Foolcrow

?

one of those got to be seen to be believed things

Something has been happening to honeybees.

Not long ago, I found myself sitting at the edge of a field with a bear and thirty or forty thousand very angry bees. The bear was there because of the bees. The bees were there because of me, and why I was there was a question I found myself unable to answer precisely.

…

Honeybees are the only animals besides humans known to have a representational language: they convey to one another the location of food by dancing. When the queen lays an egg, she is able to choose its sex. Males, known as drones, perform no useful function except to mate. They are loutish and filthy, and the workers—sterile females—tolerate their presence for a few months a year, then systematically murder them. A single pound of clover honey represents the distilled nectar of some 8.7 million flowers. In a week, a productive hive can add seventy pounds of honey to its stores.

…

The mysterious ailment was a new disease, or it was a response to drought, or to stress, or to toxins. According to one widely reported hypothesis, cell-phone transmissions were disrupting the bees’ navigational abilities. (Few experts took the cell-phone conjecture seriously; as one scientist said to me, “If that were the case, Dave Hackenberg’s hives would have been dead a long time ago.”)

…

“Pollinator decline is one form of global change that actually does have credible potential to alter the shape and structure of the terrestrial world.”

Read Stung: Where have all the bees gone? by Elizabeth Kolbert, August 6, 2007, The New Yorker

What it felt like to be a child, perhaps.

Is the woman in the picture spinning clockwise or counter-clockwise?

Are you sure? Keep looking.

It gets better. With a little practice you can change the direction of the spin.

Taken from Mighty Optical Illusions.

Gap-toothed alchemist
crushes cigarette
under calloused obscene scorcerer’s feet.

They don’t make virgins anymore,
he cries,
four more steps to go!

Coin-fed prophet
mumbles invocation,
forestalls impending doom alone.

The pot is pissed in true,
he cries,
five more steps to go!

Psychic nomad
speaking words of wisdom,
to a congregation in flight.

What it is - let it be,
he cries,
six more steps to go!

Decrepit ontologist
sleeping in shit-stained cardboard
dreams of the beginning of the world.

NOTHING IS TRUE - EVERYTHING IS PERMITTED
he cries,
seven more steps to go!

there is none but the many and nowhere but the now - this is the way to the stars if only you can climb the stairs to find them - the matter of the matter is in a state of flux and one of these days you’re gonna get your due - the rain drops lightly over the setting sun as it relocates across the boulevard, waiting to be paid - who shall claim this inheritance? none but the children of the frank and the daring to live as you would have it - this is the morning of the day - cease what you will and steal the package as it contains a secret message being delivered only now when you can’t see it - and why is that you ask why it is as it is? no more shall you pass through these gates on the road to your holy house - aha, you seem to invoke the fumes of the sacred in your bowels, it seeps out and through the walls that were electrified by your brazenness - the insane do not speak, they prophetically exhume the dead souls that we carry in our hearts only to be exorcised against our will - the silver and gold of your tongue is the fuselage of your dreams and it may not come to fruition - these proclamations are not uttered, they shriek across your forehead with an agony splendid throughout the land - horizons are askew as the weak wander by the watering place and sip slowly of the source of your pain - know not what you will and accept that this, too, shall ever cease to amaze, not withstanding the fleet which sinks deep - jowls look over the bay - words fall as weeds reign true - as it seeps into your eyes the blood never dies - do we reek? may it all be in your brain for now is the time - dancing as we plunder we sing out the answers that have been created for us in the midst of the brews being drunk with fervor - handsome beings will always wonder where the food has been before devouring it wholeheartedly in the meadows of your mind - howl your name over the significant wallows of pleasure, screams of hope, pockets of dope. majesty delivers no promise to your bedside but only the streams. concede your fiends to their prisons where the stumbling blocks live. the monthly flood is not your burden it is your joy, your onus, your great work, your true vision in it’s vilest and purest form - willows sleep along the path you take — wake them now - miss the blossoms and drink the fruit but never steal the eyes, behooved they may be, they will always induce your panic if you have not gleaned the meaning from the stones - is there no humor in your graves and why have you not remembered the weariness of your descent? harmonious discontent bears you up well in the wake of the cotton-mouthed viper - vain is a mad dog veering off, veering under, veering away from shallow rivers to bed. weep not, for it is I who have called you here - weep never more on this page for it is I who have callused hands - weep not - weep no more - my tears have singed the red curtains which drape the casket gloriously. the time is now and the wisdom yours and we shall never the twain meet in this world - upon your throne of ashes I have sat - in your arms I have whispered to the muses that I must be left alone, I must not enter your realm, you will not know me — thus spake the sparrow - thus it must be so - this is the last - weary-eyed I sneak past you in your clamor for comfort - it is I who must betray, it is I who have heard the pain, it is I who holds you down, it is I who frees your soul, it is I, the sparrow - the oleander may creep over your shoulder but do not fear it. the dandelion is ferocious and yours - sweet-smelling pines stand tall where once they walked - no, it is not meant to be forgotten - will it away if you must but it shall always appear three paces behind - hallow me but do not follow, for your faith shall burn it’s offering once more - never look, never seek, if at first you don’t wish to dream. bleeding, I leave you - spewing, they confused us - it must ever be so.

