CHIROT ZERO ZINE--ANNOUNCING NEW BLOG

Dear Followers, Friends, fellow Workers:

I have just begun a new blog/zine called
Chirot Zero Zine A Heap of Rubble--
Anarkeyology of hand eye ear notations
---
http://chirotzerozine.blogspot.com
the blog is more exusively concerned than this one with presenting essays, reviews (inc. "bad reviews") , Visual Poetry, Sound Poetry, Event Scores, Manifestos, Manifotofestos, rantin' & raving, rock'roll, music all sorts--by myself and others--if you are interested in being a contributor, please feel free to contact me at david.chirot@gmail.com
as with this blog, the arts are investigated as a part of rather than apart from the historical, economic, political actualities of yesterday, today, & tomorrow
as with al my blogs--
contributions in any language are welcome

Free Leonard Peltier

Free Leonard Peltier
The government under pretext of security and progress, liberated us from our land, resources, culture, dignity and future. They violated every treaty they ever made with us. I use the word “liberated” loosely and sarcastically, in the same vein that I view the use of the words “collateral damage” when they kill innocent men, women and children. They describe people defending their homelands as terrorists, savages and hostiles . . . My words reach out to the non-Indian: Look now before it is too late—see what is being done to others in your name and see what destruction you sanction when you say nothing. --Leonard Peltier, Annual Message January 2004 (Leonard Peltier is now serving 31st year as an internationally recognized Political Prisoner of the United States Government)

Injustice Continues: Leonard Peltier Again Denied Parole

# Injustice continues: Leonard Peltier denied parole‎ - By Mahtowin A wave of outrage swept the progressive community worldwide at the news that Native political prisoner Leonard Peltier was denied parole on Aug. ... Workers World - 2 related articles » US denies parole to American Indian activist Leonard Peltier‎ - AFP - 312 related articles » # Free Leonard Peltier 2009 PRISON WRITINGS...My Life Is My Sun Dance Leonard Peltier © 1999. # Prison Writings: My Life Is My Sun Dance - by Leonard Peltier, Harvey Arden - 2000 - Biography & Autobiography - 272 pages Edited by Harvey Arden, with an Introduction by Chief Arvol Looking Horse, and a Preface by former Attorney General Ramsey Clark. In 1977, Leonard Peltier... books.google.com/books?isbn=0312263805... - # Leonard Peltier, American Indian Activist, Denied Parole And Won't ... Aug 21, 2009 ... BISMARCK, ND — American Indian activist Leonard Peltier, imprisoned since 1977 for the deaths of two FBI agents, has been denied parole ... www.huffingtonpost.com/.../leonard-peltier-american_n_265764.html - Cached - Similar - #

Gaza--War Crime: Collective Punishment of 1.5 Million Persons--Recognized as "The World's Largest Concentration Camp"

Number of Iraquis Killed Since USA 2003 Invasion began

Just Foreign Policy Iraqi Death Estimator

US & International Personnel losses in Iraq &Afghanistan; Costs of the 2 Wars to US


Number of U.S. Military Personnel Sacrificed (Officially acknowledged) In America's War On Iraq: 4,667
icasualties.org/oif/

Number Of International Occupation Force Troops Slaughtered In Afghanistan : 1,453
http://icasualties.org/oef/


=

Cost of War in Iraq

$691,188,637,164

Cost of War in Afghanistan
$229,137,844,021

The cost in your community

www.nationalpriorities.org/index.php?option=com_wrapper&Itemid=182

flickr: DEATH FROM THIS WINDOW/DOORS OF GUANTANAMO--Essays, Links, Video-- US use of Torture

VISUAL POETRY/MAIL ART CALL Cracking World’s Walls & Codes Concrete & Virtual

Cracking World’s Walls & Codes Concrete & Virtual


VISUAL POETRY/MAIL ART CALL
No Sieges, Tortures, Starvation & Surveillance
GAZA-GUANTANAMO-ABU GHRAIB—THE GLOBE
Deadline/Fecha Limite: SinsLimite/ongoing
Size: No limit/Sin Limite
No Limit on Number of Works sent
No Limit on Number of Times New Works Are Sent
Documentation: on my blog
http://davidbaptistechirot.blogspot.com
Addresses: david.chirot@gmail.com
David Baptiste Chirot
740 N 29 #108
Milwaukee, WI 53208
USA

Miss Universe Visits Guantanamo: 'A Loooot Of Fun!'



