Jack Burns Lives!

So what happens when filthy east coast population centers run out of acceptable places to dump their toxic shit? They haul it to the west. And who or what do would you think would be behind the whole scam?

Bingo! We have a winner….

A money hungry politician and a big old corporation.

From The New York Times

Heading to Texas, Hudson’s Toxic Mud Stirs Town

By JAMES C. McKINLEY Jr.
EUNICE, N.M. — There are not many towns in America that would welcome the 2.5 million cubic yards of toxic sludge being dredged from the bottom of the Hudson River in New York, but to hear Mayor Matt White tell it, Eunice is one of them.

Storing waste nobody else wants means more jobs, Mr. White said, and the oil workers here are used to living with hazards. After all, there are several oil wells in the town itself. One of them is a block from City Hall.

“We have deadly gases in the oil fields,” he said. “It’s more deadly than any of the stuff they are going to put in the ground out here.”

From the edge of town, one can see huge berms at the landfill where General Electric plans to bury the dried sludge that is tainted with 1.3 million pounds of PCBs, or polychlorinated biphenyls. They flowed into the upper Hudson from two G. E. factories for three decades before they were banned, in 1977. In high doses, the chemicals have been shown to cause cancer in animals and are considered a probable carcinogen in people.

The full story is here.

the sahara club bent over and said
“stick it in here”

over here in Abbey’s west

he’s dead so go ahead

“what about foreman?”

“oh, he’s gone too,
the fbi got him, and he said
toodle-oo”

and so the he-men businessmen said
“okay, we’ll drill her,
we’ll drill her dry,
we’ll rape her 117,339 times”

the cancer spread
the profits rose
the critters and the trees,
they got the hose

but Mother Earth said
“hey, not so fast,
how long did you think the party would last!”

the flow slowed to a trickle
the investors got fickle
when the scientists said
“sorry boys, but the age of oil is dead.”

————
According to High Country News, “Oil and gas companies, despite the efforts of ‘obstructionist’ environmentalists, managed to drill at least 117,339 new wells in 12 western states in the last eight years. That drilling rush often skirted regulations and caused significant air and water pollution.”

And while The Sierra Club, EarthFirst! and other groups have failed to effectively protect the environment, help is on the way. Looks like old mother earth is going to do it herself.

“Move over boys! I got this one under control!”

“Ours is a world of nuclear giants and ethical infants. We know more about war than about peace, more about killing than we know about living.”-General of the Army, Omar Bradley

One thing my wife and I were both committed to as parents was being very open minded about our children’s educations and post collegiate endeavors. We saw it as essentially a “tragedy” for a kid to go to college simply for the purpose of landing a job and quickly settling into a life of eight to five tedium.

But this was a bold step in our community, a community full of Business School grads, accountants, MBA’s, doctors and lawyers. We’re also not church goers or really “believers” in any sense of the word, so no, we don’t fit in. Not spraying the lawn was probably the first clue the neighbors picked up on as the whispering and fence talk spread faster than Yellow Fever.

I remember telling another parent on my daughter’s track team that Caroline would be a History and English major in college. The woman flashed a condescending smile and looked at me with quizzical eyes as she replied “What’s she gonna do with that?” To which I replied, “Whatever she wants.”

And now that our second child has completed his undergrad degree program in Art, the questions have once again arisen. “Well, what’s Jay going to do NOW?”

I can often sense one of those “I told you so” attitudes in such questions, a certain level of gleefulness even. They hardly wait for me to finish responding before they pounce and announce that their child already has a $45K per year job as a analyst for Get Rich Quick Corporation. After their own glowing story is hurled at you like a projectile, they stop and wait for your response (I’m surprised they’re not tapping their foot), something that will readily indicate they were the superior rearer of children. After all, all of life is a competition, isn’t it? Even raising your children!

My response is usually the same. “I know that makes you very happy and proud. Congratulations.” After that, I’m looking for any excuse for a hasty exit, lest the person make the unfortunate mistake of drawing me into debate on the subject.

I do believe it’s a tragedy for a young person to leave college and move straight into some 8 to 5 routine. This is the time in your life to travel, broaden your horizons, fine tune your focus and really discover who you are. Opt for seasonal employment with the Park Service, find a job as a firetower lookout, be a river guide or even just work at the local coffee shop for a while you save enough money to go do something you want to do. Hike the Pacific Coast Trail. Walk across Scotland. Bike across the country. Work in another country or in a U.S. community for an aid agency. But god, don’t go find a meaningless job sitting in a fucking cubicle farm every day. The insanity of the morning commute, performance appraisals, quotas, trade shows, seminars. Just say no, because there’s so much more to life and your job is not always the same as your work.

