What's There?

Ignition:

Up about five miles in the air, I look out a window and watch the earth scrolling below. A marvel of modern technology, and a feat of modernity: Commercial Flight. Witnessing the expansive land below safely nestled in my United Airlines seat I begin to absorb a greater understanding of the political economy and modernity (at least in the cultural sense) of the nation. It can't be helped. Everywhere I look now I see a great engine propelling us forward, but with uncertain ends. All of this: the airplane, the stewards, passengers, my small cup of ginger ale, a book about "Main St.": products of a great material state. But where we are being carried to, I do not know.

The Corporate Machine in the Garden:

Where I was being carried from was Michigan. A week earlier I was returning to the Motherland, visiting my parents, and introducing them to my girlfriend for the first time. My parents recently retired and permanently relocated to Roscommon, a very simple bucolic part of the state. Their "new" home is a hinterland ripped from the pages of Jefferson's notes. A place where tall verdant trees environ streets and most stretches of the highways (Mitt Romney even complemented them on their height in the last election). Where you can drink cool clean water from the tap worry-free, and turkeys roam freely at their leisure. Situated between two lakes, the one closest to the home (the same one we visited since I was an infant) is known for its beautiful clear waters, to the north and south, and rivers running to the east and west, this land is truly an American Pastoral.

Though upon returning to this small town Shangri-la I noticed familiar restaurants out of business, vacant lots, and a distinct presence of chain stores. The most obvious one appeared when we needed to purchase groceries for the week. Appearing juxtaposed against the greenness that surrounded it was the enormous Walmart. Even here in Jefferson's Ideal we met the corporate jötunn. It had followed us all the way out into the outer reaches, deeper into the American Mythology, trying to stamp its presence into the consciousness of the people with an avuncular tone whilst exploiting the ideologies of the American Ethos with low unbeatable prices; perhaps well aware of the giant footprint it was leaving, perhaps not.

I wondered if any corporate colossus understood the footprints they make. My answer was: most likely not, but there were a few. One such giant was a Michigan Man: Henry Ford.

Detroit Agonistes:

Ford was not oblivious to the destruction he and his peers' (Edison and Firestone, and then some) business of mechanization was doing to the "Americana" of the nation. That was, in large part, why he returned to his birthplace of Greenfield, Michigan and constructed a living, breathing monument to the American Pastoral he was helping eradicate. In many ways I see Greenfield Village as one of the first attempts from trusts to amalgamate their image with the American spirit. It is not only a place where visitors can tour the courthouse Abraham Lincoln practiced law in, or Noah Webster's home (where he wrote most of America's first dictionary), but also Ford's childhood home, his first factory, Edison's workshop, the Wright brothers' bike shop. The museum shows both the genesis of the United States hand-in-hand with the genesis of electric companies, Ford Motor Co., and commercial airlines.

I have no real objections to showing the innocuous (in many ways wholesome) beginnings of different corporate primogenitors. These corporate entities are, after all, American in origin (although very multi-national nowadays), so to include them in the nation's history is very natural--especially considering their influence during the Industrial Revolution and onward. It is not like they are altering historical records like Stalin. However, Greenfield Village is a palpable representation of companies public relations campaign (at times eerily close to a cult or personality) to ingratiate themselves with the general public. By channeling different aspects of the American Mythology (i.e. the American dream, Main St., the American Pastoral, etc.) trusts gain favor with the public. This strategy helps tremendously when the jötnar lift up their feet and move on, leaving only a footprint of what once was.

Footprints like Detroit.

On the last day of our trip, my parents took my girlfriend and me on a tour of Detroit. I hadn't been back in years. Needless to say, the terrible things one reads or sees about the city appeared true. Traveling down Woodward (the main vain) towards the heart of downtown, I noticed trash littering the sidewalks and gutters. Endless block after block containing abandoned, decrepit buildings or homes, and behind them vast empty lots, the occasional Victorian relic still standing with boarded windows, tall unkempt grass growing (stories of dead bodies being found in them), and the droves of poor black faces walking about with unknown destinations.

We passed The Spirit of Detroit, and he appeared to struggle under the invisible pressure of the city's plight. In the left hand was the god that forsaken him, and in the right was the family that abandoned him. The only places that remained to have any life were Comerica Park (where the Detroit Tigers play), Ford Field (home of the Detroit Lions), and GM's Renaissance Center (headquarters of the motor company, also contains hotels, restaurants, shopping center). But it is a gaunt remnant of its once healthy self.

Detroit is like a dying feral dog. You watch it lying there, haggard and filthy, as it starts to breathe its last breaths. An overwhelming sense of guilt and sadness wash over you.  It watches you with such viridity, its eyes blameless, as it sighs with each exhale. You can't help but feel its death is all your fault. You've played some part in its demise.

Parting Thoughts:

And so as I slowly move through the air, looking down at this nation, I cannot help but think about the jötnar that walk above me. From up in this rarefied place I get a better view and understanding. The giants are even up here. I'm riding in one, sipping some of their product right now.

And that's the real shit-kicker: I participate in all of it. I am embedded. In some cases I really enjoy myself. I love Greenfield Village, and I didn't have second thoughts to purchasing chips and shampoo from Walmart. But when I witnessed Detroit, and saw what happens when the jötnar lift their feet and move on, what those footprints look like, I felt saddened because of the implications. That we are inextricably bound to these giants.

Where can we plant our feet? Where can we step that has not been stepped, or that is not occupied by the jötnar already? Where are we free to live from the shadow of these colossi? The answer I keep coming to is: Nowhere. So I have to assume that is the future. That is where we are heading towards.

And so I ask, "What's there?"

Exchange on Modernism

Below is a little conversation that took place on Facebook. I quoted Marshall Berman's 'All That is Solid Melts Into Air'--which is a really enjoyable read--and opined on the meaning of modernism (also read: modernity) in contemporary times. Some friends of mine chimed in... 

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(Me:) "To say that our society is falling apart is only to say that it is alive and well." - Marshall Berman, 'All That is Solid Melts Into Air' But I wonder if this still rings true. What can be said for modernism (either the adventurous or the routine) when places like Stockton, CA and Detroit simultaneously exist? These are the thoughts I have at half past midnight...

(Al:) The Roman empire fell amidst chaos and something evolving replaced it. Maybe we are at a similar spot on that historical timeline. Change is inevitable, be it the world in which we live or the human condition itself. Humans look at snapshots of their lives .. 2, 5, 10 years at a time and somehow feel that same stability should somehow naturally be perpetual, but instead it is the most unnatural thing that could be. The failures with Stockton & Detroit and approaching failures with dozens of other cities have direct cause and effect. A large segment of our society is too blind to see this cause. Once that segment becomes the majority, the city is doomed and will fail. We might be five years away or fifty from complete collapse in our government and society as we know it. It depends on this current rate of change. I for one remain hopeful it is reversible and self correcting. Thanks for the thought provoking post.

(Me:) Sure. I think Berman would agree with your basic idea of the ebb and flow of human history. What you’re getting at (in Bermanian terms) is “adventure modernism” (i.e. people are going to continue on, searching for the next great part of existence; the destruction they suffer is only at the result of creation; they are trying to not only look into the abyss, but go into it, and survive it, and come back from it with a better understanding, etc. etc.). In these terms, I think his point would be: the fact that there is unrest is a sign that people are toiling away, working towards the future, perpetually creating and destroying. We’re just witnessing that next paradigmatic shift, the next stage of modernism in the United States. As a result, some things are going to go to the wayside in order for the next “thing” to take the stage. And this may still be so.

But my point is simply this: I don’t see it. Detroit suffered for a new modernism—corporate capitalism, globalization, deindustrialization, the White Flight, etc. etc. all played huge factors to the decline of this once blossoming metropolis. For Detroit, and other (mainly Rust Belt) cities in the USA, it dies a slow and painful death so that the new modern life of the suburbs can arise. Smash cut to now where even the suburbs are declining—large swathes of homeowners underwater on their mortgages, houses foreclosed and left to rot, education systems defunded almost annually (ceremoniously depending on whom you ask), even what were once the Crystal Palaces of suburbia (the malls) are now vacant either of stores or people—across the nation in places like Stockton, Grand Rapids, MI, Lakewood, CO, Jefferson County, AL, Harrisburg, Boise, Central Falls, RI, and the list goes on. So with all this in mind, I ask myself: “What are we building towards? What is the next step in modernism?” And I find no satisfactory answer. The end of feudal society came about from the mobilization to cities, centuries later the destruction of slums in Paris, London, New York, Chicago, Tokyo, Beijing were to build new asphalt roads, concrete walkways, steel buildings, and more for greater modern cities, and in turn some of these like-cities were abandoned for the greater megastructures of the new modern exurbs/suburbs, but now we are witnessing urban AND suburban decay with no obvious paradigm to shift to next. I look around and I see paralysis at best, and retrograding at worst. The soil that used to be so loose has now ossified, and we find ourselves waste deep, stuck, waiting for some unknown future.

