Friday, December 7, 2007




Every post with the label 'Quagmire' in the title is an excerpt from a story that has been bouncing around my head for the past five years, now. In my hectic and unpredictable college days, it became harder and harder to find the needed free time to transfer this story from my imagination into words. Unfortunately, due to my unfortunate emotional circumstances of the past several months, I have been unable to contribute more, for the longest time. I continue in my Herculean effort to overcome this severe impediment to my writing ability, and ask for people's thoughts and prayers in doing so.
For me, the two hardest parts of writing fiction are creating dialogue (narrative being my strong spot) and telling the story in proper chronological sequence. Every so often I've managed to record key scenes from different times in the story. Some of which I've written in Prose form. Others in Drama form. And others in Narrative form. The following excerpts represent each of these forms. The large body of the story is still unwritten. I invite potential readers to discern what they can from these bits and pieces.

Quagmire pt. 4. 6 December 2006. Getting Enigmatic


6 December 2006
Getting Enigmatic
Act I scene i


The Hayden clan is shacked up inside a house in Beverly, MA, rented by the World Socialist League, organization-cum-communal sect to which Joe Hayden, 17, belongs. Lodgings are temporary as Joe is constantly moving around Boston and surrounding areas in order to avoid Police surveillance and harassment of his community activism work. It is afternoon/early evening, roughly 4:45-5:15, mid-to-late February, the year is 2000. The weather is cold with gusty wind, and sky is pitch black, outside.
Interior: Danny’s bedroom. Floor is cluttered with books, toys and some radical literature. Danny is aged 9, Joe’s half-brother. He is an introverted child, by nature, with sandy light brown hair in a bowl cut, slight freckles on his upper cheekbones and a shy, but sometimes goofy smile. Nicole is a middle class girl, interested in environmental issues and studying marine biology. She became estranged from her very conservative parents upon meeting Joe, and has since run away to join the League. She is blond-haired, very attractively, built. Lately, she has taken to wearing bandanas around her head.
At this time, Danny is horsing around on the floor with Nicole, 16, Joe’s girlfriend. Joe, Danny and their cousins, Molly and Jonathan, both 8 were all born and raised in the League, which was founded in part by Joe and Danny’s late father, a Vietnam Veteran and former Meatpackers Union organizer. All are orphans. It has not been often that the kids live together with, as they are mostly in the care of the sect’s Connecticut compound and Joe is used to shacking up with friends and different members of the group.
The two are passing the time, roughhousing and whatnot, as Nicole adores her boyfriend’s little brother.
Danny stands, lurches, arms outstretched, toward Nicole, who was lying on the floor ready for him to pounce.



Danny: You are getting very enigmatic.

Nicole: What?

Danny rolls the words off his tongue very slowly, allowing the words to linger, pronouncing the last one with the most prominence.

Danny:
Youuu arrre getting ve-RRY enn-ig-MAT-ic.

Nicole: What do you mean?

Danny: I’m making you get very enigmatic. Like, ‘you are getting very sleepy.’

Nicole: Do you know what ‘enigmatic’ means?

Danny:
It means ‘mysterious.’

Danny pounces. Nicole meets his advance with her own arms outstretched in grabbing the active boy’s hands, valiantly blocking him as he makes his best effort to pin her down. Danny contorts his face into a bulldog expression, struggling to get the better of the older girl. It is not more than two seconds later that Nicole wrestles him to the floor, straddling him, pinning him down with her legs. Danny grunts and giggles as his half-heartedly squirms to free himself.

Nicole: Why would you want to make me mysterious?

Danny:
I want to make everything mysterious. In my world everything’s mysterious.

Nicole sits up and nudges Danny off her. Danny turns away, looks downward. Expression on his face becomes pensive.


Nicole:
Hey, kiddo, are you doing all right?

Danny: Yeah.

Nicole: You sure? ’Cause I just get worried is all.

Danny: I’m fine. Why are you always asking that? I was having fun. Can’t we just keep having fun?

Nicole:
Ok, ok. Sorry, let’s just keep on having fun. All right, I’ve got an idea. How about we read some Calvin and Hobbes books?

Danny: Nah, I want to work on drawing my comic characters. My new guy, ‘Captain Zarod’ is gonna be pretty cool.

Nicole: ‘Zarod?’ What’s that mean?

Danny: Nothing, it’s just a name I made up.

Nicole: Want me to stay and help you come up with stuff?

Danny: That’s okay. Joe’s promised he’d help me out with it later. We’re making the guy so that he’s someone like Robin Hood or Zorro. That way he won’t be all imperialist and stuff like most superheroes.

Nicole: Joe says superheroes are imperialist?

Danny: They’re always out to make the whole world like Fascist Amerikka. They’re “ALL-E-GOR-REES to PAT-ern-alist Amerikkan PRE-TEN-SHUNS.

Nicole: Allegories to paternalist pretensions. That’s what Joe says?

Danny: Yeah.

Nicole:
Wow, you know Danny, I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you talk about anything political.

Danny’s attention is wandering. He looks all around the room and down at the floor. He doesn’t make eye contact. Nicole keeps her words focused straight at his face as she is dedicated to boosting his self-confidence. She keeps talking, despite his obvious waning interest in conversation.


It’s just that I’m aware that you kids’re taught these things by the League. I went to public school. I’m not used to “alternative schooling.” I still got a lot to learn about that. I mean—don’t forget, you know I haven’t had the same kind of education your family has. It hasn’t even been two years that I’ve been with Joe, and Joe’s been trying to show me the way to being a better socialist.

Danny fiddles around with the Legos on the floor.


Hey, Dan, you there? Hello?

Danny: I hear you.

Nicole: Good, just checking. I mean, I hear your cousins repeating every speech Joe makes all the time, but I’ve never been sure you were into all of it.

Danny: Into what?

Nicole: Politics, the revolution. You know.

Danny:
I don’t know what you mean, “into?”

Nicole: I mean, I didn’t know you were interested. Usually I see you with your Legos and fantasy comics.

Danny:
They’re bombing all over Yugoslavia, and those Cuban brown-shirts in Miami want to hold Elian Gonzales prisoner from his father. And the Boston pigs are wailing on Joe and making us move and hide all the time. It’s like Joe says. We gotta stick together for if they come for us.

Nicole: Danny, I feel for exactly what you mean. We were all scared crazy, when those cops jumped Joe outside the rec. center and arrested him. I know you weren’t with us at the time, but I’m sure Molly and Jon told you all about it and they were terrified.

Danny looks up at her, then down again as if, silently acknowledging what she is saying.

But the thing is, I just wonder. Do you ever feel like maybe you worry a little bit too much about what Joe tells you to worry about, when you should leave that worrying up to us and keep on just, I don’t know, doing what you do and have fun?

Danny looks perplexed that Nicole would ask such a question.


Danny: No! I always worry about what Joe tells me to. Why do you say that?

Nicole:
I just…it’s just that…oh never mind.

Danny: I listen to Joe, ’cause Joe’s the best big brother ever and I love him and he loves me and I owe him so much for how he takes care of me and my cousins! And Joe’s always so sad all the time, so when I make him happy, I’m happy.

Nicole smiles sweetly, touched by Danny’s heartfelt dedication.

Nicole: I know…I’m sorry I ever brought it up. Let’s not talk about that anymore.
Oh, well…Hey, I know that in case you really want to impress Joe, you might want to change the guy’s name to ‘Field Marshall Zarod.’ Joe’d get a kick out of that. It sounds more like a revolutionary.

Danny:
Really? Ok, I guess I’ll do that.

Nicole: Well you don’t have to change his name. It was just a suggestion. You don’t have to do it because I suggested it, you know?

Danny: No, it’s okay. I like it. It’ll make Joe happy.

Nicole sighs, gets up and walks toward the door.

Nicole: Ok, I guess I’ll leave you alone then.

Danny retrieves his sketchpad and colored pencils from off the floor next to his bed. Nicole hesitates before exiting.


Nicole: Ok, I’ll let you know when everybody’s home. Then we’ll order pizza. If you want something, you can just call.

Danny: Ok.

Nicole takes a step out the door. Danny calls her before she can exit.

Danny: Nicole?

