Archive for the ‘Variations on a Theme’ Category

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And now for a word on my creative process.  As published in the Head and the Hand.

Tracks w:Black Frame

 Art.  Fever.  Heart. 

It’s  the difference between night and day.  I spend my last waking hours reading exquisite writers.  Céline if I’m in the mood for raw and racing prose.  Pablo Neruda if I’m in the mood for aged and oceanic poetry.  Camille Paglia if I’m in the mood to split the difference. She’s a deep thinker whose sentences read  like acid-guitar licks.

In the morning, I kick-start my brain with junk.  I read spam.  I read celebrity gossip while ogling pictures of starlets in see-through gowns and micro-bikinis.  I read crime reports designed to put me into a state of apolexy:  white collar scams, crimes of passion and murders by bored kids.  Then, when my mind is catapulted into the chaos, I  fight to regain the lost chord.  It’s a fight to reconnect with the vibe that I carried, like a lullaby, through my sleep.  Nothing else makes me feel at risk of losing the  writer’s vocation in the jaws of media over-kill.

Coffee.  Nicotine gum.  These are my concessions, like steroids, to the need to compete at speed with the Big Boys. Of course, they exacerbate the over-stimulated, over-accelerated,  over-the-top rush that I get while coursing through the inter-net.  But having worked as a helmsman in the Carribean and priding myself as a cosmic navigator, I do a little yogic breathing to keep me right on course.  All of which reminds me of a passage in Michael Herr’s “Dispatches” in which an US Army LURP took a mix of pills to make himself “right” before long-distance patrols in hostile territory.   Amphetamines to give him down-range vision and lethal tension.  Sedatives to give him lateral vision  and a soft float through the thickets.  My co-option of the method could  be an author’s conceit.  I don’t care.   It’s my bullshit and I’m sworn to it. 

That’s my method.   In the darkness of night, I read authors who suit my character but arc above me in talent, stature and mojo.  They take me  into dreamland. In the light of day, I read chrome plated, tinsel covered, rat-tat-tat glitz that foils my imagination.  Tweeked to the point of insanity, I fight to find my center.  An inkwell in the eye of the hurricane. Or, the heart of my fevered art.

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 The article, “MANNING DOWN, The Mote in the Manosphere’s Eye” inspired me to write this entry.

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RANK DESIRE: APING ALPHAS IN DETROIT

I worked in the belly-of-the-beast for years.  A Detroit bar frequented by professional basketball and hockey players, Chaldean liquor store owners and slick street-fighters. On Sunday nights, the strippers arrived from Canada.   Cocaine, booze and pussy is a volatile mix.  There were excellent brawls.  Often, tribal affairs.  The White townies who followed the strippers in from Windsor had an especially  difficult time with the  shifty Middle Easterners.

The bouncers were an interesting study.  Most were excellent parodies of alphas.  The crew-chief was blond, brutally handsome, and pumped with steroids.  One night he made a show of throwing a skinny Albanian out the door.  Two minutes later, the punk returned with a pistol.

One shot in the air outside the bar to summon the gods of whiskey courage.  Then a second shot into the inside ceiling of the bar, to assert overall authority.  A pudgy bouncer, an aging hillbilly from Kentucky, knocked a waitress down and shielded her body.  Then there was a case of mistaken identity.  The Albanian recognized only the tuxedo shirt and cummerbund,  and put a gun-barrel into the flattened bouncer’s ear.

“You’re a dead man,” he said before a fellow greaser tugged him away. They fled into the night, past beat-cops who were still ogling girls on the corner.

