wordsmithlind

This is a story from the summer of 2002

Undated—Summer ’02

            I played God.  We all have played God.  When we were little, we would torture ants.  We played God.  We’ve all done it.

            Most recently I played God in the backcountry of Needles National Park [Canyonlands NP, Needles Section] just outside of Moab, Utah.  After a few days in the backcountry, not having seen a car, heard a radio, or watched TV  (well, I hadn’t watched TV for the past two and a half months anyway) in three days, mind started working again.  My brain was finally working.  Free from the banality of everyday life.  Free from the advertisments.  Free from the corporations.  Free from everything.  I was free.  I had thought I was free when I had stopped watching television (actually we stopped paying our cable bill, and it was shut off).  That was only the beginning to what would become actual freedom.  Liberated.  My mind was working at its fullest.

            During my time in the backcountry, I felt the need to create.  In order to create, I had to destroy.  I had to destroy one thing in order to make another, just like everything in the world.  In my case, rocks.  I would scrape two rocks together.  I don’t know what I was creating.  Sometimes I thought I was making arrowheads.  Sometimes just a sharp edge.  I don’t really know what I was making.

            I know what I was destroying, though.  Rocks.  I was changing the way the rocks were shaped, textured.  The way they felt.  The way that mother nature had intended.  The way they had naturally formed through erosion over the past thousands of years, and I changed it in a matter of minutes.  Wow, what a thought?  In just minutes I changed something that took thousands of years to create.  Me.  I did this.  I didn’t do this for the sheer thrill.  In fact, I did it without thinking.  I just needed something to do.  My brain was working again.  It needed some action.   

The Head Emperor sits a top hill.  Looking.  Watching.  Controlling.  His minions play in an organized manner.  Too organized for play.  Controlled Round and Round.  Round and Round.  Over and Over and Over.

Feeding time.  In ordered fashion they flock towards the feeding grounds.  One by one they go in.  All will eat.  There is a danger.  Something more powerful than their leader.  A ferocious savage that even the leader and his army can’t control.

No mercy.  No thoughts of regrets.  No conscience.  An animal.  A ferocious animal out for blood.  For a feast.

It does not eat today.  The minions are back.  They are safe under the leaders wing.  Cradled like babies.  Protected from the evilness.  The evilness outside of their safe confines.  They do not see the evilness in the front of them.  Life goes on.  An organized dance.  Nothing ever changing.  Round and Round.  Over and Over.  They do not see outside.

Choice.

Over and Over.

The leader babies them back to the confident adults.  They march along in their dance-like swim.  Beautiful.  Perfect.  Order.  Hypnotizing to watch.

They are happy.  They are content.  They do not know what is happening outside.  Nothing outside the next matters.  The control.  The choicelessness.  The redundancy.  The leaders.  The followers.  They see none of this, and they are happy.  Happy.  Happy.

This writing actually dates back to 12-27-01 after my first, and so far only, visit to Las Vegas.  The parts in italics are comments that I added to it 6-15-06.

12-27-01

            Today I met a very interesting man.  He was older 60’s, shaved head, bald.  Gold chains/rings/necklace/earring.  He came to the table I was sitting at, and said he was sitting down.  I remember he did not ask, but stated that he was going to sit down.  I didn’t mind.  If he wants to sit, let him sit.  He was eating a Whopper from BK.  For an older man, he was a very sloppy eater.  There was mayonaisse dripping down his hands.  He started up casual conversation about flights and where from’s.  After a moment of silence, he looks to the table next to us and says, “I’ve never seen so many fat people as I see out here [Las Vegas].”  He then goes into how people in Europe are not fat, they’re thin, Americans are spoiled, etc.  Here he is saying this while eating his Whopper.  I gesture towards my BK and his Whopper and say that they are too lazy to make food.  We then talk about Las Vegas and my experience with it, being my first time out here and all.  After another moment of silence, he says, “Know what makes me nervous is all these Muslim people I see around here [the airport].”  I say they are all Americans.  He then comments on their turbans and how you can hardly understand them with their “ethnic accents, even if they are Americans.”  After some more chatting about my experiences in Vegas, he says he is going to do some gambling to pass the time.  He already put a $100 bill in the machine and doubled his money.  Then he tells me how he needed that food in his stomach so that he can drink on the plane.  He also mentions that he is flying 1^st class, and for free.  As he is leaving he says, “If you get an education, don’t lose it.”  Then he walked away.

