Another Helping of Thanksgiving

Sally and I are sitting in front of the fire listening to Pete Seeger, Woody Guthrie, Phil Ochs. American folk singers. Her idea. A bowl of tangerines. Nice pre-thanksgiving evening. Tomorrow I’m going to get up early and make dinner for us. Just us. Two people, comfortable. No one else, no socializing, no family or friends. It’s what we’ve decided and we’re looking forward to the quiet, good music, perhaps some poetry. There have been health issues, a few frightening moments, mostly self-generated, but I’m clearly aware that I won’t go on forever. For much of my life I thought I was bulletproof, that I’d be eternal. New realizations are prompting reconsideration. Holidays and the busy, populated planet belong to the younger people in my family, the ones who are not yet overwhelmed by a world they have just begun to experience. Josh and Michelle had a new baby (Thomas Joseph) yesterday. Joe and Lisa’s bambino, JP, is 4 months old. Valerie and Pat have Paige who is not quite two, and Michael and Jackie are expecting. My nieces and nephews are having kids and that is beautiful and bittersweet. The family goes on; the newest ones don’t know if life was better or harder or happier. They aren’t old enough to judge themselves or others and, so lucky, they are under the care of incredible young men and women.  I’m finished with building this life and now I hope to enjoy what I’ve done, what I have, who I know; I want to look forward to every goddamn morning. I’ve been disillusioned, of course, beaten down badly sometimes, but that’s OK as long as I recognize that I have options and can change my point of view. Which I absolutely can. I’m cool with the past, for the most part, and the terror, stupidity, anger and violence of the previous couple of weeks, years, decades, haven’t ruined me. Miraculously. There are plenty of good stories, good people. My life isn’t the world and it’s as decent or miserable as I make it; these days I’m content not to get in too deep. Choices; a concept I’ve only become aware of in the past 20 years. I love my wife, my home, the fine natural world, great books and writing. Good writing gets me high. And I love working on my own stories, poems, essays like an obsessed addict, full of self-doubt, pushing on. I’m nuts about jazz and still dig good rock n’ roll. I can find colossal joy in all forms of literature from contemporary comic books to Avant Garde to pulp to 19^th century classics: Spiderman, Sandman, Batman, Jane Austen, Gertrude Stein, Thomas Mann. Film? Hell yes. French new wave, Italian post-war, American noir, horror, slapstick and silent. I’m thankful for my brothers Paul and Rich, my sister Chris, and my great friends: Armando, Roland, Terry (CDG), Otha, Jonathan, Ernie, Barbara, Kate, Amy…. too many to name. Too many. I never would have guessed. I’m grateful for fountain pens, intermittent windshield wipers, copy/paste, delete/undo, Catherine Deneuve, a good haircut, desert boots, and most important, the all time greatest innovation of the modern age that has offered me a life free from guilt, confusion and stress:

Caller ID.

This is Paradise.

Enraged and Discouraged

What is the problem?

Since last night, Friday, November 14, 2015, when I saw the news about the slaughter in Paris, I’ve been wondering. What is the fucking problem?

Paris is a terrific city. I have lived in Paris, off and on, during the past decade. Two or three months at a time. I know the city pretty well and I know the neighborhoods where the ISIS attacks took place. When the news feed came up, reporting the terrors, I was exchanging emails with a few landlords because I’m planning to return next fall/winter for a few months. I don’t speak very good French but I dig the city, it is comfortable, crowded, beautiful and I feel at home there. I love French literature, architecture, history, food, culture, etc. I am a member of the Amis du Louvre, supporters of the museum, and I renew my membership card every year.

There is no way I would call myself an expert in anything French, I just goddamn love Paris where I have good friends who are now experiencing one of the most horrifying events in their lives and in Europe since World War II. Museums are closed, there is still blood in the street, people are scared and in shock, my own acquaintances are safe, but so many normal citizens were wounded and killed and the city and people are changed forever.

I’ll admit that I’m as ready as anyone to take revenge. Last night I was enraged and could have killed. It’s in my nature; my first reaction to the murder and assault of innocent people is to avenge them. I’m no hero, but I’m as pissed off as I’ve been since 9/11.

This morning, after I’d gone out for coffee and talked to a few friends, I am calmer. Less fury, but still gloomy and desolated. What can I do?

