Depression blog

At a friends last night, the sole bread winner, the uncle doctor was laid off yesterday. My friend is 38, mother 50-60, grandmother ancient. All are unemployed. They have no savings. Medical bills ate that up. The mom says they have "maybe a month", until they lose the home. They began naming things to sell.I grew up poor, even hungry one winter when our lovely father left us in an Idaho house , no phone, food, nothing.My grandpa told me stories of the Great Depression, he lost his ranch to the dust, cattle to disease. He moved back to his mothers reservation, ate entrails with the Cherokee. My own reading of the subject told me about middle class people with homes losing them, nevermind the jobs and savings. This nation really has become a country of ultra-rich and the hoi polloi. Both parties do nothing but destroy us. Immigration? Look, I have nothing against immigrants, my wife is one. She came here legally. Key word. Legal. We can not afford them. Trust me, Americans will do the work. We have become listless in allowing a few politicians, left and right, a few rich to dictate life to us. NAFTA. Clinton did that. Democrats supposedly have a "worker-friendly" history. The EPI(economic Policy Institute) states that over 870,000 jobs have been lost. http://www.epi.org/publications/entry/briefingpapers_bp147/
Outsourcing, i.e., a euphemism for stealing jobs. Where is a Eugene Debs? Yes, I said it. The fantasy that Americans can pull themselves up by their boot straps is, well, a fantasy.We have no boots. Yes, we have no bananas, either.
We needa party that stands with the people of this land. Repeal NAFTA, force companies to bring back the stolen jobs, or be convicted of treason. Remove all troops from Afganistan and Iraq. Now. Put them on the border. Implement a single payer health care system: now. Not tomorrow, or in 2014. Now. Make capital flight a capital crime.
My friends grandma came to America from Manitoba, Russian Jews who settled there after the war. Eventually, they moved to California. Legally. He prospered, their children did well. His grandchildren? We do not have civic minded scions anymore. There too into their foreign born orphans to care about American born orphans. They care too much about foreign disasters but not the disaster staring them in the face.
I suggest a General Strike.Yes, a General Strike asking for a few things. Jobs. Illegals out. Stop the wars and give us health care.If not, we are ushering in a beast that will slouch towards D. C. without Huey Longs anti-Semitism, but with his charisma and taste for erasing enemies. And, Americans would vote him in. I , for one , would follow him to the ends of the earth.My friends who are close to losing their home deserve help. Enough of the corporate fiefdom America has become. We are strangers in a strange land. It appears to not be our nation any longer. But, it is!It can be great.

.

Incessant(why is rain always incessant or driving?) rain and wind.Strong,lusty ,gusty gales;electricity dead, thee walls tremble. Looks like Spielberg is directing.Wind so strong it pushes water on the street likea huge invisible broom. Telephone cables dance and sway; in the distance police lights,overhead a dark grey and black mass of cloud resembling funerery shrouds; it's chaos,albeit a light version,wheres the fuckin candles?The alder trees across the street bend at 70 degrees. On the drama scale: 2

1979,Northern Ilinois, in the warpath of a tornado: in the basement watching trees fly by;drama scale : 10

I grew up with warnings of the apocalypse and warnings from pulpit and podium of Communist invasion, the end of the world,Ragingorak as the Icelandic sagas call it, but what I saw that day was hellish,the aftermath was sure sign that the Furies traipsed by with vitriol and vim,Paul Bunyan had a bad pcp trip, a v.w. bug lay upside down on a roof,a brick schoolhouse looked like a Dresden factory,the ravens sounding like Germans.

A flood in Redding,1987: another bug,floating down the river called Interstate 5. A week of sirens,helicopters,evacuations,canned food and quik candlelit romps and bacchanals lasting 24/7. Drama scale ? 4. A measly 4. Siskel and Ebert(now Roper--who the hell is this guy,eh?) would be mixed on my drama of the Northern California flood amongst white trash drug addicts...prolly cause Keanu would play me, in that monoemotion of his, like he just ate Opium cake for breakfast and downed it with Valium punch:What, ok,like I will rescue you..like can we fuck then?)

This week: poison oak.Drama scale ? A million. It is off the goddamned charts. Do not laugh or call me histrionic,melodramatic. Yes,do. Call me that. This is natures way of saying to me"Youre petty life is now dictated by diet leprosy,leprosy-lite...good day!

Shazam!Your skin is covered in welps,lesions,macabre red raises,blisters and a model of the surface of Mars. You are a red crocodile. And now the burning itch:On your lovely gnarled cock,your eyes,arms,legs,belly,chest,neck. Diet leprosy. Ive always had an on again off again relationship with Mother Earth,but now I want to commit matricide. My umpteenth time with this dermatological savaging. Done. We are kaput,momma. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Fuck the redwoods,the dirt,the ocean,pretty flowers,rivers,sunrise,sunset,Ayers Rock,The Nile,the Gobi,the taiga,all of it. Concrete, cement. This is love. This is holy now .Cover up the old hag. My way of casually saying "Pthwt!"

I want to bap hippys on the head with a tractor tire,drive a semi thru Manhatten bitchslapping babyseals,drinking pure Chernobyl nuclear waste,injecting rare civet pancreas blood into my neck,wear Saudi crude for cologne----my way of saying Hiroshima, mon amour.

Yes, terra madre, you give me this and more you have given me: sleepless nights on the Pacific chasing tuna,puking and delirious,watching whales rise up with famished eyes as if I were a knish with legs;sharks and gills and scales and a desert of wawa rising and falling ....for what?The grizzly in Alaska who kept me locked in my truck for two hours as he growled and stood trying to eat his beloved knish with legs;all the near death experiences with rattlesnakes, black widows,horses falling on me, bulls chasing me, rabid bats,wilddogs chasing me into the boughs of an oak,fleas, ticks,rats,bird shit,heat,cold, rain,sleet,snow,flood,drought.Flora and fauna are no funna.We are done , you and I. And, when I rule the planet I will pay you back a million fold. Oh, yes! Paybacks are a motherfuckin bitch. Highrises in the Grand canyon, a parking lot in the Amazon, nuke the Galapogos,poison the wells, stripmall the Yukon. In a thousand years when you recover you will shake us off. I know. I do.You always come back .The human race will be paying for my sin.In this sense I 'am the anti-christ.But, I'm okay with this:my body will be dead:Buried in a steel box,in a vault deep inside a nuclear bunker made out of polyurethane and plastic dildos. Poison oak free:a smiling bag of cfc's,msg,gmo's,nicotine,alcohol,exhaust,pollution,formaldehyde. I will look down from a heaven sponsored by multinational corporations and send you my love.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:48 AM 0 comments Links to this post

The wait

the wait

She lay there on our bed panting, her tattooed white skin, sweat- sheened and mottled by weak sunlight coming through the windows of the bedroom. My cum is spread across her taut stomach like a silvery archipelago. Im still hard as I get up to go look at the purple and white Chugach Mountains to the east. Fireweed is spread all over below the snowline. The purpling of the abundant flower forecasts the first snowfall of winter. All the mountains turned over a week ago and still nothing. Still the wait for the end of green, of color, of light, youth and frenzy Still the wait.Each day preens itself slowly,achingly.

The effects of the heroin are subsiding and I can feel my erection more keenly. I stroke my cock and tell her Ill be back with fresh drinks. As I pour the gin into our glasses I realize were out of tonic water so I look in the bottom cupboard for more. We seem to be out of everything lately.Shell just have to drink it straight.Like I do now ,from the bottle.There we go, come into me, I say to the turquoise bottle. "Come , come, come."She is yelling for me to hurry. "Theres something in the yard,hunny, a bear I think,hurry,its gonna get me!" Iwalk back to the room and peer outside to see a bull moose.

Do you have a gun, I ask

Dude, you cant shoot the bear

Its a moose, I tell her

Stillin that case, come back to bed

Nah, I want to look at him for a little more

But, Im horny,she tells me

My cock hangs flaccid as I turn to see her rubbing herself,inserting two fingers deep inside her pussy.

Looking back at the moose I see him eat the Red tulips I planted months ago.

Hey, hes eating the tulipscan I shoot the bastard now?

I feel her hands around me, shes kissing my neck, two fingers enter my mouth and I taste her sex. "Come fuck me again, she whispers."

