CLICHÉ STUFFING

I really believe Halloween is the most honest day we celebrate here in America.   This thursday we will sit static stuffed as we are with all manner of clichés.  Upstairs my hostess is franticly mixing up yams and braising the big bird while her partner sits in his recliner reading the paper.  Do not get me wrong, I am most thankful for sharing their hospitality; I just don my mask.  

Our stinking economy caused me to close up my shop, move into the big city, and take a day job for the couple of months I usually just hibernate.   I adjust my mask. 

The smells of stuffing and hot rolls should be comfort.  I do not know?   Sorry, let me adjust this mask.  

I had this idea that instead of being reminded of all manner of loss I would instead go downtown and see if I could be used as a volunteer at one of the soup kitchens.  Instead I just tighten the straps holding to my face this mask.   

Stuffed!   Damn, am so lucky!    I am not hungry,  I am warm, friends, hope, dreams, self worth, health.   Then why do I feel like that turkey upstairs trussed up on its back, legs tied together, and stuffed full of, well, full of soggy mixed metaphors and half baked clichés?  

M. Paul

BART STUPAK'S WEDGE, GOD WHAT AN ABORTION

You know, it just had to be my luck that the best high school teacher I had was in an a.p. biology class and not civics or US government.  What a shame.   Now I can tell you how a cell divides, but I have to be up front with you, I have no idea how this nut-ride Stupak thinks dividing the house vote was going to insure his long term political survival.   

Pro life, give me a double back flippen break.   What could be more pro life than health care reform?   

So lets see, I am sure he has split away the votes of women; done.   He has probably pissed off our lovely DNC; done.  Who else has he alienated?  You! Me!  Dam Bart, you are not stacking fire wood here; but I can guarantee you it is going to get hot!   Well, except for the reception you will get at the ballot box next time around.

"If you don't want an abortion don't have one!"

M. Paul

LEDGER

I have lost all account of direction.  I was sure I paid the toll. I have burned another page from your play book to light my way.   I burn and burn.   I have no doom you can understand; both my mother and sister; tear after tear, too wet my hell.   Sure there is heat enough for all of us to keep warm; to dwell.   I am bound to not even my self.   The morning comes but spring is forever wrapped in white.    I give orders, scream out each command, but static are the others stuck in mental mire.   I run.   We hide.   

Trust,  you have got to be fucking kidding.   Stop the presses, stop the earth, I want to close my mouth, close my eyes, shutter my ears deep under ground.  There is no sleep.   No wings to flight, the dust I teeth, air I might.  I do not really feel anymore.   Can you not hear my scream? I have no senses.  I have no cure.  The priestess opens her skin bound binder, lighting fire to my eyes, and the pages just turn to ash in my hands. 

I am awakened by the shrieking air brakes and the mechanical crunch of the double doors, the overweight Maori tattooed driver turns his head, holds out his huge hand, and asks, do you have the fare?  The librarian points a finger.  I question, in there?  

M. Paul

40 DEMS FLEE AND CAO IS FOR CHANGE

Representative Anh Cao (R, Lauisiana), you think he does not have a few problems in his district?   Forty Democratic representatives refused to vote for health care reform; a few problems my rear end.
Now do not get me wrong, I would not begrudge any female (or male for that matter) rep for not signing because of the Stupak amendment for the obvious reasons but I feel confident it will be stripped in committee.  I have my fingers crossed anyway.
My own rep here in Alaska, Don Young (R), who is famous for keeping out of the media madness of DC made it a point to appear at BACHMANN'S FIGHT AGAINST TERROR HEALTH CARE.   
I can not wait for 2010; I just hope Harry Crawford does not have any union skeletons hidden in his closet.  Alaska is a vary small state if you know what I mean.
So what about the others forty dems who chose the status quo?   Tell me why your blue dog fence sitters chose to piss on our leg. 
M. Paul

FIRING UP THE FORGE OF CONSENSUS

Sitting here holding court in my seat at our local diner, I just have to ask, what's next?  It is the first day I have had in a couple of weeks to take a little time to ruminate over all that has transpired lately.   The faces here are all the same but others come and go.  I hear echoes of discontent bouncing around our morning coffee club.  Too many vague ideas for any one of them to stand out.   Then I take the time to listen to our Presidents weekly address and he points a finger at insurance companies. One idea  starts to really race around in my mind. 

While the conservative right continues to stoke their bonfire of hate and ignorance it is up to us to feed President Obama's forge of consensus.  As the right blows and blows hot air and embers into the eyes of the misinformed We must continue to maintain our rational pressure at the bellows least our ideals become to cool.    If We fail in this our President may hammer and hammer but the steel will become too cool to find a common ground, too brittle, and in the end fixed beyond all hope of forging the consensus that will  keep from creating a slag heap of lost opportunities.  

