24 December 2019

Myers-Briggs Personality Type

Based on my Myers-Briggs personality type I am an owl, not surprising:
INTPs are analytical and thoughtful individuals who prefer to work alone and who are often ill at ease in social situations. They are impatient with hierarchies and politics and would prefer that leaders prove their worth with merit, rather than with charisma and influence. Although they are not particularly social, they do have razor sharp wit (and claws), and are often surprised to learn that people do enjoy their company.



16 October 2019

From a friend in the late 80s still relevant

This Mongrel Diarist
is  voluntarily  disenfranchised
from the enveloping unfolding paradigm.
I am in cultural introversion
considering a chaos of questions
from mongrels, heathens, pagans
and other diverse earthlings.
I seek understanding of the
pathologically driven, alien abducted, genetically modified and hypnotized
collective of mongrel slaves of Empires.
This is all crossing
☞    Bridges of Chaos     ☜
in the oft prophesied and frequently maligned
 ☞  Unfolding Dark Age.  ☜
I’m pondering such aforementioned questions here at
The Home of the Marginally Dysfunctional and Voluntarily Disenfranchised
where I am the janitor and an occasional volunteer for
The Whimsical Gardening Club
 in the service of
 The College of Industrial Salvage
I feel responsible to encourage and inspire similar musing within
☞ The Church of the Wholly Unconvinced  ☜
That they would consider the advice of
☞ The Sceptical Omega Brotherhood  ☜
 of the Apocalypse
and such other Alone Rangers... in caves... smelting words ...
into silver bullets to dissolve weapons of mass destruction..
while encouraging
Einsteinian tools in Newtonian realms,
 Quixotic and Arthurian goals
of noble and passionate earthlings
to build revolutions without bloodshed
in unfolding wilderness garden-cities.

27 September 2019

Government Whore

The gallery is pleased to present its first solo show by Minnesota-based artist Aaron Spangler entitled Government Whore.
The exhibition features a new series of three carved wood bas-relief sculptures painted with black gesso and rubbed with graphite, which has become the artist’s signature. Displayed atop welded steel pedestals that evoke the optimism of the Industrial Revolution or the utopian notions of Constructivist architecture, the roughly hewn yet detailed scenes reveal a more complicated picture of the rural American landscape. Drawing upon the stories of his friends, the artist considers the often-overlooked contributions that our multigenerational community of post-combat veteran soldiers makes to the political, religious, familial culture of middle America.
I spent two years on a foreign shore
Bein’ a government whore
I sold my body, they stole my mind
Tellin’ me, “Boy, now you’re mine.”

– Bruce Brummitt
Bringing to mind Winslow Homer’s “The Veteran In A New Field”, Spangler’s “Government Whore” portrays a shell-shocked war veteran amid the comforts of home, yet still clinging to his SKS rifle while in bed contemplating past sins. Flowers, bundles of sage, a Bowler hat, and a farm house are juxtaposed with a cow skull, animal claws, palm leaves, and an ascending soldier to create a dreamlike sequence of the rivaling environments of Vietnam and the United States.
Some people say a man is made outta mud
A poor man’s made outta muscle and blood
Muscle and blood and skin and bones
A mind that’s a-weak and a back that’s strong
You load sixteen tons, what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt”

– Merle Travis
In “I Owe My Soul To The Company Store,” the artist employs the narrative within Merle Travis’ classic coal miner’s tale to encourage free associations between America’s history of debt bondage and military enlistment; emblematic images of corrugated cardboard boxes spill out onto a fallen soldier, whose clinched fist clasps the wooden upright of a farm shed – all to the backdrop of what appears to be a Trojan horse jettisoning out of a wooded hillside.
Your loyalty is not to me
But to the stars above.
One more cup of coffee for the road,
One more cup of coffee ‘fore I go
the valley below.