For example, my job is working for a high tech company, but my work is writing, gardening and being father and a husband. Challenging the status quo. And I enjoy my work much more than my job, because my work is infinitely more meaningful.

Our jobs do not define us, but our work certainly does define us.

What is Jay going to do? He’s going to do some part time work, possibly even some substitute teaching at small college with a struggling art department. He’ll spend most of his time doing what he does best, creating, and showing some of his creations at art shows in New York and elsewhere.

And for those of you that “wouldn’t want this for your son,” I want you to think for a moment what our society would be like without art, music and literature. This is necessary work, hard work, that too few are willing to support. Too many parents aren’t willing to allow their children to be who they want to be or what they want to be. They start manipulating and planning their lives from birth, forcing strange decisions and paths, as opposed to providing only the necessary amount of direction and leadership and allowing the child find his or her own path.

You want a disaster? Try to take a person that’s naturally gifted in music, art and writing and force them into becoming an accountant. That’s most likely going to result in an unfulfilled lifetime of misery and depression.

So young folks, if you’re reading this little piece, here’s my real message to you. If you chose this path, to be a creative person, and are now “struggling” in low paying jobs in-between your jaunts in forests, deserts, mountains and far away lands, I commend you. You are infinitely more successful and smarter than those that went straight to Merck, Skank of America, KPMG or Halliburton. One day you’ll write the fat masterpiece, teach children, help ferment democracy and feed the impoverished, write great sonnets and wonderful music. You’ll create interesting crafts, art and sculpture. You’ll live a full, wonderful creative life punctuated by trips in what’s left of our wilderness and most importantly, you’ll find real happiness in things that are real, not just greedy capitalist plunder.

Be strong and resilient and tell the busybodies and gossips to live their own lives.

Onward!

Last night I was forced to attend a wedding for one my wife’s co-workers. It was a full blown fundamentalist Christian affair with a lot of talk about everyone giving their souls to Jesus. The ceremony opened with the preacher telling us that he was “going to read a passage, and that it was very, very important that everyone, especially the bride and groom, listen carefully.”

What followed was a well known line of misogynist bullshit about how “the wife must always submit to her husband.” In fact, the submission theme came up again and again (along with being saved) throughout the ceremony, so much so I began to wonder if it was actually a sect of the Taliban.

The preacher was a complete lunatic, a really dangerous man, fully equipped with the official preacher hairdo and a bizarre, unnerving smile. He repeatedly twitched his head from side to side, then upward toward god and occasionally downward at a bridegroom’s ass. And he had that “preacher voice,” something that’s very difficult for me to describe, except to say that all Southern Baptist preachers appear to have mastered it. There’s a certain cadence with carefully planned pauses and a lot of inflection.

To make matters worse, the reception was held at a fancy country club, where the centerpiece is a massive, chemically engineered monstrosity called a golf course. It sits where there used to be several hundred acres of forest, native flora and fauna, about ten miles outside of the city limits. Why so far out? The theory, of course, is that’s where the growth is headed, that the existing megalopolis will eventually metastasize to that point. My prayer is that the fuel will hit $5.00 per gallon and stop the cancer dead in its tracks. Sort of a peak oil induced chemotherapy.

There were hundreds of yuppies, tons of wasted food and a $5,000 wedding cake. Yes, the cake cost five grand, and it tasted like shit with a piece of rubber on top, otherwise known as Marzipan.

The only redeeming thing about the whole affair was the open bar, where I liberally ordered glasses of marginal cabernet while concentrating on keeping my tongue in check. As luck would have it, a congregation of gross blowhards drunk on scotch decided to park right next to me. You know the type. Business suits, swollen alcoholic faces with golf course tans, laminated teeth and obnoxious, spaghetti western like laughs. They apparently thought the entire world wanted to hear their horrible jokes, almost all of which were demeaning toward women.

I came away thinking the whole affair was really sick. An overblown, orgy of waste. I felt dirty, like I’d been contaminated by some viral pathogen, but it also hardened my resolve to get the fuck out of here.

