'One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star'- Nietzsche
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Monthly Archives: June 2020

I wouldn’t sleep and I took my mind
Lost all knowledge of time and kind
Been dead ——- 400 years (400 years, 400 years)
Wake up, hey (400 years, 400 years)

– Jimmy Cliff, “I’ve Been Dead 400 Years” (1977)

Peter Tosh has a new re-lease on life. Praise Jah!

It comes in the form of a children’s picture book — of all things! — just laid down next to the apples in the marketplace, simply titled African. The title comes from a Tosh song Equal Rights, his much-listened-to album from the heady ‘70s, rife with rasta music filling our pink Lefty ears with sugar plum fantasies of universal suffrage and equality, presided over, in joy, by His Majesty Haile Selassie, emissary of Jah on this loamy Earth. Pass da spliff, brudda. Forward and fiaca. Menacle and den gosaca.

The colorful book, illustrated by Rachel Moss, is part of the LyricPop series put out by the hip Brooklyn-based Akashic Books. The series includes (or will include) similar translations of songs like Good VibrationsRespectThese Boots Are Made For Walkin’, and my anticipated favorite, Where Is My Mind? the Black Francis cult classic. Recently, they even had Samuel L. Jackson pitch in with some sound quarantine advice in the form of an illustrated poem titled, Stay the F— at Home!

Equal Rights (1977) was a follow-up to Tosh’s debut album the year before, the wildly popular Legalize It, which got him instant fame among the undergraduate activist set in America and into all kinds of legal problems back home. Reportedly he was the “victim” of police brutality, and his title song was banned from Jamaican radio, making it even more popular worldwide. Legalize It is part of the fantastic cornucopia of musical wares teeming from 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die. Sadly, Tosh died brutally in his own personal 9/11 at home in 1987.

Equal Rights was more in tune with the global vibe at the time to end racism everywhere, arguably, Tosh and Bob Marley leading the way, getting our feet moving to da riddim (sometimes against our will, it seemed). They were engineers on the freedom train that some rastas (and wannabes) argue set in motion, by means of emotion, the collapse of the official Apart-Hate regime in South Africa and the release of Nelson Mandela.

Marley, Tosh and Jimmy Cliff pulled Jamaicans away from the service sector sounds of calypso (Nudda all-shook-up martini, suh? A Black waiter might have said to a sun-tanning Ian Fleming, who wrote some Bond 007 books there) and invited listeners to reconnect with their African roots. Beginning in 1600, the Spanish conquistadors began enslaving native Arawaks and virtually drove them to extinction with the introduction of European diseases. The Arawaks were replaced by West Africa slaves. And sugar (and rum!) began its sweet rise on the tooth and palate of Empire back in Britain and the American colony to the north, which would see slavery introduced 19 years later. Hello cotton! If not for cotton, there’d a-been no Che t-shirts to resist The Man with in the ‘80s.

Later, because the Mighty Whitey is so festive, and full of deviant ingenuity, the two commodities were combined and we had a go at eating cotton candy at county fairs. (No, just fucking wid ya.) Sugar went on to become the number one hit of all time — just check out the ingredients list of any food product in America today! (No, I’m not fucking wid ya this time.) Sugar was (and is) the oxycontin of the 17th century.

Equal Rights, following on the huge success of the cult film The Harder They Come in indie and university cinemas across America (good luck seeing the film through ganja smoke — fire code, my ass), galvanized and inspired white do-gooders (or wannabes) to fight back against Ronald Reagan’s new Cold War tactics (remember how giddy we got with the Star Wars program?!) and the trickle-down economics that GWH Bush called “voodoo” — incredibly ironical when he lost re-election and Bill Clinton backroom resident evil James Carville taunted him afterward with, “It’s the economy, stupid!” And then Carville’s boss proceeded to end welfare as we know it. Anyway, Marley, and Tosh got our feet moving, and that’s half the battle when trying to mobilize the masses. Dylan, song-and-dance man that he is, just can’t get our feet moving.

“African” is a wonderful song, and turning it into an appreciation of the African diaspora, for kids, is a cheeky and spectacular idea. Reinforce the notion early that they are a force to be reckoned with in this often-hallucinatory world. If they hear it enough times in childhood, then they’ll be ready for the attitudes later — Miles Davis: “I’m Black alright, they’ll never let me forget. I’m Black alright, I’ll never let them forget it.” And the cousin track from Sly and the Family Stone: “Don’t call me nigger, whitey. Don’t call me whitey, nigger.” On and on and on we go. We should be hugging each other, after Mandela was let loose on the world. But here we are again, all bebopping in Minneapolis, the Mighty Whitey in the White House with the black-chain-link fence implying the victims are terrorists.

Anyway, it’s a lovely song, fit for kids and adults alike, and goes something like this:

Don’t care where you come from,
as long as you’re a black man, you’re an African.
No mind your nationality,
you have got the identity of an African . . .

You will always have integrity, no matter your integument-y. Deep down in my dark white soul, I’d like to think I’m a little African. Rastafari!

