In their issue of 6,24,02, Newsweek again prints their historical photo of John Lindh in torture, an editorial with again cautious summary of the difficulty legally in finding charges for him. The picture this second time is lighter and clearer, of the strap on his penis between his strapped wrists. Only has Newsweek printed this bold and mysterious picture of Lindh strapped naked and blindfolded three days, but I have no sympathy for Newsweek or any mainstream U.S. chickenshit media. John Lindh hurt nobody and had no intentions of hurting anybody and everybody really does know this. What did he do to piss, if he was not too dehydrated, but to try to dribble with his penis between his wrists. What was his mind like, after everything.

The picture this time was small enough for me to cut it out and staple it to a post card and alongside print:

	This is very, very strange.
	HOW did Newsweek get it?
	HOW can Newsweek print it,
	point out "subtly" he has broken
	LETTERS?  This is, you know,
        Bill Blackolive

For horrified letters they had no guts to print I could find only e-mail address, so sent this to their subscription department. The route of the card amuses my imagination. The older I get the less my patience for the wretches of the world. I ever get a little power I might kick them.

I do the hour dog trip and return and must sit right down for my old back injury. I drink 6 eggs and 4 aspirin and mess with the garden but mainly mess with the tube, before mustering for the hour workout, which is mostly sitting at the five minutes between sets, though when I get up and go through a movement it is intense. I do the hour repose right next, get past any possible quivering in the back injury. Next drink 3 TGuinnesses and try to write some lines. The mind slowly rolls into that direction, in the days, on the dog walks, whether I write anything in any given day. Then I mess with the tube and my mother fixes dinner. I am not getting in much reading now. I reread AS I LAY DYINTG by Faulkner. Tried to read WE WERE THE MULVANIES Oats but little fiction have I patience for except classics. Well, her YOU MUST REMEMBER THIS passed, more inspired and I read it. But reality now days is too strange for either much reading or writing of middling fiction. I should tell younger writers this is the problem. The small amounts of reading of fiction or nonfiction I do get in these days is usually on my back after ten P.M., when I have taken the second four aspirins of the date, and like as not I doze in half an hour. The lines of whichever book tangle into dream fragments and it is useless and I punch out the lamp. Meanwhile jazz is on till five A.M. and this is some fun. I will be up to let barking or nosing me Medicine out and all my life I have to be getting up to piss anyway, gone to bed bloated in order to get that first doze hopefully. Lying there is what counts, the body repair, the body building. I have to get my endorphins. How mere smack always simply bores me. Pot is fine, more adventure. When I have had a woman - heh, not most of my strange life - she may grab what she wants. Yeh, not all women will tolerate jazz all night, then five A.M. comes the filtered NPR chickenshit news, and I'll doze in and out of that.

20 May 2002

Dear Bill,

I'm sorry I haven't written in so long. I just feel overwhelmed with work, and sometimes it gets depressing. I've been talking of coming down there to visit for over a year now, but my book is moving at such an incredible pace...and I've done my usual thing of over-researching. My draft deadline is now rapidly approaching and so I'm writing like crazy.

I've had a wonderful time, though, going on the road to do research on this project. I've had some crazy adventures, and when you're hooked on a story, it doesn't matter what it's about, unearthing little coins and finding secret passages is insanely exciting. No time for leisured discourse online with Jack, no time for phone calls or letters even. Just the unending ocean of the book - constantly writing and cultivating informants, transcribing interviews, writing to libraries and FBI hefes under the freedom of information act, visiting elderly atheists with dusty boxes in their attics, trying to get the friends of the murderers to talk to me.

I've been visiting the main perpetrator, David Waters, in Leavenworth, and have established a relationship with him. I'm dying to tell you about it, and am zeroing in on a trip to Austin and the coast I hope in the late summer or early September.

