16 Mar 2008
" Marlenus sat down, cross legged, by Verna. He looked on her, intently. He studied her. He gave her great attention. She turned her head to one side, her wrists secured in many turns of binding fiber, her fists clenched. I knew that on Earth many men did not even know their wives. They did not truly look upon them. Never, truly had they seen them. But a Gorean master will know every inch, and care for every inch, of one of his slave girls. He will know every hair, every sweet blemish of her. In a way she is nothing to him, for she is only slave. But in another way she is very important to him. She is one of his women. He will know her. He will want to know her completely, every inch of her body, every inch of her mind. Nothing less will satisfy him. She is his property. He will choose to know his property thoroughly.
For a long time Marlenus studied the expressions on Verna's face. I had thought that her face was expressionless, but, as I, too, studied it, looking upon it with great attention and care, I saw that it was marvelous and changing and subtle. And I understood then that our simple words for emotions, such as pride, and hate, and fear, are gross and inadequate. The sharpened stone clutched in the hand of a shambling beast is a delicate instrument compared to the clumsy noises, these piteous vocabularies, with which we, unwary men, dare to speak of realities. I know of no language in which the truth may be spoken. The truth can be seen, and felt, and known, but I do not think it may be spoken. Each of us learns it, but none of us, I think, can tell another what it is. "
page 145 ~ Hunters of Gor (The 8th Book of the Tarl Cabot saga)
(((Before he goes to Oaxaca)))
It is said that what goes up, must come down. This may not be a Universal Law, but it surely seems to be true on planet Earth. This certainly was an undeniable aspect of the life of George Sullivan. George was a romantic idealist. This made him hopelessly convinced that Love was real and could change the world. Where and whenever this happened it was pure and good Art and it justified life. He often stubbornly refused to accept other people's perspectives when they used “the way things were” to justify “the way things are.” As a direct result of this, people really enjoyed conversations with him, to a point. That point was always reached when George began to rant about absurdities and atrocities that he observed in “the way things are,” which he did often. At first it was a novelty to most of the people he met... George was good at inserting his unique opinions so that , in the flow of conversation, his ideas were intially novel and engaging. He was capable of randomly inserting strange, black and white, broad pronouncements. They begged any type of response whatsoever. Often this was an attempt to destroy the “way things were” perspective by somehow coming at it with a politely frustrated question. The general focus of his usual angst was a supreme dissatisfaction with the United States of America. The society and politics of his country revolted against the land and life of righteous freedom that he had been raised within.
He had to argue and he tried to be as polite about it as he could. People would dismiss his urgent need for change with passive aphorisms like, “It is what it is”. This frequently enraged George as much as a mortal wounding would have. It was the conversational equivalent of a Palestinian protestor piercing the Israeli security barriers to be able to murder men, women and children. This was the atomic age. When he was in elementary school he was taught american foreign policy was called Mutually Assured Destruction. The underlying premise of this Cold War doctrine was that we humans would not destroy each other because that would destroy the earth as we know it. But we were destroying the earth and George knew it. He was convinced everyone knew it, most people just chose to act like it wasn't happening. “It is what it is” , George thought to himself, “A catchphrase of nothingness that passively negates any conversation that preceded it. It draws a conversational line in the sand... it takes the rhythm and direction of a conversation and concedes it to passive acceptance of the past. It not only acknowledges the speaker of the phrase as an intentionally ignorant participant... it presents the listener with the hopelessness of agreement... or combative defense of the fact that It, in point of fact, is not what the speaker assumes it is. Whenever someone used the line, “It is what it is” their assumptions were placed onto the listener offensively. In the context of a conversation the phrase forced listeners to accept another's assumptions as truth... or else escalate the conversation into an argument that was logically impossible and undesirable to defend. This being that most times it is something... but noone knows exactly what. Wherever there was an It there is an observer... it is what it is deceives the listener by pretending that a truth exists in the statement separate from the speaker or listener. But this is an impossibility... if there was no relationship between what it is and the conversation... how can the conversation exist? It is what You think it is. It is what i think it is.It is what?”
George often thought too much. He thought too much about thinking. A girl he loved very much told him that one time when he was frustrated and depressed. It was very true. His thoughts about “It is what it is” began to morph slighty, decaying somewhat into a fear of white power. He saw “It is what it is” for what it was, nothing more than a new way to be racist in public. Just like when he was a child and the white racists would talk bad about black people when they were near by calling them Canadians. When he was a child, “What it is” was a hip expression of affirmation, agreement or even hello. In the 1970's revolutionary blacks would greet each other in dynamic exchanges like, “What it is?”, “What it was.” and “What it shall be!”. All of the energy and enthusiasm of this sort of conversational spirit was completely negated by “It is what it is”. It placed a question into a statement. This sort of conversational absurdity seemed particular to the English language. It assumed that one person was capable of actually decreeing to another like a king or queen would to their subjects.”
George thought too much about thinking. He always had.
The first time George died of shame he was in fourth grade. His few friends had agreed to hold a race to determine the fastest reader. George loved to read very much, he was confident he would win. Halfway through the race he glanced at Roger, the friend George was most concerned about beating. Roger had an intense look of confidence on his face as his eyes flickered across the page. George grew nervous, doubting his victory now. His fear forced him to act impulsively. Without more than a momentary flicker of conscience George began to speed-read his book, scanning over words like “the, and, to.” This quickly devolved into generally noticing mainly nouns and verbs. In his desire to win the race, he had abandoned the story within the words. He was memorizing raw words so he could prove he had read the book if he was asked to prove it. He had abandoned the race so he could win it
He was paranoid because everything was upside down. Most everything he had been raised to believe was righteous and good was turning out to be just plain bad. This often involved a flip flop, like an hourglass being turned. It started with little things and expanded into global geo-politics, culminating in nuclear war. There were some people that aggravated his paranoia so much that they caused him to want them dead. They generally imposed a social presence on him that violated his general love of life on earth.
There were cultural situations and traditions that made him paranoid as well. As a child, he played cowboys and indians. The cowboys were always defending their forts and the indians were always attacking them. Now that he understood the actual context of their battles he was completely in support of the indians. Those forts were offensive. He had spent his childhood defending a fort that was expanding into the land and very world of the indigenous people.
