so what

Posted in bipolar disorder, existentialism, writing on December 19, 2011 by Moon

so what does it mean to be a bipolar existentialist bohemian novel writer? What drives him, who inspires him, and what the fuck does a guy like that write about? Well, I’ll tell you: what drives me is the same thing that’s always driven me as a writer, which is the need to express myself. On the surface that sounds like a fairly generic answer—all writers write to express themselves—so to elaborate I’ll admit that I’ve always had another motive: the need to be heard. The need to not be ignored. The need to know that what I have to say, whatever it is, matters to someone. I think this comes from a childhood in which I wasn’t encouraged to speak my mind, and in many cases was actively admonished not to. You can throw in the fact that in my family there were some things we just didn’t talk about. Things I still don’t talk about, and don’t write about. I can see the wisdom in it, but I can also see that necessity can be a wounding thing. And it’s that wounding, I think, that’s been at least a catalyst to this desire to unburden myself. Not directly, of course, but it’s no coincidence that the title of the first chapter of Genius Of Love is Choosing My Confessions. Because ultimately that’s what I’m really doing with this writing thing. Elsewhere I’ve stated that the inspiration for me to write came from having read Albert Camus’ novel The Plague, and that I decided after reading it that I wanted to write stories like that. I didn’t want to write like Camus but I saw that what he was doing with that novel was stating something about the human condition without coming right out and saying what he meant to say. He told a story that could stand by itself but, if you looked behind the words you saw another, additional story, the story he was really telling. And that was what I wanted to do; tell the story of my life by telling other stories. Taking the truth and dressing it up in a suit of lies. This is one of the reasons why Henry Miller’s work has always been so appealing to me; it’s all lies and yet there isn’t a shred of fabrication in anything he’s written. If you’ve read Genius Of Love or Touched With Fire or michelle questionmark, or anything else I’ve written—or if you plan to once any of it is published—and if you look behind the words, you’ll learn more about me than I’ll ever tell you to your face.

Speaking of Genius Of Love and michelle questionmark: both of those novels started out as attempts to examine the human condition from the perspective of the mentally ill. I think I was successful in that respect with regard to michelle questionmark but I wasn’t quite as successful with regard to Genius; with Genius I got sidetracked by other issues. And Touched With Fire, its sequel, pretty much strayed far away from the entire story’s original intent. But even so, I stuck to the truth of who I am and what I’ve experienced. To a certain degree.

As far as the existentialism is concerned, I think I touch on that in all of my work, but most specifically in Valentine Road. Because for me existentialism is more than just a philosophy, it’s a perspective, a world view developed from insight and experience, from self-examination and reflection, and the refusal to shy away from the truth (to not talk about it). Granted, the result is a fairly negative world view, the expression of a marked lack of faith in humanity and a denial of the spiritual, a recognition and acceptance of the futility of hope, but I submit that it’s not a denial of a meaningful life. Existentialism does contend that life is meaningless, but it doesn’t argue that life must be meaningless. It is, but it doesn’t have to remain that way. In other words—and I believe Camus may have stated it directly in one of his essays—life can have meaning, but in order for it to do so, we have to give it meaning. I’ve always understood this, and for most of my life I’ve tried various ways to give my life some kind of meaning. I’ve tried the traditional roles of husband, father, brother, son, etc., and while all of those things brought their own particular rewards, none of them gave to me what I could see as authentic meaning. Because they were roles I was playing so that I could satisfy someone else’s expectations of what I should be. I tried religion too—and this may surprise some people, but I’ve read the Bible from cover to cover twice, and I studied it on a somewhat regular basis for about twenty years; sometimes I think I know the tenants and policies of the Christian world better than most Christians. But I did more than that; I tried living the Christian life as well, first as a follower, and then, after I abandoned the idea of faith or spirituality in any form, as an atheist who chose to practice the Christian philosophy of love, kindness, forgiveness, sacrifice and charity. It was all good experience but in the end it only taught me that these things are wasted on most people, and if you choose to practice them you do so only for yourself. Ultimately, the closest I could come to a spiritual life was to adopt a philosophy of love, kindness, forgiveness, etc., and to blend it with the more cynical—and to my mind, more realistic—ideas of existentialism.

