Not So Gone

From Gustav Dore's drawings of Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner

I haven't had much in the way of time or energy to commit here lately, so I wanted to stop in during a lull and say "Howdy" and "I'm still here."

My energies these past few weeks have been spent on teaching my three classes at UofL and on writing for LEO. My own work, writing and otherwise, has fallen by the wayside of late as I try to adjust to a teaching regimen again. The teaching goes as well as can be expected in huge machine of a university. I find myself reaching back to methods taught to me by my friend and mentor, George Eklund. In my mind, I don't teach at the heartless, soulless meat grinder that is a large and parasitic university. I teach at the community college in my mind, the Parsons School of High Creative Humanism. I value my classroom time and hold faith in the potential of actual discussion, intellectual inquiry, and a genuine creative social critique.

I'm still, as you probably expected, banished from the harrowed halls and campuses of the Kentucky Community Technical College System -- a system, which, from what I can tell, is still on an increasingly speedy downward spiral into University of Phoenix infamy. The fat cats are still fat. The lackeys are still latched onto the corporate tit, and adjunct instructors are still ritualistically exploited for the enjoyment of Jay Box, the Board of Regents, The Office of General Counsel, Lisa Brodsky, Shawna L. Anderson, and Emily Belswood*.

Some progress is being made, of course. That the entire institution hasn't ground to a stop because adjuncts are tired of their ritualized dehumanization is proof there isn't enough progress -- but there's always next week, I suppose.

As for the long war back, I suspect, like Odysseus, I suspect my journey towards vindication, if any exists, will take longer than I'd like. My next step, if there is one, is legal action; but my financial situation, and my desire to do more than simply make them pay for a moral affront and attack on my livelihood makes me wonder of there's even a point. Sure, they might pay me off -- but until then I'd be unable to write about them, tell the tale, and sing the songs of their misdeeds, which are many.

And if I happened to win -- that is, if they offered to pay me off -- there would certainly be some attempt to script my telling of the events. And, truth be told, I'd rather be able to continue to call them out for the scam artists they are than get a large payday.

So, keep reading, Dear Friends and Readers. I'll be stopping by here more on the regular. And when I am not here in person, rest assured I always near the dirty sacred river in my heart of hearts.


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*Lisa Brodsky, a sham of an incompetent administrator, Shawna L. Anderson, a lackluster and bitter lackey hiding in Institutional Research, and Emily Belswood, a lowly public relations peon are three of the four people who I have, in the past, written about as #respondent53. I know who the 4th is but can find no proof. Open records requests show the three miscreants listed above did maliciously track and trace my social media life -- which, if the NLRA was any damn use at all and included "public servants", would have caused for them and the college to be sanctioned -- from The Cone Man Saga until I handed them a loaded firearm to shoot me with. Way to stalk. I'd call you ladies, but I've known too many real ones to insult the term.

Southern Jaunt: Synchronicity Extract

Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. - Alfred Lord Tennyson

Yesterday I thought about Odysseus -- specifically, Odysseus Among the Lotus Eaters.  It's a story I return to often in my thoughts. Certainly the epic poem, it's variations and permutations will cross my mind simply because it's one of the greatest poems ever written, translated, and rewritten. The classic epic poems (that includes Gilgamesh, Beowulf,  and The Illiad,)  mirror something I see repeated in poetry, in stories, in songs, in movies -- though to varying degrees of success.

The image of the Lotus-Eaters has, for many years now, served as a personal metaphor for the hypnotic way with which daily life finds a way of interfering with the living of it.

I've been back here in Paint City for nearly a month and half, trying to get my divorce finalized, writing for the Prairie Advocate -- finding the same epic stupidity among some disgraced and not-so-prominent-as-they'd-like-to-think folk and losing contact with a relative thanks to one noxious political troll   -- and enjoying the company of friends, the sound of music and poetry, the creation of art... reflections all of beautiful things, of necessary things.

Paint City is becoming a place for people to come and hear good music -- not only the myriad of local, talented musicians, some of whom have been playing as long as I've been on the earth, but musicians from elsewhere. This past weekend, a brother/sister duo from Nashville came into town -- their dad Forrest is a local musician and pretty cool guy -- and played two different venues as well as gracing the 5 Minutes of Fame Open Mic that, in spite of the Bears/Packers game, still pulled a respectable crowd. It's nice to be here and see the natural outgrowth of people's passions become positive energy.

There are some growing pains and the usual naysayers and spoilers -- but that's not the focus here. I will say this, though. If I've learned anything, it's that synchronicity can be a powerful force. When it's turning positive, it's best to work with it, so that when it turns negative (and it will, at some point) you're in a better spiritual and mental place to deal with it. There are some folks here who, in spite of how good things are going, still try to strangle it... some with good intentions, I suppose. But stupidity and short-sighted aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.

There is a sort of lotus-eater effect of being in a place like Mount Carroll. You have to make your own fun, create your own life, in a place like this -- because if you don't, you're stuck living someone else's life, having someone else's idea of fun, based on rules dictated by choices that are not your own.  There's a sense of independence that goes along with the interdependence, the sense of community. And when it works, it works well. It's a kind of narcotic for weary souls, for people who want to believe that utopias exist and that it is never where they are. It's invigorating, really. Sort of refreshing.

But only for a while.

Then there's the rest of it.  It's been said over and over again by a bunch of people, none of whom have probably lived in a small town in recent memory, that small towns are a microcosm of the larger world; the idea being that everything that happens in a city, in a nation, in the world, happens in a small town, to a much smaller degree. That assumes, however, that your point of view is global. For the most part, people paint their views of the rest of the world the same colors they see off their front porch. And everything that happens, from the latest teen pregnancy to whoever's name is listed in the Court House News, becomes as important as -- say, an attack on an American Embassy in which four people were killed. The only difference is, of course, that Tripoli is a place most of them have only heard of in The Marine's Hymn, while an unwed mother is a social dilemma that, Once Upon a Time When All Was (Never) Perfect, was handled more discretely.

You know. Shame. Social isolation. Judgement. Exile. Real high American Ideals.

A small town is an extract -- the whole universe boiled down and put in a particular environment. Sometimes the combination works. Sometimes it doesn't. Small towns are fading from the map because the commerce and traffic that created them are changing routes. Mount Carroll is surrounded by towns that are dying off -- both literally and metaphorically -- and like the lotus eaters, there are folks around here who, while they may not be content, are content in the knowledge that there's nothing to be done.

That's why the synchronicity here is important; there are good things happening, but the idiots are never far behind, being critical and saying that it can't/shouldn't be done. Or worse, they're holding onto an idealized version of the place that may have never existed. Because utopias don't simply exist, and they are rarely made. None of it's perfect.

Paint City still holds a lot of mixed memories for me; and the longer I'm here, the more I'm steeped in them. That's part of the reason why, when people ask me why I just don't stick around -- and they do -- I can never give them a concrete answer. The rest of the reason is that in spite of a few assertions lately that I'm not doing anything worthwhile, that I am accomplishing nothing, that I am not impacting anything for the better -- I happen to agree with them. Somewhat.

What I do is worthwhile -- at least to me. And I accomplish quite a bit -- though not by any standard that my critics will understand.

But the world is a big place and worth living in. And sometimes you have to wander around a bit to see how it is you fit into it.

Oh, and if you haven't yet, stop by and "like" my new Facebook page. You can also follow me on twitter @amrevisionary.