The point?  The aging hillbilly, admittedly of an older generation, wasn’t so much an “alpha male” as a “natural man”.  He grew up without a dad.  He had four brothers, one of whom “liked weenies.”  He took custody of two plump daughters when his marriage disintegrated.  In spite of his protective nature, he wasn’t what Moderns would call a sensitive guy because of his coarse dislike for Blacks, Middle-Easterners, Mexicans and untested Whites outside his inner-circle. Yet within his inner-circle, he was very well-rounded.  Fatherly.  Brotherly.  Friendly.  This character stamp made him very old-school, which he also expressed in his dislike of weight-lifiting, steroids and martial-arts mania. Further safe-guarding hillbilly tradition, he was a great story-teller of gonzo adventures in dark alleys and enemy bars.  Of course, I loved his self-effacing charm while looking past him at  the preening bouncers who oversaw the beautifully shallow girls that dominate nightlife.   Believe me, I have nothing against a gorgeous woman with more style than brains.  It takes clear intuition. It’s her art.

I had second-tier status as a bartender.  I desperately wanted to run with the big-boys.  Once, on a field-trip with the heavyweights to “The Windsor Ballet”, the 6’5” bar owner bought me a lap-dance from the ugliest girl in the Canadian strip-joint.  Not long afterwards, disgusted with my rank, I tried throwing a cocaine primed whiteguy  out of the downtown Detroit bar all by myself.  The  cops who took me to the hospital, and had seen a lot of maw, were shocked into silence.  I’d routinely slipped them drinks.  And now I was their beat-up passenger, taking a funereal trip to Detroit Receiving  Hospital while mumbling sporting nonsense.

The old bouncer “got it.”  He soon came to my  aid as a beat-down beta.  He loved, if nothing else, my  ability to take punishment.  He recommended vitamin E for my scar. He gave me street-fighting lessons while confessing to his own acute fears in a scrap.  He was a marvellous guy.  Not so much an “alpha male” as a “natural man.”  I got courage from being near him and that leads to the point of this story:  there is ego-strength and there is love-strength. I got ego-strength from aping the alpha-bouncers and it gave me two black eyes, seventeen stitches and a night in Detroit Receiving next to bad niggahs, real alpha losers, handcuffed to gurnies.  I got love-strength from the old hillbilly and it’s given me something else.  In trucker’s terms, it’s given me an even  displacement that’s good for the long-haul.

Love-strength is is a graduation from ego-strength.  Speaking of which,  I recently  had a 40th class reunion.  It was lovely to see a small cadre of natural-men, balding Midwestern football and hockey captains, with their fat wives.  They’d transferred their glory to their sons.  But they still had understated power and, by definition, male glamour.

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Detroit’s Destiny

Posted: March 25, 2012 in Variations on a Theme
Tags: ,
-please hit the title for a link to the article that was the catalyst for this entry-

Detroit’s Destiny

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I knew a handful of Detroit cops from my job at a bartender on the edge of Greektown.  On weekends, plainclothes guys put on their uniforms and worked the Downtown beat, protecting suburban Whites and from the natives. They’d get thirsty.  They’d duck into the bar for a coca-cola with a hefty shot of booze.  At closing, they’d return again for the pickings.  

The suburban Whitegirls went nuts for these  “true” cops.  I was attracted to them too, in my own curious way.  Every man, no matter how inarticulate, was a  book of harrowing and humorous stories.  Futhermore, being low on the totem-pole of life, they almost always had a goofy humility  that was best expressed on their off nights, without groupies or uniforms, when the hard-core drinking began at 2:30 am.   I’ve never had, even in my nightwatches on the Caribbean, such great story telling company. And rarely have I been regarded with less suspicion as I told my own  tales of dark, socially-retarded and lonely adventures.  

I could go toe-to-toe with them for awhile, and then the coppers outsdistanced me with a fireside ease.  Inevitably, I wanted to get on The Force.  I wanted “in”. I was about 32 years old when I passed the physical with White scorekeepers who’d been given the nod that I was okay.  There was a hiring freeze.  I had to repeat the obstacle course, the  dummy drag and the mile run again at 36. I had Black scorekeepers. In fact, I had Black female scorekeepers who were asleep at the stop-watch.  I failed.  I knew it was a blessing in disguise and continued tending bar until I landed at my proper station: teaching Special Ed at a Detroit high school.  

