fuck the state

The Red Son costume is finally complete – authentic ushanka hat with Soviet emblem, hand-drawn Commie Superman t-shirt, weathered gray worker's cape, hammer & sickle belt buckle, and gray pants tucked into high leather work boots. The party is for D.C. political types, mostly Libertarians. I am Red Son, Proletarian Superhuman, and I fear nothing. “Stalin?” people ask incredulously, gawking at me as Obama Robbin' Hood or Spiderman, American Revolutionary or Roaring Twenties flapper. A doe-eyed woman in tight dress and fake-fur coonskin cap says she will go home with me if I make good on my threat to PETA her ass with a gallon of blood. Later, I watch her reluctantly let a man kiss her on the mouth. I am a Proletarian Superhuman; my heart is pure. The inside of the house on the quiet residential street is lit by black-light, and someone has used black-light sensitive tape to write Fuck The State over a prominently-placed Gadsden flag. We chant this slogan while dancing to techno beats, our bodies gyrating wildly as our hearts swell with thoughts of Freedom. I find a flashlight in the grass out back and return it to the mercenary types guarding the front gate, who assure me that their semi-automatic rifles are fakes spray-painted black to look real. I am faster than a speeding bullet; I fear nothing. Next to the backyard bar, near the fire-circle, someone has placed a pumpkin engraved with a hyper-accurate likeness of Lindsey Graham. Our ardor is high, our spirits flicker, aroused. “Have you heard about the revolution?” a man dressed as Trotsky keeps yelling from his post by the kegs of beer. For a spell, he and I harangue all passersby, speaking vehemently of revolution and demanding that our voices be heard. I am a Proletarian Superhuman, and I would like to speak to you about something important. I make a game of pretending to mistake both guys dressed as Where's Waldo for lighthouses – they are gracious and laugh with me; they refuse to be offended. A sexy border patrol agent and I briefly suck face, with me grabbing her mammoth breasts through her shirt, but she is a smoker and I am repulsed by the taste of her mouth. The night deepens; a neighbor calls the cops. “I wish we could smoke some more weed,” a man in a strap-on Amish chin-beard says while inhaling candy from a table over by the kegs. I a Kal-L, chocoholic. Tell me: Do you have a moment to speak about the revolution?

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

booze solves nothing

In one month, this author has reminded himself the hard why he has been laboring to renounce the path of the addict for that of the warrior. Twice now, this month, he has indulged in alcohol and other stimulants, and twice now he has rued the error of his ways. It is not in cloudedness or confusion that his brain finds solace, but in sobriety; it is not in indulgence and excess that his soul finds comfort, but in discipline. His work with the yoga series Embodying Enoughness has helped him considerably so far, and he remembers always this quote from Machiavelli: “There is no more delicate matter to take in hand, nor more dangerous to conduct, nor more doubtful of its success, than to set up as the leader in the introduction of changes.” Aho.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on the atlas

As an essential tool in the ongoing shaping of the fictitious Central Asia nation of Grigovia, I drew of it a map. And while adding the final touches to this map, in order to correctly determine its bordering states, I consulted a pre-Unification Diercke Weltatlas (world atlas) from my days at the Gymnasium in Germany. I had forgotten how fascinating it was to look at an atlas, at my leisure to follow the contours of a random chunk of the Siberian landscape, to examine the living conditions in and population data for a township in Apartheid South Africa, to puzzle over a detailed and colorful analysis of the economy of Argentina in the 1989. Only with effort did I remembered my task, flip to the proper page, and write down Iran, Afghanistan, and Turkmenistan. My task completed, I looked back at the atlas fondly and appreciated it for having no bright display, no DSL uplink, no spyware, no malware, no netbook battery indicator counting down the minutes, no Tumblr feed to scroll through, no email to answer, no hyperlink to follow – that for ten minutes of my life on a Tuesday evening it was just me and a 20-year old book filled with pictures of countries, some of which no longer exist.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on making ripples

If I have learned anything while reading the books I have been reading this year, it is that the decisions that a few people make can greatly affect the rest of human society. When a Chinese student dared to glue his poem to the Democracy Wall in Beijing after it had been outlawed, his words helped change a nation; when a group of Germans invaded the British Isles and chose to stay there and settle, our fascinatingly complex English language was born; when a rambunctious researcher discovered the opiate receptor, her research helped unlock the secrets of how emotion works; and when a single person writes about an imaginary press conference held in a tree-house by a fictional girl, he touches the minds of persons living around the world. It is impossible to know how far one's ripples will reach, whether they will be accepted with curiosity or hostility, or – especially in our digital age – for how long their potency will continue. Unlike in centuries past, however, when in order to be heard or read or seen a person had to scrape before and beg at the feet of a wealthy benefactor, today even the lowliest among us can start a blog, speak out, and make waves. What a fascinating modern age we live in. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on exerting power

