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Wednesday, May 28, 2008

This Post is About Lobsters in Space

So one of the things I spent doing today was research the social lives of lobsters.

Lobsters, it seems, are a pretty angry bunch. They spend all of their time fighting. They live in burrows all alone and know all the other lobsters in the neighborhood. The males establish a dominance hierarchy based on who kicks everyone else's ass. This fellow, let's call him the Lobster Boss, then spends his time going around and dragging other lobsters out of their burrows and beating them up. They all know who he is because lobsters recognize each other based on the fact that whenever they see each other they piss in each other's faces, an act which says "I am Bill, the second-tier lobster from down the way. I beat you up last week so you can submit without too much fighting. I am not interested in mating."

Okay so then there's lobster sex. When female lobsters want to fuck they have to shed their shells. Lobsters shed their shells anyway but the males don't have to do it in order to have sex. So female lobster wants to have sex she goes over to the Lobster Boss's house and she pisses on the door. When male lobsters smell horny female lobster piss or drink it or whatever they get high and don't want to fight as much. So he goes out and maybe they do some dancing or something, then they go inside. After a while she takes off her shell, and now she's smaller and soft and fragile and he could just eat her, but instead he mates with her with "a tenderness that is almost human" as one scientist I was reading described it, turning her real careful over onto her back so as not to break her and then fucking her with his two lobster-dicks.

So she hangs out for a few weeks and then her clothes grow back and she leaves. And here's the neat part about this: Only one of the lobster-chicks can be down there fucking the lobster boss at a time, so -- They take turns! Isn't that cool? The lobster women cooperate in the drugging and fucking of the dominant lobster male while the men spend all their time fighting each other, the reward for which is, they get to have sex.

***

Here are a few other exciting Lobster facts:
  • Lobsters are hunters and kill and eat everyone else in the area. Clambs, crabs, fish, younameit.
  • They cannibalize each other in captivity but we don't know if this happens in the wild.
  • They're pretty slow, but they can migrate very long distances -- some lobsters once moved from Maine to Nantucket in a year, and that's almost 300 miles!
  • They don't start out lobsters, but rather go through a bunch of different development stages.
  • Lobster women lay 10,000 eggs and only ten of those grow up to be lobsters.)

***

Okay so here's why I like thinking about this kind of stuff. Because half my time is spent (as you know) thinking about science fiction. And I think about aliens, and think: What would happen if culture and complex society developed among species that had a different basic social structure from us?

That is to say: before there was culture there was society, you know, but it didn't look like it looks now. And the way we structure our societies now -- At the social level -- Think, for example, of the traditional ideal here of one man, one woman and a mess of kids -- Conservatives claim this is the basis of "society," and they're correct in that the combined power of the State and the Church enforced this ideal. Enforced by the state means, ultimately, imposed by force, and the One Man And One Woman marriage is a social structure imposed (at one time) by force onto our otherwise much more promiscuous species.

Okay, so what if some aliens on another world originally lived basically like lobsters. Only over time their brains got smarter and their capacity to learn and to teach increased, thus bringing culture into being amongst them. What would their civilizations look like?

Maybe once in a Lobster Folk neighborhood near the Big Swamp in the fertile Southern Continent some of these (remember, relatively cooperative) lobster women got together and had a few thoughts. Included among these were:

1. We seem to have killed most of the prey animals in the area.

2. These lobster-men we have are pretty big and brutal fighters. And they're kind of fighting over us.

3. There's a lot of food a few valleys over. But there are also other lobsters there.

4. If we killed those other lobsters, they wouldn't be there.

5. We don't feel like killing anyone ourselves.

6. These boys fight each other so they can mate with us.

7. This was the thought that brought all the other thoughts together. It took a while, some clicking of claws and slashing with tails. Then the lobster women said: What if, instead of mating with the boy that beats up all the boys in our neighborhood, we told these boys that we wouldn't mate with them if they fought with each other. Instead, we'd only mate with the one that killed the most lobsters in that neighborhood over there!!?? Then we could go there and live in their burrows and eat all that food! And we wouldn't have to kill anybody -- the lobstermen would do it!

And thus was Lobster Civilization born, in a manner not dissimilar from human civilization.

***

What else is true of our lobster aliens?

Well, I don't want them to live under the Sea. So...they don't. They live on land, though the creatures that live on their planet are even weirder than the creatures that live under the Sea, so that's fine. But their planet has a weird atmosphere -- It's breathable by humans, but, it's really humid, and, there is this whole ecosystem kind of floating in the sky like plankton...including the young lobsters at various stages of their lives.

At this point in their history on which we are looking, Lobsters are born like this: They are shot up, ten thousand eggs, to float around in the sky. They develop through various stages. Eventually, after a final midling avian stage, they float down to earth to live as Lobsters.

In the Dawn of Time, the young Lobsters, having gone through their final transformation, became part of whatever Lobster neighborhood they happened to land in. Later, various Lobster cultures developed various methods, often involving a severe ass-kicking, for initiating new-landers into the local 'hood. Our cabal of women near Big Swamp did it this way: All new males were kept around for use in the wars (and of course, fighting males being a valuable resource, more wars were fought to possess them).

Females were a different story. They were tested, put through a series of harsh trials. Only those who proved themselves were inducted into the cabal. The rest were killed. And this was doable without any great expense: Lobster young tend to, based on weather patterns and other concerns, congregate in particular areas of the sky. They are blown in from all over the world -- so, at least this early in History, population has little to do with food supply.

More is necessary for civilization than war, though war is the starting point. On earth agriculture is the other necessity: Allowing as it does 1. control of the food supply and 2. expansion of the food supply therefore 3. population growth.

On Lobster World these things happen a little differently. Sex is an important resource and that for which the Lobster men were originally motivated to war. These first Lobster civilizations were nomadic pillagers; they'd eat everything in a territory, move on, kill everyone, move on. Population began to increase when they began letting males from rival territories surrender and join the fighting force (rival females were still usually killed en masse -- they were potential rivals, and capable of mating with the males.)

