irlandesa's parlour

Desaparecida

2008-05-09T21:20:00.000-07:00

Yes, rabbit hole and all.

But only if you can play nice. Or be extraordinarily interesting.

A nought-told tale

2007-05-21T20:36:00.000-07:00

As much as I’m in the mood for Footwear as a non-salacious topic for bemused discussion, I’m sensing more than one problem.

First, of course, I would be abandoning half of our readers, or at least those amongst that half whom I would care to know, since I must admit I don’t much fancy gentlemen who give more than a passing thought to their brogues or flip-flops or Docs or whatever. Yes, I do believe that there are a number of Issues which should be the sole province of the Ladies.

Cosmetics, of course. Unless, that is, the gentleman in question prefers to don the entire costume. Oh, and every once in a while mascara is fine, as long as it’s navy.

And bed linens! There are few things in the universe more off-putting than hearing a man using the term “thread count.” Even ladies know enough to confine the words to the cloistered privacy of their own sculleries.

Unfortunately, I do have an amusing tale of a Boy and his Boots, but given the times and the parties involved, the telling of it might have somewhat unfortunate consequences. Suffice that once upon a time one of my very best friends received an urgent request for a replacement pair of his most fave, most hardy and well-known brand of very waterproof, very durable, um, boots. They were dispatched through the usual channels, along with the Beconase that had been earmarked for me [much to my chagrin, because my allergies are much worse than his].

A transaction ultimately regretted by all involved.

Which is the very best part of the story. So good, in fact, that we might even find it in an upcoming issue of Yo! Basta. Yes, our most glossy Tabloid of the Left is promising a bit of a renascence itself.

Or so promised our divinely authentic Editrice, who was reporting, a tad incoherently, from Somewhere in Cannes.

...yet fully shod

2007-05-20T19:22:00.000-07:00

Yes, my very gentle ladies and occasionally artful gentlemen, I find myself coaxed to light of day.

First, to make careful note of how swiftly even the slightest spot of disrobing on the Internets will be made note of.

And to thank one of the most artful amongst you for the charming, and much appreciated, bit of poesy. One of my favourites, as he must have known, exquisitely wrought and an astonishing surprise.

As for the rest – Life, Love, Work, Footwear, Flora and Such - time to revisit all, I should imagine.

But perhaps we should tread lightly for now, forgoing the first three topics for the moment, and concentrate on the latter.

Footwear, Flora and Such…

Renascence

2007-01-04T12:04:00.000-08:00

Yes, darlings, much too long in the rabbit hole.

As for the previous post, I was forced to delete it entirely as Blogger was refusing to allow me to delete some of those more annoying Comments individually.

I trust our most kind readers will forgive me for vaporizing their words and might, in true spirit of seasonal charity, provide us with more.

And, speaking of more, I promise the same.

A paterian prince of a man

2006-08-24T23:23:00.000-07:00

My determination to stay in the kiddie pool for the duration of this silly month is being nicely aided and abetted by newsreaders, Editrice and Shadow in Hiding himself.

On this, the dismal side, of the pond, the airwaves have spent most of their time following the footsteps, words and facial expressions of a pasty faced little oddity who appears to have somehow managed to engage the western world in his own dismal decomposition.

Lots of reasons for this obsession, of course. After all, it feels like an international interactive suspense novel of the more tawdry sort, perfect for armchair detecting or semi-sublimated voyeurism.

But then I thought of Lewis Carroll, with his similarly delicate features, diminutive figure and tiny obsessions. One senses, in both, a desire to escape, back to the certainties, simplicity and beauty of childhood.

Like others of similar bent they seem centered on their own fragility, feeding it even, as if to emphasize how impossible it is for them to traverse, let alone survive, this world, the real, the “grown-up” one. And, again, their need to flee, to find comfort in childish things.

One can sympathize with the impulse, understand the desire for flight, for imposing innocence and utopia once again. But even so, there are paths and then there are other paths.

Oscar Wilde, in his own way, writing delightful children’s tales and playing dress-up, but still managing to negotiate the real world. His tools, of course, were wit, elegance and sartorial excellence, the consummate paterian aesthete and self-described anarchist.

I like the combination, of course: a gentleman equally devoted to foppery and politics, who happily penned fairy tales and Swiftean tract. The hardest path of all, perhaps. Not back to dimly remembered garden, but rather firmly planted in the moral present. Flowers and all.

Girls, girls, girls!!

2006-08-17T21:12:00.000-07:00

We are valiantly maintaining our current determination – at least through August – to refuse to countenance any Serious Discussion about North Korea, imperialist plots, Iron Man tales, subversion in the ranks of the newly Otra, creepy expatriate 2nd grade teachers and/or twisted sisters of any sort.

And so we are left with Girls.

Girls wishing to amuse themselves.

A subject not nearly as pervy as it might sound, unless, of course, they might so wish.

And, given the nature of less than perfect current circumstances, it had been much too long since I’d paid a visit to the valiant Ladies United for the Preservation of Endangered Cocktails, and such a visit it was.

Do take a peek at their Cannon Fodder page, delightful in and of itself, but especially resonant given present times and past concerns. As well as the obverse.

Speaking of drink, the Sound of Music Drinking Game far surpasses my previous favorite, devoted to the State of the Union Address, substantially notching up the perv factor.

Now that we’ve somehow managed to let ourselves be dragged, kicking and screaming, into the pleasantly debauched, there is also a roadshow for tarts afoot. A much better idea, and of this I’m certain, than waiting for other boys to come out of hiding and show them the way.

For those feeling a tad off-put and cranky, I promise your spirits will be lifted, and recipes provided, at Disgruntled Housewives. And, oddly enough, none of the fun has to do with acquiring a cache of automatic weapons and/or major tranquilizers.

And, in celebration of all the above referenced, and in hopes of giving hope to fledgling tarts everywhere, we have these delightful words from Suzie Bright, a lady who should know and whom all bad girls should know, as well:

“Every time a woman's blog proclaims her intellect, her sexuality, and her nurture — all on the same page— she has diced the dominant paradigm.
She has motherfucked her way into new consciousness, with the radiant touch of real life…”

Halcyon pleasures

2006-08-10T20:46:00.000-07:00

Seduction, once again.

Odd how my mind so rarely strays from that charming subject in all its incarnations.

But now, mid August and swooning from the swelter, I’m in the mood for languor. For tarrying in odd enticing corners, for gentle, intriguing notions.

I somehow imagine that courtship begun on a midsummer eve might flourish with such slow pace. A flutter of fans, night-scented blooms tucked unseen behind garden bower.

Thoughtful missives strewn here and there, waiting patiently for the quiet magic of discovery.

So, a time for discussing Wilkie Collins in the back garden with a charming new swain and for revisiting Durkheim in a cool, dark nook in the Study.

Stolen moments, when Time, as we know it, seems silly and irrelevant. Duty refuses to call, and we’re left with a meadow full of possibilities. A poem to write, a paella to concoct, even another world to be conjured.

Seduction in the time of indolence would be less focused, fraught or finite, a time for simple, silly indulgence, the delicious divertissement before the next Act must be considered.

And, speaking of a meadow of possibilities, cheering news from our amatory source of first resort, Dangerous Liaisons. I shan’t give it away, but suffice that we are pleased.

Sweeping the Parlour

2006-08-08T20:19:00.000-07:00

Such an understatement to wearily note that we’re getting much too much bored with bores of late. Especially those with agenda on their little minds, vendetta in their teensy hearts and way too much time on their sweaty little palms.

Therefore, an evening of the very opposite. Substance, grace and honour.

First, locally speaking, as it were, CML-DF, or Centro de medios libres del distrito federal. I was directed there today by a Comment on the Page and was pleasantly surprised to find what actually does look like “free media”. Versus most of the “alt media” which somehow manages to pleasure itself while simultaneously servicing its gods .

No nasty little gatekeepers here [and a tip of my hat to the ever vicious La Otra Buena Conciencia at the Page -who grows more demented and homicidal by the day - for accomplishing what might have cost CISEN buckets of money: driving so many smart, committed compas out of the OC], wide-ranging coverage, reasoned discourse…

And, for those who might truly be interested in pursuing some of the issues which have surfaced in recent Comments, let me remind you of a group I’ve reminded you of on more than one occasion: Globalise Resistance. Their links are especially helpful.

But, if you’d like to go where I go, almost every day, and especially when overwhelmed by the intellectual and moral cowardice - and vacuum - that seems to envelope almost every corner of late, do try Social Anarchism.

There you will find delight, civility, scholarship, an astonishing array of good words and thoughts, a universe away from the Page or from googling wankers.

But best of all, tonight I finally found, there, the most perfect, delicious and spot on definition of anarchism ever:

"Hedonism…tempered by an acute sense of responsibility."

Evening the playing field

2006-08-05T19:18:00.000-07:00

Stealing voz.

It's been a matter of great concern at YO! of late, but Jasmine and Peony have been doing a damn fine job of unmasking and rehabilitating the evil-doers. We’ve even touched on it, more than once, right here in the Parlour.

And, speaking of right here in the Parlour and stealing voz, I’ve been amazed at how much of the latter has been attempted in the former. Not pleasantly amazed, of course, but, given my perverse and wrongheaded penchant for pattern recognition, I’ve noticed a certain taxonomy.

Yes, think of this as a folio in progress, a scribble of field notes:

The Pedant.

Not even a glimmer of surprise here, given his never-ending, annually renewed supply of naïve disciples. Syllabus writ in stone, resting on long-faded laurels, what better domain for the silencing of voz than fair academe?

His tactics are amusing and rife with the hurling of “correct sources”, “informed [read: his] thought”, tangential argument and hysteria. What might be awe inspiring to cowed freshmen inspires little but giggles to those with a mind and a library of their own. There is, after all, good reason and history for the term “ivory tower”, and he would do better to remain there, surrounded by sycophants of similar low self-regard.

There are also those who, for one reason or another, cannot hold forth from properly recognized hallowed groves, but they often act as Shadow-master or Ghost behind the Throne, issuing forth tract and doctrine.

The Pedant steals voz by stifling or supplanting.

The Politician

Unlike the academic, the hack has no ego problems, other than the fact that his own inflated sense of self-worth tends to quickly suck all the air out of any room he enters. Convinced that he is the best and brightest, he is driven to make sure that everyone around him is equally convinced.

He must weigh in on every conceivable issue, and word count is everything. His stratagems are numerous and, like him, ever shifting. Refocusing subject, whether subtly [by, for example, cherry picking an opponent’s argument and running with a single comment] or unabashedly; theft [“yes, as my dear colleague so aptly restated my point”; denial [as in, he never said that or, in the age of video loops and hard drives, he was deliberately misinterpreted] and all the rest of his tired gambits.

Their habitats are wide-ranging, and their messianic self promotion fills our airwaves, bandwidth and archives.

They steal voz through artifice, pomposity and brute force.

Zealots

These are the feverish ones, the ardent followers, unquestioning acolytes at an altar they did not create. Quick to detect doctrinal error, they act as classroom snitch, hall monitor, trusty.

When they’re not busy doing rude slapdowns on the Page [and abundant thanks, once again, to Jasmine and Peony for having sequestered and rehabilitated the False Web Administrator, thus lessening, if not entirely ending, said slapdowns], they’re contorting themselves, pretzel-like, in an attempt to explain and justify today’s Holy Writ. Phrases such as: “…(we) can only wait for the answer and continue to offer what political support is requested…”

This is a hallmark of zealots of any nature: the hierarchical nature of doctrine and follower. Right Doctrine exists above, far above them, and they exist but to serve it. Theirs, never, to “reason why”. Theirs, unfortunately often, “to do and die”. Since they have fashioned their entire moral, and often professional, universe on blind obedience to a particular set creed [although it, the creed, unlike the parishioners, IS allowed to shift], any questioning, no matter how minor, would indeed be tantamount to death.

So the zealots steal voz by turning it in, damning it, screaming at it.

And, yes, we have seen, and see, all the above, many times over, everywhere.

Even in Parlour, Library and YO!

A field guide to field mice

2006-08-03T16:17:00.000-07:00

Enquiring minds might note that I have added the full text of John Ross' article on the Red Alert to our very own Library.

I also added a Comment, which consists of a rebuttal of sorts, which was forwarded to me by a most dear friend. In the interest, of course, of meticulous Fox-like "fair and balanced". Do feel free to join the reasoned debate there.

And, for those of you who take special delight in the deliciously unfair and off-balanced, do look for More Girl on Girl Action, or Part 2 of Peony and Jasmine's mutual interview. We are promised that Violet shall be making her long-awaited entrance, and, depending on surveillance issues and what the Editrice gets up to this evening, Part 2 will make it to print either tonight or on the morrow.

Pleasuring

2006-08-01T16:46:00.000-07:00

Where the bee sucks, there suck I
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily:
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

"The Tempest" (5.1.97-103)

Firmly ensconced under the blossoms, with nary a thought of the Big Bad World.

Not mine to reason why, nor to tax my silly little head with questions of War and Peace, Reason and Insanity, Boys and Girls or why the stars come out at night.

Though I should warn our more timid readers to please avoid YO! right now, as they are indeed addressing some of the above issues. And not in the seemliest of fashion.

I do, however, want to proffer a flutter of my fan to the gentleman who recently managed to locate that rarest of current commodities, his cojones [I hasten to add that said commodity is by no means lacking amongst our own valiant salonistas]. You may find the reference in Comments under the previous Post.

No, what I’ve really been thinking about – tucked under the blossoms, as I am – are the birds and the bees. But of course. Blossoms overhead, birds fluttering about, bees tarrying here and there.

A veritable seraglio.

Ennui

2006-07-30T21:31:00.000-07:00

So many mysteries, so little time...

Was it the gentleman of eclectic past who once thought militarism might be undone?

Or perhaps the guitar strumming ghost from Wynacht's Point?

Or, even better, Professor Plum in the Study with the Rope?

Then again:

Macavity: The Mystery Cat

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Mcavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square -
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair -
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair -
But it's useless to investigate - Mcavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
`It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
-- T. S. Eliot

Home again

2006-07-23T01:29:00.000-07:00

"...Y la vida es misterio, la luz ciega
y la verdad inaccesible asombra;
la adusta perfección jamás se entrega,
y el secreto ideal duerme en la sombra.

Por eso ser sincero es ser potente;
de desnuda que está, brilla la estrella;
el agua dice el alma de la fuente
en la voz de cristal que fluye de ella..."
Rubén Darío

Home. I wish.

And, since that is a subject which is ever on my mind, that’s probably why I’ve been thinking so much lately of other homes, home.

Not the OC, but what came before. Not the EZ and their spokesperson, but those who, we were told, gave them writ and path.

Those who, we were told, taught them, changed them, gave them new ways of seeing the world, of claiming it and making it.

And so there were autonomous communities, municipalities, evolving into other structures. There was governance from below, “governing obeying”, rotating leadership positions, the removal of unfit officials by the governed, decision-making by consensus-making, and much more.

It was what many called zapatismo. It existed before the OC, even, in many senses, before the EZ, and, I presume, it still exists today. In the communities – which have not suddenly disappeared off the map just because spotlight and words have departed. And it exists in many other places. In the hearts, minds, dreams and even path of people, groups and organizations quite literally throughout the world.

The communities grew, disproportionately we know, and, as they did, their needs evolved as well. From being overwhelmingly concerned, in many cases, with security measures against paramilitary and military forces, they were able to focus more on thriving rather than surviving.

Schools, housing, medical care, food, became paramount. Self-sustaining paradigms for these were required, as well as financial and moral support, better communications and infrastructure. The hard work grew harder, more demanding and daily, less dramatic.

But the communities still exist, as do their schools and clinics, warehouses and brick-making machines, basketball courts and cultural centres.

As do the paradigms and playing fields.

A promise or two

2006-07-21T15:44:00.000-07:00

I have been enjoying the proliferation of claimed spaces of late. Other feet on ground, making up the worlds they wish to live in. And the ensuing linkage.

Odd, how these words have a vaguely familiar ring.

Ten days of silence above/below, but the acolytes have had much to say, all the same naughty words, full of sound and fury, signifying, well, what we know they signify.

They were given permission a number of years ago, when the words started to change, permission to replace history, reasoned argument and wisdom with ephemera, invective and argumentum ad hominem.

Una lástima, in every single meaning of that simple word.

So, no more words from me on the subject for quite some time, I’m afraid. Although I am still hoping that another mama, of long standing and good stead, might be having a few words to say, perhaps even a scolding along with the hugs, for one of the boys in question.

And cheers to the ghosts in the Parlour machine today, who succeeded, however briefly, in taking us down. I assume it was the posies and poesy that pushed you over the edge, providing firewall for invective but coaxing you to brute force attack.

All is well, of course, and I believe Jasmine and Peony have already solved the case and are plotting cunning revenge.

Sweetness and light

2006-07-19T20:56:00.000-07:00

Yes, I’ve decided to stay in the Parlour/Garden, and not just for the summer.

A much finer place from which to view the world. Feet more or less firmly planted on ground. Hands in dirt. Tending or flirting, dozing, reading, playing, nibbling, weeding, gathering.

Even plotting and solving, as Jasmine and Peony well know.

We also enjoy silence from time to time, even more when it’s followed by greater wisdom, perspective and lightness of spirit. Especially, may it please the gods, the latter, although I still believe the latter is a necessary and much wished for consequence of both the former.

And, speaking of wisdom, perspective and lightness of spirit…wishing my most favourite person an even greater abundance of all, always.

Especially the latter. Especially today. And tons of love and cheer.

Under the lilacs

2006-07-16T22:11:00.000-07:00

Simply reclaiming space, or Parlour, this weekend.

And also hoping that a bevy of posies and poesy might even act as a kind of firewall, warding off the ill-humoured, whilst welcoming, with endless embrace, the other. Or, as our dear John Keats once noted:

GIVE me women, wine, and snuff
Untill I cry out "hold, enough!"
You may do so sans objection
Till the day of resurrection:
For, bless my beard, they aye shall be
My beloved Trinity.

