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When Things Got Too Weird For Ripley (Believe It Or Not)

hiroshima & nagasaki survivor

When Things Got Too Weird For Ripley (Believe It Or Not)

Notwithstanding the fact that he still received more letters every year than anyone on earth, including Santa Claus (Believe It Or Not), his sinking fits of despair started to occur with frightening regularity, after the war. On his way to the far East, for the first time since Pearl Harbor Day, he stood on the naked, turkey-breast hull of the sunken battleship Arizona, looking down at his own well-shod feet as though the rolled steel were transparent. He could see the innocently disarrayed skeletons of the young men entombed inside (Believe It Or Not). His full, delicate lips, firmly closed, covering his distinctive, protruding teeth. He was speechless for the first time, in fifty-odd years.

Oddly, he couldn’t take his mind off his Tibetan skull-bowl, back home. He felt the hinged roof of the bowl under his cold fingers, he tasted warm, sacramental blood and wine, mixed in equal parts, sharp and bitter against the roof of his mouth like the blade of a rusty, iron sword. For the microphones, he read aloud the notes he had with him, but his voice wasn’t Ripley’s anymore, it was the gentle, quavery voice of an old, old man.

Since his first success, he had been a hard-working, hard-playing man, with the immodest tastes of an oriental emperor. He earned a million dollars a year, and knew how to spend it. On better days, he’d have six smart, well-dressed women under his roof, for energetic conversation, for private fun and games. Out on his secluded spit of land in the middle of Oyster Bay, they’d barbecue whole pigs, split sides of beef, and the flavor of the smoked flesh he tore into was marvelous, marvelous.

Later that day, continuing his flight from Hawaii to Japan, he lost track of where he was for a few moments, and through his puffy, heavy lids, the woman bending over him with the pitcher of pink lemonade looked exactly like the love of his life, dead ten years that month of cancer. Dear, sweet, Ola, he almost said, but caught himself. Though his temples sweated copiously, he refused to soil his handkerchief, letting his shirt become wet, stiff with his salt.

His live radio broadcast, next morning, from Hiroshima’s approximate ground zero, wasn’t easy, not with him sitting at a card table, fumbling with watches frozen at the moment of detonation, staring at a vaporized child’s wool-and-silk-ribbon slippers, retrieved intact from the dunes of sticky ash (Believe It Or Not); the only artifact to survive the blast for many thousands of square yards. He haggled over price and bought it for his newest museum, opening the next month in Las Vegas.

As long as he could remember, he’d been happily locked in an embrace with the whole odd, eclectic world, savoring each one-of-a-kind moment his physical bulk passed through. Here at Hiroshima, for the first time, that innocent enthusiasm which had brought him so very far from Riverside, California seemed to encircle his tired neck like one of the great unwieldy money-stones of New Zealand, giving little joy.

Upon reaching his final destination, Shanghai, he saw his dearest, most beloved city in a panic: everyone knew the Reds were marching down from the hills. It was only a matter of time before the soul of China became engorged and insensible with Mao’s revolution. Voracious appetite of old absent, he forced down a quart of sticky rice with Seven Delicacies for show, for form, so as not to upset his agent.

A week later, back in New York, for the second time he faltered while on the air, then passed out, slithering to the floor in his fine wool suit like a large scrubbed potato, hands scrabbling against the studio floor, grasping the taped microphone cords with a syncopated rhythm, his young female assistant staring at him like a ritual mask, her mouth a lipsticked slash of fear, babbling nonsense until they thought to turn the mike off: the perils of live broadcasting.

That very night, Rip called his next-door neighbors from the hospital; I’m getting out of here tomorrow morning, he said. I’m taking us on a long vacation, God knows we all deserve it. He hung up the black phone and leaned back, dead before his head touched the pillow. Years later, his dearest friends all said it was a blessing he didn’t live to see how the world changed. The world changed and made his collection of physical oddities seem, by comparison (Believe It Or Not) warm, safe, what we dream of when we dream of heaven, not one of us doubting for a minute, anymore, that fact is stranger than fiction.

