An Un-Natural History of the Dead

"Unlike all other forms of lutte or combat the conditions are that the winner shall take nothing; neither his ease, nor his pleasure, nor any notions of glory; nor, if he win far enough, shall there be any reward within himself." Hemingway

I. Ghost Stories

It starts, as all these stories start...

someone must die

by trauma,

by murder,

by bloody accident,

bleeding out onto asphalt

on a rainy night

blood tinging to pink

and fading away.

Someone must die

for the story

to start,

leaving something,

any old thing,

unresolved.

Our hero,

and he's always a he,

must face the dead,

and she's always a she,

and make his best effort

to resolve it,

whatever the unnamed

McGuffin was.

What he gets in return

is a broken romance

and the eternal gratitude

of a ghost

moving toward

Heaven, Hell,

the bright light

and all other points past caring

about gratitude towards the living,

and he standing hollowed

before a grave

comprehending a loss

many years past

and a memento mori,

all too fresh.

That's the way

this kind of story works,

leaving out everything,

everything else unstated,

in the effort to tell

the un-natural history of the dead.

II. The Vanishing

You heard the story;

boy in a car,

girl on the side of the road

rain swept,

a pretty little drowned rat

in a prom dress.

It wasn't

your best friend's cousin,

or your

Dad's boss' son.

I don't know

those people.

Tell them to live

their own lives.

Why I stopped,

I'm just...

I stop, okay...

I stop,

it's who I am.

And the car was warm,

dry

and she just wanted

a ride home.

Simple.

Not even

that far

out of my way,

I said.

Okay,

a few miles.

20 minutes,

half an hour

who knows.

And she looked

cold and frail and hopeful,

like Ophelia just out of the River,

like she was back from the deluge

and I wanted...

Okay, this part is always confused

because...

I just wanted.

and so, she got in.

And almost there,

poof.

And I find out

she's been dead for 20 years.

Forget the signs and wonders,

she always vanishes.

Happens to me

all the time.

E.

Read more:http://www.myspace.com/57364862/blog#ixzz0wVFbCI8G
Read more:http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendId=57364862&blogId=536149984#ixzz0wVFLjVNP

"Welcome to My Parlor," Said the Spider to the Fly.

I find the concept of the blog fascinating. More so now than when I really started doing it years ago. That was over at MySpace where readers typically start off as real world friends and then cyber friends and so on. Where you start with a pre-existing connection to the reader.

I didn't ever tell anyone about this blog that sat idle for years. Why bother. And I'm not doing so now. I like the idea of starting from scratch with no built in audience where the only way to build a relationship with the reader is to draw them in in the first place.

Here it's words published into the ether. I love the randomness of that. The idea that my dirty thoughts are somewhere out there looking for a nice clean mind to infect. I love the idea that it is writing as seduction. And of course the ego of it is appealing.

Someone who operates under the handle of The Egoist, after all, must love all manner of hubris.

So hello everyone. And hello no one.

E.

Defining Freedom-Redux

Written July 4th, 2010:

This is an oldie but a goodie, written during the dark days of George Walker Bush. It's still bloody true, and I still keep hearing the same bloody drivel every Independence Day.

Before we go on to the old stuff, however, let me say a brief word about patriotism.

I consider myself a patriot.

I vote in every primary and every general election. I have tried a whopping 7 times to enlist in and, as I grew older and more grossly over-educated, to obtain a commission in all 5 branches of the US Armed forces (I've got health problems that never seem wavable). I have run candidates for political office for free or for below a living wage when I believed in what they stand for. I've registered voters. I answer calls to jury duty. I practice the civic virtues. I can list all 5 rights guaranteed in the 1st Amendment and all 8 currently sitting Supreme Court Justices (Stevens officially retired last week, Kagan has yet to be confirmed). I once found a single round of live ammunition in a parking lot and spent an hour of my life making sure it was turned in to the police in case it was associated with a crime.

But I do not consider patriotism a virtue.

It is not.

My patriotism does not make me a better person. If I'm a good person, and I hope I am, it has nothing to do with my patriotism. My patriotism merely makes me a decent citizen. There's a huge difference between the two things.

