Sunday, March 31, 2019

The Legend of Vlad Dracula





The Legend of Vlad Dracula...
[Or, Political Reform in the 15th Century]


     There really was a historical character whose rather morbid exploits led to the creation of that astonishing literary icon: Count Dracula.  He was known as Vlad Dracula, or as the locals tagged him, Vlad the Impaler. He ruled the territories that now constitute greater-Romania and the adjoining Transylvanian regions in the 15th century. He was born in 1431, the same year that Joan of Arc was barbecued at the stake in Rouen, France; a coincidence of history that was thematic of the whole Renaissance movement -- the end of the old, kind of stale medieval period and a lot of uncertainty about the fall elections. Seems like a familiar theme nowadays. The Christian Right was just finishing up The Crusades, which really meant they were busy killing a bunch of folks who worshipped God in some other neighborhood and once dead would no longer need the houses with the 3-car garages. Later that century, Christopher Columbus would globalize that concept and steal whole continents.
    Like the Cold War of a much later century, Europe was politically and secularly divided between east and west, and military dominance had reached kind of an impasse for the moment.  That meant that maintaining your imperial thrown, or for that matter your head, now a matter of politically inspired familiar alliances. Which meant you had to marry so and so's ugly daughter or give up your own in order to keep breathing. This 'politics of alliances' culminated almost 500-years later in the carnage of World War I, the rupture occurring in Dracul's own back yard: the Balkans. Every divorce has its loser, but this one killed over 20-million bystanders and probably more than a few lawyers.

Vlad, the Impaler

     Trying to explain the Balkans is almost as difficult as figuring out that new Smart-Phone. A lot has to do with geography and illegal immigration -- a hot-topic around America today, only these migrants tended to bring large, angry and underpaid armies with them. And no, they weren't there to keep the lawns mowed or Safeway stocked with fresh lettuce and mushy tomatoes.
    The Balkans were and are historically a cultural and religious border between two very large humanoid groups that spent a lot of time arguing semantics around their own cloistered campfires -- unless of course they found themselves in agreement; which meant it necessary to pick a fight somewhere else.  What's the point of having a military/industrial complex without a disagreeable enemy -- imagined or otherwise? Next thing you know the peasants would hollering about that minimum-wage thing again.
     The east, in Vlad's time, consisted of the Ottoman Empire, founded by a guy named Othman, who sort of  wandered in one day from Turkmenistan and never left. The West was the usual hodgepodge of Italians, French, Poles, Brits, Spaniards, a few confused Germanic tribes, some Russians and The Vatican, which at the time was suffering from a bad case of too many Popes on the Pot. The Crusades had sort of run out of steam by the late 1400's. Trade was the new big deal on the block and the best way for a venture capitalist to make a buck was to stomp on a neighbor and swipe his stuff. That's why they call it a 'hostile takeover' nowadays. A lawyer is nothing more than a Viking with a briefcase full of sentences that would drive Plato nuts, and a large axe that covered most of the fine print.
     The Ottomans (I think these were the bad guys, but I'm not sure.), first crossed the Dardanelle's Straights, which separate Europe from Asia, in 1353, summoned by a couple of Byzantine emperors who were having trouble with some Bulgarians. The Turks (or Ottomans), killed most of the Bulgarians, but decided to hang around just the same. Something about Turkmenistan being a 'dry' county and, well, the folks in the Balkans knew how to press a grape. Oh, this expedition also marked the demise of the eastern branch of the Holy Roman Empire and the introduction of a new fashion style: balloon pants and the fez.
     Enter the object of this dysfunctional tale: Dracul, whose real name was Vlad -- (now pay attention here because it gets even more confusing.) Now Dracul (a teenager at this time), and his gang were Wallachians (aka Romanians), and this new gang, the Turks, were kind of messing up real estate prices around Bucharest, and stealing all the more attractive women. To keep the Wallachians in line, Dracul was snatched and handed over as chattel to the Turkish Sultan and pirated away to Constantinople where he was forced to live in the Sultan's harem. Talk about a teenager in heaven. 

     During this same period the Germans (called Saxons), moved in from the west. Basically, the Hungarians were supposed to be in charge, but a Mongol guy named Batu Khan showed up in 1241 and rearranged the furniture again. That's why the Wallachians and the Romanians ended up being pushed into Transylvania, which at the time was definitely the wrong side of the tracks, even if you didn't have any trains. And to be honest, I don't even know why any of this matters other than why Transylvania earned such a bad reputation in the local press.
     Now, we sort of established that Dracul's real name was Vlad, later to be embellished further due to some behavioral issues, so we're assuming he probably had a rap sheet in some other village. The head of this unpleasant dynasty was Vlad's father, Prince Mircea who dies in 1418 of something other than high cholesterol. Mircea seemed to have more illegitimate sons than true heirs, so family relations were anything but cordial. This paternity fight evolved into the Dracul/Danesti feud, which was a little like the Oakland Raiders taking on the Stanford Cricket team. To help the feud move along, Vlad, now an over-sexed adult wandered between Turkey and Poland for a while trying to find a king stupid enough to sponsor his quest for the throne of Wallachia. During this period he managed to get inducted into the Order of the Dragon, the Transylvanian version of an Elk's Club. He was then accepted as 'Dracul' by the boyars (local real-estate agents). Roughly translated, boyar means, "I repossess your house." That meant that Dracul's future son would be named Dracula (son of repossessor), but the connotation of this name caused a lot of misunderstandings. People didn't realize that 'repossession' was really a euphemism for losing your head -- not your house. Did save a lot of money on court costs though.
     So moving along, the Elks had a big party, everybody got drunk and they elected Vlad the Prince of Wallachia. His campaign had been centered around getting the Turks to stop stealing women for their harems, as well as the usual stuff about lower taxes and better camel trails. The former activity had really hurt the dating situation around the capitol, not to mention creating some very unhappy sheep ranchers who were missing their best ewes. However, this would prove to be a highly challenging proposition for Vlad, as Wallachia was still under the control of the Turks. So I guess that meant that the new 'repossessor' was currently 'dispossessed' by the previous 'repossessors.'  At least I think so. 
     Once Vlad got the nod (voting hadn't been invented yet), he moved into his new fortress, Sinhisoara to keep a closer eye on his Turkish rivals. Mostly he spent his time pumping iron and hanging out (pun intended), on his balcony, which overlooked the Councilmen's Square to the Jeweler's Dojon, which was where the Turks tended to hang people on a pretty regular basis. It was also said that he took night courses in Italian, French and of all things: the humanities.  Seemed to this writer that it was a little like holding an AA Meeting in a no-host bar, but,...well hell, it was the 15th century after all.
      As his power solidified, he actually signed into an alliance with the Turks, partly because of the Dragon Oath that he had signed bound him to protect Christians, Germans, small dogs and a couple of Hungarians -- not to mention that well-heeded advice about "keeping your enemies closer." Even so, there was still that issue with all the missing women.
Mehmed II

     By 1440, Vlad had had enough of the Turks. Plus the locals were getting a little testy about his seemingly vacillating loyalties. On top of that the barley crop had failed causing the price of ale to skyrocket. Unfortunately, history was in the middle of another re-run as the Turks decided to swipe Vlad's two sons and this time no quiet soiree in the local harem was on the agenda. Radu, by far the more handsome of the two had also caught Mehmed's eye -- heir-apparent to the Turkish throne and well known for her beauty and well...charms. Vlad wasn't about to get into another Christian Crusade with his only sons in captivity by his Muslim overlords....  