You wrote that you used to be known as an atheist in the 50s, but didn't really think you should be defined that way, as you believed in spirit. But you could not countenance any "God" after you were about 13. Well, my idea is that we can probably create anything we want to, and I don't see why scientists like Carl Sagan, who readily acknowledge that a kitchen sink or a piece of lawn furniture or a rocket is thought-energy projected outward, given corpus, and coded, why they draw the line at God or an afterlife. Obviously humans are up to something, with their stubborn insistence on religion and spirituality over thousands of years. It seems so arrogant of people like Madalyn to just dismiss it because she can't make it fit her limited framework. But then it was her arrogance and hubris that brought to our attention some of these staggering assaults of the religious community on the constitution, so go figure.

I would have to go along with Mehi-Madrona that little is known, and the boundaries are illusory, mosdy bargains people have struck under the skin, to move along some agenda. His book you mentioned, Coyote Medicine, sounds really interesting - let me know what you think of it.

As for evil, I don't know yet if it exists apart, that is, if it is an entity of its own, rather than being a corruption or abortion of something else. I've been told by people who knew David Waters that the first time they met him they felt "pure evil." I sense no such evil, sitting across a litfie plastic table from him in Leavenworth. I sense stupendous, consuming rage. And I sense that he nurtures it.

I think of you often when I get one of my [irregular] copies of The Match! an anarchist mag from Arizona. The editor used to write for Madalyn's mag until she grossly offended him by threatening to put him in jail on totally false charges because he wouldn't move to Austin and work for her. I wonder if you'd like his writing. Think I'll send along a copy and see what you think. I stopped in Tucson to meet him after having corresponded for over a year -- he's a great guy, for all his irascibility. I like his writing. Gotta go, again I'm sorry to be so remiss in answering your wonderful letters. I love LL as you know, and especially love Emeryville Wars and feel it should be published.





Thanks for the $4O.

Well, it was raining the other night, and I wrecked the car. I guess the road was slick from oil cause it hadn't rained in a while, and the car just hydroplaned off the road into a small tree. I'm not hurt at all, but I had to take $400 out of my savings account to buy a new car. The new car's a 1989 Pontiac and is a lot nicer than the escort was. So now today we've got to go get the title and tags & stuff transferred.

Well, I don't know about looking like an Olympic athlete. About all I really work out is my shoulders & arms. I think I would be kind of scared to sling an ax, though maybe I should learn so someone can cut wood around here. Cynthia always tries to get some guy to do it, I'm not sure if she can herself or not.

Anyways, she never has any problem selling stuff; it's usually sold before it's carved. It's just a matter of her getting to work. Well, I'll talk to you later.


Hi, Bill, Thanks for all your compliments in your Last Laugh,
you balding Moron.


Thanks for the $2O.

Checked the mail today and mailed a letter to you. Got the Pontiac running again & we are charging a battery for it now. Anyways, just a quick note to let you know I got your letter.



Hi Bill,

I got over to Berkeley & am sitting in the MED having a machioto coffee. Moe's is a great book store. I ran into Jackson who asked for you. He's become a keeper of dogs.

A wild and happening place. I must get out more.



Another girly postcard from Mike Lyons in San Francisco past couple decades. Indeed, Berkeley or Telegraph Avenue have current. So I guess that is the correspondence in this chapter #CLVIII. King Wenclas invites me to read again, this time in Detroit in September. I said I'll try but depending on how much of Madrea's car trouble or contingencies. Too, to counter my being stout from Guinness I am putting down some chuck and brisket and when Lyla sees this she everytime says it is a wonder I am not 400 lbs. and I am the one she listens to less and it is hard to curb the impulse to repeat to her that meat is how to lose weight. But, where was I now.

