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From the Window Watching the Ashes

2/16/2011

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It’s a cold night, but the book fires will keep us warm. Thank Christ this nation has good, honest men stoking the pyre, keeping it blazing to rid us of contemptible works. Into the inferno, our own manifestation of Hell, with these goddamn Potter books, and the Stephen King filth. But don’t stop! We’ve got the collected works of William Shakespeare, and the cherry on top, that satanic wordsmith Tolkien. Burn it all. Burn it away. We’ll paint ourselves with the ashes and howl to the heavens, "We’ve done the Lord’s work! What’s next?"

I suppose it sounds like a ridiculous scenario. Perhaps the ashes are a bit much at the end, but how could someone really take it seriously? Well, that’s part of the problem. In Alamogordo, New Mexico back in 2001 a similar scene took place. Led by Pastor Jack Brock a crowd gathered outside Christ Community Church to burn books they’d deemed offensive and a threat to the moral well being of the public and the youth. The youth. In a way, children have always been the greatest chink in any society’s arm. Use them as an excuse, and no individual can stand against the rising tide. Just ask Socrates.

Every year challenges are made, sometimes successfully, regarding the availability of books in libraries. And in order to combat this censorship, the American Libraries Association makes sure to have a commemorative week at the end of every September called Banned Books Week. This is a time to contemplate the fact that books are banned all over the country, to rally against censorship, and make sure that people know the A.L.A., and hopefully other America’s, don’t like hearing about banned literature and book bonfires. As the A.L.A. boldly states in its own Library Bill of Rights, Article 3, "Libraries should challenge censorship in the fulfillment of their responsibility to provide information and enlightenment." Should. A bolder word there is not.

The A.L.A.’s objection to censorship goes even farther by helping individuals understand what might constitute challenging a book by providing quick access to this easy to fill out form:

http://www.ala.org/ala/issuesadvocacy/banned/challengeslibrarymaterials/challengereporting/
onlinechallengeform/index.cfm

as well as a list of the most commonly banned and challenged works, along with the reasons for said bans and challenges. Like when St. Edmund Campion Secondary School, in Brampton Ontario, Canada banned to Kill a Mockingbird because the novel used the word "nigger;" 1984 getting challenged for being "pro-communist" and containing "sexually explicit matter;" Of Mice and Men containing too much profanity and a dim view of the mentally disabled; Brave New World has too many references to sex and drug use as well as a blatant suicide; James Baldwin’s Go Tell It On the Mountain is "rife with profanity and explicit sex;" over and over again any use of profane language (A Clockwork Orange), sexual content (Sophie’s Choice),drug use (The Color Purple – which also garnered complaints about homosexuality, rape, "social explicitness," and incest), and anything concerning what can be considered contrary religious ideology: Lord of the Flies, As I Lay Dying (which questions the very existence of our bearded Lord), and anything that admits abortion occurs, are all works that find themselves up for challenge and potential banning.

Now, it would be the height of fascism to tell any one group what to think, which is why a democratic process exists whereby a particular work or group of works (i.e. the satanic Lord of the Rings) can be brought forth to be judged; and of course, not all instances of a book being challenged necessarily result in a novel being banned from a local library. If they were there would be no need for book burnings. As such, with the understanding that most complaints are raised by well meaning parents, like Parents Against Bad Books in Schools (visit them on the web at http://www.pabbis.com/), the A.L.A. wants it to be understood that they freely support the free exchange and expression of ideas in so far as local opinion has not overwhelmed their ability to provide access to said ideas. In other words, the A.L.A.’s stance is that libraries are for the free exchange of ideas, but since libraries are public institutions the A.L.A. is essentially powerless to stop any majority movement from banning a novel. As they say in their handy pre-fab answer sheet, for when challenges arise, "every library has its own policies, which are approved by its board. Our library has adopted the Library Bill of Rights. We also have a mission statement that says our goal is to serve a broad range of community needs." So if the board, which would typically be comprised of locals, decides that a "broad range of community needs" involved keeping Catcher in the Rye off an optional reading list (well played Issaquah, WA) then the library will submit to the community’s will. Like the Library Bill of Rights says, they should challenge censorship.