This is what I was getting at last night. There is no pastoral left to escape to and build great structures upon anymore. We are left in our ruins now. Of course societies will continue to exist, in one form or another, but will they continue to modernize?

(Joe:) Greed was the catalyst for the fall of the Roman Empire and with history being cyclic, we are at the threshold of the same future for the same reason. Too much wealth in the hands of too few while the rest are left to grovel. It is easy to say "Well everyone has the same opportunity". You have to be an idiot to really believe that. And now, one of the popular trends is to suck the very life out of this country and take it off shore. So, what does the future hold? Well if we don't succeed in blowing up the planet, regardless of the depths to which society falls, there will always be a tomorrow and those individuals who will give their all to effect a resurection [sic] of the good life.

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Though it may appear as if Al and Joe were on different talking points than mine, I do think they were speaking about modernism--even if their comments were more politically motivated. 

Berman wrote 'All That is Solid...' in the seventies up to the early eighties (the book being published in 1982). In it, Berman argues against the notion that we were living in a "post-modern" USA. He wrote...

To be modern, I said, is to experience personal and social life as a maelstrom, to find one's world and oneself in perpetual disintegration and renewal, trouble and anguish, ambiguity and contradiction: to be part of a universe in which all that is solid melts into air. To be a modernist is to make oneself somehow at home in the maelstrom, to make its rhythms one’s own, to move within its currents in search of the forms of reality, of beauty, of freedom, of justice, that its fervid and perilous flow allows.

By this assertion, everything is modern. There can never be a next phase, no "post" anything. We have always been modern--err... starting with Baudlaire. Which is confusing because if we are to use his own logic--that everything eventually breaks down and becomes replaced (or in Marxist terms "all that is solid melts into thin air")--then "modernism" itself should be vulnerable to its own nature. Shouldn't it?

I'm going to refrain from answering for now.

Instead, I want to opine further on Berman's idea of modernism precisely as a positive event in human history. My initial post focused (perhaps loosely) on this thought. In reading Berman, I had the overwhelming impression that modernism was not only an unavoidable force of human nature, but that it was (more or less) the impetus for progressive change (i.e. change for the better of society). From paving the roads in cities in the mid-19th century to the creation of sprawling suburbs in the mid-20th century, and from Russian literature to the New Deal, these are all moments of modernism that highlight positive changes--even in oppressive "backwards" societies.* I have a problem with this.

For instance, Berman devotes a considerable amount of time on Russian literature (more precisely Russian life in St. Petersburg from the mid-nineteenth century to the early twentieth--viewed through the literature). Berman lauds Russian writers like Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Nevsky, Dudkin, Mandelstam, et al. for their sharp wit in combating the oppressive realities of their lives. In his eyes, their literature is the basis for modernism--what he called the "modernist adventure"--and their writings were a sign that even in a place like oppressive Tsarist Russia (which he likened to many Third World countries of the twentieth century) such thoughts could exist. And they existed exactly because of a more modern city like St. Petersburg was created and allowed for such modernist thought to blossom. Huzzah!

That's really great and all, but... uh... like what about all those poor serfs (hundreds of thousands of them) who died in the mud of the Neva to create that great modernist city? What about the fact that the reason those serfs were working to death was because they were slaves to the nobility? Or that all this great literature is being primed by the subjugation of the lesser fortunate (the Clerk) at the hands of their masters (the Tsar)? (Dostoevsky knows something of that oppression... 'How are winters in Siberia?') Or that these lesser fortunate people--many who contributed most to the better future--suffered disproportionately as a result of it? Hey Berman! what about all the modernist serfs who built the future and who longed to go beyond the squalid conditions of oppressive Tsarist Russia... and then oppressive Stalinist Russia... and now oppressive Putinist Russia... where is their modernism? What positive outcome have they benefited from?**

Or to put this in terms that hit closer to home, what about the African American experience, Berman? The success of nascent United States (especially the South) is in large part thanks to slaves. But maybe that's unfair because modernism didn't start for Berman until the mid-nineteenth century... oh wait... they were still slaves in the 1850s! and then they were disproportionately poor and disenfranchised and terrorized for another one-hundred years, and for the last 50 years they've had the oddest looking equality I can think of. But let me provide some "modernist" specifics. The New Deal. Great modernist event. The creation of the welfare state that played a huge role in the prosperity of many Americans--essentially creating the middle class. What could possibly be wrong with that? Well... um... many of the programs were at the expense of blacks because of white supremacy. How 'bout that? Case in point: the Agricultural Adjustment Administration (AAA) provided cash benefits to farmers for work done in the field. However, a disproportionate number of blacks (yes, even more than poor white sharecroppers) were swindled out of their appropriations by the (white) landowners. If this sounds familiar, it's because similar instances happened with the Tennessee Valley Authority (the inspiration for the Marshall Plan), the Federal Land Bank, the Rural Electrification Administration, etc. etc. Or what about blacks living in urban US environments who suffered from the likes of the Robert Moseses of the nation (who constructed roads and buildings right through their neighborhoods--on towards a better future no doubt), or whites during the '50s and '60s who fled the urban areas, and took refuge in the suburbs, along with most of the work... but hey, you know, they have Ralph Ellison and James Baldwin to, like, write about their plight, so modernism still exists... and it's great!

This is all becoming a little too exhaustive and redundant. And I don't mean to go all Howard Zinn on Berman. I like the book. I like Berman's views of modernism. But perhaps what makes this all so frustrating is that Berman knows, is completely aware of what I'm writing about! The beginning of 'All That is Solid...' is about Goethe's Faust and the relation it plays with modernism/modernity and how Faust's accomplishments come at his own undoing (not to mention the deaths of innocent people). So Berman admits at the beginning of his book that we're talking about tragedy here! A tragedy brought upon by negligence that ultimately ends up spelling out "d-o-o-m."

This gets be back to answering that question I posed above.

Modernism has what I've started calling the "duality of construction"--which is to say, in modernity's construction of a better future it is simultaneously creating/meliorating new life, and destroying/exacerbating an old one. This even applies to itself. Even Berman admits this, though he believes modernism replaces itself with itself, and not some "other" epoch. But I'm not so sure. I believe that, like Faust, modernism can reach a point of limitation and then destroy itself.

And this brings me back to my original question, and Al and Joe's responses. When I asked "What can be said for modernism (either the adventurous or the routine) when places like Stockton, CA and Detroit simultaneously exist?" Al and Joe both gave (in their own way) witness to modernism's duality of construction. They both see the ebb and flow. The ability for humanity to create and destroy in an almost breathless daily fashion, indefatigably towards the unforeseen future. And in this sense, I believe they both still have faith in modernism--even in their own bleak ways.

But not me. Yes, the sun will rise and set until it explodes, but I'm curious as to whether or not it will rise on a modern United States or not. I for one am dubious. For good reason, too.

What good is modernism if people suffer for their entire lives as a result of it? What are we even creating things towards nowadays anyway? Tax cuts? Hyperloops? The new iPhone 6? What good are these new things if A) they only tend to benefit people who are already in a position to benefit from them? B) they aren't actual benefits? The tragic negligence seems afoot here too!

I'll go a further step and state that it is precisely this "tragic negligence" of modernity that causes the current state of paralysis, and because of it that modernism has fallen back on itself and is no more. We have allowed the suburbs and the urban environments to decay, and ourselves to slip into anomie, all for a future that appears to survive solely in the realm of "pop." For these reasons I do believe we are truly (now more than ever) living in a "postmodern" world.

I don't see this as a bad thing. I don't see it as a good thing. Like many postmodern things, I suppose it just is...
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* Note: Berman does not necessarily make note of suburbs or the New Deal in 'All That is Solid...' but I believe they fit well with his notion of modernism.
** And yes, I realize Russians no longer live like they did in the nineteenth century, but that doesn't mean oppression has disappeared... especially if you happen to be gay.

