Rum and Donuts

Meaning in Accident

2011-10-30T16:56:00.000-06:00

There is a piece of clay in my house. About the size of a Kiwi fruit, and shaped vaguely like one that's been a bit squashed. It is dingy-white and red, a natural clay found not far from here, and harder than stone. Never having seen a fire, it was age that hardened it. Being worked, at a nearby clay works, it was one day dropped and never again picked up.
In its surface, indented a small depth, is a perfect human thumbprint, its whorls and ridges as hard as the hubs of hell. A thousand years and change, and the thumbprint is perfect to the touch, not mating with my own but rough against it. A human presence, physical, warm if left in the sun, cold if left in the shade. To touch the dead, all I have to do is turn to the cabinets and take down this artifact. To touch the living, all the dead have to do is wait. What meaning exists, must exist in accident. Nothing with purpose could carry so much weight.

Language - Stephen Fry, with Kinetic Typography

2011-08-01T12:35:00.000-06:00

I rarely post others content here these days, trying to avoid lazy posting (lazy posting, or no posting, quite the dilemma), but this is delightful and I anticipate the small audience I have here will appreciate it.
Do take the time for it, please. I took the time to let it load on a 36Kbps dial-up connection, with less stability than Libya, and it was worth it. I'll have to download the whole original audio at some point as well.

Inchoate

2011-05-26T14:16:00.000-06:00

The first tool we want from our fathers toolboxes is the hammer
It is a tool of youth, young men bashing the world to shape
We learn first to strike and smash, and then to drive nails
Leaving dents and spikes in everything, and then more occasionally building
Rambling leaning furniture, haphazard sculptures of adolescence
our work shows perhaps talent, but always enthusiasm
blemished with the touch of too much, too fast
Ragged cuts and the clinched nails of inexperience, poorly placed
and at the last turned back and driven over, where some hold fast forever
because boundless energy and small pay can earn anything, but enough time

Some of us never survive their days as inchoate men
and those who do, coming to a quieter place of ourselves
with fuller choice of tools, are held fascinated in sudden moments
by a hammer, and memory of singular approaches to the world
In those moments the wind, even in still rooms, dances our hair
and whispers the names of those we've known who will always be young

The Marks Left on Tools

2011-04-22T16:59:00.000-06:00

My girlfriend recently gave me a very nice handmade knife from the 1970's. Made by a small shop in Whitefish Montana, long out of business, the knife is in excellent condition. The near mirror polish on the blade hardly marred by scratches, and the edge was untouched by a stone or use since its final rouged-buffing at the makers bench. For something approaching forty years old, the knife remained essentially new. The design of the knife is simple, a modified drop-point hunting knife, with pinned wood-laminate handle scales. It carries in a hand-stitched leather sheath, of a quality of workmanship not always common to even custom knives. Well made through and through, it is a tool; An object of combined elements of purpose. And yet, it has gone the decades since its making unused.
I am bothered by this newness of things meant to be used. There is no poetry in disuse of fine tools. It is the death of intent and meaning, an act against life to always rest a thing meant to be worked with.

On my workbench there live a few tools of my grandfathers and great-grandfathers, from the L.S. Starrett company. They are not new, in any sense. Most have passed a century. All have been used in the numerous tasks of a machinist, for lifetimes now. As machinists tools, they are exceedingly precise, and still have sharp edges, fine points and little slop or wiggle in their moving parts. These tools were made in a time before computers, when math was done by hand and mind, and the most precise work was that of men who manipulated machines themselves. The precision of these tools was artistry of purpose. Tools finely made, so they might be used in making other things that would be used. They have lasted not because they were put away and never taken down, but rather because they were acted upon and with as intended. A tool used is, of necessity and responsibility, a tool cared for.
The use of tools imbues them with an even greater richness, from the users knowing of them, the oils of his work and himself in their fine knurling, the experience of what he can do with them. The care of tools is a natural result of this. We care more deeply for that which we know, and value through experience, because we wish to preserve that which preserves us. Good tools, like good lovers, make our desires possible, our wills able to be wrought, their touch fuels our engines, and we care for them, or we die alone and empty. It is a lesson we learn, those of us who know it, just in time.

I sharpened the knife she gave me. The buffed factory edge, though shiny and new and perfect to see, was not keen when I took it up to use. Stoning the edge to a shaving sharpness left it uniformly and finely scratched where it had been as mirrored as the blade, and to a collector (those ill preservers) less valuable. Sharpening and using the knife is an act of being alive. Touch and pressure and wear are real and whole, and nothing good exists absent of them. Nothing good is unmarked by the passing of time.
Our tools, the objects in our lives we call valuable and their condition through time, are markers of ourselves in the world. If our tools are given over to rust and devastation, all we leave for the world is brokenness and useless oxidization. Ruined tools are things that perhaps should never have been. Tools that are unmarked, boxed, shelved and protected in perfect newness, never truly were. Only things used, worn, marked by process and care carry any valuable weight. The marks we leave on tools, are the marks we leave on the world.

Kinetics

2011-03-22T22:35:00.002-06:00

This family pulled away from my father, as water from shores before the wave. It was the small things, that went mostly unnoticed. My files gone from his office computer, the lack of words from my mother over dinner. We felt the drawing up, our selves pulling back to a disrupted center, and the waiting tension to return. To return in full, washing over the shores where he had been, and further, to wash away the structures there.
Like many acts of natural fury, this too began slow. The start was rumblings of dysfunction rising to a final draw, when my mother asked him to leave. Things come apart. Either slowly, or quickly. The part of the family that was my father was being unmade slowly at that point. My own feelings were mixed. Even knowing where I stood, there was an awfulness in what I then still believed was the lifetime of a man coming to failure. Amid this, it was curiosity that led to cataclysm. In drawing back, in the steady rumbling of process, I stumbled upon something that did not fit. It felt, beneath the touch of my concern for his devastation, somehow wrong. You look closer at things rough to the touch, and the truth is what you find, not what you are told.
He had built islands of artifice. Shores with the names of all things goodly familial; Love; Compassion; Hope. He poured the sands of his lies on them, and trusted that we would come no further than these inviting beaches. It was all there, in his own words to this other woman. Full accountings of the things had had built, and the lies with which he had built them. The give and take of lapping waves finally ceased, the drawing away completed in a moment. Everything compressed upon its center, and rushed outward again. For every action, a reaction. Such acts are kinetic, moving with fury, unwilling and unable to do anything but take ground. Everything before you is overrun, swept under and you drive on.

What followed was time, probably days but immeasurable in the cloud. For that time, we allowed it that things were neither good or bad, but rather the efficient neutrality necessary to do as needed. The worst of processes are sometimes the easiest. You pragmatize for calm, and focus on physical labors. There is a logic and order to packing, even large amounts and big items. Like high ground, he clambered atop these acts, keeping above the water and moving. A life, even one deceitful, can be stripped down into so many orderly boxes, taped and marked. Old furniture can be pulled apart, this top piece separating from that piece, the contents rifled for a sense of belonging with whats to be left set haphazard to available horizontals. Into the removed drawers can be packed things to be taken. In such a taking apart, many voids will be found, and this is how all empty spaces are filled, with things from elsewhere. Strangers and aliens in spaces of former comfort, teaspoons in sock drawers and socks in pants pockets and pants shoved into garbage bags. The garbage, and dust, of thirty-six years all left on the floors. Strewn behind him, the waste and old receipts of the thing now undone. Or was it the thing long undone? Like days, some knowing was clouded.
And some knowing will never be. Amidst it all there was always a clarity. Some things are known to the point of gravity, a fact beyond all concept of denial. The knowledge, there in every discovered word of my fathers, was inescapable as the risen sea. That too made it easier. If in war it is easier to do the work when you hate your enemy, so too is it easier to do anything at odds with another. Who-gets-what arguments are are easier for the absolute wrongdoing of a single party, for there is always that card to play. The sins are real, untruths and infidelities whole, and they put end to the forever circular arguments. I wonder how families do this when there is less clear-cut reason; How mine would have done it if reasons of amorphous dysfunction had remained the paramount.

And then, after the mad rush of it all, calm. Water and wind, and a great and wholly natural silence follow disaster and action of all sorts. Not for long, there is always the cleaning up, the putting to rights, the changing of lightbulbs and calendars to turn. Some of this work will be difficult, and some is already proving to be, but everything has indeed been washed clean. The rot that escaped the wave, that lingered on or was accelerated is being found, mostly by smell, and cut away. Birds twitter, and other creatures great and small circle and joy in the coming spring. All acts are for now in accordance to plan and planting cycles, a pace lacking any greater kinetic push than life itself.

Poem Published at Poor Mojo's Almanac(k)

2010-12-24T00:46:00.001-07:00

I'm very pleased to note that one of my poems has now been published at Poor Mojo's Almanac(k): "Holiday Poem"

I've been reading Poor Mojo's for a few years now, and am delighted to now be a small part of that wonderful publication. I'm also quite pleased by the timing of this publication, being just prior to Christmas. The poem is drawn from an experience on Christmas thirteen years ago, was written around Christmas last year, and now has been published just prior to Christmas. Great, great, timing all around.

Merry Christmas, everybody!

Faceless Consumption (Being a Tale of Idiots, and Meat)

2010-12-15T00:02:00.003-07:00

The other day I tripped over a piece of foolishness online, and haven't been able to shake it. This being the internet, finding foolishness shouldn't come as any surprise, but it did. I was reading in one of the few low-idiocy havens I've found online; A forum which the core membership of is primary military, law enforcement and emergency rescue personnel. So I was relaxed and receptive when I stumbled into the following gem of subintelligent thought, sort of like wandering into a trap. It was not meant for me, like all truly devastating traps it was entirely impersonal and aimed at whomever chanced upon it. A Bouncing Betty of stupidity.
The discussion at hand was on the film “The Cove”, which depicts in horrifying detail the mass slaughter of Dolphins in a particular cove in Japan. The general consensus was that killing something smarter than many people (or any politician) was “not cool”, and killing much of anything in that fashion was equally unacceptable. All of this brought on a small discussion of hunting, and that is where the idiot struck. He said, “The day I have to kill for food is the day i[sic] eat fucking nuts and berries. With all the meat in someones local food superstore, why kill any animals? I am in no way putting anyone down for hunting,it just isn't for me or something I want to do. Terrorists,yep. Animals,No[sic]."

I was flabbergasted by this idiots perspective, quite honestly. Not that I don't believe people think this way. I know that such twits exist, but I remain amazed and disgusted by it. In this case the source also probably has a lot to do with why it continues to bother me. Such a statement coming from someone with a military background, a group of people who commonly refer to themselves as “meat eaters” and take a great pride in the hunting of many things, is particularly surprising. More than that, I find this perspective fairly insulting in a broader fashion. No matter your background, or your particular thoughts on hunting, divorcing yourself so thoroughly from the origins of your food is beyond dishonest.
It is an incredibly spoiled and elitist position; One made possible only by a certain class of living, allowing such a luxury as routine access to a supermarket and little or no exposure to agriculture. Only from there is it possible to have no involvement with the animal, except to get hunks of its meat from the store, all while expecting others to do the killing (and even the thinking about the killing). This total removal of the self from the process of killing what is eaten is to deny that what we eat was ever alive. As an act it reduces life, a heartbeat and a spirit, to nothing more than a commodity. Whole beings become nothing more than their inanimate pieces. People who act this way say the animals death bothers them, as their reason for this denial of it's life, but there is no honor or respect in their actions, no respect for life.
This act also reduces the actor to something less as well; Something which is also denied heartbeat and spirit by the very spirit possessing it. If none of our food has a face, we ourselves become faceless. Such denial of the life of food is, in essence, making a choice to be sub-human. To make that choice, to seek that ignorance, is to say "I am not a human being. I am not a predator. I am some creature that eats the hard work of others, consumes the lives of other animals, without doing any of the mental or physical work or giving recognition to the costs necessary for me to survive." That's akin to being some sort of vaguely sentient mushroom or something, that just soaks in nutrients without awareness of where they come from.
It is incredibly disrespectful to divorce yourself from the process of killing and still want to consume its results. It is disrespectful to those who do that work, and it's disrespectful to the life you're now treating as merely commodified pieces. Such disrespect is also disrespect of the self, and remains so even if the divorce from food carries over to only eating non-animal foods. It is disrespectful to the self, as a human being, a predator; A creature of strong legs, and cunning mind, evolved to hunt and kill.
Some might say they wish to overcome being a predator, but do they have any idea what we would be if were were not predators? Our hunting and meat eating habits are at the root of many of the fundamental attributes of human beings; We are what we are because of eating animals. Theory suggests that the impact of meat consumption on brain development was fundamental to achieving the brains we have today. Who you think you are (to jump from brain to mind for a moment) owes to the mental gymnastics you are capable of thanks to descending from predators. And that's not to say anything about what being predators has done for the body.
Jackson Landers, “The Locavore Hunter”, provides us with this:

“As Christopher McDougall points out in his book, ‘Born to Run,’ we became modern humans in large part because we became predators. We have a lot of anatomical features that don’t make sense any other way. We are unique among living primates in that we have an Achilles tendon. An Achilles tendon is only really good for long-distance running. You don’t need one to walk or to sprint (as other apes demonstrate). Ditto our unusually large gluteus maximus muscles. We are finely tuned to be long-distance runners. And what good is running long distances? We can’t sprint fast enough to escape predators. But over marathon distances we can outrun even a racehorse. As a few indigenous tribes are still demonstrating, our bodies are very good at running down four legged prey until it collapses from exhaustion.
The physiological adaptations that allow us to do this are profoundly complex. Our tendons are especially springy compared to other primates. Our hearts and lungs are capable of amazing efficiency. We can sweat and regulate our bodies temperatures to avoid overheating. That kind of evolution doesn’t happen for nothing.
The title of McDougall’s book, ‘Born to Run,’ tells half of the story. The other half is that we were born to kill.” In Defense of Predation, The Locavore Hunter

These mushroom-people who want to divorce themselves from being predators are not just rejecting meat, they are rejecting essential humanity as well. Refusing to be a predator is a decision to step outside of humanity and be something else. Adherents of such a lifestyle seem to think they have risen above by doing so. They often act as if they've gained some pious state from which to condemn and dictate to others. Such people are so convinced of their superiority as to verge on suggesting tyrannies against real human beings acting in tune with nature (likening meat eaters to pedophiles and cannibals, as people who need to be "corrected"):

“The line of thinking goes like this: Evolution is natural, and what is natural is good; and because humans evolved the capacity to eat and digest meat, the practice of eating meat must also be natural and subsequently good. This is the naturalistic fallacy and it leads to all sorts of problems. Given this line of thinking we should also condone other human traits that came about through evolution, namely rape, murder, pedophilia and cannibalism. Obviously we’re not about to do this any time soon. We know very well that many people cannot be left to their own hard-wired devices; this is why we have self-corrective memes (i.e. ethics, laws, etc.) and why we need to have police and penal systems.
More to the point, however, is the acknowledgment that overriding our evolutionary baggage is part of the human mission. Having Darwinian processes guide our moral compass is sheer lunacy. Where is the morality in ‘survival of the fittest?’ Evolution may have helped us describe how we got here, but it most certainly won’t help us move forward as a compassionate species.” Meat Eaters are Bad People, Sentient Development

The cost of moving forward as a “compassionate species”, to those standards at least, will be not moving forward as a species at all. The nature these types claim to love and want to protect from “bad people”, is actually the very thing they are denying when they go on like this. They seem to see themselves to as smarter than, superior to, the way of the world for millions of years, and in their arrogance think they can override it. In reality, these petty would-be-god's have simply decided to be something less capable and interesting than a human being. Something needs to come along and eat them, if it can palate the taste.

In a certain way, these (anti-)people who either divorce themselves from their food, or refuse to be predators, should make me happy; If a cataclysm were to seriously challenge the survival of the human species, even if these mushrooms survived the initial event, they would be among the first to die or be eaten in the aftermath. That thought might bring a smile to my face, but for the fact that such cataclysm isn't around the corner. Even as things continue on the path they are on, true cataclysm is unlikely. So, we're forced to harbor these mental defectives; Those of us who participate in agriculture are forced to feed them, and the rest are forced to share with them.

(Photo: Original from Beverly & Pack's Flickr stream)

Penitent Distance

2010-12-04T23:49:00.000-07:00

She wasn't able to find the last shell casing, lying silent and glimmerless in the shadows of the tall grass. A panic set in that they would catch her now. She swallowed it, with the bile and let joy rise in its place. In this joy she ran.

The motel smelled of cigarettes and water leaks. Thin curtains barely hid her from the light, and she slept restlessly beside the pistol. Her joy came and went, another part of ragged dreams making for fitful sleep. In the moments she slept her long fingers arose, with wills of their own, and caressed the pistol. In waking, she held it close and smelled the steel and gunoil. As the night wore on to day, she knew what had to be done. Tears welled in her eyes, and she fought for hope of another option, but with the dawn breaking came certainty.

It was worse than the killing. The pieces of her friend, stripped to bare components in a bread sack, turned her stomach. She felt an awful emptiness as its familiar weight was reduced to parts jostling and dangling in the cheap plastic. The riverbank stretched before her, and through her grief she saw that the water flowed. Bird songs fought against her, but their joy was winning out.
She dropped pieces of him as she went. Small ones first, into the mud and flowing brown water. She took her time, and felt like she walked some great penitent distance between each lonely, and hopeful, splash and plop. As the sun drew low in the sky, setting the river ablaze in reflection, she emptied the bag and dropped it. This was the last of him, the barrel. Her fingers ached from the loneliness of each piece she'd dropped before, and ached more to feel his cold metal so long a friend. She kissed this last of him, and found it cold and rank with oil against her lips. With a cry she flung his finality into the deep water, and stood watching the ripples become overwhelmed in the flow.

Link Musings

2010-11-12T00:19:00.000-07:00

I've been debating starting to do regular link posts... I might. If I do, they may be in the form of thought-streams from my day, or a few days (if some sort of topical, or at least related, lumpet emerges from my reading/thinking/writing for more than a day). This may also be another random post, never to be repeated, in a blog full of them.

Digital Ecology? - This musing from Jacquet is pretty interesting, and reaches beyond the immediate field in which her musings occur. I keep returning to “This is a different type of ecology, one facilitated by the digital universe”, and wondering if there isn't more there. The idea that the digital universe has its own ecology whispers beneath the surface. Not that that is a new idea...just a compelling one.

50 Posts About Cyborgs - This is interesting for the topic/material, but also for the format. I'm increasingly interested in the variety allowed by “blog form” publishing. I like the idea that a stand-alone, non-continuous, digital object can be created as a blog – Particularly in the simple interface delivered by Tumblr. Although I'm not sure I need more inspiration to start new blog projects, as I'm sitting at... half a dozen blogs now, including this one. Most of them I have no idea what to do with... other than I wanted to write about, or create something about, a topic that didn't fit in well on a blog I'd already established. That said, I have some writing/thought projects that would make interesting non-updating blog-form works.
On the Cyborg topic:

Clearly, we are self-made. We are the first technology. We are part inventor and part the invented. We have used our minds to manufacture our selves and thus we humans today are the first cyborgs. We have invented ourselves. And we are not done yet. Kevin Kelly

I like a lot of this (the whole piece), although some of it is just distressing. Distressing in that it gives me visions of fat, iDevicePadObject plugged in, and tuned out, humans; Evolved with our technology, gone slow, dumpy and soft. Slow, soft, dumpy things are food to my mind. Obligate button pushers are a terrifying concept. They are not spear throwers, or rifle shooters; Those dangerous creatures of beautiful and lethal form. I refuse to be a button pusher. I'll go wild, and raise other wild things, if I must.

Newspaper Extinction Timeline- Interesting in the whole new publishing vs. old publishing way. I wonder how true this is for local papers in more remote places? The nearest towns to me are small, and isolated by miles and miles without urban sprawl; They are also not technologically contemporary communities, nor (most importantly) are there electronic media sources to supply them. What of the small town local paper in the Western US, and similar areas of geographic isolation, low population and low support from electronic media? Local media is different when you're in San Francisco, Ca. and San Francisco, NM.

I got notification of an acceptance the other day (on my birthday actually), and it should be getting published soon... If so, you'll get more soon. If not, perhaps more weeks of silence. This is my blogination-machine, and I'll use it as I see fit, after all.

Scorched Bastards

2010-11-11T15:14:00.000-07:00

A nut hit the dirt ahead of my boot, its fleshy paleness rivulet with blood and blue veins. Stepping through the dust, I felt it slide and rupture under my heel accidentally. The injection gun in my hand creaked as, bending to the heaving flank, I stuck the needle in and squeezed. I stepped away again quick, as I felt the heat of the iron pass beside me. The denutted bull-calf bawled in pain as the hot iron struck his hip. He strained and twitched. The kid on the calf's neck twisted the foreleg higher, screwing himself down harder to the animal and the earth. Hot iron struck flesh once more, and then everyone pulled back. The calf jumped up, all snot, flying hair and dirt, kicked free of the rope and bolted to the corner of the corral. There, shoulders bumping against the others, the fright passed from his eyes. I spit, flicked a droplet of antibiotic from the needle tip and slid into observation.

The work was more than just putting the old two iron brand to flesh. The calves were roped out, and dragged nearer the cedar fire where the irons rested. Swift in movement, I stepped, gave the shot and withdrew. An ear got notched, and nuts got cut. Then the fiery-irons and scorching. All together the work became a flow. The dust, bawling and smoky smell of blood thickened in the senses, and the rhythm carried us. An easy joking rose among us in moments of panic, and fell to silence in the fluid moments of steady work. We darted with function and purpose, and laughed in disregard to the tastes in the air. We were all scorched bastards there, burnt in the sun and by the irons, but some laughed.

Currently

2010-10-26T01:18:00.001-06:00

I've been writing a great deal lately, but Rum & Donuts has still suffered greatly over the past few months. My writing has been going to other projects, including some not yet made public. I've written so little here that Amazon canceled my Kindle publishing (not that it was exactly successful anyway, save for seeing that tool in action). Hopefully there are still enough readers following to take note of a new post.

I'll be Twenty-Five in a couple of days. I'm remarkably unimpressed by birthdays for maybe the first time. That might have something to do with seeing that maybe I do have time to do the things I want to do. The maddening rush of my early twenties, driven primarily by college, seems to've slowed to something more realistic. I'm not interested in “settling” by any means (not in, not down, and certainly not for), but I am interested by far in more permanence. If there is any maddening pressure it is now to be doing things which contribute significantly, tangibly, not just to my immediate but to my long-term. My casual interests in sustainability, self-sufficiency and all manner of other skills for a life well earned in any circumstances, are becoming less casual.
Many of these interests are very much at home on the ranch, and I am beginning to really get into them. Next years garden, for which I am already preparing, is going to be significant. My goal is to grant my folks a greater degree of self sufficiency, and thus freedom with their income, via a serious garden. To me, this is an investment in my future; Securing my family and beginning hands on learning that will be foundational for practices I desire to make a larger part of my life away from here. Though when I return, soon, to more urban settings I'll not have the same amount of room for raising food, I will still be able to use lessons learned from what I'll have created here.

Taking my gardening with me to the urban space is not all I have desire for, in moving back to the city. A more urban setting is more truly vital for other things I desire to foster. I really wish I had a space in which to create something different. A collaborative space for people who strike marks in the world with acts of iron and flesh; Who find themselves full in those hard actions between civilization and destruction. I envision a space where things come together. A space full of iron and knives, sinew, nylon, and will. That smells of gun-oil, metal being milled, wood being worked, and flesh sweating. A place of performance and evolution: Of pitiless evaluation, and uncompromised growth. The forge running in the yard, iron being lifted and flesh formed inside, heavy bags and mock-opponents being dealt repeated learning blows, fires being started from raw sticks and sheer will. I have friends interested in my pursuits, in the wilds, with tools and weapons and with shaping the flesh, the corporeal self; I desire to create a space for those things to be shared and explored more fully.
I also desire a space which I can fill with books and interesting things of that nature; Records, a turntable, maps and photographs, comfortable arrangements and good lighting for coffee and reading. A pile of books to be lent out by the door, and music always filling the space. I am much more of a social animal than I ever thought I would be, and my socialization is working and thinking, and joying in such things with fellows. Of all the things I miss from the city, that is what I miss the most.

All this takes its rightful place though, as all things must. Captivating, compelling, even driving, these interests and pursuits must still be put aside for more important things. I tell her all the many things I am thinking about, and she scoffs, “You should free up your mind. So, forget the plants, forget tomorrow. Now sushi, sex, and me should be left. What sense do you make of it?”
And I say that it occurs to me “that if the world were a right and just place, I'd be eating sushi off your naked body. Not sure if that is a form of 'sense' or not... but I like the idea”.

Two Fingers

2010-07-13T14:50:00.000-06:00

     “Bourbon.”
     She always ordered two fingers. Held up, slightly apart, although never a sign of peace or victory. The first times, I'd reached for the well and she'd shaken her head. Slowly, as if moving faster might be damaging to her fine, articulate, neck. Her long neck which pulsed as she swallowed her bourbon. Sometimes I saw her stroking it, her long fingers tightening around its ivory shaft. Her eyes would meet mine, turn hard and then look to her cigarette in the other hand. Those nights she came in, that is how it was. I poured her good bourbon, she smoked her expensive cigarettes and my stomach rumbled. Hungry on low pay, and an emptiness other than food.

     In later years, with a fuller stomach, it was her neck by which I judged all others. Measuring them as they drank beer, and Jack Daniels by the gallon, smoking Camels. Their hands limp and numb, moving roughly. Thick fingers strangling the joy from anything they touched. Their eyes all too soft and wanton.

No More Old Men

2010-06-15T23:35:00.004-06:00

In darkness and pain he trembled. Unable to walk, to do more than stumble, his right foreleg hung useless and unbearing. In the headlight beams there was little to tell of his injuries, lost to shadow and his own darkness. The pain, still, was obvious. Horses get drawn with pain, an expressive clinging of skin to muscle and muscle to the bone. Nothing is lost in their large eyes, unless they want it to be. Approaching him, slowly, hand out, his eyes told stories I did not want to hear. He reached out with his head, and his lips nibbled at my fingers. He was soft, and sweet. And I had no help, no real comfort for him. It was late, and I was on the road.
That was then. Now in the cool morning, the extent of the shattered shoulder is obvious. The flies have begun to torment him, as he stands too weak to flick his tail. Too drawn and pained to twitch his skin. I approach again with my hand out, and he moves only a little. Brushing his face and neck I talk to him softly, and below his vision I pass the gun from my left hand to my right. I hold it against the back of my thigh, and pull the hammer to the rear where it clicks. He moves away from the metallic, mechanical, noise and I move with him. Stilling him, I touch and stroke with my left hand, as I whisper. The words are for me, their softness for him. I brush the hair of his mane from the top of his head, scratching softly at the fly bites. I can see the white blaze of his forehead clearly now and my fingers linger on it for a moment. He breathes steadily and lowers his head just slightly. There is no time but now, and any greater amount of now will only draw out his agony.
There is a stillness after gunfire as the world comes to life again. The moment after the shot nothing has moved save the hand in recoil. It too is frozen, for an instant in waiting, before sound and motion, like water drawn away from a shore, come rushing back. In that rush of birds cries and fluttering wings, he falls. He goes down straight, legs buckling to lay him into his own dragging tracks, a great weight upon the earth. The body, so many long milliseconds dead, tenses and convulses briefly and stops, then with the stillness comes blood. Everything relaxes and pours out, upon the dust etched with agony.

The strict facts are simple enough, but their meaning depends on things impossible to relate. Experience is the ancient flood, tearing new canyons and river bottoms, and like younger waters we are destined to run the course it shapes. This is no different. This story, as all killing stories do, runs deeper than the killing.
The horse had been ridden at a gallop through a rat den, his leg dropping into the pit, loading his shoulder until it came apart. His rider, a weekender in the backcountry, had left him near the water and gone back to town too much a coward to make it right. Three days the horse had stood, alone and without food, before I drove past and saw him.
The rider is the next generation of a family I've known all my life. The old men of the family, those who were old when I was born, helped raise me. In the silent teaching of action they gave me the gift of an older way. I came up among them tougher and better honed than their own sons and actual grandsons. Those younger man all products of towns and rejection of the old ways.
It is far too late for old men. The world moves on, and they begin to fail. There are only a few left, of all the good ones I've known. Those who are still alive so rarely come to the ranch country, leaving it for their descendants, who take it only for a playground. Those descendants who don't have what it takes. Whose macho falls away to cowardice when it really matters. Who commit evils and sins that their fathers would have found unthinkable. Their fathers who fought and killed, drank and whored, but never once shied away from a thing for the hardness of it.
If there is ever a final judgment, I'll stand with the old men I've known. We'll pass a bottle, and watch as it all goes down.

Sleeping, Snorting, Fucking.

2010-06-14T00:08:00.001-06:00

This is a bit delayed, as I was waiting for the last of them to run, but I've recently had three pieces published in the lovely journal Sleep.Snort.Fuck.
You may find all three of them here: Morgan Atwood, at Sleep, Snort, Fuck

Or, in order of publication:

Magnum

Measure of Ecstasy

Taste

Hopefully needless to say, given the name of the journal, some content may be considered Not Safe For Work (/Wife/Children).

I feel spoiled to, yet again, have somewhere I really like publish my work.

(These publications also mark an interesting point for me as a poet. I once said all my poetry was non-fiction and this is no longer true. These mark the first success I've had, both in personal feelings about them and publication, with fictional poetry. I say that not to disown the themes or any unpleasantness, but more because I find the revelation of my own process a wonderful ongoing mystery.)

