Where do ideas come from?

WHETHER THEY COME FROM the unconscious, the spirit realm, or both, or neither, it's an amazing process -- and all the more so for its mysterious opacity. You feel sometimes like a passive conduit, an inbox just sitting there minding its own business. And then, when you least expect it, you've got mail.

Some poetic licenses should probably be revoked

POETRY IS THE one form of entertainment loaded with hoards of mediocres completely unconscious of the fact that they are supposed to be entertaining. Lest "entertainment" evoke only fun and jokes, I don't mean it that way. Entertainment is diversion that can evoke the entire range of emotions. But it should evoke something more than tears of boredom.

An Enigmarie, wrapped in a riddle

ONCE UPON A TIME -- on May 26, 2000, to be precise--I received a most intriguing e-mail from an "E Aguilar."* The subject line read:    
 
TewlveTribes

And the message:

Ahoy there Fellow!

I be the homeless one w/ a Howard Hughs' story. - Now again;
w/ out a place to lay my head in a few short days.

Hughs' attention for his generosity -apparently didn't help attract an eye for diliverance.

I'd like to generate intrest in a group living siduation like the 12 Tribes, but the possibilities are weak. Please inform as to your caution.

Thank you,
Blessings

    What was I to make of this?

I replied:

Ahoy there matie! True to your e-mail address, your message was quite enigmatic. Could you explain yourself a little more? Who are you? Where are you from? Where'd you get my e-mail address? Are you associated with the Tribes? What does Howard Hughes have to do with your situation? And by the way, would you be related to one Minor Aguilar of Chicago?

This person wrote back. Marie Aguilar was the name given this time. She was of a certain age, which she wasn't eager to tell. She was from the Sarasota area. She had at least one daughter. She was somewhat of an artist (an "illistrator," as she put it), but also had experience as a personal trainer, but was hoping to find work as a doula. And she was in some sort of dire straits, the nature of which she was never at liberty to fully explain. And no, she didn't know anybody named Minor Aguilar.

But how had she obtained my e-mail, and why'd she write? Turns out she had seen an article authored by me in an online Christian newsletter. In that article I mentioned certain spiritually based intentional communities, and one of these was a quasi-Messianic-Jewish group called the Twelve Tribes. Marie had an interest in such groups, and she e-mailed me, perhaps thinking I was involved in one. She told me that she was of marrano Jewish ancestry and was searching for her Jewish roots in Messiah. Currently, she said, she worshipped with a "home fellowship" rather than a typical corporate church.

As for the homeless bit, I speculated she was fleeing some sort of abusive relationship. Since she was reticent to share many details, I didn't pry. But she was safe for the time being, she reassured me, and staying with friends. She was trying to get a deal on a mobile home for $8000.

She made quite an e-penpal. Her handle, enigmarie2000, proved apt. In subsequent emails, she continued with her quirky colors, formatting, punctuation, and colorful spelling ("inishally," "unfourtunatly," "uncertion," "perswations," "simmilor," etc.). She called e-mails "E-s." ("Guess I started looking forward to your E-s...")

Sometimes she'd sign her name:

mare

And sometime she'd use totally off-the-wall subject lines, such as:

Massa Massa

or

-1 + +1=*

I'd ask her to explain these, but she never did. I figured: okay, eccentric artist type, I get it. But as poor a speller as she was, she seemed a very joyful, optimistic person in the face of all her trials, and always had something to share: a Bible verse, an inspirational poem, a bit of advice.

In one e-mail I apologized for not writing for so long because I'd been overwhelmed and struggling with various projects, and also, with a female person in my life:

The more I get to know her, the more I'm convinced we are really twins who were separated at birth. We are so alike in so many things (including favorite brand and flavor of tea) it's scary. ... Yet, we've had a little falling out over a communication problem and her mood-swing problem, which sometimes gets in the way of having a normal conversation. But I still care for her and I'm praying for her. ...

Marie wrote back:

Hi ya, _____ :) good to hear you sounding well. The girl, however much your ditto, may be a type of distraction. Use caution. Seek first His Kingdom so you have a safe Haven. I'm sure of your wittness, but as humans our biggest drawback is the glove attached to our soul. You are accepted in The Beloved & greater is He in you then he that's in the world. Keep yourself clean in His Word & approach her as a lover of the goodness & faithfullness of God before direction your affections too hastilly.