Yesterday, while playing disc golf with a few friends, I was granted a glimpse into the inner workings of my psyche. At about the 12th hole my spirits began to flag and I unconsciously decided to allow the innocent banality of the others' conversation bother me. Having said nothing during the first part of the game about people grunting approvingly and saying “Nice” every time someone else even touched a disc (regardless of how that disc actually flew), I finally explained the course etiquette to the new member. “When a person says 'Nice' while someone else's disc is still in the air, it's called nicing the disc,” I said. “And nicing a disc is a breach of course etiquette, especially when the disc does not in fact fly well and the person who niced the disc then retracts his initial statement and says something like 'Uh never mind' or 'Bummer dude'.” The man laughed dismissively and I noticed the two other men in our group stiffen slightly around the groin. As soon as I registered these reactions to my brief explanation about nicing discs, I realized that the only reason I had said anything was because I was trying to exert power over the other players, to make them stop grunting and moaning and cursing out loud whenever a bit of colorful plastic didn't fly exactly the way they had hoped it would. Thinking back I realized that most of what I had said that day had been in part intended to make others dance to a tune of my liking, to get them to see things the way I saw them, to coerce them into adopting a pattern of My choosing. This realization flooded me with awareness and as I traced my subsequent actions back to their source I found that most of them – from using my netbook instead of focusing fully on the other person in the room to the topics I brought up for conversation – were somehow related to the exertion of power within the dynamics of a group. The need to feel powerful pulls subtly but inexorably at the cockles of one's heart, and one of the best ways to keep it in check is to remain humble, speak little, and remember that each person is entitled to his or her own opinion, that each person walks a path of his or her own choosing. The power that comes from controlling others pales when compared to the might of self-control. Aho.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on bicycling cuffs

Inspect closely the hose of any hardcore and regular velocipedist and you will find his ankle cuffed. Held firmly in place by clasp or tie or tiny bent teeth the leg-cuff serves one main purpose: to keep the pant-leg from fouling in and being soiled by crank or gear or spoke. In the course of their duty the parts of a bicycle that spin accumulate grit and grime and soot and dirt, which swim in a soup of chain-grease that upon contact instantly impregnates clothing with tenacious and tar-black patterns removable only by excision. Furthermore, when a loose pant-leg catches on the teeth of a gear-wheel it can bring the rider's legs to such a sudden stop that their momentum unbalances and unships him, an undesirable event that results in bruised egos, skinned elbows, and cracked skulls. During his life this author used to laugh upon seeing individuals wearing the bicycling cuff, until he himself ruined a few pairs of pants and nearly crashed more than once due to his clothing getting caught on protrusion, nub, or gear-wheel. Now, he cuffs both legs. (The cuff on his right leg he sewed together using a discarded Velcro clasp and the reflective tape from a bloody safety vest he found in the woods during hunting season; the cuff on his left leg is battery-operated and at night flashes a bright red light.) The only disadvantage to cuffing the pants while riding is that people will laugh and point and wonder what the balls one is up to, which is a small price to pay for improved safety and the knowledge that one will arrive in pants soiled only by the tears of the traffic-jammed drivers one passed along the way. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on using gasoline

While visiting a museum I came across a poster from the time of the Second World War (see here). In it, a dashing man fully-formed sits in his cabriolet coupe next to the outline of Adolf Hitler. Across the top the poster reads: When you ride ALONE you ride with Hitler! Across the bottom it says: Join a Car-Sharing Club Today! In an age when the needs of the many tended to outweigh the needs of the few, when sacrifice and diligence and cooperation tended to trump convenience and wastefulness and selfishness, this poster probably have changed a few minds or convinced a handful of housewives to pool and conserve their resources. How, though, would such a poster work today? Would replacing Hitler with the outline of a religiously extremist Central Asian in turban and Kalashnikov (instead of the hardcore, genocidal Teuton in iron cross and side-part) convince today's Americans to understand that every gallon of Saudi Arabian gasoline they burn in their vehicles supports terrorism worldwide (see here & here)? I believe it is possible to win hearts and minds by using a slogan such as this: When you ride ALONE you finance Al Qaeda. I believe that if more people realized that America's addiction to combustible petrochemicals is her glaring, fatal Achilles heel, and if more people actively and consciously fought this addiction, we could move into a phase of human evolution marked not by death and pollution and destruction but by compassion and bounty and cooperation. So long, however, as we stay addicted to gasoline, as we keep driving alone, as we keep believing in the myth of American exceptionalism, as we keep voting for politicians who sell out to corporate interests, as we keep rejoicing at the subjugation and destruction of foreign lands by our military, and as we overdose on television we Ynki shall remain what we have become – a sea-anchor tearing apart the fragile structure of our common tender humanity. America delenda est.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on going numb