Jasmine and Peony

2006-07-14T20:03:00.000-07:00

Down by the Salley Gardens

DOWN by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;

She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;

I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,

And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.

She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;

But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

William Butler Yeats

Derring-do and derring-don't

2006-07-13T23:15:00.000-07:00

Well, Blogger is still denying pics, despite having closed down today in order to "fix" said incapacity. And I so felt the need for a bit of beauty and grace.

I will keep trying, but, in the interim, I wished to alert those Readers Who Care of two new contributions.

One is Jasmine's first fling, or, rather, filing, in YO! dangerous and daring piece of derring-do that they hope shall leave their readers breathless.

And, in an almost frightening bit of Life Imitating Art [as the YO! reportage was filed prior to this one], we have archived a new Set of Rules, posted today on the Page, in our Library. I am quite sure that one of our recent Commenters will be thrilled, although I was tempted to tears.

I may or may not translate it.

Disrobing redux

2006-07-11T21:00:00.000-07:00

Despite my usual penchant for masques, mystery and Marvell, this evening seems to demand something other from us, given current words.

Once upon a time, in celebration of the first issue of a new magazine, a much-renowned gentleman penned the following lines, paradoxically [given perceived possible disconnect between said lines and recipient] and ironically [given perceived lack of disconnect between method of address and said recipient], to a compa he addressed as his “big brother”:

“...UNO.- El quehacer intelectual de izquierda debe ser, ante todo, un ejercicio crítico y autocrítico.
Como lo autocrítico siempre queda pospuesto para el número siguiente, entonces la crítica se convierte en el motor único del pensamiento...”

Or, in one of our other languages:

“...ONE. – The intellectual work of the left should be, above all else, a critical and self-critical exercise.
Since self-critique is always postponed for the next issue, then criticism becomes the sole engine of thought..”

For those of doubting nature:
http://www.revistarebeldia.org/html/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=148

One might be tempted to assume that the eternally self-perpetuating postponement, the illusory Next Issue, is shaping up. The fact is, as one of our noted salonistas has already noted, like the Real Slim Shady, the Auto-Critique Issue has been out there for some time. It has been easy to miss, however, since the moment one its articles, or comments, has appeared, the author has been summarily dismissed, reviled, garroted or purged.

The segue to Josef and his Compas-in-Arms presenting itself so handily… there was an earlier Post, two in fact, on the subject. Disrobing [yes, “v”, always] and Noblesse Oblige, both in February of this year. There are some interesting crumbs to be followed there, speaking of, oh, fawning, faux and perhaps false spin doctoring.

But, speaking of purges, we are delighted to announce that our Pulitzer-ready YO! undercover reporter, Yasmin, is putting the final touches on a daring exposé of her own. She tells us that it has to do with mysteriously non-revolving IP numbers, “shaping the story” faux pas, site administrators gone wild and rude children with much too much time on their hands.

Do look for it soon, if, that is, you enjoy a pinch of criticón along with the crítico.

Just a note

2006-07-10T23:04:00.000-07:00

Well, no images again tonight, so I shall ask you to imagine our demure flapper, adjusting her high-denier stockings, whom you must remember and who can be seen...yes... Below and to the Left.

I did wish to let most of you know that we have a new acquisition in our Library, which I know some of you shall enjoy as much as I do. The gentleman in question and I share many concerns, most especially, as you will see, in the very last line of his essay.

For the spear-carriers amongst us, please feel free to leave your Comments in the Library.

More anon, I should imagine.

What girls fancy

2006-07-09T20:54:00.000-07:00

Italy.

Yes, yes.

And we thank all relevant gods for their sweet indulgence.

Now, back to the subject at hand [and regretting most deeply that it’s not the above], as some of our salonistas may be aware, our precious Glossy has, for some time now, been promising to present a special Eye Candy edition. You know, something along the lines of the 100 Sexiest Boys Alive. And, since YO! is most assiduously Below and To the Left, their crack research team set off to discover a properly positioned bevy of such adorable ones.

Sigh.

Under the unfortunate circumstances, we felt compelled to come to their rescue in some small way.

We would have grandly titled this What Women Want, but, not wishing to set up our own Straw Person debate [and Carl, unlike his sparring partner, did indeed know], we thought we should notch things back a bit and, oh, sow a few seeds prior to assuming harvest.

We [and I hasten to note the purely editorial plural, though I am acquainted with a fair few ladies who share our desires] are rather more easily pleased than some gentlemen might assume.

And tonight we shall mention just a few of our girlish predilections, saving the obverse for another, less celebratory, evening.

We adore passion and engagement, but do not demand [nor even often wish] that such passions mimic our own. It is the capacity to be enthralled that we adore.

Attentiveness, of course, but not of the currying, scurrying sort.

Cute is always wonderful, but by no means sufficient or even necessary. One of the various reasons ladies tend to mention a gentleman’s eyes, given what can so readily be therein divined.

Substance, period. As we have been noting here, there and everywhere of late.

Unstudied grace. The ability to sense appropriate move, word and moment. In many ways this note may be primary, all others flowing from it. Perhaps.

And, goodness, we even had a divinely inspired picture of such grace note, but suddenly the Image Demons deny. We shall try our homage in YO!

An evening in

2006-07-06T17:27:00.000-07:00

Time, past time, to reacquaint ourselves with the Parlour.

Gentlemen callers. A rubber or two of whist, charades, perhaps, and most certainly a passionate tête-à-tête in the Conservatory.

Sinful sounds on the phonograph, a surfeit of artless delicacies [in lieu of artful swill] and the back garden flush with mignonette, nicotiana, heliotrope and one very special clematis.

Not difficult to conjure at all.

Would we fancy silly board games on the floor? Or card tricks in the corner with an earnest cad?

Stacks of books everywhere and nary a piece of electronica to be found.

So, do we have any suggestions as to games, music, books, delectables of any and all sort?

Lorca, she said

2006-07-06T00:35:00.000-07:00

Pasadas las zarzamoras,
los juncos y los espinos,
bajo su mata de pelo
hice un hoyo sobre el limo.
Yo me quité la corbata.
Ella se quitó el vestido.
Yo el cinturón con revólver
Ella sus cuatro corpiños.
Ni nardos ni caracolas
tienen el cutis tan fino,
ni los cristales con luna
relumbran con ese brillo.
Sus muslos se me escapaban
como peces sorprendidos,
la mitad llenos de lumbre,
la mitad llenos de frío.
Aquella noche corrí
el mejor de los caminos,
montado en potra de nácar
sin bridas y sin estribos.
No quiero decir, por hombre,
cosas que ella me dijo.
La luz del entendimiento
me hace ser muy comedido.
Sucia de besos y arena,
yo me la lleve del río.
Con el aire se batían las
espadas de los lirios.

Because I promised a respite from the overtly political.

Because I prefer the original. And I am not speaking of language.

A modest proposal: on sweeping, rather than draining, the pond

2006-07-04T17:27:00.000-07:00

Well, I had been planning on hoisting a white flag here today – declaring a tregua from all things political [whether otherly or otherwise] – but it seems the gods are bitch-slapping me back into submission.

After all, the topic on offer is certainly, always and now, of the greatest importance, at least for those who care. Despite the fact that it’s becoming increasingly apparent to me that a decreasingly fewer number of persons do, in fact. Care, that is.

Dissent. Constructive criticism. Democratic and/or participatory decision-making. Horizontal [in lieu of, you know, vertical] structure. A voice where all voices count.

The battle has always raged and never more fiercely than on the Left, in any Left. The words say one thing, the peer pressure [although that is only the weapon of choice for enforcing unspoken protocol] something else entirely.

Suddenly, though, the Issue is peeking out from behind closed doors and minds. On the Page, concerning path, way and means, daring to question received wisdom. In the Kitten Fights between the tubby old gringos, as if some of the rugged cowboys have managed to retain the odd principle, or at least a semblance thereof. In exceptionally focused, wise and articulate pages being written by some, off-Page.

Even here.

There are undoubtedly many reasons why the Left has always attracted more than its fair share of those who shudder, shriek and shrink at any questioning of current gospel. And a fair few more reasons when dealing with imbedded icon and animus ridden projection.

But there it is.

And unless some somewhere somehow manage to walk the bloody walk of their words, and, in fact, listen, and, in fact, learn from others, and, in fact, open their arms instead of giving in to the urge to purge, and, in fact, not prescribe doctrinal litmus tests, and, in fact…

Oh, what the fuck.

Why the hell should they anyway? Their fans would probably put out their own eyes or take the Kool-Aid en masse, if the bottle feeding were ever to stop.

On the other hand – very deep sigh – I know for a fact that there still a few who have no interest in either the taking or receiving of pablum. Oddly enough many of them [though not all] are women who would rather think for themselves, speak for themselves and fritter away their odd moments fancying Argentinean futbol players than throwing themselves at the feet of doctrine and messiah.

So the issue is either going to be taken out of the closet and addressed, or, once again, nothing is going to happen or change, at least not for the better.

There was a time, once upon a time, when some saw a different model, one that purportedly had no truck with predigested formula, wizened wizards-in-hiding, exclusion, patronizing sophistry, dogma and witlessness.

There was constructive thought, action and model. Grounded in the reality of real lives and real needs. There was no disconnect between short and long term words, tactics, strategy and goals.

The pond was filling as it should: artlessly, seeking its own level. So it seemed, and so it was. And not, we know, just by men willing to fire “cannon and bazooka” in temporary service to long-term, pre-scripted, political agenda.

[And, depressingly enough, this was written before today's sterling example of all the above in our tabloid.]

More, later on the life-cycle of ponds, but now I really am going to wave the white flag.

At least for the Primera Plana.

Sigh

2006-07-02T00:30:00.000-07:00

Now, I despise irony, and it is Saturday night, and I should be allowed to at least delude myself into believing that I have better things to do...

But I am afraid I must, once again, take our Etiquette Primer off the shelf.

Here, in our Parlour, we are delighted in and devoted to civility, wit, nonsense, Balzac, Serious Subjects, stockings, farce and a universe of other delicious subjects, pastimes and ventures.

But I could never have imagined that the previous post would have generated what I can only characterize as an attempt to mimic the very behavior I was excoriating.

Therefore, a reminder: we discuss, however heatedly, whatever we wish. But we do not, ever, attack other salonistas. I know we all know this, but please. As I noted below, there are an abundance of other venues for that type of discourse.

Now, back to Proust and/or Remy and/or plonk and/or that rueful Northern Italian...

Boys being boys

2006-06-29T17:22:00.000-07:00

There are times when one very much wishes to not Wax Serious, at least in public. That is a pose better left to those who do it for a living: posing, that is.

And the artful posers are everywhere right now, as the two Campaigns approach their most current moment of reckoning this weekend.

The Bad Intellectuals and the Good Intellectuals. Politicians of every stripe imaginable, whether institutional, sectarian or ad - or post - hoc. The “Journalists”, of whom I’ve spoken much too much, despite the fact that I’ve yet to read one who meets my own arcane and classical [as in epoch, I’m sure] definition of such.

I shall contentedly watch, then, as they indulge their apparently congenital need to pontificate on large issues, the sweep of history and, of course, their own place, or byline, within such sweep. And I will continue to cringe with every day’s predictable spate of name-calling, vilifying and slander.

Whether it’s Martín the Gatekeeper at the Page, spewing dime store rhetoric, proffering sophomoric [literally, I presume] reading lists for the unenlightened masses and now savaging a certain Delegado for such mortal sins as sharing a table [and a round one, to boot - such horrors!] with Señor Gilly.

And all the other feline tussles:

Who is pure enough to be allowed to lay claim to setting the time and place of the Internazionale? What newly incisive adjective can be coined for the latest Intellectual who disagrees with us on a particular point of doctrine? How many names can we drop in our authentic outlet to establish both our street cred and bonafides in one fell swoop?

And so often followed by effusive, demeaning, congratulatory caveats as to how grand, how wise, how yesterday, one’s poor mistaken compatriot.

Basta, truly, but absolutely unavoidable, if, that is, one reads. As if that’s all there is. Nothing but sand kicking, nose punching, ball snatching.

And, despite the pollyannaesque connotations, I myself, would be happy to put up with, tolerate, ignore, all of those who make my skin crawl. Even Martín. Yes, how terribly “inclusive” of me. Just imagine, a Parlour where all parlours fit. With no need to patronize, re-educate, belittle, purify.

But this, right now, is clearly a boy’s game.

[I imagine the above statement could stand on its own, but I would dare anyone to scour the Page, LJ or any similar outlets and find one single Lady involved with the longish knives, except, of course, as the subject of attack – whether it be Elena or Ofelia, Soledad or Ana].

I could even live with my recurring philosophical dilemma/nightmare as to how many funded gringos can dance on the head of a pin.

Better to just leave them to it, I suppose, huffing and puffing and blowing each others’ houses right down. Perhaps – who knows? – there may be some left standing to pick up the cards.

Temptations

2006-06-22T19:44:00.000-07:00

More Dangerous Liaisons to be had for those desirous of same and willing to take at least a modicum of risk.

Or, for those in the mood for an even friskier sort

of bedtime tale, there is one on dormice, campesino tools and impropriety

awaiting you at YO!

Give me an O, give me a C!!

2006-06-19T22:09:00.000-07:00

Yes. Totally beneath me, and, if I had to do it, it should have gone to YO!

The problem was that YO! wasn't allowing me to upload pics this evening, and these are all so excruciatingly appropriate...

For those of you who managed to follow any of the crumbs in the previous post, we could see this as our first Parlour Contest.

Which one of these most piquantly captures the essence of alt cheerleaders?

The rigid, asexual Pillar of the Left?

The non-tummytucked, Gay Old Blade of the Center?

Or the ever popular, and so very au courant, Poodle to the Stars of the Right?

Kitten fight [old, fat, white-guy style]

2006-06-19T16:38:00.000-07:00

OK, I know some of you have already seen this pic - and, no, it's not the one I referenced in the previous Post, and, yes, we know I should be relegating silly tidbits to our Tabloid of Choice...but I simply couldn't help myself.

Spats, especially of the hysterical, boyish sort, are simply too entertaining to ignore.

Now, I actually have two in mind this evening.

The first I discovered from an email sent to me by one of the wisest compas I know, sending me to a page he knows I do not haunt. And there I discovered one of those faux socratic dialogues which we've been seeing so much of lately. Wherein one is set up as a straw man of sorts and the other waxes endlessly verbal.

In this case, the gentleman being so set up - previously of much renown, but currently, I should imagine, kicked out of the sandbox - asked some very hard and simple questions. Twenty of them to be precise. Speaking for many, I should presume, if, that is, I were to judge from the tenor, and quantity, of email I've received on the subject.

And, speaking of faux socratic dialogue and odd words, I wonder if anyone else was taken aback by recent references to Right Thought being more important than Expression of Impure Thought? I had somehow thought discussions of that nature were kept closeted in dark basements which had been meticulously swept for wires. While there is certainly something to be said for putting one's cards on the table, I find this particular outing rather unsettling.

Now, the second contretemps of which I spoke - an old one, but of much present relevance - is one I lovingly described in my Boys Gone Wild post some time back. The one full of tossing objects-other-than-crockery, uttering a stream of bad words and flouncing out of one's accomodations in the middle of the night.

The one which, we learned, never took place, of course. And the deep, evocative and sad irony of it all, given current circumstances and bedmates.

Lots of easy morals here:

Word count does not an argument make, nor is it a substitute for penis length. Beggars can't be choosers, but they could occasionally opt for celibacy instead of turning cheap tricks.

New words, old friends and a bottle of Irish

2006-06-18T01:33:00.000-07:00

Having just wasted the last 20 minutes trying to upload the most fetching, and devastatingly appropriate, pic here, I give...

And this after, well, perhaps this isn't the proper moment to go into it [though anyone out there who might have any bloody idea whatsoever as to the meaning of "fanfirulea" will earn, shall we say, the best of all possible lagniappes].

The point of the post is to let everyone know that there is a new acquisition in our Library, one which I trust some of you might wish to take the time to peruse. Don Durito makes an appearance, as do two other persons of various renown.

Now, thank goodness, it's most definitely time to retire with, sigh, the Charterhouse of Parma which I do not recommend, and an even heftier tot than usual of Jameson, which I always recommend...

A La Merced

2006-06-08T15:46:00.000-07:00

“…A tiny storefront clinic, in the middle of nowhere, dispensing little and never enough. An exchange of stories, thousands of them, of lives lived and what is needed. No stump speeches on podia, but the deepest of winding back alleys, where cameras never reach. Not ready-made photo ops or soundbites but simple visits, meant to delight and instruct all parties involved...”

And so it was.

No kleig lights, no microphones, no machetes, no auditorium, no calls for barricade storming nor cries “a morir.” No entourage, no News Bulletins, no Photo Op Albums on the Page. Not even Hermann.

And, yes, the night before last, while the Debate was being ushered forth from on high, some, one at least, from the Other Campaign, slipped quietly, and literally, into one of those back alleys. Paying a call on the ladies and gentlemen of the night, listening, we are told, for more than four hours to Other Stories.

One of the ladies noted that zapatismo says the land belongs to the one who works it, and they say that the street belongs to…the one who works it.

Another said that todos somos the Juarez dead, because we, too are a closed file. Todos somos Atenco, because we also suffer outrages. And todos somos Chiapas, because we are removed from the streets where we earn our living.

“…Not fierce, circumscribed little groups with their “leaders” and manly symbols, but a vast swath of idiosyncratic individuals, accustomed to much and more than schooled in providing hospitality…”

How very nice to know, especially on days like this, that hospitality can be accepted, and the occasional fantasy can indeed come true.

Bedtime stories

2006-06-08T01:30:00.000-07:00

No matter how much my head has been urging my heart to silence all day long, some words, at least, must out.

The final straw was other words, words which pushed me to a level of rage that surprised me by taking me by such surprise.