The Devil extends his hand
up from the water
to the poolside Angel
dressed in a white terry cloth robe.

The other guests fall silent.
Ignoring the splash they stare into their drinks
as if trying to remember
why they bothered to come at all.

The Angel extends her wing
up from the water
to the poolside Devil
dressed in a crimson three piece suit.

on the wall
in my home
there is a mirror

the mirror
once
was cracked

when
every morning
I looked in the mirror
I saw a different face

then
the glass came
out of the frame
and landed on the floor
in jigsaw puzzle pieces

every day
I glue a piece of glass
back in the frame

now
in the morning
when I look in the mirror
I see a little more
of my self

Forever glory the and power the
and kingdom the is thine for
evil from us deliver
but temptation into not us lead
and us against trespass who those forgive we
as trespasses our us forgive
and bread daily our day this us give
heaven in is it as earth on
done be will thy
come kingdom thy
name thy be hallowed
heaven in art who father our

cityscape
rising to clouds
a blight

When an audience enters they expect a story. While they’ll never admit it they usually want a moral. They often want to be scared a little bit. They always want to laugh. They like platitudes. They are entertained by curious juxtapositions. They want desperately to identify

The story can be based on real life or it can be made up. It should have some amount of plausibility while maintaining a certain sense of fascination.

There are many morals to choose from. They need to be able to be interpreted fairly liberally. Not preachy but still having a sense of higher order.

People like tension. they like to grip their seats. this does not mean they want to be horrified or grossed out. A slight taste of either is ok but not necessary.

Laughter is the favorable way to relieve tension. Not much needs to be said in favor of humor. It’s pretty obvious isn’t it?

A platitude is a shallow remark most often spoken with a grave sense of seriousness and importance. This allows the audience to feel slightly superior all the while being able to secretly agree with what is being said.

Who doesn’t? Curious juxtapostitions make otherwise insignificant things or events appear interesting.

For without identity what (or who) are we? Are we not one?

(for Robert Earl with Love)

In the beginning was the word
and the word was RobÕt Earl.
A live wire from the streets.
A direct hit to the heart.

Word be,
he be cool, be cool,
he be hot.

A warrior of the human kind,
he declares his legiance
with a scarf of calico colors
on a Monkish head

He be cool, be cool.
Word,
he be hot.

The vamp of Hunter St.
is an elegy
spilled in cursive neon blood
on the sidewalks of our minds.

He be cool, be cool,
he be scat,
he be one cool cat

Those who read him
are sure to note
the blackest of cats
is a panther.
Sleek, savage, satin and ready.
Looking for prey
but not really wanting an answer.

He be cool, be cool, be cool,
he be hot, be hot,
he be gee be,
he be bop!

I.

Easy to swallow,
hard to digest,
it has a slight metallic flavor
reminiscent of…

II.

Trite as written,
cliche when said.
Whispered in a lonely room,
profound.

III.

That: how it was.
This: how it is.
Then: it will come to be
forever.

Four cat fish
heads
nailed to a pole.

Carapace,
rusted steel,
grey leather,
white bone and
black tar.

Four cat fish
heads
hanging from nails.

Setting: outdoors in a clearing, an alter with crucifix on the west side, an entrance to the space from the east side, the entrance is open to the east so that the morning sun shines in,

Characters:

Ox, ur, (rune)
Easter Bunny, I
Ishtar, 8 pointed star
Chorus

Synopsis:

There is a rabbit, born of egg, sleeping. He wakes and sees his shadow. Thinks his shadow is a horned monster so he runs and hides.

