Posts Tagged ‘crazy’

greetings-from-detroit

The following is a speech that I gave at the New York Forum in February 2017

OUTLAW FRATERNITY

I might as well blab about outlaw fraternity. I know a thing or two about outlaw fraternity from running with the white boys in Detroit. Pre-crack epidemic thru post-crack epidemic. I ran in stride with Ferretti was who was an art school drop-out born into a long-line of Italian masons. I mean calloused bricklayers. I mean whiskey-drinkin’, chain smokin’ and knuckle-bustin’ bricklayers.

Every day, for 15 years, a dime-a-dance Alamo. One morning, at 3 a.m., Ferretti was leaving the Lafayette Coney Island downtown. A fleeing niggro pushed him out the door. A pursuing niggro pushed him onto the sidewalk and politely said, “Scuse me, pleeez, while I shoots this mu-tha-fuckuh!”

Bang. Bang. Bang. This was TNB with proper mammy-trained style. This was Detroit, full of folksy surprises, as we knew it. It added a comic tonic to being a Post-Industrial, Post-Modern and post-hope artist.

Not at all a White Separatist, Ferretti nevertheless had fine homing instincts. Which is to say that he arrived firstest with the mostest bullshit and got hired as resident manager and handy man at an old paint factory, across from Tiger Stadium, being converted into artists’ lofts. It became Ferretti’s fiefdom. It became his own friggin’ intentional community. It also became, like NASCAR and hockey, implicitly white. Of course there was a rollicking diversity of butch and femme lesbians, tersely academic and hysterically emoting homos, amateur chefs and bohos who more or less ate from a can. And, because this was Detroit, there were resident mechanics, really ham-fisted mechanics, turned fine-artists of sorts.

Meanwhile I lived downtown in a new high-rise showpiece thick with arrivista Blacks. A luxury fortress with gym, pool, video monitors and guards in the lobby. My apartment was a rent-reduced bone to the poor. I was the token white boy in the set-aside scheme. Coleman “Soulman” Young was Detroit’s mayor from 1974-94 and hecoleman-young politicked on the racial spoils platform. The majority of my New Money neighbors were quite conservative in their I-Gots-Mine stance. Well-nested, well-behaved and well-oiled into a daily pageant of Black grandeur with Louis the Hatter and wigged-out fashions. They were their own society. The palace where I counter-slummed was across the street from the dusty courthouse where Francis Yockey once labored as a legal intern. I might as well have walked in Spengler’s in footsteps outta dumb luck.

For employment I tended bar until 4 a.m. in Mexican Town. The owner left before midnight after making a show of latin bravado and barking like a bowel-legged Chihuahua. His wife had him on a leash. A matriarchal diva, with bullet-point tits and genuine Spaniards in her blood-line, she paid me to do her daughter’s homework. It was quicker, really more efficient, than tutoring the touchy virgin. I closed the joint alone like helpless crime-bait on a dark corner. I dialed the phone and caught a cab driven by professional dirt-bags who had, when they weren’t being robbed, a symbiotic relationship with drug-runners, street-walkers, blind-pig operators and you-name-it.

Later, I taught high school in the same spooky barrio between a derelict Cadillac plant and the infamous Michigan Central Station that you see in every pathetic documentary about “The Ruins of Detroit”. The neighborhood was my own personal theater of operations, quite apart from the art scene. I slipped into what Evola might call esoteric-aryan style.

Not exactly a coward, I’m sub-beta-scared until I have an edge. I speak Spanish and that was what I needed to roll through SW Detroit. I could play dumb while José and his turf-rats talked about me; I could speak their lingo and enter their nest as a quasi-simpatico guest. Unlike my artist bros with their blue-collar and hard-nosed ethic, their dumbfuck glamour inherited from soldierly dads, their simple goy honesty unto death, I got fancy with the lip. It was a worser infraction than living upscale. It was worser signaling than my bathroom with clean linens and pristine toilet seat that showed a weakness for fluffy-ass suburban girls. Pink ’n preppy and blind to raging nihilism in Detroit.

