haiku 31 Aug 2018

Crossing a desert,

Even seasoned Bedouin
Yearn for fresh water

[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]

haiku 27 Dec 2017

An endless sandscape
Dunes marching infinitely
Is there water, near?

[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]

hollow but pretty

It was daytime, and I was making my way along the side of a lake. To my left was said body of water, to my right a high bank with low green plants of some kind growing upon it. From up ahead, I heard voices. Then, through a thicket of partially submerged reeds to my fore, two people came walking my way.

The first person I saw was a stunningly beautiful and raven-haired maiden who looked similar to a young hoppa actress. I felt a strong love for her but little sexual desire. Unlike in previous dreams, her full face was visible to me, yet her gaze was averted from mine and she never made eye contact. I could tell, however, that she was conscious of my presence. The man behind her (who was wearing a baseball cap on his dark-haired head) was droning on about something trivial, hollow but pretty-sounding words that annoyed me. Judging by the maiden’s body language and facial expression, his mindless talk annoyed her too. Just before stepping onto dry land he paused to lift up and wipe off his knee-high wading boots, which were white with black trim.

The pair moved to my left, onto what could have been an outcropping of rock. I had not noticed it earlier. They ascended, their tones and presence rising above my own sense of self in the dream’s physical space. Faced with the same bed of submerged reeds the two had just exited but having no watertight footwear I started climbing up a jumble of rocks that had appeared upon my right-hand side. I started to pull myself up it as best I could, the reddish stones a type of granite. Behind and above me, I could still hear the man’s droning speech and still feel the maiden’s watchful presence.

Sometimes, I could only find purchase for one or two fingers within the rocks. But, grunting and laboring upward, eventually I reached a level spot. To my right I discovered a walking path of hard-packed earth that was bordered by a low wooden fence. It appeared to me that the path lead straight through the rocks into a dark wood, up ahead. Then, I awoke.

americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥

fortunes and luck

At 4 in the morning was when my clock struck to signal a shift in my fortunes and luck. I'd sprung from the bed before it could sound twice and switched on the light-saving overhead lights then sat in the small room for maybe fifteen producing a paltry intermittent stream. With a five solid minutes I buffered my quest yet when I arrived just one other did rest and woke not in time to head out with the group which duly out toward the chauffeur did troop. With no cars in our way we sped through the dark and walked in while their local driver then parked and met with a manku (or monk, in this tongue) who brought out dry sarongs for everyone. Thus clad and all ready we made for the spouts and entered cold waters with nary a shout and opened our chakras and relaxed our souls and let ring our innermost balancing bowls. After those 5 outlets had washed us off good we changed into dry clothing in which we could sit for a long period down on the stones and pray to many gods in varying tones. We lifted our bare hands up to chackra 6, washed them in smoke rising from red incense sticks, then prayed once again but with flowers between our fingers which had been so recently cleaned. After that was done sat for meditation and two of us felt a powerful sensation of energies flowing in down out and through repeating and flashing with patterns we knew. Once finished we went then to view Shiva's rod, the rock and stone member of a mighty god, then left by a side-door the groomed temple grounds and reflected on all the knowledge we'd found. We sped back past rice-field and workshops for wood and sought out a café in bustling Ubud and made there new friends with a small group of men. They had on their chests round devices which blinked which caused us to wonder pause inspect and think and caused us to jump in the leader-dude's van and speed right back out to the country again. The price-point was high for what we would have got wherefore we did not buy anything on the spot but pledged to meet up with him a few days hence when passions had cooled and our minds were less dense. My nap didn't happen for now I must ride to find me a resto with decent Wi-Fi where I can complete a task started last week before my eyes flutter shut tired and weak.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

i love canggu

The shirt says 'I Love Canggu – Bali' on it, just that Love is a huge red heart half the size of my chest. With black and white striped boardshorts underneath it and a pair of white $1 thongs on my feet I look as much the tourist and feel as much the surfer as I have looked or felt for most of my life. I receive a warm welcome from my local friend and his family; he and I sit in his compound and eat before everyone else and smoke cigarettes and drink local beers and he tells me about which of his relatives live with him and which live elsewhere, at his farm near the Bratan volcano or other villages by the sea. His older son and daughter come and go, friends and paramours stopping by and leaving again, just as suddenly. A beautiful young lady plays us a song on a Les Paul electric guitar while singing along and I find myself falling in love with her as soon as she starts playfully demanding in Indonesian that he and I leave the room.

