Desert and the Beatific Vision

(This is another piece that I wrote over a decade ago. I submitted this in a creative writing class–and actually got away with it. I doubt such would fly today. I have cleaned it up a bit. Anyway, it is a cross between Cormac McCarthy and Walker Percy.)

The sand sizzled. The white ball overhead followed him. Everywhere the man looked, desert. There were creosote bushes: pubic hair of the desert.  Even the damn rodents and snakes have better sense than to come out during noonYou can’t hide from God, and you sure as hell can’t hide from the damn sun. He fell down a few times. Every time he fell down, he arose with more sand and silt clinging to his sweaty hands. He felt the sweltering intensity penetrate the soles of his boots. I must keep walking.

Earlier this morning, he had made love to his wife and then had gotten out of bed to rock the baby back to her sleep. He and his wife had made too much noise in their small trailer.  Making love to the wife and loving the child: I guess this is all there is to life—I need some cigarettes. He told his wife that he was going to get a pack of cigarettes, but did not stop at the convenience store. An hour and a half past Gila Bend, going southwest on I-8, he pulled over onto the shoulder. Dust covered his white Mazda B1800 truck like a hair shirt. He got out and looked at the baby window visor on the passenger side window. I’m doing this all for you; damn it, Pookie.

He drove off-road in order to follow a Harris hawk. No wonder there’s no road—a road got better sense than to be out here. He stopped his truck and started to walk. He walked longer than he planned. Pulsating mirages lied to him. Fine, I’m not looking for no water, anyhow. He came across a dead black-tailed rattler. He rubbed the toe of his right boot into its head. Bubbly grayish mush squirted out on all sides and immediately began to fry on the oven-top sand. Poor bastard. You’re a scourge to mankind, but I guess even scourges have their place in the scheme of things, don’t they?

There’s no way a man could do forty days and nights in a place like this. A saguaro cactus broke out with small white bell-shaped flowers. He rubbed one of his fingers over the bristles to make sure they were real. He licked a few dots of blood off his pointer. Even in desolation, you ain’t gonna hide, are you? Fine, I’m here, now what?

The noon sky opened its mouth and gasped its hot, dry breath on him. He took off his baseball cap and scraped his scalp. I knew I should of got that damn haircut Tuesday. He kept pulling at the hair that fell between his shirt collar and neck. He could smell his armpits, so he took off his shirt and stuffed it into a back pocket. Beads of sweat attached themselves to scattered chest hairs. He looked at his chest: Melinda.  He had promised her that he would tattoo her name to his chest once they got married. Three years ago last month—I’ll be damned.

He fell down again. The sand stung his back and trickled its way into his pants. He intended to scratch his ass but instead covered his eyes from the sun’s indifferent glare. He felt his throat crack and peal. Only two bottles of water—damn genius. He pulled out his pack of Marlboro Lights but then threw them on the ground. He kept the lighter. You never know.

Even though he covered his eyes with his hands, he felt the heat pierce through his hands and scorch his eyeballs. Solar crucifixion, huh? Right now, more than anything, he wished to be with his family, but he did not think of turning back. This ain’t no great revelation; I could of stayed home. This godforsaken, fucking desert. Pookie, your dad ain’t a coward—he just had to know. He sure as hell does now, don’t he ever. A gila monster peaked out from behind a rock. It looked left and then right. A lizard—you know what to do, don’t you?


The day before, the man and his wife had argued. They had started with the milk.

“Buddy, I told you we needed some more milk. Why didn’t cha’ get any? Good thing Pookie’s not old enough to eat cereal or you’d have two grumpy girls mad at you.”

“Sorry, forgot.”

“You’re always forgetting.”

“Cuz I always got stuff on my mind.”

“Right, the only thing you usually got on your mind is sex.”

“Naw, that ain’t right. Got food, too. Just not milk, I suppose.”

“Oh, kiss my ass.”

“Be nice to see a little ass these days.”

“Maybe you will when you starting acting the papa.  Maybe when you starting acting like something—anything. You never want to do anything. You just sit around all the time like you got the whole damn world on your shoulders.”

“Better than having nothing going on in your head, ain’t it?”

“What are you saying? You saying I ain’t smart or something?”

“Ah, baby, no, I ain’t saying that…. Just that I can’t help all the time being distracted.”  He wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“You better try sometime soon. I mean, Pookie can’t have a papa that’s all the time somewhere else in the head, and I can’t have no husband like that neither.” She started to pull away, but then stopped.

