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castielchitaqua · 3 years

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kaddish, allen ginsberg

I Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head three years after—And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer— And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn— Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed— like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion— No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance, sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other, worshipping the God included in it all—longing or inevitability?—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more? It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place. or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock— then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—toward Newark— toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards— Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life? Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstoops doors and dark boys on the street, fire escapes old as you -Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me— Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time— That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end— Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world— There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good. No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis, and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands— No more of sister Elanor,.—she gone before you—we kept it secret—you killed her—or she killed herself to bear with you—an arthritic heart—But Death’s killed you both—No matter— Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks—forgetting, aggrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth, or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, hailing his voice of a weeping Czar—by standing

room with Elanor & Max—watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920 all girls grown old, or dead, now, and that long hair in the grave—lucky to have husbands later— You made it—I came too—Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer—or kill—later perhaps—soon he will think—) And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now—tho not you I didn’t foresee what you felt—what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first—to you—and were you prepared? To go where? In that Dark—that—in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you? Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon—Deathshead with Halo? can you believe it? Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was? Nothing beyond what we have—what you had—that so pitiful—yet Triumph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower—fed to the ground—but mad, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore—freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless. No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy—even in the Spring—strange ghost thought—some Death—Sharp icicle in his hand—crowned with old roses—a dog for his eyes—cock of a sweatshop—heart of electric irons. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons—your Communism—‘Paranoia’ into hospitals. You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy? Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. l His life passes—as he sees—and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi? I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth. Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them. Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed—Ass and face done with murder. In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept. Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity— Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing—to praise Thee—But Death This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God’s perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms! II Over and over—refrain—of the Hospitals—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—a few images run thru the mind—like the saxophone chorus of houses and years—remembrance of electrical shocks. By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your nervousness—you were fat—your next move— By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you—once and for all—when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my opinion of the cosmos, I was lost— By my

later burden—vow to illuminate mankind—this is release of particulars—(mad as you)—(sanity a trick of agreement)— But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and spied a mystical assassin from Newark, So phoned the Doctor—‘OK go way for a rest’—so I put on my coat and walked you downstreet—On the way a grammarschool boy screamed, unaccountably—‘Where you goin Lady to Death’? I shuddered— and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma— And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of the gang? You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on—to New York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound— where we hung around 2 hours fighting invisible bugs and jewish sickness—breeze poisoned by Roosevelt— out to get you—and me tagging along, hoping it would end in a quiet room in a Victorian house by a lake. Ride 3 hours thru tunnels past all American industry, Bayonne preparing for World War II, tanks, gas fields, soda factories, diners, loco-motive roundhouse fortress—into piney woods New Jersey Indians—calm towns—long roads thru sandy tree fields— Bridges by deerless creeks, old wampum loading the streambeddown there a tomahawk or Pocahontas bone—and a million old ladies voting for Roosevelt in brown small houses, roads off the Madness highway— perhaps a hawk in a tree, or a hermit looking for an owl-filled branch— All the time arguing—afraid of strangers in the forward double seat, snoring regardless—what busride they snore on now? ‘Allen, you don’t understand—it’s—ever since those 3 big sticks up my back—they did something to me in Hospital, they poisoned me, they want to see me dead—3 big sticks, 3 big sticks— ‘The Bitch! Old Grandma! Last week I saw her, dressed in pants like an old man, with a sack on her back, climbing up the brick side of the apartment ‘On the fire escape, with poison germs, to throw on me—at night—maybe Louis is helping her—he’s under her power— ‘I’m your mother, take me to Lakewood’ (near where Graf Zeppelin had crashed before, all Hitler in Explosion) ‘where I can hide.’ We got there—Dr. Whatzis rest home—she hid behind a closet—demanded a blood transfusion. We were kicked out—tramping with Valise to unknown shady lawn houses—dusk, pine trees after dark—long dead street filled with crickets and poison ivy— I shut her up by now—big house REST HOME ROOMS—gave the landlady her money for the week—carried up the iron valise—sat on bed waiting to escape— Neat room in attic with friendly bedcover—lace curtains—spinning wheel rug—Stained wallpaper old as Naomi. We were home. I left on the next bus to New York—laid my head back in the last seat, depressed—the worst yet to come?—abandoning her, rode in torpor—I was only 12. Would she hide in her room and come out cheerful for breakfast? Or lock her door and stare thru the window for sidestreet spies? Listen at keyholes for Hitlerian invisible gas? Dream in a chair—or mock me, by—in front of a mirror, alone? 12 riding the bus at nite thru New Jersey, have left Naomi to Parcae in Lakewood’s haunted house—left to my own fate bus—sunk in a seat—all violins broken—my heart sore in my ribs—mind was empty—Would she were safe in her coffin— Or back at Normal School in Newark, studying up on America in a black skirt—winter on the street without lunch—a penny a pickle—home at night to take care of Elanor in the bedroom— First nervous breakdown was 1919—she stayed home from school and lay in a dark room for three weeks—something bad—never said what—every noise hurt—dreams of the creaks of Wall Street— Before the gray Depression—went upstate New York—recovered—Lou took photo of her sitting crossleg on the grass—her long hair wound with flowers—smiling—playing lullabies on mandolin—poison ivy smoke in left-wing summer camps and me in infancy saw trees— or back teaching school, laughing with idiots, the backward classes—her Russian specialty—morons with dreamy lips, great eyes, thin feet & sicky fingers, swaybacked, rachitic— great heads pendulous

over Alice in Wonderland, a blackboard full of C A T. Naomi reading patiently, story out of a Communist fairy book—Tale of the Sudden Sweetness of the Dictator—Forgiveness of Warlocks—Armies Kissing— Deathsheads Around the Green Table—The King & the Workers—Paterson Press printed them up in the ’30s till she went mad, or they folded, both. O Paterson! I got home late that nite. Louis was worried. How could I be so—didn’t I think? I shouldn’t have left her. Mad in Lakewood. Call the Doctor. Phone the home in the pines. Too late. Went to bed exhausted, wanting to leave the world (probably that year newly in love with R my high school mind hero, jewish boy who came a doctor later—then silent neat kid— I later laying down life for him, moved to Manhattan—followed him to college—Prayed on ferry to help mankind if admitted—vowed, the day I journeyed to Entrance Exam— by being honest revolutionary labor lawyer—would train for that—inspired by Sacco Vanzetti, Norman Thomas, Debs, Altgeld, Sand-burg, Poe—Little Blue Books. I wanted to be President, or Senator. ignorant woe—later dreams of kneeling by R’s shocked knees declaring my love of 1941—What sweetness he’d have shown me, tho, that I’d wished him & despaired—first love—a crush— Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole—weight on my melancholy head— meanwhile I walked on Broadway imagining Infinity like a rubber ball without space beyond—what’s outside?—coming home to Graham Avenue still melancholy passing the lone green hedges across the street, dreaming after the movies—) The telephone rang at 2 A.M.—Emergency—she’d gone mad—Naomi hiding under the bed screaming bugs of Mussolini—Help! Louis! Buba! Fascists! Death!—the landlady frightened—old fag attendant screaming back at her— Terror, that woke the neighbors—old ladies on the second floor recovering from menopause—all those rags between thighs, clean sheets, sorry over lost babies—husbands ashen—children sneering at Yale, or putting oil in hair at CCNY—or trembling in Montclair State Teachers College like Eugene— Her big leg crouched to her breast, hand outstretched Keep Away, wool dress on her thighs, fur coat dragged under the bed—she barricaded herself under bedspring with suitcases. Louis in pajamas listening to phone, frightened—do now?—Who could know?—my fault, delivering her to solitude?—sitting in the dark room on the sofa, trembling, to figure out— He took the morning train to Lakewood, Naomi still under bed—thought he brought poison Cops—Naomi screaming—Louis what happened to your heart then? Have you been killed by Naomi’s ecstasy? Dragged her out, around the corner, a cab, forced her in with valise, but the driver left them off at drugstore. Bus stop, two hours’ wait. I lay in bed nervous in the 4-room apartment, the big bed in living room, next to Louis’ desk—shaking—he came home that nite, late, told me what happened. Naomi at the prescription counter defending herself from the enemy—racks of children’s books, douche bags, aspirins, pots, blood—‘Don’t come near me—murderers! Keep away! Promise not to kill me!’ Louis in horror at the soda fountain—with Lakewood girlscouts—Coke addicts—nurses—busmen hung on schedule—Police from country precinct, dumbed—and a priest dreaming of pigs on an ancient cliff? Smelling the air—Louis pointing to emptiness?—Customers vomiting their Cokes—or staring—Louis humiliated—Naomi triumphant—The Announcement of the Plot. Bus arrives, the drivers won’t have them on trip to New York. Phonecalls to Dr. Whatzis, ‘She needs a rest,’ The mental hospital—State Greystone Doctors—‘Bring her here, Mr. Ginsberg.’ Naomi, Naomi—sweating, bulge-eyed, fat, the dress unbuttoned at one side—hair over brow, her stocking hanging evilly on her legs—screaming for a blood transfusion—one righteous hand upraised—a shoe in it—barefoot in the Pharmacy— The enemies approach—what poisons? Tape recorders? FBI? Zhdanov hiding behind the counter? Trotsky mixing rat bacteria in the back of the store? Uncle Sam in Newark, plotting deathly

