Post Revolutionary blues

                        Here’s a story of something that happened to me yesterday. It may seem trivial but it may also reveal how the greatest evil cloaks itself in a mantle of goodness and purity, much like the devil himself, who dons his priestly vestments as he introduces innocence to his domain.

              In explanation as well I remind the reader that while the obscure, the contested, and the elaborate may be stated with little risk of contradiction (especially if no one knows or cares what you are saying) to see that which is right in front of your face is never easy for reasons too serious to mention here.

                    This can be reduced to the axiom- “It takes a genius to see the obvious.” Picasso said it took him a lifetime to paint like a child. It has taken me forty years to speak of my own experiences.

                          Over the years I’ve gotten into the habit of logging on from different places. The origin of this is at least as much necessity as convenience. Beerfarts would not ordinarily be4 my choice as an idea; website – but it has grown on me, and I admire the effort that some of you put into posting on topics that, at the least, effect us all.

                           I  am at present living in a small academic community. I had remembered it from many years ago as safe – but my criteria for safety seems to have undergone a sea change. Is it the world which has changed - or is it I? That is the great question each of us must ask. This seemed so mellow, so laid back. Now there is an edge to it - one that is by no means pleasant.

I                recall my first impression three years ago. It was the downside of the last economic fiasco which, as always, seemed to hit Long Island particularly hard. And in coming north to the woods I felt like Boccaccio or some other medieval poet retiring to the forest to escape the plague. Maybe that wasn't so off base after all. Maybe the difference between twenty years ago and now is everyone else is living in the fear – the fear that their little hideaway will be discovered by the hoi polloi.

                        As I said Beerfarts is not my number one thing to do. The trajectory of many an artists life is to be a success at thirty, then take that as encouragement, and then to go steadily down hill from there.

                                The reason why can be easily explained. It is not how you say something that gets you paid – It’s what you say. At thirty one is stupid enough to be led around by the nose, as time goes by we get obnoxious, set in our ways and convinced that we know better then the man who writes the checks, Result? Poverty.

                            Thus while polite white (and now black) men send off their intense missives from “the sun room”, or “the breakfast niche”, my intense missives are sent off from the public library, or the local “all the coffee you can drink for a dollar” hamburger joint.

                             Lest I appear unrighteous I wish to God I knew what magic words would result in being paid, what bandwagon to jump aboard. Only recently has it begun to occur to me that there are gatekeepers who’s sole occupation is making sure people like me - you know, ethnic’s , mixed breeds, not our kind of people, decidedly do *not* climb aboard despite our stated willing ness to ignore “the facts”..

                                    Ah, the facts. So I had a few lines blurb style that I thought would fit in to the ranting section. It was short and nonsensical. I’m using the wi-fi over by the large print books in the library. I boot the index page, which as always has a tasteful nude. To me a naked woman is not the end of the world. I’ve seen them, even touched them and what is more a photograph is not the real thing.

                               There are, after all, around the world, countries where the sight of a woman's breast is not considered sinfull nor even a step to sexual perversity. The United States is not one of these countries, apparently.

                                 What can I say? Over the years I’ve become somewhat blase’ about the subject. I hardly notice, but there are other’s who do not feel the same way. In Europe a topless beach is attended by children and they do not become traumatized, but I’m not in Europe I’m in the backwoods of New York State where they ride around in four by fours and brush off long hairs at fifty mph and think it’s hilarious if you fall down. We're talking about rednecks blowin off freaks  - something that was supposed to have ended with Easy Rider.   It's seems in these tough times to had a resurgence.

                                 Back to our story - When I attempt to load in the Beerfarts cover page it’s a little slow, all I get is the text, and I wait and wait, a few minutes go my and I decide I’ll use the regular cable connected computers to log on, since I need to do some printing anyway. Hence I walk over to the other computer station.

                              I just about log in and boot up that version of the web site when I’m aware of a man in back of me. His head looks like a red radish and he’s waving his hands and jumping up and down. What’s double weird is he is so conditioned as to never disregard the sanctity of library silence so he’s screaming quietly.  “I want you out!”

                      I don’t know at first what he’s talking about. I had thought that he was someone that was marginally retarded and was given a no work job at the library as result of his parents contributing to the local political party, He had never really said much, leastwise to me. That may be true but actually he’s the librarian and it is a hot day and he is very upset, he has seen the devil's daughter and boy is he pissed.

                        I try to explain that they should not get the wrong idea, that it was just a cover page and I apologized profusely. As the expression goes – I need this gig - I count my pennies. But it was not good. The man was apoplectic. He could barely get the words out of his mouth. What would this poor bastard tell his mother when he went home for his meat and potatoes?  

“I caught one ! I caught one! Jesus Christ I caught a pervert!”

                    And so this dinky headed inbred with his community college education finally summoned up the courage to approach me after three years of smarmy hand wringing and what does he say?

                         “There’s children present!”

I could not argue with that.

This was not the time to argue. Librarians are not known for being champions of free speech after all.

                   Later on I found myself thinking back to the days when I worked in Criminal Justice. There’s ws a show called “Miami Vice” which was a misnomer. Actually it should have been Miami Narcotics, or Miami Homicide, ( in reality there certainly was enough of those), but Vice? No America is too puritanical a country to deal with that. For puritanical read “Childish”, because that’s what I was dealing with this afternoon.

                         The chap was offended because he had seen a picture of a naked lady and so be blushed . Well he should of I suppose – I wonder what in his shame filled soul the voices told him to do?

                            I never worked Vice. Nobody liked to work Vice. Prostitution is an ugly thing not because the woman sells her body, which is bad enough, but the process by which women are encouraged, finessed and massaged into become whores is an ugly thing.

                             Crooks are not dumb, neither are pervs. Lower class thieves seek targets of opportunity, but upper class one will, attend auctions, charity events, and so one because they obvious want to see where the money is.

                                A truly disturbed mind has all the time in the world to workout it’s plans for satisfaction. I will find a way so that it can come into constant contact with the object of it’s desire and no one can dare suggest he is other then a saint. He can become a youth counselor, a priest, a teacher, a store owner who’s good appeal only to children.

                             There’s a saying to the effect that we ought judge a man not so much by what he does as by what we doesn’t do. I must say, some of the cops I got to know were very good at interrogation - and often they were interrogating you when you didn’t even know it.

                               In psychoanalysis one technique for getting the patient to open up is to notice those subjects that the patient doesn’t like to talk about and approach them tangentially. What does the average cop do? He goes by instinct. He just mentions a subject casually. If the response is minimal he let’s ity go, but is the response is nervous. or sometimes even explosive. I don’t miss the work. Unless you are extraordinarily stable it’s easy to take the work home with you like one long chess game after another.

I                             n fact I came to this small town to get away from all that. Conan Doyle, in the voice of Sherlock Holmes, was quite right. Statistically you are more like to be the victim of a crime. In the city, but for the unspeakable wickedness, the sheer evil you must go to the small town. That’s where you find schoolteachers skinning their pupils and father’s who shoot their whole family and then themselves.

                          Any connoisseur of crime will tell you it is the long years of isolation in the otherwise empty countryside that breed the most vicious diseases.

But I love the countryside. I love the mountains. I love the clear blue skies. And I love not getting hassled by speed freaks. Still one must take caution. Where ever we walk we must watch our steps.

Because sin hangs heavy on the borderline and the biggest sinner is likely to throw the biggest stone, first.