As the Crow flies

I want you to keep doing that, too, Jack. As long as you feel you're able. I know more than just I have missed your shadow.

Wish I could do more for you than stand stupidly here in your shade.

RIP GHWB

The title's an imperative. As in, Die, already. I almost linked the news of his "guarded condition", but didn't wanna draw the deliberation of the spooks, if you know what I'm sayin' (maybe I should've used 41 ?-)

They say you shouldn't talk shit about the departed, so I'm doing it here preemptively. Get it?

Maybe he'll go today, maybe tomorrow, but definitely for the rest of his life, whenever he does croak (and I do believe that there is no more fitting term to signify his passing than that one, even if he doesn't do the Glottal Stop upon expiration).

I'd've let this pass unnoticed if it hadn't been for 42's kin shooting a secular prayer out the ol' e-Twat. Or, rather, "coverage" of the same.

I can just see 42 eulogizing him already, attesting to his greatness, thoughtfully squinting with his subtle bobbly-head (hey, not unlike 40!). He sure talks smart for a hillbilly, don' 'e?

Then there'll be 44 eloquatiatin' about how he so-honored his nation. And he's got his own head action going on: Look up to the left, look up to the right, look up to the left, look up to the right... Jesus, if that doesn't indicate having been hatched for advanced mind control...

The Red, White, and Blue like to talk about the dudes who founded their company, and they'll be hanging their heads half-mast for this one dude whose founding lineage did as much to shape the current Foreign Sales & Acquisitions strategy as anybody with the word "doctrine" used after their name in the hallowed institutions of higher homicide.

And who would the sanctified political opposition be to bemouth even the devil's spawn itself? I mean, it's not sperm, or their own bloodline, or their own blood that makes them family in Lil' Sicly. It somebody else's.

I can't say Dukakis' hands were too pure to win the chair. And I'm pretty sure the Willie Horton spectacle was little more than something for the savvy voter to be able to rant about during election seasons to come, like the picture of Mike in a helmet. Though I doubt sitting by in a tank while the Ascender-in-Chief was cast as a wimp won him confidence-points with the board of directors. They knew who their guy was anyway, though, and were just waiting for someone better clothed for the job.

After that it's all crooked smiles and golf cart rides.

Here Today? Gone (3 yrs ago) Tomorrow

writer/contributor... composer/performer... organizer/arranger... founder/editor... Zigeuner or goner... Littler

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The last time I saw him, I was in transit at the library, my chosen site for gratis e-correspondence, connection to my next stop.

In addition to the normal collection of studious young researchers, there was always this regular group of older- to slightly older familiar faces. It was never easy to tell if they were dissertationalists or homeless or both, their bibliophilic omnipresence, indeterminate grubbiness, and conversation of vaguely scientific interest banding them together.

Fittingly enough, this was to be one of my last visits, as an e-line connection @ me DOT home was in the works, and on this particular day, during this particular period, the library on Breite-Str. was undergoing - also, appropriately - renovation.

I had finished whatever internetting I felt I had to do and was on my way out when I caught a glimpse of him sitting on the bench I only used when I had a lot of time to kill, sort of out-of-the-way under the stairwell leading to the Economics section, between the wall of periodicals and the photocopier room.

He was looking down, so he didn't see me. I was neither in a hurry, nor did I have a great deal of time. I took the few steps I needed to be within whisper-shot (unfortunately not a librarial necessity anymore) and said hello.

His measured enthusiasm mirrored mine, but there was something missing, and it was only later that it occurred to me that perhaps he didn't recognize who I was, and much later than that, that what was missing may have been an expression of how he really felt, that his measured enthusiasm had been painstakingly conjured. God knows, I know how to fake measured enthusiasm; just ask me how I'm doing.

@ @ @
When I got the e-mail - with a Re: in the subject-line followed by my chosen title to a mail I had written several weeks prior - it didn't take forever for me (via projection or avoidance or denial) to suspect another fake.

For I had once used an alias to guilt someone into finally removing me from their most annoying mailing list. I pretended to be a relative using my e-mail address to close out all correspondence, informing the recipient that I had passed tragically.

