Lydia Fairchild. Woman with three children on welfare. In mixed marriage with black husband. Another example is Karen Keegan. These women, under whatever circumstances, were DNA tested and it was found that their children had no DNA commonality, which is usually at least fifty percent. Now. These women were the mothers of their children. The fathers tested DNA positive. Karen Keegan also had three kids. She needed blood for operation. How can one argue this? Can the/a woman have, for example, in vitro fertilization and then fool the tests? What is it? Chimeras. Part goat, part lion, part snake. There was a child born in two parts, split down the middle. Hermaphrodite. Chimera. The DNA for a woman and the DNA for a man. Two embryos fuse together. There are people with checkered board skin. Light and dark. The woman on welfare can#t win a case because prosecutors cannot win against DNA proof. Lydia gave birth with state/court people watching. Is that proof? This also means that certain pars of the body, e.g. hiar, thyroid, could ahve two different DNA. Two people in one. Look this up more. Fusion of two fertilized eggs. Chimeraism (sp). What do people go through in this situation? Blood testing only the first test. Testing of internal organs.

Def Poetry – HBO?

How am I gonna write about this room. Motel 6. It stinks. It reeks of sweat and rotten dew. The best thing about it is the TV. Almost perfect it rests on something between plastic and wood. Talk about/thinking about Chimera this day.

M’Rage. Find her in “love”.

Amazing Tears Listening.

(Good) Brothels also serve woman. The (new) trend.

Nuff. Fly soon.

-Tomas

Start with this (thought). For a play/story? Not sure.

German American Bund.

GAB.

Before WW2 the GAB organized large gatherings in US promoting Nazism. They even had a gathering at Madison Square Garden (I think). Who were the speakers? McCarthyism was childs play compared to the roundup of German, Italian adn japanese people.

Fritz Kuhn – head of GAB.

George Lincoln Rockwell was the Nazi counter to ML King. Rockwell was killed by fellow nazi who was angry about Rockwell’s belief that lighter skinned whites were superior.

Skokie, Il., outside of Chicago–most jews who survived German concentration camps.

Turner Diaries by William Pierce, pseudonym Andrew MacDonald.

A racist named Robert Jay Matthews read Diaries and took action to make it (the Turner Diaries) happen. He was founder of The Order. Allen Bern, radio host, Jew, was murdered by David Lane. See info about life in jail of Matthews. Also see:

• Ruby Ridge
• Davidians, Waco
• Tim McVieh – obsessed with Turner Diaries, Oklahoma bombing, exhibit 1 in his trial

Break. Nuff. Move on to self and other forms of loathings.

Have grievances. Only a pride blocked up with arrogance. Is there a plumber to fix it? My diarrhea. I return in two days from this farce of a soul-searching. What a useless endeavor/trip. Return to what? To a woman that loves me? She says and I believe her that she believes in me. But what is there really to believe in? Failure. Should have never married in the first place. At least not until I knew what I wanted. But why didn’t wife1 know what I wanted. Coward. What will I take away from this trip, though? The visit. The knowledge that I can’t stop living in my past? Is that why I am unable to heed? The advice of my American brethren and just “do what it takes”. Sounds and feels like the nike swoosh. How superficial. What a turn off. It’s all too late. Everyone here is so indifferent–as though America were a battered divorcee who might still look good on the outside but inside is one big fucked up emotional mess. Some fellow last night yelled across the bar that politics was taboo. That has really become engrained in the psyche here. We live an swim in that taboo. We eat it. It is/has become us. And we can’t talk of it/about it. Indifference is the easiest way out. But is my imagination running wild when it thinks there is a solution? Truth, wisdom & passion (see previous post, by date). Is that the solution? All the people in their cars, he sheople mobiles. Nothing left to say. Just survive. But how can one do that if one can’t consume? Annoying how that all works out. But I was trying to talk about me. As always. This is my place to do it. The fact that I’ve been here for more than four months and am not the better for it. Just more wasting of time. Times wastes after a certain age, after certain qualifications run out. Does this feeling I have drive me back (to the old country) to my (new) dear or is it the offer of love and vacation? Silly trinkets are certainly not my motivation. If only I could write. And. Why would such a woman

Cease.

-tommi

What matters is the big picture. That’s why so many things look best when viewed from afar. Paintings, for example. Or large orchestrated gatherings such as those from the Soviet Union, China, North Korea.

What I hate about women (hate being the wrong word), especially girls. Wait. Just because you read-up on the meaning of misogyny…

It’s about the chemical. Like life itself. It’s about the chemical. In the case of life it’s about the chemical reaction. What would the female be like if she had a different chemical? I know it’s not all chemical, certainly a lot of it is social, but still…

Get away from the hate. It’s not hate. Is it admiration. They can be everything you can’t.

Why are they the brunt of so much, why do they carry so little? Is it the weaker thing? I ask you what is the difference between the ovary and the womb? (Assuming there is a difference.) Is it the same? (Including the same difference?) Is it the same between testicles and penis? The confusion.

Polyester = Polly Esther. (???)

That’s why they ask so many questions–because burried very deep within is the wrath of their future to be played out and they do so. Really. Just like Billy Bob Thornton. What did I read in the paper given me by mother? That silly but oh so profound declaration/statement. Like something funky out of the seventies. We all miss those days, eh? Well not all. “You can love it–but it won’t necassarily love you back–just like dating a German chick.” (Thanks Billy Bob!)