Nicole: Yeah, hon?

Danny: I’m really glad that you’re here now. I really like it when you stay with us.

Nicole:
I’m glad too. Have a fun sketch time.

Nicole turns once more.


Danny:
Nicole?

Nicole:
Yeah?

Danny:
Power to the people.

Nicole: Power to the people.

Nicole quietly exits, shuts the door behind her. Danny, left on stage, is now completely engrossed in his drawing. Stage is quiet, we focus on Danny drawing and humming for several moments. Stage goes dark.



End of Scene

Joe Lehman 1 May 2003 Quagmire Excerpt 2


Joe Lehman
1 May 2003
Quagmire Excerpt 2



He never did like guns. That was a given. As a younger boy during the schizophrenic periods he spent in rural Maine, he had gladly gone hunting with his “uncles”. He recognized it as a rite of passage and he was always eager to please Brother Ray and Comrades Freddy and Tony. Like any little boy he could never resist the satisfaction of seeing the grown-ups reward him with a smile. Especially since there was never a father there to do that job for him exclusively. He thought back to the rabbit. He never was able to pull the trigger up close. It didn’t matter that he should have, he knew that now. It was already dying, lying there choking its death gurgle, which was surprising, considering by all logic a creature of its size should have been killed instantly. He stood over the thing point blank, his petite quivering nine-year-old hands clutching the rifles trigger. He could feel the breath of the men behind him, hovering over him, gently encouraging him. Of course, he knew that usually meant “be a man” in their minds. He just stood there with his hands shaking, the rifle shaking along with it as a cool spine-tingling gust of wind swept over him. The poor creature’s eyes just begging him, pleading with him, reading nothing but confusion. It did not know what was happening, what it meant that it had been shot, or why. It only took a few seconds for its gurgled breathing to slow down and its heart to stop beating. To him, it felt like slow motion. When it was dead, its eyes never closed, they just continued to stare up at him, only now completely empty. Of course, it was a stupid thing to do. Looking back he probably would have taken the second shot. It seemed to be the more humane thing to do. But then on the other hand, he didn’t see that as making sense. This was a rabbit, not a deer. Another shot would have splattered its guts across the field rendering virtually impossible to clean up and eat. He got the feeling they knew that, and had just wanted him to take the messy second shot for the sake of being manly.

He had always told himself he had always felt superior in his militant prowess to need to carry a gun. In his pride he had felt that guns were somehow beneath him, although he did vocally advocate the right for his people to carry them, as part of his firm belief in the self-determination of poor people. Still he had always felt an individualistic pride at being able to handle himself without the need of a gun, (which was surprising considering his known feelings toward individualism). After all, he had taken care of his body very well over the last few years. The martial arts talent had made him slim and agile, bringing him an inner confidence and peace, a sense of gracefulness. And of course he had used his martial arts moves in many a confrontation over the past few months alone, that some had begun to question the nonviolent stance he had espoused. Of course, he was no fool, he knew there was no point in any inflated pride over his “expert” moves. He remembered the time the previous January when he, as the papers described, “kicked the gun out of the hand of the cop who had surprised him on the street.” That had certainly gone down in lore. The way it actually went down was, he had been strolling one afternoon with his girlfriend, his little brother, and little cousins. A passing couple had asked called out to them for directions, before they, and two other pigs pulled out guns and surprised him. The “kick” was more of an instinctive swat with his foot. If pigs flew maybe it came into contact with the gun pointing at him, it probably just disoriented the bastard and he dropped it. He had not known if the men were cops or thugs out to kill him. He did remember the surprised look on the pig’s face before he immediately turned to run away. That whole show was pointless of course, as they immediately had him pinned down on the pavement, his hands cuffed behind his back. His friends and the little ones screaming and wailing as they dragged him away. There was no point, the whole thing had been so ridiculous, if not shocking and humiliating for him, and yet he still could not bring himself to carry a gun. And yet here he was carrying one now.

He should have told himself. He should have told himself everything. He knew everything warned in the Activist’s Handbook, he knew the risks, the sacrifices. Yet he never did imagine for one minute, it would happen to him. Lord he had never expected it would be his own private war now. After all, what was his position, if not so peripheral, at best? He never conceived that he would gain prominence in his own right. It just happened. Had he been half as smart as he liked to think he was, he would have realized ahead of time that some enterprising cub journalist working his way up from the Siberia of covering anti-Globalism protests would find a sweet human interest story. A teenage boy, acting as a more vocal mouthpiece, more unabashed and vociferous than most cautious adults, for a Boston-based Socialist group, must be decent press. And off the runaway train went rolling. Suddenly, he was a big deal. He was no longer just another one of the many youth members of the league, he was now, Joseph Hayden, organizer of the people. He was the young man who toured Indian reservations, calling attention to the corporations reaping the profits of their gaming industry. He was the poor white boy who walked hand and hand with black Roxbury youth calling for improvements of their housing. He was the young man who brought a youthful face to a revived trend of Marxism, proselytizing the students of Massachusetts’s high schools with literature “inappropriate for school grounds”. And of course, his “mysterious” and “troubled” past was juicy enough: Orphan son of radical labor union organizer (worked himself to death in a meatpacking plant); raised by various Socialist activists, moved around from spots in Maine countryside, secluded New Hampshire locales, working class Massachusetts suburbs, and inner-city Boston area; A regular fixture in a “leftist cult” that was “terrorizing” Connecticut, and an instructor in “political education” courses for the commune’s children every summer. And an impenetrable “security guard” outside abortion clinics, defending the right to choose, from the fundamentalist brownshirts that terrorized the women that entered. Now public enemy # 1, and he made it all even more mysterious by his rather peripatetic lifestyle. No stranger to changing locations, when he first got wind of the constant surveillance he was under, he started keeping a system of never sleeping in the same place every two nights. He’d room with friends and members of his surrogate family all over the city. He was like Yasser Arafat, always moving from place to place. So often, that it was difficult to tail and gather a public record of him. In addition he constantly altered his social security number and the DMV numbers on driver’s licenses. He called it living off the charts, somewhat.



And then there were the three little kids. Now there was the clincher. He was rarely ever seen without the company of those three little kids, and the media loved this, the reserved nine-year-old half-brother from Seattle, and his cousins, the twin seven-year-old towheaded brother and sister, (now eight). They loved the local legend of his devotion to them, how supposedly when the twins were little two-year-olds, their mother, long gone crazy, off in the Pacific Northwest somewhere, whereabouts unknown, their father, New Hampshire native, quasi-member of World Socialist League, now completely “off the charts”, the twins now raised among the members, at eleven-years-old he made his promise to them in their cribs. His alleged words: “Your parents can’t be with you anymore, little ones. But don’t worry; you’ll always have me. I will never leave you.” And so they became his “little ones.” They loved his strict Jewish upbringing of them, how he would always have them recite the Barucha when he took them to Friendly’s or some other joint. Sometimes they could never figure out if he was trying to be their uncle or their father. Most of all they loved how he would parade them around with him, making quite a scene in their black coats and their little Che Guevara-like berets heckling outside wealthy Cambridge mansions, and Corporate buildings, chanting slogans like “a people united will never be defeated” and “power to the people” at the thoroughly annoyed rich folk. They were his appendage, always at his side, and soon enough that would be subject to a fatal exploitation. He never meant to have this new public role, it just happened. But he knew as long as the train was in motion he might as well take it for a ride, and so he exploited the position right away. And so did the government.



He began to notice what was going on, the little things at first. A few break-ins and hang-up phone calls were nothing new. They were always routine. But then when it all escalated, he knew it was all centered toward him. The bust on the street was first. Then came the rape of his friend. There was the daily brownshirt harassment of the local skinhead vermin. The drive-by shootings of headquarters’ windows emanating from unmarked cop cars. Then came the lies, the propaganda flyers, the disinformation, and the bitter rifts stoked between him and his friends. The arrests were becoming almost daily. One nuisance He noticed the charge after another. He noticed the changes he was going through too. He noticed how the pressure was slowly getting to him. The marijuana use, the blackouts, the constant mood swings. He was becoming distant, tired, burned out into an omnipresent drug-induced stupor. He could always visualize the scene of him slouching on a ratty sofa with a joint in his moth with a “Commie Fag” T-shirt on. He came to the acceptance that he could no longer rely on his hands alone, he accepted the .45 from the uncles. Then that one night, the pressure had really gotten to him. The brownshirts, (the last fuck-brains he had to worry about now), had accosted him one time too many on the street. So he gave them the scare of their life, pulling out his .45 and shooting at the lice, sending them scurrying like rats on a sinking ship. He barely even winged any one of them, all he did was give them a good scare. But it should have been no surprise later that night when he woke up to find SWAT hauling him out of bed, half naked. His ass in a courtroom again, this time, assault with a deadly. But he made bail. Just barely this time. And of course it was one more strain on the organization’s finances.

