Tinariwen

A fierce sun rains down

Rays travel the Sahara

To reach me sleep-dazed in Baltimore

The rhythm moves circular

Like the calabash shape

Like the sun spinning wildly above

Levitation music for rebel souls

Dream a sandstorm

Ride a camel down Saint Paul Street

And wave a sword

Like a lost god

I lost everything here

And reassemble myself

Beside burning bushes

Lining toxic creeks

Beneath lightning bolts flashing

Illuminating the world of those

Living beneath the underpass

The sky turned violet

Radio in the caravan

Bohemians and the Beltway: A Tale of #MeToo In Baltimore and DC

US Senators are considering how to proceed now that a woman has come forward alleging sexual assault by Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh. Various Senators are calling for hearings to judge the veracity of the claim and to decide if Kavanaugh is morally fit for the office of Supreme Court Judge.

I find it remarkable that several not very hip and not particularly progressive US Senators are are calling for these hearings when in 2017 a Baltimore organization that sees itself as a haven of independent art had to be pressured into having a meeting and into acting on the claims of sexual harassment, stalking, intimidation, threats and much worse that had been levied by multiple women against the organization's Executive Director.

As the situation unfolded, members of the board made public declarations of support for the Executive Director, forfeiting any claims of impartiality. After finally hearing the claims of the women and after much prevaricating, the arts organization decided to put the Executive Director on probation and to demote him to a lesser position. Unsurprisingly, he violated the terms of the probation within a few weeks and exited Baltimore in a cloud of shame. The events left the city's DIY art scene irreparably divided between those who supported the alleged abuser and those who believed the women accusers. As an advocate for the alleged victims, I, personally, was left feeling shattered and jarred by the experience; the landscape feels charred.

A look at these two situations demonstrates how one's appearance and one's social identity are not always a good indicator of how one will respond to a particular issue or situation. Members of the arts organization and other supporters of the alleged abuser behaved in a way that suggests they did not find the women's claims credible. US Senators, on the other hand, have taken Dr. Ford's (Kavanaugh's accuser) claims seriously from the minute they were reported.

Finally, the situation with the Baltimore arts organization occurred largely before the #Metoo movement woke people to the prevalence of sexual abuse and how powerful men are able to get away with it for years and even decades. It is possible that the Baltimore situation would not have played out in such an agonizing and destructive way if the stories of the #Metoo movement had been public prior to events of the scandal

Of Art Scenes and Assholes: Abusers and Enablers

Of all the assholes there are– asshole politicians, asshole academics, asshole businessman, asshole chefs and more – there is, perhaps, none more insufferable, more uniquely awful then the art scene asshole. The art scene asshole maintains the same underlying motives as all other assholes: the wish to insult, annoy, perturb, exploit, manipulate and otherwise inflict harm upon people. However, the methods he employs are - due to the context in which he operates - the most cloyingly hypocritical and, therefore, the most nauseating. Unique to the art scene asshole is that he takes advantage of all that is marginal within subcultures and which maintains an aura of the Romantic and uses this as cover to carry out his abuse of people. Because it is the realm in which the art scene asshole is at his most  reprehensible, let us take a look how he operates at in the context of intimate relationships.

From one of the original Romantics, Lord Byron, the art scene asshole takes licentiousness. He cultivates a roguish charm and invests a massive amount of his will and energy into romantic conquests. This charm, which is rooted in a craven desire for control, is most effective when the arts scene asshole is young. (As he ages, the psychic toll of his vampiric lifestyle begins to evidence itself physically and his projection of charm becomes more and more difficult).  With this persona, he seeks to project an image of virility. What is really transpiring is the propagation of misery. His lovers are lied to, cheated on, stalked, yelled at, insulted, threatened, often abused physically or sexually, are used and harassed. Once one is aware of what is actually going on, the Byronic Scumbag art scene asshole is a rather transparent figure. However, he is often able to operate for years or even decades by employing an impressive array of deflections, denials and ambiguities – in short by using psychological tactics on the members of his arts community which are similar to the ones that he uses on his sexual conquests. These manipulation tactics could best be summed up under the insipid expressions: “I am an artist, a creator, a shaper of form out of chaos. And so, if there is chaos in my wake, it is a necessary condition for the blossoming of my art.”  Again this justification appears risible as we look at it the page; however, it can be highly effective, especially when the Byronic Scumbag art scene asshole is aided and abetted by the gullible, the indifferent, and the gutless members of his arts community.

And how about those enabling arts community members? They are a truly regrettable lot and yet their power is enormous; for their support is required in order for the Byronic Scumbag to continue his rampages through his victims’ psyches. Let us speak first of the gullible enabler. Interestingly, the gullible enabler seems to exist more prominently within arts communities than within other social constructions or organizations. A strange creature, this person seems to believe it is noble to always disbelieve that a prominent local artist could indeed be a maniac. They declare, ”This sounds exaggerated. I know he has problems, but this doesn’t sound like him.”  Or even more pathetically, in terms of gullibility, well vapidity, really, they declare, ”But he has an addiction! He’s addicted to…” drugs or alcohol or he is a sex addict… “and this is why he behaves this way. And he has promised that he is undergoing recovery, so, holding him accountable and removing him from positions of power in the arts community is just really going too far!” This level of gullibility and idiocy would be screamingly hilarious if it did not translate into permitting the Byronic Scumbag to continue his exploits.