Solutions for Austerity and Hostility

2010-06-07T00:34:00.000-06:00

I've been far too busy with other things recently, and have been neglecting my blog here. For those friends and readers who are interested in issues of and skills for wilderness survival, abandoned mine exploration, armed citizen/concealed carry, armed professions, individual medical skills and tactical medicine, and a related mish-mash there of, I'll invite you to where I have been busy: http://BFELabs.com is my “professional” home as something other than a writer/artist. Some of you may find it interesting. Some of you may find it appalling.
I'll admit some trepidation at linking these two halves of my life. While the one is rather accepting of the other, it doesn't always go both ways. The artsy, literary, side of the house is often not at all accepting of the gun carrying, wilderness capable, military/police friendly, war-on-terror supporting, knife fighting, mine exploring, MMA-training, type. Whereas the long fangs are often as artsy and literary as anyone else. This is a constant source of disappointment in my life, as folks from the supposedly kinder/gentler art and writing world are often so put-off by the other as to make friendship difficult. The professional costs may be as high as well. That is, however, just the way it is. I am who and what I am, and I'll never compromise that because I offend the delicate political sensibilities of my fellow artists and writers. It's not that I am politically incorrect – You are just ideologically sheltered.

Man in the Mirror

2010-05-31T19:14:00.000-06:00

I am soaked. I feel the hot sweat dripping down, its sting in my eyes. Something inside wants to give way, to void my stomach of its burdens. My mind shuts it down. Everything unessential is suppressed, so that everything unwanted may be carved away.
Some young yuppie milling around behind me taking a breather from five minutes on the treadmill mutters to his friend about how much I am sweating. How I'm working out in boots and long pants. How rude it is. I breath, steady and in rhythm to my body and focus on self improvement.
The tide rises, the urge to vomit argues that it would be a phenomenal act of defiance against the yuppies in the gym with me. Lean sideways and puke on their carpet. Who carpets a gym anyway? They've probably never done anything until they vomited. Not worked out, not run, cried, fucked, or lived until their body couldn't take it and started shedding everything unnecessary. These yuppies, their lives are a monument to the unnecessary – It is their idol, and identity. I breath again, and let them fade away. Vomiting is unnecessary. They are unnecessary. All that matters is self improvement – If they were improving, they'd be too busy to even notice me. Each breath in, my focus returns to me. Each breath out carries something hateful.
Something screams quit. In the mirror I see myself, breathing, sweating. I am ample, and full looking. The man in the mirror snarls at himself. I snarl at him. That fullness must be reduced. I drive on, push harder, sweat more. I wish death upon the man I see: A fundamental stripping down, to sinew and bone, to sheer necessity, to existence alone. A tearing apart until he is worthy of that womans touch he's felt. Until he is worthy of his own goals. Because if I don't, if I cannot become unmade in this act of physical will, then I will succumb to pain, to fear, to neediness. I scream back at the quitting voice, tell it how much it sucks if it can't do these things. Another ten minutes of force is a small goal. Not a woman, not a mountain, not a complete act of deconstruction, much less rebuilding. It's just a few minutes. The man in the mirror can't do it, but I can. Staring him down, killing him a mile at a time, I keep going.

Someday, I will do this to maintain. I will look at the man in the mirror, and I'll keep going for preservation, rather than revelation.

Rules for Writing

2010-05-04T23:55:00.002-06:00

The more I write, interact with other writers, and attempt to get published, the more observations I have on my craft. I have begun keeping a running list of some of my observations that have become personal rules (albeit flippant) for my writing. At some point this will be a longer list, and worth putting out in its entirety. For now, however, my first five rules will have to suffice. Will add more over time.

1. Turn token and poetry pay into beer. (Turn no pay into beer; Look in the couch cushions for money.)

2. Turn every six pack into poetry, every bottle into a story.

3. Earn acceptances that make all your rejections turn to regret in the pit of the rejecting editors stomach.

4. Get back in the saddle. Now.

5. Commit to the shape of things, and embrace the "attitude of the knife"; When editing is finalized, divorce yourself from any desire for the work, cut it off, say “now it's complete, because it's ended here", and send it in.

Those Who Are About to Die

2010-01-28T15:55:00.003-07:00

"Burn the Land, and Boil the Sea - You Can't Take the Sky from Me." Firefly

Fortuna Audaces Iuvat - "Fortune Favors the Bold"

Twenty four years ago today, in the Florida sunshine the space shuttle Challenger roared to the cold sky, its solid rocket boosters burning rapidly towards a failing joint and O-Ring seal that had cracked in the cold. Seventy-three seconds into the flight when the fire reached the joint it blew out the side, and hit the fuel tanks - A fiery blow as if from an angry and fearful god, selfish of his skies. The explosion and resultant fall to sea took the lives of the seven crewmembers, six astronauts and one civilian, who were daring to follow mankind's dream of the stars. Astronauts Ellison Onizuka, Mike Smith, Dick Scobee, Greg Jarvis, Ron McNair and Judy Resnick, and schoolteacher Christa McAuliffe experienced one minute and thirteen seconds of the dream before their lives were cut short in a fireball and they took the bigger journey into the greater unknown. They were not the first to die, finger tips brushing at the black, and they would not be the last.

On January 27th 1967 Virgil “Gus” Grissom, Edward White and Roger Chaffee died aboard Apollo 1, still on the launch pad, when a spark ignited the pure oxygen atmosphere of the sealed capsule during pre-flight tests.
On April 24th 1964 Vladimir Komarov reentered the earths atmosphere in the malfunctioning Soyuz 1 capsule and died when the parachute lines tangled plummeting Soyuz 1 into the earth at two hundred miles an hour.
In May of 1967 the crew of Soyuz 11, Georgi Dobrovolsky, Viktor Patsayev, and Vladislav Volkov, died when a malfunctioning valve caused the capsule to depressurize just prior to reentry.

Between then and the morning of January 28th 1986 no astronaut or cosmonaut would die engaged in a mission. Then following that cold January, it would be fifteen years before sacrifice was once more demanded. On February 1st 2003 the crew of the space shuttle Columbia - Rick Husband, William McCool, Michael Anderson, David Brown, Dr. Kalpana Chawla, Laurel B. Clark and Ilan Ramon - died when the shuttle, suffering damage to its protective tiles, blew up over the western United States during reentry. It is quite possible that these seven people knew or at least suspected they were going to die and proceeded ahead, chasing the dream to infinity.
This is not taking account of, but in no way to discount, the sacrifices of test pilots, engineers and others who have died in explosions, plane crashes or as a result of other accidents associated with the various space programs. They are many, and their sacrifice is as great.

We live in a world of sports heroes, movie stars and rock gods. People who, on whole, are shallow, fatuous, and often as not disgusting and disagreeable individuals, more concerned with image, money and whatever “cause of the month” will get them the most attention. Among them are rapists, thieves, murderers, and narcissists of the highest order who have no greater dream or vision. No desire to live for something greater, and certainly, perhaps most certainly of all, no strength to die for something greater.
While those people are made heroes, there are quieter, smarter, stronger men and women who dare to brave the unknown, the unknowable, and the dangerous to chase down what may be the greatest dream of the human race: The secrets of the heavens - The glittering and shimmering unknowns of that great expanse of possibility and hope.
In the end, it will not be the movie gods and rock stars who will carry mankind into the future, into new hope, new worlds. It will not be the sports heroes who open the doors for us all. It will be such quiet people willing to serve a dream, and if necessary, die for it.
It is my prayer, whispered desperately to those heavens, that we will hold on long enough, that they may deliver that dream to us before it is lost to the murky depths of forgotten consciousness.
”Go! at throttle up” the stars are ahead.

The Santa Fe Super Chief and Albuquerque Depot, Circa 1943

2009-12-24T01:14:00.000-07:00

This is a photo of the Santa Fe line's Super Chief, that ran between Chicago and Los Angeles. It was taken in 1943, at the Albuquerque depot, by Jack Delano.
This was posted on a military forum I hang out on earlier this evening. There are quite a few history buffs, train geeks and Americana junkies there, understandably, but I was still surprised to see something so close to home getting attention. Credit for bringing it to the forum posters attention goes to A Continuous Lean, where the photo is included in a neat look at the Super Chief.

I am kind of a geek for New Mexico rail history. My great-grandfather was the head machinist at the Belen, NM yards when the roundhouse was there. I grew up with pieces of steam locomotives in my backyard. I am not a huge train nut, but there is still something about them. Trains are cool. Trains are industrial, and mechanical and engineering-in-action and magic. The history and stories surrounding the railroad industry are equally magic. If you can't see it in this photo, you're lost and will never understand.
There are so many cool things going on in this picture, I'm sort of overwhelmed by it. It is a collection of some of the most iconic American images, all together as functional elements in a piece of reality. A reality long gone, before my time.
There is, of course, that fantastic engine. Its bright red and yellow preserved in perfect Kodachrome by Mr. Delano. There are men in denim work wear, carrying lunch, pumping diesel - Working and living a hard, earned, life. Men in suits, and hats (what happened to hats?). Those fantastic automobiles when cars really looked like, and were built like, something to be valued and appreciated.
Behind all this, in Mission-Revival glory are the old Albuquerque depot and the Alvarado Hotel, both gone and replaced by a tacky facsimile. Built in 1902, the Alvarado was one of the Harvey House hotels, and among the largest and most beautiful. It was demolished in 1970 and replaced with a parking lot. The rest of the original depot burned in the late Eighties or early Nineties. The reproduction buildings were put up later, a supposed tribute to the original.

A truly great photograph. An ordinary moment, frozen on film, that has in the passage of time become an amazing moment.

Books of Love

2009-12-20T01:04:00.002-07:00

I read aloud. Quietly, and to myself, my lips moving like the illiterate, or the penitent whispering to his god. I am not ashamed of this, and in my mind find scenarios in which I might read aloud to someone else. Not a crowd of them, not an audience, but a someone. In the quiet and darkness of evening, or the warm midday silence of fall. My lips, just louder than a whisper, make a kiss of the words of the page and my someone basks in those words.
Books are things I've always prized, for more than their material being. Before they were tools of revolution, or weapons in wars of ideas, they were secret doors to different places and long before that, they were love. Among my earliest memories as a boy are of my parents reading to me from books. One, or the other, of them would read to me before bed and would kiss me goodnight over my pleas for just one more page.
When I was of the age in school where the institutional “they” expect you to read, I did not. They claimed I had some malady, and I did, but it was of the heart. I did not read, because I did not want my parents to stop reading to me. Eventually, we settled it, and on the assurances that they would not stop, I began to read. We continued on like that for a long time. As I grew older, too old for being put to bed, we would gather at the kitchen table in the evenings. There my parents would take turns reading by the flickering of kerosene lamps. Sometimes they would press the book into my hands, and I would read. By the flutter and shadow-dance of the flame we loved, with our mouths full of words and were a family together. And when darkness had fully fallen, I would rouse from feigned sleep and beneath the covers with a flashlight. As many such love affairs, begun in darkness by sneaking light, that one consumed me.
On my own, I found in books love of ideas and wonder. The love of self as an improvable and improving creature, in the pages of each new world and idea. Essential to me as a young man, in growing and becoming, was that freedom of knowledge. I found, within and without books, love in new and dangerous ways, and from it made of myself much that carried me into adulthood. In books, the love was of growth, adventure, and the revelation of and in the self that being a young man is all about. Though I say was, that still is - I am still young, and reveling in revelations, learning and skills. But my lips have begun to move when I read. Not always, only sometimes, when I do really love the words on the page. My lips move and I whisper, penitent, ill-learned and broken, without someone to whisper to. Because books are love, words and sharing words, are great love. Some words too great to not be loved, some loves too great to go unspoken.

Arming the Bohemian Once More

2009-12-03T02:53:00.003-07:00

After a nearly two month hiatus, I've posted something new at Armed Bohemian again: Grey Skills.
Just some rough thoughts really, but, its something. I have no idea if this will be the regular posting pattern for AB or not. I'd like for it not to be, but the natural order may say differently.
This blogging stuff takes a great deal of work - I spend anywhere between two and ten hours on every blog post longer than a couple paragraphs. Sometimes there is just not enough time in the day. Particularly when I am doing this for free, and probably will continue to do so for awhile as I build the necessary frame work and readership to make virtual crowdsurfing work. That is time I could spend blacksmithing, teaching, doing other writing, or training , just as those things are time I could spend blogging. Everything has to balance, and that's always evolving.

Don't forget about Armed Bohemian though. I havent -It's still going and will continue.

Once

2009-11-26T11:49:00.006-07:00

Once upon a time they taught interesting things in highschool. Now, you're hard pressed to find a college with such offerings.
Available Here (PDF format).

I've found, or own, several other high school course books on similar things. Things long gone from common knowledge in the first world, but essential everywhere else and soon to be here again as well.
At some point, when I have time and energy, perhaps I should put together a collection of links or find hosting for this library of "Things You Should've Learned in School, but Didn't".

Corb Lund

2009-11-23T01:38:00.007-07:00

I think the first reference to Corb Lund I came across was from a forum friend, who had lyrics from Lund's Horse Soldier in his signature line. The lyrics seemed pretty appropriate, this fellow having been an Army Ranger and Special Forces Reservist, as well as being a cowboy up in the sagebrush north of here. Somehow it got filed away as an “I should check that out, sounds up my alley” sort of thing, and not revisited for quite some time. When I finally did, man, I was impressed.

I grew up listening to good country/western/cowboy music. Rarely, if ever, anything Top 40's country, but more grounded and smart artists like Ian Tyson. They spoke languages I understood, about things I knew, without the pretense of alcoholic hickdom or bad southern ignorant accents. If they spoke of alcoholism it was with the honest voice of experience, with an accent of heritage not fiction. These were men and women who had ribs and hearts broken on the same pieces of beaten out corral ground or pasture land. Not only that, these were people who could truly use words and write complex lyrics. They carried a standard of songwriting that didn't rely on poor, and repetitious rhyme and brutally simple structure. This has become my standard for this type of music.
As I came into my own with music, and stopped listening just to what my parents had on or had around, my tastes went every which way from Sunday. By highschool I was always on the prowl for something new, better, and always anything good. I walked away with strong tastes across the board. From genre to sub-genre and mainstream to obscure. Jazz, classical, blues, funk, metal, punk, ska, reggae, trip-hop, hip-hop, country, rock-a-billy, cow-punk, goth, experimental instrumental, trance, techno, world, tribal, native, you name it I can find some of it I like (probably in my library). At the top of my likes are, consistently, original artists of varied backgrounds musically and personally who are songwriters and participate with good songwriters. Any genre, really, anyone who brings originality to their work, from a variety of influences and styles, and is, or works with, good writers really grabs me.
I am particularly a fan of music that crosses the genre divide between the music I listened to as a kid, and the music I came into as a teenager and adult. There are folk acts, and rock acts, and cowboy acts, but there are relatively few who are a blend of these things, or who have obvious roots in all these places. Corb Lund, and his excellent band the Hurtin' Albertans are just such an act. There is a lot going on there, in the music itself and the backgrounds and tastes of Lund and his band. Lund spent a good amount of time as a rock and roller with the influential indie punk band The Smalls. The Hurtin' Albertans are all experienced musicians and have played with a wide variety of acts. These forces come together as one hell of an alt country act.
Lund is one of the types of singer/songwriters I like the most, in that his work is uniquely his. The songs carry a depth of interest and a breadth of experience, in an intelligent, considered and ultimately entertaining manner. There is humor, violence, sadness, joy, winning, losing, and picking yourself up and getting back on again. Hauling horses, playing cards, tattooed dark haired girls, soldiers ancient and present, cussin', western history, whiskey, and the best advice of our fathers and grandfathers are just a few of the elements to be found in Lund's songwriting. Each, in its own turn, is masterfully handled by his lyrics and singing, drawing the listener to laughter or tears as appropriate.
The music not only does credit to the lyrics, but sometimes entirely steals a song. The Hurtin' Albertans are obviously a group of individually talented musicians who can create something together that's even more powerful. They can range from rollicking honky-tonk, to weeping sadness, and points in between. The Hurtin' Albertans shine together, and given the opportunity as individual contributors to the whole. My favorite example of this is Kurt Ciesla's bass fiddle intro to There Are No Roads Here from a show recorded at McGonigels Mucky Duck of Houston, Tx. - It's simply masterful in its control, and moving darkness. Not to discredit the other band members, Brady Valgardson, on drums, and Grant Siemens on guitar and banjo do no less credible a job, and all edge on the phenomenal. My gothic leanings are simply drawn to the darker sounds of the “big bitch butch bass bull fiddle” on that particular piece.

There-in lies the nut of the whole deal, for this is, without a doubt, my kind of music. I've read reviews where the reviewer was alienated by the talk of horses, and country things, and others by talk of war and soldiers (some by both), and all I can think is that I'm certainly glad I'm not them. I am at home with all the themes and topics Lund sings about, because they already were my home. Having kept time to everything from Chris LeDoux to The Distillers with Crockett spurs jingling on my boots, its great to hear the myriad influences at work in the music and songwriting Corb Lund and The Hurtin' Albertans bring to the game. Music, on whole, is fundamental but there is something special about music that can cross the genre divides within ones own life and culture.
There is something in this music for almost anyone. More than it being just the music for a weirdo post- goth/cowboy hybrid, this is music that gives something to almost anyone who listens to it. That reviewers can be alienated by the themes of the songs, yet still come down absolutely in favor of them is a testament to this. Certainly, Corb Lund is not your fathers country, but your father will like it.

Some may be thrown by the unusual mix of influences and fans for this music, and alt country in general, and to them I'd say just give it a whirl. Worst that can happen is you won't like it. Best that could happen is... Well, who knows? While you're making up your mind, I'm gonna be listening to some Corb Lund and the Hurtin' Albertans.

Those of you interested in more from Corb and crew, I encourage you to go buy one (or all) of the records right away, but to be more realistic be sure to check out the other videos on the youtube channel, and take advantage of the live recordings available at Archive.org - http://www.archive.org/details/CorbLund
I've only listened to a couple of these shows, but they're absolutely fantastic. Some overlap, of course, but worth checking out. I suggest this concert from September 2007 at McGonigels Mucky Duck in Houston, Tx. - http://www.archive.org/details/corblund2007-09-21.sbd.flac (This is the show I mentioned above where Kurt Ciesla does his fantastic intro for There Are No Roads Here – It's great listening and has convinced me I need to see this outfit live sometime).

Cormac McCarthy's Horseshit

2009-11-13T22:39:00.008-07:00

(Or, an Open "What The Hell?" to One of My Literary Heroes)

I’m a big Cormac McCarthy fan. He is my favorite writer. Living, dead, unborn – My favorite. I’ll go to the mat, or the concrete, in defense of his craft at the drop of a hat and I really enjoy talking about his writing in general. I’m a fan. So, it was with some surprise that I walked away from his latest interview, with the Wall Street Journal, disappointed and pissed off.
I learned a long time ago that artists whose work you like are not necessarily people to get to know. Sometimes there is something lacking. Not always, but often the real person simply fails to live up to their creations. On one hand, I could take or leave being disappointed with McCarthy as it’s his work I truly value and not his person or opinions. On the other, I can’t quite let slide something he said in the otherwise excellent interview.

In the interview, when asked why he came to the SouthWest McCarthy said this:

"I ended up in the Southwest because I knew that nobody had ever written about it. Besides Coca-Cola, the other thing that is universally known is cowboys and Indians. You can go to a mountain village in Mongolia and they'll know about cowboys. But nobody had taken it seriously, not in 200 years. I thought, here's a good subject. And it was."

This stuns me.
I realize McCarthy shuns literary connections, and enjoys spending time with scientists and more provable thinkers than many writers and artist are. I never imagined that to mean he doesn't read also. His statement is extremely ignorant of a rich field of writing. Or perhaps it is simply arrogant of it.
McCarthy sells short Western writers in general, but in particular writers of the Southwest by saying no one has written seriously about the Southwest for 200 years.

What of the work of writers such as S. Omar Barker, Eugene Manlove Rhodes, J. Frank Dobie, Larry McMurtry or even Edward Abbey? With those names alone there is a great deal of extremely significant writing on the Southwest before Cormac McCarthy. Even those writers not considered literary, who documented their lives or created fictions based on their experiences in the west and the border country, are fundamental Southwestern literature and biography. There are more, both widely known and extremely obscure who, along with the above, provide a deep literary history in the Southwest. Such voices were serious, and wrote seriously about the region.
McCarthy's comments also serve to diminish the value of Chicano and Hispanic literature in the Southwest as authentic Southwestern writing. Pushing authors like Rudolfo Anaya and others on both sides of the border aside as not writing seriously about the Southwest is as unforgivable as doing the same to any of the above.

McCarthy should, and I can only assume does, know better than what he said. For his novel Blood Meridian McCarthy relied on the autobiographical account of Samuel Chamberlain titled My Confession. Reading this document, and doing the research that I can only assume lead to finding it, and supported Blood Meridian and his later southwestern novels, implies that McCarthy is not poorly read on the west. Which leaves simple arrogance.
Further credit to this idea is that a part of McCarthy's WSJ response is extremely similar to one he gave in a 1992 interview with the New York Times. In the NYT piece, he is quoted as saying:

"I've always been interested in the Southwest. There isn't a place in the world you can go where they don't know about cowboys and Indians and the myth of the West."

This synchronicity has the tone of one of those easy quotes a lot of artists in the public eye develop. It's a line, cultivated and practiced in the emotional mirror as one questions oneself. Which makes it all the more arrogant. It's just a line, it doesn't have to be right - He's Cormac McCarthy. He's the artist. The ends justifies everything.

To an extent, that may be right. McCarthy is one of our greatest voices, particularly among living voices. While he is not a native of the West, he is also a credit to the West and has become one of its fundamental voices. He is just goddamned good. So much has to be forgiven to read McCarthy, such as his lack of punctuation, and for most it is easy to do because of that. He's good.
But not that good. As a fourth generation Westerner and cowboy, long before I was a writer myself, I know there are voices other than McCarthy's who got it right. Many who did so before his father gleamed a wanton eye. He also shares his goddamn goodness with contemporaries, like McMurtry who knows the West as only a native could.

Good though he is, McCarthy is not our only great writer, and does not have the bona fides of some of our native sons and daughters. His contempt for writing in the Southwest after 1800 is horseshit. Spread all over the work of greats like Dobie, McMurtry and countless Southwestern voices marginalized for not being literati. McCarthy needs to step down off his high horse.

Human Chauvinist

2009-11-10T23:39:00.002-07:00

I've read that people, formerly ordinary everyday mundanes of normal people perspectives, who are experiencing some kind of awakening to the plight of the world move away from anthropocentrism (human chauvinism). As they do, supposedly, they have a moment where their thinking shifts from “I'm saving the planet”, to, “I'm part of the planet fighting to save myself.”
This begs the question, at least to me: What does it mean to be an anthropocentrist and have always held the view of one-self as part of the planet, not apart from it?

I've never seen myself as apart from the planet or the rest of the world. I am still terribly fond of human beings and our accomplishments, and my aim in life is to further my species. Until the day some big bad mother of a species comes along, wipes us out and builds his outhouses on our bones, I plan to continue holding that view. As a part of the world as a whole.

Doesn't mean I undervalue any other species or thing on Earth. I try very hard not to. I just think that, generally, we're wielding the biggest swinging cods this side of the viruses. No reason not to feel at least somewhat accomplished over it and try to keep it so – That's what the whole affair is about, isn't it? Thought so.

What good is a species that isn't wired to think highly of itself?

The Dead Monkey Falling Down-Adobe Forge

2009-11-07T23:32:00.005-07:00

Every good blacksmithy has a name. Mine doesn't really, since its been a transient smithy so much and will be again at some point. But, on the old home place there is a small adobe building I'm slowly renovating to be a permanent smithy for the ranch. Right now, not-quite-falling down, three walled, half-roofed and crumbling, but good things will come. There is also some sort of a monkey skull (yes, really) laying on the floor, that I'm debating nailing to a sign above the door. So, the Dead Monkey Falling Down-Adobe Forge is its name for now.

Everything is heat, light and motion. Energy and movement, fluidity and violence and everything on the edge of burning down. There are moments of sudden, zen-like, stillness on the part of the smith, but he is alone, an island in madness. While he is still, the fire will burn, the oil in his quench will smoke, the air will be filled with sound and smell. The light will flicker and dance on the broken walls and into the eternity of energy.

We are strange priests of arcane things. Of our sins we fathered the alchemists and the engineers. For a time, if it was built we had our hand in it, and then our sins outstripped us. As relics we returned to our solitary and smoky chapels. We dance, ancient in our ways and wordless prayers of struck steel.

Twitter

2009-11-04T16:56:00.003-07:00

I have a Twitter account for my business, and think its worthwhile. I've also ooohed and aaahed over the things other people are doing with their Twitter's. Still, I have regarded having a personal Twitter as a waste, and indicative of being a waste (of amino acids). But, I'm slowly changing my mind, and as such have stuck a toe in the water.
Changing my mind have been artists I like, such as Corb Lund and Amanda Palmer, various writing movements like Nanoism, writers like Steve Pressfield, and the recent happenings in Iran where Twitter was put to such good effect.
So, I now have a Twitter. At present, I'm enjoying it and delighted that things I see there already make my world feel more right and well adjusted (which I did not expect). Like the Kindle thing, it may stay, or it may go the way of the Sardinian Dhole.

I think I'll be using it to follow people primarily for now, but I expect I'll be tossing up some original 140 character prose from time to time as well.

Twitter: WhatTheNagrom

Cigars

2009-10-29T00:36:00.000-06:00

I started smoking cigars when I was nineteen. I'd grown up in a house divided by smoking, it was one of the bad things my dad did. Somehow it was part of the package with depression, yelling and running away. To this day smoking is a demon in the family mythos, along with many other things most people take for granted. The ghosts dance like smoke across windows, playing hell with the light.
I'd always liked the smells of tobacco and smoke, so when cigars came up among older friends and mentors, and it sounded like something to try. I ordered one that looked tasty, a Churchill in a dark maduro wrapper, and did some basic reading. A toe in the water of vice, as an adult.
It was the first week in April, and a soft rain fell on a warm day. Everything was green and gray and the earth was rich with wetness. My mom was in the hospital, my dad with her, and I was alone on the ranch. The cigar has come, carefully packaged. It was a good day at the post office, a box of five vintage British Fairbairn-Sykes fighting daggers, and the cigar. I cut it, carefully, with a razorblade to protect the wrapped, and lit it with a cedar firebrand. And then I walked in the light, fine, rain. It was the beginning of everything.
More cigars followed, and whiskey and women. Vice, for the sake of vice. Because in their own right, these things are good and ends unto themselves. No demons need escaping, no wildness or chaos to cover despair and loneliness. The whiskey nights of smokey women and drunken, joying, love are their own justification.

If there is external motivation it is this - I do the things politeness says are bad for me because my heroes did them, and it made them who they were. They would have been barren abstractions without the smell of smoke or the whiskey stains or the women and heartbreak. I refuse to be barren, and I insist on being distinct.

Publishing for Kindle

2009-10-18T02:43:00.004-06:00

I'm putting my money where my mouth is. Okay, your money where my mouth is.
Rum and Donuts is now available to Kindle users, for a small subscription fee.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B002T9TU1U

It's still available right here for free, and will remain so. Those who feel its worth some nickels to read on their Kindle, can shell out those nickels. The rest of you, as you were - You're still my favorites.

It's just something different I want to try. I doubt it'll make a significant difference in anything. I just want to see the process from the inside. It might go away.

Making Rounds

2009-10-17T00:50:00.000-06:00

My friends come to me with their medical problems. Usually, not the intensely personal. I think I've made it clear that if its crotch related and is dripping, swollen or pustule covered I'll treat it with fire. So they come with coughs, running noses, pains, sleep problems, and, my personal favorite thus far, a gashed open chin.
When someone vaults a railing, catches his foot, and drives all hundred-and-eighty pounds of himself into the concrete on the very point of his chin, you can pull open the gash and see his whisker follicles on the inside. He'd waited an hour and a half in the emergency room before he'd called me. I cleaned it out and closed it with superglue. It scarred just a little. He paid me eighty dollars, which I tried to give back, but only a little. I'm still thrilled at having seen hair follicles on the inside. It's so cool.
This was when I lived in town. Now I'm a desert dweller, forty-miles from a paved road on the family ranch. Now they come to me online, on Facebook or GTalk. I can't close wounds, but I can do about all I ever did otherwise and dispense advice on caring for yourself when ill with the usual crud. Or the crap. Or the ick. You see where this is going.
Why do they come? Because we're friends, primarily. That's the most important part. It may be the only part, really. I'm not a doctor. I was pre-med for a blink, and an EMT for awhile. I'm still very interested in medicine, and keep really current. I can talk shop with doctors, but that doesn't make me one. I'm pretty honest about that too. They joking call me the “mob doctor”, although part of my standard advice is to go see a doctor. At least, go see the university nurse, since a lot of my friends are still students. I try to be honest and only do what I can. Even then, I always wonder if I'm not overstepping some unseen bounds. I feel bad that the cut I closed with superglue scarred. I reassure myself that a century ago people, who couldn't possibly know what I do, were still hanging signs proclaiming to be doctors. For many their only legitimacy the lead paint word on the knotted plank swinging above the door. Third world tribe members who've been through intensive programs provide a higher level of care for hundreds of their fellows than I do. It's okay. I obviously am not a total quack. They keep coming back.
In the spring, when swine flu first came up, I wrote a long piece about it and posted it on my blog, and on Facebook as a note. I added links and for the first week or so that the novel H1N1 virus was emerging kept track of it. I did it for my friends who were either panicking or totally dismissive. I know a little bit about biology and viral behavior, I did go to college for three years. Most people ignored it, at the time. It was just another part of the sensory overload of the initial mad rush of attention for a potential nightmare pandemic. Now that is has, according to plan, reemerged in the northern hemisphere for fall, I've been fielding my friends questions. Most of which have been answered with a simple no. No, your runny nose is probably not swine flu. If you get worse, increasing fever, nausea, and so on, go to the doctor. No, it's not that bad it's just another flu, you'll be okay. No, I'd avoid playing beer pong for awhile, sharing cups right now is a bad idea.
Most everyone I know is actually fine. I do have a few who are sick. Not all with the flu. I call them mine because they are, they're my friends. And in a way, they're my patients. They've trusted me and my advice, and I'm going to do my best. I take care of my friends every way I can, this is another of them. So when I see one of them on Facebook, or GTalk I ask how they are. What temperature they're running. I make sure they're hydrating, taking vitamin C, and any medication they might be on. I suggest over-the-counter medicines that might help. And tea, always tea for almost anything. Talking to one, reminds me of another, so I'll pull up the messenger client and check on them. I'll make my rounds like that. Taking care of my friends, the best I can, because I can.
This is important. It always has been. We need to use the skills we have to take care of those around us, in the communities we've chosen. We're in a pretty big mess, all around, and the only people we have to rely on are ourselves. Are you alone as yourself, or are you among a group of selves who look out for one another with the skills you have? Better figure it out.

