Bill Ectric Time a Day

The setting sun compels me looking through the looking glass deciding TV news awash in colors blue and red and orange... 

Blue/Orange intriguing play we saw in London years ago and grabbing drink at the pub before a different show across the street (the theaters so close at hand) I see the actor from that play run down the street amid the cars five minute til the curtain call and yell at him "you're great" he waves his hand not turning back to look but scurries on, I guess he's late. 

...but mostly dark and shining blue upon the TV screen. It fascinates attracts but setting sun compels - I follow out to big round porch and open air and watch amazing skies immensely trailing clouds like plumes and yet there's something more so vast. There's always more - O'Neill says we are never satisfied. And so I leave, get gloves and coat, it's chilly out, get on my bad motor scooter and ride. 

(It's just a bicycle) but all the world before me as I chase the setting sun along it's westward way. Past cars and shops and Burger King smells grand of frying food beside the Lutheran Church all filled with cars. Joanne's not there but she's a saint in heaven now just like she was on earth if that's much comfort to the ones she left behind, I guess that's all of us. 

I look for alleys and passageways where cars do not exist. The little nooks that only bicycles traverse. A giant loop I travel far away then nearly home but want to see what's yond the Catholic Church and schoolyard parking lot. Across the street the vacant lot where that young priest was gardening the years away and further down the small Italianate white brick a hundred years ago and someone living there behind the sign that says for sale.

So down the crick trail way beside the schoolyard always gaining speed along the creek beneath the bridges underpass it goes by quick. And up to street again, and down an alleyway I hear the girls at play at dusk I'm like a kid again. Playing late along the streets in Michigan. I haven't thought of that in sixty years almost.That feeling, playing late and having to go home. 

All cool and sweaty out of breath and running home in darkening autumn air as Tommy's mother yells for him to come and signals all of us to go so Tommy's not the only one who has to leave the yards where children play. I don't even know who those kids were or if they're still around. And nearly there as if a warp in Bill Electric/Serling ever changing space and time around us like an envelope that folds and never ends. 

I'm home now and dismounting in the driveway there's a shower of feathers like a snow. The yellow cat I saw the other day, great feral beast he likes to hang around cuz no one's here. He must have kilt a bird up in the tree, I look but no, a hawk there in the yard. 

He's standing there on top his kill, a smaller bird, and stabbing at it ripping bits of flesh into his beak as feathers fly about. Amazing thing, his legs so stout and sturdy like an owl almost they're white with little specks of grey. I've never seen one this up close before. If I were Native it might be a sign. So what's it mean Tom (Crowhorse) is it good or evil, is it nothing but a day in time. A hawk dismantling its prey before my eyes and setting sun. 

Bull (Shit) Market

I been sayin for years that the stock market is a fuckin Ponzi scheme that only works if more and more people buy into it. Trouble is - most folk got no idea what a Ponzi scheme is - how it works, and why it's a crooked stupid gamble.

The idea is - you give your money to some fellers to buy into a corporation they expect everbuddy else gonna buy into, thus it just get bigger & bigger & bigger. An' by the time anybuddy figger out that the balloon about t'bust - them 'vestors'll move yer money into a new get rich quick scheme. So's y'won't be losin' all that money. 

Perty cool huh? Wull what happen if'n it all go to shit? Wot happen if a billion folkers wake up one morgen and figger out "duh...I doesn't need a new phone; old one werk jus' fine." Don't need new car, jus' gotta fix up old one. Same fer th'house. And durn, whattif I jus' wash some them clothes 'stead a goin' shoppin? Ferkin' A, ah bet the whole system fall down like a straw hut inna stiff breeze.

Y'see folkers, if'n y'realize that y'aint gotta buy buy buy, an' if a billion other folkers figger the same - then the fur kin bloon aint gonna keep expanding. And the fur kin Ponzi scheme gots t'start paying out wid nuthin t'pay y'ahs wid, cuz they income is based on folk keep puttin' in - not folk start takin' out. And then they's (& you's) is fucked up d'ass.

Now I isn't no 'conomist, but even a durn fool cud figger that out, n'est pas? Exxon might be a fur kin giant, a rael big boy. But if'n Ramco come along an' is a bigger boy, why'n't all the Exxon 'vestors sell yer stock & start buyin' Ramco? Kinda leaves you fukked & holdin' de bag, don' hit? Wull, tha's the stock market in de nutshell. An' tha's corporate economics inna nutshell. An' like the old hookers say t'the young 'uns - know before you blow.

An' by the way, wot happens to the thousands of folk what work fer Exxon? An' the thousands more whose jobs depend on the spending power of those workers. Well, tha's another story. 

Silly Rabbit

Saw on Facebook an announcement of a great new collection of short stories by a whole buncha fine writers, I reckon. So I added a comment - buy my new book. And the feller who compiled the short stories responds "wot's that got to do with..." 

So I deleted my comment cuz obviously he don't get it. The facts a life be thus - he came into into my living room (via computer) trying to peddle his book of short stories (I mean, he didn't announce the publication just cuz it's Wednesday.) So - he wanna sell his book, I wanna sell mine - fokkin' simple, no?