Welcome to the world of Southern men, Kristy, where mindless preachers command you to a life of quiescent servitude and submission. And while you’re home barefoot and pregnant, the men will be at the club getting drunk, saying all sorts of ugly things about their wives, telling dirty stories about their girlfriends, engaging in “power talk” about how they made big bucks while eliminating competition and laying off staff.

And on Sunday morning, they’ll all walk into church with big smiles and act like everything is good, because god is in control.

An acquaintance recently commented on the Democrats being “in power.” To which I replied, “Power is always dangerous. Power attracts the worst and corrupts the best.”

Thank you again, Ed, for the reminder.

Chapter 2

Memphis, Tennessee
John sat motionless at his desk staring at his inbox. There were 112 messages, all considerably past due for a response. He moved the cursor to close the program, but before he could complete the task a new message appeared. It was from his boss, and the subject line read

FORECAST

It was the message he dreaded the most every week, the request for his tally of successes and failures as a sales representative at Zapnet. His appointments, prospects identified, proposals presented, deals won and deals lost, and most importantly, his tally verses his overbearing and impossible quota.

He stared at the ominous message for a moment or two before deciding to open it. Firmly grasping the mouse with his sweating palms, he double clicked and within a nanosecond, it exploded upon the screen:

John,
I need your forecast by COB today. Please also plan on our weekly one-on-one this Thursday. Your slot is 3:00 PM.
Keep up the great work!

Regards,

Dave

John’s work wasn’t great but for good reasons. He was failing miserably, running about 40% of quota, and the office gossip mill was churning along at warp speed. Busybodies circled the cubicle farm like vultures trying to pick up a blood scent.

“Why has he kept him this long?” “Do you think he’s looking?” “I bet he doesn’t last until June.”

It hadn’t always been this way, however. John had been the rising star, the golden boy that could close even the toughest deal. Unlike most sales reps, he was technical, knew his product and often knew his competition’s product better than they knew it. He was honest and never mislead a client, a rare combination for an industry known for its sleazy, incompetent personnel.

But things began to change for John around 1991 when he discovered Desert Solitaire. The book opened his eyes to a whole new world and inspired him to probe even deeper into all life, not just his own.

His study exposed gaping wounds, not only in his own life, but also within civilization in general. Over the years he’d become more and more cynical about things, especially the corporate game. He’d come to view corporations as the enemy of the environment and human rights. He couldn’t stand working for people whose lives revolved around money and power and who spent more time playing golf than reading books, gardening or wandering through the mountains and deserts. He was totally out of place, a classically re-educated desert rat lost in a sea of yuppies that believed an MBA signified a good education and the size of the estate was an accurate measure of the size of the man.

Edward Abbey’s writing got the ball rolling, but “The Professor,” as John liked to call him, was the one that really made him think. John discovered him on an Internet discussion list and immediately became enthralled with his writing and his ideas. They’d become good friends over the years, confidants that buoyed one another upward during periods of despair and disillusionment.

Eventually, old Professor was discovered. He published a book, became popular and started to “get the word out” to too many folks, which of course attracted the government’s attention. Last John heard, Hayduke (as his close friends sometimes called him), was sitting in a detainee holding facility and being questioned for “anti-American activities,” including “fostering decentralized opposition to authority,” and “supporting tax revolt,” a real no-no after the big financial collapse in 2012. The Big Kahuna, as folks called it.

No one really knew where the facility was located these days, although it was rumored to be in Texas. John figured there was one person he could get to that knew where it was, and he also figured that person was most likely aiming to do something about it.

“Maybe he needs a hand,” John thought. Too often, John’s desires to act were beaten back by his fears. It was an increasing source of despondency, one he’d have to conquer if he was to find real happiness.

Each day became a struggle as more and more he lamented his lack of accomplishment. He’d never taught a class, never written a book, never worked a summer to help save a threatened species or rebuild an impoverished neighborhood. He never felt like he’d given enough back. His whole goddamned adult life had been spent in corporate Amerika, and he hated it.

Suddenly, however, he found clarity and courage. The courage to act.

John minimized the message as well as the mail program so the only thing remaining on the screen was the background image, a lovely rock outcrop in New Mexico. It was a favorite of his, a photo he took while vacationing with his wife, Susie, in Bandelier National Monument several years before. They were happy there, in fact, they were always happiest when they were on the road together or with their kids. His plan was to return permanently, but Susie was reluctant to leave the East and the disagreement had spawned more than a few heated arguments. He pushed aside the stack of papers sat on his desk and picked up a book concealed beneath. Most days, he’d read the book while pretending to make cold calls and important notes on a list of sales leads.