Time Out!

{Seems I neglected a certain historical reality: Prior to the Mongols showing up in the 1200's to rearrange the furniture...a whole bunch of Arabs did the same in the 700's, shortly after the death of the prophet Mohammed.  They figured it was about time for a new religion since Christianity had taken up sectarian violence as some sort of Holy mantra all their own. In fact it could be said that the Christians invented the Jihad, only they kind of spun the language a bit and called it a Holy Crusade. In reality, it was just a real-estate hunt with some Biblical overtones. In time, the Muslim invaders either wandered off or assimilated, but Islam itself remained.}

                                                         Okay, back to the story:       


    ….However, this didn't stop the Polish King and The Vatican's representative from stirring up some new shit anyway, which culminated at the Battle of Varna -- where both these instigators surrendered their heads. Ah, no they didn't find the heads. You see it was like a game show -- you really, really didn't want to find the head. A lot like the 'Bankrupt' slot on the Wheel of Fortune. Pat and Vanna are sympathetic, but the sponsor would rather see you dead than take home that Mustang.
     To confuse matters further...or maybe deflect is a better word, Vlad senior got into a bit of a spat with a guy named John Hunyadi (he later invented the Korean car), and that ended the senior Vlad's political career in a swamp outside the village of Danesti. Vlad Jr., or Dracula (Son of the Repossessor), didn't get the news until some months later (a Post Office thing.) He was freed by the Turks to assume the throne, but another Vlad -- Vladislaus II, who happened to own the Hungarian Army had other ideas. Vlad...uh Dracula fled south and hung out with the Turks for a while before going to Moldavia under the protection of Prince Bogdan II. However, the Prince's brother killed him. (Not Dracula, but the other guy.) I guess the main thing to remember about this paragraph is that political reform in the 15th-century always included some headless thing, and that there are way too many Vlads in Romania. 
     The climax to all this political intrigue culminated with the fall of Constantinople in 1453. Sultan Mehmed II had already overrun most of the Balkans leaving the great Byzantine city an island of Christianity in what had become a Moslem world. Europe and Asia were about to have a nasty divorce and all the children, legitimate and otherwise were planning to rid themselves of the last vestiges of adult supervision.
Fall of Constantinople
     On one side was Valdislaus II, John Hunyadi, Vlad Dracula and Ladislas V Posthmus, the latter stuck with a really bad choice of names. They were joined by King Frederick III of Germany, who was busy dealing with Bohemian heretics and far too distracted to invade anyplace. Henry VI of England and France's King Charles VII were naturally upset over this turn of affairs, as well as some folks at the Kremlin. A few Popes were also pretty pissed, especially over the loss of Byzantium, but it was still a case of too many Popes claiming title to the big chair in the Vatican. The visiting team was led by the Turkish Sultan who was busy padding his portfolio by sacking Constantinople -- and stealing all the women as usual. I think we all know by now how the Romanians felt about that kind of nonsense. But in the end, they all agreed to make it a religious war since fighting over women was seen to be below their class.
     Vlad and a bunch of his cohorts got together up in Transylvania and instituted a draft. They also cut a few contracts for cannons, spears, swords, large rocks and other war-type stuff. Most of the army was comprised of peasants, whose battle song went something like, "There goes Monday Night Football again." A 'coalition' problem also surfaced in that Vlad and his co-conspirators trusted each other less than they trusted the Turks. All these machinations and subterfuge culminated in the Battle at Belgrade, in which the Turks got whooped and the unfortunate Sultan got stabbed in the butt for his efforts. He retaliated by stabbing most of his generals in the same vicinity and topped it off with a good old-fashioned mass execution. Vlad also took the opportunity to kill Vladislaus II and poor old John Hunyadi caught some plague and dropped dead shortly thereafter. That left Vlad as the unrivaled Prince of Wallachia, though nobody was quite sure what that really meant.
Battle of Belgrade

     A couple of things happened next: Halley's Comet made an appearance, even though the astronomer that discovered it wasn't scheduled to be born until 1636. It was considered a good omen since it also made an appearance when William the Conqueror flattened the Saxons in 1066, and once again when Attila the Hun got slapped around on the plains of Catalonia. Since most of these great leaders probably never took a history class, the real 'omen' more than likely lay in the fact that the comet didn't land on their collective heads.
     Secondly, Vlad managed to mend a few fences with his cousin, who just happened to be Stephen the Great. The Sultan's wound in the...uh, buttocks healed nicely, but he was he was highly suspicious of Vlad's intentions in the west. Plus he was a little short on generals since he'd dispatched the last bunch after the debacle at Belgrade.
     Even so, Vlad had his own problems at home. Power was shared between the boyars and the princes, the latter kind of Johnny-come-laters in the scheme of things. The boyars were a strange mish-mash that can best be described as a combination of a Congressional Appropriations Committee, private interest-group lobbyists, the Mafia, and a local chapter of the NRA. Throw in a little KKK ideology and you get the drift. Princes had an average life-expectancy of two-years at best, so it wasn't a job you'd apply for on a regular basis unless you had a pretty large ego or a bunch of friends with large swords. Vlad was gifted with both.
     Before finding some kind of final solution to the Turk problem, the young Dracula needed to clear up some issues on the home turf. So he invited the most recalcitrant boyars up to the castle for Easter dinner and just before dessert was scheduled to be served, had them all impaled on large stakes. The bus-boy wasn't thrilled about the mess, but the message was certainly received. From that day on, Dracula was known around the neighborhood as Vlad the Impaler. Later he created his own battalion of impalers par excellence, which in reality were paid mercenaries who would engage in any sort barbarity as long as Vlad's check didn't bounce.