Bilingualism is trippy. On the streets, Spanish was a wind instrument to craft double-talking waft. More airy flute than steel hammer. I must say that finessing of crisis was regarded by my hard-core artist bros as feminine and fey. Still, like leaving Detroit, I recommend it. Furthermore Spanish was a means to put Taqiya, the Islamic Art of conning a foe, into the mouth of an honest-to-goodness Midwestern rube. I recommend that too.

So yo hablo Spanish. So I’ve gotten mileage out of it. So I still had to know, while prowling around Detroit like a CIA agent on a recruitment drive in Iraq, which roads were safe. I attended the precincts that I knew. When not working, I leisurely patrolled, really trolled, the Latin-Black-Kentuckian cut of SW Detroit at night in my scratchy Chrysler K-Car. A white bro from the artists’ fraternity and myself, disguised as beefy undercover cops in a crappy American-made heap, spent many hours on the go, drinking beer and whispering like sailors on midnight watch. Sharing fears, yes, like sailors in a floating foxhole.

Of course, we talked racial politics. But in the dead of night, glancing at thoroughly depressed homes and exploring thoroughly depressed avenues, we also whispered about thoroughly depressing shit: sexual politics, family politics and deep-dark personal woes. The nice thing about Detroit is that it’s conducive to a funereal intimacy between men. As long as you keep your hands to yourself, nobody is going to call you “a fag” for emoting in the haunt of a vast urban graveyard.

This particular bro, a resident at Ferretti’s art asylum, was a character with a backstory. The good thing is that he was an high-IQ German from a line of city burghers and more articulate than most. The bad thing is that his dad had two families. Simultaneously. It was a huge scandal, an irresistible 666 and Mark of the Beast on the White Nuclear Family, when the local media discovered that a County Judge had a wife and kids in Toledo and a wife and kids in Detroit. As if it were the French Foreign Legion, my bro ran away to join the Air Force. Both his dad’s nerve, and his own ability to excel as a slacker in the US Armed Forces, taught him chutzpah. But the ol’ man destroyed my pal’s ability to trust, even within the family circle, like a properly soft-hearted goyim with a cherry-vanilla blush. So, cruising through the shithole of Detroit, we yapped about male duty, male honor and, most of all, male form in the muck. He made serial resolutions, gut-clenched, which he serially trashed. A tragic guy He combined Nietzschean Willpower with the GI Bill to put himself through law-school, then got disbarred for forging a judge’s signature like a demoralized fob. He died at 45 years old in Cambodia, where he was was allegedly starting a ex-pat newsletter. Some say that he died in a brothel for sex-tourists. Others say that he faked or forged his death.

The point: you can share a tenor of intimacy with a sincere woman who’s just too fucked-over to sustain a bond. Even with herself! And the same thing can happen withmichigan-central-station worldly but ruined men. Here’s a truth: not every white in the slums of Detroit is a Negrophile or a missionary for Racial-Cultural harmony. Many are ruined souls who feel at home, internally and externally realized, in the devastation. They crystalize into sub-tribes. I learned to connect the dots and go from one enclave to the other for beer, dope or Thanksgiving dinner. As for Ferretti today? He’s a scrub artist and a has-been on the outside. On the inside, he’s a guarded Iman who rules a sub-strata of Detroit. He gives audience, if they’re lucky, to film crews, rock stars, hipster investors and, of course, entrée level artists, lunch-bucket talents, raw newbies who’re in a rush to be World Famous parvenus in the sinkhole of Detroit. If Detroit is the post-democratic future of the West, Ferretti is atop it now as a kingpin.

I must say that my fraternity of artists in Detroit, my racial kin who feared workaday suburban life more than atavistic killer Blacks, wasn’t too rational. Hendrik Van Loon, in his “Story of Mankind”, states that men who could read and write before the 12th Century were considered sissies. So it was with my tight fraternity of artist types in Detroit. This was fine with me, as long as every night was a initiation into the blue-collar mystic, which meant getting pig-drunk and smoking pot until words dissipated in the mist. But the lazy rhythms changed when cocaine was added to the mix along with Black drug-dealers with their momma’s boy machismo. Fatherless cons who were accustomed to diddling behind bars. They brought a “sexy” jailhouse bravado. “Suck mah fuckin’ dick. I make you mah punk.”

The fly hit the buttermilk. My dear white brothers forfeited their goyish charm, their poetic idiocy, their spirited blend of Mozart and Al Capone. Even Ferretti went native.

