War Profit Litany

Allen Ginsberg

To Ezra Pound

These are the names of the companies that have made
       money from this war
nineteenhundredsixtyeight  Annodomini  fourthousand
       eighty Hebraic
These are the Corporations who have profited by merchan-
       dising skinburning phosphorous or shells fragmented
       to thousands of fleshpiercing needles
and here listed money millions gained by each combine for
       manufacture
and here are gains numbered, index'd swelling a decade, set
       in order,
here named the Fathers in office in these industries, tele-
       phones directing finance,
names of directors, makers of fates, and the names of the
       stockholders of these destined Aggregates,
and here are the names of their ambassadors to the Capital,
       representatives to legislature, those who sit drinking
       in hotel lobbies to persuade,
and separate listed, those who drop Amphetamine with
       military, gossip, argue, and persuade
suggesting policy naming language proposing strategy, this
       done for fee as ambassadors to Pentagon, consul-
       tants to military, paid by their industry:
and these are the names of the generals & captains mili-
       tary, who know thus work for war goods manufactur-
       ers;
and above these, listed, the names of the banks, combines,
       investment trusts that control these industries:
and these are the names of the newspapers owned by these
       banks
and these are the names of the airstations owned by these
       combines;
and these are the numbers of thousands of citizens em-
       ployed by these businesses named;
and the beginning of this accounting is 1958 and the end
       1968, that static be contained in orderly mind,
       coherent and definite,
and the first form of this litany begun first day December
       1967 furthers this poem of these States.

You play, you pay.

Roe v. Wade for Men?

I have little sympathy for Matt Dubay or his 3-month (ex)girlfriend. I think they, and the kid, are lucky the days of the 'shotgun wedding' are pretty much gone.

I know women who use their wombs as weapons. Dubay's ex lied to him and told him that she was infertile and on birth control. That should have been warning enough that something wasn't quite right. Regardless, he must have been thinking with his pecker. The guy should have used a condom. Better yet, maybe should have kept it in his pants until he had a better sense of what the girl was like.

There is no sure-fire 100% guarantee when it comes to preventing pregnancy. My first was the result of a condom mishap, my second was a spermicidal foam baby. I love my kids, and believe that they exist because they were meant to be. I gave the DNA donor of the first child the option to participate from the beginning, or to stay away permanently. It was a relief to me that he chose the latter, even considering that I ended up on welfare for two years while I worked and went to school.

We are friends with a couple who delivered a big surprise - full term - during an ER visit for recurring stomach pains. They're in their 40's, with two teenagers ready to leave home. Too busy, under stress... neither of them had any idea she was pregnant, as she was using birth control. Another baby that was 'meant to be', lucky that he'll be loved and cherished regardless of the circumstances of his birth.

I really feel sorry for Matt Dubay's kid. The least the guy could do is suck it up and try and be a good dad. At least the kid will have something to talk about in his high school government class.

I have a enormous amount of respect for men who get duped, and still opt to participate, financially and emotionally, in the life of an unexpected child.

Raincheck for Ray Bradbury

I invited Ray Bradbury to dinner once.

I was a 22 year old unwed mother, college dropout, convenience store clerk, and part time student at a local community college. I was a young woman with leaky breasts, a chip on my shoulder, the epitome of Wasted Potential, manning the cash register of a store that sold mostly beer, gas, and cigarettes. I hated the job and resented the minimum wage paycheck, but I enjoyed the opportunity it gave to meet some interesting characters.

I was propped against the clerks counter one warm day, when a scrawny, kind faced, toothless and bald old man walked in the door with a Scandinavian Adonis. While they waited for some customers to clear out, the Adonis surveyed the store items with a gaze of complete detachment. The old man introduced himself to me by his real name (which I no longer remember), and began asking me about the local area, in particular, the hills north of the small Colorado town where I lived. I wasn't able to give him much valuable information, but we got on the topic of Colorado history, which I had taken in college and enjoyed. He said he and the Adonis (a Dane, I believe) were researching some mysterious circumstances involving two of their respective ancestors. Apparently they had partnered on a mining claim north of the town long ago, and had either vanished or been murdered, though my memory of the story is now unclear.

We chatted for quite a number of minutes about the town, and I recommended some local restaurants to them. I also invited them to drop by my home for dinner, if they liked. They accepted. We talked about education, fiction, favorite writers, and science fiction. Shortly after this, he admitted to me that he was actually more than a researcher, he was actually a writer. Perhaps I had heard of him? The name he had given me was a real one, but he wrote under the pseudonym of Ray Bradbury.

