Bercian’s Rooster Flew

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rooster-onedotcom

Continued in English just below

Hey Bercian! ¿Estás en tu casa? ¿Hola? It’s Clara. Sólo vine a darle un regalo espléndido: un grande gallo llamado Frederico. Me siguió hasta aquí desde Nuevo México.

Mi abuela y yo estábamos de gira con una banda llamado América Turístico, pero fue despedido por tratar de iniciar una revuelta en Cleveland. Además, somos demasiado perezosos para mover equipo pesado.
Este país es una mierda.

¡Oh no, Frederico ha volado! Ahora que lo pienso, dónde está mi abuela? No estés triste, Bercian. Un pollo guapo y noble como Frederico  es amado de de su rebaño. Debería haber sabido iba a regresar a ellos.
Te voy a enviar otro espléndido regalo – un pájaro carpintero gigante desde el Río Grande! De acuerdo a mi abuela, ellos aman para nadar!

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VISIT BERCIAN:   VIAJES AL FONDO DEL ALSA

 

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                               American Tourist, Rust Bowl Tour 2016 / O’Brien

P  A  R  A  P  H   R   A   S  E

 I surprise the good artist, writer, and blogger Bercian Langan with the splendid gift of a large, handsome rooster named Frederico, who has followed me all the way from New Mexico. I pass on the news that my grandmother and I have just been kicked off the Rust Belt Tour of the Country/Hip-Hop band, American Tourist. We had proven ourselves useless as roadies because of our strong opposition to moving heavy objects. Also, someone had ratted Grandma out for attempting to incite the Cleveland audience to riot.

Whatever.

“This country is turning to shit,” I tell Bercian.

It suddenly becomes clear that Frederico the Rooster has flown away.  Come to think of it, where’s Grandma?

“Don’t be sad,” I tell Bercian, “A chicken  as handsome and noble as Frederico is beloved by his flock. I should have known he would return to them.”

Before I leave, I promise Bercian another splendid gift.

“I’ll send you a Giant Woodpecker from the banks of the Rio Grande,” I say grandly.

Maybe I shouldn’t have added that Giant Rio Grande Woodpeckers can swim. At least, that’s what my grandmother told me…

 

T  H  E   ~  E  N  D

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               CLICK HERE:   VIAJES AL FONDO DEL ALSA

If there were comrades: a political critique of the Left

Eléctrica in the Desert

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Our political convictions have endured because we have seen the same oppressive dynamics played out over and over and over again. Every gain we have ever made has been based on strategies developed from the  predictability of repression. Defending those gains would be impossible if we were surprised by each new form of the same, historic, relentless attack. We don’t have to figure out and agree on what to do each time. We have learned to anticipate, predict, and sometimes even prevent such attacks.
That is how the true Left tradition developed, and why certain standards prevail.

We do not have to like or even know someone to understand that when he is attacked in specific ways, in  specific political contexts, we must immediately respond as if we are all being attacked – because we are. Any one of us could be next.

L3VUI

If we have privilege, we are obliged to use it to protect those who do not, even if this…

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AT EVERY INJUSTICE

Eléctrica in the Desert

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America’s historic genius for defusing threats to its power by incorporating them into popular culture is nowhere more evident than in its transparent  appropriation of social media,  routinely trumpeted as  a revolution of egalitarianism and democracy.

That characterization alone should give us great pause.  Since when has the United States pursued any avenue re. its status quo to which the word “revolutionary” may be reasonably applied? And why, of all times, would it start doing so now?  Never before has the global elite so freely displayed the brutal fist of its true hand,  nor staked a more deadly agenda on the failure of  the American people to act.

We haven’t let them down.

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We have tweeted, googled, blogged, texted, emailed, face booked, and instagramed our way through a progression of atrocities, any one of which would  have propelled  millions into the streets  and jails not all that long ago.

Over on…

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Biggest Strike in world: India Engulfed in Red Banners as Workers Strike Back

Journal of People

IN PICTURES: Tens of millions of workers shut down the country in what is believed to be the largest labor action the world has seen.

The working class of India struck back hard on Friday in a nationally coordinated labor action led by the Center of Indian Trade Unions. The historic work stoppage is by far the largest strike the country—and possibly the world—has ever seen, and reflects a high degree of class-conscious militancy on the subcontinent.

Central and local unions across the country kicked off the mass demonstration 6 a.m. on Friday local time.
Central and local unions across the country kicked off the mass demonstration 6 a.m. on Friday local time.Photo:Communist Party of India (Marxist)

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Labor’s Day

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WORK: A LABOR DAY READING LIST

