The original title to the post was “The End of Wussy Psychosis”. After some thought I changed it, knowing the many nice people on earth who would balk at content with a title like that. The wussies are the scaredy-cat mentally disturbed who possess these semi-automatic infant pacifiers to protect themselves from everything gentle and alive surrounding them, and also that big sky which is bound to fall at any moment in their minds.
It is an anecdotal fact that adult children who possess these people killing shoot-shoots have no sense of irony, and are without the curiosity that forgives children wayward thinking. I posted this painting on Instagram with my usual hashtags dealing with art and paintings, and added embellishments such as #nra #nrawussies #suzieskirtnra #abnormalpsychology, and #babieswithguns. And wouldn’t you know it! I received several likes from suspect psychopaths on social media about the country and world (most likely country). Suspect because their Instagram icon was either an American flag, or one of those child-murdering beauties that Congressman Katko (NY-24) is posing with at the town hall in the painting above. So I go to their pages to confirm identities, and yes, plain as day to any psychiatrist or FBI agent with a trained eye—psychotic behavior with over 50 images to prove it. From crazypants Code-xyz, and his deepthroat image love affair of Jesus holding an AR-15, to USAsexysuzy in a thong firing the same model at pretend human targets beneath the great blue sky in the Arizona desert.
What the hell is wrong with these people’s minds, (and there were plenty more), to be so damn afraid of their own shadows? Maybe because their shadows are black? Does their chicken little terror prevent them from seeing the painting and sensing perhaps the opposite of love for the big metal penises they sleep with at night? Just a pinprick of confusion, and one would think USAsexysuzie might peek at the hashtags and see #nrawussies and think twice about “liking” the post of the gentleman poet who paints. Especially if the latter is convinced that USAsexysuzie is three Walmart® trips away from mowing down kids playing in the park, or hating 75 more liberals enough to kill them with guns and ammo legally supplied by my supersexy NRA wussy Congressman at the town hall.
Which brings me to the true meaning of the painting.
Congressman John Katko (NY-24) is charged in my morality with conspiring and aiding and abetting a domestic terrorist organization. No, no, no sillies—not the Sierra Club! Yes, those nature rats can get pretty dangerous walkin’ and talkin’ tough, shouldering their automatic seedlings and wilderness preservations. Danger, danger, I know. However, the Sierra Club has not lobbied to kill children in a school for over a century at least. Yet the NRA has. And if it takes an army of neurosurgeons to lobotomize the violent psychosis in the disturbed minds of USAsexysuzy and Congressman John Katko (NY-24) , then so be it. New Congresspeople can write up those necessary bills.
Now, in all seriousness, my representative John Katko (NY-24) has taken money from the NRA, a domestic terrorist organization. I don’t need the divisive FBI to declare its lobbyists in Washington a terrorist cell. If the typical agent can’t scroll an Instagram feed with the hashtag “nra” and find over a hundred terrorism leads a night, from crazy folk espousing the virtues of their leader organization, then said FBI agent is not doing her job. After the blocked seventh psychopath, I knew there was something very wrong in the state of the United States.
First and foremost, we need to state the obvious and no longer allow for obfuscation. Here:
The NRA, via the United States Senate and Congress, is a domestic terrorist organization. Those in government who accept monies and/or give support to a lobby that promotes weapons access to domestic terrorists, are themselves aiding and abetting said domestic terrorism.
Meanwhile, duck when you see a pick up truck. You just never know, right?
Thanks John Katko (NY-24), for the out-the-door and anywhere terrorism on our streets and schools. I am so proud of your psychotic leadership!
A brief post to visualize the loathing I have for elected representatives of the people. At present I am rotting fruit, preparing for their summer tours. Weak, ineffectual, greedy, and above all, cowardly. They may visit my door, one by one. I will be pleasant enough at first, boil water, brew coffee, and listen to the other side of the story. Then I shall make him or her cry and pound the table and profoundly feel the loss of the thousands connected to the murdered children in Florida. Then I will make citizen’s arrest and hold each in my skunk stink basement until saner authorities arrive.
That no deranged legislator has resigned is partial proof of their culpability.
Domestic terrorists. Each and every toothy smile flashed like a shiny stream of semi-automatic fire mowing down the young and beautiful in their prime of life.
Another small treasure slipping away. Quintus Gallery, perhaps the most beautiful individually run venue for art in New York State, the one which hosted the work of 37 international Stuckists last October, is moving on due to financial pressure. I am very sad to hear this. Sad and mad.