And that's pretty much my reaction to everything book - you got one to sell or promote - me too. You think yers gonna revolutionize world thought - me too. Did I mention mine's free if'n you gots Amazon Prime? Caint beat that. All is gonna cost y'ahs is the time it take to read. An' by golly, is so much fun, y'won't even notice time slippin' by. An' even if y'don't gots Prime, you can buy the damn thing fer a few pennies what would feed Knut Hamsun fer a week. So think of it as a donation to the arts - you could get a coffee mug from PBS, or a book from me.

I'll even tho in a blurb "Imagine there's a fool in the White House...how we gonna fight back? Maybe there's a way...to take back what's ours...by means necessary. Yeah...we gonna make some changes 'round here." Now that's like the main thing we gotta figure out right now, n'est-ce pas? How to save the planet from the idiot fat boy in DC. So, I done wrote this book for to try an' change things; and as Arlo say "y'gotta sing a whole lot louder'n that if y'ever wanna stop a war."

But the deal was this - I took my granddaughter to the clinic, holding the little kid in my arms. And she's pointing at the photo on the desk, by the nice older lady receptionist. So the lady says "you recognize Gina in the photo? Maybe she goes to the same daycare as you do honey." So I ask her about the fellow in the picture with the kid. "My son" she says. Then explains "he's in Minneapolis now, at the hospital. Was badly wounded in the war. No, he won't be coming home soon, or ever. It was a head injury, a bad...bad thing." 

And after a few months, the newspaper say "President visits local youth in Army hospital." And still later "local youth dies from wounds in war." And I couldn't take anymore of this shit. Why are those assholes killing and maiming decent people; destroying families forever, for their goddamned oil and their goddamned money. That kid who died, was in school with my youngest daughter. He was nineteen, and never got older. Fuck that shit.

So I done what I could - to inform public opinion - that we the people here don't want their wars. Cuz if I'm gonna tell you what I think, it oughta be the most important thing I got to say; and the most important thing you hear. Otherwise we're just wasting time - as if time were all that we have. And I could try to trick you - like "let's be friends" when what I really want is "read my book" (self-interest is pretty high up on Maslowe's spectrum). But I'm old, and aint got time for games; and anyway - silly rabbit - trix are for kids. Now I don't need money and I don't want medals, as Dylan and Col Jessup are wont to say. Fame, fortune, and long remembrance dudden matta t'me. Like Van Gogh, after all these years:

The news of Van Gogh's death saddened me.
For I have been insane almost
unable to discern.
and nothing is worse than a tortured mind
haunting itself with horrible visions
taunted by self-assured fools.

I was young then
apart from a part of the circus
of clowns who do not know themselves.
I would cipher in costumes and painted smiles
to hide myself and reveal my motive
failed. it will not succeed.
there was seen not the meaning but only the clown
in all eyes an obvious fool.
and the ladies or girls scouts or something between
that I loved of them could not discern
the words of my poetry.

so I was a puppet and unattached
as the nights grew longer with fear of death
or life, and the stars...
the stars will dismantle a man to his nothingness
pushing him into the ground like an ant.
it is poison there in the solitude
with the stars, the darkness, and millions of stars.

I was shuttered by Van Gogh's paintings,
the turmoil, the whirling pain
all inside and alone
and no one to share it with. 
loving him now that he's dead.

The Death of Champagne

A Review of Sick City by Tony O'Neill

The writing is superb. Call it the curse of Scott Fitzgerald - I don't know if O'Neill can tell a bad story - he writes too well. And I'm sure Henry James and Fenimore Cooper coulda told us great things if they could only tell it better, could only get us to read them. Like the first couple of books I read when I'se maybe thirteen or so - a Fitzgerald and a Hemingway from the local Carnegie. Pretty sure it was Farewell to Arms - and yes spooky rabbit - the earth moved.

But while Hem told a great story, he did so with awkward skips and the ever present Agent Kay style "no ma'am, the FBI has no sense of humor that I'm aware of." On the other hand, Scotty could write like a bugger, just didn't say a whole lot. Don't even remember the book, but pretty sure it wasn't Gatsby. So of the great books I been reading, there's - sames and differs, largely in format. O'Neill's format is sort of "two junkies walk into a bar..."

Which is great, like no place you'd rather be than reading his books. Is intoxicating, addictive, just what you need. So it's hard to separate subject from form. Though maybe junkie stories don't appeal to you, but just set that aside if you can. O'Neill's characters are essentially the Steinbeck or Dickens castoffs of our time. The meandering street crud who are barren of any past, future, or purpose. They're just there, like little roaches scurrying about. 

Trouble is, there's not much distinction between the disgusting little bugs and anyone else. The rich and famous TV doctors who live in mansions and can cure whatever ails you - are no better. In fact, they're just like us, they just package and sell it better. In that sense, the main character in our story would be Champagne - who naturally - makes only a brief appearance. And "the death of Champagne" is sort of a sequel to O'Neill's earlier work "what killed Hemingway." 

But you'd have to read him to understand that Champagne is a fatally attractive transvestite, while Hemingway is the name of a house cat - formerly beloved, now completely ignored by a careless junkie. You'd also have to understand champagne as symbolically our ultimate toast to success. And that Hem is so admired we'd name our most cherished pet after him, and...let him starve to death. 

