Final Steps

Early last year something came over the wire about a county sheriff having problems with the way federal agents were treating him and the property within his jurisdiction. I called and spoke with him about the legal tool meant to deal with those symptoms. Then in October that sheriff got together with a half-dozen other sheriffs to discuss these common problems of federal agents/agencies overstepping their authorities. Out of that, a larger conference was held in late January of this year--a bunch of county sheriffs ticked-off at the Feds. I sent an e-mail to the one sheriff, reminding him of our conversation last year. He gave a call, we talked, and he mentioned that there was a conference of county sheriffs of the western states taking place right then.

History: the sheriff came into existence around the 9th century, in England, which makes the sheriff the oldest continuing, non-military, law enforcement entity in history. In early England the land was divided into geographic areas called shires. Within each shire was an individual called a reeve, which meant guardian. This individual was originally selected by the serfs to be their informal leader. The kings observed how influential this individual was within the community and soon incorporated that position into their governing powers. The reeve soon became a king’s appointed representative to protect their interests and act as mediator with people of a particular shire. Through time and usage the words shire and reeve came together to be shire-reeve, guardian of the shire, and eventually the word sheriff.

Depending on the mood and needs of kings, the responsibilities of the Office of Sheriff ebbed and flowed until 1215 when the great document of freedom, the Magna Carta, was reluctantly signed by King John. This document had 63 clauses, 27 of which are related to the restrictions and responsibilities of the sheriff.

Because of the vast British Empire, the concept of sheriff was exported to places such as Canada, Australia, India, and of course, the American Colonies. Following the pattern of English government, sheriffs were appointed. The first sheriff in America is believed to be Captain William Stone, appointed in 1634 for the Shire of Northampton in the colony of Virginia. The first elected sheriff was William Waters in 1652 in the same shire (shire was used in many of the colonies, before the word county replaced it).

The duties of the early American Sheriff were similar in many ways to its English forerunner, centering on court related duties and protection of citizens. In 1776 Pennsylvania and New Jersey adopted the Office of Sheriff in their constitutions. The Ohio Constitution called for the election of the county sheriff in 1802, and from then on state-by-state, the democratic election of sheriff became not only a tradition, but in most states a constitutional requirement. The elected sheriff is part of America’s democratic fabric. In the United States today, of the 3083 sheriffs, with few exceptions, all are elected by the citizens of their counties. This characteristic sets the Office of Sheriff apart from other law enforcement agencies in its direct accountability to citizens through election. The Office of Sheriff is not a department of county government, but the independent office which exercises the sovereign powers of the people in interests of the public trust.

Anyway, I did get to Vegas on Thursday, I did speak with as many county sheriffs as possible, and it turns out that some are like politicians, and some are not. What if one hundred sheriffs or more called a press conference to say they intend to uphold their oaths and defend the Constitution? And since it’s recently come to their attention that the states have cast the requisite number of applications to trigger a convention call, and members of the 112th Congress have failed to carry out their constitutional duty to issue that call, what if the sheriffs proclaim that any member of Congress who steps foot in their counties may be arrested for breaking four separate criminal laws in failing to issue the call? Seems that’s what will be required. The conference I went to was for the sheriffs of the western states. The national conference of county sheriffs is this June in Nashville, Tennessee.