I remember writing something up about this man and how I thought he was the Devil.  Not the devil, but the actual Devil, Satan, Bezelbub, or whatever you like.  I cannot find that writing, so I know not if it even exists at this point.  I cannot remember the specifics of it, but I remember thinking that he was giving me a proposition, I could sell out (my soul) and be like him; materialistic, greedy, snide, cynical, and above all, selfish and wealthy.  Or, I could continue on my path.  I could try to become a better and better person, ignoring the materialistic ways of society, etc., etc.  After having just typed this, I am more perplexed by him now than ever before.  I no longer think he was the devil.  He was a very unhappy person though.  He had money and wealth, but no happiness.  His last line confuses me.  It seems so strange that he would say such ignorant things and then end with what he said.

In a universe long ruled by the Comics Code, Spiderman and the Incredible Hulk, in a world of big pecks, big tits, muscle hugging spandex and evil supervillains, it is amazing that Chazz, Petey and Rog can exist.  They are out of shape, normal, and rude; they drink too much, smoke too much and are slightly sexist, possibly misogynistic.  They are definitely not heroes here to save the day and most likely do not own guns.  They are your average Joes, with average (most likely below average) jobs, wrought with average problems.  They are not heroes at all. 

Comic books are one of the last mediums thought of when one thinks independent, DIY and the little guy (Kevin Smith did address this topic in Chasing Amy, but with all the fisting, that part of the story kind of receded to the background).  There are always cries against major record labels and the music industry, but people rarely think of the difficulties of entering the even more exclusive arena of comic books.  I recently came across such a book, Lost, at the recommendation of a friend.  To quote him in an email, “It’s called Lost, they wrote the script back in 2001, so fuck that island and its ongoing nonsensical ramblings.”  On that note, with the added distaste for the island, I saw no harm in giving the book a look.

Anyone that has ever grown up unsatisfied in the suburbs with its malls, big box chain stores, fast food highways and lack of things to do (unless shopping counts), can relate to the opening rant of the “loathsome protagonist…nah, too harsh…that guy,” about cell-phones, houses in the suburbs, fake people, and the aspiration for a career in writing (or any job that is not a standard 9 to 5).  Lost (book 1 of 4) centers around Chazz and his longing for love.  Chazz’s friends Petey and Rog offer him all sorts of bad advice and anecdotes to try to help him on his path to love.  The fact that it is a comic book helps the dialogue in that it allows for creative visuals to add originality to this tried topic.  Once again going back to the opening sequence, the fantastic artwork plays on the eyes as the word play plays on reader’s mind.  One of the more original bits of story telling I have seen.  

I am not sure how to comment on the actual artwork besides saying it is very good.  I have not read a comic book in over five years, so I do not know the direction that comic art has taken since then.  On that note, the artwork is very consistent, the characters rarely, if ever, stray from their look, and the overall quality of the book is impressive.  There is plenty of diversity in the size of the cells, the “camera” angles, the jump cuts, and the use of wide angle and close up “shots.”  The similarity between directing and cinematographing a movie (the choice of shots, the use of lighting, mise-en-scène, character position etc) and developing a comic book is one of the most underappreciated aspects of the whole medium.  Unlike comic strips which carry a standard format, the comic book allows for much more creativity, thus demanding more from the artist to keep the book interesting and appealing.  This is achieved.

All in all the book is well done and worth the read.  Fans of Kevin Smith will enjoy this book with its dialogue based smart-assedness and vulgar humor, and passing readers will enjoy it as well.  There might be some reservations and calls of misogyny, but remember, it is a comic book about lost twenty-somethings, they don’t know any better.

