petition and open letter to the mainstream English media


972 Petition Link!
an-open-letter-to-the-mainstream-english-media

Please take a moment to read the following statement of Canadian and international solidarity with the Quebec Student Strike written by the steering committee of Anthropologists for Justice and Peace. Please sign the attached petition [you don’t have to be an anthrop[ologist to take part!] if you agree with our views on this matter so crucial to democracy in Canada. Please send this on to all your contacts.

– Thanks,
Clay

Please select the Petition Online Canada link above (“972”) to express solidarity with the students in Montreal!

For more than 100 days, hundreds of thousands of Quebec university and college students, backed by dozens of student unions and associations, have held hundreds of daytime and dozens of nighttime demonstrations to affirm that education is a right. They are also expressing a complete rejection of measures that are designed to fundamentally reorient society toward increased privatization of public services, the commodification of education, and the enclosure of public space. The Canadian public has a stake in this struggle, just as Quebec taxpayers have funded university education only to see their public investment increasingly siphoned off by private/corporate interests which are now threatening to divest the public even more. All this has taken place without any public debate, which is essential in a society that committed itself to free public education as part of a hard won social contract.

Indeed, one of the reasons that Quebec has the lowest tuition fees in Canada is due to the fact that for the last forty years, Quebec students have stood up to governments every time that they tried to renege on this goal of working toward free higher education. Regardless of the party in power, technocrats have always tried to “balance the books” on the back of students, and generation after generation of students have taken to the street and said “no”. The difference between Quebec tuition fees and those in other parts of Canada and North America is the product of this sustained vigilance and activism by students, since 1968. The current government saw this historical legacy of social movements as a potential for the growth of its income. If the government has its way, it plans to wipe out the historical material gains of the student movement within five years, and will call it “catching up” with the neighbours.

Faced with calls from students, professors, trade unions, and many others across the country for a reasoned public consultation and negotiation, the ruling Liberal Party under Premier Jean Charest responded first with silence, then with denunciations, mockery, half-hearted attempts at limited talks, and all the while meeting students in the streets with violence. Most recently, the Charest government has sought to criminalize dissent, passing Public Law 78 which severely curtails basic democratic rights to freedom of expression and public assembly and is reminiscent of the War Measures Act of the 1970s when then Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau blatantly infringed on people’s civil liberties. It also needs to be understood as a law in line with legislation passed with increasing frequency around the world as elites, under the banner of “austerity,” attempt to facilitate a new round of accumulation by dispossession, bankrupting social support systems and engaging in an historically unprecedented transfer of public wealth into private hands in an effort to rescue global capitalism. The criminalization of dissent is an elite strategy aimed at stifling the popular rage generated as a result of this dispossession. The passing of this law has had the reverse effect intended, actually increasing the strikers’ resolve and galvanizing new people to join in condemning this draconian measure. This law has also been vigorously criticized as a violation of citizens’ rights under the Charter of Rights and Freedoms by the Quebec Bar Association, and denounced by the Canadian Association of University Teachers, La Fédération québécoise des professeures et professeurs d’université (FQPPU), and a dozen or more faculty unions in the province.

The blame for the current mass political conflict in Quebec lies at the feet of the government itself. Indeed, its actions have transformed the university into a frontline for social struggle. The university, in accordance with government initiatives, has increasingly become an institution ruled in an arbitrary, profit-motivated manner by elites drawn from the corporate world (some with ties to the weapons industry and others with ties to despotic regimes). As tuition fees have increased and academic labour made more precarious, university administrations have swollen in both size and cost while dramatically reducing student representation in some universities’ governing bodies. University administrations and boards of governors – bodies charged with acting as stewards for publicly-funded and supposedly accountable institutions dedicated to critical research and education – have come to increasingly resemble corporate board rooms, with compensation packages to match. All of this has come at the expense not only of funds devoted to teaching and research but of the mandate of the university itself which is being transformed into little more than an appendage for corporate profiteering.