Too much to say now. I'll have to give you a couple of E- forwards to catch you up w/ me.

I love you my brother. God is working mightily in you! I look forward to the wonderful things He has in store for you

We carried on occasional correspondence for over a year. I even called her a couple of times: she had expressed interest in a marketing business I was involved in at that time, so we talked biz as well as personal and spirichal stuff.

But then her messages became scarce, and when they did come they were abrupt and created more questions than they answered. She was again homeless, she said, writing from libraries. She was on the road. With Olivia. It sounded like a dire situation. She asked me to pray that her vehicle didn't break down. Where was she headed? I asked her. Was she running from the law? She couldn't say.

Soon the emails stopped coming, and mine no longer received replies. So I said prayers for her, and life went on.

But I couldn't help but care about the well-being of this touchingly zany lady. Every now and then I'd try to Google her, plus her email addresses, trying to find any tidbit of information. Nothing came up.

After several months, on Nov. 17, 2002, she sent a message out to a list of friends, including me, with subject line:


Famous"in his words, this man used his influence to abduct Olivia Salisbury


To the message, she had attached a Google search page full of page hits concerning Enrico Wallenda. Yep, that's right, of The Flying Wallendas, of circus highwire fame.

That's when it all started to come together. She had been Mrs. Wallenda. They divorced and he got custody of Olivia. I don't know the circumstances or the justice of this decision; it does appear that Wallenda is a "famous freemason," and by many accounts, a Mason in court has a much easier time getting his way if the judge is also a "brother Mason," as many are. Whatever the case, in January of that year Marie Aguilar, or rather Edith Salisbury, her real name, had whisked the 7-year-old Olivia off on a wacky cross-country caper that culminated in San Diego.

But as part of a national law enforcement program, Olivia's face was plastered on "Missing Children" cards sent out by a direct-mail marketing company. As a result, when she and her mom were spotted at a San Diego homeless shelter in September 2002. The law was notified and soon Olivia was back home in Florida.

The latest news is that Olivia's training to be part of the next generation of the Flying Wallendas. I haven't heard from her mom lately. I hope by now she's out of prison.

[* last name changed.....]

24/7 nostalgia

THE THING THAT'S so cool about growing old as a Gen-Xer is that for several years now, VH-1 has been replaying our entire youth for us.

This nostalgia barrage is a trap, yes -- but such a sweet sticky one. Who doesn't want to relive his formative years: the years when life was simpler, when everything -- especially music -- was just better?

In addition to transporting us back to carefree youth, the retro resurgence does us another favor by setting us up as guides -- elder statesmen of cool, you might say -- to all the MySpacing iPod kids who've never owned an analog sound recording and are just now discovering '70s and '80s music.

KID: Dude! R & B artists actually played real instruments back then? They had bands? Get out!

ME: Well, yeah. That was pretty much the norm until the mid-'80s.

KID: What's that thing their voices and instruments are doing? It's weird. But it makes me ... it makes me feel good!

ME: I believe you're referring to the melody and harmonies and chord progressions? Musicians used to know those, but they kinda went out of style in the '90s.

KID: Thanks to bands like the Killers (who I was into way before anyone had ever heard of them, by the way), I'm really discovering a lot of really cool, totally underground bands from the '80s who influenced them. Like New Order, the Cure, Duran Duran...

ME: [Erupts in peals of laughter.]

KID: What's so funny? Hey, do you like my ironic Hall and Oates t-shirt? [Glances around nervously, then whispers:] But just between you and me, I really like those guys!

ME: You know, some of their best songs were never even released as singles. You have to get the albums. Did you know they go all the way back to 1969? You know, Daryl Hall used to sing backup for all these Philly soul guys -- ever heard of the Delfonics? Anyway, he was with this band called Gulliver for a while. They put out this crazy album that sounded like the Beatles, with a little more soul. I might let you borrow my CD ...

KID: [Stares blankly.]

It's little perks like this that make growing old a little more tolerable.

