Tall and reaching arms
Grasping spikes, blooms of white gold
Mighty saguaro
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
Showing posts with label white. Show all posts
Showing posts with label white. Show all posts
29 January 2018
17 January 2018
haiku 17 Jan 2018
An east-facing door
Cornmeal spread beneath deer-skins
White Wind breathes in life
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
11 October 2017
haiku 11 Oct 2017
White gun owners plus
Unconscious murderous rage
Equals mass shootings
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Unconscious murderous rage
Equals mass shootings
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
18 August 2017
a familiar troll
A troll haunts my feed, always lurking, always waiting. From behind a blind he pounces on pieces I post to my page, then lashes out at me with withering hatred designed to harm. He is family, you see, and has given himself leave to flense and dig and root and tear, shredding at my social postings publicly.
There are anger and frustration behind his words, volumes of simmering rage that have cleared finally the cresting dams of reason, and of rhyme. Upset he seems at the state of things in this here land of plenty, blinded by a steady blast of racist white-pride bloggers. Perhaps something inside him is wounded at the thought that privileges are ending.
To respond to injury with injury goes against the ancient teachings, but failing to respond in defense of myself leaves mine own heartstrings wounded. Obscurity, then, is my only redoubt, to which I now rush gladly.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
There are anger and frustration behind his words, volumes of simmering rage that have cleared finally the cresting dams of reason, and of rhyme. Upset he seems at the state of things in this here land of plenty, blinded by a steady blast of racist white-pride bloggers. Perhaps something inside him is wounded at the thought that privileges are ending.
To respond to injury with injury goes against the ancient teachings, but failing to respond in defense of myself leaves mine own heartstrings wounded. Obscurity, then, is my only redoubt, to which I now rush gladly.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
16 August 2017
on battling hatred
Tragedy marked this past weekend, with one person killed and many more badly injured in an act of apparent domestic terrorism in Charlottesville, VA. Concurrent with that violent act, in a public display of wild-eyed and misguided extremism, hundreds of middle-class European-Americans marched through said city holding torches and shouting slogans straight out of Adolf Hitler’s ‘Mein Kampf’. People who are now suddenly worried about the current rise of alt-right and neo-Nazi mentalities here in America must remember that Donald J. Trump ascended to the presidency on ideas nationalist, protectionist, and us-versus-them in their scope and design. In some sense, the alt-right stands today victorious, having helped vote its champion into this nation’s highest office. Hence, statements by leaders of the white-nationalist movement praising the president for his recent stance on their right to rally and organize with intent to subjugate and destroy.
The city of Boston this year decided to display a poster aimed at teaching people who use its public transportation services how to diffuse Islamophobia. It is this author’s personal experience that the most effective method for fighting violent extremism is to ignore the perpetrator and show love to the victims. In Charlottesville, VA, last weekend, citizens protesting the alt-right sometimes did the opposite, fighting violence with violence and hatred with hatred.
Although he disagrees with them on nearly every point (but for their right to keep breathing), this author thinks it’s important to let the alt-right, neo-Nazi, and white nationalist movements not only voice their ugly opinions but also march in public. If they’re banned from letting their true colors fly, open-minded and cosmopolitan lovers of freedom will never know whom to avoid socially, whose businesses to boycott or divest from, whose places of worship to picket, and whom to deny service as well as the time of day. (Since its financial support of organizations perpetuating homophobic bigotry came to light, this author hasn’t set foot inside of a Chick-fil-A, for example.) One slow, methodical way to crush America’s Nazi problem is to do so economically, a dollar at a time. Another way, is to crush it with clubs and sticks and knives and guns, like many of our grandparents did in Europe and beyond during the 1940s.
To destroy the creeping roots of incessant hatred it is often necessary to resort to violence. So long as one does so with positive intentions and for the benefit of all humanity, resting well at night should come easy. Just remember, though, that America’s white nationalists think that what they’re doing is for the benefit of all humanity, or at least the light-skinned portion of humanity whose ancestors come from Europe. Whichever path you choose in your resistance to bigotry and intolerance in America, stay grounded and don’t panic.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
The city of Boston this year decided to display a poster aimed at teaching people who use its public transportation services how to diffuse Islamophobia. It is this author’s personal experience that the most effective method for fighting violent extremism is to ignore the perpetrator and show love to the victims. In Charlottesville, VA, last weekend, citizens protesting the alt-right sometimes did the opposite, fighting violence with violence and hatred with hatred.