During my time as a teacher, Malice Green got stopped outside a crackhouse down the road. He resisted arrest.  He got a few whacks upside the head with a mag-light in the course of submission.  He died from a cocaine induced and/or trauma induced siezure.  The arresting officers got thrown to the dogs.  There was a show-trial.  I attended a semi-private fundraiser for the accused in an Irish saloon near the retired Cadillac Fleetwood plant.  And here’s the point: It was like walking into the very last heated and lamplit bunker at  Stalingrad.

Warriors in the shadows.  98% White cops.  Huddled together and sharing their fate.  I didn’t belong.  I was on the inside of the inner-circle, but only physically.  I had two beers then left.  A single cop, having a sixth sense for interlopers, followed me outside. He must’ve thought  that I was a gallows reporter from the mainstream press.   But I could never stoop that low.

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grimshaw-mc5-card
-please hit the title for a link to the news that was the catalyst for this entry-

R.I.P. Michael Davis of the MC5

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The pale girl down the street was an MC5 groupie.  One grey day along the Detroit River, she began to tell stories.  She was instructed to pull off Sonic’s boots…

Groupies love fame.  They’re seduced by the specter of immortality.  And then the rock ‘n roll heroes slowly go to the grave. One by one the body degenerates and expires.  Maybe the radiant energy itself is immortal and transfers to the next Overnight Sensation.  Which is another way of saying that Fate is omnipresent and, in her personal favors, wildly fickle.

I remember the initial surge of the  MC5.  It can’t be understood without the suppressive weight of the Vietnam War and the draft.  Because I wasn’t quite 17 years old, I  got a fake ID to get into the Grande Ballroom.  The show was darkly fantastic with dangerous undertones. I loved how everything was sculpted from the local ore.  The show.  The music.  The mystique.

I’ve never seen anything better than the intro, with JC Crawford revving up the crowd to a revolutionary pitch before The 5 breaks into Ramblin’ Rose.  Wayne Kramer’s falsetto in front of the crashing-driving rhythm section was a mind-bender.  He sang  like a man with the devil squeezing his nuts.

But I never completely bought-in.  I  have a theory about the thin line that separates otherwise lumped and lumpen Whites. My dad owned a meat-market and I did as much backbreaking work as any assembly-line hack. But I had a personal investment in the business and no blind hatred for “The Man” in all of his racist, materialist and war-mongering manifestations.  Consequently my funk, anger and suicidal ecstacies were tempered by more than rank bourgeois manners.  I had a humble family estate to preserve.  I had a standard of beauty to preserve, too, although one really has to be low-born to consider a meat-market beautiful with its patterned displays,  fine-cuts and coiffed grannies in aprons.

In Detroit terms, that family business was like a Cadillac or an SS 396 Chevelle.  It was more than a means to eat, as a slick car was more than a means to travel.  Factory rats didn’t have such a wholly integrated life. Their sons knew.  Kids who were looking to supercede their dads and find work to love often started rock bands.  But that remains tricky to this very day, because there is often a contest to be the most raw and uncompromising talent.  I don’t think that  The 5 suffered from this affectation.  They weren’t acting wild. They were wild.  It’s their tragic glory.

The MC 5 groupie, by the way, was a nomadic child without a civic reputation to safeguard. Her parents were late migrating Southerners and, judging by her truant brothers, hucksters. One landed in Marquette Prison. My mother warned me against siring a love-child that would meld our families. The  groupie was an opaque kind of greaser-femme: awkward grace and black leather jacket.   She had the translucent complexion of X-rated royalty.  Small-breasted. Long-legged   Hawk-nosed.  She ended-up a stripper at Starvin’ Marvin’s down the street from my dad’s store.

The go-go bar was on Fort Street.  That’s the highway that leads from the Lake Erie swamplands, the duck hunters’ paradise, into the  core of Industrial Detroit.  It’s lined with working-class Whites of diverse shades.  How to explain?  I used to drink with a Detroit cop who joined the Flat Rock Police when he was laid-off.  He favored the ghetto over the sticks.  In fact, he absolutely hated working in the sticks. It was because, “When there was a domestic dispute, you ended having to fight Billy Bob and his brother Billy Joe, then their three drunk cousins too.”