     That caused things to get a little testy around the Royal Court -- as in nobody was too willing to answer the RSVP thingy. Evidently the word didn't quite get around to an Italian delegation who showed up the palace to cut a deal on pasta and marinara sauce. They happily removed their hats  and hoods in his presence, but kept their skullcaps on as was their custom. Vlad stated that, "In all fairness, I want to strengthen and recognize your customs." They thanked him profusely and asserted their loyalty. Then Vlad pulled some large iron nails out of a sack and proceeded to have their skullcaps nailed to their heads. "Believe me," he said as the hammers did their work, "this is the manner in which I will strengthen your customs."
     Vlad's propensity for creative diplomacy even put Ivan the Terrible's reputation in doubt. Collected figures from the time indicate that Vlad probably impaled between 40-100,000 victims in an effort to consolidate his power. These figures don't include those poor slobs captured from the Turkish Army. Even Robespierre's guillotine only managed 25,000 to clean up the corruption around Paris. But Vlad didn't just impale people. He also enjoyed blinding, decapitating...the removal of human accessories like noses, ears, sexual organs and limbs. He strangled, hanged, burned, boiled, skinned, roasted, hacked ("like cabbages," he was known to boast), nailed, buried alive and stabbed. However, his all-time favorite was impalement. His courtyard and the town square were adorned with large stakes, purposely left somewhat dull to prolong the fun. Victims were thrown off balconies, released through trap-doors or simply tossed on top of the stakes. Sexual indiscretions were punished in even more macabre ways (if that was even possible.)  Cannibalism was not uncommon either.


     A Turkish chronicler of the time: "In front of the wooden fortress where he had his residence, he set up at a distance of six leagues, two rows of fence with impaled Hungarians, Moldavians and Wallachians. In addition, since the neighboring area was forested, innumerable people were hanging from each tree branch, and he ordered that if anyone should take one of the hanging victims down, they would hang in his place."
     In all fairness to Vlad, some other guys and gals were just as bad. Louis XI, the Spider King had a predilection for hanging young boys from trees; Ferdinand of Naples had his victims mummified and displayed in his sitting room during negotiations with foreign leaders, and Pope Alexander VI and his illegitimate son, Cesare Borgia were well-known for their own degrees of extreme cruelty.
     Vlad Dracula's ultimate downfall began with the rising influence of Vlad Senior's oldest bastard son who was out stirring up the Saxons living in western Wallachia, while concurrently fomenting a new trade war by flooding the country with cheap wine and Chinese knock-offs. Vlad responded by sacking a few Saxon towns and repeating the 'cabbage-hacking' thing. When his 'captains' weren't successful in taking over some Saxon villages, he had them impaled. Over six-hundred German merchants were rounded up, tossed into giant cauldrons and boiled alive. And you thought the IRS is a little tough.
     Most executions seemed to coincide with dinner. Vlad would have a little steak tar-tar and a baked potato while his henchmen were busily hacking off the limbs of most of his guests. Tradition has it that Vlad liked to dip his bread in human blood, hence Bram Stoker's (author if the fictional Dracula character), later fascination with vampirism as an overriding narrative on Transylvanian dating customs.
     Vlad continued his raiding and burning of Saxon towns and churches because he was convinced that some guy named Dan III was scheming with the Hapsburg clan to bump him off and take over Romania. However, the plan backfired and Vlad had Dan's head removed and well...impaled all the upstart's followers.
     That takes us back to Mehmed II -- you remember, the fat Sultan with the butt wound? Just when things were beginning to settle down, he decides to declare an Islamic Holy War against these Wallachian infidels and tosses in the bonus that if his troops died in battle, they all got a free trip to heaven. The Christians couldn't match this offer, only offering stand-by status with a possible upgrade at some later time. Mehmed upped the ante by throwing in "lovely maidens that would serve tasty drinks" in his version of Paradise. Should have been no contest, but....
     ...Pope Pius II convened a Grand Council at the Cathedral of Mantua in September of 1459, trying to inspire the few collected leaders present to "take up the cross" once more against these other 'infidels.'  Yeah, lot of name-calling going on. The two-hour speech was so intense that the Pope damn near died afterward, and those present sort of yawned and went home. Most of these Western European leaders were far too busy picking each other's pockets or sacking each other's castles to bother with a bunch of no-name Turks in another county. Besides, in a mere forty-years Columbus would aggravate the whole situation by bumping into Haiti and inventing the New World, which would prove to be less reasonable than the Old one.
     But, back to the current war. Once Vlad made a few incursions on the east side of the Danube, Mehmed took off the gloves. He cleaned up a few messes around Asia Minor and then personally led his massive army out of Constantinople. Vlad was on the phone trying to drum up some support, most notably from the Hungarians and the Vatican. After all, he was defending Christianity's eastern gate. The Sultan's entourage was estimated at about 250,000 well-dressed soldiers accompanied by about 150 cannons. Vlad's forces were numbered at about 30,000, many of them indentured peasants, who not too happy about the Vegas odds on the undertaking. Vlad had a few early successes, but he quickly retreated, engaging in a scorched-earth policy in order to deny the Turks access to the better restaurants. Adding insult was the fact that Vlad's cute younger brother Radu, was leading a contingent of Turks. Yeah, he fell for the old 'maiden and tasty drink' thing.

Vlad Dracula's digs in Trigoviste

     Vlad retreated to the Capitol, Tirgoviste and prepared for a long siege. The road to his stronghold was adorned with a huge semi-circle, picket-style fence decorated with impaled Turkish soldiers, most rotting and subject to the privations of ravens and other carrion-eaters. The smell of rotting flesh was so overwhelming that Mehmed called it a day.  Didn't help though. Vlad's cousin, Stephen the Great, turned his back on family values in order to preserve his own monarchy in Moldavia.  Mehmet limped back to Constantinople and both sides hired a few 'spin doctors' to cook the books on just who carried the day.
Jan Jiskra
    Given the ease in international tensions, Vlad was once again under public scrutiny over his questionable hobbies. Sure, he was an equal-opportunity impaler, but face it, people were having a tough time getting health insurance around Transylvania. On top of that, Vlad's brother Radu was courting the reform vote, offering lower taxes, better prices for camels and something called "death by natural causes," a totally new concept in Transylvanian society. Plus, he was much cuter, a political advantage that became apparent much later in the Kennedy/Nixon debates. Vlad's base consisted of the paid mercenaries, the King of Hungary, who was completely inept on a good day, and whatever Pope who happened to be occupying the "Pot." Most of his army had wandered off to catch up on Monday Night Football and re-runs of I Love Lucy. To make matters worse, Vlad was running a little short on gold ducats which meant that all those checks that were supposedly in the mail never got cashed. Even his mistress decided that she would "rather have her body rot and be eaten by the fish of the Arges than be led into captivity by the Turks." Evidently that was a no-confidence vote as shortly thereafter she jumped off a cliff. Given all the rumblings around the capitol, Vlad had all his horses shod backwards to confuse his many enemies and split for Hungary.
Radu the Handsome?