Cuz the problem isn't just the drugs - they're more like a symptom. The problem is - An Officer and a Gentleman - the young cadet-trainee on his knees whining to the mean old drill sargeant "I got no place else to go." That's the problem. And in a God-like sense, O'Neill tells his audience - do with that what you will. 

In a perverse way (which is normal in Sick City) the most complete character is the arch-villain, Pat. He's big, mean, and doesn't suffer fools. In O'Neill's spin-off of the Tate-LaBianca murders, Pat is Charlie Manson - if Charlie were cool and level-headed. Yeah, Pat is evil personified, a junkie's worst nightmare. But if you're born into that world (or this one) it's just par for the course. Cuz nobody cares about the death of another mindless junkie. It happens a lot.

The key is to tell that story - the story of us - in such an appealing manner, you can't turn away. The sick city, Hollywood and fame and fortune, is a fantasy land we all live in. It's alluring, addictive; it fascinates us and draws us into the spider's web. And like everyplace else, it's the land of make believe. And as O'Neill says "the trouble with us junkies is, we always want something more."

The Candy Bar Caper

What happen was I went for a bike ride cuz is such a lovely sunny day, and you know where my granddaughter said the bike trail was closed and I said it wasn't and damn that's a steep dirt hill past the barricade what say "trail closed" and the bulldozer sittin there in the hardened mud like "you want sumpin?" 

So I head back thu the historical homes district which is a durn nice part a town to live in, or even just to bike around if'n y'don't. Like exploring the ancient wonders of Greece and Rome as fashioned into these grand old relics rich folk maintain. In the sunny warm breeze is quite the awesome splendor. Man them folk had it made afore the horseless carriage invented urban madness. You can even see where the smaller homes beside the big ones, were like for servants and tenants. And the sprawling yards were fer folks and their kin and horses and such.

And lost in all this reverent grandeur, I'se home now and find the door ajar. Which sounds like a Persian - Ajar Haddat maybe - or a close relative to our African cousin Akimbo. But no worry, was a time when nobody even locked their doors 'round here. So with a nice cup a coffee, I settle down to relax with a bite of big old candy bar I keep alongside the easy chair just so is handy. But is gone.

Dangit, the kid found it and swiped it. That's why y'gotta keep the stuff hidden-like. But no, is just moved a little ways, with little teeth mark holes in the side, and bits a paper strewn about. Is what happen when the door is ajar - y'get visitors. So I find some better mouse traps, and break off a couple chunks of chocolate as bait. Next morning, the big chunks of chocolate are gone. Luckily the traps are still intact. Hungry little rascal, hope t'high heaven it aint pregnant and stocking up for the blessed event.

But what t'hell kinda rodent tries t'drag off a giant candy bar, then when y'feed it a couple big chunks, it say thank y'ahs, and doesn't even bother t'trip the trap? I wonder...is it nesting somewhere in my old Crate amp, or inside the old console stereo my great aunt left me? I guess it still works, but I just use it for the speakers which I hooked up to an old Marantz receiver I got fer five bucks from a feller in Kentuck when me and the ex-Panamaniac spouse went out t'get an old used washing machine so many many years ago.

Pretty cool. We found him in the freezing cold dark country night, happy as a lark in his work shop shed, what's filled with everything refurbishable you can imagine. He's sittin there beside the old Ben Franklin stove that's so all over toasty warm from the coal you kin pick up right off'n the ground out there in the Kentucky hills. Bill Pancoast would know 'bout that; as he's from there, I think. 

So anyway, when I tried to make the garden fresh green beans that my granddaughter wouldn't eat, I figured I'd eat 'em mysef so as not to tho 'em out. And ever damn time I go to work on the 'puter you can tell the beans are done by the burning smell from the stove. Why is that? So I offer some to the rodent, and I guess they weren't so bad after all. Poor little rascal.

On Faure's Weinstein

The biggest fear of conservatives, in our ever widening cultural chasm, is that liberals don’t know right from wrong, and wouldn’t care if they did. The Left, in rejecting the moral authority of God, has no basis for what’s good or evil. 

Though both sides seem oblivious to twenty-five thousand years of trial and error, resulting in standards for societal norms lasting up til the end of the Vietnam War.

We are our myths, according to Northrup Frye. Achilles was loyal to his friends, vanquished his enemies, and is forever our hero. Odysseus was faithful to his wife, defeated his rivals, and set his own lands in order. These are the ideals we live by. They’ve been tempered by Jesus and Mohammed, but remain largely intact, as so eloquently orchestrated by William Shakespeare. It’s who we are.

But the upheavals of twentieth century wars left Troy demolished and Ithaca adrift. The falcon cannot hear the falconer. So where do we go now.

Well the whole point of mans’ twenty five thousand years of trial and error, is to figure out what works and what doesn’t. Thus the point of the cultural revolution of the mid-sixties through mid-seventies was to put that to the test. Because if a pragmatist has values, other people don’t. So what have we learned. Hopefully, right from wrong.

Humping little girls isn’t right or wrong because it offends God, it’s right or wrong depending on whether it’s disruptive to social order or not. Which is a very simple equation, and reasonable as well. Thus - it’s a no, don’t do it. Because we can easily see that humping little girls just doesn’t work for a functional social order. Therefore laws should discourage it.