On Valentine’s Day I am having a one night viewing of work by 16 Stuckists.
The Stuckist is opposed to the sterility of the white wall gallery system and calls for exhibitions to be held in homes and musty museums, with access to sofas, tables, chairs and cups of tea. The surroundings in which art is experienced (rather than viewed) should not be artificial and vacuous.
I was never “opposed to a gallery system”. Not the small gallery. I was and am against fierce competition in art, back-stabbing, soul stealing. Many artists today are trying to make their way buying into a visual system that mirrors I Heart Radio corporate crap sniff. Always hoping and praying to be authenticated by the unartists, the business class, the people parasites. Some are boxed in so tightly in university comfort adding little triumphs to their “market me” CV’s. Some are truly just non-creative bores with money.
Lots of money.
Kathy at Quintus moved beyond the subjective—she knew (knows) that there better be a human being in the art, or their is no art. The first time she saw my work I was amazed at the time she took looking at each painting, asking about it, being alone with it, to leave it be for an hour to think about it, to return to talk with me about life, art, history… and then, hooray! Buy it.
She and Joe will do fine. I am not worried for their future.
However, I am calling out the devils which divide us. The following letter to ARTnews, Hyperallergic, Gallerie St. Etienne, and The Painter’s Table I wrote a few weeks before our opening at Quintus last autumn, to uninvite them. I mailed copies to each institution. Cost me five stamps, but well worth it. In my opinion they are poisonous places to which Stuckism remains a potent antidote.
Quintus is (was) a worthy middleman to art. Small galleries could and should remain solvent into the 21st century. But we’ll need to kill the art celebrity as soon as possible. For Wednesday’s show I am making shrimp bisque and buying up as much sparkling wine my family can afford. Come by and get stuffed, but you better promise to look at what we’ve painted. Just look at the paintings. None of us need a helper to tell us what is good to look at. Not at Manhattan rent costs. Only avarice can come from that.
Letter to ARTnews, Hyperallergic, Gallerie St. Etienne, The Painter’s Table, and ewwww, gross—Juxtapoze
110 Greene Street
New York, N.Y. 10012
A gray, cool autumn morning here in Oswego, N.Y.—my favorite kind of day, which I began in the basement painting and listening to Van Morrison records. I waved my wife off to work and looked to the sky getting grayer, and made the psychological small jump to mow the lawn before the weekend rain comes, and the grass gets wet and clingy.
These cool, intellectual days I think about everything, and during mundane moments of mowing the lawn or doing the dishes, I let the muse in to determine which direction the juices shall pour, not flow.
Today, ARTnews and Hyperallergic got in there somehow. Also Galerie St. Etienne, and then I just let the three of them sit down for a smoke and a talk in the situation room that is my brain. The small Internet site called The Painter’s Table stopped in later on, while mowing the backyard, and I vowed to skip the morning painting and let loose this meeting of my very limited access to the art world that comes via the business Internet.
This spring the Galerie St. Etienne returned the self-published books I sent to it six months prior, along with a kind letter expressing regret that it no longer sought outside contemporary artists. I found it strange to send back a gift of kindness, as might a team of lawyers scheme to thwart liability, and not accept it like any curious human being with a heart would. My God, I thought it was a gallery, not a law firm!
Anyway, it was kind to send reply—the one in a thousand received over my long painting and writing anti-career. It seems that Galerie St. Etienne respects the unknown building block (the artist) who gives credence to the myriad of buildings hanging pictures on sheetrock for profit. There is no bread and butter without cows and grass. Few galleries seem to get this, and those that do just might be the human ones that organizations like ARTnews don’t need to write about in wonder why they are struggling to make ends meet.
Now I have sent presents of my books to Hyperallergic, ARTnews, and I believe even The Painters’ Table because I am a painter, not a businessman. I send them with hope, never greed, and each facility should know that I have done so for many years to many individuals and institutions because I am an expressive artist, not unlike many who begin in a similar vein but end up working for the business of art. I am expressive, yet also hungry—not starving—just seeking enough financial success to keep from falling back to line cooking in my late middle age. I love to paint. And unlike a choreographed Mick Jagger, Jeff Koons, or ARTnews, I seek just enough dough to continue to do so.
Also, I loathe promotion more than I adore self liberation. So it is no thrill for me to seek approval to those who can help deliver a meager cash flow into my home. But I do it anyway. Because I am human and made of carbon and contradiction.