These are the things that have fueled me, inspired me, driven me, and they’re what I write about, even when I’m dashing off some nonsense about clowns, useless vampires or cheerleader invasions. They’re the truth of who I am, even if you can’t tell.

invisible sun

Posted in bipolar disorder, mental illness with tags , , on December 16, 2011 by Moon

It’s dark all day and it glows all night
Factory smoke and acetylene light
I face the day with my head caved in
Looking like something that the cat brought in
There has to be an invisible sun
That gives its heat to everyone
There has to be an invisible sun
That gives us hope when the whole day’s done

Lyrics from the song Invisible Sun by The Police, aka Sting And Those Other Guys. It’s been playing in my head the last few days, which is sort of odd because I haven’t really thought of that song in decades. I found it on YouTube when I was looking for another song (Spirits In The Material World) and I didn’t even remember how it went; I only clicked on it to refresh my memory. Well, I refreshed my memory, alright; I remembered how that was one of the songs I had going through my head incessantly back when I was married, because it gave voice to the emotional turmoil I was always in.

It’s dark all day and it glows all night speaks directly to this; during the day, when the sun is out, it should be light, but it’s dark, and at night when the sun is on the other side of the world it should be dark and yet it’s light. Of course, I’m pretty sure Sting was singing about the plight of the coal miner and not in any metaphorical sense, but even so, if you take the lyrics metaphorically, they describe exactly how it is for me to live with bipolar disorder. Everything is backward, or opposite, a mirror image to use a hackneyed phrase. Or, as I described it in Notes From An American City: a vision in reverse, a negative image. Reality transposed upon itself. Life is not the truth. My life is not life as it’s understood or experienced by the rest of the world. It’s not false, it’s just not the way it really is. It’s dark all day where I live.

The lyrics I face the day with my head caved in/Looking like something that the cat brought in are accurate depictions of my mood as well, but they’re self-explanatory and so don’t need to be explored here.

Those inclined to do so will see the positive aspect of Sting’s song, primarily in the lines There has to be an invisible sun/That gives its heat to everyone. etc. Implying, if not the existence of God (though that’s exactly how I interpret his meaning), then at the very least some kind of positive force or future one can look to and subsequently take heart. For me, it isn’t like that. I don’t hear that. What I hear is a yearning for something not obtained, a searching for something that can’t be found. It’s like when you lose your house keys and you look all over for them, telling yourself, “They have to be here somewhere,” but you haven’t found them yet. And you might never find them. There has to be an invisible sun but where the fuck is it? Where has it ever been? In this respect, I suppose you can draw the connection to God; you know in your heart he’s there, but you’ve never seen him. You’ve never even seen any evidence of him. You just have faith and bide your time.

But my struggle with bipolar disorder isn’t a matter of faith. I can’t just hang on and wait for things to get better, wait for a cure. Death is the cure for life, because then you can go with God, but there is no cure for me, this bullshit will be with me until the end, and since I have no faith I have no god to go to when it’s all over. That’ll be the end of it. Which makes me wonder what the hell the point is to all of this. To suffer for however many years I’m on this earth, and then to pass away, suffering until the last breath, and then nothing. There is no point, of course, not to life, and not to the suffering. Life and suffering are both simply the reality, and you just have to accept it and do the best you can. Make your life as comfortable as you’re able to while you’re here, because it’s all you’ve got and all you’re going to get. It’s not fair, but then, fairness is one of the expectations you have to give up. As George Carlin once said, “It’s never gonna get any better. Don’t look for it. Be happy with what you got.” Of course, he was talking about something else, but the admonition still applies.

I know I’ve been focused on my mental/emotional problems lately, and that can’t be very interesting. Unfortunately, it’s necessary for me at the moment. Next time I’ll be more positive. More than likely an update on my writing life, which is what this thing is supposed to be about anyway.

Yes I Am (Or: No I’m Not)

Posted in bipolar disorder, mental illness with tags , , on December 12, 2011 by Moon

It’s funny. I was going to preface this blog post with a nearly seven hundred word opinion on Melissa Etheridge’s autobiography, The Truth Is…(it would have been longer if I’d actually finished it). I drew comparisons between Etheridge’s own struggle for love and self-understanding, and was just about to begin elaborating on how those comparisons began to diverge as a result of bipolar disorder derailing my life. I could have gone on, of course, and presented a good and logical case, but at that moment I realized that part of what’s wrong with how I relate to the world is this apparent need to measure myself against people who impress me—even people I have absolutely nothing in common with. Like lesbian rock stars.