The ox arrives to be crucified. He comes willingly from the morning star which is venus. He tells that he was sent by Ishtar, the goddess of love and sex. He brings bread and a torch. He has come to celebrate the birth of spring, the coming of the light, and the death of winter which is the receding of the dark. He rallies the chorus into a morning prayer to Ishtar.

the chorus faces the east and speaks a sun prayer

The ox then instructs the chorus to gather wood for a fire which he starts with his torch. He then makes bread for the chorus to eat. Pieces of his flesh.

The rabbit comes out, sees the ox and thinks it’s the monster from his vision. He runs and hides.

The ox marks the foreheads of the people with ashes from the fire but not the rabbit. The marks are a sign to Ishtar that they have obeyed the ox.

Ishtar arrives, ” a woman arrayed with the sun, and the moon beneath her feet, and on her head was a crown of twelve stars, and she was pregnant,” sees the marks on the foreheads and approves. When she sees the rabbit with no mark she is pissed.

The rabbit is crucified. The ox delivers a prayer during the crucifixion. “Bless, O’ Lord, we beseech thee, this Thy creature, born of egg, that it may become a wholesome symbol to Thy faithful servants of the coming of the light which is Spring.”

Ishtar departs leaving a basket of eggs.

The ox delivers the moral of the story.

And so it was. And so it is.

Q: What do you get when you put two of Eastre’s hares in a fiery pit?

A: Hot, cross bunnies.

Hot Cross Buns! Hot Cross Buns!
One a penny,
Two a penny,
Hot Cross Buns!
If you have no daughters,
Pray give them to your sons!
One a penny,
Two a penny,
Hot Cross Buns!

the esater bunny must be crucified because…
he is a rebel
challenges authority
resists the government
speaks out against hypcorisy

he goes willingly to the cross
to be sacrificed for the coming age
he urges people to eat hot cross buns

the playboy bunny is a cross
between the easter bunny and eostre the sex goddess

Beyond a few small special interest blogs I don’t participate in many online discussions but I read a lot and am always dismayed (but never surprised) at the low quality of what passes for debate. Except for the rare moderated ones, most blogs that have a substantial amount of visitor-posted commentary are usually soiled with vast quantities of ignorant, illiterate vitriol and nonsense. Especially abused are the minority voices: liberals on right wing political blogs; wingnuts on liberal political blogs; dark skinned people on most blogs and, oddly enough, women on tech blogs in particular but also pretty much anywhere else they dare to participate, usually with infantile (yet hateful and sometimes threatening) sexual harassment.

One recipient of such verbal molestation is Jessica Valenti and another is Kathy Sierra.

I’m generally in the camp of ignoring assholes in the belief they’ll eventually go away but there’s always someone willing to take the bait and egg them on and so the crap escalates to the point that reasonable people either get drowned out or go away. A partial solution is for blog owners to moderate their comments but that’s hard work on a large blog and also largely resisted on an idealistic, albeit naive, belief in “free speech”. Not an easy situation but one that, if it doesn’t evolve, renders the community aspects of the ‘net inconsequential.

For those wondering why the recent politically motivated firings of several US Attorneys is such an important scandal I suggest a quick read of an op-ed piece in the Los Angeles Times by Joseph Rich who was chief of the voting section in the Justice Department’s civil right division from 1999 to 2005.

In a sense, the firings are just par for the course for an administration that has taken cronyism to new extremes but it’s really just a small indication of a much larger and more sinister pattern of behavior that is intended to manipulate elections for the continuing occupation of the American government by a hard core group of extreme conservative autocrats.

Regardless of who wins elections, the sitting government and it’s civil servants are supposed to represent the best interests of the people but the Bush Justice Department has been hijacked as a political tool. Rich writes…

Over the last six years, this Justice Department has ignored the advice of its staff and skewed aspects of law enforcement in ways that clearly were intended to influence the outcome of elections.

It has notably shirked its legal responsibility to protect voting rights. From 2001 to 2006, no voting discrimination cases were brought on behalf of African American or Native American voters. U.S. attorneys were told instead to give priority to voter fraud cases, which, when coupled with the strong support for voter ID laws, indicated an intent to depress voter turnout in minority and poor communities.