After dinner I get two sarongs (or kamen, since they are for men) wrapped around me and tied at the waist and a three-cornered cloth (already folded and held in shape with a piece of internal wire) placed atop my head. The white button-down shirt they give me is too small for my chest so we leave it open at the front, my Love for Canggu – Bali visible to all. We go first to the family's own temple, where my friend's father performs our rights after we have purified ourselves with incense smoke and prayed three times with our hands together in front of our heads and different-colored flowers grasped between the tips of our longest fingers. The priest splashes holy water into the upheld palms of our right hands four times. I peek over at my friend's six-year-old daughter to see what I should be doing and she flashes me a gap-toothed smile, so I suck the water into my mouth just as she and her father are doing but am not sure what to do with the last splash and decide to follow their lead and rub it on my face and neck. The priest sprinkles a few grains of white rice into our palms and we use the remnants of holy water lingering there to stick them to the middle of our foreheads. My friend says to me that it is now OK to ask the gods for things and so I start saying my Thank Yous and asking that my friends and family be blessed with peace, prosperity, and Happiness. Overwhelmed with relief and gratitude, tears run down my cheeks, to gather in my beard. The girl looks over with a puzzled face as the tall bulé Westerner next to her cries, sitting in the dirt floor atop a Disney-themed floor mat with frayed edges. Without wiping the tears from my face I follow my friend and his daughter to a second temple, one for the wider family, where his uncle performs the rituals for us and we stuff more flowers behind our ears and stick more rice onto our foreheads.

The process is short, not lasting more than ten minutes, and before I know it we are walking through the darkened streets back to my friend's house, to drink more beers and smoke more smokes. He shares with me insider information about some cheap parcels of land near the river not far from his house that are sure to jump in value once the government paves the big road there with asphalt. After inquiring my friend agrees that it would be acceptable for me to make a donation at the larger family temple. With his daughter in hand he leads me back over to it and I feel terrible entering without my kamen on yet am greeted with warmth and smiles and press a folded up one-hundred-thousand rupiah note into a priest's hands. He bows his head to me with his hands together at the forehead and as I turn to take my leave he and his attendants gesture at me to take some fruit, which I have now just eaten. Oh, to be sure, I Love Canggu – Bali.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

happy year of water snake

as dogs do

I am walking down a street behind a woman and her dog. The beast stops in the middle of the sidewalk to urinate. I step accidentally in the stream of piss spreading toward the gutter, but instead of reacting angrily, I think: The poor brute had to piss somewhere – why not right here in front of me? If the bitch had been curbed, I would not have stepped in its bowel movement, but since it was not, I must shake its piss from my shoe.

Animals eat and drink; they digest and must relieve themselves; they piss and shit when their bowels get full. As a member of the species homo sapiens as well as a bowel-moving, food-digesting animal, I shall, if necessary, make water into any nearby gutter or storm drain. (My trick is to stand behind a vehicle that is tall enough to hide my junk, pull out a cellphone, fake a call, and pee into the gutter while pretending to be engrossed in conversation.) In Amsterdam, the city provides public toilets; in Berlin, peeing into the gutter is a common practice; but he will be rudely awakened who tries to empty his bowels into the street in New York, Chicago, or San Francisco.

