Monday, June 26, 2017

 

'They want me to fight China. It’s gonna be a massacre!' - Duterte to RT...





Watch, listen and think. He has some illusion about Trump.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

 

Gioguettes, galipettes et autres escarmouches demi-molles


LES GOGUETTES (EN TRIO MAIS A QUATRE) – LE CHANGEMENT C’EST DOUCEMENT – 2017

C’est amusant, hilarant, caustique, salement négatif et joliment argumenté en mots et en rimes qui se font des échos et des répons quasi religieux à la recherche d’un de ces grands messieurs enterrés au Père Lachaise et que l’on voudrait ressusciter pour quelques élections à venir. On rêve de l’humour noir de Jacques Duclos. On se souvient du calme fort et musclé de Maurice Thorez. Sans compter le verbe haut et scandaleusement unitaire de Georges Marchais. Et bien sûr sans parler de l’humour noir un peu sémites de Krabsucki, survivant de Buchenwald.


Mais c’est qu’ils vivent avec leur temps, les Goguettes, à trois ou quatre qu’importe. Ils savent que les temps ont changé et que le verbe révolutionnaire à la Mélenchon ne mène aucune part sinon à je ne sais quelle Corée du Nord ou encore le Cuba aussi carré que cubique des années 1960. Brejnev doit être mort, n’est-il point ? Et d’ailleurs Staline doit avoir depuis longtemps passé l’arme à droite, bien sûr.


Alors ils font dans le chansonnier d’autrefois et ils mordent, griffent, déchiquètent tous les politiques, tous les sociolitiques, tous les comunicolitiques, et autres anarchistiques et anarchosyndicalistiques. Tiques et moustiques sur les mimiques des politiques acrimoniques.  Ils n’ont pas encore osé se payer la moustache stalinienne de Philippe Martinez qui n’a qu’un prénom en commun avec le plus russe de tous les contreténors, car son répertoire à ce Philippe Martinez qui rime avec Premier Ministre est plutôt directement sorti des archives de l’université de Paris 8 Vincennes Saint Denis, vous savez le foutoir pour désœuvrés mentaux de la famille Tartakowski qui prétendent que la démocratie de la rue se mesure en milliers de manifestants et en entartages à la crème.

Encore un effort et dans six mois ils se font chantres de je ne sais quel égalitarisme de kibboutz et quelle jubilation populaire de kolkhoze, et même de sovkhoze.


Mais ceci étant dit, c’est un peu passéiste mais c’est amusant, riant et à la peine avec à peu près tout le monde car après tout il n’y a rien de sérieux dans ce monde et il n’y a que le rire qui compte et la finesse du chiendent qui envahit nos jardins. Ils s’en donnent donc à 49.3 cœur joie sur la valse de je ne sais quelle valseuse dite Emmanuelle, ou est-ce Manuelle, qu’importe pourvu qu’on ait la tête qui tourne à la polka pointée, vous savez le petit chien qui danse la valse en courant après sa queue qu’il n’arrive pas à mordre car il a la queue un peu courte, le toutou pékinois, mais je dois dire que Brel me manque et que j’ai parfois peur d’avoir un cancer mental quand j’écoute, mais dieux que parfois c’est amusant. Peut-être que le canard ne se pendrait pas aux nuages du Plat Pays en écoutant ces refrains malappris et irrévérencieux.


Dansez mesdames, trémoussez-vous mesdemoiselles, tordez-vous l’arrière train dans un panier à salade Messieurs qui finirez de toutes façons derrière quelques barreaux et dans une cellule sans chauffage mais avec l’air conditionnée naturelle. Il n’y a pas de vitre bien sûr, ni devant, ni derrière, ni entre les trois barreaux qui valsent dans la lucarne qui sert de fenêtre ou plutôt de vasistas ou de trou à courant d’air.

Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU






 

Abraham was the calamitous father of our cursed humanity


JOHN DIFELICE – LURES, CAREFUL WHAT YOU FISH FOR – 2017

I am going to review this book the way I entered it and ran through it, at first w

DOES THE WORLD MAKE SENSE?
Strange story of a solitary, isolated, uncommunicative and non-understood or even non-understandable man who is married to a crazily jealous woman. The upstairs shower over the kitchen moans every time the man is taking a shower and imagine his wife in the kitchen who hears that sexual music of some kind of orgasmic event: meet Ernie and Dora. Don’t you think it would be simple to change the flooring under the shower? Not for them indeed. The end of this absurd situation of non-communication comes when the train Ernie is going to take is blown up meaning bang and smoke over debris by another woman. Terrorism is the home pacifier of awkward couples because Dora finally understand communication is better than phantasmagoric ranting about some surreal raving of the material world.