The book sat motionless and open, calling to him:

“Under the desert sun, in that dogmatic clarity, the fables of theology and the myths of classical philosophy dissolve like mist. The air is clean; the rock cuts cruelly into flesh; shatter the rock and the odor of flint rises into nostrils, bitter and sharp. Whirlwinds dance across the salt flats, a pillar of dust by day; the thornbush breaks into flame at night. What does it mean? It means nothing. It is as it is and has need for meaning. The desert lies beneath and soars beyond any possible human qualification. Therefore, sublime.”

John’s mind raced quickly as dozens and dozens of constrasting images swarmed his brain. A solitary hawk circling over a multicolored mesa, faces of ghoulish Chamber of Commerce representatives, strands of golden Aspen in the Uncompahgre, a sea of cubicles, majestic saguaros, guards behind towering fences, glistening heat on lonely stretches of highway and hundreds of “human resource” agents presenting termination papers to single moms that were only making a fraction of what their bosses made.

And that was it. The combination of the mail message, the photo and the Edward Abbey passage sent him hurling over the edge of the cliff, spiraling to the freedom that waited below. John stood up, closed the book, shoved it into his backpack, pushed his chair gently back to the desk and then slung the pack over his right shoulder. He started to walk out when he realized that he hadn’t shut down the computer. Green faux pax. He mumbled “fuck it” and walked out without turning it off fearing the excessive shutdown time would slow his progress and give his mind an opportunity to reconsider.

Without saying a word to anyone, he walked out the front door, jumped into his Tacoma pickup and exited through the gate, slowing only just enough to flash a sarcastic smile and wave at the guard. Once outside of the gate, he turned his cellphone off and put it on the seat and started his journey.

Having expected this moment for months, he left prepared. Camping gear loaded into the back. Travel cash stowed carefully in the inside pocket of His Marmot jacket. Enough food for five days. A Marlin lever action rifle and cartridges were stored in the back, just in case he got the chance to live out his dreamy but unrealistic Jeremiah Johnson fantasy life.

He drove home quickly and picked up the dog and his food pausing only to leave a brief note for Susie.

“Sorry. I couldn’t go on another day like this. You knew it was coming. I’ll call when I get where I’m going and figure things out. I love you. Don’t worry…I went southwest.-John”

Once he crossed the Mississippi River, he slowed down and pulled off the side of the road, just beyond the water and the bridge. After turning on his flashers, he grabbed his cellphone, walked to the edge of the bridge and with a single sweeping motion of his right arm, heaved the pestiferous little device as far as he could. Tempted to shoot at with his rifle, he decided to just watch it fly upward and away, then downward until he saw a small white ripple as it slipped into mighty river and began to sink into the muddy abyss.

Brewster County, Texas
G.L. rises from his chair, and the well worn wood of the frame cracks from the pressure of his palms. He walks over to the window, pulls up the dust covered blinds and then opens the window, allowing the cool morning air to circulate through the house.

A spider scampers quickly into the deep recesses of its web, waiting for the threat to pass. Above it, a potential meal, a fly, moves from pane to pane, aware of the man, but unaware of the danger below.

The man is keenly aware of both, and considers smashing the fly but decides to give the potential drama a chance to play itself out. Staring out the window, he ponders the reality that everything is a meal for something. Even him. That when the end comes, and it will, he’d be a meal for buzzards, beetles, perhaps even a coyote scavenging for gristle, flesh and bones in a shallow grave.

Dull sunlight and particles of dust dance in the plane of light connecting the window and dining room, but quickly evaporate into nothingness just before connecting to the china cabinet. Like the chair, it’s an ancient piece, a remnant of days long past, in another town, another place.

Outside, the morning air is murky, heavy, filled with dust and the faint smell of smoke and oil. Oil. Precious oil. Mother Earth’s gift that changed everything. Even now, years beyond the glory of Spindletop and the shame of Borga, it still reigns supreme.

Outside, the early Texas sun caresses a varied landscape occupied my many, conquered by none. And by noon,even in the early fall,the sun boils. Before the oppressive heat takes hold, perfectly evolved inhabitants withdraw to the safety of the shade. Night loving Prairie rattlesnakes find shelter under the wooden porch. Whip-tail lizards maneuver through patches of Rabbitbrush, cholla and blooming Desert philox to find respite under rocks or around the barn. A Western Screech owl makes use of the scraggly but viable piñon on the north side of the house. Smaller birds, mostly Scrub jays and an occasional wren, frolic in the sagebrush.