Well, it remains to be seen if the song is legitimately effective as a sleeping agent. I guess if you read African as a poem, rather than cheating and playing the rhythm-inducing song off YouTube to the child, s/he may go to sleep — maybe counting Black people jumping fences to escape wolfish officers wearing dark glasses and fascist grins. But, if African is not effective, say your child is cholicy, Akashic Books has another Sam Jackson tale, Go the Fuck to Sleep.

Pass the bong, mon.

“Hell, you can’t get people to vote once, let alone twice.”

– Santiago Juarez, League of United Latin American Citizens

“Your chance of having your vote spoiled is 900% higher if you’re Black than if you’re white.”

– US Civil Rights Commission

 

We were warned about an imminent threat on Pearl Harbor before the attack. We were certainly warned about an imminent bin Laden-led attack before 9/11. Sadly, we were clearly alerted to the likelihood of a pandemic costing millions of lives, years before Covid-19. We’ve been told to expect a Pearl Harbor attack on the Internet, the global communication system gifted to the world by the Department of Defense. No conspiracy, no paranoia. Just the facts, ma’am, as Joe Friday used to say on Dragnet.

But nothing’s been more pearlharbored, especially since 9/11, than the electoral system that is the foundation of our once-exceptional democracy. Time after time, it’s been shown that voters are being disenfranchised on a massive scale; old machines continue to break down; newer machines, incomprehensibly, remain open to easy hacking. In 2000, 2004, 2008, 2012, 2016 and 2018, our state and national elections have been rigged, according Greg Palast, in his new book, How Trump Stole 2020: The Hunt for America’s Vanished Voters. And Palast shows us the Who, What, Where, Why, and When. Just the facts, ma’am. Then, Palast points to how, despite the disastrous disarray of his presidency, Trump and the Republicans will steal it again, if we let them. Basta! to that, warcries Palast.

Let’s look together: We continue to be plagued by racially-motivated violence; mass shootings in a land where there’s more guns (est. 400 million) than people; a homeless epidemic; dwindling healthcare, when the trend needs to be the opposite; public education that’s totally lost its way as a provider of critical thinking skills for the masses and preparation for autonomous university study; middle class people sliding into food stamp territory; valued jobs on the decline in a gig economy, in which many people need two jobs to survive; mortgages, rents gone unpaid; trillion dollar student debt, enforced by master credit reports that threaten ruin; and a two-party political system little more than a choice between the lesser of two evils. Never mind Covid-19 and climate change to follow.

These are some critical issues. And the only way they can be tackled is by electing genuinely gifted leaders with that vision thang, who can work with other such leaders, to pass the legislation required to tackle these issues. It is literally a matter of life-and-death for the Republic, and maybe even the planet. Without a functioning system in place to elect such leaders, we are doomed.

And Palast makes it clear that the 2020 presidential election is make or break, and while it’s tough enough imagining Joe “Ain’t Black” Biden as president, it’s impossible to see anything standing with four more years of Trump. Let’s not forget that from December 18, 2019 to February 5, 2020, the period when Covid-19 was just making its way around the world (21 nations infected by January 30, according to the CDC), but not yet in America, we were totally absorbed by the inane impeachment hearings — to the point that, by the end, everyone just wanted to chill out and watch the $500 million Super Bowl in Miami, where Covid-19 ejectile may have been as free-flowing as the beer in the stands, and acting as a staging point for its spread, as people returned home all over the country.

Over and over, year after year, Palast returns us to the scene of the electoral crimes. The mother of all of them was Florida 2000. Everything about the Florida election stank. Given that the state was governed by the Republican nominee’s brother, who had just prior to the election publicly “guaranteed” GWB’s victory, a recount should have been automatic, no Supreme Court needed. Then Secretary of State Katherine Harris, writes Palast,

flushed 97,000 voters from registration rolls—most of them Black—tagging them as felons, ex-cons, who can’t vote. In fact, the number of illegal ex-con voters? Zero.

(Not quite true, Greg: CREEP felon Charles Colson was allowed to vote.) Add lynching chads, voter ID laws, “disqualified” votes, uncounted provisionals, and lost mail-ins. What a mess. Then toss in Nader’s presence, and Gore’s inability to win Tennessee, his home state. Yuck. What did we step in?

Then we got totally disoriented by 9/11. By the time 2004 rolled around, we were deked and contused, and nobody seemed to care any more. Palast pointed out that John Kerry had had the presidency stolen from him:

…John Kerry lost the presidency by a few votes in Ohio. Kerry would have been president except that Black voters, some waiting 7 or 8 hours in the rain, found polling station doors closed in their faces at the 7:30 p.m. cut-off.

But with his trademark humor, Palast also points out that in Ohio 2004, exit polls showed that

John Kerry had won Ohio’s female voters 53% to 47%. Among male voters, Kerry won Ohio by 51% to 49%. But CNN’s exit polls of all voters showed Bush the winner in Ohio, and thereby the re-elected President. OK, class, what third sex put Bush over the top?