“Listen, baby, I’m sorry.  It’s just that…naw, nothing. Never mind. I’m gonna change.  Just you wait.”

“Buddy, you know I love ya, right?

“Right.” He squeezed her and threw her on the couch. “I’m gonna go call in sick for work, and when I get back, you better be butt-naked.”

“You can’t do that. You gotta go to work.” She had already started to unbutton his shirt that she was wearing.

“Babe, it’s not like the shop’s been getting much action anyhow. Neither have I.”


The man decided to put his shirt back on. Damn back’s gonna peel for days. Nothing smart about this. If I don’t die out here, Melinda’s gonna kill me. A roadrunner lifted its tail, dropped it, cooed, and ran away.  Hell, what’s next—El Chupacabra?  He continued to trek, following the cacti that showed him the prettiest flowers. The flutter of hummingbirds darting in and out of blossoms started to make him drowsy. Damn shame to die out here, but, I guess, it’s a damn shame to die anywhere really. Can’t go back to the truck. Probably hotter than hell inside now. Perspiration stung his eyes. The Harris hawk returned and circled over his head.  I knew you’d come back to me. Where to now? The hawk lighted on a chimney cap of an adobe house located on the bottom of a slope he had just now noticed. As he approached the edge of the slope and surveyed the metal roof of the house, the gravel under his feet gave way, and he rolled the entire way down, slamming against the back door. Damn you! Damn you to hell forever! He lobbed handfuls of gravel toward the slope, but laughed after he realized what he had just cursed and what he had just done. He raked the sand off his arms as he waited for the owner of the house to open the door to investigate the ruckus, but he wound up just waiting. Well, I may be breaking and entering, but it’s better than sitting and dying. He kicked at the deadbolt; the door swung open. Well, shoot me or don’t; I need your water. He ran toward the kitchen sink and turned it on. The facet sputtered but nothing came out. Ah, holy hell! Come on! He swung open the refrigerator only to find stale warm air. He began to open every cabinet in the kitchen.  Keystone Light? Hell, it’s better than nothing. Don’t Indians drink water like everybody else? Who am I kidding? He gulped down three tepid beers and immediately began to feel sick and sleepy. He plopped down on a couch and awoke a few hours later.         

Sun’s lowered, but it ain’t setting time yet. I got to get back to the truck—sure don’t want to piss off any Indian. After he crawled his way back up the slope, he tried to remember which way he had come. At least the sun feels about fifteen degrees nicer. He remembered the trail of cacti he had followed. About five hundred yards from the slope, he spotted an unmarked Dodge A100 van. As he approached the van, the smell of hot cottage cheese, pork, and milk hit him.  Good God! Don’t tell me…. He pulled his shirt over his nose and pulled open the right backdoor of the van. An arm that looked liked sculpted raw liver fell out toward him. He jumped back and projected a stream of vomit inside the van. His puke showered five decomposing bodies huddled together. Oh, Christ, some poor spics trying to sneak into Arizona. Oh, Christ! He started to vomit again, but his dehydration allowed only for violent dry heaves. He sunk to his knees and grabbed his stomach as it wormed up and down. His eyes watered as the odor of raw human flesh filtered into his nostrils. Shit, shit, shit! As he pressed his forehead into the sand and rocked back and forth on his knees, a baby cried.  For God’s sake, no baby! Getting up from his knees, he wiped off the drips of vomit that clung to his stubble and walked around to the passenger side doors. The doors nearly folded opened of their own accord. A ten-month old or so baby lay on the ground in front of the first booth seat. Shit! How the holy hell you still alive, baby? Either it’s a miracle or whoever left this godawful mess came back and dropped you off here not too long ago.

The baby lifted his arms and wailed toward the man. He leaned in, picked up the baby, and held him close to his chest. The baby buried his face into his shoulder. Thank God, the smell of dead man’s flesh ain’t seeped into you yet. Whoever put you here, put you here a little while ago. Probably watching my dumb ass now, I bet. You need some shade and water. He held the baby with one arm and took off his shirt with the other. He loosely wrapped the shirt over the baby. I’m giving my back for you, spic baby. But, hell, you just a baby‘bout as old as my little Pookie. Hell, babies are babies. The man looked at the baby again and put his cap on him.

As they walked back to the adobe house, a dust storm with shooting rocks billowed toward them. A maroon Cadillac Eldorado sped toward them. A piece of lavender chiffon flew like a flag from the antenna. The Eldorado stopped a few feet from them. The driver wearing lipstick, eyeliner, and a blond wig leaned out the window.