But hell finally broke loose that night in May. Those goons, those pig bastards finally did it. The squad stormed in under the cover of darkness, and they shot his baby brother. They hit him in the back. How could any one mean to kill a nine-year-old boy? Murdering Nazi pig sonsofbitches! It was supposed to be him they were after. But their intelligence was wrong that night. They didn’t know he had spent the night at another house. After all, he was always moving around. He thought Danny would be safe there. Now they had taken everything from him. He had nothing left. Nothing left to loose. Nothing. It was over.

Now he had left them. He had been gone for three months. Off the charts. Underground. Seventeen years old and on the run, knowing they were looking for him, the Boston cops and the FBI. They had covered up his brother’s death quietly. Now they were seeking him as a “person of interest” in “complicity” with this fatal shooting, still under investigation. Shacking up with friends through the network who would gladly shelter him. Moving from house to house all throughout New England, and for a few days in New Jersey, where they had burned him last. Now his trail was cold again. He was now stowed away in an old Connecticut farmhouse Freddy maintained. That one last embrace from his girlfriend and with his new baby girl for the first time, he knew would be his last. It was over. He knew he could never go back to them. He only had one mission now. One purpose. He knew what he had to do. There was nothing left to do afterwards but disappear. Driving along in Freddy’s battered old Nova, beret, sunglasses, and black coat in place, he felt the .45 tucked into his pants and clutched the automatic rifle with his free hand, the other on the steering wheel. He was approaching Massachusetts. He knew both the car, and the guns were registered in Freddy’s name. He knew they would immediately lead back to him, but Freddy was in deep enough shit as it was, so he really didn’t care. Besides he was too consumed with hatred and revenge at the time anyway…

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Joe Lehman Quagmire pt. 1 12/3/02






Joe Lehman

Quagmire pt. 1 12/3/02









He held tight to the gun.

Clutching it for dear life, he crouched in the shadows.

His body tensing, ready to jump at any pin drop, trigger finger itching to unload the rapid magazine burst of a worker’s fury.

This must be what guerrilla warfare is really like, he thought.

The room was blanketed in the cold, shivering darkness.

It was as though the window had no effect at all, the bright light and cool brisk mountain air did not exist once it reached the doors and windows of the cabin.

He kept deathly still. Under cover of darkness, his senses trained to enhancement five times beyond what they once were.

His body, a quivering piece of jelly, he had always taken such pride in proper care for it. Now it was garbage, his bones brittle, his skin a pasty malnourished yellow, longing for a taste of the rejuvenating sunlight it missed so much.

His eyes were an empty pool of blackness, like he had not had a moment of refreshing sleep in weeks.

His stubble growing ragged like an unkempt hermit, and his hair, where it was once a wave of sandy blond, now a greasy mound of slime and dirt.

He was now dead to every form of emotion.

Only vengeance remained the force left driving him to stay alive.

It was the vengeance of a brother, torn from his flesh by the murdering arm of law enforcement.

His last resolve was to strike back, cast a dagger into the heart of the great oppressor.

Slowly he was deteriorating to waste they had all wanted him to be.

Now they had gotten their wish.

Hounded, beaten like an animal, he could only hide for such a long time.

Lost in a jungle of voices, the whole world playing in his head like a clock radio that could not be unplugged.

While his body was frozen, in his mind he was on the ground on all fours scavenging for bits of broken pieces with numbing desperation.

The pathetic whimpering expected of a dog, reducing to a worthless derelict piece of human refuse.
But that’s what’s expected now.

This was what he had always wanted.

He was finally underground.

Suddenly the silence was broken.

The creaking, tapping sound emanating from outside the doorway unearthed him, but did not shake him from his position.
Slowly, he braced himself.

Pursing his lips, clenching his teeth, his body tensed even more.
The fury was pulsating his breath.

Ready to aim high and squeeze the trigger with all his might.
Then a he heard a whisper.

He’d recognize it anywhere; the sweet maiden seventeen-year-old voice that had soothed him for so long on the days when it seemed like it was all worth nothing. That nothing he worked for ever mattered.

That voice was calling out his name.

But he did not relax.

His hands clutched the weapon even tighter. His body tensed further, but his breathing was at a greater trembling than he had ever experienced.

Slowly, the door opened; a creak, then some more.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t move a muscle.

He saw her enter the room slowly; everything was a blur, like it wasn’t real.

She moved closer and closer to him, and he couldn’t move.

His face remained the same hopeless, drooling figure with the dark, empty stare, it was.

As she came closer through the shadows, that voice called out his name again.

She was carrying something in her arms. He could not see it, for he was looking straight ahead without eye contact.

He thought he heard her say, it’s me, I’m here.

Was right there before him now, and he still looked straight ahead.

She could barely muster the words. He could barely make out any of what she was saying.

He heard her say you can’t go on like this.

Nothing could get through. His face was still a paragon of hopelessness.

A spot of drool built up at his lips. She brought out a handkerchief with her free hand and dabbed at his face. His face didn’t change. He was comatose. Nothing could get through.

Tears were streaming down her face, now they were beginning to stream down his.

She held up the bundle in her hand.

Wrapped in a blanket he could hear a cooing sound, a gurgle, and then a tiny voice. Unwittingly his eyes darted toward the bundle for a second.

It was there he saw the little round face, the eyes wandering around the room and up at him, with the innocent curiosity only a newborn would possess. The little thing looked as though it was wondering where it was.

He could smell the clean aroma of its soft white skin, the kind of cleanliness only a newborn has when it is still impervious to the evils of the world around it.

He heard her say this is your daughter.

Everything that happened next happened without him even realizing it.

For the first time, his lip curled up the way it would when he would normally smile.

He heard himself muster a sound lodged in his throat, a weak, infantile grunt.

You see, she has your eyes, heard her tell him.

He looked up at her with an imploring stare. His eyes like those of a child to helpless to care for itself, begging to be fed.

His arm weakly extended toward her.

The next thing he knew, he had dropped the gun.

Nervously she placed the baby in his arm.

He gently held the child close to his heart with what little strength he had.

The tears were still few, but were beginning to stream down.

He held the child tight and the cold world opened up like the blossoming of a flower.

At last something in there melted.

Saturday, October 20, 2007


I will flesh out my critique of W.H. Auden's classic poem in the near future. I intend to tie it to the subject matter of my posts preceding it and to various current events I am monitering. Unfortunately, due to the limitations my present mental state has laid upon me, I have not the energy to do so at this very moment. The critique, thus far, is short and contributes no new ideas. Please bear with me, it is my goal to offer material that is more to the best of my abilities. I am frustrated and ashamed that I have been impaired.

Featured Poem:

Musee des Beaux Arts
by W.H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.



If there is one poem that conveys the message of W.H. Auden’s passion for oppressed people absolutely clearly and without any distortion, it is probably Musée des Beaux Arts. Unlike a Spain 1937, or even a September 1, 1939, with their lengthy facility with words, Musée succeeds simply in its succinctness. The poem’s brevity, its ability to come to its point in just a few short allusions leave the reader with a searing indictment of what Auden sees as man’s indifference to the suffering of his fellow man. From the opening line there is little chance the reader should be confused about where Auden is leading. He does not, to use a cliched term, “beat around the bush.”

