Just a Suggestion....

Apparently people are killing themselves over their debt levels.

I have a different idea. What if there was a website with pictures, phone numbers, names, home addresses of everyone who worked for a debt collector? It could have links to laws regarding harassment and stalking and information on making bombs and such. I would have no thing to do with it of course. But wouldn't it be interesting?

***

In the article I linked to, Barbara Ehrenreich says:

The alternative is to value yourself more than any amount of money and turn the guns, metaphorically speaking, in the other direction. It wasn't God, or some abstract economic climate change, that caused the credit crisis. Actual humans -- often masked as financial institutions -- did that, (and you can find a convenient list of names in Nomi Prins's article in the current issue of Mother Jones.) Most of them, except for a tiny few facing trials, are still high rollers, fattening themselves on the blood and tears of ordinary debtors. I know it's so 1930s, but may I suggest a march on Wall Street?

I agree, but may I suggest that the fact that the guns must (always always necessarily always) be "metaphorical," whereas theirs are not, is why We Always Lose?

The Pleasures of: Episode 11

Spiders

A large and black one turned up in the tub when I was showering recently; I flushed her down the drain but did not feel proud about it. There are only two spaces I claim for Only Me: The bathtub and my bed. You can be anywhere else, little spider, but if I were to just-so-casually stroll into your web you would murder me the same.

15 years old I spent my days wandering about the yard & reimagining it; also a series of stories about the beings dwelling therein and their adventures. Little elves or fairies called nemians lived out their fantastical lives in cities under the forsythia bushes, their capital in the willow tree. And once, their queen had to go on a journey to save the willow tree's soul, which led to the driveway through the basement and into the attic. In the basement she was aided by the King of the Spiders, who though terribly evil himself was enemy of the King of the Rats.

But just because you terrify me and even though you could sometimes melt my flesh with a bite does not mean I do not love you.

In Virginia you would find my grandparents' house in a plastic nightmare suburb, and in this place find spiders, desperate guerrillas, only last defenders of wilderness.

In Texas, this is my favorite, the spiders built a web together, commune, sprawling 200 yards which is more impressive than so many human cities.

And in the recess of my mind a spider, queen of all, sits a throne in her web and watches out with glowing red eyes, grinning, waiting, one day to ensnare me, devour a fly.

Thoughts, Midnight

1.

The "family" is defined as A relationship between two individuals For the purpose of rearing children because this is a) the smallest and b) most transitory grouping in which the reproduction of society can occur.

2.

"Individualism" in our society means one man or woman against the entire framework of state power. A man has a credit rating, a job, a tax burden to pay, a level of debt, an obligation to obey the "law" or become the victim of state violence. The social contract is between the individual and the whole. Today, that "whole" consists of 300,000,000 other people, a number impossible to comprehend; the Whole therefore does not consists of real living individual people, but rather a series of fictions: the government, the law, the tax code, the corporations, the churches; institutions with no flesh and blood reality but capable nevertheless of, ultimately, murdering an individual without protest.

3.

There is no law between one individual and another. Socialist "collectivism" is not different: It is one individual against a fiction; in this case the fiction is, in its ideal version at least, much more inclined to buy off the individual with guarantees of food, medicine, shelter.

4.

Over the millenia, power has become more sophisticated; fictions have become more sophisticated; fictions have been layered on fictions. God is fairly easy to see through. America (which has even less existence than God) is much more difficult to disbelieve: But maybe this has less to do with sophistication and more to do with the fact that America is currently much more empowered to murder than God.

5.

"I'm proud to be an American." Due to random chance, I was born in such a situation that I have greater access to material wealth and less restrictions over my individual choices than many other people in the world. I had absolutely nothing to do with bringing this situation about. Moreover, I would (opposing, as I do, unrestricted immigration; believing, as I do, in the fiction of "national borders") deny these benefits to others in the world. I am prepared to act with moral revulsion to someone who would say "I am proud to be White" and deny the privilege of Whites to non-Whites; who would say "I am proud to be Male" and deny the privilege of males to females. Nevertheless, I am proud to be American.

6.