Laws are to effect social order. Little girls shouldn’t hump or be humped until such time as they are no longer children. Which they can’t decide for themselves cuz they aint got the wisdom or experience to do so. The whole of the problem is that their parents likely don’t either. Which is the inherent trouble with laws - they deprive the citizenry of learning for themselves - why laws need be.

Quite simply - flood your community with 14-year old mommies and you’ll understand. Add to that, all the men in the neighborhood saying “yeah, that could be my kid…or maybe not.” But you get the picture. Who wants to acquire basic knowledge by way of endless misery.

The alternative is to teach these basic life skills to the kiddies in the first place. Yes, we’d be less drown-prone if we were all taught to swim. But don’t assume young ‘uns are stupid. Humping doesn’t offend God. Hell, He invented it. But what it does, is potentially screw up yer life. And that’s what y’oughtta be schooled on. Which is something both sides need to learn.

Right from Wrong

I'm told - I'm too judgmental. Which is fine, everyone should say what they think without fear of reproach. Not that they won't be reproached, ridiculed, or scorned - just that they shouldn't be afraid of it. The corollary is - everyone should think before they say. Which would make for less reproach, thus less fear of it. 

Judging is (duh) the ability to tell right from wrong. So if folks don't like that, or aren't able to do it - that's on them, not me. I greatly value discerning right from wrong. I call it reality. And those who don't participate, I call - stupid. The Bible says "judge not, less ye be judged." Which has to mean something, right? I mean, it's Biblical, thus has the force of "authority." God didn't write much, but when he did, people listen. God and EF Hutton. 

Now I get - fear of being judged - we join groups in order to survice (a wise man once said). And no one want to be left out cuz that's the ultimate death of the soul. But it isn't the "be all end all" of judging right from wrong. We can say "okay, you're acceptable as a member of the group" but there're caveats - you gotta adhere to the group norms or you get kicked out. So be careful what groups you want to define yourself by. Maybe that group's no good, as Nietzsche might say. Or maybe you oughtta take a leadership role and steer that group in the right direction. 

But to do that, or damn near anything - you gotta know right from wrong. Doesn't mean you have to read and study all laws since Hammurabi; or all philosophy since Socrates. But that'd be a start, cuz those guys had ideas too. And no use spending your life trying to figure out something you'd already know if you'd just read Hegel. That'd be kind of a waste of time. And folks'd say "yeah, he don't read much." 

But be not afraid - I aint never read much of Hegel either, and what little I did, don't much recall. Doesn't mean I'm dumb, just eager for scholars to fill me in on stuff. And mighty damn skeptical of those scholars too - cuz how I know they aint shuckin and jivin me? Ah...there's the rub, as Billy Shakespeare say. The only way I can know - is by developing an abiltity to tell right from wrong, duh. 

But how to? you ask. Ah yes, folks been wraslin' with that since Adam said "you sho that snake din' poke yahs in the private?" An' Eve just smile an' shake her head.

So - Thomas Hobbes said (around 1650 or thereabouts) "that which doesn't contradict itself,  is at least not wrong." He couldn't say for sure it was right, but he could say for sure - that which isn't self-contradicting is a least not in the group - things we know are false. So that was a start. Kinda like Heisenberg finding atomic particles by where they aren't. (and to think, I coulda been listnin' to Stevie Smith on ESPN)

Hip Hopped Out

A review of Thomas Chatterton Williams' "Losing My Cool."

Reading Nietzsche in school when I was 20 was a first-time experience for me. Finally found a true genius - someone who agreed with everything I been saying for years. Like, we all have unlimited potential, and we none of us know it. But that never quite happened again, the meeting of sheer genius - someone who  was so like me. 

Now that's a bit tongue in cheek. Though defining "genius" as someone who closely agrees with us, isn't a stretch. Likely most people see it that way, if pressed for honesty. Just that it's rare to find people who agree with us so closely, on so many fundamental issues. Parents and siblings don't even do that.

I was quite amazed to read Losing My Cool, and say "wow, he thinks just like I do; what a brilliant fellow." And I continued feeling that, even when the author throws around the ideas of Sartre and Heidegger as if we'd all studied philosophy. Which I did, so I can relate. Doesn't everybody - if not, how come. That's supposed to be: how the greatest human thinkers thought about stuff. Like how to live. Anyway, you can see what I mean. 

A basic premise of Thomas Chatterton Williams' book is that there isn't a lot of intrinsic difference between us as people. (I'd say none, but he and I don't agree on everything.) To illustrate, Williams takes us on his journey of growing up black in America. I know of that cuz I've been there. Wait...how does an old white guy in Dakota relate to that. Well, we'll get there. Like I said, it's a journey, and each of us has been places no one else has.

So, I was a kid in Athens GA, when Stokely Carmichael was jailed in Atlanta, and Lester Maddox was barring black people from his Varsity Restaurant in my home town. Lester went on to be Governor and Stokely became my hero; though our ideas diverged as we got older. I got smarter; Stokely, I'm not so sure. But he was cool. Or rather - cool was him.

And this inner demon that's been tearing at me for years now, as I'm secluded away in a quiet little white enclave - those folks I see on the TV are like minstrels of Jim Crow. Half-wit athletes talking to half-wit commentators who used to be athletes; or half-wit rappers who I never bother to listen to cuz I don't expect they've much to say. Not to single out Lil Wayne, but yeah okay. He might be real smart, but I'll never know cuz he sure doesn't look like it, to me. 