All in all this sounds like a backdoor to never taking a stance. The A.L.A. claims to support the free exchange of ideas while only readying themselves to combat blatant censorship, when the reality is that most censorship is a subtle manipulative thing. Perhaps they would know this better if a copy of 1984 were on hand. That being said, don’t be that guy who says these things are past tense, they don’t happen around here, "I went to my local library, and I found a copy of X, Y, or Z." The issue may not be in your immediate area, but it is one that affects the whole country.

Censorship has always been a form of social manipulation. Its purpose is typically to stop people from considering concepts that threaten the puppet strings. Under the guise of protecting moral well being and providing political stability centuries have passed in the malignant presence of censorship. Ignorance is the path to subjugation. Since the A.L.A. can’t or won’t – the A.L.A.’s own knowledge of their Milquetoast approach to book banning is evident in the fact their aforementioned answer sheet expressly recommends using the term "freedom of choice" rather than referencing any A.L.A. policy including the Library Bill of Rights – take a hardline stance against book banning, make sure to keep your ears and eyes open. Always remember no one can take away what you’re willing to hold onto... unless they throw you in the fire along with it. The only hope is that it doesn’t get that insane. But don’t worry, that will have been the community’s decision, not the A.L.A.’s.
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Road King

2/15/2011

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Not many journalists, or decent people for that matter, are aware of the Road King Competition that takes place bi-annually. Like Daylight Savings Time, it occurs twice a year and is rarely welcome by even those in the know. It is a grueling battle of resolve many lose the taste for, as well as the nerve, short hours into the tournament. And the ones unfortunate enough to call themselves fans often wonder what bred them to be such enthusiastic witnesses. Though, despite such considerations, they are always there for the beginning and typically aware of the end.

The Road King Competition began in the mid Seventies. After that, few facts sound reasonable. Only the old competitors know the full origins, and they know better than to skirt far from the Fifth Amendment. Suffice it to say that it is the only source of pure ingenuity and grit left in the American sporting landscape. For all the bluster of more popular sports, the Road King Competition is a twisted combination of endurance, creativity, and ruthlessness.

Two man teams, often constructed across years of friendship, pool themselves into a lottery of a few dozen names. Though these lottery positions are chosen at random, the slots simply indicate who will go in what order, first or last being of no benefit to any particular individual. Some may say otherwise, but victory is a matter of personal genius, not chance opportunity.

When a team’s slot is up for display the competitors select some type of small animal. These range from mouse, rat, or rabbit, to puppy or kitten. Raccoons have been known to be a part of the ordeal. However, their size prohibits victory in the distance category. And opossums are too atrocious a sight for the beauty minded judges. After selecting an animal that feels appropriate, the team presents their particular contraption. These are the last remnant of American creativity, and the first sign of potential prosperity from personal ingenuity. Intricately crafted catapults are loaded with the doomed animal -- sacrificed for entertainment, the grandest purpose these days. The condemned are then flung flailing onto a highway. The lucky buggers splat on impact. The more compelling remain alive long enough to attempt a desperate scurry from oncoming traffic.

The Road King is crowned by the combination of points totaling an amalgamation of distance, appearance, simplicity of design (the fewer components necessary to effectively catapult), and dramatic finale. The last portion is an unpredictable score, typically higher among those who do finish the animal off after the fling. In Chicago’s 2008 Road King, the winner of that category went to a young team of west suburbanites. Their apparatus hurtled the critter a mere thirty feet, leaving the beast, a mutt puppy, to crawl its way to safety. However, a speeding Honda cleaved it in twain, leaving two twitching piles to the delight of the crowd. But true victory is for the overall, not just the portions. So despite conquering the one category, those two boys were left with only the feeling, "Next year."

Road Kings are crowned in every state that is proud enough to bear a highway. Though practice rallies are known to occasion on quiet avenues, the real competition only takes place on the highways. Perhaps as some twisted middle finger to Eisenhower, but that may be this writer’s own bias.

Like most sports, it serves as a distraction well worth experiencing. The memories of each competition are a congenial mix of alcohol, bi-annual friendship, and financial desperation. After all, what is a contest without a prize? And this being America, there is no better award than cash.

The winner of a Road King Competition is crowned with a wreath of bills often totaling different amounts. Typically it finds itself in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars, though that sum is variable. That number comes from the fattest years when people knew but didn’t feel ashamed to be a part of things. Now it is more likely someone will walk away with a mere six to seven thousand.