The individual against an array of powerful forces so great it is impossible to even begin to comprehend them. As coping mechanisms we have superheroes and science fiction stories which show us power greater than that assembled by the governing fictions of our own lived reality, "society," "culture." They do not exist. An individual stands alone in this reality against powers unprecedented in the 4 billion year history of life on earth. This individual never questions this fact, never acknowledges it; it is beyond comprehension, too big to even be fathomable; In this situation everything any one person says or does is reduced to absurdity.

7.

It's not so bad, is it?

8.

A marriage is between a man and a woman -- the only situation in which two individuals can share the responsibility of life against power. They are only there for the ever-so-brief period it takes to raise a child to adulthood. Or, wait, maybe it can be between a man and a man or a woman and a woman, too. No, it can't. Thus a massive attack on individual liberty is met by a response which is also an attack upon liberty, neither side able to argue, able to function or even exist outside the totalitarian discourse.

9.

What if seven people shared a job? What if four people paid their taxes together? What if the law between twelve friends was, by mutual agreement, different than that that governs my relationship to the state? Why does every "American" get the same right to vote, even though every person is so completely different from one another? Why am I allowed to know a presidential candidate's age, sex, or race, but not an applicant for many far, far less important jobs? Why is there only one president, one government, one set of laws for three-hundred million people, even though they all have different experiences, desires, interests, and needs? Why can't Mexicans vote for Barrack Obama?

10.

A world ruled by fictions. A corporation is not alive, or an individual. Neither is a government. Neither is a law. Neither is a nonprofit. Neither is an ideology. Neither is a religion, or its God.

11.

It's really not so bad, is it?

12.

Maybe in the morning I will wake up and it will all make sense.

Bats at Midnight!

Thursday was a day of Batman.

First after work we rented Batman Begins. I had never seen it.

After this we went to the midnight premier of The Dark Knight. I had never seen it, either.

Reflections:

Batman Begins was troubling as all superhero stories are troubling. First we meet the Waynes, a family of billionaires who are just trying to make life better for everyone. You know, the way billionaires do. Then, of course, they're assaulted for their money by a man with a gun, who is obviously evil, because it's obviously evil for the lowest of the lower classes to take matters into their own hands and steal from the rich their illegitimate wealth.

It was a propaganda film, like all superhero movies. Look at all the crooked cops, judges, and union bosses in the mafia den! Good thing none of our corporate officials are corruptible in this way! But then of course, the Scarecrow turned up, and also the Brotherhood of Shadows, so it was time for Holy Freaking Crap and Goddamn That Is So Cool. The scenes with the Brotherhood were amazing, the story of How It Came To Be was extremely interesting, the climax was as completely boring and predictable and flashy and explosive. The nods to Lovecraft were nice.

Then there was The Dark Knight. Another propaganda film, this time with an anarchist Joker who of course is not actually an anarchist. However.

Holy Goddamn Fucking Shit, and Welcome to the Great Nerdgasm of 2008.

I don't even know where to start.

I can't. I can't do it.

I can tell you about the theater. It was crowded. Some teenagers were drunk. Megan was angry. They gave out prizes and I didn't win. One of the drunken teenagers held up his phone and shouted "My friend just had a baby!" Everyone cheered. I wondered what would happen if I stood up and just-as-gleefully shouted "My friend just had an abortion!" Sarah didn't think it was funny. The movie ended. Maybe you should stop reading this blog and go watch it now.

Conversation Overheard in a House in Lawrenceville, Pittsburgh

Jay: "Yeah, when Steve's drunk you can get him to do pretty much anything."

Jim: "Except behave himself."

....Why do so many people know my only weakness??

Random Thought

This has been going on for 9 years, and, I suspect, it will continue for the rest of my life.

I'll be going about my day, reading or working or (as in the most recent case) trying to fall asleep, when all of a sudden the thought will pop into my head:

My God, I fucking hate George Lucas.

In the Boredest Hour

Four posts in one day?

No, I will set this to post tomorrow.

It is Monday night. I am bored. A lot.

I have become quite good at rolling tobacco in pages from the phone book.

This is as painful as it sounds, and was suggested to me by Shelby. I tried this the first time last Thursday. Friday morning I said to Sarah: "I did something really gross last night and now my throat hurts. ...It was Shelby's idea!"