He went numb this weekend, following the old patterns of his adolescence, and felt once more the stupor and cloudiness he had for two decades lived under. It was intended to be a celebration of his hard work over the past months, and he rallied his self-esteem only by reminding himself that his lapse had been a one-time thing, a brief exploration of the old habits, and not a resumption of the old ways. Onward and forward, now, so that this lapse not collapse the whole tower. Aho.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

earthworm – a tale

A young dashing earthworm, his skin never cut, was digging a passageway through a deep rut. He ate down the one side, and on up the next, much soil he processed, much muscle he flexed. Then lo to his wonder, against judgment sound, he found Krukuv's root-cellar, under his mound. Fair welcome, fine fellow, old Krukuv did say, Come munch on these wood chips, and eat of this hay. The earthworm ate gladly, until he was full, he summoned his kinfolk, so great was his pull. Now listen, my earthworms, the dashing one said, we make this our home base, from here out we spread. If times should turn sour, if grass should grow sparse, man Krukuv will save us, he'll cover our arse. For our part we'll digest, all dead things we can, and transform these mountains into fertile land. The earthworms they allied, with Krukuv that day, as payment took wood-chip and compost and hay. They fanned it out in numbers, they transformed and roamed, they turned the clay soils right back into loam. The banks of the Yalung, with dark soils abound, so rich and so fertile, they reach meters down. They work well with tubers and legumes and rice, they're sacred and precious, their worth has no price. Grigovians their blessed homelands do cherish and for it they spill blood and will gladly perish. It all started long ago, one fateful day, when wise old man Krukuv let an earthworm stay. By one simple gesture he helped bless this land, with deep loamy soils, with crops tall and grand. So be kind to all things small big young and old, and you will get loyalty that can't be sold. This is Krukuv's lesson, and it is well known, by wise men and women – now make it your own.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on hunting graff

Oh how I miss hunting graffiti! How I wish to have the wind in my hair and a blunt in my teeth, to be hurtling through the flashing voids on a trusty velocipede in search of street art, my elusive and mysterious quarry. Oh – and oh! – to apply my whorphans as I diligently photograph and thereby preserve the wonderful phenomenon of urban art wherever it should arise, and to rejoice in its chaotic meritocracy, actions that are among my favorite things to do. It matters little in which city I do it, for every metropolis has its own flavor and rhythm of street art, its players major and minor, its hot spots and dead-zones, its tenors and vibes, colors and styles. Finding a piece I have never seen before or discovering a work of art that within hours could be painted over by a city technician evokes within me emotions best described as joyful. Another piece of this riotous, fleeting beauty has been preserved (!!), and once uploaded it will bring smiles to faces from Capetown to Seoul, Tashkent to Los Angeles, Auckland to Murmansk. I recognize the collection and display of graffiti as among my greatest missions in life, and while I do not know where it will take me, I sure am loving the ride. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

no voice superior

Beethoven's 3rd Symphony was the piece I chose to listen to while composing this piece. As I stared out the window watching the remnants of a tropical storm hammer us with rain and trying to think what I should write about, a pattern coalesced before my mind's eye. In it, I could see the unity and balance that characterizes the forces raging within me, those of immune and nervous and endocrine systems, of musculature and skeleton, of tendon and vessel and fiber, that rather than having to judge them I could merely accept that they were all pieces and parts of the greater awareness I have come to know as Me, and that they are all of equal importance in the grand scheme of my existence. I knew suddenly of this unity as I sat pondering on the wondrous vibrations of the Ludwig Van, music that always quickens my heart and helps me to focus on the task at hand, be it driving, studying, writing, jogging, musing, or simply being. It was instantly clear to me that no single instrument in the orchestra that had performed the piece was greater or more important than the other, that every note was in just the right place to do exactly as was intended that it do, that the 3rd Symphony was something magical, something far greater than just the sum of its parts. I am nearly finished reading Molecules of Emotion by Dr. Candace Pert, and just last week I finished Anatomy of the Spirit by Caroline Myss, and so I am not surprised to be experiencing events such as a clarification of my inner vision and the patience needed to recognize and incorporate Fundamental Truths. Living in the modern Western world we learn to think in forms of strict delineation, to think of one thing as superior to another, as one cellphone or political party or style of clothing or automobile or hairstyle or lipstick or television show to be the best, the greatest, the non-plus-ultra, and it is only with due diligence and conscious humility that we can step back from this worldview and retrain ourselves to look for beauty in all things, to marvel at the whole rather than squabbling over the pieces. In the words of Lao Tzu: Piece by piece the treasure of the world is amassed. Mahalo.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on avoiding traffic