"Patriotism," as Mark Twain said, "is the last refuge of the scoundrel."

Ted Bundy, for example, was a great citizen, if you didn't know. Active in politics, attended a major party Presidential Convention, managed the Seattle office of a presidential candidate. Worked on a suicide hotline. Even worked for the Governor of Washington State.

He also had this nasty habit... you know... raping and murdering women. Lots of them.

Patriotism, it was his last refuge. In every other way, total human cancer.

That's my last word on the subject for now.

Morning all,

Well, Independence Day has come and gone yet again. And in so doing it has brought its standard quasi-patriotic fervor. I say quasi, of course, because most so-called patriots seem to understand the significance of the holiday and the principles for which it stands not at all.

Often, far too often, Independence Day is viewed as a celebration of the American military, and its sacrifices. This is completely untrue and utterly aggravating (The American military already has two such holidays to its credit and does not need a third). Independence Day commemorates the courage of a small group of politicians (who believed all standing armies were evil) and one written document· It commemorates an idea and the willingness to stand by that idea.

The idea was Liberty. In popular parlance, and though they're not the same thing, that is usually translated to Freedom.

The problem is Americans no longer have any idea what Liberty or Freedom mean. We lost track of the definitions years ago. Ever since, we've just kept unthinkingly re-using the words until they are utterly without meaning. To such a state where, if you were so inclined, you might go to Liberty College, drive on Liberty Road, roll up to Liberty Hall and never once ask yourself precisely what Liberty means. That's how vapid and hollow our usage of those words has become.

The question then is what is Liberty? What is Freedom?

Let's ignore the very real philosophical distinction between them. After all, popularly, they are used interchangeably. Let's just pretend they're the same, like everyone else does. What is the meaning?

Now I've heard over the past few years of Independence Days the same standard infuriating answers: the materialist drivel (we're free to do what we want), the cowardly drivel (we're free from the threat of our enemies), the touchy feely drivel (we're free to be what and who we want, to express ourselves) and so forth. The chief uniting factor is that this is all drivel. It has not even a jot to do with the definition of Liberty.

Without actually doing years of research into Locke and Jefferson (the philosophical masterminds of America), we can capture the thinking of the Founding Fathers. I think we can answer the question: What is Liberty?

So a working definition:

Liberty...

Is the ability to participate in the creation your own government...

To have a hand in determining which acts are lawful...

To commit any lawful act free of that government's coercion...

To be secure in your person, property and intellectual property from government interference...

To be secure in the knowledge that you have recourse to the fair and equitable processes of law, even against the government...

And the right to resist, by main force and through any necessary violence, any attempt by that government to subvert your access to the fair and equitable processes of law.

That is Liberty as our Founders envisioned it. That is Freedom.

Obviously it's not very recognizable today, but that idea and the politicians who believed in it and risked everything to stand behind it are what we celebrate on July 4th. It's a pity, I think, that most people don't understand that.

For What It's Worth,

The Egoist

Memorial Day: On Heroism

Written Memorial Day 2010:

So, it's Memorial Day. And every Memorial Day we here stirring speeches about heroism.

I'm sick to death of stirring speeches about heroism. Not because I'm against heroism. Oh no. I'm a big fan of heroism. I'm just against calling everyone and his Goddamned dog a hero.

We've cheapened the word hero nearly beyond meaning.

It used to mean a literal demi-god; Heracles, Theseus, Perseus, etc- half-man, half-god, in conflict with both, literally saving the world by their own hands. A savior and protector of the world. A being that slew mythic beasts, over-turned wicked despots, founded cities, challenged the gods. A being that literally went to hell and came back again. We used to literally deify them, make our sacrifices to them, worship them, write myths and plays about them.

At a very precise moment in history we gave up on ever meeting a half-god half-man (mainly because of the rise of monotheism). I mean, the last hero like that was literally Jesus Christ.

After that heroes became a bit more human. Less legendary, less mythic. The kind of person that you might meet once in your lifetime.

A person who through extraordinary self-sacrifice and physical and moral bravery served the greater good of all humanity. We gave them honors and accolades, gave them medals and parades, named countries and cities and schools and streets after them.

