Autumn in America

I can’t die today. I’ve got shit to do. I have little kids. Fuck these people.
-Mercutio Southall Jr.

Dark days buddy, even for a nihilist. The Great Nothing brings me no comfort when it seems like the whole world is on its precipice. They’re calling out for war here, Rose. I hope you’re safe in Dublin. Healers talk about healing. And hawks talk about war. France has completed Phase 1 of making the world safe for hegemony. Who knows what’s cooking in clandestine rooms back here in the States but Obama’s probably counting down the days until January ’17. You would think that all anyone would want would be peace. But don’t count on anyone to refrain from popping off about things they have no idea about. I haven’t met a single “Syrian refuser” since Paris, but I live in the Pearl of the South, left of the dial, where the living’s easy. I want what I always want. Refuge. Jacked up mornings on black roast and triple nickels beneath dying trees in a puter sky. It’s Autumn in America, and I’ve nothing in my hands. Nothing much on my mind. Fighting my inner battles, like I do. While the world is awash in idea, taken to sloganeering and waving flags, beating you where you stand and even gunning you down.
What scant refuge I find can be soiled by inquiring minds. I do Creative Nonfiction, Brother. Like journalists do theirs, and writers and poets. I stick to the axiom of “most accurate, least factual”. I present my life to you the way it should be, or in the only way I can swallow. Heartache and regret and just about any malady of the mind can be banged out here, made smooth. Refined. It seems like once or twice a year some good readers, fine folks really, will want to know:
“Is it real? Did it really happen?”
I could take it one of two ways. But I never answered the question. Until now. I’ll go on record here to say that yes, it’s real. But not for long. My travelogues to Houston and Sequin and NOLA. My letters from the edge. My rope-a-dope with the blues. All very real. It’s hard to shut it down when I’m asked though. I can’t help but simultaneously feel like I haven’t really done my job as a member and constituent of the New Journalism, and that I nailed it, told you a story that had you, riveted or otherwise, you went there and I took you. When it comes to the former, I think it’s time I hang it up. Shelve the yellow sheets, stop ringing it in on deadline, quit this journalistic racket and tell you nothing but lies. I think it approbo, don’t you? As the flag suckers encroach and the political machine grinds you down, lies have become the new truth. The biggest lie being that we’re separate somehow, or want different things. Racists? Warmongers? Patriots? Republicans? Who are these people? They ain’t in my life, Brother. But you are. So, I’ll be bringing it to you crooked from here on out. As Autumn in America deepens and we entrench ourselves in idea, get swept away by desire and huddle together in our faux bond of fear and hate, I’ll be bringing you nothing but lies.
There’s really only one thing to hate and that’s the media. Aho, just when I thought I was out they pull me back in. I can’t really get behind hating the media though. Hating them would necessitate their existence. Ok, false alarm, I’m back. But I’m keeping this blog for the next time someone asks me if it really happened. I hope they can find some time to devote to what really happens out on the street. The rest of y’all can just go on fighting with each other, but next November, if we fall prey to another rock&roll swindle, you better bring all the heat, Brother. Because if you don’t it’ll be open season on you warriors of the armchair down here at Going For The Throat. Yup I’ll remind you of your righteousness, your anger, your sanctimony. It’ll be fun. Maybe. Judging by the last time this happened you’ll just sit there, like they taught us, and take it. Be cool with the war cries of a falsely elected President as long’s he/she keeps talking about that tax break. I know you, America. Too well. It’s too late in the evening to get catty, gentlemen. I picked the wrong week to quit journalism.
ab irato,
Trainer