How would Lobster civilization develop from here? If this killing of young women and women from rival groups continues, there is eventually going to be a population problem, as fewer and fewer Lobster eggs will be shot off into the sky every year. Possible solutions: a) Less killing; b) Keeping rivals alive for breeding purposes; c) Ensuring the survival of more than one out of ten thousand eggs.

Maybe the various Lobsters-to-be in the sky (how long do they live up there? let's say for at least 20 years) start developing cultures of their own, based on their existence as what they are, unattached to the cultures of their elders on the planet below (of whom they may not even be aware) -- thus leading to an increased life expectancy, among other things...and the Lobster equivalent of a generational conflict.

They can live to be very old. (Even on earth, they can -- but usually don't -- live a damn long time, and they just keep getting bigger and bigger). They die of accidents, disease and violence often enough, but even today there are a few alive said to be terribly ancient...a few old fighting men the size of giants...women who remember the Dawn of Time...What becomes of their minds, their thoughts, these thousand-year-old behemoths?

There was a time when a woman refused to share with her sisters. She was confused, manlike, capable of jealousy. She loved him, the dominant male, the Captain of his company of warriors, and would not share him with any other. And the two of them went into exile, gathering eventually a number of warriors, settling finally somewhere in the west, where they founded the great red city in the rocks -- the Lobster World's first patriarchy.

...And what happens when a pair of human scientists arrive on Lobster World (I bet they call it Crustacea, cause...well you know why), intent upon research, study, and -- if the time is right, if the Lobsters are willing, if God is with us -- uniting the Lobster Folk with the rest of Great Humanity, seeded across ten thousand worlds by the Exogensis Starship? Emmisaries, ambassadors -- for whom? Arok's Galactic Common; Queen Marishta's Army of the Reunity; the League of Free Worlds? -- they live among the Lobster Folk...learn their ways...learn that their enemies have forces here as well, and that the Lobster World has its own dark secrets...

!!!!

When it was Wednesday

The world is an irritating hangover and I don't feel like blogging.

For lunch I just bought pretzels almonds and a banana. I had just enough food stamps for an apple or a banana. I wish I'd picked the apple. The almonds have wasabi seasoning.

This is nothing that a cup of coffee can't solve.

In the meantime please enjoy this selection from Federico Lorca.

Romance Sonambulo

Spanish:

Verde que te quiero verde.

Verde viento. Verdes ramas.

El barco sobre la mar

y el caballo en la montaña.

Con la sombra en la cintura

ella sueña en su baranda,

verde carne, pelo verde,

con ojos de fría plata.

Verde que te quiero verde.

Bajo la luna gitana,

las cosas la están mirando

y ella no puede mirarlas.


Verde que te quiero verde.

Grandes estrellas de escarcha

vienen con el pez de sombra

que abre el camino del alba.

La higuera frota su viento

con la lija de sus ramas,

y el monte, gato garduño,

eriza sus pitas agrias.

¿Pero quién vendra? ¿Y por dónde...?

Ella sigue en su baranda,

Verde came, pelo verde,

soñando en la mar amarga.


--Compadre, quiero cambiar

mi caballo por su casa,

mi montura por su espejo,

mi cuchillo per su manta.

Compadre, vengo sangrando,

desde los puertos de Cabra.

--Si yo pudiera, mocito,

este trato se cerraba.

Pero yo ya no soy yo,

ni mi casa es ya mi casa.


--Compadre, quiero morir

decentemente en mi cama.

De acero, si puede ser,

con las sábanas de holanda.

¿No ves la herida que tengo

desde el pecho a la garganta?

--Trescientas rosas morenas

lleva tu pechera blanca.

Tu sangre rezuma y huele

alrededor de tu faja.

Pero yo ya no soy yo,

ni mi casa es ya mi casa.

--Dejadme subir al menos

hasta las altas barandas;

¡dejadme subir!, dejadme,

hasta las verdes barandas.

Barandales de la luna

por donde retumba el agua.


Ya suben los dos compadres

hacia las altas barandas.

Dejando un rastro de sangre.

Dejando un rastro de lágrimas.

Temblaban en los tejados

farolillos de hojalata.

Mil panderos de cristal

herían la madrugada.

Verde que te quiero verde,

verde viento, verdes ramas.

Los dos compadres subieron.

El largo viento dejaba

en la boca un raro gusto

de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.

¡Compadre! ¿Donde está, díme?

¿Donde está tu niña amarga?

¡Cuántas veces te esperó!

¡Cuántas veces te esperara,

cara fresca, negro pelo,

en esta verde baranda!


Sobre el rostro del aljibe

se mecía la gitana.

Verde carne, pelo verde,

con ojos de fría plata.

Un carámbano de luna

la sostiene sobre el agua.

La noche se puso íntima

como una pequeña plaza.

Guardias civiles borrachos

en la puerta golpeaban.

Verde que te qiuero verde.

Verde viento. Verdes ramas.

El barco sobre la mar.

Y el caballo en la montaña.


Ingles:

Green, how I want you green.

Green wind. Green branches.

The ship on the sea

and the horse on the mountain.

With the shadow around her waist

she dreams on her balcony,

green flesh, hair of green,

with eyes of cold silver.

Green, how I want you green.

Under the gypsy moon,

all things look at her

and she cannot see them.



Green, how I want you green.

Great stars of white frost

come with the fish of darkness

that opens the road of dawn.

The fig tree rubs its wind

with the sandpaper of its branches,

and the mountain, a filching cat,

bristles its brittle aloes.

But who will come? And from where?

She lingers on her balcony

green flesh, hair of green,

dreaming of the bitter sea.



--My friend, I want to trade

my horse for your house,

my saddle for your mirror,

my knife for your blanket.

My friend, I come bleeding

from the gates of Cabra.

