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Dear President Obama,
On behalf of myself, friends, family and literally millions of people all across the United States and the world, I am writing you today concerning an urgent and heartfelt request: to consider the case of Leonard Peltier. For thirty-three years Mr. Peltier has been incarcerated in various American prisons for a crime that there is ample evidence to substantiate he did not commit. For thirty-three years Mr. Peltier, his lawyers and supporters have appealed to the powers that be in Washington to re-open, to re-try the case of the U.S. vs. Leonard Peltier. For thirty-three years these pleas have fallen on deaf ears. Now, at age 64, Leonard Peltier is approaching the end of his life and is in poor health, and those of us who are interested in Native American issues of social justice are trying one last time, when hope has returned to the American spirit and we have a president who espouses transparency and equanimity of policy and practice, to appeal to your sense of compassion and justice in a case that for many represents an opportunity to finally bridge the gap of broken treaties and broken trust between the First Nation peoples of this country and their government. We truly hope that with your new administration and its progressively positive attitudes of equal rights for all peoples, races, religions and economic status, that a time of reconciliation has finally arrived and some of the injustices of the past can be put right, with critical bridges crossed and war wounds healed.
Rather than laying out the long history of the case of the U.S. vs. Leonard Peltier, I prefer to point you in the direction of Mr. Peltier’s book My Life Is My Sun Dance, a book he has written that was published in 1999 to universal acclaim and rave reviews (see enclosure), and which I had the great honor to edit. This book contains his full account of the events surrounding his arrest, his trial, his incarceration and the more than twenty-three years that followed. Also, you might want to consult your colleagues Senator Inouye and Gov. Bill Richardson on this case, as they are familiar with it and are supporters of the world-wide movement to reconsider, re-try and release Leonard Peltier from his incarceration as a political prisoner, wrongly convicted.
To this end I would like to ask of you a favor by granting an audience to Chief Arvol Looking Horse, 19th-Generation Keeper of the Sacred White Buffalo Pipe of the Great Lakota Nation, and myself, that we may deliver a message to you on behalf of all those concerned people around the world who have worked--by marching in protest, by contacting their representatives in government, by signing petitions, by writing letters, by working for his legal defense--so hard for Mr. Peltier’s freedom. We would be happy to meet with you, Vice President Biden, Sec. Hillary Clinton, Gov. Bill Richardson, Sen. Inouye, Jodi Archambault Gillette from the Office of Inter-governmental Affairs and anyone else you feel would appropriately need to be involved in such a meeting and any discussions that might occur to shed a brighter light on this matter. Such a meeting, we believe, would not only be a true sign of your willingness to begin a dialogue with Native peoples on issues of overlooked urgency and importance, but would go a long way, in good faith, to showing us that Democracy and Justice still have a meaning in America.
Mr. President, it is with great hope and great expectations that my colleagues and I await your word in response to this letter of inquiry and appeal. Not only does the future of Leonard Peltier depend upon it, but also our hopes for a greater nation where there is truly liberty and justice for all peoples, including First Nation peoples.
Respectfully yours,
Harvey Arden
Washington, DC
with assistance from
Thomas Rain Crow
newnativepress@hotmail.com
Please send a copy of this to http://www.whitehouse.gov/contact/
Monday, May 04, 2009
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Beatlicks Travel: A Long Road to N'Orleans
Beatlick TR: Not in the desert anymore
Next morning the skies are still gloomy. There is so much moisture in the air that neither Joe nor I look like ourselves. Joe’s hair is a mass of curls the size of quarters and my hair is looping out like it has been set on juice cans. Over coffee we debate the route this time. Now I know I can hang with the big dogs on the interstate with safety and confidence, but is that the best route.
Me: I just can’t decide what’s better.
Whatever you say.
I just can’t figure out what’s the best decision.
You’re the one who wants to drive on the interstate.
I just want to make a good decision. Which way is best for the van. I don’t know whether to wear the van out on the interstate and get there faster or wear me out taking the slower roads.
Whatever you say.
Joe, you are bringing absolutely nothing to the table. Don’t come back six hours later telling me you could have turned here, you could have turned there.
But already the noise of the trucks was droning in my ears. We had one more chance to pick up a route to Highway 90. Finally Joe gets out his map and we decide to pick up Highway 14 before we hit Lake Charles.
And I keep my mouth shut as we passed through a few small communities posting 30 mph. But within 20 minutes we were in some beautiful Louisiana low country which looks like Holland with a series of levies and dikes in a big agricultural area. I’m happy and the van purrs along. We enjoy the bucolic scenery as the seagulls begin to proliferate. Joe’s curls build higher and higher upon his head. We’re not in the desert anymore.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Beatlick TR: Broke down in Bayou Vista, LA
Clouds were breaking up and the sun was getting hot as we passed through Patteson, LA, nearing Morgan City. We are beginning to realize we might make New Orleans before dark. In my thoughts I was already shopping at the French Market when I stopped at a red light and couldn’t get the transmission back into gear.
Well it finally happened – breakdown. After all those hours on the road to San Diego almost incapacitated with anxiety, now I have an eerie calm about me when real trouble hits. Somehow I know this will turn out alright if I just keep- my wits about me, keep calm. A few things are going in my favor.
I am directly across the street from a Wal-Mart Supercenter. Thank goodness I didn’t take the interstate. Pamela Hirst, roving reporter, goes into action. First I find a cop in the Wal-Mart parking lot and ask him if he knows of any VW mechanics. No luck but he gets me the number of a nearby transmission shop. Very helpful. The policemen are usually the first ones I approach when I’m in trouble like this, especially in a small town. And he couldn’t have been nicer. “Call the station if you need us,” and Officer Bryant gave me his phone number.
It was 4 p.m. on Saturday. I called the transmission shop knowing it would be closed. It was. So we gave up on accomplishing anything before Monday. Our luck held. We went back to the van and I was actually able to put it into gear. I put the van in reverse, turned the key, and it lurched backwards. I was able to back up to the red light. When the traffic got sparse I was able to put it in first and bolt across the street into the Wal-Mart parking lot. Sanctuary until Monday.
Further questioning of Wal-Mart customers gave me more leads. Someone told me about a mechanic on down Highway 90. “Do we both have to walk there?” Joe asked. Of course not.
So I walked about three miles to the next town of Berwick. I headed out thankful to have something to do. When I got there all I found was a tire store, closed of course. Then I walked across the street to a bar to investigate. Bingo. I left the bar within 20 minutes with the names of the best foreign car mechanic and tow truck driver in Morgan City. I called AAA and learned I wouldn’t have to pay for the tow either, Excellent.
So we settled into the Wal-Mart parking lot for the weekend. We learned quickly about the local flora and fauna. Overhead the parking lot is full of squawking seagulls. Both of us got attacked by red ants when we made the mistake of walking off of the pavement and into the grass and in the drainage ditch right in front of the store I noticed something of a sizeable proportion splashing around as I walked by. Later I saw a nutria, a giant water rat about the size of a beaver, out basking in the lush green grass as all the traffic passed on Highway 90.
Really we had a good time. We finally got to start sleeping in our upper bunk. This doubles our living capacity at night and really makes the van comfortable. In the course of the weekend a few people stopped by. One really old heavy set man in a big expensive truck with a little dog by his side stopped. He wanted to tell me he was looking for a small camper himself.
“My wife has left me and now I have to start all over,” he shrugged.
I mentioned I was broke down and he told me about a nearby mechanic, wanted to drive me over there, but I declined. He wanted to know if I was traveling alone. I guess he didn’t see Joe. I said no. I thanked him for the directions and bid him adieu after he basically divulged his life story to me.
Before too long a VW bug pulled up in the next lane. I waited a few hours for that guy to show up but he didn’t know a mechanic, did his own work, and went to Baton Rouge if he really needed help. Oh well. I passed the time sprucing up the van, giving it the message I hadn’t given up on it, doing the Sunday crossword puzzle, and organizing our gear.
When in situations like this I never rest until I know I have done absolutely everything I can to be my own best advocate. So I pressed on. In a while I asked Joe if he wanted to enjoy the Sunday afternoon sunset and take a walk in the neighborhood to see if we could find that mechanic. I could get the number maybe off a door or a sign. Somehow I had the feeling that just the right person was out there for me, I just had to find him or her. In these cases it’s always best to deal with a real VW person. Most commercial shops and parts departments aren’t set up to deal with VW issues. We pressed on.
The old man’s directions were a bit sketchy so I asked more questions of the neighbors washing their cars, putting out the garbage cans, and watering lawns. We finally arrived at a big garage in the neighborhood, no signs, a lot of cars outside – and lo and behold – a mechanic sitting in the doorway reading a parts magazine. I approached him.
His name was Randy. His garage was filled with dune buggies, little race cars, and motorcycles. He said this was his hobby shop, he wasn’t a business, but he was willing to help me. I had found my man.
Randy is a monster truck mechanic. He has traveled all over America working the car show circuit and recently retired. He was well familiar with VWs being an old hippie. He put us in his truck and we drove off to a parts store, no luck, it had just closed, but he went back to the van and checked out the situation.
I need a clutch cable. So for now we are currently parked at Randy’s garage in Bayou Vista, LA. If we don’t get a cable from the O’Reilly parts store, and that is looking unlikely, then Michael is going to send us one UPS. So for now we have a good place to park, food and drink is within walking distance, and we are thanking our luck stars. It’s all good. We’ll get to New Orleans maybe by next week. The Jazz Fest is still going on.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Date: Apr 30, 2009 4:27 PM
In the last five days I have been through some right of passage in the tiny town of Bayou Vista, LA. I am never going to spend another moment frightened or worried about breaking down. I have fallen into loving arms here in this town and we are so humbled by our fortuitous experience and the obvious unforeseen forces which guide us.
My van broke down within five blocks of Randy Jenkins, who has traveled America as a mechanic on the monster truck circuit. He also works on Nitro Harley motorcycles and his son was one of the top "pilots" not racers in the country.
I needed a clutch cable and I decided to take the path of least resistance, allow Randy and his neighbors to take us under their wing, and just wait for Michael, my mechanic in Organ, NM, to send me a cable. As it turned out it would have taken just as long for O'Reilly's, an auto parts store next to Wal-Mart, to get me the part. As it turned out the auto parts store would have cost me $80 and I don't know if that included overnight air freight or not. Michael mailed me the cable for less that $30.
Randy set us up at his shop where we urban camped for five days. His neighbor Tim invited us to his house everyday to eat, shower, and pass the time. Last night we enjoyed a crawfish boil. Randy's girlfriend Wendy was one of the first female crane and big rig operators here around and about Morgan City. She was a real trailblazer in her day. She and I went blackberry picking along the RR tracks yesterday. They were our dessert last night after all the sausage, crawfish, corn, potatoes, and red onions.
Randy got us back on the road this morning and took NO MONEY. I just can't believe the warmth and generosity of these people. We insisted on at least providing them with one good meal, as we did. But they have given us so much more than we gave. From now on I will see breakdowns as opportunities.
It took less than two hours to get to NO. I am hooking up with my old girlfriend I used to live with down here. She drove down from Atlanta and I'm gonna call her cell as soon as I finish this report. We are urban camped at the Nix Library on Carrollton Ave. We parked here on our first VW tour right after my momma died. It's like coming home. Hope we can get away with it again. Looks good.
Happy Trails to all
Beatlick Pamela
Next morning the skies are still gloomy. There is so much moisture in the air that neither Joe nor I look like ourselves. Joe’s hair is a mass of curls the size of quarters and my hair is looping out like it has been set on juice cans. Over coffee we debate the route this time. Now I know I can hang with the big dogs on the interstate with safety and confidence, but is that the best route.
Me: I just can’t decide what’s better.
Whatever you say.
I just can’t figure out what’s the best decision.
You’re the one who wants to drive on the interstate.
I just want to make a good decision. Which way is best for the van. I don’t know whether to wear the van out on the interstate and get there faster or wear me out taking the slower roads.
Whatever you say.
Joe, you are bringing absolutely nothing to the table. Don’t come back six hours later telling me you could have turned here, you could have turned there.
But already the noise of the trucks was droning in my ears. We had one more chance to pick up a route to Highway 90. Finally Joe gets out his map and we decide to pick up Highway 14 before we hit Lake Charles.
And I keep my mouth shut as we passed through a few small communities posting 30 mph. But within 20 minutes we were in some beautiful Louisiana low country which looks like Holland with a series of levies and dikes in a big agricultural area. I’m happy and the van purrs along. We enjoy the bucolic scenery as the seagulls begin to proliferate. Joe’s curls build higher and higher upon his head. We’re not in the desert anymore.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Beatlick TR: Broke down in Bayou Vista, LA
Clouds were breaking up and the sun was getting hot as we passed through Patteson, LA, nearing Morgan City. We are beginning to realize we might make New Orleans before dark. In my thoughts I was already shopping at the French Market when I stopped at a red light and couldn’t get the transmission back into gear.
Well it finally happened – breakdown. After all those hours on the road to San Diego almost incapacitated with anxiety, now I have an eerie calm about me when real trouble hits. Somehow I know this will turn out alright if I just keep- my wits about me, keep calm. A few things are going in my favor.
I am directly across the street from a Wal-Mart Supercenter. Thank goodness I didn’t take the interstate. Pamela Hirst, roving reporter, goes into action. First I find a cop in the Wal-Mart parking lot and ask him if he knows of any VW mechanics. No luck but he gets me the number of a nearby transmission shop. Very helpful. The policemen are usually the first ones I approach when I’m in trouble like this, especially in a small town. And he couldn’t have been nicer. “Call the station if you need us,” and Officer Bryant gave me his phone number.
It was 4 p.m. on Saturday. I called the transmission shop knowing it would be closed. It was. So we gave up on accomplishing anything before Monday. Our luck held. We went back to the van and I was actually able to put it into gear. I put the van in reverse, turned the key, and it lurched backwards. I was able to back up to the red light. When the traffic got sparse I was able to put it in first and bolt across the street into the Wal-Mart parking lot. Sanctuary until Monday.
Further questioning of Wal-Mart customers gave me more leads. Someone told me about a mechanic on down Highway 90. “Do we both have to walk there?” Joe asked. Of course not.
So I walked about three miles to the next town of Berwick. I headed out thankful to have something to do. When I got there all I found was a tire store, closed of course. Then I walked across the street to a bar to investigate. Bingo. I left the bar within 20 minutes with the names of the best foreign car mechanic and tow truck driver in Morgan City. I called AAA and learned I wouldn’t have to pay for the tow either, Excellent.
So we settled into the Wal-Mart parking lot for the weekend. We learned quickly about the local flora and fauna. Overhead the parking lot is full of squawking seagulls. Both of us got attacked by red ants when we made the mistake of walking off of the pavement and into the grass and in the drainage ditch right in front of the store I noticed something of a sizeable proportion splashing around as I walked by. Later I saw a nutria, a giant water rat about the size of a beaver, out basking in the lush green grass as all the traffic passed on Highway 90.
Really we had a good time. We finally got to start sleeping in our upper bunk. This doubles our living capacity at night and really makes the van comfortable. In the course of the weekend a few people stopped by. One really old heavy set man in a big expensive truck with a little dog by his side stopped. He wanted to tell me he was looking for a small camper himself.
“My wife has left me and now I have to start all over,” he shrugged.
I mentioned I was broke down and he told me about a nearby mechanic, wanted to drive me over there, but I declined. He wanted to know if I was traveling alone. I guess he didn’t see Joe. I said no. I thanked him for the directions and bid him adieu after he basically divulged his life story to me.
Before too long a VW bug pulled up in the next lane. I waited a few hours for that guy to show up but he didn’t know a mechanic, did his own work, and went to Baton Rouge if he really needed help. Oh well. I passed the time sprucing up the van, giving it the message I hadn’t given up on it, doing the Sunday crossword puzzle, and organizing our gear.
When in situations like this I never rest until I know I have done absolutely everything I can to be my own best advocate. So I pressed on. In a while I asked Joe if he wanted to enjoy the Sunday afternoon sunset and take a walk in the neighborhood to see if we could find that mechanic. I could get the number maybe off a door or a sign. Somehow I had the feeling that just the right person was out there for me, I just had to find him or her. In these cases it’s always best to deal with a real VW person. Most commercial shops and parts departments aren’t set up to deal with VW issues. We pressed on.
The old man’s directions were a bit sketchy so I asked more questions of the neighbors washing their cars, putting out the garbage cans, and watering lawns. We finally arrived at a big garage in the neighborhood, no signs, a lot of cars outside – and lo and behold – a mechanic sitting in the doorway reading a parts magazine. I approached him.
His name was Randy. His garage was filled with dune buggies, little race cars, and motorcycles. He said this was his hobby shop, he wasn’t a business, but he was willing to help me. I had found my man.
Randy is a monster truck mechanic. He has traveled all over America working the car show circuit and recently retired. He was well familiar with VWs being an old hippie. He put us in his truck and we drove off to a parts store, no luck, it had just closed, but he went back to the van and checked out the situation.
I need a clutch cable. So for now we are currently parked at Randy’s garage in Bayou Vista, LA. If we don’t get a cable from the O’Reilly parts store, and that is looking unlikely, then Michael is going to send us one UPS. So for now we have a good place to park, food and drink is within walking distance, and we are thanking our luck stars. It’s all good. We’ll get to New Orleans maybe by next week. The Jazz Fest is still going on.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Date: Apr 30, 2009 4:27 PM
In the last five days I have been through some right of passage in the tiny town of Bayou Vista, LA. I am never going to spend another moment frightened or worried about breaking down. I have fallen into loving arms here in this town and we are so humbled by our fortuitous experience and the obvious unforeseen forces which guide us.
My van broke down within five blocks of Randy Jenkins, who has traveled America as a mechanic on the monster truck circuit. He also works on Nitro Harley motorcycles and his son was one of the top "pilots" not racers in the country.
I needed a clutch cable and I decided to take the path of least resistance, allow Randy and his neighbors to take us under their wing, and just wait for Michael, my mechanic in Organ, NM, to send me a cable. As it turned out it would have taken just as long for O'Reilly's, an auto parts store next to Wal-Mart, to get me the part. As it turned out the auto parts store would have cost me $80 and I don't know if that included overnight air freight or not. Michael mailed me the cable for less that $30.
Randy set us up at his shop where we urban camped for five days. His neighbor Tim invited us to his house everyday to eat, shower, and pass the time. Last night we enjoyed a crawfish boil. Randy's girlfriend Wendy was one of the first female crane and big rig operators here around and about Morgan City. She was a real trailblazer in her day. She and I went blackberry picking along the RR tracks yesterday. They were our dessert last night after all the sausage, crawfish, corn, potatoes, and red onions.
Randy got us back on the road this morning and took NO MONEY. I just can't believe the warmth and generosity of these people. We insisted on at least providing them with one good meal, as we did. But they have given us so much more than we gave. From now on I will see breakdowns as opportunities.
It took less than two hours to get to NO. I am hooking up with my old girlfriend I used to live with down here. She drove down from Atlanta and I'm gonna call her cell as soon as I finish this report. We are urban camped at the Nix Library on Carrollton Ave. We parked here on our first VW tour right after my momma died. It's like coming home. Hope we can get away with it again. Looks good.