ICH GROLLE NICHT
Sarah and Abraham and their pregnancy problem. Using a fertility doctor instead of an Arab slave, or even just plain God’s visitation. A certain Dr. Sperm who has no real name and just very dark and florid chest hairs flowing out of the open neck of his medical scrubs, is the pro(fessional)creator of the miracle of this test tube artificial insemination. A dream about God of course. Very Jewish but cleaned up of the second woman Hagar, replaced by medically monitored onanism (that does not seem to cause hair loss), something severely condemned by Mosaic law, but, well, there are so many strange things in this godless world. Spoiling oneself. And yet we all have known that angst and fear, that desire made perverse by the procedure. The deep pleasure of fertility tests. The title is of course an allusion to Schumann and his lieders. “Ich grolle nicht und wenn das Herz auch bricht.” “I bear no grudge, although my heart is breaking.” But why on earth is his heart breaking? Probably because of the sad, extremely sad story of Sarah and Abraham behind this sad tale of a fertility doctor playing God with gullible parents. Please visit Genesis 16-21. Let me give you just a few verses of the saddest part.


16 Now Sarai Abram’s wife. . . had a handmaid, an Egyptian, whose name was Hagar. And Sarai said unto Abram, Behold now, the Lord hath restrained me from bearing: I pray thee, go in unto my maid; it may be that I may obtain children by her. And Abram hearkened to the voice of Sarai. And Sarai Abram’s wife took Hagar her maid the Egyptian. . . And he went in unto Hagar, and she conceived: and when she saw that she had conceived, her mistress was despised in her eyes. . .But Abram said unto Sarai, Behold, thy maid is in thy hand; do to her as it pleaseth thee. And when Sarai dealt hardly with her, she fled from her face. . . 15 And Hagar bare Abram a son: and Abram called his son’s name, which Hagar bare, Ishmael. 16 And Abram was fourscore and six years old, when Hagar bare Ishmael to Abram.
17 And when Abram was ninety years old and nine, the Lord appeared to Abram, and said unto him, I am the Almighty God; walk before me, and be thou perfect. And I will make my covenant between me and thee, and will multiply thee exceedingly. . . 15 And God said unto Abraham, As for Sarai thy wife, thou shalt not call her name Sarai, but Sarah shall her name be. 16 And I will bless her, and give thee a son also of her: yea, I will bless her, and she shall be a mother of nations; kings of people shall be of her. . . 19 And God said, Sarah thy wife shall bear thee a son indeed; and thou shalt call his name Isaac: and I will establish my covenant with him for an everlasting covenant, and with his seed after him. 20 And as for Ishmael, I have heard thee: Behold, I have blessed him, and will make him fruitful, and will multiply him exceedingly; twelve princes shall he beget, and I will make him a great nation. . .
21 And the Lord visited Sarah as he had said, and the Lord did unto Sarah as he had spoken. For Sarah conceived, and bare Abraham a son in his old age, at the set time of which God had spoken to him. And Abraham called the name of his son that was born unto him, whom Sarah bare to him, Isaac. . . And Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian, which she had born unto Abraham, mocking. 10 Wherefore she said unto Abraham, Cast out this bondwoman and her son: for the son of this bondwoman shall not be heir with my son, even with Isaac. . .  14 And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and took bread, and a bottle of water, and gave it unto Hagar, putting it on her shoulder, and the child, and sent her away: and she departed, and wandered in the wilderness of Beer-sheba. 15 And the water was spent in the bottle, and she cast the child under one of the shrubs. 16 And she went, and sat her down over against him a good way off, as it were a bowshot: for she said, Let me not see the death of the child. And she sat over against him, and lift up her voice, and wept. 17 And God heard the voice of the lad; and the angel of God called to Hagar out of heaven, and said unto her, What aileth thee, Hagar? fear not; for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is18 Arise, lift up the lad, and hold him in thine hand; for I will make him a great nation. 19 And God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water; and she went, and filled the bottle with water, and gave the lad drink. 20 And God was with the lad; and he grew, and dwelt in the wilderness, and became an archer. 21 And he dwelt in the wilderness of Paran: and his mother took him a wife out of the land of Egypt.”


ARTIFICIAL LIGHT
What a strange story of a woman who is going to get married to a man she does not love at least not any more. She finally finds the courage to tell him. He leaves speaking of pre-wedding jitters that will go away with time. She ends up looking at the light in some other apartment across the city wondering if there is something there, someone there. She is like a moth, attracted by a light in the darkness, a moth that gets light burnt in the night. Is that Hagar in her wilderness? Probably but what a sad solitude again.