There’s a tapering from rural to industrial bleakness as one travels north on Fort Street towards Detroit. The MC 5 used to practice  at the drummer’s house in the non-bucolic suburb of Lincoln Park. It’s true-blue-collar.  It’s a  hapless reservoir of laboring Whites.  It is, unlike Detroit and Ann Arbor, a cultural wasteland if hockey isn’t your #1 Thing.  So, local  kids with an artistic calling grew-up at an aching remove. Like the desolate hillbilly who only has the radio to connect him to Nashville.  This incubation remains good for the soul to this very day.  A bucking artist develops inner-torque.  Then one day he gets a guitar, a driver’s license and  a rusty ol’ Chevy.  The Great Avenging of his loneliness begins.

I never cared for The 5’s dissonances and White Panther buttons.  But I understood their collective fight as dirty Whiteboys competing in an alien world of IQ fetish, money-sharks and highly educated Machiavellians.  I  understood John Sinclair protecting the MC5  from others.  I understood John Sinclair protecting the MC5 from themselves, too.  They had a collective raw genius.  In which, as these things go, was the seed of their destruction.

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The  story “Never Thrown a Punch” inspired me to write about my meta-experience in the boxing demimonde.

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Boxing and Related Haunts

by

JJ Przybylski

You see what you want to see, sure.  But you also see what you’re fated to see.  All of which begs the question: why does one pug experience boxing as a Holy Innocent and another pug experience boxing as a bedevilled voyuer?

“Never Thrown A Punch” brings to mind my own story.  Unsatisfied with turf fights in Rustville, I had one under-the-lights fight in Hollywood, Florida.  The headliners were two golden-gloves champs.  The winner was a brutally handsome whitekid who soon went on to murder his girlfriend, escape from jail, and be recaptured on an airfield in the bush while the getaway plane was warming-up.

His dad was a golden-gloves champ too.  He’d masterminded the escape.  I remember being with them in the locker room, watching the dad cutting the tape on his son’s hands after the victory.  The pride.  The intimacy.  The raw beauty.

Later on, I saw the winner with his raven-haired girlfriend at the concession stand. Backlit by greasy lights and raked by shadows, they nursed a Pepsi-Cola.  They seemed too delicate with each other.  They seemed to be foretasting disaster instead of god-like victory.  What could be so  deeply spoiled, so internally malignant, that it couldn’t be cured by a conquest that pointed upwards to the US Olympic Trials?  Personally, I hated boxing but it was something that I had to do.  Fate dictated it, just as fate dictated that I  make a study of the reticent lovers whose story would unfold in the back-pages of the local papers.  They had an afterglow whose tarnish I  couldn’t put into words. Thus my quick eye preceded my sluggish talent.

Boxing packs a punch. I’ve had my bell rung inside the ring and I’ve had my bell rung outside the ring.  They’re phenomenon of different orders: physical and metaphysical. One disorients physically.  One orients metaphysically.  I wasn’t born to box even though my dad was an amateur with 60 fights. Rather, I was born to force myself into the boxing demimonde in order to behold stunning things  that taunted my art of explanation.  Again, this is how vocation precedes sluggish talent. It’s also how resonant moments that remain fresh-unto-death predicate many passing  bouts with oneself while slogging through life as a writer, a man-of-faith or anything else. Learning this truth was my real education.  It had little to do with learning hooks and upper-cuts.  It had little to do with testing  courage and taking my proper place amongst good sports.  It had quite a lot to do, however, with resisting the fraternal pull of hustlers of every color, stripe and counterfeit.