“Hoy es un buen dia para morir...”

A lovely day for a 20 year old student to die, someone wrote somewhere. I know nothing about Alexis, the 20 year old boy who I am told “had to pay the price” today. I only know that he was a boy, he was a student, and he was 20.

But I did foresee, and would have given much not to see, those who would lay claim to him.

I know nothing of Alexis other than he was 20 and could have seen little of life.

But I do know – and have known – hundreds of other 20 year old boys, full of dreams and themselves and the promise of life. How quickly, and easily, their hearts and minds are captured. How moved the good ones are by words and passion and, most especially, by impassioned words.

Everything I need to say has already been said here. About words and their consequences and the moral imperative to take responsibility for both. About alternate universes where babies would lead themselves into unknown battle, Chiquita somehow sequestered, offering themselves up quite unwittingly to and for worlds and words they will never know.

And then the timeless horror of allowing such horror to be painted with adolescent dreams of romantic martyrdom. To hell with honour and wisdom and vision and virtue of any sort.

Better, I am sure, I am told, I see, the easy lies of Houseman to his Athlete Dying Young than, say, Auden’s, once upon an even more horrible time:

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

The rainbow comes and goes

2006-05-31T01:19:00.000-07:00

I like the painting.

And, despite being in the midst of the resfriado from Hell [visited upon me, I'm sure, by the twisted, yet ever powerful, demi-Demons of the lower orders, in punishment for many things, two of them, most certainly, being the sins of Temerity and Voz], I wanted to let some of you know that [checking here, ah, yes] the Sexta has issued some Considerations [by SupMarcos] concerning a Proposal for a Plan of Action.

Said Plan of Action was submitted by him at the end of yesterday's [the 29th, as I have not retired as yet] La Otra Assembly in DF.

I will be translating it tomorrow.

The summaries have already been published elesewhere [LJ], and the demi-Demons know I wouldn't dare to venture such temerity here [although I am more than certain that there shall be some discussion of Considerations, Consequences and Concupiescence in one or two of those odd, drafty corners to be found hereabouts].

Suffice that there are some changes afoot - or perhaps not, if one has been following things.

In the interim, I might innocently suggest that those amongst us of negligible ingenuousness, cynicism and ego investment, might wish to revisit a previous post. The one dedicated to most dear Chiquita.

Artless pursuits

2006-05-28T16:12:00.000-07:00

Well, whilst waiting for the news from DF, and, with absolutely nothing better to do with our time, some of us - with no ulterior motives whatsoever - have added yet another room to our ever evolving Salon.

Its purpose will most likely be self evident from its title: Dangerous Liaisons.

We simply felt the time had come, and goodness knows only good can come of it. A bit of amatory bliss, or even musing: a consummation devoutly to be wished, no? Providing occasional respite from the Big Bad World of rage, angst, peer pressure, vacuity, extraordinarily bad hair days, and all those other predictable slings and arrows.

And, while I promise no more references to the Dane's soliloquy, we do promise something special for the first few daring souls who are valiant enough to venture there. A lagniappe, of our own choosing, and we really do have the most exquisite taste.

A note might be in order, as well. We would suggest that only those with at least a modicum of maturity and innocent wisdom might wish to visit our new chamber.

Primrose Alert

2006-05-26T20:23:00.000-07:00

We wished to alert all our most adventurous and broadminded readers that our journal of choice, YO! Basta, has just issued a special, thoroughly frivolous yet incisive, weekend edition.

As for the rest, we're hoping for a quiet, news-free weekend.

And more

2006-05-25T13:40:00.000-07:00

Just a clarification...the "treat" referenced below is the statement by Marcos on women, and I have now added a few more translations to our Library, so do scroll down in our archives to find said treat, if you haven't already had the pleasure.

So lovely to have printer cartridges again.

A treat...

2006-05-23T19:50:00.000-07:00

...awaits you in our Library.

On a number of levels, as I so adore saying.

It's hard out here for a pimp

2006-05-21T20:20:00.000-07:00

“…It's blood sweat and tears when it come down to this shit

I'm tryin to get rich 'fore I leave up out this bitch

I'm tryin to have thangs but it's hard fo' a pimp…”

Only fair, of course, to give the boys a turn. After all, where in the world would we tarts be without our pimps?

[Well, perhaps we should sequester that particular discussion in an annex down a Byzantine little path off the Attic in our glossy.]

Now, for those salonistas who are not familiar with the title we’re referencing, [or at least this evening’s] it’s from a film of some note, and a fine ditty it is. Truly. Those who know me well will know how well and truly I mean the truly.

The hoes might come easy, but no, it’s not all bling and Cristal out here. Would that it were.

Posses, for example. Reassuring, always, to move from place to place surrounded by the usual homies. Nothing like shared history, words and, occasionally, ladies, to lend comfort and endless solace. No surprises, back-up when needed, alibis at the ready.

But they are, by nature, ubiquitous, making it impossible to sneak out for the odd adventure. Not to mention their annoying habit of assuming they know you better than you know yourself, and that nagging sense of being frozen in time, ossified at the age of, oh, 16 or 18, whenever the pack formed.

Then there’s that us against them thing, the filtering of outside evidence through the prism of posse, the fact that some of the older ones really are getting a bit long in the tooth and, frankly, tedious.

But the hoes have become absolutely exhausting.

The younger ones have gotten way too young [some of them can even last for seven hours, and then they still disrespect you]. But the older ones are the devil’s own work. They think they own the street, make you come to them, behave as if they don’t even fancy the bling anymore.

Our hearts go out. Really.

The options seem so limited. One can simply soldier on, slipping further and further into self-parody. Christopher Hitchens comes to mind. And one or two others whom I shall not name.

Blind obsession is another. Raging against the night, caution and wit thrown to the winds. A blaze, most certainly, though not of glory.

Odd, given that what is so often desired - simple understanding, warmth, a heart known and knowing – has nothing to do with immolation, rage or bling. Time, perhaps, to come in from the cold.

Nature v nurture

2006-05-15T23:14:00.000-07:00

[Written, obviously, yesterday and for Mothers' Day.]

My day began as best it might, given untoward circumstances, with a flurry of phone calls from all those much too various time zones which I magically inhabit.

Child first, as should be. Exhausted pobrecito, understandably. The Fair City demands much of its residents of a Saturday night, but the Morrison? Goodness, we really are growing up [though I should imagine the evening might have ended at Fibbers].

Then others, friends, some who have claimed me [or I, they, one never knows – the laying claim of heart and home always so mysterious] as mama or friend or cohort ever after. The joys of maternal certitude have never been limited to biological imperative.

Which brings me to someone who has been, and often is, on my mind:

Chiquita.

Once upon a time, in my most favoured city, we were blessed with a multitude, an endlessly swarming extended family of felines. At least 30, sometimes more, all of whom would drop in at least once a day, demanding to be fed. Our yard was uncommonly large, and I thought the unbroken vistas allowed them some sense of safety.

Anyone who has ever lived in Barcelona knows these tribes, more or less circumscribed by block and family ties.
They came in gaggles, and there was similarity within each gaggle, of age, color and even temperament. We came to identify them as the “cousins,” the “uncles,” “the mean ones,” and so forth.

One amongst them was heavy with child, and we kept special eye on her, inviting her in when we could and making sure she received more than her fair share.

And one day she didn’t appear. Then another and another, and so we assumed she had given happy birth and was tending her babies. But we worried about where she was dining.

Then, softly at first, the unmistakable low mewling sounds emanating from somewhere. Just on the other side of the high back garden fence, perhaps. Sad, lonely, unrequited murmurs.

My son, who even then was more than a foot taller than I [and equally unable to ignore the pleas], jury-rigged a chair, a stool, precarious ladder to scale the fence and climb over, peeking into a tiny shed and finding the source. Then, day by day, hour by hour, he somehow managed to introduce saucers of milk, the softest of foods, quiet reassurances of sustenance.

Then, a few weeks later, one bright afternoon, there appeared a caravan of tiny kittens, picking their way carefully across the top of the fence. There were 5 – four of them the typical black and white. But in the lead, Chiquita.

He – yes, he, as it turned out – equally diminutive, and surely a sibling, but odd gene out with his distinctive Siamese coat – was two steps ahead of the others, firmly in the lead.

Cannon fodder, we thought.

Not valor, strength or wisdom, but cannon fodder, self-imposed out of some innate necessity. If unknown - and everything was unknown for them - danger were to appear, then Chiquita would take the hit.

And so he raised them well. Bringing them to our back door several times a day for the very special stash of tinned food kept only for the “babies.” Later bringing them to “play” with our house cat [a surprise gift of sort from some other children], a massive, ungainly, dim Persian. The “babies” were the same age as silly Bedivere, but a fifth his size.

Chiquita taught them to rush the silly one, pouncing from under table, knocking him over on his back, and, I swear, giggling as they watched his feet foolishly tread air, his girth rendering him incapable of rolling over.

He loved the attention, the “babies” felt duly empowered and Chiquita could rest for just a moment.

So, yes, maternal certitude is thrust upon one, does not allow for hesitation or nuance and is certainly not limited to biological imperative. And there are some who live in a state of such self-absorbed certitude that their universe of one will never have to fear such visitation.

As for cannon fodder - in this particular tale at least – Chiquita took it upon herself to provide cover and lesson for her babies/siblings. I am sure there are universes where the circumstance might have been reversed, untutored babies thrust into unknown [or not] minefields.

But, all things considered, I would rather not consider such universe.

The girls are back in town redux

2006-05-11T22:58:00.000-07:00

We're so glad to have our logo back!!

Especially since it's almost as fetching as our lovely Lady of This Evening in YO! Basta.

Just in case you haven't been following our entertaining, yet gravely serious, glossy, you might be surprised at how much Real News, not to mention frivolous gossip, has been appearing there.

And not just on the Primera Plana.

It's hard out here for a tart

2006-05-09T16:52:00.000-07:00

Strolling though the Page yesterday, I was struck by the wide variance in numbers of comments.

Whilst all things Atenco were garnering several hundreds, the poor Ladies of the Night have only collected 9 [even fewer than the CNI conference received], most of them having to do with breathless requests for photos, such a surprise.

And since we know I have nothing better to do at the moment, my mind began wandering aimlessly about, immersed in a happy fantasy of choice and direction. Faithful readers will know that this subject is quite dear to my heart.

First, as is my general wont, a word on words:

Sex workers.

Horrid, unremarkable, off-putting. The image brought to mind is 30s poster art: huge, sweaty, muscled steel workers, bending over for the good of mankind. Or Rosie the Riveters, starched head scarves in place, servicing the masses assembly-line style.

I understand the choice of the word – the context, perceived and otherwise. The need to be taken seriously, to establish their credentials as bonafide “workers,” and to be afforded the same rights and protection as any other.

And, given the climate, not just in Mexico but in most of that continent, there is the further perceived need to get beyond the discomfited giggles and leering [“where are the pics?”], thus “sex worker,” rather than harlot, courtesan, ladies and gentlemen of the night, trollop, fille de joie, tart. Any of them, for me, vastly preferable and much more descriptive of the delightful services on offer.

But back to my fantasy.

I cannot imagine any group of persons, in most societies, who are forced to live more precarious lives than they. Truly rendered “invisible,” ignored when they are lucky, preyed upon when not, stigmatized, marginalized, ridiculed, assaulted. Literally and always “of below.”

Yet absolutely necessary and always everywhere.

My flight of fancy had taken the OC into other barrios, streets, clinics, homes, brothels and boudoirs. Much too valiant to give a whit that some might see the turn as less than serious, less manly [irony of ironies], less likely to inspire rage and passion [certainly true of the former, in fact, rather more likely for rage to find its inspirative opposite].

The visuals might have been so very different. Instead of helicopters circling overhead, nightsticks and machetes, students rushing into the streets to be thrown into prison, the endless cycle of violence begetting violence and rage its rage, there might have been others.

A tiny storefront clinic, in the middle of nowhere, dispensing little and never enough. An exchange of stories, thousands of them, of lives lived and what is needed. No stump speeches on podia, but the deepest of winding back alleys, where cameras never reach. Not ready-made photo ops or soundbites but simple visits, meant to delight and instruct all parties involved.

A profession which lives by its wits, long schooled in survival, flourishing and omnipresent, might have much to impart and much to demand.

Basic supportive services, for example, especially modeled on those in Amsterdam, which have little to do with licensing and regulations and much with providing security and health and social services.

Not fierce, circumscribed little groups with their “leaders” and manly symbols, but a vast swath of idiosyncratic individuals, accustomed to much and more than schooled in providing hospitality.

I told you it was mere fantasy.

And, what’s more, they wouldn’t have to be harangued about avoiding institutional politics, since, in my experience, most tarts don’t bother to vote.

As mentioned here previously, I certainly don’t.

Another peek

2006-05-09T12:01:00.000-07:00

Yes, I know...

But I wanted everyone to know that I just put Part 1 of Bellinghausen's interview with Marcos in our Library - the first he's given in 5 years. A bit of a media whirlwind right now. Appearances on mass media TV shows and such.

Stay tuned.

Just ducking in

2006-05-08T15:15:00.000-07:00

I know I'm supposed to be out playing, but I wanted to let everyone know that I just posted a new piece in our Library, and, given the nature of the piece, I thought it was exceedingly timely.

It might be of special interest to those who have been hanging out in the Attic which has been so generously provided by Yo! Basta, our tabloid of such renown.

Back to the slide and swings...

Promiscuous posing

2006-05-05T21:46:00.000-07:00

This lovely view of our meeting place is provided for the grumpy old gentleman who left his note in the wrong place.

And we much prefer a little Remy XO to domestic "champaign."

Making lists, giggling, having a stroll in the alley…just another Friday night in Hell’s scullery.

A fair amount of the giggling has to do with a new spate of missives from a very specific subset of gentlemen and their current meltdowns. As I hinted last evening, I’m currently strewing crumbs here and there, so, if you would like details, you shall have to peek about.

Not exactly what I would call a treasure hunt – but one of the gentlemen just popped up here a short time ago. I so hope he doesn't rue his visit.

By way of news, SubDelegado Zero has just announced – during a speech he was giving in Atenco – that he shall be remaining in DF until “all political prisoners are released” there. I’m mentioning this – and assuming the reportage is correct [always a cardinal error] – because I assume it will be impacting on scheduled events. Most immediately, in San Luis Potosí from the 5th to the 11th of May.

Other news, political and otherwise, might be found…elsewhere.

Fun and games

2006-05-04T20:44:00.000-07:00

Estimadas salonistas, a bit of housework.

First, having been diverted somewhat the last day or two, I’ve yet to mention that a new communiqué has been placed in our Library. And it’s not what you might think. It is from a domestic group, calling for some rather startling actions, quite unlike what we’re accustomed to seeing. I might suggest a quick read, for those left standing.

And I must say that one of the many lovely consequences of fevered times is that one gets to hear from many of one’s old friends. All my various in-boxes have been overflowing today, a veritable Aladdin’s Cave of queries, demands, gasps, entreaties, billet-doux and one of the most astonishing little pieces of Jesuitical sophistry my eyes have ever beheld.

As a consequence of the above consequence, some reshuffling is required. Some items will go to our Library, some to our Serious Tabloid, a few to the dustbin.

There. Now what should we get up to?

Red Alert

2006-05-03T17:04:00.000-07:00

I'll translate this shortly. Without comment.

EFE
May 3, 2006

El líder zapatista, "Subcomandante Marcos", anunció hoy que decretó una "alerta roja" en los municipios rebeldes de Chiapas a partir de mañana debido al conflicto entre campesinos y policías en el Estado de México, centro del país. "Nos estamos declarando en alerta roja", dijo Marcos en un acto político en la Plaza de la Tres Culturas, en Ciudad de México, y señaló que "a partir de este momento está funcionado ya un mando alterno por si algo me pasa". El líder zapatista hizo esta declaración tras conocer un choque hoy entre campesinos de San Salvador Atenco y policías, que ha dejado hasta el momento al menos 42 heridos, tres de ellos graves. El Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional (EZLN), que ha recibido expresiones de apoyo de los pobladores de San Salvador Atenco, controla desde hace varios años municipios en el sureño estado de Chiapas a los que llamada "caracoles". Marcos aseguró que "en el EZLN somos 'atencos'", en relación a los pobladores de San Salvador Atenco que desde 2002 han realizado varios movimientos de resistencia. "Desde este momento cancelamos los eventos programados y vamos a asistir en caso de que se necesite a la comunidad de Atenco", dijo Marcos, quien después de su acto público entró a un departamento de la zona de Tlatelolco, norte de la capital mexicana.

Sleight of hand

2006-04-10T22:08:00.000-07:00

Odd about the recent Comments concerning “invisibility” since it’s often on my mind and very much of late.

There are two sorts, I think, having to do with intent.

When the millions of undocumented poured into the streets of LA a couple of weeks ago – and then, even closer to my current residence - surfacing, it was much to the consternation of most of the country. Disconcerted because, despite the numbers bandied about, 12 million or so, no one ever really sees them.

I know this because when I first moved to this vicious, benighted end of the road, I had some time on my hands and wished to be of use. I wandered into the one ragged shopfront that proclaimed it had something to do with “social services,” and offered a few of my own. I imagined there might be a pressing need hereabouts for the translation of documents or papers or whatever, and, as is well known, I come cheap. Free, in fact.

I was met with wide, bored eyes. There was no need, because there were no persons in this town who might require such tasks. No persons who spoke my second language, no one here from below that border just a scant few miles away.

No surprise, despite the fact that I had been using my Spanish here almost as much as I had in Biarritz [another border town, though of very different nature, since there they understood, and welcomed, my Spanish]. Using it with all the workers at the local “grocery store”, with all the gentlemen tending yards, with all the people brought in to clean the apartments in my building, with most people on the lesser streets, with almost anyone with whom I had truck.