Auden initially sets the poem from the point of few of the gods, most likely those of Ancient Greece and Rome. This is evidenced in the quotes, “about suffering they [italics mine] were never wrong,” and, “the Old Masters: how well they understood its human position; how it takes place while someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along.” The “Old Masters” implies gods of old. There is hardly a tale involving classic gods that does not tell of acts of foolishness on the part of mortals in comparison to the gods’ all-knowing judgement. Auden does not expect that human beings should have the maturity to recognize their fellows’ suffering and raise a hand in assistance. He leaves expectations of understanding to the gods. Gods understood suffering, its “human position,”—i.e., the randomness of its occurrence.

To give an example of randomness of suffering, Auden presents a situation with the potential for bringing about suffering: children skating on a frozen pond, where they might fall through the ice. Swiftness and lack of warning are signs of great tragedy in literature. The best and most frightening stories begin with scenes of innocence only to be suddenly interrupted by tragedy. For tragedy to strike a character in the act of recreation is to catch the reader off guard. The image of children at play over a frozen pond works to this effect. The use of children as victims taps into the readers’ emotional vein.

Auden’s strategy is to induce the reader into identifying with the ignorant humans he addresses. Their fault and the reader’s fault are one and the same. He means to play to the readers’ guilt for having allowed the tragedy to occur. He reminds the readers of how their comfortable bourgeois lives will go on long after their fellow man is befallen by tragedy. Hence, “anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse scratches its innocent behind on a tree.” The reference to the simple routines of animals and their bodily functions is meant to represent people’s trivial pursuits in their everyday existence. Like the dog living its “doggy life” and the horse scratching its behind on a tree, human beings live off the fat of the land without contribution.

The strong point of the poem that is the most inspired of Auden is his use of the Brueghel painting The Fall of Icarus. Icarus is in essence, the visual counterpart to Musée’s subjective association. As Auden describes it, the painting depicts the people’s inaction as Icarus is plummeting down to earth. The world is apathetic to Icarus’s plight. Auden is wise to draw the connection to Brueghel’s painting. It is as if both Auden and Brueghel are illustrating the same message. Indeed, the poem is a tribute to Brueghel, as it is revealed in the footnotes that Icarus is located in the museum of the poem’s title, the Musée des Beaux Arts.

It is the irony of this poem that Auden is trying to reach his readers with an appeal to their emotions and their sense of guilt and compassion in order to preach the point to them that he believes they have no sense of compassion. He is essentially counting on their lack of apathy in order to get their attention and tell them they are apathetic. This is not a flaw in the poem; rather it can be viewed positively. The poem becomes a call for reforming the human character.

Friday, October 19, 2007

This copy of my posted Yahoo question best explains my seven-month abscence


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Why haven't I been able to access my imagination since my severe bout of depression seven months ago?
For many years now I have been on prozac, depakote, and aderall. I made the fateful choice of attempting to wean off the meds seven months ago. Following a severe bout of depression I resumed the meds. But since then I feel as though my mind has deflated. I can barely access my imagination, my ability for critical thinking, my immediate memory, and my ability to concentrate enough to read. My emotions have also changed. I am consistently more apathetic and laid-back about things. I cannot attain feelings of love, devotion and desire. My long-dulled sex drive is now all but nonexistent. It is like my entire brain chemistry has altered. I can almost feel the decrease in electricity flowing. What has happened??? Is this evidence of permanent damage?! I m dying for answers. I would appreciate some sort of educated guesses here. Thank you.
1 hour ago

Out of respect for the privacy of the Yahoo users who have been kind enough to provide me with answers, I am not including them here.

Thursday, October 18, 2007





So Many Coincidences


So many coincidences,
How we treat the children today,
The pornography of our war.

At home we just drain their health care*,
Abroad we just blow off their limbs,
So many coincidences.

A Twelve-year-old boy took the stand,
Poor Graeme Frost; they dragged him through dirt,
The pornography of our war.

For what crime did he deserve this?
For living victims, children are,
So many coincidences.

The Iraqi boy lies wounded,
Poor nameless child, his head is gashed,
The pornography of our war.

They can’t face the casualties,
So they relish attacking them,
The pornography of our war,
So many coincidences.

Joe Lehman 10/18/07



*Health deal sought after veto upheld

By DAVID ESPO, AP Special Correspondent 18 minutes ago

WASHINGTON - The Democratic-controlled House failed on Thursday to override President Bush's veto of a politically popular children's health bill, and the White House instantly called for compromise talks on a replacement.

Continued…



"Children do die--Especially in times of war and revolution."



…This is one poet's quote.


I'm amazed at how he too has understood the symbolic meaning of Victor Hugo's Gavroche.
For the quote was in this context:

"I finally read the novel and
Hugo's words were so vivid
His characters, including Gavroche,
Still live in my mind."


It is of true comfort to me that someone else understands.

Robert Fisk reported this from Baghdad in April 2003:

"I watched two-and-a-half-year-old Ali Najour lying in agony on the bed, his clothes soaked with blood, a tube through his nose, until a relative walked up to me.'I want to talk to you,' he shouted, his voice rising in fury. 'Why do you British want to kill this little boy? Why do you even want to look at him? You did this – you did it!'"


"On television, it looks so clean. On Sunday evening, the BBC showed burning civilian cars, its reporter – 'embedded' with US forces – saying that he saw some of their passengers lying dead beside them.

That was all. No pictures of the charred corpses, no close-ups of the shrivelled children. So perhaps I should warn those of what the BBC once called a nervous disposition to go no further. But if they want to know what America and Britain are doing to the innocent of Baghdad, they should read on."



I submit a quote of my own:

In war and revolution, every child is Gavroche. In Iraq, every child is Gavroche.

Blues

The music never stops.
It tugs at the strings.
My memories and sentiments
Are just useless things.

I hear Buddy's and Ritchie’s voices
Crying out in their pain.
The soulless vultures who’d exploit them
Are now all raisin’ Cain.

My old true niche
Still lies with the classic rock.
You can bend me at the same point,
That somber Sleepwalk.

Friday, October 12, 2007

On "For Frank Snyder"



I wrote the villanelle below roughly a year ago. While its subject matter contains historical events that I have been passionate about, it is not a great poem. At least in my opinion. Its conception was well thought out, but its birth was too hasty. I intend to post revisions in the future.



For Frank Snyder [1] (Little Great Soul)

Where was it that the revolution first sounded the child’s death knell?
Was it outside the tent when the little bullet struck your small head?
For Frank Snyder, little lost one. They cradled you till fire spread well

Or was it with the cries of children [2] at the Indian schools’ hell?
For perverted pleasures, their bodies ravaged in chicken hawks’ beds
Where was it that the revolution first sounded the child’s death knell?

Perhaps when they stomped to death baby Life Africa [3], you know well?
They claimed he never existed after they cracked his tiny head
For Frank Snyder, little lost one. They cradled you till fire spread well

Like Hugo’s Gavroche [4] singing defiantly, to bullets he fell
Just as in that novel a boy’s sad short life was ended with lead
Where was it that the revolution first sounded the child’s death knell?

Or maybe it was the child’s death knell sounding revolution’s bell
With the innocents’ slaughter, the call for revolution does spread
For Frank Snyder, little lost one. They cradled you till fire spread well

Gavroche, Hugo called Little Great Soul. Said that he had flown, not fell
Cries, from fires in West Philly [5] or Ludlow [6], back to you they have lead
Where was it that the revolution first sounded the child’s death knell?
For Frank Snyder, little lost one. They cradled you till fire spread well


1. Frank Snyder was an Eleven-year-old son of one of the striking coal miners that camped out with their families at tent colony at Ludlow, Colorado in 1914. Young Frank was the first fatality during the armed assault by state militiamen.

2. This is in reference to the numerous accounts of rampant physical, mental, and sexual abuse of Native American children at the residential schools they were forcibly relocated to in the United States and Canada. This practice of removal and relocation continued up until the late twentieth century.

3. Life Africa was the three-week-old baby son of Janine Africa, a member of the Philadelphia-based Black Nationalist MOVE Organization. In 1976 Life was stomped to death by a police officer as his mother tried to shield him in her arms. The police and the city have challenged the charges of this atrocity, denying Life’s very existence due to the fact that the infant was born without a birth certificate.

4. Gavroche is a child character in Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables. Near the story’s climax the brave boy rebel is gunned down by French troops at the barricade as he sings. Hugo writes, “the little great soul had flown.”