But what Thomas Chatterton Williams doesn't know, what yall don't know, is - I've done that. The Hippie culture of the mid-60's to mid-70's was pretty much the same as the hip hop culture of today. Kids (and their idols) dressed weird, took drugs, and didn't want any part of mainstream values. The biggest difference is that most all Hippie-types outgrew it, cut their hair, and became like their parents. Successful, at least financially, and with some lingering "peace love dope" ideology.

What Williams so desperately fears is that blacks - gonna live hip hop, gonna die hip hop, and never gonna know better. There're a couple ways to take that. If you think (like me) that there's no difference in skin color other than skin color - this is an immense tragedy, a needless waste. Millions of people worshiping a false god who'll lead them straight to hell. But if you're a bigot for some odd reason, you might think - full speed ahead.

Problem is, hip hop is either inclusive, beckoning everyone to tune in, turn on, and drop out - or is exclusive for folks like me "man...stay away...please...just as far away as you can." Cuz I aint gonna debate Lil Wayne over the value of tattoos and drugs and the money you might but probably won't get. I'd rather just say "steer clear of me and mine." And I saw that same reaction for Hippies, back in the day. Hell, we invented "no shoes, no shirt, no service" cuz we wanted the earth under our feet.

But there's a difference worth highlighting. William's recalls the brutal beating of his brother by the police. My own experience was this: I was often harassed by crazy cops as a Hippie youth. One rainy night, with nothing better to do, I was grabbed off the street and hauled away to the local doctor's office where the drunken police chief demanded I be tested for drugs. My reaction (maybe my learned response) was - okay. Cuz me, the doctor, and my dad who was more angered by this than anyone, all knew it weren't nothing but a thing. And that was the end of it. Crisis averted, case closed.

When you read this book (I got one for my granddaughter cuz "everyone needs a copy of the bible at home") you'll notice Williams writes better than most. His opening sentences are Faulknerian in length and breadth. He has big ideas, profound truths to tell. And little clever phrases might trick the street mark, but won't hold immense thoughts. Like how to live; or how not to ensure your own suicide. Good book - for everyone who's a parent or a child, and everyone else.

Especially for me, as I was worried about it - do I only like black people who are like me? "White" with darker skin, like maybe Barack Obama or Don Lemon. But Williams' book answered that. Of course I like people who are like me - everyone does. And skin color has nothing to do with it. My issue isn't with people - they're good or bad on their individual merit - it's Hip Hop that disgusts and repulses me. And as Williams explains, it's not a racial culture. It's simply a cheap exploitation of kids searching for direction; and taking a wrong turn.

The book is dedicated to Williams' father, to whom he owes his life, in more ways than one. For the elder is the architect of the younger's success. It is Clarence Williams, the patriarch, who searched for and found the knowing of things - the collective knowledge of all mankind. And he passed this along to his son, as his gift not only of life, but of what life could be. We're obliged to pass along his gift to everyone. All kids are malleable, and some or most never get past that. But Clarence Williams gave us a blueprint of how we can be more than just clay pigeons.

If you build it....

A Review of Home Making by Lee Matalone

A couple of books arrived in the mail at the same time. So, judging by the covers, I picked the hardbound one with the purple and gold felt on the sleeve. I read a bit, wondering if women write for women, and men write for men; then switched to the other. And the first few pages were as amazing as anything I've ever read - profound, emotional, poignant. Literally moved me to tears. I had to set the book aside, and take time to think on it. 

Luckily I had three other very profound books to read, so I could treat them like meals - breakfast, lunch, supper, and dessert - varying which was which. If you know me, you already know the answer, but no one does. What struck me right off is Matalone's fine writing - very appealing - somber, objective, detached, for the most part. Like the quiet of an empty church, or some other sanctuary where one goes to be alone with their deepest thoughts. 

It is the soft professional voice of a healer, a doctor who does what she can to help, and with all good intention, but for professional reasons can't be personally involved with each and every patient. It is like the soothing voice of a mother without the intimate connection of "suckling child at your breast." Or of one human carrying another within, and thus a deep-rooted physiological connect beyond just flesh and blood. 

The other resounding chord that shapes the narrative is the format. Building a house as a metaphoric telling of the story of building a home. That is - of shaping the lives - for those who are to occupy that home, and the unique interconnect of the two. Which is very real for me, as that's a key part of my own life - the daily labor of love to keep alive my hundred year old home that's been in the family almost as long. That means a lot to me, it's what I do.

But as in my big old house, for the unfamiliar, is easy to get lost. Which may be deliberate but is a bit unsettling, which can also be deliberate. I lose track of who's speaking - mother, child, orphan, detached fathers, detached husbands. Perhaps they're all one and distinct at the same time. Which again, is unsettling, like a shifting dream. Or as the Vietnam vets used to say back in the day - I could tell you what it was like, but I won't, won't go there anymore.

So that's up to the reader - to decipher that if it needs be, or not, if it doesn't. Taken as a whole, I figure - from the tone and the structure - the house is sort of a tomb that people build around themselves, like a mausoleum, or an Egyptian pyramid, housing your life's work, and thus in a way, your life. But if my reading is correct, the author doesn't accept that as a conclusion. Like - maybe that's what we do, but we don't have to be trapped by that, if we catch ourselves soon enough. 