--If it were possible, my boy,

I'd help you fix that trade.

But now I am not I,

nor is my house now my house.

--My friend, I want to die

decently in my bed.

Of iron, if that's possible,

with sheets of fine holand.

Do you nor see the wound I have

from my chest up to my throat?

--Your white shirt has grown

three hundred dark brown roses.

Your blood oozes and flees

around the corners of your sash.

But now I am not I,

nor is my house now my house.

--Let me climb up, at least,

up to the high balustrades;

Let me climb up! Let me,

up to the green balustrades.

Balustrades of the moon

through which the water rumbles.



Now the two friends climb up,

up to the high balustrades.

Leaving a trail of blood.

Leaving a trail of teardrops.

Small lanterns of tin

were trembling on the roofs.

A thousand crystal tambourines

struck at the dawn light.



Green, how I want you green,

green wind, green branches.

The two friends climbed up.

The stiff wind left

in their mouths, a strange taste

of bile, of mint, and of basil

My friend, where is she--tell me--

where is your bitter girl?

How many times she waited for you!

How many times would she wait for you,

cool face, black hair,

on this green balcony!

Over the mouth of the cistern

the gypsy girl was swinging,

green flesh, hair of green,

with eyes of cold silver.

An icicle of moon

holds her up above the water.

The night became intimate

like a little plaza.

Drunken civil guards

were pounding on the door.

Green, how I want you green.

Green wind. Green branches.

The ship on the sea.

And the horse on the mountain.

Friday, May 23, 2008

Cold Day in Spring

Because this is a dead language that I cannot write you my thoughts.

This place so old and grey, sad, forgotten. And spring rain stings like Autumn. A thousand miles ago.

To Dream is where all my shadows hide. Who are we now? Lost children on the beach. On the beach I stoked the embers, piled on driftwood. I went down to the ocean and asked, Do you still love me? And the ocean said No, I no longer love you. (This is true I am not being metaphoric.)

It becomes to me that I am bipolar. Only this morning, write Joy, and then: those chemicals in my brain-sea-soup do a dance-flop and Here we grope to justify sadness.

(Because a thousand miles ago I--)

and, (Fall steeps in the air like Indian tea and--)

Cold and rain. Cold and rain. Rain and grey and cold and rain. One thousand miles ago it was summer in Pennsylvania and the fireflies danced on Butler Street. Everything is years away. Look at your words shatter like glass flowers. Shine a light: Are there any rainbows? Remember what the wiser people say about forgetting. Remember to be gentle. Be kind and go to sleep.

Fear Nothing

Dear the People,

It has come to my attention that I have not updated my blog, "Better Cats and Gardens," in a number of days.

This is because I have not been writing well this week. You know how this goes I believe. You click and you clack at this keyboard and the and the words do not the words do the not words not they come. Is what I am saying to you.

But here is become today and prompted by the concerns of devoted friends and readers I shall attempt a day by day update for this week. More to the point I shall bang and clang at these letter keys until all the words are spelled out.

Tuesday:

A day of civic duty. Election in Oregon: And you know who there was to vote for. I voted for him, not her, though the choice was difficult.

The interesting thing: Oregon (dear Pennsylvanians) has mail-in ballots. That means on Tuesday I sat at my desk looking over the various candidates for various offices and with one exception (county commissioner) had no idea who they were. So, voting consisted of about an hour of research, with every choice based on issues and not name recognition or television.

After voting I went directly across the street to the happy local brewpub for a taste of American democracy. Dead Guy was back on tap and, wouldn't you know it but the Candidate For Commissioner was there (you know which one, Chris's guy, I shan't say his name on this public blog). He had already gotten my vote on account of he's a Democrat and I had had a beer with him before. (No, it was a glass of wine, at the wine bar.) He didn't win but I was still happy to be there and of course that other one, The One I Hate, the Incumbant, lost. (Word is she's blaming the local Liberal Media...meaning, I guess, the right-wing paper and the other right-wing paper...for ensuring the victory of...another conservative...Is it too much to compare it to Pol Pot blaming all the Khmer Rouge's failings on the Vietnamese?)

Tuesday ended on a high note.

Wednesday:

Then came Wednesday, or as I would like to call it, Nerd Day. Keeping with my tradition of coming five years too late to the party, I spent Wednesday watching every episode of the first season of Battlestar Galactica. And, um, Holy Freaking Shit. This is the best American science fiction TV show in.... I don't know maybe ever.

Here is an aside: What are the best American sci fi shows? I would say the top five are: The original Star Trek; the original Twilight Zone; Firefly; Babylon 5; Battlestar Galactica. But in what order do they fall?

So seriously, Battlestar Galactica is so fucking awesome I don't even know what to do.

Thursday:

Thursday I woke up from strange dreams to discover that my left hand was stained with blood. I tried to wash it off in the shower. It would not wash off. Two thoughts: 1) This is a terrible omen, what are the gods trying to tell me? 2) On the other hand, it's kind of yellowish...Could it be jaundice????

The day went by as days will do. It was cold and late in May, I was enraged with the Oregon sky. (I still am by the way).

Then I went and saw the new Indiana Jones.

My (spoiler-containing) review:

It is of course exactly what you were expecting. Lots of big stupid action scenes and explosions and really dumb escapes and random snatches of moronic dialog. The Kid is in this movie, of course; it's not his worst role (that would be Wesley Crusher), but it's not his best either. (His best is Unforgiven).

So it starts with just random fights and shooting stuff which I'm pretty okay with. Then the racist undertones emerge. First the Russians are trying to control our minds. Okay, that's fine, Cold War nostalgia. But then we go to South America to find a lost city. And the Indians who lived there are somehow Nazca who spoke Quechua and "Mayan" even though that doesn't make any sense. Also, they lived there 6,000 years ago, even though the Nazca lines were done (I think) 1700 years ago. And, they're retarded savages who jump around like the Moria goblins in The Fellowship of the Ring and are (seriously and unequivocally) portrayed as having the intelligence level of ants. It's okay though because they're unceremoniously slaughtered by the Russians...you know how Russians are. And also, of course, they didn't build their own city: No, that was the aliens, because you know that Indians didn't build anything, it had to have been Celts, or maybe Egyptians or, no, it was the lost tribes of Israel, wait, that's retarded, I guess it was aliens.