THE PERILS OF BELIEVING IN SANTA CLAUS
Santa Claus is the new god of this godless society of ours. He can only be God since Christmas is the birth a child that will not live beyond thirty-three years. A nine-year-old boy still believes in it and his mother is so happy and keen about it, nostalgically probably because it means setting up a tree, sharing presents and some kind of ritual that is more perverse than religious but it is charming. The husband and father finds that primitive and childish. The father finds nine a little bit late and old for such “faith” in a babyish tale. His wife is revealed as pulling his leg and she tells him she believes in it too in spite of the fact she buys all the present. But she finally reveals the truth: she overheard her son explaining to a friend of his he still believed in Santa Claus because he does not want to hurt his parents who consider that old man a very big deal. And the wife goes away alone in her truth and the husband knocks his whisky bottle down but it is empty anyway, implying he is a drunk as a skunk. But that is a happy ending, isn’t it? No cleaning to do. This life is so empty, so cold, so inhuman in a way without some simple beliefs in maybe impossible things but sweet things like Santa Claus. And since Santa does not exist, life definitely is empty, cold, inhuman, the desolate trinity of this godless life of ours.


STAN SLADE AND THE CASE OF THE KILLER MEME
The man Stan wants to experiment how a meme can crossover to a gene, or vice versa. Meme-gene-crossover caused by anger, first hypothesis, or by fear, second hypothesis. He fails in his experiment and discovers people react only the way they are tamed, conditioned by not even education but by simple repetitive memes. They follow lines that have existed for years, millennia, forever. The girl he meets in the subway on the way to his experiment is trying to write something from what she observes in the subway and in the street. She fails too because she cannot find the final twist of a story by observing real life that is not comedy. Think of  Grenfell Tower in London, or the Manchester Arena in Manchester. Fiction is not real life. Real life is a lot more dramatic.

What's left is a vision of life that is nothing but repetitive enslaving to quotations, memes that are repeating themselves, without the repeaters even knowing they just repeat sentences that enslave them into prefabricated reactions and behaviors. Pretty sad story after all. Note though the OBa-Di Obla-Da meme from the white record by the Beatles - or is it McCartney? – shifts from the man to the girl thanks to a poor street violinist who more or less repeats it just to make the money she needs to survive. Pretty sad spectacle with such a total self-regulating mess that follows lines and rules that are not even human, just physically unavoidable. The concept of meme is too cultural for these "rules". And the concept of gene is just out of scope. Memes pass from one person to another but it has no genetic content. But our intellectual character does not answer the real question though. How are these memes that inform our minds invented and how do they spread, and why? The American Revolution came at a very precise time and cannot be erased. It can maybe be outdated but by what and how? It sure was the perfect safeguard for the USA to remain forever a black chattel slavery society, and yet it only has retained the racism of it, but it sure is difficult to erase that crime against humanity that racism is.


SING FOR THE LONELY
So suicidal! The lonely one is a woman who is "ugly" and visually rejected by everyone till one night she sings a tremendously sad song and everyone receives the song as if it were theirs, sad, loveless, alone, solitary solitude, etc. The meme of the song, the meme of the voice may erase the meme of the looks. But then she disappears from the bar and from life entirely and becomes a haunting recollection that only lonely people can hear, the voice and the words. The memes of the voice and the words, but not the meme of the looks. They can hear her, not see her. Cruel life. There is a tremendous fate in this vision: we are all alone, solitary, isolated, cut off from the rest of the world and we can only survive with that fate if we remember the beauty of this solitude when transposed in poetry and music. Only art can make us strong enough to confront our solitude. Only poetical and musical memes can give us eternal life.

This story (like all the others) is followed by a small poem entitled ZOLOFT. Zoloft (sertraline) is an antidepressant in a group of drugs called selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs). The way sertraline works is still not fully understood. It is thought to positively affect communication between nerve cells in the central nervous system and/or restore chemical balance in the brain. Zoloft is used to treat depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder, panic disorder, anxiety disorders, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD). Zoloft may also be used for purposes not listed in this medication guide. And the she in the poem buys the Zoloft of her prescription and a “home” coming rope and she terminates her life and her Zoloft addiction in the attic of her home. That’s so lofty an end. How will she be remembered. What is her eternal life? She (we assume she is a she) can only end herself by suspending her life in the loft of her home and so loft herself into the other world.