If you like astronauts, think Neil Armstrong or Yuri Gagarin.

If you're a Communist, visit Lenin's Tomb to see one.

We're talking about someone who pushed the edge of the possible, did the hardest thing you've ever heard of doing, because the hardest thing just happened be the only morally correct choice they could think of. And they did it at tremendous personal cost. Someone who gave us all something to aspire too.

Think Gandhi setting India free or George Washington refusing to be made King of the United States.

Something positively and historically massive.

You don't meet people like that often. You're almost never there to witness the event.

Now it's anyone who displays any measure of self-sacrifice or physical bravery, no matter what the reasoning. Save a kid from a bus, you're a hero; serve a non-combat tour in the military, you're a hero.

I personally know active duty Special Warfare operators, many in fact. Some have Silver Stars, I heard tell that one has a Navy Cross, one was even nominated for the MoH. None of them consider themselves heroes.

And you know what, they're right.

They do their job. And it's a difficult job. And some of them die doing it. But the job needs doing, and they're capable enough and strong enough to do it, when few people are. That's enough.

Being capable of doing a hard job, and being willing to do it, is their only claim to fame.

They understand that a hero is a mythic figure. An example for all of humanity. An example of what we can all aspire too do for the world. That isn't them. And they know it. Because they're honest with themselves and real heroes are too rare to despoil their name.

A hero may be a soldier, but being a soldier has nothing to do with being a hero. A hero may be a patriot, but patriotism is not a heroic virtue. A hero might die so that others may live, but simply dying so that others may live does not make you a hero.

A hero is bigger than any and all of those things.

Memorial Day isn't about remembering heroes. Memorial Day is about remembering that the cost of war, in blood, is never cheap. And that those who die because they were willing to do a hard job, simply because they were strong enough to do it, are worthy of remembrance, too.

E.

The Lies Men Tell- Updated

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Friendly Fire

"Some say the world will end in fire..."

Robert Frost

The math is easy;

43 parts polystyrene,

33 parts gasoline,

21 parts benzene

Leave to gel.

That's the new kind.

Blistering Death 2.0.

The stuff is,

what they call,

designed for controlled ignition,

meaning,

what we call,

difficult to ignite.

You'll need something

reliable

to get it going.

They say,

use thermite.

If you want the original

you'll need AV-gas at 100 octane.

You cut in the naphthenic acid

and then the palmetic.

That's where the name

comes from,

you know.

Just take the first two syllables,

and turn them

into a word.

Cute.

Now this is very important;

don't smoke around the original.

It wasn't ever designed for,

what they call,

controlled ignition.

This led many weapons system operators,

what we call soldiers,

meaning kids really,

so tired and tense

they can't put two thoughts together,

usually so sick they wouldn't be

allowed in a hospital,

to light one cigarette,

their last link to normalcy,

and become...

well the word they use is

fratricides,

but the systems operators,

those kids

they just call it

a crispy critter.

It's what we call

dead.

E.

Where We Were

Written on July 20th over at MySpace:

If you didn't know; 41 years ago today a rather amazing radio transmission was made. After a harrowing few minutes of near white knuckle tension at Mission Control in Houston, Texas and shortly after 20:17 UTC the Mission commander of Apollo 11, who had been too pre-occupied to respond to hailing, responded by changing his call sign.

The message, and the change of call sign was puzzling in the Mission Control room. The staff, who'd been holding it's breath didn't quite know what to make of it.

"Who the hell is Tranquility Base? And what does it mean that the Eagle..."

Then there was a sudden sigh of relief, of understanding.

Capcom (Charles Duke): "Roger, Twan-- Tranquility, we copy you on the ground. You got a bunch of guys about to turn blue. We're breathing again. Thanks a lot."

And with that the world went nuts.

Tranquility Base was established; the Eagle had landed. Humanity had made it to the moon.

Centuries of dreaming crystalized into one perfect moment. To be followed only hours later with Armstrong's first step and his own beautiful, if also flubbed, line.

Centuries of aspirations. A decade of work by tens of thousands of American and Soviet engineers, technicians and astronauts. 5 men already dead in the endeavor. And there we were.

I wrote a poem about it recently that I think is worth sharing again.

