Digger Please: Racist Gandhi and the Death of the Hero

welcome to the first addition of DiggerPlease, a place for me to rant on length about shit I read about in a glorified rumormill. But seriously, Digg is a fancinating place full of interesting stories and more interesting insights into the uncensored minds and heart of net-surfers world whiles. So, every once in a while when things strike, I may or may not write it up right here. Enjoy!

________

Post Overview:
A surprising tearjerker from a source many would almost be embarrassed to be caught looking at. This article was snatched from Dr. Stephen R. Covey’s site, self-help guru an d writer of the NYT best seller The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. In one of a series of interviews with the good doctor, Dr. Stephen is asked to classic “who is your hero,” question.

The response was immediate and obvious:

Mahatma Gandhi. Let me read you his personal mission statement:

“Let the first act of every morning be to make the following resolve for the day:
* I shall not fear anyone on Earth.
* I shall fear only God.
* I shall not bear ill will toward anyone.
* I shall not submit to injustice from anyone.
* I shall conquer untruth by truth. And in resisting untruth, I shall put up with all suffering.”
- Mahatma Gandhi

The big draw, and source for most of the comments, came in the form of the meat of that mission statement along with  from Ghandi and his grandson on the principles Ghandi proported to try to live by:

He was so angry that he wanted eye for eye justice. He wanted to respond violently to the people that humiliated him. But he stopped himself, and said ‘that’s not right.’ It was not going to bring him justice. It might make him feel good for the moment, but it wasn’t going to get him any justice.

Tears followed. Lives were changed. People threw up a little in there mouths.

Notable, the doctor’s fairly astute commentary on Gandhi’s life and it’s broader connection to concepts of true leadership where more or less ignored.

Kneejeck response:
It’s Ghandi! One of the few sacred cow of WORLD culture left. There is MLK (who appearantly had hoes on the side and is really stinky- fuck umm), JFK (more mobbed up then Corloni and even MORE hoes – check on that one) and there is Ghandi.

So of course, first hits came from those pesky optimisms extolling virtures of Ghandi and his words. Some…as usually were more elequent then others:

selme (23+ diggs): I just read an article on espn.com about the Stanford recruit that was just gunned down in LA…to read this Ghandi article right afterwards was illuminating. My first reaction to the LA story was of vengeance, kill the bastard that did this. But that is the animal response and just perpetuates the cycle, with no true justice…I wonder if our country could ever really accept Ghandi’s message on a societal scale. It would be great, but I doubt it.

selme (23+ diggs): “I just read an article on espn.com about the Stanford recruit that was just gunned down in LA…to read this Ghandi article right afterwards was illuminating. My first reaction to the LA story was of vengeance, kill the bastard that did this. But that is the animal response and just perpetuates the cycle, with no true justice…I wonder if our country could ever really accept Ghandi’s message on a societal scale. It would be great, but I doubt it.”

BuzzDiggity (+41 diggs) Ghandi for president!

Dino74 (+5 diggs) I feel lame for looking at this on a Covey site, but it’s powerful. Gonna go take a steel wool bath now.

THEN….things took a dark, forebodding turn!!!!!!!

First there was this:

suzywang (-16):Google Gandi and you might find the true Gandi, he owned a newspaper in Africa that was aimed against black`s ,calling them 2nd class and not god worthy animals.He also was a pedophile sleeping with his own grand daughters. Sorry but NO

poetheunclothed(-4):I’m not inspired by racists, sorry. Gandhi wrote books about how he hated black people. He did some good things but definitely not one of the greatest humans ever.

And then this one:

Brassbud (-1) The only reason Gandhi’s strategy worked is because he was against the British. If Gandhi was living under the rule of a real terror, He, his family, and anyone within about a 100 yard radius would have been dead within 5 minutes of anyone knowing who this guy even was.

Not that I don’t have huge respect for Gandhi, but people seem to think his methods could work against some other cultures. People like Osama could watch half the world population die and call it a good day, and that just wasn’t true of the British.

And followed by a swift right from this guy:

morpheus69(-1)Gandhi was a religious extremist who forced the partitioning of India which resulted in the endless Hindu-Muslim violence that we have seen over the past 60 years.
India was well on its way to independence before Gandhi…the British had already decided to cut their losses and were looking for a graceful exit and handover of power to a coalition of Hindu and Muslim led by Nehru. Ghandi saw an opportunity to exploit this situation to his own advantage. He stirred up populist Hindu anger against Muslims and is largely responsible for the religious violence we have seen in India and Pakistan since. India would have been far better off had noone ever heard of a man named Gandhi.