At least two of the recently fired U.S. attorneys, John McKay in Seattle and David C. Iglesias in New Mexico, were targeted largely because they refused to prosecute voting fraud cases that implicated Democrats or voters likely to vote for Democrats.

Pretty scary stuff even if you’re not already paranoid.

H/T to TPMMuckraker.com.

Also see this impressive timeline of the US Attorney scandal.

And here Media Matters dispenses with some of the falsehoods that have been put forth in defense of the firings.

I have no idea who I’m going to vote for next year what with there being no real contenders yet but I love this ad…

update - CJR Daily has an interesting article about this ad.

A warm mouth
on my cock,
not moving.

Gap-toothed alchemist
crushes cigarette
under calloused obscene scorcerer’s feet.

They don’t make virgins anymore,
he cries,
four more steps to go!

Coin-fed prophet
mumbles invocation,
forestalls impending doom alone.

The pot is pissed in true,
he cries,
five more steps to go!

Psychic nomad
speaking words of wisdom,
to a congregation in flight.

What it is, let it be,
he cries,
six more steps to go!

Decrepit ontologist
sleeping in shit-stained cardboard
dreams of the beginning of the world.

Nothing is true, everything is permitted,
he cries,
seven more steps to go!

The Lord IS my german shepherd
I will not heel

He maketh me lie down in green pastures
He plays with me in the still waters
He restoreth my bowl
He leadeth me down the path of re-union
for boogie’s sake

Yea, though I walk through the valley
in the shadow of the cities of sin
I shall fear no judgement
For Art is within me
And my rod, my staff, it comforts me

Surely hipness and mirth shall follow me
all the days of my life
And I will dwell in the house of boogie
forever

ring

hello

hi

hi

whatch doin?

stuff

yeah?

yeah

do you wanna have phone sex?

what?

do you wanna have phone sex?

who is this?

Georgette

I thought you were someone else

do you wanna have sex with her?

no

do you wanna have sex with me?

this is wierd. who are you?

Georgina

what is your real name?

Mary

why are you calling me?

I wanna have phone sex

I don’t understand

tell me what you like

what do you mean?

tell me what you want

you go first

what do you want me to do?

tell me what you want

what do you want me to do?

who are you?

Angel

why are you calling me?

I wanna have phone sex

is this a joke?

no, I’m taking my clothes off

click

I’m one of those who didn’t follow his dream. I lived my life with no regrets but still there was this big fantasy that I used to have about what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be, and I must have either gotten too lazy to do anything about it or I changed my mind.

I died happy - well, no, not happy, but content. I was never very happy. But I was relaxed most of the time and I appreciated my latter days, especially the company, the food, the wine and the warmth. I was one of those reluctantly content people who didn’t really have anything to complain about. Still, I never quite could shake the sadness, the pain, from a troubled and disillusioning childhood. Had I been, I couldn’t have admitted being, happy.

As for the dream… it used to figure prominently in my plans, my aspirations. But as I grew older, as my experiences broadened, I saw it less as a directive and more as a placating escapist fantasy, designed to elevate me above my station (whatever that meant). I didn’t sell the dream — I forsook it, no, I renounced it. Time afer time, when the crossroads came before me, I chose the avenue of, how do I say it… intuitive practicality? Choosing that which seemed logical and which didn’t contradict my innate sense of direction over the lofty intentions of hope, ambition and desire.

Slowly I turned, step by step, inch by inch (Niagra Falls!), away from the dream, the fantasy, and towards a comfortable and attainable existence, valuing simplicity, humility, ordinariness even, over fame, exaltation, fortune and… beatificity.

Can this be reconciled, this betrayal, this abandonment of the hallmark — the made-for-tv — platitude, of never losing sight of the one thing that is most unrealistic, most distracting, and most surely destined to become tarnished by the blemish of distance and fog, with the attainment of… peace, I suppose?

Is this what they used to call “selling out”? If so, I’m not sure I got my money’s worth and I’m not sure I’d do it any differently, again.

The Dead Letter Office

A man dressed in black is pointing a gun at a man dressed in white.

Everything.

Money?

Everything else.

What?

What you have.

Tell me what you want.

You tell me.

Who are you?

