Thursday, August 31, 2006

 

Through the Painful Silence or What Did I Call This Monster?

Sometimes
I am a nothing.
Sometimes
I am as much as a
piece of shit.
Sometimes
I am 220 pounds of ugly.
Sometimes
I want to stop breathing.
Sometimes
I want to go home.
But I don't get to go home.
I have no home.
Sometimes
my boundaries are torn down
by silent tornado winds
who in dreams
show me they have shoved
tons of debris through my soul
and laugh at my agony...
Laughter and silence.
Sometimes
I am the tree
with record albums and hay
shoved through it trunks.
Sometimes
I am a tree
filled with millions of nails,
termites and woodpeckers.
Sometimes
my boundaries are gone.
Sometimes
the fence posts
and wooden slats
are thrown about
by silent hurricanes
that I try to ignore
because I tire of the hurt.
Sometimes
I want to smoke cigars at sweats
where there are no fires
no stones
no willow branches
bent by hands and thighs.
Sometimes
I want to lay in the meadow
of a hill
and pretend...
Sometimes
everything hurts.
and Not being able to go home
hurts
and breathing
hurts
and I don't have a home hurts
and 40+ more years of hurt...
Sometimes
the hurt
is just on the otherside
of the fence
and he walks the fence with me
and I hear him
because he carries a stick
and lets it smack
between the slats
and he walks the fenceline with me
just on the other side
until there is no more fence.
Sometimes
I want to be free
but I don't know how...
hurt is my shadow
and the sun is high.
Sometimes
I know tomorrow is another day
and I just might wake up
and the fence will be there
and maybe I'll walk away from it for a while
until I come full circle
and find myself on the other side.
Sometimes
I can pretend it's not there.
Sometimes
I feel good.
Sometimes
I laugh.
Sometimes
I dance.
Sometimes
all I want to do
is breathe.
Sometimes...
all I want to do
...


is cry

 

Weird - Root - Word

I've been awake since about 11. I got maybe 3 and a half or 4 hours sleep. It's just me and you in this space at the moment.

I feel really weird this morning.

I feel like running away into the forest near some beautiful stream. Laying myself down amongst the huckleberry bushes, ferns, and tall trees. Near a stream and a trail. Then let myself sink into the earth. Eagles and ravens could pick at my flesh, eat me with bits of salmon. Bears munching on berries to take what's left to fatten themselves up for their long winter nap.

I suddenly don't feel comfortable in my own body, my own life.

Maybe it's because I haven't gotten enough sleep? Maybe this is a "nightmare light" feeling and my spirit is still partially asleep, caught between the world of waking and bad dreams.

"Weird" comes from the same root word as "word." Maybe even "world."

It's 2:30 in the morning. In half an hour I'll be on my bike and heading to work. Gotta keep that routine going. Keep me straight. Maybe I will all straighten out during my work day.

Weird, work, world, word...

I want to cry. I want to ride my bike or go for a walk without having the fear of being harassed by a cop. I want to stretch my neck, arch my back, turn my head from side to side. I want my hands to loosen up in free flowing grace like sea weed in the waves of the ocean. I want to laugh at my rediculousness. I want to laugh at myself.

Today, I may miss my show, but I still want to go to the station and visit at least.

I have awoken from nightmares I have long since forgotten. Putting up boundaries between my waking self and the fear and pain.

I have no idea what is going on in my heart and mind right now. My waking self says just stick with the routine. Do what I need to do. I listen. But somewhere deep down inside, I have suddenly become uncomfortable. I don't know what is going on. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe I'm just being rediculous.

I feel like something has been broken in me or maybe just wounded, but hard. Maybe when I wake up tomorrow it will all be different. I feel somewhat emptied. Like my soul has cotton mouth but it can't moisten back up. I feel kind of numb. I don't want to be numb. I'd rather feel pain than be numb.

If you haven't noticed, I'm just writing what is in my head at the moment.

I'm working on my second cup of coffee from my favorite cup, the one with Botticelli's "Venus."

Maybe I should write about the sounds. The noises outside, after I awoke, seemed so much louder. Train horns that never bothered my rest before seemed to grate on me like the car horn did yesterday afternoon when I attempted a nap.

Felicia, the other day when we walked out on the bridge, talked of the fish we saw in the river one day, that popped up right in our shadows as we prayed from my offering spot. You know, I don't think I've called her since I last saw her on Sunday. I feel like a piece of shit, now. Not that I didn't to begin with.

Something in me just feels weird, wrong, word...

Words are tools I use to create ideas in the world. To give myself and others education. To see patterns of the world and pray for change.

I'm just rambling now, but it seems like the right thing to do...

Do you like garlic? I Love garlic! Garlic makes me happy!

I wonder if my history has caught up to me? You know, how I've been telling you about seeing my history in this area for a year or two, now, recently mentioning it coming near the present. Does any of this mean anything? I doubt it. Tomorrow, I'll wake up, get ready for work or to go get my check. I've heard that the schedule can change from day to day and if work is actually thinking of having me run the Hillsboro route on Fridays and Saturdays, maybe they'll pencil me in against my will and I'll be working 6 days in a row. I don't think so, though, because they must be paying the staffing agency at least $20 an hour for me. (Staffing agency=pimp).

Maybe I'm just trying to gather waking energy to get me through the day?

Either way, I feel like something is wrong in me now. Wrong, write, word, work, world...weird.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

 

...Just Throw Money!

The urge to drop by Rich's for a few smokes was just too much. I tried to fight it. Honest! But all the signs gave the go ahead...almost insisted.

Walking in, I noticed some things never change. There is the cigar store clown in front of me and the wooden "skin" to the left. Porn is still in front of the door to the humidor which is still locked for my safety.

Mr. Salesman opened the door for me and I grab three bundled prayers with my own hands, an act both illegal and dangerous according to the state.

I light up and head North and East on foot and journey across the Burnside Bridge. I walk while my cigar runs. I get to the worlds tiniest canyon and make my offerings while watching two lines of geese head South along the westide wall of our river, the life blood of our mother. I make my usual three offerings and pray.

When finished, I pack it up and enjoy the beauty of the river when suddenly I'm hit under my right breast next to my bag and I know someone driving by threw something at me. I see a beat up car that looks like an ancient Corolla. A small group of what I assume to be young men were riding inside.

My anger wanted me to rage, but what's the use. I wish their karma on them, then try to take it back. I turn and continue my journey.

I realize that what they probably threw was money. I pause, shake my bag, and a nickel falls to the sidewalk so far above our river. I carefully pick it up knowing that sometimes assholes like to heat up coins so the homeless will burn themselves. Then the story comes to me, and I could be wrong...

Young men proving allegations of bravery. Showing off for their friends and hoping for acceptance. Young men with little direction attempting to prove bravery by random acts of minor drive-by cruelty. They assumed I was homeless. They attack those who are perceived as weaker using acts of minor violence that are perceived as brave and humorous, but are nothing but chickenshit and cruel. You know, kind of like a soldier.

Bravery. Bravery? Not brave enough to talk to me.

I imagined things like catching up to the car and yanking the little shit out by his hair, but really, why give my energy to something I can do nothing about?

I smile at the nickel and thumb flip it into our river in a prayer to clean up that energy. I remember the prayers I made of money dropping on me from out of the sky and think: "I didn't mean like that." I laugh at the absurdity of it all.

I put so little thought into this I almost forgot to write this story.

 

Tuesday Night non-Fights

Rhonda and I participated in the weekly vigil in front of the recruiting center by Lloyd Center on Broadway. We were on time, and everyone else was late. It made us kind of nervous because we thought we'd be the only ones there. Final turn out was about seven.

When we first got there, I pointed my sign at them, the "Killing is Wrong" sign. I had the "Abeer Qassim al-Janabi" sign pointed at them as well. They started by laughing at us, and I tapped my "Killing is Wrong" sign and smiled big at them. They didn't laugh at us for long, they disappeared into the building.

Later I handed a copy of my poem "Complicity in the Form of Silence" to the African American recruiter. I really like talking with that guy. I seem to be able to get a toe hold on his conscience, but not much more. A little may be enough, who knows. He glanced at the poem and I assume it has been thrown away or is currently being attached bo my FBI file. Gotta protect the wealthy and the status quo from people like us who challenge that false belief.

Rhonda came up to me later and mentioned that we didn't get as many honks and signs of support until I showed up there holding my signs and flipping peace signs with a big grin on my face to all the passers by. I don't know if I believe that, but we are getting a lot of signs of support from people.

Another factor that may play into the signs of support is that "Mr. Peace" is no longer coming. He, to my understanding, was quite confrontational to the recruiters and sometimes yelled at them...peacefully, of course.

I look at it like this: Many of my friends have been vets, many of them Vietnam Vets. All of my friends, at least, had a change of heart about this war bullshit. Many have even educated themselves about what the fuck is going on in the field of death making. These guys just might be my future friends and may turn their backs on this bullshit militarism and speak out against it. Some of the most effective anti-recruiters are those who have been there. They know what it is like and they know the lifetime consequences.

During the vigil, I screamed at a few passers-by who flipped us off and gave us the thumbs down to "SIGN UP!" I did this once in front of the Black recruiter. Afterward, Rhonda joked with him, telling him that I'm trying to get them more recruits in those who flip us off. "Never support a war you're not willing to take up arms for and fight yourself," I told him a buddy of mine told me. He certainly agreed with that.

As we were packing up, I told the recruiter who had told me that, and completed the saying with "...because you are asking others to do your killing for you." I told him the man was a Vietnam Vet and killed a lot of people. "They come to him every night, he told me. That is why he only gets about 3 hours sleep a night." He had a recruit hanging out with him. I didn't even realize what I had said until afterwards. If that doesn't make him or any recruit a little nervous about killing, I'm not sure what will.