Making Our Own Justice (A Riff on "Virtual CrowdSurfing")

2009-10-16T01:40:00.002-06:00

The other day Steve Bodio commented on one of my entries, and noted that “...in a just world you'd be paid for this.”
I agreed, even though it wasn't my best writing (the re-write the computer ate was much better), but was dismissive too. I said, and it's true, that I'm just happy to put something into the world that will either resonate with another human being, or elucidate, inform or excite.
I come from what I've begun to describe as a lonely culture – It's sparsely populated, but it is a culture in whole - I'm proud of it and think we're all very interesting. I'm always glad to strike a chord with others who identify. And I'm thrilled if something from my culture sparks or rekindles something in someone else. That's deeply satisfying for me. At the end of the day, I write to fulfill and satisfy myself, and I'd lie if I said I didn't draw part of my satisfaction from being read. The creation is fundamental, and it drives on regardless, but it's satisfying to have a cry in the darkness answered. As a reader I've always felt I was participating in the writers finished art, rather than just receiving it – As a writer, I seek to participate with my readers not simply produce product.
But in a just world, if the participation is good, if the work is good, I should get paid shouldn't I? Of course I should. In a just world.
I'm not sure I believe the world is just. I believe the world is neutral though, and that it is up to us to make our own... whatever, really. Including justice. I believe this is true, on many fronts. As artists, we have to make a lot of things for ourselves, so what's stopping us from making our own justice? Okay, maybe not make entirely, but enable.
We can't necessarily force people to pay for our art - If we limit its availability only to those who pay we may be limiting ourselves right out of existence – But we can enable our audience, our fans and collectors, to pay us if they want to, can't we?

There are already writers with “Donate” or “Support” buttons on their blogs. They produce a lot of content, or a body of work, that is easily accessible and typically for free. No demand is placed on the audience to pay for it, but they are enabled to do so if they think its worth it.
We're also seeing novels, chapbooks and other publications, as well as music in a variety of forms, offered using a “Pay what you feel it is worth” model.
I'm finding this idea more and more attractive – Because I'd like to do this for a living, or at least part of my living. Or at least for beer money. To be able to devote more of the time and energy to writing and the rest of my art, that I end up spending on wage earning (or trying to at least).

So what's it worth to you?
Nothing? Cool. Keep reading. I'm slowly stealing your soul and corrupting your heart the more of my ideas you entertain, so it's all good. Seriously, it is all good.
You'll buy my book once I have one? Bring it around for coffee, I'll sign it.
Not a lot, but sometimes you'd pay for reading me? Awesome, thanks.
You want to be my sugar mama, support me financially and * ahem * otherwise, all for keeping up my writing? Please email at least three clear photos that aren't extreme close ups, and show you clearly in good lighting from different angles, and a list of references.
I'm being flippant here, but that is (minus the creepy uberfan sugar mama AKA Kathy Bates in Misery psycho-fan) the gist of the enabling I'm talking about.

This isn't something I'm going to implement now. Most of you don't know me, and I'm not producing content at a rate that is really befitting suggesting recompense for it. For me, now is not the time to roll this out – Just the time to start thinking about it. Mapping out how I'd like to try putting it to work.
As a writer, it's pretty easy to map.
As a blacksmith, and artist metalsmith? Not so much.
Tangible, physical, art is hard to transition into the virtual realm – Those physical materials cannot be emailed. How can I, how can my fellows, as a materials artist work with what Amanda Palmer dubs “Virtual Crowdsurfing”? That's trickier. I have several ideas, some of which I'm going to keep to myself for awhile. But, among those ideas is one of knowledge and experience sharing.
There are a lot of people who are not, and don't want to be, artists who remain intensely interested in the processes of art. There are those who want to learn about an art other than their own. Still others want to learn how to do a type of art. As artists, we can be educators about our art. Coming from the blacksmithing world, most blacksmiths are also teachers or at least have taught occasionally. I think, as with other forms of art, we aren't limited strictly to that art, in what we can teach. You can teach a great deal with art.
Couldn't a metal artist (or a wood worker, fabric artist, glass worker, etc. etc.) put out “process content”, demonstrations, tutorials, videos of the art being made (which opens up possibilities of cross-media video art), in a public fashion, and stick a donations button on their website/blog? You could take it out of the virtual world as well: A free public demo with a tip-jar set out. If I show up at an event, and forge an iron hat, won't there be someone to drop money in it? I'd like to think so.
I think this cross over into the really-real world is extremely necessary for building a fan base, and one that is rich with the actual human touch. Musicians have this made, because live shows are damn near guaranteed – They will happen, they have to. Writers can do readings, or perform poetry. Other artists have to innovate in how they reach their audience, if they want to try out the “virtual crowdsurfing” thing. Without the fan base, the people to catch you when you dive off, you'll get nowhere. (Yeah, I'm riffing on AFP here. She's right on, see my last entry and go check out her blog.)

This is an area, a realm of possibility, that I am truly excited about and actively exploring. Woe unto my other projects, I've found something else time consuming.

Update:
Some models/ideas of “virtual crowd surfing” as a writer that I think support my own:

Nathan Tyree is hard at work on a novel project titled “Tom Waits and Charles Bukowski Fistfight in Hell”, and has auctioned a fairly prominent role as a character in his novel via eBay. The move, apparently, has generated him some measure of buzz in addition to the immediate monetary advantage. Also apparently a burned thumb. http://waitsandbukowski.wordpress.com/

Jeremy C. Shipp is selling subscriptions to his short story writing as Bizarro Bytes, http://jeremycshipp.com/bizarrobytes.htm.
He offers multiple levels of subscription, for those wanting to offer further support, and has some interesting incentives for those who do.

Stephen Elliot, for his memoir The Adderall Diaries, used advance copies originally destined for media outlets to create a “lending library” for fans, http://therumpus.net/2009/09/about-that-lending-library-notes-on-book-publishing-in-a-socially-networked-world/
The only requirement was that the copy had to be forwarded to the next person on the list once read. His thoughts on the idea are pretty interesting. The idea has a lot of merit. Just another example of working the crowd in new and innovative ways. He's also supporting the book with a tour and getting out there, another essential element.

Amanda Palmer

2009-10-14T18:18:00.002-06:00

I really don't remember how I discovered The Dresden Dolls, but I suspect it was through a friends Facebook status asking for a coin-operated boy. However it was, that's how I heard of Amanda Palmer, the Doll's lead singer (among other talents). Quickly the Doll's albums, and Amanda's solo effort, Who Killed Amanda Palmer, became some of my favorite music, and continue to get a lot of play. Particularly when I'm writing or being otherwise creative.
But it's only recently that I've started following Amanda Fucking Palmer's blog.
I'm not much of a fan boy. If I like someone's work, I'll promote it to my friends who share my tastes, and maybe mention it here, but not much more. I'm a quiet fan. I follow the artists artistic output, invest my money in the output I want to own or participate in, and encourage fellows to do the same, but that's the extent of it. I'm not a gushing, twitter following, fan-art making fan. It just doesn't work for me. If I follow an artist on Twitter, odds are I'll get pissed at narcissistic irreverence and nonsense and stop liking them. Same for a lot of blogs. For me to enjoy engaging with an artist I like in that fashion, something has to be different. I like artists who blog smartly.
I particularly like artists who talk about art, and the processes behind it, and within it. Whatever their art may be. Even better, artists who talk about the future of their art. Best, an artist who can talk about these things in a manner that's as inspiring as their art.
This is why I'm actually reading AFP's blog, and have linked it at right. She's fucking brilliant.
She's thoughtful, and puts a lot of her energy into her words, making the blog both enlightening and inspiring. It's something a lot of artists just can't do – Their blogs end up narcissistic or dry, or narcissisticly dry. AFP is engaging, funny, energetic, and smart. She also regularly displays a firm grasp on current, and emergent, trends and offers insights that more people should really be paying attention to.
Some of her recent blogging in particular has been excellent in terms of trends and things people should pay attention to. Her ideas and comments about how she, as an artist, is making money and the necessity of doing the work, and how others are succeeding, or can succeed, are great.
More artists need to embrace the entrepreneurial opportunities afforded by the current state of technology and communication. More artists need to stop being shy about cultivating a fan base, being involved with that fan base, and making money from that fan base. Making money is not dishonest, it doesn't dirty up the work. Everyone has a right to try to make a living from what they're passionate about. Go read, seriously. AFP is talking from the POV of a performance based artist/act like a musician, but if I find it valuable as a scribbler and metalsmith, other artists should as well. If you're a musician, video artist, writer, pounder of metal, any sort of artist who wants to make a life an an artist, her ideas are worth a look.
I find her commentary very much in keeping with my recent ideas on writing/publishing, markets and marketing there-for, and making use of available technology and the memes they enable to achieve success in genres and as artists.
On top of that, she's awesome and I enjoy her work, and the things she has to say.

(As a note: I'm thinking about putting up something for each of my recommended reads, who I haven't mentioned before at least, but don't know if I'll get to it. My recommended reading, and the blogs I follow (see profile) are all recommended, or they wouldn't be there. You should check them out.)

Regarding Short Fiction

2009-10-09T01:13:00.003-06:00

Not much substance, of my own, here but two things I'd like to note:

Back in April, the NY Times ran a piece from A.O. Scott on the value of short fiction in American letters. The things he has to say sync nicely with my ideas in the previous post about the direction in fiction: Brevity's Pull: In Praise of the American Short Story
The quote:

"The new, post-print literary media are certainly amenable to brevity. The blog post and the tweet may be ephemeral rather than lapidary, but the culture in which they thrive is fed by a craving for more narrative and a demand for pith. And just as the iPod has killed the album, so the Kindle might, in time, spur a revival of the short story. If you can buy a single song for a dollar, why wouldn’t you spend that much on a handy, compact package of character, incident and linguistic invention? Why wouldn’t you collect dozens, or hundreds, into a personal anthology, a playlist of humor, pathos, mystery and surprise?
The death of the novel is yesterday’s news. The death of print may be tomorrow’s headline. But the great American short story is still being written, and awaits its readers."

I still say the novels will come. They may be different, but we'll get to them - We need the long immersion in characters, place and narrative ecstasy that novels provide.

Secondly: Nanoism, which I linked previously, is running a contest for fiction that will fit into a Tweet, 140 characters. They're looking for five piece serials, which will form a more complete work. You can learn more here: http://nanoism.net/meta/december-serial-contest/
A very interesting idea, and proof that even the shortest form can go the distance. I intend to submit, but either way look forward to seeing the end result. The work they have up already as stand-alone stories is all quite impressive.

What's Happened to Fiction?

2009-10-07T01:59:00.003-06:00

I grew up among books and writers. The word, and the next one and all the pages full have been elements of my life as long as I can remember. I don't want to say I took this for granted, but I have. In doing so, it seems that I missed something. Or a few somethings. Among them, the following:

Men don't read good fiction.
Novels are dead.

These assertions aren't mine, they're things I've come across recently in different places recently.

The first is an issue raised by BULL: Mens Fiction, via Fictionaut. Men buy around 30% of the fiction sold, primarily thrillers and crime fiction. Which leaves literary fiction to the women. I hadn't given this any thought prior to hearing about it, but find it very disquieting.
I don't really mean to say that there is no “good” fiction in the thriller and crime fiction fields. I read a lot of drek, almost anything not religious or romantic, and actually enjoy plenty of that type of fiction. However, on those shelves remain the Dan Brown's and David Morrel's and countless other fairly bad writers. Writers who use one crutch and cliché after another, and who will never be a Steven King, much less a Maclean or a Hemingway.
If men aren't reading good fiction, then it stands to reason that men's fiction isn't getting published. We end up with a chicken, or egg, sort of question. Is it not being published because it won't be read, or is it not being read because it's not being published?
My view of writing and authors is very male centric. I like plenty of female writers, and their work, but the influences on my enjoyment of writing, and being a writer, are primarily male. My father who taught me about poetry. My fifth grade teacher who showed me that poetry was written by real people having real experiences, not recounting mad charges and death in far off lands. Writers I met as a kid, like Steve Bodio, and Joel Bernstein. Writers whose work motivated, changed, or challenged me in my audacious youth when I read far outside my age group, McCarthy, Dostoevsky, Hemingway, and even the baser Heinlein. And whose work does that today, Palahniuk, Frederick Busch, and the above as well. Writers whose work and experiences resonate with my own life, McMurtry in particular at this point. All these influences are masculine. It's something of a shocking wake-up to see that masculinity in good fiction may have suffered a downturn.
It raises a lot of questions. Primarily about the nature of male reading. Why do men read, or perhaps better, why don't men read anything worth a damn? In wondering at the why of this, I have to ask myself why I read. Am I a reader because I write? I've always thought I was a writer because I read, but maybe that's not correct. My own perspective is suspect here, as I'm not just part of the audience.
Part of it is entertainment. I read to be entertained, like I imagine most people do. Some will argue that reading for entertainment alone precludes reading for intellectual stimulation, but I disagree. I am entertained by mental calisthenics and deep thoughts and discoveries and seek it out in music, movies, television and writing of all types. I'm also pretty confident that I'm not unique in this, even among men. Women are not the only people on the planet who want to think deep thoughts and engage in mental stretching. On the opposite side of the coin, I also read as a form of mental escapism – I want to be involved in something very not my immediate life, and let my mind relax. This is where, for me, reading “garbage” comes in. But one type of writing is not exclusive to the other – I do both, and again am pretty sure I'm not alone in at least the right motivations and interests
So, why do men still primarily read non-challenging, unintellectual, formulaic and cliched garbage? The place I feel left to turn to in answer, is society at large. Somewhere the American culture has told men that its not okay to be literary. It's knitting and tatting, not logging and grilling, and just not something that men do. But why?
It's a damn shame. It convicts me even more of the importance of masculine voices in writing. I'd realized it was a needed element when I first found BULL, before I ever planned to submit anything even. There exists western, eastern, southern, GBLT, and woman's writing and writers, but who identifies as a “male writer” or a writer of “mens fiction”? No one who's selling, apparently. And even the distinctly masculine voices in contemporary literature are being co-opted by feminine movements. The Road by Cormac McCarthy, one of the most distinctly masculine novels I think I've read, was brought to the attention of America at large by being placed on Oprah's book list.
There's nothing wrong with women, southerners or GBLT folks, but there is something goddamned wrong with this.

The second among literary issues I missed is the supposed death of the novel. I read this on Tom Russell's blog, and actually called bullshit in the comments. I don't think the novel is dead. I'm seriously out of touch with current novels though, particularly anything highbrow. The most recent literature I've read has been The Road and a Palahniuk or two. I've been rather caught up in the literary past. But, I see a lot of novels that look good being published, and quite a few that I hear are good to read too. I can't really swallow the idea of the novel being dead.
However, the thought nags. Maybe it actually is. If I, as a reader, have been visiting the literary past of ghosts like Maclean, Cheever, Hemingway, and grand old men like McCarthy, for my diet of novels then what does that say about the current state of the things? Without a doubt, 80% of my literary fiction diet comes from short fiction journals, both online and in print. Perhaps a result of this, most of my writing is not on my novel, but on flash, short fiction and poetry. And I don't seem to be alone. I see a lot of good, fundamentally good, fiction being written in the form of flash and short stories. I am even seeing powerfully good poetry out there. It's accessible, it's at the tip of the finger, at the end of the hand placed on the mouse or touchpad.
I wonder if it doesn't have something to do with the shape and form of popular internet media and communications. The majority of America is online, and our creative engagement with words and communication in this medium is short. Blog posts are short. Facebook status updates are short. Tweets are short.
Twitter is the perfect example. One hundred and forty characters, to communicate effectively. And, really, we've gotten good at it. It's become entertaining, effective and, finally, important. Friends bitch and share and plan inside the limits of a Tweet. Businesses advertise, share updates and network. Revolutions, or the attempts there-of, are documented - The best information coming from Iran in recent troubles has been in one hundred and forty character bursts. That is what finally convinced me that Twitter had some actual value. And now, there are literary efforts, such as Nanoism, focused on extremely short fiction that will fit into a Tweet.
The modern face of textual communication is short. Why should anyone be surprised that written art would follow that? Even some of the more successful novels and memoirs of recent years have begun as blogs.
So, maybe I am wrong and the novel is dead. Or I'm half wrong, and the novel is elderly and graying. If that's the case though, it's not because culture is dead. It's not because we've lost something. Exactly the opposite in fact. We've found a way to retain our literary culture, our artistic use of language, in the modern era. There's been no death – Merely a refinement. If anything, it forces writers to be better.
Narrative Magazine recently had a small contest asking for people to contribute six word stories, in the tradition of the supposed original flash fiction piece by Hemingway. Hemingway's six word story, the product of a ten dollar bar bet, was the essence of succinct and powerful fiction: “For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.”
If the internet influenced literary culture is cultivating a standard of writers who can do as much with as little as Hemingway, then we'll be just fine. The novels will happen, and when they do, they'll be magnificent.

Now, if we can just make it okay for men to read them. Maybe the internet will help that as well. If the publishers, and their often female staff focusing on the female 70% of the market, aren't delivering then the internet will.
Let's not lament what's happened to fiction, its still here – Rather lets ask “What's Happening to Fiction”, and what can we as readers and writers contribute.

Anna Creek Station

2009-09-20T12:50:00.000-06:00

I went to Anna Creek Station
and the dust in the road danced like ghosts
in the wake of motorbikes
On cracked lips I sipped warm water
and heard a distant cry
a drovers yell
overtaken by the small engines whine
Here it was like everywhere
land, long empty of men save the betrayed
and the hard dying so long a livelihood
just memory and bones
In the vast emptiness of the Earths ends
I sat alone and listened to the dying
in imagined calls and the buzz of flies
I sat, so long lost, born outside memory
and spitting dust from the motorbikes

Short Story Published

2009-09-09T12:05:00.003-06:00

I'm pleased to announce that BULL: Fiction for Thinking Men has published my short-story, "Four, in the Morning".

It's a real pleasure to see it up over there, as I'm a big fan of what BULL is doing. The idea, and quality of the work published, is stellar. I'm honored to be keeping such company.

Check out "Four, in the Morning", and then take a look at the rest of the work!

Abaddon Calling

2009-09-05T01:58:00.002-06:00

Around 30 people a year die in abandoned mine accidents in the United States. One of those this year, just last month, was someone I know. Not one of my wrecking crew, fortunately, and not a close friend, but someone I was on nodding basis with in the grocery store. They found him, missing for some time, floating in water at the bottom of an abandoned shaft called the Iron Mask Mine. He had, apparently, been setting up in attempt to re-claim and start working the Iron Mask. His passing is a timely reminder. The mines are dangerous. They call to men, a siren song, and some will find fortune. Others, destruction. David found destruction.

I've been exploring abandoned mines for over a year now, and with increasing seriousness and professionalism. It's as valid a sport as spelunking, and as challenging, with its own unique risks. There is nothing else like it. It is my great adventure, at least of the moment, and becoming a professional endeavor as well.
The crew of friends I go exploring drifts with (Does that make us Drifters?) have planned another trip for this coming Sunday. I'm looking forward to it immensely. Haven't been down hole since June 27th.

The excitement rises, and I feel the familiar tug. Desire, overcoming trepidation. I'll spend part of tomorrow pulling out all of my gear, checking it, and re-packing it in preparation. Old mine dust will fall from the pack, scattering on the kitchen floor. Small flakes of pyrite and galena will glint and shine in the summer sun coming through the door thrown wide. I'll knock the dust out of my helmet, replace the batteries in the headlamp and ducttape the lamp back in place again. The medical kit, the tools pouch, will get checked and mounted on my chest harness. All will once more be returned to the much traveled Lowe-Alpine pack, which will set by the door waiting.
Sunday, in the darkness, I'll rise. Energy and demand thrumming in my blood, a hand with claws curled into my very will and pulling. I'll throw everything in the truck and drive South. For the hike up to an adit, where the cool air will blow from the depths – A whispering promise of the relief, the fulfillment, within. And I'll not question if it is goodness or guile – I know it is only what I bring down. And once more, I'll answer the call of Abaddon.

Armed Bohemian

2009-08-16T01:59:00.002-06:00

I have a new project - Armed Bohemian, a blog on some specific ideas about war, culture, warriors and related thoughts, problems and snarky comments.
This will let me leave Rum & Donuts as the personal forum I've created it to be. The ideas and questions that will be shaping Armed Bohemian are rather constant for me, and I'd rather give them their own playground than dominate this space with them.

Stay tuned - More to come, here, there, and elsewhere!

The Complexes of Gehenna

2009-08-05T01:52:00.002-06:00

That vast and the black stretches
beyond the weakness of the light's play
A silence of depth, so boundless
as to be a leonine roar of absent sound
These wanton cries of Abaddon, terrible
in their compulsion, and loneliness
Forgotten in the works beneath the stone
where the pipes and tunnels of men run
unto ends where the picked tunnel comes
to ruin in the unknowable definitions
between worked stone and Earth gaped wide
A great work abandoned, and un-wrought
by the smashing weight of miles of rock, tumbled upon
the emptiness of man's will, the hollow drifts
crumbled to water and the Earth's relaxations
One meets the other and disappears into their forces
Whether Earth's own pocket or vast stope
toil and tectonics come to a whole
so far beyond reckoning
Where now I stand, solid footed above the howling
vast and empty rooms and halls
in the complexes of Gehenna

A Bright Idea from The Atlantic

2009-08-04T01:45:00.003-06:00

Not a new idea, but a bright one none the less. In Unleash the Dogs of Peace editor Gibney makes the excellent suggestion of using private military companies (PMCs) instead of UN Peace Keepers in difficult regions. There is great merit to this idea for varying reasons, only one of which is the UN's seeming inability to actually keep, never mind create, peace.
Gibney isn't the first to suggest this. Obviously, PMC's themselves have always suggested this. Still a good idea. Maybe a better idea now than it was when Executive Outcomes was suggesting it for Rwanda (prior to the great machete party) - Today's contenders seem to offer more stability, and despite the media's efforts less mercenary stigma.

From the Atlantic piece:

"There is a different, more robust approach to making peace in nasty places: deploy private military companies like Executive Outcomes, whose small, highly trained force defeated insurgencies in Sierra Leone and Angola during the 1990s. Executive Outcomes is now out of business. But as researchers like Peter Singer have documented, the private-military-company marketplace now fields scores of firms (including the U.S. giants Xe—formerly Blackwater—and DynCorp) that take in billions in revenue. Put them on retainer, and they’ll go where they’re paid to go—unlike every one of the 19 countries that had pledged troops on a standby basis for UN peacekeeping and then refused, in 1994, to send them to Rwanda."

Hero's

2009-08-03T00:42:00.002-06:00

The other day I read a review of the new film “The Hurt Locker” on a movie blog and it started me thinking. The film, which I've not seen yet, is about Army Explosive Ordinance Disposal (EOD) Technicians in Iraq, and by all accounts is not a typical (linear and plot-driven) film, rather being character driven. The blogger took issue with it for this, and several more reasons which, save one, I wont go into. Both because I've not seen the movie, and I don't care about his other complaints. Also, I commented on his blog and left a link back but have no desire or intention to attempt a cross-blog war. His post, and my response, simply prompted further though an idea. An idea I want to share, where I've the room to do so.
The issue at hand that was taken in this review I read, was with the portrayal of the characters. The blogger did not feel that they were worthwhile or compelling, and seemed to feel they weren't fitting representations of US servicemen. The reviewer felt that they lacked higher minded motivations, and acted as hero's out of personal issues, being adrenaline junkies, rather than out of any particular goodness.
I'm not going to (extensively) quote the review, as this is less about the review, or the reviewer, than the idea of “hero's”, but in paraphrase his objections were: A specific leading character's heroism was driven less by a solid moral fiber, than by being an adrenaline junkie. Most of the character's were in fact lacking positive motivations (“anything but upbeat and inspirational”, to sneak a quote in). They were there and fighting merely for selfish reasons, not some greater struggle against evil, or to protect the oppressed and innocent. He found it hard to support, much less care for, the character's he thought were arrogant, and would've rather been rooting for characters driven by “goodness” - Using Batman, Spiderman and Superman as examples of characters driven by goodness, and the audience' ability to invest in them for the people of character they truly are.

I cannot help but feel that this reviewer has mistaken his favorite fictions and imaginary hero's for real ones. It seems that his real objection is that this film doesn't present his hero's in the fictitious, idealized, light to which he's accustomed to seeing them. It doesn't present them as Supermen, or even as Batmen (tortured, but ultimately idealistic and good intentioned). It presents them as realistic, human, men. Given this, I have to wonder if the reviewer who brought these ideas to the fore in me, isn't the only one who suffers this idealism of hero's.
Has it ever occurred to these folks that their hero's, many of history's (military or otherwise) hero's, were in fact no more high minded than the men in The Hurt Locker? That same people put themselves into situations that make hero's of them not because it serves the common good, but because it serves their needs and desires?
The accounts written after the act(s) of heroism, or after any act, are rarely the truth. This is not to say that all hero's are bastards who were in the right place at the right time, but that not all of them aren't that.
Many hero's, as people visualize them, are actually fictions and in the bright light of day, they are just men and women. People who fought, warred, struggled and killed, less out of patriotism, less out of belief in something greater, than out of a simple skill and enjoyment. Even, without enjoyment, no greater drive than a pragmatic assessment of their abilities, opportunities and situations. At times too, just sheer futility and "fuck it" attitudes. Not everyone who does these jobs does them for upbeat or inspirational reasons - Some do them for the blackest reasons possible.
That does not make them incapable of heroism, or invaluable to society. Quite the opposite. It may be that in these positions (from war to wildland firefighting), where people who have no use for most of society find an escape from it and a great satisfaction in hard work and high risk, they are actually of the most benefit to the whole. An accidental (maybe) symbiotic relationship between the misanthrope, and the masses.
Not everyone who stands on the lines between disaster and safety, between the great hordes and the great civilizations, is a sheepdog guarding the flock. Many are just another type of wolf – One's evolved in a manner where they'd rather bloody their fangs on other wolves.
They may not be people to know, and certainly not the kind of people to have to tea, but they're no less valuable, and when the pressure is on, no less gallant for it. Such men and women need, and deserve, as much celebration as the patriotic, service oriented, and high minded.

Market Forces

2009-08-02T17:42:00.001-06:00

Imagine a world where corporate interests outstrip government. Where executives are celebrities. Where the division between the poor and the rich, the haves and have-nots, is enforced by law, and walls, and an economic standard soaked in blood. A world where executives compete with one another - for promotions, to win contracts, to settle disputes - via murderous road rage in specially designed and armored "battle-wagons". This is the world of Richard K. Morgan's "Market Forces", a character driven science fiction thriller set in the near, and all too believable, future of late 2040's London.
Market Forces protagonist (hero would be the wrong word) Chris Faulkner is an up and coming executive, or "driver" as he is one of the select few who can both afford to drive and are among the ranks of road-rage competing corporate agents. Faulkner, at the book's opening, has just been drafted into the ranks of Shorn Associates, Conflict Investment division. Riding on his work at a previous firm's Emerging Markets division, and the highly controversial yet celebrated kill on the road that won him that position, Faulkner meets immediate challenge. His coworkers and the partners at Shorn are far more bloodthirsty than Faulkner believes necessary, demanding that every roadway dual end in a positive kill. Faulkner is able to deliver extreme violence, as in his celebrated kill in which he ran over his competitor five times, but comes to Shorn with a preference for less bloodthirsty business approaches. This puts him at odds with other Shorn executives; Rivalries which only become worse when he proves successful in the division.
Conflict Investment is no nice thing – It is investment in, and guidance of, small wars for maximum profit. Shorn Associates is as bloodthirsty and greedy here as anywhere, and it pays. Conflict Investment is a money-maker, and success in the field means great gains, recognition and advancement for Faulkner. Being less bloodthirsty still does not give Faulkner clean hands, and as the pressure mounts, he becomes more and more blood-soaked. And he likes it – Every victory, every risk won out, is validation for the way he does business, and the ideals he brings to the game.
At the same time, it is his idealism that runs him aground. Faulkner is no mindless greed driven power player. He's come from the very bottom to get to where he is, and has built the beginnings of a good life. His wife, Carla, is a loving and kind force in his life, always encouraging the best of him. She holds him to be the better man, and not succumb to the sheer greed and immorality of his work.
As Faulkner rises to the top in the most cut-throat area of a cut-throat world, his professional drive and personal conscience conflict more and more. As he struggles with these disparate halves of himself and his life he is forced (or forces himself) into a decision between two paths, one of harmony in his family, and one of unbridled success.