Happy Trails to all
Beatlick Pamela
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Beatlick Travel: Lightning Storm in Houston
Ooh that smell. Can't you smell that smell? Wet pavement on the open road. How long has it been?
Well down Highway 90 my navigator Beatlick Joe Speer signals turns to roads that are getting smaller and smaller. I'm getting tireder and tireder.
"Isn't there a more direct route than this?" I ask. Then switching into alpha bitch mode: It's been three days, 700 miles, and we're not making any progress.
"Well, I thought you wanted to go to Palacias, Texas, and get BBQ.
"I only said that because you wanted to take the coastal route. Besides I already got BBQ." (I couldn't wait and grabbed the first opportunity for some of that great dry Texas BBQ, so unlike the wet sloppy kind back in Tennessee.)
Neither one of us was taking responsibility for the route we were on. And again, not having consulted the map, I had no conception of the extra time and miles it would take to retrace our old path along the Texas coastline. Needless to say we never made it to the coast.
Fortunately we were serendipitously close to Highway 59 heading due east and a straight shot to Houston. We nipped at each other for a few more miles until we took a break at a beautiful picnic area.
I passed an hour doing my yoga exercises, Joe chilled in the van, and we were both in much better moods when we headed out again in the late afternoon, planning on about three more hours on the road and stop on the east side of Houston, hopefully missing some heavy traffic.
The rain had been teasing us all day long and picked up about the same time we hit the 12-lane 210 bypass around Houston. Six lanes one-way of course. We head in. The van is driving effortlessly and we are snug enough. The rain intensifies as night comes on and the sky starts to fill with maxi-bursts of lightning that illuminate the entire curve of the horizon; the lightning bolts must be at least 30 miles long.
I am taking it all in stride and we just start to joke about it, how much worse could the driving conditions be? That’s when the windstorms began. It was like a race car arcade game where you are trying to stay in the lane, but the road is so wet you can’t see the markers; all the tail lights of the cars are twinkling, competing with the lightning bolts overhead; and the big rigs roar past leaving a wake of water as they swoosh by.
By the time we got to the opposite side of Houston, pulling up a long incline, I think we hit a small tornado. I felt like I was “Three Years Before the Mast” heading around Cape Horn in a gale storm. But my little van was giving its all. I had all the power I needed, thank God, to accelerate evenly with traffic, but the spray and the sheer density of the rain sheets finally turned everything opaque, the color of cement. I couldn’t even pull over because we were along a construction corridor and orange cones blocked my path.
I should have pulled over anywhere, but I was waiting for the most opportune pull off. It didn’t come Cars were beginning to line the sides of the highway now as I slowed down, still hardly able to make out anything between the psychedelic light show in the sky, all the red taillights on the road, and the vast amounts of water that were drowning out my vision.
And just at that moment when I saw a sign for an old weigh station turn off one mile ahead, another gush of water from a passing rig submerged me and the engine stalled. I stomped the accelerator and the engine held. All this time an eerie calm is over me. After all the anxiety I felt driving out in the mountains anticipating the danger that never happened, here in this truly dangerous situation I am calm, determined.
The weigh station exit came up at last and I was finally able to pull over. I puttered along in first gear finding nowhere to turn in because the lane was packed with other vehicles, at least 50 or 60. We were almost back onto the highway when I found one tiny space in between two big rigs. I pull in. I have been driving for 14 hours.
This was the night we were anticipating sleeping uptop in the van. But no chance of that now. Unfortunately I had already placed the bedding up there so in the gales we had to lift the camper top and pull out our damp down comforters. But only a little damp. They would work.
We fixed up the bed to look out the side window. The rain and traffic are a real show out there and my body is vibrating so intensely that there is no way I will go to sleep for quite some time, so I just snuggled in to watch the light show. I tell Joe, “I feel like I have been struck by lightning. I feel electric.”
The rain beats down relentlessly, the water gushes past the window horizontally, and the lightning bolts appear like bursts of bomb shells. It’s WWII out there. The noise of the rain, the trucks, the lightning crashes all pass through me. My body resonates. I am safe, I am warm, I am anointed!
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Well down Highway 90 my navigator Beatlick Joe Speer signals turns to roads that are getting smaller and smaller. I'm getting tireder and tireder.
"Isn't there a more direct route than this?" I ask. Then switching into alpha bitch mode: It's been three days, 700 miles, and we're not making any progress.
"Well, I thought you wanted to go to Palacias, Texas, and get BBQ.
"I only said that because you wanted to take the coastal route. Besides I already got BBQ." (I couldn't wait and grabbed the first opportunity for some of that great dry Texas BBQ, so unlike the wet sloppy kind back in Tennessee.)
Neither one of us was taking responsibility for the route we were on. And again, not having consulted the map, I had no conception of the extra time and miles it would take to retrace our old path along the Texas coastline. Needless to say we never made it to the coast.
Fortunately we were serendipitously close to Highway 59 heading due east and a straight shot to Houston. We nipped at each other for a few more miles until we took a break at a beautiful picnic area.
I passed an hour doing my yoga exercises, Joe chilled in the van, and we were both in much better moods when we headed out again in the late afternoon, planning on about three more hours on the road and stop on the east side of Houston, hopefully missing some heavy traffic.
The rain had been teasing us all day long and picked up about the same time we hit the 12-lane 210 bypass around Houston. Six lanes one-way of course. We head in. The van is driving effortlessly and we are snug enough. The rain intensifies as night comes on and the sky starts to fill with maxi-bursts of lightning that illuminate the entire curve of the horizon; the lightning bolts must be at least 30 miles long.
I am taking it all in stride and we just start to joke about it, how much worse could the driving conditions be? That’s when the windstorms began. It was like a race car arcade game where you are trying to stay in the lane, but the road is so wet you can’t see the markers; all the tail lights of the cars are twinkling, competing with the lightning bolts overhead; and the big rigs roar past leaving a wake of water as they swoosh by.
By the time we got to the opposite side of Houston, pulling up a long incline, I think we hit a small tornado. I felt like I was “Three Years Before the Mast” heading around Cape Horn in a gale storm. But my little van was giving its all. I had all the power I needed, thank God, to accelerate evenly with traffic, but the spray and the sheer density of the rain sheets finally turned everything opaque, the color of cement. I couldn’t even pull over because we were along a construction corridor and orange cones blocked my path.
I should have pulled over anywhere, but I was waiting for the most opportune pull off. It didn’t come Cars were beginning to line the sides of the highway now as I slowed down, still hardly able to make out anything between the psychedelic light show in the sky, all the red taillights on the road, and the vast amounts of water that were drowning out my vision.
And just at that moment when I saw a sign for an old weigh station turn off one mile ahead, another gush of water from a passing rig submerged me and the engine stalled. I stomped the accelerator and the engine held. All this time an eerie calm is over me. After all the anxiety I felt driving out in the mountains anticipating the danger that never happened, here in this truly dangerous situation I am calm, determined.
The weigh station exit came up at last and I was finally able to pull over. I puttered along in first gear finding nowhere to turn in because the lane was packed with other vehicles, at least 50 or 60. We were almost back onto the highway when I found one tiny space in between two big rigs. I pull in. I have been driving for 14 hours.
This was the night we were anticipating sleeping uptop in the van. But no chance of that now. Unfortunately I had already placed the bedding up there so in the gales we had to lift the camper top and pull out our damp down comforters. But only a little damp. They would work.
We fixed up the bed to look out the side window. The rain and traffic are a real show out there and my body is vibrating so intensely that there is no way I will go to sleep for quite some time, so I just snuggled in to watch the light show. I tell Joe, “I feel like I have been struck by lightning. I feel electric.”
The rain beats down relentlessly, the water gushes past the window horizontally, and the lightning bolts appear like bursts of bomb shells. It’s WWII out there. The noise of the rain, the trucks, the lightning crashes all pass through me. My body resonates. I am safe, I am warm, I am anointed!
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
A Story About the War
by Chris Mansel
I was writing a play, about a man who went blind
in the middle of a war. He crossed the lines over and
over till he was shot through the back.
He slept until the bullet dislodged itself and he awoke
and he could see again. He climbed a mountain and there
he saw a single dove fly into a stone and not come out.
He stood there until a bullet dropped from his hands and
rolled down the mountain and into a stream. The next day
the dove brought the bullet back to him. The dove dropped
the bullet into his hand and started to bleed. The man closed
his eyes and flew away.
He flew over the soldiers dying on the battlefield, he flew over
the wounded, and the peaceful skies. As he dipped his wing feathers
dropped from his mouth, and a quiet fell over the land. His eyes rolled
into his head and the peace he felt was disturbed when he landed amidst
a battle. His body was insulted by the machinery of war and there was
hardly anything left.
The next morning a solid red dove came to pick at his remains.
Chris Mansel (christophermansel@hotmail.com)
I was writing a play, about a man who went blind
in the middle of a war. He crossed the lines over and
over till he was shot through the back.
He slept until the bullet dislodged itself and he awoke
and he could see again. He climbed a mountain and there
he saw a single dove fly into a stone and not come out.
He stood there until a bullet dropped from his hands and
rolled down the mountain and into a stream. The next day
the dove brought the bullet back to him. The dove dropped
the bullet into his hand and started to bleed. The man closed
his eyes and flew away.
He flew over the soldiers dying on the battlefield, he flew over
the wounded, and the peaceful skies. As he dipped his wing feathers
dropped from his mouth, and a quiet fell over the land. His eyes rolled
into his head and the peace he felt was disturbed when he landed amidst
a battle. His body was insulted by the machinery of war and there was
hardly anything left.
The next morning a solid red dove came to pick at his remains.
Chris Mansel (christophermansel@hotmail.com)
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Beatlick Travel Report: Las Cruces to Marathon TX
Beatlick Travel Report: Aguirre Springs
With a conflicted heart I am pointing my van east toward Tennessee. My little house back there is minus tenants still and my sister called me in tears over the condition it was in. So to honor the home I inherited from my mother I will go back and take care of some business. Hopefully it won’t take too long, but I’m not worried about it, whatever it takes.
So out of Albuquerque we headed south back to Las Cruces to get our 3,000 mile checkup.
The tune up worked out perfectly with Beatlick Joe’s long held fantasy of hiking Baylor Pass. We delivered the van to Michael and he drove us out to Baylor Canyon, not far from his house, and we just hiked back to our camp. It’s a sort of iconic, right-of-passage kind of hike for Las Crucens and the trail parallels Augustine Pass on Highway 70 as it heads east to White Sand Missile Range. Having heard so many people talk about it over the six years we’ve lived in Las Cruces somehow I gathered that it was a really long hike. So I planned in my mind for all day.
We set out fully bundled up in leather jackets, gloves, scarves, and warm caps. The wind was intense and clouds were already gathering when we set out at 11 a.m. The Organ Mountains are young with sharp, jagged promontories juxtapositioned erratically alongside each other. As one ascends the more barren western slope all of the plains in full view below spread, spread wide, to reveal the curve of the earth.
You can see the highway far below, ribboning its way south towards the El Paso. The endless horizon is edged in the aubergine purple haze of distant mountain ranges that must have looked insurmountable to early settlers.
Nearing the crest the beauty of the mountains becomes even more evident as more details emerge. Ancient lichen formations appear as French Impressionistic daubs of pastel. I saw green, chartreuse, orange, and brown lichen. Tiny little mountain wildflowers trembled at our feet bravely facing tiny little faces to the sun, so delicate.
Just like Heidi we began to shed clothes as we kept going higher. I brought an empty backpack just so we could stash the heavy jackets and sweaters if need be. On the path I didn’t see much life beyond the plant life save a few doodlebugs, some ants, and one little songbird. I didn’t see it but I heard it. By the time we actually arrived at Baylor Pass I was back into all of my gear, the wind was brutal and cold, sucking up the warmth out of the atmosphere. The gusts challenged us to stand much less linger at the top of the pass but we had to take the time to look first west then east, just to comprehend the enormity of the view.
The land gently lolled down eastwardly towards the White Sands Missile Range and on to another endless mountain range opposite the western one. It’s hard to imagine seeing any more land mass at one time except from an airplane. The winds slackened off on the opposite side and we nestled up against some warm rocks reflecting the warmth of the strengthening sun.
We were astonished to arrive back at our campground in three hours. The trek was no wheres near as formidable as we had imagined and we felt so happy and accomplished to have made it so comparatively effortlessly.
Our tent has proven to be so enjoyable. The winds are severe on this weekend. Michael found this tent for us as well. It’s sturdy canvas, bright yellow with a deep blue roof, and a happy little striped front flap. It was custom made for VW vans, but it can be all zipped up and stand alone as well. The 8’x10’ interior seems spacious to us. I took the mattress off of our upstairs bunk to create the bedding. We have this portable feather bed given to us by friends in Las Cruces who worried we wouldn’t be warm enough on the road. It’s just one big enormous sack of down feathers. Not tufted at all. You shake it out and fluff it so that it billows down onto the mattress like a big marshmallow. When we lay on it at night it seems to expand like yeast, oozing away from us to seep towards my candle altar. I am constantly pulling it back like the tide, but it is soooo warm. In the morning we see all the tiny little feathers in our hair and one our clothes. They cheerfully float around all inside the tent. With two more down comforters on top of us, it’s cozy!
We have our sleeping arrangements and backpacks on one side of the tent; two chairs and a table, the camp stove, pots and pans, on the other. I keep a red plastic tray in front of the zip up door at night laden with candles, lanterns, and an oil lamp, all lit up until they glow and emulate the warmth of a little home hearth. I love it. The wind howls, the tent quivers with the strain but holds firmly, and we sleep like babies in the womb.
Happy Trails, Beatlick Pamela 4.20.09
Beatlick TR: A Ukrainian Easter
My mechanic Michael Elliott is my greatest enabler. Without him we would never be realizing our dream. He’s not just a mechanic; he has an aura, an awareness of spirit that makes us trust him completely. When we arrived at his house we found him as usual with a lot full of vans. I “have lust in my heart” as Jimmy Carter phrased it, for the teal blue 79 Westphalia. But that one’s out of my price range and besides I do love my van with all its flaws because I know Michael built the engine and did all the hard work on that particular van with us in mind. So there is a connection there.
He also has a 1967 blue-and-white VW bus, another 1968 one, and a red 1969 Westphalia, “Westie” as they are called. When I was looking for my van we couldn’t even find one for sale. These buses offer a freedom most folks can appreciate these days. He can be contacted a germancars@q.com.
Michael also found the tent attachment that goes to our van. When we come to Organ for a tune up we just set up the tent and camp for a few days in Aguirre Springs campground while Michael works on our vehicle. He also invited us to a really special Easter celebration at the Ukrainian Orthodox Church. We have gone there before with him, it’s a beautiful small chapel and I was eager to give some thanks. So we all planned for the unique service.
First - it was a week later than most services. It started on a Saturday night at 10 p.m., with three, count them three, hours of chanting and singing; all along with incense being swung all about, a candle ceremony, and contemplative walk outside and around the chapel.
At 1 a.m. there was a feast and celebration. Baskets of bread, wine, sausages, cakes, you name it, were all spread out. I started out with the celebratory shot of apple brandy someone was passing around from the “old country.” Just like white lightnin’. The people there were so interesting, from Russia, the Ukraine, England, and multiple places in between. There were two priests and a monk. These guys were so approachable, so ordinary, they created such an ambiance of humor and acceptance that it becomes quite evident why this tiny little church is growing. We three had a ball.
Then Michael went out to the parking lot and climbed into his van, we followed and got into ours, and there we slept in the church parking lot. Next morning we headed over to the WalMart parking lot.
The van drives like a dream, stronger than it has ever been before. I've got to take care of some details in Las Cruces like renewing my tags and paying up my car insurance before we can take off. That gives us a perfect opportunity to go to the El Palacio reading before heading east.
Our route back to Tennessee will be a southerly one, following Highway 90 through south Texas, way south. Then we are going to head to the New Orleans Jazz Festival. I'm going to revisit the old mansion turned into a hostel, that I used to live in and help run down in the Bywater District of the Ninth Ward.
Happy Trails, Beatlick Pamela 4.20.09
Beatlick TR: Gage Hotel, Marathon, TX
We pulled out of Las Cruces with aching hearts as we said goodbye to so many good friends, made the poetry reading at El Palacio on Tuesday night, and hit the road on Wednesday.
It was a great drive picking up Highway 90 out of Van Horn. I saw a red-headed buzzard, something I've never seen before, and a herd of some weird looking antelope/deer sort of creatures. There were so many in a herd, about 30, that I wonder if someone is raising them like cattle. Don't know.
We made it to Marathon, about 250 miles, in six hours or so. The Gage Hotel there is a great place, a former mansion of some cattle baron, now a swank yet still rustic hotel. What is so great is you can go into the lobby, hang a quick right past the receptionist, and enjoy the TV room with those great overstuffed leather couches and chairs, with a hugh wagon wheel type chandelier overhead. Cable TV. When you get lucky there is no one in there and it's a great place to watch TV. We caught some late night antics last night between Jon Stewart and Keith Oberman.
We took a walk past the old mansions in the area and came upon this really original place called Eve's Garden and B&B. I quote from there website:
Eve’s Garden is an organic Bed and Breakfast and Ecology Resource Center, located in the beautiful high mountain desert of West Texas, at the gateway to Big Bend National Park, in Marathon, Texas. Eve’s Garden is a research level organic gardening demonstration site and an urban hacienda, combining to provide a comfortable Bed and Breakfast environment and a conversational forum to address issues regarding the ecology we live in.
Every effort has been made to combine elements of “art”, “architecture”, and “ecology” in the layout and construction of this unusually progressive piece of work. A large amount of recycled content, strawbale buildings, paper adobe/fiber cement buildings, high Mexican contemporary color treatments, and a focus on locally produced food, conspire to create an aura of thoughtfulness.
“Thoughtfulness” — this is our goal — to motivate our guests to pursue the projects they have in their minds, and recognize that they can make a difference.
Well the site and lot are certainly different. It looks like a movie set with all these podlike structures like so many big mushrooms in various stages of completion, and painted garishly in bright colors to look like crayola mosques. In the back of the lot are enormous stacks of drying concrete blocks, building materials, cement mixers, and about a dozen projects going on simultaneously. It's quite a site in this tiny little town.
The van is running like a dream, the strongest it's ever been. I just can't believe my good fortune. I'll have to do 250 miles every day to get to the Jazz Fest in New Orleans. That might not happen, but the trip will be great regardless. I am going to report on my return to the old mansion I used to work in when it was renovated into a hostel. It was in the Ninth Ward, the Bywater diststrict, near the canal.
I'm told the Bywater area didn't get hit as bad as the Ninth Ward on the other side of the canal. We'll find out. There is a tease of rain in the air and clouds today. Can't remember the last time I got rained on. And I don't think I'm going to be cold anymore. We slept on top of the covers last night at our urban campsite across from the Gage Hotel.
Happy Trails, Beatlick Pamela 4.23.09
With a conflicted heart I am pointing my van east toward Tennessee. My little house back there is minus tenants still and my sister called me in tears over the condition it was in. So to honor the home I inherited from my mother I will go back and take care of some business. Hopefully it won’t take too long, but I’m not worried about it, whatever it takes.