“Well, Georgianna, look at what we have here. Isn’t he a piece? And he’s got a little something with him. Must be a breeder—well, we can’t all be perfect, can we?” The driver drug his tongue across his upper teeth.

“Yeah, just walking my baby. I’ll be on my way.” Shit, Indian desert queens. Horny cocksuckers.

“Wait, me and Georgianna will give you a ride. We’ll even let you sit up in front with us.” Georgianna crawled over the driver and stuck his head out the window.

“Come on, fierce little man in the desert, me and Lily need a little amusement—or are you just a desert mirage.” Lily playfully pushed Georgianna off him and drug his tongue across his upper teeth again.

“Thanks, I guess, but I never liked Cadillacs.” He strengthened his grip on the baby and started to walk away with no intention of acknowledging them anymore.

“Oh, you are impossible!  We’ll see you again, sweety-sweaty.” Georgianna laughed as they rumbled away, leaving small swirls of dust.

He approached the beginning of the slope. Oh, not again, you sonofabitch. He sat down and slowly slid until he reached the bottom. Baby, that wasn’t so bad, was it? The back door was still open from earlier in the day. Maybe you and me will have the place to ourselves tonight, but you still need some water. Come to mention it, that wouldn’t be so bad for me either. He placed the baby on the living room floor as he entered a bedroom and then a bathroom. He came back with a bed liner and a towel. Bringing you back water, baby.

Clusters of cholla cacti punctuated the grounds around the house.  He kicked off the smaller cylindrical stem segments and, with the towel wrapped around his hand, dropped the segments onto the bed liner.  After collecting several pounds of segments, he tied together the four corners of the sheet and drug the liner back into the house.  The baby traced patterns in the dirt on the floor. A giggle bubbled forth. Glad you’re easily amused, but, I guess we all have our amusements, huh? By the way, these belong to me. The man put his shirt and baseball cap back on.

He dropped a number of segments into a cooking pan that he had found hanging on the wall and started smashing them with a can of tomato soup that he had first seen while looking for beer earlier in the day. After he smashed a while, he tore off a piece of the bed liner, stretched it tightly across the pan, and used it as a sieve. He poured what he could into a mug that had been left on the counter; he wrung the rest of the water out from the bed liner. He walked over to the baby and sat down. I’m glad you know how to stay in one place and ain’t walkin’ all over. He gently grabbed the baby’s face, squeezed open his mouth, and poured water down his throat. The baby began to pull at the man’s hand, but, upon tasting the water, let him have his way. The man drank what was left.  He repeated this process until he had gone through most of the segments.  He put the remaining segments by the couch, picked up the baby, and began to rock him to sleep.  The sun began to set, and without electricity, the house grew dark. Well, baby, there ain’t much more for us to do; let’s get us to sleep. We’ll make it an early morning tomorrow. He placed the baby between himself and the back of the couch, so the baby would not roll off. Is this what I came out here for? He threw his cap off. They both closed their eyes.


The man woke with Lily’s knee brutally digging into his back.Georgianna held the baby with one arm and shined his Mag-lite into his face with the other.Lily was naked from the waist down. He was also wearing the man’s cap over his blond wig.

“Listen, my little sweaty bitch, you try to move and I—I swear to God—I’ll fucking crack your little spine.” Lily whispered into the man’s ear and then proceeded to drag his tongue along the curvature of the man’s outer ear. “Also, you try to escape, and we’ll fucking wring that little baby’s neck.”

Georgianna started to dance with the baby as he twirled the flashlight around the otherwise dark room lightened by moonlight. The baby screamed, so Georgianna violently shook the baby and pressed the Mag-lite against the baby’s chest.

“Would you shut that little shithead up! He’s going ruin the mood for me.” Lily’s claws dug into the fleshly ends of the jaw of the man underneath him. Georgianna took both the baby and the flashlight with him into the adjoining bedroom.

“Do what you want to me, you fucking faggot, but don’t touch the baby!” Moonlight streaming through a window illuminated the remaining cacti segments by the couch.

“Oh, you know, you’d be a lot more attractive if you were nice.” Lily slid his hands down the man’s waist and started to unfasten his pants. “As for the baby, we’ll see if we’re still hungry afterwards.” Lily began to tug on the man’s pants. In the other room, Georgianna slapped the baby.

