Sunday, September 16, 2001

Whenever I raise questions about actions that the US government has undertaking or is considering, I seem to find somebody telling me that if I don’t like it here, I should leave. Well, fuck that shit. I live here. I was born here. This is my home, and I find it intensely beautiful. I love the freedom that I have, and I recognize that it is greater than the freedom that most of the humans in this world enjoy. I also recognize that it is a flawed system, as our last election campaign clearly illustrated (anybody remember that?). Our government carries with it serious elements of corruption and wickedness. It also can be tremendously responsible and good. Either way, it belongs to me as a citizen. I possess it, along with 260 million other people. If I think it is acting in a way that will threaten those freedoms and beauties that I love, then I have a responsibility to raise a voice. That does not reduce my level of “patriotism.” In fact, it increases it. I will not go away, nor should I be asked to leave because I don’t join lockstep with the masses as we beat the drums of war. I will support my leaders when they make intelligent and humane choices. I will support them when they refrain from rhetoric which makes my world more, not less, dangerous. I will question them otherwise, and I will not stand for people telling me that I should “love it or leave it,” because I DO love it.
posted by Jim Robinson 9/16/2001 05:37:17 AM

Thursday, September 13, 2001

(I tried to post this last night--Wednesday--but couldn't get it to stick. Hopefully this will do the trick...)

Let it be known: James Robinson is a pacifist. I find violence abhorrent. I do not
believe in the death penalty, in any case. Returning violence for violence begets
still more violence. I recognize the magnitude of the situation before us, and I
recognize that the US will probably respond with violence. I won’t support it,
because it will only create a climate of more violence. And I agree with those who
are reserving judgment on who did this. Even when the government tells us, it will
be hard for me not to be skeptical in part that the debate is being “framed,” to use
Chomsky’s terminology. We have been lied to before when our leaders felt it was
“best.”

If you have a copy of Rain Dogs by TomWaits, check out the song “Anywhere I Lay
My Head.” When he belts out these two lines--

“Well, my head is spinning ‘round,
And my heart is in my shoes.”

--I think he belts it just the way I feel right now.

Here’s more of how I feel, written today while my little darlings were laboring over
their ISTUPID tests today (and the tests are stupid, not the kids):

“Four Views of a Sad Man”

I. The Voicemail

It was vivid and pulsing.
Black smoke and yellow flame
With reams of paper raining down
Amidst flesh and concrete.
When my voice first quavered
I held the phone close to my cheek…
Only a message
Only a message—
You weren’t there to hear it
And you weren’t there to feel it,
But the wires carried my wet eyes
And held them
Until you could hold me while
My breath was sucked out
Into the mean air
That crackles now with hot, blasted fury
Like wood splitting under a driven maul.
Like a bug flailing in an overhead light.
The air is mad and angry.

II. The Kids Are Alright

My first exhortation to the sky
Was lamenting woe; I cried
To see you in your cammo gear
Bereft, it seemed, of pain and fear.

Impulse begged for me to say:
“Throw those army clothes away.
Take your bikes and speed along,
You’re far too young. There’s nothing wrong.”

Still you stayed, and pushed and pressed
My admonitions downward; redressed
My words in basic white and black—
“Where there is evil, we thence attack.”

Again the sick and sucking noise!
Mean air steals breath and destroys
My countenance, boiled and distilled—
A skeletal form, nearly killed.

Uprooting my legs like ancient trees,
I walked away, with weakened knees.

III. Mother’s Day

Pushing the button marked “Rewind,”
A man with my name rushes
Backward through his life
Jagged, jumpily, with static lines
Bisecting him top and bottom.
He comes to rest on his mother’s breast,
And he is soft and wet and warm
And he wails happily when her hands
Touch his head to say “Hello.”
Her voice pants and gasps and he hears it
Mostly through vibrations in her chest
And the rhythm marks time
In his new heart, with its new blood.
Scan forward and his skin thickens and dries
And places on it are pulled apart
With knives or nails or broken glass
Replaced with swollen, knotted scars.
Germs and vermin creep in and his blood is dirtied,
And he dirties it himself
With brown liquids and electricity.
He is standing erect today
Buffeted yet calm against strong winds from the east.
They turn hot and mean—
Angry sucking breath from his lungs.
His skin softens as he drops to a skinned knee.
Ringing and ringing rains down
Until he separates it out.
One tolling carries his mother’s voice.
When its melodies land on his ears,
The wetness in his eyes releases,
Coats his whole body,
Makes him warm,
Turns away years.
The old blood finds time for the rhythm,
Finds time to be new again.