So out of Albuquerque we headed south back to Las Cruces to get our 3,000 mile checkup.
The tune up worked out perfectly with Beatlick Joe’s long held fantasy of hiking Baylor Pass. We delivered the van to Michael and he drove us out to Baylor Canyon, not far from his house, and we just hiked back to our camp. It’s a sort of iconic, right-of-passage kind of hike for Las Crucens and the trail parallels Augustine Pass on Highway 70 as it heads east to White Sand Missile Range. Having heard so many people talk about it over the six years we’ve lived in Las Cruces somehow I gathered that it was a really long hike. So I planned in my mind for all day.
We set out fully bundled up in leather jackets, gloves, scarves, and warm caps. The wind was intense and clouds were already gathering when we set out at 11 a.m. The Organ Mountains are young with sharp, jagged promontories juxtapositioned erratically alongside each other. As one ascends the more barren western slope all of the plains in full view below spread, spread wide, to reveal the curve of the earth.
You can see the highway far below, ribboning its way south towards the El Paso. The endless horizon is edged in the aubergine purple haze of distant mountain ranges that must have looked insurmountable to early settlers.
Nearing the crest the beauty of the mountains becomes even more evident as more details emerge. Ancient lichen formations appear as French Impressionistic daubs of pastel. I saw green, chartreuse, orange, and brown lichen. Tiny little mountain wildflowers trembled at our feet bravely facing tiny little faces to the sun, so delicate.
Just like Heidi we began to shed clothes as we kept going higher. I brought an empty backpack just so we could stash the heavy jackets and sweaters if need be. On the path I didn’t see much life beyond the plant life save a few doodlebugs, some ants, and one little songbird. I didn’t see it but I heard it. By the time we actually arrived at Baylor Pass I was back into all of my gear, the wind was brutal and cold, sucking up the warmth out of the atmosphere. The gusts challenged us to stand much less linger at the top of the pass but we had to take the time to look first west then east, just to comprehend the enormity of the view.
The land gently lolled down eastwardly towards the White Sands Missile Range and on to another endless mountain range opposite the western one. It’s hard to imagine seeing any more land mass at one time except from an airplane. The winds slackened off on the opposite side and we nestled up against some warm rocks reflecting the warmth of the strengthening sun.
We were astonished to arrive back at our campground in three hours. The trek was no wheres near as formidable as we had imagined and we felt so happy and accomplished to have made it so comparatively effortlessly.
Our tent has proven to be so enjoyable. The winds are severe on this weekend. Michael found this tent for us as well. It’s sturdy canvas, bright yellow with a deep blue roof, and a happy little striped front flap. It was custom made for VW vans, but it can be all zipped up and stand alone as well. The 8’x10’ interior seems spacious to us. I took the mattress off of our upstairs bunk to create the bedding. We have this portable feather bed given to us by friends in Las Cruces who worried we wouldn’t be warm enough on the road. It’s just one big enormous sack of down feathers. Not tufted at all. You shake it out and fluff it so that it billows down onto the mattress like a big marshmallow. When we lay on it at night it seems to expand like yeast, oozing away from us to seep towards my candle altar. I am constantly pulling it back like the tide, but it is soooo warm. In the morning we see all the tiny little feathers in our hair and one our clothes. They cheerfully float around all inside the tent. With two more down comforters on top of us, it’s cozy!
We have our sleeping arrangements and backpacks on one side of the tent; two chairs and a table, the camp stove, pots and pans, on the other. I keep a red plastic tray in front of the zip up door at night laden with candles, lanterns, and an oil lamp, all lit up until they glow and emulate the warmth of a little home hearth. I love it. The wind howls, the tent quivers with the strain but holds firmly, and we sleep like babies in the womb.
Happy Trails, Beatlick Pamela 4.20.09
Beatlick TR: A Ukrainian Easter
My mechanic Michael Elliott is my greatest enabler. Without him we would never be realizing our dream. He’s not just a mechanic; he has an aura, an awareness of spirit that makes us trust him completely. When we arrived at his house we found him as usual with a lot full of vans. I “have lust in my heart” as Jimmy Carter phrased it, for the teal blue 79 Westphalia. But that one’s out of my price range and besides I do love my van with all its flaws because I know Michael built the engine and did all the hard work on that particular van with us in mind. So there is a connection there.
He also has a 1967 blue-and-white VW bus, another 1968 one, and a red 1969 Westphalia, “Westie” as they are called. When I was looking for my van we couldn’t even find one for sale. These buses offer a freedom most folks can appreciate these days. He can be contacted a germancars@q.com.
Michael also found the tent attachment that goes to our van. When we come to Organ for a tune up we just set up the tent and camp for a few days in Aguirre Springs campground while Michael works on our vehicle. He also invited us to a really special Easter celebration at the Ukrainian Orthodox Church. We have gone there before with him, it’s a beautiful small chapel and I was eager to give some thanks. So we all planned for the unique service.
First - it was a week later than most services. It started on a Saturday night at 10 p.m., with three, count them three, hours of chanting and singing; all along with incense being swung all about, a candle ceremony, and contemplative walk outside and around the chapel.
At 1 a.m. there was a feast and celebration. Baskets of bread, wine, sausages, cakes, you name it, were all spread out. I started out with the celebratory shot of apple brandy someone was passing around from the “old country.” Just like white lightnin’. The people there were so interesting, from Russia, the Ukraine, England, and multiple places in between. There were two priests and a monk. These guys were so approachable, so ordinary, they created such an ambiance of humor and acceptance that it becomes quite evident why this tiny little church is growing. We three had a ball.
Then Michael went out to the parking lot and climbed into his van, we followed and got into ours, and there we slept in the church parking lot. Next morning we headed over to the WalMart parking lot.
The van drives like a dream, stronger than it has ever been before. I've got to take care of some details in Las Cruces like renewing my tags and paying up my car insurance before we can take off. That gives us a perfect opportunity to go to the El Palacio reading before heading east.
Our route back to Tennessee will be a southerly one, following Highway 90 through south Texas, way south. Then we are going to head to the New Orleans Jazz Festival. I'm going to revisit the old mansion turned into a hostel, that I used to live in and help run down in the Bywater District of the Ninth Ward.
Happy Trails, Beatlick Pamela 4.20.09
Beatlick TR: Gage Hotel, Marathon, TX
We pulled out of Las Cruces with aching hearts as we said goodbye to so many good friends, made the poetry reading at El Palacio on Tuesday night, and hit the road on Wednesday.
It was a great drive picking up Highway 90 out of Van Horn. I saw a red-headed buzzard, something I've never seen before, and a herd of some weird looking antelope/deer sort of creatures. There were so many in a herd, about 30, that I wonder if someone is raising them like cattle. Don't know.
We made it to Marathon, about 250 miles, in six hours or so. The Gage Hotel there is a great place, a former mansion of some cattle baron, now a swank yet still rustic hotel. What is so great is you can go into the lobby, hang a quick right past the receptionist, and enjoy the TV room with those great overstuffed leather couches and chairs, with a hugh wagon wheel type chandelier overhead. Cable TV. When you get lucky there is no one in there and it's a great place to watch TV. We caught some late night antics last night between Jon Stewart and Keith Oberman.
We took a walk past the old mansions in the area and came upon this really original place called Eve's Garden and B&B. I quote from there website:
Eve’s Garden is an organic Bed and Breakfast and Ecology Resource Center, located in the beautiful high mountain desert of West Texas, at the gateway to Big Bend National Park, in Marathon, Texas. Eve’s Garden is a research level organic gardening demonstration site and an urban hacienda, combining to provide a comfortable Bed and Breakfast environment and a conversational forum to address issues regarding the ecology we live in.
Every effort has been made to combine elements of “art”, “architecture”, and “ecology” in the layout and construction of this unusually progressive piece of work. A large amount of recycled content, strawbale buildings, paper adobe/fiber cement buildings, high Mexican contemporary color treatments, and a focus on locally produced food, conspire to create an aura of thoughtfulness.
“Thoughtfulness” — this is our goal — to motivate our guests to pursue the projects they have in their minds, and recognize that they can make a difference.
Well the site and lot are certainly different. It looks like a movie set with all these podlike structures like so many big mushrooms in various stages of completion, and painted garishly in bright colors to look like crayola mosques. In the back of the lot are enormous stacks of drying concrete blocks, building materials, cement mixers, and about a dozen projects going on simultaneously. It's quite a site in this tiny little town.
The van is running like a dream, the strongest it's ever been. I just can't believe my good fortune. I'll have to do 250 miles every day to get to the Jazz Fest in New Orleans. That might not happen, but the trip will be great regardless. I am going to report on my return to the old mansion I used to work in when it was renovated into a hostel. It was in the Ninth Ward, the Bywater diststrict, near the canal.
I'm told the Bywater area didn't get hit as bad as the Ninth Ward on the other side of the canal. We'll find out. There is a tease of rain in the air and clouds today. Can't remember the last time I got rained on. And I don't think I'm going to be cold anymore. We slept on top of the covers last night at our urban campsite across from the Gage Hotel.
Happy Trails, Beatlick Pamela 4.23.09
Monday, April 13, 2009
Jake's Word: End of The Net as We Know It
Subject: The end of unlimited internet
Dear Friends,
I loathe emails that try to alarm me, usually to sell advertising. I do not watch news or weather or read or listen to news or weather unless something is actually happening that might actually require my attention. For that reason I do not send out emails that encourage you to do anything other than suggest you drop in on new work at 9th St. Laboratories, or check out a site I found interesting.
This is an exception. If Time-Warner, Comcast and other large scale internet have their way the days of unlimited internet are over. You will pay for every byte you upload or download.
I believe that you don't need to find the news because real news will find you. Here is a link to the story as I heard it initially:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=103041709
If we do not protest this blatant greed things will change for the worse. We will be looking back at the last 10 years as the golden era of the internet before the big money took control. There are already trials in some cities regardless of the protest.
We need to take action now. I have already written my internet provider, both my senators, my representative and the president.
If you need a template or an example here is the letter I wrote them, making the necessary adjustments for the parties to which the letter was directed:
This email is to voice my strong opposition to caps on internet usage. As you probably know some internet providers are currently changing the way they charge for the internet instead of simply requiring a charge for unlimited usage. The internet works quite well as it is currently structured. It is obvious that this is just another attempt by large corporate providers to take advantage of the consumer. I do not use the internet to download movies or any other high bandwidth demand beyond the occasional streaming video of a news story or video at YouTube. Still I believe that the current structure works, that the price is more than sufficient for a provider to make a substantial profit. If some of the changes that are currently in trial become general practice I will abandon the internet and no longer do business on any level with any company that manipulates its customers in order to boost profit. Thank you for your time and consideration. Sincerely,
XXX
Recent history is evidence to the fact that greed can and will destroy democracy and capitalism if we allow it to happen. I urge each of you to take action now.
I am sorry to distract you from your lives, but if I did not do it now, in a few months, or even weeks, i might not be able to afford to email you at all.
All the best,
Jake
Dear Friends,
I loathe emails that try to alarm me, usually to sell advertising. I do not watch news or weather or read or listen to news or weather unless something is actually happening that might actually require my attention. For that reason I do not send out emails that encourage you to do anything other than suggest you drop in on new work at 9th St. Laboratories, or check out a site I found interesting.
This is an exception. If Time-Warner, Comcast and other large scale internet have their way the days of unlimited internet are over. You will pay for every byte you upload or download.
I believe that you don't need to find the news because real news will find you. Here is a link to the story as I heard it initially:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=103041709
If we do not protest this blatant greed things will change for the worse. We will be looking back at the last 10 years as the golden era of the internet before the big money took control. There are already trials in some cities regardless of the protest.
We need to take action now. I have already written my internet provider, both my senators, my representative and the president.
If you need a template or an example here is the letter I wrote them, making the necessary adjustments for the parties to which the letter was directed:
This email is to voice my strong opposition to caps on internet usage. As you probably know some internet providers are currently changing the way they charge for the internet instead of simply requiring a charge for unlimited usage. The internet works quite well as it is currently structured. It is obvious that this is just another attempt by large corporate providers to take advantage of the consumer. I do not use the internet to download movies or any other high bandwidth demand beyond the occasional streaming video of a news story or video at YouTube. Still I believe that the current structure works, that the price is more than sufficient for a provider to make a substantial profit. If some of the changes that are currently in trial become general practice I will abandon the internet and no longer do business on any level with any company that manipulates its customers in order to boost profit. Thank you for your time and consideration. Sincerely,
XXX
Recent history is evidence to the fact that greed can and will destroy democracy and capitalism if we allow it to happen. I urge each of you to take action now.
I am sorry to distract you from your lives, but if I did not do it now, in a few months, or even weeks, i might not be able to afford to email you at all.
All the best,
Jake
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Beatlick Travel Report: Wild Horses of Las Placitas
Subject: Beatlick TR: Santa Fe
Date: Apr 8, 2009 5:54 PM
Beatlick Travel Report: Santa Fe
After two weeks to distress in Albuquerque and another two weeks in Las Placitas, NM, reflections on our sojourn from November to April leaves me with many thoughts. One should come through the experience with a great truth, a lesson learned, and so should I. Our whole concept of urban camping as I call it can only be achieved with the blessing of a great wealth of friends. WalMart can only take you so far on the road.
Currently we are in Santa Fe. Just got here actually. We spent two weeks house sitting in Placitas. The home was spectacular, yet remote, high in the mountains and near lots of open land where we hiked frequently. Las Placitas has a whole culture built around the wild horses that range the open lands in that area.
The whole time we were there in Cienega Canyon wind was our constant companion whistling like a tea kettle or roaring through like a freight train. It was ominous sounding and wild, keeping me on a constant alert for trouble or ill will.
Any day that was not too blustery we walked the open ranges and for the first time Joe and I encountered the wild horses of Las Placitas. I guess my experience was enhanced by the fact I had just finished reading “Centennia” by Michenor. So I was enthralled when I saw five wild horses on a hike. Two were completely white, one a bit smaller, and I assumed I was looking at a mother and her offspring. The other three horses were brown and two had white faces. The wind whipped around us all. They looked straight at us, not moving. I kept my distance out of respect but became overwhelmed by what I had just seen.
These miracles are so rare. I felt like I was transported back in time by some incredible privilege. It was a privilege really just to be in this place. We were house sitting out in one of the new neighborhoods just chogged full of incredible mansions. We walked up and down all those hills and never heard a child laugh, and only on a rare occasion did we even hear a dog. These homes are compounds, secure, exclusive and insular.
So I am grateful for the friends who enable us to have these experiences. We left Placitas to hook up with another of Joe’s friends from NMSU. Their house is even bigger and fancier than the one we left in Placitas.
We took the train from Albuquerque to Santa Fe. It’s a brand new passenger service made possible by the foresight of Gov. Bill Richardson. There were plenty of naysayers but they have all been proven wrong. The train is packed every day and the ride was spectacular.
We have had a great day walking around Santa Fe. The best deal in town for dining with ultimate atmosphere on a budget was Del Charro on the corner of Alameda and Don Gasper. The bartender Ron Rehorn was as great as that female bartender at the Stock Exchange back in Bisbee, AZ. We’ll be here till the end of the week so I’ll have another report before we leave. I’m looking for signs of the economic recession here but honestly I have to admit it’s not as apparent here in the galleries as in Las Cruces for example where numerous art galleries have closed. I didn’t see that many “everything on sale” signs here as well. So I guess the truly privileged aren’t feeling the crunch as much as Joe Sixpack.
Happy Trails, Beatlick Pamela
Date: Apr 8, 2009 5:54 PM
Beatlick Travel Report: Santa Fe
After two weeks to distress in Albuquerque and another two weeks in Las Placitas, NM, reflections on our sojourn from November to April leaves me with many thoughts. One should come through the experience with a great truth, a lesson learned, and so should I. Our whole concept of urban camping as I call it can only be achieved with the blessing of a great wealth of friends. WalMart can only take you so far on the road.
Currently we are in Santa Fe. Just got here actually. We spent two weeks house sitting in Placitas. The home was spectacular, yet remote, high in the mountains and near lots of open land where we hiked frequently. Las Placitas has a whole culture built around the wild horses that range the open lands in that area.
The whole time we were there in Cienega Canyon wind was our constant companion whistling like a tea kettle or roaring through like a freight train. It was ominous sounding and wild, keeping me on a constant alert for trouble or ill will.
Any day that was not too blustery we walked the open ranges and for the first time Joe and I encountered the wild horses of Las Placitas. I guess my experience was enhanced by the fact I had just finished reading “Centennia” by Michenor. So I was enthralled when I saw five wild horses on a hike. Two were completely white, one a bit smaller, and I assumed I was looking at a mother and her offspring. The other three horses were brown and two had white faces. The wind whipped around us all. They looked straight at us, not moving. I kept my distance out of respect but became overwhelmed by what I had just seen.
These miracles are so rare. I felt like I was transported back in time by some incredible privilege. It was a privilege really just to be in this place. We were house sitting out in one of the new neighborhoods just chogged full of incredible mansions. We walked up and down all those hills and never heard a child laugh, and only on a rare occasion did we even hear a dog. These homes are compounds, secure, exclusive and insular.
So I am grateful for the friends who enable us to have these experiences. We left Placitas to hook up with another of Joe’s friends from NMSU. Their house is even bigger and fancier than the one we left in Placitas.
We took the train from Albuquerque to Santa Fe. It’s a brand new passenger service made possible by the foresight of Gov. Bill Richardson. There were plenty of naysayers but they have all been proven wrong. The train is packed every day and the ride was spectacular.
We have had a great day walking around Santa Fe. The best deal in town for dining with ultimate atmosphere on a budget was Del Charro on the corner of Alameda and Don Gasper. The bartender Ron Rehorn was as great as that female bartender at the Stock Exchange back in Bisbee, AZ. We’ll be here till the end of the week so I’ll have another report before we leave. I’m looking for signs of the economic recession here but honestly I have to admit it’s not as apparent here in the galleries as in Las Cruces for example where numerous art galleries have closed. I didn’t see that many “everything on sale” signs here as well. So I guess the truly privileged aren’t feeling the crunch as much as Joe Sixpack.
Happy Trails, Beatlick Pamela
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Beatlicks: Food Not Bombs
Date: Mar 28, 2009 10:34 AM
Well maybe I do have a few reports left in me as long as I'm doing something
interesting. Things have calmed down a lot after two weeks resting up in
Albuquerque and now we are house sitting in Placitas.
While in Albuquerque we ran upon the Food Not Bombs folks again. We encountered
them first in Bisbee where "Bob" was passing out food on Sunday afternoons at a
public park.It was an area where the hungry, homeless, and transient definitely
gather; we were included that day and loaded up on salad, beans and rice, and some
fresh fruit.The organization has been around since the 1980s.
The Albuquerque contingency of this group became a news item and wound up in
"Alibi", the local alternative paper, after running into trouble with the University of New Mexico police. Apparently they have been passing out food there on the campus in front of the bookstore twice a week. I synopsize from the article by Simon McCormack:
Food Not Bombs member Benjamin Abbot says the organization has been serving in
front of the bookstore for years without any trouble from the state. But apparently
in Feburary some helath department officials happened by and didn't like what they
saw.