Late Winter Notes For This Year's Novel

The idea that each moment has everything possible within it. Life has been bumpy lately. It’s so very strange to put in time/effort to be something, and then, not only is all of society (indeed civilization itself) moving in a different direction--to a world far away from the one you had trained for--and the people apart of your life, your contemporaries, cannot see you for what you are based on your actions for the past ten/twenty/thirty years. For instance, the Article V Convention means a lot of different things to a lot of different people, but if it did emerge into reality it would transform America, and in transforming America it would transform the world. How would things transform exactly? No one knows of course, but you can make good guesses based on what history shows, and all we know to be true about the human condition. So if the Article V Convention would be revolutionary, and you’ve been talking about it for years, burned through a small inheritance and then some, getting Supreme Court ruling, making documentaries, traveling to various political conferences to persuade others, etc--that would make you a revolutionary, right? And if you wrote a novel, sold a few thousand copies and occasionally get fan mail saying your work changed a life, that would make you a novelist, right? And if you’ve been creating/giving away/selling art for years, and continue to think about visual art constantly, that would make you an artist, right? And if you've written scripts and plays, and people have performed some to positive reviews, that would make you a playwright, right? And if you’ve been writing poetry since ten years old, a few collections worth, and still more to this day, that would make you a poet, right? Now what if you had done all these things, and everyone around you says things like “you better get your shit together” retirement saved, and looks at you as if you're just another human being? Guess what, not all lives are equally important. Anyone at any time can make their life important. Not because I say so, but because the universe says so. With the way things are going, having just read that, anyone might say--Wow, get a load of this guy blowing his own horn about how great he is. Well, yes, it could be that, but I’ll tell you it’s not: it’s a poet/writer/artist/revolutionary crying out in the wilderness, crying out in a world that is bleeding soul and not likely to survive without something. In some ways I love that it’s happening like this. Except that I’m not kissing one or two special women at present, that part I don’t exactly care for. The two fellow facebookers I fumbled? One of the things that crossed my mind was, what if instead of ditching me, they swatted me on the butt and said something like, “Don’t ever do that again, we’re not in it for romantic love, we’re in it for human love--if there is to be a love between us it will be higher, one that fits like the smooth, warm glove of old friendship; one that is stoic, free from any worry other than being true to what is in the heart and mind that moment.” Who knows, maybe life will unfold in such a way. Today I had to drive to Los Angeles to try to get my computer fixed; had no idea if it was going to work or not. Everything in life is upside down if I don’t have a functioning notebook. Turns out the person I paid to fix it pulled it off. I can write again, like a fish back in water. Of course I can write in a composition book, but when you’re working on a novel, you want it text in a word processing program; because re-writing is writing, it takes the same amount of time and means the same thing ultimately. Stone me now. Or, I’m stoned. No, I’m sad we can’t juice cannabis to cure cancer. Not yet at least. Time will tell. Remind to tell you about a sculptor I sold a Shakespeare book to, and her experience with gypsies while attending art school in Italy. And then tell about Nancy, the girl with Saint tattooed on her, then the gypsy with the light tattoo later that day.

Paradox

par·a·dox, n. 1 statement or proposition that seems self-contradictory or absurd but in reality expresses a possible truth. 2 a self-contradictory proposition. 3 any person, thing, or situation exhibiting an apparently contradictory nature. 4 an opinion or statement contrary to commonly accepted opinion. [Origin: 1530–40;  < Latin paradoxum  < Greek parádoxon, noun use of parádoxos unbelievable, literally, beyond belief]

I knew the word paradox, and always had vague notions of what it meant--a puzzle or riddle of some sort. I made one up: “The greatest truth is that there is no greatest truth.” I went along for years holding the notion that a paradox is neat little word game. Then a couple years ago I read something that changed my mind. The following is a bit of science, but if you bear with it, I promise I’ll tie it in.

Atoms are made of smaller parts, and these parts act as waves, repeating in cycles, rather than as positioned points of mass. For instance, an electron, the part that zings around the nucleus, exists in all its theoretically possible positions, all at once. Every possible outcome--up/down/right/left--exist simultaneously, in a superposition, until an outside force acts upon it, where it then sticks to one of the two contradictory states. Although the rule applies at small scales, nobody had seen evidence on a large scale, apparently because when things are bigger, outside influences more easily alter that fragile state where all possibilities exist at once.

Early spring 2010 scientists took a tiny metal paddle, cooled it to its “ground state,” and connected it to an electrical circuit. The team verified it had no vibration, then used the circuit to give it a “push,” and saw it move.They put it into a superposition of push and don't push, and through a series of measurements were able to show the paddle both vibrating and not vibrating simultaneously. What this means is that the physical world itself is a paradox. What I thought was a neat little mind game was actually an indicator of the nature of reality--that it’s really true, life is but a dream. Every moment, every move, every utterance, everything is all melting into a ceaseless beginning that’s contradictory in nature.

There’s this phenomenon called lucid dreaming, where some people can act in their dreams. For most a dream is a crazy, trippy thing where things happen to you, or you seem unable to act. I experienced lucid dreaming once and only once, years ago, where I was in a boxing ring against a white guy with dark eyes/hair, and I suddenly realized that because I was dreaming I could kick his ass even though he was bigger. The point is, because physical reality itself is a paradox, means that living is the real lucid dreaming. When you wake up, you’re no longer involved in sleeping dreams, but in the real dream, where you’re able to act. Living is the real lucid dreaming. Or maybe, real living is lucid dreaming. Lucid living is really, really dreaming--something like that.

