April Fools Horoscope

Have a laugh. We need one. All the email I've read, all the phone calls I've overheard while shopping, all the new arrangements of co-workers faces tells me that No One is esacping whatever The Test is that passing through us. So, go have a laugh. Check your horoscope. Then come to Poor David's (1313 S. Lamar, Dallas)Saturady at 3. Don't be square, you hep-cat you.

WordSpace Reading, Sat, April 1

HEY! We at WordSpace expend tons and oodles of energy putting other writers and artists up in front of the public. We do it for the karma. NOW IT'S OUR TURN. Be at Poor David's Pub in Dallas, from 3-5 pm, on Sat. April 1st. Readers: Robert Trammell, Tim Cloward, Simone Roberts, Ben Fountain, David Searcy, Bill Swart, Martha Heimberg, and two people we think are really cool: Jeff Liles, and Lisa Huffaker. Check out the Writes of Spring festival hosted by The Writers' Garrett, it's Friday through Sunday. Your presence is lovingly reqested. Pants and shoes recommended for bar service.

Common Knowledge NEWS

Psst. Duke UP now offers CK's archived issues, all the content, for free in PDF. Check the link at right. Smart, cautious realistic-idealists share there. (SD: i write reviews for CK, but this is not about me, i swear, it's about there being good better-world-making conversations going on there).

Random Questions Play Along

Having turned in grades for the term, and put work behind me for the day, I stood on my porch. I contemplated the new foligage, the crane flying over, a squirrel whose attention I failed to get. At times like this, my brain goes all unfocused. A good feeling. Immediately interrupted by one of several thoughts, but this time one of my random questions. Random Questions are usually really stupid/obvious/irrelevant, but my brain poses them in such a way as to be interesting for a moment. I'll go first with today's RQ: If the water that makes up the oceans flows out of rivers, melts from glaciers, and falls from the sky, none of which have much salt in them (? embedded RQ), how do the oceans maintian consistent levels of salination? Proposed solutions: glaciers have salt in them and no one told me; minerals from the river silt include or combine to create salt; volcanoes and volcanic vents in the deep contribute salt to the oceans. And possibly, D, all of the above. Note that all of the proposed solutions are themselves Embedded Random Questions (ERQs). I can spend way too much in these briar patches. Questions of this kind make my father lovingly kid me about the PhD. Clearly there are gaps in my education. ;-) So, what's your recent or favorite RQ?

Oh, yeh, Vikings

Not to everyone's taste, I'll admit -- in fact, a bit blue more often than not. But these cats mean to seek truth and battle for joy and humble themselves before the universe.

FSM: pasta, pirates

Where the Vikings are faithfully sincere, His noodley appendage is not so. Fun here. As an actual decendant of corsairs (who doubled as dukes when in port in Nantes), I am tickled silly.