I guess they don't get round the campus often since they were seeing the operation
apparently for the first time. The officials walked over to the food table that day
and asked if Abbot had a permit to distribute food on the campus. No he did not.
From then on the campus officials and the Environmental Health Division started
keeping track of Food Not Bombs and by the middle of March the organization was
slapped with seven charges of serving food without a permit by the EHD. Each charge
carries a fine of $5oo.
Food Not Bombs member Mike Butler says he has no intention of getting a permit to
be on campus. Carlos Romero, director of the EHD said he didn't want to stop the
group and wants them to apply for the permit.
Seems to me if they were genuinely interested in feeding the hungry there would be
a better place to set up than on the lush UNM campus. I just don't think there's
that many starving students on campus. But there are plenty of them in other
locations of Albuquerque. There might not be as many pretty girls however.
The situation can't be resolved until there is a hearing before a judge and so far
the EHD has failed to make request one.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Pamela Hirst
Well maybe I do have a few reports left in me as long as I'm doing something
interesting. Things have calmed down a lot after two weeks resting up in
Albuquerque and now we are house sitting in Placitas.
While in Albuquerque we ran upon the Food Not Bombs folks again. We encountered
them first in Bisbee where "Bob" was passing out food on Sunday afternoons at a
public park.It was an area where the hungry, homeless, and transient definitely
gather; we were included that day and loaded up on salad, beans and rice, and some
fresh fruit.The organization has been around since the 1980s.
The Albuquerque contingency of this group became a news item and wound up in
"Alibi", the local alternative paper, after running into trouble with the University of New Mexico police. Apparently they have been passing out food there on the campus in front of the bookstore twice a week. I synopsize from the article by Simon McCormack:
Food Not Bombs member Benjamin Abbot says the organization has been serving in
front of the bookstore for years without any trouble from the state. But apparently
in Feburary some helath department officials happened by and didn't like what they
saw.
I guess they don't get round the campus often since they were seeing the operation
apparently for the first time. The officials walked over to the food table that day
and asked if Abbot had a permit to distribute food on the campus. No he did not.
From then on the campus officials and the Environmental Health Division started
keeping track of Food Not Bombs and by the middle of March the organization was
slapped with seven charges of serving food without a permit by the EHD. Each charge
carries a fine of $5oo.
Food Not Bombs member Mike Butler says he has no intention of getting a permit to
be on campus. Carlos Romero, director of the EHD said he didn't want to stop the
group and wants them to apply for the permit.
Seems to me if they were genuinely interested in feeding the hungry there would be
a better place to set up than on the lush UNM campus. I just don't think there's
that many starving students on campus. But there are plenty of them in other
locations of Albuquerque. There might not be as many pretty girls however.
The situation can't be resolved until there is a hearing before a judge and so far
the EHD has failed to make request one.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Pamela Hirst
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Beatlick Travel Report: The Oil Cap Travails
Date: Mar 20, 2009 2:16 PM
So bright and early the next morning I am calling "Sparky" the VW guy, my phone works fine, and he's on the line by 7:30 a.m. He says come on up so I retrace my steps back up the mountain 20 miles to the Top of the World community and after a few missteps find Sparky and his trailer. I thought he was a mechanic but he only sold parts. That meant I wasn't getting an oil change. But he had all I needed and sold me a new oil cap and dip stick. He assured me the oil was fine and I would be alright. God I love VW people, they are the best in the world. I want my mechanic to know I did get an oil change and the van is performing perfectly so all is well.
Well I wish I could say the day progressed well after that but as we headed toward Springerville our destination to yet another Indian ruin the mountainous terrain just got worse and worse. Within two hours we were in a vast mountain range yet again. What? Bavaria, Switzerland? Now this is four days of driving in this crap that I had no intention of ever entering. I started bitching again. How did I get into this situation? What went wrong with the plans that put me in this position? I will have to monitor Joe's navigating. With no apparent thought of the terrain he had just taken the most direct route to all these places out of Quartzsite and never gave a thought to elevation. We have a new agreement now that I will double check his routes before we head out next time.
Within two hours I swear to God we are in a blizzard. We are past the Continental Divide and in a vast Indian reservation with a SKI SLOPE. Excuse me. The wind is whipping up and snow drifts are crossing the highway, there is a snow plow on the road and a virtual whiteout in my immediate vision. Nag, nag, nag. I just couldn't believe it.
Well we made it to Springerville and found a nice food store parking lot. We settled in and prepared to visit the Indian ruins. It was absolutely the coldest night we have experienced since we hit the road last November. The worst cold yet. I had only two really warm days on this whole damn trip and here we are again freezing. Nag, nag, nag.
Before we got to bed that night though I assure you Joe went to bed a happy man. I did feel bad for all my complaining. And I'm trying so hard not to complain but every day it seems like another challenge awaits me and I'm beginning to wear down. So I let Joe know how much I love him and thank him for his patience.
Next morning we head out to the Indian place and sure enough, conflicting with all printed material, the place is closed. Budget cuts, what else. And it was going to be closed on Monday as well. Considering the temperatures at night that is the end of the line for Joe and his Indian ruin quest for now.
I feel really bad about Joe missing out, still, it is with real relief that I swing out onto the road again. We finally start losing elevation. For the next 120 miles we had a wonderful journey through great landscapes on a bright sunny Sunday morning.
My next stop is San Rafael, four miles out of Grants, NM. It's the home of my old Alaskan friend Andrew Torrez. We were best friends in Anchorage, AK, back in the mid 80s. We've been friends ten years longer than I have known Joe. His warm home seems like an oasis after all this time on the cold road and it is with great delight that we arrive.
And here just about ends my journey for now. We are booked for a series of house sitting gigs and won't be traveling for quite some time. So I have a few more thoughts to share about some of the outstanding people I met on the road and then this travel series ends.
By the end of March all these reports will be posted on my website at www.beatlick.com for anyone who cares to catch up on anything they missed. I want to thank all of you for your kind thoughts and words of encouragement.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
So bright and early the next morning I am calling "Sparky" the VW guy, my phone works fine, and he's on the line by 7:30 a.m. He says come on up so I retrace my steps back up the mountain 20 miles to the Top of the World community and after a few missteps find Sparky and his trailer. I thought he was a mechanic but he only sold parts. That meant I wasn't getting an oil change. But he had all I needed and sold me a new oil cap and dip stick. He assured me the oil was fine and I would be alright. God I love VW people, they are the best in the world. I want my mechanic to know I did get an oil change and the van is performing perfectly so all is well.
Well I wish I could say the day progressed well after that but as we headed toward Springerville our destination to yet another Indian ruin the mountainous terrain just got worse and worse. Within two hours we were in a vast mountain range yet again. What? Bavaria, Switzerland? Now this is four days of driving in this crap that I had no intention of ever entering. I started bitching again. How did I get into this situation? What went wrong with the plans that put me in this position? I will have to monitor Joe's navigating. With no apparent thought of the terrain he had just taken the most direct route to all these places out of Quartzsite and never gave a thought to elevation. We have a new agreement now that I will double check his routes before we head out next time.
Within two hours I swear to God we are in a blizzard. We are past the Continental Divide and in a vast Indian reservation with a SKI SLOPE. Excuse me. The wind is whipping up and snow drifts are crossing the highway, there is a snow plow on the road and a virtual whiteout in my immediate vision. Nag, nag, nag. I just couldn't believe it.
Well we made it to Springerville and found a nice food store parking lot. We settled in and prepared to visit the Indian ruins. It was absolutely the coldest night we have experienced since we hit the road last November. The worst cold yet. I had only two really warm days on this whole damn trip and here we are again freezing. Nag, nag, nag.
Before we got to bed that night though I assure you Joe went to bed a happy man. I did feel bad for all my complaining. And I'm trying so hard not to complain but every day it seems like another challenge awaits me and I'm beginning to wear down. So I let Joe know how much I love him and thank him for his patience.
Next morning we head out to the Indian place and sure enough, conflicting with all printed material, the place is closed. Budget cuts, what else. And it was going to be closed on Monday as well. Considering the temperatures at night that is the end of the line for Joe and his Indian ruin quest for now.
I feel really bad about Joe missing out, still, it is with real relief that I swing out onto the road again. We finally start losing elevation. For the next 120 miles we had a wonderful journey through great landscapes on a bright sunny Sunday morning.
My next stop is San Rafael, four miles out of Grants, NM. It's the home of my old Alaskan friend Andrew Torrez. We were best friends in Anchorage, AK, back in the mid 80s. We've been friends ten years longer than I have known Joe. His warm home seems like an oasis after all this time on the cold road and it is with great delight that we arrive.
And here just about ends my journey for now. We are booked for a series of house sitting gigs and won't be traveling for quite some time. So I have a few more thoughts to share about some of the outstanding people I met on the road and then this travel series ends.
By the end of March all these reports will be posted on my website at www.beatlick.com for anyone who cares to catch up on anything they missed. I want to thank all of you for your kind thoughts and words of encouragement.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award: Free Download
Dear Reader:
My novel The Killing Spirit -- a metaphorical story of a modern day Crazy Horse, the Indian Holocaust, and the history of evil culminating on September 11, 2001 -- has made the first cut in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award.
A 3,000 word excerpt, promo materials and two editorial reviews (one positive, one negative) are posted online. For those who are inclined you can tap the link below and post comments. To read the excerpt you have to click the download button on the upper right. It looks like a purchase but the price is $0.00.
I would be grateful for your comments and criticisms.
Sincerely,
Ray Miller / aka Jack Random
You can find your excerpt on Amazon.com via the following link:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001UG39UQ, and access the main contest
page where all entries are located at www.amazon.com/abna.
My novel The Killing Spirit -- a metaphorical story of a modern day Crazy Horse, the Indian Holocaust, and the history of evil culminating on September 11, 2001 -- has made the first cut in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award.
A 3,000 word excerpt, promo materials and two editorial reviews (one positive, one negative) are posted online. For those who are inclined you can tap the link below and post comments. To read the excerpt you have to click the download button on the upper right. It looks like a purchase but the price is $0.00.
I would be grateful for your comments and criticisms.
Sincerely,
Ray Miller / aka Jack Random
You can find your excerpt on Amazon.com via the following link:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001UG39UQ, and access the main contest
page where all entries are located at www.amazon.com/abna.
Beatlick Travel Report: Mind Control in Globe AZ
Date: Mar 20, 2009 1:42 PM
Forgiveness is the key to happiness and grace is the door to the peace beyond the mind. Rumi
"Grace is the door, grace is the door, grace is the door," how many times have I chanted this to myself as we travel. I want to say itas all sweetness and light as we set up to clear out of Jerome but the that was not the case.
I got out of the van the last morning in Jerome to check the oil and get ready to head out for Globe, AZ, and some more indigenous sites. To my absolute horror and my mechanic Michael is gonna flip when he reads this, my oil cap was missing. This is the second time. Michael berated me without mercy the last time he tuned up the van and found the oil cap off and laying on a ledge in the back of the van. At that point I took responsibility and assumed I had forgotten to put the lid back on after putting in oil.
He put the fear of God in me about what could happen on a dusty road if that cap was not on and I cannot believe I somehow just FORGOT to put that cap back on. But there it was, gone, completely. I absolutely panicked. I was running around the van like a chicken with its head cut off. I completely fell apart what with the anxiety of damage that might have been done to the motor, now long was it gone. Joe wasn't even out of bed when I'm practically screaming, "We've go to go to Cottonwood right now and find a mechanic, get an oil change. The oil cap is gone again!!!" My voice is quaking I'm so scared.
"Whoa, whoa," he's saying. "I haven't even taken pictures yet. The van has been here three days. Nothing will change whether we leave now or later. Calm down." And I tried. I was twirling around outside so conspicuously I guess a man across the street asked me was everything alright? Well no! He offered to help but there wasn't really anything he could do. So he just wished me luck.
I took some deep breaths and tried to calm myself. My insides were shaking so bad. I fashioned a cap from some fabric and a rubber band. Then I gave myself a small amount of reassurance when I checked the oil rubbing it through my fingers and determined that indeed it was smooth and I certainly didn't feel any grit. So I waited and while Joe hot his shots I walked around town to see if there were any VW mechanics in town. Of course not. But someone mentioned Oil Can Harry in Cottonwood so that is where I headed. Well that turned out to be one of those franchises and they just scratched their head at my VW. I have learned to only deal with VW mechanics so I went on into town. At the Autozone no one had a cap for a VW van. So I just left the my rag and rubber band in place.
As it so happens the van was driving like a dream and as we got closer to Phoenix I began to calm down just a little bit. Particularly because the van was driving so well. We kept our eyes out for a VW shop all the way through Phoenix but no luck so we pressed on to Globe. More auto parts stores, more questioning of residents, but still no VW references. By now a new oil cap and oil change is my only goal. We urban camped in WalMart after Joe visited the Besh Be Gawah ruins. I stopped at a NAPA dealer and tried again to get an oil cap. No luck but here I learned about a VW parts guy named Sparky who lived about 20 miles back through the mountain range I had just traversed. Oh no, we aren't out of those mountains yet. They are only getting steeper and higher.
Adding to my poor luck the dealer no longer had Sparky's phone number. Even if I had his number I was also having problems with my phone and it was of no use either. But whatever - James told me where Sparky lived as best he could in a trailer park back at the "Top of the World" community. I was ready to drive there right then since I couldn't call but Joe convinced me at five pm it was too late to head back up the mountain. Better wait. So we urban camped in a WalMart lot and I kept an eye out for VWs. There was one that passed us just as we got there, an old bug in the process of being repainted. I chased after it on foot but wasn't quick enough. However right there in the next lane was another VW. So I parked beside it and waited, thinking good thoughts.
Joe has been practicing mind control. He didn't even mention it to me for a while but some of his experiences were producing such good results that he finally brought the subject up. And of course I have been struggling with my form of mind control ever since I started the trip, so we embarked on the VW quest with some positive thoughts.
I parked beside that little VW and didn't let it out of my sight for five long hours. I had determined after two hours that the owner must be a WalMart "associate." As the night wore on I ascertained that my phone didn't work because the battery was low. I got out a portable battery and charged it up. One good sign.
It was after eleven pm when someone started the VW. It was a young Mormon looking clean cut kid named Cory. And just as I knew would happen because I mentally visualized it, Cory flipped open his phone and gave me Sparky's number right there. I KNEW if I waited by that VW long enough I would get the information I needed.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Forgiveness is the key to happiness and grace is the door to the peace beyond the mind. Rumi
"Grace is the door, grace is the door, grace is the door," how many times have I chanted this to myself as we travel. I want to say itas all sweetness and light as we set up to clear out of Jerome but the that was not the case.
I got out of the van the last morning in Jerome to check the oil and get ready to head out for Globe, AZ, and some more indigenous sites. To my absolute horror and my mechanic Michael is gonna flip when he reads this, my oil cap was missing. This is the second time. Michael berated me without mercy the last time he tuned up the van and found the oil cap off and laying on a ledge in the back of the van. At that point I took responsibility and assumed I had forgotten to put the lid back on after putting in oil.
He put the fear of God in me about what could happen on a dusty road if that cap was not on and I cannot believe I somehow just FORGOT to put that cap back on. But there it was, gone, completely. I absolutely panicked. I was running around the van like a chicken with its head cut off. I completely fell apart what with the anxiety of damage that might have been done to the motor, now long was it gone. Joe wasn't even out of bed when I'm practically screaming, "We've go to go to Cottonwood right now and find a mechanic, get an oil change. The oil cap is gone again!!!" My voice is quaking I'm so scared.
"Whoa, whoa," he's saying. "I haven't even taken pictures yet. The van has been here three days. Nothing will change whether we leave now or later. Calm down." And I tried. I was twirling around outside so conspicuously I guess a man across the street asked me was everything alright? Well no! He offered to help but there wasn't really anything he could do. So he just wished me luck.
I took some deep breaths and tried to calm myself. My insides were shaking so bad. I fashioned a cap from some fabric and a rubber band. Then I gave myself a small amount of reassurance when I checked the oil rubbing it through my fingers and determined that indeed it was smooth and I certainly didn't feel any grit. So I waited and while Joe hot his shots I walked around town to see if there were any VW mechanics in town. Of course not. But someone mentioned Oil Can Harry in Cottonwood so that is where I headed. Well that turned out to be one of those franchises and they just scratched their head at my VW. I have learned to only deal with VW mechanics so I went on into town. At the Autozone no one had a cap for a VW van. So I just left the my rag and rubber band in place.
As it so happens the van was driving like a dream and as we got closer to Phoenix I began to calm down just a little bit. Particularly because the van was driving so well. We kept our eyes out for a VW shop all the way through Phoenix but no luck so we pressed on to Globe. More auto parts stores, more questioning of residents, but still no VW references. By now a new oil cap and oil change is my only goal. We urban camped in WalMart after Joe visited the Besh Be Gawah ruins. I stopped at a NAPA dealer and tried again to get an oil cap. No luck but here I learned about a VW parts guy named Sparky who lived about 20 miles back through the mountain range I had just traversed. Oh no, we aren't out of those mountains yet. They are only getting steeper and higher.
Adding to my poor luck the dealer no longer had Sparky's phone number. Even if I had his number I was also having problems with my phone and it was of no use either. But whatever - James told me where Sparky lived as best he could in a trailer park back at the "Top of the World" community. I was ready to drive there right then since I couldn't call but Joe convinced me at five pm it was too late to head back up the mountain. Better wait. So we urban camped in a WalMart lot and I kept an eye out for VWs. There was one that passed us just as we got there, an old bug in the process of being repainted. I chased after it on foot but wasn't quick enough. However right there in the next lane was another VW. So I parked beside it and waited, thinking good thoughts.
Joe has been practicing mind control. He didn't even mention it to me for a while but some of his experiences were producing such good results that he finally brought the subject up. And of course I have been struggling with my form of mind control ever since I started the trip, so we embarked on the VW quest with some positive thoughts.
I parked beside that little VW and didn't let it out of my sight for five long hours. I had determined after two hours that the owner must be a WalMart "associate." As the night wore on I ascertained that my phone didn't work because the battery was low. I got out a portable battery and charged it up. One good sign.
It was after eleven pm when someone started the VW. It was a young Mormon looking clean cut kid named Cory. And just as I knew would happen because I mentally visualized it, Cory flipped open his phone and gave me Sparky's number right there. I KNEW if I waited by that VW long enough I would get the information I needed.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Friday, March 20, 2009
Beatlick Travel Report: Jerome AZ
Date: Mar 18, 2009 9:27 AM
We pulled out of Quartzsite onto I-10 and picked up Highway 60 in just a few miles. It was a beautiful day, a beautiful road, I was feeling beautiful as we glided along. I have spent a lot of time reflecting on myself, I want to be more gracious, less nervous. I try to visualize myself as the happy, serene person I really want to be. So with that good attitude off we went.
I need to say here I still haven't used a full quart of oil yet and I've gone over 1,500 miles. I can't believe it and I guess that is just a tribute to my mechanic Micahel Elliott. I keep checking but the levels are still good.
From 60 we picked up Highway 71 and Joe began looking for Stanton. Maps can be so decieving. What seems obvious on a map is so hard to discern on the road. We never found the turnoff for Stanton and I started having misgivings as we began ascending higher and higher into mountain ranges.