DAD IN THE MACHINE
Settling account with Daddy, and this one is not Father Christmas. He finally died ignoring his two children, the way he had ignored his wife, their mother. The only woman he cared for married his own brother and became his sister in law, the aunt of the children. Tommy, the son, is a whizz kid and he lives in a totally digital and virtual world he has created himself for himself and only himself. The daughter writes plays and she is the master/mistress of the characters as long as they are on the paper. But they may get some free will when actors are good. Both evade the real world, one onto the lamp-lit workbench in the dark basement and the other onto the lime-lit stage in the dark theater.

Tommy, the son, uses a machine to download the psyche of the father and then to explore it and finds out what he wants to get: declarations of love, declarations that were never true or present in real life and that the son has always longed for. In other words, the son rebuilds the father the way he wants him to be, but he was not. The daughter Kelly then discovers that this digital virtual father can be a nice man after all, though he had ignored her right to the end in spite of all she did to take care of him at the end and she brings forward the final desire of hers. She wants her brother to make the digital virtual father says the same loving things to her, that he has never said. . . ever.

For these two grown-up kids to fall in such a trap they must have suffered a lot under the blind, cold, freezing and frozen rule of their father. More generally though these stories explore the implacable, impossible, inhuman and un-human world of people who are completely isolated, alone, unable to have any contact with anyone and who can only dream such contacts through fantasized or imagined beings that have no reality. So sad. So pessimistic. So void.


LURE OF THE UNATTAINABLE
CRUEL IS A EUPHEMISM. Two mothers raised together from the first day. Their two sons raised the same way. One girl loved by Michael, dated and married by Freddy. Michael goes to California to become a doctor and comes back only to replace his father when he retires. He has an affair with Freddy's wife. She stops it after a while and asks Michael not to tell. But She tells Freddy who invites Michael – who does not know how to swim – to go night fishing. Freddy reveals his knowledge about the affair to frighten Michael and then they laugh. Freddy forgives him. But Michael insists to have a real proof of his forgiving. He jumps into the water and requires Freddy to come and save him. Freddy gets ready for it but he does not. He just looks at Michael drowning.

There was an allusion to Abel and Cain when the two men were boys, but here the "vengeance" is so cruel, cold, calculated and yet not calculated, purely circumstantial. By the way Freddy will have some difficulty explaining why Michael took off his life-jacket before "falling" in the water and why, though he turned the boat's light on, he, Freddy, did not rescue him.

In this case two men who are so close that they could have developed some intimate adventure which might have clarified and simplified the rivalry or made it more complex hence more human. They did not though and in fact they remained so solitary, so alone, so isolated that Michael in love with the girl lets that girl be dated and married by Freddy and then a long time later he betrays Freddy's friendship and seduces the wife or lets her seduce him, and then Michael challenges Freddy to let him die – or save him – and Freddy lets him die. The world is horrible. Life is hateful. Life is also lethal and death is the necessary outcome for life to go on.


SPREAD MY ASHES LIKE WE PLANNED
A morbid threesome. Three men going on a canoe trip on the third weekend every August, till one of them dies, Ballgame, leaving Nickels and Diggs behind with the mission of spreading his ashes in the face of all the bartenders of the bars they visited on their canoe trips and it unavoidably rained every single year. Their whole life was dedicated to dreaming of going to Dublin one day, which they did not do, and to suffering the rain, and doing something they did out of habit and with no conscious reason at all. That’s the dictatorship of a meme for sure.

Morbid, lethal, mortiferous, deadly. Vicious too and this habit that has no real reason or objective or motivation is a caricature of the Obsessive Compulsive Disorderly Life most people are having, the meaningless obsessional order of their habits being the disorder of their life itself. And Zoloft might be the solution with a good rope and a church with a high organ loft.


To conclude there is only one word possible. This author is trying to haunt us with stories that carry, depict and inject in us the poison of life, that poison that makes us solitary people who will die alone, completely alone and those who do not die when we die will die soon and anyway sooner or later. This calamitous fate of ours, reverberating with Biblical fiction, is the very poison of our life that will kill our life in the end. Life is the utmost self-destroying unsustainable dimension of human beings and they do not seem to realize it. And they will cry when their last day comes. They have been warned but the warnings on the cars of their lives is an option, like the blinkers and the reverse gears, maybe the brakes too. I just wonder if for many the wheels are not the ultimate option of their existential cars.


Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU



Wednesday, June 21, 2017

 

Obsessive compulsive music so dominating that you may hope to die


STEVE REICH – DIFFERENT TRAINS – 2004

The title piece, in fact three successive pieces evoke not only trains, travelling from New York To Los Angeles by train, but also three periods in history, 1- America before the war, 2- Europe During the war and 3- After the war, hence the period from 1939 to 1946. From the train itself Steve Reich keeps the rhythmic harassing, terrorizing lullaby of the shocks of the wheels on the rails, on every juncture between the rails, not to speak of the noise in the train that is trembling, vibrating in all possible way, percolating death at any moment in this living running snake of a train, not to speak of the whistle, and later the noises of the war, of the sirens and other bombings and dramatic yelling, howling. The words now and then tell us something historical, like “Germans invaded Hungary,” and other events of the type, and the fearful and frightened reactions of the child at the time and of the older vampirized man who remembers, recreates, reverberates the past forever in the future. No future, man, no future whatsoever.

To evoke this war in 2004 or any other period decades after it is both nostalgic and enslaving. To commemorate the past dramas, the historic catastrophes is nothing but locking ourselves in some kind of fatality, fate, lot that can only be dramatic again, as if the whole history of the human species was nothing but the deed of some devil in the disguise of some president, priest, pope, general, rabbi, you name it you have it. The man in black of Stephen King, the Dark Man of the same. You must not look back or you will lose your love forever and your wife will be turned into a statue of salt. Any man in a uniform, be it only a suit and a tie is the embodiment and the impersonation of that monster from beyond the limits of sanity. And that’s exactly what this music expresses obsessively and without any possible remission. You are on this train and you have to go on with it. The train is taking you into who knows what and where. The sacrificial millions in Auschwitz arrived on trains. The vacationers after 1936 in France and Germany went on vacation for the first time on trains. Underground trains and subway trains are performing their dictatorship in our lives day after day.


You do not have the train any more to believe that after the war the sirens may have stopped yelling and whistling, but the same obsessive rolling up and rolling down, herd-driving to the slaughterhouse is going on. At the end of the train rhythmic compulsion there is only one issue, one exit, one end: everyone will be put to death by life itself. Is it better to be slaughtered by life than by some weapons and armed guards or soldiers in uniforms or dressed as terrorists or bank robbers? This train metaphor leads to death and that is frightening, sickening, disheartening, insane. Don’t let yourself be attracted, charmed, fascinated, mesmerized by the landscape you can see from the train window. No matter what, no matter when, that train of life will lead you to death. I found the same despairing gloom in many songs by Leonard Cohen but here we have no empathy, no compensation, no escape, no black star, or in fact no star at all. Hallelujah!

First movement: From Chicago to New York. One of the fastest trains. The crack train from New York. From New York to Los Angeles. Different trains every time. From Chicago to New York. In 1939.(Virginia) 1939(Lawrence Davis). 1940. 1941. 1941 I guess it must have been.

Second movement: 1940. On my birthday The Germans walked-walked into Holland Germans invaded Hungary I was in 2nd grade I had a teacher A very tall man, his head was completely plastered smooth He said, "Black Crows- Black Crows invaded our country many years ago" And he pointed right at me No more school You must go away And she said, "Quick, go!" And he said, "Don't breathe" Into the cattle wagons And for four days and four nights And then we went through these strange sounding names Polish-Polish names Lots of cattle wagons there They were loaded with people They shaved us They tattooed a number on our arm Flames going up in the sky It was smokey


Third movement: Then the war was over Are you sure The war is over Going to America To Los Angeles To New York From New York to Los Angeles One of the fastest trains But today they're all gone There was one girl who had a beautiful voice And they loved to listen to the singing, The Germans And when she stopped singing they said, "More more," and they applauded

There is some submissive acceptance of no future, no salvation, no resurrection, no redemption at all in this music and their lyrics. There is no possible compassion for the show that we could pass by and won’t. We are totally enchained in this drama and the drama is drowning us.

But the next piece, a triple piece again, the Triple Quartet is not in any way softened or made more bearable, acceptable, pacifying. The same obsessive compulsive rhythm that will drown us, made us drunk with insane unconsciousness and we will be able to pass to the other side of life, that is death, as if it were just going to sleep for ever and ever. Here and there a more harmonious musical phrase will play the loincloth of horror, the loincloth that will hide the horror of this life. There is nothing but horror in this life and like in Jacques Brel’s song about the “Flat Country of Flanders” ducks have to hang themselves to the clouds and we are these flocks of ducks herded to the hanging cloud cemetery and slaughterhouse. We will all end up dead in this forest of OCD autistic ghost haunted world. Let us die before the end to maybe get out of it and find silence, but we know it will be the silence of death because there cannot be silence in life since life is haunted by the ghosts of all the monsters who have fed their hunger on human flesh.


And the last quadruple piece, the Four Sections, are not worse at all. Just some xylophone player is using his hammer on our bones and ribs to produce a music that is so rhythmically oppressive that we submit and we go to death under the hammering of this lullaby of no hope.