Cultural Oddities of the Beat Generation (An Excerpt from "David: 1966")

Cultural Oddities of the Beat Generation Seminar in Green Hall, Yale University at 6:00p.m. on September 4, 1963. Dr. Duke Macey

"Good evening, everyone. Thank you for coming. If it’s all the same, I’d like to jump right into this subject because I care to have time for much discussion. As I was able to gather from my quick survey of the room, we have a lot of ‘Old Guard’ and ‘New Guard’ representatives tonight. I’m glad you all came. So without further ado, let’s dig in. I should start this by explaining the meaning of the title of this seminar. At first glance, some have speculated this seminar was going to be a jeremiad on this next generation’s lack of respect, Weber’s Protestant Work Ethic, and so forth. But as I assured my students, this is more of an exploration of the Beat Generation's relationship with the new generation—the ‘New Guard’ as I refer to them—whilst within the reality envisioned by past generations—the ‘Old Guard.’ To put it another way: the Beat Generation appears to have imbedded itself in the New Guard, and seems to carry a significant weight within the New Guard in terms of behavior and ideology, and this seminar explores the oddities of said generation—both in the way the generation behaves, and how the generation is viewed. So I do not believe ‘oddities’ is being used in a pejorative sense as some may have feared… or hoped. Many of you who know me know I study the American ethos and have an affinity for literature, certainly fiction. Novelists, I believe, explore the attitudes and behaviors of culture (more broadly man’s nature). Either past or present, domestic or foreign, as they understand it, the good ones at least, novelists help readers interpret the world around them. And my students can attest that I enjoy introducing fiction in my course work as a tool for understanding not just American culture, but man’s nature—again in a much broader sense. For this seminar, I want to focus mainly on one book in particular: Jack Kerouac’s On the Road: to help us understand the Beat Generation’s cultural oddities. I want to turn our attention to this book as a paragon of the generation for two reasons: One, the book is constantly being referenced by my students and my peers, meaning it seems to have struck a significant chord with the New Guard; and Two, Kerouac’s influence on the Beat Generation, himself being likened to the primogenitor, and ‘king of the Beats.’ Of course there are plenty of other materials—books, writers, movements, so on and so on—that could have been referenced here, and many more are implemented in both my dissertation and ongoing manuscript, but since this seminar is only scheduled for an hour, I chose brevity. So here we go. Upon the book’s release just six years ago, Gilbert Millstein wrote in The New York Times: ‘Just as, more than any other novel of the 20’s, The Sun Also Rises came to be regarded as the testament of the ‘Lost Generation,’ so it seems certain that On the Road will come to be known as that of the ‘Beat Generation.’’ That’s some praise from Millstein. And from what nascent empirical data I have been able to collect, he’s right. On the Road resonates with those in the New Guard. Why is that? What influence can be found in the book? This leads me to my first point of behavior in the Beat Generation. More specifically I am referring to ideology when I speak of Beat behavior. After all, what is behavior if not action of thought? So what does On the Road teach us? What does it stand for? Well… I’ll try to make this as short as possible for the sake of brevity. A quick close reading of Kerouac’s novel shows us a penchant for iconoclasm, a romanticization of autonomy both in the form of anti-authoritarianism and sexual exploration, a rejection of materialism, an epistemological search through the bowels of these United States heavily guided by a mixture of drugs and Eastern religion—an interesting pairing. In short, the book is more about an existential journey in search for a new self after rejecting post-War affluence in the nation. And this seems to reflect the notions of those who lionize the book. People, mainly younger people, are enthralled by the concept of resisting the contemporary trends of our culture. Those who are fond of the Beat Generation do not care for the Joneses, let alone keeping up with them. They reject materialism; they are in favor of promiscuity; and have a more Emersonian approach to politics and religion than anything else. In fact, I think it is safe to assume that members of the Beats and New Guard are more contra mundum than compliant with the Old Guard’s culture. In an aside: one interesting point to consider when reading On the Road is the virtual absence of any father figure. Neither Sal nor Dean has any fatherly influence in their lives, so they have to create their own. They become the Founding Fathers of their own lives—so to speak. But I digress. The ideology of the Beats is apparent in Kerouac’s novel: one of freedom. Freedom from. Freedom to do. And this is where the cultural oddities come in to play. The ideology of the Beat Generation, and that of the New Guard, is quite different from coeval American culture. This brings me to my second point: how this generation is viewed. To say the least, Beats and the New Guard are met with disdain, and in some cases outright hostility, by the outside world. Certainly the reaction from Old Guard critics warrants this claim. Look no further than the rise in ‘beatnik’ stereotypes of this new generation in cartoons and reviews of literature or music, and harsh criticisms witnessed in films like The Beat Generation and The Beatniks. The oddities of the Beats are not welcomed by the Old Guard precisely because their behavior is seen as contra to that of the current American way of life. The iconoclasm and anti-authoritarianism are interpreted as civil anarchism, the sexual indiscrimination is met with accusations of depravity and lacking rectitude, rejection of materialism is the promotion of Red state subversion, and finally: experimentation with drug use and Eastern religion are signs of the coming apocalypse. Quite simply put: the Old Guard does not appreciate the lack of reverence for their beliefs and traditions, their culture, and finds the behavior of the Beat Generation actually very un-American. But is it? Does the Beat Generation actually represent the perceived separation between Old and New Guard, this dichotomy of American and un-American activities? Does this generation even belong to either Guard, or is it some outlier, a signal of a coming shift in paradigms—from Old to New? Is this the link between evolutionary cultural trends? Let’s examine the novel a little further.  Once more for the sake of time, I will only be examining two parts of the novel: the sexual use of the female characters, and Jack Kerouac himself. I realize examining the author in a review of the novel maybe unfair, but in this context I think we can make an exception. After all, there is no novel without of the author. Ladies first. Reading this novel the sexual use of women is rather shocking. I use the term ‘use’ quite strategically here. The Old Guard is repulsed because they read two men traveling the country having pre-marital and extra-marital affairs with women almost at will. This ‘looseness’ disgusts them. Of course the New Guard is in jubilee over this celebration of sexuality. They read the passages as watermarks in revolts against (what they see as) a Victorian approach to sex. Upon a closer reading, though, I believe both views miss a shocking fact. And it is precisely the manner in which both men, especially Dean, use these women. There is also, of course, a richness of bravado and male companionship within the text. Men and women are represented in vastly different ways, and the behavior is much more in line with traditional Old Guard ideology than anything else. Look at how the women are portrayed or used. Marylou, Dean’s first ex-wife, is quote-unquote 'dumb.' Camille, Dean’s second, is obedient and does as she’s told. Rita and Lucille are both sexual conquests for Sal. The use of sex in the novel is not as much about freeing the persons from the cages of common day Victorianism, but a cruder form of it. That is to say women are being portrayed to behave in a certain subservient manner to that of men. And this is in direct conflict with what many of the New Guard believes. This brings me to my second observation about On the Road and more specifically the author. Many critics, peers, friends, students have noted, even lauded, the anti-materialistic notions of this novel, Mr. Kerouac, and the Beat Generation as a whole. If one takes a step back and observes the very macro-level event happening, then one can witness a great irony. What I mean is: Jack Kerouac has written his magnum opus about freedom from materialism and constraints of our culture, but how are we receiving this information? We all bought his book. We all participated in this act of materialism, and Kerouac is the direct benefactor of it! What irony. And to return to the novel very quickly, Sal seems so pleased in his challenging of social affluence. And that’s great. But it’s very easy to make claims against materialism when you are being propped up by a wealthy sponsor. This is not to suggest condemnation cannot come from within, but it is to point out that if one is promoting an alternative way of life, precisely contra to affluent living, then to make such claims and live in such a way whilst being simultaneously propped up by the very affluence one deposes is greatly hypocritical and deserving of critique. Which leads me to my final point about Kerouac: this is a man who shows clear signs of what I will call ‘traditionalism.’ That is: a classical understanding of how society functions based off actions and ideologies of previous generations. I do not think Kerouac belongs in the New Guard. He might very well be better placed in the Old. However, his behavior implores a much more erratic Old Guard understanding of society today. Therefore he is an outlier, and so too are the Beats. They exist on the outskirts of our nation’s culture. Beyond the realms of both New and Old Guards their behaviors often times are a confluence of many different portions of combatting cultures within the body and time of the nation—especially a state like the United States. This explains the oddities of the Beat Generation—their actions and the way they are perceived. They behave free of the actions of both Guards. With that being said, I believe we cannot outright condemn or celebrate On the Road. We must accept it for what it is: something ‘other’ that invokes the very basic, if not crude, aspects of United States ideology. For all its merits, this is also a book rich with obdurate, anti-intellectual, self-centeredness, and lacking the substance to justify many of the actions revealed. The Old Guard is right in its criticism, but they are also too myopic to be aware of their own flaws and likeness to the Beats. Just as the New Guard is too quick to champion the book for its promotion of the self over the forces of materialism and avarice, and ignores the blatantly seedier side, the materialism, hedonism, and ethically questionable behavior that the New Guard does not promote—at least ideally. What I believe On the Road, Kerouac, and the Beat Generation represent is the most basic behavior of man’s nature. A behavior that has lay dormant in the American ethos until recently being revived thanks to this post-War affluence. Thank you.” 