Although he disagrees with them on nearly every point (but for their right to keep breathing), this author thinks it’s important to let the alt-right, neo-Nazi, and white nationalist movements not only voice their ugly opinions but also march in public. If they’re banned from letting their true colors fly, open-minded and cosmopolitan lovers of freedom will never know whom to avoid socially, whose businesses to boycott or divest from, whose places of worship to picket, and whom to deny service as well as the time of day. (Since its financial support of organizations perpetuating homophobic bigotry came to light, this author hasn’t set foot inside of a Chick-fil-A, for example.) One slow, methodical way to crush America’s Nazi problem is to do so economically, a dollar at a time. Another way, is to crush it with clubs and sticks and knives and guns, like many of our grandparents did in Europe and beyond during the 1940s.
To destroy the creeping roots of incessant hatred it is often necessary to resort to violence. So long as one does so with positive intentions and for the benefit of all humanity, resting well at night should come easy. Just remember, though, that America’s white nationalists think that what they’re doing is for the benefit of all humanity, or at least the light-skinned portion of humanity whose ancestors come from Europe. Whichever path you choose in your resistance to bigotry and intolerance in America, stay grounded and don’t panic.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
12 July 2017
meeting uncle Ho
In March, 2016, my third attempt to see Ho Chi Minh was a success. I’d tried twice before then, but the first time I wasn’t wearing pants or close-toed shoes, and the second his mausoleum was closed. An intrepid young lady and I had left our Hanoi hostel early in order to arrive a few minutes before the shrine officially opened. We got to the grounds, walked through the unoccupied ticket booth, along the paved lanes, out into a large courtyard, and up to the very front of the line.
To our left rose the leader’s black-marble resting place. Ceremonial guards in white uniforms stood at its corners, guarding the entrance too. A man with a clipboard who was setting up queuing barriers looked over at us, glanced briefly at our clothing, then gestured toward the entrance, which we took as an invitation for us to enter.
Moving from the bright hot morning sun to the cool dark interior was fairly shocking, but we kept our composure and climbed the marble stairs. At each landing stood two white-clad guards at rigid attention. We took a right into the central chamber and caught our first glimpse of the deceased patriot lying within his glass and metal sarcophagus. In the viewing chamber with us were at least six guards. My companion and I were walking around the preserved statesman when an urge came over me and I paused, briefly, to give Ho Chi Minh a full bow from the spot where viewing him seemed best. As I was closing my eyes with my hands at my chest and beginning to bend forward, I saw the eyes of all visible guards go wide and snap onto me. The need to honor Vietnam’s erstwhile leader satisfied, my friend and I then quietly exited and went to find breakfast
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
To our left rose the leader’s black-marble resting place. Ceremonial guards in white uniforms stood at its corners, guarding the entrance too. A man with a clipboard who was setting up queuing barriers looked over at us, glanced briefly at our clothing, then gestured toward the entrance, which we took as an invitation for us to enter.
Moving from the bright hot morning sun to the cool dark interior was fairly shocking, but we kept our composure and climbed the marble stairs. At each landing stood two white-clad guards at rigid attention. We took a right into the central chamber and caught our first glimpse of the deceased patriot lying within his glass and metal sarcophagus. In the viewing chamber with us were at least six guards. My companion and I were walking around the preserved statesman when an urge came over me and I paused, briefly, to give Ho Chi Minh a full bow from the spot where viewing him seemed best. As I was closing my eyes with my hands at my chest and beginning to bend forward, I saw the eyes of all visible guards go wide and snap onto me. The need to honor Vietnam’s erstwhile leader satisfied, my friend and I then quietly exited and went to find breakfast
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
07 July 2017
a seaside promenade
The dream started inside a building, which I escaped through a side door that opened onto a street paved with cobblestones. The outside was lit by a bright, white light. With me (on the right-hand side) was as always my psychopomp, as well as a female (on the left-hand side) whose face and features have faded from memory.