There is no use for religion, god, prayer, belief or magic. That’s my only commitment. Prove to me that any of that exists or is useful and perhaps I’ll pay attention, but until then, for my own safety and preservation, I cannot take devotees seriously. Belief, commitment to fantasy, voluntary ignorance, is dangerous and deadly and there are examples every day, both in the Mideast and in America’s Midwest. I’m an antitheist. I do what I can, in my small way, to disparage and dismiss and, I hope, destroy religion, faith, and delusion. Anyone who doesn’t approve can fuck off. I need my dignity and self esteem more than I give a crap about their rescue fantasies and desire for better parents.

Individuals who perpetrate holocausts, terrorism, torture, bloodletting, are not smart. No, they’re not. This is not some clearly thought out political ideology or utopian dream. It’s not about making the world a better place, solving hunger, fixing the environment, or caring for the homeless and displaced and sick and frightened populations of the world. It is superstitious ignorance at a global level and it’s getting worse. It appears that the focus of the monsters among us is total devastation. For what?

Meanwhile there are huge armies fighting in multiple countries and nothing is improving. Veterans Day comes and goes and we’re all up in the support and love and patriotic jingoism, but still, a perpetual war is raging, people are dying, and nothing is improving. We killed Osama? Good, hope you feel better. What’s changed? Yesterday the news media reported we “may have killed Jihadi John”. So? Something is different? Are you more secure and happy? I’ve got no problem about targeting dangerous assholes, but what changed?

What is the fucking problem?

Is it really as simple as a misplaced, misinformed, ignorant religious creed and dogma? Is it about Palestine and the West’s support for Israel? Is it Oil? Money? Patriarchy? Is it because “they hate our freedom”? Or they want our women? Is it honestly about making cartoon representations of Mohammad?

Do not tell me about how bad America is, either. I get that. We’re a flawed nation, but yesterday some douche said, “We do worse stuff all the time.” Well, fuck you douche, stay away from me. You are a collaborator. Do not excuse these recent events by trotting out some straw dog argument that it’s OK because the monsters have been hurt and have reasons for their animosity and killing. Bite me.

Oh, and drop the feelgood shit about “everything happens for a reason” or “we never get more than we can handle” and “god’s will” and “rich and varied ethnic heritage”. No. You are wrong.

This bullshit has been going too long and has escalated over the past ten years. So what is the problem? Plenty of groups have identified themselves, they have websites and twitter feeds and publish manifestos and make phone calls and use the Internet and social media to brag and recruit and take credit. We know how to get in touch, right? IS, ISIS, ISIL, the Taliban, Al Qaeda, Boko Haram; somebody has their goddamn phone numbers. I mean, before we get all gung-ho and start carpet-bombing (and last night I would have said, “Fuck yes!”) let’s find out what’s the frigging difficulty.

This is World War III. It can be the forever war. There may not be an answer and it may never end and this may be the wretchedness that defines the next several centuries. So someone, please, tell me, what is the problem? If it’s not resolvable in the real world, if it truly is about stupidity and fantasy and hatred, then we can all cut loose and the people of earth can begin a campaign to decimate themselves at a faster rate. I’m good with that.

I’d just like to know: Currently, this minute, what is the fucking problem?

What have I missed?

Someone, please, make a phone call, take some notes, tell the truth and let me know. And if you’re a disciple, defender of the monsters, collaborator or believer in a divinity, please block, delete, unfriend, erase me from your database. You may be part of the problem. Whatever the fuck it is.

The Not-So-Good Cop

This story about the dirty cop who faked his own suicide in Illinois is getting more and more interesting. Among all of his other crimes, he’s now being exposed as a drunk, a misogynist, and a seriously ragged piece of crap. And the other cops on the force knew it. You know, the cops who haven’t been caught. They knew he was a trashbag for 15 years; they had complained to the chief.  The standard line is, “Most cops are good guys and only a few give the rest a bad name.” I hear that whenever an ugly story emerges of cops shooting unarmed people, punching out the mentally ill, racists, full of hatred, angry, stupid, killing innocent citizens, shaking down, embezzling, threatening, breaking the law and walking away clean until some kid with a cellphone video exposes them.

I hear how these are really Good Guys who put their Lives on the Line Every Day and They are Heroes and Where Would We Be Without Them?

That’s the spew that spills every time one of these much-too-common stories surfaces. Sure as shit. Except that this asshole, police Lt. Joe Gliniewicz, was touted as one of those terrific, community oriented, help-the-kids, volunteer, GI Joe, local personality, honest, upstanding Good Guys until a few days ago when everything comes tumbling down and he is exposed as a thief, a cheat, a potential murderer, liar and Christ knows what else. It’s under investigation. So he killed himself.