Maybe we'll see you next Tuesday, eh?

 

More Later

I have a few good stories to share with you when I get home from work, but right now I'm ready to go and have five minutes left to make some sort of note to anyone who is reading.

Well...Good morning!

We vigiled last night and I had an interesting experience on the Burnside Bridge I'll share with you all later.

Life is good! Life is challenging! I have to face many challenges everyday, and I'm sure all of you have to face many challenges throughout the day and you all still try to do the work to change the world for the better...Thank you All.

To Rhonda, I Love you! You are so...Loving of the people. A Revolutionary. Beautiful, compassionate, intelligent, kind, a good mother, funny, etc...Let's dance together soon!

Sunday, August 27, 2006

 

...something...

I feel like I'm missing something or forgetting something.

I reach into my pockets, and it's not there.
There are pens, lighters, wallet, tobacco, lint...
Where is it?
I know I left it somewhere.
Maybe I never had it?

History!
History it is!
I keep going over my personal history.
I keep thinking of my relationship in this world
through the eyes of centuries of history,
and there we are,
Felicia and I
on the Burnside Bridge
making offerings from the Northside
right at
the gap
across forever
where cars leap across
the tiniest canyon
busses make the world shake.
We watch boats
pass by
and ripples in the water
talk of times...

We walked across the bridge
many a time.
Many times.
Rain, shine,
coming in from Heidi's
watching eagles fly through downtown
and it is getting closer to now
and does it mean anything
or nothing at all.

I feel like I'm missing something,
or forgot something.
I can't read books
nothing keeps my interest.
I have a hard time reading beyond half an article.

But I'm here
and life is beautiful
and I have been blessed beyond all realities.
I haven't forgotten that.
I'm not missing that.

Behind a curtain
in a pitch black room
that something is there
for me to use.
A gift in the silence
the stagnant smell of incense and smudge
the smell of the fire from yesterday.
In my imagination
it all works out.
And here we are.

My review of history
is coming to the present
and what the hell does that mean
if anything.

Someday...
someday, my friends...
we're gonna change everything
and we're all gonna dance
laugh
and have a
good time.

Don't forget
to bring pie.
Let's make sure that "something"
is never missing!

 

Half and Half: Boy It's Hot!

I'm a half and half.
Half Indian, Half white,
half human, half spirit,
half car, half bicycle,

"I'm sweatin'" he'd say
when asked how he was doing.
It was a hot one.
Spirits know what we need.
What did we need in there?
What did I need?

I like half and half in my coffee.
Half and half and honey.
Killed a bumble bee on Tuesday,
a little later,
a yellow jacked reminded me of repsect.
The little creature stung me on the chest
and I still feel it six days later.
I was in his home
and he was defending it.
It was just a sting to me
his whole life and the life of his colony
to him.
I respect that.
I don't park my bike there anymore.
I prayed for them.

Boy it's hot in here.
I cover my feet with a towel
to keep them from catching fire
but
Boy it's hot in here.

Half human, Half spirit.
I don't want my friend to leave.
I want her to stay.
But I know she'll go home soon.
I don't want her to go.
She'll be going home soon.
FUCK!
The world needs more people like her.
But who am I to keep her here.
Greedy fucking bastard that I am.

He chastises a man
on the other side of the door
for breaking the rules
the rules
which are never rules.
Rules, which I've been taught
are not written in stone.
But in here,
the energy across the door
screams that they are
and the tension makes me uncomfortable,
unwelcome.

"Halfbreed! How I Love to hate the word!"

Military military everywhere.
After having participated
in one of the meanest organizations
on earth,
those from the military
at the ceremony
seemed to be the nicest,
kindest,
gentlest,
most humble of folks.
Those that I expected to be that way
weren't.
Did I tell you
spider descended
from the ribs
into the womb
where we were all reborn?

Alone with the stars
in a white vinyl chair.
How did I get here?
Why am I here?
What did I get from this?

Although it is not supposed to be a
comfortable experience,
it was uncomfortable
in ways I didn't expect.
Like walking by a house
hearing a child screaming inside
and you're not quit sure
if they're being abused
or amused,
and what can you do?

But damn,
the watermelon and chicken were good!
And picking berries and plums with Rhonda
was good.
And getting the nods
on the way home
trying to keep each other awake
as Rhonda did some good
late night driving
was good.
And so much more was good!

And sometime later
we were finally asleep
and dreaming
and wondering
just what happened.

Time will tell.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

 

Work

Work is going well. I'm off of graveyard now. Man is that ever nice. I didn't realize how much that would take out of me until I did it.

I've been riding around with other drivers. One, I knew his younger brother growing up. Good soul, but he hung out with a crazy crowd at the time. It was good hanging with his older brother for three days.

Yesterday, I rode along with a driver I was just not too sure about. He ran a couple of red lights, ran a couple of easily stoppable yellows, talked a lot on his cell phone, I saved him from making a couple of mistakes, and I had to let him know traffic was stopping at one point. For the first time since I rode with Heidi's daughter driving, I closed my eyes many a time just to keep from panicking. I liked the route, though, and am thinking of encouraging the boss folks to get me that one regularly.

Driving, I don't have to work in the warehouse or fuel my own truck, something which I had to do with the other produce companies I worked for. That, and so much more.

"This is the graviest job I've ever had," the first driver I went out with told me many times.

Scheduling is a bit tough at the moment as I don't have a set one, yet. But at least it will be days.

 

It's just a game?

At center court, Eugene anticipated the start of the basketball game with the excitement, maybe more, of all the fans. He had the best seat in the house, front row, center court.

His body was tense and ready for the ball to be tossed into the air by the referee.

On the sidelines were the cheerleaders in their red and white uniforms. They were beautiful dark skinned Indian women. They seemed more like warriors than sex kittens like all the other cheerleadrs. "Go Native! Kill Whitey! Go Native! Kill Whitey!" they cheered and cheered.

The tension was so thick in the air as all the fans waited for the start of the game!

On one side of the brown center court line on the wooden floor were Indians with dark faces and long hair flying loose. Uniforms of red and white. On the other side, toe headed white guys with their hair cut short and tight and wearing beige uniforms.

The crowd started to almost scream as the referee in his black and white striped shirt stepped between the two groups of young men facing each other off. In his right hand he held the ball like a crystal ball between the two teams and it was as if they were going to read the future in the brown/orange orb somewhere between its black longitudinal lines. With his free hand he placed the whistle between his lips.

"GO NATIVE! KILL WHITEY!"

Then, it was all in slow motion. The referee's right hand dipped the ball down slightly, his lungs filled with air to blow the whistle for the beginning of the game. Up his hand went, and the long drone of the whistle announced the start of the game.

The white guys slowly dipped to jump for the ball as the Indians reached into their shorts and pulled out pistols which they started to aim.

But Eugene's focus was suddenly on the ball, watching it spin in slow motion as it reached for the stars, and he could see none of the action as gunshots reported repeatedly...

Then there was a voice yelling out over the speakers in the arena, above the roaring of the crowd and the cheer of the Indian women. The voice was becoming soft and faint, but the words were perfectly clear...

"THE INDIANS HAVE WON! THE INDIANS HAVE WON!"


Eugene woke slowly to the sound of a cheering crowd. The cobwebs cleared from his mind as his soul made the transition from dream world to physical world. He realized he had fallen asleep on the couch while watching TV and a baskeball game was just finishing to the roar of the crowd. He fumbled for the remote and turned the damned thing off.

"Basketball? I hate basketball," Eugene spoke outloud as he sat up.

"And why do I miss all the good parts in my dreams?"


"Cynthia," Eugene said to get the attention of his friend as she prepared to do her cable access "Native Healing" show.

"Hey!" she said and gave her friend a hug.

"Hey," Eugene greeted. "I know you only have a minute or two before your show but I had the wildest dream last night..."

"You didn't have another one of your "Kill Whitey" dreams did you?"

Eugene's eyes started dashing around, embarassed and exposed to his friend. His head hung down a little... "um..." [pause] "...yes," he almost whispered.

Cynthia cupped his head in her hands and looked him in the eyes. "What are your friends going to think?" she teased.

"Hey," Eugene said, pulling his head away from her hands and teasing back. "Some of my best friends are white!"

Cynthia laughed.

Jim, Eugene's producer for "Native Nations" stepped up behind him and greeted him with a pat on the shoulder. Jim, an older white man, looked something like Custer's older and much wiser brother. "How's it going you two?" he said from beneath his thick mustache.

"Eugene was just telling me about a dream he had last night," Cynthia explained.

"Was it a "Kill Whitey" dream?" Jim asked. There was an all knowing pause. Jim shook his head and laughed. "You're scaring me, Eugene," Jim teased.

"Hey! It wasn't me doing the killing. I was getting to watch. But I never get to see any of the action."

Cynthia walked to the studio where she was about to start her show, shaking her head and giggling.

"Have any guests?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," Eugene said. "A Native vet from WWII. He's gonna talk about all the white people he killed in Germany."

"Really?"

"No. But it sounds good, doesn't it.

"Actually, we have Rick Bartow coming down with some of his art. We're going to discuss art, politics, and Revolution."

"You really have Rick Bartow coming down? How'd you manage that?"

"Kidnapped him, drugged him, and stuck him in the trunk of my car."

"You don't have a car."

"Oh, yeah."

 

Wordsmith

What if a word could save the world?
Connected with pain, sorrow, grief,
Love, pleasure, joy...

I reached into my pocket,
pulled out an old polished stone
and a lucky penny...

What does saving the world mean?

Another pocket,
wallet, tobacco, and down in the lint
way down at the bottom...