Together, we climbed through the open rear door into a automobile that looked like a standard, black Londonite taxicab. It was hitched via leather strapping to four-legged beasts that at first glance appeared to be cats. The driver’s perch had been mounted onto the roof, meaning that I had to climb up through the car’s open sunroof to man the reins.
We took off, rounding corners at speed, and were soon riding astride a seaside promenade made using cut blue granite and featuring an iron railing. People in Victorian-era dress strolled along the sidewalk to our right. Below and beyond them stretched the sea - deep blue and vastly calm, nary a wave or ripple. The vehicle stopped and I leaped off to see if there was a beach at the base of the cut-stone promenade. Using a nearby flight of stairs, I climbed down to its blond sands (with someone or something else in tow), and had just dipped a toe in (to check the waters) when I awoke.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
Together, we climbed through the open rear door into a automobile that looked like a standard, black Londonite taxicab. It was hitched via leather strapping to four-legged beasts that at first glance appeared to be cats. The driver’s perch had been mounted onto the roof, meaning that I had to climb up through the car’s open sunroof to man the reins.
We took off, rounding corners at speed, and were soon riding astride a seaside promenade made using cut blue granite and featuring an iron railing. People in Victorian-era dress strolled along the sidewalk to our right. Below and beyond them stretched the sea - deep blue and vastly calm, nary a wave or ripple. The vehicle stopped and I leaped off to see if there was a beach at the base of the cut-stone promenade. Using a nearby flight of stairs, I climbed down to its blond sands (with someone or something else in tow), and had just dipped a toe in (to check the waters) when I awoke.
americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan
16 June 2017
dreamstate writing 16 June 2017
I was in a house that was in the process of being renovated. With me were people I knew well. We talked for a long time, the people and I, whilst sitting cross-legged in a circle in one of the nearly finished rooms. The others and I were wearing tan colored ankle-length robes of some kind. The room had many windows, it was brightly lit, and its walls were painted white.
After our talk was finished we stood up for to have a stretch, whereupon I for some reason entered a smaller neighboring room, to change clothes or just have a look around. The room was empty but for a floor lamp burning a standard incandescent bulb that cast a yellow light. The room had wooden parquet flooring, wooden panels that covered the walls to hip-height, and dark green paint, above. Someone entered the room behind me and I had the feeling I wasn’t supposed to be in there.
When I turned around to leave I saw that a square section of the roof above the green-walled room had been crudely sawed away, leaving a yawning gap that someone had tried to cover with a blue tarpaulin of some sort. Knowing I could mend it better, I went to a closet where supplies for fixing such a hole were kept, gathering up a ladder, hammer and nails, a square piece of plywood, some fiberglass insulation board, as well as roofing shingles and metal flashing. As I was removing the blue tarpaulin I discovered it was instead a heavy-duty Manduka yoga mat I had once owned. The mat was thinner than I remembered and smelled of ozone and heat, however, having sat under the hot sun for so long. I started shoving insulation into the gap and installing bridge-beams to carry the plywood and replacement asphalt shingles, which I had to wedge up under the existing clay tiles.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑
After our talk was finished we stood up for to have a stretch, whereupon I for some reason entered a smaller neighboring room, to change clothes or just have a look around. The room was empty but for a floor lamp burning a standard incandescent bulb that cast a yellow light. The room had wooden parquet flooring, wooden panels that covered the walls to hip-height, and dark green paint, above. Someone entered the room behind me and I had the feeling I wasn’t supposed to be in there.