Youth and students are the future of any society and yet this fact is of no concern for political and economic elites intent on enriching themselves by dispossessing the vast majority of their capacity to live with dignity. To the elite demand that they shoulder their “fair share” of this betrayal, youth and students are responding with a resounding “no” to their own marginalisation. The Charest government has adopted these recent measures as a direct attack on the student movement itself which has a long history in Quebecof vigorously defending the principal of publicly-funded education. The older generation of elites who themselves benefitted from Quebec’s low cost and nearly free education are denying the same open access to the current generation of youth and students, while opportunistically attacking vulnerable members of society such as women, workers, immigrants and refugees, and the poor of all ages.

The brutality of police forces – condemned by Amnesty International – has only increased the movement’s resolve. Police violence has involved the use of tear gas, pepper spray, other chemical irritants, various types of concussion and sound grenades, severe beatings with batons, and agents provocateurs, badly injuring many dozens of students. Hundreds of protesters have been arrested and each is now threatened with thousands of dollars in fines and even jail time. The government has handed the police the power to pronounce the legality – or lack thereof – of any given protest, linked to the student strike or not. Despite this, the streets continue to swell with students and their diverse allies exercising their collective power in a determined struggle for a public, accessible, democratic, and critical education system and a society commensurate with it.

Therefore:
· We publicly declare our solidarity with the Quebec student strikers and their struggle for free, democratic, and critical education.
· Furthermore, we support calls for initiating a broad, democratic assembly to analyze, debate, and come up with fair solutions that brings politics back to support those social sectors most in need.
· In addition, we call for a suspension of any planned increase in student fees and for the abolition of tuition fees and student debt.
· We also demand that Public Law 78 be repealed and that the Government of Quebec commit itself to respecting the rights of students, and to avoid the mass use of indiscriminate force against citizens who practice their right to free expression and peaceful assembly.
· We thus remind Canada, as one of the states that ratified the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights, and that it committed itself, without reservation, to Article 13.2(c) (“higher education shall be made equally accessible to all, on the basis of capacity, by every appropriate means, and in particular by the progressive introduction of free education”). We also urge the government of Quebec to respect the Charter of Human Rights and Freedoms, particularly Article 3 on the freedom of expression and freedom of peaceful assembly, and Article 40 on the right to a free public education.

Education is a right!

not quite what we meant by embodiment

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
………from Yeats’ “The Second Coming”

Hung over. Hung over by order of the jury of gin, stout, and cigarettes. Hung over and all. circuits. are. dead. Hung over but the borders are permeable, the guards have lifted the barricade, the Consul has suspended my writer’s block.

Hung and coughing and a baby is screaming as I order breakfast in the restaurant with the plaster casts of Winlaw breasts and suddenly I realize the baby is inside me, IS me, I am a very old, smoking baby.

Hung over and my knees are shot, my wrists ache from THE WORK. My back is a twisted, rusty hinge. The arches in my feet are snapped rubber bands.

Hung and the blonde waitress is making me blush.

Hung over and, yeah, I can tell from the conversation at the next table, the elderly couple, that the old man has some sort of degenerative brain disorder and, like the baby, HE IS ALSO ME. I can also tell they are lovers.

Hung and the blonde keeps showing me her ass, wrapped in stretch denim and, oh lord, I wasn’t built to resist the TEMPTATIONS OF THE FLESH, just ask my miniscule testicles or my, as Ian put it in one of his excellent poems, “constant jacking off”. The blonde has just asked me,”Is it heating up in here?” and so hung over am I that I missed the opportunity to reply, “Are you asking me out?” or, at least, in a creepy voice, “It sure is, sugar pants,” but then again,
I AM NOT A CREEP
no. I am a poor writer of verses and prose—meaning my work is lacking in artful expression, not, as one might divine from such ill-formed word constructions, that I am an impoverished man who types.

I am coughing. The blonde seems to have disappeared. No, wait, she’s returned and the blood is thick in my neck like red house paint, the pressure in my ears is something fierce and she has asked me a question I did not hear, yet I insist it is loaded with innuendo and there’s nothing to be done, she is waiting for a response, so I nod maniacally–it was probably about the weather– and give a frantic thumbs up and before I can understand what is happening another large orange juice arrives at my elbow. In this way I come to realize how SEX IS TIED TO CAPITALISM—no, wait, maybe tied to ANY organizing ideology, such as Catholicim (the naked, masochistic Jesus), Communism (the stocky, sexy proletariat sweating away in their libidinous factories) or whatever-ism, an as yet unimagined control mechanism which will, undoubtedly, BE TIED TO SEX.