And suddenly, appearantly, the truth of the article was found. It had nothing to do with leadership, being brave in the face overwhelming odds or standing for what you believed in. No, this was just one more tool the Ghandi propaganda machine was using to get you to think having hunger strikes against the government was a good thing. That and that black people are stupid. Which is a horrible racist thing to say of course. Unless, you know, it’s true. Are there ghetto black people in africa?

Commentary:
I remmber similar conversations coming up when Micheal Eric Dyson released his biography of MLK. In it, Dr. Dyson included some apparently well founded details on several affairs he had on the side. Some critized him for tansishing the one example of aferican american leadership EVERYONE seems to think highly of. Other (including me) praised him for showing MLK to be, not a massiah, but a man who did the best he could dispite making the same mistakes everyone does. But a quite few others, some of which I had conversations with, took the veiw that these affairs basically showed Martin to be a fraud, worth of more scorn then praise. JFK, Clinton and Ben Franklin (though strangely in that case, the fact that Ben loved him some french hoes seems to just make people like him more.

Looking at the info, just as in these other cases, it seems that the rumors are indeed true. [more on Ghandi rasicm and other arguments] It is also true that he [good things about Ghandi] and that ultimately the lagecy of these actions inspired millions of people world wide. Both true. My question is, why does it have to be one way or another. Why do people have to be either saints or self-interested assholes? Why oh why do some so vimentaly hate people who even TRY to make this world a better place.

I have hypothsis. I think that cynics are ultimately just smart cowards. They prefer to see the world go to shit, hoard their own little piece of wealth and then die into a black hole of nothingness then even imagine that the problems they bitch about could be things worth fighting against. They perfect the easy way, to be selfish, lonely inteletuals in a world where everyone is looking out for number one. It’s a very american point of view and, admitatly, an easy one to accept considering the state our world has ended up in. It is esp. convent if you are living a relatively comfortable life in general and thus have no self-interest anything being improved beyond your own wallet (or conversely if you have nothing and no-one has ever really believed in you)

Whatever the case, the only danger to your little objectivist paradise is anyone else who tries to make change in the world and ESP. those that seem to be doing. People like this break both of the major tennets of modern cynics:
1)    that everyone is ultimately just looking out for themselves
2)    that the world is doomed and it is futile for anyone to try to save it
And of course, there is nothing proud people hate more then someone that seem to prove there worldview wrong. So what do you do? Bash heros, left in right. He’s not so good. There not so tough. Sure, they SEEM good, but ultimately it’s just a fasade. Don’t look here, for nothing exist that conflicts with this tiny little world I have created for myself. [waves he’s hands misteriously]

One of my best friends is among the most racism people I know. Most white people I know have said shit that has been really fucked up a times, often personal directed towards me. Shit, Rocky has some overtones that don’t jive with me, but you know what? Rocky is still a good ass movie with a lot of heart. And those white friends of mind are still cool people the vast majority of the time. And that rasict best friend of mine is like a brother to me (and is, incidentally, now dating a sister) Racism sucks and continues leads to some incredible fucked up justifactions for things , but it doesn’t mean racist people are evil, stupid, or don’t have some good things to offer in life. It just means that they are ignorant. (Some are willfully ignorant, but that is another story) We need heros in life, they give us something to look up too. And we need those heros to be imperfect humans, as that shows us that being a hero is not beyond the relam of normal people. If you want to be a cynical bastard, fine, but don’t fight those that try the best they can in life. Just get the fuck out of the way.

Bag Serials: Nutcracker #1

“Oh, just hurrying to Rodeo to replace these two size too small pants. Hee,” through a fixed jaw and arced raised eyebrows while grabbing a fresh Dunkin Donuts coffee.

“But you have a very merry Christmas.”

A sheet of studded rhinestones pressed out “Princess” through the back of the plastic bag in her left hand and the server says,

”Aww you’re so sweet, And you too!”
________

Cigarette cut jet black Oscars, the bling back collection. Sporting all the latest 90s throwback, post-feminist affirmations like, “Slut”, “Spoiled” and “Jappy!” But I must only get Princess. Princess or nothing. Women. On top of that, get this, $50. That’s after a discount from that friend of her’s. What’s-her-face. But apparently they’re all the rage and it’s not like I don’t have the money to spend. Besides, blowjobs that good are hard to come by. No gag reflex or anything. Merry Christmas to me. And a happy happy New Year.