City-dwellers of America, let us end species-based discrimination by curbing ourselves and pissing in the street. This nation's draconian and Puritanical societal norms put us at risk of injury and death – they hinder our very pursuit of Happiness. Celebrate your animal nature by watering the asphalt landscape (phaltscape) with a golden shower. Empty the bladder to free the soul.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

a bamboo still life; an adaptive weaver

(A day after I hung this basket, a spider adapted to its shape.)

(still life of frozen bamboo)

on idling enemies

From oil – as in crude oil, sweet crude, oil wells, and the British Petroleum / Deepwater Horizon Oil Spill of 2011 – we make gasoline. From oil we also get plastics, which are used to make water bottles, baby toys, toothbrushes, car seats, laptop cases, lampshades, bottle-caps, pens, linoleum flooring, clothing, and shoes, to name a few examples. Oil is a precious, strategic national resource of the United States of America, one every citizen is duty-bound to protect and conserve. Therefore, the patriotic citizen rarely allows his gasoline-powered automobile to idle for longer than 30 seconds, since idling past 30 seconds compared to turning off and later restarting the vehicle wastes gasoline (according to new information), and gasoline, as it is a derivative of oil, is a strategic national resource that must be protected and conserved. (Idling while stuck in traffic may seem unavoidable until one remembers the existence of gasoline-electric hybrid engines and sees bicyclists riding by freely and exuberantly.)

The patriotic citizen educates himself about his use of this precious national resource – he does not waste oil, because wasting it would require us to send America's brave men and women to fight more wars of aggression against more oil-rich nations (such as Iran). If a person wanted to harm the United States of America and to make her less able to provide for the common defense and the general Welfare, that person would drive an unnecessarily large, gas-guzzling vehicle. The person who drives a vehicle disproportionate to his supposed need to get around (such as an unaccompanied person driving a king-sized pickup truck) is effectively an enemy of the state: he burns more gas moving himself around than he might if he were to make a minor personal sacrifice and drive a smaller car with a smaller engine. (Today's Ynki accepts readily the lie that he might drive his car to work, drive his car to the store, drive his car to the gym, and drive his car to school, all without consequence; we Americans, however, can no longer afford to be lazy, worthless people who fucking drive everywhere.) In order to protect his nation's future (and to make sure the troopers fighting this nation's wars have enough gasoline for their military vehicles), the true American patriot bicycles whenever possible.

Life requires water; without water, there is no life; without water, humans die. Because it is a component essential to maintaining the general Welfare, and since it is needed to effect the Safety and Happiness of the American citizen (which, according to the Declaration of Independence, is the primary purpose of government), water is one of this nation's precious national resources. Businesses that waste water are enemies of the state, companies that deliberately poison aquifers are enemies of the state, and persons who throw water away are enemies of the state. Persons who allow the faucet to run while they brush their teeth; who run the tap while shaving; who let a shower fun for twenty minutes for it to warm up; who hose down a driveway instead of sweeping it with a fucking broom; who maintain lawns in the desert (instead of planting drought-resistant, native species); who toss cigarette butts into lakes; these persons are all enemies of the state. Please, dear reader, if you consider yourself a patriot, please examine your use of Earth's precious resources, and adjust your habits so as to reduce the risk of future suffering. He who sacrifices for the common good can rightly call himself a patriot, unlike the person who desecrates the American flag by gluing it to his clothing or pasting it to the door of his car. Liberty frowns upon they who idle wastefully.

場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

hydration matters

Oh, the importance of hydration – it cannot be understated! Whether bicycling, gardening, shredding, meditating, or bolting from the cops, the healthy and happy individual knows to hydrate well, and often. In cases of extreme sweating – such as when the clothes are soaked with the body's own moisture or when one is engaged in a prolonged physical activity – the body should be re-hydrated aggressively, and without delay.