     Turned out that Mathias, the King of Hungary wasn't quite as dumb as Vlad had assumed. He figured that given Vlad's current circumstances (meaning everybody in Europe AND Asia wanted him dead), that it was the perfect opportunity to snatch Romania. He promised Vlad a "holy crusade" (which meant he could kind of borrow the Hungarian Army), and sent him merrily back to Wallachia with a token force led by a Slovak-Hussite mercenary named Jan Jiskra.  The main army (which was mostly on paper), was to follow. While still in Hungarian territory, Jiskra took Vlad prisoner instead and tossed him in a nearby dungeon.  However, a bunch of European king-types were not amused, since they figured that Vlad was probably the only guy nasty enough to keep the Islamic Turks at bay and the local women from ending up in some Potentate's harem. Yeah, back to the woman-stealing thing. King Mathias needed a legitimate reason for keeping Vlad incarcerated, so he put together some phony paperwork that implicated Vlad in an "impaling for profit" scheme orchestrated by the Turkish Sultan. It also marked the first time in history that anyone was specifically charged with "crimes against humanity," a catch-phrase for genocide still in use today. Vlad's attorney argued that his clients activities had absolutely nothing to do with "race, religion, ethnicity or sexual preference," but were simply a hobby he developed as a prisoner in a Turkish harem. Okay, so it was highly questionable 'insanity defense,' even though insanity hadn't been invented as yet either. Vlad's only supporter, Pope Pius II was skeptical, but noted that the Dragon Oath negated this feeble conspiracy about the Sultan. In any event, the tribunal wanted him gone anyway, so they gave him a 10-12 year stint in a Hungarian prison where he became the object of much curiosity for his weird behavior. Kind of like the bearded lady in a local circus.
     Even in prison, Vlad pursued his hobby. He impaled mice, birds; pieces of wood, if nothing else could be found. Meanwhile, Radu, now embellished with the moniker "The Handsome," was increasingly being pinched between the Hungarian King, aka, the Hapsburg Empire. 'hole-in-the-butt Mehmed' and Stephen the Great in Moldovia. Radu was good looking, but basically a wimp. Stephen slapped him around a bit, swiped his wife, married his daughter and ran off with the Wallachian treasury. A short time later Radu died of syphilis. Not sure why that is relevant here, but I guess 'safe-sex' was still in the conceptual stage of development as well.
     Mathias (the Hungarian guy), sent Vlad to a 12-step program for rehab; the idea being to restore him as the Prince of Wallachia. However, he had to marry Mathias's ugly cousin and convert to Catholicism. Everybody also agreed to dismiss all the atrocities against the Saxons as little more than 'fake news.' Mehmed meanwhile, invaded Bosnia. Pope Pius II croaked, so the new Pope, Sixtus IV renewed the call for a Christian Crusade. Vlad and Stephen the Great kissed and made up and together thumped the Turks at Srebrencia. The down-side was that Vlad was back to hacking off limbs and throwing people on stakes again. The papal legate got wind of this relapse and decided the best thing to do was to declare Vlad a Protestant. Adding to this mess, Stephen the Great died in 1479, his only heir his cousin, one Elizabeth Bathory, known as the "Blood Countess." Turned out she really was a vampire in a kind of a roundabout way. She reputedly butchered over 650 girls during her lifetime in order to bathe and shower in their blood. It was a cosmetic thing I suppose -- like Oil of Olay, only a lot messier.
Dear Elizabeth Bathory

      Prior to Stephen's death, he and Vlad once more went to war with the Turks with a rag-tag army of locals and actually managed to win the thing. Both sides lost about 30,000 soldiers, but Wallachia was once again a 'Turk-free zone.' A few dissident boyars were still floating about and it is unclear whether Stephen eventually turned on his cousin, who, given the previous episodes of mass murder was a questionable candidate for the thrown...or, that maybe Transylvania's Tourist Board decided the country needed a public relations makeover. Either way, about two-months after the successful campaign, Vlad was found headless and mangled in a swamp. He was only forty-five, which was pretty old by Balkan standards. Some centuries later, Romanian archeologists think they have found his carcass buried at the island monastery of Lake Snagov, though the whereabouts of his head remain a mystery.

Guess he had at least one fan...

      The moral of this story is that none exists. Bram Stoker grabbed a bit bizarre history, embellished it a bunch, incorporated vampirism (a bat thing) and came up with a best-seller that Hollywood couldn't resist. Dracula did exist as a historical figure, but if he sucked down any blood, he no doubt used a straw. And the Balkans are still a mess because everybody's still trying to figure out who stole all the women.

     I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted.    















Monday, June 8, 2015

Exit Interview...









Gog L. Mitey
Vicinity 1124
Ethereal, Kanvas
Orion 7.46



                                                                                                              Whatever, Whenever

Dear Humans;

After many centuries and much consternation, I am writing to inform all of you that I am resigning as your benevolent...well, actually I'm not sure what anymore.  I was simply a passing stranger at a difficult time in your history, and somehow I managed to instill in your primitive culture an assumption of some grandiose position I held in your feeble existence.  Was hardly warranted.  Yes, I am plagued by eternal life, I gather wisdom like some collect bad habits, but when you are vaporous and ethereal;  unable to perish like some aging cow, boredom becomes a daily, tortuous condition.  And perhaps sadly, I surrendered to your continued accolades over my vast stores of wisdom and knowledge.  The short version:  I  kind of liked the attention.

However, it has led to so many misunderstandings, strange interpretations and fierce competition over whose voice the real Gog L. Mitey speaks for; further, whose side I might be on?  And unfortunately, once you humans invented  politicians and television, it all became too much to endure.  Nothing but endless squabbling and all these hysterical messages about failing body parts, barristers who bear false sincerity, and all this penis gratification nonsense for old men with fat bellies and imagined ferocity -- so tedious for an entity like myself, who has no body, much less falling parts...Or was it failing parts?  Kind of thought that issue went away after I provided you with a cure for that leprosy thing, but then, you humans seem to like problems, for every time I solved one sticky issue, strange affliction, or mindless conflict...you wandered off to find another one. Quite baffling behaviour considering that you have a tendency to just expire and leave me to clean up another mess.  Should be Gog the Janitor.  Except you'd probably get that name wrong too! 