Okay so I was sitting there being pissed off about all this but then I realized the movie was about freaking aliens so I was happy. 6 out of Good.

Friday:

Oh I forgot to mention on Thursday I played the single best hand of Rummy of my life. 220 points. On one hand. I didn't know such a thing was even possible.

Okay so then it was Friday. Before work I watched the first episode of Season 2 of Battlestar Galactica. Then I came all over the place. Then I noticed that there was a milk dud stuck to my jeans from the movie theater last night. I pealed it off and wore them anyway. That brings us roughly to the present.

Today I shall update this blog more than once. There is a small host of saved unpublished posts waiting for their chance to be read. Perhaps I shall post some of them. Perhaps not.

Sincerely,

"Steve"

Monday, May 19, 2008

All Around the World

Not much on my mind today. I slept maybe a half hour last night so my brain doesn't work so good. & my computer's been wacky lately: hence less blogging.

I cannot in fact seem to get my brain to work at all. Today you should read Machetera; there is a fun article about translation. Read also BoRev, they have a funny visual pun about Interpol's investigation of the laptop that doesn't actually link Chavez to the FARC and Interpol, that band that I still like. & while you're at it, the last 3 entries on Global Guerrillas are important.

Here are other fun things I discovered today.

Fisk's article in the Independent from Saturday, about, of course, Lebanon:

The roads were open again; the hooded gunmen had disappeared; the government had abandoned its confrontation with Hizbollah – the suspension of the Shia Muslim security chief at the airport (who bought me a bottle of champagne a year ago, I seem to remember – some Hizbollah "agent" he!) and the abandonment of the government's demand to dismantle Hizbollah's secret telecommunication system was a final seal of its failure – and I opened my newspaper and what did I read?

That George Bush declared in Jerusalem that "al-Qa'ida, Hizbollah and Hamas will be defeated, as Muslims across the region recognise the emptiness of the terrorists' vision and the injustice of their cause".

Where does the madness end? Where do words lose their meaning? Al-Qa'ida is not being defeated. Hizbollah has just won a domestic war in Lebanon, as total as Hamas's war in Gaza. Afghanistan and Iraq and Lebanon and Gaza are hell disasters – I need no apology to quote Churchill's description of 1948 Palestine yet again – and this foolish, stupid, vicious man is lying to the world yet again.

Amy Goodman's hilarious interview with Gore Vidal, including these fun tidbits:

AMY GOODMAN: Do you believe in the death penalty?

GORE VIDAL: No. But in their [Bush and Cheney's] case, yes.
...

AMY GOODMAN: What do you mean, Gore Vidal, when you say you think what happened after 9/11 was a coup?

GORE VIDAL: Well, it was. The first move they made at the time when Timothy McVeigh decided to blow up the federal building in Oklahoma City—he started to write me letters, and I wrote him back, and he’s a brilliant kid, very interested in law, would have made a good constitutional lawyer, and a patriot. He’s a professional soldier. But he has to be depicted as a monster, because who else would blow up little children?

But he didn’t know he was blowing up any little children. He was acting out of a fit of rage at what had happened at Waco, when that whole religious community was set fire to by the Army. And as a soldier, he thought to himself, you see, the one thing that divides our country from being another military or militarized republic, it is not only due process of law, but it is also the Posse Comitatus Act of 1875, which the Army may not be used in any action against the citizens of the United States. And they just wandered—bang! bang!—they set fire to the place, burned down more children and mothers and so on than ever Mr. McVeigh did.
...

AMY GOODMAN: How do you want to be remembered?

GORE VIDAL: I don’t give a goddamn.

And Chalmers Johnson's review of the new book Democracy Incorporated by Sheldon Wolin:

Wolin writes, "Our thesis is this: it is possible for a form of totalitarianism, different from the classical one, to evolve from a putatively 'strong democracy' instead of a 'failed' one." His understanding of democracy is classical but also populist, anti-elitist and only slightly represented in the Constitution of the United States. "Democracy," he writes, "is about the conditions that make it possible for ordinary people to better their lives by becoming political beings and by making power responsive to their hopes and needs." It depends on the existence of a demos -- "a politically engaged and empowered citizenry, one that voted, deliberated, and occupied all branches of public office." Wolin argues that to the extent the United States on occasion came close to genuine democracy, it was because its citizens struggled against and momentarily defeated the elitism that was written into the Constitution.

Happy Monday!

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

A Moment in Conscious Thought

O the fine evening.

Roommate had ambushed me in the morning: "Dood I invited our Patroness to come to dinner tonight at 7:00."

And I: "Really?"

And he: "Yeah you'll be here right?"

And "Of course."

Our Patroness: A lovely older woman from the Church, she gives us each gift cards for the grocery store each month & when I first moved here provided me with: my bed, a chair, a heap of food, blankets, towels. One of the delights of Catholicism in Roseburg and clearly deserving a meal.

Yet what to cook? Roommate is not capable of such feats, it falls upon me. & Our place is a mess! & what if they don't like it! &, and, ...

I arrived home early at 4:00 and scrambled to make the kitchen at least presentable. Fret, stress, worry. I have recently become brilliant at stir-fry, at least according to my own tastes: this is what I shall make.

6:40: Put on the rice, prepare tofu, peppers, onions, broccoli, bean sprouts. Chicken for the carnivores. Soy sauce, garlic, curry powder, red pepper. Simple, tasty, fuckupable nevertheless.