Drinking and toking until dawn wasn’t the same. With the introduction of gangstah hype a soft white sway on a raft afloat at the far-reaches of consciousness was wrecked. The shared lilt was sunk. I felt lost. So after getting pummeled in a brawl downtown, I did what I must. I said goodbye to the artist fold and joined a karate club. Previously, one karate club had been too hard and the other had been too soft and no karate club suited my poet’s touch. But after two black-eyes and seventeen stitches between them, I had enough prevaricating. I was done with likes and dislikes. I joined the nearest dojo I could find: a chintzy Tae Kwon Do club run by Iraqi brothers who were big-chiefs in Dearborn.

Maybe it was a storefront dump to launder money. I didn’t get along with my so-called Masters. I more or less bought a black-belt and hardly learned to fight. But I befriended some senior white guys who’d alternately bulled and finessed their way through hard-hard lives. Gravel garglers with tender smiles. Lovely elders who just assumed, by the look of my beat-up face, that I born to carry the flag. To carry the high urban-cowboy standard while riding the range, mythologically speaking, for the White Male brand.

It’s the kind faces of proven men, surviving fuck-ups who’d lathed themselves into pillars of male support, that’ve kept me going. Unsatisfied with my fighting skills, I left Tae Kwon Do and joined a street-fighters club run by an Army Airborne vet and his dirty-white mavericks. I loved it. I hated it. I entered, every day, pissing my pants and left like a newly minted stud. When my Chrysler K Car finally broke down outside an oil refinery, I traded junker and title to a nearby gas station for two Hershey Bars and a pack of gum. That was Ferretti’s take on post-Apocalypse barter in Detroit. In a last act of fraternal duty, he retrieved me in his Ford truck. It reeked of his girlfriend’s guard dogs. Made feral by the rocks and bottles thrown by crackhead neighbors and their aping kids. It was Ferretti’s job to give the urban junkyard dogs an annual bath. He was more than a good guy. “All in all”, as Hamlet said about his dad, “he was a man.”

Carless in Detroit, I looked for a new school of male grooming. Maybe, alpha-male grooming within very modest parameters. I could’ve just read Castiglione’s “Book of the Courtier”. But I don’t know anything until I get bruised and bounced. Even then, it takes time to spark the brain fat.

I found an Aikido Club on the Woodward Avenue bus-line. Past the Stone Burlesk, which I entered at 16 while skipping school. Lying about joining the army to a ticket-taker who didn’t care. The bus-line took me past the the derelicstone-burleskt mansions of industrialists and lumber barons, where crack was traded in adjacent open-air markets, and where antique dealers removed artifacts with crow-bars. The aikido club, located on the campus of Wayne State University, was also within walking distance to my luxury high-rise and that was a plus when I was bored with abstracting cat’s cradles from books. Purely theoretic knits. High status but low value thinkology in a city where passions ruled. In any case, I knew Wayne State and the seedy Cass Corridor from frequenting the bars with drop-outs and grads, and from going to art shows that featured heartfelt miasmas, in paint, that framed the picture of Detroit 

I’d heard mumbles about the outlaw aikido club here and there. An inside secret like a shift in the dope market or a job under-the-table. The club was tucked into a monumental old building built by twice-dead philanthropist crackers. Implicitly racist industrialists and contemporaries of Lindbergh, Ford and Coughlin. It was yesterday’s shrine: a mono-racial, inbred child of Versailles and the Parthenon with dominant WASP traits of measured utility. A civic temple for scholars. A stone masterpiece and a stone relic of the evil-racist days when Detroit was called “The Paris of the Midwest”. Not a recruiting lure for asian techies or African-American Studies chumps. Like a castle in a horror movie or a cliché manor in Detroit, the building was stately, neglected and crumbling.

When I arrived upstairs, gazing into the vast gymnasium with yesteryear’s high ceilings and low lighting, I dilated in a vacuum. Eyes and soul. The gym was a shipwrecked Atlantis of torn netting falling from the ceiling, stale wrestling mats pieced together on the floor, and pockets of endless shadows. Sunset light, purple and gold, beamed through filthy windows to color the hour. The last glint in the the bulwark of the ancients!