Hung over and in my middling age these erections don’t last long. I soon forget what all the fuss was about and tie into the hash browns. Soon, they will gather their cholesterol armies for one final assault on my brittle aortae.

Hung over and the triple Eggs Benedict isn’t helping, nor the mercilessly feverish Mexican accordion music coming out over the tinny speakers, nor the now-completely vanished blonde. It has all had the effect of turning my low-blood-sugar, lighter-than-air, ephemeral dream-scape hang-over into a decidedly-not-mystical, deadening SQUIDGE, mired, chained like a channel marker to a morbidly obese chunk of concrete in the distant inky depths below.

Hung over and so must pay up, trudge to the too-small car, slide down the back road, past the grazing white tails, along the lane, to bed, to bed. To sleep, if not to dream.

these (blue) movies of you

if you had a web site
a special one
all of it
you
and i could go on there
oh, god…

(i’d Google you all the time)

if you were a porno
i’d have dinner
while i watched
maybe just the opening segments
when your clothes were still on
when the scenes were banal (moreso than later
when the inevitable screwing and stuff fills the screen)

if you made dirty movies
or photographs
i’d pretend i was the guy
(or girl, or she-male, whatever you’re into)
who gets to touch you
even if it’s only cinematic
and someone, continuously, “cut!”

but more than all this possession
it would at least
be a way to be with you
to see you move
filled with life
flushed pink
smiling even if only make-pretend

if you were pornography
i would need help
my friends knocking
they haven’t seen me in weeks
i’m on the floor
thin, frail
sticky,
coated in a combination
of cum and loneliness
(that stuff they make Republicans out of)

and they’d put me in a home
where i wasn’t allowed your image
and i’d lay there gathering strength
but a despairing sort of will
you’d never fade away
torment erecting
and the fever dreams
you as my nurse
my therapist (the…rapist)
ahggg……

kinda like where i’m at these days.

Love Song for Sweet F.A.


1. Night dragged on ‘til just before dawn
and you slept like your execution.
Razor blades drip, rust water strip
the floorboard mattress solution:
: giant whale! Giant whale!
In the gutter, dear gun,
giant whale, black pail, in the gutter
(it can’t be helped, it can’t be helped),
in the goddam gutter, dear gun.

Chorus: Jimson and clover, the pot’s boiled over,
Father’s full of holes, he was sighing.
They’re fighting, they’re asleep,
the cats are in heat

and I’ve been crying
I’ve been crying
I’ve been crying.

yes, I’ve been crying
I’ve been crying
I’ve been crying.

2. Mom’s broken heart, a red shopping cart,
her lungs died of charcoal inhalation
Bottles and cans, those cigarette hands
–blanket rags unlikely insulation
: black slugs! Black slugs!
On the living room rug,
black slugs on the curtain, dear gun
(trouble, trouble; and trouble comes… as it is)
to the chemist for drugs, dear gun.

3. Canes in the trees, crutches to our knees:
mourners at the gates of starvation.
Awake, sister, please! You’re bloody with fleas,
cobbler’s nail vaccination.
* Thin tea, thin tea,
my still-born Sweet Pea,
thin tea the orphans, dear gun
(my little snake-in-the-grass, my anguish).
Orphans with guns, dear slum, dear slum,
orphans with guns, dear slum.

__ ___ _ _ _ ____ _ ___ _ __ _
*as flying ants, silence descends

Love Song for the sweet (M)FAs

Thomas Pynchon remembers Richard Farina, author of Been Down So Long It looks Like Up to Me

In a dim way, I had been aware of Richard Farina before I actually met him. It was the winter of 1958, toward the end of the school semester, and I was a junior editor on the Cornell Writer, which was the campus literary magazine. At some point these stories and poems began to arrive. It was a radically different voice, one that seemed to come from the world outside, surer, less safe, of higher quality than the usual run of submissions. Not many of the staff could tell me much about this “Farina” character, except that he’d been away from Cornell for a while, out traveling around.

Soon, in the back spaces of classrooms I happened to be in, I would sometimes detect this dangerous presence, not wearing a jacket or tie, more hair than was fashionable, always sitting with the same group of people. Quiet, but intensely there, checking things out. Eventually I connected him with the other, literary presence.