By the time we got to Jerome I had become a horrible nagging monster, a million miles from the beauty I had been envisioning in my mind for the last few days. Joe didn't bother to notice any elevation notes on the road maps he was studying and the ascent only got worse, curvier, steeper, harder to manage. There is only one thing I hate more than trekking down washboard dirt roads that dislodge every screw and bolt in my van and that is heading up and down mountain grades of eight to twelve percent that require endless braking and gear shifting.
I had to go to first gear on some bends and couldn't make more than 20 mph. Of course this endears me greatly to the string of drivers behind me and my stress mounts with every second. Where the hell is Julie Andrews singing "The hills are alive with the sound of music," And where the heck are we - Bavaria?
I bitch, bitch, bitch. Poor Joe. I have manifested every ugly wart of bad habit that I hate in myself. I have really tried to stop complaining as best I can. And it's amazing how little I have to say if I'm not complaining. I kept my mouth shut for as long as I could stand it and then the frustrations and arguments running around in my mind get so great I have to release them or I think my head is going to pop. Poor Joe. I don't know how he stands me sometimes.
It was an entire afternoon of 20 and 30 mph, first and second gear driving but finally we made it to Jerome. I didn't even care. I wasn't even going to get out of the van, I just wanted to calm myself down. But that was before I realized what a special place Jerome, AZ, is.
A lot like Bisbee, it's a100-year-old gold mining town abandoned by Phelps-Dodge, just like Bisbee. What is called the Gold King Mine today was originally Haynes, AZ, in 1890, a small suburb of Jerome, one mile north. The Haynes Copper Company dug a 1200 foot deep shaft in search of copper. They missed the copper, but hit gold instead.
When the Gold King Mine ended its run the area was reinhabited by a lot of artists and small business people. The town is filled with antique trucks, tractors, construction and mining equipment dating back to the turn of the century. You can enter a walk-in mine, see the world's largest gas engines, and enjoy all the shops as well.
It's smaller than Bisbee, clinging to the side of a mountain, and butressed up with long stairsteps and landings that offer views that go on for what seems like hundreds of miles. Looking towards Cottonwood and Sedona, far far down the mountain range, you can follow the little two lane highway past the desert floor and into the infinity of enormous red rock mountains. They call this red rock country.
When we arrive in the late afternoon the town is teeming with bikers, antique cars, and lots of tourists and shoppers. I guess the big rigs aren't as interested in trekking up the mountain sides as I see few of their ilk here. Obviously it is a destination place for people out on an adventurous motorcycle or sports car ride.
I washed my hair inside the van and cleaned up. I told Joe to come back in an hour and I would be a different person. We hugged and I apologized. He felt bad for me too for all the stress and we got on with it and hit the streets.
One of the most interesting features to me was the state park which was the old Douglas Mansion. You see it off in the distance, it's a small mountain completely terraced and landscaped with this enormous mansion ala the Biltmore in North Carolina. But alas as is so common now, it was closed by the state one week before we arrived - budget cuts.
We enjoyed peering into the multiple art galleries and craft shops and had dinner at the wine bar. The day ended on a great note. We found an open mic at the Spirit Bar next to a small hotel. The gig was hosted by a Jerome resident who calls himself DL Harrison. Gosh he was great, haven't heard such good music since Catdaddy played back there in Bisbee.
DL sang Otis Redding, old blues songs, southern rock. I had enough of a buzz on to sing along, probably a little too loud. Plus he writes his own music. I loved his line, "Tell your story walking, your truth won't set me free." Great lines, and he was joined by a beautiful young woman, Nancy McDonald, who accompanied him on a cello. She later came back and did a solo gig on her ukelele. It was a great night. Joe and I got up and did two poems. The crowd was kind. DL's my space address: www.myspace.com/dloveharrison
After being so upset all day long it was a great way to end the evening. We took a stroll around the town, which was definitely a lot quieter at night, and headed back to our urban campsite, right in the middle of the action across from the Conner Hotel.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
We pulled out of Quartzsite onto I-10 and picked up Highway 60 in just a few miles. It was a beautiful day, a beautiful road, I was feeling beautiful as we glided along. I have spent a lot of time reflecting on myself, I want to be more gracious, less nervous. I try to visualize myself as the happy, serene person I really want to be. So with that good attitude off we went.
I need to say here I still haven't used a full quart of oil yet and I've gone over 1,500 miles. I can't believe it and I guess that is just a tribute to my mechanic Micahel Elliott. I keep checking but the levels are still good.
From 60 we picked up Highway 71 and Joe began looking for Stanton. Maps can be so decieving. What seems obvious on a map is so hard to discern on the road. We never found the turnoff for Stanton and I started having misgivings as we began ascending higher and higher into mountain ranges.
By the time we got to Jerome I had become a horrible nagging monster, a million miles from the beauty I had been envisioning in my mind for the last few days. Joe didn't bother to notice any elevation notes on the road maps he was studying and the ascent only got worse, curvier, steeper, harder to manage. There is only one thing I hate more than trekking down washboard dirt roads that dislodge every screw and bolt in my van and that is heading up and down mountain grades of eight to twelve percent that require endless braking and gear shifting.
I had to go to first gear on some bends and couldn't make more than 20 mph. Of course this endears me greatly to the string of drivers behind me and my stress mounts with every second. Where the hell is Julie Andrews singing "The hills are alive with the sound of music," And where the heck are we - Bavaria?
I bitch, bitch, bitch. Poor Joe. I have manifested every ugly wart of bad habit that I hate in myself. I have really tried to stop complaining as best I can. And it's amazing how little I have to say if I'm not complaining. I kept my mouth shut for as long as I could stand it and then the frustrations and arguments running around in my mind get so great I have to release them or I think my head is going to pop. Poor Joe. I don't know how he stands me sometimes.
It was an entire afternoon of 20 and 30 mph, first and second gear driving but finally we made it to Jerome. I didn't even care. I wasn't even going to get out of the van, I just wanted to calm myself down. But that was before I realized what a special place Jerome, AZ, is.
A lot like Bisbee, it's a100-year-old gold mining town abandoned by Phelps-Dodge, just like Bisbee. What is called the Gold King Mine today was originally Haynes, AZ, in 1890, a small suburb of Jerome, one mile north. The Haynes Copper Company dug a 1200 foot deep shaft in search of copper. They missed the copper, but hit gold instead.
When the Gold King Mine ended its run the area was reinhabited by a lot of artists and small business people. The town is filled with antique trucks, tractors, construction and mining equipment dating back to the turn of the century. You can enter a walk-in mine, see the world's largest gas engines, and enjoy all the shops as well.
It's smaller than Bisbee, clinging to the side of a mountain, and butressed up with long stairsteps and landings that offer views that go on for what seems like hundreds of miles. Looking towards Cottonwood and Sedona, far far down the mountain range, you can follow the little two lane highway past the desert floor and into the infinity of enormous red rock mountains. They call this red rock country.
When we arrive in the late afternoon the town is teeming with bikers, antique cars, and lots of tourists and shoppers. I guess the big rigs aren't as interested in trekking up the mountain sides as I see few of their ilk here. Obviously it is a destination place for people out on an adventurous motorcycle or sports car ride.
I washed my hair inside the van and cleaned up. I told Joe to come back in an hour and I would be a different person. We hugged and I apologized. He felt bad for me too for all the stress and we got on with it and hit the streets.
One of the most interesting features to me was the state park which was the old Douglas Mansion. You see it off in the distance, it's a small mountain completely terraced and landscaped with this enormous mansion ala the Biltmore in North Carolina. But alas as is so common now, it was closed by the state one week before we arrived - budget cuts.
We enjoyed peering into the multiple art galleries and craft shops and had dinner at the wine bar. The day ended on a great note. We found an open mic at the Spirit Bar next to a small hotel. The gig was hosted by a Jerome resident who calls himself DL Harrison. Gosh he was great, haven't heard such good music since Catdaddy played back there in Bisbee.
DL sang Otis Redding, old blues songs, southern rock. I had enough of a buzz on to sing along, probably a little too loud. Plus he writes his own music. I loved his line, "Tell your story walking, your truth won't set me free." Great lines, and he was joined by a beautiful young woman, Nancy McDonald, who accompanied him on a cello. She later came back and did a solo gig on her ukelele. It was a great night. Joe and I got up and did two poems. The crowd was kind. DL's my space address: www.myspace.com/dloveharrison
After being so upset all day long it was a great way to end the evening. We took a stroll around the town, which was definitely a lot quieter at night, and headed back to our urban campsite, right in the middle of the action across from the Conner Hotel.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Monday, March 16, 2009
Jake's Word Re: The Real Economy & the Zero Solution
[A response to The Real Economy & the Zero Solution, reposted below.]
You've been on a roll lately and I've been so tied up with various projects all I have had time to do is read the essays. This essay is exceptional even for your high level of engagement, erudition and intelligence. The first paragraph is a shining example of how well you write. It kicks open the doors so that there is no way to ignore what is coming. The Zero Solution demands a response from people who are widely and deeply studied in economics (though not so much that they can't see the forest for the trees). The conversion of debt to credit sounds Hamiltonian to my ears and I think it might just work. I'm going to send this on to several people, including my nephew, with whom I was discussing economics a few days ago. He's a supporter of the Austrian School, which is a form of laissez-faire (which works as long as we are talking about a real and not a virtual economy and as long as there is transparency and rigid penalty for abuse of the system).
This essay affirms what your political essays always affirm, that we are more than consumers, more than taxpayers, we are citizens. As such we are obligated to participate in government to the extent provided (even demanded) by the constitution and our history as a democratic republic (demos and res publica - of, by, and for the people, all of them).
Keep it coming. I'm listening.
Jake
JAZZMAN CHRONICLES. DISSEMINATE FREELY.
THE REAL ECONOMY & THE ZERO SOLUTION
By Jack Random
“Looking backwards and with hindsight…if I’d have known exactly the forces that were coming, what actions could we have taken …to avoid this situation? And I just simply have not been able to come up with anything…that would have made a difference to the situation that we faced.”
Alan Schwartz, Former Chief Executive of Bear Stearns
Alan Schwartz is either delusional or a bald faced liar. Under his leadership a once powerful and respected institution of finance leveraged its diminishing wealth on a mountain of worthless mortgage based assets, covered their trail with accounting tricks and took risks with other people’s money that not even a compulsive gambler would take on his last dime.
When Bear Stearns collapsed a lot of real people took the hit but Schwartz escaped with his personal fortune intact. He was insulated from harm and a government that preferred to look the other way rather than perform their duty to regulate financial practices in the interest of stockholders and the public at large.
This week in what can only be characterized as the essence of audacity, the very same bankers who led the way to financial ruin and then lined up to receive their share of the public dole cried foul over the conditions imposed on them by a wary government.
Reminiscent of a scene in Mel Brooks’ Blazing Saddles, where a black sheriff holds a gun to his head and threatens to shoot unless the crowd lets him escape, the bankers threatened to give the money back unless the government loosens its restrictions.
The conditions these bankers found unbearable included limits on executive bonuses, the purchase of luxury jets, a moratorium on foreclosures and evictions, mortgage modifications and restructured home loans.
Like a spoiled child who cannot have his pudding until he eats his vegetables, the bankers protest too much. Some announced their intention to return the money at the earliest convenience. Let them do so without delay. Any bank or financier who took government money unnecessarily on the pretense of imminent collapse is already guilty of betraying the public trust.
Any institution that actually believes trillions of dollars of public money should be handed over without strict conditions of accountability and oversight should be summarily denied funding on the basis of gross professional incompetence.
The numbers we have been hearing to describe the state of our economy (a rise in the stock market notwithstanding) are mind bending and unimaginable to the point of unreal. The stock market decline represented a staggering loss of $23 trillion in net worth and home values have lost a stunning eleven trillion. These are truly unreal amounts of money and they begin to put a new light on trillion dollar bailouts and stimulus plans. The amounts of money being floated around distort our quaint notions of economy beyond belief. It is doubtful that home values ever exceeded eleven trillion in real value at any given time so what are we to make of these numbers?
A clue is revealed by noted flat world and global free trade advocate Thomas Friedman in the New York Times: “Our heart – our banking system that pumps blood to our industrial muscles – is clogged and functioning far below capacity.”
While offering up an easy metaphor, Friedman reveals that in his conceptualization the heart, the core, the center of our economy is not industry, not the worker driven enterprises that construct homes, build bridges and invent useful products, but the bankers and financiers that spin numbers and create illusions of wealth.
The flaw is in the design. The heart of any healthy economy should be the industries – mechanical, chemical and technological – that create products of intrinsic value. The heart of any functioning economy should never be the money changers – the brokers and schemers and middle men who devise systems of finance that shield debts and create value where none in fact exists. Yet that is exactly what we have done.
We have placed our economy in the hands of individuals who worked tirelessly to export the real economy to nations that do not recognize labor rights and therefore do not pay living wages and erected in its place an artificial economy of formulae and financial derivatives that inevitably drifted away from its foundation.
These individuals are not substantially different in principle or moral grounding than Bernie Madoff or Ken Lay and his gang of thieves at Enron. The former defrauded innocent individual investors while the latter defrauded the west coast and transferred the wealth to Texas oil and gas industries. The executives of Bear Sterns, Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch, Morgan Stanley and American International Group defrauded all of us on a scale that makes Enron look like a two-bit hustler.
The leaders of the new economy were the designers and creators of the global free trade exploitation scheme and they were convinced that they could spin a virtual economy that would ascend forever and never be dependent on this year’s crops or production quotas or the financial well being of the very consumers that sustain the whole. Like Madoff, they believed they could run their Ponzi scheme to the end of time.
In a word, they were wrong.
The difficulty we now confront is that the collapse of their artificial economy has sent shock waves through the real world. It has released a poison that quickly spread to every corner of the globe. It is a tidal wave of toxicity that lays waste to everything it touches.
We have empowered the crooks and schemers by investing in them not only our retirement funds but also our faith and while it would serve justice to send them to jail or banish them to permanent unemployment it would do little to remedy the harm.
The remedy lies in recognizing the artificial nature of the economic beast they created to maximize profit at our expense. For while they have done great harm in eroding the savings and wages of the working consumers, the real economy remains capable of employing its people in useful enterprise and reestablishing the balance between a working middle class and the nonproductive elite.
Once we recognize that the model of economics they have handed us is by no means synonymous with the real world economy, a new world of possibilities opens up. We can essentially solve the problem of insolvent home ownership by hitting the reset button. By government decree, we can calculate the difference between mortgage values and home values and zero them out.
I call it the zero solution and it would work because it benefits all parties. It benefits the homeowner who has behaved responsibly, kept up with payments, yet watched depreciating home values threaten long-term security. It benefits homeowners who are the victims of unscrupulous loans and their own admittedly irrational dreams. Finally, it benefits the bankers and mortgage holders by converting bad debt to good.
Though the implications would have to be studied, preferably by a team of experts without a vested or ideological interest, and the details worked out, variations of the zero solution could be applied to personal and national-international debt as well, converting debt to credits by means of a central debt conversion fund.
It is admittedly a radical solution and one that could only be applied in extreme emergencies such as the crisis we face today. When we have survived the current crisis, it is imperative that we take all measures to ensure that the new and emerging economy is tied directly to the real economy, that it is calibrated to benefit workers as well as the financial elite, that it is transparent and subject to rigorous regulation, and that the working and consuming middle class is at its heart and core.
To some extent we all share responsibility for this crisis. We placed our faith in institutions that were solely motivated by the profit margin. We gave them free reign by protecting them from government oversight. What they did is what we should have expected them to do: They gamed the system and made off like bandits.
To a large extent we are paying the price of forgetting the lessons of the past. Whenever bankers and moneychangers are allowed to run wild, they inevitably drive the economy over a cliff. If we are to spare future generations the same fate, we must take those lessons to heart, including breaking up the monopolies and merger manias that have created monsters “too big to fail.”
The road ahead will be hard. The financial monsters will fight meaningful reform every step of the way and the Supreme Court is their corner. Nevertheless, we must work tirelessly to right the balance, to elect officials that represent the people over the money interests, and to pry the real economy out the hands of greed and avarice.
That is the road ahead. To get there, we must survive.
Jazz.
[This chronicle posted on the National Free Press -- World Edition.]
JACK RANDOM IS THE AUTHOR OF THE JAZZMAN CHRONICLES (CROW DOG PRESS) AND GHOST DANCE INSURRECTION (DRY BONES PRESS). HE IS A COLUMNIST FOR THE NATIONAL FREE PRESS – WORLD EDITION. THE CHRONICLES HAVE BEEN POSTED ON THE ALBION MONITOR, BELLACIAO, BUZZLE, COUNTERPUNCH, DISSIDENT VOICE, THE DAILY SCARE, PACIFIC FREE PRESS AND CANADA NEWSDAILY. SEE WWW.JAZZMANCHRONICLES.BLOGSPOT.COM.
You've been on a roll lately and I've been so tied up with various projects all I have had time to do is read the essays. This essay is exceptional even for your high level of engagement, erudition and intelligence. The first paragraph is a shining example of how well you write. It kicks open the doors so that there is no way to ignore what is coming. The Zero Solution demands a response from people who are widely and deeply studied in economics (though not so much that they can't see the forest for the trees). The conversion of debt to credit sounds Hamiltonian to my ears and I think it might just work. I'm going to send this on to several people, including my nephew, with whom I was discussing economics a few days ago. He's a supporter of the Austrian School, which is a form of laissez-faire (which works as long as we are talking about a real and not a virtual economy and as long as there is transparency and rigid penalty for abuse of the system).
This essay affirms what your political essays always affirm, that we are more than consumers, more than taxpayers, we are citizens. As such we are obligated to participate in government to the extent provided (even demanded) by the constitution and our history as a democratic republic (demos and res publica - of, by, and for the people, all of them).
Keep it coming. I'm listening.
Jake
JAZZMAN CHRONICLES. DISSEMINATE FREELY.
THE REAL ECONOMY & THE ZERO SOLUTION
By Jack Random
“Looking backwards and with hindsight…if I’d have known exactly the forces that were coming, what actions could we have taken …to avoid this situation? And I just simply have not been able to come up with anything…that would have made a difference to the situation that we faced.”
Alan Schwartz, Former Chief Executive of Bear Stearns
Alan Schwartz is either delusional or a bald faced liar. Under his leadership a once powerful and respected institution of finance leveraged its diminishing wealth on a mountain of worthless mortgage based assets, covered their trail with accounting tricks and took risks with other people’s money that not even a compulsive gambler would take on his last dime.
When Bear Stearns collapsed a lot of real people took the hit but Schwartz escaped with his personal fortune intact. He was insulated from harm and a government that preferred to look the other way rather than perform their duty to regulate financial practices in the interest of stockholders and the public at large.
This week in what can only be characterized as the essence of audacity, the very same bankers who led the way to financial ruin and then lined up to receive their share of the public dole cried foul over the conditions imposed on them by a wary government.
Reminiscent of a scene in Mel Brooks’ Blazing Saddles, where a black sheriff holds a gun to his head and threatens to shoot unless the crowd lets him escape, the bankers threatened to give the money back unless the government loosens its restrictions.
The conditions these bankers found unbearable included limits on executive bonuses, the purchase of luxury jets, a moratorium on foreclosures and evictions, mortgage modifications and restructured home loans.
