To War, to War!

As of yesterday, there were 549 U.S./NATO ground troops, "trainers," in Ukraine--"boots on the ground," as they say--while the neo-Nazi, fascist régime of Poroshenko continues, with weaponry supplied to him by the United States, to bombard the hapless civilians of the Bonbas.  God damn us and him.

What the Fuck is a Sex Trafficking Bill? And what the Fuck is Sex Trafficking?

I'll bet that they know over at Salon Magazine, or imagine (being the imaginary sex they are) that they do.  When you read a description, or an attempted definition of "Sex Trafficking," with its implicit positing of utterly will-less prostitutes engaged, apparently, only by coercion of threats and physical violence, in utterly involuntary acts, you wonder if what is meant is not, rather, Bestiality Trafficking.  I remember that brief while in my life when I was a whore (preferring young, fit policemen as clients), and I encountered female prostitutes, from whom I learned of the existence of pimps: I would ask the ladies, "What do you need him for?"  And they all, with no exceptions that I recall, answered, "For emotional security."   And to the question of "What the fuck is 'Emotional Security'?" there was never, ever, an answer--or maybe just not one that I understood.

And what do I mean by "imaginary sex"?  Well, what does the word "orgasm" mean?  Or "rape"? Or "enjoyment of the passive rôle in anal sex"?  It depends, really, on whether you're asking a real or an imaginary person--a man or a woman.

A Modest Proposal

Messieurs et Madame,

I have ventured to invoke and summon you all to this Council of War and Deliberation to consider, and to deal with, actual American fascist criminality, and with the imminent, ultimate threat of thermonuclear war, which the United States of America poses to you, to its own citizens, and to the world--based as it is, as all tyrannies are founded upon, military domination abroad and the savage repression of its own people within a militarized prison state at home.  The center, the captive heart, of the Evil Empire lies in South America in the country of Colombia, the Cocaine Cash-Cow of the DEA, the CIA, and of the many unofficial but all-important secret, paramilitary agencies of the United States:  Colombia, above all others the country most heavily invested militarily by a foreign power, and, consequence, the most violent country on earth:  Fortress Colombia, indeed.  But it is just this total militarization and victimization of Colombia which offers you Leaders of the Free World, if I may suggest, the best chance of defeating the United States militarily and of ending its pernicious hegemony in the world: Because the U.S. military, to whom the governance of Colombia is confided, is entirely made up of mercenary soldiers, thugs and murderers for hire, whom (though some 14.5% are women) it should trouble no one's conscience to shoot dead where they stand--and who might be, and ought, I think, to be annihilated by a combined force of guerilla armies from neighbouring countries, plus citizen-soldier volunteers from other countries around the world, plus Colombia's own FARC; while at the same time, I recommend that U.S. soldiers, as the representatives and agents of tyranny throughout the world (but particularly in Central and South America, and in Europe), be killed, shot where they stand, by local, loyal sons of Freedom bearing the arms supplied them, or made accessible to them, by (I should think) Russia, China and Japan.  

     

But seriously, "Gay Marriage" is a silly-ass (typically female) partial assertion of a Natural Right, whose full, explicit formulation should be something like: Every free and responsible person has the right to marry whatever and howeversomany other consenting free and responsible persons as he (or she) wishes.

Unfortunately, the Lesbians who, quite justifiably, argue for their right to marry one another, are (I suppose because they are women) too self-absorbed, and not, alas, intelligent enough, to comprehend that, among those free and responsible persons, male and female, who have the right to marry whom they wish, some few are, and have ever been, throughout human history, polygamists--and it is as wrong (as much a contravention of natural right) to prevent their marrying one another as it is to prevent Lesbians or gay men from marrying one another.   

The Gorgon Sisters (the Mafia, the FBI and the CIA) who killed the Kennedys, and went on to devour the World....

More than fifty years later, the shock of John and Robert Kennedys' foolhardy Défi of Entrenched Corruption, and the assassinations of both men which it provoked,  still reverberates.  

The FBI itself, of course, perpetrated the Boston Marathon Bombings...

It has only to be said to be evident.