What if a word could save the world?
There isn't any, but it is a question
that doesn't need to be answered...

Other pocket,
pens, lighters, keys,
words...

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

 

"...working for the same system..."

Vigil, vigil...

Rhonda and I participated in the vigil last night in front of the recruiting center on Broadway. We had some interesting conversations with the recruiters.

First, there were a good handful of people there. One of them hadn't been in a while, Johnny, and he was back. A man from Veterans for Peace, Grant, was there with a great big flag. Deva and Elaine were there as usual, as well as a few other familiar faces.

I held two signs: "Killing is Wrong" and "In Memory of Abeer Qassim al-Janabi, 14-years-old."

Rhonda had her Erin Watada quote sign and "Ask your recruiter about Stop Loss..."

A couple of recruiters came out and I would hold my signs in their direction. One is a young Black man. He told Rhonda that they should have been at some fair they had because they signed up some 100 guys. She told him that she has a job and other things to think about but if she had the time, she would have been.

I asked the man if he knew the name of the little girl I was holding up. He said no. So I explained to both recruiters the story of Abeer and how she was raped and murdered by his colleagues, whom I named. They claimed it was an isolated incident (which it is not). They felt no empathy for the little girl and her family murdered by their colleagues.

I mentioned to the black man that he works for the same system that enslaved his people, allowed lynchings of his people in the South, wiped out 98% of Rhonda's and my people and a few other things before I was distracted. This information seemed to visibly move him, but who really knows. The rape of a 14-year-old Iraqi girl meant nothing to any of them. I also wanted to mention how this system murdered Kendra James for fleeing a traffic stop; James Jahar Perez for failure to use a turn signal; the Tuskogee experiment; segragation; etc. By then he was already inside, so I didn't get a chance to say those things to him.

All in all, it was a good turn out and we got lots of support from pedestrians and drivers by.

Sooner or later we'll all bring an end to war. It is just too offensive of a crime not to stop.

Monday, August 21, 2006

 

I Don't Think I Can Say It Better

http://deathandconscience.blogspot.com/

My spirit wife and I went huckleberry picking over the weekend. I just read her beautiful commentary about the experience on her blog, and I don't think I can do it justice.

On the way there, I was exhausted from virtually no sleep...OK...absolutely no sleep. In a way, this is a good way to be in such a place. It makes you a little closer to the spirit world. That was nice.

As we headed toward Indian Heaven, Rhonda suggested we do berry recon, and we found it quite delightul as we traversed through the forest and found a little trail with random acts of the fruit everywhere to be shared with the world.

We eventually moved on after a few pounds were picked, but not after a blood sacrifice first. Rhonda got a huge gouge in her right ankle about the size of a nickel. I got a long scrape on my left shin. We left a piece of ourselves with the plants and the spirits of the place.

We wound up at Trout Lake, and I was still quite delerious. We ate a haburger at the little cafe connected to the gas station and espresso bar. I think its name has Bear in it. Good burgers.

We then camped by Trout Lake creek a ways up and basked in wonderful woodsmoke, starlight, roaring creek. Rhonda got a little cold which closed up her throat a few times during the night.

We went to the Sawtooth Berry Feilds where one side is set aside for Indians and the other for non-Indians. This done by a hand shake and is still at least somewhat honored.

Before we left, a young Indian trio, two young women and one young man were walking by with their little dachshund, Mitzy. The young man and I introduced ourselves to each other. He asked if I had a cigarette. I said no, but I have a cigar. "Can I have it?" he asked. So I dug it out and gave it to him.

Rhonda, you are so beautiful and wonderful and I Love you! I'm not doing the story justice, but I must tell all you who read this thing, since starting graveyard hell, this was the first time I actually felt rested.

I Love you, Rhonda.

 

What the FUCK!?

OK, new job. Job good. Working good. Making money, good! Why the fuck am I going through all this fucking bullshit around this job for.

I was originally told that I would probably work in the warehouse on the graveyard shift for one week. One week passed and no sign of being sent out on the road. I start hinting and finally get my driver packet to fill out half way through the second week.

I fill out and talk with the man on Saturday morning, thinking I'll start going out on Monday with a driver for training. NOPE! I'm told to come back in on Sunday for another graveyard day...WEEEEE! I go in on Sunday to be told that I didn't have to come in because they want me to start going out with a driver. I ask to go home, they tell me no. I'm told I start on Wednesday. Then another boss tells me Tuesday. Then again it's Wednesday. This went back and forth until I found out I go out with another driver tomorrow (Tuesday) morning for sure.

Graveyard has been fucking hell on my system. I didn't think it would be as hard as it turned out to be. It is fucking tough. I don't like it. I'm tired all the time and can't sleep well.

So, I have my first paycheck. I go start a savings at a bank, but because my staffing agency banks with some obscure bank, they will hold it for up to "7 business days" before they will allow me to have any of my fucking money. My money. My money that I earned working a shift that has been absolute hell while getting the run around from my employer.

The nearest branch of the bank the check is drawn upon is in bum fuck Beaverton. I'm too exhasted to spend an hour and fifteen minutes one way to cash my fucking check. Besides, I have no money to ride the fucking bus thinking, like an idiot, that it would be easy to cash my fucking hard earned check with MY FUCKING MONEY in it by starting a fucking savings account. FUCK NO!

I go to a check cashing place where I am charged $20 bucks to cash it. $20 FUCKING BUCKS! My hard earned fucking money I have to spend to cash my fucking check!

I've been praying hard today that my job will start running smothly with no run arounds in the best way possible. I've been praying that I will be able to cash my check with my hard earned money without having to give a hunk of it to some fucking asshole because otherwise my bank will hold it up to "7 business days" before I can have any of my FUCKING HARD EARNED MONEY!

WHAT THE FUCK!

PS I forgot to mention a few things. The first time I went to the check cashing place I had forgotten my check which was laying by the computer as I looked up the address for said obscure bank. So I had to walk home and get it and go back.

At KBOO as I tried to fax my time card to my staffing agency, it wouldn't take it at first. I had to wait a bit and then try again and it went through.

On the way to KBOO, the Burnside Bridge was closed to traffic but open to pedestrians. I walked across. On the way back it was closed to pedestrians and I had to walk down MLK past the Peace Park to the Max station by the Rose Garden Arena.

On the way home as I walked down Lombard, some weird dude in a red beat up car, he was an old white guy with a crew cut, made this weird awful noise at me that I had no idea what to think about.

This is all a little fucking weird...OK...a lot fucking weird.

Friday, August 18, 2006

 

Rebirth?

I feel beat ass tired. I think I got enough sleep today, but my system has taken a beating working a graveyard shift, but tonight is the last night.

Last night I fell asleep at lunch and last break and woke up after almost everyone had left the lunch room.

As I was cleaning up with a young man and fellow employee, we discussed the working conditions. People who work there often get treated like crap. I've witnessed this, they have attempted to treat me in such a fashion, but I just don't buy into that crap and it becomes ineffective on their part to treat me so. Usually when they try to yell at me for doing something incorrectly, I ask how I'm supposed to do it, which seems to catch them off guard and they calmly explain.

Last night, as I was talking with this young fellow, I became disappointed in myself. This is by far not the worst place I've worked, and definitely not the best, but an easy system that I can work within to make money and feel productive. But I realized as he talked about getting yelled at a lot and not wanting nor having to put up with such abuse that...I have sold myself short.

Most of my life my self-esteem has been pretty low. I didn't think highly enough of my intelligence to attempt college after I got out of high school, something I am still paying for. I believed it would be pretty easy just being a working stiff, which, it hasn't. I have worked in shipping since I had a working career, with a few short term jobs in data entry. In the meantime, I have become highly self-educated.

My first wife helped keep my self-esteem low with numerous insults, my second with verbal violence. I am now in a fucntional Loving relationship, and my perspective on my life has been changing, even more so than when I was single and living comfortably with my friend, Heidi.

Though living with Heidi was good, my life has since been shook up in many good ways since, which has allowed me a space in which to really reflect on how I've lived my life. That is what the feeling I've been having lately has been about. I've been wandering the streets of a city where I've lived my last 41 of 42 years. I've been by houses where major trauma's have been instituted in my life. I feel stuck here. Stuck more in the feeling than in the city to be honest.

As my Love with Rhonda continues to grow, as I reflect upon the work I've done to sustain my life, I have started to question everything about my life. It has all led me to here, but I still have residual effects of how I've lived my life and pray to clean them up. And all of this is difficult to put words to.

This weekend, Rhonda and I are going huckleberry picking in the Gifford Pinchot. That will be nice.

The good things that I have had consistently in my life is Felicia, the radio show, and the TV show. I have the ability to speak out and I try to use it as best as possible. I want to change the world like many other people I know. War is a horrible thing and it needs to end. Now I also have a wonderful Love life.

In some ways, I am paying for selling myself short early on in life. In some ways, I am reaping rewards I never imagined could be part of my life.

I don't know...I feel like I'm just rambling now!

So, there you go, for what it is worth. I just wanted to put that out there because I mostly wanted to write about it, not that anyone would necessarily read it or to look for sympathy. Life is great for me, I believe I am feeling the pains of rebirth. I think that is what it is.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

 

Terror Alert Low...?

A friend of mine explained to me shortly after the WTC buildings in New York coming down that one of the methods used to investigate who is behind the attacks is to find who had the most to gain from them. He theorized that it came down to two people:

1) Lee Greenwood. Lee Greenwood's career was waning at the time. Since he had that one hit that appealed to a large audience with the lyrics "I'm proud to be an American..." blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. He knew his career would get a much needed boost if there was a terrorist attack from what appeared to be outside forces. After the attacks, his record sales took off as well as many other country musicians who capitalized off of the attack.