Here he’s safe from the ugliness of the city. At least for now. From a polyestrene world soaked with shrill sounds. He doesn’t hear the sirens, the gunfire, the leaf blowers, the pleas of the foreclosed and the whimpers of hungry, ownerless, flea infested dogs. He’s removed from the smell of urine in stairwells and piles of garbage. From hoards of militarized police that feast on the fear of the weak and the small cadre of powerful men that rule what some call civilization.

The only sound here is the screened door slapping in the wind.

But the growth monster cometh. Developers smell blood. Overhead, they circle like vultures, waiting for the county to capitulate and collapse in the face of their malfeasance. G.L. and his friends aim to stop it.

A glass half full of Makers Mark sits on the table next to his great-grandfather’s chair. It’s too damn early in the morning, but he reaches for it, takes a healthy drink and sets it back on the table. As the whiskey burns his throat and slides downward, his mind races back to his first home, then to elementary school, high school, college, lost lovers, jobs, friends and debts. His wife and children, his dogs and cats. The birds that used to frolic in his garden.

His whole life summarized in 30 seconds.

He thinks to himself “this all there is?” “Yes,” he concludes. It’s all just a blur. A brief fleeting moment, summarized by 30 seconds of self absorbed thought. Maybe some folks don’t even get 30 seconds. Some perhaps more.

Life is a bunch of interactions, some good, some bad, some neutral, and then at the end it replays like a tape in fast forward until the tape flies off the reels and flops around like a black snake. And that’s it. Your brain is like a blank tee-vee screen. It’s all black and finished.

He takes another drink and closes his eyes.

Next to the chair is a Winchester rifle, lever action, Model 94 .30-.30 that belonged to his dad. A cherished Colt SAA, nickle-plated .45 with a 7-1/2 inch barrel, just like the one Henry Fonda used in Once Upon A Time In The West. El Paso Leather company rig. Beautiful and deadly but an outdated tool from a time long past. There’s also a Glock, a more useful and functional tool than the more beautifuly crafted Colt.

He stands and slips the Glock into his holster and slides the rifle over his shoulder. He starts for the door when he realizes he forgot to eat.

Breakfast, most important meal of the day. Yes, much has changed, but not breakfast. A hearty breakfast is good for the stomach and for the spirit.

His wife, Allison, stares at him, unhappy he’s leaving. Her pursed lips, cracked from the aridity of the high desert air, don’t move an inch. She wants him to feel the full measure of her displeasure, and she points it at him like a bayonet. Her eyes are full of feeling, yet they’re also empty, cold and unrelenting.

She turns her back to him and refocuses on the iron skillet where she was cooking the eggs.

He comes up behind her, placing his arms around her waist, and then his head upon her shoulder, nudging up close to her neck so he could feel her head next to his own. Like he’d done thousands of times before.

His hand drops upon her apron where he can feel the dustiness of flour and finally,her hand touches his.

“Put that damn rifle in the corner, wash your hands and sit down and eat.”

G.L. does as he’s told.

The biscuits are perfect as usual, and the bacon is good and crisp. Thick with just the right amount of smoke. The eggs look delicious. Straight from the yard.

He devours the meal in minutes. God, it’s good. So goddamn good.

“Well, gotta go.”
“Go where?”
“Meet some folks.”
“Why you taking that gun?”
“It’s Texas. Everybody’s got a gun.”
“No they don’t. What they’ve got is a lot of crazy bad ideas. Don’t you get caught up in it. Sit back down and finish your coffee ‘fore I hobble you like a horse.”

G.L. does as he’s told, and Allison makes it worth his while.

Chapter 1
Marathon, Texas
As G.L. rises from his chair, the well worn wood of the frame cracks from the pressure of his palms. He walks over to the window, pulls up the dust covered blinds and then opens the window, allowing the cool morning air to circulate through the house.

A spider scampers quickly into the deep recesses of its web, waiting for the threat to pass. Above it, a potential meal, a fly, moves from pane to pane, aware of the man, but unaware of the danger below.

The man is keenly aware of both, and considers smashing the fly but decides to give the potential drama a chance to play itself out. Staring out the window, he ponders the reality that everything is a meal for something. Even him. That when the end comes, and it will, he’d be a meal for buzzards, beetles, perhaps even a coyote scavenging for gristle, flesh and bones in a shallow grave.