perfumes in the Negro district? Uncle Ephraim, drunk with murder in the politician’s bar, scheming of Hague? Aunt Rose passing water thru the needles of the Spanish Civil War? till the hired $35 ambulance came from Red Bank——Grabbed her arms—strapped her on the stretcher—moaning, poisoned by imaginaries, vomiting chemicals thru Jersey, begging mercy from Essex County to Morristown— And back to Greystone where she lay three years—that was the last breakthrough, delivered her to Madhouse again— On what wards—I walked there later, oft—old catatonic ladies, gray as cloud or ash or walls—sit crooning over floorspace—Chairs—and the wrinkled hags acreep, accusing—begging my 13-year-old mercy— ‘Take me home’—I went alone sometimes looking for the lost Naomi, taking Shock—and I’d say, ‘No, you’re crazy Mama,—Trust the Drs.’— And Eugene, my brother, her elder son, away studying Law in a furnished room in Newark— came Paterson-ward next day—and he sat on the broken-down couch in the living room—‘We had to send her back to Greystone’— —his face perplexed, so young, then eyes with tears—then crept weeping all over his face—‘What for?’ wail vibrating in his cheekbones, eyes closed up, high voice—Eugene’s face of pain. Him faraway, escaped to an Elevator in the Newark Library, his bottle daily milk on windowsill of $5 week furn room downtown at trolley tracks— He worked 8 hrs. a day for $20/wk—thru Law School years—stayed by himself innocent near negro whorehouses. Unlaid, poor virgin—writing poems about Ideals and politics letters to the editor Pat Eve News—(we both wrote, denouncing Senator Borah and Isolationists—and felt mysterious toward Paterson City Hall— I sneaked inside it once—local Moloch tower with phallus spire & cap o’ ornament, strange gothic Poetry that stood on Market Street—replica Lyons’ Hotel de Ville— wings, balcony & scrollwork portals, gateway to the giant city clock, secret map room full of Hawthorne—dark Debs in the Board of Tax—Rembrandt smoking in the gloom— Silent polished desks in the great committee room—Aldermen? Bd of Finance? Mosca the hairdresser aplot—Crapp the gangster issuing orders from the john—The madmen struggling over Zone, Fire, Cops & Backroom Metaphysics—we’re all dead—outside by the bus stop Eugene stared thru childhood— where the Evangelist preached madly for 3 decades, hard-haired, cracked & true to his mean Bible—chalked Prepare to Meet Thy God on civic pave— or God is Love on the railroad overpass concrete—he raved like I would rave, the lone Evangelist—Death on City Hall—) But Gene, young,—been Montclair Teachers College 4 years—taught half year & quit to go ahead in life—afraid of Discipline Problems—dark sex Italian students, raw girls getting laid, no English, sonnets disregarded—and he did not know much—just that he lost— so broke his life in two and paid for Law—read huge blue books and rode the ancient elevator 13 miles away in Newark & studied up hard for the future just found the Scream of Naomi on his failure doorstep, for the final time, Naomi gone, us lonely—home—him sitting there— Then have some chicken soup, Eugene. The Man of Evangel wails in front of City Hall. And this year Lou has poetic loves of suburb middle age—in secret—music from his 1937 book—Sincere—he longs for beauty— No love since Naomi screamed—since 1923?—now lost in Greystone ward—new shock for her—Electricity, following the 40 Insulin. And Metrazol had made her fat. So that a few years later she came home again—we’d much advanced and planned—I waited for that day—my Mother again to cook & —play the piano—sing at mandolin—Lung Stew, & Stenka Razin, & the communist line on the war with Finland—and Louis in debt—,uspected to he poisoned money—mysterious capitalisms —& walked down the long front hall & looked at the furniture. She never remembered it all. Some amnesia. Examined the doilies—and the dining room set was sold— the Mahogany table—20 years love—gone to the junk man—we still had the piano—and the book of Poe—and the Mandolin, tho needed some string, dusty— She went to the backroom to lie down in

bed and ruminate, or nap, hide—I went in with her, not leave her by herself—lay in bed next to her—shades pulled, dusky, late afternoon—Louis in front room at desk, waiting—perhaps boiling chicken for supper— ‘Don’t be afraid of me because I’m just coming back home from the mental hospital—I’m your mother—’ Poor love, lost—a fear—I lay there—Said, ‘I love you Naomi,’—stiff, next to her arm. I would have cried, was this the comfortless lone union?—Nervous, and she got up soon. Was she ever satisfied? And—by herself sat on the new couch by the front windows, uneasy—cheek leaning on her hand—narrowing eye—at what fate that day— Picking her tooth with her nail, lips formed an O, suspicion—thought’s old worn vagina—absent sideglance of eye—some evil debt written in the wall, unpaid—& the aged breasts of Newark come near— May have heard radio gossip thru the wires in her head, controlled by 3 big sticks left in her back by gangsters in amnesia, thru the hospital—caused pain between her shoulders— Into her head—Roosevelt should know her case, she told me—Afraid to kill her, now, that the government knew their names—traced back to Hitler—wanted to leave Louis’ house forever. One night, sudden attack—her noise in the bathroom—like croaking up her soul—convulsions and red vomit coming out of her mouth—diarrhea water exploding from her behind—on all fours in front of the toilet—urine running between her legs—left retching on the tile floor smeared with her black feces—unfainted— At forty, varicosed, nude, fat, doomed, hiding outside the apartment door near the elevator calling Police, yelling for her girlfriend Rose to help— Once locked herself in with razor or iodine—could hear her cough in tears at sink—Lou broke through glass green-painted door, we pulled her out to the bedroom. Then quiet for months that winter—walks, alone, nearby on Broadway, read Daily Worker—Broke her arm, fell on icy street— Began to scheme escape from cosmic financial murder-plots—later she ran away to the Bronx to her sister Elanor. And there’s another saga of late Naomi in New York. Or thru Elanor or the Workmen’s Circle, where she worked, ad-dressing envelopes, she made out—went shopping for Campbell’s tomato soup—saved money Louis mailed her— Later she found a boyfriend, and he was a doctor—Dr. Isaac worked for National Maritime Union—now Italian bald and pudgy old doll—who was himself an orphan—but they kicked him out—Old cruelties— Sloppier, sat around on bed or chair, in corset dreaming to herself—‘I’m hot—I’m getting fat—I used to have such a beautiful figure before I went to the hospital—You should have seen me in Woodbine—’ This in a furnished room around the NMU hall, 1943. Looking at naked baby pictures in the magazine—baby powder advertisements, strained lamb carrots—‘I will think nothing but beautiful thoughts.’ Revolving her head round and round on her neck at window light in summertime, in hypnotize, in doven-dream recall— ‘I touch his cheek, I touch his cheek, he touches my lips with his hand, I think beautiful thoughts, the baby has a beautiful hand.’— Or a No-shake of her body, disgust—some thought of Buchenwald—some insulin passes thru her head—a grimace nerve shudder at Involuntary (as shudder when I piss)—bad chemical in her cortex—‘No don’t think of that. He’s a rat.’ Naomi: ‘And when we die we become an onion, a cabbage, a carrot, or a squash, a vegetable.’ I come downtown from Columbia and agree. She reads the Bible, thinks beautiful thoughts all day. ‘Yesterday I saw God. What did he look like? Well, in the afternoon I climbed up a ladder—he has a cheap cabin in the country, like Monroe, N.Y. the chicken farms in the wood. He was a lonely old man with a white beard. ‘I cooked supper for him. I made him a nice supper—lentil soup, vegetables, bread & butter—miltz—he sat down at the table and ate, he was sad. ‘I told him, Look at all those fightings and killings down there, What’s the matter? Why don’t you put a stop to it? ‘I try, he said—That’s all he could do, he looked tired. He’s a bachelor so long, and he likes lentil

soup.’ Serving me meanwhile, a plate of cold fish—chopped raw cabbage dript with tapwater—smelly tomatoes—week-old health food—grated beets & carrots with leaky juice, warm—more and more disconsolate food—I can’t eat it for nausea sometimes—the Charity of her hands stinking with Manhattan, madness, desire to please me, cold undercooked fish—pale red near the bones. Her smells—and oft naked in the room, so that I stare ahead, or turn a book ignoring her. One time I thought she was trying to make me come lay her—flirting to herself at sink—lay back on huge bed that filled most of the room, dress up round her hips, big slash of hair, scars of operations, pancreas, belly wounds, abortions, appendix, stitching of incisions pulling down in the fat like hideous thick zippers—ragged long lips between her legs—What, even, smell of asshole? I was cold—later revolted a little, not much—seemed perhaps a good idea to try—know the Monster of the Beginning Womb—Perhaps—that way. Would she care? She needs a lover. Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispoar, v’yisroman, v’yisnaseh, v’yishador, v’yishalleh, v’yishallol, sh’meh d’kudsho, b’rich hu. And Louis reestablishing himself in Paterson grimy apartment in negro district—living in dark rooms—but found himself a girl he later married, falling in love again—tho sere & shy—hurt with 20 years Naomi’s mad idealism. Once I came home, after longtime in N.Y., he’s lonely—sitting in the bedroom, he at desk chair turned round to face me—weeps, tears in red eyes under his glasses— That we’d left him—Gene gone strangely into army—she out on her own in N.Y., almost childish in her furnished room. So Louis walked downtown to postoffice to get mail, taught in highschool—stayed at poetry desk, forlorn—ate grief at Bickford’s all these years—are gone. Eugene got out of the Army, came home changed and lone—cut off his nose in jewish operation—for years stopped girls on Broadway for cups of coffee to get laid—Went to NYU, serious there, to finish Law.— And Gene lived with her, ate naked fishcakes, cheap, while she got crazier—He got thin, or felt helpless, Naomi striking 1920 poses at the moon, half-naked in the next bed. bit his nails and studied—was the weird nurse-son—Next year he moved to a room near Columbia—though she wanted to live with her children— ‘Listen to your mother’s plea, I beg you’—Louis still sending her checks—I was in bughouse that year 8 months—my own visions unmentioned in this here Lament— But then went half mad—Hitler in her room, she saw his mustache in the sink—afraid of Dr. Isaac now, suspecting that he was in on the Newark plot—went up to Bronx to live near Elanor’s Rheumatic Heart— And Uncle Max never got up before noon, tho Naomi at 6 A.M. was listening to the radio for spies—or searching the windowsill, for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat. Max’s sister Edie works—17 years bookkeeper at Gimbels—lived downstairs in apartment house, divorced—so Edie took in Naomi on Rochambeau Ave— Woodlawn Cemetery across the street, vast dale of graves where Poe once—Last stop on Bronx subway—lots of communists in that area. Who enrolled for painting classes at night in Bronx Adult High School—walked alone under Van Cortlandt Elevated line to class—paints Naomiisms— Humans sitting on the grass in some Camp No-Worry summers yore—saints with droopy faces and long-ill-fitting pants, from hospital— Brides in front of Lower East Side with short grooms—lost El trains running over the Babylonian apartment rooftops in the Bronx— Sad paintings—but she expressed herself. Her mandolin gone, all strings broke in her head, she tried. Toward Beauty? or some old life Message? But started kicking Elanor, and Elanor had heart trouble—came upstairs and asked her about Spydom for hours,—Elanor frazzled. Max away at office, accounting for cigar stores till at night. ‘I am a great woman—am truly a beautiful soul—and because of that they (Hitler, Grandma, Hearst, the Capitalists, Franco, Daily News, the ’20s, Mussolini, the living