Market Forces channels American Psycho with a Road Warrior ethic and a Dogs of War sensibility. The world created by Richard Morgan for his corporate samurai is one of merciless competition, bloody corporate affairs, unabashed profiteering, riding on a current of warfare and class oppression. In short, Morgan writes a world that, while exaggerated, doesn't seem too impossible or even too far off. In examining this potential future what the reader must ask themselves is if that is a good thing, and what role they want to play. These are the questions that are at the heart of the novel, driving its biting political dialog and fast paced action alike. The choices faced by Faulkner and those surrounding him are more than political, or monetary: Their very lives are at stake on the physical, moral and even human scale.
Market Forces is not an uplifting read. Faulkner is a great anti-hero, and is surrounded by similarly flawed individuals and their mistakes. Very few of these characters are merely two-dimensional, as Morgan is unafraid to delve into the vulgar depths of personality. These are very human people, and will force the reader into uncomfortable territory. At times it is like being in the room while your friend and his wife have a screaming argument. All you can do is watch as people you want to care about debase themselves and one another, screaming themselves into the deafening silence of mutually assured destruction.
Yet while not an uplifting read, it is a fundamentally good read. Morgan's characters resonate with that level of richness throughout, flowing effortlessly with the tautly woven story. Market Force is a book that draws you in, each page pulling you deeper into the quagmire of morality, violence and lust that consumes its characters. It will leave you breathless, and with the sensation that you may be accomplice to something awful, yet wanting more. A unique and masterful work of speculative fiction, Market Forces is a must read.

A Faith of Taps, Hand Dug Graves, and Cold Beer

2009-08-01T14:24:00.000-06:00

The mystery that gives Catholic services their captivating effect is ruined, at least a measure, by conducting them in English. I watched, an outsider at the rear of the little church, resting my shoulders on the cool adobe wall. Walls witness to greater than one hundred years of such goings on. My heart rose to the twangs of Spanish guitar, and I rose with others, but never knelt. The priest did his stumbling best, and got us through it.
Bearing his coffin out, at the doors of the church they stopped. A deacon and a pall bearer removed the Catholic raiment from the coffin. Beneath the barely patterned white shroud, stripes of blood red and snow white, cornered with the star bearing field of blue. All holiness supposed of the ceremony just passed, stood miniscule in the face of the flag. Tears welled at the corners of my eyes.
As we followed the procession out the doors of the church, the flag gleamed all the more brightly in the desert sun. I looked across the graveyard of bare earth, at the miles of rocky, dry, hills. Standing in the corner of the graveyard, silver piping glimmering on his dress blues, was an Air Force bugler. Alien to the surrounding dust but mute and still as the native stones. The honor guard stood crisply at grave side. One of them a very pretty young woman, I could see a bead of sweat break on her forehead and roll to her eye with nary a blink.
A strong hand gripped my shoulder, almost painfully, as an old friend came to stand at my side. We watched quietly as the priest finished his graveside services. As before, he stumbled through it. His corpulence shaking beneath his robes as the heat tolled on him, he managed to carry it out. Looking around those gathered, most appeared to be holding their own court and ignoring the man. When he finished, an old man stepped forward. A man I've known all my life, tall and thin, his frame often bent by extreme age, he stood tall and stepped with his chest out. His shoulders back he lead the gathered mourners in prayer for a fallen veteran. His voice carried strong through the churchyard and echoed back from the rocky hillside and adobe walls. His eyes shone with tears, and his voice, thick with pride, broke only once. Finishing, his frame stiffened further, his starkly blue eyes straight ahead. Behind us in the stillness of the empty hot desert, a tongue wet dry lips. The slow strain of Taps filled the air, perfectly played. I stood stiff as hot tears welled to the music, and beside my old friend's eyes glistened. By the time the bugler had finished, and the honor guard had begun folding the flag, tears had flowed freely down both our cheeks.
As the honor guard marched smartly to the edge of the churchyard, the pallbearers lined up and began to slow move to take up the coffin, and then lower it into the earth. The gray box slid slowly down on the ropes, past the rough edges of the hand-dug grave. As the pallbearers pulled up their ropes and moved away, the mourners began to line up. Each taking a handful of earth from the shovel held by the funeral director, we cast it into the gave. Each handful raising a hollow echo to greet the next as it fell. And then everyone moved back, and the shovels came out. A handful of us handed our hats off to the side, and grabbed the shovels. Sweat pouring, each of us threw our backs into it and shovelful by shovelful gave our friend his rest. A lifetime cannot be buried, but a coffin can be covered and a grave mounded in a remarkable hurry. I stood back at the end, when the dirt was so little as to only require a final shovel to move and neaten and handed my shovel to its original owner. Hot and breathing hard, someone stuck a dripping, cold, Budweiser into my hands. Achingly cold from the cooler full of ice, I rolled it between my palms and across the sides of my neck before opening it. The first sip was cold, wet and perfect. The best beer is sometimes the cheapest, when its that cold and hard earned.
After that we just stood in the churchyard – The living among the dead - Shaking hands, clasping shoulders, and drinking beer.

My faith, my religion, is these things - Hard hands, dusty soil, hand dug graves, flag draped coffins, a bugle slowly aching Taps and the community of others who understand the same. If there is holiness, if anything is sacred, it is there.

Beer for my Gravediggers

2009-08-01T14:17:00.001-06:00

That first cold sip of beer
grave dust dry on your lips
is a miracle
payment for doing Gods work
Heaving the soil onto the hallowed emptiness
each shovelful echoing dully
around the small shape inside the box
The emptiness that used to be a man
After that work, a cold beer is something holy
The can sweating, you roll it's unopened coldness
between dry hands and across your neck
It's cheap beer, but cold
you welcome that rushing hiss and the following
long drink of chilly wetness washing away
the parched, dust dry, cotton mouth
of grave-digging in the desert sun
Filled, you look at the mound you've made, higher,
the volume of a box, than the surrounding earth
The women place flowers, and the men stand leaning
on shovel handles, and old men on their sons
The honor guard quietly away, silver piping rippling
glittering across their blues in the coming-noon sun
as they slip off, duty done, strangers as they came
Rough hands at your shoulder, grabbing, squeezing
You smile, nod, shake hands and drink your beer
A man, alive, standing among men
in the little desert churchyard, tens of miles from a town
Grave dust on your hands, covering your boots
a promise

An Important Comment on the Way We (Bloggers) Write

2009-07-25T01:00:00.003-06:00

I normally don't repeatedly link to the same source, at least so close together, but I feel this has to be done.
Steven Pressfield has expanded his blog, and as well as commentary on the war in Afghanistan, he's instituted a "Writing Wednesdays" post, on writing (of course). His first entry, this past ... (wait for it) ... Wednesday, was one of the best things I've read on any type of writing, but particularly for us bloggers.
You should read it.

"Writing Wednesdays": An Experiment

Pressfield's has quickly become one of my favorite blogs, and I'm watching what he has to say closely as, so far, I think he's been very much on point. I promise, however, that I will stop fan-boying with this entry.

As someone who writes both Fiction and Creative Non-Fiction, and uses his blog as a venue for those pieces, as well as observation and opinion pieces, I have fallen very much into the trap of ego that Pressfield describes in that entry.
Not only do my readers have a hard time separating my truth from my lies, but I have trouble separating myself from my bullshit, which hampers my bullshit. I seek to create really good bullshit - Well turned bits of phrase and narrative that compel, interest and expand the mind of my readers. I was aware of several other things hampering this (such as my continual difficulties in being able to proof read and edit, yet rushing to post), but my ego was in the way of seeing my ego.
A valuable lesson.

The Horrible Strength of a Valkyrie

2009-07-17T10:31:00.005-06:00

I have thought for a time now that there is such thing as a horrible strength. A strength to do something that 90 - 99% of others would turn away from. Some act, even a kindness, that no one likes, everyone reviles, and that is still necessary, so someone shoulders the toll and does it.
I have the strength for many horrible things. I can be wrist deep in a trauma victim and never flinch. I can put down suffering animals. I can do others violence. Things I am both proud of, and those I am not.
But I do not have the strength to do what some do....

‘Camouflage Angel’ Spends Last Moments With U.S. Combat Casualties
JOINT BASE BALAD — The emergency-room trauma call and the medical staff's immediate action upon his arrival is only a memory to her now; sitting quietly at the bedside of her brother-in-arms, she carefully takes his hand, thanking him for his service and promising she will not leave his side.
He is a critically injured combat casualty, and she is Army Sgt. Jennifer Watson of the Casualty Liaison Team here.

Although a somber scene, it is not an uncommon one for the Peru, Ind., native, who in addition to her primary duties throughout the last 14 months, has taken it upon herself to ensure no U.S. casualty passes away alone. Holding each of their hands, she sits with them until the end, no matter the day or the hour.

"It's unfortunate that their families can't be here," said Watson, who is deployed here from Fort Campbell, Ky. "So I took it upon myself to step up and be that family while they are here. No one asked me to do it; I just did what I felt was right in my heart. I want them to know they are heroes.

"I feel just because they are passing away does not mean they cannot hear and feel someone around them," she continued. "I talk to them, thanking them for what they have done, telling them they are a hero, they will never be forgotten, and I explain my job to them to help them be at ease knowing the family will be told the truth."

In general, Watson explains to the patients that the CLT works within the Patient Administrative Department here, acting as a liaison for all military and civilian patients in-theater and initiating the casualty-notification process to the patient's next-of-kin.

Upon their arrival at the Air Force Theater Hospital, Watson speaks with each combat casualty getting as accurate information as possible about the incident. Once the doctor gives their diagnosis and severity of the patient's injuries, Watson and her team complete and send a Defense Casualty Information Processing System folder report to the Department of the Army or the patient's respective service so that their next-of-kin can be notified.

"I make sure we tell their family everything they want to know, so they know everything that's going on," said Watson. "[Through the report], we'll tell the families everything that is going on with their family member ... so that they don't have any questions."

Furthermore, once the initial report has been sent, the CLT and Watson make hourly rounds to the intensive-care ward or unit to check on the patient's well-being, or, for the more critical patients, to check on their stability.

"We are constantly communicating and making sure the family knows everything we know," said Watson. "We want to put the families at ease and let them know that everything is being done for their loved one. From the moment a servicemember is brought in through Hero's Highway, they are never alone."

Each month, the AFTH, the equivalent of a U.S. Level-1 trauma center, treats more than 539 patients; more than 101 are trauma cases in the emergency department. Although Watson can never predict if and when her fellow brothers- or sisters- in arms may need her, she is always available here.

"The hospital staff is wonderful," said Watson. "They know how important it is for me to be there with them and if they know it's time, someone will come and get me no matter where I'm at.

"I see it as a form of closure, not just for me, but for the families so that they know that somebody was there with their son or daughter," she added. "My heart goes out to every patient that comes into the hospital, especially my wounded in action Soldiers. I feel like everyone who comes through the door is my brother or sister."

Not surprisingly, Watson's dedication to duty and her hard work have not gone unnoticed. She has touched the lives of all those who she has come in contact with, to include the 332nd Expeditionary Medical Group commander, Col. Mark Mavity.

"Sgt. Watson's story is one of the most compelling here in the Med Group," said Mavity. "She is a Soldier's Soldier who combines an unparalleled level of compassion and commitment to our most grievously wounded warriors with amazing professionalism each and every day.

"What is truly incredible is that she is a personnelist by training but with the heart of a medic who has taken it upon herself to hold the hand and keep a bedside vigil with every mortally wounded Soldier who has spent their last hours within the AFTH," continued the colonel. "She will not let her brave brothers or sisters pass alone. This is a heavy burden to bear and at great personal emotional cost to Sgt. Watson, but she is unwavering in her final commitment to these Soldiers. You don't have to look any further than Sgt. Watson to find a true hero."

"Angel" and "hero" are only two of the many titles Watson has been given since arriving at JBB; although she is appreciative of the kind words, she remains humble.

"I am far from an angel," said the sergeant with a smile. "I just do what is in my heart. I guess for me, I think about the family and the closure of knowing the Soldier did not pass away alone. To say I'm a hero ... no. The heroes are my guys who come in [through Hero's Highway]."

Reflecting on her time here, Watson said she is extremely thankful for the opportunity she has had to work side-by-side with the Air Force.

"The staff of the 332nd Expeditionary Medical Group has done an amazing job since I have been here," she said. "They are incredible. They have done procedures and saved the lives of the most critically injured Soldiers, and have been some of the most professional people I have ever worked with.

"I want the families to know that their servicemember was a hero," Watson concluded. "They made the ultimate sacrifice, but before they passed on, they received the best medical treatment, and the staff did everything they could -- they were not in pain and they didn't die alone."

(By Staff Sgt. Dilia Ayala, 332nd Air Expeditionary Wing)

This woman has a strength far beyond anything I could ever have. Friends, lovers, brothers - Yes. But every single casualty, known and unknown? Every dying stranger? I'd be in the nut-farm inside a week.
Sgt. Watson has my deepest admiration.
From what I've seen, on the military forums I am on, she has the admiration and respect of every one who has heard of her. Many a truly hard man has said what I've said, that they couldn't do what she does. I imagine she has the largest, best armed, bunch of big brothers in the whole world. She is a hero to heros, and harder than woodpecker lips.

"Its The Tribes, Stupid"

2009-07-12T23:43:00.004-06:00

For the readers out there with an interest in history, particularly military, if you've never read Steven Pressfield, you're missing out. I haven't read enough (apparently) of his work, but highly value his two novels I have read, Gates of Fire and The Legend of Bagger Vance (Not a golfer, at all, and I still appreciate this one greatly. A tactical-firearms instructor I much admire recommends it highly for similar reasons. I'd quote him but I cannot source it at present. I'm sure he recommends Gates highly as well, I've just never heard him do so, but he was a Marine, and it is on the Commandant of the Marine Corps reading list, so...).
Tonight, via Goodreads I discovered that Pressfield has a blog, "Its the Tribes, Stupid", focusing on conflict in Afghanistan both classically and currently.
It is excellent reading.
I've yet to watch the videos, as I am on abominable backwoods dial-up and couldn't hope of loading one to watch before tomorrow (sunrise = new day, not midnight, in my little world). I expect they are excellent though, and will watch them next time I am in town stealing wifi at the coffee shop. But the reading is great.
It is late, I am tired, and have been out of coffee for two days, and I'm still reading. This is a good thing. For only having been at it roughly a month, Pressfield has brought some great things to the table. I'm looking forward very much to seeing where he goes.

A New Tag

2009-07-07T22:54:00.003-06:00

I avoid "administrative" blogging to a large extent, but am adding a new "Post Label"/Tag to clear some things up.
I post both fiction and non-fiction on this blog. Starting now (and retroactively as of tonight) all fiction entries will have a "Fiction" tag.
All creative non-fiction entries will remain untagged as such, though they will continue to bear the tag "Experience".

Doing this had made me consider two things:
First... the amount of fiction I've posted here is rather slight. I think a few readers may be surprised at what didn't pick up a Fiction tag. Or maybe not.
Secondly... None of the poetry posted here is fictional. And that is true for the majority (I can only think of a single piece that's fiction). It's an interesting rumination on the nature of poetry.

The Broken, Holy

2009-07-07T22:00:00.000-06:00

It isn’t the rain chasing us off the mountain, so much as the lightning. The old mine complex is full of metal. Roofs, walls, random steel poles and fixtures sunk into the earth in cement. The whole affair already quasi-mystical in its abstruse purposefulness. An industrial henge to confound the archaeologists of the future. Such steel mysteries tend to bring lightning strikes, however, so we cut short our exploration.
Hard-faced nylon jackets pulled up under our chins, hoods over baseball caps, we rustle as we walk. The road, or what had once been, glistens and glitters. Broken glass, bits of pyrite and galena, chunks of dishes long ago shattered. The scattered remains of a century of mining that ended half again as many years ago. These bits come up through the soil, only to be washed and kicked back under again. Archaeologists won’t understand them. The soft, ornate roses networked around the rim of a broken china plate must’ve had some deep religious significance. Beautiful women, not haggard dust ruined miners, must’ve held them cupped to their breasts. Dancing naked around the steel winches atop the hill, feet cut and bleeding on the ore rich ground.
We walk on back to the car. We wonder, maybe worry, someone has taken notice of the bright red station wagon parked outside the gate. Its warrantless, the locals are frightened of rain. It melts adobes and cuts arroyos across perfectly good pasture. Rain is ruin, in the desert. No one goes out in the rain. Looking down the slope, the town is small far below, rain clouds reaching down to it. I can see people, behind their windows, hiding from the outstretched limbs of the sky.
Outside the car, where someone had parked before, is an empty Codeine cough syrup bottle. More mystical refuse. Some strange and complex love rite, consecrated in the passing of the amber plastic vessel from one set of lips to another. Greedy, choking down the foul contents, washing it out with beer. I kick it and point so my buddy will see. We shake our heads.

Neither of us wants to go home. On the drive down we’re looking out at the grey sky, wisps of rain and dry, desperate, earth. Seeking something other than the discomfiting surrounds of a trailer house by the railroad tracks. We want to earn the cold beer that’s sitting in the fridge.
He slows and pulls off the highway, bumping onto a dirt road in a little valley. Framing the east boundary, are small red hills with darker rock upthrusts. To the west, even heavier basalt ridges rose. On our right, the western ridges are full of climbing spots, with names like Spook and Wallflower, the quirkiness of those who would identify and first trump the rock’s challenging paths. Between us, sits a small private burial, fenced with a small structure covering the grave. About the size of a dog house, with a cross on top, it looks like a long forgotten Rocky Mountain Baptist church, alone in some great expanse, seen from miles away.
I look over it, looking up the slope to Wallflower. There are no ropes set, no climbers on the face, none gathered below. Driven away by the fear of rain, getting stuck in the awful exposed clay. I am disappointed.
We drive on, finally stopping at some weathered board corrals and leaving the car behind. We walk east at first, and I am bored with this. The overhanging cave we want to investigate proves to be full of Catholic santos and prayer candles. The black soot of the candles covers the walls and ceiling, one new layer in generations of them. Mirrored glass Christmas balls hang from this same ceiling. I reholster the pistol I’d drawn as we approached, on the off chance of habitation, and we turn toward the big climbing walls.
We cross down to the road and walk up it a ways. A small sedan passes us, bumping roughly on the washboards. The driver gives us a slightly panicked look, but we all press on. Leaving the road, my buddy and I move up the bank of a shallow gully. He’s talking about the erosion patterns, and says something about making one of his own. I leave him to piss and keep walking.
The dry soil crunches under my shoes. Hard grazed grass exists in sparse, grey, clumps that crackle and rasp just to be looked at. Moving silently is impossible I find. I look from the ground to the rock rising in front of me. I walk faster, stepping harder, moving further from my buddy.
I walk towards Wallflower like I will see her there. The face I remember, and have been disappointed not to see. The little Hispanic girl we’d been climbing with one day. Small, muscular and thin, dark hair and green eyes in an angular, pretty face. Wide smile and good bright teeth. A beauty mark. She exists as more of an idea, ghosting from my memory of that day. My mind has wandered, leaving my feet to drive me towards where I know she isn’t. The archeology of memory may be the most troublesome yet, with its desire for reverence. It’s far too easy to make broken things holy in hindsight.
Before long my buddy catches up, and we see another overhanging cave down the ridge. South of where I want to be. We strike out for it. I know it’s better for me than indulging the ghosts. The rock ahead looks darker in the late, overcast, afternoon. Pistol shots ring out, echoing back off the wall ahead of us. We stop, crouching, our hands going to our own guns. We listen, turn outward toward the valley. It takes minutes for more shots to ring out. I point, whisper the direction of the sound is on the other side of the little hill we’ve rounded. Back where the car is at. A slim rock spine runs up the side of the hill, I point, suggest we go up that, look over the top. See if its just target shooters or what. My buddy nods, mutters agreement. Focused, I don’t look over my shoulder as we begin to move away from the climbing faces. The breeze in the grass, coming in ahead of a light rain, pulls scents into the air, and for just a moment I smell her. Her hair and sweat, her breath while speaking, the way she smelled that day rock climbing.

The Great American Bubble Machine - Something You Need to Read

2009-06-30T12:28:00.004-06:00

Matt Taibbi is a name I've heard around, but never paid a great deal of attention to. I probably should have been.
He recently penned an article for Rolling Stone called The Great American Bubble Machine, detailing the "behavior" of investment bank Goldman-Sachs that has created (or at the least helped to) the largest financial bubbles in American history, starting with the Trusts bubble that, upon bursting, lead to the Great Depression, and on through the Tech Stocks bubble, the Housing Market, and Oil Futures.
It is a brief history of manipulation and general scum-fuckery. Nothing in it should be surprising to anyone who has been paying attention, at least the history. But, this is an incredibly complex area, and I know for a fact that most people aren't paying attention (I barely do).
Taibbi's article is worth reading, to know whats gone on, and also for a critical look at what is coming.
The next major bubble is being passed along as something truly good for everyone, and it may be the biggest swindle yet.

This is long, unhappy and probably boring - Read it anyway.
The Great American Swindle by Matt Taibbi

Playground

2009-06-29T21:19:00.000-06:00

Rain washes and pools across the tarmac
beyond the café windows that reflect everything
Staring into the sodium phosphor dark
lights and reflections indistinct against my own thoughts
Behind and outside a car moves, reflecting on the window
a mirage of itself - A ghost through which rain falls
and light shines as it rolls and disappears
the reflection unmade by angles and movement
The water slick, reflecting, blackness remains
constant in the wake of the ghost
I cannot help but think that this must be the playground
of the dead, their ghosts whispering
I look for someone, another ghost
among what is bound to become a crowd
and finding them to remain unseen
I turn, unsatisfied and mourning, back to the table
and the living

Something I Will Teach my Children

2009-06-25T01:37:00.002-06:00

When I was about 12, my father set forth a household edict. Every night, we would gather in the kitchen, and by the flickering light of a kerosene lamp (for this was before we had commercial power way out here), he would read aloud. The book we begin with was Farnhams Freehold, by Robert Heinlein. A modest story, about a man and his family, locked in their bomb shelter and thrown into an unknown world by the startling power of nuclear war.
I don't think we ever got to another book after we finished Farnham's Freehold. Things changed, attitudes changed. Within a year we had commercial power, and the bright, harsh, light of electric lamps lacks a certain something. It encourages families to gather, independent of one another across couches and recliners, around the television.
But, my father started something - By the time I was 15, I had read almost everything Heinlein wrote. I have, since then, re-read about all of it at least once. Heinlein is one of my favorite authors, and two of his books in particular have had a great influence on me, my desires, drives and attitudes. Those two would be Tunnel in the Sky, and Glory Road. Both are deserving of their own entries, and I'll get to that eventually.
There is another Heinlein work which means a great deal to me, an essay taken from a speech given to a graduating class at the U.S. Naval Academy, titled The Pragmatics of Patriotism.
It is a bit dated, and some of the specific hopes and fears alike are far from occurring today, but the overall idea is, as it has forever been, sound. It is something everyone should read.
The essay was published in a collection of Heinlein's non-fiction work, titled Expanded Universe, and was for a long time unavailable online. I sat down and transcribed it once, so I could share it with a select few people, but my digital copy has since been lost. Earlier tonight I was curious to see if I could possibly find it online, and viola, I see it is indeed now widely available.
I post it, so that those unaware of it can read it - As it is something everyone should read.

The Pragmatics of Patriotism, by Robert Anson Heinlein

"I said that 'Patriotism' is a way of saying 'Women and children first.' And that no one can force a man to feel this way. Instead he must embrace it freely. I want to tell about one such man. He wore no uniform and no one knows his name, or where he came from; all we know is what he did.
In my home town sixty years ago when I was a child, my mother and father used to take me and my brothers and sisters out to Swope Park on Sunday afternoons. It was a wonderful place for kids, with picnic grounds and lakes and a zoo. But a railroad line cut straight through it.

One Sunday afternoon a young married couple were crossing these tracks. She apparently did not watch her step, for she managed to catch her foot in the frog of a switch to a siding and could not pull it free. Her husband stopped to help her. But try as they might they could not get her foot loose. While they were working at it, a tramp showed up, walking the ties. He joined the husband in trying to pull the young woman's foot loose. No luck.

Out of sight around the curve a train whistled. Perhaps there would have been time to run and flag it down, perhaps not. In any case both men went right ahead trying to pull her free... and the train hit them. The wife was killed, the husband was mortally injured and died later, the tramp was killed - and testimony showed that neither man made the slightest effort to save himself. The husband's behavior was heroic... but what we expect of a husband toward his wife: his right, and his proud privilege, to die for his woman. But what of this nameless stranger? Up to the very last second he could have jumped clear. He did not. He was still trying to save this woman he had never seen before in his life, right up to the very instant the train killed him. And that's all we'll ever know about him.

THIS is how a man dies. This is how a MAN . . . lives"

Tobacco & Guns - A Road to Self Sufficiency, Green Communities and a Cleaner Earth

2009-06-19T17:39:00.002-06:00

I’ve been smoking too much. It’s time to back off it for a few weeks, return it to the rare pleasure it used to be. Just, not today. I packed my pipe short and walked outside for a quick smoke while I contemplated my pile of raw steel and scrap metal for blacksmithing. During my think, I heard a flapping and rustling from the garden and went trotting over thinking I might catch some devious bastard bird devastating one of the plants. Rather I found a fat Thrasher, sitting on the barb-wire fence where the hose nozzle was hung, misting gentle over a bed of flowers. The Thrasher had inserted himself in the path of the mist-stream, and was taking the bath to end all baths. I watched him for a good ten minutes, before he finally hopped off the fence, fluffed and finally flew.
In that process, I lost track of my idea that had warranted an inspection of the great rusting heap of steel. No great loss, I’m sure, as ideas are dime a dozen recently. Money, resources or time to act on them is frighteningly short, but ideas I’ve got a’plenty. I’m ajumble with ideas.

I recently read a forum thread on one of the many fora I visit, in which someone was talking about the tobacco tax increase of this spring. He was saying that, rather than continue his long time cigar hobby and funnel a dollar on every tobacco product purchased into the pockets of the federal government, he was going to start using that money to buy guns, ammunition and related supplies.
In spirit, I very much like this idea. They (that grand, smirking, scheming, federal “they” – In fact, a gaggle of morons, mass greed and stupidity masquerading as conspiracy) have been waging a war on smoking for longer than I’ve been alive, and they’re finally doing some real damage. On one hand, I’m fine with not having to be choked by second hand smoke in restaurants, or in shops where the owner smokes. On the other, I’d like to enjoy my cancer with a beer and some live music in my favorite dive bar. On the gripping hand, I can live without that, but that’s not good enough, and smoking on the back patio of said dive is frowned upon by many (even where it’s legal). And now, there is this ridiculous tax increase. So yes, why not stop buying tobacco, and instead invest that money into something that “they” hate even more – Guns. Lots and lots and lots of guns and ammunition.
Well… Because I like tobacco. I truly enjoy it.
The obvious solution is to simply order Cuban cigars from Canadian shops who’re experienced in shipping such contraband into the US (replacing Cuban boxes with Dominican, Nicaraguan, boxes and box labels, careful labeling of the shipments, etc). This both avoids paying the ridiculous American taxes on tobacco, and delivers an extremely high quality smoke. Don’t tell me this is bad because it doesn’t stimulate the American economy, haven’t you been listening? It’s a Global economy now stupid. As for violating US law due to the embargo and what not, so what? The entire point of this exercise is sticking it to the federal government, yes?
The less obvious solution is something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. Self sufficiency. Growing my own tobacco, aging it, rolling it, smoking it. Never selling it, never getting into the mountainous bullshit that surrounds tobacco commerce - Simply growing it for my own use. I’ve considered doing this in the past, more for the shits-and-grins factor of breaking out a really choice cigar, and then informing my aficionado friends that it is in fact one I grew and rolled myself but also for the experimentation factor of being able to do my own combinations of tobaccos for filler and wrapper. I hadn’t, until now, considered it as a serious effort at self sufficiency and cutting back on “feeding the machine”.
That topic, self sufficiency, has been on my mind a lot lately. There’s been some good stuff being said over at Querencia about increasing personal sufficiency via gardens etc. Plus, spending several hours a day in the garden has had my mind on such topics as well.
The more I think about it the more convinced I become of the utter necessity of developing self sufficiency – If not entirely, then to a high degree.
Having been, until a year ago-ish, a full time student, and being in that peer group of 20-30-something not-yet professionals and young professionals, I see a lot of people setting up their life. They are getting an education, building resumes, working the first “real” jobs, dating and partnering – Setting the foundations for their lives. The foundations that will be responsible for their success, and conversely, for their failure depending on how things go, how well they built. In doing this we (as I am one of them) either need to take into consideration the way things have changed, and how they’re going to continue changing, or we have to go with the model mom and dad used, and hope that it’ll hold out just long enough. The latter has already proven itself to be a no-go, and those who refuse to accept it are blind. Those of us who have even the slightest amount of vision (I always feel like there’s something I just can’t see) need to make some pretty serious adjustments from the Nuclear American Dream (American Dream 2.0, the post-war edition, whatever you want to call it).
Among the goals we set for ourselves, the things we aspire and desire toward, achieving a high level of self sufficiency should be prime in peoples minds. Their life plan, their degree plan, job plan, family plan, should all involve that. We've already seen the fallacies in the white picket fence, house, 2.5 kids model, and are slowly coming to grips, changing the model for the ideal life - A strong degree of self sufficiency needs to be part of this new model.
Self sufficiency leads to community sufficiency. Not everyone can grow cattle, but they can do something that’s’ of benefit to someone who can. I may not be able to grow something here, at 6500+ feet, that can be grown down in the Rio Grande river valley, but I can grow cattle, and hunt deer, rabbits, elk, pronghorn. I can harvest “tunas” (prickly pear fruits). In exchanging something I can provide, for something I cannot, I am meeting my needs at the same time as I am providing for my communities needs. This is the logical extension of thinking globally but acting locally. Acting locally, with global good intentions is acting globally. Acting personally, with good intentions toward your neighbor, is acting locally. And so on, and so forth.
One of my philosophy professors has repeatedly told me I changed her life with a comment I made in a Philosophy of BioEthics class. I wish I could remember exactly what I said, as it was a very well put and eloquent expression of a simple idea. The idea being; if everyone would work first to take care of themselves, before they start trying to fix their neighbors problem or beg their neighbors to fix theirs, we’d all be a lot better off. If people put the energy into their own lives and welfare that they put into busy-bodying their neighbor, and begging, there would be far less global need for begging, or people to intervene in others problems. Freeing up resources to actually focus on and make a difference in places which actually need a little help, or a little minding. This starts at home, with meeting your own needs first – Self sufficiency, leading to community sufficiency, and so on and so forth.
A highly technological society does not (can not, we're finding) be separate from an agrarian producer culture - To retain any degree of sufficiency, they have to be integrated. This enforced separation, the great chasm that exists between consumers and producers, must end – The consumer must be the producer.