2) Gary Condit. Gary Condit was a senator at the time and deep in the Chandra Levy scandal. Chandra Levy was an intern that Gary was fucking and who just so happened to disappear at the time he was having said relationship with her. Her body had not yet been found at the time.

Having just visited the official Lee Greenwood website, it looks like that boy is really busy pumping up patriotism and making a lot of bucks off of it with the help of such super mouths as idiot stick (I allege) and war mongerer Sean Hannity. With the help of Sean, Lee's career is going strong.

Chandra Levy's body has since been found, and Gary has been officially absolved of all sin. He is no longer in politics.

So, I conclude with Lee's career going strong and Gary out of public scrutiny and office and having been absolved of involvement in Chandra Levy's death, the terror threat must be low.

Makes good sense to me.

However, if you are a dark skinned person, live in a nation where the U.S. and the governments that whore to this corporate owned nation can capitalize off of your resources, and you won't willingly give up said resources to the theives that want them, the terrorist threat to your nation is high and much more real than the imagined threats that keep American's hiding under their blankets at night.

There is also an interesting video report on how terror alerts were raised to orange shortly after any perceived threat to the current administration since the bringing down of the two towers, most just two days after some revelation came out in the news. You can find that video on www.truthout.org.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

 

Uniformity, an observation

Working in the produce business, again, there is something that has always been on my mind. All the produce is uniform in size. Size 90 potatoes, size 80, size 70, which means that it takes 90, or 80, or 70 pototoes of a uniform size to make 50 pounds. 88 count oranges, 88 per 40 pound case, 113's as well. 48 count avacadoes. 200 count limes. 12 and 9 count cantelopes.

We get organic produce as well, all of it uniform in size. Organic...uniform in size. Each and every one of the red bell peppers is not only uniform in size, but they all look exactly alike.

It says alot about our world. A desire to control that which is natural. Uniformity in shape and size. Little or no differentiation. Everything has to be exactly alike. Like the plants grow every piece of fruit exactly alike, or are supposed to...but they are controlled on the sale end.

Where do all the "mis-shapen" fruits and vegies go? Where do all those fruits and vegies that don't fit into the uniform size go? Why do all the waste vegies go right into the dumpster instead of a special container where the homeless and hungry to dig through? Instead, food goes right into the garbage.

If you don't fit in, where do you go? Get in line by shape and size. Even the organically grown, that is the oddest. It is a metaphor about society. What metaphors can you make out of this? Can they fit in the box, by proper shape, size, and weight? Will they rot in the box or be made into a wonderful delicious dish?

What an odd world we live in.

 

Beauty

I took a walk across my bridge,
the Burnside Bridge,
to go to Rich's on 9th and Alder
in SW for a few good, cheap, cigars.
I like their house brands
with no bands.

As I got to downtown,
pigeons flew in a flock of
two dozen or so
through the green maples
shining white and yellow and colorful
as they dashed in and out of the trees
in the tree strip
in the middle of Burnside.

And I remember the beauty
I haven't seen in this town in a while.
It's always been there,
but all I've seen lately
is a desire to bounce around the world
and feeling oddly trapped in a world
I only want to visit.

Rhonda and I have talked of traveling.
I discussed with her
my fantasy of using Portland as a home base
and travel the world
to reservations all over
where Rhonda feels the desire
to do volunteer nursing
and I am reminded every moment
she is my hero
one of many.
I am married to her
and I get to hug and kiss her
and many other wonderful
activities
we choose to intertwine our lives
with.

There is an echo in my soul
as I wander the beautiful streets,
look up at the beautiful sky
with random acts of clouds
and I know the skies are beautiful
above Iraq and Lebanon
they must be
at least when planes aren't flying overhead
and dropping bombs on them.

Portland,
though full of life,
seems so unlively.

I think of other cities,
countries,
where people argue politics
in the streets.
Where cultures are alive and active...
Full of life.
All I hear
on the streets here
are petty conversations
or witness people sitting
and not discussing anything.

This is the weather for liveliness.
This is the weather for people
to exercise their creative processes
Maybe I'm just not seeing it?
Maybe I'm missing something?

I see all the beautiful faces
of the people in the streets,
homeless,
privileged,
everyone in between
and all around.

I enter Rich's
and there before me,
a cigar store clown
but to my left
as I enter the door,
a cigar store Indian.
"I'm not racist."

It is a law, now,
allegedly to protect the people
that tobacco is no longer self-serve.
I cannot walk in
and choose a cigar,
pick it up with my own fingers
enjoy the smell
without someone there
to watch over me
for my own safety...
yeah...
anyway.

I think of the prayers
offered via tobacco
on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation
where people are starving
at the end of every month.
Where the teen suicide rates are higher
much higher
than the national average.
Where elders
are often known to
freeze to death
during the harsh winters
of the midwest.

With the required help,
I choose two of Rich's
non-banded house brands
a couple of robustos
and a churchill.

The churchill size cigar
was named after
Winston Churchill
because he enjoyed
that particular size of cigar.

I hate that name,
Churchill.
Many think of him as a glorious hero,
I think of Churchill
as another false hero,
like Christopher Columbus.
I think of his genocidal activities
and comments
like wanting to kill
every last Irish person in the world.
Churchill, Hitler, FDR, Saddam Hussein,
Bush, Clinton, Gore, Reagan,
all genocidal maniacs
held up as false heros.

Just beside the door
leading into the walk-in humidor
is the porn section.
Triple XXX is on one magazine.
Where women with plastic lips
plastic breasts,
plastic faces,
try to tempt my sexuality
because sex sells.

I stop before the cigar store Indian
just on the other side of a table
with free papers
in front of the door
that leads into
the rest of the world.
We stare blankly at each other.
DAMMIT!
He has more cigars than I do.

I enter into the world,
unwrap a robusto,
throw the plastic in the trash can
placed on the street
for my convenience
and for the homeless to do
their shopping.
I bite off the tip,
an offense to many cigar smokers,
roll the piece between my fingers
and offer it to a tree
on the other side
of Park.

The people are all beautiful.
Even if they do think
mostly of themselves.
I look at their bodies
their faces
their classes
their races.
They are beautiful!

I think of the beautiful faces
of the people in Iraq
Lebanon, etc.,
and I think
of the beautiful skies
that often rain death
upon their heads.
Here,
before my very eyes
are humans
just as human
as the people having bombs
dropped on their heads
in other nations.

Before the prison yard
sandwiched between the
Salvation Army building
and what on the weekends
is known as
Saturday Market,
on Burnside
as I head back across the bridge
a man feeds the pigeons bread.
I don't know if he's homeless or not,
but there he is
being generous to birds.
Sharing his bread
with our winged relations.

And the skies are so beautiful.
The river,
my river,
our river,
she is so beautiful.
And the skies,
still spotted with white clouds,
blue and sunshine
is beautiful.
And there are no war planes
or attack helicopters in sight.

 

Voice from Iraq

What an interesting film. It is a documentary collage of video made by the Iraqi people. 150 video cameras were put into the hands of the Iraqi people to make their own films. It is an amazing piece of work. It is good to see the human faces below the bombs, rapes, pillaging. Most of the footage is about 2 years old, but it is so good to see the humans that are there, the children, the desires for peace. When Abu Ghraib attrocities that are committed by the U.S. are exposed, the people of Iraq say that is nothing compared to what Saddam has done. Of course, the serious torture has yet to be shown.

It is pointed out heavily that although people can speak out, there is no safety or security. And now that the U.S. military is committing all sorts of horrific crimes against the people, I persnally get the sense that they are going to continually suffer.

There is also video of attrocities and torture overseen by Uday Hussein, Saddams kid. The piece of shit was ruthless and absoutely brutal. Oddly, all of this was of course allowed to happen with U.S. complicity as they CHOSE not to get involved in the internal affairs of the nation, though they knew and supported what was going on.

It was interesting watching the Kurds speak so highly of Bush, as they are sitting in high privilege now that Saddam has been ousted. Saddam was especially vicious to the Kurds, killing hundreds of thousands, possibly millions of them. Oddly, during one of the most horrific violence in 1988, it was completely supported by the U.S., and some of the armaments and intelligence used was supplied by the U.S. Although Bush has gotten Saddam ousted, I personally don't think they should for an instant believe that the U.S. is their friend. The enemy of my enemy is not my friend.

But it is so good to see the human faces behind the whole thing. The children, the smiles, the desires for peace, etc.

Although the U.S. occupation may be kinder and gentler...thus far...it has a capacity for brutality that is continuing to show its monsterous face and increasing. It will indeed become more brutal, and is becoming more brutal as Amercan led massacres continue to come to the forefront of some of the media. But also, do not forget, the U.S. knew what Saddam was doing at his meanest and ALLOWED it to continue because the softening of the people would help out in controlling the oil business in the region. There are no higher ideals involved in the decision to go to war with Iraq, only business.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

 

Work and Reflection

I like my new work, I don't care so much for the graveyard shift, however. The change has brought about a profound lack of sleep, but my body and soul are dealing with it well enough. I just can't wait to get on the driver shift though, as it looks like I'll be at least one more week in the warehouse on graveyard. When I was told because of my experience that they would most likely have me in the warehouse just one week, that I kind of knew that was bullshit, but I don't take it personally. I know all will work out. It always does.

About midweek, I was feeling all sorts of things. In my mind, I was thinking of hanging around there for about two years as I look to create my own economy again. But I also know that I could drive there for years to come until retirement. I am strongly aware that it is not the kind of place I want to advance in as I've seen that management gets rather abused as far as workload, and well, I like having a life outside of my work. Advancement is not something I'll seek there, but the work itself is damned easy for me and I look forward to being on the road.