But that’s not all, in New Mexico, native American votes were ignored. “More ballots are spoiled or disqualified in pueblos and reservations than in any other community,” writes Palast.

In 2012, Fox analyst at the time Karl Rove, George W. Bush’s “brain” and tenderly referred to by the president as “Turd Blossom,” unwilling to accept Fox’s calling of the Ohio election for President Obama, and thus being re-elected, made a phone call, in a last-ditch effort to “disqualify” enough votes to reverse the count.

Rove knew, says Palast, that “early voters were not allowed to vote on regular ballots or on voting machines. Instead, they were handed an absentee mail-in ballot [application],” while they were at the polling station (!), and then handed a number and told to wait, like at a deli counter in supermarket, then took the application for an absentee ballot, filled it in, and posted it in a box, right there, at the polling station. Palast was curious:

I asked the County Clerk why voters were going through this mad rigmarole to get “absentee” ballots when they weren’t absent.

He said, “Because absentee ballots can be disqualified.”

What?

And so it goes, as Linda Ellerbee used to say. Only a Palast-inspired court order averted Rove’s subterfuge. Basta!

Well, in 2016, we know what happened: The Russians stole the election for Donald J. Trump. Whoa, Nellie! “Kris Kobach was more responsible than any other person in America for putting Donald Trump into the White House,” writes Palast. The Secretary of State for Kansas Kris Kolbach (KKK?) declared that the electoral system was being over-run by doppelgängers intent on destroying America from within — by voting twice! (see opening quote) Employing a system called Interstate Crosscheck, which was adopted by 27 states, including the so-called swing states, which resulted in the purging of scores of registered voters.

Greg Palast is flabbergasted and angry. He writes of Kris Kobach that

By the time I shook his hand in 2016, one of his schemes—Crosscheck (we’ll get to that)—had already purged 1.1 million from the rolls, too many of them Black, Hispanic and Asian-American, quite silently, in Michigan, Ohio, North Carolina and 26 other states, a stealth purge crucial to Trump’s victory.

Kobach is still at it with his purge lists and hoping to work with Trump in 2020. Ominously, Palast adds, “ In 2020, Kobach may choose our president for us again.”

But Kobach isn’t the only problem; swing state Wisconsin has had some serious voter issues, too. “In 2016, Trump officially won Wisconsin by a dinky 22,748 votes out of 3 million cast,” writes Palast. Had then-Governor Scott Walker not purged 182,000 student votes from the 2016 election, most of them overwhelmingly Democratic-leaning, then Trump would not be president. Walker has been ousted from office, but racist the Wisconsin Legislature has more than picked up the slack. At the end of 2019, they ended “Soul-To-the-Polls Day when most African-Americans vote.” No more early voting.

Palast said that he knew there was trouble in Milwaukee when he met with Sequanna Taylor, who told him she’d been purged from the voter registration rolls. This despite the inconvenient fact that she was Milwaukee’s County Supervisor. Palast adds, “Her name is on the ballot. Only a tip-off from a Milwaukee Sentinel reporter allowed her to save her right to vote for herself.” In all, the Legislature, so far, has managed to purge “232,597 voters from the rolls in 2020, ten times Trump’s 2016 margin.” Palast contacted Wisconsin’s Elections Commissioner Ann Jacobs who explained to him that the reason for the purges was simple:

This massive purge is clearly an attempt to gain an advantage in Wisconsin for the Republicans, particularly for the presidential race that’s coming up.

Apparently, swinging Wisconsin likes the swagger that comes with being the Big Cheese.

Palast puts special emphasis on what happened in Georgia in 2018. As corrupt as the system seems to many, even on the surface, what Brian Kemp did in Georgia breaks new ground. Serving as secretary of state, while running for governor, was entirely unethical and, given what he ended up doing, probably grounds for felony prosecution. As secretary, Kemp got to decide which votes counted, and which didn’t. When Stacey Abrams lost the gubernatorial race to Kemp, she refused to go the route of Al Gore and Hillary Clinton and merely accept the outcome. She started a non-partisan group called Fair Fight, who hired Palast’s investigative team to dig into “the math” of the purges.

They found that Kemp, employing the tactic of declaring people who had “moved” as scrubbable from the rolls, had led to thousands of suddenly disenfranchised people:

Of the half million voters Kemp purged for supposedly moving their residence, 340,134 had never moved an inch. But now, the Lenser team found nearly 100,000 more who had moved within their county—and therefore, they too should never have been purged. The total of wrongfully scrubbed voters was now over 400,000.

Palast is quick, however, to point out that Kemp borrowed this criminal idea (it’s literally a violation of the National Voting Registration Act of 1993) from Republican Secretary of State, Jon Husted of Ohio. And so successful has it been that this formula has been adopted by a cabal of Republican secretaries of states. In this way, writes Palast, “millions [have been] blocked from voting . . . and they don’t know it.”