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Trump, A Secret Family History

donald trump family tree

Trump, A Secret Family History (as revealed to me by his secret family!)

When the San Francisco police started raiding Granddaddy Trump’s hotel/brothel down by the wharf, out of sheer spite (because their favorite girl had dragged herself out of the whore business by her own corset & a married farmer down in Bakersfield)… well, when that started, Granddaddy decided things had gotten too hot. Down coast, Granddaddy found a good location near the train line for a hotel in a place with no cops. He couldn’t come up with $1,000 an acre, which is what the owner asked, so Granddaddy filed a placer’s mineral claim against the land. The U.S. Land Office was, and is, corrupt.

Despite the placer’s claim giving him no right to build any structure on the land, Granddaddy built a boarding house. As soon as the boarding house was there? The railroad built a station. To his credit, Granddaddy never attempted to mine gold on the land —the miners themselves were his source of income… when they weren’t mining, they needed to eat & sleep & occasionally find a willing woman. The land’s real owner tried to collect rent – but legal title didn’t matter much to Granddaddy, not then… or now.

“Title” is fiction; perception is reality. In the end, he practically stole that land from the first owner for $100 an acre. And not too long after that, he got himself elected to public office, winning justice of the peace by a vote of 32 for, 5 against. He found himself firmly attached to the government tit & at the same time earning money by violating the law he’d been hired to protect… well… it really didn’t get much better than that, he thought.

From crooked brothel owner to crooked justice of the peace in less than a generation. Not bad for a German immigrant, eh? Granddaddy dreamed big… multigenerational wealth transfers, the long view. He’d teach his son (Daddy Trump) the family tradition. Then his son (Trump) would teach his grandson. That tradition would practically be bred into the bone by the time his grandson would both win (and also not win) the presidency in 2016 (thanks to Russia, James Comey, and the alt-right movement). Think of the great-grandsons! There’d be Trump II, Trump III… well, the possibilities were endless.

Until the impeachment… but that would be giving too much away… I’d better let him tell you the rest himself!

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Shitler’s Apologist-in-Chief

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Shitler’s Apologist-in-Chief

In 2009, when President Obama’s approval poll numbers were high, Kellyanne C. wrote an article for humanevents.com which dismissed approval polls. She said such polls were nothing more than a polite nod of the head. She said they didn’t mean much.

Kellyann C. in 2009: President Obama’s “adulation abroad and a perception of charm and charisma at home is not a mandate for the type of sweeping transformations to the domestic economy and foreign policy currently on the table. After all, Candidate Obama ran on ‘change we can believe in,’ not ‘revolution you must pay for.’”

And this morning, in 2017, on CNN? She utterly dismissed Shitler’s current critics because, “frankly, their approval ratings are half of his.”

Apparently, approval polls are either informative or meaningless depending on who’s writing Kellyanne C.’s paychecks. She is the calmest liar I have ever seen. She must load up on benzos before each interview. She can barely keep her eyes open.

If President Obama had no “mandate” for “sweeping transformations,” what, then, does Shitler have?

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Giant Redwoods, a poem

illustration muir woods 2

Giant Redwoods

(Statements in italics taken from Ethics, by Baruch de Spinoza)

Look farther and farther toward thin blue sky, until the green feathery tops of the trees are like the northern pole on some dream planet.  Put the anger back in its bottle. These trees are generous.  Hatred can never be good.

Your carsickness from the ride up the mountain begins to fade, leaving behind a breathless, weepy echo not unlike your first religious fervor.  Hatred is increased through return of hatred, but may be destroyed by love.

When have you not been afraid?  The random can be scrutinized for meaning, the puzzle solved, when surveyed long & carefully enough.  Anything may be accidentally the cause of either hope or fear.

