MISSIVE 2 AMERIKA, #1

missive 1

1. TRUMPMANIA

 

Friends, seriously: please listen: they’re all Evil Shits.
.
Both sides of the pseudo-divide between Republicrat and Demoblican: shitty with corruption, shitty with contempt for “The People”: both sides are out to gorge on wealth and power at the expense of a naive and numbed-out citizenry. The distraction of Trumpmania (those who hate him and those who love him are partners in the same pointless business) is there to hide the REAL divide, which is between the Autocratic Psychopaths running the show (THEM) and the Serfs in the audience (US). The figurehead in the POTUS chair is not running the show (which should be obvious from the leaked email, by the Citicorp Exec we’d never heard of, laying out for candidate Obama a list of appropriate running mates). Amoral as they are, the figureheads are not the real problem (though, of course, deliberately starving half a million Iraqi children to death, as did the Clintons, with Ms. Albright’s help, is certainly “problematic”). The real problem is the titanic juggernaut of unchecked, pseudo-accountable, transnational Corporate Power being wielded by very, very few people… the .0000001%… who consider you and I to be dangerous as an aggregate population-mass of 7+ billion… and, individually, as nothing, as zilch, as beneath-notice. If They didn’t hold us in utter contempt, why would They give us the “choice”… considering that there are millions of capable adults in the USA… between Rapey Demented Racist Trump and Crypto-Racist Pedo-Biden? I assure you: They are laughing Their asses off over this “election” year. As They always do. Cracking up at the cattle.
.
Why can’t we stop being the butt of this rancid joke?
.
There were protests when George Floyd was casually executed, on the street, with sensual slowness,  by a representative of The State, so I know you’re good people.
.
So why aren’t you protesting the sensual slowness of the casual execution of your own lives and cultures? And I don’t mean, by “protest,” that you should march, or throw rocks: They’re ready for that, They prefer it.
.
I’m saying to use the two-way spying device of Social Media to build a dissenting crystal.
.
They hate dissenting crystals.
.
I’m saying: become a vocal and aware pain in the ass to the narcotized Norm.
.
What do you have to lose but your naivety?
.
.

2. SINGING TO THE ANGELS

 

I grew up in one of the most toxic neighborhoods of North America, though I didn’t know it at the time. At the time I merely thought it was Hell.  It was in an industrial No-Man’s-Land on the the far Southside of Chicago, near a polluted body of water called Lake Calumet. I smelled the day-glow streamers from the Sherwyn Williams paint factory and the blue smoke of flaming garbage in the black-encrusted incinerator up three stone steps in the bulkhead of the end of the row of the apartments of our block. I  heard the massive stomping bangs of the steel-forging giant of Interlake Steel, a five minute drive by car. Interlake Steel sat on a peninsula to which a service road ramped down from the streets of the mythical place called Riverdale, a neighborhood around that part of Lake Calumet that we took, in our hideous circumstances, to be fancy, though it must have been for very poor whites. I’d see it at night,  the blast furnace, while being driven home from occasional weekends at my grandmother’s house, which was far away in Morgan Park, and one of the highlights of that miserable drive back to “The Reservation” was the vision of the Hellish Fourth of July of sparks exploding under the steel-forging giant’s deafening hammer in the open mouth of the furnace.
.
childhood
author, to the left (suitably), in grandmother’s back yard, c. ’63, looking very much like a sharecropper’s offspring c. 1929

Sunday mornings I’d hear the church bells ring. I can’t now recall if I ever knew whether or not it was just one church or several, though it sounded to my childish ears to be many, a triumphant wall of sound like the celebration of a miracle or the end of a war. The sound  I sometimes heard in the vintage films I’d see on our portable b&w television,  dramatic cascade of big bells proclaiming the majesty of The Lord and all of His Creation sometimes followed, in these films from the ’40s and ’50s, by Auld Land Syne. I’d hear the Sunday morning bells and a paper boy, one particular paper boy,  under my mother’s bedroom window calling out, with his pre-pubescent voice managing a very knowing, very sly and worldly, swagger:  “Sunday Morrrr-ning Paaaay-per!”

.

Sunday morning beams would slice between my mother’s heavy goldish curtains and in the beams were suspended sun-struck dust motes I thought were angels. I would sing to these angels. I must have been very young,  three or four, but I remember quite distinctly that the sensation I felt as I sang to these angels was romantic love.

 

 

.

.

3. MOUSE THEORY

 

On the one hand, will you be able to predict, with total accuracy, which way a mouse will turn, at any given moment? Of course not. On the other hand: will a mouse ever do something that will generally surprise you? It’s doubtful. Mice do what mice do.
.

What is Power?  Power is the ability to do things.  To do what things? To do the things which realize the desires of the Powerful. Will you be able to predict, with total accuracy, which way the desires of the powerful  will turn, at any given moment? Of course not. On the other hand: will the desires of the powerful ever do something that will generally surprise you? Yes.

.

That’s the difference.

 

 

 

.

2 Comments

  1. st aug! it is clear that ‘harborside international golf center’, which google maps shows is on the shores of lake calumet, is after your time

    with respect to the powerful – presumably they, like the mice, are subject to the harvard law of behavior – under carefully controlled experimental conditions, they do what they damn well please

    with respect to angels – i hardly ever use this word, but yesterday at the daily mail, in the comments to a story about how a country singer and her husband had rescued a stray kitten from the side of the road, i wrote

    “people that are kind to animals make the angels smile”

    i got 32 up votes for that – twice as many as i did for my comment on a story on how actress Kate Beckinsale sticks ‘googly eyes’ all over herself and her cat Clive and blasts out Britney Spears as she pretends they’re in a nightclub

    “the cat has to put up with a lot from her but cats can be very loyal – spouse and self had two very loyal cats who are now at their eternal rest in the back yard – you have to be an above-average human to be a better friend than a loyal cat”

    Like

    1. MC!

      It’s actually awe-inspiring how many things have come after my time (including Sesame Street’s LGBT characters) but I do remember that there was a golf course across the literal tracks from my *grandmother’s* un-slummy neighborhood, a five minute walk from her yard, and how I’d collect the errant balls (so bouncy, so shiny, so bewitchingly reputed to be packed with so much internal pressure that they’d take a kid’s eye out if he managed to rupture one with hedge clippers) nestling in the gravel between the course wooden ties. It felt so spooky-illicit harvesting these balls.

      Re: respecting animals: last fall, Daughter and I rescued, in a sequence, two weak bumblebees seen doddering and lurch-fizzing and absolutely flightless along the wide open and deadly sidewalk; each in turn got spirited to a comfy place in a plastic ball-room-sized grade A palliative-care suite with twigs, shades leaves, restorative pools of sunlight and a shallow bottle-lid of (natural) honey-water, from which each, in turn, did copiously drink, gathering enough strength, eventually, to climb a twig and, in a few days, die there. Sad but… those were two happy fucking geriatric bumblebees at the end. If God is a bumblebee (you never know) Daughter and I are sitting pretty. If God is a slug (I hope not), garden-protecting Wife has some explaining to do…

      Like

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR [letters are vetted for cogency and style]

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s