Miss Universe Visits Guantanamo: 'A Loooot Of Fun!'


The current 'Miss Universe' Dayana Mendoza (formerly Miss Venezuela) and 'Miss America' Crystal Stewart visited US troops stationed in Guantanamo Bay on March 20th, the New York Times reports. Here's Mendoza's account of the visit from her pageant blog last Friday. She says the trip "was a loooot of fun!"

This week, Guantánamo!!! It was an incredible experience...All the guys from the Army were amazing with us. We visited the Detainees camps and we saw the jails, where they shower, how the recreate themselves with movies, classes of art, books. It was very interesting. We took a ride with the Marines around the land to see the division of Gitmo and Cuba while they were informed us with a little bit of history.


The water in Guantánamo Bay is soooo beautiful! It was unbelievable, we were able to enjoy it for at least an hour. We went to the glass beach, and realized the name of it comes from the little pieces of broken glass from hundred of years ago. It is pretty to see all the colors shining with the sun. That day we met a beautiful lady named Rebeca who does wonders with the glasses from the beach. She creates jewelry with it and of course I bought a necklace from her that will remind me of Guantánamo Bay :)

I didn't want to leave, it was such a relaxing place, so calm and beautiful.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

CHIROT: EL COLONEL &MOON-STRIPED BODIES OF WRITING


El Colonel & moon-striped bodies of writing


By flashlight, among the ferns, El Colonel goes through the documents found in a corpse's knapsack. One is a Composition Book journal with bits of poems and gory melodramatic war fictions mixed in, creating a deliberately, if crudely, disturbing collaged portrait of a mercenary's mind. --A mind no longer for sale --El Colonel smiles as the moon's light for a moment breaks through the occluding canopy of tall trees23

El Colonel smiles. Slowly, quietly, severing the corpses from their trap-wires, he lays them stretched out in the underbrush. Slivers of the occluded moon slice through the forest's thick canopies, striping the bodies with black and white lines, "like lines of poetry on canvas stretchers" El Colonel thinks as he begins humming at his work.
"The meat of the fallen before rotting sustains the flowering of poetry."

Prologue

One morning, as the mist began to lift in a small valley, in the midst of a surprise attack by the Heroic Patrol that had turned into a rout of the enemy, El Colonel suddenly had a flash of insight into a question that had been following him everywhere day and night as though both shadowing him and being his own shadow. This question that he could not shake was how to go about an experiment in what he called “experimental writing,” which was to say, what others might look upon and call “conventional writing.”

El Colonel smiles. “When the experimental has become conventional, is then the only refuge for the experimental to be found in the conventional?”

El Colonel smiles. “The pomposity of this question takes us not unawares, Estimados.
It is true that not so long ago I might have considered the conventional as camouflage for the experimental, just as the experimental is really an emergent conventional. If they are basically two sides of the same coin, then –throw away this coin and its idea of two sides as being opposed when in the fact they’re the same . . . “

El Colonel smiles. “As always one is returned to the Zone Zero of activity and writing, in which Zero is both letter and number. Both/and and not either/or.” El Colonel permits himself a chuckle at the “banality of such thoughts in the faceoff the flash of insight which he has just had and which he now sees as the flickering light always ahead of one, into the distances . . . where the writings are to be found—living actualities --uncannily familiar and yet strange—emerging from the ground and the backgrounds—of a teeming, swarming chaos, fecund, fierce and—funny—yes, funny—a clear Sophoclean light—delineates the sharp etched lines of tragedy with the hint of a smile, a strange smile—“

El Colonel smiles . . . . he thinks of the word prosepopoieia---is this not a mode of writing to essay—is speaking of oneself in the third person a form of this—of an imaginary being speaking? Oneself as an imagined being—and the imagined being imagining and writing oneself imagine the imagined one writing—so that each is writing the imagination of the other—Zero Zone—the letter that is also a number—imagination which are each the imaginations of an other who is imagined by one to be an other while that other imagines that the one is indeed born of its imagination—“

El Colnel smiles. The confusions of doublings, of twins, as to which preceded the other into the world-----