But their invisibility was of their own doing, and it has to do with self-preservation. Anyone who crosses borders with regularity, documented or not, learns this lesson. Keeping one’s head down, blending in, even shuffling a bit, perhaps. And once the border is safely crossed, you remain in hiding until the moment comes when you feel at home, safe. Until you feel you belong.

Masks of many sorts.

And, as for the “undocumented” anywhere, all the more reason to wear the cloak. And all the more stunning when the cloak is flung off, as it’s being done right now, by the millions.

The “other” invisibility is the one that is visited upon the one by another. The “forgetting” [the translation I always preferred to “ignoring” because it implied stronger intent] of peoples, of most people. And, oddly enough, coming full circle, exactly what the OC is intending to undo.

Obviously both kinds of invisibility can coexist and often do. I can choose the cloak, but sometimes I wonder whether its demands are cumulative and irredeemable. Not, in fact, giving a tinker’s damn for the tinker.

Terms

2006-03-29T00:59:00.000-08:00

Just a note that we have a new translation in our Library. And it's an interesting piece, despite the fact that it concerns, um, "intellectuals". Sigh, of course, as we know it's a term that makes me shudder.

And something for tomorrow on caste and invisibility.

Unless it really does rain, as promised [which means nothing, since they promise it at least twice a year here, and nothing ever happens], in which case I shall be standing outside in it. Really.

Regalitos

2006-03-09T22:38:00.000-08:00

The impact of imagery and a delightful sea-change.

A nadie

2006-03-04T22:30:00.000-08:00

There, all better.

Perspective and sense of humor recovered. Thanks mostly to Arts & Letters Daily and South Park. More on the former latterly. Yes, I really did say that.

And why “A Nadie”?

Because it’s Saturday night, that’s why, and that particular canto provides perfect background and chorus for girls and Saturday nights everywhere.

I have it by Liliana Felipe, on a CD lagniappe that came with a book by Laura Esquivel. The book was “lent out” on some continent or another, but I still have “A Nadie” and several Puccini fragments that are equally knife to heart.

I remember Esquivel and Ofelia Medina doing a spot of street theatre in DF a number of years back, and I wonder what the evening might be like if Esquivel were to be providing the refreshments and Isabel Allende were to be, oh, perhaps serving them [great food, great party, just in case you haven't read Aphrodite].

Mother of god, it really is Saturday night.

Perhaps I should pretend to be serious for just a moment.

In one of my recent rants, I mentioned that there was “one at least” who might feel it necessary to counsel the learning of history along with the snogging of icon. When, much to my delight, I saw someone else, this very week, providing some very detailed history of the icon in question.

The mustachioed one of the “let’s pretend a large poster appeared…”

GA in LJ [and that’s not rocket science, my dears], holding forth on certain aspects of Mr. Stalin’s biographical details. Now, he chose to emphasize internecine betrayals over domestic butchery, but then again he knows his audience much better than I do, and I imagine he also knows what they might find most horrific.

Assuming, of course, that any of the acolytes would be reading him, since he seems to have taken on the role of principled gadfly, refusing to be kicked out of the party but also refusing to keep his thoughts, and words, to himself.

A party of two, then.

Well, it would appear that I can't provide links again this evening, so the far above mentioned referenced shall have to wait, which might be a very fine thing, for someone at least.

Or even better, not. Slate cleared, no more bait ever taken.

Party time.

Just kidding

2006-03-02T21:17:00.000-08:00

Well, my sense of humor went missing last week. Even the onion.com didn’t help, although the Colbert Report’s interview with Benjamin Franklin didn’t hurt.

Regardless, in the interest of cleaning the slate [Got some chalk? Please.], I’m going to dump the following ill-tempered screech which I’ve been “working” on the last few days. The plan being that once it’s off my desk and cast to the ill winds, there will be room in heart and head for sweetness and light.

I had been firmly determined to keep the weekend from straying into murky waters, to avoid the Serious and Contentious at all costs.

But we all know where stern resolutions get one.

Especially since I awoke very late on Saturday to various reports from Dublin which I could hardly ignore. First, because I had to track down YO! Basta’s cover boy, given that I knew he was in one of two studios, both of which are in barrios covered by the “spillover.”

But once I ascertained that he was more than fine, I still had to confront events. Once again, Boys Gone Wild, their leaders distancing themselves from the running amuck, bemoaning the chaos. Nothing to do with them, of course, hardly incumbent upon them to take responsibility for their words or to provide history or bail money.

It wasn’t always like that, there. As in other parts of the world, this is a third and fourth generation phenomena. There was a time, there and other places, when their grandparents had set their parents down and given them words, books, history.

Once again, untutored acolytes paying lip service to Serious Issues, then hurling building blocks into shopfronts and bricks at gardai and journalists. Not to mention the “spillover” into said shops and consequent scooping up of trainers and electronica.

Of course I don’t think the bastards should have been given a parade permit down O’Connell Street, for god’s sake. How any government could think that importing Marching Season to the Northside was a wise and judicious policy is, well, beyond words.

But don’t think for a second that I take issue with every brick hurled into every burger bar in the world. I indeed believe there’s time and place. But this smelled of the usual lager louts run stupid in foreign ports of call. Except this was their own barrio, past, present and future.

And, given the way my mind has been [mal] functioning of late, I found my thoughts turning to the Other Campaign, its objectives, methods and latest words.

The Sixth Committee had made it eminently clear from the outset that it saw itself as facilitator, setting off on a Journey in order to meet with others, forge alliances, help with groundwork. But without the klieg lights, stadium rock or pawing media.

A dilemma, thus, given the lack of glitz, and one which was assumed might be assuaged by the preferential pass given to other media which would, of course, cover the events with seriousness and measure.

So, when the Delegado himself calls for, um, something other than the frenzied, instantaneous, apocalyptic, hagiographic and verbatim, I take notice. Rather than screaming to the choir, he suggests finding new channels in order to reach those without access to modem or posse.

Such a concept, and not only because it speaks to the perennial, overwhelmingly important issue of how to reach beyond one’s fan base. And, as the cameras are swung away from the podium, as requested, they may also shine brief light on themselves. And shuddering to raise such a delicate subject, on the nature and quality of alt, as well as mass, media.

But first I must insist that I absolutely refuse to delve into the arcane and tedious question as to the definition and/or existence of “unbiased” truth or reportage. Point of view always exists, that’s a given. Whether overtly or covertly, in what the eye chooses to see or ignore, in what the media chooses to cover, or not.

Which does not, for me, obviate the need for some kind of distinction to be made between “news” and “opinion.” I know, distressingly old school, as ever.

This increasing lack of distinction between the above is one of the numerous similarities which I can’t help but noting between alt and mass. Both have their place, but, I entreat, they are not the same. I know how it all started, I remember the first time a news reader batted his eyelashes into the camera and intoned “this reporter”...

Another similarity is the constant barrage of Breaking News on cable networks with a shelf-life of a gnat and the histrionic headlines of certain independent outlets with similar cycle length.

Whether it’s CNN or many of our “own” alternatives, my reaction is almost always the same: deep self-loathing at having actually listened to/read such drivel and a primal sense that I should be spanked and sent to the cloakroom for having participated, however passively, in such circus.

What I yearn for is straight reportage which takes itself and its subject seriously. Without the Geraldo wannabees [and I can think of several], conspiracy theories and provocative posts. Journalists who understand the difference between self-aggrandizement - the overweening “I” – and thorough, principled coverage.

But I suppose, as ever, I’m just being silly. As ever.

Since almost all the mass media refuses to take itself – and most especially its readers/viewers – seriously, then why in the hell should we? Speed it up, dumb it down, churn it out. Dishing the same endlessly fawning, fatuous, often fictive, faux gonzo “journalism.” Giving their base what they think they want. And deserve.

The playbook sounds eerily familiar to the “boilerplate” discussed in a previous post and no surprise, since most of the new journalists are drawn from the fan base, and many of them aspire not just to play with the big boys but also to be one of them. Yes, just like the Wolfster and the rest of the cable starlets.

Now, in the interest of just a modicum of fair and balanced, some indys are better than others, none of the above applies to Hermann and we can always pray for more frequent Journal entries.

All things centripetal

2006-02-24T01:21:00.000-08:00

I do want to let everyone know that the second part of the First Part of the Journal of the Journey has been completed and placed in the Library. And I fear it did make our fastidious Archivist blush.

Silly thing, she should have listened to the caveat [“only for the broadminded”] that preceded the steamier parts. I imagine that she might have fainted dead away, though, if she had had any real amatory experience and actually understood what lay beneath the euphemism.

In a manner of speaking. Euphemistically speaking, as it were.

Or not.

Yes, it’s feeling like a silly Friday night.

Not that it is, but, given that I’m always simultaneously existing in 6 time zones, I can pretty much pick and choose and declare it to be what I will. Which is not nearly as much fun as it sounds.

What I would actually prefer to do with my time-space issues would be to gather them up in one ball, as Marvell almost said in one of my most endlessly favorite poems, which I do believe I've noted here before:

…roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Not the carpe diem of it, I've never found that to be a problem, but rather the focus, the winding all the different skeins of time, space and purpose into one ball. One place.

Through a glass

2006-02-23T01:10:00.000-08:00

Just stealing a much needed, thoroughly illicit, break here.

And to let you know that there is another addition to our Library. I’m not quite sure, but I believe it’s the first of two parts of a First Part. Very worth reading, in fact. A kind of initial entry in a journal of the journey.

And the second part of the First Part has been almost done since yesterday, but I may have to sleep one more night on some of the phrasing, sigh. As some of you know, I am no stranger to the scribbling of amatory prose and the necessary sleight of hand it imposes.

But, most dear Aphrodite, I must come up with some alchemy for bufar.

On a vastly lighter note, I have been absolutely giddy with glee over the Dubya Dubai fuck-up.

The public negatives are, of course, all for the wrong reasons, but the real web – or at least some small corner of it - is being unraveled in its wake. Scary times, truly. I cannot imagine how many literal guns are being shoved into how many literal heads as I type. Nor do I have any doubt that the billions the emirs have shoveled into the Carlyle Group, for example, represent just a tuppence of what has been changing hands.

But oddities and slippery synchronicities have been abounding of late.

My Left Coast girlfriend assures me that, given that Pisces is in, um, the Moon, I think, then this is all to be expected. And she also assures me that, given my own heavenly sign, it is only natural that I should abhor sudden, unbidden revelations, not to mention things that go bump in the night.

This actually has to do with a premonitory dream I had more than a week ago, a poem by Octavio Paz that has been whirling in my head ever since that dream and a comment I left a number of posts back.

Back to work, I think.

Errata

2006-02-18T17:55:00.000-08:00

This is ridiculous. I’ve been writing a paragraph or two a night, then abandoning them, leaving a dust cloud of scattered, disconnected words.

Think of this as clearing my desk.

My father would, when it suited him, forbid the discussion of politics and religion at the dinner table.

Ill-disguised farce, all of it.

As I mentioned before, no one in our family had any interest whatsoever in religion, and the only one at the dinner table who ever wished to discuss politics was I. His reason for not wanting to hear it had nothing to do with civility whilst dining, which is a damn fine concept, but that he didn’t wish to hear it. At least from me.

My only point here is that I learned two things: not to discuss politics and religion at the dinner table, and there are a fair few number of men who do not wish to hear a girl discuss politics.

And, given the discussion that has been transpiring in our Comments, and given that I cannot for a moment imagine that any flatworlders or believers in intelligent design would venture into this Parlour, I shall proffer just the briefest of comments myself.

When my mother had a series of strokes which quickly destroyed her ability to speak coherently, then at all, I learned and watched, as she struggled, the other side of her brain struggled, to learn new paths to speech. I learned that this can happen, and perhaps it might have with my mother, if she had had more time.

Two paths to the same skill.

The other thought has to do with cookery, since it was mentioned in our Comments as regards coexistence. I do most thoroughly believe that cooking is simultaneously both art and science, requiring both heart and knowledge. Not coexisting in some sort of wary stand-off, but intertwined, plaited.

I use the word heart, rather than religion, and I don’t think there’s any need to deconstruct the meaning of the two words.

Suffice, for me, that anything worth doing is not only worth doing well but also worth doing with heart. I believe much that is ill with the world has to do with the rigid separation of powers between logos and, well, heart.

One can, for example, bake a cake without heart, and I have seen it done. One can also bake a cake without science, and I have shuddered to see that done once too often. And the truth is, despite my overweening passion for such confections, I would not choose to eat either.

******************************************

And a very quick note about News.

As comrada b mentioned in our Comments, yes, Enlace Civil’s bank accounts have once again been closed, for no stated reason other than “they”, you know, “can.” The communities have been issuing supportive statements and such, but I would suggest that anyone who would like to send funds use the time honoured methods mentioned here previously.

Write me if you require a reminder.

[The following was written, though not posted, a week ago.] I am pleased to report that we have now received the first “clarification” on the two incidents of Boys Gone Wild which I mentioned in last night’s post and which so entertained me.

This has to do with the more obscure reference, of which I imagine only one or two of my readers might be aware, especially since it sounds as if one of those readers – or one of his homeboys - might have been involved in said dust-up.

The dust-up which we now know never took place. We knew this from the start, of course, given that nothing which is ever reported in any mainstream media ever actually took place. The compas didn’t really believe they’d been sequestered and then behave like a bunch of girlie boys, sending frantic messages to their leader. No durable goods were tossed, bad words uttered, flounces flounced.

I might have been perversely disappointed by this clarification, but, given the homeboys in question, I choose to remain a believer .

Revisiting a field guide to provocateurs and their ilk

2006-02-13T20:41:00.000-08:00

Given the times, I felt compelled to pull this out of the Archives. While I think it might be useful for all of us, there is a certain petit choux for whom I would especially recommend giving it a quick read.

Exculpatory errata

Please note that everything I have to say on the subject is drawn simply from my own experience, nothing else. Experience, however, which spans several decades, various movements and more than one continent.

And, not to disappoint, but I have no intention whatsoever of outing anyone. That is precisely what they seek – to distort, deceive and disrupt. To change the focus from the struggle to something, anything, else. Even and often to themselves.

My purpose, therefore, is to provide some information which might be useful in identifying them. Clues, as it were. Patterns of behavior, habitats, tactics, that you can observe, note and deal with as you choose.

And another note. It is next to impossible to ever be absolutely certain in these matters. Therefore, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like mad, lead it gently back into the pond from whence it came.

An arbitrary typology…or poseurs, provocateurs, castrati and such

As in so many arenas, what matters are consequences, not intent. Thus one will find many a self-serving poseur. These are the individuals who can be noted by their absence from the scene when their “cause” is no longer in the headlines or on the news. But they are faster than a speeding bullet when something is “happening.” Dropping names, acting as if they’ve been there forever. And, one way or another, always, making some cash out of the deal.

Another clue to their game is that they almost invariably fail to do enough homework, being too busy arranging the lights or firing off apocalyptic bulletins to stir their fans/consumers. And that lack of homework and media spotlight can be both diversionary and dangerous. I remember once when a US government document was “misread,” mistaking the ELN for the EZLN and leading to a flurry of rumour and damage that had to be mopped up by anyone with access to a scullery.

Image is all for them. They may come as rugged cowboy, rumpled media heavyweight, tarnished saint, but come they do. And then they leave. Always off to the latest, hottest, most profitable New Thing.

Now we come to the ever annoying provocateur. Their role historically has been to infiltrate a group, behave like a lunatic and disrupt. Nowadays, however, given the virtual nature of so much of our work, they tend to do their business online.

Flooding lists with off-topic, and off-putting, posts. Veering as far as they can into the caricature of sociopathy. Diverting, disrupting and horrifying. Their first hope is to marginalize the site, their second is to shut it down.

For those of you who have been around for a while, you might remember a certain Chiapas list. A particularly prolific character [or characters, since he was addicted to transparent shape-shifting] appeared, always ready to post endless words on provocative [of course] issues and stir rabid, off center discussion. And this was at an especially difficult time in Chiapas, when loss of focus could have led to serious consequences.And, when that was not enough, he turned to another favorite tactic. Slander.

Slander is also a tool in the arsenal of another species which I call castrati, for what I would like to think are quite obvious reasons. You know this sort. Often, though not always, male. Driven by hysterical [and I use that adjective with full intent of referencing its historical origins] rage, bonded to his computer with superglue, always on the lookout for a new target for his sublimated wrath.

In other times they were tying limbs to a rack, flogging disbelievers, burning the dangerous one at a stake. Tedious stereotype at its worst – displacing, projecting, purifying, pogrom making. These repressed zealots are the easiest to spot. Their hysteria gives them away, they despise anything female [unless she be virginal or martyred or, preferably, both] and, like the poseur, they never do enough homework.

As, for example, a recent wanker of no note, who - if he had indeed been involved and Irish as he avers - would have been present at a marvelously riotous May Day celebration one weekend a few years back at a certain pub in Dublin. A charmingly licentious evening was had by all, and he would have been left with no doubt, for example, as to the proper suffix of my name. Thus sparing himself the humiliation of his recent public self-outing.

And, speaking of Dublin, that brings us to counterinsurgents.

They often wish to meet you – in person. Or to get your phone number so they can chat. Or, if they think you’re wired, to get an introduction to someone inside. They are smart enough, usually, to pretend they have something to offer. A project, a skill, something of value.

These are the dangerous ones who can arrange to have your phone line cut in the basement of your building and, simultaneously, at the switching station. Who can outsource their work to such a degree that the junkie street person who’s being paid to watch you and follow you day and night might indeed be a whacked out junkie and not just someone who’s been dressed up to look like one. Not a pleasant circumstance.

They tap your phones, hack your computer, have you followed. Except for the one attack in Dublin, my experience has been benign. I have been lucky, unlike many others. In Chiapas they outsource to paramilitaries and thugs and anyone else who needs the price of a cup of coffee.

And how does one recognize them? Very easily. They’re the ones who are trying to do you serious harm. And, unlike the poseurs and castrati, they do their homework very very well.

A game for the parlour

Yes, a bonus.