It was like that with his country as well. He was raised believing the U.S.A. defended life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. In his three decades of life it became more and more obvious that the very government meant to protect and serve in fact increased it's fascism daily.
George was often paranoid, skeptical friends of his chalked it up to his daily pot smoking. His pot smoking friends acknowledged his paranoia, usually with with chuckles of agreement. The people he met everyday generally liked him, whether they added to his paranoia or not. A wise old man had told him once, “ The thing about paranoia is, if you can think it, it can think you.
~~ floating dream sequence
George's stomach twisted and he felt giddy as his feet left the bedroom floor. He almost felt like he was flying, but it was actually more of a floating sensation. It had happened again. As he slowly inhaled he rose higher off the floor almost touching the ceiling. As he exhaled his body sunk slightly. Remaing in the air was all a trick of breathing. Using his arms like he was in water, he swam to the stairway balcony and floated down to the front door. The knob of the front door was his only anchor. As he rose above the front porch the night breezes gently tossed him to and fro. With some sharp inhalations and slow, nasal exhales he bagan to rise above the treetops, it was exhilerating. The currents slowly carried him by the light of a crescent moon. He felt safe and free in the beginnings of a clear and cool night sky. Except for a dog barking in the distance it was very quiet up there, peaceful.
He was not afraid. He was confident that his breath would keep him aloft. This had happened on other nights as well... though he never remembered that until it was happening again. He wondered if he would soon forget again and wondered how that was possible... this all felt so natural. The floating always started unexpectedly but once it began it felt simple and innate. Again he wished his will alone could make this happen. The unexpected randomness of it all was bittersweet... he knew it would end and he would not remember how it began. He sank lower until the neighbors dog caught wind of him and began barking like mad. A firm gust of wind and some sharp intakes of breath silently distanced himself from the canine and then he awoke, sorry that it had ended again.
George was raised Irish Catholic by his mother. She was very intimately involved in his religion. Like her mother for her, she baptised her child before the priest even got a chance, in case he would have died before the official sacrament. He was raised to pray to Jesus Christ for aid and guidance. The priests taught him to ask Jesus for forgiveness. This was reinforced through the sacrament of confession, where the priests would assign the task of prayer to atone for the sins he had revealed committing.
~ When George was in high school he repeatedly became obsessed with bands that he would cherish for the rest of his life. The first was Pink Floyd. The second R.E.M. They took him to puberty. Janes Addiction carried him through his virginity into young adulthood, on the demonic angel wings of Perry Farrel. He went to and dropped out of college dancing and tripping through a decade of searching and confusion with Phish and Beck. He gave his heart to indigenous Latin America with Mano Chao, Vicente Fernandes, Los Lobos and Cypress Hill. He explored his divinity with independent, underground hip hop... folk music. Especially whenever he danced to live music.
Perry Farrel was the artist that made George the most paranoid when he wasn't riding high on inspiration from all of the music in his life. Perry challenged his Irish Catholicism to the point that George often was convinced he was either Jesus returned, the Antichrist or somehow a magical mix of the two. Perry howled to George all of this as a challenge or a triumphant wail, depending on the mood of the music and or George (at any particular time he happened to be listening to the band.) Perry was a handsome devil, as the saying goes. George hung a huge subway sized poster of Perry over his bed in high school, shortly after he started fucking. Perry was laying in a bed, covered to his waist in sheets. His left nipple was pierced with a ring, his bleached blond dreadlocks were scattered across his chest. His bent arms were opened outward and he gazed directly into the camera. He was very inviting. George found the poster very sensuous and Perry quite attractive. But George did not lust for Perry or fantasize about sex with him. He just found the poster comforting, like the presence of a good friend or great art.
Contrary to popular culture, porn is not a natural occurrence. The naked body and sexual acts have only been captured on film for about 100 of the tens of thousands of years that humanity has existed. Before porn people had to use their imagination or other living people to appease sexual appetites. This allowed a more natural perception and experience of sex and fantasies. The mood of a place was more relevant to sexuality. The phases of the moon had a more direct impact on passions. Porn makes a specific and raw carnal appeasement instantly, whenever desired. Like so many other aspects of life, technology and electricity enable us all to detach from the natural environmental atmosphere. This takes sexuality directly from humanity and places it into abstraction and commodity.
The existence of lesbians gave George a sexual thrill. Fantasies about them made him more and more shameless as the years went bye.
“i cannot name this
i cannot explain this
and i really don't want to
just call me shameless
i can't even slow this down
let alone stop this
and i keep looking around
but i cannot top this
if i had any sense
i guess i'd fear this
i guess i'd keep it down
so no one would hear this
i guess i'd shut my mouth
and rethink a minute
but i can't shut it now
'cuz there's something in it...
...just please don't name this
please don't explain this
just blame it all on me
say i was shameless
say i couldn't slow it down
let alone stop it
and say you just hung around
'cuz you couldn't top it” ~ Ani DiFranco
Almost 20 years after it, George could still vividly recall his first kiss. He had spent the day exploring a forest near his home with two girls. One was a year older than him and lived 3 houses away from him. The other was a rich friend of the first, with a reputation for kissing several boys. Afew of them had said she was “loose”, meaning she was open to sex. George's best friend had even played with her pussy, he said he had stuck his finger in it. Both the girls were Irish Catholic, both were named Erin. Several times in the woods the rich Erin came close to George, so close he could smell her. It made his heart pound hard in his head, it made him dizzy. They held hands. The other Erin kept a short distance away, often smiling at him. He wished she wasn't there, but when he imagined himself alone with the Erin that made him feel queezy... he could not imagine anything to say to her. He was glad the neighbor Erin was there for just that reason. Eventually they left the woods, Erin walked him to his front porch. He looked her in the eyes, mumbling, “Well, goodbye, and thanks this was fun.” Then they stood there, staring at each other. George almost felt naseus. She leaned in towards him. He stepped up to her, stuck his lips on hers and his arm on her right shoulder. She was a little taller than him and it felt awkward. Her breath hit his lips, warm and smelling familiar and strange. He touched her mouth with his tongue, hitting her front teeth. He kept it there, until she touched his tongue with hers. They softly rubbed. He grew even more flushed and felt like the entire neighborhood was watching. He remembered thinking then that this was too soon, he felt nothing for her but curiosity. He wanted to know what the other boys had learned from her. He wanted to play with her pussy too, to see what it was like. To be able to know that he had done it too. It made him feel confused, like a fish out of water. He left her with an awkward hug, went inside to his bedroom and began to cry. He sobbed. Eventually his mother heard his cries and comforted him, though he refused to tell her why he was so upset. Since then he had kissed many girls, but that first kiss was always the same... except for the crying. The experience was always so intense that he needed the girl to initiate it every time. As the women became older they seemed less and less inclined to make that first move on him, as a result he had less and less relationships as the years went by. The months between first kisses intensified his fear of them...also the affect each had on him.