I remember feeling as if the floor had dropped out from under me, and my face had to have turned 10 shades of red, because I could feel the blood pumping into my ears so fiercely I'm sure they could have heard it. I wanted to disbelieve him, and perhaps he realized that because he said, very gently.. 'You wouldn't recognize me from the publicity photos on my book jackets, because they take them while I have on a wig, false teeth and other glasses.'

It wasn't the man's fame that had shaken me so deeply, it was more that he was a WRITER, and a writer whom I greatly admired that put me into a panicked frame of mind. And I had invited this man and his traveling companion to my home!

After giving them directions to my house, they departed to go explore more of the town. I begged my boss to let me go home early so that I could find some food (other than homemade baby food, popcorn and Ramen noodles, that is). Long story short, she was unimpressed by the stature of my guest, had never heard of him, and she refused to give me the rest of the shift off.

Something happened in the hours that followed, and it is something I have never been able to sufficiently explain to myself. I went straight from work to the local library and checked out every Ray Bradbury book they had, from Something Wicked This Way Comes to Martian Chronicles and Fahrenheit 451. I headed home, sent the babysitter packing, and headed upstairs to our tiny attic bedroom with my son and the stack of books in tow. Then... I fell asleep, baby on tummy, book in hand.

That evening, I was startled out of a deep sleep by a knocking at my door. I was disoriented at first, but then reality hit.. and I realized that Ray Bradbury (himself!) was at my door. I had hospitality duties to fulfill, and had slept through the preparations. Now this is the part that I still try to dissect.. and still cannot fathom all that was going through my mind, though I remember some of the internal dialogue:

1) My house is shabby, I have no furniture.
2) I have no proper food.
3) I can't interact with this man knowing now how important and influential he is.
4) I won't be able to hide my hunger for what he could potentially do for me, if he chose. (maybe a job? education?)

Along with the negative voices.. there were positive ones striving to be heard:

1) You invited these people to your home, they would not have come if they didn't enjoy your company.
2) You are an intelligent person, and you were capable of conversing with him before you knew who he really was.
3) He may give you unparalleled advice, on a variety of topics.
4) He may be capable of helping you find decent employment, somewhere, somehow.
5) You have the opportunity to entertain a person of staggering intellect, who has a deep empathy for mankind and a love of science and knowledge.

But..

I convinced myself to stay right where I was: crouching, undignified, holding my breath in silence and praying my baby wouldn't wake up and give me away. The voices argued in my head, tears ran down my cheeks, all the while they continued to patiently knock and wait for me to open my door to them. I believe they waited a good 15 minutes before finally leaving. I peeked out the attic window and saw that even while they were slowly driving away, they were watching the door of the house to see if it would open. I sobbed all that evening, and spent the next day in a fog of loss.

I've admitted to 'meeting' a famous person a couple of times, and when asked and I admit that it was Ray Bradbury, generally it doesn't impress anyone. Among those who might be impressed, even awed, I steer clear of the story completely, because I've never wanted to admit how badly I blew it.

It was a very big deal to me at one time. Still is, though the reasons have changed over the years. I was honored to have met him, I do regret that I lacked the self esteem, maturity and courage to invite him into my house.

These days.. I'm still broke, I still don't keep 'company' grade food around the house.. but I have become less self-conscious, less introverted. I wouldn't be ashamed to invite anyone into my home, even if all I had on hand was popcorn and Ramen noodles.

I've figured out that the only things that truly matter in my life are the relationships I have with other people. I'm sorry that I missed a wonderful opportunity to get to know the man behind the amazing stories I've loved for so long. When I read his books today, I still feel a tiny sting of regret, though it's soothed somewhat by the thought that he would definitely have understood my behavior, and might have tried to alleviate my discomfort had he known.

If I had it to do over, I'd choke that negative voice and invite Mr. Bradbury and friend right in, shabby house be damned! I'd offer them a glass of ice water, put on some music and start making a batch of popcorn. I'd forget about worries over the future and hopeful expectations, and just enjoy the company.

Mr. Bradbury.. if you ever read this, the rain check still stands.

Cop says legalize, not decriminalize.

Norm Stamper was chief of the Seattle Police Department from 1994 - 2000. He is the author of 'Breaking Rank.'