*To make your own judgments on the book, go to www.darthjayder.com

excerpt from Lost courtesy of Darth Jayder comics

“This is the first most beautiful spot in Schwäbisch Hall where all American and Japanese tourists say, ‘Isn’t this romantic,’” my improvised guide said to me as we looked along the Kocher River from a covered bridge; the river formed by the foundations of the centuries old houses and buildings.  “You must take a picture.”  Obligingly, I did; he did not lie.  It was romantic; we don’t have anything similar to this in the US.  This would continue for the rest of the afternoon, “This is the second most beautiful spot…this is the third most beautiful spot…this is the forth…fifth…” Later I realized that these were not the spots that all American and Japanese tourists say are the most beautiful, but the spots he found to be the most beautiful as one of the spots was a view from the stairs of the Kunsthalle Würth, an impressive modern art museum in this medieval town of only 36,000.  (The current Alfred Hrdlicka exhibition is well worth the admission cost of € 0 as it consumed many hours of our time.)  As we crossed the river back into the town center, my guide once again said, “This is the sixth most beautiful spot in all of Schwäbisch Hall where all American and Japanese tourists say, ‘isn’t this romantic.’  It is like a mirror.”     

We continued walking through the thin cobblestone, carless roads at a leisurely pace now that the rain had ceased.  This town is a prime example of why most of Europe will be fine during the impending oil crisis while most of the US, suburbia in particular, will deteriorate—it is focused around a tight center, it lacks sprawl, and public transport is easily accessible.  The clip clops that once echoed off the buildings may someday seamlessly return replacing the roar of the internal combustion and no one would notice the difference.

We walked past the pizzerias, cafes, and occasional kebab shop and stopped in front of the steps of the 15^th century St. Michael’s Church where a local theater group practiced an upcoming performance.  Ironically enough the play was about 1950s Americana, the era that began it all—the sprawl, mass consumerism, big-box department stores, cookie cutter houses, car culture, poor urban planning—every that Schwäbisch Hall is not.   

photo by wordsmithlind

As I walk through the crowded house, Picasso-like Africanish wooden warriors crowd the living room and the stairs with their spears, plastic teeth, and plaster of Paris teeth stare at me as I gawk like a tourist.  The primitive meets the modern to create the postmodern.  In the next step of evolution, the bellies of the warriors are being replaced by vintage motorcycle gas tanks purchased on Ebay or at the local flea market for mere pennies, rusty metal creating mouths and beaks, and eyeballs of all sorts staring out.  Within the house a whole commentary on the evolution of man is represented from the Stone Age through the Iron Age to the Industrial Revolution; as more artificial gas tank creatures are born—distorted interpretations of the view of man and man’s view of himself—the more human, Africanish warriors grow fewer in number; man is evolving.  As man evolves, man grows.  The gas tank creatures tower over their wooden predecessors at almost six feet (2 meters).  The wooden tribesmen scamper around the feet of these modern giants.  Eventually the primitive tribes of the past will cease to exist, only to be replaced by the more industrious.  If the history of man continues these Industrial men will be replaced by the technological postmodern man that exists today. 

The house of German artist Jochen Sturm is an ever-evolving work of art.  I have been invited to this house before and it never ceases to change.  Cabinets are creatures, tables are creatures, the washstand is a creature; hung on the walls are paintings depicting two-dimensional versions of the creatures throughout the house, some dancing, some playing football.  Half built statues stand headless next to their fully birthed brethren waiting for completion when time presents itself.  What was once a bedroom is now a workroom littered with wooden feet, eyeballs, body parts, tools and anything else that may one day be incorporated into his art.  In the midst of this chaos there is one open spot large enough Jochen to sit and work. 