I’m the president of the United Fucking States. I’m King Shit. I’m your bad dream. I’m an Unidentified Flying Object. I’m your ticket out of here. I’m your boss.

Tell me what you want.

I want what you have.

Tell me what you want.

I want you.

Why?

I want you.

I don’t understand.

I want you to be my hostage.

I am your hostage.

I want you to be mine.

It’s your gun.

You too, can be whatever you want to be.

Drop the gun.

Be what you want me to be.

Never mind.

Sing to me.

What do you want?

Everything.

Things?

I want what you have.

Tell me what you want.

A bitch in black leather.

Oh my god.

Why?

I’m not like that.

Shoot your television. I want the bitch in black leather.

Every once in a while she will come.

The world still goes round and round and round.

What do you want?

What do you want?

I want you to stop.

I want you to stop.

What do you want me to stop?

What do you want?

I want you… to stop.

Stop.

Who are you?

I’m Billy the Fucking Kid.

Billy wasn’t all bad.

Neither was the man who shot me.

Garrett.

Call me Pat.

Pat. What do you want?

Have you got a knife?

No, I have no weapon.

Have you got a knife?

No, I have no weapon.

Why don’t you use it.

I don’t have one.

What?

A knife.

Use it.

I don’t have one.

Where’s my knife?

Is that it? In your hand?

Take this knife from me.

The gun?

Use the fucking knife.

The gun?

Killed me in my stocking feet.

Who are you?

I’m the meanest son of a bitch.

What do you want?

I want you…

What do you want?

I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.

What do you want?

I’m just doing what I’m told.

Who tells you?

I’m the good guy.

Who are you?

I’m an Unidentified Flying Object.

It is at this moment the universe comes crashing down upon my shoulders. I can hear someone calling my name. What is that around my neck?

Asshole.

What?

Asshole.

What did you say?

I wasn’t talking to you.

This is real?

I said I wasn’t talking to you.

What do you want from me?

I want what you have.

I’m tired.

Asshole.

It’s all one big misunderstanding.

Asshole.

No, you’ve made a mistake.

I’m Billy the Fucking Kid.

I wasn’t talking to you.

I’m a primal scream.

No, you’ve made a mistake.

I’m a primal scream.

I’m tired.

I’ll never let you go.

I’m tired.

I have what you want.

Who are you and what do you want from me?

I’m tall Pat Garrett.

I’m almost asleep. Does your arm ever get tired?

The man in black fires the gun at the man in white, too close to miss. The man in white turns and walks away. The man in black points the gun at the audience.

Blackout.

[originally posted in 1996 so some of the references are dated]

Receiving a jury summons in the mail is reacted to in much the same way as getting pulled over for a traffic violation. Why me and how can I get out of it? Friends and coworkers immediately respond by offering condolences and wishing you luck in getting out of it. They’re also quick with tips and suggestions to that end.

I met Abbie Hoffman in 1987. We were backstage after a San Francisco Mime Troupe performance in Ann Arbor, Michigan. The talk was mostly small but Abbie somehow managed to impress a couple things on me. One had to do with Nicaragua and the other was about the jury system. He thought that serving on a jury was one of the only times that the average citizen was able to participate in our “democracy” in a meaningful way. The powers assigned to a jury are absolute: if the chosen twelve (or six, as in certain cases) can come to agreement, they hold power, not only over the defendant, but over the entire legal system. They have the legal power and right to decide not only if a law was broken but also if it matters. It is perfectly acceptable for a jury to decide that, in a particular case, the law is unjust or irrelevant.

So why do we act as if we’ve just been pulled over for speeding when the summons picks our mailbox to drop into? Why are we so hesitant to finally wield the power of authority over our fellow citizens that we so often see treated unfairly or unjustly? When it came my turn I went downtown wondering if I could afford to take the time off of work to do my civic duty. That is what it all seems to come down to, isn’t it? Taxes, eating habits, recycling, speaking out against oppression - the decisions we make daily in our lives seem sometimes to be more based in convenience and comfort than conscious and meaningful participation in the world.

Sitting in a courtroom, number 27 out of 40, I had a lot of time to consider how I was going to respond to the selective questioning. Having seriously considered giving the same manipulative answers that most of the respondents appeared to be giving, I then reconsidered the angle and realized I could just as easily manipulate my way in to the box as out of it. Meanwhile, the kinds of questions being asked began to suggest what kind of a trial this was going to be.