M. Paul

CULTURAL MATURITY

I know, I know, you are asking yourself what am I aiming at with this cultural maturity?   Lets just say its not a phrase I pulled from some web site or blog but just came to me as fitting in regard to my belief, there is that word again, my belief that humanity has the power to outgrow its ability to exterminate itself whether by greenhouse gasses, economic greed, or simply pushing the atomic bomb button.   Pick your darkest fear.  Mine was fanned by early grade school fire drills only we had the earthquake bell, the fire bell, and then the bomb bell.  

   I do not recall how or even when I decided there was hope for humanity.   It probably had a lot to do with discovering science fiction novels at fourteen.  It seemed someone both smarter and more imaginative then myself had hope for a future I had never considered.  Then why could I not?  Let me give you one clue: President Reagan.  There is this punk song from an LA band that ends in " Ronny baby you are forgiven in hell! " it always seemed to sum up my feelings about the mans administration completely.   If I was freaked out by the thought of his posturing I am sure the rest of the world had to be.   

   President Clinton allowed a belief that sanity might prevail but then who would have thought Bush junior would get the nod from our beloved Supreme Court.  Fear: Dick Chainy, torture, rendition, WMD, war, body bags, and collateral damage?  I was afraid those freaks would push the button just to win an election; and why not those representatives pushed every other partisan button.  They sure pushed mine!

   Anyway, you get the picture, but what of this so called cultural maturity I was looking for?   Was it just a dream of a few sci-fi writers that infected my mind?  Could it be humanity is really just  a rotting carcass of walking talking self aware cannibalistic parasitic maggots?  I know that even looking in my own mirror there stands before myself the horror.  I can recall after 9/11 watching those jets flying into the world trade center over and over again and hoping Bush would have the balls to drop a few tactical nukes on whoever was responsible.   The horror looks us all in the mirror.   

   Cultural maturity.  I had given it little thought until yesterday when it became the bases for a few of my blog comments regarding President Obama's Nobel peace prize.   I will agree there must be members of humanity who are more trustworthy then myself, then you, or you, or even you.   Fortunately we have  the ability to entrust these leaders of the people at our ballot box.  Perhaps that is what I am looking for.  Sure we may not have the strength to keep from pushing the button ourselves but we are capable, most of the time, to discern those with such strengths.

   Cultural maturity ?  In the last chapter of Stienbecks East of Eden ( as well as I can remember it has been about fifteen years) Adam Trask is dying but while in the progress of forgiving his son he has this discussion with his chinese domestic about what makes us human. He used a hebraic term "timshel"(sp) which meant choice and it is this choice which defines us.   Perhaps this cultural maturity I seek for humanity is this timshel (choice) but coupled with both a share of speculative possibility and just enough fear to keep from pushing buttons better left un-pushed.

M. Paul

IMPLOSION OF HATE

Is it possible we have been judged and found though less then perfect perhaps pushing our cart along a trail leading towards the high road; the high road we once built.   My how our race down hill was ran.   Sure we let them tie across our eyes fear.  I too was angry but knew not at who, I too was scared but of what.   Too many are now pushing their own cart load of hate and discontent, buckets of rage and boxes of ignorance, books full of past lies and rolled posters posturing as patriotism.   It was indeed too easy chasing our load down hill; too fast among the ruts we were stuck within.  Now as we look back at the wreckage piled below one must wonder why, one must ask how were we allowed to crash into each other, and also do we now bear scars never to be erased?   Now our leader is awarded for peace amid the war only half won.   Will we than offer only half measure or is it possible we join and offer in measure most full to empower our implosion of hate?

M. Paul

NO WORK=TIME TO BLOG
I am just sitting here sore, tired, and checking in on my favorite TPM bloggers feeling just a little guilty for my lack of participation.   It is just that I have more work now than I did mid sumer when I decided to try and blog.   My biggest disappointment was a blog I was working on comparing Obama and Atticus Finch (from To Kill A Mockingbird), I just found too many comparisons and could never narrow my focus.   Narrow my focus, that could be the problem/solution.   Anyway I just had a moment to type away and thought I might share my experience and ask how most of our TPM community found time to do justice to a "TPM Cafe Blog".
M. Paul

DREAM
   Some dreams hold within them too much honesty to dismiss as unreal but then perhaps we find ourselves in a space so void of potential that even our nightmare holds more hope then does truth.   

