Wednesday, August 31, 2005

On Niggers

written as a response to the Tempe, Arizona controversy over Mark Twain's classic novel The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Niggers are not black. Niggers are not Moors. Niggers are not African. Niggers are ignorance. Niggers perpetuate an ideology of ignorance. Niggers blame classical literature for spawning an ideology of hatred and bigotry. Niggers question what authority White Man has to deem literature "classic" while failing to question what authority White Man had when he assembled the works of The Bible. Niggers place blame on books, on paper, on words, instead of placing accountability upon individuals. Niggers exempt themselves from intelligent discussion and debate that seeks to find the heart and purpose of controversy. Niggers shut their minds to the views and opinions of others. Niggers take their footballs and go home to read Charles Dickens -- believing that it is somehow comparable to Twain. Niggers wrap themselves in self-righteous arrogance. Niggers believe if we euphemize a tool of hatred and evil down to something as menial as "the N-Word" it will somehow alleviate the hurt, when in actuality they only succeed in strengthening the power of "nigger" and proliferating the evil and pain that it has grown to connote and cause. Niggers ban book.

May the comments be biting, stinging, and accusatory, but, please, let them be intelligent...

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Heights of Macchu Picchu: XII by Pablo Neruda

After scouring the internet for not only the poem, but the perfect translation of it, to no avail, I have decided to simply post the poem myself. This translation comes from The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems written by Pablo Neruda, Edited by Mark Eisner check it out at Amazon.

Heights of Macchu Picchu: XII
Rise up and be born with me

Rise up and be born with me, my brother.
From the deepest reaches of your
Disseminated sorrow, give me your hand.
You will not return from the depths of rock.
You will not return from the subterranean time
It will not return, your hardened voice.
They will not return, your drilled-out eyes.
Look at me from the depths of the earth,
plowman, weaver, silent shepherd:
tender of the guardian guanacos:
mason of the impossible scaffold:
water-bearer of Andean tears:
goldsmith of crushed fingers:
farmer trembling on the seed:
potter poured out into your clay:
bring all your old buried sorrows
to the cup of this new life.
Show me your blood and your furrow,
say to me: here I was punished
because the gem didn't shine or the earth
didn't deliver the stone or the grain on time:
point out to me the rock on which you fell
and the wood on which they curcified you,
burn the ancient flints bright for me,
the ancient lamps, the lashing whips
stuck for centuries to your wounds
and the axes brilliant with bloodstain.
I come to speak through your dead mouth.
Through all the earth unite all
the silent and split lips
and from the depths speak to me all night long
as if we were anchored together
tell me everything, chain by chain
link by link and step by step,
sharpen the knives you kept,
place them in my chest and in my hand,
like a river of yellow lightning,
like a river of buried jaguars,
and let me weep, hours, days, years,
blind ages, stellar centuries

Give me silence, water, hope.

Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes

Fasten your bodies to mine like magnets.

Come to my veins and my mouth

Speak through my words and my blood.

'tis beauty spilled forth on more poetry...

Monday, August 29, 2005

"Look Where We Worship"

(title borrowed from The American Night by Jim Morrison)

The fables of our youth are Ninja Turtles and Care Bears. They are Rainbow Bright and Fragglerock. The great puppet master was literally Jim Henson and figuratively the old and evil. The moral teachings of Aesop were schooled by our grandparent's that they might mold the ideals of a generation. And as that generation grew older and became the Chieftains of the Tribes of Corporate America, their skewed visions of life -- what is and what should be -- spawned a new wave of self-righteous education. The mind-numbing experience of prime-time news and saturday morning cartoons became the chalkboards with which they taught their pupils who lay idly supine in the cold-comfort of their living rooms -- content to learn life's truths through a stretched, flipped, and distorted image exuded from a tube.

The villian always escapes. The hero is worshipped for his failure. The evil the community so desperately attempts to fight, capture, and destroy maintains a two step lead over that individual whom the weak and feeble have deemed powerful enough to stand in his way. Do the People truly put their faith in him? Or, do they simply content themselves in knowing that someone else faces the battles they themselves will not due to their inherent sloth and greed for comfort and routine?

Herein lies the irony: the Chiefs of the Tribes of Corporate America have formed a treaty with the Chiefs of the Tribes of Democracy. In any treaty, their is compromise. While we sacrifice that inalienable stuff promised us by Smith, Jefferson, and Washington -- the deceased, white-wigged Chiefs of the Free-Masons -- they sacrifice so much more, their good name. Speak to me of compromise.

The Chief addresses the tribe surrounded by his chosen counsel while the Shaman interprets his words through vision and dance. The people gather and instead of hearing the words of their leader they are hypnotized by the Witch-Doctor whose song is his medicine and whose dance is his syringe. The hyperbolic rhetoric is accented with flashes of color blinding the ears to the vague promises of protection against a nameless, faceless villian. Each time the Warriors' of the Chief, the Elite Soldiers, the Praetorian Gaurds of Freedom and Democracy near their prey, close in on the evil they have pursued, he slips between the cracks like sand between the crevices of the hand. Yet, we still worship. We still adore. We still prostrate ourselves before our great hero and interpret his words for ourselves instead of demanding clear meaning an understanding. Those whose interpretations juxtapose our own are chastised, ridiculed, punished, shunned as hypocrites and heretics.

To be continued...

So the episode always ends. Perpetuating the pattern that has evolved into routine and which will become Truth. We are left on the sidewalk gaping slack-jawed and dumb-struck at a great parade thrown in honor of a lying failure of a man we call a hero whose promise lacked definition so that its fulfillment might come with ease. For to promise the specific requires accountability and responsibility. And a noble tribe despises an ignoble chieftain, and no treatise matters when the Passions of the People Call for an Uprise.

"look where we worship"--Jim Morrison
Read: "Rise up and be born again with me, my brother" by Pablo Neruda