5. In 1985 six adults and five children were incinerated when a firebomb was dropped from a police helicopter on the MOVE townhouse. This occurred during an assault by heavily armed Philadelphia police and federal agents. An entire city block was destroyed.

6. The most infamous act of moment of the months-long Ludlow massacre was when militiamen ignited a fire in a cellar beneath the tent colony incinerating eleven children. Several were also shot to death.


It's been a long time. For a great many reasons that I will clarify soon I have been out of commission since March. I have yet to figure out the way to paste the above photograph of myself into my profile. For the time being I will continue to open future posts with this image.

Saturday, March 10, 2007



William Lloyd Garrison

In my last post I spoke of society's refusal to recognize the lone rebel for his conscience, prefering to engage in long meaningless sessions speculating over his "psychological disorders," John Brown's case being the prime example.
The following essay, written my freshman year of college touches upon similar questions, including a cursory visit of John Brown's case.


Justice vs. Peace:
An Age-Old Dilemma Through the Eyes of William Lloyd Garrison

Joseph Lehman

Protest In America
Professor Connolly
24 February 2003

The question over which should be held in a higher regard, individual justice or community peace has been debated for a long history. By all regards, human ideology has always been that people naturally believe in the best qualities of mankind. People are born and raised believing the one noble cause is in fairness and equality for all, and that right will win in the end. They are instilled with a sense that the world is pitted in a battle between right and wrong, good and evil. Then oftentimes it is the case that as people grow older and are more accustomed to the way the world operates, they may develop a more cynical outlook on life. Coming to the realization that a just perfect world does not exist, they may ultimately decide the best thing to do is to make compromises, accepting certain evils as a part of life, but keeping them out of focus in order to preserve the social order. This is community peace. During the era of the abolition movement William Lloyd Garrison tackled this issue. If the choice were to be made through Garrison’s perspective then it would be justice over peace based on many key points.

The common argument in favor of community peace over individual justice (or individual conscience) is that it is better to operate under a system where everyone coexists in tranquility even if it is unjust, than to endure a wave of chaos and violence in pursuit of justice. In other words, people should accept the status quo even if they hold their nose doing it, because the system is ordered. A general fear among whites in the mid-19th century was that if slaves were to be freed, then they might take arms against their former masters. Abolition was an incendiary issue, one that divided citizenry. It was believed that if enacted it would divide the union. Garrison’s position was explicit: An ordered society that is unjust is not worth preserving. He made this perfectly clear in his statement: "Let the pillars thereof fall––let the superstructure crumble into dust––if it must be upheld by robbery and oppression."[1] In fact, Garrison argues the opposite of the popular belief. In his view the stability of the union would not be upheld through the continuance of the current system of slavery, but instead he believed that the immorality of enslavement would only unravel the union.[2]

Garrison lends considerable credence to his argument for individual conscience by pointing out that in revolutionary times, the attitude of the American people was that they would live in war fighting the British than in tranquility under their rule. The fact that he phrases the attitude as "deeming it more glorious to die instantly as freemen, than desirable to live one hour as slaves"[3] catches slavery supporters in their own words. Garrison further exposes the fallacy of those who argue for domestic tranquility by pointing out that a person who would criticize the practice of slave ownership would be called "a fool, a fanatic, or a madman."[4] but if he were to express any support for the former rule under the British he would be chastised as "a tory, and a traitor to his country."[5] Obviously any concerns for domestic tranquility is absent in the face of an argument pertaining to the American Revolution.

Morality is fundamental in Garrison’s argument. He primarily invokes religion as a basis. Obviously a devout Christian, Garrison hammers down that despite any feelings about unjust tranquility being preferable to chaotic justice, the word of God is sacrosanct in its assertion that it is against his teachings for man to enslave man. As Garrison says it: "The right to enjoy liberty is inalienable. To invade it, is to usurp the prerogative of Jehovah."[6] Much of his rhetoric is filled with biblical quotes or vague references such as calling slavery "a national sin."[7] Garrison largely criticizes what he sees as a perversion of Christian gospel in how the United States may send missionaries out to other continents across the world in order to spread Christianity, but simultaneously ignores the injustice of slavery at home.[8] It is a further argument on Garrison’s part that God commands justice over peace when he says: "…that neither duty nor honesty requires us to defraud ourselves that we may enrich others."[9]

In his scathing indictment of the constitution Garrison proclaims: "Should disunion follow, the fault will not be yours. You must perform your duty, faithfully, fearlessly and promptly, and leave the consequences to God."[10] In other words, it is human duty to maintain justice fulfilled, and it is God whatever the repercussions may be. The constitution is the recipient of Garrison’s most harsh criticism. He saw it as a direct usurper of God’s divine law. By his view, a group of men, (the frame workers of the constitution) had no right to create a document that would establish rights among American people that should be afforded to men by God only.[11] If anything the constitution only gives a legal license to slave owners he charges. It leaves Americans in a moral quagmire where they can hide their own atrocities against slaves behind a veneer of freedom and equality. Henceforth Garrison’s declaration that the constitution is "dripping with human blood."[12]

Proponents of domestic tranquility would be quick to point out the inevitable conflict between states’ rights, and federal rights, that would most likely ensue. Such a rift would be a most dire form of the chaos and violence they were convinced would follow the abolition of slavery. Furthermore, the South would be subjected to the administrative superiority of the North. Garrison dismisses these assertions as "crude, preposterous, dishonorable, unjust."[13] By his standards the right to administration of national issues such as slavery belongs in the hands of the people of the higher morality. That people would be the abolitionist-minded people of the North. As to the South’s self-proclaimed right to govern its own affairs, Garrison counters that it does not deserve to wield such power because: "it gives the South an unjust ascendancy over other portions of territory, and a power which may be perverted on every occasion…"[14]
Garrison best attacks the constitution and argues for individual conscience simultaneously when he writes the line:

If we are always to remain shackled by unjust constitutional provisions, when the emergency that imposed them has long since passed away; if we must share in the guilt and danger of destroying the bodies and souls of men…[15]

Garrison’s use of the word "souls" indicates that he argues that even with domestic tranquility, without justice, people would be damned in the afterlife. This is an effective display of what Garrison would like people to think is the larger picture beyond the issue. If one were to believe that a "spiritual connection" counts, then Garrison could convincingly argue that domestic tranquility is meaningless if humanity were to pay for it with the selling of their souls. He also points out that while people talk of constitutional barriers as an excuse not to abolish slavery, they would most likely have no regard at all for constitutional barriers if the slaves were instead white.[16] The more hypocritical he makes the pro-slavery/domestic tranquility argument out to be, the less credibility it has and the more Garrison’s does.

Garrison ultimately solidifies his position in his defense of John Brown. In all respects John Brown’s odyssey is a prime example of a man disregarding the violent cost of defending a just cause, and instead following his individual conscience in fighting for what he believed is right. Garrison spoke of John Brown:

I thank God when men who believe in the right and duty of wielding carnal weapons are so far advanced that they will take these weapons out of the scale of despotism, and throw them into the scale of freedom.[17]

Garrison consistently underscores at his Tremont Temple speech: "Resistance to tyrants is obedience to God."[18] In his repeated use of this line, Garrison reminds his listeners that God meant for man to follow his own conscience, just as John Brown had. Garrison clearly saw John Brown as a man who followed the word of God in sacrificing his life for the oppressed. Garrison is unapologetic for the violence that surrounded John Brown’s failed raid at Harper’s Ferry. His distinction is that for the oppressed to raise their arms against their oppressors, such violence is justified, without question. To live in domestic tranquility without justice would in effect be living a lie. He is basically saying there is no peace without justice when he accuses the state of Virginia where John Brown was executed as having been: "Given over to believe a lie that she may be damned."[19] That there is no peace without justice is the breadth of Garrison’s argument.

