“Now some of us are weak, and some endure
And some people live their lives, with a violence that’s pure and clean
But I saw a man cry once, down on his knees, in the corner of a darkened cell
And his pain meant nothing to me.
But I was younger then, and young men never die
When I walked out in the sun, I was strong, clear-minded, and blind.” — Swans, “Blind”
A friend of mine lent me a book of writings from the Spanish Civil War this weekend, and I’ve been devouring the pieces in it like an old man sucking the marrow from a meal he once enjoyed with the frightening hunger of youth. I had forgotten about the exciting and strangely tailored compound words in the prosaic, modernist reporting of John Dos Passos, reflecting his youthful anarchist politics, in which were embedded the poisonous atoms of his jaded, reactionary later years. I’ve appreciated the different on-the-ground assessments of the madness of the time, when Falangist groups used the levers of tradition, institutions and the emerging fascist landscape of Europe to tragically defeat a rebellion, which was itself battling between the sometimes harsh collective order of communism and the opportunistic orgy of anarchy. All sides were fueled by ideological strictures tied up like sloppy tourniquets across a butchered landscape of old vendettas and older cultures. As the filmmaker Luis Buñuel put it, “No sooner had the people risen and seized power than they split into factions and began tearing one another to pieces. This insane and indiscriminate settling of accounts made everyone forget the essential reasons for the war.”
Nothing is clean and easy. Snipers and summary executions are the agricultural practices in the terrifying fields of war when the blossoms of discontent and revolution come blooming.
Why am I writing about this? You know as well as I do. This week has another installment of the yearly reaffirmation of our national myth, and nobody seems very pleased with the current trajectory of this nation, no matter which faction they belong to — or think they belong to. There’s a distinct pall of unease and stochastic violence fogging over every lens looking for the impossible land of “true” history, which, in America, has always been distorted anyway with the red, rosy lies of benevolent exceptionalism. And it has been building like this for quite some time. As a writer, I occasionally write about our world and its explosions as they ripple from history through the present. Hoping for some clarity. That is the extent of my participation in any act of violence, always just observation, never endorsement. But sometimes observing and recording is enough to rile up the chickenhawks running things and their constituents, whose idea of order is finding the tidiest way to turn screaming human fear and misery into dusty, silent bones under a stadium turf of profitable distractions. A nightmare machine running on cheap gas. And plentiful dipping sauces. Lord help the ruling faction caught wearing the golden cap and apron when the cheap gas and dipping sauces dry up. To the victor go the spoils, and as a nation we are nothing if not spoiled to the point of psychosis. Still, to quote the mortician in the opening scene of The Godfather, “I believe in America.” Or at least in the people here, especially those wading through this mess with an eye (or two) toward cleaning up and helping out.
Take care of each other and stay safe.
Thursday
It’s the beginning of the dog days of summer, which, for coastal Humboldt, means more of the schizo-shuffle between sun, wind and fog, while our inland empire gets hot, hot, hot, and the fear of wildfires is never far from anyone’s mind. I suggest celebrating this time with some cool jazz, courtesy the Alley Cats, who will be playing a no-cover show at the Basement tonight, sometime after the doors open at 7:30 p.m.
Friday, July Fourth
Lots of ways to celebrate tonight, but I’m going to suggest something far-out, as in geographically. Dig this: In Shelter Cove, about as south west as you can go in Humco without a boat, is a fun joint called Mario’s Marino Bar, where at 8 p.m. DJ Alan Espinosa will be serving up sonic teasers in anticipation of the night’s main score at 10 p.m., the finest cumbia band in our county or any latitude, the mighty Makenu, doing what they do so damn well. Namely, makin’ it so that you can be shakin’ it, and $20 is a steal for a great band in a lovely outcrop of our homeland.
Saturday
The Creative Sanctuary continues its Jazz is Peace series with an homage to one of my heroes and the father of some of the greatest music this country ever produced, from the Delta womb of all good American sounds, my spiritual home, New Orleans. I’m talking about Satchmo himself, Mr. Louis Armstrong, who would be 124 years young on Aug. 4, had he not passed away 54 years ago tomorrow (or in the interim between). James Zeller, Katie Belknap, Lee Phillips, Matthew Seno and Ramsey Isaacs provide the musical foundation for our own local trumpet hero Don Hammerstedt. This is going to be a fine program for a lovely summer night. Doors at 7 p.m., with a sliding scale of $15-$30 to get inside the Arcata Playhouse. If you want something a little more cozy, low-key and free, I’m happy to report that Café Mokka is offering evening music again, with tonight’s entertainment provided by the Flying Ohms, a “string duo plus,” according to the venue. It starts at the same time, so you can see for yourself if you aren’t feeling all that jazz.
Sunday
Speaking of jazz, the excellent jazz manouche group Canary and the Vamp is at it again at Fieldbrook Winery today at 2 p.m. The music is free but you have to call to reserve a table where you will be expected to pony up for some nice refreshments, which sounds like a pastoral midsummer delight.
Monday
The Secret Society of Silly Things is an improv comedy troupe that has been described favorably as a cargo cult formed from the airwave droppings of Whose Line is it Anyway? If that sounds interesting enough for a 10-spot investment at the door of Savage Henry Comedy Club, come on by. It’s all lucky sevens tonight, as in a 7 p.m. on 7/7.
Tuesday
Hush child, listen to the sky tonight. If you are quiet enough, you will hear the antlers of the coming Buck Moon scrape the starlight as it fattens into fullness later this week.
Wednesday
How about a free movie night? Here are two options: At 5:30 p.m. at the Eureka Library, there will be a showing of a certain shark film that changed the game for thrillers 50 years ago this summer and launched the career of a certain brilliant director who would go on to create blockbusters out of charismatic archeologists and extraterrestrials.
Meanwhile, at 7 p.m. at Froth in Arcata, you can catch The Princess Bride, a perfect film written for the screen by its novelist William Goldman and directed by Rob Reiner in the golden era of his career, when he was a fantastic director, before he became an out-of-touch, uber-wealthy, scolding liberal meathead who mistakes giving money to conservative Democratic warmongers for fairytale heroism.
Collin Yeo (he/him) is politically homeless, which, like actual homelessness, is a constant lesson about the practiced values of all kinds of people.
This article appears in A Place to Stop and Rest.