I'm not here to start no trouble,

but I'm so tired of the Super Bowl Shuffle gettin all the play in the wake of the Bears victory, while the sweetest '85 Bears charity single of them all goes ignored!

Sadly, everyone hasforgotten Walter Payton's clearly superior song "Together As a Team."

Together as a team, we have a dream
Everyone can win together
If we hold hands in this great land
We can make life a whole lot better
‘Cause the people of the world, we are the ones,
Everyone should get involved,
If we hold together aloft our hands
Our problems can be solved!

By the way, what was that I heard about the '85 Bears returning to the studio to record a "darker" album?

Good art is the new "outsider art"

 

AND MUSIC BY MUSICIANS is the new punk rock.

Yes! So I have proclaimed it,  and so shall it be.

While googling the term "art about art" (because I got tired of encountering art about art ), I came upon this site.

"So long as most of humanity is permitted to compare and decide for themselves, Truth and Beauty, the twin sisters of the human soul projected through cyberspace into millions of homes, are certain to prevail," writes Art Renewal Center chairman Fred Ross.

Interesting. As I read those words, a journal is sitting my lap. I leaf back a few pages in that little book. There it is -- something I wrote a couple of weeks ago:

BEAUTY + TRUTH ... are 2 sides of a coin, created by the same Creator. Truth is his Word, and beauty his Work. But too often those given to Beauty neglect and scorn Truth, while those seeking after Truth give short shrift to Beauty.

I've not really kept up on cultural criticism about the fine arts, beyond perusing the conservative salvo Degenerate Moderns almost as soon as it debuted back in the mid-90s (and thinking: "You know, except for the homosexuality, those Bloomsbury folks actually sound like my people.") I know a lot about conspiracies, and undeniably there has been a general conspiracy (or if you don't like that "c"-word, call it a "consensus" or a "contagion") to dumb down the American public. It also seems that modern art was part of it. Some would say the movement was skillfully siezed and its import vastly magnified by the CIA, allegedly for Cold War purposes. Encountering some skilled realists, and stumbling upon the ARC site, got me thinking again about these matters. 

Cruise-ify him

TOM CRUISE IS a "Christlike figure" in Scientology? So says a high-ranking member of the celebrity-stalking cult.

At least, so says the British tabloid the Sun.

Or rather, so the Sun says of the Scientology source's saying so.

Ugh. I'm getting my typing fingers all tangled up.

Plus, I do not like to make fun of the mentally challenged.

I will stop here.

"When we're not on, we're not watching either"

ONE OF THE FUN THINGS about my career trajectory is that I'm probably one of few people to have both:

1) interviewed Daley as a reporter, and
2) nine years later, served him smoked salmon canapes as a server at the 410 Club.

I've also had the great pleasure of serving canapes to some of the same media people I used to compete with or rub shoulders with in professional groups. For instance, the NBC5 holiday party. Hey, there's Warner, who may or may not recognize me in the dim light as one of the supposedly smart up-and-comers from NABJ Chicago in the mid-90s. There's Carol, who exclaims "hi!" as if she recognizes me, though I don't think we ever met; maybe she's just all full of holiday cheer and her cougar instinct is coming out. There's Anna, whom I used to run into sometimes when I was editor/reporter of a community newspaper and she a newly minted reporter at Channel 5. We'd exchange a flirtatious smile and a "hi," but we were so busy. Not long thereafter I managed to piss off one of the paper's advertisers, got myself relieved from the job, and I was out of the biz for a good while.

Later, as I'm lugging HiBoy chairs upstairs up to the balcony, there's a nice-lookin blonde sitting by the now-closed balcony bar. She wants to know if it's still open -- or can I open it back up? I say sorry, it's closed and I can't bartend -- they haven't trained me on that yet.

"I always wanted to be a bartender," she remarks. She was a server once too, she tells me. The irony: when she finally got into her "real job" it only paid her half as much. But since that time she's worked her way up the pay scale.

I ask what's her job. She's an on-air reporter. I recognize her name only vaguely, because, as I let her know, I don't really watch local TV news.

"The nation mourns President Ford,"

THEY INTONED GRAVELY on every national newscast.

1) Is "national mourning" mandatory? Is there a law?

