Quote:

“A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual death.”--Martin Luther King

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Ezra Pound

The highly influential modernist poet and literary gadfly Ezra Pound had a great sense of humor when he wasn't off on an anti-Semitic rant. Pound lived a long life, from 1885 to 1972, most of it in Europe after losing his first teaching position in the U.S. due to scandalously inviting a young homeless woman to his room at Wabash College where he lectured on classical literature.

Pound is known for befriending and helping many great writers in their careers, including Joyce, Hemingway and T.S. Eliot, among others.

Pound is notoriously famous for his anti-Americanism, perhaps born of a great love for America. Born in Hailey, Idaho and raised in Philadelphia, he was a child prodigy, starting college at age 15 when he announced his intention to become a great poet.

Pound believed credit would ruin economics and destroy nations. He may have been a visionary in that regard as well as in poetics.

Considering how judgments of obscenity in the early twentieth century were based on the extent of the supposed obscene material's circulation, Pound substitutes Classics for Pornography in this satirical poem:


Cantico del Sole


The thought of what America would be like

If the Classics had a wide circulation

Troubles my sleep,

The thought of what America,

The thought of what America,

The thought of what America would be like

If the Classics had a wide circulation

Troubles my sleep.

Nunc dimittis, now lettest thou thy servant,

Now lettest thou thy servant

Depart in peace.

The thought of what America,

The thought of what America,

The thought of what America would be like

If the Classics had a wide circulation...

Oh well!

It troubles my sleep.


TS

unsolicited advice to writers



if you’re unwilling to
die poor get a job and
save your money

write every day;
doggerel is okay if you
let it boil before putting

it away in the bottom drawer;
it’ll be there the next
day when you’re

out of toilet paper;
but check it first
for hidden gems

of illumination;
you’re a writer after all
with time to spare

and an insatiable appetite
for the rare truth
of inspiration


TS

Hawthorne Bridge 100 Years Old

It is a bit of a coincidence that I have a chapter in my memoir-in-progress that refers to my first notice of the Hawthorne Bridge. I was a kid visiting my sister here in Portland when I first became cognizant of the bridge's unique elements. The bridge is the oldest of its kind in the United States.

Here is a brief excerpt from my memoir:


Steel Bridges

Portland, Oregon had inspired me from an early age. For a kid growing up in a rural environment at the edge of the great Willamette Valley, the city represented irresistible mystery and an intoxicating vibrancy. When I visited my sister in Northwest Portland, I felt as if I was living inside a great adventure movie. I was the lead character, walking down the street with the camera’s lens following my every step. I was an actor in a serious movie about a youth and I might do something heroic in the next moment.

I enjoyed looking at the faces of strangers—an old man walking with a cane. He seemed nice because he smiled and put me at ease. Women who dressed differently than the women I watched in my home town. People who acted differently than the people I knew. I didn’t know what to make of these strangers. How could I begin to interpret their madness, their weariness, and the experiences that made them so different? I was a youngster. I didn’t know anything about adulthood or the lives of others. All I could do is feel life and absorb the newness that surrounded me and gave me an odd sense of joy and wonderment—a new reality.

The city’s architecture dazzled me with its mixture of tall, glass structures and old buildings crafted from brick and mortar. Colors leaped out at me as I walked through my sister’s neighborhood. I discovered parks that were unlike any in my home town. They were greener, manicured and labyrinthine. The great trees were different than the pine and fir that sheltered me in the woods near my home, though there were plenty of those, too. What did I know about the variety of trees and plants? Nothing! What did I know except the Hardy Boys, Boy’s Life and baseball? Nothing!

Portland’s bridges fascinated me. I would come to learn there were eight of them in the city proper. They were huge and odd-looking, much different than the old, wooden-covered bridge I knew at my swimming hole on the Santiam River, near Foster. These bridges were made of steel, twisted and formed in unique patterns, mazes of iron and wire. I watched the Hawthorne Bridge rise, its middle section elevating mysteriously above the Willamette River. How? Then I noticed the large windowed booth atop the bridge. That’s it, I realized. Someone is in there! Someone sits up there! That, I thought, would be a great place to spend the day, just watching things. Raising the bridge, looking out at the long curve of the river, waiting for another boat to pass under the bridge on the way to—where? I learned that was someone’s job! How great would that be? I thought.