dead) want to shut me up—Buba’s the head of a spider network—’ Kicking the girls, Edie & Elanor—Woke Edie at midnite to tell her she was a spy and Elanor a rat. Edie worked all day and couldn’t take it—She was organizing the union.—And Elanor began dying, upstairs in bed. The relatives call me up, she’s getting worse—I was the only one left—Went on the subway with Eugene to see her, ate stale fish— ‘My sister whispers in the radio—Louis must be in the apartment—his mother tells him what to say—LIARS!—I cooked for my two children—I played the mandolin—’ Last night the nightingale woke me / Last night when all was still / it sang in the golden moonlight / from on the wintry hill. She did. I pushed her against the door and shouted ‘DON’T KICK ELANOR!’—she stared at me—Contempt—die—disbelief her sons are so naive, so dumb—‘Elanor is the worst spy! She’s taking orders!’ ‘—No wires in the room!’—I’m yelling at her—last ditch, Eugene listening on the bed—what can he do to escape that fatal Mama—‘You’ve been away from Louis years already—Grandma’s too old to walk—’ We’re all alive at once then—even me & Gene & Naomi in one mythological Cousinesque room—screaming at each other in the Forever—I in Columbia jacket, she half undressed. I banging against her head which saw Radios, Sticks, Hitlers—the gamut of Hallucinations—for real—her own universe—no road that goes elsewhere—to my own—No America, not even a world— That you go as all men, as Van Gogh, as mad Hannah, all the same—to the last doom—Thunder, Spirits, lightning! I’ve seen your grave! O strange Naomi! My own—cracked grave! Shema Y’Israel—I am Svul Avrum—you—in death? Your last night in the darkness of the Bronx—I phonecalled—thru hospital to secret police that came, when you and I were alone, shrieking at Elanor in my ear—who breathed hard in her own bed, got thin— Nor will forget, the doorknock, at your fright of spies,—Law advancing, on my honor—Eternity entering the room—you running to the bathroom undressed, hiding in protest from the last heroic fate— staring at my eyes, betrayed—the final cops of madness rescuing me—from your foot against the broken heart of Elanor, your voice at Edie weary of Gimbels coming home to broken radio—and Louis needing a poor divorce, he wants to get married soon—Eugene dreaming, hiding at 125 St., suing negroes for money on crud furniture, defending black girls— Protests from the bathroom—Said you were sane—dressing in a cotton robe, your shoes, then new, your purse and newspaper clippingsno—your honesty— as you vainly made your lips more real with lipstick, looking in the mirror to see if the Insanity was Me or a earful of police. or Grandma spying at 78—Your vision—Her climbing over the walls of the cemetery with political kidnapper’s bag—or what you saw on the walls of the Bronx, in pink nightgown at midnight, staring out the window on the empty lot— Ah Rochambeau Ave.—Playground of Phantoms—last apartment in the Bronx for spies—last home for Elanor or Naomi, here these communist sisters lost their revolution— ‘All right—put on your coat Mrs.—let’s go—We have the wagon downstairs—you want to come with her to the station?’ The ride then—held Naomi’s hand, and held her head to my breast, I’m taller—kissed her and said I did it for the best—Elanor sick—and Max with heart condition—Needs— To me—‘Why did you do this?’—‘Yes Mrs., your son will have to leave you in an hour’—The Ambulance came in a few hours—drove off at 4 A.M. to some Bellevue in the night downtown—gone to the hospital forever. I saw her led away—she waved, tears in her eyes. Two years, after a trip to Mexico—bleak in the flat plain near Brentwood, scrub brush and grass around the unused RR train track to the crazyhouse— new brick 20 story central building—lost on the vast lawns of madtown on Long Island—huge cities of the moon. Asylum spreads out giant wings above the path to a minute black hole—the door—entrance thru crotch— I went in—smelt funny—the halls again—up elevator—to a glass door on a Women’s Ward—to Naomi—Two nurses buxom white—They led her out, Naomi

stared—and I gaspt—She’d had a stroke— Too thin, shrunk on her bones—age come to Naomi—now broken into white hair—loose dress on her skeleton—face sunk, old! withered—cheek of crone— One hand stiff—heaviness of forties & menopause reduced by one heart stroke, lame now—wrinkles—a scar on her head, the lobotomy—ruin, the hand dipping downwards to death— O Russian faced, woman on the grass, your long black hair is crowned with flowers, the mandolin is on your knees— Communist beauty, sit here married in the summer among daisies, promised happiness at hand— holy mother, now you smile on your love, your world is born anew, children run naked in the field spotted with dandelions, they eat in the plum tree grove at the end of the meadow and find a cabin where a white-haired negro teaches the mystery of his rainbarrel— blessed daughter come to America, I long to hear your voice again, remembering your mother’s music, in the Song of the Natural Front— O glorious muse that bore me from the womb, gave suck first mystic life & taught me talk and music, from whose pained head I first took Vision— Tortured and beaten in the skull—What mad hallucinations of the damned that drive me out of my own skull to seek Eternity till I find Peace for Thee, O Poetry—and for all humankind call on the Origin Death which is the mother of the universe!—Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky—no revolution might destroy that maidenhood— O beautiful Garbo of my Karma—all photographs from 1920 in Camp Nicht-Gedeiget here unchanged—with all the teachers from Vewark—Nor Elanor be gone, nor Max await his specter—nor Louis retire from this High School— Back! You! Naomi! Skull on you! Gaunt immortality and revolution come—small broken woman—the ashen indoor eyes of hospitals, ward grayness on skin— ‘Are you a spy?’ I sat at the sour table, eyes filling with tears—‘Who are you? Did Louis send you?—The wires—’ in her hair, as she beat on her head—‘I’m not a bad girl—don’t murder me!—I hear the ceiling—I raised two children—’ Two years since I’d been there—I started to cry—She stared—nurse broke up the meeting a moment—I went into the bathroom to hide, against the toilet white walls ‘The Horror’ I weeping—to see her again—‘The Horror’—as if she were dead thru funeral rot in—‘The Horror!’ I came back she yelled more—they led her away—‘You’re not Allen—’ I watched her face—but she passed by me, not looking— Opened the door to the ward,—she went thru without a glance back, quiet suddenly—I stared out—she looked old—the verge of the grave—‘All the Horror!’ Another year, I left N.Y.—on West Coast in Berkeley cottage dreamed of her soul—that, thru life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond joy— near its death—with eyes—was my own love in its form, the Naomi, my mother on earth still—sent her long letter—& wrote hymns to the mad—Work of the merciful Lord of Poetry. that causes the broken grass to be green, or the rock to break in grass—or the Sun to be constant to earth—Sun of all sunflowers and days on bright iron bridges—what shines on old hospitals—as on my yard— Returning from San Francisco one night, Orlovsky in my room—Whalen in his peaceful chair—a telegram from Gene, Naomi dead— Outside I bent my head to the ground under the bushes near the garage—knew she was better— at last—not left to look on Earth alone—2 years of solitude—no one, at age nearing 60—old woman of skulls—once long-tressed Naomi of Bible— or Ruth who wept in America—Rebecca aged in Newark—David remembering his Harp, now lawyer at Yale or Srul Avrum—Israel Abraham—myself—to sing in the wilderness toward God—O Elohim!—so to the end—2 days after her death I got her letter— Strange Prophecies anew! She wrote—‘The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window—I have the key—Get married Allen don’t take drugs—the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window. Love, your mother’ which is Naomi— Hymmnn In the world which He has created according to his will Blessed Praised Magnified Lauded

Exalted the Name of the Holy One Blessed is He! In the house in Newark Blessed is He! In the madhouse Blessed is He! In the house of Death Blessed is He! Blessed be He in homosexuality! Blessed be He in Paranoia! Blessed be He in the city! Blessed be He in the Book! Blessed be He who dwells in the shadow! Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be you Naomi in tears! Blessed be you Naomi in fears! Blessed Blessed Blessed in sickness! Blessed be you Naomi in Hospitals! Blessed be you Naomi in solitude! Blest be your triumph! Blest be your bars! Blest be your last years’ loneliness! Blest be your failure! Best be your stroke! Blest be the close of your eye! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! Blest be your withered thighs! Blessed be Thee Naomi in Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be He Who leads all sorrow to Heaven! Blessed be He in the end! Blessed be He who builds Heaven in Darkness! Blessed Blessed Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be Death on us All! III Only to have not forgotten the beginning in which she drank cheap sodas in the morgues of Newark, only to have seen her weeping on gray tables in long wards of her universe only to have known the weird ideas of Hitler at the door, the wires in her head, the three big sticks rammed down her back, the voices in the ceiling shrieking out her ugly early lays for 30 years, only to have seen the time-jumps, memory lapse, the crash of wars, the roar and silence of a vast electric shock, only to have seen her painting crude pictures of Elevateds running over the rooftops of the Bronx her brothers dead in Riverside or Russia, her lone in Long Island writing a last letter—and her image in the sunlight at the window ‘The key is in the sunlight at the window in the bars the key is in the sunlight,’ only to have come to that dark night on iron bed by stroke when the sun gone down on Long Island and the vast Atlantic roars outside the great call of Being to its own to come back out of the Nightmare—divided creation—with her head lain on a pillow of the hospital to die —in one last glimpse—all Earth one everlasting Light in the familiar black-out—no tears for this vision— But that the key should be left behind—at the window—the key in the sunlight—to the living—that can take that slice of light in hand—and turn the door—and look back see Creation glistening backwards to the same grave, size of universe, size of the tick of the hospital's clock on the archway over the white door— IV O mother what have I left out O mother what have I forgotten O mother farewell with a long black shoe farewell with Communist Party and a broken stocking farewell with six dark hairs on the wen of your breast farewell with your old dress and a long black beard around the vagina farewell with your sagging belly with your fear of Hitler with your mouth of bad short stories with your fingers of rotten mandolins with your arms of fat Paterson porches with your belly of strikes and smokestacks with your chin of Trotsky and the Spanish War with your voice singing for the decaying overbroken workers with your nose of bad lay with your nose of the smell of the pickles of Newark with your eyes with your eyes of Russia with your eyes of no money with your eyes of false China with your eyes of Aunt Elanor with your eyes of starving India with your eyes pissing in the park with your eyes of America taking a fall with your eyes of your failure at the piano with your eyes of your relatives in California with your eyes of Ma Rainey dying in an aumbulance with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots with your eyes going to painting class at night in the Bronx with your eyes of the killer Grandma you see on the horizon from the Fire-Escape with your eyes running naked out of the apartment screaming into the hall with your eyes being led away by policemen to an aumbulance with your eyes strapped down on the operating table with your eyes with the pancreas removed with your eyes of appendix operation with your eyes of abortion with your eyes of ovaries removed with your eyes of shock with your

eyes of lobotomy with your eyes of divorce with your eyes of stroke with your eyes alone with your eyes with your eyes with your Death full of Flowers V Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over grave stones in Long Island Lord Lord Lord Naomi underneath this grass my halflife and my own as hers caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel Lord Lord great Eye that stares on All and moves in a black cloud caw caw strange cry of Beings flung up into sky over the waving trees Lord Lord O Grinder of giant Beyonds my voice in a boundless field in Sheol Caw caw the call of Time rent out of foot and wing an instant in the universe Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all Visions of the Lord Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Paris, December 1957—New York, 1959

#im a collector im a maniac #poetry #not mine

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ciriceart · 5 years

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Emeritus line + Copia + Sister Imperator Internet celebrity hcs, because online has rotted my brain out.