Mahabharata

I've begun reading the novelized version of the Mahabharata. (which, if you ever get 5 A's in Scrabble...) Why? Google it. The original epic is 10 THOUsand pages long. I'll go to the original for the poetry once I know the story. The novelized version is only 909 pages. Kinda like Infinite Jest, come to think. I'll be dipping in and out as I'm also reading The Future of Theory and Embodied Love and six other things, as usual. I wish there were a novelized version of Proust. Anyway. In Ch 4, Bhima, one of the most virtuous of the half-god sons of Pandu and Kunti, incites the jealousy of Duryodhana (a half-brother) for his strength, virtue, and general likability. D then poisons Bhima, binds his arms and legs, and throws him in the Ganges. Where he flows in a magical current (there's a Lot of this sort of thing in The M) to the den of the Nagas, huge divine snakes, who promptly bite him. Bhima Wakes Up as the poison of the Nagas is the antidote for the poison D knocked him out with. (yep) Bhima then, with lots of Herculean origination, knocks a whole bunch of the Nagas unconscious (Hydra, anyone?), is taken to their king for Blessing ('cuz the Nagas respect), is spotted by a Naga chief (there are tribes it would seem) who happens to be his great-great-grandfather on his mother's side. (Yes, not only is this the founding epic of Vedic and Hindu culture, it's the mother of all fantasy novels, possibly of most "myth".) Naga chief says, "Hey, that's my great-great-grandson. Guys, let's give him the *rasa*," which is the ambrosia of the Nagas of which one drink gives a man the strength of 10,000 elephants, so the Nagas, of course, give him eight drinks. Bhima sleeps for eight days while the *rasa* renders him New and Improved. Bhima is then spirited back up the Ganges to home, where he arrives amdist much grieving to much fanfare and the cold chill of fear runs all over D's wicked body. Bhima seeks no revenge, just goes about being all happy and strong and lovely and hanging out with his cousins (all 102 of them boys, and one girl whose name hasn't been mentionded yet) playing ball and learning archery and getting taught to use the Celestial Weapons, while D fumes and begins to freak completely out. Bhima is a Pandava, and D is a Karuava, and if you remember your Bhagavad Gita, you know where this is going. (the girl is a Karuava, hmmmm) Envy, never works. Nev-ver. Not 100% thrilled with The M, as have already witnessed the sati of one wife, Madri, who argues for the priviledge with the first wife, Kunti, who compassionaltely gives Madri the priviledge of burning with Pandu's (who was a really great guy, really) corpse and loving him in heaven, while Kunti agrees to stay here and raise the five half-god sons of Indra, Vayu, Dharma, and the twin gods Ashvini who impart, yes, twins. Bhima, btw, is the son of Vayu, god of wind, who imparts the ability to "humble everybody". Arjuna is his brother. The sati Creeps this feminist out, but good to know how that was justified and encouraged. Wierd reading it -- just as lovley and magical and gorgeous as the rest.

Dude, Homer!

This is Cool. Depictions of Homer's Illiad recently discovered on Cyprus. Photos at AOL. Love it when the brain goes "paft!"

Next on Deck! Reading for WordSpace, review

WordSpace is half-way through our spring season. We've had slam poets, and yoga poets, and a multimedia-multigenre caberet from Dancing Tongue that explored the genesis and meaning of "hip" and the several sub-cultures it marked or spawned. --- Next on Deck! is my program that gathers together writers from the local universities (there are a good number of them here) to get them on stage and reading to the public. Last Friday was my fourth show in the last year. All the writer's came from one school. The others Unis, as much as I pestered them, did not come to play. Too bad for them. Their writers could have been in good company. --- We got to giggle in the post-colonial melee with Neha Chinai's "The Lard Lane" playing with vanity and body image (much smart, arched, self-ironic humor), and to contemplate the larger truths in the poems of Laura Bowers. We developed some identity politics whiplash with Adrian Leigh Cook's "Breaking the Hoop," in which a white-appearing, male author writes a 13-year old, female, Ogalala Sioux narrator who smashes into history as the Anglo dominion of the West gets solidified. Brilliant story, very theatrically read, and that was a treat. Sobia Khan took us from Dallas to Karachi and back again in the rain in a creative non-fiction peice that sang with imagery and addressed some questions of conscience immigrants sometimes have. Jon Hart, our newbie, was adorably nervous, and triumphant with his "Stinky Feet," a story about a rock star's husband and the very uncomfortable intersection of his grief and the rapacious media. He was glowing when he got off the stage and was much applauded. And then Heather Wood read a piece on why it's bad to sleep with your girlfriend to get back at your cheating boyfriend while on mushrooms in the bathroom of a bar and then call that boyfriend to tell him off with the story -- and it was screamingly funny. All in all, a really lovely night. A mostly full house at the