Same metaphor applies - birth, marriages, relationships - all. Though the author certainly doesn't dwell on the conventional as a contrast to one's own disparate reality. But rather describes a coping and shaping of the disparate into a workable personal reality. Thus the key part of the house (note the pun) isn't all the work you put into it, it's the doorway. Interesting, a very-well written book of profound ideas where function seems to follow form, to lead you to the inverse. I can use that.

Like the concept of Socrates' chair - it's not just to sit - but is also the deliberate human effort to construct a tool which mediates between standing or sitting on the floor. An improvement; or a useful and needed benefit that entails its own functioning - to sit and thus work, for example. Or to sit and thus relax, for another. Or whatever use you make of it. Like explaining the meaning of things. I can use that too.

What to Read (part 2)

Having finished my four precious books, I'm now lost without a compass, rudderless so to speak. Quo Vadis or "whither goeth uth" Robert Taylor was heard to say. For a while I was comfortably lost in the profound musings of Lee Matalone; and sharply on edge with William Trent Pancoast's inside story of the American dream or night-mare, as it were. And I could come alive with the in yer face challenges and philosophical groundbreaking in Thomas Chatterton William's powerful words, or bask in the warm glow of Tony O'Neill's familiar and most welcome irreverance for all things sham and tawdry. 

In other words, was nice while it lasted. And I managed to write some dandy reviews of those great books - short, pithy, and brilliant - was how I described them to myself. 
(If you're wondering - I was writing like Ridgwell before Ridgwell was; just as Fante was writing like Kerouac before Kerouac). So it's only a matter of great minds using great words, nothing more. Or plagiarism, call it what you like. 

So what's to do now and where to go? Looking all over for my copy of John Addams by David McCullough which a lifelong friend from the unemployment office gave me as I left the working force for good. I think it was for good anyway. Well, beats working all to hell. But I can't find it anywhere. Had to clean the hallway and get rid of all the coloring books and children's books and little kid stuff that somebody (Cathy) had dumped on my make-do book stand. Wasn't there but good to get rid of that stuff anyway.

So...I venture upstairs. Into the great wide open, the vast unknown and undusted fer awhile. Got all these big grocery store paper bags full of my dad's old books, out in the hallway. I'd cleaned his apartment a few years after his death. And it wasn't something I was eager to start on cuz that whole time frame left me shaken to the core. Still does. But there before me sits a treasure trove of stuff you can't throw away but got no place to put. I shake the cobwebs off'n a few of 'em and check to see what's there. 

Books about baseball and Babe Ruth, that was my dad's hero. He was trying to sell a story 'bout Babe to Ken Tate, before he died. My dad that is, don't know if Tate's still alive or not. And there's Grisham and Ludlow and John O'Hara and Clockers by Richard Price. My dad liked that, and I think it was a forerunner to The Wire which Steve Finbow really liked. Without a TV, Finbow came across tapes of the show and was binge watchin - years later.

Anyway, lot of stuff to sort through. I start with Grisham's The Partner as it's paperback and shorter than the others. And geez "they found him." No shit. They found him on all subsequent paragraphs. And into page two, they's still finding him. Damn Johnny, oughtta try varying yer words a bit, gets redundant. I get it - he's done been found. So...on to something else. Now this looks interesting - Wild Bill Donovan, the last hero. About the origins of the OSS and CIA by the guy who done originated 'em. Yeah, I can get into that.

Hmm...discarded by the local library. Hope they got a current copy...or got a better book than this one. Be a shame to thow out all this knowledge due to oversight or ignorance. Now wouldn't it?

Mikael Covey

Mikael Covey is an American fiction writer and founding editor of Lit Up Magazine. His published works include two novels, and numerous online short stories, poems, reviews, and opinion pieces. (photo by Joseph Ridgwell).

What Philosophy Is (Part 2)

We need more ready-made memes like "Orwellian" everyone knows what that is, an' if you don’t - read, yah ferkin moron. But when I say "Heidegger's ground" I want it to be universally understood, so we don't have to dig into a bunch of his books. 

Or "the other." Everyone should know what Sartre meant, I hope. So, starting with basic philosophy, Socrates - there're only three or four things I know about him - dialogues, the cave, and his death

In no particular order, let’s do dialogue, the Socratic method. My concern isn’t so much the method of reasoning - as the method of dialogue. If I ask the questions and provide the answers, then we’re gonna get to QED pdq, cuz...duh. But if there’s a second person or many involved, we get real dialogue; and "thus it is demonstrated" is more precarious or hopefully, well-earned.

Used to do that when I’se a kid. People’d use their if...then arguments, and I’d think “if I replace any one of your variables, it tho’s a monkey wrench into the whole damn thing.” So, dialogue forces honest answers, cooperative disagreement, a lot of other stuff, and what lecturing teachers hate - having to hold the entirety of your argument in your head at all times, so as to defend it from attack or interruption from an inquisitive student. Believe me, that’s a bitch, and folks readily dismiss it with “aint goin down that rabbit hole.” Cuz tangential thoughts have unlimited corridors. (But I regress, as Dylan would say.)

