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R.I.P. Hunter S. Thompson
You will know more about him than I do.
UPDATE: Billmon sure does and yes it´s Frisco, a place I love.
For the dumb ones like me, Fran pointed to an SFGate article: HUNTER S. THOMPSON: 1937-2005
But maybe he isn´t dead at all. Giblet says (hat tip Kate):
Giblets saw the Good Doctor with his own two eyes just a few hours ago, heading north in the White Whale. He said he was headed up to heaven to shoot God. "The great bastard’s in season and it’s long overdue," the Godfather of Gonzo said as he dusted off his elephant gun. "I have full reason to believe they will award me both the head and the tail. Expect me back by the apocalypse."
rgiap mentioned a poem by Vladimir Mayakovsky. Mayaknovsky’s one of my favorites,but I had never read this one. Thanks, rgiap. But was Mayakovsky really writing about himself?
Excuse the length, but shooting stars have the right to say their piece, and few burned much brighter than Mayakovsky or the doctor. Now it’s time for some tequila and mescaline.
You have passed, as they say, into worlds elsewhere.
Emptiness…
Fly, cutting your way into starry dubiety.
No advances, no pubs for you there.
Sobriety.
No, Yessenin, this is not deridingly,-
in my throat not laughter but sorrow racks.
I see – your cut-open hand maddeningly,
swings your own bones like a sack.
Stop it, chuck it! Isn’t it really absurd?
Allowing cheeks to flush with deathly hue?
You who could do such things with words,
that no one else on earth could do.
Why, for what? Perplexity appalls.
Critics mutter: “The main fault we find
there was hardly any working-class contact at all,
as a result of too much beer and wine.”
So to say, if you had swopped bohemianism for class,
there’d have been no bust-up,
class’d have influenced
your thinking.
But does class quench its thirst with kvass?
Class, too, is no fool when it comes to drinking.
They’d have attached to you someone from On Guard,
and the main accent would have been on content:
a hundred lines a day you’d have written hard,
as tedious and long-winded as Doronin’s attempts.
Before I’d created such nonsensical stink,
I’d have choked my very own breath.
Better far to die of drink,
than be bored to death!
Neither the noose nor the penknife there
will reveal the true cause of this loss. But,
maybe, if there had been ink in the Angleterre,
there’d have been no reason for veins to be cut.
“Encore!” imitators coo in delight.
Over you almost a squad committed base jinks.
Why increase the number of suicides?
Better to increase the output of ink!
It’s grievous and misplaced to be mystery-propagators.
For ever now your tongue by teeth’s locked tight.
Of the people, the language-creators,
a sonorous apprentice-debauchee has died.
And, as condolences, poetic junk they gave,
unrehashed hangovers from funerals of the past.
Blunted rhymes are shoved in to exorcise your grave-
is that how a poet is honoured at the last?
A monument for you hasn’t yet been cast-
where it is, bronze reverberant or granite grand? –
but there, already, by memory’s bars
dedications and memoirs of rubbish stand.
Your name into handkerchiefs they’re sniveling,
your words by Sobinov are slobberingly lisped there-
and they wind up under a dead birch tree quivering:
“Not a word, O my friend, not a wh-i-s-p-e-r,”
Eh, to a quite a different tune I’d switch
and just tell that Leonid Lohengrinich!
I’d rise up here a thundering scadalist:
“I won’t allow poems to be mangled by mutts!
I’d deafen them with a double-barreled whistle.
They can stick ’em where the monkey stuck his nuts!”
And so disperse such talentless filth,
blowing away jacket-sails engendered darkness,
so that helter-skelter runs Kogan and his ilk,
mutilating oncomers with the spears of his moustaches.
The ranks of rubbish meanwhile haven’t grown much thinner.
There’s so much to do – just to catch up with things yet.
Life must be changed to begin with.
And having changed it – then one can sing it.
These days are difficult for the pen.
But tell me, you crooks and cripples wheezy,
which great ones ever choose- where and when?
a path already trodden smooth and easy?
The word – in the C-in-C of human powers.
Forward march! That time may whistle by as rockets flare.
So the wind shall carry to the past of ours
only the ruffling of our hair.
Our planet is poorly equipped for delight.
One must snatch gladness from the days that are.
In this life
it’s not difficult to die.
To make life
is more difficult by far.
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky
Posted by: Aigin | Feb 22 2005 1:58 utc | 28
This talk about Thompson reminded my of Neil Young, who appeared in the soundtrack of the movie about his life, Where The Buffalo Roam. I saw him two years ago during Rock in Rio, together with a bunch of aged wild guys from Crazy Horse. He played long and repetitive guitar solos, strumming a single note for minutes. It was technically lousy and at times sonically boring, yet strangely mesmerizing. At some point Neil’s fingers started to bleed, but he seemed oblivious to the blood dropping on the stage & spraying his guitar and his jeans. After a while it dawned on me: those old guys, fiercely concentrated, jumping up and down in a circle and looking only at each other, were enacting some sort of Indian ritual. They were celebrating their friendship, their joy and their fury.
The kids who were there to see Iron Maiden didn’t have a clue what that was about, but they were spellbound all the same. They were watching something rare: passion. What RGiap said, fire in the belly. (For the sake of fairness, I must add that RGiap himself plays a mean gipsy guitar. The notes may be often wrong, sometimes I can’t see where he’s coming from, but the feeling is always right.)