For all my reactionary anarcho-primativism, I will say this - Technology is not anathema to sustainability or self-sufficiency. Technology, if we use it correctly, will actually make this more possible than it’s ever been. The resources of the network enable producers to more rapidly share information and disseminate innovation. Consumers can more rapidly network with producers for an exchange. People who have, and people who need (being the same people) can rapidly identify one another and work something out.
Modern preparation, processing and storage solutions will mean that even less of what we produce, has to go to waste. Someone can hunt rabbits all winter, vacuum pack and freeze the meat and trade it all summer. Ecologically sound practices, preventing devastation of species, land, natural resources can be used, thanks to being able to store what is needed longer, instead of constantly sucking on, draining and eventually destroying the resources.
And so on, and so on, and so on. I haven’t the room, exuberance or time to detail it all. I don’t even have a full enough grasp of it to do so, yet. But it is possible. People have but to actually act, build their lives on these new models.

Me? I’m starting with tobacco. And using every dollar I don’t spend on tobacco taxes for ammo and guns. Someone’s got to do the hunting. And there will still be those who refuse to participate, but will demand to take. They’ll always need to be dealt with.

A Fragment

2009-06-16T17:15:00.003-06:00

This is part of a... manifesto? Extended thesis statement? A something I haven't quite figured out what is yet. I wrote this in a burst, and its been sitting there ever since, more than a year now. It is the inspiration for an attempted novel, still in the early stages, but beyond that it is a nothing. Yet.

We are middle children of the west – Not members of the new west fraternity, and not the new immigrant whose bottom-up cultural revolution is more and more successful every day. Our parents worked hard jobs, to give us good lives, working other hard jobs – And the industry disappeared. Cattle, logging, you name it. Skills valuable in todays west do not use strong backs, or toughened hands, they use cunning and false mirth, to plan and plot and sell. And what is being sold is our birthright. It is being sold to others who have not felt the back breaking strain that has been put into the west by the original generations, but who want to buy a piece of a mythology. A mythology created by observers, branded to sell the very acts, and places they were observing, to people even further removed. And in their eyes, it cost the people already there nothing, they can benefit from the increased economic flow, the trickle down. The developers and land-sellers, these priests of an insincere telephone-game mythology, they see themselves as putting in the money, writing the sales pitches, doing the work to sell the west. And they fail to see that what they are selling is the... I don't know if there is a word for it, a single word that encompasses land rich for farming, growing grasses good for cattle, that has been worked and built upon and channeled by hard working believers, disciples of an earned life. Land imbued with all that is, not just their dreams, but the blood of their failures, spirit of their successes, and ideals of existence. What word is there for that? Land does not cover it. Culture does not cover it.

No one who's family has been in the west more than a hundred years has not had ancestors who paid into this. No one who can claim two generations history, was ever expected by their parents and grandparents, to not have access to the full scope of western opportunity, in earth and livestock and timber and hard, hard, work.

What we want to say is, “It is not yours. You cannot buy it”, and instead we pump gas, wait tables, cook meth, work the last holdouts of industries bankrupted by the dreams of new-westerners, or sell out, give in, and start hocking the corporeal elements of our past, our forefathers guarantee of blood and sweat.

2100 – A World of Cooperation, Greenery, and Sustainability, One Way or Another.

2009-06-03T12:47:00.000-06:00

“In the world I see - you are stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You'll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You'll climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. And when you look down, you'll see tiny figures pounding corn, laying strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway.” Tyler Durden

“Everyone believes in a world of sunshine, happiness and peace. Half believe it sounds like a wonderful place to live. The other half of us, think it sounds like a wonderful place to pillage.” Mick Strider

I watched an ABC News, 20/20 special tonight called Earth: 2100. It told the (fictional, duh) story of a woman born today, 02 June 2009, who lived past the year 2100, and what she saw. A short overview of events: Continued economic depression. Massive resource depletion. Abandonment of suburban sprawl in favor of concentrating in major urban centers closer to resources, leading to eventual abandonment of entire unsustainable areas of the country (the SouthWest). Continued war, primarily over resources, and Balkanization and anarchic breakdown of regions of the former first world. Rise in global temperatures, increasing storm ferocity, polar ice melt, rising sea levels and flooded cities. Breakdown, slow at first then nearly complete, of social and public services. Epidemics and pandemics of emergent viruses, and viruses long thought eradicated, due to overcrowding and poor health and sanitation. Massive human die off in the billions (global population drop from a rise to above ten billion, to below four billion). A general, continued, decline in the human condition from modernity into a nearly primitive existence.
The end result of this story was the majority of the United States, and presumably the world, being reduced to small, isolated, subsistence communities living a hardscrabble agrarian lifestyle, with only a few pockets of “civilization” remaining in highly guarded/fortified cities.
The last fifteen minutes of this TV special were spent talking about how to avoid this horrible fate. How to ensure that we could maintain our major communities, ensure that cities like Las Vegas which shouldn’t even exist due to lack of water can keep on trucking, and that we never have to do without every modern convenience, without doing damage to the environment. While some of these suggestions are great (each city being responsible for producing to meet its own needs, food/water/energy), I was left with one overarching question from the whole affair.
What is so truly terrible about the world population dying off to approximately half of what it is today, and breaking apart into (at least semi-)primitive communities?
Small, independent, producing and self-sustaining communities are a much more appealing society, to me, than giant urban sprawl of skyscrapers and carbon nanotube superstructures rising miles into the sky.
Since when is a hardscrabble life a bad one?
Why is a life of privation and hardship necessarily horrible?
More importantly, when did “going green” and “sustainability” become about maintaining our plush lifestyles? When did this become about maintaining the spoiled middle class delusion? That mindset was a major factor in getting us to this point already. If all we’re looking to do is maintain, sustain, our attitudes and habits that have gotten us into this position, then we are without a doubt going to take a very hard, very brutal fall. No matter what we do, no matter how we act, we will end up in the 2100 predicted by the story (although it will probably be closer to 2050).
Sustainability, being green, saving the planet, whatever you want to call it, shouldn’t be about upholding the bourgeoisie sensibilities that demand material satiation and pretty, trendy, hip places to get it. I’m all for making saving the world trendy, but can we trend away from the senseless materialism of the American Dream 2.0? Perhaps a return to American Dream 1.0, the hard working immigrants agrarian dream in lieu of the post-War Nuclear Family American Dream. Plow shares and dusty, hot, days on the land, instead of picket fences and a bright shiny new washer dryer.
We need a much more practicable and pragmatic approach to these initiatives.
Simply because we have all this stuff now, all this luxury and comfort, doesn’t mean our single minded goal should be retention of both it and the ability to get more of it. Frankly, the same must be said for our population numbers as well. Just because our population has reached its current point does not mean we need to encourage a view that supports attempting to sustain a greater-than six billion global population. We do not need to support the extended growth of a population that size. We do not need to, because we cannot afford to. There is nothing to offer them of value. There is a distinct difference between the privation of a life of abject poverty, starvation and desperation, and the privation of a hardscrabble producers life. The former, and the brutal bitter end of it, is inevitable with such a gross human density on the face of the planet. The latter is what we should be encouraging. Part of our practicability and pragmatism, must be to recognize that the population must stop growing. Efforts towards zero-population growth, and a simple (if cold) acceptance that some people, some places, are going to die. This is, of course, difficult for anyone who isn’t an utter misanthrope. Slowing or stopping population growth, if not turning it around, raises some tricky questions. Disease, war, famine both at home and abroad are disasters and pose great danger to human life, but at what point do we treat these things like wildfires and let them burn? Where do we do this? How do we decide what losses of life can be prevented, what actions are within our scope, and which are beyond our resources? And in doing that, in deciding what strength is had, and what sacrifice must be made, what do we lose? Can we retain our morality, our philosophies of care and concern for every member of the human tribe, when we’re willing to shrug off the deaths of a hundred thousand, hundred million, or a billion?
More importantly, can we retain our morality, when our philosophies support the continued cycle of reproduction and overpopulation with billions of “precious human lives”, in excess of the available resources?

I’ll admit, my misanthropic anarcho-primitive side is showing. Though it is somewhat hampered by my anarcho-capitalist/technologist and humanist leanings. I like my modern, globalized, trade and my internet access and I’m loathe to enter into a system without them. More importantly, I like my friends and my family, and I don’t want to see anything happen to them just as I don’t want to see (greater) widespread human suffering. But that’s the dilemma isn’t it? The things we’re all going to have to get figured out to go anywhere.

Poems from Young Lovers

2009-05-20T23:44:00.000-06:00

They were written by candlelight
and emailed across the darkness of fiber-optic wilderness
Received miles from their origin or anything similar
Love poems of a youth barely conceived of love
A conservatism of inexperience and morals
shaped by word, but not by living
loosened by the promise of new touches
Each line on edge, delicately balanced to fall
to the abandon of lust, or illusion of temperament
Hungry mouths shaping each word in the writing
and in the reading, in absence of forming to one another
Pictures accompanying the poems, printed out and bound
for a trip away from their only contact
Inexperienced love demanding the reassurance of paper
carried in place of what couldn’t be carried in the heart
Now to read them, to make a study of her face
lit by candlelight and shaped by mouthed words
is to see a great dam of inexperience across the river of living
The raw youth in the cock of her hip, the set of her mouth
a confusion of movie star emulation and desire
I see what it was to be young, and all the tripping places
For she is my mirror, and now stands a perfect image, a loving line
a museum of what I dreamed to be
when I painted in the dark of things I’d never seen
These poems were written of love with the inexperience of short years
In the flickering false light of candles
before the day, and the harsher light of having to grow up
We exposed love, broke it upon the rocks of our young selves
and finding beneath the husk a bitter meat, left it to rot
A hand bound, marker illustrated, chapbook of youth
and two strong wills, crystalline intellects, striving
against one another
for something that could only be had with age
Our love poems are written to others now
an older, polished, love of adults who’ve attained a knowing
to support the desiring
Mouths hungering for what we now know is as old as the stones
but once thought we’d invented solely between ourselves
and once thought we’d solely destroyed
Until in the good harsh light of day, it was rediscovered

The Hope of Warlords

2009-04-06T02:50:00.000-06:00

Once I said if I could be anything in history, I’d want to be a pirate. Now, I think not. By then it was already too late. The world had begun to end, to flatten. Colonialism was the first step. Wooden ships sailing across oceans, putting alien boots on alien soil, would be part of the problem – Even as one of the predators. Predation didn’t slow it down any measurable amount.
I look in the mirror and piracy is not what I want. I want to be a Pashtun warlord, tucked away in the mountains. Horseback and high, with my muskets, and Khyber knives. Killing traders, wanderers, adventurers. Letting enemy armies batter themselves against my mountains. Watching their wills shattered by the stones and the cold as I slip ravine to ravine in shadow.
If I could be anything else, at least tonight, I would be high, dry, and cold with my warhorses, my tribe and my wives.

That day may yet come. Am I wrong to hope?

Bird

2009-04-06T01:44:00.000-06:00

He’d made the best coffee in the world. He’d had this old aluminum dripolator. Boil the water, pour it in via the top and let it drip through. She’d almost stolen it when she left. But it wouldn’t have tasted the same not in his kitchen. In her kitchen, the one she was going to have, it would’ve tasted bitter, or not bitter enough. Too much of aluminum, or not enough. She’d left it, sitting in the early morning sun on the kitchen counter.
That was really the problem with leaving. She had to leave everything, could take none of the perfection with her. Anything she took would’ve been too little, or too much, once removed. Once not in his house, not in his vision or touch, the magic would be gone. Not in their house, their vision. Even she had to be someone else.
Her key slipped, rasping, into the slot. Flecks of chrome fell from the keyway, sticking to the red car door. She wondered if he’d been in it for the car. The old blood red Volvo 1800. She smiled as she slid behind the wheel. It had been hers, and never his. She would take this with her. Let him keep the coffee pot. All the good it would do him.
The little car rumbled, happily, as she backed down the driveway. The last of her clothes already in the trunk, and one last thermos of coffee on the passenger seat. She’d always wanted a dog, tried to get him to buy a dog. Now she was glad, her hand on the warm steel cylinder, to have that seat free. A dog would remember, and try to take things that had to be left behind. But it would’ve been such a terrible thing to leave a dog. Without food especially. Though, she guessed, he’d have eaten eventually.
She rolled down her window, and listened to the wind and tires. No radio, not yet. Wait until she was in another broadcasting zone. Then she would find an oldies station, and listen to music they had never shared. Dangling a hand out the window, she played in the air currents. Fingers splayed, then closed, angled up, then down. Like an airplane wing.
“I wanna fly, daddy,” she said to the air rushing past, “like a little bird.”
She looked at the gas gauge. Enough to cross the state line before she needed to worry. She’d thought about not taking his money. But money changed so many hands, what could it possibly take with it? She had plenty now, and could claim it as hers. She’d also thought about siphoning a little gas. But why spend the extra money? She’d never yelled at him for smoking in bed anyway, it had been part of the perfection.
Another mile marker rushed up and she began to play a counting game. She was going backwards, towards mile one. Smiling, hand soaring out the window, she wiggled down into the seat for the drive.

Capability

2009-04-05T14:30:00.001-06:00

Her breathing comes in ragged gasps. Too shallow and quick, too struggling each one a violent shuddering of the thorax. I hold her close, one hand pressed to her side to still her. The other holds the stethoscope against her side. Her left lung sounds like a squeaky toy, or two balloons being rubbed together. Beneath the wheeze, the thick sounds of fluid. It rises to her nose and sprays with each breath. Thin and clear mucous. She is weak, lethargic and anorexic. I listen, and cannot hear her heart for the protesting of each breath. Replacing the stethoscope to my bag, I use my fingers to locate a femoral pulse. I am relieved to find it strong and constant. But the pneumonia is taking its toll. Her brown eyes are desperate, looking at me frantic with hope. Fix it. A cough racks her body and she closes her eyes. Looking takes too much energy better used for breathing.
That was yesterday. When her desperation for breath was only matched by ours for money for the vet. For antibiotics. For anything to help.
Today, her lungs are less filled. Head hung over the couch she drained for hours last night. Ran a fever. Coughed. Fought harder for breath. Finally slept, or lost consciousness in the gunmetal morning. She woke breathing easier, tail up and eyes full of her usual precocious curiosity. Still, she blows snot. She wheezes a little. I can hear her heart today though, strong and constant. She is on the upswing.

Yesterday again. We scrounged and found antibiotics. A human sized dose for just a couple of days. Too much for a dog who weighs less than a sack of her own food. I broke a capsule and weighed 500mg of Amoxicillin on the reloading scale. Then I weighed out a fifth of that. Twenty times over.
I had already pulled the high flow oxygen regulator from my bag, and given her oxygen. Holding her, with the canula just below her nose. Blow by, they call it. Canulating a dog doesn’t work, usually. Just put so much in front of their nose they have to breath it. We took turns doing that for awhile.
Checking her pulse, using the stethoscope to listen to lungs and heart. Listen to her fight. Dosing antibiotics. Holding her, pushing oxygen. Simply loving her, and watching her. Its paying off.

I’m proud of us. Worried for her, but not scared anymore, and proud of us. This is capability. The fundamental ability to care for your loved ones, two and four legged, when they need it the most.
I wonder, with so many others out of work and suffering poverty, how many can actually do that. How many are capable, much less prepared, of providing for their families that well?
I’m proud to be one of those few, although that pride feels strange. I cannot imagine being any other way. I grew up like this, around people like this – A functional element of the lifestyle. Yet, how alone am I, are we? We few who can actually do this.
Is the society at large so crippled by consumer culture that we’ve sacrificed that much?

Human Rights

2009-04-01T00:47:00.002-06:00

"The results should have been predictable, since a human being has no natural rights of any nature."

Mr. Dubois had paused. Somebody took the bait. "Sir? How about 'life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness'?"

"Ah, yes, the 'unalienable rights.' Each year someone quotes that magnificent poetry. Life? What 'right' to life has a man who is drowning in the Pacific? The ocean will not hearken to his cries. What 'right' to life has a man who must die if he is to save his children? If he chooses to save his own life, does he do so as a matter of "right'? If two men are starving and cannibalism is the only alternative to death, which man's 'right' is 'unalienable'? And is it 'right'? As to liberty, the heroes who signed that great document pledged themselves to buy liberty with their lives. Liberty is never unalienable; it must be redeemed regularly with the blood of patriots or it always vanishes. Of all the so-called 'natural human fights' that have ever been invented, liberty is the least likely to be cheap and is never free of cost."

"The third 'right'?--the 'pursuit of happiness'? It is indeed unalienable but it is not a right; it is simply a universal condition which tyrants cannot take away nor patriots restore. Cast me into a dungeon, burn me at the stake, crown me king of kings, I can 'pursue happiness' as long as my brain lives--but neither gods nor saints, wise men nor subtle drugs, can insure that I will catch it."

From Starship Troopers by Robert Heinlein.
I'll post something substantial, of my own, later. I promise.

Theft

2009-03-24T01:04:00.003-06:00

I steal from people. Not money, not material goods, not women (though, not for lack of trying). I don't steal for gains of wealth or flesh. I steal words, experiences, lives.
It's one of the habits of a writer. I don't plagiarize, of course not, but if you share a witty quip around me, a unique perspective, a strange story or a behavior so goddamned bizarre it couldn't possibly be made up? It goes in the file.
It wont come out the same way it went in, but it will work its way back out eventually. Twisted, different, but still some form of truth like all the best lies. Your behavior integrated with someone else's quip, and inserted in a setting I was drunk when I first filed and hung-over when recalling.
I collect these little moments of life, mine and other peoples, without any real intent. It's not malicious, I assure you. Besides, it's not like you were really using it anyway.

Tonight I came across a young woman referencing her use of a diet-system of some sort to loose weight. That's what brought this on, really. I filed away her quip, the attitude behind it. Flagged it as identifiable, a truth I saw in myself as well.
She said, and I paraphrase, "I've lost thirty pounds with Nutrisystem and hard liquor, though I don't really stick to the nutrisystem."
That's a story. Complete. A whole picture, in one sentance. I do so love collecting these things from people. Twisting them into some new truth.

I've put down close to 10,000 words of new material since yesterday. Some not-so-fiction, some technical stuff on trauma medicine, some outright lies (but good ones). Am fairly pleased with that. Both the work and the varied nature of it. Just wish there was some way to fashion it all into making a living. But it's not what you know, or how much of a character you are, that fills out a resume - Merely what you can prove with certificates and degrees. Cest la guerre, as my old enemy said.
Every thief dreams of the one big score. I want to steal the right bunches of truths, and turn them into the right series of lies. Not the great American novel. I'm thinking the so-so, rent paying, article.

Tommy

2009-03-04T15:25:00.005-07:00

"I saw the whole relationship right there," he laughed with her as I sat down coffee in hand, "But that's okay, it was a good breakup. I got the place, you got the instruments and the dog. Even though it was my dog..." His grin opened up from the long white mustache and goatee. Old laughter, lascivious once, now a joke on itself.
On the outside, it was just an old hippie, better than sixty and sharing laughter with a couple twenty-something kids in a small town coffee shop.

He had been sitting there on the couches when my friend and I walked in. Back to the window and drinking coffee, paper held open to the crossword. An old flat brimmed hat, and a canvas musette bag beside him on the deep cushions of the couch. His hair, white and long, but clean shaven from his cheeks and sides of his jaws, and back lit. Old clothes, but clean, with a well cared for leather vest, and lots of shined silver and polished stones around his neck. Another of the peculiar creatures that lurk the coffee shop, an unknown who looked somehow so right for the place.
My friend and I, lost in our conversation and food sat opposite him in the same corner circle of lounge chairs and couches. Our talk ranged music and tattoo's, she was wearing a fresh one, and life in general. We sandwiched on turkey and avocado, drinking coffee and lemonade.
The gent opposite continued his crossword for a time, and then rustled to life in a creak of leather couch, folding of newspaper and shaking out of his tobacco pouch. I watched him with interest, his leathery hands sunk into his makin's with delicacy. Pinching and distributing just the right amount of fine tobacco, and gently rolling the fragile paper with an unconscious competence of practice. I smiled, thinking of my father and all the men I had grown up around, and of the pouch in my pocket, full of hand rolled cigarettes and makin's. "Someone who stills rolls his own" I said, unaware of where those words would take me.
The next hour was filled with story telling, rich with mirth and memory. A wanderer from time to time and place to place, he told us about old girlfriends, houses, gigs and rooms full of drying peyote. He laughed at those girlfriends who had gone straight, become soccer moms and grandmothers. About this town, thirty years ago, and the "hippies and Techies" running wild and painting the town green for St. Pats. He showed us a picture of his own grandkids, from Philadelphia, a place distant in both miles and time, and talked about his daughter. How he'd reassured her that she was no wilder than her mother had been, a young Sicilian girl rebelling against Catholic school and marrying a nice Sicilian boy. "But you ain't supposed to run off with the hippies, ah no... So that's just what she did," he paused, "She was wild, and ran like the wind..." and he smiled to no one in the room.
The old hippie continued, and somewhere his history with Socorro county became the topic, his coming full circle again to old places, and busking in front of grocery stores. And then he let drop a gem.
"When I first got here, I ended up out on the other side of Ladrone mountain, down by the Salado."
This man, this stranger from far and wide, kids in Philly, and friends in the Pacific Northwest, had uttered the name of one of the most personally sacred places to me in whole world. Riley, the little ghost town on the Rio Salado, where I've been to a lifetime of matanzas, fiestas, weddings and funerals. I saw Riley every day as a kid, on the 45 mile drive into town for school. It's about as middle of nowhere as anywhere on the Earth, in relation to anyplace ever called "somewhere".
He spoke of the old hippie place, and the travel trailer with the metal siding (that's still out there) that had been his, and of the people.
"Did you know the Bustamante's?" I ask
"Herman? Oh yeaah..." and the names went on.
"The ranchers, they didn't much know what to make of us, but those guys, they thought we were all right."
And he told us a story of one of the old men out there, a name I forgot to remember, "The hippie girls, they go down there in the river for mud baths, and he rides down there and sees them. Of course, 'bout the only woman he's ever seen naked is his wife, and he just wants to get outta there, man. But the hippie girls, 'Oh hey man, can we pet your horse? He's soo pretty', they wanna pet all over that horse. And all of a sudden, the sky is real interesting, and that cactus over there, never noticed it, I'll look at it, and anything but them naked hippie girls."
After another forty-five minutes of talking and laughter, I finally got his name; Tommy. We shook hands, and he made a mental not to himself, "Morgan the Blacksmith, and Rebecca the... artist people, band posters."

It wasn't long after that we parted ways, shaking hands with Tommy and going on our way, bellies full of food, coffee and laughter.
Tommy, who dried peyote in that little house on California that never got torn down during the renovation of Socorro's main drag. Who dated a girl that wrecked her van in a canyon in the northern reaches of the state, and lived down there for a year, and then ran into this girl 30 years later here, and could only laugh at her minivan and pearls. Tommy, "the old hippie, crazy guy", who played Arlo Guthrie songs for an autistic girl in a home, and got the first reaction anyone had ever seen her give anyone, singing "...bringing in two keys, don't touch my bags if you please, Mr. Customs man." Tommy, the random coffee shop encounter with memories, and a shared past. Well, Tommy, The path is strange and twisted, and I'll see you out there.

Green Light

2009-02-21T02:06:00.002-07:00

Red lights are the worst
after you've dropped everyone off
sitting there waiting
The mindless act of driving suspended
leaving you alone with yourself
and all your thoughts
Suddenly the least of which is if that's a cop

Alone, with the taste of her on my lips
I wish she hadn't
I'd rather be outside looking in
than to be sitting here, red cast
the feeling of what I'm without
carved into my pec by each of her teeth
I'd rather she hadn't kissed me
rather not have been bitten
in every sense of the word
My knuckles crack on the wheel
and ache to feel a destruction beneath their hardness

The opposing light goes red
an entire intersection bathed in the same color
of wait and think about it
And then green, and I am lost again
hiding in the simple act of
"is that a cop?"
and rehearsed lines.

Darwins Birthday, Damned Lies & Statistics

2009-02-12T19:16:00.007-07:00

On the 200th birthday of Darwin, the state of knowledge regarding him is rather frightful, at least according to a recent Gallup poll, On Darwin's Birthday, Only 4 out of 10 Believe in Evolution.
More bothersome than the lack of support for evolution (don't worry, it bothers me a great deal) is the sheer lack of knowledge of who the man was, or what his contribution to science and culture was.
Whether or not you are a believer in evolution, Darwin's idea and work have touched your life. As have the works of those inspired by him, either inspired to carry his work forward or to challenge and deny it.

I find no surprise in the correlation between lack of education and an ignorance of Darwin. That doesn't mean I find it any less depressing.
I know plenty of well educated people who doubt evolution - I will (usually) respectfully disagree with them, but they are at least marginally educated on what they don't believe. They actually know who and what they rally and rail at.
The majority of the people who stand against evolution, do not - That Gallup poll is not needed to tell us this, it's just one of many pieces of evidence we have. They have sense of the history, no real knowledge of the field - All they know, is that something provides a challenge to their belief and it must be battered down. They are barbarians at the gate.
People are entitled to believe what they will and wish, but I'd honestly like to see them believe it for something that at least pretends to be an educated reason. I'd like to see people truly accept a challenge, and use it as a learning experience. Particularly when they stand opposite me on what is a rather bloody cultural battlefield.

It's not just evolution. Plenty of educated, non-ignorant people, have questions about evolution. But, this is an area in which the symptoms of a disease are extremely visible.
My greatest concern for the world in which I live is not war, it is not disease, nor poverty, nor population growth - It is education, or the lack there of. The rising tide is one of ignorance, globally. Of so many things, on so many fronts.
I believe an education is a necessity for ever person on Earth - To function in your world without destroying it, you need to understand it to the best ability possible. If I had to trade everything in my life for two things, I would do it for an education, and a rifle.
A rifle because of all the other people with rifles, an education because of all the people without - Tools to survive.
This is my calling in life - Rifles, and Education.

City Lighted Rain

2009-02-11T01:49:00.000-07:00

There is a certain magic to Albuquerque after the sun goes down and the gentle rain begins to fall. The people on the streets, dashing from cars to shop doors beneath newspapers. The girl in Knob Hill who stands unprotected in her leather jacket staring up into the drops. Lights playing in the warm water, as the streets are slicked and washed. That smell of a rained on city rises through the open car windows, as the windshield wipers batter the rivulets for dominance of the glass. The car rushes past. Everything is standing still in the rain, and moving, dirty and washed clean. Nothing on those streets is captive, it is alive and rich with temporality.
Exposed by darkness what is hidden by reflection in day, everything is lost in the revelation nightfall. Every secret exposed is in turn cleaned by the rain. Where the wheels touch the street, they are washed clean, as the asphalt of the cars passing. Each footstep is amnesia. The calls and cries of a city whipping by the windows to become lost in the rain, laughter that cannot be hoarded.

In the cold and the dry, years later, I will wish for this. I will finally realize how much it meant to me. The absence of place and self, irrelevance of care. Bathed in the city lights and washed clean by rain, my own simplicity was a contrast and compliment to those moments of strangers laughter and rain washed shrieking.
But now, I drive and am washed away. If only the sun would set deeper and harder, and the warm summer rain would never stop. If only that, then the road would go on forever, in the laughter of women bathed in city lighted rain.

No North Star

2008-12-16T15:18:00.006-07:00

I cant remember if she was talking to me in a living room, or walking out a door into the cold night. The memory that hits me is fragmented, and possibly combining the words with the wrong place. Rolling up of memory, fragments forming bastard children of a weekend drunk and a weekday lunch. I shake my head and continue packing.
This isn't right. I'm packing my ruck, the hard used Lowe-Alpine pack dreams are made of. The one that's seen 10,000 feet, and subterranean depths. Filling it with the stuff of adventures, emergency tools, a medical kit, a pistol and magazines, and a flask of smooth Canadian whiskey. The change of clothes is spare, leaving room for an extra jacket and dry wool socks. This is a loadout for adventuring, or even escape, yet I am doing neither.
I'll toss the ruck, when I'm done with it, atop a plastic tub filled with laundry I need to wash. My mom will roll her eyes when I unload it, and I'll insist I may be bringing it home, but I can do my own. And in the morning it will be washed and in the dryer waiting for me to fold it.
The way I travel is a cry for help. A railing against attitudes of sloth and depression, against the routine of non-achievement. It begs for the excitement I lack day to day. Like a condom in the wallet, my rucksack poses as "being prepared", and is in actuality a cry into the darkness for the light of adrenaline, power, danger, and lust. I will take it with me, all packed and little used, just in case. In case, somewhere in the darkness of my own making, I find salvation.

The confusion of memory, and routine of packing to go home for Christmas, have me listening to the road outside. Anyone going westbound on Sixty is pointed toward Arizona, mountains and meadows, and the faraway smell of high pine wet with snow. My thumb throbs with each heart beat, just to hang it out there in the cold air and see where it takes me. But I wont. I will go home, like I should, where my mother is waiting, and continue on as I have been. I cannot tell if I am utilizing common sense, or if I no longer trust in my own navigation. I have no north star, other than the immediate, or temporal. Like a man fallen and rolling down hill, I am guided by gravity.