But we needn’t delude ourselves into thinking it’s all about Republicans and their evil will-to-power shenanigans; Democrats can do the ‘ol you-call-that-a-noif routine just as well. California Secretary of State Alex Padilla, a campaign backer of both Clinton and Joe Biden, went to extraordinary lengths to fuck the 5.3 million young voters (mostly Latino) who chose to vote as independents (NPP) rather join the Democratic party. Why? They didn’t like the “lesser evil” offered up, and, in this instance, writes Palast, they overwhelmingly preferred “Tio Bernie” to Biden this year, “Tio Bernie” to Clinton in 2016.

Using the “disenfranchisement by postcard” method, just before Christmas last year, Padilla sent out cards to NPP voters. The cards were designed to look like “junk mail” and, writes Palast, “91% of voters threw them out.” Those who ‘got it’ had to go to a polling station and literally ask for a “Democratic Crossover” ballot. If they didn’t use that specific language. Poll workers were instructed not to help them. Other poll workers, writes Palast, were themselves confused by the process:

Many confused poll workers gave the NPP voters Democratic ballots, not ones marked “CROSSOVER,” not realizing that, in most counties, those ballots would be tossed out, disqualified.

Other ‘anomalies’ led to Sanders’ primary campaign being sabotaged by Party insiders determined to make sure Biden received California’s huge pot of electoral delegates.

And there are many other players that Palast names and excoriates. There’s Ohio Secretary of State Jon Husted’s reduction of polling stations in Black precincts that led to looooooooooooong lines. There’s Hans “The Fox” von Spakovsky Prove-you-are-a-citizen game (BTW, Why is there a space between Lyons and Spikovsky? See film: Fallen). Kim Strach, North Carolina’s elections board director, favored “Ballot Harvesting”to cull undesired votes. GOP secretary of state Ruth Johnson blocked a hand count of 75000 votes that hadn’t been processed by broken scanning machines — which would have given Michigan to Clinton. Paul “The Vulture” Singer gutted the Voting Rights Act by lobbying with funds earmarked for cholera relief in Africa.

In a trustworthy political world, efficient, well-oiled machines could take the sinful, human factor out of the process that is, after all, the glue of a functioning democracy. But even here, we find failure. We keep using old voting machines (in minority areas) that we know will break down. But even newer machines are suspect. Palast didn’t cover it specifically, but “Voter Village” a September 2018 DefCon voter hacking event (it’s annual), ironically supported by Alex Padilla, found four key vulnerabilities: Supply Chain Insecurity (machine parts manufactured overseas could come pre-hacked; through compromised chips whole classes of machines could be hacked across the U.S., remotely, all at once ), Remote Attacks Proven, Hacking Faster Than Voting (in under 2 minutes), Hacks Don’t Get Fixed. Startling stuff, well worth reviewing.

In addition to all the wise and witty writing in How Trump Stole 2020, Palast pads the otherwise short book with three insertions: An Emergency Alert section (“Coronavirus Causes Outbreak of Mail-in Madness”) which warns readers that, in 2016, “512,696 mail-in ballots—over half a million—were simply rejected, not counted. That’s official, from the EAC.”; the second extra insert is an extended interview with Stacey Abrams regarding the 2018 Georgia debacle; and, my favorite, a 48-page Ted Rall comic book version of Palast’s detailed assertions, which is funny and spot-on — a great add-on to the book.

Palast is a hip guy, and he’s not afraid to let the reader know just how hip he is. He’s got a rip-snorting (at times) sense of humor, without allowing it to degrade his argument or observations. He is a former professor of statistics, which lends authority to his reads of numbers. He’s a former gumshoe. And he’s an award-winning journalist. Palast writes that Republicans have done everything they can since Eisenhower (remember that hilarious MIC warning he gave to the public in his last speech as president) to get in power and stay there — including stealing elections — because they see themselves as champions of the MIC and proud defenders of America’s manifest destiny. While Palast definitely blames Republicans for the current state of electoral disrepair, he boldly notes where Democrats, too, have let American democracy down.

As Palast sees it, the answer is Power; simple as that. The more power you have, the more you crave it, like greed; and as Nobel peace prize winner Henry Kissinger once said, power is “the ultimate aphrodisiac.” So, we don’t fix the dysfunctional system, and may even make it worse, because it suits the corruption it takes to keep hold of power. We’ve all watched enough West Wing and Veep and House of Cards to get a reinforced sense of how it is. Just Is, rather than justice.

And speaking of Henry Kissinger, it’s also worth remembering his infamous statement at a 1970 meeting of national security wonks, which became known as the Kissinger Doctrine:

I don’t see why we need to stand by and watch a country go communist due to the irresponsibility of its people. The issues are much too important for the Chilean voters to be left to decide for themselves.

Do note that that second sentence is often left out when quoted by the MSM. You could be forgiven if you believed the ghost of Duane Clarridge has come home to roost.

In the end, Greg Palast makes it absolutely clear that Americans don’t need Russians to meddle with their elections and fuck up their democracy. They’re doing a swell job already. He says,

Did the Russians attempt to interfere? Yes, but about as effectively as a mosquito interfering with a Steph Curry three-pointer. A Russian oligarch spent a ginormous $150,000 on Facebook ads, about 1/10,000th of the $1.2 billion spent on pro-Clinton ads.