Within one year I have seen man evolve through his art and civilizations begin to die off in this self-made living museum.  I go out into the yard to say “good bye” where Jochen is working.  I often wonder what the neighbors think of this man who spends hours in his yard welding iron legs onto gas tanks amongst rusty statues towering over 10 feet tall.      

photo by wordsmithlind 

I never explored my suburban town when I was younger. I don’t know why. I guess with Nintendo and cable, there was no reason to go out and find an adventure when $50 could buy a seemingly endless amount of levels and power-ups. Why would one want to go and find something to do with 8 bits of graphics there to provide endless entertainment? Parents and various Save the Children groups complain about video games, but they are the best babysitter since Television. How did parents manage before TV rose to prominence in the 1950s? I mean that was over 50 years ago. Primitive beasts barely must’ve made it. Poor things. Thank the Big Guy that TV came around otherwise the human race might be extinct by now. We may never have ever been given the privilege of having a Walgreen’s on every corner and a few McDonalds’ in every town. The human race was saved, and we were allowed to blow more things up. Our soldiers are better trained with precision accuracy and a perfect battlefield mindset. The world is a safer and better place, and we must keep it that way. We must have expert soldiers to secure the Homeland and keep our land free and beautiful. We must have resources to do this; we must allow the gas and oil companies to retrieve from the earth the base product for our growth—the growth that provides, ultimately, our protection.

When I was in high school we would drive around the neighborhood endlessly, never going far. We had no clue of the world outside—we thought we did, but we didn’t. We would wax intellectually about greater topics that we thought we knew. We would shout headlines without ever reading the stories. The places I have since seen only existed on television, some not even existing there. How was I to know that southern Utah was one of the most beautiful places in the world? What did I know of Europe that did not have to do with World War II? Israel? Forget it, I’ll get killed if I go there.

Needless to say I have since left the neighborhood and video games have lost their allure. The only thing that has blown up is the world; it is now a million times larger than it ever could have been imagined. Its illusionary walls have given way to a much larger world. The same is true for many more people who grew up in a similar atmosphere, training to be soldiers via Nintendo, Sega, Playstation, etc, but not all video game graduates are as lucky to have experienced the world as I have—they are stuck in Iraq.

photo by wordsmithlind

This was written a couple of years ago, right around when the fear of Bush was at its height… 

It’s the obviousness; that’s what causes the fear.  Everybody knows they exist and they do what they do, but no speaks of it.  It used to be secretive, but over time things leaked out.  It was played off as conspiracy theory.  Only nut jobs believed in black helicopters.  Then the media got a hold of a few things and the stories came out.  Government backed assassinations of political deviants and societal subversives.  Wire taps, phone taps of ordinary citizens.  Background checks.  Book buying records and library records monitored.  Kid napping and re-education.  There were protests and hearings and all sorts of legal processes, yet the privacy violations and assassinations continued.  As time went by, the protests stopped, most of the leaders had been dealt with, and people stopped speaking of them.  The men in the black suits and helmets used to only operate at night.  Daytime sightings became the norm.  Almost nobody is dealt with at night anymore.  The secret agency became a public display as carefully orchestrated as the largest of Hollywood productions.  They became productions of fear, timed perfectly to create most dramatic effect.  Most can’t remember the time before the Black Agents.  Most have become so indoctrinated to this that it has become the norm.  The youth have no chance of ever learning the truth.  This is how it is, and this is how it always has been.  The process was so slow, and obvious, that nobody took the time to notice.  If only people would have stopped for a second– stopped rushing home for what?  To watch TV?  If only they would not have been in a hurry.  If only they would have taken a moment to look at what was going on.  If only for a moment, that was all it would have taken, so they would have actually seen the Black Agents appear, crawl onto the roof in broad daylight, crash through the windows and then drag him away kicking and screaming.  If only they would have looked and said this is not right.  If only enough people would have not accepted it.  Now it is the norm.  A life without that cannot exist.  The world is so fucked and they don’t even realize it.  Election time comes around and they think they have a choice.  They actually believe there is a difference between the two candidates.  Lets see, good-looking older rich white guy number one, or good-looking older rich white guy number two.  The only difference is the name and the face, and sometimes the name isn’t even different.  The Black Agents are part of our life and they always will be.  There is always an enemy, be it at home or in another country.  Sometimes this enemy is real, most of the time it is not.  The government is protecting us from them by taking away more and more.  The Internet used to be the last vehicle of free speech left, or so everyone thought.  The whole time they were being watched.  The government had read everybody’s emails and knew what kind of pornography they liked.  Is it a coincidence that computer bugs just happen to appear on the one’s with an excessive amount of pornography?  That is them keeping us morally clean, yet they murder innocent civilians in the name of freedom.  Orwell was somewhat right, he implied that TV’s would be the eye of the government in every room.  He could have never foreseen the Internet back then.  No the TV is still used for mindless entertainment.  How else could everybody be so distracted as to not having a clue as to what was going on right before their eyes.  They knew what was happening, sort of, in the mid-east, but they couldn’t see the Black Agents crawling through the window of their next-door neighbors house.  The computer, more importantly, the Internet is the real Eye.  It knows all without speaking a word.  Its memory is endless and it knows no kinship.  It is a heartless brain that will give up everything without a fight.  And those that do fight are obviously hiding something, so then the Black Agents appear and deal with the situation.   Writing this is a crime.  I expect to be dealt with shortly.  My only hope is that this message will get out in time, this call.  It is time to wake up.  It is time to look around and see.  It is time to lift the veil, clear the fog and fight back.  It is time for revolution.  I hear the blades chopping through the air.  I only have minutes.  The machine has you in its grasps–free your self.  I hear footsteps and voices.  America wake up!   It is time.  It is time to be fr–