Ultimately, the argument that Garrison makes, that an unjust world would not be worth living in, even if it were peaceful, is the cornerstone for many issues tackling the same question today. A similar issue involving the conflict between individual conscience and domestic tranquility at the present concerns the recent provisions proposed by Attorney General John Ashcroft that would curtail certain individual civil liberties of American citizens under the constitution, and grant the government free reign to use more intrusive methods of counter-terrorist investigation. "Justice" in this case would be civil liberties, and "peace" would be homeland security. Because of the general fear in the public in the aftermath of the Sept. 11 attacks, many people are more willing to sacrifice their individual freedoms for the safety of their society, not realizing the gravity of what they are giving up. This goes back to the previous mention of how people can make compromises to preserve social order. It is anyone’s guess when people will understand the cost of their compromises.

Notes

1. William E. Cain, ed., William Lloyd Garrison And the Fight Against Slavery. (Boston: Bedford Books of St. Martin’s Press, 1995), 89
2. Cain, 89
3. Cain, 90
4. Cain, 75
5. Cain, 75
6. Cain, 91
7. Cain, 69
8. Cain, 63
9. Cain, 64
10. Cain, 10
11. Cain, 87-88
12. Cain, 89
13. Cain, 65
14. Cain, 66
15. Cain, 66
16. Cain, 67
17. Cain, 157
18. Cain, 157
19. Cain, 158

Bibliography

William E. Cain, ed., William Lloyd Garrison And the Fight Against Slavery. (Boston: Bedford Books of St. Martin’s Press, 1995)

Thursday, March 8, 2007

On Traitors and Patriots



I was reading a Frederick Forsyth novel this morning. The Fourth Protocol. An excellent read, it is. Perhaps the closest to parity with the classic Day of the Jackal. Forsyth's greatest talent lies in his ability to probe the fatuous psyches of every actor in the intelligence business and to expose them for their cynicism and their authentic loyalties to inauthentic masters. In my mind the only characters in Forsyth's novels that can rightfully qualify as "authentic" human beings are the assassins. They are the only free-thinking souls without any allegiance to flaccid leaders and institutions. Even Major Petrofsky, the antagonist of The Fourth Protocol, despite his fierce loyalty to the Soviet Union comes off as a man of genuine individual passion.

There was a passage of the story that caught my eye. There is a scene midway into the story where a top British intelligence officer Sir Nigel Irvine confronts a low-level bureaucrat with right-wing sympathies, whom he has discovered has been duped into a "false-flag" operation. That is, Soviet agents have conned the turncoat bureaucrat into passing them top secret NATO papers under the ruse that he is passing them to South Africa, whose anticommunist apartheid regime he sympathizes with. Sir Nigel is presenting the quisling with evidence of his role in espionage, not yet revealing to the anticommunist fanatic that it was Moscow all along, to whom he was passing his information:

"Now comes the defiance, thought Irvine, the attempt at self-justification. Funny how they all run to pattern. Berenson met his gaze. The defiance was there."
(196)

The text continues,

"The vanity, thought Sir Nigel, always the vanity, the monumental self-esteem of inadequate men. Nunn May, Pontecorvo, Fuchs, Prime—the self-arrogated right to play God, the conviction that the traitor alone is right and all his colleagues fools, coupled with the druglike love of power derived from what he sees as the manipulation of policy, through the transfer of secrets, to the ends in which he believes and to the confusion of his supposed opponents in his own government, those who have passed him over for promotion or honors." (197)


The pathetic fate of the character Berenson aside, I find myself asking the following question: What unwritten rule declares that the "traitor" be the exhibitor of such a clichéd predictability, yet casts the "patriot" in a light of sheer authenticity? Is one not seized to find the "patriot" a paradigm of the same sense of "self-arrogated right to play God," and "conviction that he alone is right?"
After all, it is the "patriot" that puts his own sense of duty ahead of constitutional safeguards and any regard for "international" human rights. He sees these as an impediment, a stumbling block in the way of what he considers his ultimate mission for god and country. He is willing to engage in the most vile criminal actions to achieve his goal. The blood of innocents is to the "patriot" nothing more than collateral damage.



The late great Anarchist legend Emma Goldman had this to say in her landmark essay, Patriotism: A Menace to Liberty:

"Indeed, conceit, arrogance, and egotism are the essentials of patriotism. Let me illustrate. Patriotism assumes that our globe is divided into little spots, each one surrounded by an iron gate. Those who have had the fortune of being born on some particular spot, consider themselves better, nobler, grander, more intelligent than the living beings inhabiting any other spot. It is, therefore, the duty of everyone living on that chosen spot to fight, kill, and die in the attempt to impose his superiority upon all the others."

So to the fictional Sir Nigel Irvine, the "traitor" suffers "vanity," possesses "a self-arrogated right to play God," a "conviction that the traitor alone is right and all his colleagues fools."
Yet to Emma Goldman, the "patriot" suffers from "conceit, arrogance, and egotism," and the undying belief in "the duty of everyone living on that chosen spot to fight, kill, and die in the attempt to impose his superiority upon all the others." Do we see a connection here?


The character of the "patriot" Irvine smirks at his own moral superiority, just as he silent accuses the "traitor" Berenson of doing. He objectifies the man as just another clichéd scoundrel. Certainly there is no sympathy in the readers' heart for this particular traitor, unless one reader happens to belong to the small remaining pocket of fools that still hold some affinity for the reviled extinct apartheid regime of South Africa, (most of whom are likely only to be found in the bowels of the online right-wing chat room FreeRepublic.com).

The real question we are left with is, if we are to accept that neither the "patriot" nor the "traitor" are themselves authentic in their convictions, that they both share in the paradigm of deluded self-righteousness, how can history be allowed to vindicate the actions of any individual that acts under his own moral authority. The prevailing attitude of authority is to trivialize the the character of such individuals, and the most common way today is to examine them under the lens of bourgeois criminal psychology. Revolutionaries and freedom fighters today can no longer be viewed as revolutionaries and freedom fighters, but instead as disturbed psychopaths, or worse, egotists looking to compensate for their own inadequacies by latching on to some "radical chic." John Brown is one such freedom fighter that has stood the cruel treatment of history. Former anti-imperialist political prisoner Raymond Luc Levasseur observes:

"PRIOR TO MY EARLY 20’s, my knowledge of American history was minimal and distorted. I barely knew of John Brown and what he was about. I was told he was badly in need of a psychiatrist."


Brother Ray knows what it means to have ones motivations so mercilessly trivialized as he and his comrades in the Ohio 7 have been the targets of a relentless propaganda assault through "true-crime" novels, cheesy TV docudramas and law enforcement specials, all that have sought to reduce their character to cardboard lowlifes.

The "patriot" Irvine contradicts his own country's history in his personal conviction regarding the criminality of all traitors. Irvine has made clear that traitors are each "inadequate men" taking it upon themselves to oppose their government. They are thus all dilettantes who place their own sophomoric moral superiority above everyone else. Under Irvine's logic, nothing should grant him authority to violently oppose the established regime?

If we continue the practice of psychoanalyzing every rebel and revolutionary, then there is no such thing as higher moral authority anymore. Everyone is just a psychopath.



Last year I decided to take a play from the "psychoanalysis" practice of the "Irvine" school of thought so that I may profile one of the more notorious of "patriots," the man I consider so depraved, Oliver North.

I broke so many rules of scholarly objectivity with this paper through my reckless injection of my own passion and inflammatory rhetoric such as, "Oliver North is a bastard, and there truly no justice in this society. One day the souls of 2.5 million dead Nicaraguans will try him. Death will be his ultimate prison cell," and my baseless allegation of "genocide." And yet, despite what I see as a lack of professionalism in these areas I still managed an A. What mattered most to me was the catharsis the paper's conclusion provided me.



The Final Judgment on Oliver North:
A Case of Government Violence

Joseph Lehman

SO410.02. Criminology
Professor Levine
May 3, 2006


There is no type of violent crime more insidious than a government’s violence against either its own people, or toward the people of weaker nations. Government violence can be defined as acts of commission or omission. Government’s omission of violence is in its disregard of the welfare of its people through cutting their healthcare and educational programs in favor of wasteful expenditures. Government’s commission of violence is in its rampant exploitative military campaigns abroad, fomenting genocide, disease, and famine (Brown, Esbensen, & Geis, 2004: 491). It cannot be denied that in order to explain violence in the collective terms of an entire government, one would have to consider a multitude of social-structural and institutional roots. However, it must also be taken into account that Government exists as a consensus of the individual personalities of the men and women that hold positions of power. If there is one such individual whose personality best represents the pathology of government violence it is Oliver North. If there is one incident that best represents the full capacity of the American government’s heinous violence against the sovereign people of another country it is Iran-Contra. Although the extent of the corrupt Iran-Contra affair reached the highest levels of the government, Oliver North provides the most appropriate entity to symbolize its most egregious excesses. It is the thesis of this paper that North’s behavior can be explained through two basic theories of criminology. The evidence suggests North is at best, a consummate example of an antisocial personality, and that he displays classic techniques of neutralization.