“Have you or any person in your life been touched by drugs?

“Do you own a gun?

“Have you ever been the victim of a crime?

“If yes, what did you do?

“Do you know anyone who has committed or attempted to commit suicide?

“If yes, what method did they use?”

OK, so I’ve figured out this is probably gonna be a murder trial with the defense being that the victim committed suicide. Yikes. Do I really want to finagle my way on to this one? Not nearly as cool (and potentially righteous) as a drug bust or a consensual crime. I’d be proud to go home after declaring a marijuana smoker or sodomite NOT GUILTY, but a murder trial…

For a moment it became moot because they just picked potential juror number 26 to be actual juror number 12. Fate intervened, or so I thought.

“Number 27, will you please stand up. Have you or any person in your life been touched by drugs?”

I’m confused. Why are they asking me questions? Isn’t 12 the magic number? Did I count wrong? Chucking the manipulative possibilities I decide to answer honestly and see what happens.

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“I have done drugs.”

“Which drugs?”

“Most of them.”

Suppressing a smile the State “accepts this juror to be the alternate” with “No objection,” from the Defense.

Well whaddaya know? I’m the 13th juror. Drugs must not be central to the case.

It took all morning but they managed to pick their jury before lunch. After our first of many admonitions not to discuss the case we were allowed to leave for lunch. When we came back, the defendant - a young, well dressed, black male - was in the room and the charges were announced. Felony murder. The judge, a matronly woman named Alice Bonner explained that we would hear the opening arguments and be out by 4:00 PM. The presentation of evidence and the questioning of witnesses would begin the following morning.

The Prosecutor begins. Her authoritative voice and outraged manner make me immediately sympathetic to the defendant. Her words describing a heinous crime committed by a heartless, cunning, and savage human being seem exaggerated and manipulative. The defendant looked like he could be one of my daughter’s teen aged friends. I also can’t help but notice that this case is superficially black vs. white. The Prosecutor and her two assistants are white. The defendant, his lawyer and her assistant are all black. The victim was black and the jury evenly mixed. I don’t really think this case is going to be about race but I can’t help but be affected by the black vs. white appearance of the key players. I am definitely biased against “the man” even if he happens to be an attractive well dressed and articulate woman. But also wanting to be open minded I promise myself to wait until the end of the trial before making up my mind. In truth, I’m afraid of the awesome ramifications of that thought - that my voice may have to decide what happens to this young man sitting before us. Of course, as an alternate juror, I may never actually arrive at that place. I begin to hope that I don’t.

The defense comes on strong drawing a scenario with lots of unknowns and plausabilities. If creating a shadow of doubt is her goal she’s right on the mark from the outset. She’s much less dramatic than the Prosecutor, hence she seems more sure of herself. She pumps us up as intelligent and rational beings who will surely do the right thing.

The following morning, when the prosecution offered the meat and potatoes of their case I found myself feeling more ambivalent. I was at once fascinated by the drama of the unfolding of the evidence and repulsed by it’s graphic nature and the tragedy of a young girl shot in the head. It was all very much like being in a television courtroom drama. I’m surprised at how much the real thing resembles the scripted, or is it the other way around?

The next few days I was a yo-yo. For every expert witness that the prosecution presented to convince us to condemn, the defense offered one of it’s own to change our minds. All the witnesses appeared to have been well rehearsed giving the whole trial an air of unbelievability. At times it was agony to listen to the rambling and belabored speeches by the major players. Still, my attention rarely wandered and not once did I yearn for it to be over. I understood why both lawyers were prone to make the same points over and over again - they knew we were hungry for any fact or final clue that would lead us to the truth so they kept trying to sell us their own.

I’ve always taken pride in my ability to think rationally and to deduce quickly but here I was stymied. There were just too many gray areas and viable plausibilities to be certain of anything. The phrase, “reasonable doubt” kept echoing in my head until something happened that caused the entire room to pause. The defense attorney referred to the dead woman as a “murder victim.” She was quick to recover with a likely explanation that she is most often playing the other side of a case like this. It was also one of many blunders of speech that everybody seemed to make with alarming frequency so it was possible to dismiss it as innocent tongue twisting. Still, before that moment I think I was leaning toward a reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt, but afterwards, I felt a reasonable doubt of his innocence. Of course, I wasn’t sure if there was a difference.