When I turned around to leave I saw that a square section of the roof above the green-walled room had been crudely sawed away, leaving a yawning gap that someone had tried to cover with a blue tarpaulin of some sort. Knowing I could mend it better, I went to a closet where supplies for fixing such a hole were kept, gathering up a ladder, hammer and nails, a square piece of plywood, some fiberglass insulation board, as well as roofing shingles and metal flashing. As I was removing the blue tarpaulin I discovered it was instead a heavy-duty Manduka yoga mat I had once owned. The mat was thinner than I remembered and smelled of ozone and heat, however, having sat under the hot sun for so long. I started shoving insulation into the gap and installing bridge-beams to carry the plywood and replacement asphalt shingles, which I had to wedge up under the existing clay tiles.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑
03 March 2017
dreamstate writing 3 Mar 2017
In this morning’s dream, I was walking around outside (in an overgrown lot) looking for a place to bed down for the night. There was little ambient light, the sky above me a gray blanket trimmed with the rosy promise of dawn. Rounding the side of a one-storey brick building, I started to make my way through the trees and bushes that grew beside and behind it. Treading carefully so as not to alert to my presence the people living nearby (three-storey inhabited brick structures stood beyond a chain-link fence on a rise above the first building), I made noise nonetheless, the underbrush below my feet crackling loudly. On my way to the rear of the building I passed two makeshift blinds, one a flimsy construction of bent cardboard, the other a sturdier model made from a metal framework and some type of plastic cloth. Behind each blind was a pillow and a worn-down area where someone seemed to have slept recently.
Security lights turned on, illuminating the area brilliantly, and I became aware of what looked like many cameras watching, unblinking eyes that tracked my every move. Little red lights glowed upon them, indicating that they were recording. I attempted to lay down in an effort to avoid their gaze, but a thin beam of piercing white light shot through the chain-link fence, thwarting my efforts to escape it.
Time passed, for the sky had lightened considerably. I was standing in front of the one-storey brick building speaking to its apparent proprietress. She had dark hair, an attractive face, and the type of exaggeratedly-proportioned body normally found on girls' fashion dolls. Apparently, this woman realized I found her attractive, for she turned to one side to show me her large breasts and slender waist. Then, a different woman - this one with blond hair tucked into a tattered baseball cap and wearing a bulky coat - walked out from behind my field of vision to enter the brick building, a basket of what looked like soiled clothing in her arms. I then examined the structure in front of me more closely, leaning over to look past the dark-haired gal, and discovered it was a laundry-mat of sorts. The last thing I remember before waking up was that all of its washers appeared to be running, full steam.
Huzzah, mahalo, and om swastiastu.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
Security lights turned on, illuminating the area brilliantly, and I became aware of what looked like many cameras watching, unblinking eyes that tracked my every move. Little red lights glowed upon them, indicating that they were recording. I attempted to lay down in an effort to avoid their gaze, but a thin beam of piercing white light shot through the chain-link fence, thwarting my efforts to escape it.
Time passed, for the sky had lightened considerably. I was standing in front of the one-storey brick building speaking to its apparent proprietress. She had dark hair, an attractive face, and the type of exaggeratedly-proportioned body normally found on girls' fashion dolls. Apparently, this woman realized I found her attractive, for she turned to one side to show me her large breasts and slender waist. Then, a different woman - this one with blond hair tucked into a tattered baseball cap and wearing a bulky coat - walked out from behind my field of vision to enter the brick building, a basket of what looked like soiled clothing in her arms. I then examined the structure in front of me more closely, leaning over to look past the dark-haired gal, and discovered it was a laundry-mat of sorts. The last thing I remember before waking up was that all of its washers appeared to be running, full steam.
Huzzah, mahalo, and om swastiastu.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
15 October 2012
on frequent simplification
During the course of my writing, I often work myself into a lather while exploring the apparent evils of this particular group or while expounding upon the virtues of one idea or the other. This, dear reader, is a dangerous trend. This, my friend, is something I shall endeavor to do less of, in future. The writer who over-simplifies issues of any type nearly always proves to be a holier-than-thou, fly-in-my-soup cocksucker with no more of an idea how to solve the situations he sees as problems than the smart and talented motherfuckers who – due to position, wealth, or access – actually can; my ideas and notions are, to judge by my readership statistics, old, tired, worn, full of redundant or faulty reasoning, and flat out lame; my frequent use of personal opinions violates the fundamental rules contained in The Elements of Style, Strunk and White's ultimate and indispensable writer's handbook. (I am tempted, at times, as I sit here struggling for syntax in this cold but sunny room, to increase the level of fire and brimstone and really start head-hunting for easy pickings, unless I am doing that already, in which case I am not surprised that few people spend time to read the fruits of my labor, which are as close to beating dead horses as one can get without showering afterward.)