The moose is now eating the begonias,the strawberries and red cabbage. He moves to the ferns,leaving one lonely head of cabbage, its petals or leaves ,whatever theyre called are pulled back from the head, so that it resembles an orchid painted by Georgia Okeefe or even dozens of swollen labias. She gives up and returns to bed.

Fuck it,she tells me. Fuck you, then.

I sip the gin slowly and stare at the purple cabbage. I instantly want to save it from the moose. And, as if reading my mind, he lugubriously walks over to the cabbage and swallows it whole, leaving a hole in the cold cold ground the size of a toddlers fist.

I point my finger at him, as if its the barrel of a gun . "Bang." I want the moose to fall, to die for his sin. Instead he lifts his heavy head and walks away from the window and back into the Chugach.

The last of the gin goes down my throat; my cigarette is down to the end and I crush it out in a broken ashtray that says ,"Welcome to Alaska."

Shadows have come into the room and I turn to see her in the fetal position in the last patch of light

You awake?Nothing. I look outside for the last time and see snowflakes drift down,covering the earth in a mantle of white.

This is it, I say,Kaput. Finis. I feel sick from all the white; it is so clinical,so funerary. I have to look away.There she lay,in half darkness now,in the fetal position,her perfect ass beckoning me.I crawl onto the bed and move my face to her pussy which looks like a closed bud of a delicate flower. I bend to it and inhale through my nostrils.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:47 AM 0 comments Links to this post

On Why I Suddenly Feel Like eating human flesh

On why I suddenly feel like cannibalizing dirty hippys....

My first day in Dantes seventh layer of Hell. I've decided to quit smoking, yet cannot remember the reason why.My neurons are exploding each nanosecond,every pore is agape and shrieking.My body chemsitry is experiencing a physiological Bolshevik Revolution.Dopamine levels have plummetted.Insulin is not being suppressed.Adrenalin levels are seeking balance.No, its much worse than that.This first day without nicotine is like 400,000 Mongols are running amok inside me,it is the entire Wehrmacht in my veins,a million cellular Mansons --- I'am your own personal Chernobyl.I'am confused and spacy.I feel like I have Downs Syndrome, Alzheimers,Parkinsons,A.D.D. and the severest case of Tourettes .Fuckingoddamnhalfwitmotherfucker has become my favorite word.I want strangers to know what I want....ten minutes ago.I want friends to leave---only, after theyre gone I want them to come back.Then, leave again.I've cleaned the house and messed it up again.I'am a 200 pound hamster created by Phillip Morris and my choices.23 years of gagging,hacking,coughing,sputtering,spewing up all manner of dead creatures,of being fatigued,winded,smelling like a Third World toilet.

I want to kill something large.Ants wont do.Birds dont have enough blood.I want to annhilate a herd of wildebeest.I want Arma-fucken-geddon.

I want a cave.I want T.N.T .I want planes loaded with bombs.I want eject,rewind,pause.Fuckin Spice Girls....yeah, I tell ya what I really really want:

I want a goddamned cigarette.A Gaulloises,perhaps?Sure,times 20.A Marlboro,Camel,Kamel,Winston,Woodbine,Sherman,Raleigh et al

generic Arapaho reservation -made fags...I dont care.A cigarette butt.Anything.A nice cigarette and cigar boullaibaise.Distilled Turkish Specials clam sauce over tobacco fettucine; A Winston Light pizza.A fresh pack of smokes,unopened,you stare at it like its your lover and its been many moons since youve done this,you start by kissing the object of your desire,oh yes, then undo ,unwrap make naked,then part,opening the insides and unlike coitus,your first motion is to pull out(do not "pierce"the cigarette,I tell you it will not work),then fire,then that initial inhalation:Nicotine like the angel of Life to every famished cell.Nicotine: a cross between the philanthropy of Mother Teresa and a bucket full of orgasms.

.I'm chewing gum.Trident. I hate gum and people who chew it.Even if gum tasted like Sapphire gin or Glenfiddich it'd still look moronic. Each chew brings up visions of cattle masticulating their cuds:Looking vapid,retarded,so uncool,so anti-James Dean.Its how I feel at this moment:Half momo, half psychotic.I sit here shaking my knees ,chewing ferociously,dreaming of sexy paleskinned cigarettes.Oh, but theyre sirens.They mean harm.This is where I'm supposed to ask to be tied to the mast,right?

This goddamned gum tastes like Barbie hair.My house smells like a bar.A gaggle of hippies trudge down the street:smoking .I will mug them for a cigarette.It all makes sense now.I will eat their nicotine laden veins ,I will scrape the tar from their frazzled lungs with a clam shell,boil it down and shoot it into my spasming circulatory system.Theyre going down, every Medusa headed ,bongo beating organatron will perish;afterwards,basking in post-nicotine ingestion bliss I will wash their vegan and patchoili blood from my hands,dry it,cook it and snort it in lines resembling a topographic rendition of the Andes. Oh, yeah.But, first...first I have to remember how to tie my shoes.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:46 AM 0 comments Links to this post

006

I love the smell of Venus febriculosa in the morning My mind is again caffeinated and racing, a hooligan mob darting from a burned out car to the police, from one thought to another and, yet, in my mind these thoughts all have an umbilical cord tethering them to the same mater/pater: theyre all familial...siblings..Yes, born of my grey matter(which, by the way, does look like a horrific nest of grey vulvae), my thoughts now seek independance and run off on their own or together sewing mayhem and sowing oats to produce tada! more thoughts.here, let me capture some of the buggers and tell you what I see:Oh, ho,ho!Surprise, surprise:They all have the same look,carbon copys of one another,the same wickedly gleeful look,and these thoughts convince me that I' am thinking of Venus febriculosa,aka, cunnilingus.Now sex.Sex in general.Am I a sex fiend?A maniac?A satyrnalian?I do not know.All of my life I have been captured by the thought of women(did i steal this line from Pasternaks poem?)I have been a devotee of their winsomeness, their foreignness,curves,smells.I tried the gay thing and it didn't work.I felt too much like Narcissus.At the tender age of six I did things with a girl my own age that most six year olds do not do.I'll only say this involved tongues, insertions and a peculiar frisson at the whole affair.From fifteen to I -do- not- recall I had many lovers, more lovers than people that live in some Icelandic villages.Over 100,over 200. And, we may stop here.We will.I have always had this lust for more and more sex.Insatiable.never satisfied.In the past this lust was characterized by the desire for all women.Since my first marriage(25-30)it is a lust for more sex with the same woman.Only, I had never had a woman who could keep up, alas I became a serial monogamist.Until now.You'd think that after 35-40 times in five days I'd be satisfied.Oh, but no, I want more.Just her.Yet,my body feels cartoonish: this fiendishly prolonged horniness won't go away.Do i need a goddamned hobby?More exercise?A shrink?I have read everything on the net about sexual addiction.I'am not a sex addict.(I can hear the hackneyed slogan,"Denial is not a river in Egypt.")I'am not denying anything.I just think I was born with too much, a surplus if you will, of testosterone.An average day masturbating: 5-10, once I onanized myself 12 times.I love sex.And, trust me, it is not about the end result, the liberation of France, the explosion, the bellowing like an Angus steer followed by copius amounts of silvery D.N.A strewn onto a pale stomach to resemble a very shiny archipelago.No, it is the work before that interests me.The cessation of time and space outside of the lovemaking, the fucking, the whatever you want to call it, has never been lost to me.It baffles me.This act, on one hand so beautiful, on the other, so ridiculous.I will admit that a huge part of my fascination with the Ol' In -Out In- Out is watching the other squirm and shriek like a victim in Butryki Prison.I love watching them cum.I really enjoy this.Much more than listening to Chopin, eating cajun food, playing rugby, boxing, reading, writing. And the taste of women!Jesus !The closed fist of her sex.You teasing it to open.Its becoming swollen and wet,a moving orchid.The lubricity, tightness,tartness and musk.So animal.So mammal.So godlike.Human.I think philosophers would not have been philosophers had they shagged more often than ,oh, once every lifetime.Nietzche looked beyond horny.Kierkegaard was virtually a monk.And, not just the existentialists.The whole lot of them, especially the venerable Professor from Tubingen:Kant Herr Kant needed her cunt..you get the picture---although the picture of Kant bumping uglies with anyone is nauseating--- This thought is haunting me like a bipolar poltergeist with seperation anxiety.Egads.The lot of them:Spinoza, Hegel,Hume,Berkeley,...oh, Richard stop.Marx in a threeway with Engels and Kant and perhaps some Bavarian slatterns,some opium,Munchen lager,apertifs of moans in that oh so romantic German tongue. No, it didnt happen, thus we now have Das Kapital.And, London has the Teutonic hippys bones.Of course they had sex.Maybe not enough.Maybe just the generic kind:where you just go at sex like you go at a pizza:laborious,mechanical,boring.Of course I've never had sex like this,i have been with women and men who prefered sex like this but a good roughing up usually dredged them out of the doldrums, recued them from their malaise,oh, God!Why do i compare and contrast women?Am i grading cattle?No, it is human to do so, right?i mean everyones been with a person who wasnt a virgin, yet lay there like a mummified Aztec behind glass,everyones been with that special someone who, honestly, if they left your horny ass, you could have had more fun with a hatchet, 17 dead snakes, a worn copy of anything by any Bronte sister and a jug of lukewarm water in a graveyard .Right?Right.Then, you have those doozies.They fuck .As if they were bred to fuck.Later, you are with someone better and you realize , no, you were just horny.This new person is actually good, then you meet the best.The one .Her.Or him.Time goes by, youre with more Aztecs, more pizzas, another wow!, then, you meet the deity, the demigod of sex.everything she does is holy.Her resilience is otherworldly.Her stamina frightens; yet, is matched thrust for thrust,moan for moan.You've found each other and you get married. I think this blog is a warm up exercise for my ACTUAL writing Sex.The joyous, galloping union of phallus and lacuna, cock and cunt, saliva and sweat, pan-optic eyes and verbiage being sexy or even bizarre(Once, a Palestinian woman ,while in the act, she on all fours, smoking a joint, in between puffs decides to tell me that ,"...last week I spoke to Satan in an alleyway behind my club."--what?I asked.She then repeats this inanity.needless to say I lost my appetite...which is in marked contrast with my early years when women said even more bizarre things and it seemed as though these outrageous asides brought on orgasm quicker,why the change I do not know) Sex.I'm sorta going in and out of subject.So, yes, finally i have found someone to keep up with me.At the expense of sleep, victuals,entertainment,the outside world,cinema,etc.. we do it constantly.24/7, or 24/5 rather.24/6.And, as I age I find that intelligant conversation stimulates me, that fetid piffle , dismal drivel always makes me flaccid.Lately, the conversation has been at 11.The best.Ergo, the sex is also at ...11.and, they feed on each other, dual parasitism.Like us.She tells of her experiences I become aroused, she talks and gets misty eyed and again: arousal.Ad infinitum.Talk, talk, talk....that old aphrodisiac, the salacious quality of gab.I'm in need of a cold shower now.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:45 AM 0 comments Links to this post