I watch my fellow employees and realize that I was most of them at one time or another. The pissed off fellow who takes his work personally, and many on different levels. The overworked management fellow. The underappreciated. There are so many people there with so many different feelings and I was picking up on a lot of them because I am more aware of how my life has lead me in my work place. Like a lot of my life has been lately, it is a reflection of who I was, the path I took to get here. That makes me wonder where the heck I am.

The work, like I said, is easy for me. This is what I do to make money, and nothing more. It is not my life, though it is a part of my life. I don't think the management knows exactly what to think of me because I don't do the power over thing that they so enjoy, or at least like to do. I don't get upset at the crazy ass chewings that they give people, in fact, more often than not, it makes me laugh. I have not received an ass chewing because I do my job and know how to look busy when there is nothing to keep my busy (which drives me nuts).

My life is being reflected on me. I have lived in this area for 41 years. A lot of it catches my eye. A lot of it reflects my history. Sometimes I feel trapped, almost like I don't belong here anymore. At other times I imagine what it would be like to have Portland as a home base and travel the world with Rhonda. It's a possibility that I enjoy imagining.

I feel a change a coming. I know change has already formed in my life without me being aware of it. I'm not sure what is coming, but I know it is good, especially with my Lover-Love wife, Rhonda.

 

[untitled]

Life has a way of changing right before our very eyes and before we know it, we're somebody different than we were.

Yesterday, I no longer felt the pain of my childhood rape. I was given a gift and made aware of it.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

 

U.S. to Make it Legal for U.S. to Commit War Crimes

I have read much of "The Torture Papers," the documents that paved the way for the U.S. government to make it legal for themselves to commit torture, a war crime. Alberto Gonzales was mentioned in it quite a bit, as he seems to be one of the masterminds, and is now hard at work doing what he does best, making international crimes legal for the Bush administration and the U.S. to commit, not that they obeyed the laws to beging with, it just makes it more blatant. This is not an unusual act.

Before reading the article that I found on Common Dreams and is reprinted in many other sources, I have also posted article two of the UN Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide, which defines the crime. Note: the US and others had Cultural and Economic Genocide stricken from the document because it is a tool they use commonly. After the definition I printed the "reservations" of the U.S Government that they put in place prior to signing the agreement. These reservations basically make it legal for the U.S. to commit the crime of genocide, not like they have even attempted to obey the genocide laws. But it looks good on paper, just don't pay attention to the footnotes. As the Nazi's said at their Nuremburg trials, and I paraphrase: We didn't break any German laws in the extermination of the Jews, Sinti, Roma, insane, Jehovah's Witnesses, physically disabled, etc.

more later, REVOLUTION NOW!

Eugene Johnson

Article II, UN Convention on...Genocide.

In the present Convention, genocide means any of the following acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group, as such:
(a) Killing members of the group;
(b) Causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group;
(c) Deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part;
(d) Imposing measures intended to prevent births within the group;
(e) Forcibly transferring children of the group to another group.

U.S "reservations" attached to the Genocide Convention before they'd sign it, basically making it legal for the U.S. government to commit the crime of Genocide.

"(1) That with reference to article IX of the Convention, be fore any dispute to which the United States is a party may be submitted to the jurisdiction of the International Court of Justice under this article, the specific consent of the United States is required in each case.
(2) That nothing in the Convention requires or authorizes legislation or other action by the United States of America prohibited by the Constitution of the United States as interpreted by the United States."

The article I first read on Common Dreams about the attempt for the U.S. government to make themselves exempt from war crimes laws.

http://www.commondreams.org/headlines06/0810-04.htm

Associated Press

Retroactive War Crime Protection Proposed
By PETE YOST , 08.09.2006, 07:26 PM

The Bush administration drafted amendments to the War Crimes Act that would retroactively protect policymakers from possible criminal charges for authorizing any humiliating and degrading treatment of detainees, according to lawyers who have seen the proposal.

The move by the administration is the latest effort to deal with treatment of those taken into custody in the war on terror.

At issue are interrogations carried out by the CIA, and the degree to which harsh tactics such as water-boarding were authorized by administration officials. A separate law, the Uniform Code of Military Justice, applies to the military.

The Washington Post first reported on the War Crimes Act amendments Wednesday.

One section of the draft would outlaw torture and inhuman or cruel treatment, but it does not contain prohibitions from Article 3 of the Geneva Conventions against "outrages upon personal dignity, in particular humiliating and degrading treatment." A copy of the section of the draft was obtained by The Associated Press.

Another section would apply the legislation retroactively, according to two lawyers who have seen the contents of the section and who spoke on condition of anonymity because their sources did not authorize them to release the information.

One of the two attorneys said the draft is in the revision stage, but that the administration seems intent on pushing forward the draft's major points in Congress after Labor Day.

"I think what this bill can do is in effect immunize past crimes. That's why it's so dangerous," said a third attorney, Eugene Fidell, president of the National Institute of Military Justice.

Fidell said the initiative is "not just protection of political appointees, but also CIA personnel who led interrogations."

Interrogation practices "follow from policies that were formed at the highest levels of the administration," said a fourth attorney, Scott Horton, who has followed detainee issues closely. "The administration is trying to insulate policymakers under the War Crimes Act."

A White House spokesman said Common Article 3 of the Geneva Conventions includes a number of vague terms that are susceptible to different interpretations.

The administration believes it is very important to bring clarity to the War Crimes Act so that those on the front lines in the war on terror "have clear rules that are defined in law," said the White House spokesman.

Extreme interrogation practices have been a flash-point for criticism of the administration.

When interrogators engage in waterboarding, prisoners are strapped to a plank and dunked in water until nearly drowning.

If the U.S. can commit war crimes, why can't the rest of the world? E.J.


Tuesday, August 08, 2006

 

Complicity in the form of Silence

For Abeer Qassim al-Janabi

By Eugene Johnson

Hit a bucket of balls,
rape and murder a little girl
and murder her whole family,
barbeque some chicken wings.
All in a good days work
for "our boys" in the military.

Her name is
Abeer Qassim al-Janabi.
She was 14.

And these men in the U.S. military
raped her for sure:
former Pvt. Steven Green
Sgnt. Paul Cortez
Pvt. James Barker at least attempted.

Seven Green was the gunman
who murdered Abeer's father,
mother, and sister,
then raped Abeer while
Paul Cortez held her down...
Sergeant Cortez
afterall,
had already finished raping her
and Private James Barker
was trying to go for a ride
when gunshots came from the room
where Abeer's parents and sister
had once been breathing.
After raping
Abeer Qassim al-Janabi,
Steven Green then shot Abeer,
14-year-old girl,
repeatedly,
then they set her body on fire.

Support our troops...

My daughter
is with her mom
and I wonder when "our troops"
will want to rape her.
She is 11-years-old.
When are they going
to want to rape her?

"Our troops"
are trained
to behave this way.
"Nits make lice"
"donchya know"

When I stand in front of the recruiting center
at 1317 NE Broadway
every Tuesday,
none of those young men
ever talk about the behavior of their comrades
toward Abeer Qassim al-Janabi.
Do they even know her name?
They don't say anything
about behavior of their brothers in arms.
They remain silent.

The last memories of
Abeer Qassim al-Janabi
are of her family being murdered
by "our troops"
in the U.S. military.
Then being raped by
Private Steven Green,
the murderer,
then being murdered by him.

Do you really wonder
why "they hate us so much?"
Do you really believe
this is an unusual occurence?
I could give you long lines
of similar behavior
throughout U.S. history
and that is just what I know.
How many lifetimes
do you have
to sit and listen to just what I know?
Will you even remember the name
Abeer Qassim al-Janabi?

Monday, August 07, 2006

 

Stupidity

Rhonda and I watched "Stupidity" last night. "Stupidity" is a documentary which attempts to explore the purposeful stupidity enacted in the nations of the U.S. and Canada. At first, he attempts to explore the definition by asking humans on the street. Then he worked through the actual definitions of the sociological terms such as "idiot," "imbecile," "moron," and many others. These are actual gradations used in the I.Q. test.

It didn't do what I hoped it would do. It was an interesting exploration of the subject, but left one feeling like...well...and idiot.

We are all stupid at one time or another. Rhonda and I later discussed some of our stuid decisions in our lives. We all have made stupid decisions and then...repeated them until we wised up...or not. That said,

My personal definition of stupidity is as follows:

Someone who is incapable or unwilling to think critically. Someone who is incapable or unwilling to think for themselves and needs someone else to think for them. Someone who is incapable or unwilling to feel empathy for their fellow human being because that would then be followed by potential critical thinking and thinking for themselves.

Mind you, this is my "personal" definition. The phenomena that we see happening today of people deliberately choosing the path of stupidity was touched upon. But it just didn't seem to touch the depths of the problem we see happening. It seemed to be missing something. It is worth seeing because one gets an idea of what were up against. Especially since I have the belief that we need to get these kinds of people on the wagon with us, as it were.

It was amazing, like with the Steve O. show, how people feel a strong desire to be completely stupid. As one college student put it (a young man shown pulling his pants down in a large crowd and showing his ass), "it's fun!" Being stupid is fun. One doesn't have to think.

I admit, one does need a vacation from the overwhelming amounts of shit happening in the world. However, spending a life avoiding it and seeking out "stupid" shit to do and "stupid" ways to behave and actively seeking out being purposefully "stupid" is not helping our global situation. It is as unsustainable as the current American economy.

I take little vacations because my "privilege" allows. Last night, Rhonda made a wonderful meal. We enjoyed eating. It was a great feast and celebration. It is a break from thinking about what the fuck to do about the global situation. It is a dance at our "Revolution." Then we're back at it.