I hate to say it but I feel trumped by this music, trumped and defeated. The game is over. The show is finished and yet it has to go on, so I will be the ghost that will haunt the world and the life of surviving innocent and unconscious virginal minds that can only be blind to the impossible escape and imagine there is some better world beyond the horrific setting of this life.


Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU



Sunday, June 18, 2017

 

The Indian Genocide was a crime against humanity


NATALIE DIAZ – WHEN MY BROTHER WAS AN AZTEC – 2012

This is an important collection of poems from an Indian woman. Important because it is poetry. Important because the poet is a woman. Important because the poetess is Indian. But we do have to get into it a lot deeper.

The opening poem that gives the title of the collection is describing this brother as a pure Aztec god, Huitzilopochtli, performing Aztec human sacrifice, morning after morning, on his own parents, ripping their hearts out of their chests over and over again. The poem also introduces another theme at the end:

“My parents gathered
what he left of their bodies, trying to stand without legs,
trying to defend his blows with missing arms, searching for their fingers
to pray, to climb out of whatever dark belly my brother, the Aztec,
their son, had fed them to.”

This sacrificial dismembering will come later with another meaning than this Aztec ritualistic perspective. And it is this crossing of an old heritage and a more recent curse that is essential in this poetry.


The first part is centered on the author’s vision. Her menstrual periods are seen as a metaphor of alienation as a woman, as an Indian and as a human being. This alienation of the Indian human being is then evoked as a legless man in a wheelchair. It is clear that this leglessness is the result of the colonial genocide of John Wayne’s movies. And yet the survivor, “the Injun That Could” survive in fact as a “Guy No-Horse” after the passage of the cavalry and you cannot be surprised by the fact the cavalry is running in his veins, in his blood, in Indian blood shed to the ground by cut up bodies trampled by the horses of General Custer and consorts, many consorts. Rivers of blood.

A legless woman can then intervene and this leglessness is the result of having committed the sin of accepting to be deculturated in order to be acculturated into the white skin of a soulless Indian. The worst crime is then not to kill millions of Indians, but to force the survivors out of their culture (no dancing, no drums, no music) into the white culture (short hair, proper clothing, brush your teeth, use the toilets, speak English, think normal, that is to say submissive and humbly crawling on the moral floor of the White God’s religion and principles). Be poor and rejoice in the great salvation God will provide you with after your death, of hunger if necessary.

The present curse is phenomenal. Grandmothers have danced the legs of the people off. Indians live in permanent dimness. Indian history is nothing but a collection of debris collected in some museums for the entertainment of white people. Indians went through a genocide that is unrecognized and unrepaired. Indians have to stop talking, meaning their languages, because “language is a cemetery.” The only hope of Indians is in tribal dentists who will restore the teeth of Indians and then teach them to bite back and bite first. Don’t expect anything but devouring biting molasses on the white side. Bite first and you may have some future. This collection can be summarized in these four words: BITE BACK! BITE FIRST!


So imagine Mojave Barbie meeting with white Ken and she “peek[ed] at Ken’s hard body and naked Mojave Barbie gripping his pistol, both mid-yenni and dripping wet.” A famous Yenni has become more than infamous on January 17, 2017: “The FBI has been looking into allegations that Jefferson Parish President Mike Yenni sent sexually explicit texts to a 17-year-old he first noticed at a high school function last year, in the middle of Yenni’s successful 2015 campaign for one of the region’s most powerful political offices.” The poem becomes then very explicit about how Mojave Barbie was abused and guess who is expelled? Or are we speaking of mids, mid-grade marijuana?

The life on the reservation is then described, touch after touch, to reach the blackmailing of white entrepreneurs towards Indian starving workers to start shoveling on an infrastructural project across a field that reveals itself to be a cemetery of Indian babies and infants. The Indians then refuse to work anymore and they are rejected morally as lazy, and Indians are rejected as barbaric since they bury children, infants and babies in baskets. Then the only thing left for Indians are prayers understood as being oubliettes, deep chasms in which Indians can starve to death and be completely forgotten. These oubliettes will come back twice more.


The second part concerns the ordeal of the author’s brother, the Aztec of the title. His drama is that he got addicted to methamphetamine. She attempts to penetrate his psychology and she describes the supportive love he can enjoy till his death. She captures the hallucinating fake vision he experiences, the fact that life is for him some kind of disguise of human beasts that are just some Halloween parade. This brother reenacts the Indian alienation by embodying, impersonating Judas, the traitor, and his thirty silver pieces, and he becomes the Judas of the Indian people in the very Christian reference the disguise carries.