Besides, Etheridge achieved a gigantic amount of success and fame despite the personal and professional challenges she faced, while I sit here in front of my laptop nearly overcome with the reality of my vastly less successful life. It’s not a good thing, this comparing yourself to others, especially when you start feeling this need to point the finger at something like your mental illness to explain things. Something I’ve never wanted to do—and have actively avoided—is to use bipolar disorder as an excuse for failure. And I won’t do it now. I’m not after sympathy; I don’t want people to feel sorry for me; I just want to try to make people understand. So: shitcan the book report and, like Etheridge, just say what the truth is. Put it all out there and see what happens.

I can’t really say when my problems with bipolar disorder began. I remember being a typically depressed, angst-ridden teenager, and I remember that those feelings never really went away as I got older. Despite the successes I had in my early life, with the Army, and with my wife and kids, I was, for all of that time, constantly—and sometimes morbidly—depressed. I was also filled with an anger that felt like a burning ember somewhere deep down in the center of myself. I was always sad and angry, even when I was experiencing some of the happiest and most joyful times of my life. On occasion, those feelings would surface, and, unsurprisingly, my family and friends got the brunt of them (my wife more than anyone else). I’ve always had this intense need for friends, for family, and yet those were the very people I drove away. The tired line, “You always hurt the ones you love” is true because those are the people closest to you when you blow up. Because of their proximity they become your collateral damage.

In those days (my early to late twenties) I self-medicated with alcohol. I drank a lot, and I don’t think I need to point out how much that didn’t help. It only made things worse, it only made me more intolerable as a friend a husband a father, and eventually it was the thing that finally destroyed my marriage.

After my divorce in 1989 I told myself I was never going to get married again because I just didn’t want to re-experience that kind of pain. I kept my word, but, as Melissa Etheridge is fond of saying, the truth is that I had an additional reason: I didn’t want to put anyone else through that kind of misery, either. Because I knew that there was something wrong with me.

I tried to protect myself from this truth for a long time. I told myself that my only problem was my addiction to alcohol, and that I had “fixed” that by sobering up and going through an alcohol rehab program. I got a job with a non-profit Christian organization that helped people with drug and alcohol problems, with homelessness, and with mental illness; I went back to college and got my certification as a mental health counselor; and for years I worked to help people who struggled with the same kind of problems I did. I helped a lot of people, and I believed that I was vindicating myself for all of the mistakes I’d made in the past.

To a certain degree all of that is true. I did vindicate myself, I did become a better person, a less outwardly-angry person who went out of his way and sacrificed more than was wise in order to help others. I became the kind of man I’d always thought I should be: a good, decent, kind and caring human being.

Unfortunately, that didn’t last. Though I had achieved a respectable amount of success in my new chosen profession, I eventually did what I consistently do: I rose to the highest level of my competence, and then set about crashing and burning. The fact that I left that job voluntarily—half the time I tend to get fired—doesn’t negate the fact that I had started on a downward spiral that has slowly and surely, over the course of the last fourteen years, brought me to where I’m at now. I went through several other jobs, some of which I quit, some of which I lost; I don’t think it really matters which, since the results were the same. During those years I tried therapy, I tried medication, I even went into rehab a second time. All of those things helped, to a small degree, anyway, but none of it ever helped enough. I think by that time I was too far gone. Too set in my ways. Too used to managing my mood swings on my own.

A specific note about medication, though: I’m not against it philosophically, and I believe that if someone wants medication and finds it helpful, than they should take it. I just found that it didn’t work for me. I tried most of them, and while they did help me to manage my life and emotions better (read: without upsetting society), as far as I was concerned the side effects were more of a problem than the original symptoms. I would rather go through life with these rough, raw emotions than walk around anesthetized with meds, a construct of what everyone else would prefer me to be rather than what I really am.

Which begs the question: what am I, really? The first answer off the top of my head: one truly messed up individual who will never be right in the head no matter what he does. To be honest, that sounds like me, so I’m not going to argue with it. The truth is that I am a good, decent, loving and caring human being. But the truth also is that I am at times a real asshole. For the most part I’m a quiet unassuming guy that no one would expect trouble from, but inside—most of the time—I’m a swirling mass of anxiety, rage, sadness. I’m always two things at once: angry and forgiving, hopeful and cynical, glad and heartbroken. Fire and ice. A weeping clown. I am and I am not.

But now I have another question to ask: can I be okay with that? Another answer off the top of my head: yes. But it’s a conditional yes, based on the idea that I have to let go of certain expectations. I can no longer expect to maintain a small group of affectionate friends. I can no longer expect that things will someday be mended between me and my family. I can no longer hope that I’ll eventually mold my life into something that can ultimately provide a lesson for those who come after me. I’ll just have to settle for being that crazy guy who wrote some good books but wrecked his life in the process.