Like a spoiled child who cannot have his pudding until he eats his vegetables, the bankers protest too much. Some announced their intention to return the money at the earliest convenience. Let them do so without delay. Any bank or financier who took government money unnecessarily on the pretense of imminent collapse is already guilty of betraying the public trust.
Any institution that actually believes trillions of dollars of public money should be handed over without strict conditions of accountability and oversight should be summarily denied funding on the basis of gross professional incompetence.
The numbers we have been hearing to describe the state of our economy (a rise in the stock market notwithstanding) are mind bending and unimaginable to the point of unreal. The stock market decline represented a staggering loss of $23 trillion in net worth and home values have lost a stunning eleven trillion. These are truly unreal amounts of money and they begin to put a new light on trillion dollar bailouts and stimulus plans. The amounts of money being floated around distort our quaint notions of economy beyond belief. It is doubtful that home values ever exceeded eleven trillion in real value at any given time so what are we to make of these numbers?
A clue is revealed by noted flat world and global free trade advocate Thomas Friedman in the New York Times: “Our heart – our banking system that pumps blood to our industrial muscles – is clogged and functioning far below capacity.”
While offering up an easy metaphor, Friedman reveals that in his conceptualization the heart, the core, the center of our economy is not industry, not the worker driven enterprises that construct homes, build bridges and invent useful products, but the bankers and financiers that spin numbers and create illusions of wealth.
The flaw is in the design. The heart of any healthy economy should be the industries – mechanical, chemical and technological – that create products of intrinsic value. The heart of any functioning economy should never be the money changers – the brokers and schemers and middle men who devise systems of finance that shield debts and create value where none in fact exists. Yet that is exactly what we have done.
We have placed our economy in the hands of individuals who worked tirelessly to export the real economy to nations that do not recognize labor rights and therefore do not pay living wages and erected in its place an artificial economy of formulae and financial derivatives that inevitably drifted away from its foundation.
These individuals are not substantially different in principle or moral grounding than Bernie Madoff or Ken Lay and his gang of thieves at Enron. The former defrauded innocent individual investors while the latter defrauded the west coast and transferred the wealth to Texas oil and gas industries. The executives of Bear Sterns, Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch, Morgan Stanley and American International Group defrauded all of us on a scale that makes Enron look like a two-bit hustler.
The leaders of the new economy were the designers and creators of the global free trade exploitation scheme and they were convinced that they could spin a virtual economy that would ascend forever and never be dependent on this year’s crops or production quotas or the financial well being of the very consumers that sustain the whole. Like Madoff, they believed they could run their Ponzi scheme to the end of time.
In a word, they were wrong.
The difficulty we now confront is that the collapse of their artificial economy has sent shock waves through the real world. It has released a poison that quickly spread to every corner of the globe. It is a tidal wave of toxicity that lays waste to everything it touches.
We have empowered the crooks and schemers by investing in them not only our retirement funds but also our faith and while it would serve justice to send them to jail or banish them to permanent unemployment it would do little to remedy the harm.
The remedy lies in recognizing the artificial nature of the economic beast they created to maximize profit at our expense. For while they have done great harm in eroding the savings and wages of the working consumers, the real economy remains capable of employing its people in useful enterprise and reestablishing the balance between a working middle class and the nonproductive elite.
Once we recognize that the model of economics they have handed us is by no means synonymous with the real world economy, a new world of possibilities opens up. We can essentially solve the problem of insolvent home ownership by hitting the reset button. By government decree, we can calculate the difference between mortgage values and home values and zero them out.
I call it the zero solution and it would work because it benefits all parties. It benefits the homeowner who has behaved responsibly, kept up with payments, yet watched depreciating home values threaten long-term security. It benefits homeowners who are the victims of unscrupulous loans and their own admittedly irrational dreams. Finally, it benefits the bankers and mortgage holders by converting bad debt to good.
Though the implications would have to be studied, preferably by a team of experts without a vested or ideological interest, and the details worked out, variations of the zero solution could be applied to personal and national-international debt as well, converting debt to credits by means of a central debt conversion fund.
It is admittedly a radical solution and one that could only be applied in extreme emergencies such as the crisis we face today. When we have survived the current crisis, it is imperative that we take all measures to ensure that the new and emerging economy is tied directly to the real economy, that it is calibrated to benefit workers as well as the financial elite, that it is transparent and subject to rigorous regulation, and that the working and consuming middle class is at its heart and core.
To some extent we all share responsibility for this crisis. We placed our faith in institutions that were solely motivated by the profit margin. We gave them free reign by protecting them from government oversight. What they did is what we should have expected them to do: They gamed the system and made off like bandits.
To a large extent we are paying the price of forgetting the lessons of the past. Whenever bankers and moneychangers are allowed to run wild, they inevitably drive the economy over a cliff. If we are to spare future generations the same fate, we must take those lessons to heart, including breaking up the monopolies and merger manias that have created monsters “too big to fail.”
The road ahead will be hard. The financial monsters will fight meaningful reform every step of the way and the Supreme Court is their corner. Nevertheless, we must work tirelessly to right the balance, to elect officials that represent the people over the money interests, and to pry the real economy out the hands of greed and avarice.
That is the road ahead. To get there, we must survive.
Jazz.
[This chronicle posted on the National Free Press -- World Edition.]
JACK RANDOM IS THE AUTHOR OF THE JAZZMAN CHRONICLES (CROW DOG PRESS) AND GHOST DANCE INSURRECTION (DRY BONES PRESS). HE IS A COLUMNIST FOR THE NATIONAL FREE PRESS – WORLD EDITION. THE CHRONICLES HAVE BEEN POSTED ON THE ALBION MONITOR, BELLACIAO, BUZZLE, COUNTERPUNCH, DISSIDENT VOICE, THE DAILY SCARE, PACIFIC FREE PRESS AND CANADA NEWSDAILY. SEE WWW.JAZZMANCHRONICLES.BLOGSPOT.COM.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Mind of Mansel: When Does A Body Become A Corpse
(for Pete Seeger)
when does a body become a corpse
when the bones are ground into meal
the devil says of course
well it was one april as I was caught
the twister was raging so I was brought
to my knees and I couldn't pray
so I laid into the wind and this I did say
when does a body become a corpse
when the bones are ground into meal
the devil says of course
when does a body become a corpse
when the bones are ground into meal
the devil says of course
now I fly my flag upside down
and it doesn't make a different sound
but you can hear it lappin at the truth
about the murder of innocent youth
when does a body become a corpse
when the bones are ground into meal
the devil says of course
when does a body become a corpse
when the bones are ground into meal
the devil says of course
eighteen years old I registered for the draft
and it was at eighteen that I was sitting at
the table with other young men told to stand
we were leaning into the wind boys into man
when does a body become a corpse
when the bones are ground into meal
the devil says of course
chorus:
so if your eaten by the ghost here's what you say
I was young once but I'll never again be that way
so eat me devil if you will I've already seen hell
- Chris Mansel
(christophermansel@hotmail.com)
when does a body become a corpse
when the bones are ground into meal
the devil says of course
well it was one april as I was caught
the twister was raging so I was brought
to my knees and I couldn't pray
so I laid into the wind and this I did say
when does a body become a corpse
when the bones are ground into meal
the devil says of course
when does a body become a corpse
when the bones are ground into meal
the devil says of course
now I fly my flag upside down
and it doesn't make a different sound
but you can hear it lappin at the truth
about the murder of innocent youth
when does a body become a corpse
when the bones are ground into meal
the devil says of course
when does a body become a corpse
when the bones are ground into meal
the devil says of course
eighteen years old I registered for the draft
and it was at eighteen that I was sitting at
the table with other young men told to stand
we were leaning into the wind boys into man
when does a body become a corpse
when the bones are ground into meal
the devil says of course
chorus:
so if your eaten by the ghost here's what you say
I was young once but I'll never again be that way
so eat me devil if you will I've already seen hell
- Chris Mansel
(christophermansel@hotmail.com)
Beatlick Travel Report: Happy Trails in San Diego
Date: Mar 13, 2009 9:32 AM
The approach to San Diego was well planned out. Referring to our national Wal-Mart location map we zeroed in on El Cajon, CA, as our urban campsite for the weekend. We wanted to approach San Diego on a Sunday morning. The Wal-Mart wasn't a supercenter but our two day stay went unnoticed by any authorities. We took in a movie: Slum Dog Millionaire - great.
We headed out bright and early Sunday morning only to find out we weren't more than 15 minutes from Holly Wilson's home, our destination. We had imagined we were much further out, we could have practically walked there.
After six years we saw Holly again, an old friend of Joe's from Albuquerque. They used to do poetry together in that town long before I came on the scene, probably thirty years ago. I know Holly as a poet, dancer, UNM doctoral student, and master gardener, but today she is Dr. Holly Wilson, a professor who specializes in teaching other educators how to teach English as a second language and a few other titles I can't remember.
She's been gone from Albuquerque for ten years and she and Joe had a good time reminiscing. We ran an electric cord out of her garage into the van and set up our urban campsite. This is beyond our wildest expectations. We imagined ourselves slinking into San Diego Pier, putting a toe in the Pacific, and running back east. But thanks to Holly we had a full week to enjoy the beauty of San Diego. What a town.
Great bus service, an abundance of palm trees, a fabulous grocery store named Pancho Villa's. I bought red bell peppers for sixty cents, mangoes three for a dollar, and oh so delicious. Why is the food so much cheaper here, and better? Is it because it's a port city? So close to the border? Las Cruces and El Paso are close to the border but they haven't got anything like this.
And there is nothing wrong with palm trees. I love them, crave them, I don't care if I never see Tennessee again. I want palm trees in my life. This area is so beautiful, so lush with plants and vegetation, and the ocean breezes from the bay are enchanting somehow. The land rushes down to the sea cascading and falling all over itself in its abundance.
I do call it menopausal weather because it blows so hot and cold. The sun is hot, radioactive feeling, and the breeze is cold, you don't want it blowing up your back cold. You have to dress for all seasons every day as Holly explained.
We rode the bus to Presidio Park one day, hiked all over the Gas Lamp District the next day, averaging about five miles a day on foot. From Holly's we could walk a few blocks over to University Ave., hang a right and walk to the North Park District. I liked all the little hand-lettered signs on all the small beauty salons, neighborhood markets, and tire stores. The bus ride down University passed along one little neighborhood after another, each one independent of the other and a small city unto itself.
The bustling sidewalks were jammed with cafes, gyms, thrift stores, bakeries, barber shops, hardware stores, carpet stores, neighborhood libraries and all the facilities that keep life humming along and all so conveniently located. I revamped my van while I was there getting new flooring, lights, all the little particulars I have been needing to give the van a little more spruced up look.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
The approach to San Diego was well planned out. Referring to our national Wal-Mart location map we zeroed in on El Cajon, CA, as our urban campsite for the weekend. We wanted to approach San Diego on a Sunday morning. The Wal-Mart wasn't a supercenter but our two day stay went unnoticed by any authorities. We took in a movie: Slum Dog Millionaire - great.
We headed out bright and early Sunday morning only to find out we weren't more than 15 minutes from Holly Wilson's home, our destination. We had imagined we were much further out, we could have practically walked there.
After six years we saw Holly again, an old friend of Joe's from Albuquerque. They used to do poetry together in that town long before I came on the scene, probably thirty years ago. I know Holly as a poet, dancer, UNM doctoral student, and master gardener, but today she is Dr. Holly Wilson, a professor who specializes in teaching other educators how to teach English as a second language and a few other titles I can't remember.
She's been gone from Albuquerque for ten years and she and Joe had a good time reminiscing. We ran an electric cord out of her garage into the van and set up our urban campsite. This is beyond our wildest expectations. We imagined ourselves slinking into San Diego Pier, putting a toe in the Pacific, and running back east. But thanks to Holly we had a full week to enjoy the beauty of San Diego. What a town.
Great bus service, an abundance of palm trees, a fabulous grocery store named Pancho Villa's. I bought red bell peppers for sixty cents, mangoes three for a dollar, and oh so delicious. Why is the food so much cheaper here, and better? Is it because it's a port city? So close to the border? Las Cruces and El Paso are close to the border but they haven't got anything like this.
And there is nothing wrong with palm trees. I love them, crave them, I don't care if I never see Tennessee again. I want palm trees in my life. This area is so beautiful, so lush with plants and vegetation, and the ocean breezes from the bay are enchanting somehow. The land rushes down to the sea cascading and falling all over itself in its abundance.
I do call it menopausal weather because it blows so hot and cold. The sun is hot, radioactive feeling, and the breeze is cold, you don't want it blowing up your back cold. You have to dress for all seasons every day as Holly explained.
We rode the bus to Presidio Park one day, hiked all over the Gas Lamp District the next day, averaging about five miles a day on foot. From Holly's we could walk a few blocks over to University Ave., hang a right and walk to the North Park District. I liked all the little hand-lettered signs on all the small beauty salons, neighborhood markets, and tire stores. The bus ride down University passed along one little neighborhood after another, each one independent of the other and a small city unto itself.
The bustling sidewalks were jammed with cafes, gyms, thrift stores, bakeries, barber shops, hardware stores, carpet stores, neighborhood libraries and all the facilities that keep life humming along and all so conveniently located. I revamped my van while I was there getting new flooring, lights, all the little particulars I have been needing to give the van a little more spruced up look.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Beatlick Travel Reports #19-21: Slab City to the Salton Sea
Report #19 (Feb 26, 2009 1:37 PM)
Well into our visit at the Slabs I wonder at the conversations around the firepits at the Oasis Club and Michael Bright’s trailer. There’s the big-hearted laugh of Bill, the Slab’s biggest promoter and resident of twenty years, and the mischievousness and sprightliness of Sterling the playwright. Jim quotes Shakespeare and discusses Civil War generals. John shows slide shows of his artwork on a laptop. The discussions fluctuate between the Fascism of Bill Gates and William Randolph Hearst to movies.
“Who was the female in ‘The Third Man’ with Joseph Cotton and Orsen Wells?” asks Michael B. Beatlick Joe is in heaven with all these film buffs and he waxes philosophical long into the night.
About the fifth day we begin to notice some aromas associated with excrement and ever-present hum of generators. I begin to worry that we hadn’t dug our own holes deep enough. But a little stroll convinced me the aroma was on the wind. I don’t know if it is the cows five miles out or the Slabs. Most of these big rigs are self contained but some of the smaller set ups and the locals just dig holes.
It was a bonding experience over at Michael B.’s firepit as the wind wafted across his recently filled hole and we all maneuvered to get upwind of the creosote-soaked firewood.
There’s a big party also over at one of the big abandoned tanks. A young cyclist moved into a giant tank and turned it into a comfortable home. He hosts biking festivals apparently and the “Midnight Riders” out of L.A. have been arriving all weekend. I happened to be cleaning a big skillet over at the community kitchen when a young man in spandex and bleached blond hair, weighing in at about 120 pounds, asked me with the inquisitiveness of an investigative journalist, “What is this place all about? Do you live here all the time?” There’s a big party at the “Range” tonight and they’re all invited.
Over at the Range the campers and RVs started lining up before sunset. On the big slab and stage area dozens of old chairs, couches, theater seats, and barco loungers of all states of disrepair were arranged theater style to seat at least fifty people.
The sign said “All dogs must be leashed” but no one bothered and as usual, the dogs behaved admirably. The bikers showed up in costumes they apparently ride around L.A. in. One male wore a bunny costume complete with enormous ears, there were tinsel boas around one guy’s neck and most were adorned in iridescent rings that glow in the dark. All the better to be seen by oncoming traffic I assume.
There were hot dogs for a dollar, burritos for two, and some cookies made from somebody’s legal pot prescription. I waited all night for Michael B. to show up with the free beer that requires a dollar donation but he never showed up in his beer cooler go cart.
The community feeling here is palpable. I like Deiter especially. He is German, drives an old Bluebird school bus with “Cool Bus” written on the front, and a peace sign in the back. For all the world he looks like Las Crucen poet Dick Thomas in blond braids!
A few solo acts opened for “Drop 7,” an awesome local band named after the drops in the old canal around Slab City. The first couple up danced ballroom style like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. He was extremely clean cut for the Slabs with a black-and-white Fedora and black-and-white shoes (are those spats?) which almost reached the spot lights of recycled paint cans as he kicked his right leg into the air and over his head. He was dancing with a red head in high-heeled red boots. They were no spring chickens but they danced like kids all night.
The slender woman with the long grey hair and lithe body who was asked to dance the most and did a beautiful job of it didn't have a tooth in her head. The creosote logs burned bright in the trash bins all around the dance floor. The marijuana cookies kicked in on a lucky few in the bike club and the night was full of limbo dancers.
Great fun at the Range. I scored big the next morning at the Swap Meet in Niland. I hitchhiked into town. At the swap I found gas canisters! – four for $5.50 – an outrageous steal. I nabbed them fast. Then I found a potato masher, I left mine in Albuquerque I guess, and an allen wrench to tighten up the back window.
We also found the hot springs or hot pond as it sometimes called, with a clay bottom. That makes it a bit murky and I declined to jump in this day, but next time.
Travel Report #20 (Feb 28, 2009 1:01 PM)
There’s a growing community around our little VW as the big rigs keep pulling in. I noticed a lady giving her husband a haircut yesterday. I wonder if she has set the same course I have.
I don’t like to see Joe in his scraggly now graying beard. And the more he looks like an old codger the more he acts like an old codger. I like Joe “elegant.” But he doesn’t enjoy shaving – especially every day – and he will intentionally do a patchy job.
So I have taken it upon myself to shave him myself about twice a week. We have real fun. I get a lot of hot steamy washrags and steam up his whiskers. I use a lot of shaving cream. It’s important to make the razor glide easily over the whiskers and get a smooth shave. Sometimes I have to keep going back and forth. I never knew how hard it was for a man to shave. I feel bad about the times I criticized him.
Now this leads me to another thought. When I was little, around six, I had a doll I named Bobby. He had red pajamas and I played with him all day and dreamed about him all night. In my dreams I would play with his brown curly hair. Now in reality Bobby was all plastic but at night he had soft brown curls. I would fuss over him in so many ways and I can remember the closeness and contentment I experience with that doll in my dreams.
That is the exact feeling of joy and peace I feel these days with Joe. It’s a feeling and a dream I have recaptured from my childhood. I don’t know what it means but even in my maturity as a struggling single parent I dreamed about him.
In the dream I saw the image of someone I would love. He had curly brown hair, a few acne scars, and soulful brown eyes. So my soul knew Joe long before I did.
All this would be impossible without him. Joe paid for the van and all the modifications. He bought the tires and the equipment for the trip. We are playing house just like two children in the van and he gives me all the strength and love I need. The man of my dreams.
Report #21 (Feb 28, 2009 1:07 PM)
Hundreds of white pelicans float on the Salton Sea. It’s Tuesday morning, yesterday was Mother’s birthday – she would have been 97 today. We left the Slabs on Monday, said goodbye to Michael Bright and all of our new friends in Slab City amid promises to return soon, to relocate here at this fee-area recreation site.