– Bob Dylan
“The Valley Below” celebrates the peace, beauty, idealism, and magic of the undomesticated life “off the grid”, which has often become the destination of many in the hippie movement following wartime. A prominent Barn Owl, which is known to actively hunt for prey only under the cover of darkness, seems to beckon the viewer back to the land and its groves in search of a simpler way of living.
Aaron Spangler (b. 1971, Minneapolis, MN) lives and works in Park Rapids, MN. He received a BFA from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, Minneapolis, MN. His work has been featured in solo exhibitions at Galerie Michael Janssen, Berlin and Zach Feuer Gallery, New York. He has been included in group exhibitions at the Van Abbemuseum, Eindhoven, The Netherlands; The Rubell Family Collection, Miami, FL; and the New York Academy of Art, New York. He is in the permanent collections of the Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto and the Hammer Museum, Los Angeles, CA. His work has been featured in The New York TimesArtforumFlash Art, among others.
Selected Writings by Bruce Brummitt
I spent two years on a foreign shore
Bein’ a government whore
I sold my body, they stole my mind
Tellin’ me, “Boy, now you’re mine.”
Those two years ‘neath the southern cross
Turned out to be my country’s loss
Kill commies for Christ, the Chaplain told me
As I prayed on a wounded knee.
Cuz, “Might makes right, can’t you see boy?”
It’s “Our country tis of thee, boy”
But killin’ people to set ’em free…boy,
seemed like fuckin’ for virginity.
What do you know when you’re only 18
Twelve years of school’s the only life you’ve ever seen
Always taught from government books
Always caught in propaganda’s hooks
So I moved to the woods, where I tried to forget
I had to admit I just didn’t fit
I fight the war most nights in my dreams
I wake myself to the sound of my own screams
But the country didn’t seem to learn from our mistake
They’re still fightin’ wars for big money’s sake
Yellow ribbons decorate our stores
We all have become the government’s whores
What do we learn when we watch our televisions?
We’re lettin’ other people make all of our decisions
Our name’s on the government’s books
And we’re all caught in propaganda’s hooks…
At night, rivers of memories, images swollen as if by rains of the monsoon. I’m drawn into a torrent, dragged downstream…impossible to grasp onto branches of now to pull myself safely to shore. Fog overcomes me. Smoke smelling of gunpowder, diesel, burning hair and flesh. Mere pinholes of light burned into the camera obscura of my soul.
I’m on a mountainside looking through field glasses at the valley below. Nine men in NVA uniforms are walking single file along the berm of a rice paddy. I adjust artillery. A marking round falls 100 meters in front of them. They turn and run the opposite direction. An explosive round falls 50 meters in front of them. They turn and run again. I’m giddy. It’s ducks at the carnival. Explosions fall on top of them. Arms and legs become separated from torsos.
I’m on a small forward support base, a landing zone above the ville of Hiep Duc. It’s my duty to receive grid coordinates of suspected enemy targets and check to be certain there are no friendlies located there. The radio crackles, the warble of a chopper pilot’s voice requesting clearance to engage “three military aged males with packs and weapons evading”. I’ve heard that terminology so often, standard jargon. Shorthand. Usually a cursory glance of maps reveal there should be no friendlies there and I give my permission to fire. This time I hesitate. I ask the pilot his altitude. He says, “three thousand feet, over”. I ask him to take a closer look and call me back. A few minutes later he tells me to disregard his previous transmission. I ask the true nature of his intended target. “A mamasan and two babysans, doing laundry by the river.” My heart pounds out of my chest. How many times had I given my permission to kill mamasans and babysans? How many?