I suspect that one of the above types – someone I know from my above referenced past – has posted comments here a couple of times. If it is he, I must admit that he’s mellowed a bit, for now at least. Or perhaps he’s just investing in higher quality chronic. Time will most likely tell.

Have some fun. But I absolutely insist – no naming of names. Think of this as a private, practical exercise, designed to sharpen your observational skills.After all, being right is never enough. You also have to be swift and smart and endlessly intrepid.

Boys Gone Wild

2006-02-12T20:56:00.000-08:00

Honestly, truly, I don’t write in Middle English, nor do I deliberately obfuscate.

Well, that’s not completely accurate. Once in a great while I do perhaps choose to make my words ever so slightly demanding, but only because I wish them to be understood by some but not all. For reasons having to do with nothing but self-preservation.

But I really hadn’t been thinking about freedom of speech in my last two posts, despite the fact that I have never seen more terror lurking behind words than I have, almost always, on the left, any left. Fear that one will get it wrong, offend the directorate, be tossed or shunned.

My solution, as I’ve noted here before, is to be nowhere, everywhere, invisible but, yes, ubiquitous. No comites for me, no grant money, no shadowy puppetmaster on the Other Side with deep pockets. And, being a girl, nor has my entire sense of self-worth been dependent on acceptance by an increasingly smaller number of frat boys.

So there, she flounced, giggling still.

No, it has to do with what comes after the freedom of words. The consequences of those words in a particular milieu.

Imams and Ian Paisley, papists and patriarchs, academics and artists, journalists and japes. Anyone with a pulpit, a creed and a crowd.

It can dress itself up in the robes of religion, politics, art or almost anything, but its demands are always the same. It needs untutored acolytes, ideally impressionable adolescents or disgruntled mid-lifers. And amoral scribes, “new” journalists, more than willing to toe the line on offer so they can get on the bus and shine in reflected light.

And enemies. Mother of god, they require enemies.

Catholics or Protestants, Jews or Muslims, the morally repressed or the morally profligate. Rich people or the hoi polloi, the political class or undocumented workers. The Evil Empire [any of them], the Axis of Evil, the Bad Governments, these are among the best, because they establish the connection directly, without having to tax their fan base with an intervening step. “I hate loose women [feel free to insert what you will here: Islamists; gringos; men who wear hats; Sunnis; gangstas; AMLO supporters; Quebecois, ad totally infinitum], we hate loose women, they are very, very bad, ergo we are very, very good”.

Yes, I know. The oldest boilerplate in the world, and who in the hell cares. A shaman, a charlatan, a man of steel, a general, priest, visionary. His terribly unresolved issues with Daddy, his courtiers. Drawing up a Plan, choosing a persona, practicing in the mirror, finding an Enemy, drawing a crowd.

And we know it works.

Millions slaughtered every century, tons of ink spilled writing, then revisiting, the lives of the Great Ones. But even those whose fiefdom never extends beyond their parish, classroom or subscriber list still sleep, confidently, with the angels.

So, yes, boys setting themselves up as Gods and holding forth.

I did wrack my brain for the odd second in search of one of the fairer sex for whom this scenario might apply, and I’m certain such a lady might exist. Somewhere. But, as I noted in one of my very first posts here, girls tend to work from the other way round. Starting with the domestic, the micro, weaving web and cloth, outward.

I’ve been rambling at much too much length here and find myself quite diverted. First, by boys discussing religion in the Comments, a subject I’ve been struggling with for the last few years. The object of my struggle being Boys Discussing Religion. Heatedly.

With exactly the same tone, intent and passion as, say, another has been waxing about a certain mayor of a certain large city.

I understood, at about the age of 11 I believe, that most institutionalized religious entities were nasty, horrid and dangerous things. As I learned more of the world, I realized that most political, academic, economic and cultural entities were the exact same thing. Providing forum and writ for Boys Gone Wild, as noted several paragraphs above.

One example. A boy, who has been close to me, in some ways and at some times, ever since I was 18 months old, came to visit last summer, as is his occasional wont. After several cans of lager, he leaned back in his chair, voice rising, eyes fixing, and he proceeded to rail against the Church, which, he averred, had “destroyed his life.”

Once I caught my breath, I moved to gently interrupt the tirade, which was loud enough, truly, to disturb the horses in the street. I reminded him that, as far as I could remember [and, being the only girl and the middle child in this particular unit, one can be certain that I remembered most clearly, even down to the colour of the frocks], that we had visited the inside of a church exactly once in our lives. It was an Easter Sunday, and it had entirely to do, in fact, with frocks. And bonnets. Easter bonnets. He would have been about 5 at the time.

Nor, I reminded him, had any deity ever been mentioned in our home. Ever. Not once. But he wouldn’t have it. The Church was the Scourge of all mankind, and the single abiding reason for his own misery and unquenchable fury.

It was beyond bizarre, but it reminded me of other times, other places. Another boy, a euro-boy, who suddenly went off, once upon a very last time and completely out of the blue, about American born-again Christians. The other boy, the one with such suddenly deadly serious issues with the above-referenced mayor.

The best I can make of it is that it might, perhaps, be the other side, or tarnished edge, of the coin I was trying to discuss above. The boilerplate. Every time I’ve seen this particular brand of explosive, curiously inappropriate rage [and I’m not speaking of any of the Comments, but of the examples I’ve proffered from my own life], the boys in question have been of a Certain Age and have indeed held court, albeit in widely differing venues.

I really did have a point to make when I started all this, but to hell with it.

Because I simply cannot get my mind off two other recent examples of Boys Gone Wild. The one, of course, being Dick Cheney, full of Wild Turkey one presumes, taking literal potshots at his “hunting” buddy. Not hunting, mind you, but apparently one of those stocked, skeet shooting entertainment centers for Evil Fat White Men.

The other, and I’ll tread as gently as I feel I must, had to do with a Man Wielding a Metal Folding Chair, a mouth as foul as an Irish person and a very hurried change of lodgings.

All my sympathies to the hunting partner and window in question, but, still and all, my deepest thanks to both of them for having lightened my mood, and my weekend, beyond all measure.

Noblesse oblige, new school

2006-02-09T01:10:00.000-08:00

I’m not surprised that no one really chose to address the central point I was trying to explore the other evening, although interesting comments were most certainly offered.

It discomfits, deeply. This notion that it might be incumbent on any of us, and that’s most of us, who find ourselves in a position to speak, instruct, write, show up - to take responsibility for our words. Or our posters.

It’s much more fun to just toss them out, use them with studied abandon, abandon increasing as the applause rolls in.

Complexity, intuition and relevance. Thank you, fauxtapatio.

Rather than, say, the studied, disingenuous ingenuousness of another of our raconteurs.

Images matter, words matter. And no one knows that better than those engaged in any sort of politics, no matter how otherly. The glossary shift of some months back was not without forethought, nor can I envision the Other Campaign as a band of Merry Pranksters, wending their parti-coloured ideologies down country lanes.

As was noted, most of the happy villagers are as blissfully ignorant as the acolytes, at least about the gentleman in question.

Exactly.

But how that could be conceived, on any level, as a good thing is beyond my comprehension. Which was precisely the point I was trying to make in my previous post. Tabula rosa beggars personal responsibility and offers itself up to whomever is quickest on the draw with a piece of chalk.

I am exceedingly simple, and I think what haunts me the most is the extraordinary fragility of both acolyte and villager who are there, after all, because they are seeking, and the willingness, always, of some or one to pick up the chalk.

Disrobing

2006-02-05T17:21:00.000-08:00

Try as I might to avoid the Universe, sooner or later it grabs me by the throat.

Three in the morning, as it is every night, no books to be had and nothing on the telly. Until CNN International breaks in with coverage of Lebanese youths [always the “jovenes”, their patrons in hiding behind doorways or under grandstand cover] storming the Danish consulate. And then a Catholic church and any other threat that might appear to witless eye.

And so I was forced to confront the thought which has been everywhere of late, for me. Symbols, icons, and what lies behind, below them and, sometimes, to the left.

Two different thoughts, paths, for the moment. The first having to do with the fundamentalist laying claim to symbol, iconography. Hagiography, as it were. The American Christians who rage against a silly television show which dares to diminish Jesus by showing him in the flesh. The Lebanese youth who rage against a consulate because someone dared show their prophet in a sketch.

Someone else, once, who raged against someone who dared speak lightly of Mr. W, an idol held close by those of his chosen sect. Revealing a two-fold irony that leads to the second thought, because it is the nature of the sectarian to assume that only they know, can understand, hold an opinion on their favoured gods. The truth being that the very first time my words ever saw light of print – a lifetime or three ago – they were devoted to an exegesis on the subject of the very Mr. W.

Understandable folly to assume that I, given my gender and outsider status, would know nothing of their gods or should be allowed, regardless of knowledge, to venture an opinion.

Out loud.

But if it were to be true – that other way of looking at the iconic – then what?

What if, let’s pretend for a moment, a huge portrait of Stalin were to be hung in a room crowded with the newly faithful? Or again, along the way, a hammer and sickle were to hold pride of placement?

And what if this were to be done, not by those who quietly wear their chosen decade close to their hearts, but by those new to the fray? By the fretless, fevered young ones, seeking what all seek, whether in Belfast or Damascus or San Sebastian or LA?

That they would know nothing of the Doctors Plot or Treblinka, for example, would it matter? They are young, impassioned, resolute and, most of all, present. Would we, should we, care?

Some might smile, if smile they could, at unwitting homage to long sequestered gods.

Others, one at least, would think that those of us who do remember the gulag and the stone have a duty to impart the memories, to recommend knowledge as a necessary perquisite of engagement. To say out loud that it is good to learn the history of icon before embracing it.

Anyone who has been a parent or a teacher or an adolescent understands the heated, heedless rush to battle, and god knows anyone who has ever seen, for example, the posts to the yahoo zapatista mailing list knows that there cannot be THAT many counterintelligence ops out there.

But how can one tolerate the moral relativism that touts the self-preservative need to learn History on the one hand but then ignores it when presented with hordes of adorably naïve, untutored acolytes? I fear, much too often, that a rationale lies behind this dichotomy.

If we were to expect, request, demand, a bit of knowledge, provide even the most basic of primers, then the numbers might diminish. There would be books to be read, for one thing. And after that there would be questions to be posed, dilemmas to be discussed, goals to be weighed.

Not the grand stuff of post-mod theatre or op-ed duels from on high.

No more Gang of Five or Clash of the North of the Border NGO Titans.

No more cannon fodder, literally or figuratively.

EZLN: Subdelegado Zero's Trip Resumes

2006-01-08T22:19:00.000-08:00

Originally published in Spanish by the EZLN
***********************************
Translated by irlandesa

Communiqué from the Clandestine Revolutionary Indigenous Campaign – General Command of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation

Mexico

January 8, 2006

To the Supporters of the Sexta and the Other Campaign
To the People of Mexico:

Compañeros and Compañeras:
Brothers and Sisters:

As you already know, our compañera Comandanta Ramona, a member of our political organizational leadership, died on January 6.

Comandanta Ramona, in addition to being our leader, had become a symbol of the struggle, of the struggle built from below and to the left. Her loss has meant great pain for us, and it is very difficult to talk about it. That is why we are unable to say anything else about our Comandanta and about what her absence means, and will mean, to us.

On that very day, January 6, the EZLN’s Sixth Committee (as part of the first stage of our participation in the “Other Campaign”) was in the city of Tonalá, Chiapas when we learned of the great sorrow which came into our hearts. Given the magnitude of the loss, activities were then suspended, and the EZLN’s Sixth Committee delegate returned to the city of San Cristóbal de Las Casas in order to wait there for directions from the CCRI-CG of the EZLN.

While still sorrowing over the death of Comandanta Ramona, the Comandantes and Comandantas met in their respective regions to review, discuss and decide on the Sixth Committee’s national trip. They decided on the following:

They ordered the EZLN’s Sixth Committee, following our Comandanta Ramona’s internment, to resume their trip throughout all the states of the Mexican Republic and to carry out their mission of listening to our compañeros and compañeras of the “Other Campaign” throughout Mexico and the United States, of calling on the people of Mexico to join in with the Sixth Declaration and of uniting those struggles which are by themselves. To this end, some adjustments were made in the trip’s program so that the activities which were suspended in the Coast and Sierra of Chiapas can be carried out.

We respectfully ask supporters in Mexico and the American Union to excuse us for the problems that these changes may cause them. Regarding Chiapas, Quintana Roo and Yucatán, we have already been in contact with their respective committees, and they have, nobly and generously, agreed to make the necessary changes so that, respecting the number of days which had been established for each state, the calendar can be modified.

The new calendar is as follows (program details for each location will be released, in due course, by the committees of each state):

January 9 and 10 – Coast of Chiapas. Base: Tonalá
January 11 – Sierra and Coast of Chiapas. Base: Huixtla
January 12 - Travel from Huixtla – San Cristóbal de Las Casas
January 13 - Travel from San Cristóbal – Palenque
January 14 - Travel to Quintana Roo
January 15, 16 and 17 - Quintana Roo
January 18, 19 and 20 - Yucatán

January 21 - Traveling to Campeche-Tabasco
January 22, 23 and 24 - Campeche
January 25, 26 and 27 - Tabasco

January 28 - Travel to Veracruz
January 29, 30 and 31 and February 1, 2 and 3 - Veracruz

February 4 - Travel to Oaxaca
February 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10 - Oaxaca

February 11 - Travel to Puebla
February 12, 13, 14, 15, 16 and 17 - Puebla
February 18, 19, 20, 21, 22 and 23 - Tlaxcala

February 24 - Travel to Hidalgo
February 25, 26, 27 and 28 and March 1 and 2 - Hidalgo and part of Veracruz

March 3 - Travel to Querétaro
March 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9 - Querétaro

March 10 - Travel to Guanajuato-Aguascalientes
March 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 and 16 - Guanajuato-Aguascalientes

March 17 - Travel to Jalisco
March 18, 19, 20, 21, 22 and 23 - Jalisco

March 24 - Travel to Colima or Nayarit
March 25, 26, 27, 28, 29 and 30 - Colima-Nayarit

March 31 - Travel to Michoacán
April 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 - Michoacán

April 7 - Travel to Morelos
April 8, 9, 10, 11, 12 and 13 - Morelos

April 14 - Travel to Guerrero
April 15, 16, 17, 18, 19 and 20 - Guerrero

April 21 – Travel to the State of Mexico – Federal District
April 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29 and 30 and May 1, 2 and 3 – DF - EDOMEX

May 5 - Travel to San Luis Potosí
May 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 and 11 - San Luis Potosí

May 12 - Travel to Zacatecas
May 13, 14, 15, 16, 17 and 18 - Zacatecas

May 19 - Travel to Nuevo León – Tamaulipas
May 20, 21, 22, 23, 24 and 25 - Nuevo León –Tamaulipas

May 26 - Travel to Coahuila – Durango
May 27, 28, 29, 30 and 31 and June 1 - Coahuila – Durango

June 2 - Travel to Chihuahua – the Other Side
June 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8 - Chihuahua – the Other Side

June 9 - Travel to Sinaloa – Sonora
June 10, 11, 12, 13, 14 and 15 - Sinaloa – Sonora

June 16 - Travel to Bajas – the Other Side
June 17, 18, 19, 20, 21 and 22 - Bajas – the Other Side

June 23, 24 and 25 – Return and Informative Plenary in DF
June 26 – 30 - Return to the mountains of the Mexican Southeast

These are our thoughts, compañeros and compañeras. Hopefully adjusting your program of activities to this new calendar will not cause you many problems. We await your proposals.

We send you our zapatista greetings and abrazos from compas of this “other” struggle we are moving forward.

Democracy!
Liberty!
Justice!

By the Clandestine Revolutionary Indigenous Committee – General Command of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation and the Sixth Committee of the EZLN

Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos
Mexico, January of 2006

Transcription of Marcos' Words Upon Death of Comandanta Ramona

2006-01-08T14:56:00.000-08:00

Originally published in Spanish by the Other Campaign
*************************************
Translated by irlandesa

Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos’ Words Announcing the Death of Comandanta Ramona

January 6, 2006
Tonalá, Chiapas
Cine Palacio
16:15

[transcription]

Well, compañeros, compañeras. I’m going to ask you to listen to me carefully, and I’m going to respectfully ask you not to interrupt me until I’m finished. What we’re doing with the Other Campaign is so that everyone’s voice can be heard, that’s why it’s important that we’re all patient and listen to everyone. In my work as spokesperson for the Zapatista Army of National Liberation, there are moments that are very hard, like this one I’m going to tell you about right now. They’ve just let me know…that’s why we interrupted this…that the compañera Comandanta Ramona died this morning. As everyone knows, she wasn’t doing well but [inaudible]…thanks to the help of people like you, she was able to overcome it, and she had a kidney transplant. This morning she began vomiting, with blood and diarrhea, and while she was on the way to San Cristóbal she died on the road.

It’s very difficult for me to talk about this, but what I can say is that the world has lost an exemplary woman. That the world, that Mexico, has lost one of those fighters that it needs, and a piece of our heart has been ripped out. In a few minutes the Caracol of Oventic is going to be closed, and we’re going [inaudible] this compañera’s death in private. We hope the media will respect this and not turn her death into a [inaudible]. In view of this, we’re going to cancel our participation in today and tomorrow’s events, and right now we’re going to go back there and wait for orders from the compañeros, the Comandancia and the Clandestine Revolutionary Indigenous Committee. [inaudible] We’ll be there.

Thank you for coming. Thank you for your words. We’ll continue with this. We’ll see to the circumstances. Comandanta Ramona was at the closing of the Plenary. Excuse me, when the Plenary began in La Garrucha. We were joking with her. Just a few days ago the compañeros saw her, the first of January. She sent me her greetings and joked [inaudible]. But right now what I remember is that day of the Plenary when she gave us an embroidery piece she’d made when she was convalescing from the operation she had ten years ago. She gave it to me and told me that she hoped the Other Campaign would be like that embroidery. That’s what we have to do. Thank you, compañeros. We have to leave. Excuse us.