The Russians did it? Nyet.

The remedy to all of this, writes Palast, is to go after these lawless pols, by shaming them in the press, and show that their treasonous behavior is done without people knowing (it would be a revelation for citizens to understand that the vote they thought they cast was thrown away, behind their backs, by the orders of these slimesters). Don’t give up and stay home. Go out and vote — only once, of course.

Oh, and, Basta!

Meet Joe Black

by John Kendall Hawkins

 

Today lookin’ like Death warmed over

Foolish as Brad Pitt just sayin’

arrivederci

His jiffy do gone

Replaced with a ‘fro

He recounts how he done Corn Pop

A bad dude needing welfare reform

Poolside all those white years ago

When push came to shove

Back in days he was good buds

With folk who exchanged

strange fruit trading cards

And called each other Bubba

 

 

Meet Joe Black

The great white hope now

Up ‘gainst that colored harlequin

In the white house

If only Joe hadn’t Coleman Silked

A human stain in his pants

A mea culpa spook

Rattling his closeted skeletons

Just a dog-faced lying pony soldier

Too small to fail

Like a shape-shifting monster virus

Politician one step below molester,

As Woody Allen would say

(Underwear have term limits

Why not politicians: take a memo:

Compare track records, and skid rows)

And the only thing is

biden Joe did wrong

Is he done went ‘head and stayed

in Mississippi a day too long,

As Bobby Dylan would say.

 

 

Meet Joe White

Sloppy slap happy Joe

We done scraped da bottom da barrel

American Vegemite

(And the Aussies don’t even know)

superduper did another roperdoper

Up against the wall, he dropped the quine

Like hippies dropped El Cid to change their minds

And yesterday someone compared trump to hitler

who when his vases were panned

(apparently, it’s not so cool

if a rose is not a rose is not a rose)

ripped apart his brushes in a

Mein kampf  kristallnacht bulldozer rage

Dancing like sugar plumbed fairies in his head

And painted them under his nose

And then good germans showed up, unopposed

Buttrump

We’re talking vases of finger flowers in bloom

Nuremberg, Leni W. as Shalott at the history loom

And Richie Rich broken bad

shirty brownnosers sieg heiling

Henry Kissinger American Express

Is that really an image we want?

Don’t leave home without it

because there’s a virus

 

Meet the Two Joes

States of red and blue

rock em sock em robo-pols

one flew east one flew west

And someone each of them knew

flew to New York to invest

Wall Street rallies don’t need

Triumphs of the will

Democracy will do

The red pill or the blue bill

choose your poison, flagly

(Socrates said fuck it give me the hemlock)

Well, someone said, maybe Elvirus,

that it ain’t over til

the morbidly obese fat fuck sings

And this could end falsetto

A quarantino ending for the ages

We all fall down

Inglorious basterds (sic, real sic)

Watching our dreams go up in flames

 

Let’s see what the mourning brings

 

 

 

 

In Search of the Chosŏn People 

by John Kendall Hawkins

 

When you go away
Sick of seeing me,
I shall let you go gently, no words.

From Mount Yak in Yŏngbyŏn
An armful of azaleas
I shall gather and scatter on your path.

Step by step away
On the flowers lying before you,
Tread softly, deeply, and go.

When you go away,
Sick of seeing me,
though I die; No, I shall not shed a tear.

– Kim Sowol, “Azaleas,” translated by David R. McCann

 

I can still recall the early morning cab ride I took many years ago in Daegu, South Korea.  I was in a hurry, as usual; too much soju and kimchi the night before. On my way to the hagwan for the morning portion of my day-night split shift to teach EFL to busy university-aged students cramming in some English idioms seemingly between classes. It was the loneliest cab ride I’ve ever taken. No English spoken; I pointed to a map. The interior a shrine of talismans lit by a black light, a weird Wurlitzer melody and a voice of sorrow coming from the tape player, like an oriental version of “In Heaven” from David Lynch’s Eraserhead. Speaking of hung over idioms.

As you do in your travels anywhere, if you’re quiet enough, you let the “strange” culture in osmotically, and get an algorithmic feel for it over time. We’re 60% water from the culture we came from; by the time I left Daegu I was 60% Korean, by that measure.  The rest I had to bring on board.  People push and shove, masks worn everywhere, neon signs, musical language, sleepy Korean soldiers pouring from yellow buses, the sense of occupation.  You remembered you were in a country still at war. And when you got tired of it, you found a way on to the American base, to buy Maxwell House and Gallo at the PX, hit the gym and library, and have brunch before the big screen with American sleepy soldiers. ‘Tired of it’ – the fucking moxie.