Anyway, I told the two muses I’d write something great for them, to see if they might forgive me for being a bonehead. It really was painful, but it was illuminating. Made me see how a part of me is very possessive of the overall me. Jung would say it’s the Anima archetype, and I’d say he’s right. In a way I practically need to be taken hostage by who I love. Once there, it’s been nice the couple times I’ve had it. I’ve never had a real ménage a trios, and of course because I’m not god, I have no idea if we’d have our tongues and such in each other right now had I not sent the message. I asked if I could at least have a chance to persuade them. I said I’d write something really beautiful and human, and if they liked it they might consider forgiving me, and keep being my muses.

I knew I had stuff from last year I needed to revise/add to, I could present that to persuade them; it’s human and beautiful, but not in the way I meant. Plus I wanted to write something new, something deserving of their spirits and beauties. I was afraid I wouldn’t find something grand enough, but it turns out the story to frame it is from my own family. It happened over Super Bowl weekend, and it had drama, screaming and yelling, and it articulates a bigger idea that I think is very human.

My family is like most families in that it has a certain degree of dysfunction and estrangement. I don’t know what the average dysfunction/estrangement is, but I’d bet ours is a little above average, like maybe sixty-five percent, who knows. Anyway, it was planned that I’d drive my dad to my older brother’s in the east San Francisco Bay area, spend the day, then drive to my sister’s on the Monterey Bay--the ranch house Saturday, the beach house Sunday. Actually my sister has two beach houses, the old one on the cliff over the water, and the new one on the hilltop overlooking the bay. My dad and I stay at the old one. I was going to drive straight to my brother’s but my dad was tired and wanted to sleep at the beach house, then drive to the ranch house in the morning. So we did that, and when we got to my brother’s Saturday morning, somewhere there was reference from him implying we were staying at his place that night. My dad and I thought we were leaving back to the beach house later, neither of us brought our toothbrush/shaving kit, but it seemed he wanted us to stay, and I figured we’d just wait till we got back to the beach house to freshen up, before going to my sister’s.

My older brother’s daughters, two of my nieces: T is nine, P is six, and they have lots of pets--chickens, chics, turtles, rats, rabbits, cats, dogs, horses, and a goldfish. I was surprised when we went out to the hen house to check eggs. One had been pecked open by the little brown birds which had snuck under the netting. The girls were very clinical in their approach to the not completely formed baby chick, and examined it before throwing it onto a nearby pile of dirt and burying it. We watched their mom do some horse stuff in her ring, then I asked if we could go hiking. T and P were stoked to, just like they were to walk the shore when we were at the beach house over Thanksgiving. My other brother’s kids don’t like to hike, and my sister doesn’t let my nephew out of her sight, so one of the things I found out this year is that finally, at family gatherings I have someone to go hiking with. I feel that at least some of the family should go hiking or surfing or something on holidays. That way there’s good stories for dinner. Anyway, we walked around their ranch and checked out some of the adjoining fields. Then later I wanted to go explore some more, and only P wanted to go. So we went, and then T and her dad chased us down with quads. T commanded her quad very competently while I sat on the back, even having to back it up to turn around when we ran into a dead end. Then we went to the local museum, checked out a little history, did a little shopping, and had a great dinner.

The first bump was after dinner when P asked me to play a game on wii. You need these wand-like things, and we were getting ready to play, and T decided she wanted to play, took the wand from P, and made her cry. I showed no favoritism, because there wasn’t any, but I remember in the past, T squeezing P out of the way for my attention. While T was getting scolded for making P cry, I thought to say something to T. I wanted to let her know that it was embarrassing to me when she was inconsiderate to her sister like that. She was in our presence, she knew we were about to play, and she should’ve just called for next game. I decided to let it go.