Copia is a genuinely sweet and helpful advice & lifestyle (& DIY/pet health where the ratties are concerned) blogger notorious for posting thirst trap selfies. Think “haha look at what my rat Bile did, but totally don’t look at my open shirt! the camera just went off by itself” type shit. Very self-confident online, yet adorably awkward and soft spoken in guest appearances in other people’s vlogs and in fan encounters. His stuttering and awkward pauses alone warrant more than a handful of jumpcuts, even though many fans of his would happily listen to their “awkward rat man” fumble his way through a regular conversation. His website also has an “after dark” section focusing on sexual health and wellness which often touches on topics including consent, identity and orientation, and destigmatization. However, some of these personal storytime posts give you the idea that he might be prone to fantasizing, or at least greatly exaggerating. There’s no way one man can do all of that.

3 is instagram famous and gives off major hot youth pastor vibes. Perfectly tousled hair, Gucci shades and a sweat-dampened black and green CHURCH OF GHOST CHILDREN’S CAMP STAFF tie-dye shirt often present during summer months. Stories and posts are a revolving door of dates, flings and significant others, all celebrated by snapshots of gorgeous scenery, a well cooked meal, and the happy couple themselves. The captions almost always include a quote from Luciferian scriptures and vaguely flirty commentary, along with kiss emojis. Also makes sure to post the bi-weekly overly filtered Starbucks picture, complete with the caption “#basic” underneath it. Though he comes off as fun and lighthearted (and maybe even shallow), it’s obvious that he’s well read, observant and just the right amount of devious... while also a bit of a chivalrous pervert, slipping in some innuendo and dirty jokes where he deems appropriate.

2 doesn’t have much of a known online presence save for a no commentary cooking channel which never includes his face or voice, or any other identifying feature unless one is intimately familiar with the church’s professional grade kitchen equipment. Everything he makes is either over-elaborate and too expensive to recreate, or bare bones, simple “old country” nostalgia recipes. Replies to comments requesting advice with “Start over. Begin again.” This isn’t him being mean, just his clumsy and blunt way of saying that you have to practice a lot more. He’ll never be pointlessly rude to someone asking legitimate questions or if he sees that you’re doing your best. Has a separate social media account that is connected to his name, but it’s mostly used to host footage of Russian ballet and Italian theater that he himself converted from film, for archival purposes. Occasionally shaky iPhone footage of death metal gigs and lots of tagged photos from churchgoers and even strangers who met him at the club as well. Though he might like to portray himself as more put together than his brothers, he is an Emeritus, and as such is prone to some pretty lame puns or off-color humor here and there.

1 is a respected elder on demonolatry and Church of Ghost websites and forums, who is known for being very stern and serious with people who think they can simply summon a demon or attempt advanced rituals for funsies. He communicates regularly with the cardinals heading non-local branches of the church over these websites, and has tons of petty but valid complaints in his post history. Posts such as “that Cardinal Vincent can’t get anything done without me, can he?” “Priestess Isobel let me down at last year’s Black Mass; don’t put her in charge again.” That’s not to say he’s a total hardass or anything. He just cares deeply about the inner workings of the church and wants everyone to put their best foot forward in order to keep everything running as smoothly as possible. He also has a real soft spot for the parents/caretakers within the church due to his own past in helping raise his younger brothers and is always good for advice or helping to deescalate stress. 3 often jokes that he should start a parenting and lifestyle blog. And hopping on the gardening bandwagon right quick, rareseeds.com is the only website in his bookmarks bar.

Nihil has an active Flickr account, most photos being scanned film slides and photographs — distortion and age and all. Photos of the building of his new home, of a young Sister Imperator standing proudly in front of her beloved mother’s car, of the various impulsive road trips and parties of his youth, of his sons and their mothers (one photo in particular was taken by the mother of the Third, when he was just old enough to stand on his own. Nihil is seen just out of view, at his work desk as per usual. Shame.). Takes great care to upload in as close to chronological order as possible. Many followers fawn over the fact that, should one scroll to the bottom of the feed and work their way forward, the subjects and locations all seem to slowly age before their eyes. Haunting.

.......Also lots of YouTube saxophone covers under the handle “saxy grandpa”, complete with comments that say things like “fuck it up, Pops”. None of the boys will claim these comments as their own.

Sister Imperator’s history is as polished and perfectly curated as one might expect, though googling her name with a few choice keywords will pull up a handful of negative interactions with her once you dig deep enough. It’s nothing too heinous -- a Sibling complaining of her being too strict and snippy, ghouls expressing fear over her catching them in the middle of a poorly thought out prank. That sort of thing. After all, the real dirt has since been scrubbed off the face of the earth thanks to some clever string pulling behind the scenes.

BONUS ROUND:

Mary Goore has a long defunct blogger account on which he posted under the name __LEVIATHAN__. Most posts include a short description of some obscure black/death metal band that a grand total of four people have heard of, along with a .rar of an EP or occasionally discography. Some tracks are recorded by Mary himself from gigs he managed to find his way into. One or two posts even include original songs and covers by his own band, recorded in their drummer’s garage. Their Bathory covers even did some decent numbers! Has been banned multiple times from multiple platforms for inappropriate conduct, copyright infringement, violent or harmful words and imagery and arguing with site admins. Once got banned for death threats against someone who called him an “e-boy” on a selfie. Nowadays, he can be found by trawling the comments or recent posts sections of various less-than-savory gore/shock sites, but he won’t respond to you if you reply or dm him.

***ETA: I don’t do headcanon requests on this blog. Please don’t message me asking for them here!***

#the band ghost #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iii #papa emeritus ii #papa emeritus i #papa nihil #mary goore #ghost headcanons #ghost bc headcanons #headcanon

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transmissionsfromthebattlefield · 3 years

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Poor News Report

Originally posted 2021/08/21 at 3:36 pm

It’s 2021, and the boys are back in town—the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan boys, that is. Almost twenty years after the American military sent the Taliban’s government went into exile, they’re back in power after America’s (truly weak sauce) withdrawal. You would think that twenty years of occupation would have produced some hurdles for the Taliban to climb, but their regain of what they had lost was sickeningly swift.

It’s the miserable end of a miserable war that has been going on since before I was born, one that, looking at the plain hard facts, ultimately proved useless for the greater good. The money has been spent, the death toll is still staggering, the weapons suppliers are doing exceptionally well, and the innocent people of Afghanistan, humans like you or me, are back to being incessantly victimized by an excruciatingly oppressive and fundamentalist state. Got enough of rose-tinted late 90s-early 2000s nostalgia? Try going back 500 years, when women weren’t permitted autonomous thought and simple forms of recreation were considered a front against the man upstairs. Heaven on earth, truly.

But is that really that different from the country I reside in? You can rejoice in the streets about how a man in a blue tie is in office, but that isn’t stopping the men in red ties, the conservatives, our own Taliban, from trying to exert their own archaic control over the populous. Bills proposing the restriction of voting rights, abortion, and gender expression continue to pop up like kernels of butter-drenched popcorn at the movie theater, granted that movie theater hasn’t closed down because of a local spike in COVID-19 cases.

The COVID problem is also an important matter here, as leagues of religious fundamentalists claim that wearing a mask for the safety of others in the middle of a worldwide pandemic is some ungodly offense. Vaccines, too, are seen as satanic, as they’ll apparently rape your body with either a tracking chip or reptile DNA, depending on which science disbeliever you ask. All this when hospitalization rates of those who abide by these reckless behaviors are spiking from their selfishness. We’re going back once again, back to when leeches and snake oils were used as cure-alls. Mind, these are the same people who also want to restrict the bodily autonomy of women and other innocent people in the name of the lord, just like those Taliban boys over there.

And did we all just forget about when the so-called patriots who believe all of this tried to pull their own takeover at the Capitol building last January? I witnessed the attempt at insurrection on live television, and I can remember it like yesterday. Unsatisfied by Biden as the country’s choice of president but fully aware that his election win was genuine, I had innocently turned on the news hoping to simply observe his presidency be validated, because seeing democracy actually happen successfully is pretty satisfying in today’s perpetually corrupt hellworld. I was aware that the moment was one that would be placed in the history books after months of incessant “Stop The Steal” squabble calling for another four years of Trumpolini (like the country hadn’t been decimated enough by the first four). I also expected counterprotests at the scene by those delusional goons indoctrinated into his suicide cult of personality, because you can’t help but do so after four years of fringe conspiracy insanity becoming mainstream political discussion.

What I ended up seeing was a nation’s people mobilized against itself, their brains rotted by lies and conspiracy, exerting violence in the name of tyranny, the decimation of what remnants of democracy we still claim to cling to. The halls of the Capitol became the stomping grounds for a horde of neurotic rednecks, a deranged militia free to roam in defilement of something once considered worthy of protection. All sanity and sense of what should be was forcibly ejected out the window. The patients had taken over the asylum.