Can I be okay with that? I suppose I’ll have to be. I’ve gone too far down this road to turn back.

On The Road To Oz

Posted in writing with tags , , , on November 1, 2011 by Moon

On The Road To Oz was actually the title I came up with before I came up with On The Yellow Brick Road. The secret is out now and you can make of it what you will. You can even point and laugh. I don’t care.

Nearly a month ago I decided to start a second blog specifically for my political writings/rants because I wanted to keep this one exclusively devoted to my writing life, but I find myself in a bit of an odd situation because now my writing life, or at least a portion of it, is focused on the political angle. That’s because I have somewhat changed direction with my novel On The Yellow Brick Road; originally, my plan was to put my protagonist, whose name is Daniel (I haven’t come up with a really creative/appropriate last name for him yet), smack in the middle of a war in Munchkinland, and I gave little thought to the political forces that would lead to that war; essentially, the Nome King was going to invade Munchkinland with an eye toward seizing the emerald mines in The Glikkus. Of course, the political aspect of it would be what leads most countries to war: the control and exploitation of natural resources. I didn’t think about any of it beyond that. But then the Occupy Wall Street movement flared up across America (and by now it has spread all over the world) and it got me to think a little more deeply about what’s happening in my version of Oz. It only took a small amount of critical thinking for me to realize that the major human failing behind the Nome King’s invasion of Munchkinland is greed—which is the basic human failing that drives the corporate elite’s campaign to control the global economy here in the supposedly real world. I couldn’t help but see the connection, and I began to think about how the Nome King was ultimately just a pawn of similar forces. This led me to think about how those forces were influencing the culture and politics of Oz itself, what kind of control the bankers would have over the society, the Ozma, and the Wizard himself (if he actually makes an appearance in this novel; I haven’t decided yet if he will or not). Following this train of thought, and keeping in mind that I had already, in the first chapter, created a character (Miffie) who was the wealthy daughter of a wealthy Emerald City official, and also keeping in mind that I had planted the idea of the Neverdale Group as a political group whose function I hadn’t determined yet, I began to draw new connections, and to realize that I could, if I wanted to, use these ideas to mirror the OWS movement. Then, after seeing the documentary The Secret Of Oz (if you haven’t seen this documentary, you should google it, google it now), which explored L. Frank Baum’s  political symbolism in The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz, which had to do with the very issues the OWS movement is dealing with now, I decided that I wanted to. Use the idea to mirror the OWS movement, that is. So that will be the focus of the first part of the novel, when Daniel travels from the city of Shiz to the Emerald City; he’ll slowly become ensnared in the Neverdale Group’s movement to take control of Oz’s money supply from the bankers and turn it over to the Emerald City’s Governing Council, which actually governs the entire Land of Oz. The second part of the novel, then, will focus on Daniel’s subsequent adventures on the Yellow Brick Road in Munchkinland as he goes to help out in the war against the Nome King’s forces—a war, he learns, that was manipulated into being by the Oz bankers in order to distract the citizens of Oz away from the movement. Ultimately, of course, Daniel will have to return to the Emerald City, and then back to his starting place in Shiz, but I haven’t got that part of it worked out yet.

So. Now I find myself in a situation in which I’m doing two things I’d never expected I would do: writing a fantasy novel, and writing a political novel. I don’t know how good I’ll be at either of those things, let alone both at once, but I think it will at least be fun to give it a try. I also expect that the first draft will not be very well done, especially now that I’m poised to write the bulk of it at lightning speed during NaNoWriMo. But still, fun will be had, at least in the writing of this novel if not in the reading of it, and, as I told another (much better) writer earlier this evening, making the story good is what rewriting is for.

Occupy America

Posted in politics with tags , , , , , on October 6, 2011 by Moon

I’m not a particularly political animal. In fact, I actively avoided voting for many years, simply because I didn’t see the sense in participating in a political process that I saw as controlled by special interests and ultimately unresponsive to the needs/desires of its people. But as much as I’ve divested myself of politics in America, I’ve always paid very close attention to what goes on in the public sphere. Most of the time I’ve been disgusted by it, even outraged, but in the last few weeks I’ve actually seen things occurring that have led me to think that maybe there is still some hope for this country.