Now this morning Hrag Vartanian, a self ascribed promoter of art and culture at places like L.A. round table discussions, white-washed Chautauqua Institutions, and that beloved next-gentrification called “Brooklyn”, wrote in a fast tweet, like our dear lonesome president, his frustration at being used as other people’s “PR”—I assume he meant “public relations”.
Who wouldn’t be? All people just want to be loved for the right reasons. Nobody likes the feeling of being used. Like me, Hrag is an expressive individual, and I often even agree with his knee-jerk politics. Again, like me, he is probably also a bit delusional. However, I know this truth: He uses Twitter® more like a gossiping school kid than a person actually interested in painting. Privately I bet he’s a great guy, loved by friends and family, as well he should be. However, publicly I see him as an arrogant vanity that holds power and influence over others, and seems to like it, almost sardonically. To contrast, I will only express my overt arrogance in private, to my wife, children, and maybe a few close friends. To me, as a man and artist, that is my social success. Unlike financial success, I do not need to hope for it. It has already arrived! Likewise, as a painter and a man, I don’t need Hrag through Hyperallergic to promote me as a painter. I expect it.
As previously mentioned, I do seek financial dishwasher status in the art world. It is his job as editor and founder of a popular art blog to review me and many others in a very long list, else apologize readily for the insurmountable backlog. Otherwise, he and other institutional aggrandizing promoters like him (ARTnews and The NY Times) are irrelevant. All profit-driven art propagandists are no more than a bullhorn for established galleries like David Zwirner, and also that lying piece of billionaire tax write-off auction brothel, Christies®.
Here is why. No artist is or can be profit-driven and remain an artist. That should be the #1 precept printed poster-sized across the wall in art editorial rooms. Again, if it’s not what you stand by, then, as art promoter, Hyperallergic and ARTnews are irrelevant, just another businessperson’s scam.
That is my private belief now made public. I feel a strong connection to the art movement Stuckism, which keeps me painting when nobody, especially the bought and paid for editors of popularity, cannot recognize a damned kindness from an artist when they see it (a free book promoting other painters). They do notice his query about advertising, however. Why shouldn’t they? These institutions, like individuals, also seek financial success, and work hard to achieve it. When there’s a potential paycheck in the e-mail, then of course, open it up. I also trash the spam. Nobody likes the beggars, whether dressed up corporate crisp, or down, door-to-door like the ragman. I do not argue Hyperallergic nor ARTnews their desire to stay relevant, and likewise, financially afloat in the media sea of art. Their inevitable defeat into the 21st century is due to reliance on income from established wealth when the new age promoters of art (humanity) seek magnanimity in culture, as well as the pretty pictures. ARTnews cannot survive continuing to cherry pick what their readers need to “see” art to be, while relying on established interests to promote the vicious circle of money = relevance = money. A paradigm which is anti-art in a nutshell, and shouldn’t take a nutter like me to show all and sundry. I think the real world of humanity gets it. The Painters’ Table I forgive because it’s too small yet to hate painting enough to profit enormously by it. I think the editors are sincere—visually anyway. They probably don’t “see” like I do how many of the painters that they highlight love money almost enough to eat it. These editors seek pretty pictures with a twist—rarely human paintings by people who wish to liberate us from what ails us.
By the way, unlike Hrag Vartanian, I also do PR for others, and enjoy it very much. I’m doing it now for an incredible gallery show that Hyperallergic has taken no interest in (until it is celebrity of course, mainstream, established—like gypsum dust in wallboard). I’ve written to Hyperallergic about it without reply, also ARTnews, NY Times, Central NY newspaper arts editors—Cornell University art professionals (the painting professors!). I send postcards. I send exhibition or creative books to others. I ask that this show of 37 painters living in 9 countries be well-attended—to honor each sending his or her work from far away to a little community in the center of the real art world—which is any place where art for art’s sake thrives, and profit for more profit’s forecast dies.
Quintus is that small “struggling” art gallery that ARTnews and Hyperallergic cry crocodile tears over. Like the artist, it too can be the canary in the coal mine to profit-driven culture fabricators. Quintus Gallery is poised to make history next month which the next generation of art propagandists will glowingly report on because some influential gallery in Singapore needs Christies, Inc. to buy this dead painter so and so’s life to make another billionaire lie work for the billionaire. I say to these future struggling institutions of irrelevance, “Go eat cheese!”
Hear ye, hear ye Hyperallergic, ARTnews, and NY Times! I officially uninvite you to Quintus Gallery in Watkins Glen for opening night on Friday, October 13, from 6 – 9 p.m. You like money, maybe status too, but not art. The Painters’ Table can still come, if it stops looking do damn depressed. Either way, it would do itself a good turn to invite just a wee bit of Stuckism into its sycophantic soul. Heck, we’re all painters, aren’t we? Wake up!