Mostly the commercials are not funny enough - there is improvement - and the injured barbarian flcks back and around from nature and science and international insanity. Bix and I are angry these FBI males who have more grievance than Coleen Rowley (one had his house broken into, dog rifle butted, computer stolen) cannot yet squeeze into mainstream - see JUSTICE WATCH on the web. 0ne of these lads, redblooded Robert Wright whom we had seen near weep on C-SPAN over how 9-11 need not have been, was given some minutes on CNN's Crossfire and Bob Novac and James Carvelle made him look bad, interrupting him, asked how much did he think he might make off his book he has written about it. Hard for a barbarian to understand much of this. That is, had the U.S. government not wanted the 9-11 attack. It is hard for any barbarian to comprehend Novac and Carville. Calling themselves "right" and "left," they belong to their rulers, be the rulers Clinton or Bush or anybody, so long as it is their present rulers. It is a mysterious methodology, hard to tell where they get paid exactly. I can but see they are not cognizant of what they do. They censored Wright, dismissed him. Inanely they laugh. They like their job. It is mysterious. I see it is the school yard, and world wide, but what are these instincts world wide of the Novacs and Carvelles that they unthinking just like ants can please their rulers?

When at Cynthia and Madrea's I may get impatient with some of the older denizens. I could not altogether dodge two arguments this time. 0ne went with this semi aware U.S. Hebrew. 0ne was a redneck hubby of an old friend of cynthia's, who when given information is intelligent. And the hubby choses to be sectarian, this personality type. The right to be wrong, a U.S."thing. Which is why many intellectuals who comprehend the theory of Anarchism believe it cannot work - too many people will chose their right to be wrong. The redneck uwas there," in the Middle East somewhere, in the military I guess. He said "those people are different." This sort of chosen dementia I will not bother with and I uttered one or two facts and slipped out of that one while the guy kept talking. Big gutted redneck who is "a black belt in karate" at the local Dixie County karate club and why bother him. Get him off fear and he could be interesting. But the Jew guy did try a little, try to think. I believe he would be of yankee origin, has concept of other possibilities, wanted some kind of intellectual discussion and be friends but drinking beer and getting a wind of my sympathy for the Palistenians he proclaimed: Oh ho, I know which side you're on! He is also the husband of the woman Cynthia was getting drunk with when Madrea and Andy had come to pick me up from the Gainsville airport, and they have this great little male child. He was secure enough to be testing my temper. What I do with such posturing is toss in a couple of facts and let them digest it or not. But he wanted more drama, said Arofat is a terrorist and I said Sharon is and he grabbed his crotch speaking of Sharon having cajones and I did not feel like pointing out tanks are not cajones but confronted with such an active fellow I tossed in another fact or so and had a harder time being quiet. Trying to cut it off I said the kids are dying, it just comes down to the kids. This Jew guy could get that much and we managed to stop it.

Ashely Banfield tried to speak of the kids, to one more sick man I forget gladly, whose vision of the universe is: We don't want to award terrorism. Stupendous, and now I keep noticing how every day, perhaps it is, some sicko on U.S. television says this amazing thing.

Humans using Hubble and great telescopes, and same with great microscopes, now explore visuality where known physics do not work. I take this to infer nor can we know much in between, without perhaps physical death, or possible mystical viewing. 0ur cravings during civilization to feel in control makes us insane. People are gone, the redneck, the housewife, the president, the scientist, the wino, the policeman, and on and on.

Kelly had said I ought to check out Jerry Springer. Yesterday I was not finding anything profound flicking through the networks and I went into the middle of a Jerry Springer scenario. He had just brought out this buxom midget whose boyfriend was seeing this other woman he had met at a service station during a period the midget and her guy were living in her car because her folks had kicked her out for not giving him up. I realised I had never seen Jerry Springer before, had not known what he even looked like. In LL #CXXXXIV it's last page, p. 1807, I must have meant the Maury guy, calling it "Jerry Springer" in carelessness. But this could not have been Springer.

"It was May 12 of 2000. I came in utterly sober, saw a Jerry Springer gob of spit - a pack of perverted parents running their 8 year olds through what is now on the sicker talk shows called 'boot camp.' 0bstacle courses, sit ups, adult men dressed like DIs screaming to humiliate weeping 8 year old boys.
Truly I saw this.
What do you know about raising kids, you can't even get a job to support your family, snarled B.E.
On Jerry Springer the adults loved it.
Dear Reader, we know the children are angry.