7:00: The Patroness arrives; Roommate's unfortunate music is playing, dinner not quite prepared. The Patroness has brought strawberries (organic and in season) and the tastiest chocolate cookies in America (here the blogger pauses a moment to go and retrieve one from the kitchen).

7:10ish: "I believe -- I believe -- that this meal is ready." Serve, pause, prayer.

From They: "This is delicious!"

From I: Profound sigh of relief.

Now Dinner ended, I finishing before the others as always & dipping first into the strawberries and cookies, and the conversation turned toward religion. Here became a moment of discomfort: But after a time Patroness said (of a conservative member of the Church), "I don't care if he doesn't like it that I call the Holy Spirit 'She.'"

And then I was okay with speaking.

***

A break in the narrative: I looked down just now to see a tiny bug crawling across one of my papers. This would not normally bother me, except that I am typing this sitting in bed. I looked closely at the little creature, could not identify it, worried it might be a. a flea or b. a bedbug; squashed it with my fist.

I am not proud of this act.

What to make of it? "Own your doings, Stephen." I claim this bed as my territory, & will not allow a parasite; if Bug had wandered into the home of an ant colony, it would have met the same gruesome fate.

A little prayer for its soul.

***

Patroness then referred to a book that talked about a Scriptural basis for understanding the femininity of God, though said, its attempt (at Scripturizing God-as-also-Woman) was weak. The conversation continued, and this thought occurred to me:

"But If God created the universe out of nothing" (I said) "then God had noone but godself to refer to in the creation; therefore, God must necessarily encompasses manhood and womanhood, also treehood and cathood and rockhood. Other else where do the concepts of these things come from?"

This thought must not be original, but I had never thought it before, and I was excited.

***

What is intention?

I killed that bug on purpose, I killed it as an act of preemptive possible self-defensive, preventive war, if you will.

Do oceans mind when they squash cities with their hurricane fists, and are we all just forces of nature? Yes, we are, but that's not at all the point. The sea cares, or it does not; can, or cannot that it kills human beings dogs and mangroves; it's not for us to know, all we know is that we can care, and should.

I think.

***

The evening ended on a pleasant note. Coffee, tea, and promises of Let's do this again. The Patroness left and I sat down happily on the couch, singing a song I haven't thought of in a while, the Serenade by Oscar Wilde:

The Western Wind is blowing fair
Across the dark Aegean sea.
And at the secret marble stair,
My Tyrian galley waits for thee:
Come down! the purple sail is spread,
The watchman sleeps within the town,
O leave thy lily-flowered bed,
And lady mine come down!

Come down!
Lady come down!
Come down!
Lady come down.

She will not come, I know her well,
Of lover's vow she hath no care
And little good a man could tell,
Of one so cruel and so fair!
True love is but a woman's toy,
They never know a lover's pain;
And I who love as loves a boy
Must love in vain--Must love in vain!

Come down!
Lady come down!
Come down!
Lady come down...

Monday, May 12, 2008

Thoughts on the song "Funeral" by Band of Horses being Featured in an Advertisement for SUVs

1.

Taste is simply taste; it is individual, personal, we all have a right to it.

2.

Point 1 is not correct. Taste is dictated by: culture, history, age, sub-culture, social setting, etc. Take it as a normative statement. I desire my taste in (art, music, food, drink, literature, cinema) to reflect only that which moves me to (joy, wonder, passion) uninfluenced by anything but the dictates of my own senses.

3.

"I would not mind having more money than I have, nor would I mind if I acquired this money through the creation of art." The preceding statement is the underlying agreement of this conversation.

4.

Entering into an arrangement of support with those who participate massively immoral practices is immoral.

5.

Morality, for the sake of this conversation, refers not to acts of kindness or unkindness between individuals, but acts which massively affect the society/culture/a society/the world as a whole.

6.

The purpose of advertising is to create in individual human minds the desire for a product that did not exist before, thus justifying a) the production of that product and b) the purchase of that product.

7.

Participation in televised advertising, whereby honed and tested techniques are broadcast from a central point into the homes and then, yes, the brains, of millions, for the sake of constructing a desire, amounts to participation in mass mind-control.

8.

The car culture is one of the most massively destructive aspects of contemporary industrial civilization. One of the means of its perpetuation is advertisements used to convince/manipulate the citizenry into perpetuating it. Participation in its perpetuation is massively immoral.

9.

Therefore: I am (1) content to enjoy Band of Horses' music; however, I will not purchase it nor will I pay to see them perform in concert (4).

Next: Thoughts on the structure of the concert.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Later That Night

It's late, I'm tired even though I slept maybe 5 hours in the middle of the day. Slept on the ground last night, curled about the campfire with nothing but my poncho; haven't done that in quite a while and it felt good though also painful, cold.

These woods in Western Oregon are fine places for camping.

I would like to tell you everything that happened all weekend but I'm afraid I drank too much whiskey and forgot it.

I jumped in a river and you know how perfect cold water is. Another time Megan punched me and I spilled Jim Beam all over her pants. Gabe fell over into some trees; Mike was there and you know what he does with his time. But Janice's dad was my favorite: I like how he says the word "cool" in that long, slow voice. Coooool.

Probably I offended Mike's friend Gym Teacher, but only because I was trying to make him argue about politics.

Maybe the funniest result is that I earned the nickname Spider, variants Drunken Spider or Spidey.

The second funniest result is Last night I had this dream that these South Park-like cartoon children were getting on a bus to go to school but then they found out that the stupid kids had to get on different buses and they weren't going to school, they were going to concentration camps. Hahaha, hahaha, haha, it's a dream so you can't get offended. Retard.

***

On a related note.

(Warning: the following tirade is irrelevant to non-anarchist/primitivists.) (But read it anyway and learn something, fucker).

So many primitivists argue that "health" in hunter-gatherer societies was as good, or better, than health in modern industrial societies. (Random example: Paul Shephard in Coming Home to the Pleistocene.) I wrote a paper on this for a medical anthropology class some years back. I wish I had it now: it is a demonstration of the worst sort of cherry-picking of data and bad logic.