Honestly I think they have had better days. There were nowhere near 5,000 people on the Slabs and I think it is definitely the high season now for Slabbers. Those are the kinds of numbers I read about in magazine and newspaper articles. Many of these people look pretty desperate now and it saddens me, because I found true friends there.
I really like Carol W. She gave me a ride into Niland as she pulled out of town in her modest camper. She has the most marvelous laugh – aaah-ha-ha-ha. She has returned for the first time in five years and she tells me about a much more pristine Slab City than what is apparent today.
Now a widow she has been traveling around in her camper with her little dog for twelve years now. She raised seven children. She said her husband was in show business, first radio and then television. They lived in New Jersey where her husband commuted to the Big Apple and then moved on to California where they lived in Malibu Beach during the 60s. She’s a Canadian originally and returned there when her children became teenagers.
And like me I guess she isn’t on best terms with all her children so she inspires me because she is living a great life despite her children. “Well, if they don’t need me I don’t need them. Aaaaah-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Here at the campground for almost thirty dollars we got a great seaside view, cold showers because they are heated by solar panel, electricity and a water spigot. I got out my big white bucket and got a few clothes washed just before the rain set in.
We strung our electric cords outside, one for the heater and one to charge batteries and play the boom box and DVD. The clothes are hung all over the inside of the van. The rain has set in.
On Tuesday it was daylight by 6:30 a.m. I like that. And it looks like the clouds are moving on. I am reclining on my bed, drinking decaf coffee and looking out the window, past the beach to the pelicans and the sea. I can’t get the Slabs off my mind. I worry about them like family.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Well into our visit at the Slabs I wonder at the conversations around the firepits at the Oasis Club and Michael Bright’s trailer. There’s the big-hearted laugh of Bill, the Slab’s biggest promoter and resident of twenty years, and the mischievousness and sprightliness of Sterling the playwright. Jim quotes Shakespeare and discusses Civil War generals. John shows slide shows of his artwork on a laptop. The discussions fluctuate between the Fascism of Bill Gates and William Randolph Hearst to movies.
“Who was the female in ‘The Third Man’ with Joseph Cotton and Orsen Wells?” asks Michael B. Beatlick Joe is in heaven with all these film buffs and he waxes philosophical long into the night.
About the fifth day we begin to notice some aromas associated with excrement and ever-present hum of generators. I begin to worry that we hadn’t dug our own holes deep enough. But a little stroll convinced me the aroma was on the wind. I don’t know if it is the cows five miles out or the Slabs. Most of these big rigs are self contained but some of the smaller set ups and the locals just dig holes.
It was a bonding experience over at Michael B.’s firepit as the wind wafted across his recently filled hole and we all maneuvered to get upwind of the creosote-soaked firewood.
There’s a big party also over at one of the big abandoned tanks. A young cyclist moved into a giant tank and turned it into a comfortable home. He hosts biking festivals apparently and the “Midnight Riders” out of L.A. have been arriving all weekend. I happened to be cleaning a big skillet over at the community kitchen when a young man in spandex and bleached blond hair, weighing in at about 120 pounds, asked me with the inquisitiveness of an investigative journalist, “What is this place all about? Do you live here all the time?” There’s a big party at the “Range” tonight and they’re all invited.
Over at the Range the campers and RVs started lining up before sunset. On the big slab and stage area dozens of old chairs, couches, theater seats, and barco loungers of all states of disrepair were arranged theater style to seat at least fifty people.
The sign said “All dogs must be leashed” but no one bothered and as usual, the dogs behaved admirably. The bikers showed up in costumes they apparently ride around L.A. in. One male wore a bunny costume complete with enormous ears, there were tinsel boas around one guy’s neck and most were adorned in iridescent rings that glow in the dark. All the better to be seen by oncoming traffic I assume.
There were hot dogs for a dollar, burritos for two, and some cookies made from somebody’s legal pot prescription. I waited all night for Michael B. to show up with the free beer that requires a dollar donation but he never showed up in his beer cooler go cart.
The community feeling here is palpable. I like Deiter especially. He is German, drives an old Bluebird school bus with “Cool Bus” written on the front, and a peace sign in the back. For all the world he looks like Las Crucen poet Dick Thomas in blond braids!
A few solo acts opened for “Drop 7,” an awesome local band named after the drops in the old canal around Slab City. The first couple up danced ballroom style like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. He was extremely clean cut for the Slabs with a black-and-white Fedora and black-and-white shoes (are those spats?) which almost reached the spot lights of recycled paint cans as he kicked his right leg into the air and over his head. He was dancing with a red head in high-heeled red boots. They were no spring chickens but they danced like kids all night.
The slender woman with the long grey hair and lithe body who was asked to dance the most and did a beautiful job of it didn't have a tooth in her head. The creosote logs burned bright in the trash bins all around the dance floor. The marijuana cookies kicked in on a lucky few in the bike club and the night was full of limbo dancers.
Great fun at the Range. I scored big the next morning at the Swap Meet in Niland. I hitchhiked into town. At the swap I found gas canisters! – four for $5.50 – an outrageous steal. I nabbed them fast. Then I found a potato masher, I left mine in Albuquerque I guess, and an allen wrench to tighten up the back window.
We also found the hot springs or hot pond as it sometimes called, with a clay bottom. That makes it a bit murky and I declined to jump in this day, but next time.
Travel Report #20 (Feb 28, 2009 1:01 PM)
There’s a growing community around our little VW as the big rigs keep pulling in. I noticed a lady giving her husband a haircut yesterday. I wonder if she has set the same course I have.
I don’t like to see Joe in his scraggly now graying beard. And the more he looks like an old codger the more he acts like an old codger. I like Joe “elegant.” But he doesn’t enjoy shaving – especially every day – and he will intentionally do a patchy job.
So I have taken it upon myself to shave him myself about twice a week. We have real fun. I get a lot of hot steamy washrags and steam up his whiskers. I use a lot of shaving cream. It’s important to make the razor glide easily over the whiskers and get a smooth shave. Sometimes I have to keep going back and forth. I never knew how hard it was for a man to shave. I feel bad about the times I criticized him.
Now this leads me to another thought. When I was little, around six, I had a doll I named Bobby. He had red pajamas and I played with him all day and dreamed about him all night. In my dreams I would play with his brown curly hair. Now in reality Bobby was all plastic but at night he had soft brown curls. I would fuss over him in so many ways and I can remember the closeness and contentment I experience with that doll in my dreams.
That is the exact feeling of joy and peace I feel these days with Joe. It’s a feeling and a dream I have recaptured from my childhood. I don’t know what it means but even in my maturity as a struggling single parent I dreamed about him.
In the dream I saw the image of someone I would love. He had curly brown hair, a few acne scars, and soulful brown eyes. So my soul knew Joe long before I did.
All this would be impossible without him. Joe paid for the van and all the modifications. He bought the tires and the equipment for the trip. We are playing house just like two children in the van and he gives me all the strength and love I need. The man of my dreams.
Report #21 (Feb 28, 2009 1:07 PM)
Hundreds of white pelicans float on the Salton Sea. It’s Tuesday morning, yesterday was Mother’s birthday – she would have been 97 today. We left the Slabs on Monday, said goodbye to Michael Bright and all of our new friends in Slab City amid promises to return soon, to relocate here at this fee-area recreation site.
Honestly I think they have had better days. There were nowhere near 5,000 people on the Slabs and I think it is definitely the high season now for Slabbers. Those are the kinds of numbers I read about in magazine and newspaper articles. Many of these people look pretty desperate now and it saddens me, because I found true friends there.
I really like Carol W. She gave me a ride into Niland as she pulled out of town in her modest camper. She has the most marvelous laugh – aaah-ha-ha-ha. She has returned for the first time in five years and she tells me about a much more pristine Slab City than what is apparent today.
Now a widow she has been traveling around in her camper with her little dog for twelve years now. She raised seven children. She said her husband was in show business, first radio and then television. They lived in New Jersey where her husband commuted to the Big Apple and then moved on to California where they lived in Malibu Beach during the 60s. She’s a Canadian originally and returned there when her children became teenagers.
And like me I guess she isn’t on best terms with all her children so she inspires me because she is living a great life despite her children. “Well, if they don’t need me I don’t need them. Aaaaah-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Here at the campground for almost thirty dollars we got a great seaside view, cold showers because they are heated by solar panel, electricity and a water spigot. I got out my big white bucket and got a few clothes washed just before the rain set in.
We strung our electric cords outside, one for the heater and one to charge batteries and play the boom box and DVD. The clothes are hung all over the inside of the van. The rain has set in.
On Tuesday it was daylight by 6:30 a.m. I like that. And it looks like the clouds are moving on. I am reclining on my bed, drinking decaf coffee and looking out the window, past the beach to the pelicans and the sea. I can’t get the Slabs off my mind. I worry about them like family.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Beatlick Travel Report #17: This Moment is Perfect
Date: Feb 20, 2009 12:17 PM
Report #17
I’ve got some folks to look up here on the Slabs. Jamie Givens a good friend of ours back in Nashville gave us some names of some of her old friends out on the slabs. In the years we’ve known her there has never been a remote ghost town, hot springs, or lake side that she hadn’t already been to first. She is a true world class traveler, a wandering Sadhu, before she hit Nashville back in the 90s.
We left the Slabs this morning to foray around and found a good library in the adjacent town of Calipatria. I pulled to the curb where there was an incline that put my van at an odd pitch. I thought twice about parking there – a wispy memory of an earlier bad experience in my old van passed through my mind - but I ignored it and turned off the key.
Sure enough when I returned from the library I couldn’t get the van started. It took all of my and Joe’s strength to kind of bounce it up and down till we could maneuver it and push it out onto the street. But we did. He pushed, I jumped in and popped it into secand, and off we went. That problem hasn’t happened again. Next I found butane canisters and life was rosy again.
I do fight to stay calm sometimes and try not to worry. I can ruin my best endeavors by fretting over things that might happen – could happen, should happen. Like losing half our operating capital because the renters moved out of my mother’s house. That has happened, but I know more will come along.
So I struggle to not negate these beautiful moments with negative thoughts because THIS MOMENT is perfect. We are so lucky to be following a dream like this – unencumbered – we are eagerly awaiting the mail which I had forwarded to Niland.
Almost two months worth of mail – not expecting bills – I do all banking and billing on line. A lot of expenses like storage and mailbox rental I paid for one year in advance.
I’ve learned you can get mail forwarded to any post office, general delivery, once without filling out paper work or being charged. It will take four days for the mail to get to Niland from Las Cruces .
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Report #17
I’ve got some folks to look up here on the Slabs. Jamie Givens a good friend of ours back in Nashville gave us some names of some of her old friends out on the slabs. In the years we’ve known her there has never been a remote ghost town, hot springs, or lake side that she hadn’t already been to first. She is a true world class traveler, a wandering Sadhu, before she hit Nashville back in the 90s.
We left the Slabs this morning to foray around and found a good library in the adjacent town of Calipatria. I pulled to the curb where there was an incline that put my van at an odd pitch. I thought twice about parking there – a wispy memory of an earlier bad experience in my old van passed through my mind - but I ignored it and turned off the key.
Sure enough when I returned from the library I couldn’t get the van started. It took all of my and Joe’s strength to kind of bounce it up and down till we could maneuver it and push it out onto the street. But we did. He pushed, I jumped in and popped it into secand, and off we went. That problem hasn’t happened again. Next I found butane canisters and life was rosy again.
I do fight to stay calm sometimes and try not to worry. I can ruin my best endeavors by fretting over things that might happen – could happen, should happen. Like losing half our operating capital because the renters moved out of my mother’s house. That has happened, but I know more will come along.
So I struggle to not negate these beautiful moments with negative thoughts because THIS MOMENT is perfect. We are so lucky to be following a dream like this – unencumbered – we are eagerly awaiting the mail which I had forwarded to Niland.
Almost two months worth of mail – not expecting bills – I do all banking and billing on line. A lot of expenses like storage and mailbox rental I paid for one year in advance.
I’ve learned you can get mail forwarded to any post office, general delivery, once without filling out paper work or being charged. It will take four days for the mail to get to Niland from Las Cruces .
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Beatlick Travel Reports 15-16: Life on the Slabs
Feb 18, 2009 11:07 AM
Report #15
Second day on the Slabs. Thank God – sun – no clouds. It has rained off and on since we got here and it’s cold again. We can see our breath inside the van early in the morning.
I laugh at myself. At one point yesterday when it looked like it looked like the rain was setting in I panicked and wanted to get a motel room. Cheap I hoped. At one point I broke up the camp and drove back through Calipatria all the way to Brawley looking for a room. Sixty dollars a night was the best I could do. I had rejected the seedy motel back in Niland for $35 because some of the occupants looked pretty seedy.
I need to preface this by saying I have absolutely no cash to pay for a room. No cash until Friday and today is Tuesday. Honestly I have no intention of charging $120 on American Express but still I’m over there at the motel.
I looked at three rooms and finally came to my senses. The sun came out, the atmosphere dried out, and we decided to hit some of Joe’s money stash. We bought $30 worth of groceries, half of that went for an 18-pack of Tecate.
We went back to find our own little campsite still there in Slab City . So we hunkered down as the rain set in once more.
Report #16
Third day on the Slabs. The sun is out; the clouds are gone and it looks like things will dry out although the San Diego NPR station claims a cold front is coming in from the Pacific.
Well we are locked down here. It is really tight quarters in the van. Joe is such a unique and wonderful person. I never get too tired of his humor – he is so steady – so even and happy, so he is easy to spend time with. He spends his time reading and writing letters.
I spend my time writing my travel journals, listening to NPR on our hand cranked short wave radio and reading.
At night we amuse ourselves with a DVD player that we plug into one of the two portable batteries that we carry. When they run down we have to plug them into electricity for twelve hours. That usually requires a motel or campsite.
I’m pouring over the journals of Anais Nin 1931-1934. It’s all about her times in Paris with Henry Miller and June. Her diary has inspired me to write more in length journal style, not so much reporter style.
I found butane gas canisters for $3 yesterday at a True Value Hardware Store. That’s a dollar cheaper than Ace. I bought all they had. Coleman brand. It was still more than double what I paid in Las Cruces but I’m grateful to have them. We can cook in the van.
Report #15
Second day on the Slabs. Thank God – sun – no clouds. It has rained off and on since we got here and it’s cold again. We can see our breath inside the van early in the morning.
I laugh at myself. At one point yesterday when it looked like it looked like the rain was setting in I panicked and wanted to get a motel room. Cheap I hoped. At one point I broke up the camp and drove back through Calipatria all the way to Brawley looking for a room. Sixty dollars a night was the best I could do. I had rejected the seedy motel back in Niland for $35 because some of the occupants looked pretty seedy.
I need to preface this by saying I have absolutely no cash to pay for a room. No cash until Friday and today is Tuesday. Honestly I have no intention of charging $120 on American Express but still I’m over there at the motel.
I looked at three rooms and finally came to my senses. The sun came out, the atmosphere dried out, and we decided to hit some of Joe’s money stash. We bought $30 worth of groceries, half of that went for an 18-pack of Tecate.
We went back to find our own little campsite still there in Slab City . So we hunkered down as the rain set in once more.
Report #16
Third day on the Slabs. The sun is out; the clouds are gone and it looks like things will dry out although the San Diego NPR station claims a cold front is coming in from the Pacific.
Well we are locked down here. It is really tight quarters in the van. Joe is such a unique and wonderful person. I never get too tired of his humor – he is so steady – so even and happy, so he is easy to spend time with. He spends his time reading and writing letters.
I spend my time writing my travel journals, listening to NPR on our hand cranked short wave radio and reading.
At night we amuse ourselves with a DVD player that we plug into one of the two portable batteries that we carry. When they run down we have to plug them into electricity for twelve hours. That usually requires a motel or campsite.
I’m pouring over the journals of Anais Nin 1931-1934. It’s all about her times in Paris with Henry Miller and June. Her diary has inspired me to write more in length journal style, not so much reporter style.
I found butane gas canisters for $3 yesterday at a True Value Hardware Store. That’s a dollar cheaper than Ace. I bought all they had. Coleman brand. It was still more than double what I paid in Las Cruces but I’m grateful to have them. We can cook in the van.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Beatlick Travel Report #14: The Dead Fill My Dreams
Date: Feb 12, 2009 3:08 PM
Report #14
Here on the Slabs today, I feel content. But I want to dwell for a while on my mental state. Otherwise I don’t feel like this is a true representation of my experience.
The dead fill my dreams. Now I’m about six weeks into the trip so this was more pronounced earlier. It all started on about the third week.
Many, many times in my now protracted life I have been either sustained or tormented by my dreams And I give them a lot of weight and consideration.
So my dreams haven’t caused me any issues in months, if not years, but suddenly after the true realization that I had slashed all my moorings so to speak the dreams began. My dead loved ones, one after another night after night, came to call.
I dreamed of my father, who died when I was ten. This is the third time in my entire life that I have dreamed of him:
We are in the old 30s-something Chevy with a running board that my father was driving the night he collided with an 18-wheeler and died on site. It was a summer, sunny and mild. In the space of this small quiet little dream I recovered that feeling of an endless summer day, gently passing time together with my dad.
In the dream I remember wondering, maybe worrying, would he say something about getting a drink. He was an alcoholic and the subject was always fodder for an argument at home. But it wasn’t that way. He was mellow; just wanted to know what I thought, what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go next.
Then I dreamed of Mother. I held a locket in my hand. It held a charm. When I held the charm up to my eyes to get a better look at it I saw a hologram. It was my mother all young and beautiful, just a cameo shot of her head and shoulders. She was laughing out loud (something I rarely ever saw) with her head thrown back and her blond bobbed hair bouncing. She was so happy.
And then I dreamed of Gloria, my friend of over 50 years who died last year – suddenly and tragically – in France . She was young, leading the show, driving the car and telling me what to do. Then came a procession of old neighbors, childhood friends, people I haven’t thought of in decades.
These dreams were wrenching at first, not traumatic or bad, but so strong, impactful… I call them “abiding” dreams… because that’s what it was like in my dream of my father. He was simply abiding with me, going along for the ride.
So Mother, Gloria, and all of them I believe have let me know that they abide with me. It has been profoundly comforting.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Report #14
Here on the Slabs today, I feel content. But I want to dwell for a while on my mental state. Otherwise I don’t feel like this is a true representation of my experience.
The dead fill my dreams. Now I’m about six weeks into the trip so this was more pronounced earlier. It all started on about the third week.
Many, many times in my now protracted life I have been either sustained or tormented by my dreams And I give them a lot of weight and consideration.
So my dreams haven’t caused me any issues in months, if not years, but suddenly after the true realization that I had slashed all my moorings so to speak the dreams began. My dead loved ones, one after another night after night, came to call.
I dreamed of my father, who died when I was ten. This is the third time in my entire life that I have dreamed of him:
We are in the old 30s-something Chevy with a running board that my father was driving the night he collided with an 18-wheeler and died on site. It was a summer, sunny and mild. In the space of this small quiet little dream I recovered that feeling of an endless summer day, gently passing time together with my dad.
In the dream I remember wondering, maybe worrying, would he say something about getting a drink. He was an alcoholic and the subject was always fodder for an argument at home. But it wasn’t that way. He was mellow; just wanted to know what I thought, what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go next.