Makes me wonder: Is he really an anomaly, a rarity, or is he typical of the team? Is he ready to do anything to get ahead, to control a little more power and money with no, none, training in ethics and morality and justice? Another selfish sociopath in a uniform? When I see a cop on the street, in his car, slumped over his cellphone, I wonder if he’s planning some scam, hustle or some creepy stalking. I’ve felt that way for a long time. Decades.

Nope, no more trust. Gone. My sense of confidence in these poorly prepared, badly educated, immoral, dangerous mindfucks has vaporized. I am nervous, always, around cops. I thought I was paranoid and guilty and defensive. Turns out I’m prescient and highly conscious.

And if there are really good cops out there, in the community, protecting, serving, coaching the kiddies and helping old ladies across the street, they better sure as shit stand up pretty frigging soon and say something, loud, act different, begin changing their culture from within, behave like men instead of pussies who back up the felons, idiots, psychos, criminals, thugs and bullies that are destroying law enforcement, annihilating justice and shredding communities with their unforgiveable shitty behavior.

Call me Mr. Silver Lining because I guess I should point out that at least this moron only topped himself and didn’t take along any innocent people. You absolutely KNOW that was in the mix.

Take as Directed. No Refills.

I’ve had a birthday recently and at the same time I’ve acquired whooping cough (really, what is this, 1925?) and now I have a sinus infection. Terrific. I feel like I’ve got another week, tops, and then I’ll die. Don’t have much appetite so at least I’m not killing myself with food. Maybe the drugs (Percocet, codeine cough syrup, aspirin, blood pressure meds, fish oil supplements, a vitamin, probiotics, antibiotics and nasal spray) have something to do with my ennui and loss of appetite? Impossible. I’m not the most ambitious guy, but being housebound and uncomfortable for nearly two weeks is driving me nuts. Thank Christ for decent literature and good movies and TV.

For no other reason than that I’m bored crapless and haven’t written anything except the names drugs and their possible side-effects for the past ten days, I’m listing my sickbed diversions. I’ll never write another word if I don’t do this.

Reading:

Kafka Short Stories. Be careful, this stuff will drive you nuts. Great writing, but Kafka is exactly the reason they invented codeine cough syrup.

Bukowski. I’m done with him. Yes, I know; famous, great, gritty, but also self conscious, immature, drunk and sentimental.

Henry James. I never get tired of James’s long sentences, clauses that flow rhythmically for half a page and meaning doesn’t become clear until the last word. It’s a puzzle, a meditation, an exercise in concentration. He explored his characters’ complex psychology with careful observation and affection.

James Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room. Baldwin is a master stylist and can communicate rage and frustration better than any other writer I can bring to mind. Giovanni’s Room is a book about secrets and confusion, deadly codependence, poverty and pretense. Similar to Bukowski, there is an immature quality in the relationships, but Baldwin’s pursuit of excellence in writing is apparent and overcomes any criticism. Also, the story takes place in Paris in the mid-fifties; great city, great period.

The Essays of E. B. White. I know he was on the staff of the New Yorker for decades but we shouldn’t hold that against him. White was funny, smart, a magnificent spectator and he writes about America at a time when the country and culture were changing rapidly. He can be serene and furious, but the writing never gets away from him. Total control and at times deeply touching. (Once More to The Lake).

Saga is a science fiction comic series about two warring races that hate each other. A woman and a man from opposite armies fall in love, have a mixed-species child, (he’s got horns, she has wings), and are pursued by everyone. Lots of commentary about race without directly alluding to race. The dialogue is a touch millennial-snarky, but the monstrous villains, the violence and the shock, are out of sight and the sex is plentiful and wonderfully erotic. For a comic book. I still read comic books. In the bath.

I’m taking a Philosophy course at UNM and I’m working through my assigned reading even though I’m missing classes. Heidegger will break your fucking brain. Brilliant, the parts I can tease out and understand, but holy shit. Lines like: “Nothing is not nothing at all but, rather, does something.”  Fortunately, we’re also reading Sartre.

I’ve just started a book called The Power of The Dog, recommended by my friend, Armando Silva. I owe Armando bigtime for this one. The writer is Don Winslow and he really knows his shit about the DEA, the drug wars and cartels. Badassed writing; he never holds back. It’s fiction that reads like history. Like today. I’ve never come across anything so brutal and terrifying. There are also sections that made me laugh out loud. Try that, emerging writers.