We ran with different crowds, so our paths only crossed now and then. One day in the spring I was crossing the Arts Quad and spotted Farina, reclining on the green grass with an open book. We nodded, said hello. “Listen,” Farina said, “I’m having a party Saturday night at my place on College Avenue, if you want to fall by.” Which was how I first encountered his remarkable gift of civility. As we chatted, a strange thing was also happening. Coeds I had lusted after across deep lecture halls were actually altering course, here, out in the daylight, to stop and talk to Farina. He was inviting them to his party too. Oboy, I thought to myself, oboy.

1958, to be sure, was another planet. You have to appreciate the extent of sexual repression on that campus at the time. Rock ‘n’ roll had been with us for a few years, but the formulation Dope/Sex/Rock ‘n’ Roll hadn’t yet been made by too many of us. At Cornell, all undergraduate women were supposed to be residing, part of the time under lock and key, either in dormitories or sorority houses. On weeknights they had to be inside these places by something like 11 P.M., at which time all the doors were locked. Staying out all night without authorization meant discipline by the Women’s Judiciary Board, up to and including expulsion from school. On Saturday nights the curfew was graciously extended to something equally unreal, like 12 midnight.

Curfews were not the only erotic problem we faced– there was also a three- or four-to-one ratio of male to female students, as well as a variety of coed undergarments fiendishly designed to delay until curfew, if not to prevent outright, any access to one’s date’s pelvic area. One sorority house I knew of, and certainly others, had a house officer stationed by the front door on date nights. Her job was to make sure, in a polite but manual way, that every sister had some version of a Playtex chastity belt in place before she was allowed out the door. Landlords and local tradesfolk were also encouraged to report to the Administration the presence of coeds in off-campus apartments, such as Farina’s. In these and other ways, the University believed it was doing its duty to act in loco parentis.

This extraordinary meddling was not seriously protested until the spring of 1958, when, like a preview of the ’60s, students got together on the issue, wrote letters, rallied, demonstrated, and finally, a couple of thousand strong, by torchlight in the curfew hours between May 23rd and 24th, marched to and stormed the home of the University president. Rocks, eggs, and a smoke bomb were deployed. Standing on his front porch, the egg-spattered president vowed that Cornell would never be run by mob rule. He then went inside and called the proctor, or chief campus cop, screaming, “I want heads! . . . I don’t care whose! Just get me some heads, and be quick about it!” So at least ran the rumor next day, when four upperclassmen, Farina among them, were suspended. Students, however, were having none of this–they were angry. New demonstrations were suggested. After some dickering, the four were reinstated. This was the political and emotional background of that long-ago spring term at Cornell–the time and setting of Richard Farina’s novel Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me

Not that this is a typical “college” novel, exactly. Farina uses the campus more as a microcosm of the world at large. He keeps bringing in visitors and flashbacks from the outside. There is no sense of sanctuary here, or eternal youth. Like the winter winds of the region, awareness of mortality blows through every chapter. The novel ends with the death of a major character.

Undergraduate consciousness rests in part on a set of careless assumptions about being immortal. The elitism and cruelty often found in college humor arises from this belief in one’s own Exemption, not only from time and death, but somehow from the demands of life as well. It is Exemption –in a sense which Farina interestingly broadens here– that so perplexes and haunts the novel’s main character, Gnossos Pappadopoulis.

For Gnossos, Exemption is nothing he can either take for granted or have illusions about. His life is a day-to-day effort to keep earning and maintaining it. In the course of the book, Gnossos looks at a number of possibilities, including Eastern religion, road epiphanies, mescaline, love. All turn out to have a flaw of some kind. What he’s left with to depend on is his own coherence, an extended version of 1950s Cool. “Immunity has been granted to me,” thinks Gnossos, “for I do not lose my cool.” Backed up by a range of street-wise skills like picking locks and scoring dope, Cool gets Gnossos through, and it lies at the heart of his style.

There was a similar element of reserve to Farina’s own public character. When he spoke, one of the typical expressions on his face was a half-ironic half-smile, as if he were monitoring his voice and not quite believing what he heard. He carried with him this protective field of selfawareness and instant feedback, and I never did see all the way through it, although I got to know him a little better during the ’59 school year. We were never best friends, but we did like each other, and each other’s writing, and we hung out some, at parties, at beer outlets on campus like the Ivy Room, or at Johnny’s Big Red Grill (called Guido’s in the book), which was the usual nighttime gathering place.