The people in this film, the people at large, the people we need the help of, choose NOT to ever get at it. They choose to avoid and wallow in their "privilege" of not having to think about these things. Things like war, poverty, genocide, environmental devastation, human rights, etc. They choose to NEVER think of these things. Like if you just don't look, they'll go away.

It makes me think of a photo I saw recently. The first time I saw the photo, but I guess it was taken 6 or 7 years ago. It is of a young black child in Africa who is just a few hundred yards away from a UN aid station. The child is doubled over with his or her face in the ground. Their ribs are showing from starvation. And just some 15 feet away is a vulture waiting for the child to die so it can eat the kid. I wondered why the person taking the photo didn't pick up that kid and take the kid to the aid station themselves only to read a little further in the caption to find out the photographer committed suicide several days later.

And then there is Steve O. with a large audience of nothing but white faces that I saw. Steve smashes beer cans on his head and sprays them all over the audience. He makes himself puke on stage to loud applause from the audience... We've got our work cut out for us. But what else are we going to do, join in on the debauchery of these white privileged folks?

 

I've Been Wanting to Mention

On August 1st, Rhonda and I went to a party shortly after the Tuesday afternoon vigil.

[By the way, you are all invited to join us every Tuesday from 5:30 to 6:30pm in front of the recruiting station at 1317 NE Broadway, Portland, Oregon.]

The party we went to was prior to the showing of the documentary film, "Source to Sea," about the Columbia River swim done by Christopher Swain. I realized after a little bit that I was hanging out with a bunch of my heroes. I hung out with Christopher Swain who later signed my Che hat after the showing of the film at the Clinton Street Theater. Andy Norris, the man who written, directed, and basically made sure this documentary got to the people, was the man throwing the party and another hero. Rhonda Baseler, who started the vigil at the recruiting station and we are constantly discussing potential new ways to get people to wake up. Ralph, who produced the documentary. David Liberty, co-host of "Mitakuye Oyasin" and the pivotal figure for the cable access television show, "Native Nations." David is also a strong activist in the Kennewick Man case and a helluva rock balancer.

Heroes...I'm surrounded by my heroes!

Sunday, August 06, 2006

 

Paradise Now

As you can see, all the movies that Rhonda and I have been watching lately I write commentaries on. But the commentaries are about more than the movies we've been watching. Our minds become further inspired by the movies we've been watching and we start to think about change and how to create it.

Last night, we watched "Paradise Now." It is a movie about Palestinian suicided bombers. It gives on insight into what life is like for the Palestinians in order to give them the mentality that this type of behavior is OK.

It also gives one insight into how they are forced to suffer as a people for being born the wrong race. For a good personal example, drive across the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, then go to a major city. Indians are forced to live under horrific conditions in this nation, while the affluent and privileged don't have to live on the reservation.

"Paradise Now" is an excellent film and should be viewed by everyone. It is done in subtitles because the characters are all speaking an Arabic language. You can probably find it in the foreign section.

After the movie, Rhonda and I talked a little about what to do about this world stuff, immediate stuff. She has all these wonderful ideas, banner drops, street theater, the stuff we already do, etc. But what does all the work we do amount to. I speak out a lot and have no idea if that does a thing.

Rhonda pointed out that people around here are probably not going to do a thing unless it effects them. It made me think of those Reed College boys who, after the Ward Churchill lecture, could only think of themselves and worry about any potential loss of their privilege and couldn't even consider the suffering caused to many peoples around the world to build and protect their privilege. Unless it directly effects the people of America, they are probably not going to do anything that might somehow make them lose a little privilege, or worse yet...have to share it with others. America has a profound lack of empathy.

We also rented a movie called "Stupidity" which we have yet to watch. It is a documentary about how American's prefer to choose a purposeful path of stupidity over all others. It covers issues from TV to the alleged president. We are hoping it will give insight in how to get peoples minds turned.

I don't want to work to change the hearts of politicians who want to protect their "phony balogne jobs." Many peace groups work on that, and that's fine. I just don't see it working. I see relatively few to none going after the corporations that use and own the U.S. government. I see most the people of this nation being apathetic and purposefully stupid. So the question is, what do we do?

I choose not to use violence. Like with what is happening in Lebanon, hurting or killing one of them will lead to the genocide of a whole nation. We Indians have been there. We also understand as well that were it not for our freedom fighters, they probably would have killed every last one of us and I wouldn't be here writing these words to you. However, I personally don't feel that to be an option. Besides, to be violent against them is to be them.

http://www.commondreams.org/headlines06/0805-01.htm

I just read the above article by Robert Fisk stating that there will be another 9-11. With all the horrific military might Israel is using against Lebanon, the people, though they fear for their immediate lives, are becoming unafraid of the monster. When people become unafraid of the moster because it is so fucking mean, what is left? People become more determined in their struggle.

Rhonda just reminded me of when we were growing up, she became aware of the plight of the bald eagle and the California Condor and how people had a perception of coming together and saving the environment. There was an immediate understanding of the circumstances behind the polluting of our environment. How during WWII people had to make sacrifices of their privilege: food rations, scrapping metal, women giving up their nylons, etc. People during our illegal wars with Iraq and Afghanistan, and soon, Iran and Syria if King George gets his way, we here in the states make no sacrifices, just continue to move around like normal in our privilege. How do we wake people up? Honestly, it probably won't be until all the people at the bottom are suffering. Will that happen here in the U.S.? No. Why? Because no one can face our military might. But when the resources run out for our giant killing machine, then the people will suffer. And even then, I doubt that Americans will get off their ass and do anything.

But it is the people we have to change the hearts of. How do we change the hearts of a people so stubborn as to cling to their stupidness and feel no desire to empathize with those who are forced to suffer to protect their privilege? There are probably many answers, as individual as the people we are. The answers may change from time to time, even, depending on our situations.

Although I think it is peachy keen that those in the peace movement somehow find it relevant to go after politicians who will say the right words to get them off their backs then do whatever it takes to protect their "phony balogne jobs," I just don't see it working. Then the peace movement people run off and pat each other on their exclusivist elitist backs. However, it is easy for me to allege that these people are only out to serve their own interests because: I have told them that "I want it all back" and they have the same reaction as all the stupid white boys. They start talking about deportation so they don't have to talk about the horrific genocide of my people and all indigenous peoples of this hemisphere in order for them to have their privilege. They are only out to protect their privilege for the most part. Not all of them. Rachel Corrie is a good example of a fine upstanding person of privilege, or at least was, and there are more. But a majority of people are out there just to protect their own privilege.

All of that said, are there any of the numerous answers out there you want to share with me on how to change the hearts of the people?

Saturday, August 05, 2006

 

Syriana

I just watched "Syriana," a dramatization of how oil business elites treat the world as a toy to control. Interesting and very complex movie that ends with the knowledge of the basic pattern. That pattern being the wealthy elite convincing others to do their killing to protect their wealth while they suck the world and the people dry. That one is not hard to figure out, but this puts a very complicated story out there with many connections and patterns within the patterns.

It reaffirms my desire to go to the people. You will not create change through politicians, not even Dennis Kucinich. These guys are all part of the game. There are many legitimate people in there trying to make change, but it won't happen within the system that creates death, oppression, and mass slaughter to create more and protect the wealth of the already wealthy. Aint no multi-millionaire or billionaire gonna come knocking on my door and ask my opinion on anything. My opinion doesn't mean shit to them unless it gets in the way of their wealth, then I become a target. And they still won't be knocking on my door and doing their own dirty work, they will have paid someone else to do it for them.

So my voice goes out to the people. For the most part, most people just don't listen. They want to protect their privilege. Their privilege, idiotically referred to as "freedom," is their most desired posession. If they give up their privilege, they may not have their 120 channels with nothing to watch, their status symbol SUV's to commute to work in, their wonderful cell phones and other gifts of technology, etc. These are bribes of privilege.

I use this privilege as best I can to create change in the hearts and minds of the people. All of the people. What are they going to do? Kill me? I won't deny the possibility, but right now that is about as possible as a 747 crashing into my house. It's possible, but the likelyhood is so minimal as to not really be considered. I'm nothing to these people. We are all nothing to these people. That is why they play with our lives like they do. That is why the hire us to kill our fellow human beings so they don't have to. That is why their hands will never cause the flow of blood, but their hands will be so stained with it that one has to wonder what their afterlife will be like. All that death comes with a consequence.

And still, many supporters of these global crimes from their place of privilege will attack me because I use privilege to send out a message in a bottle. It is easier to attack me, a man who doesn't kill, who doesn't carry weapons, who only uses words and knowledge, than it is to look themselves in the mirror and admit that that which they allege to be freedom is actually privilege. And that their privilege comes with a cost. That cost are things like environmental damage to the underprivileged, oppression of the underprivileged, a military might to protect that privilege, fathers carrying their dead daughters from the rubble of bombed buildings, babies dying from preventable diseases most caused by environmental damages that come with being underprivileged to protect our privilege, etc. People will attack me verbally because it is easier. It is easier than trying to do something to alleviate the suffering of others. Why should they have to? We all benefit from the suffering of others, especially here in the United States.

Why do people have to suffer so I can come here to write to you on this computer? That is not "freedom." That is privilege.

It is my desire to end the suffering. The suffering of war doesn't have to happen. It never has had to happen. But it does, and in my opinion it is wrong. I wish to change that. It won't change if I go to a multi-millionaire or billionaire, the top people who have the most privilege, and therefore the most to lose. Nor politicians, for they too have the most to lose. I try to go to the people.

I have been known to tell people, I'm looking for the 100th monkey.

The story of the 100th monkey goes something like this. A monkey learned how to do use a tool. At first it was one monkey. He taught another monkey to use that tool. They taught other monkeys. When the 100th monkey learned how to use that tool, suddenly, as if spontaneously, all the monkeys all over the world knew how to use that tool.