A timeless ambiance. As for animation, I saw measure, balance and precision. I saw, maybe the essence of aikido, order in circular motion and hard-drops to the mat. Clean pins. Arm-locks and wrist-locks with precisely applied, as opposed to wildly twisted, pain. I thought, who are these muted white left-overs? Who are these parallel and satellite white remainders doing a whispering art down the street from my crazy anarchist bros, painters and sculptors for whom personal expression increasingly meant aping ghetto bluster and, yes, lack of impulse control.

I studied the aikidoka. Their “work” was very impressive as far hidden societies go. Quietly synchronized and just what I needed for the turn of my eros, thumos and logos. But aikido seemed too much like the dance of the angels with its choreographed steps aikidoand flowing white gis. I loved it but it gave me hives. I left impressed in a typically worthless way, but returned second time to reconnoiter at night. I returned a third time to peep through a crack in the doors. Maybe I’ll join and maybe I won’t, I thunked as I drifted away. On the corner stairway, travelled by night school normies going to statistics or accounting class, I had a hiccup. Followed by a sob on the order of an upchuck after an epic drunk. I heaved, heaved and heaved. Purged, purged and purged. My soul was churning, doing dirty laundry, ridding me of toxins and bitter salts. By the pant and tears you’d have thought someone died. Someone did in a sense.

As my convulsions waned, my low-down nature and high creative spirit merged. I accepted, whether I liked it or not, my true need: artsty-fartsy handling with enough joint wrenching pain to penetrate my brain. Plus, there was the promise of learning about essential Jap culture with its Samurai imprint and austere but beautiful zen efficiency. For added plus, aikido held the promise of learning about a race-generated order that the dirty-rotten Nazis saw as compatible with Prussian self-command and social-command, and that true Roman Catholics still see as compatible with the germ of the Ghibelline Middle Ages. For a final plus, aikido promised whatever could be gained from conforming to a standard noble ideal in a hyper-individualist dystopia. So, yes, I cried.

Such is the cyclical history of my life. Told in terms of Spring and Fall of brotherhoods. Shakespeare says that, “Brevity is the soul of wit.” So, enough! I’ll end by saying that I’m right where I’m supposed to be at this moment: in the heart of this fraternity. An insider’s group of outsiders. In outlaw artists’ terms, we’re creative rogues with a half-tame, a half-wild and an altogether proven élan. In outlaw aikidoka’s terms, we’re a uniform corps, a small but stately officers’ corps, with a traditional sense of measure, balance and precision. It’s not bad.

Freely united as white men, we’ve got the fluid genius of unorthodox and orthodox captains in the field. The shared field of science, finance, tech, politics, animation, art and pointed fun. Here is the breadth of talent to keep our enemies off balance as we dictate the rhythm of battle, using informal and formal skills to, in Motor City poesy, drive, drive, drive the Art of War.

This piece originally appeared in Counter-Currents Publishing

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Fire Crown copy

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Trump. Samson Option. PsyOps Bullshit.

I’m in a coffee shop down the street from the Red Cross shelter where I slept for 5 weeks after the Great Rooming House Fire of 2011. One year later I got cancer of the brain. I mean cancer of the anus.

Further down the street is UPenn Dental. Because of the university, the area isn’t completely ghetto. It’s like Ecorse on the outskirts of Detroit but without the leftover hillbillies from the Industrial Age. Instead of snarly White Trash as a buffer, there are college brats from around the world.

My new dentist-in-training is Bangladeshi. My last three dental students were Korean. Before them, I had a Syrian with the ease of old patrician money. A cash prince! I must say, spitting digits like a social scientist, that through the course of anal cancer (a glitch at the seat of my intelligence) I had 7 doctors attend to squamous-cell-carcinoma and SOS surgery for a sliver of chemo-port stuck in my left heart-atrium. I later had 2 oral surgeons remove, with pliers, a mouthful of chemo-sautéd teeth. In all, I had 1 Caucasian Gentile Doctor.