All the money comes from a pool. Competitors put in their own amount, coaxing higher portions from other players by shaming the thinness of previous deposits. By such means, Road King tournaments remain the purest form of sporting in America, unpolluted by corporate sponsorship.

It might gain more popularity with even one major supporter, but then it wouldn’t be what it is. This is the sport of the hidden proportion, the great opportunity for those who have never found victory in the open avenues of this great nation. Down this alley they plunge to find the glory that is denied them as they strive to feel apart of the world at large. There isn’t much place for the oddly callous or the callously odd, but they do their best not to make their inclinations public. Despite the laws, there are still lynch mobs afoot.

So, under the cover of darkness, oddities wander the streets with boxes containing the twisted output of calculus classes and physics clubs. Even the supposedly hillbilly prove there is more to a man than his background, and women can demonstrate a commonality their genitals won’t permit with males. The Road King is for the successful, not the participant, and we love to make that point by way of a stain on the street.
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Maria's Lesson

2/15/2011

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Would you like a glass of whiskey?"

Such a simple request but one loaded with implication by the offer. The kindest offering ever handed to her. Maria saw no reason not to accept. Yet, every reason to say no hung foremost in her mind. To answer, she simply sat down at the kitchen table. The cold cut through her pajamas, but she did not shiver. She’d learned the pointlessness of freezing too long ago to act affected. Maria knew life too well. The glass, filled a few fingers, came to rest in front of her.

"Do you remember your Uncle? I think you do. You should. He spent enough fucking time here: drunk on the couch, ranting down the halls, giving more gifts than he could afford. I remember how, when he was a kid, he would climb trees. You might do the same if this city had any fucking oaks worth noticing."

Maria knew her uncle. Most people knew her uncle. He was closer to being an urban legend than a man. Who didn’t know about the time he shot the mayor for not shaking his hand?

"No one ever gave him a break. He had twitches. There’s no denying that. I saw him. Gave him a slap for it too. But only because I thought it would figure things out. Make him solid. Ya know. We do the same in this house. You‘ll understand."

Maria wondered about her uncle. She knew about him, though she never felt she knew him. Her family always made sure she kept her distance. Part of her felt it was because the two of them were so much alike, while another portion tried to believe it was because his problems were never meant to affect the family. Her father often mumbled about him when he drank. He often drank because of his brother. Though Mama sometimes whispered that Pop’s concerns were very different from what people assumed. Maria knew better than to listen to rumors. She saw the truth day by day.

"You ‘member the fourth ‘o’ june? He thought it was independence. We, he and me, sat up all night lighting fire crackers and downing bottles. Your old uncle knew how to bring out the best in me. I wish I‘da known how to bring the best in him. Gimme a kiss... Thank you. You’re a sweet heart. Never mind what your mother tells you."

There were days the sun wouldn’t shine, and the other kids at school would complain. Maria felt alone when they did. She never whined like them because she didn’t notice the difference.

"One day you‘ll get a better picture. The focusing isn‘t right with the lens. You know? You know. Tell me you love me. I want to know you do… Thanks for the little. Finish your drink."

Tomorrow was Maria’s eleventh birthday. It was also her uncle’s memorial service. She couldn’t say which she would remember more, although the sight of her uncle, a shotgun dividing his skull, seemed like it should take precedent. However, something in her said it wasn’t worth mucking up her life.

Maria finished her drink rather than consider the next portion.
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Watch Me Closely