-Du bist ein Schwein.

-Wieso?

-Guck nur wie du dich verhältst.

-Nicht wie ein Schwein. Hast du schon mal ein Schwein gesehen.

-Natürlich. Und zieh mal her…

-Nein. Du sollst ein Schwein sehen. Wieso hat es so ein Ruf? Du muss nur ein sehen. Die kümmern sich mehr um einander als Menschen.

-Was soll das Heißen? Du willst nur immer das Theme wechseln. Aber du bist ein Schwein–das kannst du nicht ändern.

(Pan out to messy room.)

Friends father died yesterday. Friend left in his emotional rush in his cheap Toyota-made new car with his ear piece mic attached to his ear. Was it a picture of loneliness or one of organised loneliness? “I could write a book on my son,” his mother kept saying. Yes, this friend left me with his mother and she spilled her guts. I can’t believe she spilled her guts. Between “I’m not a racist” and the story of her/the rape and subsequent matrimonial bondage to the father of her three children. It’s not at all like revealing something that is and should be very private. People of all ages have discovered the fascination of revealing everything at the bottom of their soul at the tip-nip of a button pressed too hard by some lost inner sacrificial lamb-thing on the edge of a volcano during the never before reached year of the goose-swallow for Maya unfound calendars. It’s as though I was put in front of her movie that she had to re-run because of the death of the father of her children. What does it take to bring that out of a human? That which should be secret? To bring the old/the past celluloid that should be lost. Somehow. Her way of dealing with it? Is it the answers we seek or the question we (wish we could) ask? Nomatter. Either way we are opening up human parts that should remain closed. Thank goodness for armchair psycho-therapy, eh! The terrible things that happen the past. Some of them are brought out because of current events. Like the death of a father. “The asshole,” some would say. Others would defend that he is no such (a) thing. Ah, the reality of divorce. Or is the rape? And then then the ex-wife will start to tell all, drawn out by the loss of not just the man in death but also of the rapist who terrorised her. I have had epiphanies before but this one was quite (the difference). The epiphany became feminine. Feminine’s epiphany.

She had huge boobs and blonde hair. It made no sense. She was stupid but that was Ok. Her beauty was in the simplicity, just like a succulent rock formed on the seafloor or shore. I tried to fight her away but eventually gave in. She is simply too strong and beautiful. Wait. What about those tits? I gave in after only a short battle. For there is no war to be fought here. She went on and she went on and my epiphany faded. COME BACK. I barked. How he raped her and she was only seventeen. (Or did he say nineteen? Not older than that.) She finally admitted to the ignorance of it all–how stupid she could have been. If she were more than imagination. The detail about how sick she was and how the tyrant made her wear a garter because she couldn’t show she was prey… pregnant. OMG, there are more in this world. For the life of me I cannot figure out where they come from. Which has a consequence: I have no idear where I come from.

They say if I can make it there than I can make it anywhere. What’s the problem with that?

Charlie Daniels‘ The Devils Song–or whatever it’s called. Some young bloke just explained to me in rough English that Charlie Daniels always wrote country songs that told a story. Somebody’s god help me.

Uh Oh. Drunken stupor. Listening to The Beatles–hold me, love me, eight days a week… Is this song about getting chicks?

They are the Donna’s from hell. Oh so afraid to become the dikes they should become. But when they say “like” so much… and their eyes move so fluently with their every gesture. They are eighteen.

His name was Norm. My last bartender. Across from him was… I don’t know his name… will call him… Hank… I ended up buying Hank a beer. He worked their. He spoke of Charlie Daniels.

It’s as though they’re all made to melt. Beyond some kind of song. Some rock song from nineteen… whatever and the kids all think that the writing in this book is some kind of… enigma. But I’m only drunk, I say in my defence. And. Little to they know. This is worst-writing at its best. Indeed. In a drunk stupor. The know so little. I have to give my (new) friend Norm a hat–take my hat off to norm.

There’s a bartendress with a slight belly who/that wants to makes me ask the question if she is pregnant. But don’t ask it, Tom. Don’t. I did. Could she, should she? The innocent look she has. Not so innocent underneath, eh? But where will it take her and the one to my left has the cartoon look of an Elvis progeny. The peaches song is on. All the young men are trying so hard. Talking of the places they will be. My belly is starting to sour, though. From the drink or this spectacle? And the girl that was twice on my left has halved, the second part is now on my right.

Between this and that they all ramble with their mobile phone. Mobile phones are everywhere. And I don’t care what the eyes see–they all stare so intensely at me with greedy eyes–proof that humanity wants wisdom–even the girls. My old favourite. John Cougar sings about chili days and Jack and Diane. Bobby Brookes. Those jeans that contain the thrill of life.

Closing time. The last effort. The guys are all trying. I looked at Joylanda and told her what I thought she looked like. “You look like Elvis,” I said. She was utterly devastated. She went her own way. I tried to tell her that it meant nothing. Like I cared, really. The words, “You look like Elvis,” should be compliment to anyone. Maybe anyone not of this earth but have listened to earthly radio airwaves. The words sprang from me as though she were made from teflon. And all I can add is that I’m glad I have no daughter. Would or could she be in such a place? Joylanda? Like those chicks left or right–one and the same, split in two. So desperate. And when asked given a good and honest truth fiight it as though it were an ugly beast.

-Tommi