TS

Saturday, July 31, 2010

Nader Smiles

Ralph Nader gives everybody hell in this piece over at CommonDreams.

In the U.S. politics is as much about charisma and popularity as it is about issues, unfortunately. Nader is not flashy but rather more of a dry intellectual, an obviously brilliant man, one the mainstream has difficulties understanding. He doesn't have the goofy smile of the "everyman" candidate like George W. Bush, who had a down home elasticity and actor's touch that tea-party conservatives find attractive.

Liberals prefer Obama-like wit and articulation to Nader's radicalism because the biggest fear liberals have is losing the right to remain outlandishly hypocritical. I tend to favor honestly stupid conservatism, which is rampant in America, to the two-faced greed of liberalism. Stupid conservatives will give you an argument that is laughable. Liberals in their quest to create a Utopia will murder you.

Bush to me always seemed like the kind of guy I'd want to smash in the mouth with my devastating right hand, but millions dug the stupid grin and bumbling rhetoric. One of the great mysteries, I guess.

Nader has always been marginalized by corporatism, of course. That started long ago when he went after General Motors for making unsafe cars.

I like Nader. I think he might have made a good president. It would have been interesting to see how things played out in such a fantasy.


TS

Friday, July 30, 2010

Whiskeytown



My favorite 90s band.


TS

Lucinda and Willie


Two legends knocking out one beautiful song!


TS

The Traditional Country Blues


I never cared for his dad's music, but Grampa was sensational. Young Hank III is carrying roots country to the summit. Hank would be proud of the kid's voice and phrasing, a charismatic meld like his own.



TS

Thursday, July 29, 2010

The Extremes of Self

I've been in the middle of a move and occupied for the past couple of days with much else besides my current writing projects. I've moved into a new building, or rather an old building that has been remodeled. My computer problems persist and will likely continue to hassle me until I can find a way to secure a new hard drive, so I'm starting this post on my laptop. If something happens I'll finish it up later on a borrowed computer somewhere.

Moving is a drag, of course. After an early rush of moving around the country for various reasons, such as work and a general restlessness of youth that seems to be a part of every young person's experience, I settled into a routine in Portland. I lived in one apartment for 12 years. I had an amazing deal on a one bedroom in Northwest Portland, where most rents went through the ceiling as the neighborhood evolved from a slacker/hippie haven into a gentrified shopping mall.

I had a nice landlord who appreciated the fact that I lived there so long and always paid my rent on time. A couple of tenants living there when I moved in in 1989 are still there. They feel the same way I felt about the place. It really was the best deal in the neighborhood by 2001 when I moved out shortly after 9/11. I would have stayed but I'd had a nervous breakdown and couldn't work and I couldn't find the right kind of help. I'm not even sure I knew I needed help either, which is fairly common among the mentally disturbed when they do not see the most common realities in the same light as those around them. I'd fallen into a deep depression without really understanding what was happening to me.

The best way to describe the effects of my illness is to make a list. I lost interest in everything. I became reclusive, which is in my nature to begin with, but this time I went deep under cover. I developed an irrationality about many things. I lost three jobs in three months. I couldn't string a spoken sentence together without garbling it, and then, strangely, I took to practicing my speech in public before it was my turn to talk. In other words I started talking to myself. A few rows broke out over my rudeness and impetuosity, which again are aspects of my nature, but at that time I had taken things to the extreme, or rather something had caused me to lose control.

I must be very careful how I say this. I would hate for people to misunderstand. I am better now than I was five or six years ago. I had until then never given suicide much thought. I seemed to skip over the feeling in my youth, a common age--along with the very old--for certain personality types to more frequently think about and act out suicide. I could never understand the drama that always seemed to play out among my high school friends, for instance. I never understood the cliques and the intrigue that sprouted in the hallways and the personal vendettas and jealousies that flared up all around me. The whispering conspiracies. I would hear fragments of conversation that astounded me, rumors, supposed secrets and sorties of accusations and counter accusations. I'd suddenly see a girl crying and I'd think, what the hell is that all about? She was fine a second ago. Thus the niche-age for suicides, when the world is a passion play.