Secondly, Socrates’ death - as Plato describes it - he’s on trial for disavowing the gods, and is sentenced to death. Socrates is the hero of free-thinkers, but what is glossed over is the state's position. Necessary law and order derive and maintain their status from their godly origins. To reject Zeus is also a rejection of supreme authority, and all the other paradigms of the state as represented by the fictitious gods - love, wisdom, war, justice - you name it.

Thus the state may not believe in these fanciful mythological gods either, but they don’t want anarchy. So Soc’kee’s death is almost pre-ordained - a natural evolution in human development. He’s not just the folk hero of free-thinkers, he’s also a guy who has the luxury of rebelling in the comfort and safety provided by the state, so eloquently stated by Col Jessup to Lt Kaffee: “I'd rather you just thank me.”

Then, the allegory of the cave, which I truly love cuz it’s different for me in some ways. We think of it as the imperfect reflection of images on the wall, caused by the fire. But to me, the ideal chair isn’t - the perfect concept of a poor reflection. It’s the chair’s purpose that is ideal. You sit on the damn thing. It has a function that’s very distinct from standing or sitting on the ground. It is a concept; and it’s far from unknowable, just that we take it for granted and don’t hold the real concept in our minds. Which of course is quite different for objects like “chair” as opposed to people. Or is it?

Anyway, consider chair - to sit more comfortably in. It could be a posh chair or an ornate chair, which have added meanings - I got money, I’m somebody - I got good taste, I’m sophisticated. These add or detract from my ideal concept of chair but are so much more widely prevalent, my ideal is all but lost. Your car gets you to and from. Wot the fock do I care how much it cost? All those other things it says about you, I might take as a negative, y’know? But you probably wouldn’t care cuz most people would only acknowledge all the peripheral meanings.

Which is when where and how - chair and human - devolve into the same thing.

Inside the American Dream

 A Review of Wildcat by William Trent Pancoast

When CNN announced "if Al Gore wins, he'll owe his victory to the unions" I jumped up and shouted "union...union ...union" at the top of my lungs. I'd never done anything like that and there were tears in my eyes. The next day headline said W Bush was the likely winner. And for years I didn't bother watching news. But I couldn't avoid the local papers cuz they were everywhere back then. "Local youth visited by President in Army hospital" and "local youth dies from war wounds." Things like that were inescapable, even if you tried.

But as a lifelong union man, I surely knew when W Bush gutted the Post Office. He decided... Well what he decided was that private companies oughtta get that money for mail deliveries. And to further that end, the Post Office oughtta pre-fund all potential retirees to the tune of $10 billion a year. 

Bush knowing full well their balance sheet had shown a profit of $5 billion the last couple of years. So if you add those together, now there's a $5 billion annual loss. Not easy to recover from, for an agency that pays it's own way and has never taken a dime from the taxpayer. Suddenly this struggling service needs to be moved to the private sector. Nice guy that Bush, even when he's not killing kids. 

With that in mind, I come across William Trent Pancoast's book Wildcat, about America - the wars, the auto industry and the unions - like swimming in gravy for me. And it's fascinating, his account of the life and death of the working man in America as encapsulated in the UAW strike against General Motors in 1970 (look at mother nature on the run.) Ken Burns would've given us a series had he told this story, and maybe someday he will. Pancoast offers us glimpses into what it was like - the key players - the union reps, the company bosses, and the workers who watch their lives being decided.

It isn't enough, but the brevity is part of the telling. A story of how we could've had it made, for awhile...and how quickly that can all fall apart. Gone like dust and won't be back again. Trouble is, according to Pancoast the auto workers never had it made, back then anyway. Working seven days a week in mind-numbing repetition just to get by. And after thirty years, if you survive, you got your $500 a month pension and your company stock which is now worthless thanks to GM's failing business model, as of the '09 crash. 

Of course some got rich...off all those people, the thousands of working people who toil and slave everyday in the good old days before OSHA messed things up with safety and health regulations. Before unions messed things up with demands for decent working conditions and a living wage. Before the jobs were shipped overseas to people who didn't need things like safety, health, and unions. Before the bosses took all the money and skipped town.

It's good to know what it was like, what the real world was - because those people had dreams too. They matter too, like you and me. And if you want to know a secret, if you really want to know the truth of things, and how - what is - came to be, well talk to the old union guys at the bar. Buy 'em a beer and ask 'em what really went on, how it all went wrong. Cuz it didn't have to be this way...if people only knew. If we only knew what's good for us.

This is a superbly written story, dripping blood and guts from Matewan to Vietnam and back again. And humor, and humanity, like a CNN reporter telling this all-too American history after a few six-packs and some moonshine to wash it down. It's honest and gripping cuz the people and events are real and there're no punches pulled on either side. It's their story and ours too. How the auto industry and the UAW shaped America and our future; and of the people who fought and died in those wars.

Pancoast knows what he's talking about because he was there. He's an insider who can detail how it all went down. Like the key witness in a trial we're all a part of. And there're two choices here - do you wanna know - or remain stupid. For me and for all people who are curious, and what Emerson would call self-reliant, that's what life is about, finding truth. Cuz we can moan and groan about whatever doesn't go our way and why and who's to blame. Or we can learn to carry our own water, understanding that however things are - it's on us.