The eats and atmosphere at Johnny’s were pretty much as Farina describes them. From time to time there’d be live l music. Peter Yarrow, later of Peter, Paul and Mary, had a standing gig there, maybe one of his earliest. He alternated with a rock ‘n’ roll group, all of them related, from the grocery across the street. In a few years these same two currents, modern folk and working-class rock, would flow together in what we remember now as the music of the high ’60s. Farina’s ear was taken not so much then by pop music as by more traditional American forms like jazz, and especially blues, both country and black. To the now canonized Buddy Holly he listened with some ambivalence– evident in the novel–but he did pay close attention to “Peggy Sue.” It seems now that in the guitar break of that recording he may have caught something others didn’t, some flash of things to come–but this could also just be my own retro-fantasy. Two albums of the period I know he was crazy about were Mose Allison’s “Back Country Suite,” also mentioned in the novel, and the English version of Weill and Brecht’s Threepenny Opera.

When it came to dancing, Farina went for Latin music. He was blessed, and knew it, with a happy combination of heritages. His mother was Irish and his father Cuban. He had relatives in both countries and had visited with them. It happened that in ’58 and ’59 there were a number of students from Latin America in the School of Architecture, and their circle was one of several that Farina could move in with some intimacy and ease. Their weekend parties were regarded as the best around. Farina danced a strange paso doble I’ve never seen since, and whose authenticity I can’t confirm. But the women he danced with, though now and then puzzled, were certainly enjoying themselves, which was the whole point.

Each year on St. Patrick’s Day, the tradition in the Architecture School was to construct a giant, what seemed like hundreds-of-feet-long, Chinese dragon, get as many folks under it as possible, and go running around the campus, in and out of classes and lectures, hands emerging from underneath the critter to grab and fondle the nearest coeds, many of whom had their hair tinted green. Everybody whooped it up all day long with oceans of beer dyed the same color. This was the one day, close to the Spring Equinox, when Farina’s two ethnic sides swung into balance, and he could indulge both. He would end the day with a crowd of dragon personnel, all spattered green, dowrs at a venerable bar called Jim’s, standing up on a table with a mug of green beer, quoting Garcia Lorca’s “Verde, que te quiero verde….” This would produce a long series of toasts to everything green, cervezas verdes, conos verdes. “El barco sobre la mar,” Farina hollered, “y el caballo en la montana!” Years later, in California, around sunrise on the morning of his marriage to Mimi Baez, we happened to stagger into each other in somebody’s front yard, both hung over. It was somewhere out in the country, in the hills near Palo Alto. We then managed to have one of those joirit epiphanies. Farina was staring up one of the slopes nearby. A white horse was standing out on this very green hillside, looking back at us. Of course Farina and I were both thinking of Lorca’s horse on the mountain.

Sometimes at college we also succeeded in getting on the same literary wavelength. We showed up once at a party, not a masquerade party, in disguise–he as Hemingway, I as Scott Fitzgerald, each of us aware that the other had been through a phase of enthusiasm for his respective author. I suppose by then I was learning from Farina how to be amused at some of my obsessions. Also in ’59 we simultaneously picked up on what I still think is among the finest of American novels, Warlock, by Oakley Hall. We set about getting others to read it too, and for a while had a micro-cult going. Soon a number of us were talking in Warlock dialogue, a kind of thoughtful, stylized, Victorian Wild West diction. This may have appealed to Farina partly as another method of maintaining Cool.

The first time I read Been Down. . . was in manuscript, an early drafts in the summer of 1963. I remember giving him a lot of free advice, though I’ve forgotten what it was exactly. But fortunately he didn’t take any of it. He must have wondered if I thought we were still back in writing class. Later, having rewritten it, ten pages from the end of the final draft, his hand went out on him. “Did you hear about my Paralyzed Hand?” he wrote in a letter. “Why Tom old boy”– Warlock talk– “I woke up this here otherwise promising morning with a clump of inert floppy for a hand. Lentils. Lentils and some kind of exhaustion known only to nits in sedentary occupations. Me, the once hunter after restless game gone to seed in a J. C. Penney armchair covered by a baby blanket…. But the hand came back by pins and needles after a month and I got done….”