Perhaps it is out of laziness, perhaps it is due to my inability to see the Big Picture, but, mostly, I find that when I write on these sites I stick to simplification; they make for quick and juicy arguments, for high-fructose vituperations that so closely resemble candy-floss as to make a body's sweet tooth twinge. It is likely that I need to step away from these blogs for a spell, to take a week off in honor of the first fall frost in order to give my brains' writing centers a break after working them continuously since last December. (Upon review, it appears as if I have been posting six days a week for the past ten months, now, a streak I dare not break for fear of shaking the foundations of my fledgling sanity.)
I don't think I nor any other simpleton writing today could avoid using simplification for too long, since writing in specifics would be akin to trying to condense all of mankind's knowledge and knowing into a Complete Theory of the Entire Universe, a task for which only a few living people are equipped with the necessary patience, genius, and understanding. (I am not one of these people.) To cut down on frequent simplification seems a good place to start if I hope to improve the quality of my writing's content, however, let alone if I want to inject a shred of rational analysis or positive thinking into my daily word-smithing. And so, I say, begone, ye foul generalization! Out with you, simplified thinking! Welcome in, old man Compassion; make yourself at home on the couch next to lady Moderation; stay a while, oh humble hubris, in this whorphan's cluttered and sad excuse for a functional mind. Oh, what great fun it is to be alive. Mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
Perhaps it is out of laziness, perhaps it is due to my inability to see the Big Picture, but, mostly, I find that when I write on these sites I stick to simplification; they make for quick and juicy arguments, for high-fructose vituperations that so closely resemble candy-floss as to make a body's sweet tooth twinge. It is likely that I need to step away from these blogs for a spell, to take a week off in honor of the first fall frost in order to give my brains' writing centers a break after working them continuously since last December. (Upon review, it appears as if I have been posting six days a week for the past ten months, now, a streak I dare not break for fear of shaking the foundations of my fledgling sanity.)
I don't think I nor any other simpleton writing today could avoid using simplification for too long, since writing in specifics would be akin to trying to condense all of mankind's knowledge and knowing into a Complete Theory of the Entire Universe, a task for which only a few living people are equipped with the necessary patience, genius, and understanding. (I am not one of these people.) To cut down on frequent simplification seems a good place to start if I hope to improve the quality of my writing's content, however, let alone if I want to inject a shred of rational analysis or positive thinking into my daily word-smithing. And so, I say, begone, ye foul generalization! Out with you, simplified thinking! Welcome in, old man Compassion; make yourself at home on the couch next to lady Moderation; stay a while, oh humble hubris, in this whorphan's cluttered and sad excuse for a functional mind. Oh, what great fun it is to be alive. Mahalo.
© mentiri factorem fecit (場黑麥)
16 July 2012
on holding grudges
Since moving to this small, blue-collar town and making friends with such few open-minded people as here live, I have had the good fortune of making the acquaintance of someone who holds grudges. I say Making The Acquaintance Of instead of Befriend because, just yesterday, this individual chose to respond to my pointing out, in jest, a typo he had made on a popular social-networking-site by compounding this slight jab on top of all of the other confrontations we have had in the last six months and letting the cauldron of hatred that seems to burn within his chest boil over.