Bag Serials: the Ineviable Treason of Thomas Arnold Haggard #4

A fifth gin and tonic in hand and his head full of fish, at 3 a.m. Thomas Haggard mused for the fifth time on how similar that intense Aryan-looking drummer was to nameless name he exchanged pleasantries with just before boarding that fateful train to Amsterdam and Nadia said, “Oh, him again. You never did tell me his name.”

And Mr. Haggard, being the honorable man that he is, mumbled something inaudible to which Nadia said, “What was that?” and leaned within an inch of his ear.

To which Thomas again said, “mumm fumUMtomm,” resulting once again in a soft questioning reply from Nadia, her lips now skimming the remarkable coarse hairs of his left ear, her broach blossoming to him from her tall, full, utterly unremarkable chest.

To which Tom,

(being a man never so rude as to ignore a pointed question)

took out a piece of paper and wrote the name and number and address of some contact in the small Russia town of Ertsventiva who may or may not have used an alias anyway. And he said some vague things about the time and place and reason why that contact needed to set up a internet filtering system on the Iranian consulate’s house and how pleasant, remembering back, those sad islamic zealots were dressed and how polite they were and unusually hospitable.

And that night, despite being a man who resist over-indulgences when not for sake and at the behest of his lord and savor Jesus Christ, Mr. Haggard, here in Amsterdam for the first time ever, was man who made love to a beautiful woman. He was a man who saw Finnish people play nigger music and mused almost arrogantly on the secret, juicy things he had seen and that laughed loudly with a mouth full of Spanish ice cream to a Russian train attendant that surely would have made a great government information technology expert give the chance, that shared his vision for use of such expertise to make for a more free and demcratic world, that stared mercifully into his eyes through every boring exploit, every degradation at the hands of (no less patriotic) world leaders, every tedious classified assignment with nothing more then patient, gentle kindness.

And staring out his hostel window into the crisp autumn air that evening, Thomas Haggard for once felt his name not so appropriate, perhaps his life not so wasted, as a small round bullet zipped silently through his toupee just as Nadia returned from the lue. For the first time in years and for the last time in his life, Thomas Arnold Haggard felt free.

Bag Serials: the Ineviable Treason of Thomas Arnold Haggard #3

Fortunately though, Thomas Haggard is not in Washington D.C. right now. He is, as mentioned earlier, in Amsterdam; in Amsterdam for the first time, in fact, and is now scoping large of spoonfuls of Dolce De Leche ice cream into his small, mouse-like snout of a mouth between long, rambling retellings of the proud events that brought to him to a Café’ de Hogedaz, with a folder full of classified documents, talking into an obscenely large broach that seems to be making feedback-type sounds now and then, that is the largest thing on the equally large chest of Nadia, the Russian stewardess, who is hanging on his every word, in middle of Amsterdam.

Thomas Haggard has never eaten Dulce de Leche ice cream before.

This was choice was Nadia’s suggestion, an advisement to compete with the rich red wine gravy she had given him extra portions of just hours before. For all his refusal to be captured too tightly in the pull of any strange advancing woman on this, his first government sanctioned trip abroad, he had to admit that Nadia was an interesting spesimen. Mr. Haggard never much gone for Eastern Europeans types, what with their questionable, flimy accents and the baggage of socialist propaganda still fresh in their sad, oppressed little minds. But Nadia was different. There was a softness to her english that belied the strains of the strict, soviet bluntness of her birth tougue. Her eyes were a startiling grey and were fixed directly into his as he rolled off tale after boring tale of supposed cia missteps, allegitly illegal torture proceding and decripts of the cute things Regain, Haggard cute little persan pussy, did in his tiny studio back home in D.C. It was almost as if she was interested in what he had to say.

Not that this Nadia was a passive.

Her encyclopedic knowledge of Internet security protocol astounded him and they found much in common, despite her lowly employment as a night train attendant just two day’s new to the staff. Stopping at his first jazz club visit after his first tight pull of what Nadia insisted was a just a freshly rolled cigarette, they traded algorithms for replicating the jazz solo with the innocence and wonder of teenagers. And in between sets, she told Thomas of her trips to India and Indonesia and Africa of all places and Haggard gapped that she somehow remaid alive through it all, actually seemed to enjoy these excursions among people so….so foreign.