When I first read the book, I was comparing it with my own experience of the same place, time, and people. It seemed then that Gnossos and Farina were one and the same. It was also great fun recognizing the real-life counterparts of the other characters, being tickled by what he’d done with and to them. Now, nearly twenty years later, seeing a little further into his method, I think maybe it wasn’t so simple. He didn’t just take things that had happened and change names. He really worked his ass off, but the result is so graceful that the first time around I was fooled completely.

For many of the characters, Farina seems to have begun with the key traits that in their Cornell originals appealed to him most–Drew Youngblood’s decency, Juan Carlos Rosenbloom’s manic bravado, Judy Lumpers’s build–and then from these cores gone on to develop each of them more fully. Presently, as characters will, each took on an inside the-novel life, separate from whoever they’d been outside it. There isn’t much point Naming Names here– they know who they all are and they walk among us, even today.

Gnossos himself is not Mr. Perfect, by any stretch. He has a short temper and a low tolerance for organized religion, national mythologies, incompetence, resignation, anybody from the American South, racist or not–the list of resentments goes on. He is susceptible to the thrill of vendetta or karmic adjustment, an impulse I suspect isn’t entirely absent from why Farina wrote the novel. Gnossos uses drugs and alcohol injudiciously, and gets publicly abusive with women, something I never saw Farina do. His own approach to women was never less than courtly and sensitive, though not without perhaps one or two jiveass moments.

The wolf story, for instance. This is one of Gnossos’s encounters with homicidal animal life, the other being the monkey demon of Chapter 14. In the book, Gnossos tells the wolf tale to Kristin McCleod, a young woman he’s falling in love with. He puts it in the form of a dialogue, in which Kristin, and we reading, are asked to provide the sense data–the cold, the squeak of the snow, the Adirondack visuals. It is Farina’s most perfected version of a piece whose early tryouts many friends first heard at Cornell, some more repeatedly than they really wanted to. He was in fact dismayingly successful with the wolf story, which he was using then mainly to hustle coeds, often those on whom one had sort of had one’s own eye. Most of them, as I recall, went for it. Each time he told it, of course, he rewrote, so it got better and better.

The monkey demon or mandrill-at-the-window story didn’t play as well. Some only thought he was being dramatic, others thought temporarily insane. When winter boredom set in there was always a chance of entertainment in sneaking up to Farina’s window at unlikely hours and making what we imagined to be mandrill faces and sounds, in hopes of some reaction. But he would only half-smile, and shrug, as if to say, if you don’t get it, you don’t get it.

But it remains one of the most effective of the many dark scenes in this novel. The darkest of all, and I think the best written, is the sequence that takes place in revolutionary Cuba, in which Gnossos’s best friend is accidentally killed. Although a few pages of campus rioting come later, the true climax of the book is in Cuba. Back in his Hemingway phase, Farina must have seen that line about every true story ending in death. Death, no idle prankster, is always, in this book, just outside the window. The cosmic humor is in Gnossos’s blundering attempts to make some kind of early arrangement with Thanatos, to find some kind of hustle that will get him out of the mortal contract we’re all stuck with. Nothing he tries works, but even funnier than that, he’s really too much in love with being alive, with dope, sex, rock ‘n’ roll–he feels so good he has to take chances, has to keep tempting death, only half-realizing that the more intensely he lives, the better the odds of his number finally coming up.

Close to the end of his last term at Cornell, Farina seemed to grow impatient. He had a job waiting in New York, and they didn’t care, he said, if he got his degree or not. There may also have been some romantic disaster involving Kristin McCleod’s original, though we never talked about it and all I heard was vague gossip. We were in one class together that term, and studied for the final at Johnny’s Big Red Grill over bottles of Red Cap ale. Next day, no more than half an hour into the exam, I was scribbling away at an essay question, caught a movement, looked up, saw Farina handing in his exam book and leaving. He couldn’t have been finished. As he came past I raised my eyebrows and he gave me that smile and that shrug. This was the last I saw of him for a while.

