credit where credits due

when he told me I was tied to the history of an already buried century(those werent his words I knew he wasnt going to credit whose they were) I was pulled between smashing him repeatedly in the face with my ball peen hammer fist or feign unaffection but irked enough to bitchslap him into a corner I suppose the difference would be a broken face or one glowing against the night stung too many times to count his blood stickled up through the pores of his face like honey in a honeycomb

so much for first instincts the bane of maturity knowing better

I almost wish I was back in the buried century to punish his thoughtlessness

most of my contemporaries are buried up to their necks trying to keep gravedirt from getting into their mouths

I said  Well I aint dead

Step on it  You might as well be dead for the space youre taking up

Taking up space

Yacunt

Better than half the music you listen to was recorded in that dead century youre maligning

Taking up space

Youre taking up space strung up like a puppet on the invisible strings of fones and APPs and impatience immediacy

Your Twentyfirst Century began with a BANG! then to conflagrate under Bushwhacker and his band of Neocons
Project for a New American Century mine and everyone elses ass I call it Kill what aint White like me 

Your Twentyfirst Century has yet to show its cultural legs . . . unless those legs are US militarism Homeland surveillance the vacuous Republican standards a filthy cotton cord laid on the ground which isnt to say Democrats arent caught churning in a sucking whirlpool of incremental change to the status quo  a fouled toilet bowl draining slowly

Yes  Point fingers at the dead centurys world wars its genocides Stalin Mao Zedong Pol Pots Kymer Rouge

Human beings are essential for the slaughter of other human beings   

Comparatively though we may yet realise since the September 11s onslaught the fright that was worked up into a lather under deliberate ridingcrop strokes not to spur the beast to its better humanity but scare it over and over again to extort more and more money Dont dare suggest to me its Americas form of Capitalism  

Horseshit

The Civil War isnt over

Civil Rights havent been won

Racism remains rife

Comparatively the dead century may look like a cakewalk to this one

The buried century I was born into is unearthed its corpse repeatedly picked over by historians who deny they have an axe to grind and want desperately to rewrite it 1984 Orwellian-style and by true historians objectively trying to wrestle out the finer points relative to its whitest black and blackest white

So who said that

Who said what

Who said what you refuse to credit them saying . . . tied to the history of an already buried century  Who

Theyre not your words   Whose

Carlos Fuentes

Im going to assume you didnt read his words

You think little of me

I dont think  I know   I think you ought to be honest

Honesty cant hurt

A friend read me a passage from their copy of Vlad

Thank you  It is a wonderful suggestive piece of writing  Why cant you say so as well  Im not asking  You ought to think about it beyond here and now  And then provide yourself an answer as to why you cant give credit where credits due

1822,  Saturday,  28  5. 16

 0956,  Memorial Day Monday,  30  5. 16

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William Faulkner: Intruder in the Dust

American elections languish  run too long  cost too much  offer too little  and its officeseekers fool themselves into believing their words and positions are pertinent only to those within the bubble or echooochamber into which they speak

not to the rest of the World

       L. Frank Baums Wizard of Oz is alive and well 

                                                   or at least its blustering chattering head is

Faulkner as Orwell usually seem to have something to share with me that befit the time and make commentary of the ridicule Republican orgies heap on those who are not like them

this afternoon was Faulkners turn:

                            “. . . and as for Lucas Beauchamp, Sambo, he’s a homogeneous man too, except that part of him which is trying to escape not even into the best of the white race buy into the second best  --  the cheap shoddy dishonest music, the cheap flash baseless overvalued money, the glittering edifice of publicity foundationed on nothing like a card-house over an abyss which used to be our minor National industry and is now our National amateur pastime  --  all the spurious uproar produced by men deliberately fostering and then getting rich on our National passion for the mediocre: who will even accept the best provided it is debased and befouled before being fed to us: who are the only people on the earth who brag publicly of being second-rate, i.e. lowbrows. I don’t mean Sambo. I mean the rest of him who has a better homogeneity than we have and proved it by finding himself roots into the land where he had actually to displace white men to put them down because he had patience even when he didn’t have hope, the long view even when there was nothing to see at the end of it, not even just the will but the desire to endure because he loved the old few simple things which no one wanted to take from him: not an automobile nor flash-clothes nor his picture in the paper but a little music (his own), a hearth, not his child but any child , a god, a heaven which a man may avail himself a little of at any time without having to wait to die, a little earth for his own sweat to fall on among his own green shoots and plants. We  --  he  --  he and us  --  should confederate. Swap him the rest of the economic and political and cultural privileges which are his right, for the reversion of his capacity to wait and endure and survive. Then we would prevail: together we would dominate the United States: we would present a front not only impregnable but not even threatened by the mass of people who no longer have anything in common save a frantic greed for money and a basic fear of a failure of national character which they hide from one another behind the loud lip[service to a flag.”

                                                          

 Intruder in the Dust  pages 155 and 156

1641,  Friday,  27 5. 16