Twenty years ago the brother was a normal teenager. But Indian alienation came bringing the brother’s addiction that brings the Indian dedication to death that leads the brother to destroying all sources of light (lamps, bulbs and others) and the parents out of love and support accept to turn their home into the funeral pyre of their own son in order not to embarrass him, though he is destroying the family temple, the only thing that should be sacred to him. That naturally leads to the evocation of Thais: “Thaïs was a famous Greek hetaera [a type of prostitute in ancient Greece] who lived during the time of Alexander the Great and accompanied him on his [colonizing] campaigns. She is most famous for instigating the burning of Persepolis. At the time, Thaïs was the lover of Ptolemy I Soter, one of Alexander's generals. It has been suggested that she may also have been Alexander's lover, on the basis of Athenaeus's statement that Alexander liked to "keep Thais with him", but this may simply mean he enjoyed her company. She is said to have been very witty and entertaining. Athenaeus also says that after Alexander's death Ptolemy married Thaïs, who bore him three children.


And the contact between the brother and this Thais, or rather the fire she represents since she is “an ember” that makes the brother “hard” and tonight he is going to “love [whatever he may think of] into blaze” and into “ash.” In the morning the “fields too will go to smoke.” And the brother like some “lamp-lit moths” will die but “gleaming with sex.”

This meth-addicted brother splits his own father into two different fathers, “one who weeps” and “the other who drags his feet down the hall.” And “the audience” can only dream the “doves [her] brother made disappear” may come back “like angels” to take her brother to the other side of this life, as psychopomps they are. But for the time being the brother is coring “not just an apple but the entire orchard, the family, even the dog.” This apple metaphor is going to come back with another meaning.

The author calls then Antigone to her help, “the daughter/sister of Oedipus and his mother, Jocasta,” and this Antigone “is the subject of a story in which she attempts to secure a respectable burial for her brother Polynices, who by decree of the uncle Creon is not to be buried or even mourned, on pain of death by stoning.” And this ancient metaphor is crossed with Jesus after his resurrection and the holes he has in his palms. The stigma in the right hand is a chasm in which the brother drops a knife and a candelabra, whereas he licks the stigma in the left hand and finds it “tastes like love.” Explicit though morbid metaphor. Then Antigone does not bury her brother but the horses the white European settlers and their cavalry have brought to America, thus symbolically getting rid of the whites. But that is another oubliette for Indians:


“We aren’t here to eat, we are being eaten.
Come, pretty girl. Let us devour our lives.”

The ultimate curse of Indians devouring themselves by accepting to be buried in the Christian oubliette of Jesus’ stigmata.

Then the brother can finally be buried, and yet he comes back as a revenant, a ghost, a haunting presence the author will never be able to get rid of.

“My brother finally showed up asking why
he hadn’t been invited and who baked the cake.
He told me I shouldn’t smile, that this whole party was shit
because I’d imagined it. The worst part he said was
he was still alive. The worst part he said was
he wasn’t even dead. I think he is right, but maybe
the worst part is that I’m still imagining the party, maybe
the worst part is that I can still taste the cake.”


Speaking of Post Traumatic Genocide Stress Syndrome, this is a fabulous demonstration of how the damage of a genocidal trauma is inerasable in the mind of a victim, not to mention a collective victim.

The third part is the author after her brother’s death. She explores her lesbian orientation and brings all types of metaphors together.

Love is like eating an apple and she wants to be that apple in order to be devoured by the woman she loves. To be cored out of love, because of love, submissive to this voracious love.

Love is war and the scene ends with her mouth on her lover’s thigh ready to bite and devour the person she loves. Loves is some cannibalistic war. If I accept what some psychiatrists say about drug-addicts, that they are cannibals to the people who try to help them, she has transferred the main characteristic of her meth-addicted brother onto herself in her lesbian love orientation.


No surprise that love is like an oubliette in which you get lost. And this oubliette is of course also a symbol of Indian alienation through genocide and colonization, Christianism and drug addiction. Can love regenerate this alienation?

Love is fire in the middle of the night and this love is reduced to ash at sunrise in the morning like so many lamp-lit moths.

Love then leads nowhere. The tongue with which she loves, with which she speaks is heretic in all the hateful rejection it contains, rejection of the dominant faith and rejection by the dominant faith. And her heart is like a red dress, the red dress of desire and prostitution. Love cannot be permanent and can only be some kind of episodic adventure.

Love is her Indian alienation and she loves in direct descent from her great grandmother who got her legs amputated, who, as we have seen, danced herself legless, who got amputated when the white victors imposed a total ban on dancing and drum playing. Then the tongue was the heretic of this rule because Indians could still sing.