~~ Through the television and radio that daily complemented his life George almost exclusively entertained himself with American jews. Larry David, Bill Maher, Howard Stern and Jon Stewart dominated the political perspectives that he was exposed to on a daily basis. The most culturally signifigant television show of his lifetime was the Simpsons... but of ones with actual human actors, Jerry Seinfeld reigned supreme.There were no Muslim perspectives in any of his programming schedule.
~~ Theirst time he ever got high smoking marijuanna, Will Smith “Parents just dont understand “ video was played on MTv every twenty minutes or so at a local at latchkey girl's townhouse. The rhythm and beat of the song sunk into his bones while the words rang out with truth and humor. He felt an intense solidarity with the girl and few other friends he was with. He didn't want it to end. Later, walking home a black pit bull made him very paranoid he would be attacked. It stood guard in it's yard, unchained and free. Without provocation it snarled at George and assumed a defensive stance then began to bark loudly and incessantly. George was afraid to turn his back on the dog, but needed to in order to make progress towards home. Every few steps he would whip his head around to reassure himself that the angry dog was not rushing him. It never did, but it angrily followed him for a few houses.
Some people just think too much about thinking. If the truth hurts, George is a masochist.
George wanted to leave the U.S.A. badly. He was pissed off about getting arrested in Times Square at the RNC 2004, and pissed he had settled the case and pissed that the USA was a lie. In Mexico he saw a gateway to the lands and world of Native Americans. The Original People still maintained a majority of the population there. Corporations had not yet asserted themselves as the motivating factor of life down there.
The Dine (Navajo) and Hopi use their mouths to physically gesture in conversations. Where westerners point with fingers they use their chins and lips. This conciously focuses the recipient's attention on the part of the face where calculated words and thoughts come from through sound. Westerners interact with a focus on eye contact. While it is a sign of respect and attention to white cultures, for the indigenous it is rudely invasive. Direct eye contact when communicating enables a direct link to the unconscious processing of information. Or it forces us to disguise them. The military encourages the supression of reaction through training in the “thousand yard stare”. The same stare that veterans unconciously acquire whenever they are reminded of their battle experiences and actions.
Change i to George
George never wanted to be subversive. He never had plans to feel like a cornered rat. Breaking the law was never an aspiration. But the times they are a changing and here he was writing his notes from the underground, unsure of the legality of his words and thoughts. In 2004 he took to the streets of New York City to protest the Republican National Convention being held there. His nation was controlled by the Bush family aristocracy and they were waging a false war in Iraq and Afghanistan... people were dying daily on every side of the battles. As a direct result of the government and corporate policies of the U.S.A., the World Trade Towers had been destroyed in protest. So now the Republicans were using Manhattan as political theater to justify furthering fascism. For one week Republican supporters were being hosted by Manahachtanienk, which in the Delaware language, means, "the island where we all became intoxicated." They came in planes and limos with fashionable clothes and spotless cowboy hats. They ate in expensive restaurants and even got to auction the personal belongings of the late Johnny Cash. They were given free tickets to Broadway shows by the Disney corporation... who now owns the majority of Times Square.
George was surrounded by officers of the N.Y.P.D. and arrested for standing on the sidewalk with a sign that said "Bring Our Troops Home Now" on one side...on the other was taped a newspaper with a picture of Bush giving the middle finger and the headline, "Bush to US: Up Yours". That moment was the death of the country, for him. "We the People" had become "We the fascists" and he looked at oppression... his eye to their thousand yard stares and mute refusal of my movement. I couldn't leave their security net until i was handcuffed and everything i had except my clothes was put into a clear plastic bag. I was then locked in a stiflingly hot prisoner transport bus. We the people includes I the citizen, born under the protection and guidance of our American Constitution. Words written on parchment 230 years ago to assert that all people residing within 50 separate States would Unite through a federal government to "form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity." Two centuries later it seems that the very act of scribing this intent and these words on parchment... the opposite of the intent had become institutional.
So now the federal government was using the N.Y.P.D. to suppress dissent in the streets while a National organization that ruled all 50 states held a convention to prepare for the next Presidential election. Every President for 230 years has believed that Jesus of Nazereth walked the earth as God 2007 years ago. President Bush is a born-again Christian. They believe that Jesus prophecied a return from death that would bring those faithful to his rule into heaven. Bush either believes that Jesus has been born again... or he will be.
So he was arrested and detained for 24 hours because he stood on the sidewalk in Times Square with a sign that read “Bring Our Troops Home Now” and had a newspaper taped on the backside that headlined, “Bush to US: Up Yours” with a picture of him giving the finger. He had spent the entire day specifically trying to not get arrested or break any laws. He had been in jail before and had no desire to ever return. But the Iraq war came to him there. He was not carbombed, Blackwater did not assasinate him. He was arrested, for standing on a sidewalk filled with people angry at our President and his ruling party. He was arrested for hating their corporate motives and governmental caste system. The Bush aristocracy. He was arrested because guys were tongue kissing each other in the street near him. Two men had stopped traffic with a kiss while supporters held a banner up that read QUEERFIST! It was as free as an expression could be. Jimi Hendrix style protest. Anarchy in street theater, an atomic bomb for born-again fundamentalists.
“ Youre just like crosstown traffic
So hard to get through to you
I dont need to run over you
All you do is slow me down
And I got better things on the other side of town “
Maybe the Queerfisters weren't afraid of provoking arrest through civil disobedience but George was pissed about the arrest even more than the incarceration. This was the kind of thing that happened in the U.S.S.R., Tieneman Square.