Asleep in my 8 foot by 10 foot ammo box and sandbag bunker. My first night on the hill. Explosions send sand into my eyes. I sit bolt upright with a deafening ring in my ears. Grabbing bandolier and rifle I dash out of my hootch toward a large boulder. Rounding the corner I run smack dab into another man/child. Vietnamese. The enemy. His eyes mirror the terror in my own. Running away from each other, I hide behind the rock. All hell has broken loose. Machine guns on the hill outside the perimeter are firing for the other team. The wire has been breeched. A man is on fire, dead on his feet. An aircraft named Puff the Magic Dragon is firing mini-guns indiscriminately downward, killing, wounding without regard of faction. My rifle remains silent. By dawn’s early light, our flag was still there. Bodies were laid out like trophy deer at hunting camp. Various grinning men have polaroids made with the kill. I stumble about, staggering, gagging…my senses overwhelming. I seek the chaplain, himself stumbling and staggering…dressed only in his olive drab boxers and steel helmet, dogtags and crucifix. I ask the meaning of all this. “Where is God?”… He, a father figure, an officer… man of the cloth…he must know. But he stares, hypnotically, into the distance…shaking his head and repeating, over and over again…”I don’t know!” I realise, at that moment, no one knows.
upstream from white sand beaches
are hamlets, paddies and canyons
bombshells unexploded
cratered land
cratered faces
mangled extremities
defective births…
the villages have memories
nightmares and visions
the countryside still echoes
we returned to the comfort
of our politics and rhetoric
leaving a legacy of disfigurement…
scarring persons and landscape
poisoned food chain
poisoned minds
blackened hearts…
a righteous nation
hands over hearts
reciting the pledge
still preaching to the world
hands over ears and eyes
still speaking the lies
making the guilt safe and tucked away
in hospitals and dead-end jobs
in parades and sunday services
in vfw and legion halls
in broken homes
in shattered illusions
in battered women’s shelters
in cemeteries
Out of these nightmares, these screams, I found solace when I returned to the world…but not in the cities’ streets of my youth, or a connection to our nation state…but off, into the countryside, where I’d learned from the peasantry in that foreign land we’d occupied. Connection to the earth, to the cycles of the seasons…the rains, the droughts, the wildness of the forest creatures. Without a piece of land on which I could build a simple dwelling out of the natural materials on hand…the logs, the stones…I would have been homeless, continuing to wander as I did when I first returned. I found that the myth of the rugged individual, man as an island, is a lonely, bitter existence. I learned from so many others who had emigrated away from cities and into the countryside in those days of turbulence…some victims of police brutality during war protests, others abused by families and the system. However they got to the rural areas of America, they sought a simpler existence and some semblance of true freedoms. The immediate actions of chopping wood and carrying water kept us in the now. Seeking shelter and food. Relearning from others that which wasn’t available from our kinfolk…I shoed logging horses in Oregon, cut firewood and made western shirts on a treadle sewing machine in the mountains of Arizona. I was in and out of relationships, struggling with my memories…drugs, alcohol, anger…Only the connection to the earth I found and the home in the earth that I built…the gardens, fruit trees and flowers, brought me some stability, some sanity. And finally allowed me to find a stable relationship with a woman who walks in grace. ..who herself is a veteran.
Four decades have passed and yet I still awaken to the sounds of my own screams…I wonder and ponder, still. What is it all about? To me it is about the directness of my needs, and the connection to others in the greater community of souls. The dying trees we cut to make firewood for heat or cooking. The solar panels we have added over the years to replace kerosene lamps. The music we make around campfires and the meals we share.
The angst that is felt by so many because of wars and intrigue…because of the rhetoric of politics…has become the history of the countryside…and is not unique to our nation state. I already see the waves of a new generation of wanderers, finding their way to a sense of place.
Our home huddled safe in the womb of the earth, its simplicity, its soft, interdependent harmony. A blackened kettle steaming on the fire, drinking coffee…talking of this and that. A feeling, an opinion, a fact.