The trial ended on a Thursday afternoon. None of the 12 “sitting” jurors had dropped out so it was very unlikely that I would have to make a final decision. I wasn’t sorry about that but I would have given anything to be able to watch and listen to the deliberations. Maybe someone else’s observations would convince me one way or the other. Maybe one of them could answer some of the questions I had about trivial little details that would cast events in a clearer light. Instead, the judge dismissed me with a promise to call as soon as a verdict came in - she was sure I’d want to know. Wouldn’t you?

Almost sadly, and after receiving the familiar admonition to keep my lips zipped, I went home to wait. To wait and to wonder what really happened. To wonder what really happened that put this young woman into an early grave. To wonder who killed Nicole Simpson-Brown. Think you know? How about Jon-Benet Ramsey? Did her mother do it? Her brother? Someone else? What about JFK? Got a theory? Can you prove it?

All I can do is wonder how the hell we ever convict anybody of anything. Reasonable doubt? I’m a reasonable person and I’m full of doubts. I’m more certain of my doubts than I am of my ability to judge. Is it unreasonable of me to conclude that the truth is elusive and ethereal? Listening to a point by point pro and con presentation of the facts only ensured that the window of events was too murky to be seen through clearly. I’m not sad, I’m relieved that it is not I who sits in judgement of another. I’m not sure if it’s what you meant, Abbie, but I think I’d have to let ‘em all go free. Wouldn’t you?

Wail, Mary, afloat in space
the Gourd is of thee
Blessed art thou amongst planets
and blessed is the juice of thy womb, it Please Us
Lunar Fairy
Mother, Sister and Daughter to all,
play with us winners,
now and ’til the hour of our death.
Take Ten

How many of you have seen Danny Gaddis this weekend?

These last couple of days, I’ve been making jokes about Danny not being here. I could only make those jokes because I knew he WAS here and that he will ALWAYS be here.

We gather here today to give honor and pay tribute to Danny Gaddis also known as Melvis, Thunder, Egad. When I first heard of him — and who hadn’t heard of him before actually meeting him — he was E. Gad, folk artist and poet. When I met him, he was Danny Gaddis, partner to Sara, father to Seth. As I got to know him better I discovered Blakmelvis, singer, songwriter, entertainer. Finally, after knowing him for years, I discovered his visionary personality, Thunderbolt, the prophesier.

Thunder Beings were the first Gods and Goddesses worshipped by humans. As the bringers of both rain and fire, they came to represent the divine union and ultimately, the marriage of the female and male within each of us.

In the Oriental tradition, Thunder Beings are the Lords and Mothers of enlightenment who awaken the earth through sound and light — thunder and lightening. Likewise, Thunder Beings use sound and light — name and image — to awaken human minds.

After hearing Danny relate one of his dreams, a friend of his, Beautiful Painted Arrow, also known as Joseph Rael, told Danny that he was a Thunder Dreamer and called him Thunderbolt.

In Native American tradition, to dream of thunder or lightening, is to become Heyoka — whether one wants to or not. A Heyoka is a sacred clown, an icy-hot, a forward-backwards person, one who stands upside-down. A Heyoka is the embodiment of sorrow and laughter, one who is sacred and ridiculous at the same time. People fear the Heyoka — even as he fears himself.

Danny Gaddis, Egad, Thunderbolt, Blakmelvis — however you knew him, you knew he was a curmudgeon, a crank, a cynic and a contrarian. He was all of those and more but if you put it all together, if you were to describe up Danny with a single concept, it was this; he spoke the truth. Danny Gaddis was the most honest man I have ever known.

I think the best way to honor Danny, perhaps the only way to honor Danny, is to simply try to “act right, fer christ’s sake.” If you were ever yelled at by Danny Gaddis — if you ever felt his ire — it was very likely because Danny saw the divine in you and it frustrated him to think you might not see or know of your own true nature. If Danny had a lot of personal boundaries, it was because he found it difficult to see the separation between you and he, you and me, us and them. He found it difficult to see the distinction between you and me and the divine within each of us and so he needed those boundaries to live in this imperfect world.