  I am not so certain it was not a dream.    I was lost in a new town, broke, hungry, out of gas for my truck, I was running down streets unfamiliar. Past vacant church parking lots and strip mall pawn shops, across all night tittie bars with blinking neon cocktail glasses.  Through barren streets crisscrossed by police cruisers and street sweepers, past old homeless men and young working girls, drug dealers, their junkies.   All night long I run and circle trying to stay warm, trying to find that place, up each street and down the next; I know it is around here somewhere.   It is cold and drizzling but I am sweating.  Then I see it, both the edge of the sun and the alley walk way lined by a few crazy colored kids and a graying rastafari, a few misplaced and obviously displaced; my like and kind.     As I approach I hear off in the distance a crashing banging roar; then it stops.   I turn and look down the rain streaked street; there it is again, only louder, the same sequence of crushing sounds.   I am frozen, my fight or flight instinct too afraid to respond.   Again only closer still; run.        Run!        My feet are frozen. Closer still, crash bang crush, the machinations of my undoing getting too close. My eyes are frozen shut. Afraid, my breath is stuck on the outside too terrified to breathe back in, not even for a scream. CRASH! BANG! CRUSH! I jerk awake to find a thick layer of frost glimmering on the inside of my truck windshield.   Outside the door a large city garbage truck and its attending collectors are emptying a green steel dumpster: crash bang crush.        I start the engine, turn the heater on high, and then crawl back into my sleeping bag; waiting for the frost of another night in lifes great adventure to evaporate.

M. Paul

OVER A BARREL LISB?

  Today might mean only what we find at it's end: an unresolved dispute, a couple of nagging questions, or perhaps a reason to keep on trying.  Like the  rising moon or other spinning planets we try to find a rhythm worth repeating.   On the better days we are rewarded by a small slice of truth; after the less lucky we go to sleep hungry.   It is called today for a reason.   If we had to live each day over again, or only just the last one, we might just discover how little in control of each of life's decisions we really are. 

  Mostly it is like rowing up stream with our hands tied behind our back,   Look!  Just down stream are the class 5 rapids of life.    Do not be afraid.   Do what I do, take a deep breath just before you go under, kick your legs, and paddle your hands in a smooth and steady manner; open your eyes then head toward the light streaming through the bubbles and froth.   Remember to look for onrushing waves, sweepers, boulders, and most importantly listen for the rushing sound of one of life's waterfalls.  

  Are you in a barrel?   Over a barrel?   Often the only option is to tuck oneself into a ball, you know stick your head between your ass and kiss yourself goodbye. Ha!.  Not Me.   I put my hands together, kick off the edge, and take what life has to offer in stride; head first it is true, but much better to be presenting the world our ass then licking it each day that ends without a solution.

M. Paul

ILLEGALS TAKE OVER S CAROLINA!
This nut-ride has got to be kidding me -Rep. Joe Wilson (R-SC).   As both California born and having lived in Greensboro NC I can tell you the illegal problem back east is getting out of hand.  Now living up here in Alaska let me tell you they are swimming the Bearing Straight at night to evade the boarder patrol.  
LIER my ass!

M. PAUL

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

BLIND FAITH IN UNIVERSAL HEALTH CARE

I can still hear the fear in Sean's voice over our poor phone connection, the doctor says I will be blind in three years! 

 

I guess our health care debate really only caught my attention this February. You see my newly hired shop helper, Sean is not his real name, was cutting out a piece of sheet aluminum for an aircraft repair but was having trouble using the cutoff wheel with precision.  I carefully shared with him a couple of my tricks and stood by as he once again failed to cut within the line.   Sean's lack of success bothered me a little so I asked him to draw a bunch of parallel lines to practice cutting on.   I figured wasting a small sheet of metal was worth the investment, after all at eighteen he appeared brighter than average; a keeper.  I went across the hanger to monitor another project and as I returned I noticed him with his face, and in particular his right eye, about five inches from the piece of aluminum he was cutting up.  

  

Sean, you really can't see a darn thing can you!  

 It turns out that he needed corrective lenses but had not seen an optometrist for two years. He still had one contact for his good eye but it gave him headaches.  Head aches!  For his good eye!

We talked about his problem over the next few weeks, the details would bore you, but in the end I could stand it no more and bought him a plane ticket to Anchorage. We are 350 miles away from the road system most take for granted; and yes, no optometrist. The round trip ticket into town was $480.00.  I told him to take the morning flight, go see the optometrist, do a little shopping, and then come home on the evening flight.  Around noon the next day while checking my voicemail I listened to Sean's message from Anchorage. I can still hear the fear in his voice, the doctor says I will be blind in three years!  

 

Blind in three years, he is eighteen now, that means by the time he is twenty-one Sean will have gone from productive hard working to, well you know, fucking blind.  Blind!  I have dealt with many forms of personal trauma but nothing compared to the grief I was suffering over this mans potential loss. My grief? What about Sean's?   What had he been suffering through? 