good luck and fuck you in the morning

George Clooneys last movie , "Good Luck and Goodnight", about an announcer who ends his broadcasts with this line is another wimpy punch by Hollywood at the totalitarian tactics employed by Joe McCarthy and others during the Cold War.
Maybe, just maybe, the total of innocents killed by the American government during the second Red Scare was 2.2 people:the Rosenburgs.During the 20's, 30's,40's and 50's Soviet totalitarianism killed anywhere from 20 million to 60 million.Two avowed communists versus millions.And, Hollywood still hasnt made a movie about the gulag.They made "Reds","Matewan" and now this drivel.Their message is always the same: what left radicals experienced in this country was horrific and unforgivable.No, fuck this.What is unforgivable is Hollywoods silence , their yawning indifference to the Gulag.It makes one wish we had Senator Joe back.
I do not care about the careers of Kazan and Trumbo, besides their careers never suffered, actually no one in Hollywood suffered. They should have, now that we know the extent of Kobas(Stalin)crimes.Why do people get upset,offended when they encounter a Holocaust denier or some halfwit who wears a nazi tattoo or shirt?Because its offensive.Plain and simple.The Naziis wore their plan on their sleeves.They were up front.Communism , on the other hand, preached brotherly love, freedom, utopia.Communisms plans were hidden , even though a cursory glance at the Manifesto written by the dastardly , lazy Teutonic hippy will show you the plan of Communism:Death on a grand scale.What happened in Russia was a Holocaust, what happened in Maos China was a Holocaust, what happened in Vietnam, Cambodia,Uganda,Ethiopia et al was a goddamned Holocaust.
Maybe, the reason Hollywood hasnt come out with more Gulag movies is it would implicate them as deniers of this greatest crime against humanity.
Til then we just get pumped in the ass by them with shite.Will they ever remediate this?No.
Good luck and fuck you in the morning, is all they say to the world.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:44 AM 0 comments Links to this post

Possessed by Lenin

So, she tells me she just returned from an Orthodox monastery in Ukraine where she and her sister looked for some kind of help with a lil' problem.Nothing major, nothing out of the ordinary, just her sister is possessed by V.I. Lenins spirit.Maybe it is a job related injury---she is a medium.Things like this happen to mediums. Lenin is not a good spirit to be possessed by. Let me diminish his smarts: He was not intelligient, reading, university doesnt make one smart, on the contrary, its an expensive conformity. I know of nary a plumber , logger or farmer who have started wars.No, its always, the college educated. Germany, prior to Hitlers rise to power, although mired in penury and inflation, occassional bouts of cannibalism, rampant prostitution to make ends meet, suicide en masse etc..., Germany had one of the most educated populations in Europe and the world.Yet, Bach,Beethoven, Goethe and Rilke and Franz Kafka , Kant and Schopenhauer meant as much as one of Adolphs butt cheeks. Their education meant nada.Some of the most astute, sagacious people I have met were uneducated at university.Nietzche was right: we do need to destroy all the books, all the profs, all the schools and start over.Decorum, protocol are offal from the educated. I'm all for civility but not for the sake of human lives.Being civil in the face of gross inhumanity is akin to co-authoring said inhumanity, right?Right. Example:Sudan.All the so called pacifists make excuses to not get involved.Governments make hollow declarations, threats defanged.The U.N. is all smoke and mirrors and handshakes and kowtowing to fascist Islamic heads of state.Bottom line. And, still people die.As they have since '83, '99, fill in the blank, maybe nobody really wants to get involved to save Negroes.Look at Rwanda.South Africa was able to exist for decades.Whats needed is a goddamned united front against bullshit.Someone needs to get possessed by Churchhill and whip some Muslim ass.Invade Sudan right now.The worlds leaders need an exorcism. Seems as though theyve been possessed by the spirit of the middle class, the "safe" caste, the cadre of "dont' upset people, don't get involved"
A shame. Goddamn, let the spirits of Crazy Horse, Michael Collins and Richard-the-lion-hearted possess me!!!Pizdets.I'd bomb Khartoum in nanoseconds.And Paris, for shits and giggles.
Back to the Ukraine: So, she and her sister were blessed by Orthodox monks after a rough nights sleep on concrete with dish cloths for blankets.And Lenin. Apparently, he is rude. He just interrupts.No hour is safe, no place is holy. I asked if the voice showed any sign of feebleness, retardation,illnesss. "Oh, Bozhoi moi, God no, very bright and quick", she said. Strange. Because a year before he croaked, Lenin had suffered a couple strokes and was rendered a second grader..a lil better than a mo-mo, a tard..Which would make her sisters possession more strange.I'm wondering how did Vlad get better. And, why this middle aged woman from Russia?Why not talk to a peasant?Zuganov?A hedgehog?a Berkely hippy with a stuttering problem who carries a rotten leek for good luck?
Baffling. No exorcisms occurred there in the monastery. The women left and paid for their visit in a most proletarian manner: with a Visa.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:43 AM 0 comments Links to this post