I had an “appointment” to be on the undercard that night in Florida. I’m 100% certain that I’d  trained for it since being handled by a priest, whereas I’d only trained  5 months with a punchdrunk Army vet for my debut in the ring. No sporting poet has written about the “touch” conferred by pedophiles in God’s perverted corner.  They restain your soul a darker shade of Fallen. They put a counter-spin on your spirit, too, that gives forbidden knowledge its own twist and aura. A writer of Nietzsche’s revolting vigor or Villon’s criminal mirth would be thankful for the jolt. That’s why I’ve always thought that it would be sissy-pink to go to a shrink.  Real men don’t do it.  And neither do their sons who have ambitions to be unreal writers who animate their material with inklings of heaven and hell.

In any case, I  had a multi-level appointment to be on the undercard that night in Hollywood, Florida.  I had  sparred with the Black champ at the Fort Lauderdale YMCA, on his off-days when he wasn’t training  at the legendary 5th Street Gym in Miami Beach.  I met the White champ, as I’ve mentioned,  in the locker room in the Hollywood arena. All in all, I had the inside track on a titanic battle between many worldly things.  A battle betwen the races, a battle between country-boy and city-kid, a battle between studs of the same weightclass, rank and fame pedaling circuit. And I had an inside-the-inside track on what I’d like to call a prescient spiritual vein. But it was probably just a low-grade psychic receptivity,  bequeathed by the diddling priest, to  auras that only appeared to be silver-gold halos.  Father-son love.  White knight and raven-haired damsel love.  Legendary lineal love.

Love of expert destruction, too.  Think  of the the higher-animal magnetism of  the renegade USN Seal who can almost, but not quite, match his personal code to the governing law. He passes before your eyes like a mere trouble-shooting mechanic on his way to a blast-furnace in Rustville.  You see what you want to see.  You see what you’re fated to see.  And, expounding upon the latter, you see what you can see by “virtue” of a  haunting familiarity. So I saw tragedy from the very start, in the germ of an otherwise winning character, before it festered and popped. The fatal clusterfuck became a time-released tale in the local papers. The crime-of-passion.  The jail-break. The recapture.  The tailoring to a just end.

To write the entire episode off as the foibles of low-lifes, the foul ecstacies of White Trash,  would be to miss the smart cut of father/son, the strained public poise of the lady in question, and the Shakespearean hint of the dynasty question gone mad. There is also the Shakespearean arc, lifted from The Fall of Man  and the Birth of Christ, of order ruptured and order restored. All of which I’ve come to realize after the event as a terribly sluggish writer.  A meatball talent and, in my dreams, the pride of Rustville.

I learned, through boxing, one  thing:  I have a third-eye with a “telling” speck of dirt in it.  This optic separates me from the Holy Innocent.  For better.  For worse.

I won my match, by the way, against a greaser from New York.  But that’s a menial story.

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Pleasure-Dome Police State

“We should expect tyranny to result from democracy, the most savage subjection from an excess of liberty”.

-Plato, Republic, Book VIII, 564 a

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Camille Paglia says that there is no female Mozart because there is no female Jack the Ripper.  She was talking about the obsessive nature of European Man.  All men must master trajectory or they’ll piss on their shoes.  Within this Universal there are cultural variants.

Which brings me to Spengler and the Faustian-thrust that’s a variation the beastly prowess common to all men.  All men carry rockets in their pockets.  Only a specific breed of man has the obsessive motive-force to send rockets into outer space. From which he gets a god-like view of the Planet Earth.  A confirmation of genius!  And also an invitation to all kinds of nasty conceits.

In regards to will-to-power, Mr Hackard offers a  guideline when he  says, “politics must be conducted in fidelity to the moral law, whose Author is supra-natural. All power derives from God, and to Him shall it be consecrated.”  Hackard could be the Catholic writer E. Michael Jones, or the Eastern Orthodox writer  Fr. Matthew Johnson, talking about Logos.  He could also be the anti-Christian writer Savitri Devi, talking about the evil cupidity of a Man-Centered-Universe, wherein Whites and Jews with hyper-trophied forebrains affect to hijack the Divine Order for their own seamy glory.  I am neither scientist, politician, priest nor philosopher.  My interest as an artist: how to maintain that virile Faustian momentum, how to  rise above the downward pull of the lower orders, how to tickle the upper reaches while remaining integrated into the fold.