As I recall, she nodded slowly, said "Yes. That's very nice," and didn't speak to me for the rest of the morning.


Tomorrow, THANK GOD, is Pay Day. I am very excited for this.

In fact the rest of the week looks to be filled with promises of excitement, possibly adventure, maybe even entertainment!

Tomorrow Aimee Mann is playing at the halfshell. Everyone who is a girl is thrilled. Today at lunch we discovered $4 bottles of wine at the convenience store. Now, I am also thrilled.

Pay Day. I owe money to at least 2 of the bars in town; quite a lot to one of them. I told this to Thomas, who was unaware that it was even possible to do such things in 2008. He then accused me of infecting Roseburg with my East Coast ways.

I sighed and thought, "If only."

The Obama New Yorker Thing

Speaking of Gawker, you know what I like? This. It's been annoying the fuck out of me all day (since I opened my email this morning to encounter this shrieking lefty cryfest from Alternet, which can almost always fuck off but which I read anyway because of some reason) and I'm glad that every single leftish person in America isn't being completely fucking retarded and playing into the right-wing stereotype of liberals ("progressives")(I love that we even needed a politically correct term for ourselves) as a bunch of desperately shrill, permanently offended pussies who like classic cars.

(Note: The previous link will work only if Gabe bumps his this-most-recent-Friday-night-post ahead for me.)

(Note 2: If he doesn't, I will not explain the joke to you.)

(Note 3: Hahaha too bad.)

In the Middle of the Workday

Actual Google Chat Dialog, 4:16 Monday Afternoon


Me: Okay, I've exhausted graphjam, passive aggressive notes, and even Crap Thing About Men, along with all webcomics.

Me: what should i do now??

Emily: http://gawker.com/

The Pleasures Of: Episode 10

Ants

I cannot begin to tell you how much I love ants.

As a young Steve, I would spend hours watching them. Young, and not so young; and I remember all my brothers' friends mocking me for this. But I knew where all the colonies were in the backyard, and could still draw you a map of them today and tell you something of their history.

Would you like to hear it?

In the garden there was a large colony of Black Ants*. They lived in the west end, among the zinnias. Nearby was a colony of Brown Ants -- I mean the little and relatively cute sort, the ones that you often see warring on sidewalks in the early weeks of spring. One year I poked a bunch of holes into the ground and the brown ants took advantage of this, sending a raiding party agains the Blacks which gained them, as far as I could tell, only the shell of a potato bug.

The retaliation was swift and overwhelming. The Black Ants annihilated their brown cousins.

Summers past. The Black Ant colony thrived in their city among the zinnias. Their only enemies had been defeated; there were no threats nearby. And then the slavers came.

Slavers? I believe they are commonly called Amazons. They are red and slightly smaller than the Black Ants but extremely fierce. They have no worker caste, only soldiers, and are in fact incapable of rearing their own young or feeding themselves. So they subsist by invading another colony, killing the inhabitants and enslaving local workers.

They appeared in the driveway one summer, a column of thousands marching from the garden to the yard in which lived very small brown ants, let's call them Brownlings. They're little and unaggressive and they got their asses soundly kicked. Many colonies were overrun and their eggs brought home to--

To where? It seemed that they had taken over the Black Ant colony in the garden. But how could this be? I had seen no sign of battle.

I still don't know exactly what happened. But some days after their first appearance, the whole garden was covered by war, from the zinnias to the tomato plants some 30 feet away. (this is the human equivalent of I think 1 and a half miles. Holy crap). There were thousands of them, Black Ants and Amazons, or tens of thousands. The Black Ants fought with a courage and a tenacity I had not seen before, nor have I since. They defended their homelands against Amazons who swarmed them; and in the end they were killed, every last one, and their colony was destroyed. But in dying they may have saved others: Never again did the columns of red-shelled Amazon warriors march forth across the driveway, and the colony did not survive the Winter.

This was long ago.

I have an experience every Spring. I mentioned those brown ants earlier. So often I see them in April and May, fighting brutally against one another over cracks in the sidewalk. I stop always to look: No one has any idea why I am doing what I am doing, and I sense they don't even actually believe me when I tell them that I am watching a war between ants.