007

new york is another country Fellini said NYC was like a huge spacecraft with reps from all social strata, color,creed...then shook up and its denizens released:, dazed and mad.this is New York sayeth Frederico Fellini. Another artiste, this one a Spanish wordsmith , Lorca, says this: New York is something awful,something monstrous.I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie.New York is Senegal with machines. It is a different country.Bored and angry, bored with being angry ,angry at being bored...this is the common facial expression, the attitude of all and sundry.If somebody does show emotion, one has to assume their cheese has slipped off their cracker or they're new, like me.New Yorkers are devoid of human qualities. They don't react.They seem "tough" to some naive Americans and Euros but, in reality, it is all fluff. They seem brash, brazen, bulls in a china shop who never quite break anything. Its this action that is stillborn in a facade that is New York. Yet, I love the fact that I could be killed by a car driven by a person who cannot utter an understandable sentence in any form of English---not even a pidgin, a creole a patois a slang riddled syllabic sewer ...no, they speak in Pashtoon, Manx Gaelic, a Siberian neolithic Turkic language spoken by humans with four tongues . They stand on subway platforms and no one, not one person will notice say, a Linda Blair spazzin out, a rape, an alien invasion or a stampede of butterflies with diaphanous wings laced with turqouise veins...but, theyd notice money. growing from the cracked sidewalk...so strange how all the Diasporas here meld into the attitude I've just described.A cab driver from Amman, Jordan, nonchalantly missing a semi by a nano-inch, casually describes Bedouin relations with Circassians; the Galway bartender with eyes lacking life, muttering about his wifes recent heart attack, his eyes looking aquatic, slightly filmy,milky. The barber f. Cote d'Voire who smokes like an ebony Jack Nicholson constantly contemplating suicide in his slow monotone French accent. It's the ones who exhibit life, who smile , who nod, who jump...these are the recent arrivals, the ones not"cool" not New York yet....New York hasnt levelled their zest, their inner Zorba and/or Dionysius...these are the barbarians,still all beating heart and elan..... Brendan Behan said he loved New York because its the place hed least likely get bit by a goat. He loved this joint for what it didnt have.Likewise, I like the fact I will never get poison oak or ivy,leprosy perhaps ,ok, but never attacked by a puma...just a man in Pumas. Some Columbian academians the other day strolled thru the park pointing and causing a brouhaha over what they deemed a peacock(a female turkey).Cute. Funny, that a hundred years ago and theyd probably all know the diff. twixt a cow and sheep, hay bales and a pile of worthless grass.Ah, but then history and industrialization happened with a mechanical thud and they migrated to the urban areas., to the Bostons, the Philadelphias, the one and only New York...abandoning the pastoral, the bucolic, the natural for the manmade, the pandemonium, the thyroidal bee hive called Gotham. Am I bitter?No. Frazzled? A tad. Fate has thrown me into this spaceship and I'm only now beginning to acclimate myself to the frenzy. Give me a week and I'll be bored and angry with it all. Or, more likely buying a ticket to Senegal.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:40 AM 0 comments Links to this post

hursday, July 12, 2007

scrambled thoughts on dessert in a cupboard Johann Strauus number 2 was the most famous musician of his time; he was, in a sense, the Michael jackson of his era, no, thats not right, he wasnt black, fucking whacked out, a pedophile, melanin confused, the definition of batshit crazy, no , ok, Strauss numero deuce was like, well, he was like noone today, celebrity was different then.Examples are aplenty if ye need them.The cult of celebrity that we are all members of, to someextent, didnt exist then.... in a time of European intellectuals and artists delving into their pauper, peasant roots, Strauss was no different, taking the folk songs of the Austrian and Hungarian peasants and re-tooling them into classical music; though,his music proved to be immensely popular . His waltzes and marches had the world humming. The music of a dying epoch, a diseased empire. Vienna at this time was abuzz, indeed all of Austria-Hungary swooned and reeled with artistic eruption. But, at the edges of empire, disparate groups sought independance and/or a new society.Serbian nationalists, Croat patriots, Magyar neo-Huns, communists,socialists,anarchists,pan -Teutons, jihadists, Czech nationalists,Italian supremacists,Pan -Slavists, zionists,etc,et al.....out of this ethnic and political goulash came great ideas(Jung,Freud,...) foul aberrations(Hitler,Anton Pavic, the Ustasha, the Hungarian Iron Guard) music(Strauss' all, Brahms, )writers galore---Felix Salten(he, of Bambi and soft porn fame, Joseph Roth, Musil, Karl Kraus, Geza Csath, Jan Neruda, Strindberg, Krleza, and art: Klimt, Kokoshka, and others, Egon Schiele, Adler, Martin Buber, Schnitzler, Ferdinand Porsche, PEZ(Haule , I think he was who invented PEZ), KAFKA!!!, Max Brod, Hrabal, Herzl, the list is exhaustive...coffee, the best absinthe, dances, pomp and more pomp and circumstances beyond ones wildest imaginations---well, perhaps not Freuds or Jungs. And, before the attentat by Gavrilo Princip on the fateful day in Sarajevo was a decision by the deranged archduke(no capitals,please)to commit suicide by disregarding the advice of his closest aides and military advisers. Instead of hundreds of bodyguards in a place where most of the citizens wanted you dead,for one reason or another, the good archduke brought under a dozen men and his wife.. To a region newly captured,that had just thrown off the Ottoman Empire after 500 years,a region teeming with revolutionary groups, with nationalistic groups, with every kind of violent person swarming with other violent persons the gaudy archduke paraded in an open motorcade before pissed off Muslims, wrathful Serbs,mad anarchists, zealous communists, Slovene patriots under the influence of one too many cappucinos; nine assasins lost their nerve when the first assassin, regaining it , attacked...firing five shots, hitting Franz Ferdinand in the jugular and Duchess Sophia in the belly.The surprise is that everyone was surprised.I think, more than anything, Europe was saddened that its best dressed, youngest, most melodic Empire was now dead.The song was over. The end . As Eddie Izzard says, it all ended with the flair of a sunken flan in a cupboard. Only this flan, turned into World War 1. The brocaded, mustached Empire of Austria Hungary had disintegrated and it took Europe down with it.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:39 AM 0 comments Links to this post

Jose , can you see the man with the dildo You git off the Q line at Brighton Beach and walk into Little Odessa , your ocular videocamera pans everwhere, panoptic, panorama, soak it in, be the bread, this is the vodka:Cyrillic signs, women selling piroski, dubious men selling pirated dvd’s of movies still in the theatre, people here have different genes.You are not in New York any more.According to Vitali Vialiev,"Spiritually, linguistically and psychologically, Brighton Beach is not part of the USA. "We don’t go to America. We have nothing to do there," its residents like to say. An American, arriving there by accident, stands out and gets stared at - like an Eskimo in the streets of Abu Dhabi. (Brighton Beach, by Vitali Vitaliev,Travel Intelligence) The men , for the most part, have thick lips and sad baggy eyes. Everyone seems tired and sad, but still theres a sarcastic smirk right below the surface. The women are stereotypes: huge, roly poly "babushkas", old women wobbling down the street, faces looking more like brown carved apples, bags in both hands, eyes darting from you to the street, half quizzical half nothing. Then, there are the Slavic beauties sashaying down the sidewalk, heels, high cheekbones, pursed lips. Young toughs standing, smoking, no neck, chains with Orthodox crosses, piercing you with a beating from their narrowed eyes.Kitschy Russian music wafting from restaurants, old men with grizzled faces, sitting on buckets, smoking, drinking tea with jam, playing chess in their ketchup stained Russian Navy tank tops. Trash is everywhere but noone pays it any mind. I don’t feel like I’m in America anymore. All around me is tangible evidence that I’m not. But, according to Russians, neither is this "like" Russia. The buildings look older here, plaques are either in Rafi script or Cyrillic, Hebrew or Russian. Even the ice cream man is Russian. Nowhere else in America have I seen a non Hispanic icecream seller in a truck. Cars slowly pass by, Russian men hanging out the windows, the Russian 50 Cent or Kelly Clarkson blaring from the speakers. The boardwalk, though, is where it gets wierd. Its where good old American perversion meets the Old World. Hasids scurry past, holding up their skirts or pants, men with fistfulls of misplace fat wearing Speedos, their bellys swelling over, bitchtits sweating, spindly legs carrying the whole shebang down the promenade. They look impervious to my stares, my open mouth. Women, too, are wearing tiny bikinis when they should be wearing a tent. White cellulite hangs from arms, midsections,necks, derrieres,even ankles. Mullets thrive here. Lapdogs, too.Hang left at the boardwalk and you enter mostly Russians, go right and it’s mixed with African Americans, Hispanics and noise. Its dirtier, louder, drunker. Go left. Stay clear of the Americans. If you wanted Americana, you’d visit Omaha or Dallas. This is not your papas America and things will go from strange to whacked, from different to not too far from a David Lynch story. On the beach, people are lolling, splayed. Burning themselves. Russians love to get brown.In addition to the Russians, the Ukrainians, the pasty Jews are Hispanics, Congolese, Cameroonians,Lebanese, etc. Spinsters with National Geographic physiques , conical bosoms and zip code hips, amble by, darker than a Maya. Men a million years old cruise by with walkers, nearly the hue of a walnut table or a Hottentot slattern. Young women, men, kids, even the shaved poodles have Hawaiian Tropics tanning lotion clinging to their skin like alive cellophane. There are alot of the white paper nose strips, there are sunglasses ala CHIPS on people who probably cannot see through their glaucoma. A man plays "If I were a Rich Man" on a violin, a kid races out of the ocean with a small crab cage, he measures it and throws it like a baseball back to the fourfeet of water. A man sits in a canvas white kilt, his belly gently laying on top of it, he rests on one arm, like a girl posing, only he is not a girl, nor a boy, he is close to 60, he is nondescript, except for this white kilt . He is looking around, as if he is waiting for some one, suddenly he lifts his leg to reveal a 14 inch black strap-on. It bounces and points towards me. I can’t believe it. Not 20 feet away are 2 women, early 20’s, kicking a ball with all the concentration of a couple of ADD posterchildren, theyre not so much kicking a ball as displaying their wares, they kick with outstretched legs and, as they do so they look at a group of muscled men, to see if theyre looking. Theyre not. Oh, but the man with the white kilt is. He smiles. He lifts his leg, I can see the silhouette of his faux equine cock. The girls startle and stop kicking. They whisper in each others ears and look back at freakboy. He is all smiles and opens his leg for a wider shot. This isnt just your average American exhibitionism, no, this is whacked. This is too European, too artsy, too staged. Eventually, he becomes bored flashing his faux member or he has another beach to haunt, either way he leaves, with a strange leer spread across his face.I’m reminded of the passage in Neil Simons, Brighton Beach Memoirs, where the character, Eugene Morris says:..>..>..>..>..tr>..table> Seems like Brighton has always been a little twisted. As we ascend the stairs to the subway platform to go back home, I see babushkee stand around with bags of cold cuts, vegetables and kvas; young Russians make out in front of a neon sign in Cyrillicthat announces podiatry services.