I think the discussion here is somehow related to a very interesting previous thread about our youth’s lack of appetite for confrontation. I believe the young ones won’t rebel simply because they have no hope. We squandered it all before they could inherit it. They are unable to envision a different world. They do miss the 60’s, a mythical place where they have never been. Some of us miss the 60’s too, not exactly because of what we were, but because of what he thought then we could become. That dream, however, can’t be dreamed again. What do we have to offer today, except our apprehension and our despair?
RGiap is dead right, one must be willing to risk something: at best being ridiculed, at worst being totally wrong. Life requires some unfairness. If we are to change things, there is this little matter of passion. Passionate love & rage felt not only by your neurons but by your whole body. I no longer believe this could be possible, for instance, in the United States, a country where the all-consuming passion now seems to be fear.
So here we are, mourning Thompson because he is one more decayed icon from better times, worn out by his own passion. Ultimately he proves to us that we were right to be economical with ourselves, to “measure out our lives with coffee spoons”. We slice & dice, we make clever points, we get better by the hour, but our passion is mostly an intellectual construct vented intelectually. We challenge our enemies & our ghosts in a territory they don’t dare or don’t care to enter. Of course we are always right; but nothing changes because there’s nothing at stake. Most of us are here anonimously. I don’t even provide an e-mail address. If there were a call to stand up and be counted, I, for one, don’t believe I would comply.
And then there’s the pressing question of the narrative. Of course we oppose madness, but what are we for? We, the left, the opposition, the self-chosen ones, have even relinquished the idea of personal freedom, a concept that has been appropriated by the rhinoceroses as well. Freedom now means the freedom to drive anywhere and consume anything. We have no alternative landscape to offer, no place where the young ones can go with their desire. We are not cool or beautiful. We no longer dare to risk joy; that would be most inappropriate in the face of disaster.
Posted by: pedro | Feb 23 2005 8:05 utc | 42
RGiap, I hope you realize what I was trying to say above (with the exception of “strumming a single note”, which on second thought I really can’t figure out how to do) is precisely what you say in your moving testimony, although coming all the way from the other side: middle-class kid, cultured family, having his peace&love&drugs experience crushed at berth by 20 years of fierce US-sponsored military dictatorship. We are exactly the same age, I think: 50.
Being a kid in Brazil at that time was strange. No matter how hard I try, I can’t recall it as a bad experience. On the contrary: we very alive as hell in spite of all the occasional grief, posing heroic to our adolescent muses, sharing in secret the words of Neruda and Galeano, finding inexistent codewords in Chico Buarque’s songs, laughing at the ugliness of the dictator’s daughter. I was never an activist or a Marxist; too scared for the former, too independent for the latter. Having had a direct experience of oppression and the reaction against it, I realize now how our masters tried – and mostly succeeded – to crush us. First they go for the intelligence, then for the humor (which they really loathe and therefore must be kept at all costs), and ultimately for the dream. They want to prevent us from dreaming. Get real, get a job, don’t waste your time on utopias.
My post above is a direct result of a koanic dialogue I had a few years ago with my teenage daughter. Those of us who have children or deal with them may have realized a strange and perhaps novel characteristic or the newer generations: they don’t want to change the world. The idea even seems a bit ridiculous. The concept of personal freedom is also a bit alien to them. They don’t despise us as they should; they see no reason to leave home. They are born conformists who have some difficulty to dream. And, to a guy like me who once ruined a whole apartment wall with Antonio Machado’s luminous words – “Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar” (Traveller, there’s no path, you make the path by walking”), this is deeply worrisome. So I was critizing my daughter’s generation one day for not wanting to change the world and she replied, bored, “Yeah, dad, did you change it?”
Did I? I had to ponder that. The answer is both yes and no. Our master plan failed miserably. Ugliness gained ground, the rhinoceroses prevail nowadays. Perhaps it was bound to be like that no matter what. But, at a personal level, I did dream the dream, and I still do. I still want to change the world. I own the barest minimum (a friend once said, “you realize you have ceased to be free when you have too many keys in your keyring”). I am the master of my sleep and I can wake up anytime I feel like it – as the laziest among us may have realized, one of the most precious small freedoms one can have. I like to believe I am still making my path by walking. And, most of all, I have managed to remain essentially happy. Happiness is the most radical weapon. A passion for life is a potent political statement. I don’t mourn Thompson; he did what he had to do and then took his leave at the moment of his choosing.
So, back to the matter at hand (between myself and RGiap, we may yet exhaust all available bandwidth; sorry about that, folks), and now addressing directly Blackie’s suggestive proposal of a narrative: if we are to sell the idea of change, if we are to help our youngsters to learn again how to dream – and, let’s not fool ourselves, any change that comes must come through them, because it will require a deep cultural shift – we must reach beyond what’s merely feasible. We have become accountants of misery, too realistic to be taken seriously. I like Blackie’s list precisely because it’s unfeasible. It points to a happy world. You don’t sell cigarettes or automobiles, you sell charm or sexual potency. You don’t sell minute plans for change – let’s walk from here to there and then we’ll rest – but rather you point to the distance and hope people will start moving in that direction. There must be a theme for desire. I’ll take poetry over theory anytime. The way I see it, our fight has ceased to be erotic (Dean was erotic, Kerry was tragic). Question is, how do we get that back?
Posted by: pedro | Feb 24 2005 4:26 utc | 60
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