Okay, I excluded a Brazilian doctor who was 95% White judging by her skin tone and NASA mentality at work. That’s because she filled the New World Order’s slot as a double-minority. First, as a so-called Hispanic. Second, as a female in the patriarchy or rape-culture or White Male dominated whatnot. I also had a token caucasian shrink after my run of disasters. Dr Terri Ann Varady. She got my file from the preceding alien psychiatrist who noted the particulars of my post-traumatic stress disorder: hyper-anxious, megalomaniacal, paranoid and (insanely) racist. When therapy was over, Dr Varady politely affirmed every sick enormity but the last. “Even a broken clock,” I’d said to rebut hateful psychosis, “is right twice a day. Philly. Detroit. Miami. I’ve always been very sociable, here and there, at the Whiteman’s Alamo”.

Dr Varady sensed a fair response to the surroundings. On the race front, if nothing else, she agreed that I was well-adjusted to reality. That’s the backstory to last night’s move: I hit the Samson Option button on the keyboard. I hit the Whiteboy’s Samson Option button and joined Trump Team in Philly. I’m sick, sick, sick of being a loser in a lost country. Enough with the compound-interest pitch and Judeo-Christian charge! The rah-rah Holocaustianity! The cucklogical pep-talks! The whiney goals! I moved to hang my jock-strap with the leading alpha-narcissist and locker-room braggart. The winning bully-boy. The Golden Prick.

I wonder what Dr Varady, an agreeable Hungarian whose dad was a police sergeant and sausage maker in Trenton, would think. Who knows? As for myself, talking psychology in Freud’s terms, I’d say that the Super-Ego of America is a neurotic if not schizophrenic cluster-fuck. The Average Joe with the soul of a boy scout and a very good follower, is led to hate all shades of Radical Islam. Simultaneously, he’s led to love all immigrants without discrimination. No wonder he’s a sorry sort. No wonder in a moment of mental clarity, maybe miraculous mental clarity, I hit the Samson Option key and joined the Trump Campaign. Not an effectively bowed Joe, I stand to bomb the Temple and its money-changers. My own Old Testament and New Testament synthesis under duress. My own Judeo-Christian reconciliation in a pile of dung.

With a stroke of a keyboard, I launched a 20 megaton turd on the enemy’s HQS. My strategic aim: fight crap with crap. My personal aim as sonorous racist or racialist or Trumpeteer in Philly? Destroy the Deep State’s best competing bullshit. In other words, destroy the the Deep State’s best weaponized and twisted mytho-poetic line on the average Joe’s psyche. Unfortunately, the NWO brain trust knows their targetsteel-toilet better than Joe Whiteman knows himself. Rhetorically stroking his virility like a sly whore while mewing, “It’s Joe Whiteman’s j-o-b..… It’s his present life’s w-o-r-k and Christian afterlife’s w-o-r-k….It’s his physical/moral/spiritual jobberish to retool, rework and redeem damaged goods from Humanitarian Wars.” Such ticklish deviltry, according to a self-reformed French Lefty named Lucien Cerise, is colonial psy-ops turned upon the home population. (It’s always good, in the proximity of college girls, to name-drop a French intellectual.) Born to fear God, Joe Whiteman is aimed to obey whatever Higher Intelligence triangulates blood-bathes between Muslim sects. For oil. For Israel. For the future of the NWO and genetically engineered chimeras, trans-human creations, miscegenated blends of robots/humanoids/reptiles. The next stage of population replacement, by the way, after the terminally cross-led Whiteman is gone.

That’s the gist of it. Quite understated to show proper academic detachment in a high IQ and highly mimetic environment. Now I’m sipping French Roast coffee and typing an Urban Studies thesis: It’s a mercenary remove, a studied Clintonian calculus on the go, that separates the Ivy League brat at Penn from the poor Negro at Temple and the poor homesick hillbilly at Wayne State in Detroit. My best work. My entrée into the intelligentsia. As for the future of Hillary’s Micro-Managed Demos, why don’t the Mexican landscapers get it? They’ll be the first to be bred-out as remote control drones with Swiss optics and, for retro-mammalian warmth, transistors that channel schmaltzified Ranchero tunes. Too bad the fuzzy-wuzzy minorities hate the Whiteman more than the morally narcissistic and inanely trusty Whiteman loves, loves, loves himself. A blue-print for disaster. Thus, Samson Option.

