Full Time Slacking

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“Autumn is always a time of Fear and Greed and Hoarding for the winter coming on. Debt collectors are active on old people and fleece the weak and helpless. They want to lay in enough cash to weather the known horrors of January and February. There is always a rash of kidnapping and abductions of schoolchildren in the football months. Preteens of both s*xes are traditionally seized and grabbed off the streets by gangs of organized perverts who traditionally give them as Christmas gifts to each other to be personal s*x slaves and playthings.

Most of these things are obviously Wrong and Evil and Ugly — but at least they are Traditional. They will happen. Your driveway will ice over, your furnace will blow up, and you will be rammed in traffic by an uninsured driver in a stolen car.

But what the hell? That's why we have Insurance, eh? And the Inevitability of these nightmares is what makes them so reassuring. Life will go on, for good or ill. But some things are forever, right? The structure may be a little Crooked, but the foundations are still strong and unshakable.”

― Hunter S. Thompson, Kingdom of Fear: Loathsome Secrets of a Star-Crossed Child in the Final Days of the American Century

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When you let your leader slide for things you call your fellow citizens a sinner for....

You're in a Cult.

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When I was researching for the essay I posted earlier, I came across this photograph and it stopped me cold.

Her name was Pamela Echols.

She wasn't Rosa Parks. She wasn't Fannie Lou Hamer or Angela Davis. She wasn't already famous when the shutter clicked. As far as the surviving historical record shows, she was an ordinary Black woman caught in an extraordinary moment.

The photograph was taken in Milwaukee on July 30, 1967. Milwaukee was brutally segregated. Black residents faced housing discrimination, segregated neighborhoods and an openly hostile relationship with police. Civil rights activists were fighting for open housing while anger over police brutality continued to build.

Then the city exploded. Four people died. Roughly 1,740 were arrested.

And somewhere in that chaos, a photographer caught Pamela Echols fighting with a police officer, grabbing his baton while still clutching her handbag.

That's what gets me about this picture. It's an almost perfect image of an ordinary woman literally fighting against state power while holding a fu***ng handbag.

She wasn't armed. She had no combat training. She wasn't some physically imposing revolutionary warrior who showed up prepared for battle.

She was simply tired of the bu****it.

This is what courage looks like.

Not fearlessness. Not invulnerability. Not some superhero who knows she's going to win. An ordinary person looking at something bigger and more powerful than herself and deciding, f**k it, I'm not taking this anymore.

And that photograph complicates the sanitized, comfortable version of the Civil Rights Movement we're usually taught.

That version gives us marches, speeches, church hymns and courageous people peacefully enduring beatings until America finally examined its conscience and decided to behave itself.

History was considerably messier than that.

There were boycotts. Strikes. Armed self defense. Rebellions. Property destruction. Confrontations with police. And ordinary people who eventually reached the completely understandable conclusion that they weren't going to quietly take another fu***ng hit.

Civil rights weren't handed down from Washington because politicians suddenly developed consciences. They were forced upward from below.

Thousands upon thousands of people whose names never made the textbooks marched, organized, resisted, fought, went to jail, bled and sometimes died forcing this country to change.

Pamela Echols gives one of them a face.

Maybe that's why this photograph hit me so hard. We know the photograph better than we know the woman.

History remembers presidents and senators. It builds monuments to famous leaders. Meanwhile, ordinary people do much of the pushing that actually moves history, only to disappear from the record afterward.

Pamela Echols didn't disappear completely.

Someone pressed a shutter in Milwaukee in 1967.

And nearly sixty years later, we're still looking at her.

Slack!

Nothing is. There is no final enough of wisdom, experience -- any fu***ng thing. No Holy Grail, No Final Satori, no final solution. Just conflict.

Only thing can resolve conflict is love, like I felt for Fletch and R***i, Spooner and Calico. Pure love.
What I feel for my cats present and past.

Love? What is it? Most natural painkiller what there is. LOVE.

The last words of Burroughs' final journal entry, just days before he passed away, 29 years ago, August 2, 1997.

Pictured here, Lawrence, Kansas, 1991. "W. S. Burroughs at rest on his own property looking at sky, empty timeless but "the car dates it" he said"

more deep digging here: allenginsberg.org/2016/08/remembering-william-burroughs/