2) If not, then I'll let it be known that no, I'm not mourning. I really didn't know the guy personally. He was one of the least distinguished presidents of the last century, and he got his job by accident. Seriously, why would I be all broken up?

3) If the Voices of Authority on our evening news were to find that most Americans actually were getting on with our lives just fine, would they bother saying so? Or are they too into their perceived role as court scribes and hagiographers of power?

4) Why isn't "the nation mourning" James Brown, who arguably had more impact culturally and even politically?

5) Why do so many worship power? Why are some so hellbent on making the cult of the already imperious Imperial Presidency even more so with each passing day? 

The Ford death was attended by the same sort of imperialism orgasm that attended the death and corpse tour of Reagan a few years back. Why all this attention showered on a carcass?

Did we really need the nationwide tour, the honor guards, the pageantry, the fanfare, the lionization, the damn-near deification? Where does this stop? When the title is changed to Caesar and he is declared God in the flesh?

Since they are dead, dead presidents are not helped by the worship of their remains, nor by the monuments built to them, nor by the monumental sums of taxpayer-contributed paper dead presidents consumed in the process.

But for the the still-living who stand to inherit the power, exploitation of the dead for propaganda purposes -- as spellbinding talismans and ritual props for the power structure -- is essential. The modern United States of America is restoring this ancient superstition to a high art. 

Bringing the "stars" back down to earth

MTV AND VH-1 have perfected the art of serving up pop culture offal you're ashamed to be caught watching, with just enough snark to distance themselves from the stink. When we finally get fed up with this stuff, they'll be able to say, "Ho ho, we were laughing at it all along."

But there is one redeeming value in our glut of "reality" and celebrity, and this is revealed in VH-1's "Celebreality" brand. Although at first glance this programming block appears to be more of the same disgusting celebsession we're already sick of, it's actually doing us a great service: deconstructing and lampooning celebrity; putting celebs -- more accurately, former celebs -- back in their rightful place. These has-beens get "stripped of all their A-list privileges -- and their self-esteem" (words taken from the actual Robin Leach intro). It's actually refreshing to see the formerly famous now groveling for money and recognition by cramming into houses together and enacting stupid scripts and playing dumb games for a nationwide audience. They're back to entertaining -- which is, after all, the whole reason why they became famous in the first place.

The world needs another blog,

so here goes. This one will feature opinions and information about the arts (perhaps with a slight bias toward my hometown, Chicago), as you might've guessed from the name Live Active Culture.

What, you thought it was about yogurt?

Of course, being a writer and musician and artist of sorts, I will find the time to promote my own work here, when the time comes. I don't want to too tightly define or confine the content right now. Just read and enjoy and I'll figure it out as I go along.

EGYPT: AN ANCIENT COUNTRY

Compiled from the research papers of Mrs. Hartmann's sixth grade class, January 1997


In a country named Egypt They believed that there was an after death, so They started mummifying people in the late 1600s.¹

The liver, stomach, and intestines were removed by making an incision on the left side of the body. Sometimes the heart was in the body when they died.²

The body was then ready to be raped

Egypt: An Ancient Country (a retro-post)

Compiled from the research papers of Mrs. Hartmann's sixth grade class, January 1997


In a country named Egypt They believed that there was an after death, so They started mummifying people in the late 1600s.¹

The liver, stomach, and intestines were removed by making an incision on the left side of the body. Sometimes the heart was in the body when they died.²

The body was then ready to be raped

Diagnosis: Acute vampirosis with hunchbackism

EARLIER TONITE I was in the Underground Cafe at Columbia College, sewing popped-off buttons back onto my new jacket (looks nice, but the quality is crap) when who should show up in the place but S H A R K U L A -- in a black North Face coat and a cape under which was stowed a backpack, making him look like a hunchback. I asked him if this was early Halloween getup, or was it perhaps a promotion for the CD I'd heard he was releasing, The Diagnosis of Sharkula? He seemed to answer in the negative, but then I didn't quite fully understand his answer. Shark can be kinda hard to follow somtimes.