The Iran-Contra affair was a campaign of crimes of the greatest magnitude, with Oliver North smack in the middle of it. The context of it was that the United States Government could not stand the progressive regime of the Sandinistas in Nicaragua, which had taken power after revolution had toppled the evil U.S.-backed dictator Somoza. Because they did not cow to U.S. corporate interests as Somoza did, the Sandinistas were thereby vilified as godless communists. Oliver North was a key organizer in the U.S. covert aid in arms and money to the Contras, mercenary dissidents waging a bloody terrorist crusade against Nicaragua, but touted by the Reagan administration as freedom fighters. Never minding of course, that the Sandinista government had the majority electoral support of the Nicaraguan people (Chomsky, 2003: 86; 96-98; 105). Former House Speaker Tip O’Neill once called the Contras, "marauders, murderers, and rapists" (Shannon, 1989: 173). This label seems quite adequate considering the Contra’s loathsome human rights record. By the end of the chaos Nicaragua was left with a death toll of 2.25 million and a crippled economy and infrastructure (Chomsky, 2003: 98). This does not even count the more widely covered aspects of North’s arms dealing, money laundering, shredding of documents and perjury.

It may seem as something of a stretch to declare outright that Oliver North, decorated Marine colonel, is a psychopath, but his criminal actions and his narcissistic personality traits are consistent with the psychopath’s textbook definition. The general traits of a psychopath are written as, narcissism, "experiencing little or no guilt when inflicting harm," and behavior "marked by ‘glibness and superficial charm,’" a proficient ability to lie and con their way through situations (Brown, Esbensen, & Geis, 2004: 491). There are striking parallels to these traits in legendary military commander David Hackworth’s (1994) assessment of North: "He’s smarmy, a flatterer, a brownnoser. He’s also a twisted impostor, a drugstore Marine with an apparent compulsion to bullshit just about all the time" (¶1). The descriptions are practically identical. One way of spotting a psychopath is that not only may he lie about the most important things, he may be prone to lie about every inconsequential detail. Hackworth (1994) issues a lengthy report exposing North for having, among many things, inflated his military combat record and the importance of his National Security Counsel job at the Reagan White House, taken credit for the accomplishments of others and reaped illicit profits. He also skirted the constitution. Yet North has been adamant in his denials. He is so effective at weasling his way out of answering for his actions, that he even cites ‘national security’ reasons as a dodge. This is all in line with a psychopath’s use of deceit and manipulation to avoid punishment.

The behavior of a psychopath extends all conduct pursuant to his criminal actions, including conduct that is not exactly criminal, but possibly unethical. North not only has committed actions that break many ethics, he has also repeatedly found angles to lie about them afterward. For example—and several agents of the Drug Enforcement Administration confirm this—prior to his convoluted plan to divert funds from illegal arms deals to the Iranians to the savage Contra terrorists in Nicaragua, North sought to exploit drug informant Barry Seal’s alleged dealings with a few low-level Sandinista officials in an attempt to paint the entire Sandinista government as being involved in drug trafficking. He had virtually no interest in the DEA’s objective of bringing down the Colombian Drug Cartel. One plan of his was to supply the Contras with profits from Seal’s drug transactions; never minding that such a course of action would jeopardize the entire case. When the DEA refused to play along, North leaked the Seal story to the Washington Times effectively blowing Seal’s cover and exposing him to his eventual assassination (Shannon, 1989: 176-177). North derailed a vital investigation and cost a man his life for his own political ends. The greatest obscenity though, is the spin North personally put on the whole affair. In his self-serving autobiography, North (1991) presents Seals exploits matter-of-factly, omitting any mention of his plan to divert the drug funds to the Contras. He claims, "we had hoped to use Seal to run this operation long enough to capture Pablo Escobar, the infamous Colombian drug lord," "but this plan had to be terminated when a story about the operation and Sandinista involvement with Colombian drug dealers appeared in the Washington Times" (266-267). This is never minding the obvious fact that North was in all probability the one responsible for the leak. Not only that, but he is setting himself up for direct credit for the manhunt for the Colombian drug lords, in total contrast to the fact that according to the DEA, he never had any real interest in the Colombians at all. This suggests he is a truly narcissistic liar, quite possibly a psychopath.

There is much more evidence to support the theory that North routinely exhibits techniques of neutralization. As Sykes and Matza originally defined it, the first technique is denial of responsibility (Brown, Esbensen, & Geis, 2004: 356). That is the offender cannot take much blame because he fell victim to factors beyond his control. One of North’s excuses for selling arms to Iran in order to finance the Contra effort went like this in his testimony before Congress: "I think it is very important for the American people to understand that this is a dangerous world; that we live at risk and that this nation is at risk in a dangerous world" (Bradlee, 1988: 499). In other words, he cannot be blamed for acting in America’s "defense." The dangerous world made him do it. Another technique is denial of the victim (Brown, Esbensen, & Geis, 2004: 357). The offender cannot be blamed because it was the victims’ fault. They were to blame. They deserved what happened to them. In his autobiography North (1991) writes contemptuous portraits of the Sandinista officials. He calls Nicaraguan President Daniel Ortega "Danny Boy," and a "dull and humorless little clerk" (230). He saw the Sandinistas as communists and Soviet puppets ready to attack the United States. Another technique is condemnation of the condemners (Brown, Esbensen, & Geis, 2004: 358). In order to evade responsibility the offender blames the people prosecuting them. They are corrupt. They are hounding and persecuting him. This is all a show trial. As Ben Bradlee Jr. (1988) writes, "Ollie spoke contemptuously of ‘heroes’ who had come forward in November of 1986 to blow the whistle on false cover stories that he and others were putting out" (502). To him, they were all just opportunists with axes to grind. "He made clear his disgust with Congress." He baited House members with accusations that they were bureaucratic and ineffectual, that they were soft on communism, and that they were tying his hands behind his back (503). These tactics are effective methods at tapping into base populist sympathies.

Condemnation of the condemners plays a significant role in the whole phony image North crafted to win the hearts of the American public. Just as a psychopath is said to create an illusory mask of sanity, North cultivated his image as a hero. Amy Fried (1997) examines North’s use of the media to sell his image. North appealed to treasured American institutions of patriotism, nationalism, and religious piety. He embodied the symbol of the patriotic American soldier, the rugged individualist cutting through bureaucratic red tape and politics, enforcing Jeffersonian republican family values. He was a warrior fighting evil. He was a man of righteous Christian zeal (77-80). And the public consumed it all. But according to Hackworth (1994) it is all a lie. North claimed to live in a simple farm. In actuality he lives in a mansion, with all his profiteering to thank for it. He decked himself out in full Marine regalia during the congressional hearings, wearing a "fruit salad" of ribbons he did not rightfully earn. He was no warrior; save for his unremarkable stint in Vietnam, he was basically a desk jockey and a paper pusher. His excuse for illegally accepting the gift of a security system as a political donation was false; he made up the story about Arab terrorists sending hit squads to kill him. He enabled ruthless arms merchants around the world. But instead of prison, he has been rewarded with a successful career as a political commentator and gadfly, Senate hopeful, and businessman. According to Bradlee (1988) he participated in the illegal monitoring of American groups that opposed the administrations policies in Central America (431-432). North’s final technique was appealing to higher loyalties (Brown, Esbensen, & Geis, 2004: 358). He did it for the sake of someone above him. North passed the buck to President Reagan, claiming he was just following orders (Hackworth, 1994: ¶17-18). These are not the actions of a hero; they are of a liar and a criminal.