These trees have plenty of time.  As a child, you stared at Jesus’ sad face for hours, wishing you could marry him  — wondering what it was that made him love you.  Could you sacrifice yourself for the sins of the world, if it was that simple & necessary? Cathedrals turn us small and vulnerable again, for reasons both blessed & cursed.  Devotion is love towards an object which astonishes us.

Vague, starry eyes like yours feel at home here; the air is weighty, burdensome & solemn. You’ve loved trees before; this is different.  These trees have plenty of time – more time than you.  If we love a thing which is like ourselves, we endeavor as much as possible to make it love us in return.

Your nerves are suddenly frozen, by the unaccustomed richness of perfect light.  Your guide is tall & slender, hesitant to speak.  Her mother has the tattooed forearm of a Polish Jew of a certain age.  The knowledge of good and evil is nothing but an idea of joy or sorrow.  Sorrow is [a hu]man’s passage from a greater to a less perfection.

These trees have plenty of time.  She touches your wrist, and for a moment, you, too, want to grow taller, leaving the surface of the earth behind forever.  Shyly, she picks up a tiny pinecone, smaller than a toy.  You both laugh when she tells you this is their seed.  Joy is [a hu]man’s passage from a less to a greater perfection.

These trees have plenty of time.  And all around, their wise, fallen, hollow bodies litter the ground like the bones of saints.  Childlike, you understand a wish to die here, never to leave this hush.  They’re only trees – your neck bent back as far as it will go; only trees, yet wondering if the giants can hear your thoughts.  Love is joy, with the accompanying idea of an external cause.  Love and desire may be excessive.  When the mind imagines its own weakness, it necessarily sorrows.

Is there anything we have less power over than our own tongues?  These trees have plenty of time, growing wise as the Buddha, in their silence.

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Meet Nana Awere Damoah: The Ghanaian Voice of Objectivity and Reason

A great interview, an interesting dialogue, a thought provoking interviewer! Hallelujah!

Mum C writes

Nana Awere Damoah is my guest post for today. He is a man with brains and an objective voice. I can say he is the writer with the voice of reason in Ghana. His words “Ghanamonosyncratic nsempiisims” stuck with me from his book, I speak of Ghana where he presented all things as they seem in Ghana. I am very glad to have the honour of this interview with a true Ghanaian patriot.

NANA AWERE DAMOAH NANA AWERE DAMOAH

AMOAFOWAA:

Nana, please tell us about you, from birth to now in summary.

NANA:

Thanks for this opportunity, Mum C. I was born 39 years ago in a taxi on its way from Kotobabi to Korle-bu. My brother remembers the registration number of the taxi and says someone (I can’t remember who) won the lottery with the numbers the week after I was born! My family were staying in a compound house at Abavanna…

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Happy December!

illustration compassionThe root of compassion is this:  there, but for the grace of god, or the luck of the draw, go I.  Treat others the way you would want to be treated, were you to wake up one morning inside their life.  Let morning, and let hope, break inside your soul.

For a number of reasons, I have been called away from writing, and I have missed it terribly… and I have also missed so much here on WordPress, a truly valuable (and for me, essential)  community of dedicated writers and artists of every variety.  When I read the work of others, listen to the work of others, see the work of others in my creative “family,” I feel the reinvigoration of my own essential spark, that soul’s brightness which I cannot live without.  It is as important as air:  the eternal conversation between Minds… the desire to communicate and affect one another in a very human, very tangible, and very undefinable way.

Another writer told me once that the way you know you’re a writer is you HAVE to write!  You cannot NOT write.  You must write as you must breathe, or drink water, or eat, or sleep.  If you don’t, you become wretched, fearful, at squandering the opportunity being called into this life has given to you.  And we must not waste our time here.  There is no sin but the giving up of hope.  Without hope, we become desperate, suffering creatures indeed.