Right, the children are angry. I remember this scene, an 8 year old holds this grown man's shovel and weeps, the DI wannabe screaming that he digs this ditch. Fucking incredible alright, that was 2000. What a bunch of angry 10 year olds by now. And angry 20 year olds and angry 30 year olds, who will never vote, never believe the U.S. president. How focked in forehead is the U.S. main media. Anyway. This was not Springer. Springer is a good guy.

Springer has found his genius. 0prah Winfrey is genius. See her in the movie done from Morrison's BELOVED. The book is classic and Oprah made the movie classic. 0prah can do many things, like appeal to genteel/lawful/well heeled folks who cannot much stomach BELOVED, book, movie. Yay, 0prah, be rich forever.

Then there was renown king of sleaze Geraldo, and others, whom my father would be glancing at whilst flipping his cards. I have written of some of this few with B.E. in a few LLs of the nineties. But I had missed Springer and hearing his name a lot never to me suggested he was seperate of the pack.

Bix says Springer appeals to rednecks. Well, the lower classes were having a party on the Jerry Springer Show. They brought in the other woman, who was very big, tall. The midget went trying to rush her and Springer's bodyguards got between them, simply stand in the way and fend them off gently. I would be learning this is the culture, one gets to safely rush at the other person, and, for the females mostly, the next part is flashing tits and undressing. The midget went to flashing her tits, showing America she is plenty woman even if she is a little person. The big woman was firstly disdainful but got to flashing her tits too and the midget flashed her ass. Of course in Schizoprenic Nation the TV viewers only get to see the tits and ass blurred out. Same with cuss words, all possible cuss words are blanked so that the tubers cannot tell exactly what people are saying though of course the tubers really don't need this common information either. Next, the boyfriend is brought out, black guy a little shorter than the big woman. He sat down and the midget made to rush him too. The midget's story was he had just been using the other woman for her money and was still seeing the midget and giving the money to her, but the black guy would not back it up, had kissed his big broad and told the midget to get a life. A chicano guy in the audience asked the midget could he have her since the other guy didn't seem to want her. The midget then seated nodded and rose and the chicano guy came and embraced her, and he returned to his seat in the audience, I hope they made a date. Then a big black guy in the audience wanted to see "the little midget's smokies again," and the midget stood and flashed. A good looking white girl in the audience said hers are bigger and requested going up and showing hers and Springer consented so she did this and pissed off the midget alright. I am not remembering who all did show tits maybe but the audience was raucous, like on booze. I can't recall the context, where somebody asked the midget something, and she said something about when she and the boyfriend - this smug pudgy black lout and by then several black girls in the audience were yelling to him that he is a dog - were living in her car it was when Clinton was in office and now that Bush is in office times are better. To say, her parents have let her back in, and a bunch of guys in the audience picked up on her "spirit of America" and pumped the air with fists chanting: U.S.A! U.S.A! U.S.A!

The Jerry Springer show gives truer spirit of America. Long ago our rulers devided and conquered but Oprah connects the genteel but Jerry Springer connects the commoners. Two fat shapeless sisters quarrel over a guy and it is the height of this guy's life on Earth and the sisters violently strip to their underwear and there is Springer sitting between two fat women in their underwear. Or here is a young woman unhappy with her racist husband, and after there has been enough of her sorrowful tale, the hubby comes out, dressed in Ku Klux Klan contume and waving a Confederate flag. The audience is hostile and he moons the audience. He has a grand time, to start. He threatens and curses everybody including Jerry Springer. It is his moment on Earth to be a tough guy. He orders the wife to sit down, till she does, and outrage and tension is mounting. Springer informs the poorbastard his wife has someone else and brings out the new guy, a skinny black guy. I laugh outbursted so loudly it startled my old mother who was passing nearby. The skinny black guy and the white guy who is chubby would go at one another but they are safely prevented. The TV screen flashed this comic book POW as was done in the old BATMAN AND ROBIN show but these enforcers on Springer's are graceful. The embrace and kiss of the new lovers is next properly. The pudgy racist's glory is all over but he keeps stiff upper lip, still threatening the audience and everyone, raging on. A young guy in audience grown up on beer, beery tits and so forth, tosses off his shirt and starts coming for the yelling poor racist and etcetera. Here is the Spirit of America, the yeast of the bread. Here folks do not know what color of fear for the date, mostly these ones never vote. The audience is crazy as those on stage. Here are the people who thought Little Elian ought to get with his daddy. These people get abortions all the time and naturally any unborn babies return to Heaven which is what is the reward anycase and when the media and politicians bring up stem cell debate these most regular folks cannot focus any better than I can.