At age 48 I began to obsess about suicide. Was I having a second go at youth or what? I realized that I'd known several people who had committed suicide slowly, or in several cases rapidly, by drinking too much. They were powerless to stop drinking, to the point that it appeared they simply did not care if they lived or died. My brother Lyle seems to have gone that route, dying an alcoholic in an Alaska rooming house, cut off from his sons and our mother. And I had an uncle who overdosed, likely on purpose, on opiates. And I often wonder about the circumstances of my father's death. I knew he had mental problems, for he had been committed for a time years before I was born. He was a drinker. Could he have drove deliberately off Highway 20 and into a deep ravine? Had he quit on life in an instant of remorse?

Among these types there is no ultimate reckoning in other words, no apparent struggle with the "demon booze." No desire to quit, or so it appears.

I'd seen yet other types battle the bottle. They had a fundamental remorse that clung to their every movement. When I was a bartender I could see them at the bar in the middle of the struggle. Should I have another? Yes? No! Yes! No... It played out like an existential exercise. Am I a drinker? Am I man enough for this? Depending on the fellow's mood his remorse might win one day while the exuberance attached to drinking became irresistible the next.

I had become like the man I've just described. I didn't want to crash into the wall, or into the ravine, with the full force of my habit. I wanted to live, yet I could find the darkness at will. I could go deep within the sorrow of a drunken spree and stay there all night, or I could get happy, fill the bar with my laughter and, though shy, even tell a story to a group of pals. That was my nature, my personality.

Then I fell apart. Was it the drinking? Or did I have an awakening? The suicidal thoughts crashed through my defenses all at once. I had become something other. I wasn't who I believed I was and I realized I had come to mid-life without knowing. Without knowing.

Isn't that something? It was one muthafukin' mid-life crisis my friends. It was brutal. So far I have survived.



TS

Monday, July 26, 2010

from Alt-Everything



Ruler/Dependent Archetypes in 20th Century Imperialism

Prior to the outbreak of World War I the exploitative conditions for Imperialism were carefully guarded by the powers that controlled Europe, until emerging nationalist movements in the Hapsburg and Ottoman Empires disrupted the equilibrium of the Austrian-Hungary and Istanbul regimes. The subsequent imbalance contributed to the evolving nature of ruler/dependent relationships. Monarchical methods of governing through kin and patronage were dying, as nationalistic ideals deflated centuries-old paradigms of human interaction. Societal pressures, sparked by revolutionary political ideas, made the drift to egalitarianism unavoidable, and would by the mid-twentieth- century, overtake England and France.

The mutual dependency of the Empires and their subjects began to erode as Hapsburg and Ottoman expired. The pretenses of the ruling class then turned buffoonish and unreal as Imperialists and their subjects began to lose traction. Imperialists developed crises of consciousness as the masses lost dependency. Imperialists and their subjects saw the falsehood of socioeconomic and political deference within the old system. Many of the old tenets of those relationships were eroding. The resultant imbroglio of the European psyche gave war impetus within idealized conceptualizations of the form and meaning of freedom before the rise of fascism.

To understand the broader implications of the ruler/dependent relationship and the process of decolonization in the history of the European twentieth century, one may turn to Burmese Days, George Orwell’s 1934 novel depicting the erosion of British Imperialism in Southeast Asia. It is important to look at stories such as Orwell’s to appreciate how the impact of Imperialism must ultimately be reduced to moral tales about individuals. In Orwell’s novel, individuals become the barometer of the meaning of the author’s political world view, which matters less than the meaning of his characters’ lives in the political landscape of the colony. In this sense, Burmese Days is a story about the erosion of the old ruler/dependent relationships among the novel’s corrupt colonial administrators, their businessmen friends, and the locals.

The novel is simple and compelling. Its characters are rendered archetypal. The protagonist is a lonely, white British timber merchant named James Flory. The thirty-five year old Flory despises the racism of his white acquaintances while living in a town sparsely populated with Englishmen. His best friend is a native local doctor whose deference to white men embarrasses Flory. His girlfriend is a local whore, whom Flory abuses. Early in the story, the mostly older and less culturally sensitive members of the town’s European Club are disappointed to hear that they must select one local to join the Club. The order has come from London and is obvious tokenism. Nonetheless, Flory’s doctor friend and another native, the highest ranking local magistrate in the community, plot to win the position. In the meantime, an attractive niece of one of the European Club’s members arrives in Burma and Flory falls for her. His love for her is idealized, as she is no more sensitive to the plight of the locals than her uncle or the other racists in the town. Flory loses track of his moral self in pursuit of her. He loses the girl, his friend is ruined by the political gamesmanship of his rival for the coveted club membership, and Flory kills himself.