It wasn’t until years later, after I was out of Korea, one day poring over photo albums full of snapshots, that I began to more fully appreciate the culture I’d left behind, and thought about all the photo albums, smuggled out, full of our frameworks, our  M*A*S*H* up of yet another client culture we don’t understand. I tried to keep this all in mind as I read Paek Nam-Nyong’s  Friend: A Novel from North Korea.  You go at it thinking you’ll be imparted some salving insight into the South’s mean-girl sister to the North, sulky and envious, in lieu of material conspicuity.  Some urge to be rescued by the West; a hunger for Micky D’s.  The bobbing bait of materialism on the surface of things.

But Korea for 500 years was culturally and socially unified under the Chosŏn Dynasty. Though a so-called client state of China during that time, Korea was politically autonomous; China was laissez-faire. Then in 1910, Japan colonized Korea until 1945, meeting underground resistance. During that Japanese occupation Kim Il-Sung, the grandfather of Kim Jong-un, was a Soviet-trained guerrilla leader known as “Tiger,” who led a series of effective tactical assaults.  Japan had to cough up Korea at end of WW2, in a settlement involving the Soviets and Americans.  When it became time to unify Korea, Kim Il-Sung held “free” elections that included no Southern representatives and proceeded to occupy all of the South, except the Pusan region. America/UN pushback ensued (see Korean War) and here we are.

Friend is an old book, first published in 1988 and previously translated into French and English. This edition, translated by Immanuel Kim for Columbia University Press, comes at a peculiar time in North Korean-American relations, and expresses a kind of hope that the Man Who Would Be King, Donald Trump, has counterintuitively created an atmosphere of negation with boy totalitarian Kim Jong-un.  What wonderful times for global democracy, but we’ll take what we can get.

Kim tells us that the author, Paek Nam-Nyong, once belonged to the April 15th Literary Production Unit, a central task of which was to produce historical novels – The Year 1932, being one – extolling the heroic virtues Kim Il-Sung and Kim Jong Il. By doing so, Nam-Nyong helped prop up the almost-caricaturistic, larger-than-life Kim personality cult that uneasily reminds one of Jimmy Jones and his Kool-Aid gang in Guyana.  Also, an important lens to keep handy is that Nam-Nyong’s father was killed in an American bombardment of the North when he was a baby, and, growing up in poverty, he lost his mother to disease when he was 10 years old.  He lives in Pyonyang today.

The Friend referred to, by the novel’s title, is one Jeong Jin Wu, a judge who specializes in divorce cases, and the odd off-cut case that gets to the heart of the DPRK’s social contract with astonishing clarity. Nam-Nyong opens the novel by suggesting to the reader that life is so calm and serene in a district of the city Kanggye in the 1970s that nobody really knows where the court is located.  “Although the Superior Court handled unsavory civil and criminal cases,” Nam-Nyong’s 3rd person limited omniscient narrator tells us, “the monumental facade of the building gave an impression of both grandeur and quiet dignity.”  In this sense, Judge Jeong Jin Wu represents the Court-as-Friend – there to quietly restore a sense of Confucian balance.

It’s a short novel, at about 200 pages, and yet Nam-Nyong manages to “say” the judge’s name some 621 times (I counted). The effect of the three stressed syllables – Jeong Jin Wu – is to reinforce the importance of this protagonist, not only as a subject-in-himself but a central representative of the socialist community.  He’s a role player, and by the time we’re done with book, we see a society of role players.  It would border on allegorical, if not for the fact that people actually live like this.  (Remember our American communes in the ‘60s and the roles we played, rapping and freely sharing our naked love with each other? I do; I was in a poetry commune and coupled often.) Buddhists dig it.

Well, how does a ‘peaceable kingdom’ work?  To work at all, it has to be all about works, and trappings of materiality have to be stripped down, desire put on a paleo diet, and consciousness focussed on the old yin and yang – balance for the many; it’s the way the emperor likes it.  Sounds crazy and cartoonish, but you should hear what they say about capitalism. This is really a central theme of Friend.  We don’t need no Koyaanisqatsi in our community. And the judge is there, a gentle Lefty arbiter, to restore the balance. True, he’s a little too Left, but the promise is that, in the end, like T.S. Eliot said at the end of Four Quartets, “All manner of things shall be well.”

Friend  has three parts, Their Love, Two Lives and Family, and works its way through the process of becoming and unbecoming in the lives of Lee Seok Chun and Sun Hee, a couple with a young child, Nam Ho, who are seeking a divorce from each other.  The whole of Friend is equal to the sum of these parts. Judge Wu listens patiently when Sun Hee, a leading mezzo-soprano for the Provincial Performing Arts Company. Meets with him in his court chambers to plead her case for the divorce. Wu tries to surmise the underlying issue:

Why does she want a divorce? Do she and her husband not have a good sex life? Judge Jeong Jin Wu thought. Or perhaps her husband is impotent. No, it can’t be that. She has a son.

Standard stuff everywhere.