The indifferent enabler is a second type. This person misguidedly employs a ”live and let live” attitude toward the Byronic Scumbag’s behavior.  They may say: “Who am I to judge? Relationships are complicated. Best not to get involved. Let them sort it out. Boys will be boys. He’s just a ladies man. Women should know better not to date him” etc., etc. ad nauseaum. Meanwhile, the Byronic Scumbag thinks: Mission accomplished. I can keep this shit train rolling.

Which brings us to the gutless enabler. The gutless enabler actually knows of the gravity of the crimes committed by the Byronic Scumbag, but chooses to remain silent or even publicly defend him in order not to lose positions, opportunities, grants and more generally access to power. The GE oftentimes dons the mask of the gullible or the indifferent enabler, but it is for purely tactical and selfish ends.  Personally, I can have a difficult time discerning when an enabler is truly gullible and refuses to believe in a person’s wickedness and when the person is actually truly cynical and only pretending to be a gullible fool.

I hope this has been a helpful primer on an insufferable and dangerous personality type, as well as a useful guide on this person’s willing enablers. And if you are unfortunate enough to have such a person flail their wrecking ball through your or your friends’ lives, I hope you will be able to speak out and hold the abuser accountable.

the north pond

i walked east

across the city, past the–

hot dog stands, taquerias, 

lovers kissing & painting crews–

and arrived at the north pond.

the wings of the city opened

and closed above me,

shadows passing across

the sky-reflecting water.

resting on the elevated tip

of a submerged log, a turtle.

i’d been in the hospital -

my mind was still

depressed & slowmoving.

the turtle sensed this

and we spoke to each other

across twenty feet of water,

sunlight and lichen.

something was transmitted

in green and blue.

the turtle slid into
the pond 

The wings of the city

rose up and carried me away.

The Rover

i’m a rover

i roam the sides

of the city rivers

concrete gullies

gushing water

i must not touch

i sleep beneath

the underpass

in a suit of silk

and dreams

and i walk

among the cars

queued up to alight

upon the highway with

its monstrous heights

and slow belching lows

each coin each bill

and each kind word

i collect is

currency i carry

to the 7-11

to trade for sweets

and cigarettes

i’m a rover

i cut across

the boulevards

and lanes of traffic

and into the bramble

i disappear

like winding mist

i’m a rover

plucking the string

of a yo-yo

i sing to the line

of sparrows

that descend upon

the desolate park

at sunset

sometimes a moon

sometimes a moon

hovering between blackbirds

on a telephone wire

and a group

of low-hanging clouds,

thin and layered

like craggy cliff stones,

looms so close

that it leaves

the panorama

glimpsed out the back

bedroom window

looking south

onto the alley

with its line of

mechanics’ garages,

the new orchard

planted in the vacant lot

and becomes its own scene

a solo actor

suspended in the celestial

view from north & howard

was a rainy morning

and from

the street corner

the bridge ran

out of sight

a gray gothic

steeple rose

above the trees

that sprouted up

from the train tracks

running beneath the bridge

a red brick building

once a factory

now a warren

of art school studios

stood beneath hovering

slate colored puff clouds

blanketing the sky

coalescing and dissolving

listless and shaky

in the maryland dawn

i sought the grace

of the white light

that opened in ovals

within the glowering sky

the grace of the spectacular

vectors of light

that appeared

in the belfry

of the church steeple

The Spectacle, the Margins & the Sublime - Music to a Sparse Crowd

One of the most poignant things in the world is sublime music presented to a sparse crowd. A Eugene Chadbourne cassette drove this home for me. On it, he sings Elton John's "Daniel" in his twangy, imperfect voice to a barroom crowd whose chatter and glass clinking is practically as loud as his performance. Chadbourne's earnest singing meeting the indifferent sounds of the bar crowd is heartbreaking and beautiful, telling us so much about the journey of the artist and her relationship to society.

In this clip of the elusive Pell Mell live, the crowd is not indifferent -- they are very present and appreciative– but there is still the poignancy of a few people in a record store seeing/hearing music of this caliber. So often, what is not spectacle In this society remains marginal. But its meaning Is not diminished by this; perhaps it is even strengthened by it.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r9VK4x-KFL4
Music starts at the two minute mark.

read today / read tonight

read today about

the boto

pink river dolphin

holdover from the miocene

toothed whale cousin

approaches your canoe

in moonlight 

says “hello” with

a sly rising head

breaking through

the river mirror

and then descends

back into the blackness

read tonight about

the mati ke language

of the northwestern australian coast

only one man left

to really speak it now –

he hears it in his dreams

and has elided conversations

in mati ke with his

grandchildren, waves rolling in

beneath a vast sky bearing

a white sun

there are 10 classes of nouns

into which the items

of the world can be grouped:

Weapons & lightning together

places & time together

and now i must go to bed.

in my dreams, will the boto

leave the amazon at belém

and swim southwest to

australia to find the

last speaker of mati ke

and greet him with

a playful leap?

will i dream in mati ke

and find place & time

overlapping swirling together

to lift me away from

these rooms in baltimore

and heal my weary mind?

***

The two books I reference are Spoken Here: Travels Among Threatened Languages by Mark Ablely & Journey of the Pink Dolphins by Sy Montgomery.

what i know about baltimore

what i know about

baltimore

is that it’s hard to know

baltimore

it’s like mercury spilled -

wheelies that last

for blocks

uphill

in twilight,

trap music synthetic

hi hat hits

out car windows,

a hawk hauls

away a large snake

in its talons

in a city park,

open the door to see

a butterfly hover

in the breeze

after just thinking

of a butterfly,

how can i know

anything

about a city

that shifts like a

shadow bending

at mid day and

then disappearing?