I am deeply worried about the world right now.  All of it.  All the people, all the creatures, all the natural beauty.  There is an albatross, named Wisdom, who at 64 years old is raising another chick.  We have lost 70% of our seabirds on this planet.  We risk losing Wisdom, and wisdom.  Children are suffering from endless war.  Climate change is disrupting what little stability we have managed to achieve as humans.  Violence, bombs, bullets, hatred, racism, sexism, greed… let this not be our most lasting legacy.

In December, Christians celebrate the birth of a man they believe came to save the world… if only it were that simple.  Whatever faith or philosophy or moral compass you hold within you, realize that the saving of the world begins with each one of us.  Spirit exists whether you think it’s permanent or not.  The spirit of a human life can be broken.  And yet, some people who have been through unimaginable horrors manage to go on and create, and experience, hope and happiness and human connections.

The root of compassion is this:  there, but for the grace of god, or the luck of the draw, go I.  Treat others the way you would want to be treated, were you to wake up one morning inside their life.  Let morning, and let hope, break inside your soul.

I love you all, without conditions.

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Lovely Girl, a short-short story

illustration lovely girl
Lovely Girl, a short-short story

Jan. 11, 1979

Kenneth got into a big fight with his father last night. His Dad said that he follows me around like a puppet, and that he’s being bought. Then his Dad told him he was a lazy little bastard for not fixing his car & going somewhere with his mother. Then Kenneth said something back and his Dad tried to choke him and Kenneth left & went to the library.

I have a feeling Kenneth’s Dad hates me, or at least dislikes me. He would probably be a lot happier if I wasn’t going out with Kenneth. I would like to go up to his Dad and say that if he would prefer Kenneth not go out with me — because he thinks Kenneth would be better able to concentrate on sports & school — I will comply.

All I know for sure is that I don’t know anything anymore. Sometimes, I want to go far away – to Europe, maybe – and meet strange people and find out how to live. But then I get scared and I am suddenly glad to be in my safe room with all my possessions that tell me who I am supposed to be. I don’t know who I am – I used to, but things have changed so much, I’m not sure anymore.

Ever since Mom and my stepdad got divorced, it’s been harder and harder to just live. Mom is getting worse with the booze and sometimes I get so angry that I scream at her. Then I feel awful and try to hug her and tell her I’m sorry, but she’s so out of it she just stands there, swaying a little with her eyes half-crossed, and I end up stomping into my room and slamming the door and locking it. Then I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling and sigh.

It’s the best just after I get home from classes at community college. Mom isn’t here, and I am alone. No one can bother me, and if the phone rings I don’t answer it. It gives me a sense of power – listening to that phone ring and ring and ring until whoever is calling hangs up, frustrated. I close all the curtains and put on records and smoke cigarettes. In my cool, dark cave I find peace for a few hours.

At six o’clock, though, I hear that fucking bitch, my mother, put her key in the lock, and I jump up and run down the hall to my room to get away. If Mom says something to me, I try to be nice, but it’s usually only a few minutes before our voices become sharp and anger is in the air again. Until she’s blotto, that is. Then, wobbling and bleary-eyed, she’s all lovey-dovey, but also by then all I want to do is shake her until her head falls off!

The only positive things in my life are Amy and Kenneth. Amy is my best friend and Kenneth is my lover. They know, and once in a while I can talk to them about it, but I know that friends can only take so much before they are tired of hearing it. The only person that would listen to everything you said and be interested was a psychologist or psychiatrist, and I’ve thought about going to one, but it’s really too expensive. So I just don’t let myself think about things most of the time.

I keep this journal and write my thoughts down, and that helps a little. Most of the time I’m fine, but it’s always there, hanging over me. Actually, I function very well. I graduated in the top five percent of my high school class, and after a year at junior college I have a 3.8 average. And I’ve never gotten into any serious trouble at all. I’m what grandmothers like to call a “lovely girl.” On the outside. Happy? What did happiness ever have to do with any of my fucking life choices?

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