It still unsettles me to think about; I never would have expected for the world’s forces of de-evolution, those dangerous delusions, to catalyze such an attack, to go that far off the deep end. People died that day. Many others feared death or worse. It was a nail in a coffin.

But we’re America. We’re united. We believe in freedom—freedom to treat others like dirt because they’re different than you. It could never happen here, could it?

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kosa12-blog · 7 years

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Inside Chris Cornell’s Lifelong Struggle With Fame: The Soundgarden Frontman Battled Demons as He Became a Rock God

Ask anyone yesterday, and the answer would have been that Chris Cornell had seemingly survived the sort of demons that had consumed so many rock 'n' roll stars before him, including fellow founding members of the very Seattle grunge scene that birthed Soundgarden in the 1980s. So when people started to wake up this morning to news that Cornell had died at the age of 52, the grief that started pouring out from his fellow artists and legions of fans was palpable. A few hours later an autopsy confirmed that Cornell had committed suicide by hanging himself. And as the tributes to his musical prowess are written—his was considered to be one of the greatest voices in rock, a booming yet nuanced voice capable of leading a headbanging frenzy in a packed stadium and commanding silence with an unplugged ballad—the feeling of shock will be unshakable. After all, he died in the middle of a tour, hours after Soundgarden performed at Detroit's Fox Theatre. Only in hindsight does Cornell's final bit of creative license onstage, mixing in a bit of Led Zeppelin's "In My Time of Dying" with his band's "Slaves & Bulldozers," seem fraught with meaning. Celebrity Deaths: 2017's Fallen Stars Though it's unclear whether he knew about Cornell's tribute, Led Zeppelin guitarist Jimmy Page tweeted upon hearing the news, "RIP Chris Cornell Incredibly Talented... Incredibly Young...Incredibly Missed." Sources told TMZ this morning that Cornell's wife of 13 years, Vicky Karayiannis, has been telling people around her that Chris had been showing no signs of depression, much less indicating he was suicidal in any way. Moreover, she reportedly said, it was unfathomable he would take his own life because he was so devoted to his three children, son Christopher and daughter Toni with Vicky and daughter Lillian Jean with his ex-wife, Susan Silver. And as far as any identifiable outward behavior went, that is often the case. Soundgarden, which had reunited in 2010 after more than a decade apart, was reportedly recording its first new album in five years. Audioslave, which Cornell formed with Tom Morello in 2001, played its first show together in 12 years just months ago for Prophets of Rage's political protest affair, the Anti-Inaugural Ball. Cornell even did a stage dive and was comfortably caught by dozens of outstretched hands. Also a noted solo artist, the rocker had also just contributed the titular track for the film The Promise, set during the days leading up to the Armenian Genocide. (His solo pipes were quite sought after for movie soundtracks, notably including Singles, Great Expectations, Mission: Impossible 2 and Casino Royale.) Last month he shared a photo from his trip to Greece, where he visited a refugee camp with the International Rescue Committee and brought his daughter Toni with him to the Vatican for a screening of The Promise. In 2015 when Cornell was on his solo Higher Truth tour, Toni joined him onstage at New York's Beacon Theater one night to cover Bob Marley's "Redemption Song," showing off her own impressively strong voice. (Asked what his advice would be if his kids wanted to pursue music careers, he said, "Make sure that it's inspired, that's your chief goal, 'cause I also believe that success comes from that.") Between Soundgarden, Audioslave and his five solo albums, Cornell seemed to almost never be not working throughout the course of his three-decade career. Though they had already been rocking out for a decade beforehand, Superunknown, their fourth album, put Soundgarden on the mainstream map in 1994, debuting at No. 1 on the Billboard 200 and going on to sell more than 9 million copies. The haunting, doll-head-melting video for the smash-hit track "Black Hole Sun" won Best Rock Video at the 1994 MTV Video Music Awards, and the band won two Grammys in 1995, Best Hard Rock Performance for "Black Hole Sun" and Best Metal Performance for "Spoonman." Musicians Performing Live on Stage But though Chris Cornell was the consummate rock frontman, from his scruffy handsomeness to his booming gravelly voice and magnetic stage presence, it was making the music that consumed him, and while he wholeheartedly appreciated his fans, he didn't love the scrutiny that accompanies fame or the expectations and pressure that goes with being known for a certain type of music. "It's about trying to step out of being patterned and closed off and reclusive, which I've always had a problem with," Cornell told Rolling Stone in 1994 nine months after Superunknown catapulted Soundgarden to the next level of success, explaining the meaning behind the song "I Day I Tried to Live." "It's about attempting to be normal and just go out and be around other people and hang out. I have a tendency to sometimes be pretty closed off and not see people for long periods of time and not call anyone." With Kurt Cobain's suicide on April 5, 1994, still fresh in everyone's mind, and fresh off the smash success of Superunknown, Cornell (who was a huge Nirvana fan but didn't consider himself a friend of Kurt's) also told the magazine that it was "hard not to be a little bitter" about the commercialization of Seattle as this whole grunge music "scene." "We lost good friends in the process," he said. "And all of a sudden you realize that it's turned into something that's considered a fashion statement. It's like mining. It's like somebody came into your city with bulldozers and water compressors and mined your own perfect mountain and excavated it and threw out what they didn't want and left the rest to rot. It's that bad." He continued, "All of a sudden you see it on TV, and people that you know and love are getting the wrong idea because of what they saw on the news. You can't help but think that somewhere, somebody's been robbed. And I don't even think it's me. I think it's everyone." "We've always been fairly reclusive and damaged," he said of himself and his band mates. Though Cornell considered Soundgarden a bit removed from the Seattle machine, he was proud of where the band came from. "But outside of the people that were involved with the Seattle scene when it was happening, the rest of the country and the world and probably a lot of the bands that play in Seattle now think that what the Seattle scene was about is Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Nirvana and Alice in Chains—guitar-based rock with punk influences and '70s influences. Period. End of story. And that's so far from what was going on." His perspective would evolve in the ensuing decades, but, perhaps rooted in his hard-fought beginnings to get his band off the ground, Cornell the singer-songwriter always felt somewhat at odds with Cornell the rock star. "I was always the kid who listened to records on my own, in my bedroom, spending hours focusing, always gravitating to deep album tracks and those weirder ones. That was kind of my thing," he reflected to TheStranger.com in 2015 while talking about whether he had mixed feelings about commercial success. "And if one of those made it on the radio, it was always a little bit surprising. The same way it was surprising to me when 'Black Hole Sun' was a single when everybody seemed to unanimously choose it as one. I don't think we thought of it as a song that would make it on the radio." Ultimately, touring as a solo artist, whether he was singing stripped-down versions of his songs that were his own, Soundgarden's or Audioslave's, helped him reconcile what could be misconstrued as his competing sounds. Going acoustic or thereabouts "brought it all together under one umbrella, and I started to feel like, oh, that's who I am," he said. "It's not a mystery. It's not a puzzle to solve. I'm this guy, and that's my entire history." Soundgarden broke up in 1997 and Cornell immediately got to work on his own solo debut, 1999's Euphoria Morning (16 years later he changed the spelling to the originally intended Mourning), then headed out on tour. But while he would later say that he never wrote—effectively, anyway—while under the influence of any substance other than coffee ("always my biggest vice"), Cornell's issues were starting to catch up with him. "Alcohol's the only drug that affects your entire brain," he mused in an interview years later about why being under the influence and writing didn't mix for him, as it has for many creative types. "It would do this one thing, I suppose, that's good for someone in terms of the expressionism, which kind of relieves you of your fear, and you become less inhibited. But then for me, for whatever some reason, the doors that need to open to where it becomes almost like I'm the conduit to something else, it's not just a construct—that just doesn't open up. I think alcohol dumbs, whatever that is, down...And other drugs too. Nothing ever made me more inspired, or more able or more capable as a songwriter. "It's not like I didn't try. I wrote things drunk before. I just made sure nobody every heard them or saw the lyrics," he laughed. "I would destroy it." Celebrity Rehabbers He went to rehab in the early '00s but didn't talk much about it until years later. "I went through a serious crisis with depression where I didn't eat a whole meal every day. I was just kind of shutting down," he told Seattle PI in 2006, talking about the period after Soundgarden broke up. "I eventually found that the only way out of that was to change virtually everything in my life. That was a very frightening thing to do, but it was worthwhile... " "But I felt there was something on the horizon that was going to be very big and I didn't know what it was going to be, but I felt like it was out there somewhere." Rehab "was something I didn't want to do and I guess I was intimidated by it. I thought I was smart enough and that it wasn't really necessary. But it got to the point where I had to do something." He told the U.K.'s Mirror in 2012 that rehab was inevitable, even if Soundgarden had initially stayed together. Cornell described his battle with substance abuse as "a long slow slide and then a long, slow recovery—but there was self-discovery too...For me it was mostly alcohol—from my late teens until my late thirties." One of the reasons that so many people were unaware of what plagued him was that Cornell barely missed a beat as far as his musical output went—a fact he acknowledged to the Mirror. "I came out of rehab," he recalled, "and immediately went on tour with Audioslave, sold millions of records and was playing in front of crowds of 10,000 or 20,000. It's not what most people go through. Most of the time, coming out of rehab people have a destroyed life, struggle to just work again and get a job. "I sort of had an identity sitting there waiting to be embraced. I was very lucky I was able to see that and not take it for granted. It helped me climb out of the mire. I saw how hard it could be." Shocking Pop Star Deaths Cornell met Vicky in Paris and lived in the City of Light for a time, at one point opening a restaurant (he had held restaurant jobs and worked as a sous chef in his struggling-musician days) called Black Calavados with his wife and brother-in-law while he was also making music with Audioslave. A few years ago, the Cornell family relocated to Miami. "I wasn't sure how that would work, being creative here, living here, writing here," he told the Tampa Bay Times about his new home in 2015. "But I just started doing that, and it seems to be doing great." Soundgarden reunited in 2010, but Cornell also continued to record and tour as a solo act. Asked in 2015 about changing the name of his 1999 album Euphoria Mourning to its originally intended, more morose spelling, he told Rolling Stone that the record company had preferred "Morning," thinking it would cause less confusion. "It was a pretty dark album lyrically and pretty depressing, and I was going through a really difficult time in my life," Cornell recalled. "My band wasn't together anymore, my marriage was falling apart and I was dealing with it by drinking way too much, and that has its own problems, particularly with depression...But mentally I wasn't together enough to really know what was right. So I went with 'Morning,' and it's bothered me ever since." His own struggles made him particularly attuned to the unsuspecting ease with which tragedy could strike those who seemingly would have more lifelines than most. Asked about the impromptu cover of "I Will Always Love You" that he sang at a fundraiser for Barack Obama in 2012 that was held a few days after Whitney Houston's death, Cornell told Vulture, "There are a lot of feelings in people who are stars who had an effect on a lot of other people. Anyone that suffers depression and addiction, as it relates to the entertainment business, often there can kind of be a cocoon [around them]. "Though you would imagine someone like that would have more resources to get better, it can often be the opposite. You're kind of enabled to continue whatever lifestyle it is. There's sadness to anyone that dies before their time, and specifically ones that seem to affect people in a positive way. It doesn't matter if it's Whitney Houston or a nameless, faceless person on the street. That's just as big of a tragedy for me." He was also very aware of the sad endings that had befallen so many fellow musicians, not least of them the ones who got their start in his hometown, such as Cobain and Alice in Chains' Layne Staley, who died of an overdose in 2002. And it seemed, including to those close to him, up until less than 24 hours ago, that Cornell was not facing down the kind of pain that can get the better of anyone, no matter how big the success or how loving the family. "There's something about losing friends, particularly young people, where it's not something that you get over," Cornell told Vulture. "I don't believe there's a healing process. How do you, really? In what way can you stop and say, 'Well, it's god's will.' I always thought that line I've heard a million times—twice as bright but half as long—is bulls--t. It's tragedy. I just carry all of that with me all the time. "All I can do, if anything, out of respect for my friends that are no longer here, is to do my best to lead a good life and and take advantage of the fact that I'm still around, take the opportunities I have that they should've had."