Specifically: the Occupy Wall Street movement. It’s in its infancy right now, and lots of people are predicting that it will either collapse from lack of direction and passion, or else it will get eaten up by the interests of the contending political parties. I suspect that the first expectation is mistaken, though the second might not be. In any case, I think it’s a movement worthy of not only my attention but the attention of everyone in this country.
Actually, everyone in the world should be paying attention to it, because it addresses a problem that ultimately effects the entire world economy, not just the American economy.

The Occupy Wall Street movement started nearly a month ago, and it was originally made up of mostly college kids protesting the fact that their college degrees will be or are useless in helping them to find gainful employment once they graduate, or else the fact that once they do graduate they’ll be starting out their lives in debt to the tune of tens of thousands—sometimes even hundreds of thousands—of dollars in student loans. They blamed Wall Street for this, and while their target may have been off by a few miles (Washington D.C. and Congress should have been where they started), and while their particular grievance may not have resonated with the majority of America, it has resonated with enough people that they haven’t yet been shouted down or forced to disappear by their real enemy—which is our real enemy, the real enemy of the “99 per cent:” the corporate executives that are stealing all of our money.

But more on that later. First, I want to address the accusations by many that these kids are “hippies with no jobs and no motivation.” Granted, the majority of them are still in school, but how can they be blamed for that? Being a student doesn’t automatically translate into being lazy or unmotivated. The lazy and unmotivated are the ones who either dropped out of college or never bothered to go in the first place, electing to apply for welfare instead so that they can have an income while they live in their parents’ basement and play video games all day (and who says that even the lazy and unmotivated can’t have a voice in how they’re governed?). No, these kids are working hard in school so that they can eventually go out into the world and make something of themselves, but they’ve seen that their ambitions will be thwarted by a corporate elite that has already been robbing them through higher and higher tuitions each year and will continue to do so by limiting their success in the future. I’ve also seen that a lot of people are dismissing them simply because they’re kids, they haven’t been out in the world yet and so they don’t really understand how it works. This might be true, but these kids are our future; what they’re learning now, and what they’ll learn in the next ten years, will effect what happens to this country thirty and forty years from now. Instead of dismissing them, we should be paying attention to them, because eventually they’ll be the ones running this place. Besides, it’s hypocritical to dismiss them simply because they’re young and in college, especially when a lot of the people doing the dismissing were once young and in college themselves, and when they were they believed they had a right to voice their concerns just as ardently as these kids today do.

I’d also like to note that the OWS movement is quickly becoming more than just a youth movement; plenty of older people, in their 30s and 40s and 50s, are getting involved. I’m one of them.

And here’s why: Because it’s not just about college tuition and the availability of jobs anymore. The protestors camping out in a park near Wall Street exposed the tip of the iceberg, and more and more people are recognizing that the real thing to protest here is the unrestrained greed of the top corporate executives, the 1% that rakes in billions of dollars every year for themselves while they lay off their workers by the thousands, outsource jobs to sweatshops overseas, use their power and influence obtained through their wealth to lobby Congress to deregulate their industries so that they can rake in even more money, and ask for government bail outs every time they screw up the economy with their bad/deceptive/illegal business practices. I’ve said it in other places on line and I’ll say it here: I’m not against business, it’s one of the things that makes a capitalist society work, but I am against thievery, and that, ultimately, is what the OWS movement is going to be about.

George Carlin (1937-2008) used to be a comedian, but in the last ten or so years of his life he spent most of his public time trying to educate the American people about what he called “The Ownership Class,” that is, the people who really own America. They’re the top executives and board members of the six largest corporations in the world, and, as Carlin told us, they own everything. They own the corporations, of course, but they also own the banks, the media, and every politician they can buy from the President on down to your local city council member, and they use them as their mouthpieces to tell us what they think we should think is good for us. They lobby Congress to deregulate a certain industry because, according to them, it will help the economy and improve the quality of life for individuals either through advanced technology, better social systems, or new jobs. But what always happens is that, once these industries are deregulated (meaning: all or most of the rules for ethical conduct have been eliminated) the corporations rake in extra profits while the economy either stagnates or tanks, people lose their homes, their money and their opportunities, no new social systems that benefit people are created (though a few that benefit the corporations might appear), and instead of new jobs being created, people tend to lose their jobs.

Case in point: after the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, and the subsequent shutting down of the airline industry for three days, the corporate executives calculated that they would need around 15 billion dollars to recover from the financial disaster that was caused as a result of the attacks; they asked the government for a bail out because to not bail them out would have wrecked our economy and put thousands of people out of work; but they didn’t ask for 15 billion dollars, they asked for 150 billion dollars, and they got it; then, when they were through putting the industry back together, they showed their gratitude to the taxpayers who footed the bill by giving themselves and each other billions of dollars in salaries and bonuses and laying off 100,000 workers.