WHO the bloody hell appointed Judy Clarke as Dzhokhar Tsarnov's "Defense" Attorney?

And why, despite his pleading NOT GUILTY, did the venal bitch totally ADMIT his guilt in her final summation to the jury--as if it were a given and incontestable?   Guilt, I might add, for which not an iota of actual proof or substantiation was given during the trial.  If I had known how utterly without pretense of giving him a fair trial these proceedings were going to be, I'd have found a way to to get  MYSELF appointed as Tsarnov's defense attorney.  Surely a miscarriage of justice as blatant, and as obviously politically motivated, as this can be declared a MISTRIAL.  If not, then, O my pure-souled revolutionary activists of good conscience, it is time for the cleansing Couteau de Corday--beginning, I should think, with Ms. Clarke.  

 

A Kiss on the Mouth from my Guardian Sylphs

As I lay still unconscious this morning in the growing  light, dimly aware of the crowing of feral roosters, I had one of my pleasantest-ever morning-dreams:  I was in a large gathering of exquisitely civilized beings (elegant people, or Fair Folk) seated at a beautiful walnut-wood grand piano, and on the music desk in front of me was a volume of Beethoven sonatas that I had never seen before. Without further ado, I began to sightread a movement from an extraordinarily pretty, late Beethoven sonata that was, in its way--after the fashion of Beethoven's late work--something of a tour de force:  It began simply, at a brisk tempo, as a two-part canon, with a mirror episode that turned into a rondo (reminiscent of the second movement of Opus 90, but faster)--all so swift and pretty that I couldn't stop to think whether I could play it, and so played through to a  surprising bravura coda (rather like a Rossini comic aria), to much applause and laughter, from the assembly and from myself, who was astonished as anybody that I had got through it.  I awoke exhilarated.

Actually, this is a bit of real life, recollected.  It did so happen a year or so ago that I spent the day playing bridge with friends in the interior of the island, one of the friends being my favorite lady mathematician in all the world, Matty (Mathilda), from Leeds via Brisbane.  And during lunch break I did, much to the delectation of the company, play the Beethoven  E minor sonata Opus 90--straight through, without a pause and with no mistakes; which, because I like it so much, I am always able to do.

Like many another American, I worry about California, and wonder if it is worth saving...

And then I think, as an Oregonian, and a graduate of the University of Oregon (Magna cum Laude) and a Duck, after all,  that I can save it, so perhaps I should--though with many reservations, conditional stipulations and peculiar terms of repayment to be fulfilled presently and in future. The first part, saving California, is absurdly simple:  Pump fresh water (eight billion gallons a day) from, say, 100 miles before the mouth of the Columbia River (so that it be not contaminated with salt water), north to south, across the state of Oregon to California.  Eight billion gallons of water a day, from an outflow of the Columbia River at the mouth of 265,000 cubic feet per second, would scarcely be felt at the origin, and would forever solve all the water/drought problems of the cities and the agriculture of California.  Simple indeed.

Half the costs of pumps and aqueducts should, of course, be borne by the State of California.  But more than that, there are several things about California that must change if Oregon is to share its water with the Golden State.  California's semi-privatized prison system is on many counts iniquitous,  as is its barbaric militarized police force.  I would give the Powers That Are and Vested Interests in California this ultimatum:  You want our water?--Release from detention all those convicted of non-violent crimes.  Cease forthwith the custom of handcuffing non-violent offenders when placing them under arrest.  Utterly goddamnit stop cutting down redwoods and the clearcutting of forests. As of now switch from wood pulp to hemp fiber pulp in the making of paper; likewise, where at all feasible, replace the cultivation of cotton with hemp, and change from the manufacture of cotton and synthetic textiles to the making of hemp cloth.

You have a year, in the opinion of most climatologists,

before the current drought destroys you.  Get cracking.  