Art is Home

River Boulevard is really nothing like a river at all. It is a four-lane, concrete road environed by generic corporate food chains and supermarkets, and even more unimaginative local stores, all located in very conventional rectangular brick-walled or beige-plastered buildings—consisting of four sides and a roof. The boulevard doesn’t even have any bends or turns. No sinuosity at all, just a straight line. It’s not even a boulevard. That would suggest the existence of trees. But the small maples they planted to replace the large ones they cut down were removed two years later to make room for more gas stations and banks. A few sylphlike trees remain. Not that anyone can properly admire the natural entities. Even though they are in the foreground, the long rows of conforming modernity behind make the trees well nigh indistinguishable. The background has overrun the foreground. Similar to some jejune painting or picture: everything is out of focus. No texture. No depth. I float down River Boulevard, passing the same jovial slogans and feigned affability in the signs outside: “Come On In, Enjoy Home Cookin’!” “Everything Served Fresh!” “Walk-Ins Welcome!” “Get 4% Off Your Interest!” “Welcome!” “Buy One, Get One 20% Off!” “Have a Great Day!” “Enjoy the Sunshine!” even “Going Out of Business!”: until resting at the intersection of River and Ojibwa Road (named in honor of the language the previous owners spoke). At this intersection I notice three very interesting figures: a bison, an oilrig, and a squirrel. I’ve never seen these structures before. Statues. The bison is crudely formed from rusted sheet metal. The oilrig is made from used construction rods—also rusted. And the squirrel looks to have been pieced together by separate plastered shapes. The half that purports to be a head and body is colored an unsightly dark blue grey. The tail is maroon. Of course it really looks like two blobs placed together like some elementary school student’s failed Science Fair project. If only. If only these hunks of metal and plaster were on display by the township for the purpose of ridicule, with a banner hanging over them: “Shitty Art.” A girl can dream. No. As I drive away, viewing the manufactured art in my rear view window, I know all too well the town of Willow Valley Creek gladly purchased these pieces from a local artist somewhere. I do not know whom.

While attending The University of Art Academia every student must take at least six courses of Art History. Though this may seem daunting, the university was a trimester school. So a student, theoretically, could take all the classes by the end of his or her sophomore year. Most did not. Because I was a diligent do-gooder of a student, did. The classes were not all that difficult, and were more centered on History than Art. I imagined our professors being adrift scholars after graduate school. Clutching on their Ph.Ds in Anthropology, or Intellectual History, they waded in the sea of Jobless Opportunity, waiting for one of the state or private universities to pluck them from the waters. Until at last they washed up on the shore of our university, and with nowhere else to go decided they would make do with what they had. Maybe it was a little too dramatic, and cruel, but it was great imagery. The idea haunted me my whole academic life. I eventually created a piece based off it my senior year. It was featured in my senior showcase upon my graduation (titled: Déjà vu). Fun stuff. But the erudite professors of the Art History courses really did know quite a bit. And though I often imagined the professors fantasizing about suicide as they lectured us on Dadaism, or the chronology of Cubism, or famous artist of the Baroque period, because that’s what I did during those classes, their dedication to teaching us about these periods or artists was unequivocal. They really liked history. They really liked teaching. I was just never convinced they liked teaching about Art History. But it was that outside, objective, view of art that attracted me most to those professors. One in particular: Dr. Gene Jerwulski. Dr. Jerwulski had my attention and respect from the moment he walked into our classroom and starting speaking, and it had nothing to do with the fact I found him quite attractive. No. He had my attention because of his beauty, but he gained my respect and admiration when the first thing he said was: “Hello students. This is a History class. So expect a lot of reading and writing. And no apologies, I don’t give a shit how that makes you feel.” He mockingly gesticulated with his hands. I loved it. I didn’t know why, but to see his salutation slap some of my peers in the face enthralled me. Though I was just a freshman, many of the other students were juniors and seniors (Note: most students took five to six years to graduate from the university). I witnessed their smug visages turn to scowls within seconds. As Dr. Jerwulski chalked his name and the title of the course (A Study of Art: Historical Contexts of Art in the Late Nineteenth to Mid Twentieth Centuries), I overheard one student whisper to another “Can he, like, say that?” The other shook her head in disbelief. 

When I reach my parents’ home—a lifeless box shaped like a house—I ring the doorbell. The very familial noise, hollow and without timbre, stirs the dogs—Pie and Emma, a collie mix and a shih tzu. Through the mix of barking and yipping, I hear my mother shuffle to the door, the scamper of paws on the newly placed wood floors, and my mother’s shushing. As she opens the door, the two dogs scoot out behind her. “No!” she calls after them, but upon noticing her only child standing on the “porch” (in reality more of a concrete slab than anything else) in front of her she forgets about Pie and Emma. “Oh good!” she says. “Come on in. I was hoping that’d be you.” I step inside and am immediately welcomed by the warmth of the house and smell of pumpkin spice. Mother is cooking for Halloween. “I’m so glad you could come home,” she says taking my coat, practically ripping it from me. “I’m sorry to bother you about this, but Dad is down in Miami trying to finish up a deal, and I didn’t want to do this by myself and risk slipping the disk again.” My mother is on medical leave from her job after injuring her back on a hiking expedition with my father in Tennessee last month. They recently replaced the carpeted floors with wood in hopes that it would make the house more valuable, and more likely to be purchased when they try to sell it next year after they retire. “I’m more than happy to help, Mom,” I tell her. “Well, thank you. We took down the paintings before and did all the work, but he got called down and I didn’t want to wait a whole week to put the paintings back up. It’s hard enough for me to get around as it is. Now I have to dodge paintings in the hallways and they are cluttering up the rooms. And I am afraid the dogs will knock one of them over. Emma loves to get behind a few and hide.” My mother has a penchant for saying many things with one breath. As she takes in some air, I proceed. “It’s OK. Like I said. I’m glad to help.” I notice the floors have not been crowned. I point to the dovetail of wall and floor. “Are you going to fix that?” She looks. “Hmm? Oh. Yes. Dad promised he is going to take care of that when he gets back.” I look at her. “He said that?” “M’hm.” “And you believe him?” She smiles and exhales. “No. But a girl can dream, can’t she?” and then she gives me a loving hug. “It’s good to see you, honey.” “It’s good to be back, Mom.” She returns from hanging up my coat with a mug of hot coffee with a traditional, seasonal hint of pumpkin. “Thanks.” I say. “Welcome.” As I drink we have small talk about the weather and the drive from the city and if I’m seeing anyone (No). I ask about my father’s business ventures and how my mother is recovering (he's tired from all the travel, she's doing much better than last week). We hit a little bit of a lull, so I decide to bring up the three objects on River Boulevard. “Oh yes. Those are new. Some local artist did them for the town,” my mother smiles. “Oh really?” I say. “Yes,” she nods. “They’re a little strange for my tastes, but that’s OK. It’s art, right?” I choke a little on my pumpkin coffee. “You OK?” “Yes,” I cough, “just fine. Wrong tube.” My mother smiles. After I finish my coffee, we start hanging up the framed paintings. I do most of the lifting on account my mother’s poor spine. “And this goes here.” “And that goes there.” etc. etc. Almost every one of the paintings I hang up are pieces I created in college—mainly from my senior year. A lot of crude, unfinished works, my artistic acumen reached a plateau by the end of my sophomore year. All the paintings either lacked the attention to detail they needed, or simply were poorly thought out, or executed—often all of the above. It is torture for me to look at any of my work, as is custom for many artists. To have it hanging in my parents’ home for all their friends and neighbors to witness is akin to hell. While I am centering one piece in particular (very boring, very lazy, unimaginative piece I did: an oil pastel of a faucet pouring into a nose, or vice versa depending on which way you look: which, I now regret, I received an award nomination for my junior year) above the fireplace in the family room, my mother brings up the three statues: “I don’t understand why they didn’t contact you about it. No, no, honey, a little more to the left.” “Well,” I struggle to both maintain balance and explain, “they probably… didn’t… know… I do that… which I really don’t.” “What’s that? No. More left. Wait! No. More. What’s that you were saying?” “I’m not… really creating… commercial art, Mom. You know that. I’m a professor now. Any art I do create… is for educable purposes… or something I’m just doing for fun. I… don’t… think I could… do what they’d ask anyway…” “Well why not? No, I liked it the other way, a little to the right. There!” I step down from the chair and stand back next to my mother, staring at the picture. “Because I’m not a sculptor, Mom. You know that.” “Sculptor, painter, whatever, you’re an artist. You could do that. They had to have paid him good money for it, too.” “I’m sure they did. But I probably wouldn’t have agreed to do the project anyway.” I sit down. “Why not?” she’s shocked by what I just said. “You could do that.” Wiping the sweat from my face, “Even if I could, which I can’t, they didn’t come to me for a reason: They don’t know me.” “Well of course they do. Nancy Dreich is on the town board. You remember her?” “Vaguely, yes.” “Rubbish. I was surprised they didn’t ask you. Nancy should have thought to ask you.” “Mom. Nancy barely knows me. Or me her.” “What are you talking about? You were both good friends back in high school.” “We carpooled to school maybe twice. I don’t think we ever talked to one another while in the car.” Defensively, slightly off-put, my mother says, “Well it would have been nice to see your work on the corner there, that’s all. That’s all I’m saying. I think you’re very talented, and I think the world should see your art. And I don’ think, though I love it and I love having it here,” she points to the faucet-nose piece (Any Which Way? was the title), “I think this art should be in collectors’ homes and in museums and out in cities and towns to be admired, not in my home.” “Mom.” “Yes.” “That painting isn’t even hanging right. I just realized it. It’s supposed to be horizontal, not vertical.” “I thought the water was running into the nose?” “It is.” “Well…” “But it isn’t. That was,” I stop. “Never mind.” “So change it then.” “It’s not important to me.” Her head cocks to the left. Disappointed. “It’s not. No. But it is to me.” I sigh. “Sorry. Let me fix this and then we can put up the last one.” The last painting was one I bought for my parents. I claimed it was a thank-you present, purchased with the money from my first paycheck—as an assistant professor. I really got it in the hopes my parents would get rid of Déjà vu, on display in their living room. And they did. (Only to have it placed awkwardly in the staircase leading to the bedrooms.) The replacement “painting” was a copy of Mucha’s poster for Chocolat Idéal.