So here goes;

Litter

"We came in peace for all Mankind."

A vast number of footprints.

Two PLSS back-packs,

one Hassleblad camera,

one American Flag,

one Plaque, bearing famous inscription.

One Passive Seismic Experiment,

one Lunar Laser Range Finder,

four lunar overshoes.

One Landing Stage;

Lunar Module.

And also one small bag;

Contents;

One solid gold olive branch, miniature,

one silicon message disk,

Contents; list of those in the US Government

directly responsible

for this offering

on the alter of eternity.

Plus, The goodwill of four US Presidents

and 73 world leaders.

Also, One Apollo 11 Mission Patch,

one Astronaut tie pin,

Owner; Deke Slayton.

Flight Stauts; Unfit for Space Travel

A list, on a scrap of paper;

Gus Grissom, Edward White

Roger Chaffee,

Flight Status; deceased.

Moreover,

known only to the two men

depositing them,

Two copies, military decoration,

reproduction.

Country of origin;

Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

Metal name;

Hero of the Soviet Union.

Recipients; Yuri Gagarin,

Vladimir Komarov.

Flight Status; deceased.

E.

Read more:http://www.myspace.com/57364862/blog#ixzz0wJoZ403g

Advice I Probably Won't Follow Myself

For the permanent record, there are two things we need to be clear on;

1. The world is composed of two groups; the fools and the damned fools.

2. You and I are not exceptions.

As your attorney, I suggest you write this down on a scrap of paper and memorize it. I'll give you a minute to do that.

Okay, that done, we can get down to brass tacks.

You will be tempted, from time to time, to believe that there are people in this world, yourself included, who are not fools of one sort or the other. You must fight this urge.

The reality is, all things being equal (as old Billy from Ockham would have it), that the easiest answer is the one that requires no thought. As neither fools nor damn fools like to think, they will immediately seize on the easiest answer.

This answer is invariably wrong.

Trusting your instincts or going from the gut are the surest way of arriving at this answer, which, as we have established, is invariably wrong.

Your instincts wouldn't give you the skills to fight your way out of a paper bag. Your instincts are to scream like a little girl at the sight of a spider and to climb on top of a table when you see a mouse. You are many hundreds of times bigger than both, and could crush either with a satisfying crunch, but your instincts are rat assed cowards.

And the only things that come out of your gut are shit and vomit. Depending on the direction, that is.

Now you may say, E. what the fuck are you going on about?

I know you are saying this because I just re-read that inane blather above, and I said it myself. Only I didn't call myself E. I referred to myself as Earl.

Earl isn't even my name.

The point is this.

If you haven't been in a coma for the last decade, I'm sure you've seen Professional Poker on TV.

And I bet you've seen, say, Phil Helmuth guess outloud and in front of the cameras that his opponent is holding pocket Aces as he lays down his pocket Kings. And the bitch is, whenever he pulls that stunt, the fucker is right. Even if you're a really good poker player, you know how fucking amazing that seems.

The trick, if there is one, to Phil doing what he does, is that poker is a game of incomplete information. If Phil has enough data about a player, he can, in his head, exclude possible hands. Since he's really good at it, he can even arrive at the precisely correct hand.

And if he's feeling cocky, he'll announce it to the table. Mainly to fuck with the other players heads.

Now, herein lies the rub. Phil ain't always right. You can bluff him. And he has been known to completely misread an opponent. You just never see it on TV.

I know I said I was getting to the point. I'm getting there, I promise.

Now, life is not that different from poker. It is a game of incomplete information.

The object of the game is to separate fool from damn fool, without looking like an idiot, based on limited information. And recognizing that you're either a fool or a damn fool yourself, you won't be doing much thinking when you try to make this distinction.

The problem is, of course, that you will rarely collect enough data in advance of your decision. Meaning, all things being equal, you won't be correct about people as often as Phil is with his cards.

Of course, and just as often, they won't be correct about you either.

The best answer, of course, is, as old master Twain said "Never call out your opponents hand, unless you want the world to know what a damn fool you are."

E.

Read more:http://www.myspace.com/57364862/blog?page=2#ixzz0wJjLC24O