11 September 2019

Eighteen Years Ago Today. 9/11/2001

As I see it, 9/11/2001 was a real turning point for the US and the world. 19 men with box cutters were able to hijack jetliners and fly them into the WTC and the Pentagon...these men were on Visas from Saudi Arabia, for the most part. Xenophobia raised its ugly head and Nationalism gained a strong foothold. At the time, the budget was in surplus for the second or third year, the CBO had stated that at that rate the entire national debt would be paid off by 2015. Instead, we took a war footing, following PNAC's stated ambitions of a few years earlier...they had been given their "new Pearl Harbor". We attacked Afghanistan, where we are still at war 18 years later (the longest war in our history), and then amped up a war against Iraq under some lies about their having Weapons of Mass Destruction. That government and those people are now ruled by their Shia majority, aligned more closely with Iran. Halliburton and Blackwater (Cheney and Prince) raked in our national treasures. Yes, we elected a black man as President, but about the same percentage of people who support Trump now felt his was an illegitimate presidency...fueled by birthers like Trump himself. Now look at the fine mess this country has gotten itself into. The 9/11 victims' compensation fund wasn't fully authorized until two months ago, after Jon Stewart and many attorneys gave testimony after testimony in Congress.
I am saddened for the missed opportunity we had...I'm in grief for my country which has taken a turn towards nationalism and has concentration camps set up along the border, with children separated from their families held in cages still to this day. We have Bahamians turned away at our coastline after their country was devastated by a category 5 hurricane which settled over them for days.
We, at least half of us, are better than this...I don't know how to get to the people who still support nationalism and white supremacy...but, we're all in this sinking boat together...please help bail, literally and figuratively.
Eighteen years ago, I interrupted Cheryl and her client at the strawbale studio...I brought a small 12 volt television over and plugged it in, adjusted the antenna and the three of us looked on in disbelief.
On Monday, August 6, 2001, GW Bush's Presidential Daily Brief warned, 36 days before the September 11 attacks, of terrorism threats from Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda, including "patterns of suspicious activity in this country consistent with preparations for a hijacking" of US aircraft. This was ignored.
"At least a dozen Air Force and National Guard bases were within a few moments of flight time to the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Why weren't fighter planes scrambled as soon as it became obvious that the airliners had been hijacked?"
The air traffic control system keeps track of all commercial flights and is in continuous radio contact with the pilots. All of these communications are recorded. It would have been immediately apparent to the controllers that something had gone wrong when the planes deviated from their course and radio contact ceased. Why were jet fighters not scrambled to intercept the hijacked planes? Why are transcripts of the pilots' communications with air traffic controllers not released to the public?
American Airlines Flight 77, the jet which U.S. officials say crashed into the Pentagon, was hijacked shortly before 9 a.m. -- approximately 15 minutes after the first plane crashed into the World Trade towers. Why were no jet fighters scrambled to intercept the flight?"
May all the victims Rest in Peace.

08 January 2019

“From that time forth he believed that the wise man is one who never sets himself apart from other living things, whether they have speech or not, and in later years he strove long to learn what can be learned, in silence, from the eyes of animals, the flight of birds, the great slow gestures of trees.” 
― Ursula K. Le Guin, A Wizard of Earthsea

20 November 2018

Ode to the fires.

I thought I might share this writing from a friend who lost her home in the Taos area many years ago...In light of all the destruction and deaths from fires and the changing climate.