But is that the only reason I like them? Because they fight gruesome wars with one another?

Surely not.

Here is my suspicion about ants.

They evolved from wasps who lived in houses, but were mostly solitary. Over time the wasp nests became more complex; all but the queens and the males lost their wings; and contemporary ant society appeared. This is what the fossil record tells me.

Here's what I think happened:

The Wasps formed a relatively stable, Jeffersonian democracy of yeoman farmers, living in their quasi-solitary houses, killing spiders for their young. Over time, new ideas evolved about society and the role of the individual; simultaneously, new technologies of body modification were developed. The nature of work was called into question, as was the value of independence and the need for sexual reproduction.

Using advanced technologies, the majority of the population was rendered sterile. Through implants in their brains they were set to carrying out various tasks. Males, it was decided, were best used to facilitate sex; they had had little interest in much else anyway, and it did not take much technological tweaking to enhance this drive and to cause the males to die after its fulfillment. Only one breeding female, it was decided, was necessary in a given city; her grotesque, bloated body could handle the egg-laying for an entire small nation.

Time passed. The ants learned how to code the construction of their various technologies into their own DNA, so that their own cells produced the nanobots which had previously needed to be surgically implantsd. And eventually, what happened? The rulers died away, or perhaps forgot their own existence, which is most likely, and what remained? But an endlessly self-justifying population of slaves. Slaves without a master, forever serving for the purpose of serving.

This is one thought. Another: Contained within an ant colony is as much grey matter as in a human brain. They aren't smart, but collectively they are. Do they think? Does the colony think, ponder?

Does a mass have a soul?

What does that mean for us?

Either way, I think they're neat. And I'm old enough now that if anybody makes fun of me for staring at ants in the garden instead of smoking pot or playing football, I will punch them in their goddamn face!




*I usually prefer not to know these species' actual names, and don't in most cases; it's so much more interesting to understand their behavior and not only understand them as a label applied by a central institution somewhere. The Black Ants I'm talking about here are about a quarter inch long and live in relatively large colonies, they're all black, but they're not as big as the ones you see living in trees.

The Pleasures of: Episode 9

Frogs!

Because I think that you already know. And it isn't the reality so much: If I could I would spend my days sitting on a lily pad with a floppy brown hat and a red fishing pole, a fly tied to the end, catching fish until the end of my days, hopping and leaping when I wanted to get about.

And then here is this thing that I wrote perhaps five years ago:

Well If I was a tortoise then I guess I'd go swimming
Down the little lake where the little lilies grow
And if they grow there on lily pads where frogs sit a'fishing
With red fishing poles and always tell you "Good morning;"

Well if all that were true then I guess
I'd go down to the bank and
Bury me deep in the reeds and the mud,
Where all the little earthworms always tell me
"Good morning."

It was a poem at the time, and it was written under these conditions:

We were at a writers' retreat. It was the third night, and every night there somebody had taken it upon themselves to write a sex poem about someone else in the room, which they would then read to the group (as every evening we had a reading). A girl named Amanda had the night before read one about me which was basically a play-by-play description/how-to guide. That third night I said to the people, "In keeping with the theme, I have decided to write a poem of my own, which I call 'To Amanda.'"

Did anybody get it? I don't know, but there they all Frogs are, all on their lily pads, all a'fishing.

A Rebirth of Wonder?

Just an update:

Our first ever poetry slam was a great success, and more fun than I could have imagined.

L opened the evening with a poem from T.S. Eliot. I can't remember which (sorry), but I remember it was great.

S and I followed with that poem by Pound I mentioned a few posts back. We took it line by line, with her opening, and then recited together:

...Let gods speak softly of us
In days hereafter,
the shadowy flowers of Orcus
Remember thee.

This went well. It was followed by one of the kids reading Annabel Lee. Then another read his own works, and another, and another. It was magnificent. And some of them can write so well! There are Poets and Great Souls in the making, here, and I was overjoyed.

I closed the night with Ferlinghetti's I Am Waiting. This was very well received and then, you know, we had a grand heap of ice cream which we all proceeded to eat.

It was beautiful. It was why I came here.