Coed

marketing

A fake protest for "real fruit"
draws a crowd on Chicago's Mag Mile

IT'S AROUND 2:30 on a sunny Friday afternoon. The majestic Michigan Avenue drawbridge, gateway to the Magnificent Mile, hosts its usual array of buzzing traffic, busy people, tourists, panhandlers. At the foot of the northeast bridge house, magnificently adorned with classical bas-relief sculptures, a homeless man sits oblivious to it all, picking at his crusty feet.A dapper denizen of the district known as "Homeless Yanni" or "Walking Dude" (subject of a supposedly upcoming "Dudeamentary") strolls northward over the bridge, sporting his trademark flowing hair --now silvery rather than Kiwi shoe polish black -- and a rumpled leisure suit.

At Pioneer Court in front of the Tribune Tower, a little girl runs up to a 9-foot-tall moose sculpture made from car bumpers and tries to climb the creature -- then notices it has a penis, which she immediately grabs. Mommy scolds her, then complains to daddy, "Do they have to make these so realistic?"

Ghetto Mama and would-be Sugar Daddy

AS A NATURE LOVER, I'm a frequenter of our region's fine county forest preserves and State parks. I feel better when I'm out in the midst of natural greenery, breathing fresh air. Away from lots of people, buildings, traffic, air pollution, noise pollution, electromagnetic pollution. I figure the other people who frequent the forest preserves feel better in such an environment too.


So, I figured, that must explain why so many of the people I might run into on forest preserve paths or in parking lots on a Sunday afternoon -- including men, who seem prevalent at many of these sites -- are so friendly and always say hello.

I figured, why shouldn't other men be sitting there in parking spaces in their cars, trucks or vans (there are always vans)? I sometimes came to sit too. I would read a book, finish my greasy fast food burger, or just think, or write, or plan things, or whatever, while watching the sun set and the moon appear and the deer come out to eat. I figured they were doing that too.

Until I started hearing WLS radio guys Roe Conn and Garry Meier doing "bits" about the fact that the forest preserves are also notorious gay cruising spots.

My eyes thus opened, I've recently seen a great deal more of this than I'd like to. For example, a couple of nights ago.

It's about 6:00. I go to a Tinley Park forest preserve (not far from World Music Theater/Tweeter Center/First Midwest Bank Ampitheatre/whatever it's calling itself nowadays) which is designed primarily for model airplane flying. I pull into the lot and light up a cigarette and started reading the book I'm studying for my class at the Henry George School, Economic Science. There are a couple other cars backed into spaces -- that's part of the "code." If you're backed into a space it means you're looking. Then a prospective partner backs into the space next to you, and as they say, "it's on."

Well, knowing this, I park normally at the far end of the lot, away from the other guys. Yet even so, in the space of the next hour four cars enter the parking lot and pull up right next to me, even though they could have parked anywhere. Each one sits there for a few moments. When they see I don't look at them, they back out and leave.

This one dude -- a fat, pasty white guy who looked about 55, wearing shades and driving a white hatchback -- pulls up on my right side. After a few moments, he leaves.

Then about 15 minutes later, comes back, drives toward me, U-turns, leaves again.

Then 20 minutes later, he's back again. Pulls in next to me. Leaves again.

After 20 more minutes, it's getting dark and I'm the only car left in the lot. Here he comes again! Man, this guy just won't take no for an answer. I ignore him. He goes away.

I wait a few minutes, and then go home. I hate being there when the cops comes to close the place down, because they probably assume I'm cruising too.



HOW IGNANT CAN YOU GET? I'd rather not have seen this, but I did. I'd just left the class at the Henry George School, where were talking about political economy. Afterwards, we students had hung around with the instructor and discussed education, why schools don't educate, the vital importance of educating yourself ... Stuff like that.

And so I get on the Red Line south and I sit down next to a little black girl who seems to be about 3. The apparent mother or caretaker is seated across the aisle. She looks to be under 20, and is bottle-feeding another child, a blanket-wrapped baby; also, sitting next to her is a third girl, who's about 8).

The 3-year-old who's next to me is clutching a couple of sections of the Reader that some other passenger had discarded. She looks up at me and smiles. Trying to mimic speech, she offers me a section of the newspaper. I say, "No thanks, I have my own. Why don't you read it?"

I actually then open up a newspaper I'm holding (it was the African paper, the Chicago Inquirer), and the little girl, looking at me, likewise opens up her copy of the Reader and starts pretending to read the classified ads.