#Inside #Chris #Cornell’s #Lifelong #Struggle #Fame:#Soundgarden #Frontman #Battled #Demons #Became

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hynohtz · 7 years

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11 RANDOM FACTS ABOUT MY ASS

Okay ffffffffine. I was tagged by a couple of Roomfriends to complete one and I feel nothing but incredibly loved right now. I don't usually do these things but - this has been a fun one to get to know my buddies with so WHY NOT?! Honestly, this is not hard bc .... well, I'm weird. Bwahahaah!! I'm also not shy, especially when it comes to difficult conversations of confrontation. Buckle your seat belts. I'll try not to make it hardcore but all things are what make us , us , right?? I have enjoyed getting to know the fandom and feel like sharing, if it's with the right intentions, can only ever do good. Right? We'll see... Yeesh 😬 1) I'm a proud Lefty. It's cool functioning on the right side of our brains, in creativity and problem solving. It's not cool however when you have to dine at a large table or try to cut ... well, anything with a pair of scissors. I had a permanent pencil/ pen stain on my side palm for my entire school life. lol I assure you I am not from the devil. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard and I'm not particularly kind to those who have changed their children from left to right for these reasons. You'd be surprised how many, and how many ppl are AMAZED that you're a lefty. I swear it's about the equivalent of telling them you were a virgin. The wide eyes and gaps .. lol 2) I was an opera major in my undergrad. I say that as if I went on to get more degrees but I didn't hahaahaha. ( wait I can't stop laughing ) ..... Yes. I hold a Bachelors of Music in Vocal performance from Peabody Conservatory of Music of Johns Hopkins University @tuxedos-are-not-suits yup. No, I don't do it now. Funny thing about opera... you kind of have to like the city or traveling and if ur in just the chorus, it doesn't pay the bills. Insurance is also with the Union ... hrumph. I sing where I can, weddings, funerals, stage, and hold the occasional theater podcast or YouTube lessons (bwahaha, Roomfriends.) 3) I can't dive. I never learned. I found out the hard way had an eighth grade pool party with all the cool kids in my new hot two piece bikini, that placing both hands on your head in the manner of a shark fin and squatting to only then fall in the water ... is not diving. Feet first. Always. 4) I got to be the "surprise" witness in court to a man who was a notorious date-raper around campus and was counter suing his own victim for defamation of character. You should've seen the asshole's face when I showed up that day. Proud to tell the whole court and judge that I would've been one of his victims if I hadn't gotten away from him and called the campus shuttle to pick me up. I said "your honor, there is no counter sue needed as I was happy to tell everyone male and female months before this poor victim that he was dangerous, possibly mental, and to stay away from him." God that was an awesome day. I didn't tell my parents till 5 years later , for fear that my father would hunt him down and kill him 😂 5) I can talk through my nose. I don't think it's amazing but apparently everyone and their mother at a party does... lol I can say the ABCs and sing with my mouth closed. It's my stupid human trick. People love that shit for some reason... 6) I once lived with 3 guys in an apartment just like Jess. They weren't as cute , ( nor was I ) and ruined my furniture and left dishes rotting in the sink, ....but I look back on that experience and smile for the couple of mos it was a reality. Guys will do anything to protect and support the chick they live with. It's almost like a brother/sister thing. Maybe that is where my love for 4D comes from? 7) one night "my boys" went out drinking and left me at home alone. A man got into our apartment and then into my bedroom. He fired a gun behind my head to scare me and tied me up. He didn't hurt me but said he would if I screamed again. He took all my family heirloom jewelry ... and my trust in strangers. He made me lay on the bed on my stomach and left me to ransack the apartment. I made the decision to go over to my bedroom door close it and lock it in hopes that maybe if he came back to get me ...he would give up. The plastic phone that was on my bed was easy to get off the hook and I dialed 911 with my tongue. I subconsciously continued to recite the Lord's Prayer , even though I was not "saved" at the time. By the time the police had gotten there in about six of the longest minutes of my life, he was gone. The sound of the police radio was like heaven's choir singing to me. They then untied me and I dropped to my knees crying and the woman policeman told me to my face "we expected to find you dead." It's not pretty, and it took while to get over... but it makes me, me. 8) my two front teeth are veneers. yes. fake. I was born with the "Madonna" gap my mama had as well and I hated it. Almost every day I would try to place my white gum behind my two front teeth so I can make it look like they were too large teeth that went together seamlessly. When I was 15 and my mom was 40 something, we both got veneers, together. I will not disclose how many times I have cracked or chipped them, and on what foods. Let's just say I have the "teeth falling out dreams" all the time, and I don't have a great time in black lighted bars and clubs 😬 9) I was in an abusive marriage before I was reunited with my wonderful hubby. I didn't listen to the warning signs or tell myself the truth and went ahead with it, even though the first time he laid hands on me was 3 mos before the wedding. I was in a loveless and disrespectful marriage for 1.5 yrs. At the third time ( too many) I grabbed the dog and got the hell outta dodge ( or GA ). I keep some of the photos in a box in my closet, so I can tell my daughter about what every woman deserves and that we should always be honest with ourselves. She will always know and understand the true reasons you marry someone. Life isn't perfect, but it's makes me, me. 10) I say "reunited with my hubby" because kids, the fact is, my husband dated my best friend in college. I always thought he was the cutest and funniest and most caring boyfriend that she had ever dated, and when she broke his heart I thought she was friggin nuts. But God has a bigger plan. Nikki's suite mate in college asked her the first day why she had a picture of "Molly" on her desk and she said that's my best friend and the suitemate replied my mom works for her moms preschool. We were friends together for a long time. Fast forward to 10 years later when Nikki has 3 kids, Steph has two and I'm divorced and crying myself to sleep in the bathtub because all of my guy friends are married or short and bald, ....and my future hubbys mom moves ACROSS THE STREET from said Suitemate. She called me. I sped over and ... history was made. He's just as adorable today as he was when we were 19, and I adore him every day. We have two beautiful children ( a boy 3 and a girl 7 ) who are my world, and I thank God every day that fate revealed itself to me. 11) I was/AM a fierce daddy's girl. My father passed away when I was eight and a half months pregnant with my son. He had been sick with stage 4 lung cancer for 6 mos and in and out of the ICU. I watched him die on 9/29 and it was the most difficult and most beautiful thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life. I was able to tell him everything I loved about him and that I will miss him every day of my life. It's been 3 years and I still cry almost once a day. My son is named after him and I will take great pride in teaching him about the man that never got to hold him. I occasionally see him in dreams... but let's be honest, it's never enough. Hug your daddies if u have them on earth still... for me, pls. If you see me preaching about the dangers of smoking, get mad. I don't care. No one else needs to die this way. Especially not those I love. F it. Shit. That's all? I could go on and on ... lol mmkay 11 random facts. Done. Please still be my friend, k? I hope instead of tagging everyone again, some followers will just do it... yasssss do it. You know u want to, and you know you can't be as fucked up as me, right?!? so just go for it!!! Hahaaha PS I love my Roomfriends Love and Life, Molls

#random facts

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theconservativebrief · 6 years

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RALEIGH, N.C. – The warm voice answering your 800-VISITNC call will gladly mail you the 174-page Official 2018 Travel Guide, a North Carolina road map, or brochures about Civil War sites, AMTRAK connections or wineries. She can also field detailed questions about whitewater rafting, kayaking, ski slopes, fairs, cultural festivals or events in the state’s 100 counties.

She has been trained to handle all variety of inquiries coming to the Visitor Call Center, and is not a fly-by-night phone jockey: She will be there for a while.

The two crews who answer seven incoming lines – including “511” roadside emergency calls – are all inmates of the N.C. Correctional Institution for Women, the largest women’s penitentiary in the state. Some will be here for life.

Proven track record

The 30-acre prison on the southeast outskirts of Raleigh, near Interstate 40, looks like a scruffy, low-slung college laced in cyclone fencing topped with concertina wire. It has a permanent population of about 1,700 inmates, ages 16 to 89, and also processes 200 to 240 women per month who are entering the North Carolina penal system.

Those doing time here wear color-coded uniforms: yellow (pre-trial protected custody), fuchsia (new arrival), teal (minimum security), purple (medium and close-watch security) or burgundy (death row).