Walking through the narrow halls of the Macrowski History of Art Center, a small wing of the newly renovated Venetian Gothic church, I made my way to Dr. Jerwulski’s office. The President of the university—Marilynn-Joy Presley—purchased the 19^th century revivalist church a few years before. The building now housed most of the administrative offices, and the whole Art History department. Presley herself redesigned the top floor into a two thousand and seven hundred square feet conference room (titled: “The President’s Conference Room”), and her office—eleven hundred square feet, equipped with a small kitchen and personal bathroom, leaving barely enough space outside for her secretary. Down the slim corridor, in the penultimate door on the left, he waited for me. On most occasions, as in this one, I found him lounging in his beaten leather chair. The university only provided him with a cheap, uncomfortable white plastic chair. So he brought his leather one from grad school. It was another small example of his defiance—though he would claim its purpose was purely for “reasons of comfort.” As I walked in I saw him: head perched against those long boney fingers, extending like surreal tree limbs from the trunk of his forehead, which was planted firmly on the arm of his veteran chair, his body almost parallel with the seat and one of our blue mid-term essays propped in his other hand. I knocked, more so tapped, on his door. Waiting a beat, I made my way to the white plastic chair before he even lifted his eyes to see me. “How’s it going?” I said, eagerly waiting his recognition. He looked up and offered a curt smile. Then straightening himself in the chair, “Oh just reading one of your peer’s essays.” He waved the blue pamphlet. “I see. And how’s that going?” I asked, trying to sound upbeat about his cumbersome task ahead. “The whole process has been… enlightening—to say the least.” He tossed the essay onto his desk, and rubbed his face. “We haven’t met your expectations, have we?” I tried to sound a little disappointed. The truth was we both new the majority of the students did not care about his course and were perfectly content with doing the bare minimum and getting by with a passing grade. I was not: partly because I was a perfectionist and did not like the idea of mediocrity, mostly because I was on a scholarship that required me to give a shit, but also because I genuinely liked the course and Dr. Jerwulski. “No, no,” he said. “You’ve all pretty much met my exact expectations.” I laughed, even though it hurt to hear him say that. I always feared he lumped me in with the rest of those trust fund slackers. He smiled. “What can I say? I suppose Art and Nationalism are difficult concepts to piece together.” “Not really,” I offered. “No. Not really,” he agreed. “But that’s not why you came here.” “Nope. I actually wanted to talk to you about my paper.” The paper was not due until the end of the course, which was another month or so away, but I had chosen a rather heady subject. “Good. How can I help?” I reached for my notebook, “Well, you know how my subject is on Mucha.” “Ah yes,” he smiled. “And how is our Slav friend doing?” “Not so good. He’s dealing with the failure of Le Pater right now.” “Mmm.” “Yeah. And I’m not having that much success right now either,” I said. “How’s that?” “Well, so I’m at a bit of a crossroads here. My piece is supposed to be about artistic art versus commercial art.” “Right,” he nodded. “But… like… Mucha,” I was struggling. Dr. Jerwulski’s eyes were centered on me. I never liked appearing vulnerable in front of anyone, vis-à-vis my artistic or intellectual prowess, let alone professors—especially him. This paper, in many ways, was more his idea than mine. I wanted to do something on Klimt. “Klimt is overrated. Don’t do it on him. Do it on a real artist, Mucha,” he told me, quickly backtracking, “I mean I don’t want to promote my ideas, but I find Mucha to be a much more fascinating person than Klimt.” I now think it had more to do with the fact that he could not read about Klimt, Picasso, or Warhol one more time. I jumped on the idea. “Yeah. Mucha could be really cool.” I was eager to please him. I wanted him to recognize I was not like the others. I was smart. I cared about Art History. Whether any of that was actually true or not was not the point. I let him talk me into Mucha, and then I let him give me the subject of my paper. What was originally going to be about Klimt and how he was the essence of the Art Nouveau movement (a case I now realize is utter bullshit), Dr. Jerwulski convinced me to do it on Mucha and the “juxtaposition of commercial and artistic art.” I had no real idea what my paper was about. And so there I was: lost in his small, windowless, forty-five square foot office. “My piece is on commercialism…” I paused. “Right,” he nodded. “But… like… Mucha… was, uh, very, like… commercially successful, though. So… I guess I don’t know why he would be the right artist for a counter point.” Dr. Jerwulski stared blankly. I sat frozen and exposed. He would understand I was a fraud. I had no concept of what he was talking about. I had betrayed him. But then the reaction was wrong. No reproach. No damnation. No castration. He smiled and leaned back in his warn chair. “What do you mean?” he said. “Well, Mucha was very successful and was basically known for his commercial art. All the stamps and posters and what not were his real well known pieces of art. He wasn’t really appreciated as a quote-unquote ‘real’ artist. I mean even the Art Nouveau movement was kind of… I don’t know… like kitschy and commercialized, and a sell out.” He simply looked at me. His head slightly cocked to one side. He wanted me to explain myself further. “And so… my whole point is supposed to be about… uhm… you know… not that.” Dr. Jerwulski said nothing. “So… I guess… I’m… uh… grasping for straws here. I don’t know. I’ve hit a dead end I feel.” I was exhausted. Five minutes into the meeting and it felt like two hours. I had a list of things I thought we could talk about for days and in five minutes he reduced me to some mumbling juvenile—like all the others in my class. He didn’t even say anything. I bowed my head. We sat in silence for what could have been minutes, but was probably seconds. “Mucha was a commercial artist. Sure. You are right with that. But, I suppose my response to that is ‘So what? Who cares?’” I looked up. He was not angry. No real agitation in his tone or gesticulations. He was more amicable than I expected. Professorial. “With Mucha you have a paragon of the ‘tortured artist’—so to speak. And I don’t mean the conventional coeval definition. I mean with Mucha you have an artist who struggles with his own identity, success, and art. From his efforts to be recognized by his own people, which in many ways explain his borderline obsession with Slav nationalism, to his struggle with what he called ‘the spirit of art’—which was not the commercial art he is, was known for. He created truly beautiful pieces of art. Le Pater is one of them. The Slav Epic is unequivocally his magnum opus. But that was locked up for some thirty years in a basement somewhere. Nobody gave a shit about his artistic endeavors. They only cared about his Berhardt’s and other such posters and prints. I mean we are not talking about some con-artist who has stumbled upon some niche in the community and chooses to fully exploit it because a) he can, b) he has no actual talent for an artistic career, and c) the community is either too ignorant or too far up their own asses to see they are being duped!” I had never, and would never see him this animated again. I had struck a vein. That much I was certain of. But what was flowing out of the vein was not so clear. “So he was largely remembered for his commercial art. He was also—for a period of time—being bankrolled by millionaires in the United States. So what? Artists need to eat too. You do realize that without rich people Western Art would have practically died with the fall of Rome? It’s OK to sell out,” he paused. “As long as you don’t lose that spirit. Mucha is a perfect example of that. He did one type of art that fed and sheltered him and his family. And he also created great masterpieces that he could be proud of. Some can do both at the same time. Look at J.C. Leyendecker, or other American illustrators in the turn of the century to mid-century—like: Gil Elvgren, Maxfield Parrish, Howard Pyle. Shit, Gibson even. All great artists—yeah, I went there—and all of it mostly commercial. But they were artists. Real, genuine, in the flesh artists. Their craft might be questioned, but their devotion to art and capturing the true beauty and soul of life should never be. And that is the point of Mucha, the struggle for that spirit. His life shows it. It’s beautiful. Sad. But beautiful.” Another quick pause before he continued, “Money will always play a role in art. But the question every artist has to ask themselves, it’s the task of every artist, is: ‘Am I doing this—creating a work—for the spirit of art, or am I creating this for money, and if so, does it still capture the essence of my artistic spirit?’ Meaning does that Geist of Art still present itself in the art—commercial or not. I think the biggest issue a lot of ‘artists’ these days cannot distinguish between making art that can be sold for a profit, and profiting from art.” He gestured to the essay on his desk. “Look at your peers and most of the student body here at the university. Most of these artists are being subsidized by wealthy financiers—aka their parents. Most of them won’t have jobs in their industry a year from when they graduate. Most of them don’t care. They are more concerned about making sure they have a Mac, Starbucks, and a three-hundred-dollar pair of glasses. They have the aesthetics of art all ass-backwards. It doesn’t make any sense.” He then gestured to his office. “Hell, ole Mary-Joy bought this place partly because of her religious fanaticism—even though she’s Catholic and this is Eastern Orthodox, but whatever—she mostly bought it because it was the ‘artsy’ thing to do. Her words. ‘Artsy.’ She is the President of the university. Is anyone else slightly offended by this? No. Not one person. No one person raises any red flags.” He shrugged. “Well I suppose it is mostly out of fear. At least I pray it is cowardice, and not total negligence.” He chuckled, “But do you see what I’m getting at here?” I nodded. A thought was beginning to form. He had succeeded in planting a notion that would suppurate in my mind for the next two years. “Art isn’t even art anymore,” he said with a wry smile. “Art has become artificial.”