As at the cabin, my routine at Lyla's becomes so staid as to slow LL. But at cabin, I ran out of money to xerox LL, or to get enough protein and I hurt myself with my barbell and had to quit chopping wood, and I was worried about my child's teenage poor year, and the third world Las Vegas, New Mexico, postal service misplaced a letter from her for a few weeks. Lower blood sugar and pain set me off with a couple of long correspondents, one being my fat faggot friend of nineteen years comradship. He just could not get it into reality, or at that point, so I used him in some chuckle in the LL I did eventually put together, LAST LAUGH CXXXIX, and I sent it to my friend and he returned it and said I am no friend of his. He is a nice guy, kind-hearted, intelligent, can have good humor or he can be twisted in his subjectivity. I have thought I would write more on that stay at the cabin, I have not, most of it would probably be about Medicine Dog whom I write about anyway. I can say having neighbors a quarter mile away is too close when they have not been raised in country and only know about pitbulls from television news. A couple of times in this stay of more than a year Medicine interrupted routine by hanging out in different directions after females in heat and I would have to go find him, once it went upward from the cabin, another time it went down road, into old chicano properties. This televised pitbull fear is my fear for my dog, and New Mexico like Texas, like redneck Aransas Pass as opposed to Port Aransas the tourist town, the more original country people are less apt to shoot a pitbull because they more likely know what they are. Thus my nearer neighbors were generally scarier about my dog than further down road, my nearer neighbors being retiree types, less originally country. I am now remembering Medicine getting further down road more than once....I had traced him by word of mouth downward and seeing a group of young men in a yard walked up and asked them too, soon got my dog again that time. This one chicano guy, whose name I have lost, must have asked me to come back to visit, because later when I had Medicine we walked up to visit. The guy and I already knew we are drug sorts. I don't remember we did the drug handshake, International Drug Brothers Handshake as Hunter Thompson puts it, in fact I tend to shake hands normally but I think we did not shake hands but one need not shake hands to understand an acquaintance is a drug person. As the person and I become futher acquainted, I might toss in I am more the old hippy, prefer the heady stuff, pot and acid and etcetera, over the so called "hard" stuff, the escapist stuff which is crack or speed or cocaine to raise the pulse in order to be mindless or heroin and downers in order to lower the pulse in order to be mindless. Here is the real world minus television, ho hum. Educate your kids, marijuana leads to heroin, infuckingcrdeible. So this new friend, this lower class property owner in New Mexico this day related in turn that his druthers is heroin, which means he is a nervous guy. Likely he has tried LSD but he is a nervous guy. He likes pot, we were smoking his pot and drinking his canned beer, Coors, fortunately as I will not drink Budweiser products. He wore cracked glasses, this kind of guy, who might lose judgement drunk and get beat up, by cops or somebody. Guy who knows how bad it can turn yet he has some humor and we were doing alright and he wanted me to come with him to town, Las Vegas, by putting Medicine in the back of his pickup, his little female Heeler sitting in front with us. It was not too hot, I think Spring, I kept turning to see that Medicine was OK. My friend talked of the superiority of his breed, the great Heelers. He was not appreciative of Medicine's breed. As we got more stoned and beery he obsessed on Medicine. My friend does not like black folks, said Medicine looks like a black guy. I can see this, blackish Medicine has human like eyes. The guy had needed to run to the bank and grocery store and by time we were coming back he was working into this cross sort of fear of me as well. I had been careful with him, then said something about maybe past life I had been the gringo outlaw (pale blue eyes is this stereotype in the South West) and he an Apache. I cannot remember why I came up with that, but it jarred him, he was he said surprised I said this (was this indelicate). He spoke of this first day looking for Medicine I had boldly walked on into his yard full of guys. Then he went to asking about my guns, what guns did I have. What is this 30:30, could he buy it from me. He pretended a bolt action deer rifle, clip hold 3 rounds and one in the chamber, this was a kind of special 30:30 he wanted to be in possession of, that he would buy my gun, what is my price. Why do I even need it, what am I running away from, what is my problem. I lost patience trying to tell him I would not sell the 30:30, finally I said hell I might have to shoot out somebody's radiater or something. He laughed that he had got me, he had got me to tell him why I needed my gun. But humor even so he was working up about me and my dog being killers. He had bought a pound of hamburger and a sack of tortillas and as I had said he need not drive us clear up to the cabin, could let us out at his turn and we liked to walk, he let us out insisting I take this food and never come to his place again if I bring this dog. said maybe one time he did not have to give me his food and I said, I do not go anywhere withcut Medicine. He was reaching a pitch, pressing the food on me. I was hungry, took the hamburger and tortillas, told the guy adios and Medicine and I got out to give Medicine another fun time on up.