Ramona

2006-01-07T02:19:00.000-08:00

I will translate all this, and more, at some point.

Right now, I suppose, suffice that three months ago she came back, with her embroidery and her heart, for good reason. The reason was hers and hers alone. I understand that. The coming and going, the silken threads, the giving of heart, for reasons of one's own.

Fue símbolo de la mujer zapatista y consejera de ´Marcos´

Fredy Martín El Universal Sábado 07 de enero de 2006 Nación, página 10

Tuvo el mando de la estrategia militar durante el levantamiento

SAN CRISTÓBAL DE LAS CASAS, Chis.- Símbolo de la mujer zapatista, la comandante Ramona del EZLN apareció en público por última vez el pasado 16 de septiembre, cuando se anunció el actual recorrido zapatista por territorio mexicano, en la comunidad La Garrucha, municipio de Ocosingo.

La comandanta Ramona cobró notoriedad en la primera gira fuera de Chiapas del EZLN, llamada Zapatur. Los delegados zapatistas cruzaron varias entidades para exigir el reconocimiento de los derechos y cultura indígena, aunque desde 1997 su nombre y figura fueron reconicidos popularmente cuando viajó a la ciudad de México al Congreso Nacional Indígena.

Ramona, una pequeña mujer indígena, tuvo el mando de la estrategia militar en la toma de la ciudad de San Cristóbal de Las Casas, Chiapas, durante el levantamiento armado del 1 de enero de 1994.
Identificada como la principal consejera de Marcos, perteneció al primer cuadro político en el Comité Clandestino Revolucionario Indígena (CCRI) del EZLN.

De origen tzotzil, Ramona nació en San Andrés, Chiapas, en 1959. Luchó por defender los derechos de las mujeres indígenas, por el derecho a la educación, por escuelas especiales para mujeres y por la valoración del trabajo artesanal. Antes de integrarse la EZLN era bordadora.

Desde 1996 tenía una enfermedad renal. Gracias a la cooperación de activistas y filántropos, en 1997 fue intervenida en un hospital de la ciudad de México, donde le realizaron un trasplante de riñón.

Fue precisamente hace una década cuando se sobreponía a los dolores de dicha enfermedad, cuando asistió a la realización del Congreso Nacional Indígena (CNI), realizado en la Unidad de Congresos del Centro Médico Nacional, en la ciudad de México. En esos días encabezó un mutitudinario mitin en la UNAM.

La comandanta Ramona, emblema de la participación de las mujeres en la rebelión zapatista, tuvo el 12 de octubre de 1996 un momento cumbre, cuando en el zócalo capitalino leyó un mensaje del EZLN al pueblo mexicano. "Nunca más un México sin nosotros", fue el reclamo principal de la indigena tzotzil, quien por primera vez salía de las montañas de Chiapas en representación del movimiento zapatista.

La última vez que apareció en público fue en la plenaria de las reuniones preparatorias de "La otra campaña", el 16 de septiembre de 2005, en el Caracol de La Garrucha, municipio de Francisco Gómez. Esa vez, Ramona compartió escenario con las comandantas Susana, Esther, Miriam, Hortensia y Gabriela.

Dirigió un corto saludo a los asistentes y ya no se le volvió a ver.

La diminuta mujer de origen tzotzil se había incorporado al EZLN desde de la década de los años 80, casi el mismo tiempo en que lo hizo Marcos.

La indígena zapatista falleció el viernes por la tarde, en la carretera San Andrés Larráinzar-San Cristóbal, cuando era trasladada de urgencia. Sus funerales se realizarán de manera privada en la comunidad de Oventic, en el municipio de San Andrés Larráinzar.

Marcos informó el deceso de la comandante Ramona, después de una larga lucha por su enfermedad renal. "Tenemos una profunda tristeza, murió una gran luchadora social", expuso Marcos ante unas 200 personas en el municipio de Tonalá.

Condolencias oficiales

Al conocerse su deceso, el comisionado del gobierno para la paz en Chiapas, Luis H. Alvarez, envió una carta al dirigente del Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional, subcomandante Marcos, en la que expresa su lamento porque "respeto su causa como mujer indígena. Porque su voz pronunció rotundas palabras sobre el derecho que asiste a las mujeres más pobres y marginadas de México, las indígenas, a hacer presente sus ideas y sus legítimas demandas en el foro plural que hoy es nuestro país".

© 2005 Copyright El Universal-El Universal Online

Comandanta Ramona

2006-01-06T18:35:00.000-08:00

Muere comandanta Ramona; suspende Marcos gira

Jorge Octavio Ochoa / Enviado El Universal Tonalá, Chiapas Viernes 06 de enero de 2006

Regresa el líder del EZLN a Oventic, Chiapas, a los funerales de quien fuera su colaboradora; asegura que "México ha perdido a una de esas luchadoras que hacen falta"

16:37 El subcomandante Marcos suspendió esta tarde, intempestivamente, su recorrido de “La Otra Campaña”. A la mitad de un acto, consternado, dio a conocer la muerte de la comandanta Ramona.
Por tanto dijo que suspende las actividades de este viernes y mañana para regresar a los funerales a Oventic en Chiapas.

El anuncio, hecho alrededor de las 16:20 horas, tomó por sorpresa a una audiencia de casi 500 personas que se encontraban reunidas en el vetusto edificio del abandonado cine Palacio, en esta cuidad. De inmediato el subcomandante apresuró su regreso rumbo a San Cristóbal.

Debido a este deceso, Marcos suspendió los eventos programados en Huixtla y Altamirano, Chiapas, programados para el sábado y domingo, respectivamente. De ahí continuaría su recorrido por Yucatán.
Con la voz entrecortada, el subcomandante explicó que desde hace 10 años la comandanta Ramona luchaba contra la muerte, pero hoy por la mañana empezó con vómito y diarrea y cuando iba rumbo a San Cristóbal murió.

"En este caso, es muy triste el hablar, pero lo que les puedo decir es que el mundo perdió una de esas mujeres que hacen falta; México perdió una de esas luchadoras que hacen falta y a nosotros nos arrancaron un pedazo de corazón"

De esta forma, informó que “dentro de unos minutos se va a cerrar en Caracol Oventic y vamos a doler en privado la muerte de esta compañera”, asentó.

Marcos pidió a los medios de comunicación entender esto y no convertir la muerte de la comandanta Ramona en un evento mediático.

© 2005 Copyright El Universal-El Universal Online

Motorcycle diaries redux

2006-01-02T03:25:00.000-08:00

There is a new translation in the Library - the JBG statement for the 12th anniversary of the uprising.

And please. If you haven't, do check out the new header at the Sexta site.

ezln.org.mx

Then click the Sexta.

Please.

You will not regret it.

a seasonal muse

2005-12-31T04:36:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, in a land, yes, so very far away, there was a little house upon a bit of a hill.

Upon a rise.

Upon a sliver of land, surrounded front to back by water. It was called Wynacht’s Point, the sliver of land. To the front of the house was the gravel lane, and on the other side of the lane was broad water.

Water which was landing sloop to crooning loons and solid ground to little shacks which sprung up early in the season for the fishing of eels.

Down the slope to the back of the little house there was more water and a flurry of rocks. This water was narrow, and across the way one could hear boys, always, putting heart to wood, fashioning their sloops.

And every night we would walk Uncle Ben [a tubby, slothful sweetheart of a tabby, named so he could be pronounced, appropriately, “Bean”] and Ms. Jemima [she of the ebony color and white apron tuft] down to the rocks. After dinner, after coffee, in the endless winter night, we would walk them down to the rocks and listen to the narrow slice of water.

Jemima would, as women will, engage the local minks who lay claim to the rocks. She begged to differ. And despite their greater number and their ruthless, savage nature, she almost always emerged unscathed.

The house was very small.

I painted it, to claim it.

And there was a fine Christmas dinner once upon a time, with Liptauer cheese redolent of anchovy, a rack of roast prime rib, Yorkshire pudding and biscuit tortoni, and the boys built the deepest of snow forts in the deepest of snowfalls.

It was Nova Scotia, up the road from Peggy’s Cove and much too far from Halifax. An island, and I should have listened to my father’s words, once upon a time when he came to visit, that it reminded him of Ireland.

But the boy with whom I walked the cats had been the first to set me on his knee and read me Wordsworth [yes], and we had both decided that Arcadia it was to be, despite the endless Winter night and the narrow slip of land.

And despite all that came before and after, it was home, my first, and, as the poet knew, waters on a starry night seemed so beautiful and fair.

Tis the season

2005-12-30T00:48:00.000-08:00

Yes, still here.

Four new translations have been posted in the Library since yesterday, and there are indeed more to come.

Delegado Zero's tour is to commence on Sunday, New Year's Day, with an event in San Cris and departure on Monday. Tune in.

And I'm still waiting for a tad more information concerning the difficulty with the list sign-ups. Given the season and upcoming events, we might have to wait a bit.

No good reason...

2005-12-29T00:46:00.000-08:00

For being absent, that is.

I'm posting all the new communiques as I do, in the Library, as I do them. I am warned that there shall be a fair few of them, as well.

And I will try to answer the various questions and requests in the Comments that have been accumulating during my thoroughly unacceptable absence.

Help with the new EZLN page

2005-12-02T14:36:00.000-08:00

Since someone just asked in the Comments for help with navigating the new EZLN/Other Campaign site, here's some help:

Go to www.ezln.org.mx and click on the right upper graphic ["zezta internazional"].

If you wish to subscribe to the list, click on the third option ["suscríbase"].

Once you do that, there's a language option at the top ["ver esta página en"] - open the drop-down box to the right, highlight English [or your language of choice] and click to the left ["Ver esta página en"]. The English isn't great, but it's perfectly understandable and will get you subscribed to the mailing list.

The zezta page also allows two other options. The first is registering your support by email, the second is registering or commenting on a forum page. The third being the one described above, subscribing to the list.

Anyone still having problems, keep asking, and I'll keep helping.

Cheers for now.

Media mastery

2005-12-01T00:41:00.000-08:00

Yes, darlings, just a brief note about the premiere of the new EZLN Other Campaign website.

Well, I must say it was worth the wait. Sleek, moderne [almost mid-century in ethos, in a good way], professional and very user friendly.

In case you missed it in the communique, it's at www.ezln.org.mx

Once you get there, the zeztainternazional pic will lead to the page where one can, once again, register one's support or not and also sign up for their email list. If anyone has any trouble navigating the list sign-up, just let me know.

The other pic [and do check out the sinuous graphic which somehow reminds me of the horchata word] leads one to the heart of the site. Everything is there, including most of the current translations.

Enjoy.

Tomorrow we might toss around the idea of embracing the concept of forming a very "otherly" intergalactic committee.

Seriously otherly.

The fire and the rose

2005-11-26T22:29:00.000-08:00

Well, what I do know is that revisiting my occasional obsession with the minutae of American politics is not a good or healthy thing, so I'm banishing all things inside the beltway from the Parlour. At least for the moment.

Oh, and by the way, I wonder what our thoughts might be about recent events in the Land of Z?

Enquiring minds have been enquiring about the Intergalactica. And the blatantly wide-eyed about behind the scenes goings-on. As for me, I now have a byzantine chart tacked above my computer so I can be certain all words are assigned their proper provenance.

But there are other words, always and everywhere, and these are calling out:

Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

[One more translation has been added to the Library. It has to do with an incident that's being reported widely in the Mexican press, and the local JBG wanted to simply set the record straight.]

Una nota

2005-11-26T14:43:00.000-08:00

Just a quick note to let everyone know that 3 new translations have been placed in our Library.

Two from the EZLN - one creating a new website for their participation in the Other Campaign and the other with information for internationals. I've also done the letter sent by the FZLN to the EZLN concerning the handover.

Enjoy and more later. Promise.

Open House

2005-11-23T16:31:00.000-08:00

Yo and hola, salonistas.

As I noted in a Comment earlier today, we may wish to take a look at the latest addition to our Library. As a bit of a postscript, the Frente site was immediately pulled, except for the communique and their response. And RR is down and obviously under construction.

It would appear there might not, therefore, be anywhere to openly discuss events.

Yo! Basta perhaps?

And, by the way, invitations are not required for entrance to any of our little rooms.

Reconstruction

2005-11-09T00:45:00.000-08:00

[As we know, all our EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our Library.]

Such a bore here today. Special elections, and there’s nothing special about them, although one has to be ever so slightly pleased with Virginia, especially Virginia, and New Jersey.

The only real amusement came from the Republicans – truly the stuff of vaudeville – and their premature ejaculatory declaration that they were going to launch an investigation into that Leak to the Post about those CIA black gulags.

Then all Congressional hell broke loose. Once again. Signatures were postponed, Frists’ disappeared, and all because Mr. Lott drawled that hell yes, one of his own had clearly done the dirty deed. Given that all that information had been provided and discussed at an all-Republican confab – with Mr. Cheney as special guest -just before the Leak happened.

And all because once upon a time Mr. Lott paid an alcohol-fuelled good old boy homage to a mummified former icon of Southern Goth. And was then quickly stabbed in the back by his own pack of living dead.

Honestly, how Byzantine and surreal has this corner of the Universe become when Monsieur Lott now presents himself as a gentleman with whom I would not mind sharing the odd pint or six?

And, if I could, it would be at the Velvet Elvis in Savannah, one of those almost perfectly crafted southern dives. Live acts every night, a vast array of musical genre, appealing to every subset of riff-raff in town. Swing [lots, sigh, with all the girls in their most fetching Rosie the Riveter costumes], faux-chicano ska, anything a girl might want. I always showed up on Tuesdays for the Bud-driven hard-core.

The barman was from Dublin, the owner from Bath, and they even had a “VIP room” - the attic cum storage loft. No lighting that I ever noticed, filled to the literal rafters with cobwebs and boxes, but the perfect place for sampling semi-illegal substances or the odd snog.

Trysts

2005-11-08T00:30:00.000-08:00

[All the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our Library, and, yes, once again I’ve been a very, very bad girl, but Blogger is still not letting me upload pictures, and I'm feeling a tad petulant.]

Regardless of what else I’ve been up to, I’ve been thinking a lot about flamenco lately, which makes even less sense than most of the rest of what I’ve been up to.

Not about those marvelous skirts, terrific makeup or smoldering eyes, but about the other part, the unseen, undecipherable part.

About duende, of course.

Other than Lorca, very few people have ever been silly enough to take pen to paper on the subject, and that is a good thing.

We know it coexists with dark and death, refashions old forms, captures one’s body. Yes. But if you’re lucky, and you know it’s not just about flamenco, then your body waits for it the way it waits for a lover.

A whisper, a blinking through hair falling into eye, foot scuffing.

Shadow and wind, mixed into one.

Bemusement

2005-11-03T23:22:00.000-08:00

[If you’re seeking the EZLN, zapatista or Other Campaign translations, they are to be found in our Library.]

Needless to say, I’m delighted that so many of our salonistas seem to share my passion for needlework and baseball.

And, referencing one of the comments, I really don’t have anything against boys with embroidery hoops. But I must admit that I prefer them holding a skein of yarn while I’m winding it, looking slightly befuddled, bored and bemused. Plotting some sort of sordid way out, which would, of course, include me.

There.

I know, how very Austen, but, then again, why the hell do you think the ladies enjoy her so much? That’s certainly one of the reasons. The flirting and plotting in the parlour over needlework.

As right now, for example, even though I’m working on two tiny little confections for two tiny new ones, since no one is holding the skein, there’s little flirting or plotting to be had.

Three of the 4 B's

2005-11-02T17:26:00.000-08:00

[All the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are sitting in our Library.]

Yes, I’ve been horrid, I know.

And once again I shan’t bore anyone with any tedious details other than the bloody migraine which laid waste to my entire Tuesday.

I had been working on ofrendas for Día de los Muertos, something I’d never done before, and it turned out to be a surprisingly illuminating experience. As soon as I re-master the art of collage making in Picassa, I’ll post them.

Now, off to the profoundly important topic/s of needlework and baseball, and, no, they’re hardly incompatible. Not only have I spent many an evening happily engaged in both [fingers engaged in one, eyes on the other], but they delight in such similar fashions.

I’ve always been reticent to speak my heart about baseball for fear of sounding like one of those disgruntled, sentimental older gentlemen, waxing nostalgic for some sort of glory days. Suffice, perhaps, that much of what I’ve loved about this sport [though I’ve always considered it an art] no longer exists. Except, as some of us know, in the minors.

Outside, on illegal Spring afternoons [whilst perfecting the art of forging school notes] or long perfect Summer nights [perfecting the ability to hold one’s lager]. Sometimes meticulously plotting the plays, other times surrendering to festive chaos or fierce contest, but always knowing that I’d stepped into an alternative dimension. It was exactly the place where I learned that other, much more resonant, worlds, did indeed exist and could, therefore, be created.

Now I know this particular place no longer exists [except in Triple A], but it did and therefore can. Nor, most unfortunately, do the Boys. The lanky, impassioned, naïve and often deeply eccentric ones. I disappeared for a while into another world, and when I came back they had all turned into No Neck Williams [or football players, for those of you who don’t recognize the reference]. Massive, unattractive dump truck sorts of boys. And it wasn’t until the last few years that I realized this transformation had been the direct consequence of the corporate, profit-driven, media/owners/stadium conglomerates, pumping them full of steroids, turning the game into a fool’s paradise of heavy hitting apes.

Yes, among the many tragedies visited on the world by savage capitalism, it has also destroyed an entire genre of fanciable boy.

As I said, it’s very hard to opine on the subject without sounding whingy and delicate.

And the game, itself, madre de dios. George Carlin understood some of it. Its far boundaries weren’t proscribed. A ball would fly as far as one boy could hit it; a game would go on as long as 18 boys could last. An infinity of possibility.