Go Thoreau at 30-something

Sometimes, in spite of my pretentions, I love discovering that I'm right in the flow things and not at all avant-garde. Only sometimes. This article on "adultesents" magages to discuss the economics of the "boomerang" generation (is that Gen-X, or the gen behind us, and how many names does my generation have now, like, what?, ten or so? -- O, how PoMo of us) and not just the (and I love this) "thumbsucking fecklessness" portrayed in films like Failure to Launch &c. I found it amusing since I'm about to retreat from a very comfy, adult-sized income at University Incorporated to an income of Zero, quite by choice and with much deliberation. And, yes, to move back into my parents' home on my eventual way to Something Better. Call it a self-funded sabbatical. My friend S also read it and moaned, in good Progressive style: "stop seeking only individual solutions to social problems." Here, here. Let's do both, lots more. Now, the other sign of serendipity is a new article in Harper's by my friend and former prof Curt White, who trucks not with sillyness. "The Spirit of Disobedience" (see, I adore this guy), is an examination of just how not-news is the Christianity v. Enlightenment split (duh), and some of the bad ideas and ideologies on both sides of the v., and an arguement that the middle way, the yet unexplored third road might be Thoreauian. All with a healthy dash of humor. Two fun things here: one, my move to the P's place will be Thoreauian in that my parents will play the role of Henry's sister Helen (support, food, company), and in that the homestead is actually smack next to a little pond in lovely countryside far from the maddening crowds and decent internet service. In short, I'm going Transcendentalist, just like I always secretly wanted to. Two: when CW was interviewed upon the publication of his recent monograph The Middle Mind on my local public radio station by the recently deceased and totally brilliant Glenn Mitchell, I called in and asked Dear Curt what his reponse to the problem would be. The problem of the moment of the "noise" and "distraction" of contemporary life and how that does not help people to really focus on anything that would expand either mind or soul. At the time, CW had no answer. He went back into criticism/problem mode and pissed me off. I'm Bored Stooooopid with the easy job of pointing out problems, and much more interested in trying out responses to the problems. Thus my PoMoRenaissance desideratum. Anyway, this article of his seems to be the answer to my question: how do we slow down and focus enough to expand mind and/or soul? And voila, Thoreau. Which I should have thought of my damn self. Now, I do NOT TAKE CREDIT for Curt's essay. No way. All I'm pointing out is the lovely serendipity of it. It answers my question. I'm sure he didn't even think about it. I tend to believe Serenediptiy. She's been kind to me. --- So, read up, if you have or are willing to make some time. There's more to both of these articles than just my egotistic response to them. There's brain food there.

Open Letter

Dear Baby Boomers,

You are about to retire, and the marketing machine you've been running has noticed. Those of you, like my parents, who are privileged enough to really retire, but who are not yet planning to use some of their long vacation to get involved in our world, I'm writing to you.

Before you buy the Cadillac Escalade, --the Led Zeppelin soundtrack in the ad for is meant to remind you that once back in the day you were cool, edgy, rebellious, idealistic, Aquarian -- think about what you will do with your free time and your social security money and your dividends other than spoil your deserving grandchildren.

Finish what you started.

I know you had to give up the "revolution" and get on with adult life: career, children, all the expenses of children and the joys, and then care for parents, and the whole shebang. I also know that we could do some very interesting things in terms of shaping that regular life so that it does a much better job making people well and happy. All kinds of people, not just us in the upper-middle class.

Money? (some)
Ingenuity? (oodles)
Good will? (lots)
Good faith? (some)
Problem-solving skills? (bags full)
Will?

And there it is. You had the will to invent the twist and turning on, to invent the Great Society and critique its weaknesses, to demand equal pay not refrain from rioting when you did not get it, to imagine, and to grow up. And in all of it, you cut a new path. The ads play on that. Give them the lie.

The Escalade ad pictures you driving through beautiful countryside, remembering the era when Dionysus was embodied in Robert Plant and you wanted to be him or do him. The Ameriprize ad pictures you mountain biking and getting remarried, or reaffirming your vows under a teepee of ribbons on the beach in a very Simple Living style, what with the white-washed color values in the shot and all. Great. Live it up. Stay sexy and vibrant. I love you that way. But remember, what you have now that your kids are me -- grown, established, and raising kids and sending them to college, paying for our house, and saving for our retirement -- what you have is TIME. Use it. Don't just go on vacation, please. Or sit around playing bridge and cribbage and Texas Hold 'Em (sorry, that's my gen, oops). Get involved. Remember all those causes? Remember how you were going to change the world?

What are you going to do with all those good years of adventurous, trailblazing, romantic, revolutionary, turned-on, cool, and groovy self you have the health and good fortune to look forward to?

Thanks for the music, and the movies, poetry, novels, art, and the clothes that were better looking the second time around (but that's fashion, isn't it?). I dig it. But that didn't really get it, did it? The deep structures, those still need work.

I have ideas about the shape of the social and cultural legacy you should leave, or help my generation to create, lots of them. But, it's rude to impose on one's elders. Hopefully, it's not rude to implore one's elders.