The man rocked his hips from one side to another and then finally, with one forceful sway, lurched off the couch. As they landed on the floor, the man scooped up and squeezed a couple segments. Blood immediately started to drip down onto his wrist. He slammed the fistful of segments into Lily’s face, bursting one of his eyes and knocking both his wig and the man’s cap off Lily’s head. As Lily howled, the man quickly thrust his pointer and middle fingers inside Lily’s mouth and tore open his cheek. As Lily crawled on the floor, watching the blood pour from his flapping bifurcated cheek, the man stomped on the back of his neck and crushed the life out of him. Wretched man…    

The man fastened his pants that Lily had undone and walked into the bedroom where Georgianna had taken the baby. The room was dark because the Mag-lite had been turned off, but the man heard the baby crying on the bed. He also heard the frantic breathing of Georgianna in the corner to his right. All at once, Georgianna squealed as he rushed toward the man.  The man instinctively put up his arms to brace himself from a blow with the Mag-lite, but  Georgianna tripped and fell at the man’s feet. The flashlight rolled until it hit against his feet; he bent over and picked it up. The man clicked on the Mag-lite. Light flashed through the room; he noticed that both Georgianna and the baby were naked. Your life will be required of you this day…. Georgianna got up on his knees and began to beg for his life as the man flashed the light in his face.

“I was gonna, gonna let you be.  As sick as you are, I was gonna let you be, but then I saw this….” He tightened his grip on the Mag-lite.

“Please, please, please!  I didn’t touch your baby!  I was only going to have a little fun, but I wasn’t going to hurt your baby! For God’s sake, please!” Naked, Georgianna shivered as he slowly writhed his way closer to the man.

“In God’s name, I was going to let you go. You weren’t the one on top of me, but then I saw this….” The man swung the Mag-lite down onto Georgianna’s head; his skull loudly cracked as he fell to floor and began to flop. You wasn’t good for anything else but flopping on the ground, but who am I to decide like this…. God forgive me. He picked up the baby with the arm that was not covered both in his blood and Lily’s blood and carried the baby outside the room. The baby stopped crying as soon as the man grabbed him. He laid the baby on the kitchen table and poured the leftover three cans of Keystone Light over his arms to wash away most of the blood. He wiped the rest of the blood away with the bed liner. He went into bathroom and retrieved a large bath towel. He wrapped the baby in the towel. The desert’s gonna be cold, but we gotta get back to the truck. He carried the baby, the Mag-lite, and the bed liner out to the Eldorado. He opened the gas tank and dipped as much of the bed liner as he could into it. Before he walked back into the house, he pulled off the lavender chiffon scarf and used it to open the door. Ain’t like my fingerprints aren’t already all over this damn place. He placed the baby in the front seat. I hate to leave you here—even if it’s only for a minute, but you’re safer here than on the ground with all them night critters. He spread the bed liner over the couch, pulled out his cigarette lighter, and lit the couch on fire.

Returning to the car, he pulled the baby out of it and began to trek back to his truck.  There’s no greater motivation to keep walking than you, baby. A rattle hissed from a near-by creosote bush. They kept walking, guided by the Mag-lite and the moonlight. Something ran across them. You look like a coyote, but you ain’t.  El Chupa…. Ah, hell, this must be a night mirage.


Sunrise broke out as he arrived back home. Before he had even gotten out of the truck he heard his wife scream.

“Buddy Lanier MacLemore! I swear to God, if I don’t kill you now, then may God….”  She dropped the rolling pin from her hand as she saw Buddy with the baby in his arms.

“Listen, Melinda, I know that I’m in a world of trouble. I’ve a feeling bad times are gonna come soon. You won’t understand; I don’t ask you to—none-at-all. All the time I have thoughts in my head, like what I’m supposed to do. I know now. I’m your man. I’m Pookie’s papa. I’m here to stay. And our family just got a little bigger. Let’s call him Desert.” Buddy offered Desert to Melinda. She took him and began to ask a question, but then stopped. She would ask Buddy questions later. She took Desert into the trailer and reappeared with both Pookie and Desert. She still had a question on her lips, but, at this moment—this very moment—they watched the sun rise.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

He and the She Substitutions

(Something I wrote over a decade ago. I was tickled rereading it, so I want you to be tickled for the first time.)