On return to the city, I stop in the local Starbucks, just kiddy-corner to the three monuments. And as I grasp my venti black eye I begin to let my thoughts wander. If I were to ever come across Nancy and the town’s board, and the man who created those three hunks of plaster and metal across the street I imagine what our conversation might resemble…

NANCY: Well thank you, Vera, for coming in today on our meeting of Cultural Broadening in Willow Valley Creek. Your mother said you were a highly talented artist in the Art World, and so we, of course, value your opinion. I’m sure you’ve noticed our town’s latest addition just this year. The three cultural, artistic superlatives that are on display on River Boulevard: the Oil Rods, the Bison-tennial [scattered giggles], and the Tree Squirrel Eating a Nut. All created by our wonderful local artist: Todd Pennington, who is here with us today [applause]. And I would just like to make one final note for the record that it is an honor to have graduated with someone who is such a well-known artist now, around the world, like Vera. I think it would be safe to say that Vera and I were good friends throughout high school. But please, Vera, I think you have something you would like to share with the community.

ME: Yes. Thank you. I’d like to make a resolution to remove those three pieces from the corner of River Boulevard and have them disposed of, never to be seen by man, woman, or child—ever again.

[Silence]

BOARD: But… why?

NANCY: Yes why?

ME: Because it’s not very good.

BOARD: Well that’s all open to interpretation though.

ME: Right… but I’m from the art community, and those three things out there make me want to gouge my eyes out. I’m ashamed to admit I create anything remotely close to the term “art” knowing that those three items exist in the world and are being associated with that same term.

NANCY: I’m not sure I, or we understand.

ME: Of course not.

NANCY: Would you mind explaining further?

ME: Sure. The things—

NANCY: Art.

ME: Well actually that’s my point. Those things, those objects out there really aren’t “art.” [gasps] I know that might sound ludicrous.

BOARD: It certainly does.

NANCY: We have the artist right here.

TODD: Hello.

ME: Hi. Right. Yeah. Where was I? Yeah, so my point is that those things aren’t really art. They are just things. You paid to have three things put out next to the intersection, and you’ve decided to call them art. But they’re not. You see?

BOARD: Why not?

NANCY: Yes why not?!

ME: Well… for one, I think the very purpose of their existence, the inception of the “art” in many ways deflates the legitimacy of calling them art. Get it?

NANCY: No!

BOARD: Not at all. Please explain.

ME: [sigh] So the whole reason you wanted those things out on display was because you wanted to appear artistic.

NANCY: Cultured.

ME: Same difference.

NANCY: Actually it’s not.

BOARD: We did a study, and people in Willow Valley Creek actually believe there is a difference. Being artistic is one way people believe they are becoming more cultured.

NANCY: Exactly.

ME: But you are trying to appear as if you have artistic savvy, aka “are cultured.”

BOARD: There are many aspects to being cultured.

ME: Sure. But the fact that you are attempting to come off as artistic is the same difference as attempting to come off cultured. You are still trying to create an imagine—

NANCY: You can have artistic taste and still not be cultured. Such as: you can enjoy the fine art of Picasso, but still not enjoy finer cuisines, or the fine theaters, or politics, and… uh… others…

ME: First of all, Picasso was not fine art. Secondly, when you make an attempt to give others the impression you are artistic that—why am I even arguing with you over semantics?! This is not my point!

BOARD: Please calm down.

NANCY: Yes, please do.

ME: Those three things out there are frauds. [gasps]

NANCY: Are you trying to say that… Mr. Pennington’s works of art are… counterfeits?

BOARD: Is that what this is about?

NANCY: Are those your pieces of art, Vera? Did you create them and he stole them? [more gasps]

ME: What? No.

NANCY: Is this true, Todd?

TODD: They certainly aren’t. I created those myself.

NANCY: Vera?

ME: That’s not what I meant.

BOARD: Well you should apologize to Mr. Pennington then.

ME: [deeper sigh] What I am trying to say is that those items out on River are deceptions. They are not art. It is just a collection of plaster and metal under the guise of “art.” But it is actually not art. This is all a sham.

BOARD: But we had an artist create it.

NANCY: Yes. Mr. Pennington is right here.

TODD: Hello.

ME: Hi.

TODD: Maybe I can clear this all up. I think there is some anger over my pieces. I understand. They are provocative in many ways. Some people will never truly understand where I get my inspiration from and how my methods pay off in the end for the artistic community. Some people, I know, were shocked by my art. I understand. But I will not apologize for it. Never. Art must be free to reach out and grasp for the truth. And the community board members here all believe in that and want to support those kinds of thoughts about Art. I think they see the wonder I created, and see the art for what it truly is and stands for: the cultural depths of Willow Valley Creek. [applause]

NANCY: Exactly.

BOARD: So perhaps you have a better appreciation for our art now.

NANCY: Yes, perhaps you do now, Vera.

ME: No! You don’t even care about art! You just want to come across as artistic, so you can combat claims about this generic, guileless, shithole of Midwestern white suburbia and suggest it has some fucking culture to it—which, incidentally, it doesn’t! And you [turning to Todd] you’re the worst kind of asshole out there. You don’t even give a shit about art. About craft or effort. You are a big fucking con artist. All you do is take dumb, uncultured jerk-off’s money, who want to appear as if they are sophisticated people, and create this awful soulless-crap-junk-fucking-piss work and pass it off as art! You don’t even have any sense of art! You’re just as inexperienced as the assholes you sell your hunks of dick to. Neither of you care about art. You assholes [pointing back to Nancy and the board] just want to look like you do. And you, you asshole piece of shit [Todd] you are just in it to earn some money. But you didn’t even earn it! Because you didn’t even take any legitimate time or effort to actually create something worthwhile! You didn’t stress over this. There was no authentic thought put behind this. You just whipped this out of your ass and sold it to these fuck-faces. You’re all awful, commercialized shitheads. Look at your product! Some cheap, lazily put together, pieces of artless shit that you’d like to call art because you’re in a rush to appear sophisticated, you, you ingenuous twats!

…and then I’d storm out.