IV. The Warrior of the Next Day

You bring me tears.
You bring me to tears.
We cry together and hold each other
Across miles.
You asked a second question
Second guessing
The Warrior of the Next Day.
How will she fight?
And how will she win?
Should we have brought her in?
The heat on the battlefield is dry and mean.
Its sucks air from her lungs
Before her small diaphragm
Can begin to push her small chest.
But she must be.
And we must will her.
Through grace and dignity,
Through the tears that sting our eyes,
With our teeth clenched
And enamel cracking,
Through the treason of our leaders,
Through the crimes of our enemies,
With blistered hands and heavy legs,
We will carry her to the battlefield,
Because we may not yield.
There is truth.
There is peace.
There are places of beauty and safety.
There are places of stillness.
They belong to us,
Who know the secret things.
The battle cannot be given to those who reside in darkness.
posted by Jim Robinson 9/13/2001 09:11:15 AM

Wednesday, September 12, 2001

Let it be known: James Robinson is a pacifist. I find violence abhorrent. I do not believe in the death penalty, in any case. Returning violence for violence begets still more violence. I recognize the magnitude of the situation before us, and I recognize that the US will probably respond with violence. I won’t support it, because it will only create a climate of more violence. And I agree with those who are reserving judgment on who did this. Even when the government tells us, it will be hard for me not to be skeptical in part that the debate is being “framed,” to use Chomsky’s terminology. We have been lied to before when our leaders felt it was “best.”

If you have a copy of Rain Dogs by TomWaits, check out the song “Anywhere I Lay My Head.” When he belts out these two lines--

“Well, my head is spinning ‘round,
And my heart is in my shoes.”

--I think he belts it just the way I feel right now.

Here’s more of how I feel, written today while my little darlings were laboring over their ISTUPID tests today (and the tests are stupid, not the kids):

“Four Views of a Sad Man”

I. The Voicemail

It was vivid and pulsing.
Black smoke and yellow flame
With reams of paper raining down
Amidst flesh and concrete.
When my voice first quavered
I held the phone close to my cheek…
Only a message
Only a message—
You weren’t there to hear it
And you weren’t there to feel it,
But the wires carried my wet eyes
And held them
Until you could hold me while
My breath was sucked out
Into the mean air
That crackles now with hot, blasted fury
Like wood splitting under a driven maul.
Like a bug flailing in an overhead light.
The air is mad and angry.

II. The Kids Are Alright

My first exhortation to the sky
Was lamenting woe; I cried
To see you in your cammo gear
Bereft, it seemed, of pain and fear.

Impulse begged for me to say:
“Throw those army clothes away.
Take your bikes and speed along,
You’re far too young. There’s nothing wrong.”

Still you stayed, and pushed and pressed
My admonitions downward; redressed
My words in basic white and black—
“Where there is evil, we thence attack.”

Again the sick and sucking noise!
Mean air steals breath and destroys
My countenance, boiled and distilled—
A skeletal form, nearly killed.

Uprooting my legs like ancient trees,
I walked away, with weakened knees.

III. Mother’s Day

Pushing the button marked “Rewind,”
A man with my name rushes
Backward through his life
Jagged, jumpily, with static lines
Bisecting him top and bottom.
He comes to rest on his mother’s breast,
And he is soft and wet and warm
And he wails happily when her hands
Touch his head to say “Hello.”
Her voice pants and gasps and he hears it
Mostly through vibrations in her chest
And the rhythm marks time
In his new heart, with its new blood.
Scan forward and his skin thickens and dries
And places on it are pulled apart
With knives or nails or broken glass
Replaced with swollen, knotted scars.
Germs and vermin creep in and his blood is dirtied,
And he dirties it himself
With brown liquids and electricity.
He is standing erect today
Buffeted yet calm against strong winds from the east.
They turn hot and mean—
Angry sucking breath from his lungs.
His skin softens as he drops to a skinned knee.
Ringing and ringing rains down
Until he separates it out.
One tolling carries his mother’s voice.
When its melodies land on his ears,
The wetness in his eyes releases,
Coats his whole body,
Makes him warm,
Turns away years.
The old blood finds time for the rhythm,
Finds time to be new again.

IV. The Warrior of the Next Day

You bring me tears.
You bring me to tears.
We cry together and hold each other
Across miles.
You asked a second question
Second guessing
The Warrior of the Next Day.
How will she fight?
And how will she win?
Should we have brought her in?
The heat on the battlefield is dry and mean.
Its sucks air from her lungs
Before her small diaphragm
Can begin to push her small chest.
But she must be.
And we must will her.
Through grace and dignity,
Through the tears that sting our eyes,
With our teeth clenched
And enamel cracking,
Through the treason of our leaders,
Through the crimes of our enemies,
With blistered hands and heavy legs,
We will carry her to the battlefield,
Because we may not yield.
There is truth.
There is peace.
There are places of beauty and safety.
There are places of stillness.
They belong to us,
Who know the secret things.
The battle cannot be given to those who reside in darkness.