I am an early bird, blessed with an innate affinity with morning. Dawn is my church. First light is a touchstone, a sacred time that spreads a nourishing flood of grace throughout my bones and blood. At dawn, I am filled with the quiet light of hope.
This morning, I see and smell the lingering smoke from far away fires. Even in the midst of this, I feel the sacredness and hope. This feeling does not come lightly, for I have a very personal history with fire. I too have lost from it. Two dear homes were burned to the ground, one by a forest fire. And a third time, there was a near escape when my partner and I took down our tipi shortly before a fire swept through the canyon where we lived.
I have never lost a beloved person to fire, and am not speaking to that. But I have lost much. I have seen my earthly abode and possessions turned to ash. I saw forests of familiar trees turned to regiments of black sticks. The fragrant, earthly landscape of my neighborhood became inescapably grey and lunar. The bitterly pungent smell that lingers after a fire is indelible in me.
My heart is with those who have lost. I will repost a story/poem I wrote about the Lama Fire, which happened some twenty or so years ago. It is dedicated to you, to those who love you, and to our beloved land and all the creatures that have lived upon it.
“a storm of its own"
she awakens
to a windy spring day
with the wisp of a dream
the dark arm of a neighbor, 
his hand sharply motioning 
away! time to go!
she brushes the dream aside
and rises, 
looking out the window,
up the strong and familiar mountain
furred by a multitude of trees.
she is drawn outside,
into the sage filled yard,
a bowl of corn porridge cradled in her hand.
she sits in the rocker
and eats in the sun.
the wind 
has an irritating edge
as the morning moves on.
her dog barks, tail wagging,
and she gets up to greet a visitor.
in the midst of a hug, 
a glimpse of smoke 
on the horizon--
and deep inside 
she feels the stirrings
of change.
up the ladder to the roof,
they scan with binoculars,
then call neighbors,
and trundle down the dirt road 
for a closer look.
the smoke is coming from behind a ridge
several miles away,
but the wisp is
turning into a blackening column,
quickly gathering power,
spun on 
by the wind.
the possible loss of a well loved home,
of years of work,
is not something the mind
willingly contemplates.
it stays in a safely distant orbit
while arms carry furniture and clothes to the truck,
while children
are gathered in,
while animals are herded 
down the mountain.
before driving away,
she turns and takes 
one look back:
the column of smoke
is now a staggering, sweltering phenomena,
a mighty hiroshima mushroom, dwarfing
the immense desert and mountain 
as her eye lingers,
out of the roiling cloud 
a broad, glinting bolt of lightning
the fire 
has created a storm 
of its own.
neighbors gather at the bottom of the road
at the side of the gray highway.
they look up, 
eyes and mouths solemn and closed 
or wild and wide,
some crying and clinging,
others clutching anger 
like a solitary shield.
they have known each other 
long and well.
as they stand together, 
this witnessed power, 
roaring and unquestionable,
heaves the earth beneath their feet.
days later, 
when the roadblock is removed,
she goes home.
her driveway is a dirt track 
through a powdery gray moonscape.
the adobe house
a lone chimney 
surrounded by debris
and fallen walls.
even the wood stove, so stout,
built to hold fire,
is hopelessly warped.
out of habit, her feet 
start off down the path,
onto her usual morning walk through the forest.
she is dreading this,
and expects the sadness of the trees
to engulf her.
down through the gulch, 
scrub oaks gone, 
up the other side, to the ponderosas:
miles and rolling hills of straight black sticks
silently standing
in gray ash.
in pure quiet,
she listens.
she has never questioned 
the cycles of life and nature...
the expanding creation
of art and gardens and children, 
the dutiful and detailed maintenance 
of daily life...
but now, she has been yanked
into the edgy territory 
of destruction
and death.
she stands still,
and finally sees
its fierce necessity 
and stark beauty.
and the sorrow she expects to find 
in this former forest
is instead 
an immense feeling 
of clarity and relief.
the accumulated years of weighty growth
are gone.
the place 
is clean.
she moves out of the burnt forest and into the fields,
to the place that was her earthly church.
she sees her cherished grandmother tree,
now fallen.
one more letting go.
she looks down the fields
toward where her home once stood
and the green of the irrigated alfalfa
is shocking against the miles of blackness.
her eyes travel down the slope of them 
and are caught
by a slight movement...
she moves toward it, 
through the moist grassiness,
then stops 
at this sight:
an old man in blue jeans and plaid shirt
is crying.
he is on his knees, 
his eyes 
on a cream colored mare 
standing in emerald clover, 
her new foal, bright and white,
standing daintily beside her.
they are brilliantly set 
against the black remains
of a landscape,
on the fragile, sacred border
between beginning
and end.
robin whitley 
la lama, new mexico

17 August 2018

From a long ago classmate of mine...a conservative.

Security Clearances Primer: When my husband retired from The Pentagon, he kept his super secret top security clearance. It allowed him to continue his classified work in what we call "The Dark World" of classified programs for Defense protecting those who protect all of you out there reading this. He met with Generals, Congressmen, testified in Washington before committee's, etc. about the work on classified programs. He may be retired but all that classified information still resides in his head. The Armed Forces committee could call him tomorrow to come testify about any of his programs. His colleagues can consult with him. Just because he retired, doesn't mean the programs he led ended. There is one and only one reason to revoke a security clearance- the individual in some way failed to keep their security oath. I won't bore anyone with the ways that can happen but suffice to say, criticizing the President is NOT one of them. For all of you who keep cheering Trump on no matter what he does, stop and think how you would have responded if President Clinton, Bush, or Obama had abused their power this way. Few of you have any idea of the national security damage and the risk to our intelligence and other sectors he just caused. But we do at our house. Wake up People! This is what dictators do. They silence people who speak out against them by whatever means are at their disposal. What's next? Jailing people? He has crossed the line and it doesn't matter what the state of our economy is or our job markets or your 401K. This is an assault on the institutions that protect YOUR freedom.

Myers-Briggs Personality Type

Based on my Myers-Briggs personality type I am an owl, not surprising: INTPs are analytical and thoughtful individuals who prefer to wor...