How Legalizing Drugs Will End the Violence. July 28, 2006

Leave the Dopers Alone. October 20, 2005

You are 58% stoner You are a fairly regular stoner. You were probably the kid who was always smoking up at the back corner of the parking lot of your high school. You like experimenting with other stuff – although you are too clever to really get addicted to anything. Take this quiz at QuizUniverse.com

The Dangers of a Personal God

Judaism, Christianity, and -- to a lesser extent -- Islam have all developed the idea of a personal God, so we tend to think that this ideal represents religion at its best. The personal God has helped monotheists to value the sacred and inalienable rights of the individual and to cultivate an appreciation of human personality. The Judeo-Christian tradition has thus helped the West to acquire the liberal humanism it values so highly. These values were originally enshrined in a personal God who does everything that a human being does: he loves, judges, punishes, sees, hears, creates and destroys as we do. Yahweh began as a highly personalized deity with passionate human likes and dislikes. Later he became a symbol of transcendence, whose thoughts were not our thoughts and whose ways soared above our own as the heavens tower above the earth. The personal God reflects an important religious insight: that no supreme value can be less than human. Thus personalism has been an important and - for many - an indispensable stage of religious and moral development. The prophets of Israel attributed their own emotions and passions to God; Buddhists and Hindus had to include a personal devotion to avatars of the supreme reality. Christianity made a human person the center of the religious life in a way that was unique in the history of religion: it took the personalism inherent in Judaism to an extreme. It may be that without some degree of this kind of identification and empathy, religion cannot take root.

Yet a personal God can become a grave liability. He can be a mere idol carved in our own image, a projection of our limited needs, fears and desires. We can assume that he loves what we love and hates what we hate, endorsing our prejudices instead of compelling us to transcend them. When he seems to fail to prevent a catastrophe or seems even to desire a tragedy, he can seem callous and cruel. A facile belief that a disaster is the will of God can make us accept things that are fundamentally unacceptable. The very fact that, as a person, God has a gender is also limiting: it means that the sexuality of half the human race is sacralized at the expense of the female and can lead to neurotic and inadequate imbalance in human sexual mores. A personal God can be dangerous, therefore. Instead of pulling us beyond our limitations, "he" can encourage us to remain complacently within them; "he" can make us as cruel, callous, self-satisfied and partial as "he" seems to be. Instead of inspiring compassion that should characterize all advanced religion, "he" can encourage us to judge, condemn and marginalize. It seems, therefore, that the idea of a personal God can only be a stage in our religious development. The world religions all seem to have recognized this danger and have sought to transcend the personal conception of supreme reality.

A History of God: The 4,000-Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, by Karen Armstrong

Chapter 7: The God of the Mystics

Buoyancy

Love has taken away my practices
and filled me with poetry.

I tried to keep quietly repeating,
No strength but yours,
but I couldn't.

I had to clap and sing.
I used to be respectable and chaste and stable,
but who can stand in this strong wind
and remember those things?

A mountain keeps an echo inside itself.
That's how I hold your voice.

I am scrap wood thrown in your fire,
and quickly reduced to smoke.

I saw you and became empty.
This emptiness, more beautiful than existence,
it obliterates existence, and yet when it comes,
existence thrives and creates more existence!

The sky is blue. The world is a blind man
squatting on the road.

But whoever sees your emptiness
sees beyond blue and beyond the blind man.

A great soul hides like Muhammad, or Jesus,
moving through a crowd in a city
where no one knows him.

To praise is to praise
how one surrenders
to the emptiness.

To praise the sun is to praise your own eyes.
Praise, the ocean. What we say, a little ship.

So the sea-journey goes on, and who knows where!
Just to be held by the ocean is the best luck
we could have. It's a total waking up!

Why should we grieve that we've been sleeping?
It doesn't matter how long we've been unconscious.

We're groggy, but let the guilt go.
Feel the motions of tenderness
around you, the buoyancy.

~Rumi~

No Place to Hide

The Daily Show's Jon Stewart interviews No Place to Hide author Robert O'Harrow, Jr.  You can watch the clip here.

The official site offers a 'Multimedia Investigation by Robert O'Harrow, Jr. and the Center for Investigative Reporting'.

Read the final chapter of No Place to Hide online, or listen to author interviews, read reviews and interviews of major players. 

And to further deepen your paranoia, why not check out the different theological interpretations of the number 666 on the Wiki entry on 'Number of the Beast'.

I'm trying to be lighthearted, doesn't seem to be working.  I love the Daily Show for making me laugh at the things that keep me awake at night.