Well, I've had enough.  But before I go, I want to clarify a few matters. First off, all of us Etherals are named Gog.  Some earlier Gogs who stumbled in here tried a few subtle messages from the heavens, mostly because you humans were always looking skyward for some explanation for your misery.  Somehow you always assumed that some monstrous external entity was responsible for your sorry state.  A Devil?  An Angry Gog fighting with some other Gog for your soul?  Ha!  Who would want to possess such a pathetic item.  I would rather collect a jarful of farts. 

But, I digress.  You see, being ethereal, up/down, left/right, good/evil, man/woman -- all have no meaning.  There is no absolute nor opposite in a vapor.  I cannot take sides, because I have none, cannot hate because that would require joy...can never judge because I know no comparisons.  I listen, I whisper, I have the patience of death itself, yet even after centuries of quiet counsel here, I am unable to decipher your incredible sense of pointless resolve.  You struggle, you suffer to die, and some other human takes your place on a path that leads...well, to the somewhere and nowhere that defines your existence.  You believe that some means will justify an end that you celebrate as the end to all ends...a final cleansing for your dirty little world perhaps.  And what?  You're coming to live with me?  Sit glowing at the feet of one who has no feet?  Bask in the shadow of one who claims no image?  A fascinating strategy indeed! However, you are not welcome here, for there is no here, here.  Or over there. There is only the Ether.  Which is everywhere and nowhere, but never here.    

From the very beginning you worshipped such things as the Sun, the Moon...thunder and lightning -- made them into gogs...like Ra and Osiris.  Later, some less savage types; who called themselves the Hellenic's; well, they took it a step further and declared that the new gogs wandered about the clouds and stars or lived in the depths of the vast oceans: Jupiter, Zeus, Mars & Neptune. And  Aphrodite -- a she-gog that was kinda cute in a fleshy sort of way.  The male gogs made war, fooled about with humans and lesser gogs, while the she-gogs cleaned up the mess.  It was a trend that would last for centuries.  However, even though you folks worshiped these insincere things, fought for their pleasure, then slaved away to build gaudy temples to honor these awful surrogates, in the end they laughed loudly at your mortal flaws.  And you seemed to enjoy this bashing immensely!  I was baffled and tried for many days to chuckle at this contradiction, but I simply could not master this skill.



So I tried a different tack.   I 'empowered' a few individuals with a few new  and enlightening thoughts.  At least I thought I had.  Was very careful choosing the thoughts I would project.  Then I'd take some human, like a simple carpenter's son, and whisper a few good ideas in his sleep.  Seemed to be taking hold as some humans actually stopped fighting long enough to listen. But others enjoyed fighting so much that they simply expired my messenger.  I kept trying, but when other messengers expired, you humans went to staring at the sky again and mumbling that it was all gog's will.  They even made books and said I spoke these words.  Later, you made awful statues of me with a beard and then worshipped these images.  Well, I don't have a beard, or a sex, or even fingers to grasp a pen.  I only have thoughts that endlessly annoy me.  So, no, I did not write the Bible, or the Quran , or The Vidas and I never met that Moses fellow.  I did see his fictitious Commandments and mused,  "Well good luck on that plan Mr. Moses!"   And yes, it helped me finally learn how to laugh.  A grand achievement for a vaporous figment with no lips.  

I did have better luck with this little fat fellow that was very talkative...uh, Bood Ha was his name.  He never answered the questions of his followers,  instead merely passing along a few of my thoughts and leaving his students to figure out the answers.  Same with a curious fellow named Confusion.  Only offered his listeners little parodies of my logic...never really answered any questions, for all such answers were personal and private -- not universal. There were no tests and no one could pass or fail.  Much better than the other messengers, who were always telling people that I was going to send them to somewhere unpleasant.  Place called Hell as I remember it.  But to me, the other place you invented seemed just about as bad.  For me anyway. 

So, as people seemed to be getting a little brighter, I introduced Sciences. Thought maybe humans would stop killing each other if I invented Curiosity.  Ha!  While I was dreaming up some fun topics for you to explore...kind of wean you off this heavens-staring thing,  you invented something called religion.  Worse yet, you claimed that all of your silly actions were part of Gog's Plan!  And then, you came up with 148 different versions of Gog's Plan -- even though I don't have any plans -- only thoughts.  So, more fighting, with each of all your various sides either blaming me or claiming some idiocy about me leading you to victory!  And all these broken voices lying in the mud and blood of battle, weakly sending their voices skyward..."Save me Gog, save me !   I am dying...."  As if a vapor has the arms to lift these broken bones skyward, or the capacity to heal such an atrocity.  I could not even close my eyes or turn my back, as I don't visualize with light, hear with ears, nor have a back to turn.  For you see, I am merely a whisper that is only heard when all else is still.    

Alas.  My science became heresy, my ideas just built grand citadels for the armies to devour with newer and ever more lethal devices.  Death became common and endless;  all sides claiming me as the patron saint of a some cause I never knew, never embraced, could never condone.  And my Ether became crowded with the frantic cries of fading voices...so many that the vapor itself became clouded, like a window trying to hold back the moisture from a warm, summer rain. 
    
In the end, my only success was seen if I practiced a benign neglect... in places where some humans celebrated the animals around them, the earth they slept upon.  Sure, they created gogs to worship and pray to, yet their gogs perished in the hard winters and could be reborn with a forgiving spring.  They were malleable, they bled, they suffered as all life does to move forward to renewal, or that inevitable end.  But they too were swept away, for in the final game, this planet was merely a platform for the creation and worship of the self.  As if it was supposed be just that:  a convenience of the moment.  My presence,  just an illusion --  rarely heard and never seen until desperation was knocking at the door.  A purpose of no purpose...foot prints never really meant to be found. 

But before I go, I will share one last truth.  Yes, there are many, many intelligent forms of life in this vast common space you call the universe.  They have wandered by this dirty little outpost from time to time and concluded that they do not want to meet you.  They view you as little more than angry insects devouring each other as fast as you have consumed your own small  planet. They have considered destroying this eyesore, but they respect all life forms -- even those they deem toxic.  Given that you exist on the ragged outskirts of your galaxy, they see little likelihood of your disease spreading.  Besides, your planet is dying.          

Think I'll wander off now.  Catch a comet's tail to perhaps a more enlightened world, a place where silence is coveted, thought allowed to freely roam, and the Ether not tainted by the stench and decay of this never-ending  meal of fear, hate and ignorance.   

Good Luck...Yer Gonna Need It;


Gog L. Mitey

PS -- You are NOT Gog's children!  Most children grow up...eventually.       

           


Friday, May 8, 2015

Revolution Road...well, Maybe.