Obvious metaphors abound in the archetypal rendering of the novel’s characters to suit Orwell’s model of Imperialism. Flory, like a disgruntled abolitionist in the American Revolution, loathes the injustice he sees everywhere around him. Yet he is powerless to make a difference within the constructs of the political situation that has him tethered to the old ruler/dependent paradigm. He is bothered by his doctor friend’s sycophantic acceptance of whites and London’s politics, but Flory is incapable of changing the man’s world view. The doctor foolishly collaborates with the spirit of Imperialism, hoping to gain favor with the powerful men who rule his people. Later in the century, a man with a similar moral compass would have fit in comfortably at Vichy.

Flory loathes himself for the treatment he deals his whore and he soothes his rancor by tipping her well. The gender politics occurring in the novel are profound, as the girl returns again and again to take the money. She is utterly dependent on Flory’s cash.

The novel’s love story is a further entanglement of idealism and reality for the protagonist. In this case, Flory’s love interest is neither as bright nor as sensitive as he believes. Yet, his loneliness won’t allow him to see her as one of the despised enemies he has constructed in his view of Imperialism. His flawed view of her is his own fault and indicative of how human frailty can repeatedly derail idealism, because Flory’s opinions of his countrymen matter little to them or to the politics of his nation. As a white man in Burma, the ruler/dependent paradigm has clearly marked his position and understanding of himself, even if he is unwilling to accept its ramifications.

With the onset of the love story, the selflessness that has given his existence a comprehensible form is destroyed. His love interest’s ultimate rejection matters to him because he hasn’t really understood what she represents in the political world he has created inside his head. Flory is convinced her politics have no significance, but for her they do. She is appalled by his love and acceptance of the mores and culture of the Burmese. He is blind to the individual power, or ego, she holds as the niece of an important Imperialist. She has learned her uncle’s politics and accepts them as the complete truth. She looks in horror at Flory, whom she equates with the savage locals.

Two aspects of the ruler/dependent formulation then clash in the love relationship. First, the niece is dependent on her uncle’s world view and is inoculated against transcending it. Second, Flory is, without recognition, dependent on the Imperialist in the young woman’s social conditioning, just as his friend and whore are dependent on him. His inability to see as much leads to tragedy, a kind of war upon himself that culminates with his suicide. In the end, he has not done as well psychologically as the other characters in the novel in coping with the erosion of the ruler/dependent paradigm.

Burmese Days is a bus stop along the road leading to the end of British Imperialism. Its psychological sketches track the erosion of the ruler/dependent relationship in a very short time frame, which amounts to a glimpse of the degradation implicit in Imperialism from Orwell’s perspective. The end of the novel places the individuals who were dependent on Flory in new circumstances, wherein they lose the benefit of their former dependency. Flory’s doctor friend is forced to take a lesser post and work long hours to survive after losing the coveted position in the European Club. The whore rues not saving more of Flory’s money, for her looks are fading and she is losing her desirability. Flory’s love interest turns her amour to a fellow Imperialist from the Club.

And the highest ranking local magistrate who managed to join the European Club over the loud protests of its members? So thorough were his political machinations, and so ruthless were his applied desires for status and power, that in the decolonization period after World War II on through today, he would have made a perfect dictator. Orwell the visionary even made him as fat and disgusting as a cartoon dictator—the perfect archetype.


TS

Dear Mr. President












One presumes you had access to or knew all along about the trove of Afghanistan War documentation that has surfaced via WikiLeaks and Julian Assange. Yet you persisted in your quest to expand the war. At what point in your ascendancy did you make this pact with the corporate hooligans who must have told you to jump aboard the kill machine or be banished? Was it during your first campaign in the Illinois legislature? Or your run to the U.S. Senate? Or did your sudden dash past Clinton in the primaries happen precisely because you took the payoff --"give us permanent war and you get another day in the sun?"