Tom had no such stories to share. Well, there was that one very drunken night when he mistakenly stumbled into that night club in the far edges of D.C. And though the music was strangely releasing in a way he couldn’t quite discribe and he vaguely remembers being lost in the middle of the dancefloor amid a fog of forbodding dark bodies with his eyes closed and his limps flailing almost uncontrolable, it didn’t really make an impression on him. Mostly he’s just glad he got out alive.

Bag Serials: the Ineviable Treason of Thomas Arnold Haggard #1

This is a story I put together a couple weeks ago for a contest by nycmidnight. In it, contestants were challenged to make a story of 2500 word or less about a random topic in 10 days. In my case, the topic was a spy story about a one night stand. No word on the results, but I’m satified with what I made. It comes in four parts. Let me know what you think.

__________________

 Thomas Arnold Haggard is well aware of the appropriateness of his name and is not at all amused.

He doesn’t see the need to bother with vague acknowledgments of empty gestures, regardless of your supposed intent.

That passing stewardess, for instance.

Sure, weaker, naïver 43 year olds may have simply laughed off that (very subtle) stroke she gave to Thomas Haggard’s belly as she released his rich dinner plate of beef Wellington, stewed sweet potato dollops and streamed greens all soaked in thick red wine and peppercorn gravy.

Other dejected 40-something associates of his surely would have indulged in some ridiculously, degrading illusion that the slow drag of that young supple train attendant’s finger across their respective, rotund stomachs was purposeful in some way, that perhaps even what is CLEARLY just a…. an… innocent moistening of the corner of her mouth almost directly afterwards in some way illustrating some, some lewd act that she was inviting that respective associate to participate in…or…something.

Well, not Tom Haggard.

Tom Haggard is nobody’s fool.

I mean look at him!

That hardened second chin, fat and red like a proud cock’s giblet. His solid, Hitchcockian torso, wrapped so delicately neck to ankle in thick, black, breathable wool. An unassuming tweed jacket bowing graceful to his prominent middle; his chest lit softly by the laptop balanced to the left of his dinner, on top of a budging folder of important, classified documents, underneath his hacked iphone, and wedged beside a signed hardback copy of “300: the Novelization”.

Clearly this was a man who would not be distracted by this random, buxom stranger that has slowly waded past his isle for the fourth time now, who has 3 unfastened buttons (surely due to the heat) below the nape on her constricted uniform, who’s name is Nadia I have been told and who comes from the a city in eastern Russia around which much of Mr. Haggard’s research work has been centered, and who happens to be stopping over in Amsterdam as well and who has a tattoo of kitty on her back.

Tom has never been to Amsterdam. He has, surely, heard of Amsterdam, heard much in fact. You could say, I suppose, that Thomas Haggard knows intimately of Amsterdam actually, given the number of afterwork happy hour stories he had to suffer though in the drug obsessed underbelly of Silicon Valley’s old guard. Many were the friends who after rising to new stratospheres of wealth at the height of the web 2.0 years, took time off to pursue such pathetic diversions as drum and bass djing, massage therapy, mushroom cultivate or, at worst, travel. Thankfully, Thomas found a more honorable, more American path long before his college mates start wasting there live on the molestation dens they call the social networking revolution. These were just mindless diversions compared the true calling of the computer elite: government intelligence.

In the Field: Termites, Genies and Gentrification

In this addition of In the Field, a review of Mite We?, a puppet production on West Philadelphia gentrification. Put on by the prolific Puppet Uprising Drama group right on home at the Rotunda. Check it out here.

Wordsworth: Sooooo Inapproprate

In thanks to the nod from my sis up in ny, the irrepressible  Sydette Harry (spelled it right and everything boo ) a repost of my contribute to her Carnival of radical action from a month or so ago. Do head over if you have not checked out her blog “Having read the fine print…” It’s ggooooddd readin’

________

Inappropriate.

It is a word I hear all too often walking down the tree line alleys of an average Ivy League veranda, but I can’t really judge I guest.

It comes in those chance snippets of conversation you laugh at with friends when there is a lull in your own equally wack-out conversations while walking in a bubble of interest down a tree line alleyway of an average Ivy League veranda.