It all started about six months ago, when he and I and a few others would go out for friendly disc-golf matches and he began to curse out any other person who made a good throw while also being verbally self-abusive every time he threw poorly, which accounted perhaps for 85% of his attempts. After a couple of afternoons of getting told to go fuck myself and that I was a bastard and a fucking asshole for having thrown a circular piece of plastic through the air in such a was as to have it land close to an upright, basket-equipped metal pole, I told this man – let us call him Wilson – that his negativity was poisoning the group's fun, leading to an overall dampening of of the collective mood, and would he not please keep his anger and resentment to himself and not keep cursing at everybody all the time? Wilson, who claims to be a follower of the One Love mentality espoused by such musicians as Bob Marley, instantly went on the defensive, causing everyone so much grief for the next few days that the others in our disc-golfing group and I decided it best not to invite him to our friendly matches anymore, given his proclivity to whine, moan, and belly-ache every time someone did well or he did not.
The second major confrontation between this worthless whorphan and Mr. Wilson came about two months ago, when, after he had been telling a story to me and a number of other people during a weekend bout of drinking, I cautioned him to wear sunblock if he should happen to be out in the sun for the amount of time he had claimed to be in his story. Being from Western Africa and having relatively dark skin, Wilson became once again defensive, immediately and with great passion calling into doubt my knowledge of What It Means To Be Black (whatever that means), even asking me if I, in my life, had ever been black, or if I had ever seen the masses of his fellow Africans all out perambulating in the sun lacking hats or long-sleeved shirts, in far more words telling me that I did not know what the fuck it was I was talking about. Never backing down from my position, I pointed out to Wilson that, since he is a human being and since all human skin can suffer skin cancer if exposed too long to solar radiation, he would do well to protect his skin from the sun so as to lead a long and healthy life, whereupon he began to curse me and to call me many bad names, puffing up his chest and treating me with much disdain for a number of weeks after that.
Having pondered my actions and deciding it best for me to keep my dumb fucking mouth shut, I have done just that, staying quiet and not seeking fault with the man, letting him espouse whatever strange and nonsensical views he, a grown adult, should wish to espouse. Sensing that Wilson seemed to be doing the same – generally ignoring me and not spending too much time in my presence – and seeing that we had sat together amiably during a get-together on the 4th of July, I figured that, just as I had done, he had laid aside any past grievances and gotten over any latent animosity toward this corn-fed white boy. In response, however, to a jab, a pointing out of a word he had misspelled on-line, that word being “the,” he launched into a litany of hatred against me, saying to an intermediary that I would get what I deserved for being so know-it-all and smarmy toward him, and that this my latest latest slight was simply too much, one of too many twigs thrown atop the teetering stack of hate-sticks he seems to have been carrying around with him since that one fateful day of disc-golfing.
While I do not fear the man physically, I have come to fear the human ego in general, and to keep a sharp eye out for a bruised ego, which is prone to extraordinary violence, to stabbing persons in the back and letting the air out of their bicycle tires. In the wake of Wilson un-friending of me on Facebook over the weekend, I could perhaps try to arrange a sit-down with him, a having-it-out session during which he might be able to call me all the names he wants to and, perhaps by letting go of his hatred and allowing it to flow from himself mightily, to dislodge some of the sand that has become trapped in his vagina; I might as well do nothing, however, since I cannot in any way control how Wilson reacts to my words or presence. He is a big boy, and he has the power to decide for himself when to be angry and when to be contented, when to fill his being with hatred, and when to let One Love infect every ounce of his soul. Three cheers for keeping quiet! Mahalo.
場黑麥 mentiri manufactorem fecit
It all started about six months ago, when he and I and a few others would go out for friendly disc-golf matches and he began to curse out any other person who made a good throw while also being verbally self-abusive every time he threw poorly, which accounted perhaps for 85% of his attempts. After a couple of afternoons of getting told to go fuck myself and that I was a bastard and a fucking asshole for having thrown a circular piece of plastic through the air in such a was as to have it land close to an upright, basket-equipped metal pole, I told this man – let us call him Wilson – that his negativity was poisoning the group's fun, leading to an overall dampening of of the collective mood, and would he not please keep his anger and resentment to himself and not keep cursing at everybody all the time? Wilson, who claims to be a follower of the One Love mentality espoused by such musicians as Bob Marley, instantly went on the defensive, causing everyone so much grief for the next few days that the others in our disc-golfing group and I decided it best not to invite him to our friendly matches anymore, given his proclivity to whine, moan, and belly-ache every time someone did well or he did not.