Paglia says that Rousseau leads to Sade,  just as Plato said that democracy leads to tyranny.  These maxims, as Spengler teaches, only seem to be universals.  That’s because races don’t course through space and time in the same way.  The tests are different and so are the answers seen into existence.  Visionaries are seeded into ethnic fields of art, religion and science. Predicting variable outcomes between riveting brackets is a strictly Faustian quest.  Like quantum physics, the sets are “it”.  Equating Mozart to Jack the Ripper,  Rousseau to Sade, and democracy to tyranny takes a subliminal knowing that’s native-borne.

Now, “with  the NDAA, our policy elites have appropriated a mask of legality to manage the chaos they themselves engineered.” It’s form following content, bled of  folk aesthetic, and butt ugly. One is tempted to piss on it.  But, I guess,  Faustian trajectory demands higher aim.

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Kitchen Sandwich

 

Dear Ms. Janelle-

Uh oh. I must’ve insulted your ladyship.

A woman’s estate is herself! That’s the cosmic truth that I tried to  tickle with my cockiness. The Diva. The Goddess. The Dominatrix. The Earth Mother and the commanding housewife. They are all variations of the same self-possessed being. And your own lofty aplomb is absolutely tantalizing.

Man comes from woman. An  inner-pocket of genesis, a self-sacrificing  host to a kickin’ parasite, and an irresistible fleshpot in the round. It’s  this inherent magnitude that makes even hard men feel impotent and defile females in porno-films. Meanwhile, their better adjusted brothers write poems about a woman’s unassailable mystique. I know. You deserve the latter.

Mea culpa, mea culpa. I’m open to direction.

Sincerely-
J. J.

p.s.

Here is Ferdinand  Céline’s take on Feminine Mystique.  As an opera singer, you might be interested in death-by-dancer. Ballet dancer.   Obviously Céline is a over-the-top when it comes to a woman’s leg.  He was also over-the-top when it came to Jewish tribalism.   In fact, the following passage is taken from one of his “anti-Semetic” screeds.  Bagatelles For A Massacre.  Funny, how I get pulled into Céline’s  work as if into a woman’s crotch, and become intoxicated by his salts, sugars and earthiness.  I experience  a blind-ecstacy. His  preternatural glut of Parisian pomposity  and barnyard flavor really excites me.   I know.  I know.  It’s nothing to be proud of.

In the leg of a dancer the whole world, its waves, and all of its rhythms, its irrationalities, its aspects are inscribed!… Not simply jotted-down!… The most nuanced poem in the world! …moving! Gutman! Everything! That ineffable poem, warm and delicate which is a dancer’s leg in balanced movement is in touch, Gutman my friend, with the soundings of the very greatest mystery, which is God. Which is God himself! Quite simply! That’s the gist of what I’ve been thinking! Beginning next week, Gutman, after the end of the term, I no longer want to work save for the dancers… Everything for dance! Nothing outside of dance! Life has laid hold of them, pure…has taken them away…given the least impetus, I would go off to lose myself amongst them…for the rest of my life… scintillating…undulating…Gutman! They are calling me!… I am no longer myself… I give in… I don’t want to be tossed away unto eternity!… but unto the source of everything…of all the waves… The reason for the world is there… nowhere else…

To die by dancer!… I am old, I am going to die soon… I want to crumble away, keel over, dissolve, evaporate, turn into a cloud…in arabesques…in the void…in the fountains of the mirage… I deserve to perish in the most beautiful way… I want her to whisper upon my heart… It will cease to beat… I promise you! See to it Gutman that I am close to the dancers!… I want to pass away well, as does everyone, you know…but not in a chamber pot…but by a wave…by a beautiful wave…the most dancing…the most touching...”

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