Electrolyte tablets work well in such instances, supplying at a cost of roughly 50-cents-each such minerals and complex carbohydrates that the body tends to lose when sweating. It pays to spend a half-dollar on these easily-portable pills that maintain a balanced body-chemistry; dehydrated persons are more irritable than their hydrated counterparts, they tire more quickly, they quit tasks more readily, and they bitch and moan, bumming everyone else out. Less accurate hydration methods – such as making a nice salt or sugar lick in the cup of one's hand – when coupled with the ingestion of a few cups of cool, clear water, will effect hydration, but often at the risk of over-consumption of tasty mounds of unwashed, raw cane sugar, which can lead to weight-gain.

The supreme wet, that one drink which trumps all others, is the fluid of the green coconut. (Please drink only 100% pure green coconut milk, since anything less will be contaminated with refined sugars and plain water.) The primary drawback to green coconut milk is its decreased portability compared to the electrolyte tablet, the second being the relatively high cost of marketing and transporting it to persons living outside of the topics, its natural habitat. Overall, however, this fluid is truly a nectar of the gods, a supreme ally in one's struggle for personal greatness and physical fitness. If neither the electrolyte tablet nor green coconut water is available, hydrate with plain H2O until such time as the piss runs light-yellow or clear, and eat a balanced meal of vegetables, some form of pasta or rice, and protein such as that found in sardines. Dehydration is a serious condition that affects both the mind and the body in serious and debilitating ways, so learn to read your body's warning signs, moistening it regularly.

場黑麥 mentiri manufactorem fecit

on gardening as a slacker

Every morning, at 0530A, an alarm sounds, triggering my body into wakefulness. Being a spoiled, snot-nosed American brat and a generally worthless individual, and seeing as how I endeavor to shrink my bad and to grow my good characteristics, I have taken on the awesome responsibility of gardening. That row cover of tulle draped tightly over spans of freshly-split bamboo? Installed yesterday. That Third-World-style drip irrigation unit my missionary uncle sent me via insured mail five weeks ago? Installed last weekend. Yes, though I sometimes take a bit longer to get things done than I might ought to, I am learning a lot from the three separate gardens growing on this dacha's property, among them one that was donated, one that I am growing for a silent partner, and one that I grew from seed. Add to these two fledgling blueberry bushes (which are stuck in a sort of limbo) and one string-bean plant peeking from beneath an upside-down planter hanging on the back patio, and the opportunities for work become endless.

Every morning, as rosy-fingered Dawn is caressing the world with the promise of day but before the chariot of the sun-god has crested the horizon, I haul water up from the stream to moisten the earth within the various plots. And again in the evening, when Helios begins to dip toward the horizon and the birds start flocking home to roost, the soil drinks deeply of the cool running brook. To my great fortune, a good friend gave me a stack of Mother Earth News magazines, and, while foxing around in the barn, I found a trove of Organic Gardening magazines from the 1970s and '80s that I have been reading and studying, and from which I have gleaned much valuable knowledge. What, you ask, is the most useful bit of advice I have come across? Beyond the row-covers of tulle and the genius of drip irrigation, the most useful advice has been to never leave ground uncovered, i.e. that one should always cover one's soil with at least some form of mulch (grass clippings, leaves, layers of cardboard) so that it does not bake too badly in the sun and so that it is always gaining some sort of nutrients as things above it decompose.

I think back often to the lessons my parents once taught me, long ago, before they died, and I am tempted to chide myself for not remembering them, for not having paid better attention to what they said, and for not heeding their advice, but, instead, I bask happily in the memories and try to learn as much as I can from the soil sitting in my hands, from the plants growing in the ground, from the wind, from the rain, and from the subtle interplay that occurs when all of these elements conspire together, somehow, to make life. Among the most enduring lessons I am learning is this: no matter how barren soil may seem, it has the seemingly endless capacity to bounce back. This is but my first time doing this sort of work, but, by Liberty, I like it.