After kissing Ms. Freckles, he had to gurgle with bourbon.  He climbed out her window and fell in an expectant azalea bush.  While lying in the dirt, he came across Ms. Thighs.  Her thighs could strangle water; thus, he pondered Original Sin, baptism, and his own mortality.  Because both he and night had fallen, he left and searched.  Finding Ms. Eyes, he informed her that her father was a thief.  She knew where it was going, so she invited him home, made him dinner, and told him to go to hell.  Thoughts of the Final Judgment and eternity sent him running—right into Ms. Hair.  Through strands of mammalian pride, they discussed the theology of the body.  He remarked that dangling protein can only account for so much, and then he split.  After noticing Ms. Breasts sitting across the bar from him, he brought her a drink and himself an excuse.  Wondering if a correlation exists between buoyancy and the dignity of the individual, he poured his beer on her tits.  Upon being bounced out the door, he realized that a disordered appetite usually craves a place to sit down and the infinite.  In the gutter, he discovered a dying cat and Ms. I’ve Had Everybody Before You.  She reminded him that it is who one is sleeping with who matters.  He asked her if remembering is an act of love and then told her to forget it, babe.  Stumbling back to his apartment, he encountered Mrs. He.  He confessed to her that pronouns and abstractions cannot develop much further without a prior commitment to particulars.


Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , | Leave a comment

A Tangle of Thought Threads for Your Nimble Fingers of Theory

Though semiotics, as explored by Charles Sanders Peirce and, more recently, by John Deely, will consume most of what time I still give to philosophy in terms of systematic study, the two rubber-textbook-meets-the-open-road questions that haunt me are this darling couple: 1). Why not commit suicide? and 2). How can bringing children into this world be justified?

I have fondled this dark, low-hanging (heh heh heh) teat in another post, so I will try not to reuse my suave moves too extensively. I know the traditional religious responses; however, while I will not claim that those responses do not satisfy me, I will admit that I would like to find another set of answers–if they can be found, but I am not convinced that any other foundation will provide anything more than a sandy base.

The question of suicide has interested me since grad school. To clarify, however, by “question of suicide,” I do not mean an exploration into the myriad causes behind it; rather, I mean a non-flinching look at why one should refrain. However, to the relief of my parents, I shifted my academic focus to semiotics, though not without having been first infected with the thanatos virus.

Throughout anti-natal literature,  the primary argument goes as follows: based upon both a quantitative and a qualitative scale, we can securely assume that the aggregate pain in any given individual’s life is greater than the aggregate pleasure. Thus, any life brought into existence can be guaranteed that, notwithstanding its level of subjective comfort and status, will experience a greater amount of pain–and, further to give pause,  the pain it will encounter will be greater in intensity than any offsetting pleasure it may meet. The aforementioned linked post provides non-fiction approaches, but a fictional approach to this question is the talented (and the very polite–based upon my Twitter interactions with her) Ann Sterzinger’s NVSQVAM. (Seriously, folks, support cheeky, independent authors–even if you–gasp–may not agree with their worldview. At least such authors are making you think. Speaking of thinking, check out Nine Banded Books and Feral House.) Or, if you please, I present the most engaging TV character I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, Rust Cohle:

I thought of this this recently while visiting an eighty-year-old neighbor in the hospital, a retired lawyer who still has his wits and a strong handshake. In referencing an article that he had read recently in the paper, we briefly discussed abortion. He cast off as an aside that he, personally, is against abortion because he hates to think that he may have been aborted, and he is glad that he was not, given the enjoyable life that he has lived. While I am also opposed to abortion (that damn lingering Catholic in me), though not for the same reason, I could not help but silently snap, “How would you know what you would have missed had you never been born? Besides, will whatever pleasures that you have experienced surpass, in the end, the pains?” Of course, I dare not voice such sentiments; I merely uttered a halfhearted “I agree.”

As for suicide, I am no longer truly surprised whenever I hear about someone who has committed it. In fact, the only surprise that still lingers concerns why more people do not choose to opt out of the raw deal. In my darker meditations, I foresee something like Jonestown:


Large swaths of people drinking their way into extinction.

Actually, I imagine something much darker. At least the doomed denizens of Jonestown had each other in their dying moments, as they gulped loony-laced Kool-Aid. I see people, much like the Japanese Hikikomori (whom I wrote about a few years back), suffering in isolation. I imagine (Why do I imagine such things?) people killing themselves in highly elaborate and ritualized fashions–perhaps masturbating as they drive their grossly unnecessarily accessorized trucks off overpasses onto pedestrians who have the gall not to drive. Disaffected suburban moms drowning their 2.3 children in tubs of Starbucks caramel lattes before they jam themselves with their dildos and take death selfies with their illegal-immigrant neighborhood children.