It is amazing that North has been able to skate accountability for his crimes in spite of such damning evidence against him. The evidence, however tenuous some of it may be, paints a very convincing case of North’s complicity in drug trafficking to finance the contras. North (1991), in his autobiography vigorously asserts that he or the Contras had nothing to do with drugs: "very little in life has angered me as much as the allegations that I or anyone else involved in the resistance had a drug connection" (267). The evidence tells another story. Peter Dale Scott and Jonathan Marshall (1991) devote their book Cocaine Politics to extensive investigation of drug connections between North, the Contras, the CIA, the NSC, and various mercenaries and Central American governments. Their findings are voluminous. Bradlee (1988) reveals the most incontrovertible piece of evidence when he cites passages in North’s diary that was brought to light in John Kerry’s Senate committee. These entries make direct references to Contra drug dealing, including one that says simply, "$14 million to finance supermarket came from drugs." The supermarket was a Honduran arms depot (405). North’s own words contradict his denials. If diaries don’t seal his fate, then apparently nothing will.

So lies the case against Oliver North in the charges of meeting to theories of criminology. He is the supreme symbol of government violence. A man who excuses his arms dealing, drug trafficking, financing of death squads, under the banner of patriotism is truly a psychopath. As is a man who lies about his own lies in every situation. A man who evades responsibility with such aptitude displays the techniques of neutralization. Only in America can a man who sponsors a genocide capture the hearts of the American public and be called a hero. Only in America can he assume successful careers in the media and run for the senate. What happened in Nicaragua was genocide, not simply government violence, but only God can cast him to the fate he deserves. Oliver North is a bastard, and there truly no justice in this society. One day the souls of 2.5 million dead Nicaraguans will try him. Death will be his ultimate prison cell.

References


Bradlee, B. (1988). Guts and glory: the rise and fall of Oliver North. New York: Donald I. Fine, Inc.

Brown, S. E., Esbensen, F., & Geis, G. (Eds.). (2004). Criminology: Explaining Crime and its Context. (5th ed.). Matthew Bender & Company, Inc.

Chomsky, N. (2003). Hegemony or survival: America’s quest for global dominance. New York: Metropolitan Books.

Fried, A. (1997). Muffled echoes: Oliver North and the politics of public opinion. New York: Columbia University Press.

Hackworth, D. (1994, June). Drugstore Marine (Oliver North). Playboy, 6, 90-94.

North, O. (1991). Under fire: an American story. New York: Harper Collins.

Scott, P.D., and Marshall, J. (1991). Cocaine politics: drugs, armies, and the CIA in Central America. Berkley, University of California Press.

Shannon, E. (1989). Desparados: Latin drug lords, U.S. lawmen, and the war America can’t win. Penguin Books.

Buddy Holly lives


I began this blog on the week of February 3. It happened to be the forty-eighth anniversary of The Day the Music Died.
It is needless to say that I am a passionate Buddy Holly Fan. Have been since I was Eleven-years-old, not much more than twelve years ago. I have fond memories of listening to his songs repeatedly in the evenings after school.

Perhaps I should provide some background for how I found myself attracted to Buddy's music. As a child bearing the stigma of my troubled emotional and psychological state, I was socially unable to relate to my peers. As is often the case with children of higher intelligence, my advanced rate of maturity was my proverbial cross to bear. Such are the factors I attribute to my long history of clinical depression and destructive emotional behavior. I compensated for this condition with an outward resentment of the culture I grew up in, especially the current music scene. Popular music of the nineteen-nineties I treated as an abomination. I stewed in contempt for my peers, convincing myself of my superiority to them on every level, as it justified my growing alienation from them and gave me a reason not to make any effort to overcome it.

To me, Buddy's music has symbolized the world I idealized as an antidote to the clouded world in which I was living. I saw the music of the nineties as sexualized and unrepresentative of any respect for memories of love and discovery. Buddy's music, with its conveyance of those themes played into my fantasy of an age of innocence which I considered myself unfortunate not to have grown up during. His songs with lyrics such as, "it's so easy to fall in love," "words of love you whisper soft and true," "well alright, we'll live that love with all our might," and, "just you and I know true love ways" capture the themes of love and discovery absolutely dearly.

It can be said that I had bought into the false idol of the "innocent" nineteen-fifties that has been so tirelessly mythologized by reactionary conservatives today. True, I have matured enough over the years to recognize the fallacy of this mythical "world"; that it in no way represents the nineteen-fifties as a reality. I accept that the world I yearn for is false. All men and women cling to myth as a necessary departure from the harshness of reality. That is a universally known fact. We create alternate realities and we create heroes. We sustain our individual sanity through personal fantasy. Without it we would be unable to conduct our lives as there would be no unattainable world to strive for. Indeed, Cervantes knew whereof he spoke when he characterized Don Quixote as a man determined to "reach the unreachable star."

Human accomplishment depends on the unyielding belief in success against all odds. Let us stray from the subject for a moment to put this observation in context. A student, either at MIT, or submitting an essay for entry to the institute, writes of how Don Quixote eventually inspired him. By his admission, in his youth he had not been taken with the story, instead finding more in common with the world of Star Wars:

My little brother made me watch Star Wars with him and help him make model x-wings. I was enchanted by the Star Wars universe. It turned me into a romantic with all the possibilities it offered. The universe was so vast, unimaginably large, home to so many people I would never meet. Luke had proved that love could conquer hate, for people also were infinitely complex and always good at heart. To my mind the Star Wars universe surpassed Camelot in its grace, its valiance.

It seems natural that he would find himself willed to prefer a more contemporary fantasy sago that is more widely received among audiences over a five hundred-year-old Spanish literary classic. The label of sophistication that society places on classic works and the implication that one must be well versed in them to achieve that level of "respectability" is intimidating to the student that wishes to read for enjoyment. Society generally does not place this burden on a Star Wars fan. Often, one is drawn to greater appreciation of the classics when he stumbles upon them on his own time. Indeed this was the case with the writer here:

I was listening to a choir performance of "The Impossible Dream" a few months later, and my mind wandered on hearing the words: "To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, to go where the brave dare not go. . . To reach the unreachable star." It was heartwarming to hear someone who shared my sentiments. I smiled. Perhaps it was foolish to live for Star Wars ideals in the practical world, foolish to dream of becoming a jedi knight, but it seemed noble to try anyway. I was awakened from this reverie by the host, who had been going into the history of the song and had just informed the audience that this song was taken from the play Don Quixote, Man of La Mancha.

It should be noted the writer's pattern of referring to his little brother's make-believe games of being a Jedi Knight in Star Wars. The little boy waved the plastic light saber around. This melted the writer. This, of course, shows how we externalize our fantasies in our relations with the people close to us. Children, of course, in their innocence, are the most obvious to embody these fantasies. As the consummate paragons of hope, they have that effect on us.

After getting his first light saber, my brother announced that he was going to be a jedi knight when he grew up. The thought filled me with longing� I wanted to be one too. It was not just a fancy, but a true desire� to be a jedi knight, to fight for peace and order, to explore the universe! But I realized how absurd that was, how impossible. It was just a story. The real world spoke against the goodness of people at heart, the existence of life outside earth.

Eventually, for the writer, his inevitable discovery of Don Quixote and his newfound glowing fixation on the story brings his fantasies (Star Wars) and the reality-based personification of his fantasies (his little brother). Following this, he is able to come to his inspired conclusion:

I understood then, what the man of La Mancha felt. And I secretly hoped that the someone, somewhere in the universe, who was looking for the unreachable star, would one day find it.


For myself and for millions of Americans, Buddy Holly has long since been an identifiable hero. This fact is confirmed by the faithful observance of the anniversaries of his passing along with Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper. As this news coverage reports:

The Buddy Holly Center drew big crowds Saturday afternoon as fans and friends gathered to remember the anniversary of Buddy Holly's death, often referred to as the day music died.

It is of course, common knowledge that February 3, 1959, when a private plane crashed outside Clear Lake, Iowa is remembered as the Day the Music Died for its loss of three men who were without a doubt, the pioneers of rock 'n' roll. It is with the magical idea, the conviction that, "someone, somewhere in the universe, who was looking for the unreachable star, would one day find it".