posted by Jim Robinson 9/12/2001 10:46:40 PM

Tuesday, September 11, 2001

Very disturbed here at school. We are doing the ISTEP tests, and we are trying to keep our kids "out of the loop" until lunch. I am depressed beyond words. I want to be at home with Jennifer and my cats. I want my friends in New York to be ok. I want our leaders to respond with restraint. I want to push rewind on this day.
posted by Jim Robinson 9/11/2001 01:16:08 PM

Wednesday, September 05, 2001

When Amy and I were living in Shitcago, Bill would come over for extended weekends to play with us. Sometimes his visits would seem longer than others, as he wasn't really spending time with us. He was fully sucked into the Doom2 machine, so we weren't really getting any interaction with him. Of course, we weren't alone either, so it became frustrating at times. One particular afternoon, I was feeling a real need for some space, and I knew that the sun would help me out, seeing as it would angle into the room to produce a hideous glare on the monitor. Such shiny shenanigans would surely roust my silly sharp shooter from his spot, so I thought. Ah, but old Billy is far too wily to be deterred by a 5 billion year old fireball 93,000,000 miles away. I went to survey the scene, only to find Bill had draped a heavy wool blanket over his own head and the monitor, photographer-style, and was blasting away to his hearts' content. With more than a little trepidation, I lifted the corner of the blanket. Underneath was dear Mr. Cameron, face red and mottled, sweat in full rivulets draining away pounds of flesh every minute, eyes bloodshot and harried. I turned away in shame and fear.

I love that gun-totin' rascal. Looking forward to seeing him this weekend. Which reminds me: I would like to do Tai Chi this weekend. What if we tried it early enough (10am?, 9:30?) that Clint and Ned and I can still head for the citaaah by noonish?

Next issue: Why South High School is "inadequate," and why standardized tests are bullshit.

PS--Jennifer and I have 2 tix to Lucinda Williams in Indy on 9/23. We just found out she's playing here as well, and we'd rather go there. We'll sell the Indy pair for $5 each off face value to any takers.
posted by Jim Robinson 9/5/2001 06:27:39 PM

Tuesday, September 04, 2001

Y'all have been forced to look at my previous post for way too long, so here's a quickie before my mewling pups roll in for another morning of academic excellence. A lovely end to a great week constituted my Monday. Jennifer and I stayed in bed until at least 11am (actually, she was there until noon, but I had ants in my pants). We then went down to the cliffs at Lake Monroe to try to fly our new kite that we bought at the 4th Street Festival on Sunday. Alas for the lack of wind! No kites would be flying yesterday. The sailboats puttering under engine power shoulda clue-d us in. However, nothing staves off disappointment likes flowers, so we stopped by the nursery on the way home and got some pansies and mums to plant for the fall. Ooooh, so pretty. Round the whole day out with a D & D session featuring yours truly puttin' a cap in the ass of a belligerent land shark. Apparently, hunting regulations in the Forgotten Realms have caused an increase in the number of land shark/gnome encounters. Damn elf liberals. Actually the session was marked by lots of debate and discussion about rules and strategy, and I don't think any of us were really communicating effectively. I get bummed out when that happens. Yes I do.

Shari Arthur is the true college party animal. Ask her why.
posted by Jim Robinson 9/4/2001 09:40:04 AM

Saturday, August 25, 2001

This space today is dedicated to the extension of my very real and sincere gratitude to all who brought me such glorious cheer on my birthday. For those of you far-flung and removed by distance, I thank you for the blogged goodies. And for those who made their ways down to our little domicile, a marvy time was had, hopefully by all, but definitely by me. With no intention toward the slighting of the expected guests, the surprise arrival of Mr. Cameron was a most fortuitous turn. The old boy certainly adds to the grandeur of any such fete. A highlight of the evening (other than my continual dartboard defeats at the hands of Scotty and my work pal Aaron) was, of course, the unveiling of the as-yet-unnamed (and now nearly exhausted) batch of beer from the Arthur Robinson Brewery. It has been nearly ten years (maybe more) since I brewed my first beer with Ole Paddy McDunkelson, and this particular potable far outshines any that have passed through my wort-chiller. Damn it was good. This shit could be sold for money. Really. As time moved along, Phil and Becky arrived from his Dad’s big shew, looking altogether sparkling. Of course, Phil’s entrance prompted people to scramble to bolt down tables, chairs, rugs, etc. You just never know these days. All in all it was a lovely evening, and I am honored to have such fine friends, even if they spent the better portion of the night tangling with Slick Johnny on the Atari 2600.

Lastly, this birthday was of particular poignancy as it marks the first (hopefully of many) that I have passed in the company of the Illustrious Miss Sherfield. I won’t go into the mushy details in this forum, but suffice it to say that I am happier than I can ever remember being, and she is the focal point for it. You all should be pleased, too, since you don’t hafta listen to me whine about being single any more, or cringe as I get drunk and hit on women at parties.
posted by Jim Robinson 8/25/2001 10:47:56 AM