WE ARE THE JOBS WE DO

Compiled by Matt Bell

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Waste, Eugene Marten

Job: Janitor

In Waste, Sloper works as a janitor in a high-rise office building, moving from room to room, emptying trash cans, mopping floors, and other banal tasks. The book’s plot eventually revolves around Sloper’s discovery (and subsequent possession) of a woman’s dead body, and it’s the careful detail to his work that first entrances and menaces the reader: “The glass cleaner went into one of numerous pouches on the yellow plastic apron strapped to his cart, along with the other spray bottles and cleaning supplies. If pouches were empty you could use them to hold burgers and sandwiches. If a burger or sandwich no longer had a wrapper you used a paper towel from another pouch on the plastic apron. It was okay if a sandwich or burger was half-eaten. Potato salad from the deli in the lobby came in small plastic tubs that would fit into the pouches, as would donuts, bagels, rice cakes, croissants, muffins… People never finished their potato salad.” Everything the reader knows about Sloper in the early pages of this slim book comes from the way he moves through the office building: by the tasks he excels at, by the ones he refuses (he does not do detailing—”the edging, the deep dusting, kicking out”—among other things), by the liberties he takes with other people’s trash, other people’s space. By the time the plot of the book kicks into higher gear, the reader should have seen enough of Sloper at work to already know everything about who he is and what he might want next.

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“Work,” Denis Johnson, from Jesus’ Son

Job: Metal scrapper

In “Work,” Johnson’s famous protagonist Fuckhead spends a day with his friend Wayne, tearing metal out of a house Wayne used to own and having a series of dream-like encounters with Wayne’s ex-wife. By the end of the day, they’ve earned “nearly thirty dollars each” and arrived at the bar to find their favorite bartender working, a woman who “poured doubles like an angel,” so you “had to go down to them like a hummingbird over a blossom.” More important than the money or the booze, perhaps, is the feeling the effort has won them. Fuckhead says, “We had money. We were grimy and tired. Usually we felt guilty and frightened, because there was something wrong with us, and we didn’t know what it was; but today we had the feeling of men who had worked.”

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Green Girl, Kate Zambreno

Job: Retail sales

Zambreno’s Ruth spends her working days in Horrids, a London store where she sells perfume: “In the hierarchy of the fragrance department, Ruth is assigned to the lowest caste, that of the celebrity perfume. She is supposed to shill this perfume by an American teenage pop star with the name that makes Ruth feel a bit demoralized every time she says it. The scent is a waft of innocuous rose, housed in an ornate pink ornament laced with silver and crowned with a pastel-purple tassel. She is supposed to hold it like a chalice delivering holy water to the masses.” The concerns of her work life mirror those of the rest of her life, every moment revolving around fashion and sex and desire, an obsession with surfaces, with what it means to be a woman attracting and suffering the gaze of others: “Being a girl is like always being a tourist, always conscious of yourself, always seeing yourself as if from the outside.”

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“Sungold,” Justin Taylor, from Flings

Jobs: Restaurant manager/occasional costumed mascot

Taylor’s “Sungold” captures both the seediest and the stupidest possibilities of the chain restaurant manager experience, beginning with the soul-crushing embarrassment of many of the tasks—the story starts with its protagonist Brian trapped inside the “mushroom suit” designed to promote the “organic vegetarian pizza pub” he works at, explaining that “the suit is bruise-purple, furry, and mottled with yellow amoebic forms across a cap like a stoner’s idea of a wizard’s hat blown up to the size of a golf umbrella, though I prefer to think of myself as a huge diseased alien cock.” His boss Ethan is a drugged-out minor sleazebag (who Brian sort of aspires to become or at least supplant), hiring only women he wants to sleep with (“radiant vortices of bleach, wax, and puka shells”) and then later firing them, waiting until they start stealing so that it’s not sexual harassment. Brian isn’t some contrasting character always taking the high ground—he refers to these women collectively as the “Melissa/Jessicas” and he spends most of his time scamming his boss and pretending at the very lowest levels of progressive thought, as when he mentions that he and Ethan “still haven’t managed to find a black person willing to work with us but it’s something we’re interested in pursuing.” After they lose their franchise, they reboot as a new version of the same restaurant in the same space, garnering that elusive five-star review from the local restaurant critic, the “same schmuck who gave four stars to both Panera and Carrabba’s, until “it’s just us and Outback on the mountaintop, here in flatland.”

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“Where I’m At: Factory Education,” Jim Daniels, from Show and Tell

Job: Factory worker

This poem by Jim Daniels is one of the many he’s written about factory work in Detroit and elsewhere, and within that body of work it’s one of the finest. As the poem opens, the speaker—a new hire—is working “the cover welder / when the automatic cover welding gun stops / being automatic halfway through a cover.” He rushes to find his foreman, who gets a repairman named Old Green to come and fix the machine. It seems like he’s done the right thing, but later another worker corrects him: “Later, Spooner grabs my neck / pushes my face into the wall. / Old Green shouts into my ear: / You ain’t supposed to get Santino, / he’s got to find you, dig? / What’s the big hurry, boy? / You get paid the same no matter.” The speaker’s “education” continues throughout the poem, until at the end he’s also learned how not to work, taking lessons from a worker who tells him that to survive he’s got to work slower: “If you don’t know how / to break your machine / then you shouldn’t be running it.” “I work safely,” the speaker finally says, his education complete when a machine breaks down because of his actions, “I just point / to the machine, and thumbs down.”