Being as I am somewhat permanently stressed I am certain I will have to answer for sixty different things tomorrow and none of them pleasant, but now, tonight, was good, and I am glad, and also proud.

Hooray!

On Foodstamps

Dear Roseburg Department of Human Services,

Fuck you.

Sincerely,

Steve

Of Poesy

I am tumbling poems over in my mind. Thinking and thinking which one to read. Do you understand let me tell you:

This Wednesday we will have a poetry slam (have I ever told you how much I hate that term) at my place of work. I will be there, my people having organized it, and, being there, should must read something of my stuff.

So I need to read something. So, I need to write something.

I am desperately tired of and never want to ever again write in the piece-by-piece perfection of the college undergrad. Look at the enjambment! That surprising turn of images! Did you know that she would say that next -- and By God that indentation!

Blah, boring, fuck, get an A. And forget escaping the shadow of Pound et al, let's pretend they were the only poets ever and just ape them til the end of time.

I'm sitting here raging and ranting and part of it is insecurity but what is the rest? I am a skilled reader and can make anything interesting but have I written anything worth sharing? I am torn, what to do, what would they accept. Some of my blog posts here can be maybe cut up and reread as poetics. Or maybe something older.

A year ago, we did a training where we read a cheesy poem about reading by some woman. After this we wrote our own poem "after the style of" it. I like mine. I also, I just remembered, a few years ago wrote a poem when someone told me that as a child she used to be afraid of Pancake Men living under her bed. That is an option too. I want to here print these things and you tell me what you think.

First, The Pancake Men:

The good little pancake men under my bed
Are singing fine songs, that fill me with dread
It seemed a delight til I learned what they said --
Those cruel little pancake men under my bed!

It seems they believe it's a cruel twist of fate,
That I have a bed while they grace a plate.
So they plot with their minds full-corrupted by hate
How they shall overcome their unfortunate fate.

The plan seems to be to slip out while I doze
And lop off my fingers, my ears, and my toes
And string me up by my neck with the garden hose
Then mash me to batter -- While I'm trying to doze!

Then they'll have the bed! And they'll rule this house!
And they'll steal my car to ca-ruise and carouse!
And they'll never be measured, nor poured by the ounce,
When I'm dead and eaten, and they rule this house!

Okay and now the one about reading, which takes a slightly different tone:

I am from shadows and necromantic whispers, Aha!,
the myriad unnamable Sea of memory and lies;
I am from the humble world beneath the garden shrubs,
of ants warring and spiders spinning visions in the dew;
I am from a fine strange cottage under the willow’s branches
by the stream, and the bone woman lives there, and the
Tulip-men, and you,
and there we danced merrily to thin white notes in the
Moonlight, when the winged dead flew down from the stars
and the Lord of Summernight Dreamtime sang in his voice
of crickets and breezes.

I am from fine old wisdom tales and the transmitted
memories in the fire’s crackling;
From a certain sunny pleasure dome and caves of ice, aha,
Beware!

From the words that spoke the sun to light,
From embers slowly dying,
and the welcoming laugh of the creek at noon (before they
drained it).

I am from endless dunes and caws of stately seagulls,
the voice of light shimmering on waves I took to be the
Voice of God;
from the ocean who made me his son as he watched my
father walk away;
the old oak tree that held us in her arms.

In the grey banality of the dying time, when color has
gone, and dreams, and music; In the place where cats
cannot speak and trees have no wisdom, Wind no soft
and loverly carress and Sun no stern but kind admonishment,
In the drunken hour hiding in the corner with forgotten light,
I am from the quiet ghost of pages rising in the mind,
singing memories of light, memories of home.

Oh and there it goes. This might, perhaps, need the original to be read first, and it was sort of a response to it; but maybe not; or maybe nothing. Dear Ones, what should i Do?

The Pleasures of: Episode 8

Dandelions

Because how couldn't you? when you see them, yellow people happy colonizing lawn. And how they open to the sunlight! and how they drift so delicate on wind giving birth and granting wishes.

And such nutritious! They are a thousand fools who say "Weed" spend money to kill them, them who love they and would feed they glad with bitter vitamins.

Hear them speak to the morning, and say Gratitude to the sun for nourishment. And whisper scented words to the bees of lust and desire.