The basis of the argument that everyone uses goes something like this: Health declined in populations the world over following the adoption of agriculture (obligatory link to Jared Diamond). Crowding allows epidemics to proliferate. The switch to a diet based on grains erodes dental health. The combined effects of social stratification and overhunting lead to the majority of the population having little or no access to meat. Living in close proximity to various domestic animals introduced all kinds of awesome new diseases to humans, including perennial favorites polio, smallpox, and the Black Death.

The constant need for workers to farm the fields and build the chief's pyramids and fight the chief's wars meant that women were encouraged to have as many children as possible, which was of course crazy-dangerous back then; the constant need for warriors to fight in wars to get more land for agriculture meant that men were constantly getting killed too. (Not coincidentally, the highest levels of Aztec heaven were reserved for women who died giving birth and men who died in battle). And of course, that giant population dependent on one or two crops for food (instead of every plant in the forest, as in hunter-gatherer times) meant that every time there was a drought or a blight or a bug or whathaveyou, there was a famine, and everybody died.

All this is true. Life as a peasant in an incipient agricultural kingdom was shit. Agriculture probably was "the worst mistake in the history of the human race."

But this idea that hunter-gatherers 12,000 years ago were as "healthy" as we are today is just silly. It comes from a place of fear, and our inability to let go of our civilized values.

I find that usually when this argument comes up, the first thing that's mentioned is life expectancy. & in this case the usual quote comes from Richard Lee; something to the effect of life expectancy among the Kalahari !Kung people "comparing favorably" to industrial societies.

If I wanted to I guess I could do some research and refute this idea that way. But that's not where my mind's at right now. I'd rather say: Spend a weekend in the woods. Just a weekend; just a regular American-style beer and buddies camping trip: You have your own food, purchased at the supermarket; cast-iron skillets for cooking; metal knives, saws, and axes; water-proof tents; decent weather (cause you checked the forecast beforehand); a first aid kit.

I bet it'll be a good time. It doesn't get better than camping. And I bet you'll come back totally exhausted.

Okay, now go again next weekend. Only this time, pretend it's 12,000 B.C. Even though you can identify every plant in the landscape, it still takes some work to go and collect them (and Marshal Sahlins may have been wrong about just how easy this is); even though fish and game are vastly more plentiful, you still put yourself at risk every time you go looking for them, cause predators are more plentiful too-- and if you want to preserve them you can't just put them back in the cooler.

Keep going with it. It's not just for the weekend; this is your life. Every morning you wake up o the ground with the sun and the clamor of birds. The air is clean, you are at no risk of the perpetual cancers of industrialized life. The ten or twenty people around you are all friends, family -- I bet there is constant drama between you all, but none of them is your king and no one is ever going to force you to go fight a war for him. It's a good life. Free, human -- but also, pretty dangerous, and probably, pretty short.

And does that matter? All animals live longer in captivity. Of course: They're in captivity. Wouldn't it be enough to wake up alive in a world of life unmediated everyday, without having to tack on all this extra stuff about living to be one hundred in perfect health? Aren't we using Industrialism's model of "health" (ability to do productive work) anyway, and is that really the proper standard to apply?

Isn't it midnight, and haven't I been typing this rant for an hour?

Yes. Good night.

Friday, May 9, 2008

Forgetting is So Long

& Maybe soon the dreaming.
& maybe soon we'll walk again you and I on all those forgotten pebbly lakeshores in the last days of August.

It's the last days of August and I'm afraid of November.

It's the last night of the world, huddle close for warmth,
I want to hear violins mourning dying stars.

***

My brain today is a lizard dying by the side of a highway. I cannot form a coherent thought. (What are your much-vaunted thoughts anyway? Motion, electrical and chemical, storms in a sea, seen by none).

I wanted to say something like that to the woman last night expounding Romatick and philosophical cetera, instead I said something else and used the word "proletariat." I was right to use it, she wanted to "manage" "nature. Where do you get off managing anything, or stewarding it for that matter--a 4 billion year old system of life? And what is nature, nothing, nowhere, I hate the word and the idea, it is as destructive of thought as the forty-seven drinks I seem to have had last night.

***

Things to keep our eyes on:
  • Bolivia
  • Lebanon
***

Lebanon: I recall, during the 34-day-war in 2006, reading an "article" in the Post-Gazette placed there by some pro-Israel organization. I remember little specifically except the rage I felt in response. Its most egregious claims, I recall, were claiming there is no occupation in Palestine and translating Hezbollah "Army of God." Army of God would, if the Arabic I've pieced together from the Associated Press is correct, be Jaish Allah; Hezbollah, Hiz'b Allah, is Party of God.

It pissed me the fuck off, and is emblematic of how ridiculously distorted American reporting of anything happening in the Middle East is.

Things to watch for: Demonization of Nasrallah; constant invocation of Hezbollah's Syrian and Iranian backing without any context (eg. American backing of the Mujahidin e-Khalq & the fact that the US and Iran are basically already at war and have been for some time).

My favorite source: Robert Fisk.

***

Bolivia: To me one of the funniest parts of the whole autonomy thing is the guy that has dual Bolivian-American citizenship and is a large landholder in, of course, Montana -- that bastion of American individualism and libertarianism -- demonstrating once again what wealthy property-owners mean when they say the word "freedom."

Things to watch for: Morales as dictator; Morales as a lackey for Chavez (who is also a dictator) (and supports terrorists) (unlike the US) (and you know that's true cause the fucking Wall Street Journal said so); note that Morales is the first Indian president of an Indian-majority country occurring at the end of the article if at all; portrayal of Autonomists as rebels or freedom-fighters resisting land-grabbing communists, instead of white-supremacists fuckwads.

My favorite source: Machetera.

***

Well, this bit of rambling went to a more political place than I intended.