Near when it was their bedtime they got a little squirley, nothing too bad I didn’t think, but their mom got in her mode that I had seen before, and a couple times that day, and started scolding them in their rooms, and not screaming but loud enough that I heard it, she said she’d slap their face. I think slapping a child’s face is wrong, I don’t think it should ever happen. I was slapped in the face plenty as a child, I even had stuff broken across my back more than a few times, and I understand parenting has evolved a lot since the sixties and seventies--maybe a swat on the butt and send them to their room, or extra chores or something? But no slapping the faces of children.

So I’m uncomfortable, and a little tired, and my dad starts up conversation with my brother about what traffic might be like. In other words, he didn’t want to sleep at the ranch but wanted to drive to the beach house. It had been a long day, and I was irritated, and I didn’t mind the idea of waking up at the beach house either. So I didn’t say anything, and listened to my dad lead my brother into the notion of us leaving that night. My brother says OK, and now it’s about telling the mom and kids. T starts crying, the mom goes ballistic.

My dad is in his eighties and showing signs of his second childhood. He’s more fussy about things than say twenty years ago. One of the most kind, gentle people I’ve ever known, but a little more bumbling, a little more fussy these days, as is to be expected. When my brother implied we’d be staying with him that night, one of us should’ve said something. Now that my dad was wanting to leave, I should’ve said that we had to stay at that point, and that it would be OK, we’d just drive in the morning. In that sense the whole screaming and yelling was my fault, because staying would’ve prevented it, and I could’ve got my dad to see that. But as I said, I was irritated, and there really was a concern about the drive in the morning. If we left then, the traffic equation was totally different. Anyway, it turned into this big deal where she was screaming we broke the kid’s hearts, and how they wanted to make us breakfast an all. I finally had to yell to tell her to be quiet, to explain that we didn’t know we were meant to stay, and that she had scolded the kids in a manner I didn’t care for. They told me I couldn’t tell them how to parent their kids. We patched it up best we could before we left, it wasn’t a peeling out of the driveway in anger type thing.

So I thought about what happened, and realized I wasn’t asking them to parent differently, what I wanted was the courtesy of them not doing it while I was there. Polite people say to their kid, “We’ll be discussing this matter later,” or something like that. I’m very much against corporal punishment of children. I don’t think a child’s face should be slapped under any circumstance. Plenty of reasons for an adult to have their face slapped, but not children. So do I endure the discomfort of them disciplining their kids in the manner that they do, or do they wait till I’m gone? I think the reasonable thing would be the latter, but I wish that somehow my brother and sister-in-law would realize it’s not OK to slap a kid’s face, and that if they ever saw someone else do it, they could let them know it's somehting they used to do, but no longer.

"Beautiful, Bawdy, Villains!"

Since young, the word villain has held a certain amount of humor as to the way it’s pronounced as opposed to spelled. I enjoy pronouncing it as spelled. “You vil-LAIN, you!”

vil-lain, n. 1 a wicked person. 2 a playful name for a mischievous person. 3 character in a play, novel, etc., whose evil motives or actions form an important element in plot. [< Old French villein < Medieval Latin villanus farm hand < Latin villa country house]

Examining etymology we see origins are likely that farm hands from country houses stole into town to pilfer things. Perhaps one was caught, and in fleeing, was recognized, and it was called out after them--“Villein!”--so the townsfolk knew who the thief was--someone from the villas. The Old French pronunciation is as the word is spelled, vil-LAIN. I figured that had to be, it seems more correct to human speech to yell/sound out AIN over IN.

In the play Hamlet there is a monologue where, because he’s failing to take action against the corrupt state of affairs, he berates himself as a “…bloody, bawdy, villain!” I like to use the phrase when addressing someone or something that has gone wrong. Like if Dick Cheney or the like are on a talk show I might yell the phrase at the TV--“Bloody, bawdy, villain!”

But I also like to use it playfully, like I did signing off to two women I was involved in a facebook ménage à trios with--“beautiful, bawdy, villains!” I wanted it to turn into a real life ménage à trios because both women are dynamic and beautiful. But just the other night I may have hurt one of them, if not both. In not thinking things through, being too impulsive, no filter rawness, I disrupted a budding relationship. I cried about it, I really do care about them, and the thought of hurting them, hurts. If I would’ve waited an hour or so on the development of what I really wanted to say, I would’ve eventually reached the correct words, instead of what I sent.