場黑麥 mentiri manufactorem fecit

on Vader stains

Looking up, just now, I noticed that a board on the roof-mounted window in the western, upper room of this little house's more recent addition is stained with a trapezoidal mark that, if only slightly, resembles the head of Darth Vader (from the film series called Star Wars by Spielberg and Lucas). Then, looking at it more closely, I can make out additional watermarks, on the boards beneath it, that could be mistaken for a body and a flared-out cape, with what could be a type of sword where the right hand would be if this were an actual depiction of a lava-scorched Anakin Skywalker in his life-support suit. Can I now expect acolytes and fans of the Star Wars films to come flocking to my house to see for themselves the likeness of a Sith lord that seems to have appeared as if by magic on the sun-beaten windows of a dilapidated hunting-shack? For years, now, I have made sure to live under the watchful gaze of owls; as birds that represent wise, crafty goddess Athena, I have placed statues or pictures of owls in areas where I frequently live and work, hoping thereby to invoke the blessings, and to curry the favor, of she who once championed such legendary persons as Odysseus, and Hercules. To find suddenly that another god is blessing this humble abode's unused places lifts my heart with song, and puts a smile on my faces.

場黑麥 mentiri manufactorem fecit

regarding victory gardens

Friends, citizens, patriots: Please join the nationwide movement for greater self-sufficiency and improved life satisfaction by planting a victory garden. In the past, during episodes of perpetual war and stagnant economic possibility, our parents and grandparents rolled up sleeves and sunk fingers deep into the cool and blessed soil. They did not moan, they did not wail, they did not complain – they planted victory gardens.

We – you, I, and all of us – currently endure wars on multiple fronts, wildly fluctuating food prices, foodstuffs genetically modified and contaminated with pesticides and petroleum-based fuels and chemicals, and environmental degradation caused by poor political policies and by short-sighted agricultural and business practices. With the global food-supply-chain growing ever less sustainable, and with food manufacturers seeking to maximize their profits at all cost by saturating their products with fillers such as salts, sugars, and fats, now is the time, and today is the day, to take fate into your own hands and to sew for yourself the seeds of a brighter and more independent future. (Solar, wind, or water generated electricity used to run a water pump or the like can be stored in 12 volt, direct-current batteries, which can themselves be tapped to heat water, to cook, and to recharge the batteries of cellphones, netbooks, headlamps, and tablets; renewable resources abound, coal or crude oil do not.)

Anyone, anywhere, of any age and activity level, has the capacity to plant a garden, and, thereby, to liberate her own little slice of America from self-imposed reliance on foreign food producers, corporate farms, and plasticized, processed foodstuffs. For persons living in urban areas: Research square-foot-gardening (or square-meter-gardening); for persons living anywhere: Research methods of gardening using raised-beds; for persons with available acreage: Research closed-cycle systems, hydro-culture, drip irrigation, and methods for feeding hydroponic crops from a Tilapia pond's runoff. Tips and strategies for planting a victory garden of your own can be found motherearthnews.com, freecycle.org, or at many other gardening, off-the-grid, and self-sufficiency websites.

We cannot wait any longer to free ourselves from our current slavery to petroleum products, corporate farms, corporate food processors, the idea that things are easy, or the idea that someone else must grow our food for us. We must act now, each one of us breaking a single chain in the ever-tightening, ever-restricting bonds of the capitalism-driven enslavement of hard-working, crop-producing people around the world; building a victory garden on your balcony or in your backyard is an easy and fun first step in the process. So join us, fellow Americans, join us, and celebrate increased food Safety and greater personal Happiness by living, and eating, well.