2/11/2011

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The moment passed, Tom remembered putting the knife in his mouth. His son winked with a grin, his father’s antics had always amused him and he’d learned to only expect hilarity. Meredith, Tom’s girlfriend, crossed her arms on her chest. Holding the blade steady with his teeth, Tom arched back and felt the point slide down, coming to rest on the back of his throat. Meredith yawned. Tom winked at his son. His boy clapped, "Do it Pop!" Relaxing his jaw, Tom allowed the blade to ease down his throat. It felt like a paper cut. The panic it inspired caused him to pull the blade out sharply. He felt the blood in his throat before the pain in his cheek. Meredith’s eyes expanded. He remembered seeing his son’s face collapsing from delight to terror stricken. The boy’s features: a wailing gargoyle. Tom choked on the flood of red gushing from his mouth. Opening his mouth to gag out a cup of blood, Tom felt his left cheek flapping, tearing wider. Falling to his knees, he drooled and retched crimson. The knife clattered to the floor, a ribbon of sanguine flying off to fall in an arch, not unlike a smile, next to it. His wife started babbling, "What do I... wha... Tom? I’d, I don’t know what..." Tears erupted in a torrent from his son. But all Tom could think of was the sense of slipping he felt while standing still. How deeply the knife had cut into his throat eluded him till he saw black rimming the edge of his vision. Feeling lighter, Tom sensed there wasn’t much left for him. He smelled his son’s coconut birthday cake. He thought about the magician he’d called a "price gouging fuck." He knew he could do the same act, sword swallowing included. Because how hard could it be, he recalled telling Meredith, demonstrating his skill with a steak knife. She’d flinched then, but he’d proved it could be done. His son wouldn’t mind his father instead of a magician; and to show him how well the party would be he’d decided to show him the coolest trick before the other kids arrived. Nathan. And a butcher knife is more impressive than a steak knife – Meredith would never let him live this down – though he felt a mouthful of said knives topped any one blade. Noticing he’d stopped breathing, the blood flowing down his relaxed throat, a small steady measure trickling out his mouth, eyes fixed on the smiling blade, Tom felt foolish and colder. The moment passed, Tom remembered putting the knife...
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When She Sold October

2/11/2011

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She sold October
to pay the bills
and wonders why
the boy won’t return
her calls.
Every Halloween,
years after,
she dons the same
costume: October.
Even though
she hates lenses
she needs the grey
To cover her blue.
The clothes fit less
as the months turn calendars,
but she gets them on,
ridiculous in and never minding.

A branch broke the window yesterday,
and she came running,
hoping,
he’d forgot his key and wanted in –
the limb disappointing.

Word gets passed to scraps which pose as notes till October sees,
won’t read,
and proves them garbage,
tossed without a thought.
"He’ll call tomorrow,"
she whispers to gin.
And if not,
"I’ll call him."
Another bin bound hello.

But the oven heats, the fridge stores, and the lights all glow.
Thanks to October
being so valuable.
She cries
wishing she’d pawned instead of sold.
At least then
there might be a chance,
"I could buy him back."
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Before the Corpse

2/11/2011

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It needs to be said because it was never said before, and the consequences of such silence are only just now becoming apparent. The spent shells of a day long orgy in shotgun explanations have cut the walls to gloryholes for all the witnesses to get off on looking through, never knowing there are voyeurs from every angle, each watching and wanking with equal fervor to those thinking they’re "in the know." A thousand eyes observing with the same gaze, inspiring the same response, and all thinking each the individual. But it’s just a mass of masturbating ghouls, pressed to holely walls to witness a murder of crows pecking at a dead woman. No one knows who, and it’s doubtful her name will ever matter. She’s the actress who killed herself -- no one knows why though conspiracy cranks surmise a hundred in accurate possibilities; she’s the orphan who sold trinkets on the street only to freeze to death a few days from Christmas; she’s the last woman you ever loved and lost track of, maybe it wasn’t even your heart break that did her in, but who’ll ever know; she’s the mother gave up her kids for their better, just to find out they resent her years later; she’s a wife who loved but not her husband, so she caught the train too early because of it, landing where the Iron Horse flung her thinking she’s an attacker or stowaway or who can even say what trains think; she’s the goddess without worshipers. The only fact is that someone found her, and someone else wanted to claim the corpse, and they got to arguing so passionately attention was drawn from every quarter, thinking the cacophony a raucous party -- COME ONE COME ALL; the point lost the more arrive to make it their own. Only the murder carries any piece of the truth: the world belongs to those who consume it.

In their two hundred fifty calls, two distinct dialects apparent to discriminating ears, the murder are the only ones present who lay hands (of a sort) on the body. Pecking pieces to nourish themselves and carry to young, they feast on the image too many make too much out of, keeping the issue simple in the murder’s own way. The simplicity of crows, a lesson lost to the flop smack, wet flish-flish of the witnesses, men and women pleased to see something they can relate to, or think as much. But there are no words that go between, save for the caws of carrion crows, who make no bones, save the skeleton’s, about what they are. There are just thoughts to lie.

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    Author

    J. Rohr enjoys making orphans feel at home in ovens and fashioning historical re-enactments out of dead pets collected from neighbors’ backyards.

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