President Obama, you are hope(less). The people were tired of dirty tricks and denial and the imperialist war machine when they voted you in over John McCain. And they remain tired of it. And all you can do is play the game that we were inspired to believe you might help finish off--the old game of Imperial Monopoly. It did not take you long to expose yourself as a fraud, Mr. President. Knowing this makes me sad.

Yours truly,

TS

Diane Wakoski

I was studying poetry with Nancy Steele at Oregon when she turned me on to Diane Wakoski and this hilarious poem, which I'm not sure is supposed to be intentionally funny. Maybe it's just funny to my neanderthalian instincts, or maybe Wakoski is a genius. Either way...


from Dancing on the Grave of a Son of a Bitch


God damn it,
at last I am going to dance on your grave,
old man;
you’ve stepped on my shadow once too often,
you’ve been unfaithful to me with other women,
women so cheap and insipid it psychs me out to think I might
ever
be put
in the same category with them;
you’ve left me alone so often that I might as well have been
a homesteader in Alaska
these past years;
and you’ve left me, thrown me out of your life
often enough
that I might as well be a newspaper,
differently discarded each day.
Now you’re gone for good
and I don’t know why
but your leaving actually made me as miserable
as an earthworm with no
earth,
but now I’ve crawled out of the ground where you stomped me
and I gradually stand taller and taller each
day.

(read the rest of the poem at Poetry Foundation)


TS

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Chasse

He

did

not

deserve

this.

Do

not

forget.

His

crime

was

pissing

in

the

street.

His

crime

was

madness.

Others'

madness

killed

him.

He

did

not

deserve

this.

He

did

not

deserve

to

die

for

pissing

in

the

street

or

being

mad.



TS

Callahan

I was saddened this morning to hear that the cartoonist John Callahan has passed away. The extraordinarily gifted writer, cartoonist, musician leaves indelible memories behind. He lived courageously with the effects of his paralysis and accomplished much. I served him many cups of tea over the years and listened raptly to his stories. John had been close to death before in the last decade, but you wanted to believe it wouldn't happen this soon. This is a fucked up day, to be blunt.

The publication of the above cartoon created much controversy, as did a lot of his other work. I was particularly amused by the outraged and clueless "humanists" who castigated him for "making fun" of quadriplegics without knowing the artist himself was bound to a wheel chair. The moral authority they presumed to have always looked ridiculous after the fact, a circumstance John relished.

What more can you say? A great artist is gone. He was 60.


TS

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Sam Hamill

Short History of Poets Against War

"In late January 2003, in response to an invitation to a symposium by Laura Bush to celebrate 'Poetry and the American Voice,' Sam Hamill declined; a longtime pacifist, he could not in good faith visit the White House following the recent news of George W. Bush's plan for a unilateral "Shock and Awe" attack on Iraq. Instead, he asked about 50 fellow poets to "reconstitute a Poets Against the War movement like the one organized to speak out against the war in Vietnam...to speak up for the conscience of our country and lend your names to our petition against this war” by submitting poems of protest that he would send to the White House. When 1,500 poets responded within four days, this web site was created as a means of handling the enormous, unexpected response.

Since then, the 'accidental groundswell' grew to include poets from around the world. There are presently more than 20,000 poems in this, the largest poetry anthology ever published. Poems from Poets Against War have been presented in person, by invitation, to several representatives of the U.S. Congress; many of them have since been introduced into the Congressional Record."

I am proud to say I gave Sam and his crew my two-cents worth, though we all know poets don't count for shit among the "Masters of War."


i met a woman yesterday

who informed
me "there will
always be war"

who informed me
"they are all
bad people"

who grew angry
at my protestations
and walked away

who did not want
to hear me or see me
or make love

who made me see
we are chained to
this brutal thing


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


About My Reserves

I'm driving along an empty highway
I feel good about it
No enemy
No impediments
My moment of Dada

I'm filling my tank with a blank history
I feel the empty space
No Baghdad
No poor people
Crying for Mama

I'm drilling my own in antiquity
I feel my own face
No inertia
No soldiering for
The artiste democratica

I'm making my peace with tragedy
I feel its etched traces
No gangstas
No rapping for
Corporate America

I'm digging my quest for levity
I feel comfortable with my race
No discontentment
No forgetting my
Past or future place

I'm drinking with the young progeny
I feel their drunken disgrace
No resentment
No denying
Them this awakening taste


TS