In the back of the buzzer-entry administration building, a monitored door leads to a breezeway and a gatehouse where security is tighter than at many international airports – an electronic walk-through and item-basket X-ray, plus wand and pat-down. A guided walk through a series of security fences leads to a pair of trailers; one processes outgoing tourist mailings, the other is where the phone staff works. The operation includes 30 inmates plus supervisors.

A guided walk through a series of security fences leads to a pair of trailers; one processes outgoing tourist mailings, the other is where the phone staff works. (Photo: John Bordsen)

Prison grounds have inmate-tended lawns and plantings. License plates bearing the state’s “First in Flight” motto are manufactured in one building. But according to Teresa Smith, the call center’s onsite supervisor for the Department of Commerce, her station is the most desirable inmate workplace. “At $1 to $3 per day, it is the best-paying prison job and is in one of the few air-conditioned and carpeted workplaces.“

Those chosen to field calls are screened for education level and people skills. Training in state history and tourism marketing is comprehensive and ongoing. These inmates will work well over their long hauls: All wear purple uniforms.

The program began in the 1980s, when tourism inquiries were handled by state employees or an imperfect computer system. The proposed fix was prison labor. Inmates could learn telemarketing skills, operating costs would be minimal and callers could get desired information from a live person.

The program worked like gangbusters. Interim warden Herachio Haywood gets calls from counterparts in other states about it. ”Some states have tried to launch comparable initiatives,” he says, “but those haven’t worked out.”

The North Carolina model involves unique collaboration between the departments of Commerce, Public Safety and Transportation.

In 2017, the Visitor Call Center answered more than 95,000 calls and fulfilled 769,000 phoned requests for maps and brochures. Four days before Hurricane Florence was scheduled to pummel the Carolina coast, the center expanded its 8-to-8 operating hours for the emergency, handling calls from seaside residents and visitors seeking to flee inland and for others who wanted to cancel or adjust plans and reservations.

Any day, questions that can’t be answered by staffers are referred to state or local agencies most likely to have the requested information. Some calls can be handled in 30 seconds, others take 30 minutes to resolve.

Call and response

The call center itself looks like a low-key telemarketing office, a row of back-to-back computer stations for eight to 10 inmates on one of two shifts. Space for manuals are on shelves above each screen. The walls are covered with iconic North Carolina photos of the Outer Banks, mountain vistas, forests and skyscrapers. The room also holds racks of tourist brochures; at the end of the computer bank is a Kids Corner display of “Flat Stanley” cut-outs and letters from children in places like Salinas, California, or the grade-schoolers in North Pole, Alaska, seeking mailed information.

The phones are incoming-only. The computers are only linked to N.C. Tourism sites and databases, with information updated by in-state tourism groups and agencies. A classroom in the call center double-wide is used for inmate training by the area’s Wake Technical Community College.

Throughout the year, staffers from the state-operated visitor centers come to provide updates. Reps from city, county and regional tourist agencies do the same. An annual highlight for call center workers is the December update by the appreciative northeast North Carolina counties, members of whom always bring a barbecue truck and in turn watch a play that call center inmates stage for them.

Phones are staffed every day except Christmas.

Three inmates were asked to share their insights.

“On a slow day, I might get a dozen calls. Last night, I handled 40 from the Outer Banks,” says Kim. Either way, she says, “I feel like I’m in an office and not in a cage. It’s a real job, and I’m making a difference by helping people.”

She has been working in the call center six years. Her most memorable call: “It was from an elderly lady who said, ‘My husband and I drove down from Ohio and we’re trying to get to Dollywood (in Tennessee), but we’re lost and I don’t know where I am.’ I told her, ‘Just stay on the road and tell me what the next sign is that you see.’ The call took a half hour, but I helped get them where they wanted to go.”

Kim is serving a sentence of about 17 years. If she could go anywhere in North Carolina right now, “I would like to see the Dale Chihuly glass display that’s at the Biltmore (in Asheville). It actually lights up at night.”

And where would the inmates answering tourist calls like to go? “I would like to see the Dale Chihuly glass display that’s at the Biltmore (in Asheville). It actually lights up at night,” says Kim, who works at the call center during her prison sentence. (Photo: Biltmore.com)

Aamber will be working at the call center for two years as of December. “I love to help people, and I get a sense of community with people on the outside,” she says.

It’s also an education. “I’ve learned a lot about the fall leaves. As a kid I didn’t appreciate the fall color and had no clue about the mountains, the Blue Ridge Parkway and other places where you can really see it.”

If she could head anywhere, it would be Asheville. “There are buskers, live music and antique shops – a real arts vibe with a Southern twist. I’d also go there for the quiet life, a cabin where I could walk outside and be inspired by the mountains.”

Her sentence ends in 2027. She’s hoping for early release in 4 ½ years.

Janet has worked at the call center for two years, and the open-ended questions are often the hardest to handle. “Those are the ones where the caller might say something like, ‘Give me some dates for when I have a 5-year-old for the weekend. Maybe for a treasure hunt.’”

Some callers, Janet says, over-share – “It’s like taxi cab confessions. We get those a lot of time, like someone saying, ‘My mom is dying in Wilmington. … ‘

“People are not used to talking to a real person, and If I’m able to help in a way, that’s wonderful. It’s giving back to a society we wronged. It’s emotional rehabilitation but also it has a weird irony: I am a prisoner telling people how to travel.”

All in all, “It helps me stay in pace with society. It helps avoid ‘prison brain rot.’ “

There’s a seasonal rhythm to the calls, Janet notes. “In fall, calls are about leaves in Asheville and elsewhere in Western North Carolina. Winter is about renting log cabins and getting away. And right before Christmas, people ask about Santa trains in the mountains. Calls are also localized for out-of-state people returning home, like ‘What will there be to do in Lumberton?’

“Summer might be when we get the highest volume of calls. It’s all about beaches and families scouting university towns in advance of the fall semester.”

Where would she go?

“Onslow County has an island that’s good for shelling – an island with nobody there that has pretty shells. I’d have to count that as a dream place.”

Janet is serving a life sentence.

NASCAR Hall of Fame: With over 73% of motorsports employees working in the Charlotte area, it is no wonder that the city is also home to the NASCAR Hall of Fame. Since its opening on May 11, 2010, the hall usually sees 170,000 visitors, or more, per year. Led by the design of executive architect Pei Cobb Freed & Partners, this 390,000-square-foot building is home not only to the Hall of Fame but also NASCAR Digital Media, NASCAR’s licensing division and their video game licensee Dusenberry Martin Racing. The Hall of Fame itself is home to multiple artifacts, hands-on exhibits, a 278-person state-of-the-art theater and the Hall of Honor. The building features a stainless-steel möbius that wraps around the exterior of the structure and specialized exhibition lighting. Flickr/Nick Ledford

via The Conservative Brief

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nickyschneiderus · 6 years

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‘Generation Wealth’ probes Kardashian culture in the era of decadent decline

“When there is no social mobility, the only social mobility you have is fictitious.”

Points like these, accompanied by scenes of selfies in front of sports cars and piles of money, might lead you to believe that Generation Wealth, Lauren Greenfield’s retrospective documentary spanning her 25 years exploring conspicuous consumption, is another story about how the internet is ruining everything. I’ll admit that I had prepared myself for another look at how Snapchat and Facebook are melting our collective brains.

What Greenfield offers is something far broader and more damning. It turns out that since she started looking at the excesses of the wealthy decades ago, things haven’t changed very much at all. It isn’t the fiction of social mobility we create and post on Instagram that is ultimately the problem. It is the fact that there is no social mobility in the first place—that the wealth is hoarded with decadent, unrelenting glee by those at the top—that is the cause of so much gold-plated suffering.

This problem has been a constant for the entirety of Greenfield’s career, and really, through all of human history.

Greenfield has spent her life looking at the world of the rich. She has interviewed southern pageant queens, corrupt hedge fund managers, ambitious female executives, and various scions of the rich and famous. She has observed a greater swathe of the 1 percent and their hangers-on than almost anyone in the world. In Generation Wealth, she looks back on her body of work, which includes The Queen of Versailles, Thin, kids+money, and various shorts and photography projects about wealth and culture, and tries to make sense of it all.

Instead of zeroing in on one particular bogeyman, like television, social media, or Wall Street to blame for the state of the world, she shows us the rot of late capitalism in all its diamond-encrusted glory and pulls at the strands looking for culprits. One subject blames the country leaving the gold standard. Another bemoans the “pornification of society.” A former investment banker blames Harvard, the “the West Point of capitalism.” Numerous subjects blame the Kardashians.

Few people blame themselves.

Amazon Studios/YouTube

For her part, Greenfield, the dutiful anthropologist, resists any clear narrative. In her view, “social pathologies come and go but they always tell us about the time period in which they are produced.” She is more interested in what this particular moment of economic decay can tell us about humanity than pointing fingers. She isn’t here to judge whether the crown heads of Europe or the pharaohs of Egypt were more depraved than our current ruling class of hedge fund managers, timeshare tycoons, and Instagram brand ambassadors. She is more interested in what makes our particular decadent overlords unique.

The most effective sequences in Generation Wealth show us subjects in several interviews filmed years apart. We catch up with Kacey Jordan, infamous for her erotic association with Charlie Sheen, three different times, going by different names, reflecting on what went wrong. Greenfield visits with the child of a rock star she photographed years ago, once a drug-addled enfant terrible, preparing to start a family of his own.

This isn’t a finger-wagging look at entitled millennials though. We also visit with Florian Homm, an investment banker guilty of massive fraud, now 58 and estranged from his family. We meet a 40-something female executive who has sacrificed it all in service of capital and has not yet realized how little she has to show for it. These subjects remind us that they learned their priorities from their parents who learned them from theirs, and so on. It’s refreshing not to see this conversation reduced to generational warfare.

As Greenfield sees it, the rot of capitalism has been a long time in the making. Her belief is that all empires have their own particular excesses that are exacerbated as the empire declines. She also believes that examining the extremes of a culture is the best way to understand that decline.

She shows us Ronald Reagan, George W. Bush, and Donald Trump repeating the same empty promises about American prosperity. In Moscow, the debutante balls of the 19th century have been revived, but instead of the children of the aristocracy, it is the children of the oligarchy that get their moment in the sun. The balls are now sponsored by Maserati and Chanel rather than from the Czar’s tribute. While the subjects of The Queen of Versailles pursued their particularly American dream of building the biggest house in the country, Greenfield is careful to remind us that the inspiration for their gilded palace dates back hundreds of years.