(( Oaxaca ))))
George got out of a white and yellow taxi, retrieved his backback from the trunk and paid the driver with 120 pesos, "Muchas gracias" and a large smile. When the cab drove off he could hear waves crashing. He walked under the archway of the "San Cristobal" because it was the nearest hotel, leaving the hot dirt of the street for the cool sand of it's arching entrance. He checked in for one night, dropped his belongings in a small room and switched his sneakers for flip flops, cargo shorts for swim trunks. He wondered if he would use the protection of the mosquito net hanging over the bed that night. It was the first he had ever seen. Grabbing a book and a towel he headed to the beach in front of the "San Cristobal". The sun was so hot he quickly sought shade and read snippets of Let's Go! Mexico when he wasn't busy people watching. He observed all the differences between this beach and the ones at New Jersey shores he had grown up with. There were still sea gulls... but many more pelicans with huge long beaks that they used to grab fish from the smooth curl of waves just before they broke. Tiny crabs would occasionally pop out of holes in the sand and scuttle amidst tiny sea shells. Skinny, tired looking wild dogs slept in the shade or grabbed any food that beach tourists did not constantly guard. A young boy and an older mexican man were tossing a weighted net into the shallows as broken waves slid back into the sea. They used attached lines to draw in the net, collecting dozens of tiny sardines nearly every time. The shiny floppers were dropped into a well used five-gallon bucket.
There were no ice-cream trucks or boardwalks with caramel corn and Italian water ices, no pizza shops with huge slices for sale. No beach tags required, no cotton candy. Young girls and women carried necklaces for sale on their arms made of stones, sea shells, seeds and bones. There was so much torquise and jade George wondered if some was fake. There were grandmothers walking the beach with food for tourists and they amazed him. Despite the heat and their age they walked the entire length of the beach in long colorful skirts with huge tupperware bowls perched impossibly on the tops of their heads. After meeting a few he realized that each was carrying something entirely different than the other. One woman had a collection of hard pastries that had been baked in the nearest city. Another had peanuts and home-made candybars that looked like a box of Cracker-Jacks compressed into a solid rectangle. She explained that she had made them herself the day before. For lunch he bought three fish tacos for one U.S. dollar from a grandmother who lived one town away. She explained that this was the fourth and final beach she would walk that day. Her son was a fisher and gave her the fish she had used. The red salsa she poured over them was incredible and she had made it herself. The guidebook he had been reading warned against eating local lettuce since it held alot of water that may affect digestive systems not used to the local bacterias... but George wolfed down the three tacos and loved them. He simply could not let the threat of diarrhea keep him from this fresh food. It all just made so much sense. The tortillas had been made that day locally, the lettuce was grown nearbye, the salsa was homemade and the fish had been swimming in the ocean in front of him just yesterday morning. All for a price so reasonable it made him feel guilty.
A teenage boy pushed a wheelbarrow half filled with coconuts up to him. "Coco Loco?" the boy asked and George said yes without knowing what that was.He figured it would be neat to have a coconut like the ones hanging from the trees above him. The little man grabbed a well used machete resting between two arms of the wheelbarrow and sliced a section off the top of a green coconut with four firm chops. He poured a shot of rum inside the small hole and stuck a plastic straw in it, asking for three dollars. George paid, thinking how much more work went into the fish tacos that cost so much less. The coconut milk was sweet and satisfying, he would have preferred it without the rum. It made his hot head feel even heavier in the heat. This was possibly the first edible beverage container he had ever used in his life.
The next morning he awoke to the sound of roosters crowing. There was a lot of them. At first he was able to ignore it and rest a bit more, but they became more insistent as the morning sun crept into the sky. He began sweating too much to lie there anymore. The San Cristobal had a restaurant on the beach side of the hotel in the sand. He sat down at a table for two and looked over the menu. There was no way he was ordering a soda when the menu listed fresh squeezed orange, mango, pineapple and watermelon juice. The same fruits were listed as pitchers of "Licuado de" which the waiter explained was a mixture of the juice with water and sugar. He ordered what turned out to be his favorite beverage until the day he died... "Una mezcla de licuado de pina y sandia, por favor senor." It was watermelon and pineapple juice mixed with sugar water. He noticed a cup of coffee cost 10 pesos (one dollar) which was the same as it cost in Wawas from New Jersey to Virgina.
He had read once that the Wawa stores were named after a small Pennsylvania town which had in turn been named after the Ojibwe (american indian) word for goose. George had learned how to enjoy Wawa coffee in high school. Many people did, Wawa sold over 165 million cups a year. But this cup was so much better. It was pure black Oaxacan bean heaven... so sweet it reminded him of hot chocolate. Corn and coffee had lined the road to town for many miles in dry fields with patches of pale green.
His pancakes were small but delicious... the waiter brought a tiny pitcher of local honey instead of maple syrup. The taste was much more delicate than the lucious molasses of tree sap. He pinched some chili powder onto his eggs then salted them with another pinch... there were no salt and pepper shakers. In fact there was no black pepper in sight. The chili powder more than made up for it. The salt was in a small glass dish and he noticed a mexican couple using the salt quite liberally... they were pinching it out of their dish and sprinkling it on their plates while they chatted.
As he admired their bronze complexions and beautiful smiles it occurred to him that there was really no such thing as a "mexican". Gilberto, the cab driver from the day before had explained to George that he also was an American just like George was. Although not a citizen of the United States of America he did in fact live in the heart of the Americas... which stretched from Alaska to Cape Horn, Chile. He had further described the switchbacks and cliffs they were driving through as the middle of a massive and continuous chain of mountains called the American cordillera, "the spine of the world". So all these mexican hosts were really native americans. There was totally indigenous Americans and people whose ancestors had mixed their bloodlines with the rest of the world. If they were within the fifty states George would have called them American Indians. Gilberto had described himself as Zapoteca, his people had built pyramids in the area more than 4000 years past. This part of the world had invented corn. But Gilberto had explained that his people had not made the corn... the corn had made his people. There were many beautiful legends of the Corn Mother as Creator across the Americas... the very life and harvest cycles of corn were central to the religious beliefs and ceremonies of most indigenous American cultures. For example, he said, the Maya regarded corn as a gift from the gods and it was a sacred duty to cultivate it for them. In fact, humanity was originally fashioned from corn after the gods had tried with other materials and failed repeatedly.