Or something like that. It never happens, of course. Instead, I get in my car and drive back to my apartment downtown—because tomorrow is Monday and classes start at nine.

Scenes: A Parody of Youth

“You recall moments like that. Nostalgic. Stripped from an
inexplicable version of genuine bliss. Being abruptly torn from a
dream quickly forgotten. The large hands of your father callous and
warm grasping your shoulder. He beckons you. You slowly rise from
rest. All your relatives remain strewn across the linoleum floor.
Peaceful. Still. You’re so careful not to let the screen door slam as
you exit out the back. The day is just waking. You feel something
symbiotic, ineffable as you walk down to the lake. The cement path is
cool from the night. Dew remains on the blades of grass. Birds make
their calls. Your father already stands knee-deep in the lake, getting
the rest of the equipment into the rowboat. You walk off the concrete,
through the wet lawn and step slowly into the cold lake water. Minnows
keep safe distance from your colorless white feet. Sand works its way
between your toes. The current creates undulating ridges in the
lakebed. You watch slowly as with each step your feet crash into the
natural formation. Underwater plumes arise from the miniature dunes.
And as much as you feel like a giant, you experience partial guilt for
destroying the natural creation of the tides. Your father lifts you
into the aluminum boat. He places the life vest on you. It’s moist. He
must have dropped it in the lake. You wrap your arms around it and
huddle for warmth. ‘We’ll get out in the sunlight, and you’ll be
fine.’ Peering over the edge, you can still see the bottom of the
lake. Minnows following, then dispersing with every row your father
makes. Back again, then dispersing, back and forth, to and fro until
the boat gets further from the shore and they retreat to the shallows.
Wiggling wet sand off your toes, you watch as your father fixes your
line. He keeps going on about catching the mother of them all. Out in
the middle of the lake you can smell summer’s musk. Wiping the sleep
from your eye, you cast out the line. Dad hands you a Coke. And even
though it’s six in the morning, and your mother wouldn’t approve, he
wants you to drink it. And you do, gladly. That sweet syrupy taste
washing past your palette, the filial burn on the back of your throat.
You smile. He smiles. A sweet moment. One you question its very
existence. How could something so simple, pure, enjoyable ever exist?
The world was coated in majesty then. Now the veneer has worn. The
color has become faded and grey. The cottage sold. The lake filled.
You grew up. Things changed. You witnessed your father lose his aura
of invincibility. Then you realized his invincibility never existed.
What was once an inexhaustible, wide-open world now became a very
finite place, with borders and limits. You were no longer colossal,
but a spec, on a blue spec, circling a yellow spec, in a vast abyss,
very unknown and very forgettable in the celestial conversation. And
so you recall moments like that. Oneiric. You miss them. They remind
you of a time when things were full of limitless potential. Everything
was pure. A boundless Shangri La. It’s a farce, and you know it. But
you like it. What alternative do you have? The Truth is brutal. In the
face of such savageness, what is one to do? Pull your collar up and
embrace the cold. Because even though you know the high fructose corn
syrup and phosphoric acid are slowly killing you, the Coke still
tastes as sweet as it did on those early summer mornings. When you
cast out that line, and hoped to catch the mother of them all.”

Witness to a Public Execution

13:38 CEST 15-08

With the sun just past its apical slot in the sky, they opened fire on Carlos Molina. A line of twenty-two shots fired—twelve of which struck Molina’s body. Three shots were fatal, but the one that killed him before his fresh corpse struck the earth entered his left eye, disintegrating the zonular fibers and ciliary muscles, lacerating the vitreous humour in two, passing through the frontal lobe up into the parietal lobe, exiting out the back of his skull. The bullet—a 3-inch long 7.62 NATO—was fired from Private Pepe Villa’s ten-year-old .308 Mauser bolt action rifle. Of course, Pepe would never know for certain his bullet was the one that murdered Molina, but like the other twenty-one members of the death squad, he always knew he issued the fatal shot.

07:27 CEST 15-08

I awake to the morning or perhaps the early afternoon but judging by the mild yet comfortable temperature and lack of noise from the open window it is most likely morning or may be I closed the window in the middle of the night because of the storm that was to come or may be fearing a chill from the night air I closed it to protect the baby from falling ill but the baby did not wake last night she did not stir from slumber or perhaps I did not wake no I would have woken but may be I did not because I am a terrible mother unlike my mother no I am a good mother like my mother who sleeps below in the tiny spare room because I am a terrible host and daughter to my mother and guest because one day my daughter will be terrible to me no may be my daughter who reminds me of my mother will be like my mother and I like me and I will just be terrible to both because I am a terrible person no not these thoughts not this early it is a beautiful day or early afternoon but most likely morning. How unfair that it is so.

And I rise from my bed that my mother put me in last night during the storm after the news no it was after the news but before the storm that did not come or it did but just late very very late and I was not aware of it or I was but I just ignored it or forgot it or remembered it but wished I did not but I rise in the lovely night gown that my lovely husband bought for me not more than a month ago or may be a little less than a month ago or last year no a month and some days ago and it is beautiful and yellow that is my favorite color and he knows or he does not and was just fortunate to guess so but I do not believe in fortune no more so he must have known and it has white lace on the outside and he would make me wear it every night for a week or more or less after he bought it for me and he would say Evita, Evita come to bed with me I must sleep tonight with you and I told him You have done so for the past two three years slept with me and been with me and I with you and he would call me enchant me beg me implore me demand me to come to him and I be his submissive master and he my subjugator slave and he would make love to me or may be just be carnal and sex no it was love and it was beautiful or it was hot and uncomfortable and too short-lived no no no no it was and it was not. Very soon it will be neither.

So I collect myself and come down to breakfast or lunch or brunch depending on what time it is but it looks like breakfast because my mother has prepared little food but it smells so wonderful which I feel uneasy about and wish it was not so but it is and it does but I do not feel the urge to eat even though I am quite hungry because I did not eat much yesterday well a little bit of cherries and some chocolate from the pantry but not according to Madre who declares I have not ate much since he left but this is false to believe for it suggests volunteerism but it was coercion there were cries fists flew a broken lamp a torn night gown that was purchased in the city and broken tooth and stomped foot but no cry from the baby not until everything became quiet again and Madre and I stopped our weeping as if the chaos brought the babe some comfort but no this cannot be so the baby must have been crying but we had not realized it until we stopped our weeping because we are terrible mother and grandmother no that is not true we are good so the baby must have been asleep must be so peaceful being a babe and it is just look at her smile she is so happy so gay so oblivious so dumb Evita Madre says you need to eat here she supplies a wonderful looking and smelling breakfast containing coffee and two slices of buttered toast but I do not have the energy to eat or drink but I do so I drink some coffee and as usual Madre has prepared the most delicious coffee and it warms my body starting from my stomach at the center of my soul and spreads outward and then Madre says Evita you must get out of those clothes and put something new on you must get outside you must not stay here another day take the baby and go outside go for a stroll get washed cleanse yourself and I ask Madre What time is it? and she informs me Mid-morning and I say under my breath He will die soon. And I wish this morning were not going so well.

20:11 CEST 14-08

— I cannot.

— We must.

— But this is…

— Our duty.

— I do not even know this man.

— None of us do.

— But I have not…

— There is no more to discuss.

— It happened fairly.

— You were there. As were we all. The names were selected. That was that.

— Easy for you to say.

— This is how it is.

— But I cannot.

— You do not have a choice.

— I think that is my point.

— Who cares? The selection was fair. It was random. The names were selected blindly. You were there. You saw.

— Yes… but still…

— No still. Just sleep. I think I hear the storm in the distance.

— I can certainly feel it.

— I wish it would just come already.

— I cannot.

— Would you stop? Why won’t he stop?

— He is afraid.

— Ha!

— Maybe if you were so brave, you would switch with him.

— My name was not selected.

— How fortunate for you.

— I have no regrets.

— That is because you have nothing to regret for.

— It was selected fairly. We all saw so.

— I am not sure that matters.

— Of course it does. That is the only thing that matters now.

— Perhaps. Perhaps not.

— No. He should stop his whining. Be prepared. Accept it. He’s not the one on the other end of the gun. Why should he be so scared?

— The same reason you are not brave enough to switch with him… or me… or any of us chosen.

— This was how it was.

— True.

— So let that stand then.

— I do not think you believe such things.

— I cannot.

— Stop.

— You stop.

— I cannot.

— Stop.

— You stop.