Shiver

2008-12-13T01:02:00.002-07:00

The gray of late winter evening had settled,
slipping slowly into darkness
as soft white flakes gently fell, spare in the too warm night,
still cold
They stood in his driveway, breath fogging in the false light
talking of the old hotel where they had evened
and its many ghosts
creaking across wooden floors to dance
before its roaring fires
They stood too long, in their conversation
ignorant to the rising cold
Delaying the parting of semesters end
with talk of LP's and the deserved break
She smiled in the cold
and he remembered love
wanting to run his hand through her hair
loose about her head
like her laughter hung on fogged breath
Her lips bare and wet with talking
promising warmth if only he'd lean into them
They hugged, his head passing above hers in his full height
her cheek on his shoulder, hair brushing his face
Then parting, her smell lingering
in absence of her small strong touch
She smiled at him, waving through the car window
as she pulled out and left
Soft flakes fell, fighting their way to the ground
in the night grown colder
He stood alone in the gravel, and shivered

An older poem, about an even older moment in time, that I rediscovered earlier tonight.

Free(BASE) Climbing the Eiger

2008-12-04T23:44:00.003-07:00

It seems that some madman, and I say that with reverence as the world truly lacks a good dose of madness on a good day, has free climbed (I.E. ropeless) the Eiger.
He did it with a twist, however. He wore a parachute designed for BASE jumping. Traversing onto a north face route called "Deep Blue Sea" at a height sufficient for BASE jumping, he managed a successful send without needing the 'chute.

FreeBASEing the Eiger - Dean Potter Interviewed

I am not a good climber, nor a particularly accomplished one, but I frickin' love it and am always in awe of amazing performances. This is without a doubt one of the more amazing I've heard of.

Exurban Disconnect

2008-11-30T09:14:00.000-07:00

The rich smells of coffee and cedar smoke in cold rooms as yet uninvaded by the spreading heat. Cold save that one spot, bundled beneath layers, that no one in their right mind would leave. Somewhere outside a dog barks, his long and attentive cry of alarm, and right mindedness changes. Dressing quickly, grabbing a pistol off the bookcase and wishing it was a rifle, and quietly trotting out the kitchen door.
Eyes, squinted and suddenly watering against the flat and bright morning light, darting to the west. Scanning for shadows that move and grass that leans into the breeze. The pistol is cold, and not warming quickly, and no grass moves, and all the shadows sleep.
I stand for a long time, gun held low in front of me, playing my vision over the draw above the homeplace. Eyes waking, shaking free of sleep and given to reexamination of previously trusted brush and shade. Cedar smoke drifts lazily on the wind, calling me back to the house, to warmth. I turn partially, and go no where.
I cut my eyes back, looking out the sides of them. I feel like I am staring into the eyes of all the coyotes who have seen me, when I've never seen them. They are hidden in shadow and tall grass, laughing. If only I cut my eyes sideways just enough, as I am quartering away, I'll fool them I feel. Somewhere my vision will slip between worlds, and I'll see hidden things unsuspecting. Maybe even get a shot off. But my eyes find more still shadows, and grass that bends with the wind.
I turn a circle and look into the morning, for miles in every direction nothing but wildness of grass and cedar. Laughter of birds begins to fill the air, quick trilling song. Danger, if it was ever more than a pool of backbent breeze, is passed. I sigh, and start making the mental lists of the mornings tasks. Everything that must be made ready to return to town. Where, if tomorrow morning I answer the morning with a pistol and a hunter's smile, I'll surely be locked up. A roving mad man, hunting for quietude in the city.

Next Time

2008-11-30T00:04:00.000-07:00

I learned to roll cigarettes from my father, and a Romanian girl I taught to shoot. Delia, the International Super-Spy, who rolls the tightest cigarettes I’ve ever seen. I’m not so good at it. I lack practice, I smoke cigarettes so rarely. But tonight, I am a whole host of bad habits.
I drag hard on the cold butt, trying to liven its dead ash, so I can “monkey fuck” the one I just rolled. With no such luck, I hunt for a lighter.
I draw heavily, thick smoke rising from above the lighters flame. I drop the tool, letting it slip from the stiff fingers of my right hand. The hand aches, and fights at being opened. I force it closed again, sore tendons arguing, swelling. I need to climb easier, next time. Next time, I need to not roll cigarettes sloppily and smoke them too fast. I need to not mix whiskey in my coffee, stealing sips straight from the flask mouth. Next time. But for tonight, I am willing host to all of my bad habits. I relish in the nicotine, the alcohol, and playing my aching right hand across the keyboard. It cannot close, or hold weight, but it can lift cigarettes and write. And that’s good enough for now. I’ll worry about the rest in the morning.

War, Cormac McCarthy and Speculative Fiction

2008-11-24T11:57:00.005-07:00

Broke, running out of coffee and whiskey (not to mention food), and not feeling like going in to work leaves me in a random mood today. I feel rushed and pressed to do a lot of things, all on my mind at once. Yet I sit at my desk, in my broken backed chair and pursue utter randomness, looking for Black Swans.
Really, I was trying to find a Cormac McCarthy quote to use in a discussion, and it somehow led into an expanding gyre of the random. So, I'm running with it.

"It makes no difference what men think of war [...] War endures. As well ask men what they think of stone. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner." Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian

Blood Meridian is, without a doubt, my least favorite McCarthy novel. At least of those I have read (I have yet to read The Crossing, The Sunset Limited, Outer Dark, Cities of the Plain or The Orchard Keeper). I am not turned off by the violence, or the despairing philosophies, or any of the rest that so many others find repugnant about the book. I simply think McCarthy has done better. Blood Meridian is revisionist, a nice way of saying its historical accuracy is precisely dick, and compared to McCarthy's masterpieces such as Suttree and The Road, poorly written. It lacks the subtlety in extremes of those two novels. While they deal with extreme, and violent, situations and the wreck and ruin of human lives, Suttree and The Road do so with understatement, and the literary equivalent of negative space. The unsaid. offers little subtlety in its extremes, reveling in the violence, and base vulgarities of nearly every character. I understand the idea, the portrayal of human natures desired, but I simply find Blood Meridian to be inelegant all around. Even in Child of God, which lacks some of the subtlety of later McCarthy, there was an elegance to the handling of such extremes. I am continually mystified at people who cant get over Blood Meridian - Its just not that good. And don't even get me started on people who want to think it is an accurate historical portrayal.
With all that said, however, it has some gems in a handful of lines. And bad McCarthy is still better than a lot of other writers best. The line about war, as said by the character of the Judge, is one I have always liked.

While looking for that quote, I came across another interesting perspective on McCarthy, in particular his Pulitzer winning The Road.
I am an unabashed fan of The Road, and have recommended it to most everyone I know. Some who've taken me up on it liked it, others did not as is the way with anything. I think it is one of the best works of literary fiction I've ever read, truly a master work. But beyond that, I've thought since it first came out, that it was a bold move in literary fiction, as it is essentially speculative fiction. Science fiction, speculative fiction, SciFi, Sciffy, call it what you will, is a dirty term in literary circles. Like fantasy (thud and blunder), it is an area regarded by the literati as populated by hacks, and poor use of language, and all the other cardinal sins against literature. And, to some extent, they are right - There is a lot of really terrible speculative fiction. But there is a lot of really good speculative fiction, and plenty of writers who are far more literary and skilled at their crafting of language than a lot of the icons of literature. I personally think there are more fundamentally important works of science fiction, than there are of (at least modern) literary fiction. Perhaps only made more so by the fact that, the engineers, the scientists, the builders of our world read science fiction/speculative fiction. Their bliss, their flights of fancy, and the reflections of their hopes, dreams, failures, and losses, are all in speculative fiction. These are the people who build our world. Yet to many literati, their voices and concerns are low and vulgar, they are the unwashed rabble.
And someone, at least, has the balls to point all this out: Dipping Their Toes in the Genre Pool

I need to read A Canticle of Leibowitz again. It is a fantastic book. I was thrilled last fall when I saw it was among the required reading for a popular course at New Mexico Tech. Seeing numerous students carrying it around, dog earing pages, and talking about it was fantastic.

Once More, The Sound of Guns...

2008-11-23T13:40:00.001-07:00

I've actually tried to avoid gun blogging. I don't want to be a "gun blogger", something I've always found limiting, even if only in the eyes of others. It is inevitable however. It has to come up. I am a strong supporter of the right to keep and bear arms. Skill at arms is integral to my philosophy of a "neo-bohemian" lifestyle. In my little "Uber Mensch 2.0" ideal, being handy with a gun is as essential as the ability to read, write, drink coffee and wear trendy hats.
Cute oversimplifications aside, I like the guns. The guns are an important part of my life, and my social consciousness. Unfortunately, this turns a lot of people off, people who otherwise agree and identify with me and vice versa. A lot of my politics and philosophies are currently quite popular with a set who abhor the idea of guns and gun owners, much less an active pursuit of firearms use as a skill for saving lives. This is something I've learned to live with, and try to do what I can to change one person at a time. Usually, I don't have very high expectations, but from time to time a surprise comes along from an unexpected corner.
Such an unexpected corner was this article in High Country News: Why We All Need the Democrats to Abandon Gun Control

Its a good article. Do I think its spot on? No. But I think the ideals of that article would be a good place to start.
My only real criticism is that I think it is a mistake to look to the Heller decision as the end all be all of Right to Keep & Bear Arms legislation. Heller, while a real victory for RKBA, left some holes that we must be aware of, and be ready to fight. That said, in the context of the HCN article, and its target audience, Heller as a benchmark makes a lot of sense.

There will be more, in coming days/weeks/months. Somewhere in my head there is an epic post about guns, in general. As well as a lot more. One entry at a time, though.

The Night is Cold

2008-11-01T02:58:00.003-06:00

Somewhere a smooth tongued idealist is lying, working a trade of expensive words and pretty mental pictures, while I am lost in a cold, window rolled down at 3AM world. Illuminated, a sickly dance club pattern, of street lights cut sharply by the cop in the rearview mirror.
And I lie, inelegantly, and painting no pictures and go on home where I want, without much conviction, a distraction of nicotine or alcohol, in lieu of what I'd really rather have. The shape, smell and softness to which I'd rather loose myself. Heedless of all the burdens, cleaving myself to another, instead of aching, tired and angry with the pitiful company of dissatisfaction.
I am tired of the game, of the hunters and hunted and all their many confusions. Of watching those I love breaking themselves on foolish turns of tongue, and misunderstanding. I want nothing of that, the more I watch it play out, unless it takes me by surprise. I have a great taste for the prey, but little taste for the hunting.
I want a kill. Quick, and probably bloody in the end, but ruthless and heedless of greater need beyond my own, and the immediate. I want not worrying about the money, or who its going to shatter in the end, as we drink and laugh and fall, rich with mirth in our base natures and loose to alcohol, glorying in abandonment of anything more serious.
Yet I am a poor killer. My tongue is cursed with honesty, and I cannot find a balance between ruthless desire, and gentility that works in my favor. I am not the liar, the convincer of warm and trustworthy ideals that everyone knows are just a pretense for the dirty, rough crudeness that's really being dealt.
And I am going to bed unsatisfied. Splashed with the blood of hunters, and without the soft, warm, dark haired and olive skinned satisfaction of coming out on top with prey.
I know this will be good for me. In twenty years I will know how wrong I was, how jaded and cynical I really wasn't and everything it cost me to think differently. But tonight? Tonight it is cold, and I have no higher minded intentions, and no desire for stability or anything but self indulgent destruction.

I Get High on a Bottle of Rye, the Coyote He Gets Drunk on the Moon

2008-10-16T02:39:00.003-06:00

I went to school for a few years when I was a kid, before I decided I'd had enough of that kind of fun and convinced my parents to homeschool. School entailed a 45 mile drive over dirt roads to get to the little town of Magdalena. School started at 8:00 AM, and ran until 4:00 pm, four days a week. This meant getting up before the sun, shivering in the cold to help my folks build fires and get breakfast on the table, and then saddling up the old Ford, using the hand-pump to fill the gas tanks from 50 gallon drums, back when gas was cheap, and a wet-line off the propane tank to fill the conversion tank in the bed. The sun was usually just breaking the Ladrone peak when we hit the outer gate, finally threatening the last glimmer of stars on the western horizon.
It was a long cold drive, and one that often didn't get completed. Snow packed into draws, filling them feet deep and impassible even to four-wheel drive. Rain washed the gullies across the road, and filled the lows with engine choking water, which soaked into foot deep mud. And in a big rain, the Rio Salado would rise from a thin salty creek to a raging demon, sixty feet across, of muddy water racing for the Rio Grande miles to the east, completely obliterating either of the small fords on the old county road. But, success or not, it was almost always a good drive, and truth be told, I rarely lamented those days I didn't get to go to school.
My dad, he was the one who usually drove, would always play music or sing old cowboy songs on the drive. I don't remember a lot of the cassettes he played, but I do remember one. It was in a scuffed case, scratches partially obscuring the liner photo of a cowboy in a vest and a big black hat sitting with his guitar in front of a sunset sky. The album was Ian Tyson's I Outgrew the Wagon. I really don't remember taking a lot of note of the songs on it then - The song I liked the best, then, of Tysons was The Coyote and the Cowboy, which was on another record - But I remember liking the music, and the liking continued.
I grew up different. I've said it before, and will continue to say it. Growing up on a working cattle ranch in the 90's is far from the common experience. More kids, I imagine, grew up in Volkswagens driving around the country with their pot smoking parents. Driving 45 miles to reach the paved road just outside town that lead to school, depending on wood fired heat in a half century old adobe, actually knowing the meaning of words like riatta, tapaderos, hackamore, morral, these were not part of the common experience of my generation. Nor was listening to Ian Tyson, because no one who didn't understand those things, would understand that music.
Tyson got his start as a folky. He wrote what has been one of the most prolific folk songs of all time, Four Strong Winds, which has been covered by damn near everybody, and was part of one of the most successful folk duo's of the era, Ian and Sylvia (with Sylvia Tyson [nee Fricker], his now ex-wife). According to some, he was even the man who introduced Bob Dylan to marijuana. And when his marriage fell apart, and the folk thing didn't work anymore, he made good on a long-standing threat and bought a ranch not far from Alberta, turning to what he had always dreamed of - Cowboying. Pretty soon in addition to running the T-Bar-Y, he was playing in a few local joints, some of his old standbys, but more old cowboy songs, and a few new ones.
Now, there is a difference between cowboy music and country music - Always has been, and always will be. Most country, despite use of the word on occasion, has little to do with cowboyography, or the cowboy way of life. More to do with farming than ranching, and far more to do with honky-tonks, fast women, fast cars, and southern rural life, than either. Cowboy music is different - It is the music of a unique group of people, doing a unique thing, in a unique place. And in the 20th century, and its successor, more rare than unique. And very very few voices ever captured it. Even fewer captured it in a way that identified not just with the classic cowboy, but the cowboy of today, that rare, and frankly flighty, individual hell bent on eking a living out of being a'horse and chasing the wild bovine. Ian Tyson has been one of those rare voices.
Tyson released two solo albums in the seventies, Ol' Eon, a far more folk sounding album, and 1978's One Jump Ahead of the Devil, leaning more to cowboy music trends, and featuring his hit Half Mile of Hell, from the sountrack to the film of the same name (about the infamous chuckwagon race at the annual Calgary Stampede). Other than that, and some TV work, he was mostly quiet, and spent his time ranching and playing the occasional live show.
In 1983 he recorded an album, in his living room, called Old Corrals and Sagebrush, that was intended mostly for friends and family. It wasn't long before someone heard it, and Tyson was staring down the barrel of a contract again. The album wasn't a big seller, but it started something. In the intervening years Tyson has released nine more albums. My favorite of these would have to be 1996's All The Good'Uns, although they all have a fairly strong place in my heart.
Tyson is, like most of the best, and truest, artists, not a man without demons. He has been almost unhesitating to be self-critical in his work, and many of his best songs reflect his depressions, entanglements with alcohol and women, and what its cost him. There are few truly happy Ian Tyson songs. He lives in a world filled with ghosts, and for good reason - His world, the world of those who understand what he sings, is desolate, and only sparsely populated with the living.
I met Ian Tyson once, when I was a kid, after a live show. He was drunk, quite literally stinking drunk, and extremely obnoxious. I am pretty sure his behavior that night, towards me particularly, cost him a manager (an author who'd become friends of my family while researching a cowboy cookbook). And to tell the truth? It never really bothered me. I've been around drunks, and obnoxious ones, often enough, and had been even by then, that beyond that evening it didn't really phase me. I am still quite fond of my autographed copy of All The Good'uns.
Tyson's last two albums haven't done as much for me as his older work, but they are still good, and speak truth (and a few entertaining lies) about a lifestyle most will only encounter through fictions of far greater proportions. His voice now, in his mid seventies, sounds weaker and reedier than ever before, but only as might be expected. If anything, he's earned it. Carrying a rare truth, about a hard and harsh world, is never easy work, and anyone who makes it to be an old man has earned his weariness. A unfair, and painfully incomplete, payment for a job well done, but nothing less than such a man might expect, and certainly nothing he's not used to.
Someday, in the not too far future, we'll lose Ian to that great unknown, when his circle is through, and he'll be another ghost on a great range already so full of them. And eventually his music will probably be forgotten. But for now, for those of us who still understand, at least a little bit, there is none better, and none other.

"We will ride to the end, on the wings of the wind, until we're home, and our circle is through. May the children read, may they understand, what is of true value, so the truth may be known. The glory of god, and the dark side of man. The one thing, they must ride on alone. And may they stay, where the river runs through, the range and the sky, buckskin and blue. May they ride to the end, on the winds of the wind, till their home and their circle is through..." 'Til the Circle is Through, Ian Tyson

A Voice from the Borderland

2008-10-07T23:26:00.002-06:00

I can hardly find the volume knob on my desktop speakers for all the beer bottles on my desk. Only two of them from tonight, though a third to join them sounds good, and maybe I should clean, but that will come later. Not tonight. I turn the knob, lower than I'd like fearing the high twangs of spanish guitar will wake my roommate.
I first heard of Tom Russell via pursuit of the music of Ian Tyson (there's another entry entirely to itself there). Russell has done good work with Tyson's material, but I've almost always preferred the original. The name however has been familiar, though I've never sought out his work for its own sake, so when I came across his blog a couple months back, I tagged it in my favorites and have returned to read it occasionally. Occasionally in recent weeks has been something more akin to often, checking for each new entry. Tonight, after reading a little, I decided it was time for music, and turned to YouTube to track the man down. Its not going to be everyone's cup of tea, but its certainly mine.
Russell has a distinct voice, in his songwriting, in his blogging, and I can only assume in his published writing which I may need to track down.

At any rate, I've added his link to my blogroll at right, for those interested. Its worth a look.

Preventing Utopia

2008-10-07T03:28:00.002-06:00

Personally, I'm interested in keeping other people from building Utopia, because the more you believe you can create heaven on earth the more likely you are to set up guillotines in the public square to hasten the process. -- James Lileks

I haven't a clue who James Lileks actually is. I've never, to my recollections, heard of him before I read this tonight and he may be some kind of a monster, but this is a fantastic quote.
Struggle is what has defined everything. Without it, what would we have? What onus for evolution would there be? There would be great, bland, nothingness.

A World Without Consequences Suffers for Manners

2008-10-04T20:51:00.003-06:00

I've heard it said that good manners are the velvet glove which covers the iron fist, and I tend to agree. I am rarely better behaved than when I carry a gun. It is being polite, having good manners, that avoids animosities and deflects conflicts. But what makes manners work, is the threat that backs them up. There has to be a reason to be polite.
Now, modern social science pundits would tell you the reason and function of manners is to avoid hurt feelings, and psychological damage. We are polite in order to show our respect and love for our fellow beings, and their uniqueness. Because people, the emotional/psychological creatures, are unique and beautiful snowflakes and deserve to live their entire lives without ever having to feel painful emotions at the hands of another. I could go on, that line of bullshit stacks quite deeply - Deeply enough in fact to populate the text books of entire graduate degree programs in social "sciences". But, it is just that, bullshit. Non-competitive, non-aggressive, bullshit. Yet, we didn't get where we are today by being non-competitive and non-aggressive.
Manners are good things. Politeness is a good thing. Not hurting peoples feelings, and recognizing that inflicting yourself without provocation on another is a violation of their life, liberty and pursuit of happiness, is a good thing. But there is a quiet understanding backing up why its good to be polite to people.
Because, classically, there were consequences for rudeness. If nothing else mattered to you, there was the ever present threat of getting busted in the chops. If you insulted a mans wife in earshot of him, you could expect to get hit. If you hit someone without warrant, you could expect him and his buddies to take you apart.
For most of us, we can see why its good to be good to others - And we dont like being cruel or hurtful. But, for others, manners are defined by their enforcement. You ever see two dogs whose food-bowls are near one another? One dog invariably finishes first. What stops him from going over and eating the other dogs food in most cases? A low growl, or if necessary a bite, from the other dog. And vice versa, how does the other dog lose his food? By cowing to the would be thief's presentation of force.

You'll note I refer to such enforcement of manners among men as something in the past. I do this because I believe, for the most part, it is. We live in a society shaped by the opinions of our social scientists, and the empty demand for manners and respect for other peoples deepest feelings and not hurting them, because its not nice. Not because there are consequences, but because its not politically correct to make other people feel bad. An attitude which is enforced by the well-intentioned, yet often mistaken, legal consequences for violence.
If someone says something rude to your wife, and you break his jaw, you will be arrested for assault - Because hitting people is not nice, and nice people "mind their manners" and let things roll off their back.
This is the tyranny of manners. We've become a quiet, polite, politically correct people. For the most part. Those who are not quiet, not polite, not politically correct, walk all over those who try to play by the rules, and be good people. They are rude, and brutish, and crude, and offensive because they know there is no real consequence for it. They may get looked at askance, muttered about under breath, and perhaps lose some social resources - But that will be the worst of it. They only have to be nice to a few people to maintain a social circle, to hold down jobs, etc. Everyone else they will bully and push and shove, and do so with relative impunity, secure in the knowledge that most people are well behaved and don't want to make waves by taking them to task for it. And that if they do get taken to task for it, all they have to do is call on the law of the land to protect them from the "viscous brute" who hit them in the mouth when they hadn't lifted a finger against him.
Manners are good things - But they are also crippling. A world which demands manners for manners sake, will (and does) find itself victim to those without any manners.
Manners should be maintained for the sake of good behavior, but upon the penalty of real consequence.

I've had occasion, twice in as many months, to forcefully call people to task for bad behavior with polite, but emphatic, threats of consequences. Threats I was more than ready to back up (or I wouldn't have been making them). A willingness which I am sure will eventually get me in trouble with the authorities for disrupting the flow and giving some SOB what-for. If necessary, thats a price I am willing to accept. Particularly when it comes to taking someone to task for offensive, over-the-line, behavior towards women. I have a special attitude for those people.

I dream of a world with consequences. I try to live my life as if I were living in one. I will, and do, hold others to that standard.

Where does the living go?

2008-10-04T13:10:00.002-06:00

Layover, by Charles Bukowski

Making love in the sun, in the morning sun
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun
making love by a carpet redder than our blood,
making love while the boys sell headlines
and Cadillacs,
making love by a photograph of Paris
and an open pack of Chesterfields,
making love while other men- poor folks-
work.
That moment- to this. . .
may be years in the way they measure,
but it's only one sentence back in my mind-
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails.
I pass the hotel at 8
and at 5; there are cats in the alleys
and bottles and bums,
and I look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when it stops.

Bukowski is amazing... maybe more later. I feel another poet post coming on.

Rogues and Raconteurs

2008-09-23T12:08:00.003-06:00

"I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I've lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment. I did not want to surrender fierceness for a small gain in yardage."
-John Steinbeck

I've always liked Steinbeck. He was a great writer in both the sense of his ability to craft language, and his way with truth. More people should probably read him, though I wonder how many can still truly identify.

And I think I've chanced upon the name for the bookstore/coffee & tea shop/tobacconist's I want to operate someday in the naming of this entry. Rogues & Raconteurs: Fine Books, Rich Coffee, Exotic Tea, Rare Tobacco & Other Vices

The Horrible People

2008-09-14T23:39:00.002-06:00

She called me, "I'm feeling masochistic, and I don't know what to do". Her options she said were to go to her ex, who is infinitely bad for her, or to find someone else to satisfy her need.
Finally she asked, "How good are you with a knife?"
When I was done there was blood on my sheets, drying on my hands and the scalpel blade. The rich smell of copper and flesh filled my nostrils. Incised into her back was a rose, of a delicacy that surprised even me. The only errors in it were where she had arched her back, or wriggled, in combination with one of the deep throaty moans she'd make each time I drew the blade deep and long across her back.
Walking out the door she was happy, and seemed somewhat spent. I, on the other hand, was on an endorphin rush that kept me above the water for several hours afterwards.
It had been years since I took a blade to someone else's flesh for their pleasure. Since I had allowed myself to revel in the smell of blood, and the careful, small, shallow movements of the knife; the orchestration of damage to the tune of moaned responses. Afterwards I was on a high to rival all the alcohol, strong cigars and danger I've put myself in chasing adrenaline. I'd hurt someone, and she had liked it, and I was ecstatic.

I've hurt people in my life. Emotionally, physically, angrily, panicked, out of fear, in defense. It's been justified, and unjustified. I've left people in tears, and occasionally (always with reason, the immediate need to keep breathing) injured. And every time I've hurt, torn someone with a word or dealt a physical blow to someone to defend myself or another, when it was over, when I was walking away, I've had that sick knot in the pit of my stomach. I don't like doing harm. I don't like violence. Even if I am right, even if I was justified in my argument, or my attack. Never has it made me feel better to lay true harm on someone else - Glad I was alive, reinforced in some conviction or another that had been central to the argument, these things yes, but there is no high from that kind of harm for me. I don't want to tear someone apart emotionally. I don't want to feel my palm driving that man's nose inwards, his head against the tiled bathroom wall, the ceramic breaking beneath his skull as he goes limp under my hand. I've never wanted that.

But I do want to feel her smooth, soft, curved body pressing against mine. I want to feel her heat, and her sweat, and the smoothness of her skin, and her hot blood on my fingertips. I want to feel the air fill her lungs as she draws in to release a moan that will vibrate through her diaphragm into my pressing hands as she arches her back into my blade. I want to feel the radiance of her smile as she enjoys the subtle pain, the impermanent wounds.

There is hurting people, and then there is hurting people. I know the difference. I'm good at both - but one is easy. Cruelty, maliciousness, is easy. It rises up and all it takes is a word, a contortion of muscle, to leave someone scarred, bleeding, tormented.
The other is difficult. The other requires empathy, and kindness, and gentility, and strength, and force, and will. It is not something everyone can do, not something for just anyone to play with.

There is a difference between the types of hurt inflicted. One does not equate the other.
Yet too many think it does.
Too many assume sexual sadism is the realm of serial killers, rapists and torturers. People who inflict themselves, inflict inhuman pain on the unwilling, undesiring, and defenseless. This is tough for those of us who enjoy the exchange of giving/receiving pain-pleasure, but the real problem is - Too many people who are capable of sexual sadism, look at it this way. It is the infliction of pain and harm that excites them. They relish in terror and suffering. And this extends outside the bedroom. They treat others with a cruel hand, the misery they bring to others irrelevant to their own glee at hurting and domineering.

I was reading another blog tonight, and the author was saying she very much enjoyed this area of sexual exploration but was discouraged in that, "The biggest problem is that the only people who're willing to do horrible things to me are... well, horrible people, and will keep their knives to themselves, thanks."
This really sums it up.
On both sides of the coin are horrible people who want to participate in horrible things for the sole reason that it allows them to be horrible to someone else. It is not a mutual thing - It is not a give and take. It is a take, and take only, activity for them. They trade is misery and suffering.

Some, I imagine, wont see the difference. They will see the blood, and pain, and enjoyment and immediately file those participating as "horrible". It is not their cup of tea, and outside their scope of understanding. And so be it. Just another example of how this is not for everyone.
This realm is something unique, to be participated in by unique people.

When I was done with my friend's back, before she left, before I found myself lost to adrenaline in the absence of her flesh to consume it, she was expressing her surprise to me, looking over the pictures of the process on my digital camera. "This is a side of you I've never really seen" she said.
And its true. Most people know I am kinky. I am an open book, and my friends know who and what I am. But, along with that, I think most make assumptions - Because I don't push it. Unless you want to explore it with me, I am happy to let you do that. Explaining is just too much work sometimes. And really, unless you are on my side of this, there is no good explanation of my intentions, my attitudes, and the care and gentility with which I approach hurting someone for their pleasure. The empathy to know which touch is right, and which is undesirable, the kindness to be unreserved in exploring their desires, the strength to maintain control of an inherently dangerous practice and the restraints (or lack there of) with which I practice it, and the will to put it all together in a focused, concentrated, effort for mutual benefit. And even then, there is no good explanation unless you are someone I am willing to do that with - Which is, really, a select few. Some people's masochism is self destructive, and I refuse to indulge that.

The assumptions created by the horrible people leave a stain on the rest of us. Their actions and their cruelties muddy the waters for those of us doing "horrible things" without being horrible people.
Its a fine line - And a misunderstood one. The line of just enough pressure to not go too deep, without having so little as to make no mark at all.

Remember?