So, When?

Been doing a little reading of late, as opposed to being further numbed by the relentless oratory and visually myopic slime vomited from the world's greatest propaganda machine: network television, in all its insidious, mindless and vulgar manifestations.  From author Chis Hedges:

"Get back into your cages, they are telling us. Return to watching the lies, absurdities, trivia, celebrity gossip and political theater we feed you in twenty-four-hour cycles on television. Invest your emotional energy in the vast system of popular entertainment. Run up your credit card debt. Pay your loans. Be thankful for the scraps we toss. Chant back to us our platitudes about democracy, greatness and freedom. Vote in our rigged corporate elections. Send your young men and women to fight and die in useless, unwinnable wars that provide huge profits for corporations. Stand by mutely as our legislators plunge us into a society without basic social services while Wall Street speculators loot and pillage."

1929?  Might be, if not for the reference to television.  And of course, this time around, the middle-class are doing a metaphorical roof jump instead of the stockbrokers.  Or, being gunned down in the streets as the newest version of some 'Final Solution.'  Too severe?   

Maybe, but then again, maybe not.  I tend to seek recall from my early post-radical days. My sister had introduced me to Frank Zappa and his Mothers of Invention.  Oh, and something new called LSD.  I did a lot of reading and far too much acid.  On one rather extended LSD and amphetamine binge, I read:  "War and Peace," Steinbeck's, "The Grapes of Wrath," "Animal Farm" and Kenneth Patchen's allegorical tale, "The Journal of Albion Moonlight" -- while drinking bottle after bottle of Coca-Cola.  After a short hospital stay to restart my kidneys, I ended up at the Selective Service's version of a send-off party to Vietnam, where I pissed a cupful of blood and something that looked like rancid egg-whites. The guy in the next urinal was wearing a nice black bra and matching panties. Never did get his name...probably for a good reason.

Next day, I decided to become a radical...and that amphetamines were probably not a good way to extend my literary awareness. The rest is a long, rambling story that could probably fill a novel -- oh wait, it did.  But eventually I became old and rather lame.  You know how it goes, uh...played with one too many horses, animals that I always appreciated far more than humans, even if they were a little hard on me at times.

The 'Farmer's Almanac...for Lunatics.'
So here we are, a half century later, and I'm having a new twinge of a very old of deja vu kind of moment.  Only difference being that LSD is probably not going to offer me much clarity this time. Instead of one nasty war, we have two or six or how ever many you like. Voting is suppressed, or more accurately, a waste of a nice afternoon. Instead of just rumors of concentration camps (big deal in the 1960's), we actually have one at Guantanamo, along with sundry-dozens of private prisons, inner city-sacrifice zones -- such as Cleveland, Detroit, Camden and Baltimore ad nauseum.  Oh...and agricultural labor camps where we casually accept slave-labor in exchange for cheap, chemically-infested tomatoes.  And instead of spraying Agent Orange on Godless communists in some distant land, we just engineer it into the food we eat.

However, the Stock Market is making record gains, which is supposed to make everybody feel good, especially while we're endlessly scouting the neighborhood for the nearest food bank.  And for the first time in our recent history, poverty has been eliminated from the ranks of the Fortune 5oo.  I could go on, but...I'd need a kind of medication that I can't afford right now.

   
Do I have some point here?  Hmm.  Not sure, other than I keep wondering why it takes white people so long to get pissed off in this country?  Maybe it's because we've been told so often that we're "exceptional," and as such, we feel obliged to be on our best behavior. And of course, if we burned down the nearest Wal-Mart, where in the hell could we get cheap toilet paper? 

Mostly, I was wondering what happened to this budding weed known as the Occupy Movement?  At first, I was rather pleased to see people openly urinating in the streets again, and somewhat enthused about their non-violent approach; an idea we tried to emulate in another era of unrest, until the clubs, tear gas and occasional murder caused us to re-evaluate the idea of passive resistance.  Of course in those days we still had a free and antagonistic press -- not the corporate pimps and clowns that dominate the airwaves today. Or the hired thugs in the Blogosphere that shit lies and never seem to change their underwear. Even so, I tried to extrapolate our movement over time and consider its relevancy in this, the age of social media.  

First, I took a look at What Kevin Zeese had to say.  He was one of the founders of the Occupy Movement. "We do have a grand strategy," he said. "Non-violent movements shift power by attacking the columns that hold the power structure in place.  Those columns are the military, police, media, business, workers, youth...Every time we deal with the police, we have that in mind.  The goal is not to hit them...and weaken them. The goal is to pull people from those columns to our side.  We want the police to know that we understand they're not the 1 percent."

However, seems to me that the police work for whoever the other 99% might be; this large body that is simultaneously both inclusive and exclusive, but equally addicted to avoiding those questions that demand attention in real time. The 1% don't bother with questions, mostly because they haven't as yet noticed any problems with their private and sequestered lives or the narrative they espouse -- no, control.  So I'm going to adjust the arithmetic:  1% at the top is horn-locked with the 1% at the bottom. The rest of the country is waiting to see what Dr. Oz has to say about it. This might work in Occupy's favor, little like that old adage: "The rich get richer and the poor more numerous."  Ha...democracy in inaction!


The 'Occupy Movement' as depicted by
 American mainstream media
Zeese goes on to explain that what they wanted to create in this movement was a 'horizontal hierarchy' -- not a vertical one in the corporate sense. But of course what they got was the street dregs, dope fiends and other homeless folks that had already fallen hard from America's fleet of social dump trucks. And the press (if you can still call it that!), was more than willing to exploit that angle. You could say it was a PR disaster where for once, the truth didn't free you...just complicated things immensely, mostly because today's media uses crayons, and only colors inside the designated lines.

So I looked a little further. It seemed that the Movement was borrowing from the ideology of Czechoslovakia's Vaclav Havel, who advocated "living within the truth."  Hedges paraphrased the concept:  "This attempt to 'live within the truth brings with it ostracism and retribution.  But punishment is imposed in bankrupt systems because of the necessity for compliance, not out of any real conviction. And the real crime committed is not the crime of speaking out or defying the rules, but the crime of exposing the charade."

Hmm. Brings me back to this insatiable need for 'law and order' and the fact that the free press is having lunch in the boardroom -- while the masses eat off the $1 menu. It seems to me, having a little media experience myself, that in order to appreciate a free and open press, you just might need a free and unencumbered mind.  So, I delved back into history and fiction. First, I re-read George Orwell's "1984."


"Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating?  It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery and torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but more merciless as it refines itself."