Dull sunlight and particles of dust dance in the plane of light connecting the window and dining room, but quickly evaporate into nothingness just before connecting to the china cabinet. Like the chair, it’s an ancient piece, a remnant of days long past, in another town, another place.

Outside, the morning air is murky, heavy, filled with dust and the faint smell of smoke and what seems to be oil. But there’s not much oil. It’s been more or less gone for years, gone from a land where it once was in abundance. Now, years beyond the glory of Spindletop and the shame of Borga, the only things remaining are the houses, their contents and a few hearty souls that understand how to live in place with the land.

Outside, the early Texas sun caresses a varied landscape occupied my many, conquered by none. And by noon, at 4000 feet, the sun boils. Before the oppressive heat takes hold, perfectly evolved inhabitants withdraw to the safety of the shade. Night loving Prairie rattlesnakes find shelter under the wooden porch. Whip-tail lizards maneuver through patches of Rabbitbrush, cholla and blooming Desert philox to find respite under rocks or around the barn. A Western Screech owl makes use of the scraggly but viable piñon on the north side of the house. Smaller birds, mostly Scrub jays and an occasional wren, frolic in the sagebrush.

Here, far from a place he once escaped, he’s safe. An ugly, uninviting world devoid of the things he loves, a polyestrene soaked world filled with shrill sounds. He doesn’t hear the sirens, the gunfire, the explosions, the cries of motherless children and the whimpers of hungry, ownerless, flea infested dogs. He’s removed from the smell of urine in stairwells and piles of garbage. From hoards of militarized police that feast on the fear of the weak and the small cadre of powerful men that rule what was once called civilization.

A screened door slaps in the wind. In a few moments, he’ll walk through that door, perhaps for the last time, saddle his horse, load some supplies on a pack horse and head east through a harsh land to follow a compulsion. Duty. There’s fear, but not crushing, self-defeating fear. A rational fear of sorts. Simply an acknowledgment of what lies ahead.

A glass half full of Makers Mark sits on the table next to his great-grandfather’s chair. He reaches for it, takes a healthy drink and sets it back on the table. As the whiskey burns his throat and slides downward, his mind races back to his first home, then to elementary school, high school, college, lost lovers, jobs, friends and debts. His wife and children, his dogs and cats. The birds that used to frolic in his garden.

His whole life summarized in 30 seconds.

He thinks to himself “this all there is?” “Yes,” he concludes. It’s all just a blur. A brief fleeting moment, summarized by 30 seconds of self absorbed thought. Maybe some folks don’t even get 30 seconds. Some perhaps more.

Life is a bunch of interactions, some good, some bad, some neutral, and then at the end it replays like a tape in fast forward until the tape flies off the reels and flops around like a black snake. And that’s it. Your brain is like a blank tee-vee screen. It’s all black and finished.

He takes another drink and closes his eyes.

Next to the chair is a Winchester rifle, lever action, Model 94 .30-.30 that belonged to his dad. A cherished Colt SAA, nickle-plated .45 with a 7-1/2 inch barrel, just like the one Henry Fonda used in Once Upon A Time In The West. El Paso Leather company rig. Beautiful and deadly but an outdated tool from a time long past.

He’s uncomfortable around guns, but his instinct tells him to keep them close. When he leaves, he’ll carry full clips, with a round in the chamber. But these are for the Glock, which while not having the sentimental value of the Colt, it’s simpler, more efficient. The Colt, grand in its day, attracts too much attention from thieves. The Glock sends a simple but sufficient message to would be assailants.

Finally, he stands again, slips the Glock into a concealment holster and slides the rifle over his shoulder. He starts for the door when he realizes he forgot to eat.

Breakfast, most important meal of the day. Yes, much has changed, but not breakfast. A hearty breakfast is good for the stomach and for the spirit.

It’s now five years after the crash, the major meltdown everyone knew was coming, but conveniently ignored. Precipitated by several mini-crashes and shots across the bow. The system was like a giant heart. The economy was the left atrium, the major repository of its life giving substance, money. From there, it flowed to the left atrium, the financial system, pouring into left ventricle via the aorta. But the blood flow was interrupted after the aorta gave out, thanks in no small part to overindulgence. A bad diet that consisted of too much fossil fuel, killing vital areas of left atrium.