Perfection was everywhere, but it coexisted with struggle, promise and heartbreak, with plenty of room for farce, vaudeville and flirtations in the bleachers. All manner and level of relationship were of equal import: team, pair [battery, double-play combo], individual [the glories of stats, but the measuring of RBIs and ERAs had as much to do with player against self as it did with the record books].

The boys entertained us, each other, but, most of all, themselves. And we were enchanted, mesmerized, seduced endlessly by, and like, the game.

And, as for how one might see baseball as metaphor for campaign, I’ll leave that up to anyone with a fertile imagination and a few free moments.

Banter, bunts & running the bases backwards

2005-10-29T22:37:00.000-07:00

[All the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are sitting insistently in our Library.]

The usual post-hysteria letdown.

Most are assuming that Scooter will cop some sort of plea in order to prevent the basketfuls of filthy laundry that would have to be aired at any trial, but I cannot imagine Paddy being willing to cut a deal for anything less than several, even larger, heads on a variety of pikes.

For now, however, I’ve seen one to many cute “who’s on first” metaphors, and, not that I don’t adore baseball, but I desperately require a break.

Gossip still abounds, though, everywhere, just a matter of which venue and which guild.

Venue, guild and vocabulary.

The media sorts call their gossip analyses or perspective or breaking news, while politicians opine or give deep background or trade bullet points. Those in the arts, on the other hand, tend to snipe with utter abandon.

We all work overtime at it, defining our boundaries, making sure the right ones are in, and the not-right ones are out. I’m not speaking to the innocent kind of gossip, the type that seeks to amuse and divert, but to the genre that exists, often necessarily, to provide us with that solidarity of group all groups require.

You know, us and them.

I’m brought to these silly thoughts because I’ve been immersed in translating Agenda Point 2 of the Narrative of the Plenary Summary [and I can’t bring myself to scribble the number of sighs that title alone conjures], which has to do with who the Sexta is convening [sorry, I’ve yet to find a better, less literal, translation] and who it is not convening.

Pages and pages of people opining out loud as to who’s in and who’s out. Important stuff, granted. More or less. I suppose. Maybe.

And, if I were more frivolous by nature, I might be tempted to compare it with fraternities and blackballing and wonder when the hazing begins. Or to almost any interpersonal interaction in any junior high school anywhere in the world.

I don’t doubt for a moment that there are good, relevant and deep historical reasons for this preemptive credentialing, and I know there was one very specific reason for it in this instance. The expressed desire by the EZLN to separate the Other Campaign from the institutionalized political process. As we all know by now, if we hadn’t before, this goal is not nearly as simple nor straightforward as it might have initially appeared.

But I’m intrigued by the question as to whether there might be two distinct means of picking and choosing one’s cohorts and holding them closely.

The one methodology excludes from the get-go on the basis of clearly defined criteria. Fraternities, country clubs, nation-states. The other tactic provides a “space” [that most favoured word of late], that is more or less furnished, more or less peopled, and it evolves in what I would presume to be more or less organic fashion. Pubs, political parties, parlours.

In the latter, people are free to come in and take a peek, stay if they feel comfortable or engaged, leave if they grow bored or offended. And, if someone were to wander in whom the others found offensive, well, then, there are a myriad ways to deal with that, aren’t there?

Bouncers being the most effective, of course, given that they have such clarity of perspective.

Compounding the complexity, though, for the Other Campaign is that it is being conceptualized and presented as being about linkages. Not as single, cohesive unit, but rather as an organic alliance of overlapping interests. Each link will have its own place, population, agenda and rules of engagement. But the Other Campaign does not propose to serve as a fetching little golden chain, stringing them all together in orderly precision.

I’m finding it exceedingly important to try and visualize, thus conceptualize, the notion, given the audaciously resonant nature of what is being proposed and the numerous not so happy endings, everywhere, of similar attempts.

One of the Comandantas – yes, that one – proposed that it be seen as a piece of needlework, many-coloured threads weaving in and out of each other. As someone whose embroidery basket [it’s actually a bag, a pink and robin’s egg blue lingerie bag, since I make, and have, so many of them I’m always searching for new ways to put them to use, given that even I have only a finite number of unmentionables] is always close at hand, I think I see what she meant.

Silken threads, stunning in their individual clarity - a single-hued French knot here, amber and rose running stitches intersecting there, when required to form, say, perfect blossom. Each skein, of course, still a skein unto itself.

And, now that I’ve stunned all the boys into bleary-eyed boredom, perhaps I’ll attempt a sports analogy on the morrow.

[A fitting comeuppance - after trying for a tad too many hours, I shall finally admit defeat to the greater Power of Blogger, who is adamant in His refusal to upload graphics this evening. And I had the most divinely untoward tapestry. Let us hope that he's in a much better mood tomorrow, and will allow my Jimmy Piersall, Bo Belinsky, Jim Fregosi, Sherry bros, Drysdale, et al photos to see light of day.]

2005-10-29T17:11:00.000-07:00

I'm hoping most of us can read what follows, if not, it's the weekly Saturday night radio broadcast through the Frente. Tonight - music from the Spanish Civil War.

The links are below [and to the left].

BREVE HISTORIA
DEL ABAJO Y A LA IZQUIERDA
MUSICAL

PROGRAMA DOBLE:
LA GUERRA CIVIL ESPAÑOLA (I Y II)

SÁBADO 29 DE OCTUBRE, 2005
___________________________________
21:00hrs CIUDAD DE MÉXICO
23:00hrs LA HABANA
19:00hrs LOS ÁNGELES
22:00hrs NEW YORK
_______________________________________

Sólo por fzlnradio

www.fzln.org.mx
radio.fzln.org.mx

A demitasse

2005-10-26T22:40:00.000-07:00

[If you’ve forgotten where the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are to be found, let me lead you down the hall, to our Library.]

A stolen moment, in the midst of busyness on a number of fronts and hysterical impatience over the pace of this week’s Events.

Also a brief apology for the terribly neglected state of YO! Basta, but honestly it has more to do with my inability to find persons of our political persuasion who beg to be teased, let alone to appear in a periodical that aspires to glibly mix gloss with gravitas.

Then what to my wondering eyes should appear but Gorgeous George [of the Galloway Georges], dear boy that he is, lurching to our rescue and putting the glib back in the gloss. Our crack girlie-girl reporter, Charlotte, is penning a not too demure tell-all as we speak.

As noted in the Comments, I’ve been much too utterly seduced by the chaos of words – excellent though they be – surrounding the Cornered Overlords, and I’m going to have to restrict my access for the time being, at least until Paddy issues indictments and/or moves into his newly expanded digs.

There is, after all, an entire Universe beyond this beltway, and I believe it’s time I schedule a rendezvous with it. Nothing serious, of course, just something brief, frivolous and memorable.

2005-10-26T13:32:00.000-07:00

Very sweet dreams

2005-10-26T00:15:00.000-07:00

[Those looking for the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations will find them securely in place in our Library.]

Such an exhausting day.

And, no, I refuse to accept the Fitzmas moniker – which I’ve been seeing everywhere - for the current shamelessly delicious plight of the Most Evil Overlords.

In between following all the breaking newsbits and rumours, I’ve been working on Part 3 of what is going to be about 10 parts of the Plenary Narrative translation, and I’m quite proud of the fact that I’ve yet to open that bottle of Cabernet sitting on the table, taunting me ever so sweetly, attempting to lure me away from the words which are serving, among other things, to remind me as to why I am not constitutionally fit for attending any meeting of any sort anywhere on the planet.

Did we notice the length of that previous sentence? One of the perks of the work. Soon I too shall be able to submit one of those brilliantly circular op-ed pieces to LJ if I could only find someone to do the work in reverse.

As for our upcoming masque, I sense that we should wait a day or two, because we wouldn’t want to double-book. Indictment Celebratory Tea and Masked Ball all in one week might be a bit much, and we wouldn’t want to give short shrift to either now, would we?

An early bedtime since tomorrow augurs divine. Signed, sealed, several and delivered.

Bodice ripping

2005-10-24T22:59:00.000-07:00

[Yes, darlings, they’re all there: the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are tucked into our Library.]

I wanted to let you know, in an attempt to simplify our lives, that we now have a new webpage for the Other Campaign, thanks, as ever, to the nimble fingers and minds of our friends at the Frente.

And once again I’m going to have to beg for the pardon of our non-obsessed readers, but I’m still swimming blissfully in the turgid waters [thinking, perhaps, that if I were to discuss this in the vocabulary of romantica, it might keep some of our other readers engaged] of the plight of the Overlords. If you’ve missed the Comments, penguinrocket has been providing us with a treasure trove of useful and/or wondrous links on this many-splendoured subject.

I found myself seduced this afternoon by wonkette, which I usually reserve for very late on a long Saturday night when I’m down with the Remy. The endless dreamy laterality had me flitting from tidbit to soundbite and back to teensy bit, but still amused. Although I must admit that I believe the wonkettes’ reputation for daring girly-do still rests almost solely on their willingness to use the “p” word rather than, say, “throbbing manliness.”

Or is it supposed to be “manhood”?

But, once I’d had my fill of Hitchen-bashing bonbons and such, I felt that usual frisson of guilt and buried myself back in Primary Sources, a category for which I have abiding fondness. In all arenas. And this fondness has occasionally occasioned the fluttering of lashes and tossing of crockery.

Regarding food, for one pedestrian example. Fusion, to be precise. I remember the day, much too well, when the concept of pan-anything cuisine entered my universe. People who knew absolutely squat about the cuisines they were sampling, or pilfering, or referencing, were “artfully” tossing a hodgepodge of twee ingredients together and then standing back to await the response from the galleries.

Yes, precisely like the “Niger yellow stuff scam”: unmitigated crap.

It should be obvious – anyone who has not learned and practiced the real art of particular parochial cuisines should never be allowed to fuse them, for god’s sake. Not that they require to be fused, or anyone gains anything from their being fused [other than the conglomerates with monopolies on everything from raspberries to cilantro].

The other example actually wends its way back to one of the cornerstones of the Parlour. The reading of words. The number of times I’ve had to plaintively, and rhetorically, enquire: “Have you actually READ that particular communiqué [Declaration, denuncia, carta blanca]?” Let alone, and god forbid, read any of the other historical, philosophical, literary Primary Sources that might have led one to that corner.

And all the usual kneejerk bullshit about the etiology of this, mostly related to changes in media, the educational system and/or the globalization of culture. Television in general, MTV in particular, video games, the web. Permissive schools, idiotic lowest-denominator curricula, bad teachers. The toxic pairing of branding with PC. You know, girls carry their LV knockoff handbags to school whilst studying “gender issues.”

Right, so that’s why no one ever reads Ovid or Hesse or Domingo Faustino Sarmiento or knows how to make a proper daube.

I’ve read two interesting articles very much on the subject lately, both centering, no surprise, on poetry. One, in the Guardian, slamming modern verse as, yes, unmitigated crap and calling for the return of classic verse form [such as triolet, I swear, and sufficient cause unto itself for me to tumble topsy-turvy into love, though I fear he’s already married]. Written by someone who should know - a very well respected gentleman of letters who has sat on one too many poetry prize committees and who has had his fill.

The other, in La Jornada, lamenting that good poetry, and literature, I presume, has become impossible because all necessary references would be unknown by the readership.

Now, of course, every guild has its own tiny subset of icons, unwittingly embracing the irony of their own globalized brands. Every guild, even, or especially, of the left, which, everywhere, whether in Ireland, Italy or Peru, read and reference Landau, Klein, Moore and Petras, with nary a nod to Yeats, Petrarch or Manuel González Prada.

The latter, by the way, being my very first schoolgirl crush, and he has yet to be bested in the arena of smart, fiery polemic. As well as having found time, once upon a time, to pen the odd triolet.

Sordid Saturdays

2005-10-22T17:07:00.000-07:00

A SATURDAY NIGHT VERY SPECIAL

[Yes, we know, but I must repeat it for the benefit of the newly arrived: all EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are located in our Library. And I’ve decided, at least for the time being, to keep the fetching little fragment to the left as the Parlour logo. It seems so uncannily appropriate.]

As we know, all news has ceased to occur in the universe, given that it is, I am told, the weekend.

There was, however, one tantalizing tidbit yesterday – but the time has come for naming this set-piece, and I don’t much fancy the ones I’ve seen circulating – Plamegate, Traitorgate, etcetera. While March of the Lemmings still seems appropriate, it doesn’t have the proper ring. We must work on it.

The hint was that Fitzgerald was doing something or other with that Italian intelligence report which had, early on, categorically called the Niger business not only unmitigated crap, but also manufactured crap. And the titillation here is that he might be “broadening the scope” of the investigation to include the web of lies and punishment beatings [no? wrong landmass?] in the run-up to the foreign adventure.

Truly.

Well, truly in that this is the gossip, and who the hell knows if it’s anything other than just the usual chatter [yes, George the Lesser used that word, as well as opining, in that same sentence]. But, if it were to be true [quivering pleasantly], and if Fitzgerald is indeed addressing the conspiracy by the entire administration to deliberately lie to Congress on the reasons for war…

As for what Scooter the Sacrificial Lamb might be up to this weekend while the rest of the administration is busy shredding paper trails and hiring hitpersons at Camp David, here’s a lively little opine from a lively little site.

And, since one can hardly reference the Scooter without opining about the Harlot, the delightful piece of goods above was purloined from firedoglake who, we assume, purloined it from somewhere else. I know some of you are going to think sordid 40’s confessions magazine, but it had me daydreaming about Katy Keene and paper dolls.

Given my mood, perhaps more Saturday night trash later.

Not naughty

2005-10-20T20:48:00.000-07:00

[All EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our very own Library, waiting for you. None too patiently.]

It feels almost like Christmas. But, instead of wrapping packages, decking the halls, baking lebkuchen, concocting the usual clove-studded then immersed in cinnamon and nutmeg oranges, and all those other delightful pastimes [of course I do all that, and much, much more], we have, just today:

George the Lesser using the word “opining”!!

Rove turning on Scooter.

Rove and Scooter in a tête-à-tête talking about talking about Valerie.

And, like Christmas, one almost wishes it will never come. Except, in this case, the indictments [maybe tomorrow, as, for some arcane reason, they must come on an M, W or F, and prior to next Friday when the Grand Jury will be dismissed] will serve for the next tawdry chapter.

Glory days.

I do hope our more privileged readers – those who are not currently residing in the States and thus, on some level or other, engaged by this theatre – won’t find all this too, too boring. While the true payoff will be in the outcome [indictments, resignations, scandal, chaos, downfall], the undressing, as in so many arenas, can be equally delicious.

Speaking of which, and we knew I would never let that one slip by, I have been wondering what might have happened to my favorite stateside source for unmentionables: the House of Lounge in New Orleans. One of the most civilized, decadent, delightfully glamorous purveyors of fripperies in the uncivilized world. Their website seems to be down, and I fear the worst.

It’s hard being a girl.

Agent Provocateur, while cute, is, “naughty” in that very English way, which, given local tastes, is horridly off-putting. One can just imagine nasty, pudgy, pasty-faced little gentlemen slinking in, whispering of their search for brollies [and snickering whilst whispering] and such.

As for Wolford, and I do adore fine black tights and bodysuits, still, true to its Teutonic roots, puts one in mind of slightly grungy [yet aspiring to loftier scale, which makes it even more tawdry], suburban S & M clubs.

Thus, given that lingerie reflects its country of origin’s proclivities in matters of the boudoir, I would decree that only France and Italy should be allowed into the guild. I’ve already noted La Perla for us in a previous post, so, in a salute to Gallic seduction, we have Chantelle for our viewing – and, hopefully, wearing and being viewed – pleasure.

The geek factor

2005-10-20T00:30:00.000-07:00

[As most of us know, all the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are resting comfortably in our Library. And, if anyone has oodles of free time on their hands, I just posted Part 2 of the Extremely Lengthy Plenary Narrative.]

Well, thanks to darling penguinrocket, I have now managed to waste my entire evening, in a popcorn and reprehensible movie sort of way.

I’m not complaining.

It all started with that firedoglake link and went deliciously downhill from there. Of course, I’ve been an unabashed political junkie since my parents moved me to DC when I was 13. And of course I adore gossip of almost any nature, not to mention the unraveling of tangled webs.

But this is so very special.

Watching the homely idiots, so renowned for their guile and craft and knee-popping, scuttling back into the dark alleys that bred them. Has it crossed anyone else’s mind that one of the reasons – just a teensy one - for this odd downfall might have to do with the fact that Valerie and Joe are so very, very attractive?

I know, I know. The Dark Master Overlord’s subtext was just that Hating the CIA thing, and that other Hating Women thing [unless they be virginal and/or dead – we remember that one?], but I’m also wondering if there might be just a hint of something even more basic.

In addition to being venal, evil, incomprehensibly dangerous and ignorant, the Evil Overlords and all their various underlings are all - really, every single one of them - deeply uninteresting and unattractive. With equally unblessed lives. I’m sure George the Lesser was the only one to ever get a date in college, and that’s just because in those days he was a rich, heavy drinking, cokehead kind of a bad boy.

So here we have all these unhappy little boys, at the top of their game with the Election Coups, the Constitution Rewrite, the Handoff of the State to the Neocons, the plundering of the national coffers, the foreign adventurism, and so what if the yellow stuff in Niger scam was exposed for the silly lie it was.

It didn’t matter anymore. The deed was done, and no one gave a damn. Remember? No one gave one single damn at the time, and by then no one was even surprised.

But these smart, unhappy little boys, at the top of their game, went into meltdown over a simple article in the NYT written by a guy who was just some former whatever in some out of power administration.

But he was quite camera friendly, no? Almost Kennedyesque, mixed with a splash of Bond, perhaps, especially in that photo in the convertible with the blonde. He looked as if he might move in interesting, titillating circles, be invited to Hollywood soirees, get laid.