Just this moment the magazine Juxtapoze popped into the smoking room of my muse. It is even more un-invited than the others. And if I catch any of those phony art and artist killers lurking outside the gallery on Friday night the 13th, then I might actually become bouncer and kick those bony phonies into Seneca Lake!
The Twitter editor of Empty Mirror, an online weekly literary journal, tweeted this on February 5, 2018: “Cleaned a bunch of the political stuff out of my feeds and I feel so much better.”
And that was that. Contemporary literature died. The people who came to read about the dead Beat poets, or dead Henry Miller, or perhaps dead political screamer George Orwell, found a zone free of annoying, present-day political matters, such as nuclear proliferation, Syrian refugees, or the coming environmental catastrophe that even the dinosaurs wouldn’t get the chills to witness imaginatively. The editor freed his or her feed from U.S. politics that, since WWII, have ballooned, by the breath of a mighty superpower, to lord over all life on earth and atmosphere.
Hurray. At Empty Mirror we can adorn our meditative consciousness with the fineries of life brought to us by writers of the past. Or, at times, click into some present day, university graduate’s careful art to keep our precious, unearned joys leagues away from dirty politics.
Here is what I say: There is no literature or art without politics and philosophy. Everything good that came before (in modern times) has been provided by super sensitive people reacting to the political environment of their day.
Writers and painters today have a slick, state of the “art” smartphone and a two-year contract with a corrupt and very political corporation.
Unart comes from comfort. Ask any artist alive today, if you are able to find one on or offline.
Those who do not want their minds sullied can clean their Twitter feeds or react like Barbara Bush when asked about her son’s philosophy of having other people’s children’s legs blown off by Empty Mirror’s tax contribution to American politics:
“Why should we hear about body bags and deaths? It’s not relevant. So why should I waste my beautiful mind on something like that?”
Perhaps the editor of Empty Mirror, who no doubt is a kind and sensitive person, views art and artist how another editor of a garage press reacted to my efforts on what turned out to be the last time I tried to get an unartist to recognize a work of art.
From Just Another Stuckist in Oswego:
I have theories about this starving artist dilemma. Many spring from the field of social psychology. Here is one:
None of us are any good until many of us say that some of us are.
Each failed writer or painter needs, more than talent, a promoter with Biblical outreach. If Beyoncé (accent on the e) wore the teeth image (painting above) to don her Super Bowl outfit, I would be rich and known richly by morning. Target® would call for a wall hanging product line, and the New York Times would best seller me. If Oprah got caught reading less trite and inane crap, maybe some of you talented writers could afford rent as well as dinner, and miraculously the Media-CIA Industrial Complex would suffer sinking ratings of its perpetually popular “Let’s Dumb Down America Now!”.
All fine literature, music, and art is relegated to obscurity if not considered salable by a connected media entity. Here is a rejection from a book publisher I received a couple weeks ago, followed by a quote from Henry Miller who wrote meaningful desk chair philosophy at a time when art was the artist, and not bullhorn announcements from high-rise promoters about the “state of the art money”.
You do seem passionate and, as you wrote, “determined,” so I’m sure this won’t stop you at all from continuing your search for a publisher. I would like to suggest you consider self-publishing this manuscript. Just from reading the first sample parts you sent me I can tell you it’s going to be a very difficult sell to any indie press. Forget about even going to the majors via a literary agent. It occupies too much head space, in my opinion, and while that’s not a bad thing at all for some readers who enjoy that sort of thing, commercially this would be extremely difficult to convince anyone to spend any money on reading your words. Even if you have some clout due to your painting, it is pretty thick stuff to get into and stay into. I don’t mean this to sound mean at all. I just feel that this is the kind of book that may have a life as a self-published work. Save yourself the time and trouble of querying anyone else and publish it yourself, then I would suggest perhaps focus more on the marketing end of the book rather than getting one of us snobby publishers to approve it lol. I hope you’ll agree.
A nice, honest rejection. I agree with him. I prefer to self-publish. But to make me a marketer of my own work is like asking a corn farmer to peddle boil-in-a-bag on the street corner. Doomed to failure before the manure is spread.
Thank you for a fast response and helpful criticism. Self publishing is the right way to go. Whitman peddled “Leaves of Grass” door-to-door, and look where that got him! No one then (or today) would publish Whitman’s work to make a living, yet countless entities do exactly that today. For me, it has become some personal badge of honor to be an unread writer in the 21st century. Like threshing wheat over a storm water grate. Very nothing, and yet some thing very good too.