Resuscitation attempts failed and the growth economy was dead. The Wall Street tycoons were history. So were hedge funds and PPO’s. The only private equity available was sweat equity and much to his liking, livery stables once again outnumbered car dealerships. So did bike shops.

Oh, there was oil. But it was pricey, and folks don’t burn it on Sunday afternoon drives. You’d see a truck here and there running up to Alpine for supplies, but it’s like being back in 1905 where you were liable to see as many horses as Fords.

His wife, Alison, stares at him, unhappy over his plans and especially the guns. His plans to leave the safety of their home, the comfortable life they’d carved out of chaos. Her pursed lips, cracked from the aridity of the desert air, don’t move an inch. She wants him to feel the full measure of her displeasure, and she points it at him like a bayonet. Her eyes are full of feeling, yet they’re also empty, cold and unrelenting.

She turns her back to him and refocuses on the iron skillet where she was cooking the eggs.

He comes up behind her, placing his arms around her waste, and then his head upon her shoulder, nudging up close to her neck so he could feel her head next to his own. Like he’d done thousands of times before.

His hand drops upon her apron where he can feel the dustiness of flour and finally, her hand touches his.

The biscuits are perfect as usual, and the bacon is good and crisp. Thick with just the right amount of smoke, ten times better than the packaged crap they’d bought at grocers years back. The eggs are better, too. Straight from the yard. The only thing missing is orange juice, but it’s too expensive and not readily available this far out. Once gasoline topped ten bucks per gallon, stuff what wasn’t local became a luxury.

Except for whiskey and beer, odd exceptions that always seemed to make it through, at least as far as Alpine and even to the Gage Hotel bar or The French Grocer right there in town. There’s still chocolate and cheese, necessities as far as they are concerned, and even a few bottles of wine.

The only real problem is Homeland Security and various private security firms which hold the cities in a tight vice. The cities are prisons and the people within them are living under what more or less amounts to self imposed sentences. Too many people too unprepared for a predictable and avoidable end to it all. Some fled and found refuge in small towns, but there was chaos in small towns as well. Places like Willits, California were prepared, but once the word got out that you could find food and work, a deluge of people converged on such places which often lead to violence. Strangers were viewed with suspicion.

Seems people had finally learned that a given area could only support so many humans, so population and far reaching resource extraction laws were implemented locally. There was only so much housing, and if you wanted to establish residence, it had to be approved by a review board. It was hard but it was fair.

And now, after all the trouble of getting out and establishing a decent, fair life, a dream life even, G.L. was going back. Back into the belly of the beast. The prison of concrete and steel with its massive edifices of broken power, towering ghosts of the Age of Oil, the final Gilded Age.

Sitting at the table he ponders these things and asks himself “why me?” Why is it incumbent upon me to take action? No one else seems to be doing anything.

His mind races back to the 1930′s when the German people did nothing. Back to 2007 when the American people did nothing and what inaction had ultimately meant to the country.

He ponders inaction and responsibility, only if it’s action to help a friend, not save a country. Countries can’t be saved. In fact, the best way to save this one, if such a thing is possible, is to continue to allow it to fail. The best way to insure failure? Remain here, live sensibly and make the power seekers irrelevant.

He changes his mind and decides to stay, but then he quickly changes it again. He goes back and forth between “stay” and “go” until a soft voice breaks his concentration and settles it.

“Your breakfast is ready, honey.”

I had a discussion recently with a gentleman (probably too generous a term for this guy, but…) about the “right” and the “left” in this country. He stated that leftists were in control of the government, a point I vehemently disagreed with, and here’s why.

The real “left” (if there is such a nice little compartmentalized description that fits) in this country doesn’t support the expansion of war in Afghanistan. We don’t support massive corporate bailouts that seemingly only fund fat cat capitalists receiving million dollar bonuses. We don’t support six hundred billion dollar military budgets and the principle that if the economy isn’t growing it’s dying.

Those are things centrist Democrats and Republicans support, not leftists.

Leftist are generally in support of bioregional organization of steady state economies. We like simplicity and believe less is more. And I’ve also decided it (yes, I decided it for all of you…get with it or head to the wall) calls for eschewing ourselves of televisions, which are little more than expensive, corporate blathering machines, and cellphones, another blathering machine, but also a potentially dangerous one.

Every man should exit this planet the way he came into it. Penniless and with no possessions. Give everything away. Rid ourselves of our plunder.

Being a leftist and a revolutionary means to stand apart not to stand amongst.

Like Jesus. I think that was his program, wasn’t it?