This kind of thing is standard practice for corporate owners—the ones who really own America. They do it all the time, and they’ve been doing it for thirty years. Does anyone remember the government bail out of the Chrysler Corporation in the 1980s (and how many millions or billions of dollars Lee Iacocca walked away with)? The bail out of the savings and loan companies in the 1990s? Enron? Fanny Mae? Freddy Mac? Goldman Sachs? The further ruination of our economy by the banks and their subprime loans? The corporations have set up a system in which they can keep launching these get richer quick schemes, fleece their customers and their stockholders of all of their money, and then walk away with billions for themselves and nothing at all for the people they robbed. And they’re going to keep doing it until we stop them.

A lot of people don’t seem to think it’s all that bad. A lot of people will tell you that this backlash against rampant corporate greed is just spoiled middle class liberals who want everything handed to them without having to earn it. They claim that people who protest against corporate thievery like the kinds mentioned above are just biting the hand that feeds them, and that the repercussions will be that corporations will take their business overseas, leaving everyone here without jobs. Well, they’ve been taking their jobs overseas for more than 30 years now, and they’ll continue to do so as long as it’s profitable for them, but they won’t take all the jobs overseas because that wouldn’t be in their best interests; they need to keep Americans working, or at least keep the system functioning, in order to maximize their profits. But the real point here—and the most ominous one, in my estimation—is that the very people most effected by corporate dominance of society are the ones using the “don’t bite the hand that feeds you” argument to defend corporate malfeasance. And this is exactly what the corporations want: they want a docile, obedient work force that does their bidding, makes them more and more money, and doesn’t complain or resist in any way. They’ll plug us into our television sets and our iPods and our computers and tell us what to think, what to feel, and what to believe, subdue us through the news and entertainment that they provide while they pick our pockets and our bank accounts behind our backs. They might allow some people to succeed, but only to a certain extent; the billionaires aren’t allowing any new members into their club. And eventually, if they get their way, the middle class will disappear and all that will be left is the poor and the top 1% that will be wealthier than ever.

And the government knows this. The government, i.e., Congress, has been in collusion with the corporate elite for the last forty years. They’re the ones that are deregulating the industries, filling the tax codes with loopholes for the corporations to slip through, and sharing in some of the wealth those things generate. It’s no coincidence that so many politicians are wealthy before they come to Congress, or that they get even wealthier while they’re there. They take corporate money and vote in session according to the corporate agenda, which is spelled out for them by the corporations’ lobbyists, who swarm over the capitol like an infestation of cockroaches. But it’s not just Congress; as I mentioned before, this applies to the lower houses of power as well, the governorships, the legislatures, and the county and city councils. Granted, there are a lot of people who have no ties to corporations who run for office every year, but the vast majority of the people who get elected are backed by business, and as a result, those people are expected to defer to corporate interests whenever they can. As Mr. Carlin once told us, “Forget the politicians. The politicians are put there to give you the idea that you have freedom of choice. You don’t.”

Forget the unions too. Sure, they were once a great idea, they created the middle class, and they did a lot to advance the standard of living for the average person, but in the last forty years the unions have not only lost nearly all of their power in this country (something the corporate leaders wanted and brought about), but the modern union isn’t anymore interested in the welfare of their members than the corporations are. This is evidenced by the gigantic salaries, the huge bonuses, and the extravagant lifestyles of most union leaders. Union leaders, these days, act just like corporate leaders; their profit margin and getting the largest piece of the pie possible is the only thing that matters to them. Unions have become corporations themselves, and so can’t be trusted or expected to serve the needs of their individual members any better than the corporations do.

So, if you oppose the corporate elite and you oppose the unions as well, where does that place the OWS movement on the political spectrum? I’ve seen comments on the internet accusing it of being a pawn for both the liberals and the conservatives, the Democratic Party and the Tea Party. But, in my view at least, it doesn’t belong in either of those camps. To my mind, the OWS movement isn’t about liberal or conservative politics, and not just because the corporations have bought most of our politicians, Democrat, Republican or otherwise. It’s because this movement is about class warfare. The top 1%—the ownership class—against the rest of us. The multi-billionaires who own America against all those who don’t. Because the corporate leaders don’t want to control just the economy and the politicians and the media and the judges, they want to control the culture itself. They want us all to adopt a corporate mindset, to believe that corporations have the same kind of rights that individuals do (they’ve actually won court cases granting them protection of the right to free speech under the First Amendment), so that we’ll no longer judge ourselves or our communities by individual merit but by how much we contribute to the corporation, either through work or purchasing their products. And those people who are too poor to afford to participate, or who have proven their inadequacy by getting laid off (by the corporations) will have no power and no voice in the community.

