many people you truly open up to, if anyone. People say that I am pretty open, but that is all an act. Simple psychology. People have said that I'm quite amusing at parties. That I'm just funny. But that is a big, fat deflection! Aha! J'accuse! Shit, I would juggle flaming bowling balls if I thought it would prevent people from talking to me.

Last night, I found myself staring at the bookcase next to my desk, which contains many books left over from college. Studies in Drama and Symbolic Logic, in particular, compelled thoughts about where I fit in, given what I am. The answer was a bit dark.

Cloves for Your Little Mind

Thank you, AC, for your comment, which is accurate. Sad that so many engage in cutting. I hadn't intended on writing about self-harm, but I sort of went there. I've done 21 stitches worth of cutting, and permanent burns from muriatic acid on my arm and foot. My motive was to distract myself from racing thoughts that included a melange of suicidal contemplation and guilt. So pain and the "rush" of cutting motivated, and sometimes still, motivates me.

It's why one might drink, do drugs, or go to a NASCAR event. To deaden the nerves a bit.

Of Peace

Consider the complaint, "I just want to be normal." I've been thinking about it quite a bit lately. Two friends, both of whom are mentally ill, given to self-injury, and whom are of a sensitive disposition have also asked that of themselves, and of me.

I'm not going to define "normal," as there really is no consistent definition that is worth applying here. The concern we feel isn't even about normalcy, it's about a desire to do things "right." We endlessly ask ourselves if each step is a wise one to take, if we're carrying our share of the load, and the Grand High Pooh-Bah of anxious self-analysis, "Am I fulfilling my responsibilities?"

If you're there for your friends and family and helping to provide for them, then concerns about fitting in fade away. The desire to be normal is an aesthetic concern for the most part. Take a Zen moment with this McDonald's commercial, which seems to be saying that it's abnormal and snobby to dislike football and enjoy independent film.

I'm not really all that normal, but not in an interesting way. I'm not plotting a revolution in my basement or think I can talk to Abraham Lincoln. But I am a good person, defined for me means being compassionate as often as possible. Normal, as I once sought it, doesn't exist. Methinks that cutting is done as a distraction from the mind and all the pain it can cause; guilt, self-loathing, sexual addiction or total lack of interest, regret, fear, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, racing thoughts, all of that. And more!

The last time I cut myself it was out of racing thoughts about a personal matter in my life. Needless to say, I was upset. It is a terrible wound that was done with a pair of scissors. I cut out a triangle about the size of a half dollar and tossed the pyramid-shaped skin away. At one point, the mantra about wanting to be normal started up, but after some painful consideration I decided that what I really want is peace. My life right now is a good one. I'm in love and am loved in turn. My father lives with me, and I cook his meals and do the laundry, cleaning, that sort of thing. He is 76 and very nearly died after surgery for an abdominal aortic aneurysm.

My father and my beloved, with my brother not too far away. None of them judge me, and are instead totally supportive in every way.

Money is tight. It's always tight. Welcome to Earth.

This summer, we will have a tomato garden, and Linda and I have taken to hiking. The last time we hiked, we got very lost. In my view, a scary level of lost. But we are having a delightful time together, walking under a green canopy and over paths crisscrossed with the roots of trees. I try to savor the moments I have with Linda. Much of my time is spent worrying about her or Kent of my father.

It's all very normal, isn't it? This is what people do! If it weren't, I'd still seek out this life. The problem for me, of course, and the two friends I mentioned earlier, is simple. We get depressed or suicidal or in some way frantic or self-destructive. We seem to celebrate drama but in fact we can't stand it. We are governed too much by emotion.

But despite mental illness, I know that I have everything I need to be perfectly happy. My mind will be trained to understand this if I have to waterboard it.

Zhou Yongjun and The Internationale

For those of you who may not remember (or weren't born yet) back in 1989 a group of Chinese activists, comprised almost entirely of students, challenged the government to make pro-democratic reforms. It was on television and everything. They famously assembled in Tiananmen Square, with media people from around the world, and basically demanded concessions, or at least a public dialogue. What about? Basically, democratic reform to keep in step with numerous and far-reaching market reforms.