Our Fascist Prison State

Talking with Phil in Germany last night--Phil whom I have been urging, nagging even, to get his German citizenship, and, incidentally, to renounce his American citizenship--I learned something utterly appalling, and new apparently, about being the captive subject ("citizen") of the United States of America (without Due Process, Habeas Corpus or the Rule of Law):  The U.S. State Department (by fiat, and by no right or authority ever made explicit) now charges any American who wishes to renounce his citizenship a "documentation processing" fee of $2,350.  Of course, I shouted over the long wire from Honolulu to Franconia, "Renounce it, and don't pay them!"  But Phil says, or implies (I don't think he's really sure about the technical legality of it) that the German state will not grant him citizenship unless he pays the unprecedented, illegal, extortionate and unconstitutional fee for the renunciation of his U.S. citizenship; not, at least, without his hiring a lawyer and spending many thousand Euros arguing a hopeless Constitutional Cause against an Evil Corporate Entity that knows neither Constitution nor Law.  Did I say damn the United States of America?  I mean God fucking damn them to bloody Hell.

What I learned from Drugs -- Part 2 (Peyote, LSD, Amphetamines, Opium, Cocaine, Quaaludes, Alcohol)

In May of 1964, having quit my job at Sun Life Assurance Co. Ltd. in San Francisco, I was back in Cheney, pretending to be taking classes at Eastern Washington State College, in order to extort an allowance from my Folks, while, in fact, I hung out, morning, noon and night in the Widow (Toni) Pugh's Rooming House for Truth-Seeking Young Bohemians--mostly sitting at the kitchen table, or in the living room, drinking coffee, sometimes smoking pot, endlessly gassing with Patrick (Joseph Patrick McClelland), an Irishman, artist, musician, linguist, with huge, brown, haunting Spanish eyes ("like Bambi"), the same age and birthsign as me, from Santiago de Chile, who had one of the upstairs bedrooms, while Deacon had the other.  I think it fair to say that Patrick and I had a sort of Schwarm for one another, with no taint of the erotic, but with deep appreciation and delight in one another's wit, breeding, learning, musicality, civilized character--which enabled Patrick somehow literally to read my mind, which was  sometimes embarrassing, but always funny.  Our mutual infatuation was cemented by reading French romantic poetry together, which we both found deliciously, hilariously ridiculous, and whereof we would laugh at one another's solemn, fervid recitations till our sides ached:  

                         Les plus désespérés sont les chants les plus beaux,

                         Et j'en sais d'immortelles qui sont de purs sanglots.

                          
                         N'y touchez pas--il est brisé!

Whenever I hear the Word "Spanking" my Gorge rises, and I begin to feel the Need to Slap somebody (to get his Attention), and then to give him a good stiff Horsewhipping, or a swift exemplary Flogging...

"Spanking," called "paddling" in Red States, is, after all, curiously, at the same time, a vile, poisonously mild euphemism both for physically brutalizing children, and for sexual sadism among adults.  People who use the word do so to make light of the pain they mean to inflict, and to deflect attention from the pleasure that hurting children, or their sexual partners, gives them.  On reflection, slapping, whipping and flogging are inadequate punishments for "spankers" and "paddlers."  I propose that the  next school principal in a Southern State who whacks a child with a stick to instill "discipline," and the next sadistic "fetishist" who canes the object of his affection's posterior, have their hands amputated.  At the wrist.

At the Movies

Started watching Jesus' Son on Hulu last night, and had to stop, take time out for reflection, about a half or two thirds of the way through (still haven't resumed this morning); because, for all its grinding, unreflecting, troppo serioso heterosexuality and the use of hard drugs taken by hypodermic injection (which I was never into), this is a movie about me.  And my friends.  FH and I are pretty much the same person--even, in 1971, looking alike, except that I was a tad leaner and more muscular (no tummy whatsoever), with blond-streaked auburn hair, rather than black.  But pretty, as we all mostly were then, and as the movie suggests, attractive to women, by whom sometimes, mostly out of vanity, I allowed myself to be seduced.   And when pregnancy resulted, as once or twice it did, I made it clear to the Expectant One:  "I'll support you both for the first two years of the kid's life.  And after that I will support the kid till he's eighteen, but not you."  For some reason, this generous, explicit offer of mine was never accepted, and the gravid ladies always got abortions within the first trimester. Maybe it had something to do with my inability even to imagine the child-to-be as anything but a boy.  I think I'd have been a fine father for a boy, but I wouldn't have known what to do with a girl, for sure.