Posted by Chukchi at 1:38 AM 0 comments Links to this post

esday, September 25, 2007

Eastern Promises Eastern Promises. Dumb name, but great movie. Especially if you like mafia flicks. Since film began the mafia genre has been almost exclusively an Italian subgenre simply because the worlds largest and most suave mob were Italian. They wore Armani, they were tall, dark and handsome.Dangerous. Chic.They were sexy. No other mob had an affect on the public like they did or do. The irish looked too ridiculous; they sounded like leprechauns and thus couldnt be taken serious---besides, you always thought theyd implode via vats of whiskey and Guiness, and, usually you were right. The Chinese triads were cute. Tiny asians strutting around looking pissed off with Uzis. Again, they don't weave themselves into your soul like Italians.All these dichotomies: handsome and ugly inside. Well mannered and animals. All in one person, all in one organization. Now, since the fall of the CCCP, there is a bigger boy on the block. Where the Sicilian lads had a gun and a code, the Russians have nukes and a country. The Italians will be remembered for Brando mumbling with toilet paper in his mouth, looking drowsy. The new Russian godfather will not talk, will look awake and will murder everyone you know. Their code is not something from rural Sicily but from the gulag,the Soviet concentration camp. The vor v zakone law is the law of the beasts. It is the law of fear, fear not of being shot execution style but the fear of being tortured, of watching your child raped and tortured, of your wife, your mother, your friends.It is actual demons that have redefined mob mentality. The new , victorious Russian mafia is a mafia of the worst violence imaginable. Sure, there are anarchic gangs like MS13, but they are the Iraq to the Russian Soviet Union, they are little Czechoslovakia to the nuclear arsenal of Brezhnev. The Russian mafia could easily exterminate MS 13 in a few days. Thats more to be said of than the LA Police Department. In an imaginary scene between Vito Corleone and Viggo Morgensens character ,Nikolai, my bet is that Nikolai would decapiate the capo, then increase their profits 5 fold, have no loose ends anywhere in the organization and die peacefully in a stylish dacha in Southern Russia. The Italians are out. Their wine is spilled. The spaghetti is hard and cold. The vespa is out of gas. The Russians have arrived in the world of Hollywood. Their vodka is fresh in new bottles. The caviar is black like dark earth. The Mercedes has a full tank and its owner owns the oil field and has an army to protect it. Ariverderci Signor Corleone Privet, Gospodine Nikolai

Posted by Chukchi at 1:37 AM 0 comments Links to this post

gulag

Silence

A little over 45 years ago, "One day in the Life of ivan Denisovich", byAlexander Solz. was publsihed in the Soviet Union. A couple days ago was the authors birthday.
The publication of this thin volume caused a stir in the Soviet Union; this was the first published account about life in the gulag, an acronym for ??????? ? ???????, Glavnoye Upravleniye Ispravitel’no-Trudovykh Lagerey i koloniy. later, the empire wide system of prison camps would be aptly titled the Gulag Archipelago....also by Gospodine(Mr.) Solz.
What is surreal about the gulags, is the sheer size, the numbers involved......most experts place the number of victims from the low number of 20 million to the high of 60 million(this includes the victims from Lenins first prisons camps, to victims of state managed famines, to the terror/purges in Warsaw Pact nations--which should be included,yes? to around the late 60’s. Hitler killed 6 million, Pol Pot around 2 million, Ho Chi Minh the same. 60 million is hellish. If one is to disgusted by the Nazis, one, as a human, must also be disgusted with communism.More to that: Not one person has been arrested for these crimes. There has been no Moscow trials like the Nuremberg Trials of Nazi officials, no arresting of any Milosovics, not even a lowly guard or functionary. Nothing. It is like seeing the largest cemetary in the planet and asking why, only to be met with silence or excuses. This is inexcusable. Perhaps some of the silence has to do with the culpability of Western intellects(Sartre famously remarked that the gulags were good and did their jobs beautifully, and if innocents perished...so what) From their ivy league
soviets in Western universities, supposedly great minds looked away or remained silent, only making noise when real or imagined communists were arrested or blacklisted during the McCarthy Era. To Hollywood, then, the worst thing about the Cold War---and it was freezing in Siberia----was the harrassment of a few people who identified with the Soviet regime. Not one person perished. there are no reports of terror or torture, yet hollywood refuses to make a movie about the worst human rights violations the world has ever seen. There are no Aushwitz or Birkenaus in Siberia, the buildings have collapsed, the taiga is consuming all evidence. Putin visited Solz. a couple years ago to award him some dubious medal or honor, he accepted. Even ivan denisovich has kept his mouth shut when confronted with an ex KGB spy, a man who no doubt executed inocent people. The corpse on the tree in the picture by Nikolai getman, of course, reminds one, of Christ at Golgotha, dying for the worlds sins, yet, I think what is worse is the man depicted has died for nothing, is remembered by noone,
his death, along with 60 million others means nothing. The Siberian birches and grasses hide the skeletons, the skulls, the evidence of cannibalism, of mass suffering. Now, when one walks at these camps, one is greeted, as in Hollywood, with a stultifying silence.I ’am in the process of writing a screenplay about the gulag; I doubt that it will ever be made. Russians want the past to lie still. To keep quiet. I don’t give a damn about what anybody , anywhere wants, just because there is silence regarding the gulags does not mean the wounds, the sores, the repercussions arent being felt every day, each hour and second of the day by victims or relatives of the victims. In Stalins time, the police were able to destroy society because people were silent.......the ghost of Stalin now keeps,not only the former Soviet Union shushed, but the entire planet. Except for a few of us. We walk along the dilapidated buildings and rattle them, we pull up the nameless skulls with too many holes and fractures and shriek, who did this????
It may not do any good, we may be screaming into the wind from the Sunset Strip......but I think things will happen......if we remember. As someone famous once said, regarding the holocaust: we are doomed to repeat horrors if we forget the past. Therefore, never forget.