El Colonel smiles. To essay this method—


El Colonel smiles. To essay this method he begins as another, as an other-- beginning: He had come finally to the same Zero Zone as always is there—the site in which he there is but an emptiness and an aloneness, an infinite loneliness-- and out of the emptiness the loneliness begins to create an other—others—so that to make them exist, one enacts their being—and after a while, in the teeming swarm of beings, one coalesces as a “square,” a place on which to stand so that this swarming chaotic scene and its characters may be “orchestrated, arranged . . .and then indeed one may see and say that this obdurate mask of being that stands as the quiet eye at the center of the storm is indeed, indeed, is—El Colonel, emerging and who imagines the other imagining himself---and each of these imaginings is an action and exists and is in turn a writing as it creates out of nothing a being who in turn imagines another with which to be less lonely and so—out of loneliness this other with whom and to whom and form whom—one writes and the other writes, and from their correspondence emerges a theaters, directors, actors, set designers-audiences—indeed the whole panorama of a world that swirls and is fascinating in the very eye of the storm al about one, where the El Colonel is the representative to the outside so that the inside will remain –the Center of the Storm, Zero Zone—multiplicities spiraling in spaces—galaxies spiraling outwo/ards—the quiet eye at the center is instead a teeming swam which spirals outward while the representative who keeps their flight well hidden is none other than that consummate actor—El Colonel—director of theaters innumerable—actor of parts impeccable—the secret agent of gallows humor haunting the peripheries of life so that the others will spiral away while at the same time imagining him imagining them and they imagining him imagining him watching them who he imagines watching him . . .
And then-- and then, with a slight wave—

Fade out—end of Prologue . . . Lights! Sound! Camera! Action!

Twilight . . . the day departing, the floating corpse departing, the smoke swirls departing--El Colonel smiles. "The action of these writings of light, water, body, and smoke--is vanishing— vanishing, to vanish, is to write, is writing--is it possible then to immerse oneself in writing’s flow and, with it, pass through the vanishing point--and into the Other Side?-- where the Dead See Scrawls . .

El Colonel smiles. Climbing the heavily forested way upwards among the strong scents of trees and dead logs-- rotting and teeming with insects . . . he sees the distant gleam of flickering green lights drawn together in a small clearing where a little spring leaks through the wild grass and furnishes a communal “watering hole” for all the animals and birds in the area . . . the flickering green lights—like alien spaceships in films seen in the tent cinema as a child . . . are fireflies . . . and walking steadily towards them, El Colonel walks also away—in time .-in memory---in memory’s kino eye---moving forward while pulling backwards---;like the famous merry go round scene in Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train, seen in student days . . . this odd sense of a doubled movement coupled with the flickering lights of the fireflies . . . begins to create a green and glowing aura that keeps expanding, expanding, until his entire field of vision is filled with it . . .

El Colonel smiles. Catching himself, he wonders at how much of an “automated” habit, an automatic tic, this smile has become, as though he had robotized himself. The green glowing aura has enveloped him and inside it he feels himself traveling . . . peacefully . . . wondering where he is being taken . . . if not necessarily “somewhere else” literally, at least in the spirit and mind a sense of voyage----

El Colonel smiles. That damned habit! His entire body now is also a glowing, pulsing, and flickering aura, a green glowing phosphorescence-- as though he, too, is a firefly. Perhaps he WAS a firefly and its incessant flickerings not unlike his smile, flickering OFF—ON—OFF—ON—


El Colonel smiles. Bathed in light that flickers, pulsates, moves simultaneously forward and back . . . bathed in this light he begins to find himself become buoyant, even as his feet remain on the ground . . .

El Colonel smiles. He starts to think of—and that was the last he knew until—how much later?—he finds himself still miraculously standing---it must be much later he thought, the fireflies have disappeared . . . looking down at his body, checking himself, his clothes, feeling his hair as though he might find some remaining evidences, traces, small signs . . .of the aura—flickering still . . .

El Colonel smiles. He wonders if anyone came across him standing here in the clearing . . . glowing green, off and on, off and on—an immense firefly!—Safe inside the enveloping aura . . . had perhaps a bird, -- an animal or---an enemy --seen him thus? ----

El Colonel smiles. All over his body he feels a pleasant tingling, as though firefly wings brushed against him, leaving with him some fragments of the key necessary to return to that clearing in which he himself had been as it were, a clearing . . . .himself . . . a clearing in consciousness—where perhaps a fresh stream flowed, leaked ,pooled from out of him, out of himself, as heavy moist soils, black and glowing themselves, so shiny were they---a regeneration out of a clearing, a space where a fresh stream erupts and bathes in flickering green light one’s Being, so that one is “transformed by the cool and flickering light, the cool and limpid waters, the cool air of the forests . . . “

El Colonel doesn’t smile. Since he doesn’t notice this himself, being too occupied in leaning and looking down, ---and, then, squatting --and running his hands through the moist undergrowth . . . it hasn’t existed, the not smiling--- . . .
--suddenly he feels an immense desire to run his fingers through moss—and that way also recover his sense of direction . . . as moss is always found on the south side of trees it has been growing on—and so often is found at the bases of trees such as these, these trees so swiftly lost as singular beings as their limbs and leaves merge with al those others growing closely around . . .