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“The Hortlak,” Kelly Link

Job: Convenience store cashier/animal shelter employee

Most jobs have at least some surreal aspects to them, but maybe few jobs are more surreal than late-night cashier. What better way to depict the experience than with a surreal story? Eric and Batu work at The All-Night Convenience, “a fully stocked, self-sufficient organism, like the Starship Enterprise, or the Kon-Tiki,” perched on the edge of “the long, black gap of the Ausible Chasm,” from which zombies frequently emerge to visit the store: “The zombies came in, and [Eric] was polite to them, and failed to understand what they wanted, and sometimes real people came in and bought candy or cigarettes or beer.” Eric waits most nights for a visit from Charley, who works night shifts at the animal shelter, where she checks a list to “see which dogs were on the schedule,” giving them “one last drive around town” before taking them back to the shelter and putting them to sleep. Eric and Batu deal with the usual convenience store problems, plus the zombies, who they come to see as not so different from some of the “real people” they encounter, each “the kind of customer that you couldn’t ever satisfy, the kind of customer who wanted something you couldn’t give them, who had no other currency, except currency that was sinister, unwholesome, confusing, and probably dangerous.”

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A Manual for Cleaning Women, Lucia Berlin

Job: Housecleaner

This excellent (and overdue) collection feature work in some way, and the title story is among my favorites. It’s peppered throughout with parenthetical bits of pithy advice for cleaning women, such as: “As a rule, never work for friends. Sooner or later they resent you because you know so much about them. Or else you’ll no longer like them, because you do.” Or: “Let them know you are thorough. The first day put all the furniture back wrong… five to ten inches off, or facing the wrong way. When you dust, reverse the Siamese cats, put the creamer to the left of the sugar. Change the toothbrushes all around.” Much of this is used to show the separation between social classes, but there’s another smart gambit in play as well. While the surface of the story (and most of its actual words) are devoted to the practices of both cleaning women and their employers, there are brief asides about Terry, whose loss haunts the narrator. The busyness of her work (combined with the many bus trips she takes from house to house) keeps her from having to face her strongest emotions, and it’s not until the end of the story—when there’s at least briefly no more work to do—that she’s at last left with her grief.

 

 

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Matt Bell

Matt Bell is the author of the several books, including the novel In the House Upon the Dirt Between the Lake and the Woods and the newly released Scrapper. He teaches creative writing at Arizona State University.

 

A HAY BARN IN SOUTHERN NEW MEXICO

Eléctrica in the Desert

A desert hay barn / Claire O’Brien 2012

In the desert, many people build the cheapest barns possible, then just hope for the best.

I was driving south on New Mexico Hwy. 25 and spotted this little farm near mile 71. I got off at the next exit and pulled in. A man named Francisco beamed at me as he gave his permission for photos.

“I’m not the owner,” he told me. “But I’m in charge. Go ahead.”

Francisco disappeared on a tractor, leaving me free to poke around.

Don’t ever throw away an old tire.

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LOOKING AT AMERICA / través los ojos de jóvenes immigrantes

Eléctrica in the Desert

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Originally published in Latina Lista at latinalista.com / text and photos by Claire O’Brien

Two very small girls waited for a 4th of July parade in a small Midwestern city a few years ago. The city’s economy is based upon a large, fluid workforce from throughout Central America – a majority of them Mexican – and an industry which has for decades been specifically recruiting workers who lack documentation. I can’t claim direct knowledge of current conditions, but I can report that in 2010, when I took these photos,  an unusally thuggish, even singular,  brand of racism permeated the culture of the city and surrounding region.

The two little girls stood like sentries, about halfway down the block from their family group, The expressions on those small faces immediately stunned me,  stopping  me in my tracks. Whatever they were focused on was most certainly not a parade. In fact, they were intently…

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Broken Hearts

self portait

 

When the past refuses to stay in the past, it usually heads straight for thepresent. There, it’s easy to spot, because it’s usually causing a racket of some kind. If you order it back, this type of past will appear to comply, but it never departs in good faith. As soon as you’re sure it has finally obeyed, it will show up somewhere else, claiming to be the present.

Maybe it is throwing rocks at a tank in Palestine. Maybe it is an old Jewish man, lighting a candle in Warsaw. Maybe it is a pirate in the Sudan. Maybe it is sneaking across the Mexican border. Maybe it is a 16-year-old gang member aiming a gun at a 15-year-old drug dealer in southwest Chicago.

Or maybe it is a broken heart in Indonesia.

 

Art and text by Claire O’Brien / 2015

MY LIFE AS A PATRIOT

Eléctrica in the Desert

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 If I hadn’t  dropped by Eeuzicasa‘s  blog today, I would, of course, never have known that today is Bunker Hill Day – and neither would you. I suppose that’s one reason George B. posted it.  More often than not, his bounty of information turns out to be something you didn’t know you might want to know.  I ended up writing a long comment, some of which is incorporated into this post. I figured I’d taken up more space than was polite – plus, I couldn’t figure out how to add photos to his blog (joke, hardy har). He was extremely hospitable, and suggested that I expand my comment into a post. And here it is.

Thanks, George!

How well I remember lounging around the Bunker Hill statue/memorial  (after I had worn out the statue on the Cambridge Common) when I was a kid – the trip to the tougher neighborhood of Charlestown was enough to qualify…

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