As the Chinese say, “Does that cat belong to anyone?” Kidding…. (That is the prejudiced half-Jap in me showing itself.) We live in interesting times–and that is not necessarily a good thing.

And we jump…

I have written before about Joaquin Phoenix . I will stand by my claim that he is the best actor of my generation. I think that, rather cosmically ironically, he would have been surpassed only by his deceased brother, River.

Come October, the world will witness his, my prediction, career-defining performance as the (prototypical) Joker. If you are among the handful of people who have yet to watch the trailer, you know what you must do:

Or even this one:

The teaser trailer’s close-to-fifty million views reveals something more than the obsessiveness of comic movie fanboys; this film, which–I know, another prediction–may give us the defining Joker performance, portrays a man broken down by the inherent madness of modern life. This film will tap into the zeitgeist of zaniness of our current year clown world.

Perhaps, dear reader, you are starting to worry about me. I am a-okay. How are you?

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Stuck in the Middle with You

I am reblogging this post of mine from ’17. These sentiments and suspicions still hold. These have, however, assumed a greater pertinence now that I am awaiting a child. I possess no stubborn hope that I–or anyone whom I currently know–will amount to anything that anyone reading blog archives years from now (what an amusing image) will want to memorialize–unless we can serve as virtual tiles in a mosaic of mediocrity and decline. I do hope, to the extent that I must to keep despair at bay, that I can prepare my child to flourish in a world in which all categories stand to be rediscovered because they are all being forgotten.


We are a generation of clowns and jokers performing during the intermission. A flummoxed flux facing the farce as it finds itself fleeing an afflicted entrance and flowing into an absurd exit.

I read Cyril Connolly’s The Unquiet Grave like I once used to read my book of Catholic prayers–often and everywhere. He writes, ” Three requisites for a work of art: validity of the myth, vigour of belief, intensity of vocation.”

What reigning and sovereign myths do we still collectively hold apart from some vague sense of the democratic value of the individual?

Vigo(u)r of belief? The only belief that we still vigorously share is some nebulous notion of individual rights.

As for vocation, a belief that one can be called unto something would require the relational idea that there is one who calls and directs and gives accordingly. Even those who do accept this premise may chafe…

View original post 190 more words

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 6 Comments

Kali Yuga, or Calling All Yugas

In Hinduism, the Kali Yuga age is the last of four ages. Oriented in the belief that with time comes decay, not progress and enlightenment, the Kali Yuga age is understood to be one of widespread personal, political, moral, societal, cultural, and religious dissolution and chaos. Before a new cycle of civilization can begin, this age must run its wayward course. Rene Guenon  and Julius Evola are two of the more prominent European traditionalists to disseminate this concept in the West.  

The most recent video by end-of-civilization-monitor Black Pigeon Speaks powerfully lacks any narration and, instead, parades the rotting corpse before our eyes, using only headlines gathered from newspapers over the past few years.

A few tantalizing ones:

“Surrey Police investigation over ‘misgendering’ tweets” [1984]

“Most bestiality is legal, declares Canada’s Supreme Court” [After all, are not such people born that way? Why should they be denied from becoming their most authentic selves? Love wins. ***Note***: I am not defending this position; I am using contemporary societal logic only to show where else it may be employed.]

“Scholar Calls Pedophilia ‘An Unchangeable Sexual Orientation’ that Should Be Accepted by Society” [See bracketed note above.]

The jig is up; we have no plausible alibi.

One could rightly point out that depravity is not a novel endeavor of mankind, yet that is not the concern. What is the concern–and what conforms to the spirit of the Kali Yuga–is the wide-scale societal acceptance of and promotion of–from all levels of authority (that is, from what authority still remains)–relativism and depravity. In addition, humanity must soon face challenges that are unique in historical significance: automation with its attendant human worker replacement and transhumanism, a movement that will no longer allow us to take for granted accumulated religious, biological, and sociological understandings of what it means to be human. We must not forget to mix these ingredients into the current political stew, one that is light on a shared vision of the common but heavy on identity posturing–posturing that is only being exacerbated by unrestricted immigration and reality-adrift political correctness.