I had been messaging with them both, then created a thread with the three of us, and went back to message the one. I sent it on the chance she might have wanted it for her narrative. She is near that age where if she wanted kids, now was a good time. My imagination even went to that place. What I should’ve done is asked them at the same time if I could give the one a baby, or both, and then maybe we all make a go of it as a tribe of some sort, whatever that might look like. Then they could’ve taken the idea however they wanted, as a great laugh at least, and we could’ve continued to row gently down the stream. Instead I faltered by telling the one I loved them both, but was a little more in love with her. She read it, showed it to the other, and they both bowed out. Alas, haste is the Devil’s best friend, and not only was the wording imprecise, it was not well-considered and so the wrong message overall was sent. And quite rightly the one showed it to the other. I hope they forgive me. Maybe one day. But let this be a lesson: if you’re in a ménage à trios, on-line or in the real world, favoritism is likely death. The tragedy in this case, besides hurting people, is that I don’t think there really was any favoritism. I think I loved them both just the same, and I sent the wrong message out of fear it might’ve been what the one wanted. I’ll talk about it more because there is a lot to be said for the situation and for women and men in general. For now let’s shift gears, here is what I wrote a few days ago:

I feel so lucky--the first few weeks of 2012! Very busy. The political science is bumping along, though there is comfort in hearing people talk about the need for a convention. There’s text I could write about how the ten year struggle for it destroyed my life, but I wouldn’t bother, it’s 2012 now and every day is a gift of the heavens. Sounds over the top to say every day is a gift of the heavens, doesn’t it? But not only is it true--literally, the heavens contain the Sun--but it’s a feeling too. The “gift of the heavens” feeling, where you’re happy just to know so much of what’s going on here on Earth. In an essay by Sir Francis Bacon, “Of Truth” he quotes an unnamed poet: “It is a pleasure to stand upon the shore, and to see ships tossed upon the sea; a pleasure to stand in the window of a castle, and to see a battle and the adventures thereof below: but no pleasure is comparable to standing upon the vantage ground of truth, and to see the errors, and wanderings, and mists, and tempests in the vale below. That this sight be with compassion and not pride--certainly it is heaven on Earth to have a mind move in charity, rest in providence, and turn upon the poles of truth.”

The higher ground of truth is achieved through your choice to seek out, read, and contemplate the world--and maybe that’s really what we’re talking about, whether or not you read books--that a feeling of bliss can be achieved just by knowing things. If you read books, of course you are going to know more. They don’t have to be non-fiction books only--you can learn about life through fiction--some would argue you learn more through fiction--if the writer is any good (literary fiction that is, that which attempts to raise consciousness about life and living, and so teaches a better way to live). But surely, the more you read the more you know, and the more you know the higher ground of truth you stand, and thus more often to have the “every day is a gift of the heavens” type day. Knowing things is important, the trick is understanding what they mean when considered in relation to one another. That’s the job of the poet and playwright and novelist.

The other night I went down to LA, to the Kaballah Center. A friend joined the group a year or two ago, went to Israel with them last summer, and talks about it when we catch up over the phone. I’d heard of it for years, it’s centered on Jewish mysticism. They have a few speakers who know their stuff, and they all groove on good ideas. It’s kind of like its own church, everyone generally smiling, feeling good. I was there for the talk they were having about 2012. Here are notes I jotted down:

Wisdom as tool

Breaking free from slavery

War of thoughts/ideas

Law of solidarity--every person an agent in the unfolding

Awake core mass for change

Afterwards I spoke with the woman rabbi who gave it. She was a dynamic speaker, high and low notes throughout the hour--very shiny hair I remember thinking at one point. She talked about things I had considered at one time or another and I agreed with her take--pretty much what any fair-minded, rational person would. In the main, the message was about how what we think and how we act as humans affects the unfolding of reality. This is one of my favorite ideas of all time, so I wanted to share with the rabbi a story I heard about, and confirmed with a little research at the library. It’s a story about the Hopi which underlines the idea.

The Hopi elders had a prophecy passed along for thousands of years: that when the “gourd of ashes” was dropped on mother Earth, the elders living at that time were to go to the “house of glass” on the eastern shore, and warn the leaders of the world that if they did not become peaceable and blend with the land, they would cause a catastrophe. Then, in the 1940s, the elders took the atom bomb dropped on Japan to be the “gourd of ashes” and they headed to the United Nations building to warn the world’s leaders. Their prophecy instructed them to attempt to deliver the message three times. In research I found a short op-ed from the 1953 Wall Street Journal which basically made fun of these Hopi elders trying to address the General Assembly.