I heard one just tonight. It was an undergrad towards west philly with friends and said suddenly, “And then he killed his girlfriend.”

Now these moments are isolated from context, and thus any number of interpretations can be made and thrown away again. Was she leaving a nearby movie theatre? Lit students critiquing a classmate’s short story? A news clipping?

It is on this unsure ground I ponder the many times and many contexts I have heard the word “inappropriate.” I can’t say for sure it is justified or not. Surely there are some things are legitimately inappropriate for conversation between friends. I’m sure most people can think of many. As with conversations about race, government policy and moral stances there are no unbias positions.

Still, considering the circumstances, you have to admit the situation is at least ironic. I mean this is the University of Pennsylvania I’m talking about, the oldest of Ivy League schools and the first liberal arts university in the country. This is a place where the best young minds of the world congregate to study the most advance branches of every field of study. The liberals here are the most liberal. The intellectuals most likely to think themselves evolved beyond religious, culture, or national confines. There are no boundaries, moral or otherwise, that cannot be pushed and the only word that means anything is your own. In such a place that prides itself on being the birthplace of progress, why are so many things called on impulse “inappropriate?” In a world beyond culture, why are so many things culturally taboo?

I will give an example.

There is was a freshman I will call Josh I was fond of walking with me through a division between engineering buildings. He was a sincere smartass with flair for Python coding. I was a second year senor at the time and known by the underclassmen for my teaching. He was a student in the class I taed. Somehow our conversation turned from comp sci to politics, as these conversations tend. More pointedly, we where talking about capitalism.

And Josh said:
“Well, I don’t know, I consider myself a libertarian when it comes to those kinds of things. Most geeks do. Why restrict the market? Let people work for there money.”

I said:
“I feel you, but I fear libertarian’s fight against regulation. I mean, in theory you have to make better things to get better profits, but without guidelines isn’t it in companies best interest to crush competition, use as little labor as cheaply as possible and make cheap products.”

Josh said:
“Come on, Warren. They wouldn’t do that because that it not in the interest of their customers.”

I said:
“Welcome to capitalism, dude.”

And then there was a change in Josh. Confident as he was, I saw instantly in his eyes a mark of strain. He paused and looked at me and said:
“Well, it certainly could be much worst in other countries so I guess we can just be glad for that.”

And then I paused, just as surprised at the response, and said:
“Well, that’s true, Josh but despite that, as citizens I think it is our duty to challenge our ideas and push things forward.”

To which he said:
“I really don’t think you should say things like that.”

And then he looked around as if waiting for swat members to crash in through the plate glass of the engineering quad.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Another example:

Lauren Hill recently made a performance at a Christmas celebration by the Vatican. Before starting, she stood in front of the crowd, took the mic in hand, wave off the accompaniment and said the follow:

I did not come here to celebrate the birth of Christ with you but to ask you why you are not in mourning for his death inside this place? …God has been a witness to the corruption of his leadership, of the exploitation and abuses by the clergy.

Now most of the crowd did not speak English (though they could apparently sing Ex-factor word for word). But for those that got word through translators and certainly for the press reporting, the comments where none too welcome. Most articles responded negatively to Hill’s comments, one even saying that she made and “ass of herself.” The Vatican’s response?

It was in poor taste and very bad mannered.

Bad-mannered.

Now, I understand the arguments that she should not have accepted the initiation if she did not agree with the promoters. I personally think that if you want to truly stand for something and not simply preach to the choir, you are going to have to do some things people don’t like. But that is just my opinion.

My question to all this is, with all the negative press, why wasn’t the substance of the comments ever mentioned? Why is it sudden in such poor taste to put yourself in a compromising situation and speak a truth that no one once to hear? Wasn’t it just this kind of “poor taste” that got Jesus crucified in the first place?

This essay is supposed to be about radicalism. It’s definition and the point at which one turns from a passive observer to an active participate in change. And this is a difficult question for me. I am never really sure how much is “active” and at what point one is truly radical. Though looking back on my record of service to my community I am satisfied that I at least tried, one never knows really how much is enough. In particular as a member of the poetry community, there are always those that sacrifice that much more.

Perhaps though, truly living a “radical” life mean more then a token canvaing job for greenpeace. Regardless of a group political affiliation, I see among my generation a people paralyzed by fear. Fear of being alone, and fear of being uncomfortable and above all, and most sadly, fear of being wrong. After a lifetime be being told they are that most perfect and precise snowflake, through into a world full of injustices devoid of easy solutions, too often I find my peers, and at time myself, simple going with the flow of things in those little times when we should have been the inappropate one.

And I am not talking about the meaningless shock of that one guy among men who has the “courage” to say that women are just not that smart sometimes. Nor the “courage” to put down a black teen from the neighborhood that has done nothing and said nothing to you for sake of a laugh between friends. That is the just the opposite. It is a statement made for ego and not for truth. Such statements are just assumptions based on nothing often with the full knowledge that there are many examples suggesting otherwise.

No, when I speak of baring witness to a inappropate truth, ingrained in that is that is a position separate for ego, separate from emotion, separate even from being an absolute. It is an idea born from your experience. It is limited in the way all experiences can ever be are and yet, it is true, in that way that all lifes  birth a perspective that must be acknowledges and excepted on it’s on terms. It may be wrong, it may be adjusted over time but it is yours. And I for one believe that the most beautiful of ideas in the American experiment is that that here, all truths can and must be acknowledged. That this is a right, not just of Americans, but all humanity.

And this idea, living by this principle in and of itself is hard. It is so easy to be apathic. While I am saddened by how much many I know, many with strong social consciences, do whatever they can be non-confrontation, I agree that is makes one feel alone sometimes. Sometimes you really do which you could just believe that 2+2=5. Still, despite the seemingly inchangible state of our society, there has and continues to be examples of cultures that encouraged discussion and progress.

In the rabbic texts, rival schools of thought wrote extensively on the wording of the law, each trying to come to a position most in line with the thought of God. Some gained wider acceptance and some stayed niche. Interestingly though, despite wildly diverge viewpoints all schools where respected.

Islamic Emmons are said to be interpreters of the word, a guide through time taking the ancient words of the holy Koran and weaving them into a practice in line with the current era. Often this required drastic rethinking of older interpretations. Yet, even when working with the word of God, it was acknowledged that things much be seen in own context.

Our own construction even, despite the word of strict interpreters, was built for change. Say what you want about the motives and compromises of our founding fathers, but it is clear they saw that despite there own high status things are never fixed in an ideal position. Why else the means to add amendments to the governments central textbook? Why else a system built to insure a balance between federal and local powers? Clearly, early civil servants saw our country as something would evolve over time. Clearly, they saw our nation as something that would change.

And how we have changed. How this change has accelerated. You are reading the words of the son of cattle, beamed through media beyond of hold of country, or corporation, beyond time and space. Millions can link to it, disagree with it or comment to it directly. As never before, millions can meet, discuss, fight and learn with each in ways never before available to the human species.

In no other time has the world been so small.

In no other time has the common man be in touch with the thoughts of others.

Never has the citizen had so much power.

And thus, never has then been more fear of the collective responsibility this brings.

I don’t know what comes next. I read my multiple RSS feeds at work just like anyone and feel just as helpless. You do your little contributions to moveon.org and move on with the rest of your day. You dream of leading a coup and put Motorcycle Diaries on your netflik’s queue but ultimately you still have to go to work. Got to pay those loans. Got to live that life.

But I do know that no matter what tools we currently have, they mean nothing if we do not believe in ourselves. All the technology in the world will do nothing if the big questions of western society: the supposed infallible of the stock market, the continued legacy of slavery and other histories of oppression, the connectedness of humanity as a species and our responsible to each other and the world, as long as honest talk on this question is inappropate what real use is there so called radical action?

So in lue of a personal army, I am just trying work on myself. To always be honest in world where it is assumed our leaders lie and we just swallow it. To be vocally outraged when a racist comment and to say so even if I may be making an assumption myself. And more importantly maybe, to be honest when I am called on that assumption, to make my peace other perspective and use my mistake to grow.

Perhaps the greatest courage comes not in the face of a tank rolled down our neighborhood throughway but in the face the common ignorance of friends, workmates and of our own minds.

Perhaps the greatest effort comes, not in changing the world, but changing ourselves.

like this

There was a boy who worked so hard.
He fixed the all doors, cleaned all the floors.
He threw balls while scrubbing walls while racing up and down the street.
—-
And every day his mom would note:
“Son it’s ok, rest for today.”
But shake his head, “Prefer,” he said, “to finish before I sleep.”
—-
And days and weeks and months he moved,
Plaied every game, fixed every food,
Read every book, sung every song and then he found one more.
—-
Until, while trying every chair,
—
He settled on a seat of air
—
Perfectly firm and smooth and their he fell into a snore.
–
So deep, his dream, it started with the blackness of eyes
—
It startled him to be so still, so he saw white in surprise.
—
Then all the colors flashed in kind
until the boy saw dots and lines,
—
two circles eyelike, nose and chin, a voice that sounded just like him
a simple room he stood within and letters that spelled out what he cried,
“It’s me,” he said, “from the outside!”
—-
He shut his eyes and wished for home, opened them scared…and he was there.
—-
That’s when he knew it was a dream that he was trapped within.
—-
“Hey, maybe here,” he thought, “I can dream of all I wish to do.”
—-
So dream he did, up all his friends, he dreamed his street and mom and then
He dreamed of all the things he did and things he didn’t yet.
—
He dreamed of many far off lands, of songs he heard and one’s he planned.
—
Dreamed all the great things he could eat and dreamed that bad things tasted sweet.
—
And dreamed up villians full of fear and with a wish they’re eyes would clear,
they’d turn and smile, remember him and join along to play.
—

New worlds and moons and stars he dreamed while looking at the night.
—
And then he dreamed of sun and saw it rise and there was light.
—
And every person that he saw, he dreamed they knew them, one and all
But try as he might, he couldn’t dream a person just like him.
—
So finally, with so much done, he dreamed that familiar chair,
—
He remembered it so clear, the room around it reappeared.
—
And with his dream mom at his side, he waved his dream friends all goodbye
And remmbered all of his fun and all the things he dreamed he done
—
All the way back to black and white and dreamed the chair from that one night
Let go of sight and sound and touch and color, taste and thought and place
—
‘till slowly out of the dream he finally rose.
—
He moved his feet and felt his face and moved inside his clothes.
—
yawned satified with his long trip and wondered what to do,
—
but couldn’t think of anything, cus everything was through.
—
Mom said, “Finally! You were out deep! Where did you go when while you where sleep?”
—
He look around
and then at her
and tried to say the things he made,
—
But couldn’t get the color right
or anyone he dreamed that night exactly, or the worlds he saw
or shapes he drew or songs he called
—
At best he just could see the end,
when all the dreams came back again
And that his mom and street was there,
And friends were too and things he’d do
—-
So with a smile he breathed a sign
and licked his lips and said,
—
“I dreamed a place
that’s just like this
was all inside my head.”
_______

My first attempt at a children’s story, kind of a matrix lite type thing. It actually came to me on waking from a disturbing dream that I can’t remember anymore.  It had something to do with childhood though and was definitely dense enough to make me question reality for a minute. It made we wonder what it was like for a child to discover and remember the dream for the first time, and further if there is a responsibility for adult help kids make sense of this world (assuming we got a handle on that shit our damn selves of course) I have ideas for illustrations…but this may be a back burner for a little while….that is unless someone out there in the internets got some time for a collaboration

Bag Serials: Adam #5

“So how many we got today.”

“Slim pickens this time, mate. Just the one; and a little bugger at that. But it’s more paws for pickin, I guess.”

“Hmmm…that surprising considering how lush this area is. I will have to make a note of that. He seems pretty quiet back there.”

“Had to tranq ‘em. Three darts. Had the crazy eye, that one; all smeared with berry juice and shit like some kind of flower child. Just stared me down at first, too, up on his hunches, all calm… it was creepy mate. And he just went off after the first dart. Ran head long for me.”

“Wow. Quiet a find.”

“Maybe we can get more then usual for the brains, Eh? Most expensive part, you know. Used in some kind of chang chong healing potion or something.”

“Hey hey, no insulting of our costumers now.”

Clang

“Ah ha, here we go.”

Clang
Clang
“Want me to end it.”

“No, let him enjoy the ride. He’ll get the point soon enough. Hey! How’s junior?”

“Typical two year old. Eyes full of stars. Always exploring. ’slike he just touched down from space.”

Clang

In the Field: In Search of Haiku Hero. Gaming and Poetry.

In second addition of in the field, an article on the clash of gaming, poetry and the future of digital literature.

 A review of a talk at Kelly’s writer’s house by Brian Kim Stefans, a preeminent digital poet.

Brian’s work can be found here.

For more on the history of digital poetry, check out here.