He went to New York, to Cuba, married Carolyn Hester, got a career in music going, toured overseas, lived in London, Paris, got divorced–then it was back to California, Boston, California again. Sometimes we wrote letters, sometimes–not often enough–we’d run into each other. We talked on the phone the day before he died. His book had just come out. We arranged to connect in L.A. in a few weeks. The next evening I heard the news over an AM rock ‘n’ roll station. He’d been riding on the back of a motorcycle on Carmel Valley Road, where a prudent speed would have been thirty-five. Police estimated that they must have been doing ninety, and failed to make a curve. Farina was thrown off, and killed.

I called his house– no answer. Called the AP in Los Angeles– they couldn’t confirm anything for sure. It never occurred to me to call the hospital up there. I didn’t want to hear what they’d say. The only person I found in that night was a long-distance friend who’d also known him at Cornell. She didn’t have any more solid news than I did. Both still hoping, hope fading, we talked for a long time, into the middle of the night, about Farina and the old days, in our voices the same mixture of exasperation and love most of us had always felt whenever his name came up. Finally, toward the end of the conversation, she laughed. “Just thought of something. If that fucking Farina,” she said, “has only been seriously hurt–if he goes up to the edge of It, and then comes back, you realize–we’re never going to hear the end of it.”

–THOMAS PYNCHON

Something in Suede.

boots of the girl students have drawn and quartered my manhood.
boots which ride up the ankles, calf, knee, and like conquistador
Spanish boots of Spanish Leather, they ride me, in the abstract, of course.

like Brown Shirts or nascent Israeli henchmen, the boots of the girl
students gather outside the library, pouring kerosene and oil,
dropping journals and Jewish/Palestinian letters, on my manhood. My mantle.
My manifest destiny. Manticore-mangled Meningitis. those boots!
they are mounting a production of Since You Went on the 14 bus
(“make arbeit, not frei” mumbles a shiny black pair of the Russian
army).

(photo of Russian infantry boots here)

but enough about the boots of the girls students! i long for them,
notwithstanding, to destroy me, to walk on me in ceremonial
conclusion to the death of Patriarchy. how could there ever be
such a death? not ever, if it meant the boots of the girl students
were to pass away, down the long, damp alley of history.

make boots of the girls students at home!
1cup: yes! already the tannins!
2tsp: make expensive at home!
4: five large eels! dental floss!
1: new good hockey pucks!
$: penis of the white ghost!

i realise i cannot stop with the boots of the girl students.
it is the phrase, “the boots of the girl students,” which has me,
trapped, in a spell. and located, as i am, in the trees, the birch sap rising, the boots keep passing, anonymously tapping, clicking and
slapping, SLICING AND THWACKING!!!! Literally punching me in
the ears, gouging my thorax.

but i see.
i see you cannot picture the
boots of the girl students. i see you are not met by them, secret-police-
boots-of-the-girl-students, at every turn, at each twist of the stair,
within the line-up for Donut Thing, in the hall outside “Forensic
Snowboarding” YOU CANNOT SEE THEM, free, as you are,
in the flip-flop, sandal’d air.

they are short, with buckles, faux-suede; or
mid-height, a tortured brown, tight on the calves, like a bridle;
or high, swallowing the knees, a tsunami of a shiny black
leather, ruffed in folds, black leather, stinking of paraffin,
parts of the hands of the slaves that were making them
sewn tight in, for effect, for fashion, FOR FASHION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

of course i am sick. but you may not judge. do not judge my
slack, blanched, and withered corpse. it was the boots of the
girl students what destroyed my soul. even now. as i write the
phrase, “boots of the girl students,” my chest aches, my fingers
gnarl, my mind races: did i bring the Dubbin? the tallow? the nugget?
will i find a closet? will i yet ever so soon be able
to finally grasp to seize to consummate my ardour for
THE BOOTS OF THE GIRL STUDENTS?!!!

Reprise: manic fanatic gets well soon

we are the walking thud. the clicking, endless, recedes, approach. we are the crushing heel. we are never. we hide in the hall closet until autumn. we know this mccann. we have him on tape. we know what. we have stepped with/on his toes. we are silent (arch) killers. the dawn is burnishing your eyes. the miracle of whip. the age of bootie, the age. SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEG!!!!!!!!!

– love,
the Board of Oversight