TV Shows via Netflix or Amazon Prime:

Newsroom, Season 3. Well written and, if anyone cares about media and the direction it’s headed, it’s pretty depressing. A little too much snappy patter, but while Sorkin doesn’t quite hit the mark with people, he’s a master at analyzing institutions and showing the little bits of humanity that remain. He’s pissed and makes it very clear why. Episodes 2 and 3 have a subtext about the EPA and climate change that is staggering. As in, “It’s already over.”

The League and Archer. Comedies and neither require a lot of braintime. Both are completely inappropriate, harsh, and funny as hell. If you don’t like these shows you are either a snob or not as smart as you thought you were.

Seasons 4 and 5 of The Walking Dead. I was surprised that I’d missed season 4, which has been up on Netflix for a year, so when season 5 debuted I discovered, to my delight, that I had 32 episodes to watch. In a row. In three days. And I did. Decomposing corpses, dismemberment, massive violence, tubs of blood and gore but the developers have desensitized me and I thank them for that. Best writing and photography, music, acting. Breaking Bad and The Sopranos quality. It’s supposed to be about zombies and crap, but that’s not true. Take the zombies out of it and it would still work at a genius level. It’s a training film for the near future. (See Newsroom, Season 3, Episodes 2 and 3 for background).

Movies:

Back into French New Wave. Started, again, with Breathless. This is one of the greatest films I’ve ever seen and I can talk about it for days and still can’t figure out why it’s so goddamn good. Probably the same reason that Kerouac is good. Honesty, heart, no bullshit, anti-Hollywood, flawed, human. From there I watched a lot of Agnes Varda’s work; she’s one of the only women directors of New Wave films. She’s still alive (87) and has the most beautiful way of framing a shot that I’ve seen. La Pointe Courte actually pre-dates Breathless (1960) by five years and, in some ways, marks the beginning of the movement.

Claude Chabrol’s Le Beau Serge is a tragedy about two friends who meet after many years and one of them, Serge, has become a miserable alcoholic. It’s a study of cultures, life choices and how difficult it is for a person with urban sensibilities to understand and communicate with his rural counterpart. There is a voyeuristic feel to the film.

Elevator to The Gallows. Louis Malle. This movie is similar to Breathless: Young couple with few prospects goes on the run, kill, get caught. A parallel story about a business executive who has also committed murder and spends most of the film trapped in an elevator. Jean Moreau wanders the streets in the rain looking frantic, trapped and wet. The flick is notable for the score composed and performed by Miles Davis and commissioned by Malle. Worth it.

Pitfall is a typical American Film Noir starring Dick Powell and Lizbeth Scott. He’s a deadpan insurance guy, she’s a damaged woman with a boyfriend on parole and everyone gets into big trouble. A classic of the form, simple, short, straightforward, efficient. It’s easy to see how American films of this genre greatly influenced the French New Wave.

Music:

Don Cherry, Complete Communion

Bill Evans, Conversations with Myself

Grant Green, Idle Moments

Hayden String Quartets

Vivaldi, The Four Seasons

Arvo Part, Tabula Rasa

John Coltrane, The Complete Impulse! Studio Recordings

Wadada Leo Smith, The Great Lakes Suite

Henry Threadgill, Air Mail

The Clash, London Calling

The Who, Live at Leeds

Black Sabbath, The Ozzy Osbourne Years, Disc 3

There’s more. There has to be. Doesn’t there?

Just when I’m at the point in my life where I think I’m running out of time, birthday anxiety, and the end is near, and the doctors are telling me that if I don’t ABC then I’m for sure going to XYZ and I’ve decided that I’ve got to be more active, jeez, buy a bicycle, a skateboard, learn to swordfight, Kung Fu, active shit, man, moving, running in the mountains, climbing cliffs and trudging through snow, getting in touch with the external, the natural world, closer to trees and perhaps be friendlier, talk to people I don’t know, be nice to strangers, be nice to friends, call family more often, buy presents for kids, give money to the homeless, donate my time to those less fortunate, stop being so selfish and self-critical and so critical of others and get a haircut, buy some new clothes, answer the phone; just at the time I decide to change my life I get this crappy, enervating cough that turns into a raging, painful sinus infection and headaches and I coughed so much I fucked up my back, my neck, and all I can really do is to go back inside myself and read more books, hear more music, watch more films, write stories and poems and essays about my life and what I do, what I care about; reflect, remember, regret.

Take the meds, rest, amuse myself.

Who am I to argue?

But, really, take the meds.