Sunday, November 5, 2017

rain and mountains

The rain washes it away. It is far up there, the mountain. It has faced the sun and the sky like no one else. The rain comes and the snow comes.

There was that village, that village in the mountains. Do you remember the police officer in Argentina in his motor bike? You were trying to camp off a precipice. Instead of getting 'busted'; he helped you. He told you to ride to the military base. And there you rode past the destroyed bridge and met the attendant who said 'camp anywhere, I am not watching.' and from there the stars rained as if it were a day in southern Patagonia.

Monday, June 5, 2017

The River Etowah

My name is Toltec and I am from Guatemala. Since the gods created my people, I and my ancestors have lived free from the bondage of men. Many of my people have died bravely fighting other tribes and white men. And many of my people have died from spirits brought by the white men and rarely by their weapons. I was raised poor, unlike my ancestors, who ruled over my land. But as a child I knew I would bring my people back to greatness and lead them to a new epoch of prosperity and autonomy.
I left my land last year to drive a taxi in Rome. It was not the Rome of the great civilizations but a different Rome, one of men who lived off the land but in a harmony different than that of my people and culture.
Many times I would drive my taxi to the river to pick up those who had let the current carry them far from their origin. Many would be intoxicated by the native firewater. Many were women who would try to steal my seed and royal bloodline.
I lived with 3 men from my village and all were loyal to me. We drove two vans and never ceased working. We purchased the two vans for $4,000 and they ran well; the white men told us they could not run but we fixed them with very little effort.
It was a Saturday and it was warm and the sun was to set in three hours. I received a call from a white woman who spoke my language. I picked her up 30 minutes from my home by the entrance to the river.
She handed me a cold drink and I accepted. It was warm in my van and she was pretty. Several minutes later I felt dizzy and pulled aside the road.
"You look tired, mudvein. Your nigger skin looks darn near white."
"I feel very tired and cannot drive," I told her.
The white woman pulled me from my driver's station and pushed me to the back of my van. I could barely move. She sat in the seat that I had found in a junk yard and installed with my three village friends. She drove off..
When I awoke I was in a canoe on the Etowah river, the same river where I had met this white woman.
My leg was chained to the canoe and she she sat with her back to the current of the river. We drifted down the river and she handed me a paddle and told me to begin to work.
"I don't want to see you drown. It would be such a waste of a slave," she told me.
I paddled down the ancient river. We reached a muddy bank and I pulled the canoe up the steep slope. She walked ahead as I pulled the canoe. As she walked across an old log, it snapped and she fell. Even though I was in chains, I felt for her and asked her if she was injured. I could not break myself free of the ankle chain and come to her aid. But like a brave princess I knew in a past life, she brushed off her injury and told me not to delay the portage of her canoe.
She walked ahead of me and led me to a field.

A great deer danced across the field.
"I have seem you run. I have seen your brown skin. You run like that animal. You are an animal, why I've got you chained. You will make us shelter now."
I took the paddles of her canoe and took her clothes to bring them together to make us shelter. Even though I was her captive I felt close to her, as if we had met at a mountain filled in its valleys with the blood of men I had killed when I was king.
But we did not, at first, go into the shelter I had built for her. I took the pale skinned woman and pinned her to the earth the gods had made for me. I pressed my lips to her and rid her of what remained of her garments. We joined and I put my people's spirit into her.
"I am free. Who is the man who has freed me from this curse of a river?"
"I come from warriors who have filled these rivers with the blood of brave warriors."
I threw my chains into the dark waters of the river.

I kissed my native princess. I carried her to my canoe and we drifted into the waters, now full with the rain and spirits of the river gods.
We arrived at the new shore and men came to our canoe and offered their fish and berries and bowed to us.

"There were men who were called Niggers who were said to eat anything. What is meant by this is that they were men of the river and of the earth of the gods. They could take the mud vein and turn it to life and food as did the gods when they made man and woman from the soil of the earth and mixed such life with the rain of the heavens. We now see the gods have returned to give new life to this river and this earth. We, as humble creatures of the gods, thirst for a new life and a new world. We will eat anything you, as our king, and she, as our princess, will give us."

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Old Mountains

The roses, the nights of clear stars, the rocks the shepherds throw at goats while my wife makes love to me in bright sun. Lord, you have given me your Earth.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Deep Sand

Deep Sand

The light of the moon
appears in the sand
of the deep desert during
the night. Even the
horses sleep in its shade.
Even water hiding in barrels
for the wash of sheep skin
or butchered cattle
covers itself from a light
that brightens darkness,
never making darkness
complete, total, or at rest. 
In the morning there
is sun but little talk of
the moon. What happens
during the night? Why can't
we sleep? What is outside
hovering next to our
effort to fall asleep in the
sand, rocks, and dry scrub?
I can't say the moon is not
a wild horse. His breath visits
you for a slight moment in
the night, and the night, the
night is not the sun's death,
it is the patient pleading of
one star which awakens horses
in the North in dry Argentina.

Saturday, September 3, 2016

Ring of Truth

Roger Scruton's Ring of Truth can be read in place of just about anything. I would implore Moraline and Chrome to get this on Kindle and read it. Its subject matter is so relevant to Moraline's struggle with his gods that it was almost written *in response*.Chrome will liken the work to goodtimecognac. I cannot speak more highly of the work.

Friday, July 29, 2016

Doing and Having: Freedom

"In addition it is necessary to point out to "common sense" that the formula "to be free" does not mean "to obtain what one has wished" but rather"by oneself to determine oneself to wish" (in the broad sense of choosing). In other words success is not important to freedom. The discussion which opposes common sense to philosophers stems here from a misunderstanding: the empirical and popular concept of "freedom" which has been produced by historical, political, and moral circumstances is equivalent to "the ability to obtain the ends chosen." The technical and philosophical concept of freedom, the only one which we are considering here, means only the autonomy of choice. It is necessary, however, to note that the choice, being identical with acting, supposed a commencement of realization in order that the choice may be distinguished from the dream and the wish. Thus we shall not say that the prisoner is always free to go out of prison, which would be absurd, nor that he is always free to long for release, which would be an irrelevant truism, but that he is always free to try to escape (or get himself liberated); that is, that whatever his condition may be, he can project his escape and learn the value of his project by undertaking some action."

Sartre, Being and Nothingness, pps. 483-484

Sunday, February 14, 2016

By the city, then the stream

"You're no explorer," she said. "You're a boy scout."

"Back in the day that would be a fine compliment," I said. "Take me back 100 years and I'll take boy scout."

"You're a spy and a sneak and a fake," she said.

"Madame, perhaps we've met, but I thought you were long gone," I said.

"You think you went your away for yourself. You think you had your 'experience.' All you did was uncover what should have been left alone. What's the matter with you?", she asked.

"I didn't try to write anything. I just wrote my war diaries and my captain's log. I kept it simple. I'm not famous. I didn't write any guide book. To do it, you still have to have your own motivation and drive. So don't call me a spy. Go ahead and follow in my footsteps," I said.

The old woman got up, fell backwards, and turned into dust.

I put in three quarters and began to shoot. I thought of hot days and lonely days. I remembered Santa Claus when it was hot and sunny in November. I remembered the white sand of Minas Gerais. If I was a boy scout, I had left my troop. But Sam Houston left his troop, too. He picked up several letters of marque. Then he beat Santa Anna, then he went into seclusion because the war between the states was shit.

Look what China was doing 12,000 years ago. Why did language occur? Did 'we' do it? Was there a prompt from the 'outside?' If there is no outside, no inside, no noumena, no phenomena, then the old woman blows hot air for no good reason. "Get up that mountain," I tell her.