***

I am tired and we leave for the Forest in a few hours. But do not worry: We will meet again, once more, before the End.

Thursday, May 8, 2008

January 74th

Not much on the ol' mind today: A perfect day for blogging! Here are some thoughts.
  • Gabe has somehow posted a blog from Friday, May 9th. Not to be outdone, I shall see if I can post this on January 74th, 2018.
  • I finished up a story-thing yesterday. Well, rather, I took the one I had written in October and changed it up some, added a new scene I'd been thinking about for a while, sent it to 3 friends: The Very Good Editor; Always Supportive of My Work; and A Much Better Writer than Me for perusing.
  • So far they have not written back to me. Is this because they are Gay!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
  • Speaking of people being assumed to be Gay, the new rule at the Scoreboard is that I am not allowed to go near the jukebox until after all the regulars have left.
  • Blogger is telling me: "Illegal post date," now that I have tried to save this as having been written on January 74th, 2018. Is this because it is Gay!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!
I cannot think of a single other thing to tell you. Please enjoy this picture of me wearing sunglasses:



And this one of me reading a famous poet's poem outside of his famous house one year ago when I still had long hair:



And this one of the time we journeyed to Oregon on our wagon, and there were Indians coming over the hills, and me and Gabe tried to warn Lexie, but she refused to listen, because she was busy going off on a tirade about how Hezbollah is really a legitimate resistance organization, not truly confessional or sectarian and certainly not a "terrorist" organization as the White House claims, and we were like, Yo, chill out Lexie, the complexities of Lebanese politics are profoundly difficult to untangle, and this isn't the time for this, what with these Indians coming over the hills:



And man! Was she shocked when it turned out that it wasn't Indians on the horizon at all, it was......



...Emily Summerfield!

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Sunny Day Bicycle

i hate cars i hate cars i like it when my friends have cars i hate cars i hate cars i hate cars nearly running me down on the highway i hate cars i hate cars i hate cars 2 percent of the country paved i hate cars i hate cars keep us at war all war all the time i hate cars i hate cars fuck your leftwing bumper sticker i hate cars i hate cars i hate cars yea yer a real in-dee-pendant one, ain'tcha, beholden to gas companies to feed your fucking pickup truck i hate cars i hate cars i hate cars 30,000 gun deaths per year to 40,000 car-deaths and no one's talking about confiscating cars i hate cars but they should be i hate cars and that number doesn't even include Iraqi and American deaths in the name of cars i hate cars because how how how does it make sense to build a culture based on a machine that destroys wildlife and habitat and kills people and pumps poison into the air i hate cars and we're marketed images of freedom and independence based on indentured servitude to oil companies i hate cars i hate cars i hate cars i hate cars America so fat won't even get on a bicycle i really hate cars or walk down the street for a loaf of bread my god i fucking hate cars or plan their cities so that people don't have to drive so much even if they still do a little i hate cars if you could calculate all the energy used to mine and assemble every component of your car before you even filled it up with gas how much land have you destroyed how many workers have you exploited how much oil have you wasted and you know it's running out i hate cars but what about all the jobs created to put all of that together i think you mean the jobs that were not needed before all the gardens were paved and you could only grow things that you could sell for money yes that's what you mean i hate cars i hate cars get rid of them i hate cars i hate cars sell your car or smash it i hate cars i hate cars tear up your driveway plant a garden i hate cars invest in public transportation trains and buses i hate cars i hate cars I Hate Cars!

Monday, May 5, 2008

The Liberal Media Pisses Steve Off

Read this in the New York Times today:

Perhaps that's why virtually no one has rebroadcast the highly relevant prototype for Mr. Wright's fiery claim that 9/11 was America's chickens "coming home to roost." That would be the Sept. 13, 2001, televised exchange between Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell, who blamed the attacks on America's abortionists, feminists, gays and A.C.L.U. lawyers. (Mr. Wright blamed the attacks on America's foreign policy.) Had that video re-emerged in the frenzied cable-news rotation, Mr. McCain might have been asked to explain why he no longer calls these preachers "agents of intolerance" and chose to cozy up to Mr. Falwell by speaking at his Liberty University in 2006.

So...

I get it, and it's all liberal-cute and all that you're showing us how right-wing preachers that support John McCain are just as nasty as that nasty black Wright-wing preacher, and we should be outraged about that too, but, Guess what? You're a fucking idiot.

I love the parentheses around "Mr. Wright blames America's foreign policy." Cause, see, You know who else "blames" America's foreign policy? Mr. Bin Laden, you fucking disinforming piece of shit, and it's your stupid-ass liberal Voice of Reason and Responsibility and Decency fault that half of America is so fucking uninformed and stupid.

So to reiterate: To this fucking fuckwad moron, making up a bunch of shit about how unrelated things (the ACLU, which Osama bin Laden has probably never heard of, and 9/11) are related is the intellectual equivalent, the "prototype," even, of saying something that actually happened in reality but that America is too retarded to hear about.

The thing that makes me angriest is that the column in question is intended as a defense of Obama or attack on the Right and yet, coming as it does from the Paper of Record, it is still just a pile of bullshit.

Fuck off.