I have no real idea how to tell if what I do is working. I often have people come up to me and say I inspire them, but seeing them taking action, finding out what they are doing is inspiring me. I am not the first monkey to use their voice as a tool for peace. I am definitely not the 100th monkey. But there are lots of us monkeys out there. There are lots of us monkeys using the tool of peace to create change in one form or another. I am not more nor less than my fellow human beings. I am just a human being who wants the generations to come to live in a world without war, and yes, it is possible.

Get out there. Monkey around. Find what works and use it. Support others out there who are using their tools of peace and hook up with them. And soon, we will all be locking arms and taking it all back from those who have conviced us that killing each other to maintain privilege is "freedom," and then maybe we will have the "privilege" of knowing what "freedom" really is, becuase, folks, this aint it.

 

"The Lord of War"

I watched "The Lord of War," with Nicholas Cage last night. The movie says it is based on actual events, which I have no doubt. It is a pattern repeated throughout time.

It makes me think of the gun runners to the Indians. Men would sell guns to Indians, encourage Indians to kill each other, like with the Iran/Iraq war where Arabs were encouraged to kill each other so arms dealers could make millions.

This was mentioned in the movie. One arms dealer who said that there was a difference between him and Nicholas Cage's character in that he took sides and Nick would just sell arms to anyone. Nick asked him about selling arms to both Iran and Iraq during their war. The man smiled and said he wanted them to kill each other. Makes me think of Henry Kissinger, winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, wanted in three countries for war crimes, crimes against peace, crimes against humanity, responsible for the carpet bombing of Cambodia and Vietnam, responsible via complicity in the genocide of the East Timorese by Indonesia, I think of him making the same comment about the Iran/Iraq war: "I hope they kill each other off."

And Nicholas sells and sells and sells more in the hopes, he alleges, that people miss, because when they miss, they'll need more weapons in order to kill each other off or create many horrific massacres.

And there are always people who "buy" into it. There are always the horrifically cruel that want weapons to kill more people to maintain authority because they have no real "power." It is their guns that have the power. They cannot walk unarmed, unprotected amongst their people. If they did, they would be killed for their horrific Lord of the Flies behavior. The people with the guns have no "power," their guns have the power. Their willingness to be mean and cruel to others because they have the guns and the others don't. That was powerfully illustrated in "The Lord of War."

And there are always people like Nicholas Cage's character, Yuri Orlov, selling arms to people to kill each other. But the sweetest part illustrated in the movie was at the end in a single sentence that gave the names of the five biggest arms dealers in the world: The United States of America, Britain, France, China, and Russia. Yuri Orlov, the reality behind the illegal gun running character, is nothing compared to those of these five greatest arms dealers. The five most horrific arms dealers make the laws in transporting weapons and weapons sales, but they also appreciate the smaller enterpreneurial types because they keep the conflicts fed so the alleged legit dealers can keep up their sales.

Someday, we all just have to stop killing each other, and put the assholes at the top on trial.


Thursday, August 03, 2006

 

Freedom?

Corporations use our tax money and military forces to impose conditions of great terror upon other nations in order to steal their wealth. We in the imperialist nations are protected from the military might of others because their military might is suppressed by oppressive governments in various nations. We, the underlings, benefit from the suffering, oppression and terror caused the people of other nations. Their suffering is caused by our tax dollars, our government and their corporate owners who use U.S. military might to steal the wealth of other nations and create suffering amongst the people of those nations in order to keep them sufficiently weak as not to be able to fight back.

This sets up the condition for what can be alleged as terrorism. People who have no military might, who can't get the foot of the oppressor off of their necks, a few will fight back with the only methods they know how. These methods vary from just survival to acts that are alleged to be terroristic. When people commit alleged acts of terror, these are used as an excuse to use excessive military force in order to gain control over a nation and its people and steal more of their wealth.

When one benefits from the actions of their corporate owned governments use of military might on weakened peoples in order to steal their wealth is NOT "freedom." That is PRIVILEGE.

The United States of America is NOT the land of the free. It is the land of the PRIVILEGED! We are privileged because we benefit from the oppression, suffering, genocide, excessive use of military force, etc., enacted upon other nations by our alleged government and their corporate owners to steal they wealth of other nations from which we benefit.

Within this system are varying degrees of privilege which are measured in various forms that are interwoven like the web of a spider. Race, sex, class are a few examples of the "rulers" used to measure privilege. Wealthy white males at the top, and those who support and identify with them, are the greatest beneficiaries of privilege. The homeless, those at the bottom, even benefit from this form of privilege. The homeless here more often than not get to eat, where as in other nations, they get to starve.

We benefit from the suffering of those in other nations. This is not the land of the "free," it is the land of the Privileged.

In my opinion, that is what people are really telling me when they ask if I like "living in the land of the free?" They mean don't question our Privilege, just call it "freedom," then look away from the suffering of others.

When others go without so I can have, that is Privilege, NOT "freedom."

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

 

Speaking of Stupid People

My wife and I participate in a vigil every Tuesday from 5:30 to 6:30pm in front of the recruiting station on 1317 NE Broadway, Portland, Oregon. My wife, Rhonda, the person who started it, has been doing it for over a year now.

Yesterday, she was talked to by an elderly black man who was in full support of the U.S. military. Like with Indians being in the military, I find it odd that a black man would support the military of the nation that ALLOWED the lynching of his fellow blacks into the 1960's. Where racism against his people is still rampant. Where blacks are frequently killed for minor crimes like failure to use a turn signal. My wife, of course, argued with him beautifully.

I hold a sign that says: "Killing is Wrong." A young white man with his wife and child stopped and informed me that I am painting all soldiers as killers.

"They are," I told him.

He was shocked and made a few comments.

"Complicity in killing is just like killing."

He, of course, didn't get it, and started in with those stupid stupid stupid statements of "Do you like living in the land of the free."

I informed him that his people in order to be "free" sluaghtered 98% of my people. Before we could have a real discussion beyond stupid jingoistic statements by yet another "stupid white man," he drove off.

No one tells me what freedom is. He must mean the freedom of this nation to have gotten away with the genocide of Indians. To have gotten away with raping, murdering, kidnapping, torturing, performing medical experiments on, imprisoning, etc., Indian children. He must mean the freedom for oil corporations to invade and oppress various nations to steal their wealth so stupid white men such as himself can fill his gas tank with dead Iraqi babies. He must mean the freedom of people to be homeless and on the streets. He must mean the freedom to have 120 channels and nothing to watch. He must mean the freedom for people to have medical experiments performed upon them. He must mean the freedom for the U.S. go get away with sterilizing Indian men and women, black men and women, Puertorican men and women, in order to protect the allegedly superior white race. Is that freedom? That must be the freedom this stupid white man of privilege must be talking about. Because aint none of those men gonna tell me what they believe freedom to be because they have no idea.

We had a good turn out, and you all are free to join in. Every Tuesday, at the above time and place.

This last one was a good turn out. There were lots of folks, and Rhonda and I were beginning to believe it would only be us.

Catholic Worker support was removed unilaterally by a man who is not a Catholic nor a Catholic Worker. He owns one of the local Catholic Worker houses however. Being an alleged man of peace, you'd think he'd be supportive of any non-violent actions attempting to bring about peace. But his little organization is exclusivist and elitist and chooses for the most part NOT to work with other peace organizations. Actual Catholic Workers have complained about the actions of this single person who is neither Catholic nor a Catholic Worker, but we have yet to see any Catholic Workers return to the vigil. Like pointed out earlier, however, we are still getting plenty of support, and Rhonda tells me that even if she is the only one, she will continue to do it on her own. I, of course, will be standing with her on that.

As we were leaving, the recruiters, being smart asses, waved good-bye to us. I placed my sign in front of their window, "Killing Is Wrong," and pointed profusely to the words. If they are Christians, I have to wonder what an idiot they think their god must be, having told that "thou shalt not kill," and all. Mighty arrogant of them.

This, again, brings me to the complicity issue of what soldiers do. In Haditha, soldiers brutally murdered 24 civilians as revenge killing. I'm supposed to support this. I'm supposed to feel "free" because of this.

Soldiers also raped a young Iraqi girl and murdered her whole family. I'm supposed to support this. This is supposed to make me feel more "free."

Suzanne Swift was coerced into having sex with her fellow military personell. For those of you that don't quite understand what coercion into sex means...RAPE!

These, and so many more attrocities, women's rights violations, human rights violations, etc., are what soldiers do, and those that don't are complicit in it because they KNOW it is done and do nothing about it. There are exceptions, Ehron Watada, Jeff Patterson, Suzanne Swift, Stephen Funk, etc.

 

STUPID STUPID STUPID

As of the airing of the last "Mitakuye Oyasin" radio program where David Liberty and I featured James Craven, we have received the most complaints ever, alleging various forms of anti-Semitism. To you complainers, I must allege that you are
STUPID STUPID STUPID
Allow me to clarify.

Number 1: The state of Israel is NOT the Jewis race. The Jewish race is NOT the state of Israel.

Number 2: A Semite is a person who speaks one of the Semitic languages, which is basically everyone from the Middle East. To be anti-Semitic, I would have to hate all people from the middle east, which I don't. I am NOT anti-Semitic, and neither was the last show.