Only a few months ago, my hope was to emigrate to watch America–if not the West, depending on where I landed–burn as I enjoyed a drink by the poolside. However, given that I have a child on the way, my plan to enjoy the decline has changed. Now I must  ascertain, with no small level of trepidation, how best to protect and to raise the soul for which I will be responsible. May as well lock the liquor cabinet and drain the pool.


Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Shunning and Shaming: Are You Down?

To the benefit of the Internet, Arturo Vasquez is once again blogging on a regular basis. I first came across his blog more than a decade ago and have followed him through his permutations as traditionalist-Catholic-with-Neoplatonist-leanings to Trotskyite-in-spite-of-himself to primitive-green-anarchist to (now, ostensibly) Neoplatonist-with-traditional-Catholic-leanings thinker: whatever else it has been, it has not been a dull-blog car ride. I have always found his insider views on and occasional critiques of traditionalist Catholicism, if not enlightening, fascinating and even amusing. Plus, as a bonus, who else is out there arguing for a more sympathetic evaluation of (and return to?) folk Catholicism?

In his most recent post, he discusses Rod Dreher’s latest Conservative Inc.-controversy-causing release, The Benedict Option. Numerous summaries can be found at the stroke of a Google pen, so I will not bother with that more than is necessary to speak coherently about a response to it. Mr. Vasquez raises a few questions that all traditionally minded conservatives would do well to consider.

Simplistically put: Mr. Dreher (who, as an aside, based upon the one time that I briefly talked with him at the annual Walker Percy festival in St. Francisville, LA, is an extremely friendly person) argues that traditionally minded conservative Christians have lost their place at the cultural dinner table. (Whether they have forfeited it or have been pushed away or have experienced a combination of both–or have hysterically exaggerated the situation–can be argued to no satisfactory conclusion on his blog.) Taking a cue from St. Benedict, the founder of monastic communities that would become known as the Order of St. Benedict, such aforementioned Christians need to accept the current banquet situation and find another place to eat altogether. In fact, to transition from analogy to reality, they need to start growing their own crops and forming their own restaurants. In other words, traditionally minded conservative Christians need to abjure the realm (to use an expression that I picked up when I was in somewhat regular contact back in the late 90s with a few members of a proto-Benedict-Option group, The League of the South) and form their own communities populated by their own people devoted to their own interests, all without apology or kowtowing to a now dominant secular culture.

Unlike the more vocal critics of the Benedict Option, Mr. Vasquez does not claim that such a movement is unfeasible or even undesirable: “Without giving away too much, I have to admit that I have some experience with the topic of Dreher’s book. I ‘dropped out’ of the world earlier this century and was in a traditionalist Catholic milieu that did a lot of things that Dreher advocates. I saw many families that had ‘returned to the land,’ some who went deep into the forest only to emerge occasionally for this or that reason, and I even helped teach homeschooling children. And under certain circumstances, I could see myself ‘dropping out’ again.” However, he does call for a greater degree of self-awareness: “At the end of the day, people should do whatever they want, but they should do it with their eyes open.”

To what should such people open their eyes? The social realities of close-knit communities versus the romantic imaginings of people historically removed from those types of communities. Namely, we should consider questions as follow:  “Do you have the nerve to govern, shame, shun, and punish if necessary? And which of those activities led ‘traditional’ families and societies to give up on ‘oppressive’ Christianity in the first place?” Of course, there are, no doubt, socially (if not more than socially) impotent men who would love to assume positions of power denied to them by an evil, evil world (probably run by Freemasons), allowing them to establish mini-theocracies as interpreted by the Magisterium of the self and their own interpersonal failures. However, most of us would not be too keen on returning to older ways of shaming and shunning and punishing. For instance, anyone who knows me well would probably not be quick to use “chaste” or “sober” as the dominant terms to describe me. In fact, in a smaller, more vigilant community (read: an objectively better one), I probably would have been taken by a father and a team of brothers to the woodshed a time or two for past dalliances before I could reintegrate into the community. Another example: am I willing to avoid speaking to a gay neighbor who also occasionally dresses in drag? No, because when it all boils down, he is not a drag (heh heh) on my life–plus, he is a great bartender to boot (to stiletto?).  The point: if we want the social solidarity and stability that Benedict Option communities may bring (and they probably would bring such), we need to be willing to accept the necessary attitudes and practices that makes these communities possible. Are we?