  

When he returned to work the next morning I told him he could  get a second opinion, but in the mean time to go down to our little library and do some research online.  I nagged and nagged him every day and finally he comes to the shop with some positive information.   It seams his condition is correctable with a surgical procedure available in Canada.   Seven thousand dollars worth of surgery, per eye;  fourteen big ones.   Fourteen thousand dollars is an impossible amount of cash for a young man whose only other job was sweeping the floors at Fred Myers (large department store) 

 

I would like to think there will be a happy ending to this tale.   Sean's plan was to go commercial salmon set-netting this summer even though I told him I could guaranty more income working for me.  Unfortunately the fishing season was a bust so he has gone back to Washington without enough cash for his eyes.   Blind by twenty one, can you imagine it?  I thought about paying for his surgery myself or just loaning him some of the money but with the faltering economy my own revenue for the year will be down about thirty percent. I just could not swing it. Ultimately I found myself able to offer only some moral support; nothing more than just words.  Only fucking words my brother... 

M. Paul

SCRUTINIZE

I am once again looking and looking but find for my effort none worth the continued strain.   I expect you would like a more detailed explanation.   I am trying to find words without giving myself away, forms that feed from my often bare table.    As I approach your mirror it appears I wear no clothes; of substance I am not.   But be brave.   See here, my thin and shallow form is only a reflection of the erosion daring all my ideas to live.   If I held all the answers in my hand I would not need to type away day after day.   My only reward is if someone reads this.   I think and think through my mental magnifying glass.   Might my thoughts become focused enough to catch fire?  Perhaps we could rub and rub our ideas together, sure a little friction, but notice the small sparks turn to smoke our kindling. 

  

Later, as we kick through the ashes looking for words ... fucking words.  Just letters cobbled together: synapse crackle, electrons smoke, ideas fume, dreams choke on the ashes of this failure of ours to build a beacon bright enough to herald our freedom from their foolishness, those opinions so insignificantly ignorant one needs only a microscope to scrutinize.

M.Paul

Friday, August 28, 2009

PATIENCE

Patience, for I fear as we race along toward our reward it will wither away for all this rushing; hates beck and call.  

  

Patience, has it has only been seven months sense Obama was sworn in as our President?    You would have thought He was only weeks away from lame duck status.    I wonder if we really deserve that which we fight for.  

Patience, as I am afraid our side teeters on the sty fenced edge of a failure induced fight.  You know, one of those turd throwing melees where everyone ends up smelling like shit.  Oy vey!  Root instead for deeper thoughts but wait for it as its shape might be found in forms indistinguishable. 

  

Patience, what a loaded gun; bang, bang.    I do not know.   I mean what is the use of a loaded mind if one is never going to use it?   Just do not point them at me unless you are going to pull the trigger.  

 

Patience please; Senator Kennedy waited his whole life waiting on We.  I have waited and waited at least half of my life: Jessie Jackson, Jerry Brown, heck even Jello Bafra, and finely President Obama.  I really like how that sounds; President Obama.   So now I wait for wars to end, cap and trade, universal health care, education, equal rights, the end of racism.   Are they not public options all ? 

  

Mostly I find patience must be my default name; given to the user anonumos.  Well if I choose to use the handle "Goose", perhaps "Prime rib divided by an Imaginary Number", or say "anti-josh" would it be any different?  It could be I am so excruciatingly shy that I am afraid to say who I am.   I am the listener, a learner, the Lorax, the trees.  

I am for patience, if you please.

Good night,

M. Paul

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

CONTRETEMPS

So it looks as though a little blood has been drawn.  It is not as though we thought the blade had been dulled and the tip blunted; we knew the danger beforehand.  Like a Hidelburg student  bearing one or two scars of honor, we might now trust to defend our needs or to fight for our cause.    I see no one on their knees.  I only hope the taste of blood in ones teeth will put to fire all notions of the fair fight.    

Am I guilty of pulling punches?  Are we being sucker punched?   I have some spirit left.   I am not gone.   It is just you and me doing the duel.   I pace my ten steps as you pace yours.   Will your aim go astray?   Will one be true?   Too many questions and not a deep enough vocabulary to do justice to my thoughts, these dueling ideas; never mind my feelings.   I try not to describe my fears but instead bend away from your bullet, I swerve from your sword.   Your dart holds no honor, your vocal rage is as unfocused as my desire to calm it.   

I try not to fade, my resolve flaps its wings against the gale, I will not give up, fail not. No one knows whose blood has been spilled, yours or mine.   We could perhaps reach out our hands instead of sharpened steel, shake and mingle life's fluid, become instead of brothers of blood, blood brothers.

M. Paul