It turns out to be a matter of irreconcilable differences. But it’s a society of reconciliation, and such differences, at least as far as Wu is concerned, need to be fleshed out and understood – possibilities other than divorce imagined.  Wu is a sensitive soul who loses sleep over the discord of his supplicants.  “Much like a fisherman trying to untangle knots in a fishing line, Jeong Jin Wu was upset by the burden of having to deal with another family’s misery,” the narrator tells us. Oh, what tangled webs we weave when we go and self-deceive, he seems to believe, but then what does Wu know, as Nam-Nyong puts the judge through some serious changes of his own, when we discover Wu, too, has marital difficulties.  Spicy dramatic tension.

So, not only do we learn that the good judge has grown to resent his wife’s absence from home 20 days per month (following her bliss involves bringing her agricultural expertise to a mountain community far away, and forces the judge to do his own dishes). He also recalls a couple that he did divorce out of pity for the wife, once he discovers that the husband was willing to call her an adulterer (and destroy her reputation) to get a divorce.

This Korean Pilgrim’s Progress through the stages of discord back to balance involves other couples observed, too.  And we meet an idealized couple, in the form of Eun Mi and her family.  Sun Hee “envies” Eun Mi

because she was also a great singer and dearly loved her husband with the kind of innocence that had not yet seen the harrowing reality of married life. The couple’s intimacy was evident, and harmony dwelled in Eun Mi’s family.

This harmony, to Wu, a man who must weigh things in the great scales of district justice, his humble zone of local influence, is everything.  He reinforces the value of these couplings by showing another couple – a nameless coal miner and school teacher, who are shown as hard-working and loving – whom he returns to a few times.  In fact, as he does with Seok Chun and Sun Hee, he interferes, after judicial hours, in their marriage dialectics.  For instance, with Seok Chun he will go the extra mile to a river and wade knee-deep to dredge up special sand for Seok to make a machine mold for a project that will advance his career – and maybe make Sun Hee happy and willing to drop the divorce.  Later, he tries to talk the coal miner out of apparent incipient alcoholism, as he fears it will unbalance his now beautiful marriage.

Like the culture it comes from, the language in Friend is spare and unadorned and refreshingly clear.  Like re-reading Hemingway after fucking around with Joyce’s islands in the stream of consciousness called Ulysses. Nam-Nyong’s characters’ thoughts, though complex, are not caught up in decorative expositions of wit, charm and intellectuality – because these are forms of excess subjectivity and materiality (celebrations of desire that lead to problems in a society bent on egalitarianism).  So, then.

Nam-Nyong achieves this effect in two instances where he has remembrances of love’s eruption, leading to proposals and a marriage contract.  First, we hear some of Seok’s thoughts about his infatuation with Sun Hee as he meanders through the pouring rain:

Seok Chun meandered as though intoxicated and, struggling to keep his balance, proceeded in despair. Suddenly he fell into a ditch, a booby trap set by the neighborhood kids.  Seok Chun lifted his head and saw on the path the silhouette of a woman holding an umbrella against the dim dormitory lights.

In the shadow of the umbrella, Seok Chun saw the face of Sun Hee.

Then, in the factory, Seok Chun is so infatuated that he literally tunes into the machine she operates: “Amid the noise of all the running machines, Seok Chun was able to distinguish the sound of the friction press that Sun Hee operated.” You can’t manufacture this kind of love.

Not long after reading aloud a legalistic thesis on marriage through history to a group of comrades, he is offered tender, private advice by Eun Ok who admires his intellect, and he, in return, her beauty.  Early in his courting days with Eun Ok, he, a well-grounded judge, has his emoceanal waters moved by her lunar persuasion:

Eun Ok walked beside Jeong Jin Wu with an arm wrapped tightly around his. She was jubilant, her face gleaming like majestic snowcapped mountains. Simply gazing at Eun Ok’s radiant face and lustrous eyes [earlier, Nam-Nyong  had described Sun Hee exactly the same way] made Jeong Jin Wu ecstatic. The ice crunched under the feet of the two lovers treading on the snowy path. The brisk morning breeze had become calm, and the sky was clear. The silver clouds receded from the snowcapped mountains into the far distance.

They looked at each other in silence, the kind of silence that had existed before the universe was formed.

While it lasts, love is a many splendored thing indeed, but soon, too soon, it seems, the tide goes out on moony love: “Time had passed. Marriage had not been an enchanting reverie but a harrowing reality.”

Nam-Nyong uses naturalistic, almost animistic descriptors at times. Forces of nature express anthropomorphic interest in the lovers described.  This, too, seems to be a cultural phenomenon.  “Azaleas,” the poem by Kim Sowol quoted above, was written in 1919, during the Japanese occupation of Korea.  On one level it suggests a broken love, a woman wanting to move on with her life, with the retired lover strewing azaleas at her feet as she goes, rather than tears.  This motif is taken up in Friend, as each of the marriages presented is rattled by independent-minded females.  On another level, it seems to speak to what David R. McCann calls “the resigned sadness of the Korean people.” (It’s worth noting that azaleas contain a dangerous psychotropic rhodotoxin, derived from a plant native to Japan.)