Furthermore, as insulating as these “border wall” mentalities may  have been, they sure as hell did not prevent the entrance of the decay of Western civilization or the exodus of those raised within such mindscapes. Still, why do early generations come across as much more virtuous and self-controlled? Perhaps they simply did not have the options of rebellion/non-practice/other practice that most of us currently have. When such “freedom” (e.g., an array of market-granted economic options in lifestyle) was allowed to them, we all know what happened–cases in point: the 1960s and Vatican II. To this, Vasquez writes, “My wonder at Hippy Bob [the only child of eight who stayed with, by way of returning to, the Catholic Church] wasn’t necessarily about how all of his family lapsed, but how miraculous it was that he returned in the first place. At the same religious house, one of the priests characterized the Catholic Church before the Second Vatican Council as a towering cathedral made out of cardboard: for all of its intimidating presence, it was completely hollow on the inside. This explains why things collapsed as quickly as they did. Perhaps people weren’t ‘holier’ or even more ‘moral’: by and large, they may have just been better at ‘faking it’. All of these close-knit pious communities, well-catechized and cohesive, gone in one generation.”

Mr. Vasquez’s final paragraph leaves us with much to ponder, so I will quote it in its entirety:

I am still not saying that people shouldn’t drop out of society for all of the reasons Dreher cites. His cautions against the dangers of social media and technology particularly resonated with me. I think we will need to create small face-to-face communities to keep some sanity. But there is a reason I don’t consider myself a conservative and sometimes consider myself more of a Neoplatonist than a Christian. The collapse of Christendom means that we should probably take decades to examine in our doctrines and history as to why the collapse took place. In what ways are our “enemies” continuing aspects of the Christian message that we have neglected, even if in a distorted manner? Can we preserve Christian sexual morality and not be bigots about it? Can you really love the sinner but hate the sin? I understand that Dreher and other conservative Christians fear losing their children to “the world”. I am just asking, perhaps just to be a contrarian, if the enemy is already within the gates, in the very genetic fiber of the beliefs that we have long held dear. This isn’t an easy question to answer, but I believe it is a necessary if arduous task to do so.



Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

The Last Honeybee

I wrote this poem over ten years for a poetry-writing workshop. The poem displays the pantoum form: the second and forth lines of a stanza become the first and third lines, respectively, of the next stanza, and there is an alternating end rhyme scheme. Per the subject: I must have recently read an article about honeybees disappearing/dying.


The Last Honeybee


We smothered our Queen one month ago:

Not in rebellion—she had become listless.

We surrounded her, vibrated, and let our energy flow—

She fell to the ground, overheated and lifeless.


Not in rebellion—she had become listless.

She had refused to lay another egg or lead the swarm.

She fell to the ground, overheated and lifeless.

What larvae remain will soon come to harm.


She had refused to lay another egg or lead the swarm.

The drones have started to disappear.

What larvae remain will soon come to harm.

The workers are succumbing to a vague fear.


The drones have started to disappear,

And the larvae now suffer starvation.

The workers are succumbing to a vague fear

As our swarm encounters deprivation.


The larvae now suffer starvation.

On my own, I cannot feed the larvae.

Our swarm encounters deprivation,

And I can only watch the hatchlings die.


On my own, I cannot feed the larvae.

The honeycombs have become tombs:

I can only watch the hatchlings die.

In the collapsing colony, desolation looms.


The honeycombs have become tombs.

Alone, I forage for pollen and a sign.

In the collapsing colony, desolation looms.

Abandoned, as if by a hideous design.


Alone, I forage for pollen and a sign.

In case others are watching, I dance.

Abandoned, as if by a hideous design,

I drift among the stamens in a trance.


In case others are watching, I dance.

I pursue one last lingering bloom.

I drift among the stamens in a trance

And wait for an inverted spring to resume.


As I pursue one last lingering bloom.

I remember we smothered our Queen one month ago.

In waiting for an inverted spring to resume,

We surrounded her, vibrated, and let our energy flow.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Ketchup-on-Apron-Kind-of Love

At least once in everyone’s life, one should utterly act the fool for love and fail. I am not saying that it builds character; it may very well rob one of whatever character remains. However, the experience does contain, within itself, germs both of the best and of the worst that life has to offer.

Once again, I present a clip from a Wong Kar Wai film (Fallen Angels):


Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | Leave a comment


Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Pessimism Manifesto

Mr. Alan Reynolds makes a concise yet thorough case for pessimism. Divorced from any hope rooted in the divine, pessimism presents itself as the most rational response to life, especially modern life.

Happy new year, y’all.

via Pessimism Manifesto

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , | Leave a comment