Perceiving reality this way we see the bee dance one to the next and gather pollen and alight; but this is not the only way -- and if you angle the universe a bit you and I become flowers and our lovemaking only the intercession of transdimensional insects feeding on our psychic effluvia; so is it too for the people of the lawn, I think (and what sweet spirit-honey can be brewed from two bodies entwined in the dark!)

Ever-patient returners of the dead lands back to life, they follow our footsteps across the globe and generous attempt to make amends to the soil; and left to the rule of the flowers the world would be a million better off, I think.

Happy America Day, Everybody

And a cheers to the fact that, despite an obscenely unfair distribution of wealth and with it access to political power, medical care, advanced technology, education and so much more;

despite a justice system based on revenge and brutality and adherence to a magical nothingness called the "Law," overwhelmingly supported by hordes of foaming-at-the-mouth barbarians eager to See the Bastard Fry or Lock 'em Up and Throaway the Key, a system based only on hurting people and destroying lives and never on rectifying bad situations;

despite a two-hundred-year history of constant aggressive war, reaching every continent on the globe;

despite all these things this sure ain't a bad place to be




white and middle class.

Of Greeks

I recently discovered or more likely rediscovered (as it seemed to spark something somewhere in my memory) a poem by Ezra Pound that I love, and that perhaps you remember too.

Its title is Greek, which I cannot translate & will not attempt here; the only person I know who can read it pronounces it something like "Doria" and cannot translate it either; from memory, it goes:

Be in me as the the eternal moods
of the bleak wind, and not
As transient things are --
gaiety of flowers.
Have me in the strong loneliness
of sunless cliffs
And of grey waters.
Let the gods speak softly of us
In days hereafter,
The shadowy flowers of Orcus
Remember thee.

***

(I have not yet pressed publish, but I guarantee Blogger will fuck with the format; either way you get it.) Yesterday one of the kids came into my office and we recited it to him in turns; he was only a little creeped out, I think.

It is July 3rd! and we all know what that means. Tomorrow is America Day! Happy United States, everybody. We'll see you next week.

And the Days

And goodness but it is morning again.

Very soon They will be here and will drag me away from you, dear ones.

(Don't you fear They, on mornings like this?)

(And didn't you wish we had something to talk about?)

I did.

Instead there is Not.

And a My Goodness what terrible things are happening in my brain/stomach.

Should I tell you facts?

And last night there was the Halfshell. I met the new friends, which are called Cat and Marine. We all went to the Bar, and Scotty was there, or as I like to think of him, Super Mario, and last night he seems to have eaten a one-up mushroom, because he was totally and creepily hitting on Marine like he had at least 3 lives left if she stabbed him. I kind of wished she would, so that when he came back I could step on him and squash him. You know what I mean? Also, the band was good.

What else is occurring in the rambling vastness of my secretly vacant mind?

I have a vision of a willow tree, a willow tree by a pond --

A pond, or a creek? A pond, I think. Not swampy, but fetid; and scum floating on top; a stray mosquito buzzes, but has no interest in drinking us, or if he did we would give up gladly our happy blood; spiders skulk through the woodchip leafy ground and ants of course going about their tasks or perhaps having a war as they do in the leaves;

It is morning on the eighth day, and you are there with me, and everything is soft and orange and no one was ever sad or drunk or dead;

We can live there maybe in a ramshackle shack and a tomato patch and rows of beans and cabbages; honeybees, a chicken for eggs, I finally have become good at fishing and that we can grill for the supper;

When you go outside in the morning the sunlight catches in your hair and sort of sparkles in that way it only can in morning, and the morning of the world is a morning like no other morning ever can be again and thus you glow and radiate but never so that the birds ever fear to look at you;

I am kind again, and all this sin forgiven. Mornings the cat and I go and visit with the toads who call us by name, and in the evening I play little songs on a flute made of wood, little songs that have no words because words will never come to plague us; and nobody has written any books to poison my mind.

Wouldn't it be, and, oh, couldn't it be? Who insisted we learn to walk upright? Why did all these hearts transform to such sharp swords? When sunlight shimmers on the water like this, that's when I hear God whistling inside of me.

All these visions fade in a way that dreams never can. We all return to empty.