2008-09-11T01:06:00.005-06:00

Something happened once. It happened in a field. It happened in a pair of towering buildings in the middle of Manhattan. It happened in the capitol of a nation. It happened in all of these places, pretty much at the same time (well, all the same morning, anyway).
It was a grassroots effort. It started in the middle of nowhere. You probably cant pronounce the name of the place. The men behind it weren't executive, politicians, royalty (related, maybe, but didn't have the King's ear, you know?) - They were just men. A doctor, a group of students. The kind of people who stand on the plaza and protest with hand-lettered signs on Saturday afternoons.
But these men didn't picket. They didn't organize a rally. They weren't protesting police brutality, the military industrial complex, school board stacking, downsizing, for or against gays in the boyscouts. There was no march, there was no yelling, no sign waving. No, there was none of that.
These men, these architects and students, they talked, and planned, and after years of work, and training, late nights of strong coffee and papers scattered all over their kitchen tables as they studied, they all got up early one Tuesday morning, and went to the airport. All nineteen of them. They were dressed cleanly, professionally. They were polite to airport staff, security, flight attendants. They traveled light, and they all carried box cutters in their carry-on bags.
American Airlines flight 11, United Airlines flight 175, American Airlines flight 77, United Airlines flight 93. All four planes, each of them carrying a small handful of these nineteen men, took off without incident. People relaxed, started to read, maybe have a drink to settle their nerves about being so high in the air. And then these nineteen men acted. With all their belief, all their conviction, all their plans, they brought home that war had changed. Everything that was vertical, went horizontal like never before.
And they got away with it. For the most part. The only resistance came on Flight 93. A few people decided they weren't willing to go quietly. They weren't there to be moved at the whim of a man, or four men, with razor-knives. They decided it was time to "roll". They snuck calls to their families, told them they loved them, and then they acted. Not without incident. That plane crashed in a field in Pennsylvania, harmlessly, save the lives on board.
Flight 11 and Flight 175 took down the largest monuments to commerce, engineering, and human ability then standing in Manhattan. Flight 77 hit the ground outside the center of this nation's military establishment, driving a concussive fireball, burning wreckage, and the ruin of human flesh through one wall.
Seven years ago, that shining Tuesday morning, everything changed. And for awhile we were united, in our anguish, and our hate - We were equal, and driven, and we showed the world what humans are capable of. Not just destruction, not just hate, but something greater. The lives given that day, running into burning buildings, overpowering fanatics with knives, showed the true depth of what it is to be human, the true greatness we're capable of.
We stood, and we fought, and died, and survived, and endured. We knew who our enemy was, we were clear in our purpose, and our hatred, and we acted on it.
And now, seven years later? Everyone seems to have forgotten. Everything has gotten muddled. Too many lies, too many excuses, too many people who, once again, cannot find in themselves to rise above their own lazy self interest. Because, without a great evil, without a great wound to make them all bleed, to give them the push necessary, it just takes too much work to rise above. And now? Remembering just serves to illuminate that. So, they don't. Most people just don't.

I do.
I was just over a month shy of my 16th birthday on the morning of Tuesday, September 11th 2001. I was a boy then, a mature, strong, well educated (I finished high school the following spring) boy, but still a boy. Today? Without arrogance, I feel I've claimed the title of man. The events of September 11th 2001 are a great part of the influences and experiences that helped to shape me in those formative years and put me on the path.
9/11 is, for those who remember, what the Kennedy assassination was for our parents. It's the new "What were you doing when..." question. I think it was a more fundamental event, for everyone, than the assassination of a president - It shook foundations harder, deeper, and changed more. Presidents had been killed before, it was nothing new. It wasn't the pointy end of an innovative thrust in the shape of the world. 9/11 was. If you're paying attention everything is now Before 9/11 or After 9/11.

After 9/11 I became an EMT. After 9/11 I decided the military was in my future - Elite Light Infantry, come hell or high water. There is simply no other option.
I'm stuck in that day - I was angry, I was shocked, I was hurt, and as a teenager 3000 miles away there was nothing I could do. I heard about the deeds of the passengers of Flight 93. I watched fire-fighters and police strive, and die, and survive, and help others, and lose friends, and go back again - I felt proud that these men and women were of my nation, my species. I felt sad I wasn't among them. I was angry that I could not partake in retribution against those responsible.
As these few short years have passed from that awful day, as I have gotten older, my desire, my drive, my belief in the necessity of being a strong hand, a helping hand, in times of need and disaster and chaos has only gotten stronger. It will happen again - The "front line" will again come to our home, our cities and we will need to bring another front line to their homes, their cities, to match the flexibility of the non-nation state warriors of our enemy. There will need to be people ready to meet those challenges head on, with heart, and with strength. I don't know if I have it - All I know is that I have to try. There is no other option.
I am of the 9/11 Generation - Its an indelible part of who I am, what I will become. Its my choice to hold onto it like this, but it's also my responsibility. Because I do remember, and with memory comes responsibility. To all the fallen, the voiceless, faceless, named and unnamed, who died screaming, died trying, died fighting, burned alive, running up the stairs when the towers came down. To all those who survived, and will never get the dust out of their lungs, or the sight and sound of bodies, formerly people, hitting the pavement because the alternative was burning to death, out of their mind. That's why most people don't remember - Memory brings responsibility, and that takes work.

9/11/2001 - Never forget. Never forgive.

Go Back - Bad Air

2008-09-10T00:44:00.001-06:00

It began at REI, on a rescue mission, and a few other places, the idea that our little group of rogue hikers should go into an old mine. We are weekday slaves, working for the simple goals of exhausting ourselves, endorphin rushes, eating red meat and drinking good beer and Scotch whiskey every weekend. Our frequent lack of preparation, equipment, or a plan is something of a running joke between our small group, so the idea of taking this ethic into an abandoned mine tunnel seemed perfect. Why? Not to higrade minerals, not to drink, party or vandalize as so many do, simply for that one age old reason; Because it's there.
The sun was sliding low in the sky as we gathered to leave from the house. We had decided to go in the evening, so that Joe, our 'expert' via experience (the only one of us ever to enter an old mine previously) could finish a shift at the bar. The three of us, all roommates, gathered to inspect our two hard hats. We found them to be indeed hard-hats, and divvied them up according to who had the hardest head and therefore didn't need one. Ian, our resident (and very lost) Dane, decided he would go without and we set off.
The road from Socorro to Magdalena is a twenty-six mile stretch of highway rising nearly 2000 feet in elevation from the Rio Grande river valley to the mountain village. Passing through a rocky section at the northern end of Box Canyon before rising up onto the flats, the road carries the westward traveler inexorably into the Magdalena mountains. Dark golden with deep shadows in the late afternoon sun, the “Maggies” seem to tower over the road, standing taller above the black ribbon as it disappears between low lying foothills. With the windows rolled down, and the smallest of us folded into the narrow extended cab backseat of my old truck, we tore down the road, iPod jacked into the blown stereo fighting for sound dominance over the wind and unmuffled exhaust system. We laughed and were silent and sang along and were fixed in our place, time and purpose as we came roaring into town.
Magdalena rose before us in its most tarnished and weather worn glory. A town of roughly nine-hundred permanent residents, and a few dozen communal dogs, it was once the largest cattle rail-head in the world, as well as a center of mining activity. Now it lays nestled in the mountains, a wide spot in the road, with pretenses of being a struggling art locale. Making a left off the main drag onto a dirt street we begin to climb higher into the mountains. The music was turned down to discuss who knew where we were supposed to be going and so I could relate a story of the old house of ill-repute, which now belonged to a retired kindergarten teacher, perhaps a descendant of its last madame. Small town sounds filtered in the open windows, only to be left behind for the desolate crunch of gravel beneath tires as we left town once more.

The mine opening was small, hidden behind brush in a carved out section of hillside, a few hundred yards up-slope from the old head-frame. None of us knew what it was, it wasn't the mine we had come to find. We all agreed it was the one none the less. A small hole, carved into dirt and loose rocks, with shoring set a few feet in, it appeared to descend slightly and quickly entered darkness. Atop the shoring further down the tunnel, rubble and rock had collapsed, but the shoring held, creating no blockage. Painted around the entry timbers were multiple warnings, some of them unreadable from age, some of them rather fresh; "Go Back!" in white, and under it in black "Bad Air". We looked at one another. We breathed deeply of the cool air emanating from the breathing hole. We grinned. Joe donned his hard-hat, turned on the headlamp and hopped over the first timber dropping into the tunnel. He moved forward a couple of paces and looked back, a grin saying "C'mon you apes, wanna live forever?"
A short ways into the half-man-height entry tunnel there was an old steel door, propped three quarters open by rocks and time. Beyond was the carved out rock of the mine, ceiling barely standing room high. The darkness swallowed us deeper, sunlight making only fearful steps further in. Several yards down this tunnel we entered a larger opening which branched off in three directions. The floor was strewn with litter; old batteries, an ancient GE camera flash array, and small pieces of trash indistinguishable but distinctly human. To our left a head high tunnel carrying straight into darkness impenetrable by even our brightest LED lights. To our right a small crooking tunnel that turned downwards, descending into another bifurcation of lower tunnels. Straight ahead was a narrower, again man height, tunnel which had to be accessed by crossing a single loose board of indeterminate age covering a narrow, barely shoulder width, shaft which ran deep into darkness beyond the throw of any flashlight. We chose the right hand path, and entered on hands and knees into the lower tunnel junction via the low ceilinged, dropping and curved short tunnel. Beyond we found two tunnels of undesirable looking stability, which looked both cramped and to have been victim to recent collapse activity. We turned back, going back up to re-decide our path.
The path, as we chose it, was over the rickety board, which seemed to hold each mans individual weight without complaint. The darkness below our feet stretched away, untold depths beckoning a slip, a fall to the conspiracy of gravity. Across the board, beyond the beckoning hole, we went deeper into the rock and earth. As in the first atrium-like intersection of tunnels, small traces of human activity were present, primarily in the form of dead batteries strewn about the floor.
We passed a left-hand side tunnel, continuing straight into the depths of the mountain until we came to an obvious area of collapse. The tunnel roof dropped two feet or more in a quick grade, reducing the height to no more than three feet. Snapped timbers, splintered as if blown apart and crushed down onto themselves, lined the compressed tunnel walls. Great sections of rock protruded between beams, their smaller cousins, shattered remnants of the mountain's labor, scattered the floor. A fine dust sat on everything, powdery gray like the surrounding stone. The tunnel continued on like this beyond the play of our headlamps. We turned back.
The side tunnel we'd passed before, now on our right, seemed the best bet and we struck off into it. It was head height or better, and remained well shored. A few cracked timbers, and the usual small rubble on the floor, but no worrying amounts of damage. We continued on as this tunnel curved, and branched into another.
One branch led to another, led to dead ends and turn arounds, and returns. Along the walls were the occasional spray paint graffiti markss, remnants of post-mining explorers hell bent on being remembered by other idiots, and the more common pure black scribblings of miners, written with finger tips coated in lamp black. These soot scrawls hung on the walls, fresh as the day they were written, telling stories of the men who had pressed finger to stone that they too might be remembered, even if only to themselves. Most of them were over a century old, and many of them carried finger prints so clearly that at a turn we expected their author to be standing beside us. We looked, and did not disturb, and continued on down the tunnel.
At one seeming dead end, the side tunnel we had taken ended abruptly in a wooden chute, coming out of a higher tunnel, some four feet above the floor we stood on. A single rope of old hemp hung down from the chute. We grabbed hold and climbed up clamoring over the old oak framing and the rusting ore cart jammed into it at the top. The tunnel we entered sloped up steeply, rotten steel rails along its bottom lost in debris and loose dust that slipped under foot. Bracing hands and feet on opposing sides of the shaft we shimmied our way up and into a larger room. The confluence of three tunnels, all collapsed not far in from where we stood, had a ceiling fifteen feet over our heads, and was partially filled with rubble. In our lights everything flickered and flashed, including the very dust stirred under our feet. A rampant crystal growth covered almost all exposed surfaces. Bundles of millions of long, tiny crystal formations, sprouting out like glass thorns in all directions, none larger than a needle, and many finer than hair, laying across the rocks and dirt in great long bundles. We spent several minutes in awe, examining the crystal growth in all its fine forms and shapes before moving further on to explore the tunnel we'd branched off from to find this room.
This exploration lead, in eventuality, to another dead end, of sorts. At the end of a tunnel, we found the rocks smoothed and round, carved by years of water erosion, not picks and hammers. The rock turned back, a hollow to the side, and its smoothed features continued up, drawing our eyes to look for a ceiling we found absent. Instead, rising up into blackness was a smoothly contoured shaft, five feet at its widest and extremely smooth. A single hemp rope, knotted every foot or so, hung down from the blackness ascendant. We mingled at the bottom, gazing upward, like fearful natives below an eclipsing sun, until one of us struck upward with a hand, seizing the rope firmly and jerking it savagely. It pulled taught and held fast. Grabbing it with the other hand he pulled, bracing his feet on the wall and letting his weight hang. The rope held. He began to climb, hand over hand and with braced feet, into the blackness. He disappeared around a slight bend in the shaft, the rope quivering in the jaundiced beam of my incandescent headlamp the only reminder that he was in fact still there. The rope fell still, and his voice came down to us. The rope was securely fixed at the top, and fairly new it seemed, and we needed to come see what he was seeing. So up we went, one at a time, pulling ourselves up the rope, feet bracing and pushing on the rare shelf or rough surface of the surrounding rock. Thirty feet or so later, we emerged into a huge space. Blackness surrounded us, the walls and ceilings all nearly out of reach of our lights. The floor was hidden under masses of rubble, rocks large and small piling across the expanse. The cavern sloped distinctly downward, toward where we stood and beyond, into a piled depth. Spires of rock rose near the walls, carved out by water, lending an ancient temple like quality to the room. Bats scattered in our light, flitting and darting into the shadowed recesses of the walls, and upwards into the fractures and secure dimness of the ceiling. One side of the cavern gave way to another water carved tunnel, this one sixty feet wide or more, and half piled with debris, descending at a steep angle into unknown tunnels below. The cavern rose, sloping to an upper plateau of broken rock and dust, into which opened the remains of another mine tunnel. The rubble and combination of cracked, fractured and smoothly worn walls and ceilings suggested eons of water flow, creating labyrinthine structures deep in the mountain, suddenly invaded by hand picked and drilled tunnels of mens design and craft. The resulting years depredation of stone finally took their toll and rock broke and collapsed, dropping tunnels out, and widening the cavern. Fresh air permeated the space, a cleaner, more flowing air, than lower in the mine tunnels. We followed the movement of it up the man-carved tunnel, hoping to find an exit, until we came to a dead end of rubble. The air continued to flow, and the tunnel was rife with cracks and openings a bat could easily have moved through, but passage for a man was impossible. We turned back, moving out of the laboriously carved tunnel and back into the great cavern, carved by the violent casualness of water over eons, and victim to its own instability in the face of invasion. We made our way back down over the subterranean scree slope, until we reached our tunnel down. One after the other we knelt, grabbed the rope, swung around and climbed down, hand under hand, feet braced slidingly, on the smooth walls of the shaft.
Backtracking we reached the site of one of our previous side-tunnel excursions, and had a minor debate on the way out. I insisted the tunnel we were in was the right way, but one of us was convinced that the curving tunnel to our side was the way. We disagreed, but would leave no man alone beneath the earth, so we followed. After a short exploration he realized his error, and the three of us returned to the right path.
Darkness ended abruptly as we entered the last stretch of tunnel before the entrance, a fading gray-blue light slipping its way inwards, in a darting insurgency against the shadows. We crawled past the old iron door, and out into the fresh air and late afternoon flat light of just past sunset.
We walked slowly down the slope, back past the old headframe towering monolithic and iron above a four hundred foot shaft. Our footsteps crunching in the rock, we simply lived: Breathing, tired, covered in dust and bits of debris, firm in our conviction that we were lords of the Earth, and that all our worldly concerns lay behind us, other ghosts in the subterranean playground of fortune seekers and fools.

Blacksmithing

2008-09-03T15:46:00.000-06:00

My grandfather was a blacksmith, among many other things. He was a machinist, woodworker, saddle-maker, rancher, shootist, father, husband. He was everything he needed to be, to have the life he wanted to have. A quintessential New Mexico high-desert renaissance man. The kind they don't make anymore.
He died in 1972, of cancer that did what men and cattle and austere living never had been able to, more than a decade before I was born. Growing up was like living in a burned forest of his life. The skeletal remains of his work, his things, decorated the landscape of my childhood home, and my childhood imagination. The lathe he had built from spare parts and hand-made parts, sitting hulking in the corner of the ranch workshop, dusty and partially draped in oily canvas. His forge, a great iron bowl on legs, resting under an elm tree surrounded by scattered scraps of steel and copper. The original homestead house and shed, great tumbled piles of red-rock, partial walls and tin roofs, had become his scrapyard - Home to old cars, motors, bizarre and cryptic innards from locomotives and transistor radios, great piles of scrap iron and spring steel. Rust, and earth, and rotting wood, scraps of oil cloth and canvas, mysterious handmade tools of unknown ends and meaning, bits of silver and leather, the growing green corrosion of old copper - This was how I knew my grandfather. How I felt his presence, so obvious in its absence by what he had left behind. Some of it still in use, some of it languishing, victim to entropy, abandoned by the mind that had conceived of it, and its usefulness. A mans works, like children, orphaned to the timeless hand of oxidization and death.
I grew up knowing men could make things with their hands. My grandfathers bones lying scattered around the house, my mother's art on the walls and pottery on the shelves, my fathers photographs, bridges and buildings he built, surveyors maps. I knew that these were the possibilities of human hands. So when I was fifteen, and found myself cultivating a taste in fine knives to compliment the taste in fine guns I'd been raised with, the natural path seemed to me to be making my own. I couldn't find the perfect knife for sale, or at least couldn't afford it, but I certainly felt it possible to make one.
I acquired a few more tools and set to work, quickly making a savage dent in my fathers collection of files and rasps. I initially approached knife-making via the stock removal process: Taking a raw bar or piece of steel, of roughly the desired length, width and thickness of the finished knife and simply grinding away everything that didn't look like the desired result. Although effective, and fairly common, this is a somewhat wasteful method of making anything as a good portion of the investment in raw materials ends up as dust on the floor of the shop. My learning process eventually lead me towards blacksmithing, as it allowed the best use of materials, with very little waste required. Being able to use an entire piece of steel by heating it and hammer forging it into the desired shape without the need for heavy grinding both provided a better financial return, and allowed a greater artistic range of possibility. Some shapes and angles are simply easier to forge into a piece than grind out of one.
In the late spring of my 16th year, I approached a blacksmith in the nearest town, Magdalena, about apprenticing with him. John was kind enough to allow me into his shop, to help with his projects and learn smithing in the process, while also getting to pursue my own interests at the forge as my skill improved.
John had learned to smith while in the Navy as a SeaBee. Once upon a time, large naval ships had forges inside the ship, attached to their machine shop, to facilitate the ease of repair and fabrication of parts while at sea. John was a product of this environment - It was there that he had made his first knives, and begun hobby smithing as a way to keep himself entertained and explore his creative depths. After the Navy John had continued educating himself at the forge, and refined his craft over the decades. Neither a production, nor a modern, smith John worked at the forge because he enjoyed the work, and the tradition of making much with little. His shop, built of block and wooden framing, was more reminiscent of an early 20th century mountain smithy than anything else. There was no power in the shop, electricity would only let him light the place and stay out there all night long John said. The doorway was usually open, as were windows, the regular draft allowing fresh air to continually circulate, carrying out smoke and fumes from the fire. John's forge itself was built from bricks and stone, by hand as the rest of his shop, and was fed only with coal with fuel. A hand-crank blower provided the necessary airflow to bully the fire into the required heats for smithing. Propane was a foreign idea, relegated to some of the books and issues of Metalsmith that scattered John's workbench. It was, as far as I am concerned, the best way to learn the art of blacksmithing. We used scrap materials, salvaged steel and iron, wood for handles that John had harvested himself, and did all our filing, sanding and polishing by hand. It was hard, dirty, sometimes frustrating work - And at the end of our weekly sessions I left tired, filthy, and sometimes chagrined at my own folly in the shop, which John always corrected sternly, but not wrongly.
I wish, looking back, I had spent more time there. I visited John weekly for several months, on into winter when the cold weather finally drove us out of his open, uninsulated and power-less smithy. When spring began to give way to warm days however, I failed to return. I had become invested in the other pursuits of a teenage boy, and feel victim to my own timidity as well in broaching the subject of returning. But I never forgot.
In general smithing was one of the many things I let fall by the wayside between the tail-end of high-school and beginning college. I had gathered the materials to build a forge, and made some small efforts at restoring my grandfathers forge and blower, but had never actually carried my intentions to completion. I still made knives, and still fully intended to get a forge up and running, but it just didn't happen. I let myself believe I didn't have the time, or resources, to devote to forging. Equipment languished, coal I had bought became dust in the bin, and my regrets at not continuing my smithing piled up deeper and deeper.
Finally, in the fall of '06, something changed. I'd changed schools, to be closer to home and pursuing my degree in an environment I liked better, and was spending quite a bit of time on the ranch. In mid October I went out and started rummaging among the derelict pieces of my grandfathers life, and set about cleaning up his forge. The forge itself, an iron bowl almost three feet long, two across and six inches deep, atop four sturdy legs, was in fairly good condition. The old hand-crank blower however needed more work. After several soakings in penetrating oil, and careful taps with a deadblow to loosen up old rust, I managed to free up the impeller with a final effort of elbow grease. Once free'd the impeller turned like it had never been stuck, and produced great volumes of air with even a moderate turn.
The first firing of the newly restored forge, late one cool October evening, was one of the most satisfying experiences I've had yet - I was thrilled to see my own work restore functionality to something my grandfather had built so much of his life with. Those first flames, dancing up between chunks of pinon charcoal, carried away old ghosts of neglect and regret, both for me and the tools under my hand.
Since then I have expanded my smithing from just blade-smithing into artist blacksmithing in general. Very few things are as satisfying as spending an afternoon working over a hot fire, getting covered in ash and grime, only to produce something fine, and delicate and shining, and above all, functional at the end of it. I can become lost in the work of tending the fire and shaping, directing, and cultivating hot iron into a tool or other thing of beauty - Things fall away from my mind as my hands set into their work, each blow, drop of sweat and burn from hot slag reaffirming a capability essential to every man since sun first rose on a flint knapper on some faraway plain - To be able to make the things you need, create the world you desire in your locale, to provide the life you want for you and yours. There is nothing more complete or satisfying than this.
My large forge is a permanent part of the ranch. It is both too large, and has too many ties to that place to ever be moved to town. I feel strongly about this, although its a source of regret while living in town pursuing my degree. Or, was a source of some regret. A friend's fiance, Pat, himself a blacksmith who had let his hobby lapse in pursuit of his degree, had left a small old coal forge sitting under an elm tree in his future bride's front yard, and was sad to see in languishing unused. A short time after being introduced to him, Pat gifted me with this small forge, so as to see it put to good use. Once again I had in my hands an old, but loved, tool - Once essential, now relegated to artist, hobbyist and anachronist in the majority of the world. It took some time, but I finally have fired it up, and am ready to set about using it in earnest.
Since I first came to New Mexico Tech I've been taking Metal Arts or Armor making classes offered in the fine art department of the community college. The instructor, Theresa, is one of my favorite people, and I feel comfortable calling her a friend. Since I first started learning from her, we've repeatedly discussed the addition of both propane and coal forges to her class-room. Though not one of the Teaching Assistants for her classes in past semesters, my role in the classroom has become increasingly instructive as I've stuck around longer and longer, and the interest in building forges and adding smithing to the regular curriculum has increased. A year ago, at the beginning of the fall semester, I arrived for my first day of class with four bags of quickcrete, as an incentive for Theresa to stop talking and start acting on the forge plans. A year later we still have no forge, but somehow my impulsiveness and dedication finally led me to being the only paid TA for her classes, and we're actually starting to get some work done. I've also taken a select few of the other long-time students on as semi-students of my own, to come to my house and work my forge, and learn what they can from me about smithing. It was to this end that, after I'd returned to town late one recent evening, my friend Nick, his wife Raven and I gathered in my yard under the glow of a worklight. Bags of charcoal, a shovel, a small pile of hammers, a piece of railroad rail and a heavy post were also gathered. We dug a hole, set the post, and mounted the railroad rail to it with some hastily forged clinch-nails, and built a large charcoal fire in the forge. The hand crank blower rattled a steady rhythm as its gears ran along on chipped teeth to turn the fan, driving air into the growing, cracking, sparking fire. We stood gathered around it, faces lit an orange glow, sparks reflecting in our eyes, and shared a collective smile. My neighbors were having a party, and as their house and yard filled with mostly freshmen Tech students, they observed us with confusion, question and stunned silence. No words were said across the fence, they stood back from the rising sparks, spoke in hushed tones to one another, and fell silent as the ring of hammer blows rained out all competing sound in the small space between houses. Eventually my roommate, himself an accomplished knife-maker, joined us and we four stood, working the blower, tending the fire, driving hammers into hot steel, shaping and drawing the tools of our futures, the works of our lives. We stood a separate tribe from those across the fence, speaking our own language of fire, and ash and the timeless ring of hammers.

Icepicks, Homeless and Human Nature

2008-08-27T01:01:00.001-06:00

I was at a hardware store once. It was a Thursday. Or maybe not, as I've been in many hardware stores on pretty much every day of the week at this point in my life. But, it was a day and I was in a hardware store getting supplies for the smithy. As I approached the cash register a large oak and steel banded barrel caught my eye, and glittering within, in all their simplistic glory, where hundreds of ice picks. Simple, thick stainless-steel shafts honed to wicked points, each some four inches long, mounted and ferruled firmly to oaken handles. The sign on the barrel said "$1 Ea." and I was compelled to buy several dozen.
There are several city parks in Albuquerque where the homeless reside (as much as they reside anywhere of any permanence), and on a semi-routine basis various charities in and about the greater metro area will use one of these parks as a staging area for a mass feeding, blanketing, clothing of these unwashed masses.
I want to go to one of these, with a giant sack full of icepicks. And I want to start at the back of the soup line making my way toward the front handing one out to each person - "Here, have one, Lord bless ye and keep ye in your struggles, we're all praying", rinse, lather, repeat, until every last icepick had been handed out.

For the homeless, they have no ice. And I... I have no faith in any of the supposed nobility of the savage.
Or his ability to resist base amusements.

A Warrior Falls

2008-08-19T22:27:00.001-06:00

Like every day before, the officer wasn't late for duty. He sat in the Squad room, paying attention when he needed to, joking with his fellows when he didn't. He climbed into the seat of the car, and settled in for the morning patrol.
Sometime after breakfast, (coffee and a McMuffin for his partner, just a McMuffin for him,) and before lunch (he will wonder, later and only once, if it might have been good), the call comes in. Man with a gun, wife and children in the house. His partner flips an otherwise illegal U-turn he calls flipping a bitch, and puts the V8 Interceptor to work.
The scene is the chaos that finds its home in the heart of every warrior, its meaning and pattern apparent only in his mind. Shots are fired out the window. Tear gas is fired back in. The wife and kids come out. The gunman doesn't. The officer wonders how people can be so cruel to one another at times, doing that to their women, and their little ones. He thinks maybe he'd like to have a pup or two of his own someday, but doesn't have time for deeper contemplation. They're lining up, going in, he's got to go - All thoughts are on the door, the monster behind it, the monster with the gun.
They put flash-bangs through the windows as the great big man in-front slams the backdoor into a thousand splinters, a million motes of dust - Each one lit up for an instant by the flash of the 'bangs.
They're in, dust and smoke clouding the already hazy unlit room. The gunfire comes from within that haze, muzzle flashes - A cheap nine-millimeter, something that any other time might not have even fired. Call it fate, call it irony, call it tragedy, call it life. Gunfire in response, the solider, more reliable, fire of forty-five's and five-point-five-sixes, all well made, well maintained, as ready for action as he. But he's not acting anymore, he doesn't hear the return gunfire - One round, just the wrong side of the edge on his vest, has torn through flesh and bone and gone deep inside.
The Earth trembles when he falls.
He hurts when he breathes, but knows he must keep trying. He doesn't know where his partner is. Where the bad man is. He fights - To breath, to be loyal, to serve. It hurts, deep inside where it hasn't hurt since his heart broke once, when he was young, the last time he saw his mother.
His partner is there then, looking down at him, saying soft, soothing things, calling him "buddy". He likes it when his partner does that. The bad man is there too, but he's not standing up, or fighting. The officer relaxes a little now, but its still so hard to breathe and he has to breathe to make sure there are no more badmen.
His vision falters, he's going to sleep. Somewhere out in the growing blackness what might be a green field, and old friends, are visible. He blinks. The dust is settling in the room, but its all light and shadow.
They take his vest off, he feels them placing something over the wound. A needle sticks him between the ribs. Its easier to breathe now, but he's still so tired. He cant fight sleep anymore. He hears his friends calling him into the soft grass of the field.

I see him as they bring him out of the ambulance. One paramedic just picks him up off the gurney, and steps out into the harsh midday light. His blood runs down the front of the 'medics white uniform shirt, but that's okay. He's one of them, a compatriot, a force against the destruction they all feel chasing them - Chasing the world - a brother, a Warrior.
The other paramedic is holding the door open. Right of the door there is wall of his fellow warriors folding in behind the one carrying him as they go through the door. Tears are in their eyes. I can feel the reverberations in the Earth now, as I see them disappear within, and the Veterinary clinic doors close behind them.

Morphine - Cure for Pain

2008-08-15T22:11:00.003-06:00

Fitna

2008-08-13T11:42:00.000-06:00

Fitna is an Arabic word which, though difficult to translate, refers in general to a schism, anarchy, upheaval, and etc. Specifically it alludes to times of trial of faith, or faith based war and strife.
It is also a title of a short film by Geerts Wilder, a Dutch politician, about Islam, and his belief that Islam is a threat to the way of life in the Netherlands, and elsewhere. It’s a very powerful piece, and should be watched by everyone – even defenders of Islam.

The reaction in the European press to Fitna has been overwhelmingly negative. Popularly and in government as well, efforts have been made to suppress Fitna, and discredit the views of Geerts Wilder. Advertisements against Fitna have been taken out in major Dutch newspapers, while the Dutch government vehemently denies any support with the film’s message or Wilder’s opinions.