Just doesn’t pay the bills.
Here is Henry Miller:
Most of the young men of talent whom I have met in this country give one the impression of being somewhat demented. Why shouldn’t they? They are living amidst spiritual gorillas, living with food and drink maniacs, success mongers, gadget innovators, publicity hounds. God, if I were a young man today, if I were faced with a world such as we have created, I would blow my brains out. Or, perhaps like Socrates, I would walk into the market place and spill my seed on the ground. I would certainly never think to write a book or paint a picture or compose a piece of music. For whom? Who beside a handful of desperate souls can recognize a work of art? What can you do with yourself if your life is dedicated to beauty? Do you want to face the prospect of spending the rest of your life in a straight-jacket?
I suggest all writers to read Miller, as Miller wanted to be read. Read me first. He’d dead. And I could use an art-paid-for loaf of bread.
Empty Mirror should understand this age old dilemma if it wishes to represent the greats of modern literature. Allen Ginsberg was not apolitical. He was politically agitated, turning his private anger into digestible, public art. Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac, any literary celebrity of the past whom we prop up today was, while living, a rabid politico or shoot-from-the-hip philosopher.
I believe the editor of Empty Mirror is probably sick of the political gossip he/she sees and hears, rather than politics as they pertain to the present and future machinations of the human race. The former is a game played online by bored and unfulfilled human beings—a kind of collective in-group solitaire to stave off the agony of emptiness which fills up in those people who are unable to express or seek art and literature to comfort them in difficult times.
However, I hope Empty Mirror can see that it wouldn’t have a platform to stand on if it were not for politics of the past which goaded so many artists to react to a world gone wrong, in their time. Reaction to the insanity of world wars, nuclear weapons, the devil in capitalism, religion’s vice-grip, ignorance and fear of the masses, etc., were not deletable on the intellectual browsers for most of the 20th century.
It’s good to kill the gossip, but don’t ever lose the politics. So many people suffered angling you, dear Empty Mirror Twitter editor, toward an easier life. If you want to understand art and artist, never become a Barbara Bush, who just closes the door to the ugly which we all are until the time when we are not.
Enter the reactionary writer and artist of today who would become known tomorrow if editors and gallerists were less apolitical gatekeepers, and more sensitive to the needs of those who express the culture freely.
Welcome the politics, Empty Mirror Twitter editor, yet seek the artist who can turn the lack of generational courage into a work of art.
¡Viva el politics in art!
National Public Radio thinks its status (the Dow) must be bull-horned every hour on the hour, else people will stop driving their cars and fall out of them onto the street. President Grump uses it to mark his triumph as a bootlicker to more successful imperialists. And everyday I pray to Pan that its average drops to the single digits, so mother earth can lick herself clean, and perhaps decide to give human beings another go at living on her back skin.
This week the Dow burped and lifted my spirits. I’ve been wanting to begin my series on the capitalist’s devil marker for some time, and it was a pleasant coincidence to start now, while the bubbles burst. I can only hope and pray to Pan that Monday brings a sharper decline—the kind that actually might set up a vena cava road block on Warren Buffet’s multiple potholed cardiac super highway, or find a frat boy pervert Zuckerburg tearing his own face off in the mirror. What a dream to finally see a steady stream of Chinese corporitos screaming off bridges, and my local Congressman losing all his crony capitalist funding quicker than a fly barf on a rotting pile of weapons industry CEO suicides.
That NPR announcement comes every hour to remind us that the dark forces are under control. If one likes horror stories, he can delve deeper into the blackness and measure individual company ups and downs on the Lifehate® meter, via CNN Money, Marketwatch, The New York Times, or his or her own secret hush money on-line portfolio (401K means “401,000 species closer to extinction”).
One can dream.
I dream a familial human economy (with access to antibiotics) close to the lifestyles of rabbits in their warrens, instead of all the rabbits dead and my portfolio achieving the best underwater condo in South Florida. It’s my dream. It can be as crazy as yours without the lace underwear.
I made another painting the next day, while the Dow was dropping satanically, 666 points:
The two are of the same vista. The first is a sylvan scene in my memory when the Dow was reasonable and I was a boy dreaming of a just and fair society. God, I remember parents thinking the world was ending they had it so bad, and yet, in hindsight, the Dow was just a gleam in the eye of the total global domination monster it is today.