Once more, i tried to write for another blog, unsucessful, so here it is….

Many people say that Berlin today is a lot like New York was in the 80s—the focus on street art and culture, the fashion, maybe the unemployment. Berlin’s focus on youth culture is unseen in most areas of North America. The 50-year-old man browsing the many art exhibitions in Berlin is many years younger than most 25-year-old suburbanites of Chicago. The young hipster couple not yet 30 pushing the baby carriage have no thoughts of the ‘eventual move to the suburbs.’ Why would they? Everything is here and now. Why go off to the theoretical suburbs to get old and waste away when youth is abound? It is perfectly acceptable to be well into your 40s and still remain single, there are plenty of other people just like you with no desire to ‘settle down.’ This is true of most major cities, but what many of those cities lack is ‘youth,’ the feeling of ‘youth,’ the desire to be young (I think of Bob Dylan’s acceptance speech for the Tom Paine award; http://www.corliss-lamont.org/dylan.htm). In Chicago, for instance, there are plenty of single people well into their late-30s and 40s, and it is completely acceptable, but what Berlin has is different in that a whole culture of the city (not the entire city, but a good portion of it) is based around the idea of youth. The Prenzlauerberg District used to be the hotspot for young people looking for a cheap place to live after the Wall fell. Youth fled in and youth never left. These people grew up but remained young, and in doing so, they never left. What is still an area for artists, hipsters, musicians, and eccentrics, is also a safe area filled with children running around parks and playgrounds, while their hip and informed parents sit at the café across the street. The parents remain as fashionable as the newly arrived artist; no crossover into adulthood through poor clothing purchases; no Sears Catalog or JcPenny. These parents are hip and independent and most importantly young, a reflection of the Berlin to come. As long as the corporations stay away, which there is a good chance they will (frankly put, no one will shop there), then these special areas of Berlin will remain, and Berlin will continue to be the center of youth culture—even as the piles of diapers continue to mount.

We all           fall                                      and then it dies   For once                we                     wish it wouldn’t die    Just one time               that is all that we ask                   Why not  me                 Why shouldn’t I    To     fall          with                 out                       death,   That is all we want                                          we all want.                                 We joke we kid we laugh   but we all want to fall                                                                                 Fall without pain                    The                      Fall   We all want to fall.