The important message of the prophecy is that if humanity didn’t do something, it would cause something: human thoughts/actions affect how things unfold in reality. I wrote down a link for the Article V Convention stuff and gave it to the rabbi, letting her know her message of the Law of Solidarity, and how each individual is an agent in the unfolding, and the goal is to wake a core of the mass for change.

I've decided not to do another Shakespeare book, and am going for another novel. Rider, Horse & Dog is the storehouse for the raw material. I'm also working on a new play, as I was sent an invite from a New York theatre for their latest competition. We'll see. Anyway, there is more to say about the two women, and even the actress. For now I must go prepare for a conference call with the politically engaged.

Slaying a Dragon

There were a dozen conventions leading up to the 1787 Federal Convention at Philadelphia which drafted the Constitution. From there the people of the thirteen states had to then be persuaded to embrace it. The final argument of the Federalists, No. 85, explains that if Congress ever becomes so corrupt it no longer expresses the will of the people--if corruption becomes institutionalized at the federal level--the displeasure of the states, registered by a numeric count of applications, forces Congress to issue the call for a convention. Everyone alive at that time knew what one was for--to address concerns in a non-binding deliberative assembly so that when it was time to vote for change everyone had an understanding of issues. Ratifying conventions were held in each state to see what everyone thought, and then there was more voting. So how could our nation have survived all these conventions which took place at our founding, but now somehow, the same process is a huge question mark fraught with fear? We today, after fifty-plus years of military/industrial nonsense have forgotten what a convention is and why 3/4 ratification is overly sufficient to block divisive issues from becoming law. Fear that a convention will propose the most corporatist, draconian, and/or fundamentalist ideas is one thing, but to fear 38 states agreeing to them is not only irrational, but illogical as well: 75% means the idea must have overwhelming and broad support, that whether conservative or liberal it must win support of all one side, plus half the other. In other words it’s mathematically impossible for a divisive issue to be ratified. To put it another way, if you fear a convention it’s because you irrationally/illogically believe issues like abortion and marriage are so easily agreed to they could achieve 75% overall consent. 

On the other hand, there are issues that are easily agreed to: Electoral Reform in general, creating standards for transparency in the voting process, and removing money from politics, in particular. Electoral Reform always scores 80-90% approval. Removing money from politics has been an on the lips of Americans for over a century, and guess what we’ve never had in that century? A convention. 

Congress refuses to issue the call even though applications have been submitted by the hundreds. A new legal challenge is about to prove once again that Congress refuses to obey the Constitution and issue the call. So where does that leave you and me? All it means is what Presidents Jefferson, Lincoln, and Eisenhower have said in so many words: It doesn’t matter what the Congress or Court thinks, only what We The People think. As soon as we galvanize a tipping-point around the idea that there is nothing to fear and everything to gain from a convention, Congress will do what it’s always done: play dumb, then manufacture consent for what the people want (this time we don’t want a new amendment, we want a convention to consider a number of them--some concerned with how Congress operates).

Our trick now is to gather political groups and individuals from across the land and political spectrum to join in the call for the Article V Convention. Government here in the USA has been overtaken by corporate and foreign interests, legislation is now written by those who fund campaigns--banking interests, big business. Now is the time to hit the reset button on governance with a convention. How? Within the political environment of a convention discussion is removed from another corrupt, tired two-party affair, to that of how 38 states might alter and abolish the status quo. Whether or not any idea can indeed garner the approval of 75%, the constitutional process of a convention is a three-part national discussion that in and of itself alters and abolishes the status quo. In other words, all we need to do is build the pressure upon Congress to issue the call and once that goal is accomplished we are immediately, literally overnight, delivered from the hell of politics as usual.