Recently, I wrote an article about sponging anger, and how when I am bicycling I would often get angry for reasons I could not place. After carefully analyzing this hatred and noting when it tended to arise I have concluded that I am allowing myself to be controlled by the mostly negative emotions of the drivers I come into contact with while out on the road. Oh how they must hate me for daring to ride on the sliver of pavement that runs to the right of the single white line and to the left of the edge of the road, as witnessed by a recent increase in the number of cowards who shout out of their windows at me as they speed by, often saying things such as, “Get out of the road,” and, “Move over.” (Soon, I hope to find the courage to stop responding by telling drivers to go fuck themselves.) I have taken to occupying the entire lane while climbing a particular hill on the last stretch of byway before the last turn toward my house, as in the past on this short rise people tended to floor their engines and squeeze daringly between me and opposing traffic as we were all trying to squeeze up a blind, sharp incline. During this maneuver the transference of hatred and loathing from the drivers to me is particularly strong, as I take up the entire lane for fifteen whole seconds while powering my way up to the top of the rise, dragging myself across the asphalt landscape silently and without belching noxious fumes from a metal tailpipe. Once I reach the top I immediately vacate the lane to allow the vehicle that has been tailgating me to roar past toward business that – I am certain – has to do with curing cancer and saving a stranded kitten and eliminating hunger in the Global South. I am happy to be doing my part to honor and conserve the mineral resources of this our only Earth, and to be saving hundreds of dollars a year on car maintenance and fuel and registrations and fees and taxes and fines. I have been lucky up to now, for which I thank the gods of the traveler, among them Legba and Ganesha and Christopher and Hermes, lifting my supplications to the heavens and saying: “Please guard these travelers along their path, keep them this day from Fate's patient wrath.” Aho.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on rising panic

A deep pit opened in the depths of my bowls as he spoke his last words and hung up. I knew – simply knew! – that I had already burned the document he was asking for weeks ago, that it was now merely a pile of ash, that it was my fault that this crucial piece of our puzzle was gone, forever. Instead of allowing the rage to blossom within me and overwhelm my Spirit, however, I breathed deeply in the yogic way, bashed the sofa a few times with a steel bat, stopping when I felt frustration and self-loathing and panic abate. Immediately thereafter I tore into my work, opening this box and that, moving and stacking and re-stacking them, scrutinizing each scrap of paper, each fragment of text, desperate to exonerate myself of the terror building in my loins. I opened a cheap plastic folder and, instantly, the feel and the look of its cheap plastic pages reminded me of where I had hidden the requested few papers, of exactly the steps needed to clear the clouds of rising panic. And, indeed, there it was! Crisp and safe and well and calm, these few leaves of satiny paper that may just change the game for good. Huzzah, and aho.






© americanifesto / 場黑麥A deep pit opened in the depths of my bowls as he spoke his last words and hung up. I knew – simply knew! – that I had already burned the document he was asking for weeks ago, that it was now merely a pile of ash, that it was my fault that this crucial piece of our puzzle was gone, forever. Instead of allowing the rage to blossom within me and overwhelm my Spirit, however, I breathed deeply in the yogic way, bashed the sofa a few times with a steel bat, stopping when I felt frustration and self-loathing and panic abate. Immediately thereafter I tore into my work, opening this box and that, moving and stacking and re-stacking them, scrutinizing each scrap of paper, each fragment of text, desperate to exonerate myself of the terror building in my loins. I opened a cheap plastic folder and, instantly, the feel and the look of its cheap plastic pages reminded me of where I had hidden the requested few papers, of exactly the steps needed to clear the clouds of rising panic. And, indeed, there it was! Crisp and safe and well and calm, these few leaves of satiny paper that may just change the game for good. Huzzah, and aho.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on sponging anger

During my yoga teacher training, I discovered that I have powerful skills of empathy. When persons choose to direct their feelings and emotions at me, in my current condition I receive that power mostly intact and largely unfiltered. If others direct love at me I am learning to let it buoy my heart; if they thank me I am trying to wallow in gratitude for as long as I am able to; but if it is anger or disgust or discontentment that they feel toward me my heart grows cold, rage builds in my chest, and I become deeply irate. At some point in my life I learned that sponging anger in this way makes me feel powerful, that it is proper to answer like with like, hatred with hatred. My fellow Americans exhibit this type of behavior frequently, and over the years I have been wont to retreat into it much as my compatriots do. As however I study the ancient truths and leave behind the clouded and the confused path for that of the warrior I am beginning to understand that anger and hatred frighten Spirit and that our connection to the Divine is severed if instead of compassion and grace we cultivate in our hearts loathing, coldness, and fear. My path is for me alone to walk and I am not saying that other people are acting incorrectly, only that they seem to have abandoned action for reaction, consciousness for unconsciousness, beauty for ugliness, and that it shall take a lot of effort on the part of each individual, individually, for our the soul of our nation to become bright, once more. The greatest journeys of the world start with just one person stepping forward, and so I lift my foot. Mahalo.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