0ne night here, I lay inside noise of the fan and jazz from my Walmarts nifty FM radio/disk player, Medicine's barking, then a large crash and clatter, had me pulling on my jeans and descending the few stairs of the split-level house, thinking Medicine had knocked over something. There is nothing like that downstairs for him to have knocked over and my mother stood, who had been up and calling me, told me somebody had tried to get in, something like this. Medicine, and her dog Y, yellow lab kept in her gallery where she sleeps, were both quit barking, and were both abruptly back to their normal. Lyla wanted me to check the front door. Slowly arousing, I unlocked and opened the big door of her little garden of pet plants, with its gate closed, my fist back of hip looking. I had thought the noise from downstairs, not at either door, but next I called Medicine to come with me outside into the fenced "back yard" that is on the street, N. McCampbell. Medicine, sometimes, disobeys on principle. I had to drag him by collar outside, to see if he would tell me there was a spoor. Well as I could get out of Medicine there was no kind of spoor, nary racoon nor human. 0r of possibilities who could violently rattle a screen door, which is what Lyla next day decided she heard, when I did this in demonstration, though when Medicine and I got out there I saw that gate too closed. I believe, a drunk teenager who had imagination to bound the fence or close the gate, would not be messing with us. The house of the old lady who picks up trash and has a dangerous son and there are two large dogs and one is a pitbull. And there was no spoor. But...this had been a big noise....

Medicine is seventy pounds of pure beast, a houndish nose and wolfish hearing, will rouse from sleep inside the closed air conditioned house to something irregular he hears across the street, in the brush. Lyla had a dream of somebody coming in and shoot us both and I got disgusted. Gee, in her dream she is trying to crawl to safety, the son and dog both yelping. Goddamnit, Mother, I would be the one doing the shooting. Medicine anyway cannot be sneaked up on by man. Hell, Medicine gave me three flat tires, he could break into a man's head!

Whatever, physically or metaphysically, routine here is most days unmolested. Meeting any women ever? asked Bix. Naw, Bix, I don't go anywhere. My tolerance for chemical cigarette smoke is at its all time low. I should not sit long in a bar on antihistamines. Maybe drinking on ephedrine should I ever need again to be crazy around drunken women. Thanks, no. Gads. I have seen enough. But, if I were FAMOUS and IN CONTROL? Heh, we macho types need to be calling the shots. What a world. I still have to stop to remind myself I am one of the humans. I am ever spooky in the United States of North America, and I enjoy the security at my old mother's house. Medicine Dog likes it here very much. He is as spooky as I am. Maybe when I am famous glamorous intellectual women can come visit. Or not, none of this raging in the middle of the night to bother my old mother.