There are some things we can do to stop them: We can pressure Congress to reinstate a lot of the regulations on business and business practices that they’ve eliminated in the last thirty years; demand the end to lobbyists and special interest groups in Washington; demand the reversal of all court decisions that have ruled that corporations have the same rights as citizens; demand that corporations, when they get themselves into a financial bind, be allowed to fail rather than get bailed out with taxpayer money; and demand that the government exercise its right to dissolve corporations guilty of breaking the law and/or endangering lives. We can also do things ourselves, like refusing to do business with whatever corporations we can afford to stop doing business with. We can cut up our credit cards, take our money out of the banks and put them into credit unions (a lot of people are doing this after Bank of America announced they were slapping a five dollar monthly user fee onto their customer’s debit cards), and find other ways to deny the corporations the opportunity to exploit us for their own gain. Despite what the corporations and the politicians and the unions want us to think, we are not powerless without them. In fact, the exact opposite is true: without us, their workers and their customers, the corporations can’t exist. We can stop the corporate takeover of America. We can take our country, our economy, our politics, and our culture back from the robber barons. Or we can let them continue to own us. This is what Occupy Wall Street is all about.

Pay No Attention To The Idiot Behind The Curtain

Posted in writing with tags , on September 27, 2011 by Moon

Despite his advanced age, his wealth of experience and knowledge, and his accumulated wisdom, he really has no idea what he’s doing.

I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I have no real talent for anything beyond writing. Actually, to be precise, I’ve reached that conclusion before but I never really embraced it. I think I wanted for it to not be true, to cling to the hope that I had something more to offer the world—or, if not the world, then at least the friends I haven’t managed to drive away. But I think there’s no denying it anymore: writing is the only talent I have. I have no talent for being a good friend or family member, or even being a tolerable person, let alone an upstanding member of society. So I won’t be trying so hard to stand up anymore.

That doesn’t mean I’ll just quit trying to live in this world. I have no desire to sleep under a bridge and push a shopping cart filled with my personal effects around all day. Instead, I’ll just stop investing so much of myself in what I’ve learned will just end up doomed enterprises. If I don’t try so hard to please people then maybe the chances that they’ll be disappointed in me will diminish. Actually, that doesn’t sound right; the less you do for people, the more disappointed they are. So. Conundrum.

A mystery to be unraveled on some other day.

In the meantime, I’ve returned to writing, quite a lot each day. I think it might have something to do with the seasons; I’ve noticed that I’m much more productive in the cooler seasons, i.e., Fall and Winter, and much less so in Spring and Summer. Sort of a positive side effect of Seasonal Affective Disorder.

In any case, the project I’m most enthused about at the moment is my Oz story. Originally titled The Emerald City, I’ve recently (just a few minutes ago) changed it to On The Yellow Brick Road.  Partly as a nod to Kerouac, I guess, though the main reason for the change is because, as I’ve worked to figure out where this story will go, I’ve come to realize that The Yellow Brick Road is really the main setting in the novel. My protagonist will go to The Emerald City, but he won’t stay there; he’ll go on a quest of some kind, and in order to do that he’ll have to take The Yellow Brick Road to get there. I think after his quest he’ll probably be returning to The Emerald City, but it won’t necessarily be his choice, and in any event, the most important things he learns and the most important experiences he has will most likely be while he’s on The Yellow Brick Road. Hence the title change.

It might seem sad to some that I’m choosing to write a novel I’ll never be able to publish (for copyright reasons), but I don’t see it that way. Because the act of writing is by itself enough for me. It fulfills me in a way that nothing else in this life ever has. The fact that it’s the only thing I have left makes life seem a bit dicey, but I don’t mind. I might be an insufferable human being, but I know how to be a good steward of the writer’s reason.