場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit

on idling enemies

From oil (as in crude oil, sweet crude, Big Oil, oil wells, the British Petroleum Gulf Disaster of 2011, and the like) we get gasoline. From oil we also get plastics (which are used to make water bottles, baby toys, toothbrushes, car seats, laptop cases, lampshades, bottlecaps, pens, linoleum, clothing, shoes, and the like). Oil is a precious and a strategic national resource of the United States of America, and it is the duty of each and every citizen to protect his nation's precious resources. Therefore, the patriotic citizen never allows his gasoline-powered vehicle to idle for longer than 30 seconds, since idling past 30 seconds compared to turning off and later restarting the vehicle wastes gasoline, and gasoline, as it is a derivative of oil, is a strategic national resource. (Idling while stuck in traffic may seem unavoidable until one sees bicyclists flying exuberantly by, unopposed.)

The patriotic citizen educates himself about his use of this precious national resource – he does not waste it, because wasting it would mean that the brave men and women fighting America's war would perhaps not have enough gasoline to complete their missions. If a person were to wish to harm the United States of America and to make her less able to provide for the common defence and the general Welfare, that person would drive an unnecessarily large, gas-guzzling vehicle. The person who drives a vehicle disproportionate to his “need” to get around (such as a lone person driving a Ford 350 or a Dodge 3500) is an enemy of the state, because he burns more gas moving himself around than he might if he were to make a small personal sacrifice and drive a smaller car with a smaller engine. (Today's homo non-sapient accepts readily the lie that she might commute to her job by car, drive her car to the store, drive her car to the gym, drive her car to school, all without consequence; at least in America, we can no longer afford to be lazy, worthless people who drive our cars fucking everywhere.) In order to protect his nation's future (and to make sure the troopers fighting our wars have enough gasoline for their military vehicles), the true American patriot rides a bicycle whenever possible.

Life requires water. Without water, there is no life. Without water, humans die. Because it is a component essential to maintaining the general Welfare, and since it is needed to effect the Safety and Happiness of the American citizen, water is one of this nation's precious and strategic national resources. Businesses that waste water are enemies of the state. Persons who waste water are enemies of the state. Persons who allow the faucet to run while they brush their teeth; who run the tap while shaving; who hose down a driveway instead of sweeping it with a motherfucking Broom; who maintain lawns in the desert (instead of planting drought-resistant, native species); who toss cigarette butts into lakes; these persons are all enemies of the state. Please, dear reader, if you consider yourself a patriot, please examine your use of America's precious resources, and adjust your habits so as to improve this country's ability to survive in the future and to fulfill the parameters of the Constitution.

場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

on phaltscape etiquette and standards

The urban bicyclist may differ from her fellow mashers in appearance, dress, and hairstyle, but she will share with them standards of smog-riding etiquette as extensive as those of any other professional affiliation. Since it would be inconvenient to list every standard common to the smog-rider, let us examine a few of the more practical matters. To avoid making the drivers trapped in their smoking metal boxes jealous, she keeps all evidence of her bursting exuberance hidden from sight. In order to inform the people around her of her whereabouts, she will sound a series of war-whoops and signaling-whistles piercing and attention-getting enough to prevent unnecessary collisions. She rides with proper stance – shoulders pulled back and chest thrust out – so as to isolate the workout to her lower body while allowing her eyes to scan the environment calmly and with keen interest. In order to stay upright and aboard her smog-sled, she is able day or night to repair and maintain it anywhere and in any weather, and although her conveyance will look dusty and well-used, it will be in good working condition, as she has always on hand tools and spare parts.

Beyond the practical matters just listed, there are spiritual standards common to the urban cyclist. Within his brains is an extensive collection of those routes that are the smoothest, that have the least motor-vehicle traffic, and that allow him to avoid running into pesky and annoying police officers. So as to keep his body in good working condition and to avoid the irritability and dangers associated with dehydration, he drinks regularly of green coconut water, or of other beverages rich in electrolytes. An honorable and virtuous being, he will carry his smog-sled when it can carry him no longer, and since he knows that bicycling is a dangerous activity, he lives peacefully knowing that death is rushing by inches from his tender flesh-bag of a body.

Here are presented but a few of the standards of smogriding – may you discover more, and establish a few of your own.

場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit