Archive for the 'War On Women' Category

America The Beautiful

A peculiarity of American sexual mores is that those men who like to think of themselves as exclusively and triumphantly get it onheterosexual are convinced that the most masculine of all activities is not tending to the sexual needs of women but watching other men play games. I have never understood this aspect of my countrymen but I suppose there is a need for it, just as the Romans had a need to see people being murdered. Perhaps there is a connection between the American male’s need to watch athletes and his fatness: according to a WHO report the American male is the world’s fattest and softest; this might explain why he also loves guns—you can always get your revolver up.

—Gore Vidal

All The Other Kids

Shake The Tree

Shake The Tree

it’s your day
woman’s day

Eve Crucified

Let’s Do The Time Warp Again

It is generally believed that Roundhay Garden Scene, an 1888 wonderment from Louis Le Prince, stands as the world’s first film produced using a motion picture camera.

But, as is true of most of evolution can be funwhat is “generally believed,” this is Wrong.

For the fabled Science Men, forever marching on, recently unearthed a film, produced using a motion picture camera, that captures an 1866 Ku Klux Klan rally in that upbubbling of Hell known as Georgia.

Therein, diverting for a moment a demented diatribe centered primarily on the need to hunt down and hang “uppity darkies,” a crazed yeehaw can be seen, and heard, sternly commanding his fellow yeehaws to marry females when they are not more than 15 or 16 years of age, after first insuring that the frail pale wildwood flowers have one hand welded to a bible, while the other is ceaselessly engaged in cooking and/or duck-plucking. Then, as the syphilis seizes his brain—syphilis contracted through many a night devoted to cornholing sheep, feral pigs, and alligators, out in the swamps and bayous—the yeehaw begins ejaculating wildly, waving his bible, and thrusting into George Washington’s mouth things the man never actually said.

The horror. The horror.

Pilgrims Progress

F. Scott Fitzgerald saw it. To the bottom of every bottle. Which, early—44—killed him.

No matter. He got it right. Wrote the Great American Novel. The Great Gatsby. Which ends with this:

Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away. Until yesgradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.

And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther . . . . And one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

The green light, it will never be attained, as Fitzgerald knew, on this continent, by white people. Because they do not belong here. It was a mistake, for them to ever to have come. To this place. Because it is not their place.

The green light, they can bask in it—the white people—when, “boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” they return to from where they came. Where they should, forever, have remained.

 

 

 

the little bird; all that there is


When I Worked

September 2014
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