I was lucky enough to be with Danny on his final night. When I arrived, Danny was sitting up in his bed. When he saw me he lifted his arm and said, “come here and give me a hug.” I knew right then that this was going to be Danny’s last night on earth. I don’t have time to tell you the full story of that wonderful night but I want to at least tell you this: As most of you know, one of Danny’s special talents was an ability to make up a song on the spot. A friend later told me that she had heard that Danny sang one final improvised song on his deathbed that lasted fifteen minutes and told the story of his life. Well, I was there for that song. It wasn’t fifteen minutes long and, in fact, it was hard to understand what he was singing due to his pain and medication. But sing he did. His last few conscious hours were spent talking, laughing, singing, chanting and making plans for this weekend. He went to sleep at 9 pm — sung to sleep by his wife and friends — and he never woke up. He breathed his last breath at 9 am the following morning with his loved ones by his side.

I had to leave soon after to come back to the city and teach. The drive home was long and I was full of grief. Grief, the curry of emotions, is not an emotion in it’s own right. I don’t mind feeling grief because it is made up of so many other emotions; sorrow and sadness, the pain of loss and abandonment, fear, these are all components of grief, but the tears of grief are also inspired by laughter, happiness and love. We cannot grieve without having once loved. And I loved Danny Gaddis.

When I arrived at my studio and was composing myself to be able to teach a class, the first student who walked in the door asked me how I was doing that afternoon… what was I to say? Should I smile and tell her that I was doing fine or should I tell her the truth? I looked her in the eye and I said, “I’m grieving today, but it’s OK. I feel sad but I am also filled with joy and gratitude because I knew Danny Gaddis and was his friend for just a little while.”

gadfly

We had our Stormhoek dinner Saturday night. Ms. Oh So Much hosted and the usual gaggle of fools attended with one extra.

Stormhoek is a South African winery. They sent us three bottles. They must not be familiar with our blog and our enthusiasm for drinking wine. Not that we’re unappreciative. It was generous of them to send us anything at all and we’re grateful. It was more than graciousness on their part. It was a near brilliant marketing plan. We wish them well. Since they sent us a sauvignon blacn, a pinot grigio and a pinotage we bought one more of each and did some comparing.

First up was the Stormhoek Western Cape Sauvignon Blanc 2005 which didn’t fare well with most of us. Amy called it “flat” and I agreed. I also detected an unpleasant petroleum taste. The Fink just plain didn’t like it and Mainer Chris (MC) called his first taste, “soapy.” He later elaborated on that saying it, “tasted like a glass of lemon juice out of a glass that was not sufficiently rinsed after it was washed with Dawn.” Now there’s a discriminating palate! I wonder if he truly would have been able to tell if it had been washed in Palmolive instead? Not content to merely insult the wine he had to kill it for all of us with some finality by declaring it also tasting like “vomit through the nose” and he wasn’t even drunk. His parting shot was that it was “worth what we paid for it.” Sorry, Stormhoek. Would it sting less to know that Mrs. Dink, while not loving it, thought it was “definitely not bad?”

In the other corner of the ring was a Simi Sonoma County Sauvignon Blanc 2003 which was well received by most. Amy called it “fruity, uplifting, uncomplicated and delightful.” B.F. Wayne commented on it’s noticeable acidity. Even The Fink, who showed up with a clear bias against anything not red, conceded that it “tastes ok for a crappy white wine.” MC noticed some slight effervescence but he was alone in that. We all agreed that it was much favored over the Stormhoek but I’m beginning to wonder what it means that our tastes are so similar. Do we not have unique preferences? Are we succumbing to group think? Thankfully, Uncle Fucker stepped up and chastised us all with a constipated look on her face and sneered, “all fucking sauvignon blancs taste the fucking same!”

The Stormhoek Pino Grigio 2004(?) fared better than the s.b. MC graciously offered that it had a “nice, even taste.” I think he meant it as a positive but I don’t have a clue what it actually means. I tasted pear, honeydew and some mild earthy minerality. Most everybody agreed that it was generally a nice and easy wine.

BY contrast the Kris (Italian) Pinot Grigio wasn’t so nice. MC dubbed it “tart” to which Mrs. Dink added, “too!” I thought it was thin with a finish so slight the taste disappeared before I finished swallowing. Amy called it “‘kris’py” but she was just trying to be cute.

As the evening continued and more bottles opened our notes became more sporadic and thin.

To be continued…