Then I dreamed of Mother. I held a locket in my hand. It held a charm. When I held the charm up to my eyes to get a better look at it I saw a hologram. It was my mother all young and beautiful, just a cameo shot of her head and shoulders. She was laughing out loud (something I rarely ever saw) with her head thrown back and her blond bobbed hair bouncing. She was so happy.
And then I dreamed of Gloria, my friend of over 50 years who died last year – suddenly and tragically – in France . She was young, leading the show, driving the car and telling me what to do. Then came a procession of old neighbors, childhood friends, people I haven’t thought of in decades.
These dreams were wrenching at first, not traumatic or bad, but so strong, impactful… I call them “abiding” dreams… because that’s what it was like in my dream of my father. He was simply abiding with me, going along for the ride.
So Mother, Gloria, and all of them I believe have let me know that they abide with me. It has been profoundly comforting.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Beatlick Travel Report #13: Slab City
Date: Feb 12, 2009 2:33 PM
Report #13
Beatlick Joe had directions from an internet site for Slab City . Well they are not on Highway 111. If you come from the south as we did, you have to turn in Niland on Main Street , by the liquor/grocery store. Then it’s three miles on out of town.
After seeing the glut of RVs in Tucson I began imaging this place all compacted roofline to roofline with giant big rigs. But it’s not like that at all. It’s all spread out.
So you come up the road and there’s a concrete graffiti rock “Slab City – You’re almost there.” Another mile down the road you see a home made sign “Slab City : the last free place in America.”
To the right is a big hill painted with colorful tributes to Jesus, decorated cars glorifying God and the value of repentance, etc… This is an abandoned military project. There are remnants of roads, and of course lots of concrete slabs. The road is two-laned and asphalt up to the slabs then gravel roads create a grid of I can’t say how many square miles of plots.
The landscape encompasses exquisite mountain ranges in an almost 360-degree panorama and mesquite bushes spread out flat and wide by the wind. So you have plenty of room to spread out, like the trees.
The catch is the trash left behind by decades of desert squatters. All is beautiful from the bilious sky to the crisp green line of brush along with a smattering of some large shady trees. Before your eye can settle to the bottom of the canvas to the sand and slab line of this perfect desert picture you have to see a wide swath of dark copper-colored trash.
Everywhere. As people moved on they left behind the swing set, couches, water jugs by the dozen, propane tanks by the crateful, wheelchairs, portable potties, office chairs, wheelchairs, and abandoned, burned out, blown over trailers. It’s just a site to see. You can’t describe it in one sentence; you can’t visualize it in one picture. The further out you go the cleaner it gets.
Where we are parked today, we got here by noon, Slabbers pass us by on bikes, golf carts, and scooters. Most of the men look like Santa Claus.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Report #13
Beatlick Joe had directions from an internet site for Slab City . Well they are not on Highway 111. If you come from the south as we did, you have to turn in Niland on Main Street , by the liquor/grocery store. Then it’s three miles on out of town.
After seeing the glut of RVs in Tucson I began imaging this place all compacted roofline to roofline with giant big rigs. But it’s not like that at all. It’s all spread out.
So you come up the road and there’s a concrete graffiti rock “Slab City – You’re almost there.” Another mile down the road you see a home made sign “Slab City : the last free place in America.”
To the right is a big hill painted with colorful tributes to Jesus, decorated cars glorifying God and the value of repentance, etc… This is an abandoned military project. There are remnants of roads, and of course lots of concrete slabs. The road is two-laned and asphalt up to the slabs then gravel roads create a grid of I can’t say how many square miles of plots.
The landscape encompasses exquisite mountain ranges in an almost 360-degree panorama and mesquite bushes spread out flat and wide by the wind. So you have plenty of room to spread out, like the trees.
The catch is the trash left behind by decades of desert squatters. All is beautiful from the bilious sky to the crisp green line of brush along with a smattering of some large shady trees. Before your eye can settle to the bottom of the canvas to the sand and slab line of this perfect desert picture you have to see a wide swath of dark copper-colored trash.
Everywhere. As people moved on they left behind the swing set, couches, water jugs by the dozen, propane tanks by the crateful, wheelchairs, portable potties, office chairs, wheelchairs, and abandoned, burned out, blown over trailers. It’s just a site to see. You can’t describe it in one sentence; you can’t visualize it in one picture. The further out you go the cleaner it gets.
Where we are parked today, we got here by noon, Slabbers pass us by on bikes, golf carts, and scooters. Most of the men look like Santa Claus.
Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Monday, February 09, 2009
Beatlick Travel Report #12: Yuma to Slab City
Date: Feb 9, 2009 10:46 AM
I want to say a few more disparaging words about Yuma. The bus system was impossible to comprehend, the buses ran 30 minutes late or didn't show at all. We walked six miles one day because I got frustrated just sitting at a stop waiting for the bus that never came. So I won't be passing by this way again, but I did get my revenge on Yuma. I managed to camp in the WalMart parking lot illegally for two days and didn't get caught. So Yuma, you're my worst nightmare. But I understand why they are like that, the enormous rigs that go through here are just unimaginable to Joe and I.
We finally learned after much prodding from the Visitor Center people that there are free places, beautiful places to park outside Yuma. We drove out Highway 95 north I think to 7E, took a left and went about 8 miles on a good road to a place called Mitry Lake. We stayed four days, camped by a beautiful big palm tree with two more little ones for accompaniment. Blue teal ducks kept us company all day plus a good sized white egret came in every morning and afternoon, plus on our last day there a huge blue heron was running off the egret when we woke up.
The fellow camper Jeff who told us all about Mexico had a small rig, but he was bragging about his 55 gallon water tank. He only got 7 miles to the gallon. No wonder. I just can't imagine hauling all that water around. The rigs all up and down Mitry Lake are so big, then folks have their vehicles towed along behind them. I even read in Jeff's book on camping Mexico that these rigs go to Mexico in caravans of 15-25 vehicles. How would you like to drive behind one of those caravans on a Mexican highway? Unbelievable.
We didn't leave until it rained. There was some great hiking as well. So this was payback for all that misery in Yuma.
Now we made it to the Slabs. I became intimidated thinking the slabs would look like those RV camps back in Yuma, but not at all. There was a good road out there and an enormous place, many square miles to camp, and lots of room to spread out. Lots of mountains in the background and mesquite bushes for shade, no palm trees out here. I think all those palm trees in Yuma were just a preponderance of imported palms from way back when, when they were trying to market the place to RVers.
But Yuma is a memory now. We met a guy at Mitry Lake that has just about convinced us to go straight on down to Mexico and forget San Diego. We're still considering a change. It would be a lot less complicated hanging out on the Pacific Ocean in Mexico than San Diego.
Right now it is raining on the slabs. I decided to look for a cheap hotel room for a few days so we can charge up all the batteries and clean up. My gas stove uses butane canisters. I paid $1.29 in Las Cruces, up from $.99 at the dollar store there. At Ace Hardware iun Yuma they cost $3.99! So I didn't buy any and I'm down to my last four. We are saving them to make coffee in the morning and are trying to cook outside with fire pits or charcoal. But that doesn't work if it's raining.
And it's cold again with all the rain. So we hope to find a cheap room today. We'll go back to the slabs in a day or two as I have to kill time because I got my mail forwarded and it won't get to Niland, where the slabs are, until Thursday.
Love to all, Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
I want to say a few more disparaging words about Yuma. The bus system was impossible to comprehend, the buses ran 30 minutes late or didn't show at all. We walked six miles one day because I got frustrated just sitting at a stop waiting for the bus that never came. So I won't be passing by this way again, but I did get my revenge on Yuma. I managed to camp in the WalMart parking lot illegally for two days and didn't get caught. So Yuma, you're my worst nightmare. But I understand why they are like that, the enormous rigs that go through here are just unimaginable to Joe and I.
We finally learned after much prodding from the Visitor Center people that there are free places, beautiful places to park outside Yuma. We drove out Highway 95 north I think to 7E, took a left and went about 8 miles on a good road to a place called Mitry Lake. We stayed four days, camped by a beautiful big palm tree with two more little ones for accompaniment. Blue teal ducks kept us company all day plus a good sized white egret came in every morning and afternoon, plus on our last day there a huge blue heron was running off the egret when we woke up.
The fellow camper Jeff who told us all about Mexico had a small rig, but he was bragging about his 55 gallon water tank. He only got 7 miles to the gallon. No wonder. I just can't imagine hauling all that water around. The rigs all up and down Mitry Lake are so big, then folks have their vehicles towed along behind them. I even read in Jeff's book on camping Mexico that these rigs go to Mexico in caravans of 15-25 vehicles. How would you like to drive behind one of those caravans on a Mexican highway? Unbelievable.
We didn't leave until it rained. There was some great hiking as well. So this was payback for all that misery in Yuma.
Now we made it to the Slabs. I became intimidated thinking the slabs would look like those RV camps back in Yuma, but not at all. There was a good road out there and an enormous place, many square miles to camp, and lots of room to spread out. Lots of mountains in the background and mesquite bushes for shade, no palm trees out here. I think all those palm trees in Yuma were just a preponderance of imported palms from way back when, when they were trying to market the place to RVers.
But Yuma is a memory now. We met a guy at Mitry Lake that has just about convinced us to go straight on down to Mexico and forget San Diego. We're still considering a change. It would be a lot less complicated hanging out on the Pacific Ocean in Mexico than San Diego.
Right now it is raining on the slabs. I decided to look for a cheap hotel room for a few days so we can charge up all the batteries and clean up. My gas stove uses butane canisters. I paid $1.29 in Las Cruces, up from $.99 at the dollar store there. At Ace Hardware iun Yuma they cost $3.99! So I didn't buy any and I'm down to my last four. We are saving them to make coffee in the morning and are trying to cook outside with fire pits or charcoal. But that doesn't work if it's raining.
And it's cold again with all the rain. So we hope to find a cheap room today. We'll go back to the slabs in a day or two as I have to kill time because I got my mail forwarded and it won't get to Niland, where the slabs are, until Thursday.
Love to all, Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Mansel: Besudi (to feel, to touch)
...
soul of a dead person
bringing on the ghost
vertical boat even with the sky
(a wuroke spirit)
shamanic cuisine/ epileptic/ ceremonial
archaic/ pathogenic state
shooting initiate's clear
awake/ back/ bathe
recordings show motionless
possession/ translation
(precarious diagnosis)
ladder make from stag horns
illuminates the body, precincts (motifs)
leave the consecration (heat)
opening fingers at the knuckles
ecstasy/ intoxication/ mushrooms
seclusion
criminal nectar, himself, guilt of america
succuumb to the dye, pigment multiplicity
downstream/ angry imaging/ simultaneously
Mephistopheles/ dismantling/ laboured
habitat, disassembled/ readings spread
biologically/ restraints are species to species
cell size is based on behaviour
molar variation, manuscript genus
erotic microevolutionary sediment shift
resoluable moments, yage
the species duration is exhibited (tree graveyard)
by a few isolates, Darwin, Oceanic
ethnographic resin, paintings by Nepalese tribes
sacrifices found in meat/ axis mundi
ascent to the underworld/ theory/ thirsty
regions employed to the trees/ storms/ smoke holes
exhaustive/ fauna of the horse/ divinities
beginning with the coyote/ the dead mother (their language)
paradisal, bleating like a lamb/ a seance over covered fire
animal language/ terrible messengers/ herbs/ seven days
serpent effigies/ reddened feathers/ mud murals
poisonous arachnids
experimental assaults
wither catharsis, the sin of despair, habit
chemical, between the eyes/ mandibles
audible/ stimulated/ death-feign
sun/ in the twilight/ being black
predator/ striking longhorn/ deterrent
dark/ depths/ suddenly/ biting rain/ exile
white horse/ exile/ ships, cargo net
casket cleared the sea wall
wiry painful warning, climax
shoulders for burial/ detachment
isolation quickened/ infection
headless missionaries/ dropped from the trees
laborers ascended/ anointed with oil
ships evidence/ flesh of a whale
bloody platform/ nausea/ disinfectant
handcuffs and stigma of storms/ leather masks
symptoms/leprosy/ pieces of the head/ historian
a genealogy of every departure
breaths/ deaths/ caregivers
cinder black neighborhoods
crowded atop open wells
hallways poured square
like a spine, several winter age
remains separated, slowly moving
concerning beauty, ill effect
corrupted/ the intensity of the habit
every species slaughtering monstrous views
the violence of Job acquiring leviathans/ publishing cycles
insects of sulfur tents, talks of the inanimate/ orbital Pangaea
reptiles spitting hydrochloric acid, a disheveled placid flood
ferocity/ presence/ pictures underdeveloped
of a carcinogenic haze, exposed synthetics
such deaths isolation the secret ingredient
covers until cycles revert, imprisoned ecology
- Chris Mansel
soul of a dead person
bringing on the ghost
vertical boat even with the sky
(a wuroke spirit)
shamanic cuisine/ epileptic/ ceremonial
archaic/ pathogenic state
shooting initiate's clear
awake/ back/ bathe
recordings show motionless
possession/ translation
(precarious diagnosis)
ladder make from stag horns
illuminates the body, precincts (motifs)
leave the consecration (heat)
opening fingers at the knuckles
ecstasy/ intoxication/ mushrooms
seclusion
criminal nectar, himself, guilt of america
succuumb to the dye, pigment multiplicity
downstream/ angry imaging/ simultaneously
Mephistopheles/ dismantling/ laboured
habitat, disassembled/ readings spread
biologically/ restraints are species to species
cell size is based on behaviour
molar variation, manuscript genus
erotic microevolutionary sediment shift
resoluable moments, yage
the species duration is exhibited (tree graveyard)
by a few isolates, Darwin, Oceanic
ethnographic resin, paintings by Nepalese tribes
sacrifices found in meat/ axis mundi
ascent to the underworld/ theory/ thirsty
regions employed to the trees/ storms/ smoke holes
exhaustive/ fauna of the horse/ divinities
beginning with the coyote/ the dead mother (their language)
paradisal, bleating like a lamb/ a seance over covered fire
animal language/ terrible messengers/ herbs/ seven days
serpent effigies/ reddened feathers/ mud murals
poisonous arachnids
experimental assaults
wither catharsis, the sin of despair, habit
chemical, between the eyes/ mandibles
audible/ stimulated/ death-feign
sun/ in the twilight/ being black
predator/ striking longhorn/ deterrent
dark/ depths/ suddenly/ biting rain/ exile
white horse/ exile/ ships, cargo net
casket cleared the sea wall
wiry painful warning, climax
shoulders for burial/ detachment
isolation quickened/ infection
headless missionaries/ dropped from the trees
laborers ascended/ anointed with oil
ships evidence/ flesh of a whale
bloody platform/ nausea/ disinfectant
handcuffs and stigma of storms/ leather masks
symptoms/leprosy/ pieces of the head/ historian
a genealogy of every departure
breaths/ deaths/ caregivers
cinder black neighborhoods
crowded atop open wells
hallways poured square
like a spine, several winter age
remains separated, slowly moving
concerning beauty, ill effect
corrupted/ the intensity of the habit
every species slaughtering monstrous views
the violence of Job acquiring leviathans/ publishing cycles
insects of sulfur tents, talks of the inanimate/ orbital Pangaea
reptiles spitting hydrochloric acid, a disheveled placid flood
ferocity/ presence/ pictures underdeveloped
of a carcinogenic haze, exposed synthetics
such deaths isolation the secret ingredient
covers until cycles revert, imprisoned ecology
- Chris Mansel
Mansel: Moliere, Said The Wolf
....
breeding behavior
embodied, in the closing
cathedral, commentary
disparate-expanded
diffident, gothic and flame shaped
(loner in the facade)
exigent/default/accidental
paraphernalia, illustrated brotherhood
anatomical definition (reading / down hearing)
Darwin's long argument
sharpness of oblivion/ exegesis
casual environmental floor
genuine-rigor/ construed
descriptive irony/ surgical soap
autobiography/ barbarism/ exhumation
anomalous/ graffitti to nomad
innumerable possessor
evolution of night/ postulate
sensitivity/ salient depth
originated/ worms/ readers
variation/ veneration
ancestral/ conspecifics
creationist/ bare premise
orchids/ adaptation/ unconsciously
castrated animals/ hybrid
thickness of the variation
strigent/ denial/ elaborated
reptiles of full seperation/ edition
deterioration/ striking/ struggling
anti-biotic reasonings (chalk steak)/ omnivore
breeders/ blue smoke/ origin of the species
intending and perceived/ without design
I am very much the matter, manifest a consolatory difficulty,
species whose edition is substituting breath for stability...
Confucius in a garden with a bird in his teeth
his eyelids reflecting the sun
a harvest of still fresh earth
(a photo of Diane di Prima)
both a child's world
hedonist and piercing
the nature of the immigrant skeleton
is a dark version, blood dipped
(raped) (the assertion being ritual)
our seasons discover/conceived/snow drying/dying/King Lear/monologues
regarding composition/ obsession/ communal
the madness that is anthologized
fetal narrative/ illustration/ reflection
Oedipus/ irriational savage/ exhaustive
totem/ sonnets/ Aquinas in the face of aggression
inward death/ literature encased in cement/ Buddha
mythology/ cruel/ ordinary/ neverthless
a decapitated horse/ falling lion/ juxtaposed
Yahweh/ sound covered in veils/ sunlight
- Chris Mansel
(christophermansel@hotmail.com)
breeding behavior
embodied, in the closing
cathedral, commentary
disparate-expanded
diffident, gothic and flame shaped
(loner in the facade)
exigent/default/accidental
paraphernalia, illustrated brotherhood
anatomical definition (reading / down hearing)
Darwin's long argument
sharpness of oblivion/ exegesis
casual environmental floor
genuine-rigor/ construed
descriptive irony/ surgical soap
autobiography/ barbarism/ exhumation
anomalous/ graffitti to nomad
innumerable possessor
evolution of night/ postulate
sensitivity/ salient depth
originated/ worms/ readers
variation/ veneration
ancestral/ conspecifics
creationist/ bare premise
orchids/ adaptation/ unconsciously
castrated animals/ hybrid
thickness of the variation
strigent/ denial/ elaborated
reptiles of full seperation/ edition
deterioration/ striking/ struggling
anti-biotic reasonings (chalk steak)/ omnivore
breeders/ blue smoke/ origin of the species
intending and perceived/ without design
I am very much the matter, manifest a consolatory difficulty,
species whose edition is substituting breath for stability...
Confucius in a garden with a bird in his teeth
his eyelids reflecting the sun
a harvest of still fresh earth
(a photo of Diane di Prima)
both a child's world
hedonist and piercing
the nature of the immigrant skeleton
is a dark version, blood dipped
(raped) (the assertion being ritual)
our seasons discover/conceived/snow drying/dying/King Lear/monologues
regarding composition/ obsession/ communal
the madness that is anthologized
fetal narrative/ illustration/ reflection
Oedipus/ irriational savage/ exhaustive
totem/ sonnets/ Aquinas in the face of aggression
inward death/ literature encased in cement/ Buddha
mythology/ cruel/ ordinary/ neverthless
a decapitated horse/ falling lion/ juxtaposed
Yahweh/ sound covered in veils/ sunlight
- Chris Mansel
(christophermansel@hotmail.com)
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