One other aspect of Friend that is cleverly achieved is Nam-Nyong’s depiction of children and, consequently, family.  The thought that disturbs Judge Jeong Jin Wu most is how broken marriages will affect the children.  Nam-Nyong stages these effects by showing how the merged loved of their relationship (the children) are virtually forgotten about as squabbles lead to violent existential outbursts. Thus, one night, Seok Chun and Sun Hee, after a spat, neglect their son: “They had turned off the lights to go to sleep many hours ago, but Ho Nam sat between his parents, between the two rooms, amid the tense atmosphere, completely alone and dejected.”  (It also pictured “a lost generation” stuck in a DMZ, longing for reunification.)

Children come across as coddled imps with, if all is in balance, an open future. Children are expressive in Friend.  Seok Chun wandering aimlessly, love-smitten, falls into a “boobytrap” set randomly by such imps. Later, as the judge is walking along, kids run into him, and he almost loses his balance. Even Ho Nam tells Chae Rim, Sun Hee’s divorce-supporting cousin, to get lost and throws a bean sandwich at him. This strikes one as humorous – as does a scene with a forklift where a workman with blueprints presumptuously hops on for a ride and is “almost” deposited into a lathe to the female driver’s delight.

One last bit Nam-Nyong plays us with is the witty (well, I laughed) depiction of a very serious crime – a felony that a worker commits at a manufacturing facility that you would not conceive in the West:

The director of the City Electricity Distribution Company had designed an electric blanket for personal use and had been using it without permission from the government. This was considered a felony, as the entire country was trying to conserve energy. He was not an ordinary citizen, but the director of the very institution whose priority was the conservation of energy. For this reason, he was going to receive a severe sentence. It was not simply a crime of wasting energy, but a crime of selfishness and greed. Electricity was more precious than money or any other commodity because it was the property of the nation.

For those of us steeped in cultures of conspicuous consumption this is numbing news, but pretty well sums up the purported ethic of the North Korean regime and socialism in general.

All in all, Friend is a tight, well-written staging of the so-called Juche political philosophy of independence and self-reliance that wants to be the soul of the North Korean regime. As Immanuel Kim puts it in the Afterword,

Friend is set during the Hidden Hero campaign of the 1980s, which sought to recognize the extraordinary achievements of otherwise ordinary citizens… The trend in fiction of this period was to delineate a new class of intellectual heroes who improved social conditions with their brainpower rather than their brute strength.

It’s a signal of some sort; maybe a booby trap for our trapped booby in the White House.  We ain’t all about the missiles, could be one read. Who knows?

It seems that Paek Nam-Nyong, whose fame came with earlier Kim family novels, is being called upon again to burnish Kim Jong-un’s reputation. The question is for what purpose releasing a thirty year old narrative.  Unlike other books written by defectors from the regime, Kim points out, “Friend is unique in the Anglophone publishing landscape in that it is a state-sanctioned novel, written in Korea for North Koreans, by an author in good standing with the regime” As usual, time will tell whether there is any other import beyond the narrative’s literary value, of which there is plenty. Kim’s dedication page is a nice way to feel the sentiment expressed in Friend. He writes: “For my wife, my comrade, my friend, Angela Kim.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

by John K. Hawkins

 

I like to think of Corona

as Paul Revere’s bugle,

laughing at us as, a fugal

reminder of what we choose to ignore

at our peril. Imagine, if you will,

Climate Change as a virus

we wake up to like meerkats, as one,

alert, ready, filled with protocols,

the Press on it, every story angled,

the world in kumbaya lock-down,

each of us quarantined against each other,

in self-isolation, mobilized

to be immobile, pretty much

like any other day, but now

the message is the massage,

and, if you thought about it,

we are keened to defend our turf.

 

I like to think of Corona

as a collective unconscious archetype

come roaring to life like

the Notre Dame forest fire with no insurance,

the gold-dipped crown of thorns rescued by the 1%,

and bringing clarity everywhere,

and when you think about it, if you do,

we’re blessed hosts to a thousand viruses, and

bacteria up the yin-yang,

eaten alive by time in a kind of trans

-substantiation and -migration

of cellular souls, always

in circulation, please, sir,

I want some more.

 

I like to think of Corona

as a terrestrial soul,

which is more than you can say for us,

if science is right and

we came from outer space, giant

viruses ourselves, kick-starting evolution,

neither alive nor not-alive catalysts

for membranes, and our brains, too,

science says, are viral emanations —

frisson je nais se quoi

lit-up Gauloisse-smoking jellyfish

that have no real place on Earth,

(or Paris for that matter)

and Corona knows it.

 

I like to think of Corona

when I watch old films like The Blob

that warn us of something —

herpes, Reds, the aliens in us all;

and The Andromeda Strain, where science says

humans are skid marks in the skivvies of the cosmos, and

The Matrix, where Agent Smith calls us out,

and the Twilight Zone “Cookbook” episode. It’s not like

we didn’t have fair warning,

as Corona established her dominion

like a virus within a virus

and wiped that smirk away

from the pussy-grabber’s face.

Man, the Knuckle Head