Currently listenin

Posted by Chukchi at 1:36 AM 0 comments Links to this post

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Kunderas "Immortality"

In it he says there are only a finite number of gestures, that there are more humans than gestures....therefore we are tools of the finite horde of gestures. Now, im thinking, if a gesture,wave, smile, etc...is a physical manifestation of a emotion or thought....do we then have a finite number of ideas????I think so........I believe everything has already been said before, I recall the words of the Roman senator who complained of "young people not having respect for society, listening to strange music, being influenced by pernicious new ideas...."
The same story......except now, instaed of jesussneakers(sandals) we wear blech!
So, are we original?????Does logic matter?Can we say that our ideas have helped us to truly evolve????I think we can't. If anything, our ideas have been a barrier to evolution....oh, true we came down from the trees, we spread out across the african savanna, into asia and europe and n and s america and australasia.......so what? so have certain species of insect and avians.......

Posted by Chukchi at 3:01 PM 0 comments Links to this post

Sunday, February 17, 2008

writing with fingers smelling oh so good

Ive just had my fingers in her, the opening and dance of my tongue on her clit, the three fingers pushing into her, pulling her lips open, humming, attacking her.....she sleeps now, post otgasmic, i sit drinking wine....smelling her cunt....

Posted by Chukchi at 12:02 AM 1 comments Links to this post

Friday, February 15, 2008

Kosovo

Push out or kill the natives, declare independance and the world breaks open champagne......kinda like North America, Israel etc....now Kosovo , but this is different, unique......people will explode......

Posted by Chukchi at 11:37 PM 0 comments Links to this post

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

The shaman

He sat on the ground and sighed. Blood was dried and there was a metallic tinge to the air, nothing stirred. No wind. Trees stood like soldiers. The wind from last night was dead.Gone. If one were watching him, one would notice he did not move for hours on end. He not stir when mosquitos lit on his skin by the hundreds. When large yellow flies bit his arms he sulked deeper into his sadness. Yet, he did not move. He was akin to the death around him.
Then,
from out of the forest, a banging, a crashing and a reindeer floated into the clearing, nostrils flaring up . Prancing. Still, the man sat . Smelling him, the stag stopped and turned , nostrils hurriedly opening and closing. He snorts. He paws the ground. A raven caws. But, not in the normal corvid manner. Lately, the Soviet ravens mimiced wailing, weeping or sobbing. And this is what moved the Chukchi to raise his eyes : a strange sniffling and crying. his eyes are puffy and red.He is tracing something into the ground. A look of infinite sadness wrenches his face as he takes in the reindeer with green moss drooping his antlers as if it were hanging from a living xmas tree. The man opens his mouth, inhales and caws. The deer jerks to the left and seems to hover above the abbattoir, disappearing into the distance, until he is but a fleck on the horizon. The man slowly moves his eyes around to the trees, searching for the raven.He calls him with raven sounds. Clouds scuddle across the sky. The wind picks up, and directly above him, he hears the hybrid caw and sob of the raven, which turns his eyes skyward to see the raven outsretch his ebony wings and propel forward into air and at the same time drop white steamy liquid in one long tendril, the wieght of the liquid, moving with gravirty, dancing, forming into another rope, into 3 different ropes of white , millimeters from each other, like stark white stalctites aimed at his forehead but instead of driving into his skull, piercing his grief wracked grey matter , the ravens gifts splatter at once on the poor mans forehead, splattering him in white. The sobbing of the crow slowly disappears as it sails over the treeline toward the beautifulKolyma region. Gone. But, there ! Do you hear that? Sobbing. On all trees are ravens, all with beaks open, their variegated plaints and dirges wafting over the air, over the tableau of death. There is work to be done. And then the more important work: waking from this nightmare. Wails rent the air...and then sobs. Corvids are known to be almost perfect imitators. They mimic toilets flushing, machine guns, motors, cats, dogs, Chinese, thunder, water running, anything and everything.
As if paying their respects some of the assembled corvids: crows and ravens began to whistle Chopins funeral march. Duh, duh, duh...while others quietly sobbed. The effect was unsettling to say the least. Our hero walked to the shovel and began digging right where the ashes of his bed used to be. While digging, halfway through, he realized burying the dead in the ground was very un-Chukchi, but very very Russian. He looked at the half burned bodies of his parents. There lay his Chukchi father, his arms gone. face a charcoal mask. And, lying next to him, on top of his disappeared arm, is his Russian mother. Amazingly her body was intact. Her skin looked fresh, her face sooted but content . Her cheeks almost shone. He bent down to gaze more at her brilliant skin. Why wasn't she burnt like his father?Perhpas she was gone when the fire started and lay with him afterwards? This is too much, he thought. The corvids flew from their perch to the ground . Hundreds of them, crows and ravens looking askance, walking jerkily among the dead reindeer without touching any of the flesh. He went to caress his dear mothers cheek, yet when his fingers made contact with her skin her entire body collapsed into ashes.
What is to be thought in such moments? he stared, of course he stared. At where his mother once lay and where his fathers corpse was. The corvids flew off, disappearing into the sky, dots on the horizon.All, except one, which lay rolling on its back in an anthill, a white mask over its face. Dizzy, vertigionous, fazed, awkward, he stood directionless. What to do?Where to go?
and the crow, it said somethig, what?did it really say this?no.Yes. Mosk-va! Mosk-Va!
And, without knowing exactly why he placed one foot in front of the other , walking towards another world, another place, towards Moscva.

Pisdets!He whispered.

Posted by Chukchi at 12:20 PM 0 comments Links to this post

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Chukchi

The bullet thoughts of an insomniac

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Thursday, August 30, 2007

Banya, before the slaughter.

On that last day of my long life I walked to where I was born. Still in the middle of nowhere. Still with forests. Still. Quiet. All my relations had passed. I was alone. I don't know why I did what I did when I saw the clearing. But, it happened. Where the yurt always sat was a hole as big as my face. It was shaped like an almond; if you turned your head it looked like a womans sex.
I heard somewhere that if you need to tell your story, than speak to the earth. She will listen. Maybe whoever said that meant to just speak sitting up, staying clean and all. Maybe. But, I got down on my old knees and put my face against the hole like I was going to crawl into it and die. And, I told my crazy story into that hole. It went something like this:

We sat there,naked, sweat running down in sheets, drinking Magadan vodka, which we all thought a bit odd---Magadan being a gulag, on par with Aushwitz--Mikhail beat my back with birch, then I beat his heavily tattooed and scarred back,which , resembled a blueprint for hell and a topographical map of the Southern Altai; Ivan, Dite, Misha #1 and Misha #2(whom we called "medvedzhonik", because he was diminutive, small , and had hairy hands) all were talking about the label on the vodka: a blue label with an emaciated man in striped prison clothes, eyes drained of humanity, holding the prison bars, above his shaved head in blue cyrllic:magadan. I grabbed the bottle, took my fingernail and peeled the label off.
Sweat,heat, raw wood, birch,vodka, each mans idiosyncratic day coming out thru their pores,descending their muscles, their fat, into valleys and crooks,down,down,down into the grain of the wood, disappearing into molecules of craftsmanship, of structure, imprisoned with other smells,smells past, smells of lovemaking, smells of blood, bile,tears, beer,and nonliquid smells that seeped also into the seat of the banya, smells of fear, of quick hope, mayfly hope, it is birthed and dies quick, giving way to fear. Always,always fear. Well, this is what I thought. The vodka, the shot after shot of a vodka named after a death camp running thru my veins arresting happiness, hope, absence of fear. The vodka, which should always release one from ones personal gulag, didnt do jack. It shoved me deeper into my own Magadan. The laughs of those present were the laughs of devils; the smells I smelled were the smells of madness, death and more death. What to do in a situation like this? Elder Michael, the starets, the schemamonk, when he felt pressure he prayed. He glowed like DnieproGES ,and fear and death could do nothing but slink away like a cur.
I prayed the Jesus prayer and nothing happened. The beloved Saviour of the Russians was in his own gulag before he died. Who is to say he ever left. Perhaps that was Christ on the label?Head shaved, hungry, wanting to drink bleach to not go to work. Something.Ah, if Christ lived now!Would he save us or, just want to be imprisoned like the rest?The world is twisted when your own god has a sick desire to be tortured. Slap, slap,slap goes the birch. Harder , I scream.Goddamn it!!! Beat me!!! Everyone beats with the birches, images pop into my mind like bullets,then, like balloons they float for a few seconds, sitting in my minds eye.Slap!! Natasha, the secretary from Krasnodar, bent over on the taiga!Slap!My parents, smelling of reindeer, smiling, but not smiling, happy but not happy. Slap! The government inspector for reindeer tomorrow to inspect.Smiling,but not smiling. Slap!Harder boys, harder, bring my Evenki blood to the skin, red, red, red, Bolshevik red, red as Lenins , my blood type is his, if not, it will be, come ye Bolsheviks, arise from your slumber, come to the surface of my goddamn Soviet skin, attack my impurities. Slap! "When is he coming, this inspector, I ask? He came hours ago, I'am told. Hours ago? Balls of Beria, I scream...Harder, chelovekee!!!!Beat me for the sin of abandoning my mother and father, the glorious reindeer herders ......I'am handed the vodka without the label,naked,stripped bottle of vodka, I drink to free its pure contents, I'm suffused with heat, a flame, it sets my body alight, my ass,legs, everything...slap!!!! I jump up, open the door to the freezing air and run screaming outside , pine, pine, winter air, I run home, smiling but not smiling, afriad but not afriad, we all know what happens, I think, the air is bereft of a silent and benign ideaology, the air is unaffiliated, I scream, the earth is not Bolshevik, it is not capitalist, my feet race over it, I'am morashki on the skin of Mother Earth,I run thru the forest,a stag,a tiger, my limbs scrape my teary face, I see flames up ahead where my parents yurt should be, all is orange and red and yellow. Red is everywhere, that goddamned color !!!My eyes fill with wet, the air in my lungs is forced out in a scream, NYET!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and nothing, nothing can erase the tableau of death before me. 101 reindeer lay, pell mell, tongues hanging, dead, the yurt of my parents in flames, which make the only sound, above is the unaffiliated stars in their politburo of sky. The judgement is done. I fall to the ground