10:13 CEST 15-08

Upon Madre’s suggestion entreatment I take the babe out for a stroll through the town to the nearby park and all eyes are on my or may be they are ignoring me but my eyes are on them but it does appear that at least a few eyes are on me as if they too now have heard the news and know what I know and we all have this uncanny rapport functioning against our wills to suppress because I do not wish to be inside their minds no more than they wish to be in mine or vice versa or vice versa or may be this is all fabrication and I am once again imagining that which is not and no one knows who I am or of the news but some must be aware of the news the whole town our country must be at least on some level aware of what will happen or may be not may be they do not care or are not made aware or do not care enough to be made aware either way this is really a beautiful day. This injustice continues.

As I reach the park and locate some shade beneath a tree on a bench next to a fountain near the center of the park I allow myself against better judgment against the will to do so to look around some and observe this lovely awful day and as I suspected or more than likely feared the sky is still its beautiful blue and the sparse clouds are their most purest white and greatest structural fluff and the gleam of the sun on the leaves of nearby trees makes me want to cry and the blend of greens in this park makes me want to cry no I do not want to cry I do but I do not not because of the greens or the blues or the clearness of the fountain water or the pleasing architectural shapes of the fountain or the fact that it is running perfectly or that the only fragrance in the air sans my perfume is the redolent flowers at full bloom today and the only sound save my breathing or the transient shouts of joy from my child his child our child is the buzzing of the bees searching for the remaining pollen from said aromatic flowers or not-too-distant playful calls of children slightly older than my own his own our own and their dogs and all of these shapes and colors and smells and noises overwhelm me shock me make me wish to be dumb or blind or deaf or dead or never existed at all but no I must exist I am so here and now but I wish I were not and my baby his baby our baby is so pleased and I am shocked by all of this and I hate all of this because I love all of this and my baby his baby our baby continues to smile and look around and be allured by her surroundings and I cannot take this so I pinch her I do not but I do and I do because I must but I must not but I just did and I do on her cheek because she is so happy and it is unfair it is not but it is and I am a terrible mother but I am not I am selfish but also giving because she must understand but she does not because she does not cry there are no tears she produces nothing just a minor look at me expressionless innocuous void but full of meaning and I hate her but I love her. And so I sit a little longer.

19:45 CEST 14-08

Stacked five across and two deep, members of the tribunal sit and observe Carlos Molina. Their faces are wet with perspiration from the humidity of the coming storm—which does not come until hours after their verdict. The propelling fans do little to cool the faux-courtroom, merely shifting hot air around. The place is thick with swirling wet air and foul breath. Before we read you your verdict. Do you wish to proclaim any further information? Will it go in the public record? Of course. This was not a complete lie. Though all parties desperately wanted to believe in the judicial façade they created, its innate cursory nature did not allow them so. Carlos Molina sat and thought. Specs of dried blood remained on his clothes and small portions of his face. Three-day stubble shaded the majority of his face. No. No? No. So then you are content? I have said what I have said. I have done what I have done. Let it be. Silence. The revolving blades from above made the only sound. Carlos Molina swallowed sparse saliva down his parched throat. The Ten sat and waited for more. Nothing. Just fans. And hot air. So be it. The single parchment[1] was lifted. Reading glasses were placed on the bridge of the reader’s aquiline nose. Carlos Molina. Please stand. He stood. You have been tried by a committee of ten judges. The decision has been reached. The decision was reached well before Carlos ever was caught. In fact, most of the time in deliberation was spent on debating over the rhetoric of said decision. It is unanimous. Indeed. All ten members agreed unanimously that “unanimous” should be used in the rhetoric for its “authorial quality.” We committee of ten find you guilty of all the charges. The punishment is death by fusillading. The other word they all agreed must be included in the rhetoric. Which will be concluded tomorrow afternoon. What time? Hmm? What time? The Ten exchanged glances. As the sun begins to set. Late afternoon then? No. Is this not when the sun begins to set? Not entirely. Puzzlement. As the sun begins to set after, but just as it passes the highest point in the sky. Yes. How many? How many? How many in the line? Twenty-two. Twenty-two? It is a sufficient number. Yes. Carlos Molina was then escorted back to his holding cell, which was actually just a corner where he sat—in the next room over.

13:10 CEST 15-08

So I return to the house of mirth but more appropriately dearth but more appropriately dirge where he once carried me into for the first time well there was some walking then a carriage and then a little more walking but then he picked me up and carried me in well I held onto his shoulders and took on some of my own weight because I was already fat with baby much to the sadness of Madre but there was great joy and love when the baby came or may be there was great pain and suffering and tears and sweat and blood and cries and anger and anxiety and hate and then after some time had passed great joy and love but I enter and Madre greets me but from the other room and her welcome is faint and more of a question than welcome though it is still a greeting and I answer Yes it is me and she asks how the stroll was and I inform her Lovely and then to myself and the baby Terrifying and then to the ceiling Why? and just as I begin to smell it my mother informs me that an earlier lunch is ready and so I run no I walk with the baby no the baby is in my arms I carry the baby and walk over casually no more so lugubriously but I hide it well no I do not because Madre makes a face and I know she knows what I know and we know but the baby does not know or may be she does but most likely no she does not and that is why I envy her but I do not because I would not because I am not so there and I hate the food that my mother has prepared and drink some refreshing sparkling water that makes me feel good and it depresses me more and her lunch is just as good as her coffee and I hate my mother for being so damn good at it and I hate that the water is so cold and crisp and I hate my tongue and mouth for enjoying the carbonation and I hate my body for devouring the bread dipping it in the olive oil and sucking down the soup rich with tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers and onions and for cleaning the plate of the excellently cooked chicken how it is so moist and rich with the flavor of her cooking as with the potatoes and mushrooms and onions and carrots and the coffee again for desert and I hate my mother a little more for making the coffee plentiful with taste and yet not overbearing and crème fresh and the sugar just so and I hate her but no I do not cannot will not or may be I do but I do not but I am so full physically and emotionally and I grow weak now because my body is finally fed and in my weakness I speak Why Madre? Why does everything have to be so wonderful today? Why does the storm not come why did I get such great sleep why did the babe not cry why was the morning so lovely and the people so happy and world look its best today and your food taste especially grand today? Why? my mother sits and looks at me for a while or may be awhile no it is a short time no a long one and then my mother speaks to my baby his baby our baby no to me When I was a little girl there once was a feral cat that came into our town no one knew where it came from it just appeared one day and it walked right down our main street into the plaza and laid down in the center no one paid it much attention for the first few days it was there and it would spend most of the time in the plaza lazing away and then get up towards dusk and disappear and as I said this happened for a few days until some of my friends and I started to play with the cat we acquired some yarn and then we used a small doll my sister your aunt Clarita no longer wanted and it would play with us and we enjoyed playing with it always in the plaza it would always be in the plaza and never leave until night and return sometime in the morning and some times it would grow bored with us and lay down and some times it would follow us like when we went to school or Mass and some times not and we children loved it and our parents grew found of it and soon the whole town did people would leave milk or meat scraps out for it place it in front of the cat in the plaza and we all enjoyed the cat very much Madre then pauses for a moment to wipe the baby’s face clean then she continues But one day we all came out in the morning and the cat was gone several days passed and the cat still stayed missing and some said the jealous widow who lived wanted everyone’s sympathy killed the cat others said it was the butcher’s mean dog or the butcher himself a few believed it was just a very old cat and wandered off into the nearby woods to die but most joked that it left for the big city to become a famous cat Madre laughs no more so giggles no more so smiles to herself in thought and then continues Whatever the reason the cat was gone and life returned to the it was without the cat and a few months later I remember bringing up the cat in conversation at lunch with my mother and father and sisters and brother but my father did not seem to remember the cat Cat what cat? he said and Mother remembered a cat but did not remember all that I remembered and this was true for mostly all the townspeople no one seemed to remember the cat it just faded in and out of our town and lives and memories and even now I do not remember all the things I did with the cat all I remember now is that there was a cat and we were all fond of it Madre looks at me with a smile and I do not know what my face looks like because it is a fine story but I do not understand what she means no I do I know but I do not like her for saying so no I do I love her but it is with great sadness—abrupt noises—I turn my attention to the other room Madre looks at me and I at her. Carlos’s transmitter noises then stops then noises again then silences on off on off rests cries sleeps wakes I must answer it I cannot but I will I will not I am—Hello.

---

1 The rhetoric was written on the back of an advertisement for a film about a guitar vagabond who wandered from one town to the next on his way to the city to become famous. Everywhere he went he played his music. People loved him. Then the night he arrives in the city a beggar asks for a pittance. The vagabond says he does not have any money and begins to walk away. The beggar stabs the guitar vagabond in the back and smashes the guitar. The vagabond dies. The film is called: Absurdo.