El Colonel laughs. Laughs at himself as he feels that he is not smiling, automatically, off-on, off-on--like the flickering lights of the fireflies . . . he feels the green moss thick and curly as his fingers run through it, feel it generate out of its almost black greens n the night a new form of light, like a static electricity which flickers, arcs, and fades out . . . a fire gone to sleep in a heap of ashes and the last glowing log suddenly collapsing as the log supporting it becomes but a heap of grey ashes . . ..

El Colonel continued upward, finding here and there a corpse dangling from the booby trap wires that had suddenly snapped their necks and hoisted them high as fallen paratroopers caught in the branches are high, high as in the distances of death / . . .

El Colonel laughs. The swinging pendulum faces of the dead often have an almost comic look of amazement, of surprise . . . shocked, stunned and caught unawareness—as the sudden jolt of recognition of the moments of death “dawns on them”—and . . . one can hear them their stifled, cut off shrieks turning to gasps--—No! No! It has come too soon!! Out of nowhere! My death!! The end-----

-----Looking at the faces El Colonel senses their desperation, their half thoughts choked before their time—and then the sudden violent Jerk!—of the sudden flight upward into the green canopies of this huge forest, and then, like fallen paratroopers’ immense tree-caught parachutes . . . expanding, breathing, and then contracting violently—in-out . . . in-out . . . in . . . out . . . , like the billowing of gigantic fires or whale lungs collapsing-----like clouds . . . ..

El Colonel smokes. He cuts down each of the corpses as he finds them in his climbing, just as though they are indeed some hairy fruit . . . . blown way off course and landing here in the thick forests--- Each one he covers with a “natural looking” small heap of leaves, sticks and soil. One fellow he even gives some moss to, putting it in his hands.

El Colonel smokes. Now he is going through the pockets of the corpses, looking for identification, information, any signs of a once alive and lively life---perhaps he might even mail these to the corpse’s family, if there is an address for them . . .

El Colonel reads. His small flashlight probing the fractured texts, jolted and made askew in their sudden flight . . . it is often difficult to tell who these dead men had been just a little while ago . . . many of them are mercenaries and often have deliberately misleading documents and fotos on their silent bodies . . . El Colonel probes, sifts, tastes, listens to document after document, collecting them al to take back with him to re examine . . . . in a harsher, brighter light than this one made up of a “flash light,” --yet another form of flashing, flickering firefly lights!--and the moonlight----

El Colonel stops. He had not seen its corpse. How could he? It was half buried in the darkness and undergrowth’s murkinesses . . . this one was lying flat with its face pillowed in some small plants . . . and, turning the body over, El Colonel thinks he recognizes a person whom he had known years before, from his own home region . . .

. . . for the moments that the shock of this recognition lasts, El Colonel feels that his entire being, the entire cosmos, may at any instant snap and be hauled swiftly amazingly out of reach of its once-being . . . and he-- trapped and dangling, a grinning corpse who has had the shock of his life and seen not death—but life--- staring back at him, a familiar face from long ago---killed perhaps by himself---

----El Colonel bends lower and lower until his face is level with the corpse’s. From this vantage point El Colonel sees that the body is not that of the person he had known as a young man “back home”. . . . El Colonel felt a rush of relief so intense it made him dizzy, and, swaying, he fell down down down into the darkness where lay the corpses, As though being drawn into a vortex which swirled swiftly spiraling down down down to the distances of death . . .