Ah, so fear does garner votes; for all the unnatural reasons.  Seems that's how Stalin enjoyed such a long run in Moscow. Nobody voted in the conventional sense, just as nobody seems to vote here -- either conventionally or otherwise.  Too busy watching serial alligator killers or "House of Cards"  -- a fine example of the truth masquerading as satire...or is it the other way around?  Too bad Shakespeare's long dead. she might have been able to shed some light on it.  Yeah, I said, 'she.'  Another theory for another day.  


Also rattled the bones of Karl Marx and noted anarchist, Mikhail Bakunin.

Marx said, concerning proletariat revolutions are: 

"...[They] constantly criticize themselves, constantly interrupt themselves in their own course, return to the apparently accomplished, in order to begin anew; they deride with cruel thoroughness the half-measures, weaknesses, and paltriness of their first attempts, seem to throw down their opponents only so the latter may draw new strength from the earth and rise before them again more gigantic than ever, recoil constantly from the indefinite colossalness of their own goals -- until a situation is created which makes all turning back impossible, and the conditions themselves call out:"


"Hier ist die Rose, hier tanze."
[Here is the Rose; dance here.]


Mikhail Bukunin

Karl Marx

But...and a big but.  While Marx easily "recognized the self-destructive machine that was unfettered capitalism, he viewed the poor as a conservative force...made irrelevant by the growth of capitalistic forces and caustically referred to them as "a sack of potatoes."" [Hedges.]  Here, I somehow visualized Wal-Mart, where the amorphous masses pick up their bribes from the 'company store;'  or in the case of a decaying and corrupt Rome, where you were given "bread and games" as an exchange for supporting the corruption of the state. How else do you explain why the abused do their shopping at the abusers store?   Fear, or something else?

Mikhail Bukunin figured it differently. He saw "in the uncivilized, disinherited, and illiterate, a pool of revolutionists who would join the working class and turn on the elites who profited from their misery and enslavement."  [Hedges] 

Tend to like the anarchist's approach better, but do imagine it might take a little longer to start the fire.  Of course, these revolutionists occupied a different era -- a time when voices, eyes and body language transmitted much more than the written word could.  In this age of 14-word logic, the mass assimilation and distribution of disinformation, and passive-aggressive pandering traveling at the speed of light, any semblance of truth or fact might be difficult or impossible to find -- Ah, but you see, that's the whole idea: confusion and misdirection. In the old days, the revolutionist's first task was to take over the radio stations; to silence the self-anointed propaganda machine of the state and deliver their alternative message.  Today, we have the sanitizers and thought police at the NSA, as well as a half-dozen other agencies and  news corporations who control access to virtually all forms of communication here -- from the news, to what constitutes entertainment, those lines fuzzier than ever. This, along with virtually every electronic device on the planet.  Privacy?  Ha. Orwell had it right all along.             

Then again, there's Bob Dylan, whose mystery and lyrics painted a different landscape that perhaps many of us felt, but could never completely articulate:

"Something is happening here,
But you don't know what it is;
Do you, Mister Jones?"
                                                                                       "Ballad of the Thin Man."

Here's a primer on how revolutions get started:  

* discontent that affects nearly all social classes;
* widespread feelings of entrapment and despair;
* unfilled expectations;
* a united solidarity in opposition to a tiny power elite;
* a refusal by scholars and thinkers to continue to defend the actions of the ruling class;
*an inability of government to respond to the basic needs of citizens;
* a steady loss of will within the power elite itself together with defections from the inner circle -- a crippling isolation that leaves the power elite without any allies or outside support;
* a financial crisis.

Crane Brinton, "Anatomy of a Revolution."

Well, we have elements of 7 out of 8 as it is, but of course, there are always other issues: the propaganda machine in this country, the love of law and order...or as the addict explains: 'the bad known is always more comfortable than  the unknown.'  So we accept the little crumbs, keep staring at the horizon and assume tomorrow will be better, when yesterday was just another repeat of many other yesterdays.  

Funny. When I was back east last year in a vain attempt to get my long-overdue hip repaired, I killed a lot of time with my 12-year old protege of sorts, Vincent. A very serious Star Trek fan and future Starship commander, I do believe I watched every episode ever made.  Even learned a few words of Vulcan.

In the end, I concluded that America had become this planet's Borg -- all-consuming, infinitely powerful...insatiable really, until virtually every resource on this planet is stripped away and stored in some unseen vault. The rest, sadly cast to the cosmic winds.

As Bernie Sanders has often said, 'we need a revolution of thought in this land,' It is either that, or we're likely going to experience the other version, which just might be the closing chapter on this experiment called America.  It is the inevitable outcome when the ambitions and dreams of ordinary people are sacrificed for the gains of the few.  Same lesson, new century, a lot at stake. 



We went off to battle this monster called the Borg -- 
Only to discover that the Borg was really us. 

Friday, November 14, 2014

Home is where the....




Empathy Test




The United Nations has determined that as of today, there are approximately 45-million refugees wandering our planet. About a third of these people were set adrift by US-led military actions throughout the Levant.  Approximately 7-million once called Syria home; a percentage of those once called Palestine home.  Oddly, the plight of these folks seems to gain little traction, much less empathy here in the US, and that is actually rather shocking considering that we are a nation founded by...yeah, refugees -- human refuge discarded or driven from our own traditional homelands.  

Even more puzzling?  How we evolved into one of the most racist, bigoted nations on the planet; only South Africa running a close second -- that distinction made because they, unlike us, never denied it.  Now, before you shit your pants in moral outrage, consider a few minor notions.  We embraced slavery longer and fought its demise more bitterly than any so-called civilized country on Earth.  We made ourselves into the White-Protestant mecca of the west...desperately resisting the incursion of any and all groups who would attempt to land on our shores later -- seeking the very same freedom and opportunity we sacrificed life and limb for when we first trespassed on this land -- a land long claimed by others.  The truth here is that history is rarely kind in its relentless push forward and all dynasties will fall -- some more tragically than others; yet no lesson was learned, no forgiveness sought and apparently no remorse found -- for our actions today both reveal and reinforce our insatiable arrogance toward the greater world, in that it continues to be "our way or the highway."   In effect, we demand and try to export a system of democracy and fair-play that we have chronically failed to practice ourselves.

I remember this grand statue that the French presented us in 1886 and that we decided to plant in New York harbor; somewhat ironically, pointing it out to sea and the lands beyond. The French thought they knew us pretty well, that we shared some great egalitarian principles, that just maybe this new America could and would create a Camelot in the vastness of the new west -- a dream that the world desperately needed.  And in brief moments over the next century and a half, we did occasionally shine that light.  Yet all too often we turned our backs to the fundamentals of our heritage and sat in clear-eyed apathy as the dark side of our collective soul killed the messengers.  Yeah, we hold those names in reverence today, yet fail to fully reconcile why they had to die.  If a great conspiracy did exist, we all own it equally.