So when I received this message from his [family member] using John's e-mail address, ostensibly to settle remaining business, my second or third thought was: There are two ways to get out of dodge. This is the one. Or this is the other.

Now, it might be that it was not the result of suspicion so much as my having figuratively-literally heard the words coming from his e-box. Thereby, my inability to separate the voice from the box remains psychogrammatically intact.

The message said that John had died after haemorrhaging cerebrally some time on or about the end of the year. I promptly responded, extending my condolence, expressing my genuine sentiment regarding his worth to the scene and his friends therein.

That he had died was unsettling, depressing. Yet the feeling that he hadn't just simply up and died, but rather up and went, refreshes occasionally still.

The only further information surrounding his demise I got from Wikipedia. Initially oddly phrased and inappropriately tensed, the specifics and timing have been altered on a few occasions.

Since I had already offered my assistance in organizing the coming Bleepfest, receiving one last reply that that was being worked out and I'd be hearing more, I have not since attempted another inquiry.

I leave th@ address in peace. Tho' his links remain, John Littler does not.

photo of John Littler by Verena Lehmbrock, Berlin Sep 2008

Theoretical Train of Theoretical Thought

A train is hurtling toward a group of five people who, for some unexplained reason*, cannot move themselves out of the way of their certain death and brakes are not an option**. Fortunately, there's a railroad turnout several meters prior to this, and you are in control of the switch.

But there's a catch. Standing on the line adjacent is a lone individual who will likewise meet his demise if you shunt the train. And, oh yeah, this is the best part: You gotta decide now. Hurry or it'll be too late!

The Probability of Not Unlikelihood
So. Do you do nothing and allow the hapless five (family?) to get ground to gristle? Or, do you flip the switch and put the trainspotter (not unlikely not unlikely eighty percent less-liked than the others - or, by all reasonable odds, a substantial enough percent less-followed) out of his misery?

Now, how does your thinking change when you are told that someone else would be redirecting the train and the information about the dangers spoken of in the scenario are, at best, third hand?

Is there any point in your thought process where you ask the question, "Where does that other track lead to?" or consider why somebody might otherwise prefer to send the train in that direction?

To be clear, while such plots are postulated to make the case for the goodest of wars, waged out of the most humanitarian motives to be found deep in our collective heart (or something), it's not only the thought experiment itself that is theoretical, but also the idea that you have any say as to whether the theory is put into practice.

So you might ask, 'Why ask the question?' which is a pretty good question, to which the only answer I can think of is, 'Why not?' hastily followed by, 'For theoretical consent.'

And who knows, maybe there's a premium on the use of expressions like "national dialogue" and "soul searching" that placates the most feared/revered god/monster deep in the bowels of a nation-state's subconscious.

__

Maybe it reveals a coldness of character, but when I read glowing accounts of how Bo Rama has delivered yet another groundbreaker for the history books, I see "hagiographer's hypocrisy" (in the theoretical all-caps of my bad attitude).

As was pointed out by Weldon Berger yesterday regarding Saturday's preview of tears, the president doesn't engage in ostentatious fatherly reflection when he's the one pulling the trigger.

And that subtle-demonstrative flicking away of rhetorical teardrops was but a windup for the big Sunday pitch, whereupon, and from his hill of kindly contingent compassion, proclaimeth'd the Rama:

"These tragedies must end, and to end them, we must change. We will be told that the causes of such violence are complex, and it is true. No single law, no set of laws can eliminate evil from the world or prevent every senseless act of violence in our society. But that can't be an excuse for inaction. Surely we can do better than this."

'Such nuance!' 'A triumph of #leadership!' 'Imagine what that creep Romney would've said or not said lol', tweet the uplifted and more faithful now than ever before. And in between their very-real tears and the names of children who are no more theirs than the collateral damage on the other side of the globe, "Wh-why, why, it's the Gettysburg Address!!!"

When he speaks of "violence in our society" he damn sure isn't talking about how we train to kill; when he says that such contradictions "can't be an excuse for inaction", I see theoretical loners all over the tracks.

 * probably to keep this experiment in thought manipulation simple
** probably to keep it from being too simple