El Colonel woke up. “I can’t keep having these dammed blackouts. . . .” He kicked at the ground and discovered that he couldn’t feel it--his feet seemed to be in the air. He felt something underneath his chest and arms. It was the corpse from what seemed ages ago, neatly dressed in his uniform that had only a small hole in it to indicate the entrance of death —El Colonel felt around with his hands, and finding some earth under each, he gave himself a powerful shove upward, to raise his body off the dead man’s . . . .from this close-up view, the nearness of the corpse not so long ago a warm and lively creature—a being, a human—El Colonel felt almost ---as the word materialized it in his head---necrophiliac . . . Embracing a corpse! And all from the shock and relief of finding this dead man was not anyone he knew—

El Colonel smiles. Looking upward he sees now the moon which has emerged from some clouds and floats serene in between the limbs of the trees . . . like the stream, finding its own clearing. . The light reflected in a flat metal button on the corpse had “told” El Colonel that the moon was there . . . . He smiled because this reflection of the moon was a reflection of a reflection, the moon being a reflector of the sun’s light—and by being a reflection of a reflection—did one become in some way “real" simply by being a doubling reflection moving further into anamorphic areas created when two mirrors are set facing each other . . . and “no one, nothing, is there” . . .

El Colonel laughed. A quick, staccato burst—then an echoing—a slight ringing, too, reverberating in the air. . and then muffled into silence by the thick forest . . . “and no one, nothing is there . . . “again a quick burst of “automatic rifle fire”—which only made him laugh the more . . . as the automatic weapon reminded him of his automated smile—and the “no one, nothing”—was this being he was patting down and moving the limbs around of, as though it were “real, alive” rather than “no one, nothing”---

El Colonel smokes. Slowly standing up, he finds himself looking almost “dead ahead” straight into the upside down face of yet another booby trapped mercenary. Quietly, by the light of the moon that leaks through the tree limbs, he cuts the body down, lays it out, searches it and give it a temporary burial, covering it as the others were, with leaves, sticks, soil, some mosses . . .

El Colonel smokes. Picking up the collected documents from the various corpses and placing them in a concealed pocket of his poncho, El Colonel takes up again his long ascent of this side of the mountain. As he went on now, in areas farther and farther from the corpses, he began to wonder why a recognized, or thought to be recognized face would bring such shock, while the one taking him by surprise, booby trapped and dangling upside down and dead in his face—that other one had had no more effect than if it had been---been what----yes, as harsh as it was to think it—“been a no one, a nothing . . . “


El Colonel stops climbing. He stands facing the forests around him, the rocky mountain sides, the quick flowing stream silver in the moonlight . . . off in the distance the corpses—beyond them the enemy—a corpse drifting downstream painted and bouqueted as if for a date, as if for some fantastical kind, of party—

El Colonel stands, smoking. The sky has greatly cleared since the fighting early I the day, which had begun in a think fog, a surprise attack . . . and here he stood smoking and –speaking aloud—addressing—“no one?”—“What have I become? What’s happened to me? “The words went out and---seemed to hang suspended in the air, waiting to be taken up again—“I am pausing because I never say of myself the word I anymore . . . because I to am no one---a being playing the part of being a being, a being who is the semblance of being a Colonel—that is the first masked one is the one donning the masks of another role, and then that one, beyond, begins to also pull down from the darkness or light another mask, and another and yet al of them al of these masked actors are playing but one being, in an elongated vista of their staging, labyrinthine vistas into distances of death of mirrors reflecting mirrors—and no, nothing, is there—but this odd insect like outward shell—the functioings El Colonel—supplied by the others with various bizarre or interesting or not ideas, mannerisms, quirks, methods of writing what none of the others can write—“

El Colonel pauses and looks slowly, turning the head and body slowly, “out over the vistas of the landscapes of no one, nothing—emptied of meanings since—since—“ EL Colonel pauses, the shock of a memory carried always with him yet always a shock to have as even a thought let alone a memory . . .the day the emptiness cane . . when his parents lay bleeding and fragments by machetes guns bombs—the while village smoldering in the late afternoon sun, as the shadows grew longer and longer, their hands reaching out to join in the darkness—and he sitting there, watching the emptiness descend—and through time spreading over al creation . . . throughout his entire being and consciousness . . ..

And then, says El Colonel. And then they began to arrive, al the various beings, characters, actors and writers, directors---who started forming theaters, films, sagas, short stories, poems in his mind that was so empty—and for some time he didn’t pay them much attention, let them run wild----until. Until slowly. he began to realize that they could be persons, characters, masked beings, in which he could hide and move, live, until if ever the emptiness within would be . . . he isn’t sure what—healed? Filled? ---until whenever he might contact that someone who is the one he once was . . . or that he paradoxically is NOW—as the only one he will and can be anymore—and so, like Melville’s Ishmael, bob up to the saving ocean surface aboard a surf board coffin----

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