And the White Woman? She’s been psy-opted to the nth degree. Bombed and fed with select bullshit. Perfumed and poisoned to her taste. She has, as a baseline, the same working vanity as the Whiteman but the wildcard is her bosom/heart/womb matrix. amanda-silberling-art-by-isabel-kim-in-collaboration-with-syra-ortiz-blanes-and-amanda-silberling-copyEasily lubed and mated to the NY/Tel Aviv/London axis. A pyscho-metricians gimme with, yes, a collegial network of slush-funds throughout the Deep State. Earlier today, I took a lazy stroll through University City to Penn’s Campus. Who hurries to the dentist? There were Voter Registration ladies on almost every corner. God bless ‘em but where were the cookies? Inside the campus proper, near a statue of Ben Franklin with a pink scarf, the militant harpies were at work. Marshaled by the White Woman’s Burden to civilize the world. You had to see it, to believe it. This generation’s useful idiots for the New World Order, international bankers and party-favor bureaucracy. The Social Justice Shillettas, over-stressed nerdlings, pushed Hillary’s contribution to the domestic psy-ops blitz. Worker’s of the World Unite? It’s passé. Women of the World Unite? Now that has real nation wrecking and home wrecking momentum. Capitalists, as the kiddies at Wharton know, must capitalize on it. 

Samson Option. Have you noticed that the pundits are scared that Trump won’t pre-concede a pre-programmed loss? “I’ll keep you in suspense” he says with a finger on a higher-echelon and more pricey doomsday button. Playing hard. Playing for keeps. Here’s a secret: If the criminal Negroes in Philly think you’re crazy, they leave you alone. I’m just saying. Finally, to confess a chronic blur as if you were my private shrink, I don’t know if I’m truly crazy or if craziness is just my journeyman Whiteboy’s loopy schtick. Necessary borders have been corrupted. Now, I look at myself as I look at Hamlet in distress over co-opted Denmark. A hostile yet smarmy takeover that the normal Dane didn’t mind as long as he got his wenches and mead. The point: I can’t tell if I’m truly nuts or just acting nuts for dramatic effect.

Still, in Hamlet’s words, When the wind is Southerly, I know a hawk from a hacksaw. Dr Varady affirmed that. She affirmed every previously diagnosed sickosis but the last: hyper-anxious, megalomaniacal, paranoid and (insanely) racist. On the race issue, she noted, I’m well adjusted to reality.

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This piece originally appeared in Counter Currents Publishing. It was republished at  Truth Is Justice. 

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love-beaker4
An inferior version of  The Pagan Fire was published in Metropolis.  The editor was a good-guy.  I rewrote it for him three times, but that wasn’t enough.  So after getting spanked by a female critic who goes to the University of Pennsylvania, an Ivy League School, I’ve rewritten and republished the piece here.  Hopefully, dear reader, it’s finally as coherent as it is crazy.  That, combined with truth, is the grail.
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 THE PAGAN FIRE 

                           

You see these kiddies who leap from sidewalk-square to sidewalk-square. Everyone knows the stakes: step on a crack and break your momma’s back. And then you see these homeless magi who conduct the cosmic clockwork from a park bench. The sunrise. The sunset. They’re also deeply staked. They know that all it would take for the world to end is one false move. Like crossing left-leg over right-leg, or breaking their daily pigeon feeding routine.

Its funny and not so funny. Personally, I have rarely flattered an artist or a comedian by calling him “crazy.” When you have mental illness in your blood-lines, you develop an insider’s concern.

Imagination is like fire. Only the controlled-burn serves a sane purpose.

Okay. Okay. I live in a rooming house in Philly. I’ve got stories of drifters who found their way back to “reality”, and drifters who succumbed to their haunt. It’s a place for men on the bubble. One could even say that it’s a place for men straddling worlds: the realm of Newtonian physics and the realm of pagan metaphysics. Let me break it down. You have the dominant daily realm of cause-and-effect that makes business and The Golden Rule the “working” mentality. Practical thinking! The Modern Way! Then there is the ancient realm of woof and warp, fickle-fates, and divine humors. That is the pre-Modern way. Even learned Philadelphians, men of science, appeal to the latter when buying lotto tickets, betting on horses or playing an inspired game of poker.