The second major confrontation between this worthless whorphan and Mr. Wilson came about two months ago, when, after he had been telling a story to me and a number of other people during a weekend bout of drinking, I cautioned him to wear sunblock if he should happen to be out in the sun for the amount of time he had claimed to be in his story. Being from Western Africa and having relatively dark skin, Wilson became once again defensive, immediately and with great passion calling into doubt my knowledge of What It Means To Be Black (whatever that means), even asking me if I, in my life, had ever been black, or if I had ever seen the masses of his fellow Africans all out perambulating in the sun lacking hats or long-sleeved shirts, in far more words telling me that I did not know what the fuck it was I was talking about. Never backing down from my position, I pointed out to Wilson that, since he is a human being and since all human skin can suffer skin cancer if exposed too long to solar radiation, he would do well to protect his skin from the sun so as to lead a long and healthy life, whereupon he began to curse me and to call me many bad names, puffing up his chest and treating me with much disdain for a number of weeks after that.
Having pondered my actions and deciding it best for me to keep my dumb fucking mouth shut, I have done just that, staying quiet and not seeking fault with the man, letting him espouse whatever strange and nonsensical views he, a grown adult, should wish to espouse. Sensing that Wilson seemed to be doing the same – generally ignoring me and not spending too much time in my presence – and seeing that we had sat together amiably during a get-together on the 4th of July, I figured that, just as I had done, he had laid aside any past grievances and gotten over any latent animosity toward this corn-fed white boy. In response, however, to a jab, a pointing out of a word he had misspelled on-line, that word being “the,” he launched into a litany of hatred against me, saying to an intermediary that I would get what I deserved for being so know-it-all and smarmy toward him, and that this my latest latest slight was simply too much, one of too many twigs thrown atop the teetering stack of hate-sticks he seems to have been carrying around with him since that one fateful day of disc-golfing.
While I do not fear the man physically, I have come to fear the human ego in general, and to keep a sharp eye out for a bruised ego, which is prone to extraordinary violence, to stabbing persons in the back and letting the air out of their bicycle tires. In the wake of Wilson un-friending of me on Facebook over the weekend, I could perhaps try to arrange a sit-down with him, a having-it-out session during which he might be able to call me all the names he wants to and, perhaps by letting go of his hatred and allowing it to flow from himself mightily, to dislodge some of the sand that has become trapped in his vagina; I might as well do nothing, however, since I cannot in any way control how Wilson reacts to my words or presence. He is a big boy, and he has the power to decide for himself when to be angry and when to be contented, when to fill his being with hatred, and when to let One Love infect every ounce of his soul. Three cheers for keeping quiet! Mahalo.
場黑麥 mentiri manufactorem fecit
15 December 2011
americansFIRST
I am hereby announcing a new nomenclature for all Americans, one that, by addressing the individual directly and his or her status as a member of this nation before addressing his or her race or skin color, will hopefully be a more equalizing and egalitarian form of address than the forms in use currently.
Instead of saying African-Americans, or referring to people whose skin color is somewhat darker than that of the majority as 'Black' let us refer to them as 'Americans of African descent.' Instead of saying 'Whites' let us refer to these people as Americans of European descent (their skin color is more pink than white, anyway). In cases where there are multiple origins of descent, let us say Americans of Mixed descent.
Since we Americans have a hard time abandoning completely the use of 'race' as a primary identifier, perhaps this new nomenclature can help smooth our transition to a more egalitarian coexistence.
Spes Mea In Ratio Est – 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp
Instead of saying African-Americans, or referring to people whose skin color is somewhat darker than that of the majority as 'Black' let us refer to them as 'Americans of African descent.' Instead of saying 'Whites' let us refer to these people as Americans of European descent (their skin color is more pink than white, anyway). In cases where there are multiple origins of descent, let us say Americans of Mixed descent.
Since we Americans have a hard time abandoning completely the use of 'race' as a primary identifier, perhaps this new nomenclature can help smooth our transition to a more egalitarian coexistence.
Spes Mea In Ratio Est – 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp
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