Posted by Chukchi at 6:35 AM 0 comments Links to this post

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

a day like all others

Walking down the street in Harlem yesterday and coming towards me is a retarded gimp black man, baggy pants, backwards hat, arm bent at the chest, mouth in that sideways, My-Left-Foot sneer, and my initial thought is this: Aw, poor crippled mo mo black dude. Then, as he passes me he says: Go ...home....whitey. And he just hobbles off like some Easter telethon reject. A Jerrys kid gone bad. Strange, I didnt know black people came in retard . You assume from TV that theyre either drug addicts, gangsters, basketball players, Uncle Toms, crack heads, felons,boxers, rappers, preachers et al, etc, ad nauseum. But, in my days, Ive met black loggers,cowboys,Republicans, homos, hunters, punks, skinheads...but yesterday was my first retard. My first mo mo. I just never thought about it. Its like George Carlin said about the seven foot Chineseman with red hair. Some things you just cannot imagine.Things such as: An Aborigine model, a poor Jew, a sober Injun, Donald Trump homeless, pacifist Celts, honest Englishmen, rational Russians or retarded black men. Its funny how we get caught up in stereotypes and cliches. Both are signs of a lazy mind.Most people cant think for themselves. They need the group they belong to to dictate whats right and whats aberrant. What is acceptable and what is not, what can and cannot be. There is not enough "Why" in a person. People don't ask themselves why enough. Why do I do this?Why do I think this? They're lazy. Theyre the ones that are truly retarded. Their growth has stopped. Some other entity thinks for them. A band, a politician, a religion, an underground music scene, TV, an actor , their pet, their clothing. But, never themselves. Its too demanding. Too frightening. To go beyond cliche,stereotype and the damaged kingdom of kitsch, into nothingness....well, this gives people the existential Hershey squirts. Brings madness. To go there, alone, daily brings terror and laughter. Realizing that every person you meet is full of shit, to a greater or lesser degree can ,without a doubt, bring you closer to an epiphany or a hermits cabin. And, here, in the city is where people are very lazy. Everyone is obsessed with what people think about themselves. How they look matters more than anything. You step out of line and the herd loses it. Its always been this way.Take the Catholic Church for example. It splits with Luther, Zwengli, various other crackpots. Then, these same churches are split. Then, they in turn are split. Again and again.The rebel becomes a dictator.Always is like this with us hairless primates. Humanity can be divided into two camps: Those who think we will learn and evolve out of this morass. And, those who know the truth: that we are doomed.
I constantly think about these people in the woods of Northern California or Alaska, against the elements and...losing. Covered in dirt, stripped of power,prestige,the group
lost, soaking wet, a bear licking its chops thinking of their flaccid thighs and recent facelift, everything they know about Oprah,the latest fashion,who is winning on American Idol or a sports event,their knowledge of how to fellate or talk gibberish , wear stockings or use an ATM, nothing, nothing can save them except thinking for themselves, but unfortunately, they can't. Theyre as helpless as retards mumbling curses. Ursa terriblis opens wide...
An Iranian writer said that she thought society was a sham. A facade. Take away the electricity and the culture that gave was the Venus di Milo, democracy, philosophy regresses into barbarism, cannibalism and murder. True. One minute you think you have it all figured out, you know exactly whats going on, the next its like the Talking Heads lyrics:"We're on a train to nowhere...". NYC is not a jungle. No, its depressing .Bereft of individuals. Everything you hear is an echo from another New Yorker, another American.

Posted by Chukchi at 11:06 AM 0 comments Links to this post

Tunda is us?

Tunda felt superfluous, standing there in Paris.

I just finished reading Joseph Roths' "Flight Without End". Spoiler warning: The hero(anti-hero is more like it, besides it is hip, modern to write about someone who is in an existential jam, then to write about a Captain Ahab---who ,if you think about it, was also wracked with existential angst), Tunda, literally is in flight: from the war, the world, his past,the future, the present, ultimately himself. He is w/out probity. He is not the quondom soldier; he never was. One gets the sense that in combat he made himself scarce. That, in his antebellum years he was scarce, he avoided friction. He has abjured the world and it's polar opposites. He is an observer. He floats in life. Flotsam. He is given to whim, caprice, impetuousness. A long day of solemnity broken by a shriek and a run around the house, skyclad, erect...then, silence again. Oblomov with eruptions of indescribable, violence and ,at least, brio.
Thus is Tunda. The world is illusion, he never knows how to act and once the present becomes the past he is filled with remorse, wracked with guilt, teetering on the brink of either madness or self- murder. The world he returns to is facade. The people all speak as if they study advertisements. Their "culture" is nothing but mimickry. Their intelligiance is lambent. Addicts to fashion, to trends. Diplomats.Adhering to protocol.
Tunda is surrounded by the dead. So, he begins to search for the most dead: his ex-fiancee whom he hasnt seen in years. In the end, penniless, aimless, without a dollop of hope, he sees her, emerging from a limosine, bedecked in furs, in gems, in the latest hairdo, expensive shoes, she sees him look at her , but doesnt recognize him, she just recognizes what she thinks Tunda is thinking:how beautiful she is. She sees her reflection in Tunda as if in a shop window. Thus, she sees this reflection as superficial in comparison to herself. Tunda represents falsity to her, cheapness, hunger and poverty of life.
She strides into a building, the door is opened for her and she is gone from his life.
He stands looking down the street feeling like the very definition of superfluous.
Pointless.
A pugilist at war with the Zeitgeist. A man without convictions, except the conviction to be left alone. Finally, he is. As he always has been.
Now, isn't it the same today?
Instead of the "cool" people speaking as if theyve studied advertisements, it is now as if theyve studied "alternative" newspapers. Their political affiliations are always produced by emotion, some Freudian argument with their parent. They usually have either a tattoo or a fetish....to exhibit their "individuality".
They engage in badinage. They banter. Their conversations are redundant. They are brimmin, all of them, with beauty.It seems as if their sole purpose in life is to announce to all and sundry how unique and gorgeous they are. In this they are all alike. Radiant one minute, effulgent, blisteringly bright. The next minute? The same. It is this faction of humanity that vote, that pay attention fashion, who read newspapers because it is the smart thing to do, because in their newspapers they find not something new,something that challenges their opinions and convictions, no, what they find is an echo, a mirror image, something to validate their own superlfuity.
It is a constant, neverending job. These people are tiresome.
The one who doesnt indulge in their self-constructed fantasies, the one who questions and tears the veil, who writes on their walls, this person is a bete noir, a scourge, a pariah.He doesnt fit into their schematic. He is a species that needs extinction. Of course, theyd never say this. Theyd never say he was aberrant. "Strange, wierd."
Always, always, always been like this. The great mass of the Western world avoiding at all costs, themselves, their essence. Avoiding their feeling of being pointless, worthless. And, then the Tundas of the world, who embrace it and perhpas collapse under the weight of the entire worlds derision for doing so. Feeling as if any choice one makes is , ultimately, moot. Ergo, the ullulation of the martyrs against the miasma. Howling, shrieking , Munchs "Scream" in opposition to Norman Rockwell, or, more appropriately, Robert Mapplethorpe---or both. The palaverers chatter and quibble...while the wolf, the obdurate survivor , the moon in his eye, a true definition of "lunacy", hangs to the shadow of society , of docility, of manners and decorum. The Tundas of the world linger where most fear to tread.
In the morning, with the newsprint still pungent , with the headlines set to emblazon themselves into the self-important deserts of human consiousness, todays poet walks deeper into unknowing, into contempt, into himself.

