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The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Wind II

[see first The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Wind I, here.]

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind, and said, Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge?

—Job 38:1-2

Once upon a time my daughter was transformed into a hurricane.

Rude and abusive things were then said about her.

Such as: “despite becoming a monster [a monster?!], she will not pose any danger to land.”

Of course not. She’s always been a good girl.

As a hurricane, my daughter blew with winds of about 125 mph. Seems a fair breeze. I presume that all water creatures—birds, fish, boat-people—had sense enough to steer clear, as she churned through the Atlantic.

Because I live in the age of Science Men, I know that wind is a “meteorological phenomenon.”

The flow of gases on a large scale. Movement of air in bulk. Generated by pressure differentials. Deflected by the Coriolis effect. Etc.

I know that wind no longer has anything to do with bumptious folk like Boreas, or Njord, or Fujin, this last the venerable Japanese deity who let the winds out of his magic bag in order to clear the primordial world of mist. I know that Stribog may be the Slavic grandfather “of the winds of the eight directions,” but I also know the guy was placed in a Home, long ago, and no one really pays attention to him anymore. These days it’s all about specific heat, equations of motion, anemometers, and the Magnus effect.

But you know: why not both? Why can’t a hurricane be both an area of low atmospheric pressure, driven by the release of large amounts of latent heat of condensation, and also a pissed-off dude with a hundred hands and fifty heads, whipped into the world from the stormy pit of Tartaros?

Or my daughter, turning over in her sleep, in dreams venting spleen at the hoary-handed robber barons of Kaiser?


The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Word

We are told, in the very first words of the Gospel According To all it isJohn, that:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

But we are not told what that Word is.

I know what that Word is.


The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Void

I’m afraid of America. Whenever I’m in New York I always have the feeling that it’s going to cave in and all I can think about is how to avoid being there when that happens. The same goes for other places in America. You don’t get all those people and all that noise in the streets of California as you do in New York but, bye byein turn, there’s a huge number of cars going to and fro and I always have serious doubts as to whether there any Americans inside. You know: who’s inside? I’ve always got the impression that those cars drive themselves.

—Krzysztof Kieslowski, Kieslowski On Kieslowski

What I find most interesting about New York is that, before the white people came, the island was home to some 15,000 Lanape people.

This means that 15,000 is the number of human beings the island can naturally, comfortably support.

And that, save for some 15,000 souls, all the rest of the eight million-some people currently suffering there, on that island: they need to—and will—move on.

What I find most interesting about Los Angeles is that, once the white people came, the first building erected there, was a jail.

The Melancholy Of Anatomy: Wind

“Man,” said Mordel, “possessed a basically incomprehensible nature. I can illustrate it, though: he did not know measurement.”

“Of course he knew measurement,” said Frost, “or he could never have built what it ismachines.”

“I did not say that he could not measure,” said Mordel, “but that he did not know measurement, which is a different thing altogether.”


Mordel drove a shaft of metal downward into the snow.

He retracted it, raised it, held up a piece of ice.

“Regard this piece of ice, mighty Frost. You can tell me its composition, dimensions, weight, temperature. A man could not look at it and do that. A man could make tools which would tell him these things, but he still would not know measurement as you know it. What he would know of it, though, is a thing that you cannot know.”

“What is that?”

“That it is cold,” said Mordel, and tossed it away.

—Roger Zelazny, “For A Breath I Tarry”

Make Way

Executioner’s Song

I have worked in the criminal-defense field for something like 16+ years, and before that, I wrote, as a reporter, about “crime” and “crime news,” for an additional 25 or so years.

The first and most important lesson I learned, in this realm, and when again and again and againstill in my very early 20s, can be summed up thusly: “all cops, always lie, about everything.”

There is, at root, something seriously and medically wrong about any person who would voluntarily giddy-up to a job where one’s entire being is dedicated to roaming the streets in order to scoop up other beings and lock them away in a cage.

Such people are sick. Deeply sick. They require medical attention. They are deeply, mentally ill.

Directly below, is a live video capture of the killing of Kajieme Powell, by deeply sick motherfuckers, deeply sick motherfucking cops, who swagger around all day, and all of the night, white, with badges and guns, ready to shoot any motherfucker, they might just feel like shooting.

And that’s just what they do here.

They are barely out of their car, hoisting their pants up above their donut-asses, before they are firing bullets into and killing a mentally disturbed young black man.

Because they can.

Because they don’t give a fuck.

Because this country says they can.

Because this country don’t give a fuck.

They are literally mentally ill, these donut-assed white cops coming out of the car to immediately fire nine shots into the sick black man.

All cops, everywhere in this nation, are literally mentally ill. For they have voluntarily signed up for a job where their focus in life is to kill other human beings. By either riddling their bodies with bullets, or locking them away in cages.

All these cops, must, immediately, be relieved of their badges and guns, be discharged from “the force,” and be diverted to immediate and intensive medical treatment. Only after a minimum of six medical professionals have determined that these sadsacks have been resocialized so that they no longer regard a fellow citizen as a target, may they be released back into the World. And none of them—ever—will be permitted to lay hands on a deadly weapon again.

As I said at the outset, it is an absolute fact thatall cops, always lie, about everything.”

We see this in the execution-video embedded above.

Originally, here, the pig chief, as always, as always covering for his dutiful piglets, who killed the black man, the chief pig, he oinked loudly, and publicly, that the executed, and ill, black man, had “come at” his little donut-addled oinkers, with a knife, and a knife wielded in an “overhand” position.

This is a lie.

The video, reveals it to be a lie.

Pigs—killer pigs—they are not used to citizens filming their lies.

They are used to getting away with—all the time, every time—”all cops, always lie, about everything.”

The Reality of Ferguson, Missouri, and environs, is waking not only the nation, but the world. To the fact. That there is nothing. More disgusting. More de-evolved. Than a police officer.

Except, perhaps, rat shit.

Or, more precisely: rat shit, bearing plague.

Or, maybe, a serial killer. Deploying to a foreign land. There to kill, for money, for penile purposes, people who are not him.

All, sick motherfucking you, you are over. Cops. Plagued rats. Shitheaded shitheels hooraing to go kill in foreign lands.

We are no longer in your hands. We are free.

We—free—feel this now.

And, so, you, all you all, are done.

Sing it!



I write along a single line: I never get off it. I said that you were never to kill anyone, and I meant it.

Don’t you understand? I have arisen not from the dead but from the living. I am not a voice crying in the wilderness. There is no winter here. No dark. No despair. The lights are going on in my house. I shall not allow the President of the United States to enter here. There is no darkness anywhere. There are only sick little men who have turned away from the light. I have all my lights on. And it is my own face I see in the blazing windows of all the houses on earth.

—Kenneth Patchen

How It Feels

When I Worked

September 2014
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