You all have selective hearing which makes you
STUPID STUPID STUPID

Now listen to what was said. Jim mentioned how the state of Israel irradiated some 100,000 Sephardic Jewish children. Sephardic Jews are the darky Jews and considered as less than by the state of Israel. As well, the state of Israel performed medical experiments on blacks in South Africa. These acts were compared to Josef Mengele and his work with the Nazi's because they are comparable. There is much about the state of Israel that is comparable to the Nazi's, this is not the only thing. These are statements of FACT about the state of Israel. For this, we are being accused of anti-Semitism. You complainers are
STUPID STUPID STUPID

That said, we did not receive ANY phone calls that expressed sympathy or ANY form of empathy for these 100,000 Sephardic Jews who had their health adversely effected by having their bodies irradiated illegally for the state of Israel to study the health effects on a people considered lesser. Nor did we receive any phone calls expressing empathy for the Blacks in South Africa whom had medical experiments performed on them by the state of Israel. So, not only are you complainers STUPID, I also allege that you have a profound lack of empathy.

I invited Jim because he has a vast knowledge of Israel's human rights violations and other illegal activities, as well as many other nations including the United States and Canada, both nations whom have perfromed medical experiments on us Indians, or for a context you may understand a little better, the U.S. and Canada performed medical experiments on kidnapped little red nigger babies mostly without their knowledge or permission. The U.S. and Canada can be compared to the Nazi's as well, especially since over 200 American corporations helped fund the Nazi's to power even throughout the war, including IBM, Ford, GM, GE and many others. Israel also performs extreme measures of oppression upon the nations of Lebanon and Palestine. The reason being is to create the situation where terrorism will be resorted to. They like that because it keeps them up and ready to fight. Israel is as responsible for the terrorism that happens to their nation just as much as the people who enact it. As well, Israel performs many acts of oppressive and military oppression on these nations like they are currently doing.

And, if you support the actions of Israel in their murdering of children for some perception of getting their soldiers back, know this. They knew that Hezbollah and Hamas would resort at sometime to kidnap Israeli soldiers to negotiate a prisoner exchange for kidnapped Palestinians and Lebanese.

I do not support the killing performed by Hezbollah or Hamas, but I understand where it comes from. Geronimo, Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, Captain Jack, etc., were considered terrorists. Were it not for their fighting back, I doubt there would be any of their prospective races left because America loves to slaughter with impunity. So, I understand their actions because they are actually in self-defense. Israel has a history of horrific oppression against both these nations in order to steal what wealth they have for themselves, just like the U.S. and Canada has done to us Indians.

If Isreal ever gets done committing their war crimes against Lebanon and Palestine, which I don't believe they will until they have completed their genocide against both those nations, many more men, women, and especially children and elderly will die because of the destroyed infrastructure by the Israeli military. I guarantee that even if the fighting ends, thousands of more innocent lives will be lost. Just like what the U.S. and Canada does right now to indigenous nations in their genocide against us.

One last thing, the deliberate killing of the four UN observers in Lebanon by the Israeli military is not the first time they performed such a crime. During the six days war when Israel illegally invated Palestine, Lebanon, and several other nations helping further they type of tension they currently have, they mrudered 14 Indian (India) unarmed Peacekeepers. One they rammed a tank turret through a car decapitating two, then raising and slamming the car up and down with the tank turret killing the rest. Because of this, they identified a U.S. spy ship in the area called the U.S.S. Liberty. Upon identifying it as a spy ship (which we don't use anymore), they torpedoed it murdering 34 American sailors. Why did they murder those American sailors? Because they were catching them murdering those UN peacekeepers as well as recording their murdering of Palestinians by forcing them to dig their own graves and shooting them in the back of the head. Read: "Body of Secrets," by James Bamford.

That said: READ A FUCKING BOOK YOU STUPID FUCKING MORONS AND ENGAGE IN A LITTLE EMPATHY YOU HEARTLESS PIECES OF FUCKING SHIT!

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

 

A Journey of Silence in a World of Tall Trees and Houses

I just walked by the house I used to live in when I was four years old. Memories of rotten goose eggs at Easter. First witnessed acts of violence at the house next door that now holds a dream catcher before its South facing window, a tyrannosaur hangs from the ceiling before the West facing window and gazes in hunger at my soul. I witnessed animal abuse. I witnessed terror from beneath the dining room table while being babysat. The vast expanse of yard seems tiny now. The front yard of the house, where I witnessed my first sexual behavior as the girl next door, Bertha, played baby and laid in a box with her underwear down and I looked in at her confused until her enraged mom almost ripped her tiny arm out of her socket and beat her bare ass screaming at her as she screamed and cried in terror and tried to protect her bare ass from her mother's relentless attack. I ran home in terror, in hopes of protection, and said nothing, to no one, ever.

I find a crow feather, and it tells me where it wants to go, into a yard a few blocks further, stem in the soil, standing straight up.

I remember the front steps of my old house, where during a snowy winter, the whole family had a snowball fight. I got my mother a good one, my tiny four year old self, only to get a sneak attack from whitey as she had rolled a snowball the size of me and slammed it upon my back as I bent over to make another. It took my wind and made me cry and she never smiled or comforted me in my pain. She never apologized because she wasn't sorry for hurting me. I could see it in her eyes. She wanted her revenge, and took it with an unsatisfied desire. She was angry. She was not to be trusted. I was only four.

Gladiolas line the sidewalk, now. A monkey puzzle tree. A peace flag cut in half dangles in front of the local hippy house. Winds rustle the leaves of maples. An old white woman eyeballs me suspiciously as I walk down the street. Delaware Street in Portland is a lot different some 38 years later. Then again, maybe it is not as different as I think. Maybe it is as not as familiar as I remember.

Simon G. Stanich Park (Square)
created by city council resolution 9-3-75
dedicated 8-1-76
30 years ago today.

I must be on the right track, there on the corner of N Prescott and N Concord.

I decided to weave my way through North Portland...through the freshly blooming glory bauer and old neighborhood trees. Around flower gardens and wavy sidewalks where roots want freedom and alas...to the Failing Street Ped Bridge

where I stand above I-5 South Bound leaning against the iron rail as relentless traffic pours like the most rapid river just beneath my feet. It is so noisy and unpleasant as wave after wave after wave... I see Big Pink as I watch the people carrying vehicles head to somwhere or nowhere in particular...

and North Bound is as equally unpleasant as humans rush beneath my feet in a noisy and unpleasant chaotic clamour. I go unnoticed by the traffic, not paid attention to by my fellow pedestrians. And I write these words just above the chaos of my world...our world. And they head North. I get looked at by a couple of my fellow pedestrians whom I assume wonder what pictures I am painting with my words. And the world rushes on into nowhere. Siren screams in its familiar tone of fear.

Time to move on and look for work...

A journey of silence in a world of tall trees and houses.

I sit at the busy Mississippi Street in front of the Rebuilding Center and remember Minneapolis and the beauty of the man mangled Mississippi River and the ruins of the old mill. Rhonda and I had just eaten at Totino's where the name of the frozen pizza in a box comes from. The walk by the Mississippi River, the evening beauty, the wonderful humans, the place of her offering, the moon, the stars in the night sky, the giant tree in the park on the other side of the river, the lockes, the yellow orange street lights, the puppies, the beauty of her face, her smile, her Love, her warrior womanness, holding her hand, kissing her...

I sit across from the Mississipi Pizza Pub, where I saw the late Syd Brown play music accompanied by Steve Ahmdahl on the timbales. I sat with Jim Craven and we watched one of the most beautiful belly dancers that Syd could not watch because his heart would skip a beat and his fingers would soon follow.

"Move along. Nothing to see here."

I sit on a bus bench just past Dawson Park where I went pee. The first door I grabbed a woman had not locked and I interrupted her natural process. My apologies sister. Dawson Park, by the NARA clinic and Legacy Emmanuel Hospital. The hospital where my friend Maire Cullen found herself without working kidneys and she listened to me as I dreamed my hero back, but only with her cooperation. Maire does not do something she doesn't want to. I just got her attention before she took her journey to the spirit world and left her robe behind. I'm greedy. I don't want me hero to go home.

Dawson Park, where people picnic on tables between busy streets and men play dominoes. All await anxiously the tossing of the next piece.

I sit in front of the Memorial Coliseum. I remember the concerts I've been to, my ass getting grabbed when I felt like the ugliest of humans, AC/DC when Bon Scott was still alive, Rush, Van Halen, Eric Clapton, Crosby Stills and Nash, Bonnie Raitt, sitting and waiting for the doors to open and the mad rush. Harlem Globetrotters, trailblazers, fun and disappointment...and in the skies above my head, just a minute ago as I started to write this paragraph, two loud jets fly to remind us that death will be reigned upon many to protect our privilege by making others suffer.

I walk through the center of Peace Park, right down the middle of the grass and flower peace sign. Right through the middle on the grassy path through peace surrounded by tiny flowers. It's that easy. I think of those suffering in the Middle East, right here on the streets of Portland, the streets I wander.

I stand where the Steele Bridge opens on the pedestrian walkway and make my offerings. I wanted to write words here, but the bridge has to be opened for anxiously awaiting boat traffic. Although I thought I knew what I wanted to write here, I can no longer form the words to the page and something else has come to me, an old story:

Good Horse told me he tried to run from spirit, hiding in the remotest areas of B.C. But spirit always found him. Running does not get us there and it is just as easy to hide in the city as it is in the remotest areas of B.C. I can't escape. Don't want to escape. Beauty surrounds me. Besides...no matter where I go, I'm always there. And my river...she is beautiful, and my world keeps me here for now. Like Margaret Cho, I have decided to stay and fight.

Just across the Willamette River is Downtown Portland. What should I do with it?

Here at the BOO, the Revolution goes on and on and on...and don't forget to dance. That is why we have music programs. And don't forget to laugh, either. Tell a good joke, make fun of yourself or others as opportunity arises. And I'll see you all on this side of the Revolution. Where else are we going to go? The remotest areas of B.C.? You can't hide! And yes...We are coming for your children!

This is dedicated to my Lover Love, Rhonda Baseler!

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