Posted by Chukchi at 11:05 AM 0 comments Links to this post

Che , a murderer for the dumb

che , the mans murderer....

So, Augusto Pinochet has passed away; his soul flies like an Andean condor to a heaven where Franco and El Duce have tee time at noon. The media in the world attack him, as they should. Pinochet was bad. He is to be reviled, ad infinitum. But, there were worse murderous idgets. Che Guevara,for example. A strict moralist, he would have shot all of those who sport his image on baseball hats and t- shirts.Odd, most of the people I know who love Che, smoke pot. I have no problem with people who smoke pot. To me, it's boring. Theres no drama in pot. I like drugs with drama, melodrama, action, fisticuffs and weeping.I like drinks. Pot is too utopian,too flat line,too lowlight,too nothing. Its too much like the grey that permeated communist states.
Humberto Fontova, described Guevara as "a combination of Beria and Himmler." Anthony Daniels once quipped, "The difference between [Guevara] and Pol Pot was that [the former] never studied in Paris."
If you don't know, Beria was head of the NKVD,the Soviet equivalent of the Gestapo...only the victims of the NKVD are in the 30-60 millions.
Che, while never killing more than many thousands, including whole villages of every man, woman and child for the crime of being "capitalist"( if you had one too many cows or pigs or ears of corn, this would get you a quick dirt nap by Che) The NKVD did the same under their de-kulakization program---kulak is the epithet the Soviets gave every peasant who had more potatoes than their neighbor.
Che once said that the Soviet system was the most humane in the world. You cannot call him ignorant. He was educated. He was a true believer. He knew of the purges---6-11 million dead for speaking their minds, he knew of the Gulag system,(untold millions dead--30 million is a good number, Che knew of the state orchestrated famine where 6 million died of starvation. When asked what to do
with the peasant problem, Stalin is known to have barked: kill them all.
Che had drug dealers and users executed en masse. Homosexuals were lynched on his orders.
Pinochet?Under Operation Condor he had 3,000 dissedents murdered. Another 30,000 arrested. R.J Rummel, expert on genocide and a sexy survivalist Kris Kristofferson look alike prof . at the University of Hawaii gives the estimate of 73,000 deaths by Castro. These arent military actions. This is for speaking your mind, smoking a doobie, drinking too many beers and sucking a strangers face in public, being religious, being an anarchist, not wanting to work or laughing too much. In short, not following the law set down by the handsome lad from Buenos Aries could and would get you imprisoned or killed. What I do not understand is this:
Why does one murderer get a t shirt and his own place in popular hagiography and another one is "Hitler-lite".
It has to do with looks. Che was handsome.But, so is Richard Ramirez. So was Horia Sima, the head of the fascist Iron Guard of Romania. He was hot. No, Ches record is as sullied as Simas', as rotten as Pinochets'.,,or worse.
Handsomeness and communism.Communism, even though it killed far more people than fascism,is still seen in a positive light.Well, if not "positive" than "excused". Like communisms blueprints are correct but the builders...well, they built wrong.People dont look at communism as being inherantly false and murderous. But, it is.Heaven on earth is a very persistent but infantile idea.
Utopia.No more hunger.No more oppression.Brotherly love. O.K. What about no more diarhhrea, no more rent and longer erections?
And, I want to get paid millions .But, reality says nyet.Reality is a bitch.And, what communism does from the start is to deny reality.Lies.
Like Che, Communism is handsome..purdy...but, in reality , a mass murderer.
Brad Pitt with a cocked beret and a garden full o' cadavers.Che's motley army of admirers run from the drug addled to the academe educated,from the movie star to the rock star.An image.Communism deserved the end that Che had: a violent death.Ceucsecu got it. Unfortunately, bigger fish got away.
This rarely happens to murderous thugs like Che. Usually, they die peacefully like Idi Amin,like Stalin,Mao etc...
Trust me, if Osama looked more like Omar Sharif rather than an Amish Mexican basketball player, thousands upon thousands of Westerners would be converting to Islam, wearing his visage on dirty t- shirts and naming their pets after him.
Alas, we have Che.

Posted by Chukchi at 11:03 AM 0 comments Links to this post

New York is the capital city of New York

new york is another country

Fellini said NYC was like a huge spacecraft with reps from all social strata, color,creed...then shook up and its denizens released:, dazed and mad.this is New York sayeth Frederico Fellini.
Another artiste, this one the great Spaniard poet , Lorca, says this: New York is something awful,something monstrous.I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie.New York is Senegal with machines.
Senegal with machines. The imagery.If anyones been in lower west Harlem, well, it looks, smlees and sounds like West Africa...with machines.

It is a different country.Bored and angry, bored with being angry ,angry at being bored...this is the common facial expression, the attitude of all and sundry.If somebody does show emotion, one has to assume their cheese has slipped off their cracker or they're new, like me.New Yorkers are devoid of human qualities. They don't react.They seem "tough" to some naive Americans and Euros but, in reality, it is all fluff.
They seem brash, brazen, bulls in a china shop who never quite break anything. Its this action that is stillborn in a facade that is New York.
Yet, I love the fact that I could be killed by a car driven by a person who cannot utter an understandable sentence in any form of English---not even a pidgin, a creole a patois a slang riddled syllabic sewer ...no, they speak in Pashtoon, Manx Gaelic, a Siberian neolithic Turkic language spoken by humans with four tongues .
They stand on subway platforms and no one, not one person will notice say, a Linda Blair spazzin out, a rape, an alien invasion or a stampede of butterflies with diaphanous wings laced with turqouise veins...but, theyd notice money. growing from the cracked sidewalk...so strange how all the Diasporas here meld into the attitude I've just described.A cab driver from Amman, Jordan, nonchalantly missing a semi by a nano-inch, casually describes Bedouin relations with Circassians; the Galway bartender with eyes lacking life, muttering about his wifes recent heart attack, his eyes looking aquatic, slightly filmy,milky. The barber f. Cote d'Voire who smokes like an ebony Jack Nicholson constantly contemplating suicide in his slow monotone French accent. It's the ones who exhibit life, who smile , who nod, who jump...these are the recent arrivals, the ones not"cool" not New York yet....New York hasnt levelled their zest, their inner Zorba and/or Dionysius...these are the barbarians,still all beating heart and elan.....
Brendan Behan said he loved New York because its the place hed least likely get bit by a goat.
He loved this joint for what it didnt have.Likewise, I like the fact I will never get poison oak or ivy,leprosy perhaps ,ok, but never attacked by a puma...just a man in Pumas.
Some Columbian academians the other day strolled thru the park pointing and causing a brouhaha over what they deemed a peacock(a female turkey).Cute.
Funny, that a hundred years ago and theyd probably all know the diff. twixt a cow and sheep, hay bales and a pile of worthless grass.Ah, but then history and industrialization happened with a mechanical thud and they migrated to the urban areas., to the Bostons, the Philadelphias, the one and only New York...abandoning the pastoral, the bucolic, the natural for the manmade, the pandemonium, the thyroidal bee hive called Gotham.
Am I bitter?No. Frazzled? A tad. Fate has thrown me into this spaceship and I'm only now beginning to acclimate myself to the frenzy. Give me a week and I'll be bored and angry with it all. Or, more likely buying a ticket to Senegal.

Posted by Chukchi at 11:01 AM 0 comments Links to this post

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