I have no hatred for Muslims as a whole – Although I do at times have a profound disrespect, and sadness, for many of them – but I certainly have no love. And it is about more than just terrorism. There are plenty of Muslims who have no fondness for radical Islam, who do not worship at mosques inhabited by radical clerics, who do not give monies that end up supporting al qaeda. However, these same Muslims believe in Islam based education, and no more, for their children – An education which replaces science, history and real world knowledge with an ignorant and violent mythology. These same Muslims force their women to wear chador, perform female circumcision (a mutilation performed exhospitalis, without anesthetic or proper tools, of the vulva causing a lifetime of problems, including sexual difficulty and recurring [often fatal] infections), and believe in honor killings of women who reject these practices. No, they do not support terrorism, they do not blow up buildings – They simply cripple their children, mutilate their daughters and murder their wives. And they are demanding that their “culture” be allowed to flourish wherever they set foot, as if they are special and deserve privileges above and beyond those of others.
The only reason they must fall on their religion as a defense for the things they demand, is because the brutality and ignorance of their culture is so great that the laws and habits of most other cultures outlaw or frown upon many of their practices.
And some Muslims are none of the above – They are progressive, and have removed from their practice those barbaric traits. But so few of them are supportive of the calls to abolish extremist Islam wherever is arises – So many simply keep their faith silently, and seem unwilling to stand against those who would murder and destroy in the name of Islam. And just like all moderates of any religion, you must realize these are people willing to believe in part of a religion that advocates murdering rape victims, but only the parts they like. People willing to turn their backs on their faith, and their powers of reason, equally by trying to balance the two. Their rationality is thus, at best, suspect.

I’ve made my judgements, and I ask no forgiveness or permission for them. As I have said before, I am the enemy of everyone who opposes education and enlightenment – Particularly those who do so as violently and oppressively as fundamentalist Islam.
Watch the film. Watch other films. Judge for yourself the honesty and sincerity of Islam as a “religion of peace”, and the nature of those who defend it, and their reasoning.

Dreamer Drinking

2008-07-24T04:00:00.000-06:00

Half chocolate milk, half coffee in a pint glass. Coffee thats been burned on a hot plate all afternoon before sitting and turning cold into the night. Drink it down half way and refill with Kahlua. This is how one keeps on living.
Sitting in front of the computer, staring at climbing equipment, canyoneering gear - Ropes and harnesses and carabiners and dreams of great distances. Expanses of Earth, cliffs rising distant above, roost for falcons and hopes. Great emptinesses of rock dropping away, below and into the side of a mountain hundreds of feet, into the depths of man's own dreams.
Drinking in the caffeinated hopes, the clouded formations of a mind numbed by optimism. The alcohol an attempt to starve off the gnawing hope, and inability to be broken. Opening up the man to his own defeat, breaking him of the rotten-toothed grinning hope given to the world. Maybe just a little more and he can fall on his torn hands, rest his broken feet on his knees, and give in to the greatest desire - The desire to give up. Weepingly, joyfully, bloody mouthed and empty eyed, letting go of everything.

But booze leaves the bloodstream by morning, and stubborn hope lingers. Dreams and optimism snap and bite at the heels of demons, driving them back for another day. Another sunshine to shadow run of silent, determined, fight against the pain of hope, and desolation of despair. The sun shines a hopeful sorrow onto the dreamer, and he hunts for happiness in the shadows of weakness and despair. Goodness might feel awful, and awfulness might feel good, but in the world in between, a dreamer cant make up his mind.

Bad Minister

2008-07-19T02:08:00.000-06:00

He was a bad minister
Hands deep in the knots of her back
a touch that burned him
he flushed from the collar down
His faith was built in her muscles
a temple of strong flesh
weak and torn below his hands
or was it he that was weak and torn above his temple?

Counting the Stars

2008-07-17T00:58:00.000-06:00

He counted the stars
and found them too great
too far distant
and too cold for his love
Maybe they already died
their long traveling light
a long road of lies
Returning to his typewriter
he wrote strong women
wrote the love he had to give
Carving the women he wanted
from the emptiness of a page
For lack of a craft
he wrote mythology
personal and cutting
Until he bled as redly
as he had quietly
for everyone to see
apologies to all those he loved
veiled in his words, a need to be touched by them
in their criticisms and appreciation
He wrote to them
counting the stars
naming them to love
for everyone who would listen
and love in return
But set free his words were not him
and he went to bed alone
Cold in his death
as they basked in the light he'd cast
He went to bed
with the names of all the unseen stars
dancing in his head

Sexual Immorality? Sexual Tyranny

2008-07-13T05:00:00.000-06:00

There was another "honor killing" this week. This time it happened in Atlanta. From CNN, "Father Kills Reluctant Bride". The short of it is the daughter was wed in Pakistan to an arranged husband currently living in Chicago, and was less than thrilled with this. Trying to tell her father about her lack of desire to be married, or stay married, led to a confrontation in which it seems he wrapped the cord from a clothes iron around her neck and strangled her to death.
People being strangled move a great deal usually - The fight, and struggle, and finally writhe before their muscles begin to starve and fail from lack of oxygen. At some point they pass out, unable to move having fought to muscle failure, and shortly there-after they die. This is not a pretty death, nor a quiet one. This man held his daughter's body, supported her weight by the power cord wrapped around her throat, through the fighting, struggling and writhing, until she died in his arms. He did it willingly, and probably of sane mind, because he comes from a culture in which women are property, nothing more and nothing less, and an archaic, medieval idea of family honor is more important than love and life.
This man is not alone - There have been others like him in this country, and many more in the Middle East. There are more still who will never get the opportunity to kill a female family member, but would not hesitate to do so for similarly "dishonorable" behavior. They are, in my opinion, savages. There is nothing redeeming about that culture and I refuse to acknowledge it as worthy of my attentions. Nothing anyone has to say can change my mind - A culture that imposes that kind of tyranny on women, and then kills them for merely disagreeing with it; A culture which has so little respect for, value for, the most beautiful and essential element of our species,; A culture of sexual repression with such little respect for life and the human right* is one I want nothing to do with, unless I can be instrumental in its destruction.

On the home front, from the less extreme sector of the faithful, I commonly hear a cry that one of the biggest problems with this country is our supposed "sexual immorality". Unfortunately what these folks commonly see as "immorality" is merely sexual freedom - An existence without fear of sexuality and the freedom to express it.
I fully believe many people are incredibly stupid about sex - Particularly those who use it as a means to debase themselves and others with meaningless strings of one night stands, unprotected encounters and the like. Such "slutty" behavior, among both sexes, is frankly disgusting, and it takes a pretty stupid, or hateful (of self and others) person to indulge in those behaviors repeatedly. I have in the past, and have very little desire to do so in the future - Because I know just how much it can bite you in the ass, and while I've been quite lucky the small taste of that I've had was more than enough. It takes a special kind of person to do that repeatedly. That said, such stupidity is everyones natural born right. If we want people to be smarter than that, the answer is not legislation, moralization or other "sweep it under the rug" efforts, the answer is education.
We have a nation where-in the primary type of sex education provided for our children is "Abstinence Only" programs, where-in nothing is truly explained about the "birds and the bees" or the human body, but students are repeatedly admonished against the evils of sex, and encourages to make pledges of abstinence until marriage. Abstinence Only programs rarely teach about proper methods for condom use, much-less spermicidal lubricants, morning after pills or birth control. Taking the attitude that "This program cannot fail, so those things wont be needed" such vita information is ignored. The end result? Human beings, with all the natural urges and desires of human beings, who have not only no idea what they are getting themselves into, but often a very bad idea of the reality of it as fueled by that unique combination of pop-media and government sponsored non-education. So, they do what natural, functional, human beings have always done since the beginning of time, and they have sex - Without condoms, knowledge regarding STD's, birth control or any other safety measures. Viola - Teenagers with STI/STD's, babies and more than a few truly bad experiences and/or bad habits contributing to repeated incidents of excess, dangerous, promiscuity.
Sex is an amazing thing - Not just for how it makes you feel, but for the power it has in the human body and psyche. It is an inescapable force of our lives, in fact of the very survival of our species. Simply telling our young "Dont do this" doesnt cut it. If anything, it makes it more taboo and thus more appealing and the greater appeal and lesser knowledge contributes to more problems.
Among adults, unmarried couples having sex, homosexuality and pornography are common examples of so-called "immorality". I quite honestly have no where to begin or end with the unmarried sex issue - Stupid sex with random people is a stupid idea, but as far as I am concerned two people who are in love and committed to one another having sex with or without a piece of notarized paper and/or the blessing of a minister is just fine and dandy. Frankly, it is the most human of behaviors, the most innate and vital of our social actions. It is the one behavior, above all others, which ensures the survival of our species. In a world where the cultures of marriage have become so polluted with argument, murder (see above), and failure resulting from bad judgment, community over-pressure and sheer ignorance (see lack of education) it is no wonder many people who are truly loving and committed dont want to get married. It is not the natural state of human affairs - It is a religiously, culturally, meddled with minefield, an institution which says the body is permanently property - First of a higher power, and then of the spouse until death. What part of that sounds loving? None of it.
On the count of homosexuality - We need to get over ourselves. With a world population approaching 7 Billion at an alarming rate, we have to ask if we really need more breeders. The fact that some members of our species are attracted to and desire those of the same sex is beautiful on two fronts - First, any two people who can find love with one another, even for a short time, in this world are far closer to divinity than a legion of straight, hate spewing, couples, and secondly, anyone who isnt reproducing themselves, who has a way of life that includes living and loving while in the end actually returning resources to the pool, is doing the world as a whole a service. This is not immorality - It is love, and societal contribution (never mind the possibility of actually being a genetic device for population control).
The fact that many of these people get pleasure from looking at, or producing, visual depictions of the sex acts they favor is similarly a non-issue, in the grand scheme. We like to look at one another, particularly if we find an attractive example of the opposite sex. We responds to visual cues indicating prime mating potential, and enjoy the experience of seeing someone attractive. It is of vital importance to our species that we be able to develop perception of good mates and attractive qualities. Stimulation and endorphin release from viewing attractive people has been shown to actually improve concentration and task-performance as well. Pornography like so many other things can be used or abused - Some couples use it as a stimulus and performance enhancer for an active and vital sex life, others use it as a means to access fantasies or desires otherwise inaccessible. Like alcohol, addictions and abuse do happen - But the issue is not a national immorality, it is an immorality of individual self control. In a culture where no one believes they have to be responsible for anything (the government told them just follow directions, you'll be fine - just "dont do it", you dont need to know about it), why do we act surprised when people abuse the small pleasures?
We live in a world were a woman can be killed for disagreeing with an elder male in her family, because she didnt like being given like less than livestock to a man she had never met, to be used (and possibly abused) by him as if she were merely property. That is sexual immorality. The repression and abuse of sexuality and love. And this is not something to which Middle Eastern culture has entire domain.
Through our mis-education of our youth, our conflicted messages regarding the human body, sex and sexuality via education and the media, there exists in this country a similar tyranny of sexual repression.

No culture in which women are told they were in control of their bodies, lives and sexuality has ever fallen victim to honor killings.
No culture in which men and women were allowed to love who they wished to love, as they wished to love, has suffered hate and bigotry based assaults, rapes and murders.
No culture in which men and women are given the knowledge necessary to know and understand their bodies, and the risks to them, and the freedom in which to apply this knowledge as they see fit has suffered the extremes of broken families, sexually transmitted illnesses or sexual-confusion driven violence.
No culture in which women are told they are in control, in which men and women are allowed to love as they desire, in which people are educated about their bodies and their health, in which people can find non-judgmental, relaxed and supportive appreciation of their true (nude) form, or that of someone like them, has ever run into these kinds of problems on this kind of scale.
Or so we can guess - Because frankly, no culture like this truly exists in any widespread fashion, merely in small, isolated, and rather interstitial, pockets.

This is not our culture - Our culture is one which is being invaded, and ordered to cow down to, a culture which supports the idea of women as property and honor killings. And in the face of this, we promote a Luddite view of sexuality, ignorance over education, mixed messages of obscene false sexuality and sexual image in the mass media contrasted with our educational system's supposed "values" on that subject.
That is the face of immorality. The puritanism with which we still regard sex, the tyranny of advertising and music videos which promote unrealistic images and expectations , and the combination there of which leave people (particularly the most important generation) absolutely spinning, directionless, and horribly ignorant in the face of biology and the cruelty of human nature.

(* Without sidetracking to much, I refer to the human right, or an individual overarching human right instead of human rights because I really only believe in one, feeling that it encompasses all the others - The right to try, un-interfered with [within reason]).

Nick Cave - A Darkness Reconsidered

2008-07-13T02:27:00.000-06:00

Music is a huge part of my life, though not being able to play any instrument I've always relied on the work of others to bring to me the necessities of expression I find in music. As such I like a variety of artists and musical styles. I do however have a distinct preference for the uniqueness of singer/songwriter combo's across genre's - I find myself more appreciative of the singers who are songwriters and the work they have to offer. Somewhere, one of them, has captured something that at least begins to resemble my mood at the time or the one I am looking to create. Being a poet, I appreciate that the originality of the writing of many of these artists regularly surpasses that of the song-writing coming fro the record labels pop-mill writing think-tanks.
Among my favorite of these singer-songwriter-eccentrics is Nick Cave. An Aussie noted for his darkness and challenging material, Cave doesnt always rub me quite the right way - some of his stylings leave me cold at times - when he does strike a chord with me, he strikes it quite well. A large bit of his work, both with his bands the Bad Seeds and Grinderman and as a solo artist, is quite important to me. In a lot of ways for its darkness - This in an area in which I am more comfortable than many - but also because he has an ability to see both darkness and light as indivorcable parts of the same whole. That, more than many things, is important to me in art. But Cave is not all darkness and foul-mouthed, blood stained, rants at the world. he has a depth of understanding and lyrical ability beyond just darkness, or just the contrast of dark to light.
On top of this, Cave is a talented musician, a unique vocalist and a fantastic songwriter. His lyrical ability as a writer is often second to none - No one else I have heard writes song's like Nick Cave. Very few other writers of any ilk are as deep, and draw on such diverse influences as Cave. who can draw on the Bible, Milton, American folk traditions and modern crime reports all in the space of a refrain.

Hallelujah

Lyrically and musically this is one of my favorite Cave songs - It is powerfully evocative, a strong image of place is conveyed in bot the lyrics and the music, and it features some of the best Cave writing around - "My piano crouched in the corner of the room wit all its teeth bared"

500 Miles

Cave also has a small obsession/inspirational attachment to American folk and blues music and does some very nice renditions (covers is a stretch, as he tends to take the raw thing and make it his own) of these songs. Although his version of Stagger Lee leaves a lot to be desired, his 500 Miles is one of my favorite versions.

So lonesome I Could Cry

Cave has also worked with a variety of major and influential musicians, singers and writers. He appeared on Johnny Cash's American IV album, after having covered Cash's The Folk Singer previously.

Cave, for all his debauchery, violence and drunken revelry offers up some surprises from time to time as well. For example, his introduction to the British publisher Canongate's single volumn copy of the Gospel of Mark. An odd turn from the surface impression of the man via some of his lyrics, this introduction only further confirms Cave's depth of knowledge and vision behind his songwriting.
Introduction to the Gospel of Mark, by Nick Cave

Henry Lawson

2008-07-09T22:59:00.000-06:00

Henry Lawson (1867 - 1922) was an Australian poet and writer. One of the most well known writers of his day in Australia, along side his contemporary A.B. "Banjo" Patterson (who I will have to write about some day as well), Lawson has become much less read in recent years. I came across his work quite by accident.
His ideas and sentiment are, needless to say, a little different from what has risen to the top in modern Australia. Lawson was a nationalist, and advocated in his writing for a strong Australia, and armed Australian populace. Some have cried foul, calling his writing's fascist or racist - These twits fail to realize that Lawson did not come from a world of government enforced equality, half-caf soy chai latte's, and celebrated diversity, he came from a much rougher, hard-scrabble place and time. I see him far more as a grand example of settlers attitudes on national strength and defense in the colonial years of Australia.

Poems of Henry Lawson

As Far As Your Rifles Cover

Do you think, you slaves of a thousand years to poverty, wealth and pride,
You can crush the spirit that has been free in a land that's new and wide?
When you've scattered the last of the farmer bands, and the war for a while is over,
You will hold the land – ay, you'll hold the land – the land that your rifles cover.

Till your gold has levelled each mountain range where a wounded man can hide,
Till your gold has lighted the moonless night on the plains where the rebels ride;
Till the future is proved, and the past is bribed from the son of the land's dead lover –
You may hold the land – you may hold the land just as far as your rifles cover.

EveryMan Should Own A Rifle

So I sit and write and ponder, while the house is deaf and dumb,
Seeing visions "over yonder" of the war I know must come.
In the corner - not a vision - but a sign for coming days
Stand a box of ammunition and a rifle in green baize.
And in this, the living present, let the word go through the land,
Every tradesman, clerk and peasant should have these two things at hand.

No - no ranting song is needed, and no meeting, flag or fuss -
In the future, still unheeded, shall the spirit come to us!
Without feathers, drum or riot on the day that is to be,
We shall march down, very quiet, to our stations by the sea.
While the bitter parties stifle every voice that warns of war,
Every man should own a rifle and have cartridges in store!

How the Land was Won
The future was dark and the past was dead
As they gazed on the sea once more –
But a nation was born when the immigrants said
"Good-bye!" as they stepped ashore!
In their loneliness they were parted thus
Because of the work to do,
A wild wide land to be won for us
By hearts and hands so few.

The darkest land 'neath a blue sky's dome,
And the widest waste on earth;
The strangest scenes and the least like home
In the lands of our fathers' birth;
The loneliest land in the wide world then,
And away on the furthest seas,
A land most barren of life for men –
And they won it by twos and threes!

With God, or a dog, to watch, they slept
By the camp-fires' ghastly glow,
Where the scrubs were dark as the blacks that crept
With "nulla" and spear held low;
Death was hidden amongst the trees,
And bare on the glaring sand
They fought and perished by twos and threes –
And that's how they won the land!

It was two that failed by the dry creek bed,
While one reeled on alone –
The dust of Australia's greatest dead
With the dust of the desert blown!
Gaunt cheek-bones cracking the parchment skin
That scorched in the blazing sun,
Black lips that broke in a ghastly grin –
And that's how the land was won!

Starvation and toil on the tracks they went,
And death by the lonely way;
The childbirth under the tilt or tent,
The childbirth under the dray!
The childbirth out in the desolate hut
With a half-wild gin for nurse –
That's how the first were born to bear
The brunt of the first man's curse!

They toiled and they fought through the shame of it –
Through wilderness, flood, and drought;
They worked, in the struggles of early days,
Their sons' salvation out.
The white girl-wife in the hut alone,
The men on the boundless run,
The miseries suffered, unvoiced, unknown –
And that's how the land was won.

No armchair rest for the old folk then –
But, ruined by blight and drought,
They blazed the tracks to the camps again
In the big scrubs further out.
The worn haft, wet with a father's sweat,
Gripped hard by the eldest son,
The boy's back formed to the hump of toil –
And that's how the land was won!

And beyond Up Country, beyond Out Back,
And the rainless belt, they ride,
The currency lad and the ne'er-do-well
And the black sheep, side by side;
In wheeling horizons of endless haze
That disk through the Great North-west,
They ride for ever by twos and by threes –
And that's how they win the rest.

Service, of a Rough and Tough Society

2008-07-09T22:07:00.000-06:00

I’ve had a volume of Robert W. Service poems, an old “Best Of” paperback, for quite some time. Used to be, I would pick it up from time to time, but would rarely read more than a few, already familiar, pieces. Then one morning, I picked it up and just started reading and came away as impressed with a body of work as I ever was with a few more well known selections. Service was a voice, not unlike Kipling, that was sophisticated enough to deal with the whole array of human affairs, in simple eloquence.

"The only society I like is that which is rough and tough - and the tougher the better. That's where you get down to bedrock and meet human people.” Robert W. Service 1874 - 1958

http://www.robertwservice.com/

The March of the Dead

The cruel war was over -- oh, the triumph was so sweet!
We watched the troops returning, through our tears;
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street,
And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers.
And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between;
The bells were pealing madly to the sky;
And everyone was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen,
And the glory of an age was passing by.
And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear;
The bells were silent, not an echo stirred.
The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer;
We waited, and we never spoke a word.
The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack
There came a voice that checked the heart with dread:
"Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black;
They are coming -- it's the Army of the Dead."
They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow;
They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride;
With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe,
And clotted holes the khaki couldn't hide.
Oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips!
The reeling ranks of ruin swept along!
The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips!
And oh, the dreary rhythm of their song!
"They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn't stop
On this, our England's crowning festal day;
We're the men of Magersfontein, we're the men of Spion Kop,
Colenso -- we're the men who had to pay.
We're the men who paid the blood-price. Shall the grave be all our gain?
You owe us. Long and heavy is the score.
Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain,
And cheer us as ye never cheered before."
The folks were white and stricken, and each tongue seemed weighted with lead;
Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice;
And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead,
The pity of the men who paid the price.
They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace;
Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam;
They were coming in their thousands -- oh, would they never cease!
I closed my eyes, and then -- it was a dream.
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street;
The town was mad; a man was like a boy.
A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet;
A thousand bells were thundering the joy.
There was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret;
And while we stun with cheers our homing braves,
O God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget
The graves they left behind, the bitter graves.

The Tramps

Can you recall, dear comrade, when we tramped God's land together,
And we sang the old, old Earth-song, for our youth was very sweet;
When we drank and fought and lusted, as we mocked at tie and tether,
Along the road to Anywhere, the wide world at our feet --
Along the road to Anywhere, when each day had its story;
When time was yet our vassal, and life's jest was still unstale;
When peace unfathomed filled our hearts as, bathed in amber glory,
Along the road to Anywhere we watched the sunsets pale?
Alas! the road to Anywhere is pitfalled with disaster;
There's hunger, want, and weariness, yet O we loved it so!
As on we tramped exultantly, and no man was our master,
And no man guessed what dreams were ours, as, swinging heel and toe,
We tramped the road to Anywhere, the magic road to Anywhere,
The tragic road to Anywhere, such dear, dim years ago.

The Men That Don’t Fit In

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.

Certainty

2008-07-09T13:41:00.000-06:00

I've been a minor fan of the author/philosopher/neuroscience PhD candidate Sam Harris for awhile now, ever since running across him in Seed magazine saying something like "The philosopher is more and more beholden to the neuroscientist". He's a very bright man, with interesting ideas, and a knack for writing them down.
An "atheist" (who doesnt like the term), he's been writing for the Washington Post's On Faith column occasionally for awhile now, which I just discovered, and in reading his archives I came across the following and quite liked it;

"September 11th, 2001, the day that nineteen pious men showed our pious nation just how beneficial religious certainty can be." Sam Harris

Food for thought.

Hate America? Jog On!

2008-07-07T11:15:00.000-06:00

Independence day has just passed. I spent the day with a good friend and her family, cracking jokes, cooking, shooting off fireworks, eating good food and drinking good beer. Present were people of diverse faith, and diverse history, ancestry and political stance - We talked guns and beer and soldiering (her father is a retired Chief Petty Officer, her brother 7 days and a wake-up from shipping to boot for the Army and others present are planning to serve) and hunting and family and old HeeHaw routines ("And the storal of the mory is...") until well into the night. Our little (neo-)bohemian circle broke conversation long enough to chew food, swallow brew and migrate to the field out back to set off playful explosives in the grandest tradition. It was in all senses a great 4th of July - A celebration of independence, nation, tradition and future.
Going to college, surrounded by the young, fiery and easily influenced (or as my father would say; young, dumb and full of cum) I hear a lot of sentiment one way and another from my fellows. But one of the ones which consistently disturbs me is the old "I hate America" line. I really think the next well fed, well bred, affluent snot nose who says that around me is going to get busted in the mouth. Wont stop him from saying it - thats his right in this nation he hates - but I'll voice my opinion in return. It's not that I always agree with the current administration - Dont recall as I ever have, nor do I ever expect to - or even like them in the least. But I am fond of this country. The country is more than the actions of the sitting government, more than the ignorance of its citizens, more than the force of its commercialism. It is an idea - A shining, golden, god damned idea that we've made work longer than anyone else who's tried it recently. That counts for something. Dont like it? Leave it. Stop using its resources and go elsewhere. Particularly if you are a college student - Dont like this country? Dont believe in its ideals? Dont feel like its worth working on? Then why in the world would you want to get an education here?
Thats where I draw the line and separate myself - I am fundamentally disappointed in my country. I love, not hate, it, and am fundamentally disappointed in it. I am disappointed because of the ignorance of its citizens, the blindness and greediness of its leadership, and the "moral decline" of it all. Not moral decline in the popular sense, not in the "fags roaming the streets, teens getting pregnant, sex on TV" sense of moral decline - The decline in the ethos and morality that was written into the nations founding documents, the decline in the belief in and adherence to those ideals. That is a moral decline - Not homosexuality, not tits on the television, not a decline in faith and church attendance - The sheer pig-fucking ignorance with which we have come to do damn near everything we do as a nation; Vote, Shop, Educate, and Believe. And that is exactly why I am disappointed in my country - Exactly why I love it - Exactly why I want to get an education from it: Because revulsion has power here, spending money has power here, education has power here, voting has power here. It may be tarnished, it may be dim, but it has power still. And it will continue to do so until the very last person has given up on voting, settled into the ignorance of letting judges make law, and thrown their library card out with the rest of the trash in favor of whats on the History channel.
Dont like that? Dont want to fight for it? Thats fine. No one asked you to. Please, be our guest and go elsewhere. Go settle somewhere that is willing to carry your burden of choice for you, that will give you all the knowledge you need to live within its idealogical framework (but no more, and none that is uncomfortable or disquieting), and will protect you from the unpleasantries of history and responsibility.

“If you love wealth more than liberty, the tranquility of servitude better than the animating contest of freedom, depart from us in peace. We ask not your counsel nor your arms. Crouch down and lick the hand that feeds you. May your chains rest lightly upon you and may posterity forget that you were our countrymen.”

—Samuel Adams

A Hat...

2008-06-30T10:48:00.001-06:00

I grew up in a culture where a lot could be said about a man, without breath passing lips, by his hat. It always struck me as one of the more admirable things about cowboy culture, such awareness of identifiers. Its something a lot of people miss. As an adult, now part of no particular culture, I'm one of the few people I know who notices things like boots, belts, hats, etc. I live in a town where one of the major industries is providing training to first responders and soldiers. We are regularly overrun with Police, Fire, EMS, agents of three letter agencies and so on, and my friends are always somewhat amused (if not annoyed) when I will randomly point out an identifying characteristic of one of these folks, when we're out to eat or the like. I will notice a brand or type of boots, a particular choice or cut of garment, pocket clips for folding knives, "riggers belts" (heavy duty nylon webbing belt often w/ emergency rappelling attachments - Originally sewn up by bored Army parachute riggers), and quietly peg the bearer of said items as a whatever. By the same token, they have often also assumed I was one of their classmates because my more recent background, employment and habits lends me to many of their dress characteristics. But such things, such observation and awareness, are not the common product of the common culture - Far from it. If you want to say the unsaid, let people see the unseen, you have to scream it, or build a fire a'top it before most of them notice.
Being the gray-man, the unnoticed, has its distinct advantages, but sometimes it is simply boring. I'm at the point in my life where being boring is not what I want, and am fortunately in an environment where standing out (probably) wont make me an obvious mark on any predatory radar. College is fun like that.
I used to have a baseball cap I liked quite a lot. It said a lot about me. It was a cheap wally world cap with Stewie (the baby from Family Guy) and a proclaimation of "Victory will be mine!" across the front. I had restyled it after what soldiers and private military contractors have taken to calling "dont shoot me" hats: The hard button on top removed and replaced with a tab of Velcro for attaching an IR reflective marker, and with Velcro on the front and across the back for attaching other identifier, or morale, patches. Mine bore morale patches, as I have no need for identification as a ‘friendly”.
One of the morale patches mounted to the bill said Infidel in large capital letters. Going to a school with a fair number of Muslim individuals, I'd occasioned to wonder if this perhaps offended anyone, but have never given that line much consideration as, frankly, I dont care. Simply because, I am an infidel.

Infidel is in the common lexicon today as a word associate with extremist Islam and terrorism. Their justification for killing us is that we are infidels and wish to corrupt their pure and good society with our infidel ways (by for example, not stoning women to death for "daring" to be raped).
The word has a broader use than just in the context of Islam, but I think everyone’s idea, including my own, of it now is heavily involved with that context more-so than any other.
Context aside, the word means an unbeliever, someone who doubts or rejects the central tenants of a religion.
Now, I am not a man without belief, but I am most certainly a man without religion. I don’t have much use for it, and it separates me from my God more than it connects me. But, my infidelity is not to a religion, or even religion itself. My infidelity is thus:
If you are an enemy of Enlightenment, Spiritual and Intellectual Freedom, the Right of Personal Decision, an enemy of Science, and Medicine, I am your enemy. If you use religion to justify your hatred, and attempts to destroy, those things in which I believe, then I am your Infidel, and proud of it. My depth of infidelity and animosity towards you who would destroy the world of knowledge and light, for darkness and ignorant superstition, is beyond description - And I am unrepentant in my attitude and desire to see you struck from the earth.
If you are not one of those people, if you are not a destroyer, a bonder of people to ideas and decisions not their own, a cruel hand of ancient tyrannies, then we are not enemies and I am not your Infidel. In all likelihood, we share ideals, beliefs, and common goals.

There are few things in this world that I am prouder of than being an Enemy, and Infidel, of the destroyers of education and freedom. When I had it, I wore my marker with pride. All those who it offended, will have few greater and more dedicated an enemy. All those who embraced it, will have few greater and more dedicated a friend.
I need to get that hat back, or make another one.