“To force a man to pay for the violation of his own liberty is indeed an addition of insult to injury.”—Benjamin Tucker, 19th century advocate of American individualist anarchism The State Department wants $400,000 to purchase a fiberglass sculpture of a camel looking at a needle for its new embassy in Pakistan. They’ve already spent their allotted $630,000 to increase the number of “likes” and fans on their Facebook and Twitter …continue…
The guidebook promised “a revered afternoon,” the city would stop, people would spill out of the cafés and brasseries, and, sure, there were plenty of signs in the windows: Le Beaujolais Noveau Est Arrivé!, but most places were empty, apparently no real rush to uncork the first bottles. So, until things picked up, if they ever would, I thought I’d do something quite ordinary, my laundry, and when I got it spinning, a full load at the Lav-Club on the rue Frédéric-Sauton, I walked the few blocks to Le Vermeer Café.
It was quiet inside. Three Sorbonne students were playing cards by the toiletries; a collie was asleep by the coat rack.
The future is for ghosts.
Breeding placidly behind screens.
Electronic doubles, dead echoes,
Hollow shells of familiarity.
My mind is a ghost.
My body an echo.
Just a lump of days gone by
The words “fifteen years,” from the judge’s mouth, hit him with a monstrous force. “I haven’t killed no one!” And it was then, in the fury of the moment, with the click of the handcuffs, the cold metallic grips, that he began looking at life differently.
Later, he would tell the pastor: “I was playing a game I could never win, and I guess like a lot of dudes, I got caught up in a false reality. Up was down. Open was closed. No was yes.” And locked up he had plenty of time to think about it. All along, he had thought he was game tight but it took only one mistake: a telephone call to a DEA informant about a few white hot kilos rolling down from Chapel Hill, and it was game over, Cheyenne.
Indeed, the American people have been cheated and lied to for so long that we’ve arrived at a stage of disbelief and skepticism. So when the Obama administration announces that it will be rolling out proposals to rein in the NSA bulk collection of data about Americans’ private communications, you’d be perfectly justified in wondering what other far-fetched schemes they plan to sell you next.
April 5th marks the 20th anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s membership to that infamous 27 club. It is a club with a large musical membership, a club many seem to think only a few well known names have joined. The reality is that this exclusively tragic club has a lot more members than the likes of Cobain, Hendrix, Joplin and Winehouse.
Alexander Levy was a talented Brazilian composer and the first member of the 27 club.
Levy was born in 1864 in Sao Paulo. He brought a Latin fusion of classical music to the fore but, in 1892 before anymore of his greatness could be realised, he died at the age of 27. His death occurred suddenly and the cause is still unknown.
“Mr. Andrew Gavin. Take a seat. It’s time to talk. It’s time we talk about you.”
“What the hell is going on? I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“I do apologize, Andrew, but we had no choice but to come for you. You left us no choice.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“I’m suggesting Mr. President, there’s a military plot to take over the Government of these United States, next Sunday…”—Col. Martin ‘Jiggs’ Casey, Seven Days in May (1964) With a screenplay written by Rod Serling, creator of The Twilight Zone, director John Frankenheimer’s 1964 political thriller Seven Days in May is a clear warning to beware of martial law packaged as a well meaning and overriding concern for the nation’s security. …continue…
Silence in me
as my eyes open
to a world,
to a life
that I struggle
to make better,
so that I might finally
taste the breath of freedom.
The glass door whooshed open, and sunlight slipped in. A smell of chemicals mixed in the air with blood, sweat, and maybe even tears. Dirty footprints marked the tiled floor right up to the mat under the glass window. A pad and pen was ready for the visitor, and she signed in. As she signed her name and time, she grimaced at a broken nail, making a mental note that such a thing had to be fixed and could not be ignored. As she moved away from the glass window, she made a fist so as not to see such a flaw, but then she saw those in the waiting room staring back at her.
There were only eight chairs. An elderly woman sat in one, staring off into space. A mother with two kids occupied three, and her little kid was a monster.