The Rule of Law is that there are laws and they are to be obeyed. Of law, there is the letter of it (how it’s written/what it states) and the spirit of it (why it states what it does). Those unfamiliar with the Article V Convention and the numerous Supreme Court decisions directly related to it or an aspect of it (such as election of delegates), must first ask themselves if they’re clear on the distinction between subjective opinion and objective law. If at present you believe the Article V Convention can be limited in any way, you are applying a subjective standard that doesn’t exist and was never meant to. To limit a convention to one or more subjects, or to believe applications need be submitted within a “reasonable” time period, means you have not read the letter of this law nor understand the spirit of it. The letter of Article V is that upon the application of 2/3 of the states, with no other terms or conditions and without debate, the Congress “shall” issue the call. The spirit of Article V is that any generation can alter/abolish the status quo of a two-party system at any time the desire is strong enough. There are no limits, terms or conditions on the applications, except that one has been cast, and hundreds have already been cast. Nor are there any limitations on the convention once convoked. Hopefully, you will come to realize the Article V Convention is untouchable: as soon as one attempts to put a single limitation upon it, where does one stop? Where you think it should stop? Where I think it should stop? Where Newt Gingrich thinks it should stop? You cannot apply subjective criteria to an objective law which has no terms or conditions, unique in all the world. That’s what we should all understand finally, that there is nothing like the American constitution in all the history of civilization. The idea of a “runaway convention” is a myth and such fears are unfounded based on reason and logic. The Article V Convention is an assembly of the states to discover if indeed there is anything that 3/4 might agree to. Simply working to discover what might garner such approval in and of itself will put the hurt on the two-party corporatist state of affairs, and the system we’ve all come to loathe.

Late Notes

Wanna hear a facebook story? A childhood friend who had gone on to some success in the music world (a hit rock album in the 90s), over the past two years or so, put up his late tracks/videos of his band. I’d been meaning to listen and comment to his latest stuff, finally got around to it, and suggested he get a young singer to belt out his tunes, while he focused on songwriting and his own rad guitar playing. He defriended me. I actually woke up today thinking about maybe commenting again, letting him know it was just a thought, wishing him all the best this year. But the comment was gone and so was he. I wish he would’ve had some retort or something I could have worked off, redirected, but instead, silence. Still wish him the best, hope I hear his guitar over the radio, and he sells many records.

I’m very involved in trying to figure out how to crack the political science nut. We’re so close with NYCGA. Why the admin/mods of PAER are so covetous of the OWS brand, I can only guess, we could really be using it right now, just as a working group. Arizona is casting a new application for a convention. I hope I’m wrong and this isn’t just another UFPJ scenario, like back in 2004. Time will tell.

Was finally able to get all excerpts for the next novel together. Pieces large and small were strewn over a number of different files, so today I created one titled NovelSequel and dumped ‘em all in there. It’s going to be a sequel to the first novel, but will write it as a stand-alone piece, like if someone finds it on a coffee-house bookshelf they won’t have to have read the first one.

Also have been able to read a few plays, I still have a burning to write them too, though the novel is starting to bang pretty loud, so don't know. But while sorting through files for the novel, also created one for all my scripts/plays and fragments.

In the meantime, I can’t believe where I’ve landed. I’m living in the most perfect place for a guy like me. I put my bed up on cinder-blocks so when I go to sleep/wake up I’m looking right down on the Santa Barbara Channel and Santa Cruz Island across the way. The last few days have been glassy heaven. Today it started out that way and then for a time I saw a fog bank move in. Beautiful.

Such extraordinary times we live. I love you and am wishing you the best.

Late Notes/First Notes 2012

Life is wild, so magical, all the same old stuff keeps happening: I reach a place of change, get afraid, depressed, and lose hope. Like Montaigne said, I’ve suffered many horrific tragedies that took place in mind and nowhere else.

I thought I was moving to this place in Montecito, up the street from where I’d been the last ten years; then things fell through (because I talked politics), and miserable wondering where I was going to land, found a place on the Mesa. I had half my stuff loaded, showed up after the holidays and had a falling out with the landlord. There were red flags leading up to it, caused the falling out on purpose. Threw stuff in storage, freaked, no cool place to land. Then got a call. Turns out this place is not only better than the Mesa, it rivals the place of the last ten years. For me, perched on a hill in Summerland, my window the Santa Barbara Channel, I wonder if I could be happier. This new place has space for my table too, to make colorfields. Life is wild, can’t wait to finish painting, new carpet, all that.

The political science is active, still working with the NYCGA. Like I figured, based on past experience, they’re balking at dropping the squirt gun and picking up the fire hose. I think some people like the idea of working for a convention more than actually having one.