But suddenly, mom gives an order. And like lightening, the big sis leaps across the aisle, growls "gimme dat!" and snatches the newspaper from the toddler's hands.

"Throw it under that seat!" the mom orders, motioning to her which seat to throw it under. The 8-year-old  crumples it up and chucks it underneath a seat. Then the mom barks to the 3-year-old, "Get over here!" The little girl comes over obediently and sits next to her mom, now only able to stare at people -- or stare out the window at the inside of the subway tunnel.

What just happened? I was astonished, then angry. Is it her goal to raise stupid children? The little girl was sitting there, quietly occupying herself, probably trying to teach herself to read (which is not really possible without learning phonics, which I'm sure will not be forthcoming from mom). For her trouble, she just got  yelled at, scowled at, and punished. Will this child grow up to have a love of reading and learning? Not if mama can help it.

I'm trying not to look at your naughty bits, or think about you pooing.

SO THERE I WAS AT Tojo Gallery last night, casually chatting with a butt-naked guy and girl. And trying not to look down.
They were there with an exhibit associated with the anti-GMO food group T.H.O.N.G., famous for naked protests. I think they were two of the artists. I was trying to act natural (ahem) and make convo, like I would with normally attired people at a normal exhibit. 
As she bent down to put her drawers back on, Melinda was talking about some herbal cleanse she was doing. "It's supposed to balance you, clean you all out, but I'm not feeling that great," she said.
"Oh so you're getting a detox reaction?" I ask.
"Well, it's supposed to make you poo. But with me, it's doing the opposite." 
"Oh."

Chicagowood (a retro-post)

SO VINCE VAUGHN AND Jennifer Aniston did the unthinkable. They went ahead and filmed The Breakup without me.

"Prince Charles sends his regards"

AFTER A DISASTROUS first couple of days as a server at a private club, I did better today.  No dumb mistakes. (Well, at least none that the guests or the boss saw.)

We  "only" had to work 12 hours today, 10 to 10.

Afternoon brought a tasting for an upcoming wedding reception; then, setup for an exhibit opening and lecture at Joel Oppenheimer Gallery, our next-door neighbor.

It's drawings by John Audubon, printed and colored by R. Havell. Prices are modest; Snowy Owl could be yours for only $160,000.

Two burly black security guards stand at the front and thear rear, while we Latino and black servers take care of the nice white people. Favio mans the bar, serving up reds and whites, Evian, and Perrier. Freddy and Juan set up an audio system with cordless mics. Luis and I tray-pass canapes (which I ignorantly call hors d'ouvres until I am corrected; -- and which, I am also startled to learn, is pronounced "cana-pees," not cana-pays).

Now, Oppenheimer being an infamous name -- global diamond racket, atom bomb, y'know -- I figure this one, sitting on some of the most expensive real estate in Chicago, is one of those. Whatever the case, he sure is down with "The Royals."

Apparently all the guests are connected to the American Society (or Club?), which seems to be connected to the British consulate, also located in our building. So, the conversation is a mix of American and British ox-cents. One Sir Peter Crane is present, and he has to jet -- literally -- right after the lecture. Snippets and snatches of conversation that I catch include:

".. Let me relay Lord Shelburne's regards to you as well..."

" ... You know, his two daughters, who live in New York with Fergie ..."

"Prince Charles sent his regards..."

"Oh, we would have dropped everything and come to see him, but we were in the Galapagos..."

" ... But then Margaret Thatcher dropped by ..."

Other conversations are sprinkled with the names of Charles and "Camilla" and "The Queen." ("It must have a capital 'T'," someone says.)

One dude, who is  the spitting image of a Chicago salesguy I know, has the last name "Stiff."

And yeah -- he does kinda have that Stiff upper lip thing. 

Shouldn't anarchists be fun and open-minded?

WILD HORSES WAS the Anarchist Film Festival selection I came to see at the Autonomous Zone. Real good. The anarchists themselves -- borrrring. They apparently have no money to spend on beer or any other substsnce that might stimulate conviviality, and thus -- being antisocial geeks naturally -- are just not real social. The ones who did invite me out afterward, to the bicycle bar Spokes, I alienated eventually by coming out as pro-life.