This all came back to him in a flood of memory as he smoked a cigarette after a late lunch. He had noticed a younger girl with food in a tupperware bowl that alot of "mexicans" (now he grimaced at the thought) were buying from. He asked her what she had. To his surprise she was selling iguana tomales. A leaf of corn was wrapped around a paste of moist cornmeal and chunks of iguana. He had never had iguana for anything but a pet once in college. Other than some thin bones similar to one that had been in the fish taco the day before it was tasty, especially with some of her salsa.
George would taste anything once, he knew he would eat some iguana again. He was swinging lazily in a large and extremely comfortable hammock while the midday heat baked the white sand and Grandmothers hid in the shade of their tupperware bowls. It occurred to him that this was paradise. The land of eternal spring. If the bananas were not in season than the mangos were, or coconuts. He could have swam to the huge rocks near the shore and scraped mussels off their wet sides. Except for three to four months of rain each year, a pair of shorts was the only clothing he really needed during the day. The only thing he really needed besides a place to keep his things was alot of water, as the heat made him sweat constantly. A five gallon jug just like the ones at office watercoolers cost one dollar, the truck had driven through town both days now. Another truck drove past him then, the driver announcing different fruits and vegetables he had that day for sale. His voice was distorted by static and the poor quality of his ancient speakers. There were people living on the beach here that didn't even have a room for the night... they rented hammocks and slept under the stars.
The sun was falling lower in the sky and George noticed that it was likely to drop below the ocean in between the cliffs on the shore and a large rock that jutted out of the water where the waves were crashing, just offshore. He was running low on cigarettes so he began the short walk to a nearbye market. He didn't want to miss his first mexican sunset. Even though he was a tourist from the land of capitalism and corporations... he felt everything was different here. He felt it in his bones. This was going to be an indigenous sunset as opposed to the suburban ones he had enjoyed for most of his thirty years on earth. He had enjoyed other natural sunsets too... ones without power lines and jet contrails, without the eerie discolorations of a smog stained sky. Here they called it la puesta. People were beginning to gather on the dunes to watch it.
A tiny market was at a bend in the dirt road. It had only had two refrigerators. They were filled with beer, Gatorade, Coca Cola, Fanta, milk and yogurt. He realized then that some corporations had established footholds wherever electricity existed. It was probably a global rule that where refrigeration existed there was Coca Cola to be bought. He opted for a yogurt, having read in his tourism guidebook that it contained live organisms that were very beneficial for digestive systems. When he was a child his parents had vacationed in Acapulco. They came back with horror stories of the terrible diarrhea they had experienced, his father had called it Montezuma's revenge. Montezuma was an Aztec ruler who had lost his empire to Hernan Cortez 500 years past. George's dad told him that the illness was a curse Montezuma placed on all invaders to his lands when his rule ended. George was certainly not looking forward to this revenge, but he supposed he deserved it... he had been raised in the strange mix of European and American cultures that had evolved in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He was invading. He knew virtually nothing of the Aztecs or the Zapotecs but here he was immersed in their land and culture and loving every minute of it. Other than the money he was giving the town for food, rent and cigarettes he was doubtful he had brought anything truly meaningful to their paradise. Yes, revenge was well deserved. George had a more practical take on the situation as well. Any germs he ingested that caused an upset stomache he would eventually build an immunity to... so each battle would only make him stronger. He wondered if the immigrant latino (he winced at the thought, native american seemed a much more respectful term now) workers in Pennsylvania experienced Montezuma's revenge also. They probably did... but for leaving, not entering the mighty ruler's lands. There was an urgent need for people across the U.S. that were willing to actually work with their hands. That wanted to work with the earth.
Most technological icons could be found here but they were novelties that intruded on Nature and the very natural pace of life all around George, where the ocean met the land in sheer cliffs and stunning mountains. He could probably have found a microwave somewhere close by but why would he want or need one when a man was standing at the edge of the road roasting chicken and whole white onions with a fire that he tended almost unconsciously. George wondered if chickens were a European import or natives like the wild goose, Wawa. The road rounded a bend and he noticed a hand painted sign on the huge stone cliffs to his right. "It is Illegal to kill Iguanas and you will be arrested if you do" is basically what it said. Looking above the sign he saw some movement and realized that he was looking at a wild iguana. He stepped away from the steep rocks and studied the craggy face of stone. As he smoked another cigarette he counted five iguanas spread across the cliff. He had kept one in an aquarium for two years in college, he had eaten some for lunch, this was the first time he had ever seen any that were indigenous. They were impressive. Some were 30 feet or more above the road, all were apparently comfortable in their precarious perches. They moved with the slow ease that only comes with confidence. They looked large and ancient. George wondered where the local girl had gotten her iguanas... he decided then to ask her if he ever saw her again. He remembered she had a lazy eye and a beautiful body.
He walked back onto the beach sand as the sun grew close to the watery horizon. It was a deeper red now and the low distant clouds were glowing purple and pink. The only people that were not staring at it were the Grandmothers who walked in his direction, hoping for a final sale before heading home for the night. A young couple walked over to him and the guy asked for a smoke. They spoke as the sun set, it turned out they were from Texas and poor... George guessed they might have been hiding out way down here in Oaxaca. They spoke of having a fire on the beach shortly, they had some fish and were going to cook it. George suggested he could hit a market and join them for dinner, they agreed. Heading back to the same mercado, George could not notice any iguanas in the fading light of dusk. He thought about what to bring to the Texan's fire. Some roasted onion would be nice, like he had seen in the street earlier. Some chicken would be great as well. He made a mental note to try the street vendor's pollo asado soon and compare it to the feast he was planning for that night. He should probably tip the man well for the inspiration.
The onion was easy to find but he couldn't see any chicken. He didn't see any meat section at all. He knew the familiar shrink wrapped cuts of meat were not in the two refrigerators either. In his halting spanish, he asked the couple at the register if they had chicken. The man looked at the woman and she returned his questioning gaze. He looked at George and asked, "How big do you want your chicken?"