The second is of the Dow this year climbing to remarkable, unexplored heights of Chinese Plastic Crap Mountain. I made this scene more fuzzy because I believe that time and the repetition of status-keeping, money hoarding, and career-building makes adults so stupid and afraid of practically everything that they begin to see the strangest demons climbing out of rabbit warrens.
Privately, every dollar we keep in the Dow is just a reminder of death around the corner. Publicly, its existence is our human being account sheet delivered to Pan’s desk at quitting time.
Most of America ate dinner in 1981. Americans still eat dinner today. What has changed? Two generations of coddled babies in their cribs make for terrible activists of revolution that needs to happen. Too many parents are dreaming that arbitrary wealth acquisition is the best way to “make a living”.
So I hope and pray Pan makes the economy implode. Because no human thinks to knock the Dow Jones propagandist out of his chair, I must call providence to action. I still dream like the child, who never dreamt about money to appear and make the world go away.
Here they are together. See? The future is the past is the future, no matter what the numbers tell you.
Mainstream Democrats and Republicans are 30 weeks or days away from imitating the 1940’s Life Magazine photo spread of the sweetheart from Nebraska posing with her polished “Jap” skull sent by her beaux stationed in the Philippines. I have experienced this stupid before when trying to argue any point with teenaged potheads (I was a young philosopher-in-training among drug dealers in junior high). They just don’t have room in their brains for reason. Everyone is the enemy or everyone a friend, depending on the high, and if there’s a promise to pizza before bedtime.
Adult and lightly educated Americans are losing their tops over the existence of a billionaire ignoramus for president. In the process they are posturing themselves lower than the meanest celebrity politician to rise to power since Ronald Reagan. People who dreamed themselves representatives of “the left”, are acting more “right” than a paranoid J.Edgar Hoover. And the pretend “right” is acting left sometimes, if their rich owners tell them to, yet still remain just as upright and sociopath as yesterday’s “shock and awe” of light brown children.
The present day Republicans are many second generation bigoted Dixiecrat sympathizers who jumped ship in 1964 when civil rights legislation was just too much trouble for white people afraid of black people. They had no place to go but to the business party, else drown in a sea of obscurity, admitting the U.S. of nuclear insanity a facsimile of its Soviet lover’s one-party system.
At least the first generation owned its bigotry proudly via excellent TV footage of police dogs and fire hoses.
And ethnocentrism (a natural offshoot of prejudice in any weak brain) has come to be expected from these angry faux-Christians of Confederate longings. President Ike Eisenhower saw the great nasties of man war, which made him a powerful bigot. Kennedy was a super bigot too, but he looked attractive enough to let his wife adorn fashion magazines, so all was right with the world while the U.S. blockaded the Cuban people from pursuing freedom and happiness. “Blockade” is elite speak for the phrase “punish the poor and proud, to death if need be”.
I guess Democrats were idiots too 50 years ago. However, being the “opposition” party meant disguising true evil intentions with fine and polished “doublespeak”. Otherwise time would catch on that post nuclear America has since been a one party system, with fringes of sanity circling the periphery of Wall Street and Pentagon politics, plying a loose skepticism (built on obeyance and fear) among the general public. No matter that a few million Koreans, Cambodians, Vietnamese, El Salvadorans, Iraqis, Afghanis, Libyans, Syrians, Yemenis, and Somalians killed in the name of sirloin steak and warm cornbread for the “Commander of Death” in charge, even when the “kinder, gentler” boss was so sane a democrat Lyndon Johnson, Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, and Barack “the deporter” Obama.
I am living in a time when Twitter® gives ordinary friends and parents of children a platform to practically beg their government to commit high crimes to innocent people of other nations (Russia sanctions). Who cares what economic sanctions look like when applied to vulnerable populations—their candidate lost and she must be vindicated! Else democracy is destroyed, even while the 20 richest people on earth continue their control of half the human population’s total wealth. Hurray! Extended genocide, and our candidate wins!
It’s living crazy, politics in America.
I’ll just keep painting and watch while my comrades lick the boots of the wealthy political classes. I have watched gentle people become quickly rabid when pressed by bad systems. Gentle, well fed people, don’t seem to know what to do with their boredom besides fear strangers in another nation enough to punish them their KGB king.
The simple truth is this: Extremists are killers with eyes wide open. Moderates are super-killers, afraid of losing their paychecks.
And people like me?
Moralists in a moral-less land.
Dust off the shelves for the foreign skulls, gentle bigot sweethearts of the next war. Make room for your own too! There’s no escape when the atom splits.