Well, I had a hunch the night before the roaring fire. It led me to YouTube videos of lions devouring wildebeest calves, and then hyenas massing-in-force to drive the lions from their kill. A lesson in merciless nature. I thought about it at yoga class in the morning. I know. I know. I was supposed to be dovetailing into an urbane Judeo-Christian idealist. Lions lying down with lambs from the Old Testament, the meek inheriting the earth from the New Testament, and All of Creation converted into Eden’s long lost twin. But I kept thinking that maybe Nietzsche was right. Maybe we’re not living in a Moral Universe and maybe love can’t rule the field. Maybe the dominant force is Will to Power. Which like fire, can serve or get out of control.

Too much heavy thinking. I was taking a post-yoga nap when the fire alarms rang. Do you ever tire of tech’s stimuli? Do you ever pull the covers over your electro-shocked head? When I finally left my bedroom, there was black smoke lacing the air. Ashen negligees streamed like ghosts in flight. I walked against the current. I went towards the source. I experienced a slow-motion rush as time swirled in a bubble. Meanwhile, the corridors and doorways pulsed as prime archtypical forms: passageway and threshold.

When I stepped into the ol’ cigarette puffers room at the aft end of the rooming house: flames dancing on the bed and blankets, and flames traveling atop the dirty clothes stuffed between bed and walls. Flames that weren’t scary because they were large. Rather, flames that were scary because they were liberated from any kind of man-serving purpose, accelerating with wild abandon, and hypnotically beautiful on their own fierce terms.

Well, this was it. This was the danger foretold by YouTube videos. I might as well have been looking into the jaws of a lion or hyena. There was no moral appeal. There was no petitioning for mercy. And though my physical life wasn’t in danger because I had ample time to flee, my metaphysical life was in danger along with my yoga-mat, my library and my altar that takes me back to the future of Paganism. Maybe a television is your centerpiece. I’ve constructed an altar using the Secrets of the Parthenon: Sacred Geometry, Divine Ratio and all that esoteric engineering that synchs the material and ideal stuff. My altar: a manifest table of visual harmonies that have, at least, therapeutic value. Music for the eyes and a plum composition to contemplate before facing the goddamned mirror. The Big Issue: is it me or the Modern World that’s nuts? Ha. Ha. Not so funny when flames are threatening a pal’s similar, but different, chapel: sports calendar, VFW magazines and beer bottle sentries atop a television with a tin-foil antenna. No mercy. No pity for any man’s stake.

And let me say this in deference to the ol’ Roman Catholic doctrine: the fire was pure appetite. Pure lust. Pure gluttony. Pure self-immolating fire, if you’ll excuse the redundancy.

I fought the fire and the fire won. My deputies were a buck-naked drunk who’d been warned against smoking in bed, and a 50 year old idiot savante with foggy eyeglasses, crumbs in his beard and pee-stains on his tennies. My fraternity. My clique of rooming house insiders. We beat the fire down twice but it continued to travel underneath the surface of things while smoke, the silent killer, poisoned the air. I left for a breather. I returned to get a blast of fire-extinguisher spray in the face. Perfect slap-stick comedy under extreme pressure. It took a cop to pull us away from the madness and, another silent killer, the tug of lost victory. Like gamblers, we wanted to stay. Keep trying. We almost had fortune in hand!

After a round of interrogations on the street, we landed in a Red Cross Shelter in West Philly for a month. They treated us well. I got post-traumatic counseling. The social worker suggested that I write about the burn. Well, okay. I’ve had trouble sleeping. When I turn to the right I’m an hero who contained the dragon until the firemen arrived. When I turn to the left I’m an infernal priest who merely molested the fire, beautiful as it was, with a promiscuous glee. Either way, I survived with questions intact: am I an abysmal loser or the master of my own tragic-comic fate?

I did good? I did bad? I’m on the bubble when it comes to defining reality. And I’m not talking about the Metaphysical vs Nominalist rub between theologians and scientists. Neither am I talking about the Heart vs Mind rub between artists. Or the Lucky vs Good rub between sport fans. I’m talking about the abnormal vs normal rub that blisters deep inside myself.

Happily, fate has put me in my place. I’m back in the rooming house where everything and nothing is understood. There’s a smokey mindcraft here, always on the verge of inflammation, and it feels like my home in the world.

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