And so they went after him, and the blonde of course [doing their best to get her killed, since it was obvious she was no virgin], and they did it in the most bumbling, obvious, out of character way possible. Scooter and Rove, Novak and Miller, giving up the game in the very first news cycle.

Yes, little boys, still consigned to the chess club. No matter how much power, filthy lucre and backstreet secrets they’ve managed to accumulate in a lifetime of sordid dullness, they will never be that man in that convertible with that attractive blonde.

Bottom's up

2005-10-18T23:20:00.000-07:00

[So predictable: all the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our Library. And, once again, there is a new one tonight. From the Comandancia, and concerning aid for the storm victims.]

A little cloud of words has been swirling through my head this evening, odd ones, and I don’t have a clue as to what might have conjured them. Paradox. Not irony, paradox, as I like to leave that misnomer to others. Tartuffery. Perhaps I’ll have it sorted by tomorrow.

But, since we are skirting the subject, I’m delighted to see that one of our salonistas DOES have a life, thus providing me with the opportunity to insert Ms. Miller’s unsavory and history shattering backstory.

Once upon a time, when George the Lesser and the Most Evil Overlords decided they were in need of a profitable foreign adventure, they concocted an elaborate tale concerning Another Evil, but Dwarfish, Overlord. They dreamt up a fool’s arsenal of arcane weaponry and then placed them in his coffers. Virtually.

Now their next step was to convince the populace, their vassals, that said arsenal was, in fact, nonvirtual, or real, as it were. They had already met with resounding success in frightening the pants off their cowering vassals - it being post and pre-apocalypse and all - so they were feeling rather frisky.

The venture fell to the Dark Master Overlord who charged his sidekick, Scooter, with tasking a likely “journalist” with providing cover. And there she was, our Ms. Miller, quick like a bunny, scooting off, “special” security clearance in hand, to cover the big bad WMD. Writing of their veracity in her sterling journal, sweetly telling her editors to bugger off [and they buggered quite quickly, given that they were merely vassals with better suits than most], reveling in her role as Harlot to the Overlords.

And from that time forward, all the lip pursing, rumpled yet foppish, reflective journalists [yes, I’m channeling Aaron Brown] could get in line with the rest of the herd, prancing, if not rushing, off to War. After all, at that time, and I know we remember that time, even the Aaron Browns of the country were frightened. And what they most feared was for their lives: their good names, their mortgage payments, their retirement portfolios. They knew full well that anyone not in lockstep with the Most Evil Overlords didn’t stand a chance in hell of escaping their terrible swift wrath.

The Overlords were mightily pleased, knowing they could never have done it without her, and the rest is History.

The foreign adventure was indeed profitable, most especially for the Dark Master Overlord. The Harlot made various additional pacts with the coven, and the Newspaper of Record resigned itself to bottoming.

Yes, I really am almost breathless with anticipation at what might come next.

Jailbait

2005-10-18T00:29:00.000-07:00

[Yes, everyone, all the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our Library, and there is a new translation today which you really should have a look at. One of the autonomías under threat.]

I’ve been terrible, and if I had a fetching little diamante-studded crop, I would…

Now that I have our attention, I’ll extend my most heartfelt apologies for being so neglectful of our various spaces this last week. Hundreds of excuses, of course, none of which are terribly fascinating. Just, you know, life as we sometimes know it.

But I have been following all the various crumbs – Spark off on his Quest, applications for editorial positions on YO! Basta [just back-channel, describing the column or article you wish to do – easy peasy – and you too can be part of our illustrious staff].

I must admit that I’ve been taking girlish delight in watching the takedown of Judith Miller [and I do apologize to our readers who are fortunate enough to be outside the range of US cable news. Or those who have a life]. Such a credit to her gender. She dresses like a 1970s kindergarten teacher, but knows that a massage and a martini at the end of the tunnel can get one through anything, even 3 months in the slammer. Not to mention that little previously noted lagniappe, the 7-figure book deal on her stay in the Big House.

Yes, the female equivalent of Karl Rove, but just, you know, with more cojones. After all, he’ll only be dragging an administration down with him, but she’s managed to lay waste to the New York Times.

Other than that, we’re pleased to hear that Iraq now has a Constitution. So that means all undocumented workers there can now go back to their countries of origin, yes? Maybe we should drop the new government a note and let them know about that little perk, the ability to repatriate those who don’t have their papers in order. Like all those pesky Americans and Brits and Halliburtonians. But not, of course, before freezing and seizing all their in-country assets.

And if, say, certain military services were to take a bit of umbrage and attempt to slip back through any of those "porous" borders, I'm sure some sort of arrangement could be made with the Minutemen. After all, they have a lot of experience at desert work, and I'm quite sure they would be equally brave facing down the firepower of the US Army as they are when chasing helpless, unarmed and desperate migrants.

A note and request from the Other Campaign

2005-10-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

Owing to technical problems with our email server, we are asking those who wrote us between October 2 and October 12, 2005 at conlasexta@revistarebeldia.org and who have not received a response, to please send us your message again. Thanks for your understanding.

Revista Rebeldia

Innocent fun

2005-10-15T00:36:00.000-07:00

[Yes, the perpetual reminder: all the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our Library.]

Friday night, which means in Our Lovely New World, there shall be no news to trouble our little minds, or to drag the big money newsreaders into work, until Monday.

And not a moment too soon, as far as I’m concerned. After all, there are reams of relatoria to be translated, and paragraphs of fiction to be concocted for ruthless, yet fetchingly naïve, estate agents in Barcelona.

Speaking of which [fiction, ruthless, reams: take your pick] I’m hoping to have several new sections of YO! Basta up in time for frivolous Sunday reading. Hot photos, breaking gossip, meticulously footnoted op-ed pieces. And we’re also still looking for a Resident Astrologer, of any bent whatsoever.

Now I’m off to celebrate the evening in style, knitting tiny things, plotting whilst I knit, sipping whilst knitting and plotting.

The march of the lemmings

2005-10-14T00:40:00.000-07:00

[The EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are to be found in our Library, and there is a new acquisition as of this afternoon. Two communiqués concerning the IMSS, one from the Comandancia and one from Marcos. Quite informative, more interesting than you might think and only 5 pages long.]

The inaugural edition of YO! Basta’s gossip column is in production as we speak, and I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the number of delicious reports we’ve been receiving. October is usually such a boring time – the calm before the holiday storm [and, yes, that is a platitudinal correction to V. Fox’s soundbite – of course, you’ll have to follow the trail to the Library and read the newest communiqués to deconstruct all that].

As for the rest of the universe, there’s not much to report, is there? Other than the administration finally collapsing under the weight of its own arrogance and stupidity.

One could, of course, imagine the loveliest of news cycles, wrapped up in Florentine gift wrap, tucked under the Christmas tree.

A double perp walk for Frist and Delay, strolling hand in hand into the sunset of penal servitude. Frist weeping, Delay kicking him in the shins. About the same time George the Lesser is being put out to permanent pasture – oops, vacation - at the ranch, his handlers finally having to admit defeat at adding Antabuse to the mix in his cocktail of downers.

In a stunning gesture of bipartisanship, Fitzgerald [of the special prosecuting CIA outing Fitzgeralds] is named as what’s-her-name’s replacement, as she merrily scurries back to Texas, delighted to be able to spike George’s iced tea for him and deliver her mash notes in person. Cheney would have engineered the nomination, obviously, in exchange for saving his own withered ass and giving up Libby and Rove.

The two of whom would most likely never make it to a perp walk, having eviscerated each other in one last frenzy of fear and loathing in the back seat of the patrol car on their way to the booking station.

Not only lovely thoughts, but perhaps we might even pitch it as one more Law & Order subset. Titles, anyone?

One for the team

2005-10-12T01:03:00.000-07:00

[The EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our Library, and I’ve just posted a few new words. They are the first installment of the Narratives from the Other Campaign preparation meetings and the Plenary. They are exceptionally long, totaling several hundred pages, so I’ll be translating and posting them in increments of 10 pages or so. And I’ve decided to start with the last, the Plenary, because it includes the Agenda points relating to the Other Campaign.]

And, since I’ve been much too immersed in words the last week to find time for any of my own, I may as well reference another set.

John Banville, who, against all posted odds, won the Booker. I know this most probably means absolutely nothing to 99% of our readers, but it was, for me, the single most heartening event of the Recent Past.

Not just because he’s Irish, of course, but because he is so eminently not chic and so very “literary.” Derided because he revels in words and knows how the hell to use them. Naturally. How very unsuitable.

After all, he doesn’t spend his days and nights in all the right places, parties and circles. And I’m rather sure that, if there were to be one, his name would never appear on anyone’s Top 100 Literary Lights list. Yes, the little worlds are so much the same. Derivative, diminutive and thoroughly dull.

A little romance

2005-10-10T00:50:00.000-07:00

[The EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our Library, and that truly reprehensible little tabloid is elsewhere.]

Inspiration is apparently off pouting in a corner somewhere, and I can’t even tell if I’m in the mood for romance or revolution tonight.

I’ve always averred, of course, that they make the finest of bedmates, are cut of the same cloth and either of the two very much tends to beget the other. So, if ennui slips between the sheets, that might mean a bit of a chase is in order.

Ah, yes – time for our masque!!

Shadow and light, mysterious figures moving about, no certitude to be had, anywhere.

The depths of profundity

2005-10-09T00:23:00.000-07:00

[As we know, all the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are to be found in our Library.]

A quick peek this evening, as it is Saturday night I’m told, and there surely must be Adventures to be had.

I did want to let you know that YO! Basta is moving forward, as we’ve promised it would, sternly establishing its place in that firmament of serious publications we all like to pretend we read on a regular basis.

An added advantage to the inclusion of minutely insightful and deliciously convoluted pieces is that, as in the Playboy days of yore, one can sternly maintain that it is being perused Just For the Letters to the Editor, not, god forbid, for the photos. Or, in our case, for everything else.

Tomorrow the Parlour shall be back up to its usual, and I shall just be dropping the occasional bracketed hint as to the goings on at YO! Basta. We do have so very much to catch up with here. And by the way, props to Spark for that East/West astro site. Such fun.

Loose ends and dangerous ladies

2005-10-08T00:53:00.000-07:00

[As always, the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our Library.]

YO! Basta is coming along nicely, thank you. We are attempting to have a new piece of glitter for your viewing pleasure on a moderately daily basis.

The only section that’s not finding itself overwhelmed with contributions is Gossip, sigh. And that should have all altermundistas quaking in their Manolos and Birkenstocks, given that the consequences are that the column shall be turned over to an occasional acquaintance of mine by the name of Charlotte.

And Charlotte gets around, as they say.

She has always been convinced that her mother named her after Ms. Rampling, but in truth it was Ms. Bronte, thus gifting her with a formidably broad grasp of the human condition. And an unconquerable ability to seduce or chat her way into any conceivable soiree, club, alley, hamlet, editorial office or boudoir.

Truly.

[And a very quick note to someone who asked: I just found out that bilateral meetings are to be set up through Revista Rebeldía, so I’m going to suggest just sending the invitation to their regular email address. Let me know if you don’t hear back.]

Tabloid credibility, NYT style

2005-10-06T22:17:00.000-07:00

[All the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are to be found where they belong, in our Library.]

Yes, I’ve been busily working on YO! Basta, and, as I had to reassure one of our charming Commentators, don’t be alarmed by the fact that it’s in such a state of deshabille at the moment. Toying, simultaneously, with such a variety of peevish programs can create a certain temporary chaos.

A rather major – what do they call them these days? – ah, yes, “disconnects” – in the States today. Flurries of warnings in NYC about terrorist plots involving baby strollers and the metro system. Based on “credible” intelligence garnered from someone captured in Iraq. Last night. Captured last night.

Given what we know about the competence of our intelligence services, that rings so very, very true, no?

Whilst the feds are simultaneously leaking “no, no, no, not credible” all over the place, and how could that possibly not ring true, given their vast experience with “not credible.”

But the point here is that it’s the federal government which issues these thus far specious Imminent Threats as a means of whipping a recalcitrant populace back into line. And said populace appears to be acting up quite a bit of late.

Actually it all looks quite Rove-like to me. Scare the pants off those limp-wristed Manhattan liberals, let them do your dirty work for you and then cover your own ass with denials. Win-win: you get to sow the seeds of fear while also putting the Real Enemy [the Democrats, of course, not the terrorists] in a lose-lose stranglehold.

But the real news is that Judith Miller is giggling her way to a 7-figure deal for her Jailhouse Martyr Memoirs [abetted by the clearly smitten Scooter Libby], while the new Supreme Court nominee seems to be paying a very high price for having seduced some judge away from a very bitter, bitchy and influential Female of the Right.

Those of us on our side of the great divide are really going to have to do something about upping the tabloid ante of our antics. Ah, well, there’s a simple solution for the better part of valor, even if it is fictive.

And it shall be on the stands soon.

Sublimation

2005-10-05T00:53:00.000-07:00

Not the usual Library note this evening, rather a New Additions note. The first of which I have been hoping will be a series of translations has just been added. This is the series that shall shine light upon [or at least anglicize] the Debate transpiring in the Republic of Mexico [or at least in La Jornada] on various and assorted issues related, or not, to the Other Campaign.

For enquiring minds.

Now, as for the vapidly enquiring, and I know we also are that, more good news on YO! Basta.

The cover is in production, as is the first feature article [Old School Smokes], and the Editor is receiving a number of delicious tirades. We are still desperately seeking missives for our matters of the heart column. Contarary to preceived wisdom, they are not all made up by the staff.

Also Gossip. Please. I do have some lovely things, but we need much, much more. And no sources, footnotes or actual facts required [yes, just like Real Journalism].

A toast

2005-10-04T01:04:00.000-07:00

Publisher secured!!

Now we just have to see if the boys and girls at Remy, LV, Virgin, Hummer, et al, are equally easy.

Do have a peek, but don't breathe a word.

Feather duster in hand

2005-10-04T00:49:00.000-07:00

[For any new guests to the Parlour, all our EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are in our very formal Library.]

A light housekeeping sort of evening.

A few details to be sorted, thoughts to be noted, floors to be swept.

As for the plaintive cry regarding the Whereabouts of Easy Girls, I’ve decided it should, and shall, be addressed in Matters of the Heart, YO! Basta, Vol. 1/1.

And as to the path to the whereabouts of another – one might remember a brief, yet spirited, discussion, in Comments concerning the path to the Breathless Article; follow said path, and there you will find lots of my work, each one of which will bear my current address.

And if that was much too convoluted and silly for words, just let me know.

So very little of interest in the news of late, a good thing, given the news of late. I must admit, however, that I was captured by Jon Stewart’s latest sobriquet for Rummy: “the Sultan of Moi.” Much more succinct and sweet than the words that so usually spring to lips when confronted with the terminally self-referential and petulant.

Yes, indeed, that was the floor sweeping chore.

Now I’m off to secure a publisher for our glossy and to try to ascertain how many times one must reference luxury goods therein to secure product placement largesse.

Call for submissions, as they say

2005-10-02T00:53:00.000-07:00

[As ever and always, all the EZLN, zapatista and Other Campaign translations are to be found in our Library.]

Once again it’s Saturday night, and I’m feeling overwhelmed.

For those who might care to comfort, the final narratives of the presentations from the Preparation meetings are arriving, and it would appear that they are averaging one hundred pages per. As in per meeting. As in per each of 5 meetings.

But who am I to whine? Especially given friends who pop up out of nowhere to express their most self-effacing understanding of the social graces, human kindness, wit and me.

Or not.

So, given the perpetual not, and the infinity of paper, it must be time to play.

I am requesting engagement, of the most flippant type: genteel, kind, witty, not the prissy, screechy, anima-ridden sort.

The Hour of YO! Basta has arrived, and I shall be devoting all free [read: stolen] time to its premiere issue. I am, therefore, seeking all manner of contributions, as I briefly mentioned last night. Letters to the Editor [the more pompous the better], relationship questions for our Matters of the Heart column [the more convoluted the better], tidbits of gossip [the more imaginative the better], and so forth, and I know we get the idea.
For those of you who wish to back-channel your contributions, feel free. Otherwise just post them as Comments, and we can have twice the fun.

A lyric interlude

2005-10-01T16:28:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Parlour: A musical alert. The show begins this evening, and it is a gift from the Frente. Do tune in.

[The message that follows is from the FZLN.]

A brief history of those of below and the musical left.

Beginning this Saturday [today!!], October 1, at 2100 [that's Central Time], DF time, we will be broadcasting a radio program on the musical history of the popular and rebel movements of Mexico and the world: the music of the marches of the National African Congress in the seventies, the songs of the railway strikes in Mexico of the sixties, North American worker songs, the struggles in Latin America of the seventies, the Vietnam resistance against the yankee invasion, among others. Each program, scripted and narrated by Raúl Jardón, will present us with a brief historical context of the music being presented.

We will begin this Saturday [today!!] with communist worker, campesino and student songs from the 20th century, from the 1920s on. Part One.

Fun and names

2005-10-01T00:35:00.000-07:00

[Yes, all the EZLN, other zapatista and Other Campaign translations are residing in our Library.]

Just when I thought I might have to do some actual research to jog my creative impulses for YO! Basta, what does the Guardian do but present me with an article which has, most thoughtfully, already done all my work for me.

The World's Top 100 Intellectuals!!

I swear.

And you are going to love them, and god knows we know them. We know them everytime we pick up a newspaper or a magazine or turn on the telly. In our dreams we know them. Someone was trying to wax horrified [a boy, of course] about the fact that only 10 women made The List, but I was quite proud of our fair sex. It is not a list that I can imagine anyone actually aspiring to, especially a lady of any virtue whatsoever. But such lovely fodder for our little lowbrow glossy to come.

Paglia, Rushdie, Krause, Eco, Hitchens [the, you know, "contrarian" of the two brothers, or,as I prefer to distinguish him, the one who's running to fat], oh dear, I can hardly contain myself. It is a veritable pantheon of the self-serving, self-absorbed, self-aggrandizing minigods.

Enjoy.