Love is a mouth, which is a cathedral, with a vaulted ceiling, and its maxilla and mandible are the flying buttress of this cathedral. And this mouth of love is embodied in a zoo lion who out of boredom devoured a member of the audience who woke him up. Love is taming the devouring other into a cage but if you wake it up you will be devoured because love is a mouth against a thigh, ready to bite, and the lover has learned how to bite back and to bite first. And this mouth, this devouring love is also the fate of Indians in the hands of the cavalry and at the same time the future of Indians in their own hands when they have finally learned how to bite back and bite first.

A beautiful poetry of liberation for Indians who can only get out of the PTGenocideSS if they find the tribal doctors who will teach them to bite back and bite first. This call for liberation and historical healing can only come from a woman because Indian women have lived two traumas, first to be reduced to inferior women among Indians though historically they were equal in their tribes, and then to be reduced to surviving slaves in the post-colonial American society that is still entirely living on this colonial – and slavery – heritage.


It will take many people, voices, heretic tongues and tribal doctors to finally push aside this heritage of slavery and genocide in the psyche of whites, blacks and Indians equally, because they all share the traumas, as victims or as victimizers, and of course as descendants of victims and victimizers.


Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU



Saturday, June 17, 2017

 

Juste un peu de violence criminelle pour l'été


AmazonKindle Asin B010VYPOWI



Deux sœurs.
Une maison de rêve.
Un petit coin de campagne paisible.
Paisible? Si au début de leur installation, les sœurs Brausch pensent retrouver le domaine familial et renouer avec leurs souvenirs d'enfance, le rêve pour elles va vite tourner au cauchemar.
Le Mal se cache parfois dans la douceur d'un paysage, le long d'une rivière qui vient frapper les pales d'un moulin endormi dans la plaine. Mais le Mal peut prendre plusieurs visages et n'est jamais celui auquel on s'attend.

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·         Publisher: Editions La Dondaine; 1st edition (July 2, 2015)
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·         Language: French
·         ASIN: B010VYPOWI
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SUSPENSE ET TERRITORIALITÉ

Quel bonheur de pouvoir lire un premier roman ! Et celui-ci ne dépareille pas à ce plaisir. Il y a une certaine naïveté dans ces personnages, deux femmes essentiellement, et un père de toute façon qui vient juste de mourir et que les deux sœurs enterrent ensemble et ainsi se retrouvent, l’une s’installant dans le moulin du père mais elle était restée pas très loin, l’autre venant la rejoindre et laissant Paris derrière elle, faisant de Paris ce qu’il est profondément, un décor temporaire pour visiteurs toujours éclairs. Y a-t-il des Parisiens de souche, surtout quand ils sont nés là par une sorte d’accident de parcours dans une pérégrination sans fin ?

Mais le roman devient rapidement dans le petit village où nous sommes, presqu’une petite ville de canton provincial écarté, le cadre d’une sinistre querelle territoriale. C’est à toi, je le veux, tu me le donnes où je te tue. Et tout va balancer entre un moulin ancien et un pigeonnier tout aussi ancien, entre une cleptomane pie voleuse et un vautour médical mangeur de chairs. Un peu d’amour pour ces deux sœurs, mais si peu et toujours frustré par une mort soudaine. Le suspense sentimental se double et s’enfle d’un suspense criminel.

Et le meurtrier, si ce n’est pas une meurtrière, fera feu de tout bois, n’hésitera sur aucun investissement sanguinaire, ne reculera devant aucun obstacle charnel. Qu’on s’en débarrasse et laissons au charnier le soin de trier avec un peu d’aide de la gendarmerie. Ce cynisme assassin est pire encore que l’envie criminelle.

Le pire étant que justice sera faite de facto mais pas de jure. Comme on faisait au Moyen Age. Nos villages de la France profonde n’ont toujours pas changé.

Ce qui est le plus troublant, mais aussi fascinant reste le fait que on passe du point de vue d’une sœur à celui de l’autre sœur et qu’entre deux l’auteure se fait redresseuse de récit pour lui donner la direction nécessaire pour aller sinon droit au but, du moins dans la bonne direction. Et ici et là une vue en plongée dans les profondeurs troublantes et obscures du psychisme de ces gens biens sous tous rapports, comme ils disent après le drame qui a surpris tout le monde tellement ces gens-là étaient normaux. Et le pire c’est qu’ils étaient et sont toujours pour les survivants encore plus normaux que normaux, banals comme les fours et les moulins d’autrefois.


Dr Jacques COULARDEAU

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