No need to ask what happened, at least in political terms for China. They crushed the 150,000 or so protesters with the military, killing about 2,500 people. It was, up until then, the saddest day in my life. I was young and felt a strong kinship with these men and women. It's still there now, that feeling, but it's more about being comrades. The cruel, draconian Chinese reaction was shocking to me then, and made me very angry. And as I said, deep sadness followed. Today, looking back, it touches me as I recall the feeling of optimism among radicals here for their comrades overseas. But I should have known.

My father knew. As students stuck flowers into the gun barrels of Chinese soldiers and Dan Rather was effusive over the "televised revolution," my father simply said that it would be over soon. "Trust me," he said, "they're not going to let this happen." I was optimistic and thought great things were about to happen. He was right, of course.

They most certainly did not let "it" happen.

These days, democracy isn't doing well in most of the world, particularly in China. But capitalism, despite the recent banking crisis, is doing fine. Free-Trade Zones all over China look like progress to Americans, because of the mythology connecting capitalism with democracy. Over the years I've found that most people think the protests were about opening up the country to capitalism. They were not. Hell, the students were singing The Internationale, a song of profound meaning and emotional currency with socialists, social democrats, communists and leftist radicals in general. Here's a taste:

Arise, wretched of the earth
Arise, convicts of hunger
Reason thunders in its volcano
This is the eruption of the end
Of the past let us wipe the slate clean
Masses, slaves, arise, arise
The world is about to change its foundation
We are nothing, let us be all
|: This is the final struggle
Let us group together, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be the human race :|

There are no supreme saviours
Neither God, nor Caesar, nor tribune.
Producers, let us save ourselves
Decree the common welfare
That the thief might bare his throat,
That the spirit be pulled from its prison
Let us fan the forge ourselves
Strike the iron while it is hot
|: This is the final struggle
Let us group together, and tomorrow
The Internationale
Will be the human race :|

We'd sing the same thing when marching with Jobs with Justice or during our conventions. The tyranny of an undemocratic state is as bad as the tyranny of a corporation without worker control, or at least a strong, politicized union.

I mention all this about that time and place (Tiananmen Square, 1989) because I read this morning that Zhou Yongjun, now a US citizen, was arrested at an airport in China on a vague charge of "political crimes" and/or "fraud." He was returning to China to visit his father, who is ill.

It's easy to admire such a man. Returning to China despite the ongoing danger he faces. The article reads:

At first he was accused of spying and political crimes, but now they have switched to this financial fraud accusation," Zhou's partner, Zhang Yuewei, told Reuters from the couple's home in California, adding that the charge was unfounded.

"He's been under secret detention for a long time, since he tried to enter China last year. He wanted to see his father, who is old and sick, but I didn't want him to go."

Zhou, a leader of the Beijing Students' Autonomous Union, was jailed for two years following the suppression of the movement. He left for the US in 1993 but was sent to a labour camp after returning to see his family in 1998. He returned to the US in 2002.

As I finished the article, on The Guardian Online, I found myself being hopeful. That thoughtful, progressive, compassionate people can be strong, too. Very strong. Far more so than those who choose violence. Isn't that corny?

Robotic Sloth

Me go bed now. My name is Darren and me go bed now. With my girlfriend. She does things with me. Sometimes we go on hikes. Sometimes we go movies. Usually we do other stuff.

Gotta go now. Me go bed now.

Darren

PS - I shaved head.

Fat Man with Roses

Le Chien

Yes, you're correct, Jean. The drug I need to stay away from is alcohol, which I rarely imbibe but is involved in a disproportionate number of stupid displays on my part. Particularly Sake. The pills are good, though, Jean. They make my noggin work with less fuss.

How are you?

The people who run this place, where I live, are cutting the grass and there is a strong aroma of, naturally, recently cut grass. It's really quite a spectacle that I take for granted. Soon will come the weed-whacking.

I need do the dishes and make the bed. If I don't I'll have a breakdown and end up in the land of graham crackers, plastic coffee mugs and group therapy. Eep.

Fuck me Sideways.

The time has come for your friend, buddy and pal, Darren William Victor Lyle, to head into soltude. To protect the innocent, I'll refrain from naming the people involved in the event that led to my insistence upon leaving people behind and becoming a true Hermit. Hermit. Hermit. Hermit. That is me. I must stop talking to people. I must stop.

My name is Darren William Victor Lyle and I'm unlikable.