George didn't really understand the question until the man started to make sizes with the two hands in front of him. In a sickening rush of comprehension that began in his gut and ended with his humble reply, George realized that they were going to head into the backyard of the store and kill one of their chickens for him. "No thank you, just eggs and cheese please" he stammered. He felt the woman was as relieved as George by the time he left the store.
He returned to the beach and shortly found himself in an engaging conversation with his new expatriot friends. The guy called himself Screaming Eagle and he was intense as he proclaimed, “Of all of the abominations the white culture has perpetrated and developed, the Muir Space Station was the apex of wretchedness.” George grinned and asked him to elaborate. Despite the laughter of the Texans when they heard his chicken story, the onion omelets were delicious, lacking only chili powder. Contrary to that very morning, George was glad he would awaken to roosters crowing.
Perla Negra, Black Pearl, put his arm around George and hugged him close. George could smell tobacco and mezcal on his breath as he spoke earnestly in his deep bass voice. “George, you are in Azatlan, there is no logic. It doesn't exist here. You dance on the beach of death and run scared from the beach of love here everyday. We all do. Anything can happen here. Embrace it, work with whatever you can to make the good last and grow. “ George knew it to be true but the experience of it right then made him stuck on the intensity of it all. Even Perla was so full of magic and tragedy that it caused George's heart to pound faster. The potential that this place and the people within it contained shone with the intensity of the sun. He sobbed with the relief that this existed. He cried with humility for even bearing witness to such beauty.
George took a seat at a table for two, The restaurant was open-air, no indoor seating. It was situated at the very beginning of the main street of town, Roca Blanca. Across the street was the only danceclub for 30 miles or more, the discoteca “La Puesta”.
(( UPON returnto usa )))
George left Ryan's apartment convinced he was dating a Born Again Christian fanatic that was probably getting him addicted to cocaine and God knows what else. It made him quite upset, with an uneasy sense of envy for the fantastic sex that was surely involved. He would not realize for another day that he left his walking stick at Ryan's. It was important to him, a slender shelaighlee that Ryan had brought back from Ireland for him. He smoked a cigarette with an old man outside the Greyhound station, then took one headed to Flagstaff, Arizona.
~~ he smokes a bowl made out of a carrot behind a gas station on the dine reservation with Johnny Shirley then loses his mind, shouting “I am a retarded Amish boy” at a junkyard then breaks into Jim Croce's “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown”upsetting the cabron that lived in a trailer next to a brand new Caterpillar bulldozer. He spent the night sleeping in a cargo bay behind the gas station.
(( Upon return from Arizona )))
He was very paranoid of the media. Day and night, radio and television presented the world with any perspectives that could pacify unrest and promote acceptance of “the way things are.” He noticed it in big ways and little ways. The nuances and questions of hosts and reporters justified his paranoia. Even the selection of which stories to air daily affected his discomfort. If the U.S. backed leader of another nation committed a coup then that night the news would focus on local stories. If the U.S. Government was being attacked for corruption then the news that night would focus on international problems.
He saw a picture of a thousand year old idol of an ancient god , it had an obsidian mirror on it's forehead. This blew George's mind, it said so much. Way back then, the artisan who made it was saying that the God's entire being allowed the worshipper to see themselves. The God reflected the image of the prayer.
George remembers walking into Times Square with nothing on him but a scrap of paper with some poetry on it. In these days of wars and terrorists and security culture and hopeful anticipation of the return of the Messiah, this was the spot on the planet He was sure to visit... or judge. One of the most heavily monitored intersections on earth. It seemed almost as though the walls themselves were made of liquid, digital light. So many messages were being transmitted here all day and night that they defined the entire area. Pedestrians were audience to the advertisements that courted them. He remembered praying to Jesus Christ that He would return and fulfill so many hopes and dreams. Make the world right again. He remembered a voice that filled the insides of him, but it came from above and all around, "Is It All Your Fault?" the voice asked me. "Is what my fault?" he wondered. "EVERYTHING" the voice replied. George didnt know what force was behind the voice but he found himself weeping, and it started to rain. He realized it didn't matter where the voice came from. If my blame was necessary for his prayer to be answered then so be it. Everything was his fault. The tears came from a deep sorrow that then overcame him. No shame, no regret or remorse...only a sorrow that brought him to his knees and brought sobs up from deep within. Dazed, he walked along the sidewalk until he saw a black man dressed like Conan the Barbarian who was preaching on the sidewalk. "Jesus Christ was a black man" he was saying loud and proudly. A woman walking by told him he was wrong. "Shut up white devil", the man replied to the small crowd, "She's probably a lesbian." Offended, George said to him, " You don't have to attack her because she doesn't agree with you."
"Step back white devil!" he replied. "You ain't nuthin but a dog" he told me. Pointing at George now he repeated, "He ain't nuthin but a dog. That is what we are all scared of. That is what controls the world. nuthin but a dog." There was an awkward silence and it needed to be filled. George nodded at him and spread his arms wide, slowly turning and eyeing the onlookers. Unbidden, some lines by Peter Gabriel popped into his head, "and the Lamb lies down on Broadway." The album was made the year he was born. He realized then that he was no lamb, he was a dog just like the man was saying. George took off his shirt and dropped his pants, naked he got down on all fours, barking and advancing on the black man. He backed up in surprise and shouted "See! Nuthin but a dog!". George stood back up and spread his arms again, nodding at the crowd that now was watching and filming him. Some just stared, others nodded in agreement. Nude and at a loss what to do next, he began walking down the sidewalk. Someone came up to him and put a long sleeve t-shirt over his nude back. They led him to a police car on the edge of the street. The driver took one look at him and asked, "So who the hell do you think you are, buddy?"
George turned to walk away then whipped around , bending down to face him. He snapped, "I'm King Arthur, motherfucker." At the time in the moment, nude and confused, it made more sense to George to say that then, “I might be Jesus”. The cop and his partner got out of the car, slammed him down face first onto the hood and held him there until an ambulance came and he was put into a straightjacket. He was taken to Belleview Hospital where he was heavily medicated for 3 weeks and diagnosed Bipolar I, manic. He is a maniac.
"Early morning Manhattan,
Ocean winds blow on the land.
The Movie-Palace is now undone,
The all-night watchmen have had their fun.