That Moment When You Realize You’re Stuck

Posted in writing with tags , , , on September 8, 2011 by Moon

I found myself in one earlier tonight. Or, rather, I found myself in one again, earlier tonight, when I was talking with a friend. I haven’t been having a great week, and she asked me how things were going and I told her, “Eh,” which I thought explained everything quite well, but then she asked me to elaborate (she’s one of those awesome people that asks you to elaborate—it’s one of the many reasons I love her), and so I started to do so, and the realization came (returned) to me: I’m stuck. In a life I don’’t enjoy and don’t want to continue living. But don’t panic, that doesn’t mean I plan to end it all. Instead, I think the best course of action would be to change it all.

To change it all. My monetary situation, my work situation (both of these are more barren than the landscape of the moon), my loneliness, my boredom, my sputtering writing life, my dying computer, and—I feel this next part needs to be put in italics—my life in this dumbass apartment. I’ve been living here for nearly eight years and I want to live somewhere else.

I won’t lie; I’ve been feeling this way, on and off, for years now. But in this last year it’s just gotten more and more unbearable, and this last week seems to have forced the issue. There were a couple things that occurred—actually, one thing occurred and the other didn’t—that brought this all on.

The thing that didn’t occur was a volunteer job opportunity. The theatre across the street from my building is advertising for volunteers, and when I saw that I thought about how awesome it would be to work in the theatre, even if it didn’t pay. But when I went to check out what opportunities were available, I found that all they were looking for was ticket takers and stamp lickers. Not the kind of work I’d want to do in the theatre, and not any kind of work I would do for free. Probably not the right attitude, and the aforementioned awesome friend suggested I take tickets anyway, simply for the opportunity to meet new people. She’s a sweetie, and she’s probably right, but one of my least favorite things in this entire world is meeting new people, for any reason.

But that’s just a minor disappointment among the multitude I’ve experienced in my life. The major one was with my laptop. I won’t go into the whole story; suffice to say that my laptop, which I’ve had for about two and a half years, is on its last legs. I already suspected this, but it became a problem on Sunday when I got home from my brother’s house and went to turn it on and all I got was a blank screen and an unsettling beeping sound. Not just once but several times. My computer was dead.

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I felt very near to devastated. Not because I couldn’t go on line—though this episode did serve to illustrate to me just how much time I waste on line—but because I hadn’t backed up my writing for the last four months. Granted, I haven’t done that much writing since May, but the little I did do was lost. Or so I thought.

It was a few days later when I checked to see if my computer would work and, surprisingly, it came on and loaded up just like normal. Can’t explain it, but I wouldn’t even if I could, since that isn’t what this blog is about. The first thing I did after I got my computer back was attempt to back up all my writing files, only to find that the discs I used for backing up files either wouldn’t open up or wouldn’t copy the files from my computer. A minor problem, you might think, since it would be child’s play to run out and get a data stick (which is what I should have done in the first place instead of buying those stupid disks (is it discs or disks?) ), except I have no money. One of the many and most insidious things about poverty is that you’re completely at the world’s mercy; you can’t effect even the smallest change, or remedy even the smallest problems if it takes money to do so.

I have a handful of change but that’s for buying stamps for the letters I send to the aforementioned awesome friend. Which reminds me, I haven’t started on my latest letter to her yet. Must make mental note to do that. Or just read this part later on.

Anyway: I did have a data stick, but it was at my brother’s house, so I had to email him and ask him to bring it to me. He did so, and now all of my files are backed up—and I’ll be backing them up every single day of my life now, for as long as I can remember to do it—so as long as I don’t turn off my computer again I think things will be relatively okay.

Except they’re not okay at all. Because if I hadn’t had that data stick, and my computer crashed again, I would have lost not only all the writing I’ve done for the last four months, but all the writing I’ve done for the last ten years. Not counting the few things I wrote out by hand or had printed out, and not counting the stuff I’ve posted on line, but even so, that’s a hell of a lot of work to lose. It would have been a blow I’m not sure I would have bounced back from.

I’m finding it impossible to communicate to you the gravity of this, so you’ll just have to trust me, I would have had every right to feel devastated.

Which brings me to my point: I’ve let thngs slide for too long now. I’ve taken all the crap that life can throw at me and I’ve soldiered on, believing in the rightness of my cause, my destiny as a writer, the legitimacy of sacrificing everything for my life as an artist. But I came very close to rendering all of that pointless this week. I can’t keep doing this. My writing might pay off one day, it might bring me success and a good living, but I can’t keep making the sacrifices necessary to make it happen any time soon. I’ve got to get my life straightened out, get back into being a productive member of society (I just threw up a little bit in my mouth), or else even this small portion that I have can be lost.

The wrinkle: I have no idea how to do that.

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