Life Passing By

Ridin' down to the river on my bike through chill melting snow in the brilliant sun. Such lovely morning... Way back when I'd make deliveries in soft summer ease and folks would say "nice day, isn't it" and I'd respond "aren't they all" meaning every word. 

Like morning forty years ago on the fourth floor psych ward, after watching sunrise. I got off work and walked along the warm river banks. Back when me and Sonny were living in Commodore Coulson's house with the big tower on top that only a riverboat captain would build. And you could see... everything...from up there in Mark Twain's day, I guess. I lived in that tower with Janey later on. No, it was before. She's the one who found that house cuz of all the mailboxes out front. So she figured they'd rent rooms. 

On that amazing day walking through reflection of sun and trees on glass-still waters with James Taylor in my mind "geese in flight and dogs that bite" wishing you were here to share it with. Not "you" as anyone particular, but Janey or Sue or Cathy or anyone. Just someone beautiful enough to recognize them selves in all that beauty all around that perfect day and perfect place. Later Sonny wants to put an antenna up on top the tower so I go up and do that. But doesn't help the crummy old tv of his. 

Riding along the river banks of riverside park, it goes by quick. Big geese on the water, I heard them honking on the way but you hear that all the time. A lovely sound like you're going somewhere, for some reason. Like looking out of barred windows at the white trails of a passenger jet against the blue sky. Dreaming of goin' somewhere. 

Or for the geese maybe it's too cold, or maybe it's time to mate. What else is there in life. They're in the middle of the river swimming against current which leaves them standing still sort of. Later I pass the ballpark on the left where they're getting ready for...spring, I guess. I could turn here, and head back, but think I'll go on a ways, for the exercise, or just to see what's there. It's been awhile. 

Up on the right is the boat dock where I took Rudy (Valentino) our big old collie dog that Yolanda bought with our meager savings when the kids were little. And like collie dogs he protected them from harm. Knocking me over when we played football and the girls were a little older, cuz he thought I might hurt them. But tonight he's dying from the maggots swarming his body from inside out. And the cold river water is all he wants cuz he can stand/float in it. He can't do that on land, not for a week or more; and not now, his last night before I put him down. He doesn't want to leave...yeah, who would.

But Yolanda left us, me and the kids, and in that hard demise who's gonna care for a dog with cancer. And so it goes, and so it went. Stretching Rudy on the ground in the backyard so I can measure to dig the grave. He watches me and I guess he knows and neither one of us can make it right. 

And on and on, riding along, not thinking of then or not too much. Past trees on the bank, and long-dead trees in the water, up to where me and Gramp used to go fishing. Til that time he fell coming up the bank, and broke his ribs. Then lying in bed for a month or more. One day he's all excited cuz he took his teeth out and his little dog ran off with 'em. Wants me to get 'em back for him.

Is funny, he knew he was gonna die, but not yet, not for another ten years. So there was time yet. There always is, and then there isn't. My granddaughter complaining about her friends. They tug at her, pull her in different directions. They hate her boyfriend and he hates them. So she's in the middle, the middle of nowhere. "Where do you live" I ask her. But she's uncertain. So "where do you live" I repeat, pointing at my temple. And she gets it, she understands. "You live here" I tell her. That's the only place there's meaning, the rest is just passing by. 

The American Dream

The men who fought for Washington to make a new nation had to wonder - what do I get? Cuz the conditions were horrible - lack of food, boots, weapons. The only thing you could be sure of was dying. A given no matter what the endeavor. But if the soldiers asked  "hey George, whatta we gonna get." He might've said "when it's all over, you can come work for folks like me. And someday your kids in the far off future can maybe work for a Wall Street corporation."

The soldiers might reply "that's fucked up George" and they'd be right. If the American dream is to work for someone else - to enrich a very tiny few by the lives of the very many, that's amazingly stupid. Imagine telling kids when they're little - all your little life will ever be - is a paying job. Kids would look at their parents and think - man, yall are fucking idiots. But that's how it is. 

The problem stems from imitating the European model in the 1700's. It was a given that stupid peasants would work for enlightened aristocrats cuz that's how it'd always been. The land you worked belonged to someone else. So you were never working for yourself. Everybody knows this, but it's like syphilis - nobody wants to talk about it. Cuz it'll drive you crazy, or at least make you real sad - the fact that our geniuses in sociology and politic can't come up with a sane system. 

Young kids about to set off on a new life gotta think - it's fuckin hopeless - like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate who mighta said "you mean this is the future yall got planned fer me?" My freakin Jesus, it's all pointless - it don't mean nuthin. Merely a glittery glossed up form of eternal slavery - me workin fer you. And gettin peanuts in return."

And the bosses say "tell you what, in exchange fer humpin yer ass, I'll give you free speech so's you can complain about it all y'want - hey, it'll make y'feel better."

Well, they say the first step in problem solving is to identify the problem. Okey dokey, then what? We're drifting in space and running outta oxygen - so, who's got a plan?

PS - y'know I wonder.......the saddest thing is a Russian emigre sayin "if you think this is bad, imagine how much worse it is in Russia." D'y'spose that's intentional? Could you imagine world leaders gettin' together saying - they'll relish what little they have if we can give them an example of how much worse it is elsewhere. And somebody says - yeah, cool, let's make a genocide in someplace like Yemen so's everybody'll be happy they aint there.