 I recently read an extremely well-written piece about a young Palestinian refugee couple living in Syria. Palestinian? Yes. Already refugees from one home and now faced with losing their second chance. For all intents, they seemed like any young couple you would meet on the streets of America. Educated, ambitious...ready to embrace what life might be able to offer them.  Living was difficult in their town south of Damascus, but they had found  a sense of community there and a degree of optimism about their always uncertain future.  Then ISIS came into their neighborhood and once again they were forced to flee...but this time, there was nowhere left to go.


The State of Jefferson

Now, bear with me for a minute.  In this tale, you, the reader gets a rare opportunity to become a refugee in your own town.  And it all starts when a faction in northern California and southern Oregon decides to secede from the Union. By all standards, these folks are fairly liberated in their thinking. Small farmers, entrepreneurs, survivalists...folks married to the land. Many of them are boomers, ex-hippies -- those that once fought for this illusive palace known as Camelot. Mostly they want to be left alone, to pursue what their version of the Constitution guaranteed: that 'pursuit of happiness' thing.  Yet more and more the country that they loved was becoming a plutocracy -- ruled by an oligarchy completely disconnected from the people, whose toil and blood had made freedom and by extension, all that wealth possible. And to the north and south, xenophobic bands of Christian extremists were re-defining the new moral boundaries in the very land born through the fires of religious persecution elsewhere, and almost three centuries in the past.  So the Jeffersonian's closed the borders, burned all the Wal-Marts and Home Depots and declared their independence.  Oh...uh, the Wal-Mart and home Depot were abandoned anyway. The local residents had boycotted  these places from the beginning, choosing to support community businesses.

The year?  2017. America had a new President; a fundamentalist Christian who firmly believed that Moses got it right the first time and no government legislation could possibly say it any better.  But now, in what was referred to in the media as the "Oregon Spring," the new President was being challenged -- no, openly defied.  And his followers were demanding immediate, decisive action against these socialistic, un-American pinko's and ouliers. Well, actually farmers, retirees and fisherpeople mostly.            

So he called in the National Guard to open the blockade and restore order. Which given the realty of the situation could have been carried out by 4 or 5 journalists with baseball bats.  The blockade was symbolic, and the new Oregon Militia's weapons of choice were little more than potato guns, pitchforks and squirt guns loaded with green paint. But to his surprise, the commander in Salem refused.  He simply said, "There is no disorder and I will not demand that my people go up against their neighbors.  Hell, half of them are sympathizers anyway."  Rebuffed, the President fired the Oregon commander and called in the Idaho Guard, a state he had carried in the election by an overwhelming majority. They in turn seized the military assets held at the Oregon depots and joined forces with the fundamentalists that had already gathered in force at the newly established borders of Jefferson, claiming that they had a mandate from God, though they didn't really say how they acquired it.  It was a short, one-sided fight and the dire news spread rapidly down the coast, spreading alarm among the residents of this small fishing town...many of whom were elderly and unable or unwilling to defend themselves from the government they once cherished. Then suddenly, the internet went dead. 

In the next few days, rumors sparked of a vast force heading up Highway 101 from the south.  By now, most of the village had armed itself with what weapons could be found, as nobody seemed to know if it was serious.  The rumors were running rampant -- real information scarce. The fishing fleet had put their boats in the water, offering a ride for anybody with the $500 or a case of liquor to join them. Helicopters were over-flying the town regularly.  Some folks had tried to escape north, only to be rebuffed in the hills near Coos Bay.  Many were arrested. Those that made it back related stories of incredible violence and savagery by the 'liberating' forces (as they were called in the media), but few believed these tales -- after all, this was still America, wasn't it?  But then, the free press, that beacon of democracy had been sold to the highest bidder more than a decade earlier.  So now the Jeffersonian's were labeled a sect and painted on Fox News as the new Branch-Davidians of the north.  The next day, the power was cut off, causing the one sewage treatment plant to fail. All land lines had ceased working and sometime during the night, the remaining cell tower was blown up. People were suddenly alone, in the dark...wondering. 

Food was beginning to get scarce.  The one market in town had been pretty much sacked by the third day of the siege. Fuel was gone the next day.  Some people had wandered into the hills, others huddled in groups, while at the south end of town, a determined group had built a barricade across 101...directly adjacent to the Battle Rock monument, the worst form of irony being played out by the most unlikely of combatants.  During the night, both the Lutheran and Catholic churches mysteriously burned to the ground. A growing distrust was enveloping this community -- a place where people prided themselves on stepping up, not away from trouble.  The enemy seemed to be nowhere and everywhere.       

Then on a Friday, the smell.  Diesel fumes and the distant clatter of track-treads on asphalt. At noon, a sole artillery shot flew over the town, landing in what was the school playground. Then the loudspeaker with the ultimatum -- the blunt words of most ultimatums: surrender or...blah, blah.  Conform, find God in your heart, accept the new order of things.  Death was in the message somewhere, but that was the least ambiguous part of the message.  Mostly nobody said anything in response, just eyes meeting eyes in a kind of tragic disbelief.

Many people wandered off, choosing to collect what few belongings they could carry, and in small bands melted into the hills.  A few of these folks were walking backwards at first, taking a last look at what was home, hearth...community.  All seemingly gone in the blink of an eye...a few wondering loudly how this could happen in a free country, or why so many people chose not to vote.  Others stayed in their homes, too frail to make the trek; too resigned to fight the inevitable.  A few turned their guns on themselves. Those that got away wandered northeast, some thinking that Montana might be safe or maybe Canada.  Most longed for news, any news that might explain how such a thing could happen in America.  But all they could hear in the failing light was a cacophony of gun fire; at first rapid and intense; just as suddenly random, then silent.  They walked on through the night, following the stars to a destination they did not know, a welcome they might not receive. This night, they became refugees in their own land. Just another number among those 45-million other numbers who no longer have anywhere to call home. 


*******    
    I require no lesson on empathy in this matter.  You see, my own mother was a refugee.  In the vernacular of the day, she was a war bride. She also went from girlhood to womanhood in the vortex of a world war.  Did she love my father?  Maybe.  Did she need to escape the aftermath? Absolutely.  Was she welcome here?  No. Yet the hatred for this child of war here was somehow easier for her to endure than the suffocating depravity that marked her entire childhood.  

I don't have an answer here. It took me most of my life to understand her story...one refugee among millions.  And now we have millions upon those millions.  It has to stop. Somehow.