Gen-X remembers. Some of us. Lots of us are involved, but we are a small generation, tiny, really. Remember civil rights, and gender issues, and race issues, and economic issues, and crime issues, and teaching children about relationship issues, and think about where the money and energy should go. It's not like anything got simpler in the last few decades. Remember how America wondered, "Where did all those poor people come from" after Katrina, when the Gulf Coast looked like Indonesia the year before (and still does)? Well, they never went away. They got moved out of sight. What do you think a society should do about these concerns? You have time research it, digest it, act on what you believe. Think about the shape of the world and the shape of life you want to leave the next generations. You have the time now, you can make it more possible. Not fully realized ... history is just slow. But more possible, more real. Use the time. Enjoy the time.

Use the mixture of pragmatism and idealism your dreams and experience and insight earned. Reach forward with us.

Give me something to really want to be when I grow all the way up. Because while you should protect your social security as you see fit and find tax loopholes as you can, and go on a long vacation if you can afford it, that alone will not be enough.

Not to garner my admiration. No way. I learned from you. I respect those who earn my respect.

And do, for the joy of it, go dance on the beach. It's good for your soul.

Love and Peace.

Poem as Incantative Manifesta

I open with this poem for its Kali-Shakti tension.

NB: All work here is copyrighted. I share it to share it --
not to give it away to people of lesser creative drive
and suspect integrity bent on reincarnation as dung beetles.

(the spacing/format went wonkers, oops, will figure out)

"Beat This"

"What America needs is not a Freedom of Information Act, but a Freedom of Imagination Act." L. Ferlinghetti, "A Coney Island of Lawrence Ferlinghetti," watched 1.6.06 on Comcast On Demand.


You are free to imagine whatever
it is that is
convenient for them for you to imagine.

You are free to marry at 27, birth at 30, divorce at 32.

And should you be single in these ages, you are free
to watch someone else imagine your life
-- shoes, sex, argot --
on behalf of those who think you need a bikini wax.

Free to imagine yourself without adult hair.
But not bald.

I am a difficult woman,
as we have been led to imagine, for my truth, which I imagine,
is out of line with this world. I imagine an economy
that serves humanity, and sex that saves your soul.

You are free to imagine having an imagination.

And what you would do with it
Because it’s just imagination, weak, and ephemeral,
mayflies and revolutionary eros.

They know it.

You are free to wish for an imagination downloads from iTunes.

Wearing your iPod, dance in your underpants
in front of your wife. She will laugh at you.
That would be the point

Do it. Because they take you way too seriously.

Paint your tongue blue with food coloring
and go about your day in the cube as usual.
Play it totally straight.

Do it. Because they take you way too seriously
and you do not take you seriously enough

Imagine what you would do if you had an imagination
that didn’t belong to Miramax or JRR Tolkein or CNN.

Do not imagine what you would do if you were Harry Potter.
That’s parody.

You are free to have the imagination
they will let you have for their sake.

Imagine a new way to make love
While also making breakfast:
so that after warm orgasms
you also have warm omelets.
Cook the omelets last.

You are free to have an imagination

Count the stars one night. Just try. Way out in the dark countryside.
It’s OK to devote one night to the impossible, to get sidetracked by conversation
and pick up where you think you left off until Venus rises again. One night, but not two.

Imagine some less impossible task, and set forth in that same spirit

Put sock puppets on your feet and tell your husband
you miss being a kid, and you hated being a kid,
and your parents really hated you when you were a kid,
and let him tickle your feet until you forget all about it.

Imagine a world without 24hr entertainment. In which I would never have
written this and would have stayed off your back and their backs and would
have gone quietly to bed with my book on Modernism after watching Sex and the City.

Imagine a world with only 4hr entertainment. Would you rest easy at night?
I’m not sure I would.

Where do you want to live?
What do you want to sing?
Who told you not to?
Kiss them, and then slap their ass and skip off

Do you know how to use an ax?
Why not?
Do you know that your hands are perfect?
Why not?

Aren’t you a little feral?

You are free to imagine what you are
trained to imagine.
Or
what you are strong enough for

“The counterculture has been ingested.” LF, following Marcuse.
Imagine you are revolutionary eros in convenient castor oil form