Some days Jerry Springer was too much into the lesbian circus for me. I cannot respond to this, boring, ah. I turned to see what 0prah was doing and she had "older" and "younger" women talking about sex. She had on an "expert," or psychologist or psychiatrist who proclaimed the clitoras is five inches long, as in how little younger women know about sex. Maybe I do not have this right, maybe she meant roots or branches of this mystical organ. Among others in 0prah's show that day was Erica Jong, who wrote FEAR OF FLYING and her adult daughter. Then Erica Jong's daughter said all men have this lesbian fantasy, like to look at lesbians doing things. I dunno, I'm always different, but maybe this is a U.S. thing.

Either way to look at it we are presently in insane circumstances. To not go back to George Washington who had slaves but let us take it from only our Vietnam War, our Afghanistan War. There is no logic that our rulers, and their subjects, are less dishonest, unwholesome, stupid, psychotic, in Afghanistan than in Vietnam.

It is my opinion the nation is a tad crazier from Vietnam to Afghanistan. "Nore baby raping, more serial killing," then came 9-11. Before 9-11, ostensibly, many of those who vote in their very sick men were believing aborted fetuses and yet stem cell spirits could not get back to Heaven. Then, 9-11 brought some sort of leap. Wherein sitting at my old mother's I can each day watch grown men speak maddest vulgarities. 0r to call this shit what? - banalities? Somebody said that by going out and having our picnics and shooting our firecrackers on our Fourth of July we are "sticking it to the terrorists." It is too much to remember the per day utterances of the unreal. I sit here, I began this paragraph, I was to list several per day utterances of the unreal, and I am gone blank. Perhaps I am spooked.

There has been this widening gap between most of Europe and most of the U.S. while the U.S. spends on war and domination the standards of livings in western Europe is gone higher than in the United States and the U.S. frog throated flag waving voters incredibly do not know shit. One more 9-11 and the frog throats will be ready for martial law. Where torture of John Lindh is acceptable and his sentence of plea bargain of cowardly lawyer for twenty years jor "carrying a rifle and two grenades" for the Taliban during his interest in Islam before 9-11? But of course.

Well, but like I say, them what do not shoot pitbulls. The countrified, the hicks on Jerry Springer. Television talks this idiocy of will fine prisoners try to get John Lindh, for treason, infuckingcredible, and the brothers will protect him. Same with Mitchel Crooks in his less than a year is it. Taped the 16 year old kid who was so beatup when slammed he is limp and his neck snaps his head. And lie is he was cognizant and even able in handcuffs to grab testicals, well, Mitchell Crooks sure will make friends in jail

. Well, Dear Ieader, I'll tell you. Jimmy Carter is OK. Bix had spoken up for him, and last night I watched him on C-SPAN, and his wife, and their grandson the author in the Peace Corps. Lyla likes Jimmy Carter, sends a few dollars to their outfit, what is it called - she sat watching him as well. I had called her over, because she likes him. I have not followed this guy, because when he was president he could not function in the mire. But he was a kindly fellow, and now he has become stronger. The factor saving the United States is the clamor about freedom became a concept certain people believe.

I seem to like no opera except for CARMEN and I like CARMEN much. But, I favor the Spanish, and Gypsies, all the Gypsies, Balkan, Russian. Nobody can get near Dakota Stanton on WALKING THE BACKSTREETS. NPR here has somebody who likes that one and,plays it at times, some nights. First time I heard her do that it was too painful for me. But her transcription is now beautiful and I want to stop reading or sleeping and to listen.

Jazz is called improvisational and classical music is not called this in general. But no two classical musicians can possibly play a piece like one or the other's rendering exactly. Nothing in the universe is truly staid, truth cannot hold still for anybody ever. Communism, U.S. Conservatism, Anarchism, all of this may do well for some wag to perform a speech to the select audience and in real life nothing in the dry forms can do. Organised religion is oxymoronic, the universe is alive.

Jimmy Carter and Jesse Jackson are rare Babtists getting old enough to understand via their hearts. These vanities in the inchoate civilizations have not lamed either of them too much. Such men sense our species may traverse the gap, as Jesus so spoke. The time is at hand.