Sleeping cheaply on the midnight show,
Its the same old ending-time to go.
It seems they cannot leave their dream.
Theres something moving in the sidewalk steam,
And the lamb lies down on Broadway...
Something inside me has just begun,
Lord knows what I have done,
And the lamb lies down on Broadway.
They say the lights are always bright on Broadway.
They say theres always magic in the air." ~ Peter Gabriel
~~ When global dialogue is leading to war and isolationism , shift the conversational language and it shifts the tone, inherently. When English only creates conflict then force it to be translated from another perspective. In indigenous language, hello means more than a formal salutation. (( expand )))
~~~~ (( Post Script ))
Death of a child
The leaves are dying now and falling, into beautiful golden brown layers of crisp dry petals. Soon they will be spongy, darker and damp. A week ago the moon was eclipsed by the earth which engulfed it perfectly in shadows while the edges glowed a gorgeous red. Of course, the moon was full for several days before and after. The moon is our Grandfather, from our father's side of our families. A wise Grandmother said that once. So another summer has ended... and with it a mother begged her son to abandon his childish ways and embrace his adulthood. His father had been demanding it for more than a decade. He reluctantly agreed. He had been self involved long enough... the time for dreaming was over. It had to be, for now action was required.
At 33 loveless and childless, surely there was some way this extended youth could be documented... imparted unto future generations that might be interested in experiencing the death of a child. Adult in infancy. A simple programming language for children-to-be. There would need to be some basic rules... like in life or languages. Or life in languages, like the evolving artificial intelligence inherent in computer code. One of the oldest programming languages used by computers has an if-then statement as a basic rule. Essentially it creates a rule involving a statement like "If this is true then this is also true" or "if this is true then do this". One thing about being a child is that there are very few if-thens in your life. For several years they only really come from your parents and siblings. Then your friends and elders... then you start to make your own up. That is the hint of the dawn of full adulthood. When a child dies... it isn't fun to make your own up anymore. It no longer makes sense. This is often described as adulthood but factually it is always just the death of another child. Sense is one of the ways that life on Earth gathers information and nourishment... so loss of life occurs the moment sense is lost.
The children are riding yellow buses to school again as the freedom of summer transitions into learning and increased responsibilities.
If there is a man-made world then there exists a Natural one as well. The statement cannot be reversed, since Nature is not an if... it Is... and has been since forever, since before we humans began to exist. It always will Be as well. The Natural world is powerful and often sublime. It's wisdom, experience and magic are imparted unto us with seeming effortless grace... to the point that we often take it for granted or forget it is even there. In our man-made world it is the year 2007. The United States of America hold a large majority of the military, economic and cultural power that envelopes planet Earth. We are being led by a born-again Christian fanatic who fancies himself a cowboy.
If the tense perspective of George W Bush affects global policies then the return of Jesus Christ is relevant to every child on the planet, whether they know it or not. Since the resurrection has been prophecied for 2000 years with no satisfying global acknowledgment of the Return of Jesus of Nazereth... it is important for each child to acknowledge some points. If Jesus has not returned then he should because alot of people await him here on Earth. If Jesus has returned or never left then he needs to make this much more apparent to many Christians and Jews. The political climate of planet Earth has been raining blood ever since the day He was first crucified.
If corporations exist then they defend and export their powers. Corporations are businesses with the legal authority to commit crimes on individuals as long as the victims can be lumped into verifiable statistical analysis for future legal debate.
If a legal system is used then a caste system exists. Judges and lawyers cannot be treated similiary to the subjects that they administer their own system to. Criminals always become the slaves... or control the judges. Lawyers evolve into professional hypocrites... their private lives would make them accessories at best to the same situations they are payed to defend or prosecute.
If governments exist then most people are left helpess to their influences. The typical human life on planet earth for the past 2000 years has been taxed, enlisted, displaced, housed, born or killed within some sort of a governmental system that they have no actual impact on whatsoever... from democracies to tyrannies... from clans to empires.
If humans are left to anarchy or forced into disciplines then they will still kill each other occasionally. People kill people... themselves and others. Most life on Earth either kills, is killed, or both. The more time without death and the least amount of death possible always leads to a better life. Death is just another part of life.
If magic exists then mass media actively denies it. Our newspapers, radios and televisions remind us daily of what people want us to think and do. Or rather what people have done or are doing. What might be is often hinted at or alleged but rarely confirmed and often denied. What can be is relegated to one or two sentences in our State of the Union addresses. Fiction movies and books embrace the possibilities of what can be. All existing magic comes from Nature first, then the youth. Wise elders are masters of this fact. To dwell in the pure youthful nature is tempting always... but those moments always eventually transition into the practicalities of our lives on Earth. The innocence of youth often makes these changes in reality painful to experience. If children exist then their worlds are pure until the behavior and knowledge of elders corrupt, guide and shape their experiences. Thier peers are blameless and guilty only by association. Most good parents allow their children to explore and develop that pure world with as much freedom as is practically possible. This is the time of a child's life when Nature has a direct role in the growth and formation of experiences. Until recently, all of the words and symbols we humans have used were direct representations of objects and acts of Nature. It is specifically the English language of the Western world that has evolved into words about everything and nothing. The symbology of words has led to words creating worlds and religions on their own.
If love exists then hatred is easier to explain and spread. Love is not bound by facts or time like hatred. Love is indiscriminate. Hatred festers. Hatred projects itself like a virus from facial expressions to the tone of voices. To stare love in the eyes eventually causes embarrassment. Stare hatred in the eyes and eventually someone will be hurt. Love stands shameless while hatred prefers humility from us all.
If children exist then their worlds are pure until the behavior and knowledge of elders corrupt, guide and shape their experiences. Thier peers are blameless and guilty only by association. Most good parents allow their children to explore and develop that pure world with as much freedom as is practically possible. This is the time of a child's life when Nature has a direct role in the growth and formation of experiences.
If obstacles are avoided then they have not always gone away. Confrontations are not necessary but definitely (sometimes) they protect us or defend importance. Some confrontations are won or lost. Others we come away from less or more sure of where we stand. Some remove confusion while others create even more. Success lies in maintaining growth throughout all of these situations. Happiness comes from making them more fun.