One of Greenfield’s various narrators flat-out says at one point, “We are dying the way other empires have died throughout history.”

And yet, the culture chronicled in Generation Wealth does reflect our particular moment, and that matters to Greenfield. In the ‘90s, when she was documenting the conspicuous consumption of Los Angeles-area high schools, she encountered a tween Kim Kardashian. We learn this at the beginning of the film, and the Kardashians haunt the proceedings. They show up at parties, in TV clips, and their names are on almost every subject’s lips. Trump is another recurring figure who is presented as both a prophet and an avatar of everything the film explores.

Amazon Studios/YouTube

Generation Wealth is awash in decadent and depraved images of our era that will stick with you. There is a diamond brooch shaped like an order of McDonald’s french fries. There is a limousine equipped with its own helipad. There is an arms race among Manhattan women to own the most expensive purse. But, again, for Greenfield, these are symptoms, not the disease.

The broader point of Generation Wealth is that while there are particular cultural touchstones that make our era of decadent decline unique from the end of any other empire—hedge funds, franchises, reality TV, and toddler beauty pageants—decline always looks the same. Decline photographed behind a Snapchat filter is still decline. As one expert talking head points out, “Unregulated capitalism commodifies everything.” Here at the end of American empire, everything and everyone is for sale.

One of the film’s few emotional bright spots shows us an Icelandic fisherman who left the boat to become a banker, but then after the financial collapse, went back to a life at sea. Toward the end of the film, we get an extended sequence between the man and his son as they enjoy a day catching fish. The man looks into the camera, as he reflects on being forced to start over, now genuinely happy with his lot in life, and says, “That’s the good thing about collapse.”

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Amazon Studios’ Generation Wealth is in theaters. Not sure what to watch on Amazon Prime? Here are the best Amazon originals, the best documentaries on Amazon Prime, what’s new on Amazon, the best 4K movies, thrillers on Amazon Prime, and the sexiest movies you can stream right now.

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from Ricky Schneiderus Curation https://www.dailydot.com/upstream/generation-wealth-amazon-review/

#Ricky Schneiderus Curation

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samanthasroberts · 6 years

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9:30 Club: the hardcore venue that hosted the president

The famously stinky Washington DC music den, now 35 years old, was a crucible for the local hardcore scene and even hosted the Clintons

How many times have I been to the 9:30 Club? Thousands, says Ian MacKaye, frontman of Minor Threat and Fugazi and founder of Dischord Records. MacKaye first stepped foot in the club in July of 1980 to see a Bad Brains show and has been a regular, both onstage and off, ever since. This year, the 9:30 Club is celebrating its 35th anniversary, marking the occasion with a party (a three-day Worlds Fair exhibition) and a big book a 264-page oral and pictorial history of the club called 9.30 the Book.

The scrapbook-like history features interviews and memorabilia from some of its most well-known patrons (Dave Grohl, Chuck D of Public Enemy, Fall Out Boy) and staff members eager to share their memories about the club that helped define a generation and then somehow kept going.

The 9:30 Club was founded back in 1980 by Dody DiSanto and Jon Bowers, who opened the venue inside a space previously occupied by the locally infamous Atlantis club. (The Bad Brains have a song called At the Atlantis, explained MacKaye.) The new club took its name from its address in an ignored stretch of downtown Washington DC. My fondest memories of the 9:30 Club take place at its original location at 930 F Street. It was an olfactory wonderland of sweat, beer, clove cigarettes, and of course, the Smell, said Scott Crawford, director of the documentary Salad Days: A Decade of Punk in Washington DC, referring to a notorious aroma variously compared to cigarettes soaked in Lysol and the bottom of a garbage mans shoe.

The stretch of downtown Washington DC where the club was located was far from cool, populated by liquor stores, wig shops and famously aggressive rats. Its location did have its perks, though. I remember being stoked about being in the alley back there, said Neil Fallon of the band Clutch. One end had the FBI building, on the other end is Fords Theater where Lincoln got shot and in the middle is the load-in for the club. In hindsight, it was a really unique location.

That was my first out of town of show, said Fred Armisen, who played there with his band sometime around 1988, and later for a Portlandia live show. DC had a really respected punk scene and I had heard of the club because Bad Brains played there. It was kind of legendary. We went down and opened for Government Issue. The alley was really gritty and dirty and I thought Oh thats real punk, because I was a suburban guy.

The 9:30 Club quickly became a stopover for alternative bands getting airplay on college radio like Simple Minds, the Go-Gos, Violent Femmes, and 10,000 Maniacs. REM even played a battle of the bands with another band called REM the winner of the competition got to keep the name.

In the early days though, the 9:30 Club was perhaps best known as a space where local bands like Bad Brains, Teen Idles, Nation of Ulysses and Rites of Spring, as well as DCs sui generis go-go scene, could play. There was a pretty significant punk underground hardcore scene in Washington that was growing and at some point the woman who ran the 9:30 Club, Dody DiSanto, took notice of that and she took an interest in that and us and wanted to work together, said MacKaye. She opened the venue up.

One of the first shows I saw was in June or July of 1981 with three punk bands that Dodi booked Minor Threat, Government Issue and Youth Brigade, said Cynthia Connolly, author of Banned in DC and former booker for the other downtown DC venue, DC Space. What stood out about that show is that it sold out and it was there that we realized that this kind of music was reaching a larger audience than we could ever imagine.

DiSanto also allowed the younger members of the citys nascent punk and hardcore scene into the club, instructing the door to draw giant black xs on the hands of anyone under the age of 18 (the legal drinking age at the time). It was a suggestion that came from MacKaye and his band Teen Idles, who had seen it done at a club in San Francisco. The black xs eventually became a hallmark of the straightedge hardcore scene. I dont think theres another scene in the country that has that and its because of this agreement between the 9:30 Club and the punks, said MacKaye. They gave us a shot and no one ever abused it.

The 9:30 Club became a place for the members of the citys arts and music scene to hang out. At the old club, we were such a tight-knit group of people, it was like a clubhouse more than a club, said Donna Westmoreland, who started working at the club in 1990 as a bar manager, and is now the head of IMP, which owns the club and books acts for other venues. But it was a club that anyone that wanted to be a part of it could join.

Adding to the clubhouse vibe was the spaces layout, a strange L shape which allowed bands and fans to mingle in the long hallways. It was almost always over capacity, too. I saw Jesus Lizard at the old 9:30 on the Liar tour. You cant believe how overpacked it was. There must have been over 300 people and it was 199-capacity, said Travis Morrison of the Dismemberment Plan. Despite packing them in, however, the club always lost money, and when DiSanto and Bowers divorced the club was sold to current owners Seth Hurwitz and Rich Heinecke. By that point the club was an integral part of the fabric of the city and the surrounding suburbs, and was a necessary stopping point for music fans and touring bands. Everybody has their story about their first show at the 9:30 Club, said Westmoreland.

In 1991 I played at the 9:30 club for the first time, says Moby. I was opening up for the Shamen, and even though I was the opening act going on as people were walking in to the club, I felt so amazed to actually be performing on stage at one of the most hallowed and legendary clubs in the United States.

Thats a sentiment reflected again and again by bands who played there. Clutch played their first show at 9:30 opening for Sub Pops Love Battery. As far as I was concerned at that time we had made it as a band. Im sure there were other clubs people wanted to get into, but that was top of the shelf for me, says Fallon. Going backstage there as a band was thrilling.

It really felt like stepping on hallowed ground to finally reach that 9:30 stage as a player, says John Dugan, drummer for the band Chisel (led by Ted Leo) and a former editor at the Washington DC City Paper. While many musicians have memories of playing the club (and Chisel played there a lot), Dugan also has fond memories as a journalist when venerable New York Times writer David Carr ushered a group of young reporters into the aftershow for the Tibetan Freedom Concert in 1998. [Carr] negotiated our way in and we saw the show of a lifetime solo Michael Stipe, Pulp and Radiohead. Magic, says Dugan.

A new home

Under the leadership of the new owners, the 9:30 Club started to thrive, but it also started to outgrow its already packed location. When the Black Cat, a new club catering to smaller bands opened, the 9:30 Club decided to make its move. At the beginning of 1996, 9:30 Club moved to a larger and more traditional space at 815 V Street NW, where its been for the last 20 years. Fittingly, go-go band Trouble Funk helped close out the old space, while the Smashing Pumpkins played back-to-back shows to inaugurate the new one. The old space was what it was: the floors were rotting and smelled like cigarettes, says Connolly. The new space really elevated it.

When we moved to a new space it really became about the music, said Westmoreland. People who worked there were no less committed but there was a lot more to accomplish in the course of the day when you go from 200 capacity to 1,200.

One of the ways that the club was able to hold onto its position as a venue for both local acts and national touring bands is that it has a flexible-size venue. With the stage on wheels and the sound and lights on tracks, we can do smaller shows and keep it really intimate when a band is on its way up or maybe on its way down it can feel like its playing to a sold out room, says Westmoreland.

The remarkable thing is that when the club moved it maintained its mojo, said Clutchs Fallon. Theres some aesthetic that they were able to translate from that small club to whatever it is now.

I dont think of it as a club anymore, I think of it as a venue, said MacKaye. I think its one of the best, if not the best run venue in the country and I know a lot of tour managers who would agree with me.

Of course it wasnt just go-go acts and punk bands that made the 9:30 Club a landmark. The Beastie Boys, Justin Timberlake, Bob Dylan and Radiohead have all played the club, and back in 2001 the Clintons rented the space out for a private party. The 9:30 Club is now one of the most attended venues of its size in the world. Everybody knows the 9:30 Club, said Armisen.

For its 30th anniversary, Henry Rollins hosted a show where the Foo Fighters played alongside 9:30 Club mainstays like Clutch, MacKayes new band The Evens, Ted Leo, Trouble Funk and the Slickee Boys. Now, as it celebrates its 35th year, with a book to document its past and one eye on the future, its clear that the 9:30 Club is no longer just a nightclub, but an American music institution.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/930-club-the-hardcore-venue-that-hosted-the-president/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2017/12/22/930-club-the-hardcore-venue-that-hosted-the-president/

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