Random Notes

  • If I owned the tallest building in the world, I would call it the tallest building in the Solar System.
  • In much the same way as, were I from Portland, OR, I would tell people "I am from the whitest city in the Solar System."
  • Jane tells me she was at a party this weekend at the old house on Penn where I used to live. & she tells me everyone there now has lots of money. Penn Avenue: I never believed Adam when he told me we were the first wave of gentrification ("First the starving artists move in, then the yuppies follow") but it looks like he was right.
  • Thanks to Mr. Boette, I have discovered this anarcho-funny thing. In one of the panels two hipsters are talking to a squatter-punk. The exchange of dialog: "Hey you filthy squatter, shouldn't you be begging for change somewhere?" "Hey you hipster fucks, shouldn't you be gentrifying a working-class neighborhood somewhere?"
  • Which side are you on?
  • Lately I've been thinking that, instead of talking about stuff that happens on a given weekend/weeknight/time I feel like drinking, I should start drawing it all as a cartoon! And maybe I could draw each of my friends as a different forest animal.
  • Me: Coyote.
  • Gabriel: Lizard.
  • Megan: Frog.
  • Emily: Badger.
  • Lee Ann: Cat.
  • Mike: Opossum.
  • Lily: Raccoon.
  • Lexie: Squirrel.
  • Little Murphy's would be set in a little meadow and tended by a turtle married to an eel. There would be two swamps, called The Idle Hour and The Scoreboard. In one of the swamps, the snakes and alligators try to eat you; at the other, they bring you fish to drink. The people sing: "Can you remember which swamp is which after a night of drinking thirteen fish? Be sure to remember which swamp is which, you happen to be the snakes' favorite dish!"
  • Sometimes they vary the song: If I'm talking to Raccoon I'd sing "You know that Raccoon is the snakes' favorite dish!"
  • On an entirely different note, I would like to start playing Go. I bet I would be good at it.
  • & like Gary Snyder said, "The worlds like an endless, four-dimensional game of Go."
  • What do you think the snakes would think of that plan at the Idle Hour?

Sunday, May 4, 2008

Everybody's Out On the Run Tonight

So many mornings I wake up and think, Where am I? and, How did I get here? Then memories start tumbling back, and I think, O shit, what if actions have consequences?

I suppose it was noon by the time we rounded everybody up. The night before Megan's Dad's Band had played at Little Murphy's, and after beer and Jameson and a rousing chorus of John Denver we retired to Megan's house for a spot of Pabst and lighter fluid.

This is all to say, some of us were mildly hungover at the start of our journey North. Nevertheless I'd call the mood in the car cautiously optimistic, even after lunch at the worst diner in America, even after it turned cold and started raining. Cautious optimism, crescendoing to euphoria as we arrived upon that fabled form of human social organization predicated upon the despoliation of the countryside, the catalyst of colonization and the foundation of war and the vehicle of every form of political tyranny; the Great Absurdity, unprecedented in 4 billion years of Earth; the place where nobody calls you "fag" and anybody else doesn't believe in God and you're not afraid to openly admit your politics and you spent a whole day without seeing a pickup truck and everybody is beautiful and nobody even cares; the City, man, Portland, fuck, is this still even Oregon? God, I just want to run up to everybody and kiss them.

Started at Powel's, get it out of the way, you know you will spend nine hours there if you are not careful -- they dragged me out as I was reading (I think) Henri Bergson. Supped at Montage, and I had a delicious veggie gumbo which in the end was wrapped up in tinfoil in shape of a mouse, How cute, and which I think is still somewhere in Gabe's car. And Rachel greeted us with hugs and beers, and Michael with his own refreshments, and, after a stop at a friend's for tequila and homemade Bourbon (or not really homemade but they'd added orange peel and cloves and cinnamon and cetera, and my was it tasty); then to the bar.

Did it start to go downhill when I started drinking whiskey? Was it earlier? Either way before the night was out I made at least one girl cry.

The bar we were at was a fine place, you know me, and I think thus you know what it looked like and who else was there. A large black man sat beside us with an even larger teddy bear sitting beside him ("Where's my bear?" "Your beer's right here." "No, not my beer, my bear!"), claimed to have been in Delta Force and offered to sell me cocaine made of Tylenol. I bought him a beer for his bear, informed him that I, not Miles Davis, was in fact the King of Cool, and gave him the slip.

Because now it was a dance party in a downstairs hippie hole with the band only covering James Brown songs. The whitest city in America? Perhaps, but it was fun anyway, or, it looked like it would be fun, but I was too confused to dance, and then there was fighting, tears, confessions; I would tell you the whole story but the participants comprise 30% of the readers of this nonsensical blog; please pretend to be surprised that I was the asshole.

Maybe eventually we left and were suddenly playing pool (which I'm terrible at) and ping pong (which I'm even worse at) and, intoxicated in so many ways I felt it necessary to go wandering into the cold night. I was lost, and eventually Rachel found me; she gave me her sweater to wear and when we got back the Boys made fun of me for wearing it; I cannot claim I understood. Lexie and Gabe had gone by then, and we found them eventually, and I imagine they were annoyed at being abandoned in a strange and hostile place (or maybe it was just hostile cause I was stoned).

Morning, Hawthorne Street. Breakfast was delicious except for the eggs. I miss Breakfast Meat: they gave me vegetarian sausage and You don't exactly find that in Roseburg and I was happy. I took a picture of my plate; I will show you it when I get home. Then record stores, vintage clothing, book stores; I didn't buy anything the whole trip and now I am regretful.

Hugs and goodbyes: Then, the longest drive ever, and we were back in ol' Rosey. I went to bed, slept woke; slept again, woke up at 9:45 confused and late for work, and shaking with fear; I haven't yet paid rent this month and blew maybe $200 on debauchery and pleasure; what the hell am I going to do?

And then I looked at my bank account, and I discovered: In the night, while I was sleeping, old Uncle Sam sneaked into my account, poked his cold hands around all the little overdraft fees, and left $500 under the pillow.

Now it's time to return to my job and daily routine. So learn a lesson from all of this, kids:

It's okay to go mad and waste money and never think about the future; if things ever reach crisis point, the US government will step in and save you!

Saturday, May 3, 2008

Onward Delirium

Dear Morning,

Mindwrecked and shaking, and we leave for Portland within the hour.

(Will it welcome us still?)

And we ate at that awful place this morning again, and my stomach is ill. Fires at night; Lighter Fluid; and it won a blue ribbon a hundred years ago. You know what I'm talking about.

This is a quick note. Emily is standing here ranting about something, I think chocolate chips. I am going to cleanse myself of the night and thence to the city. I promise to share pictures with you upon my return.

Sincerely,

"Steve"