If Hillary Clinton becomes President or Vice President of the U.S.A. then our nation has entered the eighteenth year of warring aristocratic government. Ronald Reagan, a hollywood actor ushered in the Bush family after usurping our nation's first born-again president. The failure to re-elect Jimmy Carter was the emotional equivalent of Pinochio stepping on Jimminy Cricket beause he told the puppet not to play with matches. It also completed the destruction of Jesus as a rational aspect of the U.S. Government or national policies.
There needs to be a global tempo established. A person needs to create a rhythm that the world can dance to. The chaos and destruction that dominates everyone's perspectives is inevitable without a reliable baseline to build from. Christians demand to the world that the rhythm maker be the returned savior Jesus of Nazareth. World leaders like George W. Bush demand to the world that a New World Order of fascism and surveillance, false media theater, pharmecieutical mind control, covert wars and assassinations are all preferable to the anarchy and chaos of the natural world.
Rhthym has it's own perspective on life and how to live it. Perspective is an ambiguous and powerful aspect of humanity. In fact, people who do not exhibit the social conventions of an “I” perspective are regarded as handicapped or mentally imbalanced by most known cultures. Perspective allows for a penniless vagabond to stare at the ocean, moon and stars and know no boundaries while the most powerful men on earth fixate only on what is known or knowable. I, you, he she it them us we... all and none. Perspective fills the social gap that lies between perceiver and perceived... but this gap only truly exists when it is challenged by someone else's.
Or it is not a gap, it is the ceaseless live distortions of time and space.
Tense is a tricky thing. It plays games with perspective. English language of the Western world holds it in the highest regard. There is what was, is and shall be. Past, present and future. When words are written they must orient themselves in time. Words written in the present tense will be read in the future... but the wisdom of the words will reflect the times when they were written, now past. When history is written in past tense, the words reflect the perspective of the times when they are written... as the readers reflect upon what is remembered of what has passed. Words written in future tense project the reader into what will, can, might or could be. Regardless of tense, all written words have the potential to affect the present Now. Our inner monologues (thoughts) can form themselves from any perspective or tense... or even from none of either.
George W. Bush speaks Now about what Will because of what Was while ignoring what Is because he is preparing the earth for the Return of his Lord and saviour. That was Jesus Christ, who told men like Bush 2000 years ago that it is harder for them to enter His Kingdom than for a camel to thread a needle. Maybe that's why the Bush family kills so many camels. Women and men. Children. This was, is and will be recorded as historical fact... which itself takes an assertive We voice in our Present tense... even though it rarely involves us in anything more substantial than the telling. He has repeatedly told his people and the world to “Let history be the judge.” From his perspective, that is far better than letting the living people of earth judge him.
15 Mar 2008
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
De facto leader of Panama
|In office |
August 1983 – January 3, 1990
|Born||February 11, 1934 (1934-02-11) (age 74) |
Panama City, Panama
Manuel Antonio Noriega (born February 11, 1934) is a former Panamanian general and the military dictator of Panama from 1983 to 1989. He was never officially the president of Panama, but held the post of "chief executive officer" for a brief period in 1989.
Initially a strong ally of the United States, Noriega worked with the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) from the late 1950s to the 1980s, and was on the CIA payroll for much of this time, although the relationship had not become contractual until 1967. By the late 1980s, relations had turned extremely tense between Noriega and the United States government, due to allegations that he was spying for Cuba under Fidel Castro. In 1989 the general was overthrown and captured in the United States invasion of Panama. He was detained as a prisoner of war, and later taken to the United States. In 1992 he was convicted under federal charges of cocaine trafficking, racketeering, and money laundering in Miami, Florida. Sentenced to 40 years in prison (later reduced to 30 years), Noriega is held at the Federal Correctional Institution, Miami, Florida (FCI Miami).
In December 2004, Noriega was briefly hospitalized after suffering a minor stroke. Voice of America (VOA)  reported Frank Rubino, Noriega's attorney, said Noriega was due to be released from prison on September 9, 2007. In August 2007, a federal judge approved a request from the French government to extradite Noriega from the United States to France after his release. Noriega is facing an additional 10 years in prison if convicted of money laundering in connection to his previous drug-trafficking conviction. Noriega has also received a long jail term in absentia in Panama for murder and human rights abuses.
13 Mar 2008
Q I want to be clear because I've heard you say this, and I've heard the President say it, but I want you to say it for my listeners, which is that the White House has never argued that Saddam was directly involved in September 11th, correct?
THE VICE PRESIDENT: That's correct. We had one report early on from another intelligence service that suggested that the lead hijacker, Mohamed Atta, had met with Iraqi intelligence officials in Prague, Czechoslovakia. And that reporting waxed and waned where the degree of confidence in it, and so forth, has been pretty well knocked down now at this stage, that that meeting ever took place. So we've never made the case, or argued the case that somehow Osama bin Laden [sic] was directly involved in 9/11. That evidence has never been forthcoming.
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Rolling stones and hurricanes prime us for the rapid eye movement of whose dream?
A stairway to the dark side of the moon reveals an orchestrated King
singing the blues while sexual pistols whip Jesus’ son.
Who’s influence weens us?
Me and my friends gratefully raged against the machine for three days
in the shadow of the valley of the dead
so big brother and company held us down while the wind cried
nothing to be gained here (except copied rights),
Then a questing tribe of beastly boys found a digable plant
where a buffalo soldier picked up a Gideon’s bible from the Godfather
in joe’s garage (or was it in one of 200 motels?)
Anyway, on a Holiday, the pinball wizard boy (Billie)
followed his heart and stopped pretending he was the king of the little plastic castles
while education, missed in the house of the naked apes, evolved and mutated
into and with ~ Nature Art Love Truth ~ and we do too…
And somewhere over the rainbow dancing fools send clowns and purple rain
into imagine nations where everything is now sacred
and there are no more public enemies or rusted Roots or minor threats
or bad brains or busted rhymes or widespread panic
and everyone can read the hieroglyphics on the wall
and we are all refugees of courtney’s love attaining nirvana….
But then again, you’re so vain, you probly think this poem’s about you-
we are everywhere and we cannot be beaten
it’s all over now baby blue, all we need is Love